by Zane Grey
“Brutus, we’ve heard that before,” he whispered, patting the horse.
Chane was several hundred yards from where the slope merged into the level canyon floor, and the lower part of it, owing to the cottonwoods, was hidden from his sight. But wild horses were surely coming down, and they might turn to enter the V-shaped cleft instead of up the canyon. Something had frightened them.
“By golly!” he muttered. “This’s a queer deal.” He wanted much to linger there and see the wild horses, but instead of staying he leaped on Brutus and, riding close to the wall, under protection of the cottonwoods, he made quick time to the end of the grove. Here lay sections of wall that had broken from above. At the mouth of the cleft Chane rode Brutus behind a huge boulder, and dismounting there, he peeped out.
This point of vantage, owing to the curve of the wall taking him out and away from the restricted view in the cottonwoods, gave him command of the canyon.
He was just in time to get a glimpse of red and black and bay mustangs entering the cottonwoods from the slope.
Far up that wavy incline he espied a slight figure, moving down. He could scarcely credit his eyes. Did it belong to an Indian? Yet the quick lithe step stirred his pulse! He had seen it before, somewhere. Dark hair streamed in the breeze.
“Sue!” whispered Chane, in utter astonishment. “Well, I’ll be — She and Chess have wandered up there. They’re having fun chasing wild horses. But where’s he?”
Chane could not see that part of the slope to his right, for a projection of overhanging wall hid it from sight.
Then a band of wild horses burst from the cottonwoods, out into the open sandy space of several acres. They were trotting, bunched close, frightened but not yet in panic. Presently, far out on the sand bar they halted, heads up, uncertain which way to go.
From the far side of them Panquitch appeared, trotting with long strides, something in his leonine beauty and wildness, his tawny black-maned beauty, striking Chane as half horse and half lion.
Certain it was that sight of him sent a gush of hot blood racing over Chane. His mind seemed to be trying to overcome mere tense and vibrating sensation, to grasp at some strange fatality in the moment. Here he hid. Panquitch was there, not a quarter of a mile away. If Chess should happen to be on the other side of that band of wild horses they would run pell-mell down toward the V-shaped cleft. Chane’s hand shook as he pressed it close on the nose of the quivering Brutus.
Panquitch trotted in front of his band, to one side and then the other, looking in every direction. He did not whistle. To Chane he had the appearance of a stallion uncertain of his ground. He looked up the slope, at the girl coming down, choosing the easiest travel from her position, now walking, now running, and working toward a bulge of cliff. Then Panquitch gave no further heed to Sue. He was sure of danger in that direction. He trotted out to the edge of the sand bar and faced down, his head high, eager, strained, wild.
“By golly! I’m afraid he’s got a whiff of me and Brutus!” whispered Chane. “What a nose he has! The wind favors us. Now, I want to know why he doesn’t make a break up the canyon.”
Panquitch wheeled from his survey down the canyon to one in the opposite direction. His action now showed that his suspicions were strong in this quarter. His great strides, his nervous halting, his erect tail and mane, his bobbing head, proved to Chane that he wanted to lead his band up the canyon, but feared something yet unseen.
A sweet wild gay cry pealed down from the slope.
Chane espied Sue standing on the bulging cliff, high above the canyon floor, and she was flinging her arms and crying out in the exultance of the moment. Chane saw the sunlight on her face. He strained his ears to distinguish what she was voicing to the wildness of the place and the beautiful horses that called it home.
“Fly! Oh, Panquitch fly!” she was singing to the wind, in the joy of her adventure, in the love of freedom she shared with Panquitch.
Chane understood her. This was girlish fun she was having, yet her sweet wild cry held the dominant note of her deeper meaning. She loved Panquitch, and all wild horses, and yearned for them to be free.
“Girl, little do you dream you may drive Panquitch straight into my rope,” muttered Chane, grimly.
The stallion suddenly froze in his tracks, making a magnificent statue typifying fear. A whistling blast escaped him. The nature of the hollow walls must have given it tremendous volume. It pealed from cliff to cliff, and then, augmented by united whistles from the other horses, it swelled into a deafening concatenation.
