mjevansbtm@gmail.com Evans

“We’re born to the saddle. We have the nags and gear. Let’s ride to every state Capital in the Union. Let’s get ourselves a reputation. Let’s make the longest horseback ride on record!” George W. Beck

PINTO!

I am a little horse with big dreams. I was living on Bainbridge Island in Puget Sound in the state of Washington. If I had stayed there, those dreams would never have come true. But then came the day George Beck purchased me, a man who also had big dreams. That was in the year 1912. Together, with three other men on horseback, and a flea-bitten dog named Nip, we completed a twenty thousand-mile journey over the span of three years. Of the seventeen horses who joined us for a time on the trip, only one horse made it the whole way—me!

Chapter 1

Meeting George Beck

Spring was coming. That is to say, the rain felt warmer. Such was the only thing I was happy about. I found myself living in a poorly fenced paddock set far back from the road and partly concealed behind several of the thousands of giant Douglas Fir trees that covered the Pacific Northwest where I was born. The mud-soaked corral, in which I spent most of my time of late, caused the frogs in the soles of my hooves to itch with thrush.

I hadn’t been in this paddock on Bainbridge Island with the five other horses for many days. The man who owned all the horses was not attached to us, nor we to him. As a horse trader, his only intent was selling us and making a quick profit. Oh, he was kind enough, as kind as that type of man is. Not a horseman, you see. Just a businessman. Buy a horse, sell it quickly, not caring what kind of home the horse went to. But, as I say, he was a decent man, as men go, always giving us plenty of fresh hay and an occasional scoop of oats.

The other horses in the paddock were much older than me. They spent each day sharing stories about their lives and how they came to be in this place. I hadn’t done much of anything yet, so I just listened. Oh, I had my dreams, as every young horse does, but I kept those to myself for fear they would think me silly and laugh at me.

One old, swaybacked mare, who enjoyed standing beside me, told me about the day she was in a parade. “It was the proudest moment of my life,” she said. “The little boy who owned me dressed me up with ribbons and leg wraps. My saddle and bridle were polished until they shone nearly as much as I did. We pranced down the streets of the town as music played from a brass band. People cheered as we went by. It was all so very grand.”

“I have had a very hard life,” said a large, black gelding. “I have spent most of my life hitched to a thick harness pulling logs out of the forest.”

I glanced down at his shoulders and noticed the scars left there from years of throwing all his strength, against a thick, leather collar. I felt sorry for him and hoped that was not in my future.

One small pony sidled up to me. “I have spent my whole life teaching children how to ride. I was kind and patient with all of them. Never once did I buck any of them off.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

“The children grew up and went away. Now, I can only hope that another nice family with little children takes me home with them.”

All these stories made me wonder what was in store for me. I realized I’m not an ordinary quarter horse or draft horse. I am a Morab. That means I am half Morgan and half Arabian. I have seen my reflection in the spring-fed water trough, and I am quite aware of how spectacular I am. I’m not tall, only fifteen hands, but sturdy as a boulder and well proportioned. I have a thick, elegantly arched neck. My croup—the top of my hips—is well-rounded, and my hindquarters are well-muscled. But my most outstanding feature is my coloring. I am a beautiful black and white pinto with large patches of both colors all over my body. And the dream I held in my heart was that someday I would accomplish something great, maybe even become famous.

“You’ll be the first to go, mark my words,” the swaybacked mare said to me the second day we were together. “Unless some little children come to get the pony.”

I knew she was right. Between my beauty and my youth, I was sure someone would want to take me home with them.

I remember distinctly the day I met the man named George Beck who was to become my master. That was the day my life changed forever. I was standing in the muddy paddock with the other horses, listening to their stories. Our heads were bowed to let the rain drip off our forelocks, protecting our eyes. My ears pricked forward when I heard the men’s voices as they approached. One voice I recognized as belonging to my owner. His voice was high-pitched and always a bit too loud, whether he was talking to us or to people who came to look us over. The other voice I did not recognize.

