--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - McQuarrie, Daniel S. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 9 number: 9 published: 1906-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Daniel S. McQuarrie, "Palmetto," *Improvement Era* 9, no. 9 (July 1906): 714–720.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0909unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera0909unse start_page: 714 end_page: 720 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1906-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0909unse publication_year: 1906 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1906, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Palmetto PALMETTO. BY DANIEL S. MCQUARRIE. [This narrative is an actual and exciting experience of the writer, while on a week's visit to the range in question some three years ago, when he was a lad of fourteen. It will interest the southern Utah boys, because it comes within the limits of their own experiences; and the boys everywhere, because it is intended to awaken sympathy for one of their dearest and most faithful animal friends— the horse.—Editors.] Just across the boundary line of Utah, in the center of a level, wind-swept plateau, which is skirted by blue mountains, and crossed by only a low ridge, covered with cedars, lies Pipe Springs, like an oasis in a desert. Here the brave, hardy and foolhardy rangers make their camp, corral tough ponies, and, twice each year, gather great herds of range cattle from the plateau and the mountains beyond it. In the summer, when the sun is hot and the wind is dry with dust, when the lakes in the mountains are dry, and the tiny springs evaporate before they reach the troughs, the wild mustangs steal in, gorge themselves with cool water, and again seek their home in the mountains. The wind had blown clouds of dust before it since morning, and the sandy elopes were covered with little reefs, like ripples on the sea. In the evening the breeze had died away. I lay against my saddle, watching the cook at his work, and idly digging a hole in the ground with my spur. Glancing to the west, I saw three men riding toward camp. ''Hurry up, Pete," I said, "here come the boys, and they'll be as hungry and tired as their horses." Par across the plain, on a distant mountain, the sun cast his last glance over the distant ranges, as if to see if all were well. PALMETTO. 715 Just as he reluctantly sank, leaving the west aglow with his splendor, the boys came riding into camp. Scarcely had they thrown off their saddles, before Pete called "chuck." We sat by the fire and ate as only people can who enjoy perfect health, and who have faced the fresh wind on horseback all day. "Well, Kid," said Clyde Roper, called "Cly" by the fellows and girls in town, and Roper by the rangers, "you missed it by not coming with us today." I asked what the day had done for them, but, at that moment Cly's attention was attracted, since Pete had just removed the lid from the bake-oven, so Don Ricker, the oldest of us, was left to supply the detail. But Don simply said, "0, we saw Palmetto and his bunch." Harvey, a half breed, and a skillful horseman, said, "Pd swap a corral full a yearlin's to get within a rope's length of that horse." I asked if the "Bar X" (X.) mares were with him. Cly smiled over his tin plate for an answer, and said, "Wild as him; poor old Kitchen, he loved those mares; shipped them from the East." Harvy broke in, ' 'He 'lowed he'd raise a band uv beauties with them bay mares." Cly continued, "He rode a sheep-skin for two years to save money enough to buy 'em, but he won't ketch 'em on a sheep-skin. I wonder where they water; his is the only band that ain't been in this summer. They've had a lake but it's done." Don seemed to be all wise on every subject, "They looked dry." After supper, I braided a quirt, and Harvy and Cly told me more of Palmetto. Don, however, brooded over the dying coals. I was sure the picture he studied there was the yellow mustang leading his band. At length he spoke; all listened: "They'll be in tomorrow. The kid and me'll go out on the ridge. You boys stay here at Pipe, and keep your horses fresh. When they get all the water they'll drink, all you have to do is, sit on your horses, keep behind the bunch, and spur. After they've run seven miles in front of your ponies, which are pretty good, if you spur—" 716 IMPROVEMENT ERA. "Not a better horse ever drank water from these springs than Shiner," said Cly. "Even the yaller himself '11 have to do his best to keep a rope's length a head of Pedro," continued Don, disdaining Cly's remark. I was sorry that I had not* been with them. Palmetto was the best known horse on the southern ranges. For two years I had heard the boys talk of him. They spoke of his long, golden mane and tail, of his fine head and long neck, and especially of his wonderful endurance and speed. Consequently, as I kicked off my boots and lay down by the fire, my last thoughts were of Palmetto and tomorrow's