Читать книгу Mustang: A Horse of the West - Thomas C. Hinkle - Страница 6

A MEXICAN cowboy, known by the name of Mack, had drifted up from Old Mexico and this summer he had come into the region of the Horseshoe Ranch. However, none of the men at the Horseshoe had seen Mack; in fact, no one in this territory had seen him except the riders at the Almazan Ranch farther to the west. All that they knew about Mack was that he had stayed at the ranch for a week, that he was a good shot with a rifle, which he always carried in a holster on his saddle, and he was also a remarkably clever man with a rope. It happened that Mack owned nothing but his horse, the one he rode, which seemed to be the worse for hard riding. The men did not know that all that Mack wanted at this time was to get a good horse so that he could ride to the southern border and cross over into Old Mexico.

One day well along in the afternoon Mack was riding alone, a long distance from the Almazan Ranch, when he saw a horse that caused him to ride quickly into some woods and hide. He saw two horses, in fact, two that were standing close together and dozing in the warm sunshine. These horses were Mustang and Old Bill. They had wandered farther from the Horseshoe Ranch than ever before. But, if left alone, both would have returned as usual. It was Mustang that Mack wanted. He saw at once that Mustang was a young horse and a strong one—a tall, rangy horse, the kind that could run.

There was no wind that day to tell Old Bill and Mustang of the presence of the man hiding in the woods. And there was nothing to tell them that a man was there with a rifle and that he was a remarkably good shot. It must be admitted that Mack was different from most Mexicans of that day in that he was a good shot. He had more than once successfully “creased” horses and so captured them. To “crease” a horse meant to shoot at him so that the rifle bullet would strike him near the spine at the top of the neck. This would knock him unconscious and he would lie stunned, but only for a brief time, and when that brief time passed he would jump up and be as good as ever.

Mack was within easy rifle shot from where he hid. He dismounted from his old horse, who was already standing with his head down, tired out and half asleep. Mack took a rest with his rifle on a dead limb near the trunk of a tree. The rifle cracked. Mustang fell and Old Bill, terrified, ran away. Mack mounted his old horse and spurred quickly to Mustang. One look and he saw that the bullet had only grazed Mustang’s neck. But Mack must work swiftly. This he did with skill. When Mustang came to himself he tried to leap to his feet and got half up, then he fell back. There were ropes on both his front legs so that they were held rather close together. But the next instant he tried again and this time he stood up, but when he tried to plunge he fell to the ground again. He lay for a second looking with wild eyes at Mack, and again Mustang got to his feet. He didn’t try to leap this time. He didn’t want to fall again. He only stood, trembling and waiting, trying like a wild horse to think how best to act here.

The cunning Mack was prepared for this. He put a hackamore, or rope halter, on Mustang’s head with a long rope attached. Holding this long rope Mack picked up the saddle he had taken from his own horse and dropped it on Mustang’s back. Mustang flinched. But the saddle did not frighten him so much. Sam had often put a saddle on him. It was the man here that was frightening. While Mustang stood trembling, with his forefeet tied, Mack reached under him, got the big broad girth and quickly cinched the saddle on Mustang.

With a snort he leaped quickly to one side and bucked with all his power.

Everything had happened so quickly to Mustang that he stood trembling and scared and still a little weak from the shock of it all. He stood while Mack slowly took the rope from his feet, then just as Mack grabbed the saddle horn and started to mount, Mustang began to fight. He whirled, but the skillful Mack swung up into the saddle as easily as a bird might fly to a nest.

When Mustang saw that the man on his back stayed on, he decided to get him off. With a snort he leaped quickly to one side and out on the plain and bucked with all his power. So high did he leap and whirl and plunge that Mack, top rider though he was, time after time was nearly thrown, but he stayed in the saddle. And after a while Mustang stopped bucking and stood still, his feet wide apart, his nostrils distended while he puffed with exertion. His once bright bay coat was dark with sweat. Now Mack tapped him with the end of the halter rope. Mustang sprang forward and, not knowing what else to do, he galloped away rapidly, and Mack was pleased, since this was what he wanted Mustang to do. He wanted him to go toward the south and he wanted him to go as fast and as long as he could. Fortunately for Mustang the day was far spent when he was captured, and as he galloped on and the darkness fell, the cool of the night revived him.

