There are several ways of capturing wild horses. One is by
creasing--that is, grazing the animal's nape with a rifle-ball so that
he is stunned long enough for hobbling.
"Yes! I seen about a hundred necks broke trying it, but I never seen a
mustang creased yet," was Wild Jo's critical remark.
Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets it, the herd can be driven
into a corral; sometimes with extra fine mounts they can be run down,
but by far the commonest way, paradoxical as it may seem, is to walk
them down.
The fame of the Stallion that never was known to gallop was spreading.
Extraordinary stories were told of his gait, his speed, and his wind,
and when old Montgomery of the 'triangle-bar' outfit came out plump at
Well's Hotel in Clayton, and in presence of witnesses said he'd give one
thousand dollars cash for him safe in a box-car, providing the stories
were true, a dozen young cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win
the purse, as soon as present engagements were up. But Wild Jo had had
his eye on this very deal for quite a while; there was no time to
lose, so ignoring present contracts he rustled all night to raise the
necessary equipment for the game.
By straining his already overstrained credit, and taxing the already
overtaxed generosity of his friends, he got together an expedition
consisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-wagon, and a fortnight's
stuff for three men--himself, his 'pard,' Charley, and the cook.
Then they set out from Clayton, with the avowed intention of walking
down the wonderfully swift wild horse. The third day they arrived at
Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon they were not surprised to
see the black Pacer marching down to drink with all his band behind him.
Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses each and all had drunk their
fill, for a thirsty animal always travels better than one laden with
water.
Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer took alarm at half a mile, and
led his band away out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the southeast. Jo
followed at a gallop till he once more sighted them, then came back and
instructed the cook, who was also teamster, to make for Alamosa Arroyo
in the south. Then away to the southeast he went after the mustangs.
After a mile or two he once more sighted them, and walked his horse
quietly till so near that they again took alarm and circled away to the
south. An hour's trot, not on the trail, but cutting across to where
they ought to go, brought Jo again in close sight. Again he walked
quietly toward the herd, and again there was the alarm and fright. And
so they passed the afternoon, but circled ever more and more to the
south, so that when the sun was low they were, as Jo had expected, not
far from Alamosa Arroyo. The band was again close at hand, and Jo,
after starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his pard, who had been
taking it easy, took up the slow chase on a fresh horse.
After supper the wagon moved on to the upper ford of the Alamosa, as
arranged, and there camped for the night.
Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They had not run so far as at
first, for their pursuer made no sign of attack, and they were getting
used to his company. They were more easily found, as the shadows fell,
on account of a snow-white mare that was in the bunch. A young moon in
the sky now gave some help, and relying on his horse to choose the path,
Charley kept him quietly walking after the herd, represented by that
ghost-white mare, till they were lost in the night. He then got off,
unsaddled and picketed his horse, and in his blanket quickly went to
sleep.
At the first streak of dawn he was up, and within a short half-mile,
thanks to the snowy mare, he found the band. At his approach, the shrill
neigh of the Pacer bugled his troop into a flying squad. But on the
first mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what this persistent
follower was, and what he wanted. For a moment or so they stood against
the sky to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as well as he wished
to, that black meteor flung his mane on the wind, and led off at his
tireless, even swing, while the mares came streaming after.
Away they went, circling now to the west, and after several repetitions
of this same play, flying, following, and overtaking, and flying again,
they passed, near noon, the old Apache look-out, Buffalo Bluff. And
here, on watch, was Jo. A long thin column of smoke told Charley to come
to camp, and with a flashing pocket-mirror he made response. Jo, freshly
mounted, rode across, and again took up the chase, and back came Charley
to camp to eat and rest, and then move on up stream.
All that day Jo followed, and managed, when it was needed, that the herd
should keep the great circle, of which the wagon cut a small chord. At
sundown he came to Verde Crossing, and there was Charley with a fresh
horse and food, and Jo went on in the same calm, dogged way. All the
evening he followed, and far into the night, for the wild herd was now
getting somewhat used to the presence of the harmless strangers, and
were more easily followed; moreover, they were tiring out with perpetual
traveling. They were no longer in the good grass country, they were not
grain-fed like the horses on their track, and above all, the slight
but continuous nervous tension was surely telling. It spoiled their
appetites, but made them very thirsty. They were allowed, and as far
as possible encouraged, to drink deeply at every chance. The effect of
large quantities of water on a running animal is well known; it tends to
stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo carefully guarded his own horse
against such excess, and both he and his horse were fresh when they
camped that night on the trail of the jaded mustangs.
