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Phantom is Dead
This may be an old story to some. But it's worth retelling; because the vast loneliness of the Simone Mountains doesn't produce a horse like the "Phantom" every day. And the Indians, including George Charlie, who first snared the little Palomino-coated tiger horse six years ago, Say Phantom is dead. He was shot at 17 years. Why, nobody seems to know.
Phantom
was not a tall horse, but he was handsome, sturdy, smart, and as wild as the storms
that tore through the sage stubble on Signal Peak. White men and red had tried
to capture him. The Phantom eluded their traps and snares many, many times. But
George Charlie got Phantom one day and took him- dejected, whipped and
hopelessly sad- to a horse buyer.
The
Phantom was mean. He was a killer. He was never broken, and there is no record
that man ever got a leg on him. But the stallion's great heart was shrunken and
his spirit withered in a corral. His owner held a high price on him as a stud
animal. But the brooding beast had no interest in mares. Although thin and
weakened by frustration and grief, the Phantom once fought his way over a high
corral fence and all but slaughtered a polo pony in a raging attack. The cow
pokes denied that any stallion would kick the Phantom's brains out, were he
ever to regain freedom.
Clayton
Speck, a Sunnyside businessman and sportsman, had seen Phantom several times
while the great-spirited little devil was on the loose. And "Clayt" developed a
sentimental attachment for the animal. After an unsuccessful effort to buy the
horse from Brady Layman, to free the Phantom, Mr. Speck later bought him from
the deceased owner's estate, and after Phantom had been in captivity only a few
months. Then Clayton Speck and his son took the sorrowing and bewildered little
stallion back to the open ranges of his nativity, to set him free, without
brand.
Mr.
Speck said it was raining and blowing hard, when the Phantom was given his
liberty, he backed away and eyed his liberators with confused but dawning
comprehension. He jogged to a rise of land and there, silhouetted against a
slate sky, turned again to gaze upon the man and the boy- the horse's mane and
flowing tail whipping in the rain-laden wind. Then, with a wild whistle and a
throw of the head, the Phantom plunged away into the murk- toward the hills,
plains and hidden valleys where he lived, fought and grown strong for more than
a decade. Sixteen months ago, give years after Clayton Speck freed the
powerful, beautiful, high-tempered horse, he was seen again. His heard of 15
mares and colts was down to nine. But the Phantom was still the wild, free kind
of his domain.
Now he is dead, so they say. Was he shot by a human he out-smarted? The Phantom was never known to mind business other than his own. But though the Phantom lives no more, both the spirit of the wild animal and the understanding of the man who restored its freedom live on. And no fence will ever hold them.



