“How’d you like being hog-tied?” queried his conqueror, rubbing Baldy’s nose. “Now, after this you’ll have some manners.”
Old Baldy seemed to understand, for he looked sheepish, and lapsed once more into his listless, lazy unconcern.
“Where’s Jim’s old cayuse, the pack-horse?” asked our leader.
“Lost. Couldn’t find him this morning, an’ had a deuce of a time findin’ the rest of the bunch. Old Baldy was cute. He hid in a bunch of pinyons an’ stood quiet so his bell wouldn’t ring. I had to trail him.”
“Do the horses stray far when they are hobbled?” inquired Wallace.
“If they keep jumpin’ all night they can cover some territory. We’re now on the edge of the wild horse country, and our nags know this as well as we. They smell the mustangs, an’ would break their necks to get away. Satan and the sorrel were ten miles from camp when I found them this mornin’. An’ Jim’s cayuse went farther, an’ we never will get him. He’ll wear his hobbles out, then away with the wild horses. Once with them, he’ll never be caught again.”
On the sixth day of our stay at Oak we had visitors, whom Frank introduced as the Stewart brothers and Lawson, wild-horse wranglers. They were still, dark men, whose facial expression seldom varied; tall and lithe and wiry as the mustangs they rode. The Stewarts were on their way to Kanab, Utah, to arrange for the sale of a drove of horses they had captured and corraled in a narrow canyon back in the Siwash. Lawson said he was at our service, and was promptly hired to look after our horses.
“Any cougar signs back in the breaks?” asked Jones.
“Wal, there’s a cougar on every deer trail,” replied the elder Stewart, “An’ two for every pinto in the breaks. Old Tom himself downed fifteen colts fer us this spring.”
“Fifteen colts! That’s wholesale murder. Why don’t you kill the butcher?”
“We’ve tried more’n onct. It’s a turrible busted up country, them brakes. No man knows it, an’ the cougars do. Old Tom ranges all the ridges and brakes, even up on the slopes of Buckskin; but he lives down there in them holes, an’ Lord knows, no dog I ever seen could follow him. We tracked him in the snow, an’ had dogs after him, but none could stay with him, except two as never cum back. But we’ve nothin’ agin Old Tom like Jeff Clarke, a hoss rustler, who has a string of pintos corraled north of us. Clarke swears he ain’t raised a colt in two years.”
“We’ll put that old cougar up a tree,” exclaimed Jones.
“If you kill him we’ll make you all a present of a mustang, an’ Clarke, he’ll give you two each,” replied Stewart. “We’d be gettin’ rid of him cheap.”
“How many wild horses on the mountain now?”
“Hard to tell. Two or three thousand, mebbe. There’s almost no ketchin’ them, an’ they regrowin’ all the time We ain’t had no luck this spring. The bunch in corral we got last year.”
“Seen anythin’ of the White Mustang?” inquired Frank. “Ever get a rope near him?”
“No nearer’n we hev fer six years back. He can’t be ketched. We seen him an’ his band of blacks a few days ago, headin’ fer a water-hole down where Nail Canyon runs into Kanab Canyon. He’s so cunnin’ he’ll never water at any of our trap corrals. An’ we believe he can go without water fer two weeks, unless mebbe he hes a secret hole we’ve never trailed him to.”
“Would we have any chance to see this White Mustang and his band?” questioned Jones.
“See him? Why, thet’d be easy. Go down Snake Gulch, camp at Singin’ Cliffs, go over into Nail Canyon, an’ wait. Then send some one slippin’ down to the water-hole at Kanab Canyon, an’ when the band cums in to drink—which I reckon will be in a few days now—hev them drive the mustangs up. Only be sure to hev them get ahead of the White Mustang, so he’ll hev only one way to cum, fer he sure is knowin’. He never makes a mistake. Mebbe you’ll get to see him cum by like a white streak. Why, I’ve heerd thet mustang’s hoofs ring like bells on the rocks a mile away. His hoofs are harder’n any iron shoe as was ever made. But even if you don’t get to see him, Snake Gulch is worth seein’.”
