the ancient city. The wind lashed and tore at the gray bodies as though
trying to tear them from the rocky cliff. The old lobo bared his fangs
and lifted his muzzle. He sounded a savage paean of howls and high,
dismal calls and his sons joined in the chorus. Their howls rang down
the wind curling along the face of the cliff to where the wild horses
stood. The mares jerked up their heads, and the big chestnut snorted
savagely. But the howls of the pack had none of the savage cry of the
kill. The gray ones were defying the storm, daring it to sweep them
from their lofty crag. They were answering an age-old urge to challenge
the elements, to dare them to do their worst. After a while the old
lobo led his sons in a wild chase down the ridge. They leaped along,
riding the fierce wind, snapping and snarling eagerly.
For two days the wild band remained under the rim; then the blizzard
broke and the sun struggled through the gray clouds to shine feebly
into the canyon. The mares moved out and began pawing among the tumbled
rocks, digging for grass. They scooped the new snow and swallowed it
to wet their throats. Above them, against the turquoise sky, a pair
of buzzards wheeled and circled, their round, hard eyes peering down
hungrily, watching the horses, eager to see if any showed signs of
weakness. The undertakers of the air would follow the band daily,
hoping the cold and the scant feed would bring death to some of the
band.
The chestnut stallion met the rigors of winter with the same disdain
he held for hunters. The colts were watched more closely because the
snow and the cold had driven the natural food of the cougar and the
wolves to cover. Many of the little dwellers were curled up in deep,
warm burrows sleeping. Most of the birds had flown south. But the big
killers did not sleep. Winter was a time when hunger and famine stalked
their world, when they ran for days with lean, gaunt bellies driving
them on. The hunger which cramped their stomachs made them savage and
daring, it sharpened their cunning, and made their raids more deadly.
One evening a hungry colt strayed from the band, seeking a spot where
the snow was not so deep. His mother was busy pawing through a drift
where she had located a clump of bushes with tender twigs in abundance.
The colt wandered up to a stand of juniper which stood sprawled against
the snow. He dug down experimentally, found no curly buffalo grass and
moved on, farther up the slope, closer to the green trees.
He was pawing into a drift when he heard a savage snarling. He jerked
up his head and snorted, his round eyes staring with fright. Out of the
juniper woods leaped four gray wolves. Their broad chests rose above
the snow, spraying it aside in fine spurts. Their red tongues rolled
between their bared fangs. The pack was lean and gaunt, but they did
not sound the cry of the kill, they ran silently, emitting low snarls.
The colt whirled and floundered toward the mares. The chestnut stallion
was the first to see the wolves. With a squeal of rage he charged
toward them. The colt plunged along but he had wandered far from the
band. Behind him the killers rapidly closed in. Their white fangs
slashed the muscles and tendons of his straining legs, hamstringing
him. He went down plunging and kicking, and the gray killers leaped
upon him ripping and tearing.
At the sound of the chestnut’s shrill warning the mares jerked up their
heads and charged to the rescue of the struggling colt. Lady Ebony
leaped ahead close beside the big stallion. For a moment the wolves
stood their ground, then they faded back, snarling and howling, to
circle around the band. The mares milled and stamped around the colt
while his mother nosed him and whinnied eagerly. He kicked a little,
then lay still.
In the sky above the buzzards shortened their circles and dropped.
Their long wait had been rewarded. The mares kept a close guard around
the carcass of the colt for a long time. The wolves sat on the snow and
stared out of flaming yellow eyes, waiting with slaver-flecked jaws,
sure they would feast in due time. They looked up at the buzzards now
sweeping low above the snow and growled defiantly.
The frantic mother kept nosing her colt, trying to get him to his feet
so that she could lead him away from the blood smell and the wolf
taint. The chestnut charged the wolves many times. They leaped away
before his lashing hoofs, darting behind him, jumping at his legs and
heels. And the buzzards settled down on the snow to wait.
The mares guarded the dead colt for over an hour, then they moved
away leaving the mother alone. She remained standing over the twisted
carcass, whinnying nervously. Then the killers leaped in and circled
around her, darting toward her, two behind and two in front. She lashed
at them, pivoted, kicked wildly, her pounding hoofs striking nothing.
