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He was white. White as memories lost. He was free. Free as

happiness is. He was fantasy, liberty, and excitement. He

filled and dominated the mountain valleys and surrounding

plains. He was a white horse that f looded my youth with

dreams and poetry.

Around the campfires of the country and in the sunny

patios of the town, the ranch hands talked about him with

enthusiasm and admiration. But gradually their eyes would

become hazy and blurred with dreaming. The lively talk

would die down. All thoughts fixed on the vision evoked by

the horse. Myth of the animal kingdom. Poem of the world

of men.

White and mysterious, he paraded his harem through

the summer forests with lordly rejoicing. Winter sent him

to the plains and sheltered hillsides for the protection of hisfemales. He spent the summer like an Oriental potentate in

his woodland gardens. The winter he passed like an illustrious

warrior celebrating a well-earned victory.

He was a legend. The stories told of the Wonder Horse were

endless. Some true, others fabricated. So many traps, so many

snares, so many searching parties, and all in vain. The horse

always escaped, always mocked his pursuers, always rose

above the control of man. Many a valiant cowboy swore to put

his halter and his brand on the animal. But always he had to

confess later that the mystic horse was more of a man than he.

I was fifteen years old. Although I had never seen the

Wonder Horse, he filled my imagination and fired my

ambition. I used to listen open-mouthed as my father and the

ranch hands talked about the phantom horse who turned into

mist and air and nothingness when he was trapped. I joined

in the universal obsession—like the hope of winning the

lottery—of putting my lasso on him some day, of capturing

him and showing him off on Sunday afternoons when the

girls of the town strolled through the streets.

It was high summer. The forests were fresh, green, and gay.

The cattle moved slowly, fat and sleek in the August sun and

shadow. Listless and drowsy in thelethargyof late afternoon,

I was dozing on my horse. It was time to round up the herd

and go back to the good bread of the cowboy camp. Already

my comrades would be sitting around the campfire, playing

the guitar, telling stories of past or present, or surrendering to

the languor of the late afternoon. The sun was setting behind

me in a riot of streaks and colors. Deep, harmonious silence.

I sit drowsily still, forgetting the cattle in the glade.

Suddenly the forest falls silent, a deafening quiet. The

afternoon comes to a standstill. The breeze stops blowing, but

it vibrates. The sun flares hotly. The planet, life, and time itself

have stopped in an inexplicable way. For a moment, I don’t

understand what is happening.

Then my eyes focus. There he is! The Wonder Horse! At

the end of the glade, on high ground surrounded by summer

green. He is a statue. He is an engraving. Line and form and

white stain on a green background. Pride, prestige, and art


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