C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Milt Milto threaded her passage through the tall sage on a sandy ridge which marked a point where, to the south and west, lay miles and miles of virgin never-seen-a-plow prairie while to the north and east lay the rolling hills of checkerboard summerfallow and seeded acreage of the farmland. At sixteen, the pretty girl still enjoyed her tomboy freedom but could not hide her budding femininity. A ponytail of long auburn hair that would reach her slim waist when allowed to tumble free, bounced and bobbed with the rhythm of her horse's gait. Her christened name was Sherry but the nickname of Milt had been appended soon after the family's arrival in the district; even her parents referred to the teenager as Milt. The girl drew back gently on the braided split-leather reins and spoke softly to the big buckskin gelding. “Whiskey, there's something shiny over there along the trail… It looks like sun glinting on a mirror.”
The seven year old gelding pricked his ears in the direction of the reflection but the girl didn't know if he actually saw the object or was merely responding to her voice. Milt gently dug her heels into the buckskin's flank and urged him up the slope to a higher vantage point. Although the bank grew steep, the horse took the incline at an easy stride. The rider took a firm hold on a handful of black mane as she clung like a burr to the bareback mount. From the crest of the higher elevation along the ridge, Milt could see that the shining object in the distance was, in fact, a reflection of sunlight off the windshield of a vehicle.
Curiosity led the pair to a closer inspection.
As horse and rider moved out on the flat land extending away from the ridge, Milt again drew rein and studied the intrusion on her privacy. The vehicle she recognized as the '52 Chevrolet pickup that Benny Collins' father had given him for a runabout. The driver's side door hung open but there seemed to be no people in the truck. Across the quiet space between rider and vehicle the muffled sound of voices and a throaty giggle reached Milt's ears. The girl on the horse grinned suddenly. She quickly reined the buckskin along a route which led toward the pickup but concealed her approach with an intervening grove of aspen poplars.
Benny Collins had a lot in common with his father, Lou. The lad had a rather lengthy nose on a face that tapered down to a dimpled chin and a wide grin which opened up to a smile that made his head disappear. His unruly blond hair had the same cowlick that Lou's unruly grey hair possessed. If you filled in the plaster cracks and erosion of the original mould from which Lou Collins face was shaped, you would have young Benny looking back at you. Father and son were seldom apart since Benny's mother had passed away three days before the boy's fifth birthday. However, Benny had recently reached the youthful age of eighteen and today father definitely was not with the son.
The girl on the buckskin knew who supplied the giggling half of the conversation: Brenda Yeast. Brenda lived down the road about a mile and a half east of where Milt and her parents resided. She was a friendly girl, pretty, with shoulder length blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. At seventeen she had a figure to turn any young lad's head. She certainly turned Benny's head, so much so that his dad wondered if the youngster was having dizzy spells. Milt halted the gelding again before stepping out from behind her aspen cover. She noticed Benny's beat up wide-brimmed western hat hanging on the single post mirror of the open truck door. Seeing this, the tomboy smiled mischievously and slipped softly off the sleek back of the buckskin. Ground hitching the horse, Milt eased silently through the grove and paused again at the far edge of the aspens. Grasping a six foot length of deadfall, Milt passed through the pony-high silverberry bush that skirted the edge of the little grove and noiselessly approached the front of the vehicle from the off side. When near enough, she quickly stretched the pole over the tapered hood of the truck, flicked the Stetson from the mirror and retrieved it on the end of the stick. Continued giggling from inside the cab told the thief she had not been detected. Milt gently tossed the stick aside and dashed back to her horse with the contraband clutched in her hand. Grabbing the reins and grasping a handful of mane, she vaulted astride the buckskin and made a circuitous route around the vehicle and the unsuspecting couple.
Horse and rider made their way down the ancient ruts of the prairie trail to a gate that Milt knew Benny would have to drive through on his return. She chuckled, noting that the young fellow had carelessly tossed the barbwire fence on the grass without taking time to pull it back properly before driving through the opening. “Benny must have been in a hurry,” she mused as she jumped off the horse, drew open the downed gate and led the buckskin through. Using the broken lariat that served as latch, the girl expertly snugged up the rope and threw a half-hitch over the gate post. On top of this she hung the battered Stetson, then grasping a handful of the long black mane, swung swiftly astride her mount and rode away.
…We always figured the Sandhills would stay the same forever, but the past decade has brought some changes that aren't necessarily for the better. Much of the old pasture is messed up with gas wells and pipelines and there are roads running every which way. Maybe some day it will be back to the way it was when I was a lad, but I don't expect that in my lifetime…
Submitted by Ben Collins
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