Wild Horses On The Salt

9

9Becca trailed the dog past the cabins to a spot where she could see the river as it curved around a bend and headed west. Dazzling flashes flared from the surface as the water skipped over worn stones and past the hulking remains of a once massive cottonwood tree that now splayed across the stream, its trunk bridging both rocky banks. Tall stands of what looked like bamboo shot straight up from the riverbed, thin green leaves waving in the breeze.

The dog barked.

“I'm coming.” Becca eyed the animal, which twisted and jumped as if launching itself with springs. She watched the dog trot along the path into a clump of trees.

A loud metallic sound made Becca pause. Then the noise came again. And again. She followed the sound into the mesquite stand and while some of the delicate gray-green leaves had dropped due to the cold winter nights, many others still clung to the thorny branches, filtering the light, throwing lacy patterns on the uneven ground.

The small thicket gave way to an open area that, at other times, would boast a riotous array of color, a green yard dotted with white and orange poppies, thrusting heads of purple lupine and stalks of golden globe mallow. But the wildflowers were dormant now, their flamboyance replaced by brown stems amid patches of muted grasses.

Becca walked past a massive sprawl of prickly pear and glimpsed a rabbit bounding among the thorny pads. Then she heard the sound again. One. Two. Three times the clang rang out. Becca focused on an old stone building with a high-pitched roof. Smoke rose from a chimney built from the same river rock evident in all the buildings she'd seen. Two sliding barn doors stood open, beckoning her inside. The dog barked and scampered through the entryway.

Becca followed the animal into the building.

“Oh!” Becca paused. She stared at Gaby, whose hand gently wiped at a smudge of blackened soot on Walt's cheek. Though Gaby was tall, at six-foot-three, Walt smiled down at her. “I'm so sorry!”

“Sorry for what?” Gaby dropped her hand.

“Welcome to the forge, Becca. Come on in.” Walt, a black bandana replacing his cowboy hat, waved her over.

Walt stood by a rust-colored anvil that perched atop a thick section of scarred and blackened tree trunk. The anvil, held secure with metal straps binding each footing to the wood, had rested in the same spot for over almost ninety years. A large post vise was positioned to the right of the anvil, jaws yawning open as if waiting to take a bite from anyone that might get too close. A dizzying array of tools spread around the room, some leaning against stone walls, while others hung on hooks of every shape, design, and size. Tongs, chisels, center punches, twisters, and hammers—ball-peen, cross-peen, and sledges of varying weights and shapes. There were grinding wheels and power tools, wire brushes and every possible grade of sandpaper. Cans of lacquers, varnishes, oils, and beeswax sat beside an assortment of glass jars filled with viscous-looking fluids varying in color: white, yellow, red, brown, black, and a few that were hard to define.

A soot-covered, thick-sided square rose from the floor, golden flames dancing within, smoke funneling up the chimney. Long, thin pieces of black metal with artistically twisted loop handles were wedged among glowing coals.

The entire backside of the forge was a long line of floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass doors, a modern-day adaptation through which sunlight drenched a drafting table that was covered with scattered drawings. A rusted tin can held a handful of yellow pencils.

Then Becca's mouth dropped open. A life-size metal stallion reared by the window, front legs pawing at the air, mane flowing as if the wind were blowing the metal strands. The animal, backed by the trees and mountains beyond, appeared poised to gallop away.