Mustang all at once slowed down to a walk. The Mexican, who had lost one of his spurs, began to gouge Mustang with the other. Suddenly Mustang reared up so high and quickly that he lost his balance and fell over backward. Only Mack’s skill saved his own life. He got out of the saddle and when Mustang, considerably jarred from the fall, got to his feet, Mack leaped back in the saddle. He decided, however, that here was a horse that would not stand punishment from a spur. Mack mumbled to himself, “He’s a crazy horse. He’s big, swift, but he’s crazy. I be careful and I trade him. I trade him off for another horse on account he’s crazy!”

Horses, and sometimes mules and oxen, were the main source of transportation in these days, and horses especially, if they were even fairly good ones, could always be sold or traded to advantage.

Mustang, at a gentle tap of Mack’s hand, started forward, but he only walked. And now Mack began to use his cunning brain. He knew where there was a wagon trail—a trail where men in “prairie schooners,” or covered wagons, were crossing the plains, and it came to him that if he could keep Mustang going until morning he might possibly trade him to one of these travelers for another horse.

Presently they came to a small stream in the low plain and here Mustang was allowed to stop and drink. After he had drunk of the cool water he felt refreshed and he walked across the shallow sandy place to the other side, and when his captor tapped him slightly with the end of the halter rope he set out in an easy canter, and to Mack’s surprise, Mustang held this pace for a long time. He seemed now not to tire and Mack had half a mind to keep him. But well along in the night two things happened that made the Mexican change his mind quickly. The first was that he came upon a wagon trail and the second was that, without thinking, he gouged Mustang with the spur. Instantly Mustang reared high and stood straight up. He did not fall over backward this time but he was so near to it that Mack was scared and disgusted. He knew now that he would trade him at the first chance.

He kept Mustang moving along the wagon trail in the starlight into the middle of the night, when Mack decided to sleep. Arrived at a tree near the trail he tied Mustang and, moving off a little distance, Mack slept for a few hours. On awakening he mounted Mustang and continued along the wagon trail.

The dawn was just coming when Mack saw a small campfire just ahead of him. He rode up to find a lone traveler—a short, stocky man with a bushy dark beard. He had already cooked and eaten his breakfast and was about to hitch up his horses. Mack spoke to the man, who introduced himself as Cole Hunter. It turned out that he had two old plugs of horses, little more than skin and bones, and also a tough, wiry broncho that was led behind the wagon. Cole Hunter and Mack talked for a time and a trade was made. Mack said that he would trade Mustang for the tough broncho because the broncho could stand travel and Mustang couldn’t as he was too young. Cole was clever. He knew the broncho could not be made to pull the wagon. He had tried him. The animal would try to kick everything to pieces, then he would lie down. Mustang could, at least, be no worse. So the trade was made. The saddle was put on the broncho. The Mexican mounted and, after the usual spell of bucking, the broncho galloped away at a fast pace. With a wave of his hand, Mack, who was the cause of all Mustang’s trouble, rode away toward the border.

Cole Hunter did not intend to be cruel to his horses. He was simply, as he thought, practical. He let the poorest of his old horses loose, and, with Mustang tied to the wagon, he put the harness on him. Mustang was very tired and hungry after his long journey and could not fight as he would have done if he had been rested. Even so it took the man, who was skilled with horses, some time to get Mustang hitched up with the old horse, but this was finally done. While Cole did not want to be cruel he did want to get to his distant destination. It seemed to him that Mustang, being in good flesh, should pull most of the load and, accordingly, Cole put what was known as a stay-chain on the double-tree behind Mustang. In this way the old horse could, if the driver allowed him, lag back a little and Mustang would have to pull the whole load. This was a common practice in these days, to put a strong horse with a small one or with an old, weak horse. Fortunately this was a light wagon with only a small load in it.

