HORSE BRANDS
Before gathering the fillies and mares that spring, and while riding
the range, locating our horse stock, Pasquale brought in word late one
evening that a _ladino_ stallion had killed the regular one, and was
then in possession of the _manada_. The fight between the outlaw and
the ranch stallion had evidently occurred above the mouth of the Ganso
and several miles to the north of the home river, for he had
accidentally found the carcass of the dead horse at a small lake and,
recognizing the animal by his color, had immediately scoured the
country in search of the band. He had finally located the _manada_,
many miles off their range; but at sight of the vaquero the _ladino_
usurper had deserted the mares, halting, however, out of gunshot, yet
following at a safe distance as Pasquale drifted them back. Leaving the
_manada_ on their former range, Pasquale had ridden into the ranch and
reported. It was then too late in the day to start against the
interloper, as the range was fully twenty-five miles away, and we were
delayed the next morning in getting up speedy saddle horses from
distant and various _remudas_, and did not get away from the ranch
until after dinner. But then we started, taking the usual pack mules,
and provisioned for a week’s outing.
Included in the party was Captain Frank Byler, the regular home crowd,
and three Mexicans. With an extra saddle horse for each, we rode away
merrily to declare war on the _ladino_ stallion. “This is the third
time since I’ve been ranching here,” said Uncle Lance to Captain Frank,
as we rode along, “that I’ve had stallions killed. There always have
been bands of wild horses, west here between the Leona and Nueces
rivers and around Espontos Lake. Now that country is settling up, the
people walk down the bands and the stallions escape, and in drifting
about find our range. They’re wiry rascals, and our old stallions don’t
stand any more show with them than a fat hog would with a _javaline_.
That’s why I take as much pride in killing one as I do a rattlesnake.”
We made camp early that evening on the home river, opposite the range
of the _manada_. Sending out Pasquale to locate the band and watch them
until dark, Uncle Lance outlined his idea of circling the band and
bagging the outlaw in the uncertain light of dawn. Pasquale reported on
his return after dark that the _manada_ were contentedly feeding on
their accustomed range within three miles of camp. Pasquale had watched
the band for an hour, and described the _ladino_ stallion as a
cinnamon-colored coyote, splendidly proportioned and unusually large
for a mustang.
Naturally, in expectation of the coming sport, the horses became the
topic around the camp-fire that night. Every man present was a born
horseman, and there was a generous rivalry for the honor in telling
horse stories. Aaron Scales joined the group at a fortunate time to
introduce an incident from his own experience, and, raking out a coal
of fire for his pipe, began:—
“The first ranch I ever worked on,” said he, “was located on the
Navidad in Lavaca County. It was quite a new country then, rather
broken and timbered in places and full of bear and wolves. Our outfit
was working some cattle before the general round-up in the spring. We
wanted to move one brand to another range as soon as the grass would
permit, and we were gathering them for that purpose. We had some ninety
saddle horses with us to do the work,—sufficient to mount fifteen men.
One night we camped in a favorite spot, and as we had no cattle to hold
that night, all the horses were thrown loose, with the usual precaution
of hobbling, except two or three on picket. All but about ten head wore
the bracelets, and those ten were pals, their pardners wearing the
hemp. Early in the evening, probably nine o’clock, with a bright fire
burning, and the boys spreading down their beds for the night, suddenly
the horses were heard running, and the next moment they hobbled into
camp like a school of porpoise, trampling over the beds and crowding up
to the fire and the wagon. They almost knocked down some of the boys,
so sudden was their entrance. Then they set up a terrible nickering for
mates. The boys went amongst them, and horses that were timid and shy
almost caressed their riders, trembling in limb and muscle the while
through fear, like a leaf. We concluded a bear had scented the camp,
and in approaching it had circled round, and run amuck our saddle
horses. Every horse by instinct is afraid of a bear, but more
particularly a range-raised one. It’s the same instinct that makes it
impossible to ride or drive a range-raised horse over a rattlesnake.
