The cook on that trip was Bates--Mr. Thomas Bates, he called himself at
the post-office where he regularly went for the letters and remittance
which never came. Old Tom Turkeytrack, the boys called him, from
his cattle-brand, which he said was on record at Denver, and which,
according to his story, was also borne by countless beef and saddle
stock on the plains of the unknown North.
When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates made some sarcastic
remarks about horses not fetching $12 a dozen, which had been literally
true within the year, and he preferred to go on a very meagre salary.
But no one who once saw the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze.
Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of heart. He now wanted to own
that mustang. How this was to be brought about he did not clearly see
till one day there called at the ranch that had 'secured his services,'
as he put it, one, Bill Smith, more usually known as Horseshoe Billy,
from his cattle-brand. While the excellent fresh beef and bread and the
vile coffee, dried peaches and molasses were being consumed, he of the
horseshoe remarked, in tones which percolated through a huge stop-gap of
bread:
"Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh enough to put a plait in his
tail."
"What, you didn't shoot?"
"No, but I come mighty near it."
"Don't you be led into no sich foolishness," said a 'double-bar H'
cow-puncher at the other end of the table. "I calc'late that maverick
'ill carry my brand before the moon changes."
"You'll have to be pretty spry or you'll find a 'triangle dot' on his
weather side when you get there."
"Where did you run across him?"
"Wail, it was like this; I was riding the flat by Antelope Springs and
I sees a lump on the dry mud inside the rush belt. I knowed I never seen
that before, so I rides up, thinking it might be some of our stock, an'
seen it was a horse lying plumb flat. The wind was blowing like--from
him to me, so I rides up close and seen it was the Pacer, dead as a
mackerel. Still, he didn't look swelled or cut, and there wa'n't no
smell, an' I didn't know what to think till I seen his ear twitch off a
fly and then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits down me rope and coils it,
and seen it was old and pretty shaky in spots, and me saddle a single
cinch, an' me pony about 700 again a 1,200 lbs. stallion, an' I sez to
meself, sez I: 'Tain't no use, I'll only break me cinch and git throwed
an' lose me saddle.' So I hits the saddle-horn a crack with the hondu,
and I wish't you'd a seen that mustang. He lept six foot in the air an'
snorted like he was shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an' he
lighted out lickety split for California, and he orter be there about
now if he kep' on like he started--and I swear he never made a break the
hull trip."
The story was not quite so consecutive as given here. It was much
punctuated by present engrossments, and from first to last was more or
less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, for Bill was a healthy
young man without a trace of false shame. But the account was complete
and everyone believed it, for Billy was known to be reliable. Of all
those who heard, old Turkeytrack talked the least and probably thought
the most, for it gave him a new idea.
During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out and deciding that he
could not go it alone, he took Horseshoe Billy into his council and the
result was a partnership in a new venture to capture the Pacer; that is,
the $5,000 that was now said to be the offer for him safe in a box-car.
Antelope Springs was still the usual watering-place of the Pacer. The
water being low left a broad belt of dry black mud between the sedge and
the spring. At two places this belt was broken by a well-marked trail
made by the animals coming to drink. Horses and wild animals usually
kept to these trails, though the horned cattle had no hesitation in
taking a short cut through the sedge.
In the most used of these trails the two men set to work with shovels
and dug a pit 15 feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It was a
hard twenty hours work for them as it had to be completed between
the Mustang's drinks, and it began to be very damp work before it was
finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was then cleverly covered over
and concealed. And the men went to a distance and hid in pits made for
the purpose.
About noon the Pacer came, alone now since the capture of his band.
The trail on the opposite side of the mud belt was little used, and old
Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across it, expected to make sure
that the Stallion would enter by the other, if indeed he should by any
caprice try to come by the unusual path.
What sleepless angel is it watches over and cares for the wild animals?
In spite of all reasons to take the usual path, the Pacer came along the
other. The suspicious-looking rushes did not stop him; he walked calmly
to the water and drank. There was only one way now to prevent utter
failure; when he lowered his head for the second draft which horses
always take, Bates and Smith quit their holes and ran swiftly toward
the trail behind him, and when he raised his proud head Smith sent a
revolver shot into the ground behind him.
Away went the Pacer at his famous gait straight to the trap. Another
second and he would be into it. Already he is on the trail, and already
they feel they have him, but the Angel of the wild things is with him,
that incomprehensible warning comes, and with one mighty bound he clears
the fifteen feet of treacherous ground and spurns the earth as he fades
away unharmed, never again to visit Antelope Springs by either of the
beaten paths.