The chestnut stallion came to her rescue and drove the wolves away,
then he drove her down the slope to where the band was feeding. She
went slowly, halting to stand with her head up and nicker softly. The
wolves leaped on the carcass and began devouring it while the buzzards
walked over the snow, halting with their necks stretched out, their
hard eyes glittering. They must wait for their share, which would be
the gnawed bones.
And so the battle against the snow and the cold went on through the
long winter. Another colt was lost to the gray killers, and an old
mare went lame. She dropped behind in spite of the savage nipping and
crowding of the big stallion. That night she bedded down alone in a
little canyon and a gaunt cougar came upon her in the gray dawn. Her
end came swiftly, without a struggle.
Then spring came with rushing torrents, slush in the arroyos, and
slick, yellow mud on the hillsides. Streams boiled out of the dry
canyons thick with raw clay and sand. This was the season when nature
carved deeply into the face of the desert. Only the sand washes and the
dunes on the flats resisted the water. The sand ate it up and packed
hard so that it did not cling and drag when the band galloped over it.
With the speed of a miracle the desert bloomed. The sage flats flared
white with the blossoms of the primrose and the mariposa lily.
Countless other stunted plants put forth flowers, eager to create and
ripen seed before the heat and drought of summer came. And the grass
shot out of the ground, rich and sweet. The band cropped and moved on,
ever searching for taller grass.
The mares were lean and gaunt, their ribs pushing ridges up under
their shedding coats. The chestnut stallion was lean, too, but in a
hard-muscled way. Lady Ebony had lost much of her fire and love for
frolic. The sun was warm and the air soft but she needed rest. She
looked away toward the white slopes of the Crazy Kill Range. Spring
would not reach the high mesa for another month, but she was restless.
She would have headed away into the foothills but the big stallion kept
close watch over his band.
One day a horseman rode out on a rim. He sat on his bony horse and
looked down on the wild band feeding on a bench. For a long time he sat
there looking intently before he rode away. Yellow Man smiled as he
galloped toward his hogan. There were many good colts in the band and
one black mare. The black mare was a horse such as he had never seen
before, the sort of mount he had always dreamed about. He would tell
the other men about the band, but the black mare was to be his because
he had been the first to see her.
He rode to his hogan and picketed his pony. Walking to the glowing fire
which flickered inside the door he stooped and held out his hands. Four
men sat along one wall while a half dozen brown-faced women sat on the
other side. On the men’s side of the hogan lay riding things, bridles
and blankets, a saddle. On the women’s side were the cooking pots and
the blankets. Yellow Man sat down. For a long time he said nothing. His
black eyes were on the fire.
Finally Yellow Man lifted his eyes to the face of an old man beside him.
“I have seen many good horses,” he said.
The old man grunted softly while the others bent forward.
“There is a black mare who will have a colt this spring,” Yellow Man
said.
They all nodded. The black mare was to belong to Yellow Man, that was
understood. Now they waited for him to go on.
“Tomorrow we will run the band. There will be horses for all. The big
one who leads may have to be shot. I will take the rifle. The big one
is strong and will fight.” Yellow Man’s eyes returned to the fire.
The others nodded and began eagerly planning the drive. Through the
long winter they had kept busy with sings and chants, meeting with
other families in religious dances and ceremonies. This would be the
first hunt of the season.
* * * * *
To the north, behind the high gray walls of the state prison Sam knew
when spring came. Through a high, barred window he could see a square
of sunlight on the stone wall. Across the upper corner of the square
drooped the branches of a cottonwood tree. Sam watched the buds swell
and burst into pale-green leaves.
The warden and the guards shook their heads when they walked past his
cell. Eight years. The old fellow would be lucky to finish two of them.
He refused to work outside, he hated even to exercise in the closed-in
yard. He wanted to be left alone, to sit and stare out the little
window. But Sam did not share their belief that he would never leave
the gray walls. He was sure he would return to the high mesa. He wasn’t
going to die cooped up in a gloomy cell; when he died it would be out
in the open with his boots on, under a mountain sky.
