The wild Victory | A Story Of A Mustang Horse

By: Lisa Clement

For five years, the neighbor’s mare ‘Shawnee Dancer’ watched me at our adjoining fence. A proud Mustang of glowing white, she was the queen of the ragged group of five odd horses that lounged, swishing and stomping flies in the summer sun, and huddled together in winter storms. Dark buckskin marking covered the right half of her head and was the only color on her compact body. It looked as if mud had dried on her coat. The other side of her white head held a pale blue eye rimmed with a quarter inch of black, like eyeliner had been perfectly applied.

Her mane and tail flowed long, and somehow, she managed to keep remarkably clean considering her utter neglect. Day in and day out, the group milled around on the tiny manure filled lot. They were tossed some hay at least once a day, and occasionally the farrier or vet would come along.

[private]Our active arena was alive with children and adults enjoying riding and the interesting sounds of attentive humans. The envious mare would stand along the fence and intently watch. She must have wondered why I never came to catch her as I did my other horses. In her attempts to get my attention, she would climb up the fence rails between our lots. She could get to the top rail with her front feet, but never figured out how to get her rear legs to cooperate. That trick usually worked and I would call her name, “Shaw-nee,” then go to her with a treat, or to scratch her throat like she loved. She came to know my friendly call of her name and that it meant it was her turn for attention.

Year after year, my neighbor refused to sell me the mare thinking that one-day, one of her five teenagers would become interested in horses. That day never came, the kids moved out and the property was sold. At last, the mare was put up for sale. Having enough horses of my own at that moment, I called my friend Patty who had also admired the Mare these many years. “ Go get her!” Patty answered when I told her the news. I mentioned that the mare would need years of training before she would be ready for her young daughters to ride, but that she would no doubt turn out to be a marvelous mount.

Her years of waiting for me to come and get her were finally over. As I strapped my halter on the mare to bring her home, I was told the details of Shawnee Dancer’s life before the dirt lot. She had been green broke by an old cowboy as a 3-year-old. Then she was sent to a breeder where they tried unsuccessfully for a year, and she came back a distrustful and difficult horse. I started handling and riding Shawnee and decided that who ever had broke her had been a good person with a steady patient hand. Who ever tried to breed her had been a monster. It took months of daily quiet grooming before she would trust me to touch her rear end and tail. She was suspicious and scared, but so happy to be getting daily attention; she willingly tried to overcome her fears.

I was not prepared for the different mindset of the Mustang breed of horse. My experience lay with horse breeds that had been domesticated for centuries. She was too close to wild for that kind of trust in the human species. It was black and white on whom was a predator and who was the prey. The Mustang’s natural flight mechanism was hair trigger. If it didn’t smell right or act right, you were right out of there, with a rear and a bolt if you tried to stop her. If anything upset her, it was stamped on her memory forever. The Lord only knows what had happened to give her an incorrigible fear of anything rustling or flapping.

She relearned what a rider was, but it would be years before confidence would be placed in anyone but me outside of the arena. Patty’s youngest daughter Melanie watched Shawnee’s progress and with lessons, had continued to grow in her riding skills. After two years, Melanie and Shawnee were ready for each other and in no time, they were ready for the local show ring.

On the breezy day of that first show, another student with a seasoned show mare came along for support. The show had come off without a hitch up until our last class of the day. The horses stood in the customary line up at the end of the Hunt Seat walk/trot class for children 10 years or under. A young girl with the distinguished job of handing out the awards stood 30 feet in front of the line up. She held a hanger full of eight large colorful ribbons. Behind her were the out gate and a tall grandstand full of spectators with programs and families with picnic lunches.

The announcer called out the awards by place, 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-, and “first place goes to Miss Melanie Hansen riding Shawnee Dancer,” he bellowed over the loud speakers.

The winning riders streamed toward the ribbon girl as they were called. Awkwardly, she managed the large ribbons in the wind as she dashed around to get them pinned on the correct horse as it swept past. I had moved in to stand behind her, expecting to intervene and accept the award before Shawnee got anywhere near it. Melanie saw me and hung back knowing the fear that would over take Shawnee at the sight of the flapping ribbon.

Overhead an announcement blared out for the next class of riders to enter the arena. In her exuberance to finish, the ribbon girl suddenly bolted toward Shawnee with the fluttering blue ribbon held up high. Shawnee spun around, turning tail to us and bolted off at a full gallop toward the far end of the football field size arena. The gasp of the crowd caught the announcer’s attention. “Pull hard!” he demanded, requesting all riders to stop in their tracks. A hush fell over the crowd.

Never had Melanie ridden at such a pace. I feared for her as she clung to the panicked Mustang. Shawnee’s nose was held high as she galloped into the deep shade of the far end of the arena. Her brilliant white coat shone in contrast to the darkness of the trees as she streaked along the rail. At the end, she circled back, still ignoring the pulls from her little rider’s arms on the reins. Realizing she was nowhere familiar, and seeing the startled paper wielding crowd moving in the wind at the other end of the arena, she started to panic once more.

By this time, I had run down the arena toward the far end. Stopping I stood alone and called to the Mustang. “Shaw-nee,” I repeated, using the voice the horse knew as a friendly voice. The voice that has always meant that it is time for you to come and see what treat I have for you, come get an itch scratched, the I’ll never hurt or ignore you voice that started from the other side of the fence seven long years ago.

She slowed as she focused on me standing with my hand extended toward her. I moved quickly but calmly toward her, got my hand on the rein, and steadied her to a halt. Shawnee nuzzled my forearm to thank me for finding her and quieted. As we all caught our breath, I told Melanie to be proud of her riding, the unforeseen test exposes a true champion. She had truly earned the first place ribbon and that had been one wild victory lap.[/private]