C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
A similar light shone in a younger man's eyes the next morning as Ben Collins slid behind the wheel of Robert Milto's new Mustang. Ben, Milt and Connie had ridden with the rancher as he babied the new car along the dirt road leading to the two lane black-top. At the paved surface, Milt's dad handed Ben the reins, saying, “It's a thoroughbred.”
Milt and her mother were in the rounded back seat, and Robert assumed the passenger position, while their enthusiastic neighbour drove the new unit. As he eased the clutch out, the car lurched awkwardly and Ben fed it some gas; the back tires lit up and two short streaks of burned rubber scorched the pavement.
Robert laughed, noticing Ben's consternation. “It'll do that quite handily in all four gears.”
Coining one of Ben's own phrases, Milt said, “Let 'er buck!”
Ben glanced at the Mustang owner.
“Try it out.”
The tow-headed youth eagerly put the Cobra-Jet through its paces, keeping the tires warm on a straight stretch of pavement. Several vehicles had slowed to watch the performance and two cars even stopped, their occupants extricating themselves for an up front view. Connie Milto noted that they wore their Sunday best. “We ought to take this unit home or everyone will be late for church.”
Away from public view, Ben yielded the wheel to Milt who demonstrated her ability with a four speed transmission and her father said, “You must have been practising with the trucks! No wonder the grass has disappeared around the yard!”
Mrs. Milto, in her turn, mostly babied the hot little Shelby but she did open it up on one occasion, leaving three long streaks of first, second and third gear rubber.
Robert got behind the wheel again and grinned boyishly as he left more black strips on the pavement.
Connie said, “Talk about a kid with a new toy!”
“Some toy!” Ben said.
Word of the existence of a '68 ½ Shelby Cobra Jet rapidly spread throughout the district and a long distance in both directions up and down the line from Stockton. The vehicle's true ownership, however, remained a mystery for an unusual length of time; unusual in a rural neighbourhood where rumours spread faster than noxious weeds.
The night after the race, Ben Collins had fallen asleep thinking about the Mustang. Unabashed, next morning he had driven his truck right up to the shop door and discovered Robert Milto in nearly the same position that Milt had found him: admiring his new car. The lad explained that he had had a strong hunch: “Milt seemed so much more excited that last match up yesterday, I s'pected she knew more than the rest of us.”
Robert Milto had good reasons for everything he did and Ben respected his choice of keeping a low profile.
“Nobody will hear about it from me.” Ben promised when the rancher asked him to refrain from broadcasting the whereabouts of the Shelby.
“The Mystery Mustang Man,” Milt said.
Danny Reid hadn't been at the race, however, he and Val were at the church service the following morning. Attendance suffered because harvest time had arrived and many of the farmers were saying their prayers out in the fields. The sermon took a back seat to the congregation's younger contingent animatedly discussing the Mystery Mustang. Several of the out-of-town folk had seen the raven black demon on the highway this morning while en route to church. These people soon became the centre of attention, their audience oblivious to the exaggerated coughs and 'ahems' of Reverend Franklin who finally called out, “Perhaps we may concentrate our attention on the 'human race' at least for the next… fifty minutes?”
Danny agreed that God created the earth in six days. However (and he kept this to himself), those days were roughly seven hundred and fifty million years long; He recruited every atom in the universe to assist with the project and on the seventh day God and crew didn't actually rest, they began one Hell of a maintenance program.
Stockton's two churches received equal attendance from the Reids and neither the Catholics nor the Protestants could fathom why the couple couldn't make up their mind. Danny privately enjoyed their confusion.
On this day, Danny failed to devote his total attention to the All Mighty during the parson's delivery. Following benediction, he said privately to his wife, “Let's drop out to the Milto ranch this afternoon, I want to see a man about a horse.”
The telephone call suggesting an afternoon tea quickly extended to a supper invitation. By two o'clock, the guests were seated on the sunny veranda sharing pleasantries with the Miltos. Connie explained that Milt had gone off riding somewhere. Harvest wasn't necessarily a busy time on a grassland operation.
Danny noticed that Vera Mitchell's car was parked beside Sven's bunkhouse and learned that the couple had driven off in one of the ranch trucks, headed in a westerly direction.
“Have Sven and Vera set a date yet?” Val asked.
“I believe it will be around the first of October, maybe Thanksgiving weekend,” Connie said.
“It's to be a small affair,” Danny added. “Vera has asked us to be there, though she had no firm date.”
“Yes,” Robert said, “Sven asked me if we could help with the 'paperwork,' as he put it.”
“So… bought any new horses lately?” Danny threw the verbal curve ball so fast Robert Milto was caught completely flat-footed. He, Connie and Val all turned to the lineman, confusion mirrored on their faces.
“What's that Danny? We already have more horses than we need.”
“Oh, there is a rumour that a herd of about 350 passed through Stockton yesterday and were spotted out on the highway again this morning…I figured with that many horses around you might have picked out a least one mustang? Maybe a black one?”
Connie laughed at her husband's bewilderment. “Robert, you can't hide anything from an old lineman! If he doesn't hear it on the telephone line, he just climbs higher up the pole where he can see for himself.”
Val and Danny laughed too, and Robert, with feigned exasperation, said, “Young Benny Collins came poking around here first thing this morning and now you two have ferreted me out; come on, you may as well have a look… if we can get through the crowd!”
Robert Milto had meticulously polished away the road dust collected from the morning's excursion. The Shelby gleamed in the afternoon light when the rancher operated the chain winch to open the double wide overhead shop door.
Danny, though prepared, lost control of his bottom jaw; his mouth dropped open in awe.
He and Val were quick to accept an invitation to go for a 'spin' and for the second time that day the Mustang was led out to the pavement and put through its paces on the two-lane black-top. Soon a few more lengthy rubber streaks from squealing tires gave testimonial to a hot set of wheels.
“It feels like three times the jam of our Fairlane's 289,” Danny said as he opened up the powerful Cobra-Jet on the straight-away.
“I think it will pass just about anything but a gas station,” Robert Milto said. “Good thing fuel isn't a tremendous expense these days,” then he added quickly, “not that 38 cents a gallon is cheap either….”
Danny kept his eyes on the road and did not respond but a slight sly smile teased the corners of his mouth.
Everyone converged in the ranch yard at once. Milt, astride Whiskey, with Chase trailing behind, rode up as Danny idled the powerful Shelby down the treed lane. Sven and Vera, had just climbed out of the pickup and were walking hand in hand toward the bunkhouse but they stopped mid stride and turned upon hearing the rumble of the approaching vehicle.
Danny parked the Shelby inside the shop, then he, Robert, Connie and Val emerged into the sunlight. Sven and Vera joined them as Milt slid off her bare backed horse and led him toward the group.
“Hello, Button,” Danny called.
“Hi Danny, hi Val, hello Vera.”
“How was your ride, dear?” Connie asked.
“Well, I saw a rare species of bird out by the second mill.” Milt said
“Oh,” said Val, “I didn't know you were an ornithologist.”
“Normally, I'm not all that keen on feathers, but these were special.” She turned toward Sven and Vera. “They were lovebirds!”
“After the provincial government declared my telephone operator position defunct, I spent many happy days living in Sven's bunkhouse, though we kept my house in town. Sven continued working on the Rocking M until the federal government bought the ranch in the late seventies…”
Submitted by Wendy Miller as told by the late Vera Mitchell (Larson)
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