run. About noon, Don and I saddled our horses and set out for Cedar Ridge, which crosses the desert seven miles west of Pipe Springs. I was proud as a peacock, and sat easily in my saddle, thinking the chink, chink, chink of my spurs, as they kept time with the sensible horse's even pace, the sweetest music on earth. I wondered why I had been chosen to run the last lap with Don. I knew, even though he were quiet and cynical, that his heart was set on Palmetto; and that today he meant to capture him. When we reached the ridge it was one o'clock. We dismounted and sat on a rock under a cedar. Don sat silent and thoughtful, as usual, turning his hat round and round in his hands. I looked from my tall, bay Jimmy, to his brown, Mexican Pedro, with a browner line down his back, always a sign of toughness and endurance. Shortly Don looked up at my horse. "That's a horse to be proud of," he said, "but he wouldn't do for me. I need a horse that'll carry a large man for weeks, and hunt his fodder at night, with his hobbles on, like old Peed;" and he arose and placed his hand on his horse's neck. Looking at Jimmy, he said, "That's the horse the boss give you when you won the Johnson stakes a couple of seasons ago, ain't he?" I nodded. "You was only twelve then. You're taller now, but little heavier." "Don't you wish you were my weight for today?" I asked. He pointed toward Pipe. "After that yaller's been run across that stretch—well, we'll see," he continued. Suddenly, we riveted our eyes on the mouth of a canyon PALMETTO. 717 which opened into a plain, about ten miles to the southwest. Far up, we saw a cloud of dust moving toward us, and we knew that a band of horses trotted beneath it. Nearer, nearer it came. Finally, as the horses came in view, Don observed, "That's them. I see the white legs of the little mare. I never saw the yaller when she wasn't by his side." Soon I was able to distinguish the noble stallion himself, like a prince, leading his band across the dusty desert. When they came to the base of the ridge, a quarter of a mile below us, their kingly leader stopped. Instantly his followers threw their heads into the air and stood stark still. I had never imagined that Palmetto was so beautiful. His tail touched the ground. His long mane quivered against his knees. He threw his proud head above all the rest and snorted loud. But we were well concealed. Then he whinnied. But our horses knew better than to answer; besides, our fingers clutched tight their nostrils. Again he began his march, testing every step, but when he gained the other side of the ridge, he "lined out" on a long, steady trot. The pretty little white-footed, bay mare, with her little ears set back on her black mane, and her slim neck thrust forward, stole along beneath him. On the other side trotted a sturdy black. Then came the three mares, and so on down, each horse having its rank. Our eyes followed the dust as it moved on towards the springs. Don was sure that we were scented, and that Palmetto would lead them south when he returned, so we mounted our horses and rode on half a mile below the trail. We dismounted. I was all impatient. I strained my eyes on the dust that was now nearing the springs, and wondered if Cly and Harvy were on their horses, ready to begin the chase. But Don calmly sat down on a rock and began to talk, more to himself than to me: "He came with his mother four years ago. He was only a yearling then, but a pretty smart colt. Then for two years I never saw him. When he came back he had the little bay mare and black horse with him. Next he had twenty in his bunch; now there are thirty; an' he got old Kitchen's three thur'breds." A sn'ile stole over Don's tanned features as he looked up and said, with more euthusiasm than usual, "That yaller is one of the 718 IMPROVEMENT ERA. old stock, and he'll sire a bunch of real saddle horses, saddle horses worthy of carryin' a real buckayro." Looking up he said, ' 'They are coming now." For a moment my attention had been drawn from the horses; Now I eagerly followed his eyes. Sure enough! there was the tell-tale dust flying fast, and behind it a lesser dust, showing that Harvey and Cly were riding behind them! Nearer and nearer they came! Yes, there is old "Pall," his long neck thrust out from the cloud of dust! The boys are holding their own, right behind them, riding like the wind. The stallion easily sustains his position. His sharp ears set back on his mane tell him where every horse behind runs, and his eyes and nostrils choose the forward path. On reaching the ridge, as Don anticipated, they circled south. Already some had dropped their tails and were laboring hard, under great excitement, to carry the load of water they had drunk. But the three leaders were gaunt, and galloped, firm and steady. They must have been cautious. We mounted our horses. Jimmy strained eyes and. ears on the band, as it rushed past us, and quivered with excitement, but Pedro stood calm, hardly paying them a passing glance. At the base of the ridge the boys stopped their sweating horses, and Cly called, "Luck." I waved my hand and followed Don at breakneck speed. Still the stallion betrayed no excitement, but galloped steadily on. Before we had passed a mile, the three leaders only were before us. Their leader was no longer yellow, but like his companions, brown with dust and sweat. We evened our pace with his, and galloped mile after mile beneath the burning sun. It was marvelous how Pedro bore such a gigantic man as Don. His square shoulders still worked without a sign of tiring—butting, butting through the dust. ''The little mare is going," said Don,"in a calm voice. Before we had gone a hundred yards, her tail sank low; she was making her last efforts. 