V
Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant to catch that Mustang, and when he
learned that others were bestirring themselves for the same purpose
he at once set about trying the best untried plan he knew--the plan by
which the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit, and the mounted Indian
the far swifter antelope--the old plan of the relay chase.
The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos Arroyo,
on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute Creek Canyon on
the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that was the range of the Pacer.
It was believed that he never went outside this, and at all times
Antelope Springs was his headquarters.
Jo knew this country well, all the water-holes and canon crossings as
well as the ways of the Pacer.
If he could have gotten fifty good horses he could have posted them to
advantage so as to cover all points, but twenty mounts and five good
riders were all that proved available.
The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before, were sent on ahead; each man
was instructed how to play his part and sent to his post the day before
the race. On the day of the start Jo with his wagon drove to the plain
of Antelope Springs and, camping far off in a little draw, waited.
At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out from the sand-hills at the
south, alone as always now, and walked calmly down to the Springs and
circled quite around it to sniff for any hidden foe. Then he approached
where there was no trail at all and drank.
Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogs-head. But the moment
that he turned and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed. The Pacer
heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not want a nearer
view but led away. Across the flat he went down to the south, and kept
the famous swinging gait that made his start grow longer. Now through
the sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even pace he gained
considerably and Jo's too-laden horse plunged through the sand and
sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every bound. Then came a level stretch
where the runner seemed to gain, and then a long decline where Jo's
horse dared not run his best, so lost again at every step.
But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt. A mile--a
mile--and another mile, and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up ahead.
And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed. But the
night-black mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining more and
more.
Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher stood aside, for it was not
wished to turn the race, and the Stallion passed--dashed down, across
and up the slope, with that unbroken pace, the only one he knew.
And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and on the waiting mount,
then urged him down the slope and up upon the track, and on the upland
once more drove in the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but not a
single inch he gained.
Ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump, with measured beat he went--an hour--an hour,
and another hour--Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh relays, and Jo
yelled at his horse and pushed him on and on. Straight for the place the
Black One made, but on the last two miles some strange foreboding turned
him to the left, and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed his jaded
mount at any cost to head him off, and hard as they had raced this was
the hardest race of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at
every straining bound. Then cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and
drawing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so turned
the Stallion's head and forced him back to take the crossing to the
right.
Down they went. The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground. His
horse was done, for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch, and Jo
himself was worn out. His eyes were burnt with flying alkali dust. He
was half blind so he motioned to his 'pard' to "go ahead and keep him
straight for Alamosa ford."
Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they went--up and
down on the rolling plain--the Black Horse flecked with snowy foam.
His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he felt--but on and on he
Went.
And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an hour
the long decline of Alamosa came.
And there a freshly mounted lad took up the chase and turned it west,
and on they went past towns of prairie dogs, through soapweed tracts and
cactus brakes by scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on. With dust and
sweat the Black was now a dappled brown, but still he stepped the same.
Young Carrington, who followed, bad hurt his steed by pushing at the
very start, and spurred and urged him now to cut across a gulch at which
the Pacer shied. Just one misstep and down they went.
The boy escaped, but the pony lies there yet, and the wild Black Horse
kept on.
This was close to old Gallego's ranch where Jo himself had cut across
refreshed to push the chase. Within thirty minutes he was again
scorching the Pacer's trail.
Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, and there Jo knew fresh men
and mounts were waiting, and that way the indomitable rider tried
to turn, the race, but by a sudden whim, of the inner warning born
perhaps--the Pacer turned. Sharp to the north he went, and Jo, the
skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled and tossed the dust with
shots, but down on a gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo
could only follow. Then came the hardest race of all; Jo, cruel to the
Mustang, was crueller to his mount and to himself. The sun was hot, the
scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat, his eyes and lips were burnt
with sand and salt, and yet the chase sped on. The only chance to win
would be if he could drive the Mustang back to the Big Arroyo Crossing.
Now almost for the first time he saw signs of weakening in the Black.
His mane and tail were not just quite so high, and his short half mile
of start was down by more than half, but still he stayed ahead and paced
and paced and paced.
An hour and another hour, and still they went the same. But they turned
again, and night was near when Big Arroyo ford was reached--fully twenty
miles. But Jo was game, he seized the waiting horse. The one he left
went gasping to the stream and gorged himself with water till he died.
Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming Black would drink. But he was
wise; he gulped a single gulp, splashed through the stream and then
passed on with Jo at speed behind him. And when they last were seen the
Black was on ahead just out of reach and Jo's horse bounding on.
It was morning when Jo came to camp on foot. His tale was briefly
told:--eight horses dead--five men worn out--the matchless Pacer safe
and free.
"Tain't possible; it can't be done. Sorry I didn't bore his hellish
carcass through when I had the chance," said Jo, and gave it up.