by J. T. Edson
Already the more experienced mestenero duos had completed the application of their first sarprimas and moved on to the next horse they had selected for treatment. Allowing the brown to walk away, Dusty picked out and roped a washy bay. The hooley-ann head-catch fell with an equal precision to his first attempt. Ensnared by the Kid’s mangana throw, the horse went down. However, the sarprima was not applied by the team.
‘Hey, Jeanie-gal!’ called the Kid. ‘Take a look at this here sorry-looking critter Dusty’s catched.’
Joining the speaker, the girl agreed with his opinion of the horse. Cow-hocked, long-backed and with its legs ‘coming out of the same hole’ in its narrow chest, the horse had a very poor conformation.
‘He’s no use,’ Jeanie declared. ‘We couldn’t even sell him to you OD Connected yahoos. Turn him loose until we’re through.’
The work of applying the sarprimas continued. Not all the horses accepted the treatment with docility. There were several narrow escapes as members of the mustanging party had to leap or dart clear of lashing hooves and snapping teeth. Dusty came close to having to shoot one stallion, more determined than its companions to make mischief. However, Carlos’ and Bernardo’s ropes augmented his own and the Kid’s. Between them, the four men enforced their will on the recalcitrant mustang and strapped up its leg. Being released, it attempted to carry on the dispute. It tripped and the force of the fall knocked all the aggression from it.
Roped by Colin, a coyote-dun horse refused to rear and allow Felix to use the mangana. Instead, it advanced and backed away with all four hooves close to the ground. Its tactics availed it nothing. Coming in from the left instead of at the front, Felix demonstrated the difference between a mangana and a fore-footing throw.
Out sailed the short, leathery-faced mestenero’s rope. The medium-sized loop passed over the stallion’s right shoulder and a little ahead of it, in a position to accept both front feet as it moved forward. Giving an inwards twist to the stem of the rope, Felix made it flip to the rear and caused the loop to rise, striking against the horse’s knees. A jerk on the stem completed the throw and brought the coyote-dun down. Giving it no time to recover. Felix dashed in and fastened on the sarprima.
About to cast a loop at a passing dark brown horse, Bernardo noticed its splayed feet, ewe-neck and signs of age. Such a decrepit-looking animal would be of no use to any buyer, so he did not waste his team’s time by catching it.
At last, with the sun sinking towards the western horizon, the work was completed. Twenty-four stallions hobbled slowly in the grip of their sarprimas and five others were driven from the caracol to resume their freedom. The five had been discarded as too old or mediocre to be of use.
‘Whooee!’ Jeanie breathed, watching the rejected horses racing away. ‘I’m not sorry that’s over.’
‘Or me,’ Colin admitted, slipping an arm about her waist and squeezing it gently. ‘Hey, Lon. How about you and I standing the first watch? We Scots and Indians are better able to accept hardships than the lesser peoples of the world.’
‘Seeing’s you put it that way, I’m on,’ answered the Kid. ‘Only it’s Injuns and Scots.’
‘Come on, Jeanie, mesteneros,’ Dusty called. ‘Let’s get going before these pair of blasted heathens stomp up a war-dance.’
Although Jeanie had hoped that Colin would ride back to the camp with her, she raised no objections. A guard would have to be set on the corral until morning. The horses could not be moved before the next day, so required watching over to protect them from human beings or prowling predatory animals. Colin always took his share of such duties, so Jeanie read no special significance in his suggestion.
‘Don’t you pair let anybody sneak them away from you,’ the girl ordered, then went to collect her horse.
‘We made a good gather, Lon,’ Colin remarked after Jeanie, Dusty, and the mesteneros had gone from sight.
‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Likely Dusty’ll take most of ’em for our remuda. ’Less we lose too many gelding ’em, they ought to do for us.’
Only geldings were permitted in a ranch’s remuda. Stallions tended to fight and mares had the habit of bunch-quitting when on heat, taking several susceptible males along with them. So the mustangs captured that day would need to be castrated before joining the others which had been rendered acceptable for use by the OD Connected’s cowhands.
‘We’ll not lose many,’ Colin promised. ‘Felix’s better than any trained veterinarian I’ve seen at gelding.’
‘He’s tolerable good,’ admitted the Kid. ‘Must’ve learned from the Nemenuh.’