I lifted my head and watched the two men as they came up to the fence. Resting their arms on the rail, they peered at the group of wet, shivering, muddy, and quite bored horses, of which I was one. I looked at the new man. He was tall and thin. His face was clean-shaven, and a shock of curly, brown hair stuck out from under the brim of his hat. But what attracted me to him was something about his face and eyes. I sensed immediately that he was a horseman. I could tell, just by looking at him, that this gentleman had a quick eye for horses. A surge of hope passed through me. Perhaps this was the man who would take me away and help me do something truly great, something deserving of my heritage.

I pawed the mud and splashed the puddle in front of me. I nickered and trotted around in a circle, sure that he would notice me, even in my wet and muddy condition. To be sure that I wouldn’t be missed, I sloshed across the paddock, right up to him, and put my nose in his face.

Both men laughed.

“I guess he likes you,” our owner said.

“Seems so. What is he?” the new gentleman asked as he stroked the wide, white blaze covering most of my face.

“He’s called a Morab, half Arab, half Morgan. A sturdier, more dependable beast you’ll not find anywhere on the island or the mainland.”

“Well, that’s sure what I need for this journey,” the man said as he opened the gate and entered our paddock. His large boots made sucking sounds in the mud as he walked up to me. I stood perfectly still when he examined my eyes and put his fingers in my mouth so he could look at my teeth. He ran his large, rough but gentle hands down my legs, over my barrel, and across my spine.

Seeming to be pleased, he stepped back and smiled. “He’s not very big but he appears to be strong and healthy enough. What’s his name?”

“Never gave him one.”

“Then I’ll call him ‘Pinto.’”

And that’s how George Beck chose me to join him on his twenty thousand-mile journey.

Chapter 2

Preparing for
a Historic Trip

The next day, George Beck rode up to the paddock on a strong, bay gelding. He dismounted and entered the paddock with a halter and lead in his hand. “Come with me, Pinto,” he said. “We’re going on a great adventure together.”

I liked the sound of that.

He placed the halter over my head and gave me a pat on my arched neck.

I followed him out the gate, glancing back at the other horses to bid farewell. The old mare whinnied after me. The pony dropped his cute, little head.

My new master mounted the gelding, who I learned was named Lad, and led me through the village to the shore where we got on a ferry. The rolling movement of the boat across the water of Elliot Bay was a bit frightening, but since Lad seemed at ease, I decided all was well and stood quietly next to him. My ears twitched, picking up the sound of the splashing water as the ferry broke through the surface. My nostrils flared at the scent of saltwater and fish.

The ferry docked with a jolt at a village named “Brownsville,” and we continued our journey down dirt logging roads until we reached the village of Shelton. We turned off the road when we came upon a small house with a barn set off to the side. A neat, wooden fence formed a paddock around the barn. It was here that George dismounted.

Though I was a young horse, just six years of age, I had been well trained to carry a saddle and rider and hold a bit gently in my mouth. I soon learned, however, that George Beck had not purchased me as a riding horse.

“How do you like Pinto?” George said as we entered the barnyard and approached three men. “He’s going to be our pack horse.”

A pack horse? He wanted me for a pack horse? That was not at all what I had in mind and I wasn’t sure I liked this idea. I am far too beautiful to have my black and white patches covered up with oil-skin bags and ropes. How would I ever do great things and become famous for being a pack horse?

“Do you think he’s big enough? Strong enough?” one of the men said.

“I know horses, Charles,” George said. “I know how to pick ‘em. This little fella may be short but he’s sturdy. Besides, I like the look in his eye.”

I blinked.

Over the next few days, George and Charles, who I later learned was George’s brother, came to the paddock carrying bundles of bags and ropes.

“I brought some oil skin bags to put the grain in,” George said.

“I have some bedrolls and a few tin plates and cups,” Charles said, dropping his load on the ground with a huff. The bundle clanged and rattled as it hit the ground.

The other two men that I met on the first day were named Jay and Ray. They called Ray “Fat,” though I couldn’t understand why as he was as tall and skinny as the fir trees that surrounded us. They