I learned later from Stewart that the White Mustang was a beautiful stallion of the wildest strain of mustang blue blood. He had roamed the long reaches between the Grand Canyon and Buckskin toward its southern slope for years; he had been the most sought-for horse by all the wranglers, and had become so shy and experienced that nothing but a glimpse was ever obtained of him. A singular fact was that he never attached any of his own species to his band, unless they were coal black. He had been known to fight and kill other stallions, but he kept out of the well-wooded and watered country frequented by other bands, and ranged the brakes of the Siwash as far as he could range. The usual method, indeed the only successful way to capture wild horses, was to build corrals round the waterholes. The wranglers lay out night after night watching. When the mustangs came to drink—which was always after dark—the gates would be closed on them. But the trick had never even been tried on the White Mustang, for the simple reason that he never approached one of these traps.
“Boys,” said Jones, “seeing we need breaking in, we’ll give the White Mustang a little run.”
This was most pleasurable news, for the wild horses fascinated me. Besides, I saw from the expression on our leader’s face that an uncapturable mustang was an object of interest for him.
Wallace and I had employed the last few warm sunny afternoons in riding up and down the valley, below Oak, where there was a fine, level stretch. Here I wore out my soreness of muscle, and gradually overcame my awkwardness in the saddle. Frank’s remedy of maple sugar and red pepper had rid me of my cold, and with the return of strength, and the coming of confidence, full, joyous appreciation of wild environment and life made me unspeakably happy. And I noticed that my companions were in like condition of mind, though self-contained where I was exuberant. Wallace galloped his sorrel and watched the crags; Jones talked more kindly to the dogs; Jim baked biscuits indefatigably, and smoked in contented silence; Frank said always: “We’ll ooze along easy like, for we’ve all the time there is.” Which sentiment, whether from reiterated suggestion, or increasing confidence in the practical cowboy, or charm of its free import, gradually won us all.
“Boys,” said Jones, as we sat round the campfire, “I see you’re getting in shape. Well, I’ve worn off the wire edge myself. And I have the hounds coming fine. They mind me now, but they’re mystified. For the life of them they can’t understand what I mean. I don’t blame them. Wait till, by good luck, we get a cougar in a tree. When Sounder and Don see that, we’ve lion dogs, boys! we’ve lion dogs! But Moze is a stubborn brute. In all my years of animal experience, I’ve never discovered any other way to make animals obey than by instilling fear and respect into their hearts. I’ve been fond of buffalo, horses and dogs, but sentiment never ruled me. When animals must obey, they must—that’s all, and no mawkishness! But I never trusted a buffalo in my life. If I had I wouldn’t be here to-night. You all know how many keepers of tame wild animals get killed. I could tell you dozens of tragedies. And I’ve often thought, since I got back from New York, of that woman I saw with her troop of African lions. I dream about those lions, and see them leaping over her head. What a grand sight that was! But the public is fooled. I read somewhere that she trained those lions by love. I don’t believe it. I saw her use a whip and a steel spear. Moreover, I saw many things that escaped most observers—how she entered the cage, how she maneuvered among them, how she kept a compelling gaze on them! It was an admirable, a great piece of work. Maybe she loves those huge yellow brutes, but her life was in danger every moment while she was in that cage, and she knew it. Some day, one of her pets likely the King of Beasts she pets the most will rise up and kill her. That is as certain as death.”
CHAPTER 6.
THE WHITE MUSTANG
For thirty miles down Nail Canyon we marked, in every dusty trail and sandy wash, the small, oval, sharply defined tracks of the White Mustang
and his band.
The canyon had been well named. It was long, straight and square sided; its bare walls glared steel-gray in the sun, smooth, glistening surfaces that had been polished by wind and water. No weathered heaps of shale, no crumbled piles of stone obstructed its level floor. And, softly toning its drab austerity, here grew the white sage, waving in the breeze, the Indian Paint Brush, with vivid vermilion flower, and patches of fresh, green grass.
“The White King, as we Arizona wild-hoss wranglers calls this mustang, is mighty pertickler about his feed, an’ he ranged along here last night, easy like, browsin’ on this white sage,” said Stewart. Inflected by our intense interest in the famous mustang, and ruffled slightly by Jones’s manifest surprise and contempt that no one had captured him, Stewart had volunteered to guide us. “Never knowed him to run in this way fer water; fact is, never knowed Nail Canyon had a fork. It splits down here, but you’d think it was only a crack in the wall. An’ thet cunnin’ mustang hes been foolin’ us fer years about this water-hole.”
