Читать книгу The Stolen Stallion - Max Brand - Страница 7
ОглавлениеV. — THE HORSE HUNT
The letter which came for Charlie Moore to the Richmond ranch was very crisp and brief. But Charlie read it over and over, sitting in the twilight on the steps of the house while the other cowpunchers sat around their poker game inside. It was near the end of the month, and they were gambling, therefore, in futurities.
Harry Richmond, noisily stalking through the room, more like a fat-bodied, long-legged crane than ever, plucked the paper out of the limp fingers of Moore and read:
Dear Charlie: I was ten seconds too late, the night that Brandy was stolen. That Indian half-breed, Lake, is the rat that ran off with him. Brandy bucked him off before I had a chance to shoot him off. I should have killed the brute while he rolled on the ground, but it's hard to finish off a man who's yelling for mercy. So I went on and trailed Brandy and the mare, Mischief, up into the Sierra Blanca desert. I saw them meet up with a herd of twenty head of wild mustangs and I saw Brandy lick the buckskin leader and take charge of the lot. You know it's no easy business to run down a wild herd. At least, it's about as hard for one man to do the trick as it is to run a flock of wild geese out of the sky. I gave up the job. I have something to do a good bit south of here, and I'm headed in that direction. In the meantime, I thought I'd let you know where Brandy is wandering. Sorry that I couldn't bring him back on a rope to you. But you'll probably need a big outfit of men and horses to run that herd down and get the stallion back. Best of luck to you. I'll try to see you on my way north. If you run across Lake, let him know that his trail means a good deal to me, and that I hope to spend some time on it before long. The yellow hound!
Yours,
Silvertip
When Harry Richmond had finished reading this document, he balled it in his hand and hurled it into the outer darkness.
"Sierra Blanca!" he groaned.
Charlie Moore nodded his head, and swallowed slowly. At last he said, "He's gone. I'll never see Brandy again!"
"If you took care of what you own," shouted Richmond, "if you didn't let sneakin' half-breeds steal everything you've got, you might amount to somethin', some day. Now Brandy's gone. You've let him get away—and half of him was mine."
"Aye," said Charlie Moore, "half of him was yours. And half was mine. And he's gone. I'd give up my half for the chance of seein' him inside the corral once more, liftin' his head when I talk to him, comin' when I whistle. But he's gone into the Sierra Blanca, and nobody'll lay eyes on him again."
A thought struck into the mind of Richmond, deeper than the sound of a bell.
"You'd give him up—your half of him?" asked Richmond.
"I'd give him up," said Charlie Moore, "but that won't bring him back here. I might as well just give up a wish as to give up a horse that's runnin' wild in the Sierra Blanca."
"I dunno," said Harry Richmond. The greatness of his desire and his hope raised a storm in his breast. His eyes burned. "Suppose that you and me and a bunch of others, with some fast horses, went up there and campaigned for Brandy. Suppose that we caught him—you'd give up your half?"
"Sure," said Charlie Moore, "but there ain't any hope."
"There's hope enough to make me try," said the rancher. "Besides," he added, "it would be the same as though he was part yours, anyway. You'd have the handlin' of him!"
* * *
It was Mischief that smelled the scent of men and iron and gunpowder before any of the herd. She had been as wild as any of them during half her life, and the other half had familiarized her more profoundly with man and his ways. So her hair-trigger senses found the danger while it was still far off. Her neigh gathered the herd into swift flight that she led, while Brandy ranged at the rear, swinging back and forth, nipping at the old mares, at the ancient, blundering stallions, at the clumsy colts that made up the rear guard. So the herd was partly led and partly swept out of the dangerous narrowness of a valley, and as it ran, the wild horses saw riders streaming down the slope on their left.
On out of the ravine, exploding like a shell in the midst of rolling dust, the herd poured into the more open desert. Behind it the pursuit sagged down, and failed.
But that was only the beginning. For ten days the pursuit continued. Mysteriously, horsemen appeared at the water holes toward which the band headed. Deprived of water and with little time to graze, on account of constant alarms, the whole band lost flesh and strength and spirits—all except Mischief and the new leader. Her iron-hard constitution saved her, and in Brandy there was an unfailing fountain of strength; the greatness of his soul seemed able to supply the needs of his body. Even so, he was drawn fine indeed on that day when the herd had been led into a pleasant valley by Mischief, so that the older and the younger animals could find easier grazing. Here the grass grew almost thick, and two springs threw out rills which joined in a delightful stream before the thirst of the ground sucked up the running water. It was high time that the band should find rest and food; the older animals were beginning to stumble and the knees of the younger colts were continually a-tremble.
