The Last Mustangs
—
Silence.
The windswept mountains of Nevada cast a gentle shadow upon its deserts and plains, while the sun spins golden threads across the sky, bathing everything below it in red and yellow splashes of color, making the valley an ethereal sight. The bare land rests peacefully as the sun slips down toward the horizon, still keeping its watchful eye on the world.
In the distance a small group of mustangs canter playfully: a stallion, a mare, and their young colt. Their herdmates are gone; they are the last of the wild mustangs.
The sun seems to linger in the sky to watch them as they play, unaware of their plight. The young colt rears playfully, batting at this mother's forelegs. His father, the stallion, a descendant of the Spanish Andalusian breeds brought to America by Don Hernando Cortés, reprimands him by giving him a sharp nip on the flank. Sidling away from his parents, the foal ambles off, sniffing the ground and bucking a few times just out of boredom.
Suddenly a motor whine shrills in the distance, and a plane appears in the sky. The mustangs glance up curiously, then ignore it. The stallion looks at it again, though, suspicious. The plane flies lower and lower, heading toward them in an unusual fashion.
Vibrations in the dusty ground prelude a speeding truck's arrival. All three horses' ears prick up and—as the whoops of men reach them—they panic.
The stallion breaks into a terrified gallop, his family behind him. The truck speeds up, and the plane flies over them, forcing them to turn. They break apart, but are forced back together in their futile attempts to escape the plane. This leaves the colt an easy target for the truck. Because he can't keep up with his parents, his strides become slower and slower.
The mountains seem to tremble; the desert quivers with rage. The sun continues its descent, as if it cannot bear to watch, but can't bear not watching, either.
The ranchers, oblivious to all of this, continue chasing their prey.
Suddenly, the stallion falls back and joins his son, trying to protect him despite the danger. The pilots notice this, and sharply bring their plane into a steep dive, soaring just five feet above the stallion. Terrified, he flings himself to the ground, blood dripping from his nostrils.
The mare, noticing her mate and son, turns and rears. One of the men in the truck readies a lasso. Just then, the plane flies low over her, causing to whites of her eyes to show and provoking a series of corkscrew bucks. She rears again, and a rope flies through the air, its noose settling itself around her neck. It is pulled tight, and the mare falls to her knees, sides heaving, gasping for breath. The truck drives away from the mare, expecting her to clamber to her feet, forced to follow until driven to exhaustion, but she doesn't. She can't summon the energy to stand.
The men, not knowing or—more likely—not caring, allow her to be dragged along the ground. Her sweat-drenched sides are plastered with dust and grime. The rope squeezes tighter and tighter, until all the life has been choked out of the mare.
All attention focuses now on the stallion and his colt. The truck turns and heads toward the galloping pair, and another lasso flies. This time the stallion is the target, but he dodges the rope just as another comes his way. This second lasso successfully tightens around his neck and he neighs frantically. Trying to get free, he bucks, and another lasso wraps itself around his feet. He is dragged to the ground despite his valiant efforts, dust swirling around his body.
Two men get out of the truck and walk warily towards the fallen figure. "Think 'e's dead?" one mutters, unsure.
At that moment, in a fiery burst of energy, the stallion heaves himself to his feet and kicks out at the men. They leap backward in fright.
A third man walks up behind them. "Cowards," he sneers.
"'E's a rogue, sir," one of the men stammers nervously.
"So? 'S what all these mustangs are—rogues! But choo gotta treat 'em with a firm hand—don't be afraid to get harsh!" With these words, he boldly steps forward and spits at the stallion's feet.
In a rush of anger, the horse takes off, galloping wildly.
"Ain't choo gonna—" one of the men begins.
Without answering, the third man raises his pistol and takes careful aim. A shot pierces the air, and the stallion squeals as he falls to the ground.
Quickly the ranchers run over and examine the dying stallion. A wound in his side darkens his skin, and the spark of defiance in his eyes is slowly going out. As it fades to nothing, the stallion sighs once. Then he is still.
"Damn mustangs!" one of the men swears angrily.
"Look! That 'un's gettin' away!" came a cry from the truck, and the men turn to see the colt.
While the ranchers had been after his sire and dam, he had been pursued by the plane to make sure he didn't escape. Now, however, the plane is gone, and the young horse is running as fast as he can away from the men.
"There's only one thing left to do, boys," the third man muttered. "Bye-bye, mustang."
As the man raises his pistol, the young mustang turns and sees his father. In an explosion of grief and anger, the colt rears and neighs long and loud. He rears once more, his hooves striking the darkening sky.
Then, a final shot rings out.
It echoes across the valley as the little foal crumples to the ground, spraying crimson across the light brown sand and dust.
The men get into their truck and drive away, trailer empty.
The sun has set completely at last, cloaking the mountains and deserts of Nevada in darkness.
Silence.
The last mustang is dead.
—
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