“The Spaniards called those wild ones mesteños,” I said, “meaning strayed or running free, but the English-speaking settlers changed it to mustang, a name as tough and hardy as the horse itself.”
Right here I better tell you that my blue notebooks were quite thick—thirty-two pages, not counting the picture-pages. And I didn’t intend to skip even one. I was here in Washington to do just what Mr. Baring had asked me to do: “Give the mustang’s role in history, Annie,” he’d said. “Present both sides of the picture—honestly.”
Another thing I haven’t mentioned is that all my life I’d had a secret longing for the stage. Maybe it was the blood of old Henry Clay stirring in my veins. Now the time had come! I must make my plea so strong, so fire-pure, that it’d be like lifting the committee by their lapels and shaking them into action. If Mr. Baring thought history was the key, now was the time to unlock the treasures of our little Washoe Library.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “the tough little mustang has made American history. Lewis and Clark’s expedition would have failed if it hadn’t been for the mustang. They had rowed up the Missouri River until the mountains blocked them. Their trip might have ended right there, but the Shoshone Indians came to their rescue, willing to trade thirty mustangs. They were true-blooded Spanish horses; some even bore Spanish brands and had Spanish bits on their bridles. They carried the explorers and their tons of supplies and ammunition over the Rockies to the Columbia River. And so they saved Oregon and the Northwest for the United States.”
The committee seemed pleased. They knew all about the Lewis and Clark expedition, but not the part the mustangs had played.
“And it was the mustangs,” I said, “along with the oxen, that opened up the Santa Fé Trail. Through forest and desert, they blazed a path, leading the way for gold seekers and fur traders and for caravans of freight. This trail through the wilderness linked grazing lands to markets, and made possible the great cattle industry.”
Several of the committee leaned forward in their chairs, as if this too was something new to them.
“And the famous explorer, Frémont,” I said, “and his guide, Kit Carson, for whom our Carson City is named, used mustangs in their daring crossing of the Sierra Nevadas in deep winter. Only mustangs could have stood up to the blustery winds and blinding snow.”
I was enjoying myself to the full. “And what horse, do you think,” I asked, keeping my voice ladylike but strong, “what horse was used on the rough mountain end of the Pony Express? The little mustang, of course!”
My mouth was dry. I hated to waste time drinking while everyone was waiting, so I took just one sip to “wet my whistle,” as Pa used to say.
Minute by minute the mustang’s history was building up. “From the Spanish conquistadores, the mustang moved into the hands of the Indians, then to mountain men and trappers, cattle drovers and the stagecoach drivers, and the pioneer farmers. Saddled or harnessed, the mustang was the biggest one-horsepower in the world!”
I paused for a great gulp of air, and with a smile of encouragement from the chairman, plunged on.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “didn’t any of you have a grandmother or grandfather who told you of their little mustang teams that pulled their covered wagons across the desert and over the mountains to California?”
One man’s eyes bridged the space between us with an electric spark. He must have had a grandmother almost as wonderful as my Grandma Bronn!
I didn’t try to hide the joy I was feeling.
“So much for ancient history,” I said and paused a moment. Somehow I felt that I was playing a role in history, too.
Up at the horseshoe table the men shifted in their chairs, uncrossed their legs, recrossed them, but without ever taking their eyes from the books in front of them. I could tell they were listening, just as surely as if they’d swiveled their ears like Hobo.
The man with the pipe seemed anxious to get on, to get right to the point. His face was asking: “What about those wild horses you want to save? Let’s hear about them.”
Looking directly at him, I replied, “With the opening of the cattle trails, more and more ranchers came west, bringing their herds of cows and sheep. They felt that every mouthful of grass was needed for their livestock, and that the bands of free-running wild horses were a big nuisance. So they took matters into their own hands. They killed the mustangs by the thousands. Only the fastest, the smartest, and most crafty ones got away and high-tailed it into the hills. The best survived to reproduce the species, which makes them all the more worth saving.”
The pages turned, and the rapt attention urged me on.
“Today, enemies of the wild horse call him ‘Broomtail’ and point out that he’s a far cry from the prancing steeds brought over by the Spanish conquistadores.
“It’s true,” I admitted, “that his royal blood has been diluted, but he still shows the spirit and courage of his Arabian ancestors.”
It was funny how, for the first time in my life, I was talking and listening to someone else at the same time. “Tell the whole story. Be honest. Tell the other side, too.” Mr. Baring was still prompting me from that day when he banged his fist on my desk.
I stood straighter, remembering.
“Because of the growing number of cattle and sheep,” I said, “our government set up land management offices to protect the grazing lands. These offices have done a great service of conservation.”
I was fighting and unafraid now. “The turning point came only recently with the big demand for canned horsemeat. This made killing the mustangs very profitable. Instead of just clearing the range to protect the livestock as before, wild-horse hunters could provide cheap meat for the slaughterhouses. The old technique of hard-riding cowboys was now far too slow. Speed and more speed was the cry, and so air roundups came into being.”
Resolutely, I picked up my notebook and flicked it open to the roundup pictures. Even though the committeemen had their own, I made them look at mine, at me, so they’d know how serious it was, and how serious I was.
