Runaway Ranch

A short story by E.J. Lister (1957)

3115 River Road
Chemainus, BC V0R 1K3
250-246-3107
N
ature spattered shades of gray across the tiny island ranch aging what was once a vibrant
showplace. The horses didn’t seem to notice. For the woman that cared for them,
however, watching them grow old was worse than falling out of love. Now, alone on the
ranch, and with her spirit broken, she was about to do something totally out of character.
No one called her by her Christian name; her nickname was Pony. She breathed only for the
horses now; her lover long departed to a faraway land. Friends would describe her as routine and
dependable, with a wonderful sense of humor. Today, however, she was none of those. Time was
up for the two old horses; the ranch had been sold, and she’d promised her boys that they’d never
be stabled anywhere but Runaway Ranch. Now she’d have to keep that promise.
She reached into the pocket of her barn-coat and pulled out an alfalfa crunchy for Mr. Bo-
Jangles—a chestnut-colored Standardbred. She spoke to him softly. “Hey, Bo,” she said, rubbing
his forelock as she fed him his favorite treat, “You ready to go home today?”
Button-Down Dan—a bay-colored Quarter Horse—was standing in the next stall; he snorted.
She combed her long hair back with chilled fingers, exhaled a heavy breath. “I know you’re
ready, Dan,” she said, digging into her pocket for another crunchy. She whispered, “I don’t know
if I am, though.” Moisture filled her corral-blue eyes. She sniffled and choked back her tears,
said, “They’ll be here soon, and…” her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bear to think about it.
She gave the boys another crunchy and then went out to open the gate, for the last time.
Each morning, like clockwork, Pony had fed the boys three flakes of orchard-grass hay before
they were let out for an hour to graze. On this cool autumn morning, however, there was no hay.
The boys must have sensed something was up; they ran out into the pasture bucking and snorting
like yearlings. A crooked smile broke across her lips. “I wish I could go with you,” she
whispered. The gray November mist hung heavy in the air; its pug aroma triggered a childhood
memory that was almost as old as she was. She vividly recalled her father returning from the
mountains with an empty horse trailer.
Some folks say that a woman’s desire to nurture makes her stronger. If that is the case then
Pony was Wonder Woman. She trundled back toward the barn to prepare for the boys departure.
Halfway across the drive she stopped dead in her tracks, her thoughts on the memory and her
eyes on her horse trailer. She twisted her head, looked back at the horses; they were quiet now.
“Could they survive?” she wondered. A yellow backhoe pulled into the lane, followed by a white
Chevy pickup. She watched them approach. Time seemed to settle into a Mexican Sunday. Every
inch of her skin tingled with emotional tension. A surge of inspiration made her feel warm for
the first time since daybreak. She reached back and tightened her ponytail and grinned.
The backhoe operator pulled up to the barn and dropped the bucket on the hog-fuel surface,
threw open the door, and disembarked with a dour look on his face.
Pony shouted, “I’m not burying the boys today after all.” Her whisky voice crackled. “I’ve
got a new plan,” she said. Then she signaled the pickup driver to backup to the trailer.
————
It took two hours to reach the rugged tree line. Rain had crystallized into pellets of ice that
dissolved like sugar when they hit the windshield as the Chevy bounced over a craggy creek bed,
pulled up onto a level vantage point and shutdown the diesel. Except for the horse trailer twisting
and creaking it was eerily quiet. Pony started to have second thoughts. She looked down the
mountain at Runaway Ranch and swallowed hard.
 “You sure about this?” the driver asked, his cowboy hat tipped low over his forehead. He
rolled down his window and spat a plug of chew. “They ain’t gunna’ survive up here for long,”
he said.
Her chin dropped. “I know,” she replied, as she slowly got out of the truck.
They met at the back of the trailer. He didn’t look at her when he said, “I tell ya what?”
Pony had the door latch half-open. The horses were getting antsy and the door was twisting in
her hand. “What?” she said.
He didn’t reply directly. Instead he turned and looked down at the ranch, kicked a stone with a
worn Rider boot. “I’m the new owner of Runaway Ranch,” he said. His breath vaporized into the
wilderness.
Pony felt her face chill, she raised her eyebrows, mouthed, “What?”
“As an investment.” He grinned with yellow teeth. “Maybe you and the boys can stay on and
look after the place for me.”
Pony turned away, latched the door closed, told the boys to settle and then sat down on the
rubber bumper and cried.