Wild Horses Couldn't Drag Me . . .
I stood at the head of kind of quiet looking wild Mustang my friend Angie had brought from Montana and I talked to it gently while she adjusted stirrup leathers on the saddle we’d been walking this horse under for a week. It was zero-hour and time for her to ride him for the first time. This was to be no wild-west show, the object was for Angie to merely put weight on the saddle and, if all went well, ease up and then on his back for just a few moments---not even move forward, just build tolerance, from which we hoped would come trust. That would be the limit of our small day’s progress and then we’d put the stallion away. We’d been handling the horse for two weeks and for the most part had avoided all confrontations.
This was 1955 and Angie was among the first eastern rich kids to try and save wild Mustangs from the killer yards by adopting. You had to be rich to dabble in this dubious venture. Vanning a fractious, unbroken Mustang from Montana to Illinois and boarding it long enou…