Making my arms into a music-stand, I held the book up before their eyes. Slowly I turned the pages, very slowly, my anger inheld.
“It’s like a relay team,” I said. “The planes drive the mustangs out of the hills, and then roaring trucks take up the chase. The horses often run fifty miles before they are caught.”
I skipped none of the brutal practices. The ropes whanging through the air, choking their victims, the horses burdened with heavy tires, the cruel loading process, and finally the crushed cargo of rope-burned, bleeding horses.
The faces before me winced as if they themselves had witnessed the whole bloody business.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “not one of us has any quarrel with the land management offices who protect our public lands. But we do object to the methods used in these roundups.”
I was suddenly tired. I looked at my watch. I’d been talking nearly an hour! It was time to end. Quickly.
“Wide-scale range clearance is no longer needed,” I concluded. “The mustangs are no longer a threat. They have been driven far back into the bare hills, and are living where it seems no horse should be able to endure. But they have endured.
“With so few left, it is time for us to protect them before they vanish forever. Only the federal government can do that.”
Mr. Baring pulled out my chair, and I was glad to sit.
Mr. Lane, the chairman, rose to his feet and looked full at me. “You have given us an admirable presentation,” he said. “Before we hear from the Bureau of Land Management, do I have your permission for a period of questioning?” His smile was friendly as sunlight on a summer hill. “We’re not being argumentative,” he explained. “We just want to understand everything very clearly before we make our recommendations.”
I took a fresh grip on Billii B. and nodded my readiness.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Lane said, “you may put your questions directly to our witness.”
There was a rain of questions, good clean rain that cleared the air. This was the best part!
The man with the pipe was first: “Since Nevada already has a law banning air roundups, why are you concerned about a federal law?”
“For two reasons,” I replied quickly. “First, it is impossible to enforce our state law because it applies only to private land, and most of Nevada, you know, is in public domain.
“But an even bigger reason,” I said, “is that the mustang doesn’t belong just to Nevada. He is a symbol of freedom to all. He is our American heritage, as meaningful as the battlefield at Yorktown or the white church at Lexington. Even more so, because he is a living symbol.”
From up and down the row the questions came.
“Would you want the Bureau to be denied the use of planes for scouting fires, spotting lost cattle and sheep, counting livestock?”
“Oh, no, sir. Planes are needed for patrolling the ranges. It is only when they fly low, right on the backs of the horses, that we suspect there is another purpose behind it. And this is the brutal practice that should be stopped.”
“But, Miss Annie, if it ever does become necessary to clear the land again, are the mustangs of any value whatsoever, other than as pet food?”
“Oh, thank you for asking that!” I said. Now I could talk about useful mustangs! “Our Hobo is a mustang and he’s almost thirty years old. My father owned him before I was born and worked him in his horse-and-wagon freighting business called The Mustang Express. Today Hobo is still my own special saddle horse. He has a ruggedness and a hardiness that none of our other horses have.
I couldn’t stop myself. “And when my own father was a baby he was saved by the milk of a mustang.”
Without thinking, it had blurted out. I could feel my face redden, but not one of the men laughed or even smiled. They just leaned forward a little so as not to miss what came next.
At this point a committee member who had remained silent handed a note to Mr. Lane, who nodded thoughtfully. “Suppose,” he read aloud, “that the herds do increase so that they again become a threat to the ranchers. Do you propose no control at all?”
The question I needed! It opened the way for me to make my proposal. I wanted now to shout loud enough to reach President Eisenhower in his office in the White House. But in my quietest, most inheld voice I said, “Of course, your honor, the government must have the right to exercise controls. I’d like to suggest wildlife refuges where the mustang can roam free again—not just in Nevada, but in other states, too.”
I could see heads nodding in agreement, but the man who had presented the question was puckering his eyebrows.
“If their numbers ever again become too great,” I said directly to him, “the weeding out should be done humanely, with no torture at all.”
The rain of questions beat on and the answers came dancing on the tip of my tongue. It was like a play that had been rehearsed a long time, and now the lines all fitted into place without any prompting. I was almost sorry when the chairman said, “This concludes our questioning.”
Then he thanked me, thanked me, mind you, as a brave American. What was it Charley had said about fear inspiring a special kind of bravery? Maybe that was what he meant.
Then something happened which took all my poise away. Each member of the committee rose in turn and in a short speech paid tribute to the mustang’s role in America and my part in protecting him. One boyish-looking Congressman, John Lindsay, said, “I have been told that this is the first time our witness has ever testified for or against anything. If this is her first time, I, for one, would never want to sit in judgment when she becomes an expert.”
The laughter was warm and chuckly.
As I listened I made believe they were talking about someone else. And they were! That other Annie who had now burst her cocoon and was soaring.
Then the chairman stood up quite formally, almost at attention. I expected him to call on someone else, or perhaps to announce a recess, for it was already past noon. Instead, he stood with his head half bowed in my direction. And as though on one hinge, every committeeman, every reporter in the boxes, and my two beloved Nevadans stood at attention too. They looked so pleased and happy as if we were all part of something big in American history.
