The Ranch on the Beaver
by Andy Adams
Hunting The Mustang
With the departure of Joel for the Arickaree, a month of idleness lay before the ranch on the Beaver. The elder brother would not return, the new ranch taking him to Texas, and Dell felt encouraged to preen his wings.
'Taking in more territory every year,' announced Hamlet, the present foreman, 'will compel us, at the home ranch, to look to the junior member of the firm for orders. That little swing around the circle in Texas did our boss a power of good. He comes back meaty with ideas; and we all heard the orders of the real boss to the junior member to lay off his Sunday best and to get into the saddle. That means business; and I'm wondering what the programme is going to be this spring.'
'Don't you worry about me,' countered Dell. 'Once the word comes that Joel's in Texas, this outfit's off on a mustang hunt. I met that half-breed over on the Republican last fall and we talked it all over. All I need to do is to crook my finger and he'll come charging. Just wait until Joel gets out of hearing. He's rode me around the big corral long enough. It's my time to issue orders now. I may drop over to Reil's ranch and arrange with Le Roi to lead the hunt.'
'Yes,' mildly observed Quinlin. 'You were careful not to mention it while Joel was here. One word out of him would have put a crimp in your mustang hunt. You and Reil must have hatched this chicken among the willows.'
'If you don't want to go, you can stay at home,' jauntily said Dell.
At Reil's ranch, on the Republican, lived a horse hunter, and during the many visits of the brothers the fact became known to him of the presence of mustangs within a few days' ride of the Beaver. The man was anxious to lead a hunt, was experienced, and had offered inducements to be led to the range, either as a matter of profit or to share in the sport. Joel was the first to report the offer, constantly opposed it, and, now that he was absent, Dell and Hamlet kept the hunt a living issue.
'You know the maxim of all work and no play,' said the foreman to Quinlin. 'No tournament this year, and it's playtime now. Those mustangs are sniffing the air this minute, defying us to come out and play with them.'
The Texans at headquarters in a way knew the habits of the mustang, but lacked experience in hunting them.
'Get that breed on the Republican to lead your hunt,' urged Hamlet. 'This ranch will furnish horses, but not to run a fool's errand. Get a mustang hunter to lead your chase.'
'May I ask what you're going to do with your mustangs when you catch them?' innocently asked Bob Downs. 'They might prove an elephant on your hands.'
Dell and Hamlet arose to their feet at the question. 'How an elephant?' insisted the foreman.
'Well, you've got to hold your wild horse and keep right on holding him. If ever you drop the rope on a mustang mare, she'll be missing the next morning, and a dozen saddle horses may be missing with her. You're sure to find cow-horses among mustangs.'
The warning of Bob Downs only served to heighten the anxiety to start the hunt at once.
'I'll go after the half-breed in the morning,' announced Dell. 'He can have the mustangs and we'll take the gentle horses. Le Roi's his name; he's French and Indian blood, and claims he can walk down mustangs; but with saddle horses it's quicker. He can have the mustangs, if any are caught.'
'Name that as a condition,' urged Bob Downs; 'make it final. Otherwise the breed had better not come. A mustang mare might stay a year, a perfect pet, and then some fine morning, it would be farewell, girls, count your remuda. I wouldn't give one good cow-horse for all the mustangs in the country.'
'Will you join our hunt?' politely inquired Hamlet.
'I may. Still, I'd like to know how you expect to make your peace with Joel, in case you kill or cripple a saddle horse or two. That old boy will come home and look over the saddle stock, and if there's a horse missing, Mr. Hamlet will offer the explanation.'
'I'll offer it,' said Dell, with finality. 'That's a river we'll cross when we come to it. What he don't know can't hurt him. I'm glad he isn't here.'
The second evening Dell returned with Le Roi. The latter had a light wagon for carrying fixtures, and four good saddle horses. A portable corral of light rope, woven into a web, hobbles, toggles, with fully a hundred old horseshoes, were among the plunder carried by the mustang hunter. The iron shoes were narrowed by a blacksmith, could be clamped around a pastern joint, and lashed on by the use of rawhide thongs. Le Roi explained how a horseshoe, by simply clamping it over a horse's pastern, compelled the animal to move in a walk. The toggle served the same purpose, but was not so severe. The half-blood almost convinced Bob Downs, while Dell hung on the hunter's every word.
