Justice Rides Slow but Sure

Now, I’ve seen some sorry behavior in my time—seen men cheat at poker, lie in church, and run for office with less honesty than a rattlesnake in a rabbit warren—but what befell that free-range horse named Frost out in Stagecoach last year belongs in the catalog of the damned.

It was a bitter thing, that poor Mustang wanderin’ onto the Palmers’ property, wounded and wheezing, just to lay down and die among decent folk. Word soon followed that Johnathon Wilson—aged forty-one and short on sense—had loosed a crossbow on the creature.

Yeah, he used a weapon fit for medieval mischief to snuff the spirit of one of Nevada’s proud horses.

The law ain’t always quick, but it eventually laced its boots and got to work. Deputies tracked a trail of blood right back to Wilson’s door, and wouldn’t you know it—there sat the crossbow, like a smoking gun made of fiberglass and poor judgment.

Folks in Dayton came out in a line longer than a miner’s tab at the saloon, wearin’ shirts that hollered “Justice for Frost” across their chests. They stood outside the courtroom not out of spectacle–but because some things still matter—dignity, decency, and the belief that wild things ought to live wild and free, not skewered for sport.

Miss Tracy Wilson–no relation to the defendant but strong in spirit, declared, “There’s no room for cruelty in our communities.”

And I reckon she’s right. Ain’t no excuse, justification, or silver tongue that can talk down what Wilson did.

And now, after all the waiting and weeping, justice has caught up. On March 24, the court handed Wilson the maximum–24 to 60 months behind bars, with parole only after two years served. He’ll have time enough to ponder what it means to take a life just because it wandered too close.

Frost may be gone, but he’s not forgotten. He died walking toward kindness and left behind a community that still knows right from wrong. And that gives hope that the West still has a strong and wild heartbeat.