We had only been in San Antonio for a couple of weeks. My girlfriend, Susan, had just finished vocational training at the Air Force Base in Denver, CO. That’s where we’d met. I was 18, Susan was 21. She was in the reserves, assigned to the base in San Antonio, but hadn’t yet been scheduled for duty. I had withdrawn from the Air Force after training school (a story for another day). I planned to start looking for work.

We took advantage of our free time to look for apartments in San Antonio proper. It quickly became clear that we couldn’t afford anything in that area so we headed to the east side of town. We’d driven about 10 miles or so when we came upon a tiny little town called China Grove, population of about 400. It was indeed the same China Grove that the Doobie Brothers wrote about in 1973, six years before we showed up.

We stopped to get gas at the only gas station in town. There was a lunch counter with a few tables inside so we decided to get a sandwich and eat there. People still talked to strangers back then. It didn’t take long before we heard the story about the day the Doobie Brothers came through.

There are multiple local legends about what happened. The one we heard that day was that the band was passing through and stopped to get gas at this very gas station. They decided to hang out at the tables inside and shoot the breeze with the locals. As the story goes, it was a rip-roarin’ good time.

When asked about it years later, Doobies’ front man Tom Johnston claimed he had very little recollection of China Grove. He said they were touring in a Winnebago when he saw the town sign. He said that he only remembered later having seen the sign at all. That's pretty much the end of his story. In the locals’ version, the band were a bunch of real nice boys but were high as a kite when they came into the station. That might explain Mr. Johnston's memory lapse. Maybe he was crashed-out in the Winnebago. No one will ever really know, I suppose. 

While eating our lunch, we struck up a conversation with a tall, skinny elderly man. He was wearing a dirty cap and overalls. He had kind but cautious eyes, and spoke with a firm friendliness. We explained that we had just moved to town and were looking for a cheap apartment. He straightened up in his chair all business-like and, to our great surprise, told us he had a one-room shack with a kitchen and bathroom on his property that would be big enough for Susan and me. When we asked him where he lived, he pointed out the window. “Right down that dirt road.” 

We followed him in our car, his truck kicking up enough dust to make us laugh. As soon as we saw the place we both got pretty excited. Not because it was especially clean or well maintained—it certainly was not although it wasn't completely dilapidated either. We were excited because the shack was secluded, sitting on about 5 acres enclosed by a barbed wire fence. Susan could barely contain herself. She was a horse person and instantly began to fantasize about the possibilities. Looking around inside the shack, we discovered another unique feature to this odd little lair. There was a second door in the bathroom that opened to the outside, leading to a half barn and the field. I think the rent was maybe $150 a month, and that included electricity, gas and water! Cheap even for those days. The landlord could see that he had new tenants. We moved in right away. 

Soon after settling into our new place, we set out one morning to go shopping for cowboy hats—that's what everybody wore in Texas. After a delicious breakfast at a cheerful folksy diner, we were pulling out of the parking lot when out of nowhere, right in the middle of traffic, a giant, gorgeous palomino horse appeared, running wildly amongst the cars. “Oh shit!” We both yelled in unison. Susan immediately swung the car off the road and threw it into park. We jumped out and started running through the cars toward the horse. The mare’s eyes were wild with fear as we started closing in on her. I hung back a little since I knew that Susan was more experienced. I had a horse when I was 11 years old, but I’d never really learned any valuable horse handling skills. My horse had handled me more than anything.

Susan yelled to me that she was going to try to corral the horse off the road and for me to block the other side. Meanwhile, the horse's owner, who finally realized that the horse had escaped its trailer, came running, waving his hat and yelling “whoa, whoa!” 

The horse shied away from the owner and eyeballed me. Susan kept her cool, steadying her voice with smoothe, comforting tones saying, “whoa girl, whoa, it's okay, I won't hurt you.” Finally, the mare stood still and Susan held onto her while the owner made his way over to put a lead on her. People were shouting and clapping. We all cheered Susan for leading the daring rescue.

We made our way to a nearby parking lot so we could catch our breath and talk to the owner. As fate would have it, he was looking for a private barn and pasture for his mare, along with her colt who wasn't quite a year old. We told him about the barn and pasture outside our bathroom door.  We were pretty sure our landlord would lease it to him.

