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2 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

Finally, just off of a fading snow drift, left over from the last storm a week ago on the sunny side

of the slope, I spotted his body. I watched for any movement. I wanted to be sure he was dead

before I rode up to him. He was dead.

I didn’t feel sorry for him. I had taken his life out of necessity.

I would be eating on the young spike bull elk for a while. I would take some of the meat to my

neighbors. This death would also help them out. As neighbors, we shared what we could.

I loved this place as if I had been born to it. The truth was I was considered a newcomer. I

enjoyed the view and could appreciate the good Lord’s handiwork as much as anyone.

From here, I could see the band of brood mares and their foals. The mares and foals were

grazing the grass on the hillside east of the picket horse corral. There were bays,

blacks, sorrels, duns, buckskins and grullas. There were palominos, there were even some

grays and blue roans. Mostly, however, there were sorrels of every shade. The foals stood by

their mama’s and peeked around at me. Ears held straight forward, attentive to my every move.

They weren’t scared of me but they sure watched everything I did. Some of the mares were

broke to ride but mostly they were brood mares used just for raising colts. I loaded this much

needed, fresh elk meat on the saddle and tied it down with some small rope that I carried in my

saddle bag. I took the elk home and hung it up. Tomorrow I would get it cut up into pieces and

take some of it over to the Simmons place.

While hanging the elk meat, I thought a lot about my horses. There was one mare in

particular that I kept close and made it a point to show her special attention. I called her Molly.

That is, until I came here to live and found out that I had a neighbor lady named “Molly”.

That’s when I started calling my old mare, “Sis.”

I‘ve owned Sis since she was just a two-year-old filly. I broke her to ride when I was still

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