Well, after the boys had petted their mounts and quieted their fears,
they were still reluctant to leave camp, but stood around for several
hours, evidently feeling more secure in our presence. Now and then one
of the free ones would graze out a little distance, cautiously sniff
the air, then trot back to the others. We built up a big fire to scare
away any bear or wolves that might he in the vicinity, but the horses
stayed like invited guests, perfectly contented as long as we would pet
them and talk to them. Some of the boys crawled under the wagon, hoping
to get a little sleep, rather than spread their bed where a horse could
stampede over it. Near midnight we took ropes and saddle blankets and
drove them several hundred yards from camp. The rest of the night we
slept with one eye open, expecting every moment to hear them take
fright and return. They didn’t, but at daylight every horse was within
five hundred yards of the wagon, and when we unhobbled them and broke
camp that morning, we had to throw riders in the lead to hold them
back.”
On the conclusion of Scales’s experience, there was no lack of
volunteers to take up the thread, though an unwritten law forbade
interruptions. Our employer was among the group, and out of deference
to our guest, the boys remained silent. Uncle Lance finally regaled us
with an account of a fight between range stallions which he had once
witnessed, and on its conclusion Theodore Quayle took his turn.
“The man I was working for once moved nearly a thousand head of mixed
range stock, of which about three hundred were young mules, from the
San Saba to the Concho River. It was a dry country and we were
compelled to follow the McKavett and Fort Chadbourne trail. We had
timed our drives so that we reached creeks once a day at least,
sometimes oftener. It was the latter part of summer, and was unusually
hot and drouthy. There was one drive of twenty-five miles ahead that
the owner knew of without water, and we had planned this drive so as to
reach it at noon, drive halfway, make a dry camp over night, and reach
the pools by noon the next day. Imagine our chagrin on reaching the
watering place to find the stream dry. We lost several hours riding up
and down the _arroyo_ in the hope of finding relief for the men, if not
for the stock. It had been dusty for weeks. The cook had a little water
in his keg, but only enough for drinking purposes. It was twenty miles
yet to the Concho, and make it before night we must. Turning back was
farther than going ahead, and the afternoon was fearfully hot. The heat
waves looked like a sea of fire. The first part of the afternoon drive
was a gradual ascent for fifteen miles, and then came a narrow plateau
of a divide. As we reached this mesa, a sorrier-looking lot of men,
horses, and mules can hardly be imagined. We had already traveled over
forty miles without water for the stock, and five more lay between us
and the coveted river.
“The heat was oppressive to the men, but the herd suffered most from
the fine alkali dust which enveloped them. Their eyebrows and nostrils
were whitened with this fine powder, while all colors merged into one.
On reaching this divide, we could see the cotton-woods that outlined
the stream ahead. Before we had fully crossed this watershed and begun
the descent, the mules would trot along beside the riders in the lead,
even permitting us to lay our hands on their backs. It was getting late
in the day before the first friendly breeze of the afternoon blew
softly in our faces. Then, Great Scott! what a change came over man and
herd. The mules in front threw up their heads and broke into a grand
chorus. Those that were strung out took up the refrain and trotted
forward. The horses set up a rival concert in a higher key. They had
scented the water five miles off.
“All hands except one man on each side now rode in the lead. Every once
in a while, some enthusiastic mule would break through the line of
horsemen, and would have to be brought back. Every time we came to an
elevation where we could catch the breeze, the grand horse and mule
concert would break out anew. At the last elevation between us and the
water, several mules broke through, and before they could be brought
back the whole herd had broken into a run which was impossible to
check. We opened out then and let them go.
“The Concho was barely running, but had long, deep pools here and
there, into which horses and mules plunged, dropped down, rolled over,
and then got up to nicker and bray. The young mules did everything but
drink, while the horses were crazy with delight. When the wagon came up
we went into camp and left them to play out their hands. There was no
herding to do that night, as the water would hold them as readily as a
hundred men.”
