The Last of the Plainsmen
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Zane Grey >> The Last of the Plainsmen
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"Now, go ahead," he said, taking the rope from Frank.
It had all been done in a twinkling. Baldy lay there groaning and
helpless, and when Frank once again took hold of the wicked leg,
he was almost passive. When the shoeing operation had been neatly
and quickly attended to and Baldy released from his uncomfortable
position he struggled to his feet with heavy breaths, shook
himself, and looked at his master.
"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
cunnn' 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.
Jones jumped the ditch with surprising agility, and I followed
close at his heels. When we reached our plunging horses, he
shouted: "Mount, and hold this passage. Keep close in by that big
stone at the turn so they can't run you down, or stampede you. If
they head your way, scare them back."
Satan quivered, and when I mounted, reared and plunged. I had to
hold him in hard, for he was eager to run. At the cliff wall I
was at some pains to check him. He kept champing his bit and
stamping his feet.
From my post I could see the mustangs flying before a cloud of
dust. Jones was turning in his horse behind a large rock in the
middle of the canyon, where he evidently intended to hide.
Presently successive yells and shots from our comrades blended in
a roar which the narrow box-canyon augmented and echoed from wall
to wall. High the White Mustang reared, and above the roar
whistled his snort of furious terror. His band wheeled with him
and charged back, their hoofs ringing like hammers on iron.
The crafty old buffalo-hunter had hemmed the mustangs in a circle
and had left himself free in the center. It was a wily trick,
born of his quick mind and experienced eye.
The stallion, closely crowded by his followers, moved swiftly I
saw that he must pass near the stone. Thundering, crashing, the
horses came on. Away beyond them I saw Frank and Wallace. Then
Jones yelled to me: "Open up! open up!"
I turned Satan into the middle of the narrow passage, screaming
at the top of my voice and discharging my revolver rapidly.
But the wild horses thundered on. Jones saw that they would not
now be balked, and he spurred his bay directly in their path. The
big horse, courageous as his intrepid master, dove forward.
Then followed confusion for me. The pound of hoofs, the snorts, a
screaming neigh that was frightful, the mad stampede of the
mustangs with a whirling cloud of dust, bewildered and frightened
me so that I lost sight of Jones. Danger threatened and passed me
almost before I was aware of it. Out of the dust a mass of
tossing manes, foam-flecked black horses, wild eyes and lifting
hoofs rushed at me. Satan, with a presence of mind that shamed
mine, leaped back and hugged the wall. My eyes were blinded by
dust; the smell of dust choked me. I felt a strong rush of wind
and a mustang grazed my stirrup. Then they had passed, on the
wings of the dust-laden breeze.
But not all, for I saw that Jones had, in some inexplicable
manner, cut the White Mustang and two of his blacks out of the
band. He had turned them back again and was pursuing them. The
bay he rode had never before appeared to much advantage, and now,
with his long, lean, powerful body in splendid action, imbued
with the relentless will of his rider, what a picture he
presented! How he did run! With all that, the White Mustang made
him look dingy and slow. Nevertheless, it was a critical time in
the wild career of that king of horses. He had been penned in a
space two hundred by five hundred yards, half of which was
separated from him by a wide ditch, a yawning chasm that he had
refused, and behind him, always keeping on the inside, wheeled
the yelling hunter, who savagely spurred his bay and whirled a
deadly lasso. He had been cut off and surrounded; the very nature
of the rocks and trails of the canyon threatened to end his
freedom or his life. Certain it was he preferred to end the
latter, for he risked death from the rocks as he went over them
in long leaps.
Jones could have roped either of the two blacks, but he hardly
noticed them. Covered with dust and splotches of foam, they took
their advantage, turned on the circle toward the passage way and
galloped by me out of sight. Again Wallace, Frank and Jim let out
strings of yells and volleys. The chase was narrowing down.
Trapped, the White Mustang King had no chance. What a grand
spirit he showed! Frenzied as I was with excitement, the thought
occurred to me that this was an unfair battle, that I ought to
stand aside and let him pass. But the blood and lust of primitive
instinct held me fast. Jones, keeping back, met his every turn.
Yet always with lithe and beautiful stride the stallion kept out
of reach of the whirling lariat.
"Close in!" yelled Jones, and his voice, powerful with a note of
triumph, bespoke the knell of the king's freedom.
The trap closed in. Back and forth at the upper end the White
Mustang worked; then rendered desperate by the closing in, he
circled round nearer to me. Fire shone in his wild eyes. The wily
Jones was not to be outwitted; he kept in the middle, always on
the move, and he yelled to me to open up.
I lost my voice again, and fired my last shot. Then the White
Mustang burst into a dash of daring, despairing speed. It was his
last magnificent effort. Straight for the wash at the upper end
he pointed his racy, spirited head, and his white legs stretched
far apart, twinkled and stretched again. Jones galloped to cut
him off, and the yells he emitted were demoniacal. It was a long,
straight race for the mustang, a short curve for the bay.
That the white stallion gained was as sure as his resolve to
elude capture, and he never swerved a foot from his course. Jones
might have headed him, but manifestly he wanted to ride with him,
as well as to meet him, so in case the lasso went true, a
terrible shock might be averted.
Up went Jones's arm as the space shortened, and the lasso ringed
his head. Out it shot, lengthened like a yellow, striking snake,
and fell just short of the flying white tail.
The White Mustang, fulfilling his purpose in a last heroic
display of power, sailed into the air, up and up, and over the
wide wash like a white streak. Free! the dust rolled in a cloud
from under his hoofs, and he vanished.
Jones's superb horse, crashing down on his haunches, just escaped
sliding into the hole.
I awoke to the realization that Satan had carried me, in pursuit
of the thrilling chase, all the way across the circle without my
knowing it.
Jones calmly wiped the sweat from his face, calmly coiled his
lasso, and calmly remarked:
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