Wild Horses On The Salt

10

10The horse pawed the blacktop.

The driver of the speeding sedan—head down, texting—did not see the animals that had come out of the brush and were crossing SR87, a road known locally as the Bush Highway. The stallion's reddish coat was dulled, since food was scarce, the result of an extended draught, but the animal's black mane, tail, and socks and his unusually tall stature made him an impressive creature, nonetheless.

“What the…?” The young businessman had seen the signs—both the free-standing ones and those painted on the tarmac—warning drivers to expect wild horses on the roadway, but he had ignored the alert. Like many people, he considered road signs just clutter, the admonitions for everyone else on the road, but not him.

Now he faced the prospect of plowing into six horses at high speed on the four-lane road, a twisting drive that, in some places, butted up against the Salt River. He mashed the brake and looked for a way out.

The stallion neighed loudly, a warning to his band to hurry. The six-month old foal, light tan with a white star on her forehead, paused and stared up the road. He neighed again and stomped his feet, urging the little one across. Only when the young one had stepped into the brush on the river side of the road did he move to follow.

But it was too late. The driver clipped the stallion's hip, then overcorrected, a maneuver that sent the vehicle off the road and into the brush where it barreled into the base of a thirty-foot, six-armed saguaro. Dazed, the man watched helplessly as the massive plant tottered and fell, 3,200 pounds of spiny cactus crushing his car.

The seatbelt had saved his life, but, as the ancient plant settled around him, the driver became imprisoned in the vehicle, great chunks of thorny cactus jamming the vehicle doors, the flattened roof trapping him low in the seat.

He panicked—the sickening fear of a claustrophobic—and reached for the door handle. The man pushed and screamed, but the plant pinned him in place.

He needed help. Where was the phone? Then he saw his mobile on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He stretched his arm, but the phone was just out of reach. It would be hours before the police arrived to pry him from the car.

On the other side of the road, five of the horses stood together watching the stallion. Blood ran from a foot-long gash in the animal's left hip. A flap of skin fell to the side, exposing bared muscle. The stallion shook its head and took a tentative step. Then another.

The horse limped slowly, leading the others along a thin trail of tan, sand-like dirt that wove between a stand of pungent low-growing creosote dotted here and there with prickly pear and the occasional ironwood tree.

The stallion stumbled down a rocky incline that lead to a gentle crossing, an easy ford even when the Salt ran high. Now, with the dam regulating the winter flow and only a few scattered storms over the last six months, the water barely edged up over the horses' hooves.

Despite the easy passage, the stallion staggered again, and this time he tumbled into the water. The horse thrashed and scrambled to his feet, sparkling water droplets flying from his coat.

As was their habit, the band paused, waiting for him to lead the way.

On a hill above, binoculars in hand, a birder watched.