“Well, I’m going to hunt my blankets,” said Uncle Lance, rising. “You
understand, Captain, that you are to sleep with me to-night. Davy
Crockett once said that the politest man he ever met in Washington
simply set out the decanter and glasses, and then walked over and
looked out of the window while he took a drink. Now I want to be
equally polite and don’t want to hurry you to sleep, but whenever you
get tired of yarning, you’ll find the bed with me in it to the windward
of that live-oak tree top over yonder.”
Captain Frank showed no inclination to accept the invitation just then,
but assured his host that he would join him later. An hour or two
passed by.
“Haven’t you fellows gone to bed yet?” came an inquiry from out of a
fallen tree top beyond the fire in a voice which we all recognized.
“All right, boys, sit up all night and tell fool stories if you want
to. But remember, I’ll have the last rascal of you in the saddle an
hour before daybreak. I have little sympathy for a man who won’t sleep
when he has a good chance. So if you don’t turn in at all it will be
all right, but you’ll be routed out at three in the morning, and the
man who requires a second calling will get a bucket of water in his
face.”
Captain Frank and several of us rose expecting to take the hint of our
employer, when our good intentions were arrested by a query from Dan
Happersett, “Did any of you ever walk down a wild horse?” None of us
had, and we turned back and reseated ourselves in the group.
“I had a little whirl of it once when I was a youngster,” said Dan,
“except we didn’t walk. It was well known that there were several bands
of wild horses ranging in the southwest corner of Tom Green County.
Those who had seen them described one band as numbering forty to fifty
head with a fine chestnut stallion as a leader. Their range was well
located when water was plentiful, but during certain months of the year
the shallow lagoons where they watered dried up, and they were
compelled to leave. It was when they were forced to go to other waters
that glimpses of them were to be had, and then only at a distance of
one or two miles. There was an outfit made up one spring to go out to
their range and walk these horses down. This season of the year was
selected, as the lagoons would be full of water and the horses would be
naturally reduced in flesh and strength after the winter, as well as
weak and thin blooded from their first taste of grass. We took along
two wagons, one loaded with grain for our mounts. These saddle horses
had been eating grain for months before we started and their flesh was
firm and solid.
“We headed for the lagoons, which were known to a few of our party, and
when we came within ten miles of the water holes, we saw fresh signs of
a band—places where they had apparently grazed within a week. But it
was the second day before we caught sight of the wild horses, and too
late in the day to give them chase. They were watering at a large lake
south of our camp, and we did not disturb them. We watched them until
nightfall, and that night we planned to give them chase at daybreak.
Four of us were to do the riding by turns, and imaginary stations were
allotted to the four quarters of our camp. If they refused to leave
their range and circled, we could send them at least a hundred and
fifty miles the first day, ourselves riding possibly a hundred, and
this riding would be divided among four horses, with plenty of fresh
ones at camp for a change.
“Being the lightest rider in the party, it was decided that I was to
give them the first chase. We had a crafty plainsman for our captain,
and long before daylight he and I rode out and waited for the first
peep of day. Before the sun had risen, we sighted the wild herd within
a mile of the place where darkness had settled over them the night
previous. With a few parting instructions from our captain, I rode
leisurely between them and the lake where they had watered the evening
before. At first sight of me they took fright and ran to a slight
elevation. There they halted a moment, craning their necks and sniffing
the air. This was my first fair view of the chestnut stallion. He
refused to break into a gallop, and even stopped before the rest,
turning defiantly on this intruder of his domain. From the course I was
riding, every moment I was expecting them to catch the wind of me.
Suddenly they scented me, knew me for an enemy, and with the stallion
in the lead they were off to the south.
“It was an exciting ride that morning. Without a halt they ran twenty
miles to the south, then turned to the left and there halted on an
elevation; but a shot in the air told them that all was not well and
they moved on. For an hour and a half they kept their course to the
east, and at last turned to the north. This was, as we had calculated,
about their range. In another hour at the farthest, a new rider with a
fresh horse would take up the running. My horse was still fresh and
enjoying the chase, when on a swell of the plain I made out the rider
who was to relieve me; and though it was early yet in the day the
mustangs had covered sixty miles to my forty. When I saw my relief
locate the band, I turned and rode leisurely to camp. When the last two
riders came into camp that night, they reported having left the herd at
a new lake, to which the mustang had led them, some fifteen miles from
our camp to the westward.