‘Isn’t there anything you Comanches can’t do better than other people?’ Colin inquired, knowing ‘Nemenuh’ meant ‘The People’ and was the Comanches’ name for their tribe.
‘Can’t rightly think of it, even if there could be,’ the Kid declared and eyed his companion in a speculative manner. ‘Did you-all have some special reason for asking me to stay on here with you?’
‘I need some advice.’
‘Which’s anybody, near on, ’d tell you, you’ve come to the best feller around to give it. What’s up?’
‘I want to catch Mogollon.’
If Colin expected the Kid to show surprise, or any other emotion, he was to be disappointed. The dark youngster nodded soberly and drawled, ‘I figure you’ve got a good reason for wanting him.’
‘Jeanie would like to have him,’ Colin replied. ‘But there’s more to it than that. The way I see it, Lon, mustanging as we’re doing it in Texas right now can’t go on for too many years.’
‘How’d you make that out, amigo?’ asked the Kid. ‘There’re plenty of wild hosses around.’
‘That there are, right now. But not for much longer. Not good horses, anyway. You saw what happened today. After we’d caught the manada, we turned five of them loose again.’
‘They weren’t worth keeping,’ the Kid pointed out.
‘That’s what I mean,’ Colin elaborated. ‘Ever since Texans and Mexicans started catching mustangs, they’ve been turned the worthless animals back on to the range. They’ve caught or killed the manaderos and the culls are given chances to mate with mares that wouldn’t come with healthy stallions around. So the culls pass their faults on to the foals. The stock gets poorer. In twenty years, the mustangs will hardly be worth the trouble of catching.’
‘Maybe not even in that long,’ the Kid said.
Colin had expressed a sentiment which Dusty, Mark and the Kid had discussed several times. All of them knew enough about breeding and blood-lines to figure that the continued removal of quality animals and return of culls must eventually ruin the conformation, stamina and speed of the wild horses roaming the range country. Under natural conditions, only the hardiest, best-qualified stallions had the opportunity to stamp their characteristics on the breed. With them gone, the mediocre males could breed and lay their fault-filled mark upon the future generations.
‘I don’t aim to wait until it happens,’ Colin continued. ‘It’s something I’ve talked over with Libby and Jeanie. We’re going to get some land, maybe around here, settle down and raise a fine strain of horses. Mogollon strikes me as being a good start to it.’
‘He’ll be that all right. Only ole Mogollon’s not going to be took easy.’
‘Do you say it can’t be done?’
‘You know as well as I do that taking a manadero’s near on impossible.’
‘You did it with your Thunder horse,’ Colin said.
‘He wasn’t no manadero when pappy ’n’ me caught him,’ the Kid objected. ‘And he was a whole heap younger’n Mogollon. From all I’ve heard, that big stallion’s fast, smart ’n’ tolerable mean. Could be he’ll turn out like that black cuss today, too mean to be took alive.’
‘He was captured once.’
‘Why sure—and got away again.’
‘Could we get him?’ Colin insisted.
‘You’re fixing to try, no matter what I say,’ the Kid guessed.
‘So’s soon’s we’re relieved and I’ve fed, I’ll take my ole Thunder hoss and go look for him.’ He slapped a hand against his thigh and grinned, ‘Hey! I didn’t know you Scotch fellers did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Went out ’n’ got a real good hoss to give to your gal’s kinfolk. Us Comanches do it a mite different, though. We have to hand over the hoss afore the gal’s been asked, said “yes” ’n’ nailed our hides to the lodge pole.’
‘How do we go about it?’ Colin inquired, ignoring the comment.
‘Was I you,’ answered the Kid, ‘I’d talk some to Jeanie about that.’
‘It’s to be a surprise,’ Colin protested.
‘And she’ll act like it is when you tell her,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Then she’ll set to and help you-all every which-way she can.’
‘You think I couldn’t do it without the lassie’s help?’
‘Put your tail down and stop them horns a-hooking, amigo. You’ll need that mestenera’s help. And, believe me, that’s more damned help ’n’ hoss-savvy than you could get from anybody else.’
‘More than from a Nemenuh,’ Colin challenged, his good humor restored.
‘If saying so’ll get you to ask her,’ drawled the Kid, ‘even from a Nemenuh.’
