It was nearly sunrise before the wolver awoke. With the true instinct
of a plainsman he turned to look for his Horse. _It was gone_. What his
ship is to the sailor, what wings are to the Bird, what money is to the
merchant, the Horse is to the plainsman. Without it he is helpless, lost
at sea, wing broken, crippled in business. Afoot on the plains is the
sum of earthly terrors. Even Jake realized this, and ere his foggy wits
had fully felt the shock he sighted the steed afar on a flat, grazing
and stepping ever farther from the camp. At a second glance Jake noticed
that the Horse was trailing the rope. If the rope had been left behind
Jake would have known that it was hopeless to try to catch him; he would
have finished his den-hunt and found the little Coyotes. But, with the
trailing rope, there was a good chance of catching the Horse; so Jake
set out to try.
Of all the maddening things there is nothing worse than to be almost,
but not quite, able to catch your Horse. Do what he might, Jake could
not get quite near enough to seize that short rope, and the Horse led
him on and on, until at last they were well on the homeward trail.
Now Jake was afoot anyhow, so seeing no better plan, he set out to
follow that Horse right back to the Ranch.
But when about seven miles were covered Jake succeeded in catching him.
He rigged up a rough _jâquima_ with the rope and rode barebacked in
fifteen minutes over the three miles that lay between him and the
Sheep-ranch, giving vent all the way to his pent-up feelings in cruel
abuse of that Horse. Of course it did not do any good, and he knew that,
but he considered it was heaps of satisfaction. Here Jake got a meal
and borrowed a saddle and a mongrel Hound that could run a trail, and
returned late in the afternoon to finish his den-hunt. Had he known it,
he now could have found it without the aid of the cur, for it was really
close at hand when he took up the feather-trail where he last had left
it. Within one hundred yards he rose to the top of the little ridge;
then just over it, almost face to face, he came on a Coyote, carrying in
its mouth a large Rabbit. The Coyote leaped just at the same moment that
Jake fired his revolver, and the Dog broke into a fierce yelling and
dashed off in pursuit, while Jake blazed and blazed away, without
effect, and wondered why the Coyote should still hang on to that Rabbit
as she ran for her life with the Dog yelling at her heels. Jake followed
as far as he could and fired at each chance, but scored no hit. So when
they had vanished among the buttes he left the Dog to follow or come
back as he pleased, while he returned to the den, which, of course, was
plain enough now. Jake knew that the pups were there yet. Had he not
seen the mother bringing a Rabbit for them?
So he set to work with pick and shovel all the rest of that day. There
were plenty of signs that the den had inhabitants, and, duly encouraged,
he dug on, and after several hours of the hardest work he had ever done,
he came to the end of the den--_only to find it empty_. After cursing
his luck at the first shock of disgust, he put on his strong leather
glove and groped about in the nest. He felt something firm and drew it
out. It was the head and neck of his own Turkey Gobbler, and that was
all he got for his pains.