Le Roi's dialect is difficult to repeat, as he expressed so much more in gesture than by words. 'Tie his hands and he couldn't talk,' said Quinlin, aside. 'Handcuff him and he would be tongue-tied. That's the way with these breeds.'
The hunter, however, was worth knowing, and the men plied him with questions. 'How many pony I catch?' said Le Roi, repeating one of Bob Downs's questions. He arose from the supper table to give his arms the proper sweep. 'Sometimes me catch hundred, nex' spring two hundred, mebby-so less, mebby-so more. Me catch heem thousand mustang hossy. Sacré! Me catch heem afoot. Catch heem hossback. Pierre Le Roi he know how catch wild hossy. Corral heem. Yes, siree!' During this brief moment he had paced the room, gesturing wildly, his facial expression running from cunning to open confidence, and ending by diagramming a corral on the corner of the table, with his finger in the center.
'What I do with wild hossy?' repeated Le Roi. The question was Quinlin's. 'Mustang no good. Sell heem in settlement. Take heem up on Indian res'vation; trade heem off. Get fine pony; keep heem. How like my saddle hossy, all?'
'They look like they might turn a cow,' indifferently said Quinlin.
Le Roi was deeply wounded. 'No head a cow? My bay trail mustang like a dog. Trail heem all same like a bloodhound. My hossy no turn a cow? Well, by gar!' His hands fell and he dropped limply into a chair.
The important thing in hunting mustangs, according to Pierre, was to have the grass young and washy. It thinned the blood of a wild horse, and with corn-fed mounts the line of least resistance was the timely moment. The grass had greened and all signs were promising for the coming sport. No time was wasted. All who wished to join the hunt were welcome, and the second morning after Le Roi's arrival, the party sallied forth.
The question of grass circles, a mystery of the plains, was submitted to Pierre.
'You or your ancestors ought to know what caused these thousand-and-one circles,' said Quinlin, half in arraignment.
'Buf'loo,' answered Le Roi. 'Wan year come heap rain, beeg grass, mooch wallow. Mak' heep fly, skeeter, gnat. Mek' buf'loo prett' mad. She mek' beeg circle, mebby-so hundred, mebby-so thousand, all like sardines in box. Tramp, tramp all day, keep off fly. Bime-by, circle mud. Nex' year, beeg grass, noo circle. Heap circle!' The sweep of his arm indicated an empire.
The horse wrangler from the settlement remained on the Beaver. Wayfaring men might call, and headquarters was left open. All the corn-fed horses were taken along, two wagons, tents, guns, provisions -- equipment enough to ship a train of beeves was employed. At least two of the men looked upon it as an outing, while the others knew that ridicule, in case of failure, for years to come would be their reward. Among the latter was Dell, to whom Pierre Le Roi fully measured up to General Grant. The two were inseparable, conferring around the camp-fire until far into the night. With the boy, the coming hunt promised the fulfillment of deferred hopes.
'I want it understood in advance,' said Quinlin at the first camp, 'that I'm a guest of this outfit. I had permission to stay at home, but declined it. Now, I'm lending my moral support to the hunt. Write down this one thing; that if any one abuses a good horse to catch a mustang, you'll hear me raise the long yell.'
'It was purely a matter of election with me,' observingly said Bob Downs, 'and I voted to go along. If ever I'm called up on the carpet by Joel Wells, my excuse will be that I went along to keep an eye over our saddle stock. If that isn't good, good-bye Beaver Valley, your cows and calves.'
The lakes were reached the second day at noon. A camp was made among the sand-hills, the horses placed under herd, and a general survey of the country made. Among the effects of Pierre was a field-glass, and, selecting the highest dunes, a council of war was held. The presence of the band was assured by signs around the lakes, and every one stood on the tiptoe of expectations.
A delay of several days followed, no one venturing out of camp except the half-blood. The latter located the band the first morning, kept it within range of his glass all day, and was rapidly locating the possible limits of the wild horses. Not until the latter's range was known or anticipated would the hunt begin. Pursuit must be made in relays, and there were many things to be considered; to capture the entire band required caution, and the breed was crafty and almost sleepless in arranging his plans.
The one promising feature was, on their present range the mustangs had never been hunted. There was also danger of their abandoning the country or splitting into contingents, all of which must be met and overcome. When to press the chase, when to relax, must be governed by the limits of the range, a possible breach in the surrounding wastes must be anticipated, and Le Roi showed the mastery of a general in planning a campaign. He made long trips to every quarter of the country, and, after trying the patience of the outfit, he finally announced that the hunt would open in the morning. He had decided on six relays for the first day, the stations of which were marked by the topography of the range, and taking the first and sixth himself.