0, it was pitiful to seeherjabor to keep those fair, white feet going! The gallant stallion was like a lover to her, often turning his head and coaxing her on by look and example. Slower and slower she went, straining on, the stallion always keeping at her side. But her efforts were all, all in vain! She PALMETTO. 719 sank lower at every leap, until her strength was exhausted. With a pitiful shudder and groan, she sank to her haunches. One last look was exchanged between them, and Palmetto galloped on beside the black. Still, still the same pace, beneath the burning sun! Suddenly, without a sign of warning, the black gave a long leap and fell dead as a stone. "That's mettle for ye!" was all Don said. But he leaned over and patted his horse's neck. "Now, Peed, old boy, show what you are worth. Just a little faster; he's going! in a hundred yards I will reach him! Peed, Peed, you little sun-of-agun, get along!" But I looked upon the foaming Palmetto, who had so gallantly shown his worthiness to be free. I thought of his seven-mile run before he should reach the ridge. I admired his finely shaped body, even more because it was covered with dust and sweat; and his large nostrils more, because they were full of blood; and him more, for his mettle and endurance. Then, too, his long, flowing mane and tail, fresh in the breeze, presented such a striking contrast to his straining body, covered with sweat and blood. I watched old Pedro, and how I longed to see him weaken! But we neared, inch by inch, until just fifty yards ahead of us, the yellow mustang strained. "0, Spirit who guards the wild animals," I thought, "save this hero!" It seemed that my prayer would be answered, for, as I looked on Pedro, covered with foam and sweat, I saw that his gait was no longer regular, that his short legs were no longer firm, and that his leaps were uneven. His master saw it, too. "Your horse! Quick!" he cried. As I leaped to the back of his saddle, he sprang into mine. 0! how my heart sank, when I realized why I had been chosen to go along with Don, when I saw Jimmy respond to his determined spur, when I saw Don uncoil his rope, with set lips and determined eye; when I saw that old Palmetto was working in vain! On he strained, deriving his strength more from his spirit than his muscle. How the long rope swings back and forth by Don's side. He leans forward; his spur strikes the horse's flank; and, like a flash, the long rope darts through the air! "Will it reach? My eyes were 720 IMPROVEMENT ERA. straining to follow it. I spurred Pedro, who, relieved from his load, gathered his strength and easily followed. I guide my horse aside, for the dust is between us. 0! hard, cruel sight! Palmetto has felt his first rope. Still he bounds straight forward, straining his very life. Jimmy stops, his forefeet placed firm in the ground. The stallion leaps forward, and is thrown face to face with his captor. He strains back, but the rope, the saddle, the horse, are strong. Is he going to choke down? No! no! He makes one wild leap forward, then whirls, and with his last strength bounds away. "0, spur! spur!" I cried, "and give him slack." But before the sentence was finished, Palmetto lay on the plain. Don leaped from his horse to hobble him, but there was no need. Palmetto was dead, just a few rods from his home in the mountains! As I looked away to conceal a tear, I saw a crow fly from one of those jagged peaks, where it had sat, like an evil spirit, watching over the ranges; then another came from far away on the other side of the desert. Soon there were twenty circling about us. When I turned around, Don was standing, with his arms locked behind him, looking down on the horse he had killed. Deep sorrow was plainly written on his sun-burned face, but he slowly turned and mounted his horse in silence. As we rode back, we passed the black, then we saw the little mare trotting along. She stopped and looked at us. Her glance seemed a joyful one, because we did not bring Palmetto back a captive, and she quickened her pace to join him. It has been three years since I handled the bit and spur; but now, as I write, the two tassels of golden hair, one from his mane and one from his tail, which I wore in my bridle buttons, recall the story of Palmetto's race to death! Toquerville, Utah.