| Wild Animals I Have Known|
|by Ernest Thompson Seton|
|A stirring account of the lives of eight wild animals, including Lobo, the king of Currumpaw; Silverspot, the story of a crow; Raggylug, the story of a cottontail rabbit; Bingo, the story of a dog; the Springfield fox; the pacing mustang; Wully, the story of a yaller dog; and Redruff, the story of the Don valley partridge. Ages 11-14 |
THE PACING MUSTANG
O CALONE threw down his saddle on the dusty ground, turned
his horses loose, and went clanking into the ranch-house.
"Nigh about chuck time?" he asked.
"Seventeen minutes," said the cook glancing at the Waterbury,
with the air of a train-starter, though this show of precision had
never yet been justified by events.
"How's things on the Perico?" said Jo's pard.
"Hotter'n hinges," said Jo. "Cattle seem O. K.; lots of calves."
 "I seen that bunch o' mustangs that waters at Antelope Springs;
couple o' colts along; one little dark one, a fair dandy; a born
pacer. I run them a mile or two, and he led the bunch, an' never
broke his pace. Cut loose, an' pushed them jest for fun, an' darned
if I could make him break."
"You didn't have no reefreshments along?" said Scarth,
"That's all right, Scarth. You had to crawl on our last bet, an' you'll
get another chance soon as you're man enough."
"Chuck," shouted the cook, and the subject was dropped. Next day
the scene of the roundup was changed, and the mustangs were
A year later the same corner of New Mexico was worked over by
the roundup, and again the mustang bunch was seen. The dark colt
was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs and glossy flanks;
and more than one of the boys saw with his own eyes this
oddity—the mustang was a born pacer.
Jo was along, and the idea
now struck him that that colt was worth having. To an
East-  erner this thought may not seem startling or original, but in the West,
where an unbroken horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary
saddlehorse is worth $15 or $20, the idea of a wild mustang being
desirable property does not occur to the average cowboy, for
mustangs are hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild
animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untamable to the last. Not a
few of the cattle-owners make a point of shooting all mustangs at
sight, for they are not only useless cumberers of the feeding-grounds,
but commonly lead away domestic horses, which soon take to the wild
life and are thenceforth lost.
Wild Jo Calone knew a 'bronk right down to subsoil.' "I never seen
a white that wasn't soft, nor a chestnut that wasn't nervous, nor a
bay that wasn't good if broke right, nor a black that wasn't hard as
nails, an' full of the old Harry. All a black bronk wants is claws to
be wus'n Daniel's hull outfit of lions."
Since then a mustang is worthless vermin, and a black mustang
ten times worse than worthless, Jo's pard "didn't see no sense in
Jo's wantin' to corral the yearling," as he now
 seemed intent on
doing. But Jo got no chance to try that year.
He was only a cow-puncher on $25 a month, and tied to hours.
Like most of the boys, he always looked forward to having a ranch
and an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen, of sinister
suggestion, was already registered at Santa Fé, but of horned stock
it was borne by a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right to
put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded animal) he might
chance to find.
Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not resist the temptation to
go to town with the boys and have a good time 'while the stuff held
out.' So that his property consisted of little more than his saddle,
his bed, and his old cow. He kept on hoping to make a strike that
would leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when the thought
came that the Black Mustang was his mascot, he only needed a
chance to 'make the try.'
The roundup circled down to the Canadian River, and back in the
fall by the Don Carlos Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer,
though he heard of him from many quarters, for the
 colt, now a
vigorous, young horse, rising three, was beginning to be talked of.
Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great level plain. When the
water is high it spreads into a small lake with a belt of sedge
around it; when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud,
glistening white with alkali in places, and the spring a water-hole
in the middle. It has no flow or outlet and is fairly good water, the
only drinking-place for many miles.
This flat, or prairie as it would be called farther north, was the
favorite feeding-ground of the Black Stallion, but it was also the
pasture of many herds of range horses and cattle. Chiefly
interested was the 'L cross F' outfit. Foster, the manager and part
owner, was a man of enterprise. He believed it would pay to
handle a better class of cattle and horses on the range, and one of
his ventures was ten half-blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed,
deer-eyed creatures that made the scrub cow-ponies look like
pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and quite different species.