When Cole was ready he got up in the seat of the wagon and shouted, “Giddap!” The old horse understood. He started forward. But to Mustang this was all new. Mustang stood still. But when he felt a whip touch him he jumped forward. He then tried to run away, but no matter how much he leaped and plunged he found all those straps and chains still stayed on him, and no matter how much he tried to pull the wagon faster it only seemed to get heavier and harder to pull. Mustang didn’t know that when he tried to plunge and run he was then pulling the whole wagon by himself. He could not understand anything about all this. But after he fought in this way for some time he was so tired he became quiet and simply walked along beside the old, skinny horse. In fact, Mustang realized for the first time that the horse was beside him, and when he looked at the old bony horse walking slowly along, Mustang felt a little better. He tried to put his nose over to the horse to be friendly but the horse only opened his eyes a little and just went plodding along as if he were half asleep. This skinny horse was very old, almost twenty years of age. All his life he had pulled a wagon and nothing interested him any more except rest. He wanted only to eat grass and rest and sleep—nothing more. Mustang couldn’t understand this. When he saw how the old horse acted, Mustang again stepped along, pulling the load, his head up, his eyes open wide, looking for something to happen so that he could get away from this thing. If he could have talked like the cowboys he would have called it “an awful mess,” for that’s what it was to him.

After a time Mustang was covered with sweat and he wanted a drink of water. The old horse had been allowed to drink at a little stream near the camp, but Cole Hunter thought Mustang would tame down quicker if he got weak from lack of water. When he got Mustang well in hand he would let him have water and grass. If Cole had known all that Mustang had in him he would have taken better care of him so that some day he could have got a big price for him, but fortunately for Mustang, Cole did not know this. He merely looked on Mustang as just another horse who was young, maybe worth a little more than the average, but that was all.

The time dragged until late forenoon. Finally Cole stopped and let both horses drink at a small pond. Then he let them rest for two hours. The old horse was let loose to graze. Mustang was tied with a stout rope and allowed to eat grass. But before Cole unhitched him he tied a short rope on Mustang’s front feet and in this way hobbled him. Mustang could now graze at the end of the long rope tied around his neck and if he broke it he still would be hobbled so that he could be caught. But Mustang did not try to get away. He ate grass as fast as possible and when Cole at last hitched him to the wagon Mustang felt much refreshed. He tried to jump about and get free but his two front feet were tied so closely together that Cole managed him and he was again hitched up to the wagon beside the old horse. Cole then took the hobble from his feet and again at the word “Giddap!” the old horse started forward. Mustang lunged back once but felt the whip, then he lunged forward and again he stepped along, pulling nearly all of the load because of the stay-chain fixed to the doubletree behind him.

As Mustang plodded along through the long afternoon he became very tired, and Cole Hunter began to see that he was not likely to reach the western town he was heading for unless he could meet another traveler and trade the old horse for one who at least had strength to pull a little and so help Mustang.

Mustang walked slowly along the wagon trail on the level prairie, looking ahead for some sign that might tell him he would get out of this situation. But mile after mile it seemed the same. As he plodded along he was startled a little when a great flock of prairie chickens flew up ahead of him, and for a moment their light-colored breasts shone like a great bright flower against the blue of the sky. Mustang saw the birds fly away in their freedom. Two antelopes with their short tails stood off, well out of rifle range, and looked at Mustang pulling the wagon. Then they, too, in their joy of freedom raced away like a streak across the plain.

Presently the trail led near a narrow, shallow stream with green fringes of willows on either side. The afternoon sun shone very warm as Mustang pulled the wagon behind him. He was thirsty, and he wanted a drink so much that he licked his lips time after time. But Cole sat on the wagon seat smoking his pipe and paid no attention to Mustang except to see that he kept moving. At one point the trail turned out in a wide detour away from the stream, and still the wagon rolled along on the level plain.

Mustang saw ahead of him on the trail a crow walking about contentedly while its black wings glistened in the sunlight. At the near approach of the wagon the crow flew away and alighted on a small tree where it looked at the slow-moving wagon going by.

Farther on the wagon trail led between a range of steep hills and a shallow stream. Mustang, toiling along the road, was suddenly aroused when, close to the trail, he saw something on a big flat rock. Mustang stopped, snorted and looked at the hideous thing on the rock. Cole looked and he saw it also. It was an enormous rattlesnake. The rattler lay on the flat rock with its head raised up from its coils. The old horse was on the side nearest the rock and could have been bitten if he had not stopped. He had only strength enough to snort a little and look at the big snake. Cole took a rifle from behind the seat and, taking careful aim, he shot the rattler through the head and so ended it. Mustang snorted and tried to run when he saw the flopping of the big rattler. The scare put a little life in him and he walked on with more energy for a time, but his new exertion did not last and he began again to lick his lips for want of water.