He did not brood over his trial. His attorney had been irritated to the
point of anger when Sam refused to tell where he had been and what he
was doing during the three weeks of absence from his cabin. That was
his business; he’d need his cache when he got out. Nobody was going
to find out about it. His stubbornness had convinced the jury of his
guilt. Sam had paid the attorney well though the judge had offered to
let the state pay the fee. He didn’t think much about those things, he
just sat and stared at the cottonwood branch.
Tex, Major Howard’s foreman, had talked to him. Tex understood better
than any of the others, but Sam wasn’t trusting anybody. He had learned
from years of battling for gold that the yellow metal was poison to
friendship and trust. Tex was a right fine feller, but there was no
call to push him too far.
5. Wild Horse Drive
The snow had vanished and the desert was dry and thirsty again. Dust
spurted up around the hoofs of the wild horses as they loped down a
long ridge. The east was beginning to show a pale flush of red and day
came quickly to the barren country, lighting the tall spires and castle
rocks and the sharp points of the pinnacles, making the monument valley
below appear alive.
The chestnut stallion swung along behind the mares. At their head ran
an old roan. She was trailwise and wary. Her nose was leading her
unerringly to a big water hole at the base of a cliff. The others
pounded along behind her with the colts frisking beside their mothers.
The chestnut halted every little while to whirl and sniff the morning
air. He held his head high and his protruding eyes rolled as he stared
back over the broken country they had left behind.
The roan trotted off the ridge and down through a jumble of rocks to
the base of a cliff. The horses nickered softly as they smelled water.
The roan’s muzzle was a scant foot from the yellow surface of the
pool when wild yells shattered the morning calm. The band whirled and
stood with heads up, staring toward a rocky slope. Above them the big
chestnut screamed a warning and an order to charge away.
Down the slope toward the water hole galloped four riders. Their naked
bodies gleamed copper-red in the new sunlight as they bent low over the
necks of their lean ponies. With squeals of fright the band whirled
and charged down the canyon. A cloud of yellow dust billowed at their
heels. The chestnut stallion crashed down on their flanks with bared
teeth and pounding hoofs. When a mare lagged he drove her squealing
into the band. The mad charge carried the wild horses away from the
four pursuing Navajos, but the trailers did not give up the chase.
Back of the dust cloud Yellow Man rode beside his three sons. Their
faces were expressionless; only their black eyes showed the eager
excitement that filled them. They did not try to make their gaunt
ponies overtake the thundering band but were content to keep a steady
pace. The trail left by the wild horses was broad and easy to follow.
Lady Ebony ran ahead of the band, keeping well out in front without
effort. She was not badly frightened and the wild panic of the other
horses had not gripped her. But she raced along just the same, enjoying
the surging flight which gave full play to her powerful muscles. The
big chestnut charged in and turned the band up the ridge. As they swept
over the top of the rocky hill they saw the Indians galloping along the
canyon bed below.
Yellow Man shifted his seat on the bare back of his pinto. His black
eyes were following the flight of the black mare, and there was a
fierce eagerness in them. The chestnut leader was doing just what he
wanted him to do. The big fellow was swinging his band into a wide
circle, a curve which would carry them back into the country they had
just left.
The band thundered down off the ridge and headed up a sand wash.
The drag of the sand and the uphill going slowed them but they kept
pounding along, the stallion saw to that. He stayed behind and used his
teeth savagely on the rumps of the laggards.
Yellow Man and his sons galloped up the ridge and dropped into the sand
wash. A thin smile parted the lips of the tall hunter as he noticed how
fagged his horse was. They were chasing no ordinary wild scrub ponies.
The chestnut stallion had trained his band well and kept them in fine
condition. They had run the legs right out from under the Navajo
ponies. He urged his pinto up the sand wash as fast as the little beast
could travel.
The chestnut saw the riders coming and noticed that they were working
their way to the side as though aiming to come up alongside. He
suspected a trick though he was disdainful of the slow-running ponies
coming up from below. He changed his course a little to the north.