And that’s exactly what happened. Susan and I were now caretakers of two horses: Annie, and her colt Diablo. We could ride Annie anytime we wanted. It was pretty unbelievable the way that happened. It was a day we could not have imagined.

It wasn’t long before Annie discovered the extra bathroom door. Sometimes she would paw and neigh there just as night was settling in. I'd meet her wearing nothing but my underwear, hop on her back and ride around the field. The coolness of the night air on my naked skin, and the distinct, lovely, wild fragrance that only horses produce was thrilling. I felt a quickening in my soul as if I had joined all of mother nature. No saddle, no halter, reigns or ropes, just me, with my arms wrapped around Annie’s neck while she gently cantered.

Diablo was a beautiful reddish brown, full blooded Quarter horse. He had a wicked wild streak, thus the name. The owner hoped he could be tamed given enough time. He had paid a lot for Annie when she was pregnant. He hoped to eventually train her colt as a show horse. Because he was so spirited and had already jumped a fence, Diablo had to be put in a stall at night. He did not like to be confined and made quite a whinnying protest about it. 

Some early evenings after dinner, I would go out to the barn and sit atop the bales of hay and play the guitar. Both horses would mosey over to watch and listen. They didn’t even munch on the hay, just stood still and watched me. They seemed to like the music. Perhaps it's true that, as the old saying goes, "music has charms to soothe the savage beast."

One night, a thunderous crash broke the country silence. The horses were sending up high-pitched terrifying screams, so loud that it woke the landlord whose house was quite a ways up from our shack in the back field. Susan and I tore out of the house to see what had happened. Annie was distressed, tossing her head and whinnying frantically. Diablo was fiercely upset, huffing and snorting while angrily pawing the ground. He was outside the stall that he had just busted down. Panicked, we began to check him for injuries with a flashlight. We found blood trickling down his front leg, pooling around his hoof. Trying to soothe him so we could get closer, we pointed the light on the inside of his knee. A large chunk of his leg, nearly the size of a baseball, was ripped out—to the bone. "Oh my god. He's hurt really bad!" one of us said.

Shaken, we called the owner. He arrived about an hour later with his vet. As soon as the vet saw the injury, he told the owner flat out that Diablo would be disqualified from any competition, permanently. The owner was clearly upset but didn't blame us. He knew Diablo had a wild streak. He just shook his head and mumbled something about how he could at least use him for stud service. He asked if we'd be willing to nurse the poor guy back to health. We said that we would. The vet trained us to clean and pack the ghastly hole. We’d also have to make sure he didn’t lie down for very long — a death blow for a horse with a wounded leg.  

Oddly, Susan was afraid of Diablo after the accident. He had to be tied to the four corners in the stall in order to totally immobilize him while his wound was cleaned and dressed. The minute we came near him, he’d launch into his high-pitched protest, rearing up on his hind legs. Maybe Susan was wise to be cautious,  but for some reason I wasn’t afraid.

When I approached the stall, I spoke in a low steady voice while keeping eye contact. Getting the first anchor tied to keep him from rearing up was the most challenging part. Once that was set he’d snort irritably but tolerated my presence. After about three weeks he started to trust me, so much so that I didn't have to restrain him any more. 

Once, when I went out to check on him, I found him lying on his side on a mountain of hay in his stall. I could see that he was exhausted. Instead of getting him up right away, I gently walked over to him. He made that wonderful low nickering sound that horses make to say hello. I slowly eased to the ground and laid down next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. We laid there for a while as I stroked his neck. I honestly have no words to describe what it feels like to share such a precious moment with a powerful, wounded animal who could kill me with one solid kick to the head. It’s truly a beautiful, lasting memory. 

Several months passed, and we were finally able to put Diablo on a lunge to start working the wounded leg. He liked his exercises. It was hard to watch though, as he would inevitably start limping. But he finally did make a full recovery, and it was good to watch him trot around the pasture with his mom.

After maybe a year—I can’t quite remember now—we left that old shack in China Grove. It had served its purpose. Annie and Diablo were at last ready for greener pastures. Susan and I were ready too.