Chane’s keen eye detected Chess up the canyon, bounding into view. At the same instant Panquitch wheeled as if on a pivot and leaped into headlong stride down the canyon, with his band falling in behind him.
Like a flash Chane vaulted into the saddle. He sent Brutus flying over stones and through water into the cool shadow of the cleft. Any narrow place to hide, from behind which he could rope the stallion! All Chane’s force went into the idea. A jutting corner tempted him, as did another huge rock, but the gleam of water drew him on. One of the deep long pools lay just ahead. Brutus padded on at tremendous gait. The canyon narrowed, darkened, and more than once Chane’s stirrup rasped on the wall.
Full speed Brutus charged into the pool, and plunged through shallow water. To his knees, to his flanks he floundered on — then souse, he went into deep water, going under all but his head. How icy the water to Chane’s heated blood! He gazed back. Not yet could he see any movement of wild horses.
Fifty yards ahead the straight wall heaved into a corner, round which the stream turned in a curve. If Chane could find footing for Brutus behind that corner, Panquitch would have no chance. What a trap! Chane reveled in the moment. The wildest dream of his boyhood was being enacted.
He did not spare Brutus, but urged him, spurred him, beat him into tremendous action. The swelling wave made by the horse splashed on the walls. Brutus reached the corner — turned it. Chane reined him into the wall. There was a narrow bench, just level with the water. But that would be of no help unless Brutus could touch bottom. He did. Chane stifled a yell of exultation. Fate was indeed against Panquitch. Brutus waded his full length before he reached the ledge. He was still in five feet of water, and on slippery rocks. Chane had no time to waste. The cracking of hoofs up the canyon rang like shots in his ears. Panquitch and his band were coming. Chane needed room to swing his lasso. Should he get out on the ledge or stay astride Brutus? Both plans had features to recommend them. But it would be best to stay on Brutus.
Chane turned the horse round. Brutus accomplished this without slipping off the rocks into deep water.
“Brutus, what do I want with Panquitch when I have you?” Chane heard himself whisper. He did not need Panquitch. It was his hunting instinct and long habit.
Then Chane had burst upon him the last singular fact in the string of fatalities which now bade fair to doom Panquitch. The important thing at the climax here was to have room to cast the lasso. Chane had felt the nearness of the corner of wall. He had planned to urge Brutus into the water the instant Panquitch appeared. But this need not be risked. There was no necessity to get beyond the corner of wall.
Chane was left-handed. He threw a noose with his left hand, and in the position now assumed he was as free to swing his rope as if he had been out in the open.
The trap and the trick were ready. Chane’s agitation settled to a keen, tight, grim exultation. Nothing could save Panquitch if he ever entered that deep pool. Chane listened so intensely he heard his heartbeats. Yes! He heard them coming. Their hard hoofs rang with bell-like clearness upon the boulders. Then the hollow muffled sound of hoofs on rock under the water — then the splashing swish!
Soon the narrow canyon resounded to a melodious din. Suddenly it ceased. Chane realized the wild horses had reached the pool. His heart ceased to beat. Would the keen Panquitch, victor over a hundred clever tricks to capture him, shy at this treacherous pool? — Clip — clop! He had stepped out into
the water. Chane heard his wild snort. He feared something, but was not certain. The enemies behind were realities. Clip — clop! He stepped again. Clip — clop! Into deeper water he had ventured. Then a crashing plunge!
It was followed by a renewed din of pounding hollow hoof- cracks, snorts, and splashes. They were all taking to the pool.
Chane swung the noose of his lasso round his head, tilting it to evade the corner of wall. It began to whiz. His eyes were riveted piercingly upon the water where it swirled gently in sight from behind the gray stone. Brutus was quivering under him. The plunging crashes ceased. All the wild horses were swimming. The din fell to sharp snuffing breaths and gentle swash of water. A wave preceded the swimming band.
A lean beautiful head slid from behind the wall, with long black mane floating from it. Panquitch held his head high.
At that short distance Chane could have roped one of his ears. Even in the tremendous strain Chane could wait a second longer. Panquitch was his.
The stallion saw Brutus and his rider — the swinging rope. Into the dark wild eyes came a terror that distended them. A sound like a horrid scream escaped him. He plunged to turn. His head came out.
