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Pink Horses. - New American Western

Pink Horses

New American Western

By: Von Kambro

©2017

I don’t remember the place, the time or the woman.

I fell off my horse awhile back, a snake bit me, and I had to waste my last drop of whiskey on the two fangs that punctured my leathered skin. I can remember those things, but I’ll be damned to all Hell if I remember the other stuff. Well I remember the basics.

Chasing women.

Lookin’ for gold, and wanderin’ the desert…starving half to death.

That’s my life.

Yer lucky it ain’t yours, fella.

Horses.

Those pink Horses. I know what I saw.

Ya’ better sit down, because you aint gonna believe this one, but it happened. Maybe it was the snake spit runnin’ through my veins, maybe it was the sun cookin’ my head.

I know it wasn’t the Whiskey.

Whiskey is my friend, and it don’t play tricks on me.

I was riding through a valley. The sun was startin’ to duck behind the mountains. Everything had an orange glow, except the trees. The sun sure is cocky during the day, but sometimes I think it scares itself and then ducks behind the mountains to hide from the moon.

When the midnight sun comes out, all the four legged beasts start roaming around. They ain’t afraid of nothin’. They’d be out during the day, but they

I was in the dance hall with a pretty one.

Dolly. I don’t know if it was her real name. Ya’ can’t tell what’s the truth, or who’s tellin’ it in a saloon, but I can tell you this: she had a small frame, lots of curly blonde hair, eyes as blue as the ocean, and her voice was as soft as

She had all the right numbers in all the right places.

She kept trying to get me to stay, but I couldn’t keep dancing. I had a train to catch the following morn, if you know what mean, but sometimes women have a way of intercepting a man’s plans. She wasn’t any different that way, but she was a hard drinking, fast talking lady that knew how to play a man.

I don’t know how I get into these situations.

It ain’t the Whiskey.

Whiskey gets me out of the tough spots.

So, It’s the women.

They get me every-time.

You can line up 100 of em’ and each one will be different. They all got their own way of dressin’, talkin’ and thinkin’ and makin’ love. Some men say they’re all the same, but they ain’t.

I love’em and respect’em.

I can’t resist the softness of their hand, their voice or the persuasive glances they can give. They is way smarter than any man. They don’t even have to say a single word, and they can make a man stop dead in his tracks.

Only the weakest of men resist a lady.

…and only the biggest cowards shoot’em.

Now don’t think I’m getting off track here. No sir. You see, this lady was workin’ to keep me there all night, and then some. She wasn’t tryin’ to get me drunk and take my money, or steal my horse.

I knew what she was getting’ at. She wanted me to stay with her, fer-ever.

I ain’t much to look at.

Rangy hair, a thin, scruffy face, a few missin’ teeth, big ears, kinda’ scrawny, and sometimes the smell I carry with me will arrive at places long before I do.

Stinky Mcgee.

That’s me.

I don’t mind it, but what I don’t get is how the women don’t seem to care, because they keep sayin’ they like what I say, not how I look.

Well, I don’t say much, but I guess when I do, it means somethin’ to them.

Anyway, me and Dolly were dancin’ and drinkin’ and holdn’ each other and we got a bit improper at times, but I had no plans on stayin’ with her that night so I got ready to leave and she grabbed my arm.

She was squeezing mighty hard.

She tells me:

“I don’t think you should leave.”

I looked her square in the eye and told her:

“I’m sorry darlin’, but what you think and what I do aren’t gonna be the same thing.”

She kept her grip on my arm and told me something I that made me stay right where I was at.

“The Pink Horses are out there!”

I turned my head and looked out the window.

I told her what I saw:

“There ain’t nothin’ but darkness out there.”

We both looked out the window and could see the silver light of the moon that was dripping down from the heavens as it cast a silver light on some stuff, but other that, it wasn’t nothin’ but dark.

She gently tugged at me and I let her guide me to a table. We sat down and she began telling me this story about some pink horses that come out at night when the moon is full and take women away.

She explained that awhile back she was kidnapped by the Apache. They saw her down by the crick at sunset and waited til the sun ran away from the sky (bein’ the coward that it is) and snuck up on her and took her back to their village and kept her there for a few days.

She said she don’t remember exactly how long she was there, but they was good to her. They let her stay with their women, and learned a couple of words from their language, but she never understood why they snatched her if the Apache men didn’t want her for breedin’ n such.

The Indians would have a fire every-night and dance around it. If they had some liquor in them they would get hasty and start shooting their guns and fightin’ with one another.

On her last night with them they had her sit by the fire. She was the only woman there. The other squaws where standing behind the group of men and her. They were silent.

Only the fire was talking.