A mile farther and Mustang saw that the trail led down to the stream. This was a shallow ford in the small river where wagons crossed and here Mustang and the old horse were allowed to put their heads down and drink while they stood in the water that reached to their knees. It seemed to Mustang that he would never get enough water. He drank in great, quick draughts, filling himself as fast as he could, but Cole, watching him, presently pulled on the lines and compelled Mustang to lift his head. He took a long breath and did not feel as thirsty as when his head was down at the water. Experienced horsemen understood this. A horse that was famished for water on a hot day might easily drink too much, and if he was made to lift his head up and look around for a time he would not drink so much. Cole shouted at both horses and they moved on across the stream. Mustang, now refreshed from the water, pulled doggedly on, but he felt a growing weariness because he needed food.

They had gone no great distance from the river when a covered wagon appeared, coming from the opposite direction. The wagon came slowly on and the teams met. This traveler, a tall, slim man, was driving a mule and a horse. Both the horse and the mule were in fairly good flesh but it was seen by Mustang’s driver that the mule was old and gray about the face. Still a mule was a mule as long as he could walk, and it was plain to Cole that he might not be able to get to his distant town as matters stood. After some bickering, in which Cole paid a little cash, the old horse was traded and the mule was hitched beside Mustang. The small cash difference paid to get the old mule was what counted. After the trade was made Mustang’s driver took off the stay-chain from the doubletree and now as the wagon moved along the mule took his share of the load.

Cole, sitting on the seat driving, smoked his pipe constantly, and sometimes a light breeze carried the scent of the smoke to Mustang’s nostrils. The only effect it had on him was that it made him remember when the scent came to him that men were always nearby.

For a long time the only sounds to be heard were those of the wagon wheels as they rolled over a long stretch of ground covered with small pebbles and stones. The old mule plodded along as if he were half asleep but he pulled his share of the load. Mustang kept his eyes wide open, always watching. As he looked forward he saw in the distance, near a dip in the plain, a number of large birds flying slowly in circles above the place. As he helped pull the wagon nearer he saw a dark object in the low place beyond. Mustang did not understand but his driver did. Cole looked at the big birds flying above the place and muttered aloud, “Some feller kept his old horse too long and had to let him go to the buzzards. I’m lucky I traded for this mule. I’ll be able now to get to the town and I’ll get a good trade for this young bay horse. He’ll strike the eye of the cowboys. Some feller can feed him up and make a champion bucker out of him maybe.”

After a long time Cole Hunter saw the western town ahead of him. Mustang saw it too, and he was at once interested. What he wanted was to have all these straps and chains and, especially, the collar on his neck and shoulders taken off. When quite near the town the wagon reached a gentle slope. As they came to the slope the wagon pushed up against Mustang, but the old mule, with long experience, leaned back in the broad breeching of his harness, while he took short, halting steps forward. At the same time Mustang felt the bridle bit in his mouth pulled hard by Cole, who drew back on the lines. Cole also pulled back the iron lever that put the brakes on the iron tires of the hind wheels. This caused a screeching sound as the iron wheels rolled and jerked against the brake, and Mustang was frightened, but the old mule beside him paid no attention, just leaned back in his breeching. Mustang did the same although his breeching tickled him and he had a desire to kick, but the weight of the wagon pressed so hard against him that he could do nothing but step awkwardly along with the mule on the other side of him.

They came down the slope at last and to some level ground on the edge of the town. A little farther on was a big corral in which were horses and close beside this corral was a railroad track. But Mustang did not notice this. And even if he had he would not have known what it was. He would not have known that what were called “horse cars” moved along on these tracks to carry horses like him to the horse markets of the East, where horses were sold to men who would ride them or hitch them up to pull heavy loads in wagons. All that Mustang knew was that he saw many horses in the big corral here, and also many men standing around the corral. He was interested, too, in the many horses he saw beyond the corrals and in the sounds that came to him. But what interested Mustang most were the mounted cowboys he saw riding along the streets of this western town. Two of the cowboys rode leisurely past where he stood hitched to the wagon, but they were busy in conversation and did not notice him. When Mustang saw these men in their wide-brimmed hats he pricked up his ears with interest because they reminded him of Sam McSwain. And now he saw other cowboys riding here and there and he looked intently at them. It seemed to him that Sam might be with them. And if Sam had been with those men who rode nearest, Mustang no doubt would have recognized him and nickered to him. For Mustang had not forgotten. It was merely that he did not know where Sam was.

