By Cindy Orcutt

When I first walked onto the property where the Rickman Spanish Mustangs were located, I could feel the Spirit of these horses. Even though it was a cold April morning, I was drawn to being outside with the horses. Having not been around horses much growing up, I felt a little scared at first because of their size. I was surprised at how the horses came up to us, nuzzled our backs and our outstretched hands. When I touched the horses, I could feel the Spirit of everything the horses represented. I could feel the souls of the gentle people who protected them during dire times. I could feel the pure energy of life and all that is good and pure in this world. Being a Choctaw Indian, I felt a kinship with these gentle creatures. I knew it wasn't just the horses - it was the spirit of what they stood for. It was the history of these horses and unique in their genetics, history, geography and contributions to the people of Oklahoma. It was the fact that since 1980, their genetics have been carefully and lovingly preserved in the foundation herds of Bryant and Darlene Rickman of southeastern Oklahoma. It was the fact that these horses had survived the threats coming from many directions, and the near starvation they survived many times.
Something told me that these horses, like all of the Universe's creations, are divinely guided and protected.
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I was in my early teens when I had my first encounter with a horse. I remember approaching it and putting my hand out to pet it. The horse quickly turned its head around to look at me. He was huge, muscles protruding, eyes staring down at me, nostrils flaring back and forth with a sound of heavy breathing, like a rumbling snort. He had a look in his eyes that said "don't touch me!" At least that's how I felt. I walked away with a sense of intimidation and maybe even a slight fear. Needless to say, from that point on, I had grown to become indifferent about horses.

 There's somthin' bout the prairie sky, the sun gone down, the day gone by,
more stars than a man can count...I do enjoy
The winsome howl of a wild coyote, a campfire with it's single smoke,
and an old black pot of boiled up chick'ry,
and an old black pot of boiled up chick'ry.