Having asked for advice, Colin showed sufficient good sense to accept it. On his return to the camp, he took Jeanie to one side and stated his intentions. She immediately threw herself wholeheartedly into helping him and agreed to the Kid departing to locate Mogollon’s manada.
Leaving after supper, the Kid returned while the rest of the party were eating breakfast. Taking no notice of the manner in which Colin and Jeanie looked at him, he collected his food. Squatting on his heels, he finished the meal without saying a word. Not until he had dropped his plate and tin cup into the dish of hot water by the chuck wagon did he offer to address the impatient girl and Scot.
‘Ka-Dih’s sure favoring you, Scotch brother.’
‘Scottish,’ Colin corrected almost automatically. ‘“Scotch” is a drink.’
‘You can buy the white part of me one next time we’re in town,’ suggested the Kid. ‘I’ve never seed a feller so lucky.’
‘How come?’ demanded Jeanie.
‘Did I ever tell you about me ’n’ Grandpappy Long Walker on our first bear hunt, Dusty?’ the Kid inquired.
‘Did I mention to you how we ought to get somebody out with a shovel to bury that black manadero, Dusty?’ Jeanie asked, staring pointedly at the Kid. ‘I’d say it’s a chore for one of your OD Connected hands.’
‘Us bosses all stick together, Lon,’ Dusty warned, having been an amused onlooker to that point. ‘And riding the blister end of a shovel’s hard work.’
‘How’d you know?’ the Kid said truculently. ‘I’ve never seed a boss riding one. All right. Peace, white sister.’ The last words, being accompanied by the traditional sign of peace, came with great solemnity as Jeanie moved threateningly towards him. ‘I knows when I’m licked.’
‘I never figured you knowed nothing,’ Jeanie sniffed.
‘I know ole Mogollon’s back down this ways,’ stated the Kid. ‘Fact being, him ’n’ his manada’re heading for the place where we picked up the last bunch.’
‘Unless it’s been tried since last year,’ Jeanie put in, eyes dancing with eagerness, ‘the Caracol de Santa Barbara’s one pen nobody’s tried to run him into. Colin, this could be our chance.’
Once a manada had thwarted an attempt to force them into a caracol, it was impossible to drive them into that location again. So, if Mogollon’s band had not been pushed towards the Caracol de Santa Barbara, Jeanie and her men might capture the stallion. They had already made a successful corrida and so possessed a knowledge of the type of ground they must cover.
‘Best get started at it then,’ Dusty said.
‘Sure,’ Jeanie agreed. ‘Fernan, take a wagon team and haul that manadero’s body a mile or so away from the valley. Felix, take the boys and drive those hosses we caught yesterday up here.’
‘Si, mestenera,’ the segundo replied. ‘Saddle up amigos.’
Normally the newly captured horses would have been left in the caracol for a few days, to let them settle down and adjust to captivity. With the chance to collect Mogollon, Jeanie and her men changed the procedure. Going to the pen, they drove the mustangs, still held by the sarprimas, out of the draw and moved them back to the camp area. During the journey, such of the mustangs as had not already made the discovery learned that they could not run with one leg raised from the ground. After falling once, the horses gave up their attempts at flight.
In the middle of the afternoon, Colin sat with Jeanie and Dusty amongst the post oaks. The rest of the men were in the positions they had used to take part in the corrida for the manada de hermanos. There had been only one alteration to the arrangements. Knowing how important the capture of Mogollon was to Colin and Jeanie, the Kid had taken the girl’s place in the valley.
Excitement and anticipation showed on the girl’s face as she sat her tobiano gelding between the two men. Listening to the skirl of Colin’s bagpipes, Jeanie and Dusty studied Mogollon’s reaction to the sound. Like other horses hearing the pipes for the first time, the manadero could not decide whether the strange noise was a menace to its band. Adopting the safe course, Mogollon began to move its family away from the unnatural wailing.
‘Let’s go and get them!’ Jeanie hissed and started her black and white mount moving.
On seeing the riders, Mogollon gave a snort of warning. Obediently, the rest of the manada started to run. Satisfied that everything was going as they had planned, the girl and her companions let out wild yells and gave chase. With their horses moving at a gallop, the trio spread out to a wide arrow-head formation. Filled with eagerness, Jeanie once again drew slightly ahead.
