When I was kid, we had a mare named Fancy. I don’t recall a lot about her, really not a
whole lot more than her demise. She had
taken sick and was laid up by our barn in Higbee, Colorado. Dad had asked my brother, Cully, and I to
feed before it got dark. Cully and I
were a couple of irresponsible yahoos, so true to form…we did not do what we
were told. Needless to say, when Dad got
home; he sent us down after dark to take care of the chores. Chores like making sure this sick mare had a
bucket of water close to her, milking the cow and feeding everything else. Things that would have been a whole lot easier
in the daylight.
In the Nine Mile Canyon, it didn’t just get dark. It got daaaarrrrk, I’m talking not being able
to see your hand in front of your face dark.
Darker than the inside of a cow, dark!
So when we got down to the barn, the dog started growling and made a
couple of young boys, already nervous, just a little more nervous. We tried to suck it up and go on down to the
barn. But the closer we got to the barn,
the louder and stiffer legged the dog got.
Finally we could stand it no more, we made tracks back up to the house,
running like the very hounds of hell were chasing us!
