Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He had watched the chase with as
much interest as anyone, and when it failed he grinned into the pot and
said: "That mustang's mine unless I'm a darned fool." Then falling back
on Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he still addressed the
pot:
"Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson down and they got done up,
an' would a stayed don ony for a nat'ral weakness on his part. An' Adam
would a loafed in Eden yit it ony for a leetle failing, which we all
onder stand. An' it aint $5,000 I'll take for him nuther."
Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder than ever. But it did not
drive him away from Antelope Springs. That was the only drinking-place
with absolutely no shelter for a mile on every side to hide an enemy.
Here he came almost every day about noon, and after thoroughly spying
the land approached to drink.
His had been a lonely life all winter since the capture of his harem,
and of this old Turkeytrack was fully aware. The old cook's chum had a
nice little brown mare which he judged would serve his ends, and taking
a pair of the strongest hobbles, a spade, a spare lasso, and a stout
post he mounted the mare and rode away to the famous Springs.
A few antelope skimmed over the plain before him in the early freshness
of the day. Cattle were lying about in groups, and the loud, sweet song
of the prairie lark was' heard on every side. For the bright snowless
winter of the mesas was gone and the springtime was at hand. The grass
was greening and all nature seemed turning to thoughts of love.
It was in the air, and when the little brown mare was picketed out to
graze she raised her nose from time to time to pour forth a long shrill
whinny that surely was her song, if song she had, of love.
Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the lay of the land. There was the
pit he had labored at, now opened and filled with water that was rank
with drowned prairie dogs and mice. Here was the new trail the animals
were forced to make by the pit. He selected a sedgy clump near some
smooth, grassy ground, and first firmly sunk the post, then dug a hole
large enough to hide in, and spread his blanket in it. He shortened
up the little mare's tether, till she could scarcely move; then on the
ground between he spread his open lasso, tying the long end to the
post, then covered the rope with dust and grass, and went into his
hiding-place.
About noon, after long waiting, the amorous whinny of the mare was
answered from the high ground, away to the west, and there, black
against the sky, was the famous Mustang.
Down he came at that long swinging gait, but grown crafty with much
pursuit, he often stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer that surely
touched his heart.
Nearer he came again to call, then took alarm, and paced all around in
a great circle to try the wind for his foes, and seemed in doubt. The
Angel whispered "Don't go." But the brown mare called again. He circled
nearer still, and neighed once more, and got reply that seemed to quell
all fears, and set his heart aglow.
Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Solly's nose with his own,
and finding her as responsive as he well could wish, thrust aside all
thoughts of danger, and abandoned himself to the delight of conquest,
until, as he pranced around, his hind legs for a moment stood within the
evil circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the noose flew tight,
and he was caught.
A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave Tom the chance to add the
double hitch. The loop flashed up the line, and snake-like bound those
mighty hoofs.
Terror lent speed and double strength for a moment, but the end of the
rope was reached, and down he went a captive, a hopeless prisoner
at last. Old Tom's ugly, little crooked form sprang from the pit to
complete the mastering of the great glorious creature whose mighty
strength had proved as nothing when matched with the wits of a little
old man. With snorts and desperate bounds of awful force the great beast
dashed and struggled to be free; but all in vain. The rope was strong.
The second lasso was deftly swung, and the forefeet caught, and then
with a skilful move the feet were drawn together, and down went the
raging Pacer to lie a moment later 'hog-tied' and helpless on the
ground. There he struggled till worn out, sobbing great convulsive sobs
while tears ran down his cheeks.
Tom stood by and watched, but a strange revulsion of feeling came over
the old cow-puncher. He trembled nervously from head to foot, as he
had not done since he roped his first steer, and for a while could do
nothing but gaze on his tremendous prisoner. But the feeling soon passed
away. He saddled Delilah, and taking the second lasso, roped the great
horse about the neck, and left the mare to hold the Stallion's head,
while he put on the hobbles. This was soon done, and sure of him now old
Bates was about to loose the ropes, but on a sudden thought he stopped.
He had quite forgotten, and had come unprepared for something of
importance. In Western law the Mustang was the property of the first
man to mark him with his brand; how was this to be done with the nearest
branding-iron twenty miles away?
Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs one at a time, and examined
each shoe. Yes! one was a little loose; he pushed and pried it with the
spade, and got it off. Buffalo chips and kindred fuel were plentiful
about the plain, so a fire was quickly made, and he soon had one arm of
the horse-shoe red hot, then holding the other wrapped in his sock
he rudely sketched on the left shoulder of the helpless mustang a
turkeytrack, his brand, the first time really that it had ever been
used. The Pacer shuddered as the hot iron seared his flesh, but it was
quickly done, and the famous Mustang Stallion was a maverick no more.
Now all there was to do was to take him home. The ropes were loosed, the
Mustang felt himself freed, thought he was free, and sprang to his feet
only to fall as soon as he tried to take a stride. His forefeet were
strongly tied together, his only possible gait a shuffling walk, or else
a desperate labored bounding with feet so unnaturally held that within a
few yards he was inevitably thrown each time he tired to break away.
Tom on the light pony headed him off again and again, and by dint of
driving, threatening, and maneuvering, contrived to force his foaming,
crazy captive northward toward the Pinavetitos Canyon. But the wild horse
would not drive, would not give in. With snorts of terror or of rage and
maddest bounds, he tried and tried to get away. It was one long cruel
fight; his glossy sides were thick with dark foam, and the foam was
stained with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaustion that a long
day's chase was powerless to produce were telling on him; his straining
bounds first this way and then that, were not now quite so strong, and
the spray he snorted as he gasped was half a spray of blood. But his
captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced him on. Down the
slope toward the canyon they had come, every yard a fight, and now
they were at the head of the draw that took the trail down to the only
crossing of the canon, the northmost limit of the Pacer's ancient range.
From this the first corral and ranch-house were in sight. The man
rejoiced, but the Mustang gathered his remaining strength for one more
desperate dash. Up, up the grassy slope from the trail he went, defied
the swinging, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, in vain
attempt to turn his frenzied course. Up, up and on, above the sheerest
cliff he dashed then sprang away into the vacant air, down--down--two
hundred downward feet to fall, and land upon the rocks below, a lifeless
wreck--but free.