After Cole had looked ahead for a brief time he drove Mustang and the mule up near the big corral where the men were standing. These men had just bought the horses in the corral and they were talking about the matter of shipping them away. Cole stopped his queer team and told the horse buyers he would like to trade Mustang and the mule for another team of horses. The horse buyers gave only a glance at the old mule hitched up with Mustang. They knew the mule was of no value to them, and they would not want him. But they looked at Mustang with interest. In these days, when shrewd men knew horses, not many questions were asked in a horse trade. All three horse buyers saw instantly that Mustang was an unusually good horse, and after a little dickering they traded two “work” horses for Mustang, and traded even.

Mustang was now unhitched from the wagon. He was tired, hungry and thirsty, but he would break away if he could. The men worked carefully. They got a long rope on his neck and when the harness had been pulled off one of the men started to lead Mustang to the corral gate to put him in with the other horses. When Mustang saw that he was free, except for the man pulling on the rope, he leaped aside swiftly and almost broke the man’s hold on the rope, but the other two men grabbed the rope, and although Mustang leaped and plunged to get away, these strong men dug their boot heels in the ground and held him. When Mustang saw that they could hold him he stopped and, looking at them, snorted. The three men held him and began talking among themselves.

“He’s young and he’s a fighter, ain’t he!”

“You bet he is. He’s half starved, but he’s a fighter. Looks like he’s got race stock in him!”

“That’s so, and he’ll fetch a good price if we’re careful and get him safe on the stock train.”

Mustang stood his ground, his head up, his eyes wide, watching the three men. Slowly one of them took the dangling end of the long rope and tied it around a post at the gate of the corral. The man then opened the gate a little. Mustang couldn’t get loose now unless he broke the rope. One of the men went into the corral and drove all the other horses back, for these horses in the corral had become curious at seeing Mustang and they were crowding close to the gate to look at him. When the horses inside had been driven back the gate was opened wide. Two men got well behind Mustang and one of them threw a rope and made it roll like a wave on the ground toward him. The end of the rope struck Mustang like a small whip. He leaped forward and into the corral, and the gate was quickly shut. With Mustang now inside and still tied to the post, the men approached him carefully. One of them said, “He’s no ordinary stock. He’s got fine blood in him. But he’s a nervous horse, the kind that might fight us unless we’re gentle with him.”

At this moment a man with a load of hay drove up to the corral and, with a pitchfork, began tossing hay into the corral for the horses to eat. There were twenty or more horses in this corral, all colors and different sizes. They rushed for the hay, squealing, and some of them kicked the others when they reached it. Many of them laid back their ears, and with open mouths they drove back the others.

One of the men looked at Mustang, grinned, and said, “Let’s untie the rope on his neck and let him loose with the others. I’ll bet he gets his share of hay!” Very carefully this was done. At once Mustang started toward the hay. A few of the worst fighting horses were eating and holding the others back. Mustang walked rapidly up to them. A big sorrel horse laid back his ears and with gleaming teeth reached for Mustang. Mustang dodged, whirled, and kicked that horse so hard he staggered. And then Mustang started in biting and kicking in such a way that it was no time until he had all the horses standing back. He stood looking at them for an instant, then snorted his contempt. They all understood. Presently Mustang grabbed up a mouthful of hay, then turned and faced them while he chewed rapidly on it.

These men of the West all grinned with admiration. One of them said, “He’s saying to them horses, ‘Going to starve me, are you? Huh! Why, if you do that again I’ll chaw you up and spit you out in little pieces! I won’t have it!’ ”

Mustang now began to eat ravenously of the hay. The other horses moved in a little below him and also began to eat, but while they chewed on their food they stood looking at Mustang. He was the kind they could not chase away. After a little Mustang saw the water in the trough at one end of the corral. Chewing a mouthful of hay, he started toward it. Two of the worst fighters were already there drinking. Mustang approached at a rapid walk, his ears laid back, and the two horses ran away. Mustang reached down and with his big upper lip flipped the top of the water back a few times and then began to drink.