The fork of Nail Canyon, which Stewart had decided we were in, had been accidentally discovered by Frank, who, in search of our horses one morning had crossed a ridge, to come suddenly upon the blind, box-like head of the canyon. Stewart knew the lay of the ridges and run of the canyons as well as any man could know a country where, seemingly, every rod was ridged and bisected, and he was of the opinion that we had stumbled upon one of the White Mustang’s secret passages, by which he had so often eluded his pursuers.
Hard riding had been the order of the day, but still we covered ten more miles by sundown. The canyon apparently closed in on us, so camp was made for the night. The horses were staked out, and supper made ready while the shadows were dropping; and when darkness settled thick over us, we lay under our blankets.
Morning disclosed the White Mustang’s secret passage. It was a narrow cleft, splitting the canyon wall, rough, uneven, tortuous and choked with fallen rocks—no more than a wonderful crack in solid stone, opening into another canyon. Above us the sky seemed a winding, flowing stream of blue. The walls were so close in places that a horse with pack would have been blocked, and a rider had to pull his legs up over the saddle. On the far side, the passage fell very suddenly for several hundred feet to the floor of the other canyon. No hunter could have seen it, or suspected it from that side.
“This is Grand Canyon country, an’ nobody knows what he’s goin’ to find,” was Frank’s comment.
“Now we’re in Nail Canyon proper,” said Stewart; “An’ I know my bearin’s. I can climb out a mile below an’ cut across to Kanab Canyon, an’ slip up into Nail Canyon agin, ahead of the mustangs, an’ drive ’em up. I can’t miss ‘em, fer Kanab Canyon is impassable down a little ways. The mustangs will hev to run this way. So all you need do is go below the break, where I climb out, an’ wait. You’re sure goin’ to get a look at the White Mustang. But wait. Don’t expect him before noon, an’ after thet, any time till he comes. Mebbe it’ll be a couple of days, so keep a good watch.”
Then taking our man Lawson, with blankets and a knapsack of food, Stewart rode off down the canyon.
We were early on the march. As we proceeded the canyon lost its regularity and smoothness; it became crooked as a rail fence, narrower, higher, rugged and broken. Pinnacled cliffs, cracked and leaning, menaced us from above. Mountains of ruined wall had tumbled into fragments.
It seemed that Jones, after much survey of different corners, angles and points in the canyon floor, chose his position with much greater care than appeared necessary for the ultimate success of our venture—which was simply to see the White Mustang, and if good fortune attended us, to snap some photographs of this wild king of horses. It flashed over me that, with his ruling passion strong within him, our leader was laying some kind of trap for that mustang, was indeed bent on his capture.
Wallace, Frank and Jim were stationed at a point below the break where Stewart had evidently gone up and out. How a horse could have climbed that streaky white slide was a mystery. Jones’s instructions to the men were to wait until the mustangs were close upon them, and then yell and shout and show themselves.
He took me to a jutting corner of cliff, which hid us from the others, and here he exercised still more care in scrutinizing the lay of the ground. A wash from ten to fifteen feet wide, and as deep, ran through the canyon in a somewhat meandering course. At the corner which consumed so much of his attention, the dry ditch ran along the cliff wall about fifty feet out; between it and the wall was good level ground, on the other side huge rocks and shale made it hummocky, practically impassable for a horse. It was plain the mustangs, on their way up, would choose the inside of the wash; and here in the middle of the passage, just round the jutting corner, Jones tied our horses to good, strong bushes. His next act was significant. He threw out his lasso and, dragging every crook out of it, carefully recoiled it, and hung it loose over the pommel of his saddle.
“The White Mustang may be yours before dark,” he said with the smile that came so seldom. “Now I placed our horses there for two reasons. The mustangs won’t see them till they’re right on them. Then you’ll see a sight and have a chance for a great picture. They will halt; the stallion will prance, whistle and snort for a fight, and then they’ll see the saddles and be off. We’ll hide across the wash, down a little way, and at the right time we’ll shout and yell to drive them up.”