At dawn he found them easily close at hand, and though they ran at first
they did not go far before they dropped into a walk. The battle seemed
nearly won now, for the chief difficulty in the 'walk-down' is to keep
track of the herd the first two or three days when they are fresh.
All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the
band. About ten o'clock, Charley relieved him near Jos. Peak and that
day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a mile ahead with much less
spirit than the day before and circled now more north again. At night
Charley was supplied with a fresh horse and followed as before.
Next day the mustangs walked with heads held low, and in spite of the
efforts of the Black Pacer at times they were less than a hundred yards
ahead of their pursuer.
The fourth and fifth days passed the same way, and now the herd was
nearly back to Antelope Springs. So far all had come out as expected.
The chase had been in a great circle with the wagon following a lesser
circle. The wild herd was back to its starting-point, worn out; and the
hunters were back, fresh and on fresh horses. The herd was kept from
drinking till late in the afternoon and then driven to the Springs to
swell themselves with a perfect water gorge. Now was the chance for the
skilful ropers on the grain-fed horses to close in, for the sudden heavy
drink was ruination, almost paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would be
easy to rope and hobble them one by one.
There was only one weak spot in the programme, the Black Stallion, the
cause of the hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless swinging pace
seemed as swift and vigorous now as on the morning when the chase began.
Up and down he went rounding up the herd and urging them on by voice and
example to escape. But they were played out. The old white mare that
had been such help in sighting them at night, had dropped out hours ago,
dead beat. The half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the horsemen,
the band was clearly in Jo's power. But the one who was the prize of all
the hunt seemed just as far as ever out of reach.
Here was a puzzle. Jo's comrades knew him well and would not have been
surprised to see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot the Stallion
down. But Jo had no such mind. During that long week of following he
had watched the horse all day at speed and never once had he seen him
gallop.
The horseman's adoration of a noble horse had grown and grown, till now
he would as soon have thought of shooting his best mount as firing on
that splendid beast.
Jo even asked himself whether he would take the handsome sum that was
offered for the prize. Such an animal would be a fortune in himself to
sire a race of pacers for the track.
But the prize was still at large--the time had come to finish up the
hunt. Jo's finest mount was caught. She was a mare of Eastern blood, but
raised on the plains. She never would have come into Jo's possession but
for a curious weakness. The loco is a poisonous weed that grows in these
regions. Most stock will not touch it; but sometimes an animal tries it
and becomes addicted to it.
It acts somewhat like morphine, but the animal, though sane for long
intervals, has always a passion for the herb and finally dies mad. A
beast with the craze is said to be locoed. And Jo's best mount had a
wild gleam in her eye that to an expert told the tale.
But she was swift and strong and Jo chose her for the grand finish of
the chase. It would have been an easy matter now to rope the mares, but
was no longer necessary. They could be separated from their black leader
and driven home to the corral. But that leader still had the look of
untamed strength. Jo, rejoicing in a worthy foe, went bounding forth to
try the odds. The lasso was flung on the ground and trailed to take out
every kink, and gathered as he rode into neatest coils across his left
palm. Then putting on the spur the first time in that chase he rode
straight for the Stallion a quarter of a mile beyond. Away he went, and
away went Jo, each at his best, while the fagged-out mares scattered
right and left and let them pass. Straight across the open plain the
fresh horse went at its hardest gallop, and the Stallion, leading off,
still kept his start and kept his famous swing.
It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur and shouted to his horse,
which fairly flew, but shortened up the space between by not a single
inch. For the Black One whirled across the flat and up and passed a
soap-weed mesa and down across a sandy treacherous plain, then over a
grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, then hid below, and on came
Jo, but there to see, could he believe his eyes, the Stallion's start
grown longer still, and Jo began to curse his luck, and urge and spur
his horse until the poor uncertain brute got into such a state of
nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she wildly shook her head from
side to side, no longer picked her ground--a badger-hole received her
foot and down she went, and Jo went flying to the earth. Though badly
bruised, he gained his feet and tried to mount his crazy beast. But she,
poor brute, was done for--her off fore-leg hung loose.
There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed the cinch, put Lightfoot out of
pain, and carried back the saddle to the camp. While the Pacer steamed
away till lost to view.
This was not quite defeat, for all the mares were manageable now, and Jo
and Charley drove them carefully to the 'L cross F' corral and claimed a
good reward. But Jo was more than ever bound to own the Stallion. He had
seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him more and more, and only
sought to strike some better plan to catch him.