They had grazed for perhaps three hours, undisturbed, when the accurate nose of Mischief detected trouble in the offing; her neigh was a clarion that gathered the herd suddenly around her. Brandy joined her on the slight hummock from which she was sweeping the landscape.
"There's no danger," said Brandy, as he touched his nose to hers. "I haven't your eyes, but there's no danger. No horse and rider could manage to sneak up on us, here. Common sense will teach you that."
"Trust a mare's instinct rather than a stallion's common sense," said Mischief, flaring out her nostrils, and stamping suspiciously. "I found the scent of man in the air, and that means trouble."
"A man on horseback—yes," said Brandy.
"Horseback or afoot, it doesn't matter a great deal," said Mischief. "The smell puts the taste of iron back in my mouth, and I feel the rope burn again, and the halter flaps once more on my head. Don't try to tell me, because I know."
"You're afraid," said Brandy.
"I'd rather be afraid ten times than to be caught once," said Mischief. "There!"
As she snorted, Brandy saw a man on foot step out of a patch of brush hardly a hundred yards away. The stallion flinched in turn; the entire herd swerved to flee with Mischief, for the others had learned to defer to her cleverness, her constant watchfulness. More than once the real leader of a herd has been a mare; Mischief was filling that role now.
"Come on!" she called to Brandy.
But he remained where he was. He had lifted his magnificent head, and was studying the slowly advancing figure. A faint wind came from the man to his nostrils.
"There's no scent of a gun," said Brandy. "There's no smell of iron, you know. And there's no rope about him. Why should you be afraid, Mischief?"
"As long as a man has one hand, he's dangerous," said the mare. "Are you coming, Brandy?"
"I'll come presently," said Brandy. "Get the herd down the valley a little. Something makes me want to look at this man a little more closely. I think I know him."
Mischief instantly fled a furlong farther down the valley, the other horses packed closely around her. There she paused, and sent her call after her mate. But Brandy was standing his ground. Once or twice he flinched, when Mischief whinnied for him. Yet still he lingered in un-decision, for there was something very familiar about that form which came toward him, with hand extended. And now he could hear the voice that passed with a singular magic through all the nerves of his body, soothing him.
It was Charlie Moore, who had come down to try his single hand, where all of the others had failed; the starved, hollow-eyed men of the hunt, the staggering horses, remained high up among the hills, while Moore went down by himself to see what his luck might be.
"Run while you can!" called Mischief, from the distance. "The snake can hold the bird with its eye—and some men can hold a horse, when they come near enough. Run, Brandy!"
Brandy whirled about, tossing his head and then his heels. He slashed his tail right and left, brilliant in the sunshine, before he paused once more. But the half circle in which he ran, had not taken him farther from the approaching figure.
The voice went on. It spoke in sounds which were mostly meaningless, but others were as familiar to Brandy as the speech of his own kind. And, above all, there was the name repeated over and over:
"Brandy! Stand fast, Brandy! Brandy, good boy!"
The stallion let Charlie Moore come straight up to him. When the hand of the man was a yard from his nose, Brandy stretched out his head, sniffed at it, and then bolted at full speed.
Down the valley before him he saw the rest of the herd flying, he heard the rejoiced whinnying of Mischief, and turning in a great circle, Brandy came back almost to the spot where he had confronted Moore before.
His senses were so alert that he could see everything; two buzzards that circled, near and far, in the thin blue of the sky; the thick shadow that dropped along the side of the mesa; the smoke of greasewood that straggled across a nearby hollow; the mist of dust that hung in the air after the passing of the herd. But, most of all, he was aware of the man, the voice, the outstretched hand, the eyes.
What had Mischief said about the eyes of man? These were filled with understanding and gentleness as well. Above all, there was the voice that kept running through his being like a river, and always pouring contented music about his heart.
Far off, Mischief was calling on the highest note of fear and warning.
Brandy shuddered with apprehension, but suddenly he stretched his head to the hand of Moore, saw that hand go past it and grasp the tattered end of the lariat which still hung from his neck. A sobbing noise came out of the throat of Charlie Moore, a sound which Brandy had never heard before. He turned his head to nuzzle the man's shoulder. Still the grip of Moore was on the end of the rope. Freedom had passed from Brandy at that instant, but he hardly cared, for the caressing words dulled him like an opiate. And what was all the wild freedom in this world, compared with the touch of that hand, as it ran down along his neck, and the penetrating, reassuring music of that voice, filled with promises that green pastures and bright waters alone could not fulfill?