Then Chane cast the lasso. It hissed and spread, and the loop, like a snake, cracked over Panquitch, under his chin and behind his ears. One powerful sweep of Chane’s arm tightened that noose.
“Whoopee!” yelled Chane, with all the power of his lungs. “He’s roped! He’s roped! Panquitch! — Oh — ho! ho! He’s ours, Brutus, old boy. After him, old boy!”
Panquitch plunged back, pounding the water, and as Chane held hard on the lasso the stallion went under. Chane clacked the rope, and urged Brutus off the rocks. Pandemonium had begun round that corner of wall. As Brutus soused in, and lunged to the middle of the stream, Chane saw a sight he could never forget.
Upwards of a score of wild horses were frantically beating and crashing the water to escape back in the direction they had come. Some were trying to climb the shelving wall, only to slip, and souse under. They bobbed up more frantic than before, screaming their terror. Some were trying to climb over the backs of those to the fore. All were in violent commotion, and uttering some variation of horse sounds.
Panquitch, hampered by the lasso, was falling behind. Chane pulled him under water, then let him come up. Brutus had to be guided, for he tried to swim straight to the stallion. Chane did not want that kind of a fight. It was his purpose to hold Panquitch in the pool until he was exhausted. With that noose round his neck he must tire sooner than Brutus. This unequal struggle could not last long. Chane had no power to contain his madness of delight, the emotion roused by the feel of Panquitch on the other end of his lasso. Panquitch, the despair of Nevada wranglers long before he had shown his clear heels to those of Utah! Panquitch roped! It was incredible good fortune. It was the great moment of Chane’s wild life.
“Aha there, old lion-mane,” he called, true even in that moment to his old habit of talking to horses. “You made one run too many! You run into a rope! Swim now! Heave hard! Dive, you rascal! You’re a fish. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
But when Panquitch plunged round to make for his adversaries the tables were turned. Chane’s yell of exultation changed to one of alarm, both to frighten Panquitch, if possible, and to hold Brutus back. Both, however, seemed impossible. Brutus would not turn his back to that stallion. His battle cry pealed out. Chane hauled on the lasso, but he could not again pull Panquitch under.
Despite all Chane could do, the stallion and Brutus met in head-on collision. A terrific mêlée ensued. Chane was thrown off Brutus as from a catapult. But he was swift to take advantage of this accident. A few powerful strokes brought him round to Panquitch, and by dint of supreme effort astride the back of the wild stallion.
Chane fastened his grip on the ears of the stallion, to lurch forward with all his weight and strength. He got the head of Panquitch under the water.
“BACK! BACK!” yelled Chane to Brutus.
It was a terrible moment. Chane preferred to let Panquitch free rather than drown him. But if Brutus kept fighting on, crowding the stallion, Chane saw no other issue. Under him Panquitch was shaking in convulsions. Chane let go of his head. The stallion bobbed up, choking, snorting. But if terror was still with him it was one of fury to kill. He bent his head back to bite at Chane. His eyes were black fire; his open mouth red and dripping; his teeth bared. Chane all but failed to keep out of his reach.
In his cowboy days Chane had been noted for his ability to ride bronchos, mean mustangs, bucking horses, mules, and even wild steers. The old temper to ride and conquer awoke in him. Fighting the stallion, beating Brutus off, keeping his seat, Chane performed perhaps the greatest riding feat of his career. He had, however, almost to drown the stallion.
At length Panquitch, suddenly showing signs of choking, headed for the shallow water. His swimming was laborious. Chane loosed the tight rope, then plunging off he swam back to Brutus and got in the saddle. He urged Brutus faster and faster, to pass the sinking Panquitch. Not a moment too soon did Brutus touch bottom, and plunging shoreward, he dragged Panquitch after him. The stallion could no longer breathe, yet he staggered out of the shallow water, to the sand, where he fell.
Chane leaped off Brutus to fall on Panquitch and loosen the lasso. The stallion gave a heave. He had been nearly choked to death; perhaps the noose had kept water out of his lungs. His breast labored with a great intake of air. Then he began to shake with short quick pants.