Now the pursuers would have to travel much farther than his band to
overtake them. The Navajo riders swung north too, and kept following
close to the dust cloud.
The chase thus took a circular course with the chestnut keeping the
mares moving as fast as the colts could follow. But now the horses’
sides were heaving, sweat was streaking their flanks and caking
in lather-matted ridges above the hair. The big stallion snorted
triumphantly as they topped a ridge. They had run away from their
pursuers. The Indians were plodding along far behind. He allowed the
mares to slow their pace to a lope while he galloped to right and then
to left, looking down into washes and canyons for a hiding place.
Suddenly the mares heard yells from their right. They saw five
red-bronze riders charging down on them from a cover of junipers.
Mounted on fresh horses, these braves came swiftly from their ambush.
The chestnut stallion rushed on his band and sent them racing down
into a canyon. The retreat led over a ledge and down a rocky hill. The
slope was steep and covered with loose stones, but the sure-footed
horses took the broken ground at a mad rush. One of the mares slipped
and went down, rolling over and over, until she was stopped by a big
boulder. She struggled to her feet and staggered around the hill. Her
colt bounded after her nickering wildly.
The charge of the hunters carried them close on the heels of the flying
band. When the mare went down, two of the hunters swerved and followed
her. The chestnut let her go and gave his attention to speeding the
rest of the band. In a few seconds the speed of the wild horses carried
them ahead of the Navajos’ lean ponies. But the three hunters following
the mares kept yelling and galloping.
The two hunters who had swerved to follow the crippled mare and her
colt soon overtook them. They paid no attention to the mare but charged
down on the colt. One of them swung a rope. The loop sailed out and
dropped over the straining neck of the little fellow. The colt fought
and kicked, but the Navajo boy knew how to handle a fighter. He kept
his rope tight, almost to the choking point, and let the little horse
wear himself out. In a short time he had mastered the colt and was
heading toward camp with him. His companion galloped away to overtake
the band.
The chestnut stallion could not understand the attack of the Navajos.
They did not start shooting when they got in close and they did not try
to rope any of the mares. They just kept riding on the heels of his
fast-tiring band, yelling and waving their arms. They were not like the
wolf or the cougar, they did not strike when they got close, but they
never left the heels of the herd. The big stallion shifted his course
and again they began moving in a wide circle.
This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep
hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling
back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close
to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares
doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels
of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the
hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid
their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists.
They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their
ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare
and the colts.
The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s
far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into
faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded
against the wolf or the bear.
Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew
they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help
them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted:
“He is doubling back! Head him!”
The Indians sent their ponies charging recklessly down the dangerous
slope, leaping over boulders and water-gutted ditches. But the band
would not be headed. Going downhill had eased them and given them new
life. They plunged along with sides heaving and nostrils flaring. Lady
Ebony led them, keeping her pace down to their speed.
One of the hunters headed his pony up out of the canyon. He halted on
a jutting rock and sat looking down over the desert. His black eyes
watched the fine spirals of yellow dust rising from the canyon and
he nodded his head. The scattered groups of hunters would be able to
locate the new direction the band had taken.
The sharp eyes of three hunters hiding in a juniper grove on the rim
of the canyon saw the spirals of dust rising from the dry watercourse
above. They slipped across and waited.
The chestnut began to breathe easier. Once again the band had
outdistanced their pursuers and no raiders could be seen. But he was
nervous and determined to keep the mares moving until they were deep in
the rough, canyon-slotted country to the south. The weary horses slowed
their pace to a trot. They were suffering for water and their hard
muscles were crying for rest. They were used to sudden, wild charges
when they would race at top speed for a while, but they were not used
to a steady grind, hour after hour.
Several of the mares began weaving away from the herd, sniffing for
water, looking for a spot where they could halt and rest. Suddenly the
yells they had come to dread broke the silence and echoed along the
canyon walls. Three riders came charging toward them from below. The
chestnut screamed a warning. For a moment he hesitated. There was an
enemy pack behind them, and now one faced them. With a snort and a toss
of his head he sent the band up the far slope out of the canyon. The
hunters raced whooping and yelling after the mares.
