SILVER
After Penny left the clearing, Tonto stepped to the side of the big
white horse. He stroked the silken sheen of the stallion's nose and
said, "Soon girl come back with plenty food. Then we go to white
friend."
A rare bond of friendship existed between the wounded Texas Ranger in
the cave, the Indian named Tonto, and the mighty stallion, Silver. Tonto
and Silver were of royal blood. Tonto was the son of a chief; Silver, a
former ruler. But these were honors of the past. Destiny had even
greater things ahead for the white man.
Tonto lost his chance to reign when his tribe was wiped out in his
boyhood. Silver had abdicated. The stallion's background is a story in
itself:
Wild Horse Valley, nestled in the heart of green hills, was a sanctuary
where men had never been. The grass was green and lush; great trees
spread leafy boughs to cast soft shade. Here, from the living rock, came
waterfalls that were sweet and pure. King Sylvan and his gentle mate,
Moussa, ruled this land. Their court was made up of untamed horses.
Horses that had never known restraining bit or binding saddlestrap.
Happy, carefree horses they were, that had never seen men nor known
men's inventions. Sylvan had won the right to rule his followers by
might and courage. He was the fleetest of foot, the quickest of eye, the
greatest of strength. Sylvan, the King!
Then Moussa bore the king a son--a prince--and Sylvan's happiness was
complete. His fleet hoofs pounded the turf, racing, turning, flashing a
white coat in the bright sun. He hoped his little son would see his
strength, his speed, and emulate them. Less than two hours after his
birth, the prince was trying his slim, straight legs. In the months that
followed, the white colt developed the strength and fearlessness of
Sylvan. Added to these were the gentleness, grace, and beauty of Moussa.
For many weeks the prince of Wild Horse Valley stayed close to his
mother's side, and his little shadow merged with hers as the two moved
through the valley, guided by Sylvan, who knew where water was sweetest
and grass most tender.
Then came the days when colthood was left behind, and the son could
outrun Moussa and keep pace with mighty Sylvan. Like the wind, the white
one and Sylvan raced side by side. How the sun flashed from their sleek
bodies as they raced, cut back, reared, and whirled in sheer joy! Life
was good. Life was sweet. And Moussa watched with pride.
Tragedy came into the prince's life when Moussa went to the everlasting
happiness of other green pastures. By this time the prince was fully
grown and the equal in strength of his father. Day after day, the prince
met and defeated new challengers in the field of combat. While Sylvan
remained king, the prince fought to hold his own exalted position. The
battles were furious. No quarter was asked, none given. The white prince
never paused in the fray until his opponent lay conquered at his feet.
Finally, when the last challenger was beaten, the prince called out in
his victory. Sylvan responded with mighty pride. A king and his son,
both conquerors and champions. Stronger, greater, than any other in
their herd. Acknowledged by all as the ones who should lead while others
followed.
Then, one day, at the narrow entrance to the valley, strange creatures
waited with cruel weapons; creatures new to the horses. Men who came
with tragedy and pain. These were intruders who were looked upon as
enemies to be driven away. The king sounded the attack, and led the
charge. Fire, like lightning, flashed before the horses. Thunder roared
deafeningly close at hand. The fury of those hammering hoofs could not
long be withstood, and the men retreated--then rode away to save their
lives.
The prince raised his strong voice in shrill exultation, but his cry was
short. The king was on the ground beside him. Mighty Sylvan was dead.
Burning hatred for men grew in Silver's heart while he gently nuzzled
his father's prostrate form. There was little left for the prince in
that valley. Nothing to conquer or to love. For some time he stood
motionless, looking at the soft grass, the trees, the valley that had
been his home. Then he turned to leave the valley.
Alone, the white horse made his way through the mountains. Hour after
hour he held a steady lope that carried him ever further from the place
where he had known happiness and joy, then tragedy and sudden death. The
white stallion wanted to travel far, far from the place where he had
seen those hated men who had killed his father. The mountains gave way
to level plains.
Here was a new world! Level land, as far as he could see. He raced
across it, ignoring the danger of gopher holes and rocks. Then,
suddenly, quite out of wind, he stopped. Ahead of the prince there was a
challenger. Not another horse, and not a man. A dirty beast, of muddy
color, with a tangled mane and a huge hump on its back. A buffalo. The
prince saw tiny blood-red eyes that seemed filled with evil and hatred.
As if in anger at intrusion of its domain, the huge beast stamped and
pawed the ground. From the monster there came a horrible bellow, and
then the muddy fury charged.