Throwing a look behind, Mogollon increased its speed. Passing down the flank of the manada, the chestnut stallion forced the leaders to turn. Instead of fleeing into the valley where the Kid and the mesteneros were waiting to head them towards the caracol, the band reversed their course so as to pass at an angle ahead of their three pursuers.
Nearest of the trio, Colin urged his horse on at a greater speed in the hope of cutting off the mustangs. Coming ahead of its harem as if they had been standing still, Mogollon rushed at the Scot. Faced by the teeth-flashing fury of the manadero, Colin’s blue-roan mount showed an equal aversion to that displayed by Dusty’s bayo-cebrunos when charged by the black master-stallion.
Rearing high on its hind legs, the blue-roan pivoted around. Taken by surprise, Colin slid backwards from his insecure perch and tumbled to the ground. Seeing her fiancé unhorsed. Jeanie came the closest in her lifetime to acting from blind panic. She slammed her spur-decorated heels against the tobiano’s ribs. Responding to the signal, it thrust itself forward at an increased pace. In doing so, it came between Dusty and Colin. Although he had already drawn his right-side Colt, Dusty dare not shoot for fear of hitting the girl.
Looking past Jeanie, Dusty saw Colin throw himself on to his back and roll face down. Even as the Scot covered his head with his arms, Mogollon hurdled his body without breaking stride. All around Colin, the hooves of the manada thudded and pounded on the ground. Only the horses’ natural aversion to treading on alien objects saved him. One colt’s near fore hoof crushed the eagle’s feather in his bonnet as it lay just in front of his head. Unable to swerve in time, a female foal bounded over his broad back and brushed against him in passing. Then the whole band had gone by, streaming across the range, with Mogollon resuming its position at the rear. Holstering his Colt, Dusty made no attempt to follow them.
Leaving her tobiano’s back almost at a full gallop, Jeanie lit down to run and kneel by Colin’s side. He forced himself on to his hands and knees, staring in disappointment after the departing horses.
‘Are you hurt, honey?’ Jeanie gasped.
‘Only my pride, lassie,’ Colin answered, turning his
gaze from the manada to her anxious features. ‘What happened?’
‘That tricky son-of-a-bitch!’ Jeanie spluttered, directing a furious glare in Mogollon’s direction. ‘He knew what we was at and wouldn’t let us drive him. I bet he’ll turn back every time he gets chased. Damn it! He’s too all-fired smart to let hisself get hazed into a caracol!’
Chapter Seven
About to enter the Grand Hotel accompanied by Mark Counter, Libby Schell saw Tam Breda strolling over from the rear of the building. The loading of her wagon had been completed without further interruptions and Libby was looking forward to a pleasant journey to Kerr County. Her smile wavered as Breda darted a glance into the bar-room and swung to face it. As he strode towards the door, his right hand dipped to loosen the Dragoon Colt in its holster.
‘I never thought Tam’d need a drink before he could face me,’ Libby sniffed.
‘He’s expecting trouble,’ Mark replied, having seen the movements of the Scot’s right hand. ‘I’d best go back his play if he needs it.’
Backed up against the mahogany bar, a tall, slim young man with a swarthy, Gallic cast of features and wearing cheap town clothes, looked about him in bewilderment. Before him, exuding menace, stood a tall, slender, handsome, professional gambler. Off to one side, a pair of hard-faced men in range clothes glowered at him and kept their right hands thumb-hooked close to their holstered revolvers. At the other side, farther away and to the rear of the men, a beautiful brunette watched with a dispassionate gaze. While she did not wear the garish, abbreviated dress of a saloon worker, nobody would have mistaken her for a ‘good’ woman.
‘Damned if I know what to make of it,’ declared the gambler in ringing tones. ‘I go out of here for five minutes and when I come back, here’s this jasper a-pawing at my wife.’
‘M’sieur!’ gasped the man at the bar. ‘I wasn’t. It was she—your wife—’
‘You hear that, gents?’ demanded the gambler, addressing the words to the hard-cases, the worried looking bartender and a skinny, sly-featured man who sat at a table in the left hand corner of the room. ‘This here foreign son-of-a-bitch’s laying the blame on my Laura-gal.’