I met her owners about four years ago.
They came west to avoid the snow.
It was a warm and sunny day
On a typical trail ride one could say.
Up on Picket Post Mountain
Too far south to see the Fountain.
Ben and Delores they said their name
Good folk I thought, part of their fame.
Buckskins they rode, a fine looking pair
Sweating a bit with their winter hair.
Gypsy the mother, Bucky the son
Owners and horses enjoying the fun.
Three years later and many rides too
We are riding a wash like we usually do.
Wes up front riding his black
Ten more along Sam at the back.
Further a long wash runs out
We will try the ridge I hear Wes shout.
Then I hear Bud, there is Cholla up there
The kind of stuff I don't want to wear.
I move careful, taking a bead
Can't see now whose in the lead.
I stop Smokey and turn around
Up front I hear an awful sound.
Whinning horses, is all I could tell
Horses bucking, it looked like hell.
Wes is hurt and maybe Lefty too
I didn't know first what to do.
Al runs to Wes who is in the deep draw
I look up at Ben and what I saw.
A Buckskin down in a hell of a fix
Horses and Cholla sure don't mix.
Ben leads her out of the mess she is in
Time is the essence, the job must begin.
Ben and I on either side
Pulling the thorns from Gypsy's hide.
Rarely ever have I heard a horse groan
Hurting bad she'd give out a moan.
To her we talked as gentle as we could
She's sweating lots where she stood.
My bond to her is knitting well
She was listening I could tell.
Oh Gypsy you fine little mare
More thorns in you than you have hair.
Keep standing little girl you are doing well
You know we are helping you can tell.
Ben your master is there with you
And your new friend Bill, he is there too.
God willing next year if I am lucky
I'll see you and your son Bucky.
So to your owners and until then
Adios my friends Delores and Ben.