By piling sagebrush round a stone, we made a hiding-place. Jones was extremely cautious to arrange the bunches in natural positions. “A Rocky Mountain Big Horn is the only four-footed beast,” he said, “that has a better eye than a wild horse. A cougar has an eye, too; he’s used to lying high up on the cliffs and looking down for his quarry so as to stalk it at night; but even a cougar has to take second to a mustang when it comes to sight.”
The hours passed slowly. The sun baked us; the stones were too hot to touch; flies buzzed behind our ears; tarantulas peeped at us from holes. The afternoon slowly waned.
At dark we returned to where we had left Wallace and the cowboys. Frank had solved the problem of water supply, for he had found a little spring trickling from a cliff, which, by skillful management, produced enough drink for the horses. We had packed our water for camp use.
“You take the first watch to-night,” said Jones to me after supper. “The mustangs might try to slip by our fire in the night and we must keep a watch or them. Call Wallace when your time’s up. Now, fellows, roll in.”
When the pink of dawn was shading white, we were at our posts. A long, hot day—interminably long, deadening to the keenest interest—passed, and still no mustangs came. We slept and watched again, in the grateful cool of night, till the third day broke.
The hours passed; the cool breeze changed to hot; the sun blazed over the canyon wall; the stones scorched; the flies buzzed. I fell asleep in the scant shade of the sage bushes and awoke, stifled and moist. The old plainsman, never weary, leaned with his back against a stone and watched, with narrow gaze, the canyon below. The steely walls hurt my eyes; the sky was like hot copper. Though nearly wild with heat and aching bones and muscles and the long hours of wait—wait—wait, I was ashamed to complain, for there sat the old man, still and silent. I routed out a hairy tarantula from under a stone and teased him into a frenzy with my stick, and tried to get up a fight between him and a scallop-backed horned-toad that blinked wonderingly at me. Then I espied a green lizard on a stone. The beautiful reptile was about a foot in length, bright green, dotted with red, and he had diamonds for eyes. Nearby a purple flower blossomed, delicate and pale, with a bee sucking at its golden heart. I observed then that the lizard had his jewel eyes upon the bee; he slipped to the edge of the stone, flicked out a long, red tongue, and tore the insect from its honeyed perch. Here were beauty, life and death; and I had been weary for something to look at, to think about, to distract me from the wearisome wait!
“Listen!” broke in Jones’s sharp voice. His neck was stretched, his eyes
were closed, his ear was turned to the wind.
With thrilling, reawakened eagerness, I strained my hearing. I caught a faint sound, then lost it.
“Put your ear to the ground,” said Jones. I followed his advice, and detected the rhythmic beat of galloping horses.
“The mustangs are coming, sure as you’re born!” exclaimed Jones.
“There I see the cloud of dust!” cried he a minute later.
In the first bend of the canyon below, a splintered ruin of rock now lay under a rolling cloud of dust. A white flash appeared, a line of bobbing black objects, and more dust; then with a sharp pounding of hoofs, into clear vision shot a dense black band of mustangs, and well in front swung the White King.
“Look! Look! I never saw the beat of that—never in my born days!” cried Jones. “How they move! yet that white fellow isn’t half-stretched out. Get your picture before they pass. You’ll never see the beat of that.”
With long manes and tails flying, the mustangs came on apace and passed us in a trampling roar, the white stallion in the front. Suddenly a shrill, whistling blast, unlike any sound I had ever heard, made the canyon fairly ring. The white stallion plunged back, and his band closed in behind him. He had seen our saddle horses. Then trembling, whinnying, and with arched neck and high-poised head, bespeaking his mettle, he advanced a few paces, and again whistled his shrill note of defiance. Pure creamy white he was, and built like a racer. He pranced, struck his hoofs hard and cavorted; then, taking sudden fright, he wheeled.
It was then, when the mustangs were pivoting, with the white in the lead, that Jones jumped upon the stone, fired his pistol and roared with all his strength. Taking his cue, I did likewise. The band huddled back again, uncertain and frightened, then broke up the canyon.
The Second Western Megapack Page 96