“Each day for the following week was a repetition of the first with
varying incident. But each day it was plain to be seen that they were
fagging fast. Toward the evening of the eighth day, the rider dared not
crowd them for fear of their splitting into small bands, a thing to be
avoided. On the ninth day two riders took them at a time, pushing them
unmercifully but preventing them from splitting, and in the evening of
this day they could be turned at the will of the riders. It was then
agreed that after a half day’s chase on the morrow, they could be
handled with ease. By noon next day, we had driven them within a mile
of our camp.
“They were tired out and we turned them into an impromptu corral made
of wagons and ropes. All but the chestnut stallion. At the last he
escaped us; he stopped on a little knoll and took a farewell look at
his band.
“There were four old United States cavalry horses among our captive
band of mustangs, gray with age and worthless—no telling where they
came from. We clamped a mule shoe over the pasterns of the younger
horses, tied toggles to the others, and the next morning set out on our
return to the settlements.”
Under his promise the old ranchero had the camp astir over an hour
before dawn. Horses were brought in from picket ropes, and divided into
two squads, Pasquale leading off to the windward of where the band was
located at dusk previous. The rest of the men followed Uncle Lance to
complete the leeward side of the circle. The location of the _manada_,
had been described as between a small hill covered with Spanish bayonet
on one hand, and a _zacahuiste_ flat nearly a mile distant on the
other, both well-known landmarks. As we rode out and approached the
location, we dropped a man every half mile until the hill and adjoining
salt flat had been surrounded. We had divided what rifles the ranch
owned between the two squads, so that each side of the circle was armed
with four guns. I had a carbine, and had been stationed about midway of
the leeward half-circle. At the first sign of dawn, the signal agreed
upon, a turkey call, sounded back down the line, and we advanced. The
circle was fully two miles in diameter, and on receiving the signal I
rode slowly forward, halting at every sound. It was a cloudy morning
and dawn came late for clear vision. Several times I dismounted and in
approaching objects at a distance drove my horse before me, only to
find that, as light increased, I was mistaken.
[Illustration: UTTERING A SINGLE PIERCING SNORT]
When both the flat and the dagger crowned hill came into view, not a
living object was in sight. I had made the calculation that, had the
_manada_ grazed during the night, we should be far to the leeward of
the band, for it was reasonable to expect that they would feed against
the wind. But there was also the possibility that the outlaw might have
herded the band several miles distant during the night, and while I was
meditating on this theory, a shot rang out about a mile distant and
behind the hill. Giving my horse the rowel, I rode in the direction of
the report; but before I reached the hill the _manada_ tore around it,
almost running into me. The coyote mustang was leading the band; but as
I halted for a shot, he turned inward, and, the mares intervening, cut
off my opportunity. But the warning shot had reached every rider on the
circle, and as I plied rowel and quirt to turn the band, Tio Tiburcio
cut in before me and headed them backward. As the band whirled away
from us the stallion forged to the front and, by biting and a free use
of his heels, attempted to turn the _manada_ on their former course.
But it mattered little which way they turned now, for our cordon was
closing round them, the windward line then being less than a mile
distant.
As the band struck the eastward or windward line of horsemen, the
mares, except for the control of the stallion, would have yielded, but
now, under his leadership, they recoiled like a band of _ladinos_. But
every time they approached the line of the closing circle they were
checked, and as the cordon closed to less than half a mile in diameter,
in spite of the outlaw’s lashings, the _manada_ quieted down and
halted. Then we unslung our carbines and rifles and slowly closed in
upon the quarry. Several times the mustang stallion came to the
outskirts of the band, uttering a single piercing snort, but never
exposed himself for a shot. Little by little as we edged in he grew
impatient, and finally trotted out boldly as if determined to forsake
his harem and rush the line. But the moment he cleared the band Uncle
Lance dismounted, and as he knelt the stallion stopped like a statue,
gave a single challenging snort, which was answered by a rifle report,
and he fell in his tracks.