anything and he lighted a match. A gulf yawned beneath us, where the
hill dropped away to a jumble of rocks. Chappo sucked in his breath and
let the match fall. Then he turned me around.
“Neutria,” was all he said, but let his hand rest for a long minute on
my withers.
We were following the Gap trail on a day in late autumn when, in
rounding a bend, we almost collided with a rider.
“Hel-lo,” came in surprised accents. It was Sloan, on his sorrel.
“Howdy,” Chappo said. “Nice and cool, ain’t it?”
“Whose hoss is that?”
“He’s my horse. Finest cowhorse in these here mountains.” Chappo would
often boast thus. It was unwise, but it made me very proud nevertheless.
“Huh-huh. And who might you be?”
“The Emp’ror of Rooshia.”
“Sure. You might be, but you ain’t. You got papers for this here hoss?”
“No, I ain’t got no papers for him. Don’t you see the Box C on him?
That’s papers enough.” Chappo was careless and bold, but I knew he was
anxious.
“You got to have papers in Mexico. That’s my hoss, son.”
“Yes?” said Chappo. “Where’s your papers, then?”
“I kin prove he’s mine,” Sloan said evenly. “I’ll be obliged for that
hoss, pardner.”
My master thought a moment. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sloan.”
“Yes? I’ve heard of you, Sloan. The company knows you, too. There ain’t
no use in gitting mad. Let’s talk business.”
“All right, son. But that’s my hoss and I’ll be obliged for him.”
“Sloan, I’m going to tell you about Neutria here. I caught him with a
bunch of bronchos. He was a maverick, so I done put my brand on him.
What’ll you take for him?”
“I won’t take nothing.” I recognized that surly bass growl. He had been
drinking.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. To save trouble, I’ll buy him off’n you. Me
and him is friends. So I’ll give you seventy-five dollars gold for this
here li’l’ horse. That’s a good price, Sloan. I’ll raise the money in a
week.”
“No, you won’t, young feller. You won’t give me seventy-five dollars,
nor you won’t give me seventy-five thousand dollars. That’s my hoss. I
won’t sell him. Him and me’s got a li’l’ account to square up, and--”
“Then it’s up to you to prove he’s yours,” Chappo answered. I scarcely
knew his voice, it had gone so hard and cold.
“You don’t believe this hoss is mine?”
“Not me. You rustle calves, Sloan, and--”
“I love a thief,” Sloan said, “but I hate a liar.”
What happened then was beyond my powers of perception. I felt Chappo
reach to his hip. There was a flash that singed my face, and Sloan sat
his sorrel with a smoking six-shooter in his hand. My master tumbled
sideways, twisting the saddle as he fell, and struck the ground on his
shoulders.
“Don’t shoot, Sloan,” he begged, “I ain’t got my gun. You’ve done for me
anyway. Don’t.”
But Sloan slued his horse that he might obtain a clear shot, and pulled
twice on him with deliberate aim.
“Now,” he cried clutching my reins, “now I’ll settle with you.”
I reared straight up and plunged forward at him. The headstall snapped
and the bit dropped from my mouth. With the smack of my shod hoofs on
his flank, the sorrel began to pitch, and Sloan dropped his gun.
With that I ran--ran as I had never run before in my life. When utterly
worn out, I slowed to a walk and endeavored to rid myself of the saddle,
which galled me badly. For a long time it resisted every effort, but I
did not despair. Chappo’s fall had turned it underneath my belly and
there it was in reach of my hind feet. Before dawn I had kicked and torn
the thing from my sides, and was free and unencumbered.
Why tell of my frantic wanderings during the next two days? The spot
where my master had fallen drew me irresistibly. I could not leave; but
I feared Sloan more than ever and spent the hours in cautious circlings
of the vicinity of the Gap. At last I could bear it no longer.
The moon was shining as I lightly trod the Gap trail. Going warily as a
coyote, I was brought to a standstill by a strong taint. I sniffed and
was fearfully expectant, but still advanced. Something was swinging from
the lowest limb of an elm. A rope creaked mournfully to the swinging. I
snorted and made a circuit of the thing, approaching gingerly. A gust of
wind turned the object, so that the moon lighted its every line.
It was Sloan.
A hundred yards beyond, I came on a small pile of rocks. They had laid
Chappo where he fell. Above the rocks was a rude cross, fashioned of
mesquite boughs.
I am a free rover now. Sometimes I run with the wild horses. Again I go
off for solitary pilgrimages into the mountain fastnesses.
Often I steal back at night to the Gap trail. And there, beside the pile
of stones and the cross, I whinny--whinny again. But Chappo never
answers.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Inconsistencies in
hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting errors have been
corrected without note.
[End of _The Untamed_, by George Pattullo]