With all the agility the white one could command in his exhaustion, he
stepped aside to dodge the charge. Here was a new kind of battle! As the
buffalo raced past him, the prince felt the rough fur brush his body,
and a foul odor assailed his nostrils. Mad with fury, screaming with
rage, the buffalo turned and charged again. Again the white horse
sidestepped. Time after time, the game was played, but it could not
last forever. Soon the two must come to grips, and this would be a
battle to the death.
Great bellows filled the air. Mountains of dust rose from beneath the
churning hoofs as the battle began in earnest. The buffalo drew blood
from the horse's side. The prince reared high, and struck down, with all
his strength. The power of the huge horse's hoofs seemed ineffectual
against the hairy beast. The massive head was a battering ram, driving
relentlessly into the white body of the prince. Trembling and weak, the
white one grew unsteady, but his gallant heart knew no defeat. He fought
on, desperately and hopelessly, against the greater strength of his
opponent. Utter exhaustion robbed the brave horse of the power to stand.
He slumped to the ground, legs useless.
The king of horses raised his head to meet the death that was at hand.
Evil, hate-filled eyes glowed redder than before as the buffalo drew
back, head lowered for the final rush.
The buffalo charged--then seemed to halt in mid-air--and crumpled to the
ground. The white one didn't understand at first. And then the echo of a
gun--the same sort of sound he'd heard when Sylvan had been struck down!
It was later that the white horse opened his eyes, which were bright
with pain. He knew then that man was not always an enemy. Gentle hands
caressed him, and he felt cool water on his wounds. His strength, some
of it, was returning, and the proud head came up once more. He
remembered Sylvan. Here were hated men again, two of them. The tired
body rose from the ground on trembling, weakened legs. For a moment
Silver stood there, then he turned and fled.
He ran for a time, but slower with each passing moment. For some reason,
the prince felt that he had left a friend behind him. He had learned a
grim lesson in the wilderness outside of Wild Horse Valley. There were
creatures there far stronger than any horse had been. Huge, shaggy, ugly
brutes who could kill him. Beasts that fell only before the weapons of
man. The horse slowed, then stopped and looked back. He seemed to know
that in this new world outside the Valley he needed friends with another
strength than his. He recalled the gentle touch and the deep, kindly
voice of the man who had bathed his wounds.
He took a few steps toward the recent scene of battle where the two men
stood, still watching him. The terrible weapon that had killed the
buffalo was quiet now. Some strong force drew Silver nearer. He was
tense, ready to turn and flee forever from creatures in the form of men
if the thundering machine of Death was fired again, but there was only
silence. The touch of the man's hand was so like the soft caress of
Moussa--Silver wanted more of it. The voice of the man was good to hear.
It was rich, friendly. Silver went still closer, still tense, ready to
bolt. And then he was at the side of the tall man who had saved his
life. He touched his sensitive nostrils to the brown hand and a new
emotion was born in the heart of the horse. A love of beast for man.
The Texan found it hard to restrain his excitement. "The finest horse
I've ever seen," he told the Indian beside him. "Look at him, Tonto!
These muscles, and the eyes! The tail and mane are like silk! Look at
his coat, how it glistens in the sun. I'm going to ride this horse. He
came back after he'd left us. I'm going to ride him. And his name shall
be Silver."
The horse stood quietly while the tall man with the deep voice and
gentle touch mounted his bare back.
"You, Silver--" the man said, "--we're going to be friends, aren't we,
old boy?" A gentle caress on the white neck. To show his happiness and
demonstrate the fact that he was strong again, the white horse rose high
on his hind legs, then came down without a jar. He would prove to this
white man who had defended him that he was glad to have a friend.
"_High, Silver!_" the man cried out. "_High up_ again!"
Trying to understand what the man on his back wanted, Silver repeated
his rearing action. He heard the happy laugh of his rider.
"Now, big fellow," the man called out, "let's travel. _Away_ there,
Silver." For a moment the white horse couldn't comprehend. Then he felt
a nudge from the heels of the man on his back.
"Hi there you, Silver horse, _away_!" Silver moved ahead, carrying his
master. He was desperately anxious to do what this man wanted. Eager to
show his happiness at the finding of a friend. As he moved, he heard
shouts of encouragement.
"That's it, Silver! Hi you, Silver, away!"
The horse moved faster. Another shout, this time contracted.
"Hi-Yo' Silver, Away!"
Silver broke into a run. Now he knew what the master wanted. At the next
shout, the big stallion gave all his strength in a burst of speed that
made his snowy figure like a flash of light across the open plains. The
shout was one that later rang throughout the West--the clarion call--the
tocsin of a mystery rider who wore a mask.
"Hi-Yo Silver, _Away-y-y-y_."