“Aw, but I’m glad!” ejaculated Chane, who for a moment had feared a calamity. But Panquitch would revive. Chane ran back to the heaving Brutus, and procuring a second lasso from the saddle, he rushed again to the stallion and slipped a noose round his forelegs.
“Reckon that’s about all,” he said, rising to survey his captive.
Panquitch was the noblest specimen of horseflesh Chane had ever seen in all his wandering over the rangelands of the west. But in these flaming black eyes there was a spirit incompatible with the rule of man. Panquitch might be broken, but his heart would ever be wild. He could never love his master. Chane felt pity for the fallen monarch, and a remorse. He was killing something, the like of which dwelt in his own heart.
“Panquitch, it wasn’t a square deal,” declared Chane. “I played you a dirty trick. I’m not proud of it. And so help me God I’ve a mind to let you go.”
So the wild-horse-hunting instinct in Chane found itself in conflict with an emotion compelled into existence by the defeat and prostration of the great stallion. Chane missed that crowning joy of the wild-horse wrangler — to exhibit to the gaze of rival hunters a captive horse that had been their passion to catch and break and ride.
“Wo — hoo! Oh — h, Chane, I’m coming!” called a girlish high-pitched voice, pealing along the narrow walls.
Sue appeared at the mouth of the cleft, standing upon a boulder, with her hair shining in the sun. She had espied him and Brutus from afar, and perhaps had guessed the issue. Then Chess’s voice rang down the canyon.
“What you-all doing, Chane Weymer?”
He caught up with Sue, and lending her a hand, came striding with her over the rock benches. He had lost his hat.
Chane heard them talking excitedly, out of breath, wondering, tense and expectant. Brutus whistled. Then Chess and Sue came out of the shadow, into the strip of sunlit canyon. They saw Panquitch lying full length on the sand. Chess broke from Sue and came rushing up. One glance showed him Panquitch was alive.
“Good Lord!” he screeched, beside himself with excitement, running to grasp Chane and embrace him. He was sweating, panting, flushed of face, wild of eye. “Panquitch! And you got him hawg-tied!”
He ran back to the stallion, gazed down upon him, moved round him, gloated over him. “Hurry, Sue! Come! Look! Will you — ever believe it? — We chased — Panquitch right — into Chane’s trap! Of all the luck! Hurry to see him! Oh, there never was such a horse!”
Then he strode back to Chane, waving his
hands.
“We climbed that slope — back there,” he went on. “Just for fun. Wanted to see. Then from up on top — I spied the wild horses. Sue saw Panquitch first. We ran down — having fun — seeing how close we could get. Then Sue said: ‘Run down ahead, Chess. I’ll stay here. Turn them — chase them by me — so I’ll get to see Panquitch close.’ So I ran like mad. Queer place up there. I headed them. They ran back — up over that hollow — behind the big knob of wall. Right by Sue! I saw her run down the slope — this way. But I made for the canyon. Just wanted to see them run by. Couldn’t see them. I ran some more. Then the whole bunch trotted out of the cottonwoods. Panquitch lorded it round. He was prancing. He didn’t know which way to run. I heard Sue screaming at him. Then Panquitch bolted this way — and his bunch followed.... Just think! You were here. You saw them. You must have hid.... You roped Panquitch! Chane, you owe it all to Sue. She drove Panquitch to you.”
“I reckon,” replied Chane, conscious of unfamiliar riot in his breast. “Where’d the bunch go — when they ran back?”
“Passed me — like the wind,” panted Chess. “Straight up the canyon!”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Chane, in surprise. “I thought they’d take to one of the slopes. Chess, these wild horses have more than one outlet to their burrow.”
Sue had held back, and was standing some rods off, staring from the prostrate Panquitch to Chane. Her hands were pressed over a heaving bosom. Her eyes seemed wide and dark. There was something about her that made Chane catch his breath. This was not Sue Melberne as he knew her.
“Come on, Sue,” called Chess. “Nothing to fear. Panquitch has ropes on him.”
“Oh, it’s all my fault — my fault,” cried Sue, pantingly, as again she hurried toward them, keeping away from the fallen stallion. “Is he hurt? He breathes so — so hard.”