They gave her something to drink. And after that she was lead back to the women. She stood with them and watched as the Chief of tribe began some kind of spirit talk. He stood up and pointed toward some bushes.

Everyone was lookin’ to see what was over there.

Two horses slowly trotted out.

The horses stood in the light of the moon and looked at the Indians.

Dolly said she stood up and rubbed her eyes because they weren’t just horses, they were pink horses.

Pink.

Horses.

I stopped Dolly from goin’ on with her story. I told her it wasn’t making any sense. She was kidnapped by some Indians, they kept her for awhile and didn’t harm her, they gave her somethin’ to drink, and then she saw some pink horses.

Drinkin’ with indians and seein’ pink horses?

I told her:

“If you want me to stay, I guess I will, but if I don’t-that don’t mean them pink horses will be coming to get you.”

She started nodding her head back and forth and I saw some tears escape from her pretty blue eyes.

She told me this:

“You might be right, but I don’t want to be alone. Those horses were a sign that if I don’t find somebody to be with, I’ll be left alone fer the rest of my life. That moon outside is full, and I don’t need to be starin’ at by myself.”

Sweet, honest words.

She got me.

I felt the same way actually, but I can’t be makin’ confessions like that to anyone. It aint what a man does.

Sometimes love is like playin’ poker.

I summoned the guts to reply in way that wouldn’t reveal the hand I’ve been dealt and gave cool answer with the best, straightest face.

“Now Dolly, I don’t know what you got in yer drink right now, but it must be the same thing those Indians gave you.”

She started noddin’ her head back and forth, and started talkin’ again.

She was tellin’ me that the horses were pink and the Chief lead her between them and let her pet them, but the moment she walked back to the fire and turned around to take another look, the pink horses were gone.

Everybody was gone.

She was standing there, alone, with a fire that was fading away, and hungry coyotes were startin’ to howl and were lookin’ for something to eat. The only thing that saved her was a guide that wandered over. She doesn’t recall the time or place when all these things happened.

I stopped her from continuing with her story.

I told her:

“Now sweety, yer startin’ to sound awful familiar.”

She grabbed my arm and squeezed real hard as she spoke:

“Those horses. They’re out there. I can’t let you go, because..”

Her voice got real quiet. I had to wait a few seconds before she continued. She started to get a little spooky when she was talkin’:

“I was told by that guide that the Apache will take a woman that ain’t theirs back their village and wait for the pink horses to arrive. If the horses don’t arrive they can keep me and make me their wife, but the horses showed up. So the Indians let me be.”

I liked this woman, but her story was making me start to wonder about the sanity of her mind, but I let her keep goin’:

“The pink horses was a sign that I must be left alone. Forever. So I can’t let you go because if you leave, I will be alone, and I know the horses will come and get me, and take me away. Forever.”

I didn’t want to believe all this talk about the pink horses, but she was scared, and I heard stories about Indians snatchin’ the pretty girls and takin’ them back up in the hills and holding them, sometimes forever, sometimes only a couple of days.

Some women are scared to be alone, hell, I know a lot of men that act like they ain’t scared of nothin’, but get them out in the mountains at night and they start shakin’ like a little girl that just saw her first snake crawlin’ accross her feet.

There ain’t nobody like bein’ alone, except fer the ones that should be, and those are the ones runnin’ from the law, or are just so mean that nobody can be with’em.

So anyway, There I was sittin’ with this pretty gal who didn’t want to be left alone because she was afraid of some pink horses.

What’s a man to do?

I’m a man, not a coward, so I took her as my wife. We’ve been married fer while, and she’s a kind and gentle gal. she’s cleaned me up, and now when I walk down the street I can hear some of the ladies say to her how handsome I am, and how good smell.

I ain’t drinkin’ as much as I used to either. I’m startin’ to think that the Whiskey was only there as a temporary friend. It helped me get through the rough spots, and yeah, probably got me into a few of’em as well.

So I’m tellin’ you fellas, if a woman starts talkin’ bout bein’ kidnapped by Indians, and seein’ pink horses it’s not manly to run away from her, or them.

You gotta do what’s right, and stay with her whether you see what she sees or not. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes being strong isn’t shootin’ guns, or drinkin’ -n- fghtin’.

Be a man, and find yer’self a woman.

You’ll find out what real strength is once you find a good one.

Love’em…

…and respect’em fellas.

The End.


Pink Horses. - New American Western

Sometimes the truth reveals itself through visions, this cowboy discovers is his own reality will change one evening while the moon is full, and the Whiskey is gone.

  • Author: Von Kambro
  • Published: 2017-01-30 12:20:09
  • Words: 1979
Pink Horses. -  New American Western Pink Horses. -  New American Western