Escape from the canyon did not bring freedom from the worrying red
riders. The desert seemed full of them. After every run, when the big
stallion thought he had slipped away from his pursuers, a new and fresh
band would charge from cover on the jaded mares. In desperation the big
horse headed down a deep canyon. The mares could not travel uphill any
more. They could not move fast but the hunters did not seem anxious
to close in and strike. They kept on the heels of the wild ones. Now
there were a dozen of them and they kept up a savage yelling as they
stayed close to the band.
Up ahead Lady Ebony began to tire. She was not driven by frantic
fear and she was eager to stop and rest. At first she had enjoyed
the flight, but now she was thirsty and her sides were heaving. She
galloped ahead, leaving the band behind. As she raced along she saw a
side canyon. Its floor was solid rock, worn smooth by wind and water.
She slipped into the narrow opening and halted behind a shoulder of
rock. She lowered her head and stood blowing hard. She had left no
tracks on the rocky floor.
The wild horses galloped past the mouth of the side canyon. A great
cloud of dust rolled up after them. Lady Ebony heard the Navajos go
whooping past. She stood listening until the pounding of hoofs and the
yelling died away. Shaking her head, she trotted up the narrow canyon.
She craved water and she wanted to be alone, to lie down and rest. She
headed north because to the north lay the tall-grass meadows with clear
streams bubbling across them. She moved along steadily, keeping to the
bottom of the canyon where she was hidden from sight of any black-eyed
hunter who might be sitting on a rim high above.
A black rain cloud billowed up above the rims to the north. It rolled
down across the desert on the wings of a driving wind which raised
clouds of dust and sand. At dusk it swept over the canyon where Lady
Ebony was marching along steadily north. It drenched her and gave her
needed drinking water, then it moved on down to where the chestnut was
making his last stand.
In the canyon the big stallion had settled down to the grim job of
lashing his mares into movement. They were not able to go fast but he
kept them pounding along, just ahead of the yelling hunters. Their
gaunt bellies were drawn and their dry nostrils flared red inside
their dust-caked rims. The Navajos were shouting to one another, their
spirits high. They were sure of their catch now and eager to close in
as soon as the mares quit.
Then the dusk of evening came and with it the downpour of rain. Nowhere
in the world outside the tropics can so much water fall in so short a
time as in the desert. The storm was bad luck for the hunters, but it
spelled escape for the wild horses. It blotted out everything, bringing
sudden, inky night. Its rushing, swirling waters wiped out the tracks
of the horses. The chestnut stallion played wise. He took a side
canyon, forcing his charges out on a rocky ridge. From that canyon they
crossed another ridge and turned north. The big stallion was headed out
of the desert.
The hunters spread out and worked up and down the canyon but the
darkness and rain defeated them. They finally gave up and turned their
ponies toward their camp.
All that night Lady Ebony kept moving. The storm passed and the moon
came out with stars beyond it, stars that hung low over the barren
country, brilliant with red and blue lights winking outside white
centers.
A pair of gray wolves flashed past like shadows. They leaped along,
side by side, shoulder to shoulder. One was a big, broad-chested fellow
with a wide muzzle and frost-cropped ears. The other was a slim gray
one with slender legs and body. They paid no attention to Lady Ebony.
They were not hunting, they were running, answering the call of spring,
heading for a trysting place on a barren ridge.
Lady Ebony heard them holding their spring concert on a high knoll.
They howled and snarled and yelped. There was much yearning, much that
sounded like deep laughter in their song, and there was tenderness in
the notes of the slim gray one. In their mating time they had lost the
savagery of winter. There was no specter of famine in the springtime,
no blasting blizzards, no deep snow. There was food and there was an
urge to find a snug den.
Something of the feelings expressed by the gray wolves filled Lady
Ebony. Just before dawn she halted and began feeding. She fed on
through the morning. She saw no other horses and heard no savage yells.
At midday she lay down and rested until late afternoon.