At last everyone sat down and a great hush fell over the room. The hush grew deeper and thicker until there was a mountain of silence.
“Curtain speech!” whispered Mr. Baring.
I felt my heart stop, then pound. It was easy to say fighting words, but I wasn’t prepared for praise. I looked about at the lawmakers and felt little again, little as that lost baby field mouse.
Then all at once the warmest feeling washed over me. In the waiting stillness I could hear the liberty bell tolling, proclaiming liberty throughout the land, unto all the inhabitants. I could see mustangs running free. I could see a little buckskin colt with his mamma’s milk still dribbling from his whiskers.
I felt overwhelming pride in just being alive. And pride in a country which allowed a little Nevada-nobody to stand up on its highest pedestal and speak her piece. At that moment I could have hugged Mr. Duck Fuzz himself. But what was I to say to these waiting people? An ordinary “thank you” to speak my bursting heart?
My mind was all in a whirl. Then, like soldiers marching, the images of men who had spoken for all of humanity began to walk through my mind toward one answer. And I could see the Plan as it had been from the beginning.
In the beginning was the word. The word was God. And God created man. And man was many things.
He was the grieving Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg: For us the living to be dedicated.
He was the defiant Patrick Henry before the Revolutionary Congress: Give me liberty or give me death.
He was the young John Paul Jones, blackened by smoke from his burning ship and ordered to haul down his flag, who shouted: I have just begun to fight.
He was all the wise old heads who had framed a Constitution: to form a more perfect union, to establish justice.
And suddenly the answer was there. But I didn’t know whether I could say it because my throat was all tight.
“We—we the people” I said, “have won.” A tear started down my cheek, but I could see it didn’t matter. The sunlight was streaming through a window, causing more tears than mine to glisten. We, the people, knew that we had won, and that we would always win so long as we fought hard enough for truth and freedom.
That was the Plan.
Roaming Free
AFTER the hushed stillness of the Judiciary Chamber, the corridor outside became a buzz of talking and rejoicing. Annie was surrounded by admirers, and to her delight some of the most warmly sincere were the Bureau men.
But on that memorable July day all was not perfect happiness. Word came from Nevada, through the foghorn voice of Zeke, that the canneries were stepping up their roundups to get all the horsemeat they could before a law would stop them. Chairman Lane and his sixteen men were told what was going on, and they acted swiftly, recommending to Congress that the bill be passed at once, without any amendment, and before the last bands of wild horses were wiped out.
Even with all the urgency, the evidence had to be studied again by the Senate. But the day came when Mr. Baring could wire:
CONGRATULATIONS ANNIE. OUR MUSTANG BILL PASSED JUST ON THE EVE OF ADJOURNMENT
Now only one more step was needed. It came on September 8, 1959, when President Eisenhower signed the bill into law. From that day on it became illegal for hunters to use planes for flushing wild horses out of the hills, or for trucks and jeeps to run them down.
The pen that the President used to sign the bill now hangs in a frame above Annie’s desk. That is how she knows for sure that the long struggle wasn’t just a wild dream.
Three years after the signing—in December of 1962—Annie and the mustangs received a wondrous Christmas present. The Department of the Interior created the first wild horse refuge in America. It is locate
d on the high desert land of Nellis Air Force Base in Annie’s home state of Nevada. Of the 3,000,000 acres belonging to the base, 435,000 now belong to the mustangs. Here they roam free in roadless, rugged country of juniper and pine and sage. Salt-lick stations have been placed near springs and waterholes, which the horses share with their fellow creatures—deer and antelope and bighorn sheep. There are no fences at all, only the faraway Kawich and Wheelbarrow mountains.
Most of the horses are a mixture of Spanish mustang, Indian pony, and runaway domestic horses. One, an Appaloosa stallion, is a splendid fellow with spots as round as polka dots. Already the rangers have dubbed him Chief-Thunder-Rolling-in-the-Mountains.
Annie, of course, was delighted with this refuge. But she had learned from firm, gentle Mr. Richards that the fight for freedom must never cease. When a second refuge was established in 1965 in the Cedar Mountains of Utah, Annie said, “That’s good, but we need more—in Montana, Wyoming, Idaho; everywhere in the West. And why not?” she asked, the old fighting gleam in her eye. “We have the land and we have the descendants of the mustangs who helped us win it.”
Time has robbed Annie of her wise and beloved father, who was saved by the milk of a mustang, and of her husband Charley, who made everything he touched seem beautiful. But Mom Bronn still parcels out her homely Clay-inspired wisdom. And she cooks for Annie, who is still Mr. Harris’ secretary. She and Mom live in a little house on a hill with the spangly lights of Reno spilling out like jewels far below. Above, around, and behind them rise the mountains, craggy and bold. And somewhere in their rimrocks and mesas wild horses kick up their heels, magnificent in the freedom that is theirs because Annie and thousands of everyday people worked to safeguard it.
Autumn 1966
For their help the author is grateful to
WALTER S. BARING, U.S. Congressman from Nevada
MRS. JOE A. BRONN, Reno, Nevada
MR. and MRS. G. A. FREEMAN, JR., G—F Ranch, Capitan, New Mexico