One of these was kept stabled for use, but the nine, after the
weaning of their colts,
 managed to get away and wandered off on
A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the best feed, and the
nine mares drifted, of course, to the prairie of Antelope Springs,
twenty miles to the southward. And when, later that summer Foster
went to round them up, he found the nine indeed, but with them
and guarding them with an air of more than mere comradeship was
a coal-black stallion, prancing around and rounding up the bunch
like an expert, his jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden
hides of his harem.
The mares were gentle, and would have been easily driven
homeward but for a new and unexpected thing. The Black Stallion
became greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too with his
wildness, and flying this way and that way drove the whole band at
full gallop where he would. Away they went, and the little
cow-ponies that carried the men were easily left behind.
This was maddening, and both men at last drew their guns and
sought a chance to drop that 'blasted stallion.' But no chance came
 that was not 9 to 1 of dropping one of the mares. A long day of
manœuvring made no change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his
family together and disappeared among the southern sandhills.
The cattlemen on their jaded ponies set out for home with the poor
satisfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure on the superb
cause of it.
One of the most aggravating parts of it was that one or two
experiences like this would surely make the mares as wild as the
Mustang, and there seemed to be no way of saving them from it.
Scientists differ on the power of beauty and prowess to attract
female admiration among the lower animals, but whether it is
admiration or the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild animal of
uncommon gifts soon wins a large following from the harems of
his rivals. And the great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail
and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all that region and
added to his following from many bands till not less than a score
of mares were in his 'bunch.' Most were merely humble
cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine
 great mares were
there, a striking group by themselves. According to all reports, this
bunch was always kept rounded up and guarded with such energy
and jealously that a mare, once in it, was a lost animal so far as
man was concerned, and the ranchmen realized soon that they had
gotten on the range a mustang that was doing them more harm
than all other sources of loss put together.
It was December, 1893. I was new in the country, and was setting
out from the ranch-house on the Piñavetitos, to go with a wagon to
the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster finished his remark
by: "And if you get a chance to draw a bead on that accursed
mustang, don't fail to drop him in his tracks."
This was the first I had heard of him, and as I rode along I gathered
from Burns, my guide, the history that has been given. I was full of
curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and
 was not a little
disappointed on the second day when we came to the prairie on
Antelope Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.
But on the next day, as we crossed the Alamosa Arroyo, and were
rising to the rolling prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on
ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his horse, and swung
back to me in the wagon, saying:
"Get out your rifle, here's that —— stallion."
I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a view over the prairie
ridge. In the hollow below was a band of horses, and there at one
end was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard some sound of
our approach, and was not unsuspicious of danger. There he stood
with head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image of horse
perfection and beauty, as noble an animal as ever ranged the
plains, and the mere notion of turning that magnificent creature
into a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of Jack's exhortation to
'shoot quick,' I delayed, and threw open the breach, whereupon he,
always hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, growled, 'Gi' me that
gun,' and as he seized
 it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally
the gun went off.
Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the great black leader
snorted and neighed and dashed about. And the mares bunched,
and away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud of dust.
The Stallion careered now on this side, now on that, and kept his
eye on all and led and drove them far away. As long as I could see
I watched, and never once did he break his pace.
Jack made Western remarks about me and my gun, as well as that
mustang, but I rejoiced in the Pacer's strength and beauty, and not
for all the mares in the bunch would I have harmed his glossy hide.
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
con-  sisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-wagon, and a
fortnight's stuff for three men—himself, his 'pard,' Charley, and the
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 flight. 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
 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
All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the
band. About ten o'clock, Charley relieved him near José 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
 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
 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 soapweed 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.
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
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
"Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh enough to put a plait in
"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 acrost him?"
"Wall, 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 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
 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
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
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
al-  ways 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
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.
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 Piñavetitos
Arroyo, on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute
Creek Cañon 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 cañon 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
hid-  den foe.
Then he approached where there was no trail at all and drank.
Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogshead. 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, 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
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 Cañon 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
And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and leaped 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
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, had hurt his steed by pushing at the very start, and
 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.
Away went the Mustang at his Famous Pace
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
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.
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 done ony for a nat'ral weakness on his
part. An' Adam would a loafed in Eden yit ony for a leetle
failing which we all onderstand. An' it aint $5,000 I'll take for
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
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
 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
manœuvring, contrived to force his foaming, crazy captive
north-  ward toward the Piñavetitos Cañon. 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 cañon 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 cañon, 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.
Hundreds of additional titles available for
online reading when you join Gateway to the Classics