A fine morning ushered in the hunt. The band was ranging south of the lakes and camp. Hamlet was sent to the east, taking the second relay. Dell was detailed to the north, almost to the divide of the Republican, to turn the band in case it attempted to leave the range in that direction, flanking the mustangs from the outside of the circle. Bob Downs and Archie Lee rode to the outer limits on the northwest, a dangerous point, also to flank in the band and compel it to circle, pointing the wild horses through a gap in the sand-hills, where Quinlin lay in wait to send them on their way. Verne Downs covered the fifth relay station, an immense half-circle, the favorite range of the mustangs, turning them over to the half-breed, who would merely point the band in to the lakes. The plans, however, were only tentative.
The hunt called every man to the saddle. Archie Lee and Tom Singleton, new men who had joined the Beaver forces the summer before, were detailed as extra riders. An hour of sun was necessary to perfect the vision and give the horsemen every advantage.
On taking fright, without a halt the band ran twenty miles to the north. Turning to sense danger, Hamlet rode out in plain view, when the mustangs wheeled like cavalry in another long dash. A few shots sent them scurrying toward Dell's patrol, where they were flanked in by merely appearing, several miles away. Bob Downs and young Lee had a hard ride to flank them in, the mettle of their horses under test at the finish; but the corn that their mounts had eaten during the past winter told in the race and won a critical moment. Quinlin met the mustangs at a range so close that he declared that there were mules among them. Verne Downs believed the report, having himself ridden within a mile of them, dust interfering with a clear vision. Le Roi beamed; his plans were working.
Bob Downs sounded a dissenting note. 'There's a black stallion among them, the leader of the band, that can show us all clean heels. He can break the line any time he tries. Don't tell me that a naked horse can't outrun one carrying a man and heavy saddle. Tell that to the marines. That stud ought to be shot.'
'Me see heem,' mused Pierre. 'Prett' soon, me tink, mek' break. I'm some scare. Ba gosh, she's gran' hossy. Shoot, no. Bime-by, tire.'
A summary of the day showed that the mustangs had covered a hundred miles, while not a horse under saddle had more than raised a healthy sweat. Le Roi assured his men that the band would drink to excess, would rest and stiffen in joint and flesh, and that he would start them again after sunrise. The same riders would cover the same stations as on the day before, while Bob Downs was supported by both Lee and Singleton, and dawn found the men riding for their assigned posts.
Shortly before sunrise, Pierre located the band, circled to the south, and started it over the course of the day before. The mustangs lacked the dash of the first surprise, hesitated, making sure of the enemy, and halting within ten miles. But the half-breed was on their trail, miles inside the main circle, and, after pushing them past Hamlet's station, he returned to camp for a change of mounts. No attempt was made to cross the watershed in the direction of the Republican, Dell, by riding only a few miles, sending the band twenty on the inner circle. Again an attempt was made to break the cordon on the northwest, but the trio, Lee, Downs, and Singleton, lay along the outside flank, spaced out to relay each other, closing in to within half a mile, when the mustangs yielded and took the pass through the sand-hills. Quinlin merely showed himself, loped his horse for a mile, fired his pistol, and leisurely returned to camp. Verne Downs and the half-breed finished the circle, as on the day before.
At the camp-fire that night a bevy of voices from the northwest lap were raised in protest. Downs acting as spokesman.
'Pierre, you must come out on our station tomorrow and see for yourself. That leader will make his getaway when the hour comes and take half the band with him. We gave him a run to-day, but he can turn the tables any minute he chooses. What we're here for is to rid this range of mustangs. Is that clear?'
'The breed sputtered. 'Sacré! Me have two relay. Tek' M'sieu Dell. Tek' t'ree, four men. Ah, fin' hossy, swif, gran'!'
'Yes, swift enough to run over you and all your horses. He would have left the range to-day, only his band was too timid to follow him.'
'Archie can take my post to-morrow,' urged Dell, pouring oil, 'and I'll join you. I want to see that stallion at short range.'
'You're not the last court of resort. Pierre Le Roi is. Bring him along. The stable must be locked tomorrow. If that mustang gets away, this one of the Downs boys will hand in a minority report to Joel Wells. He isn't here, but I carry his proxy. Think it all over, you dear little girls.'
Bob Downs was in earnest. Quinlin favored the idea of letting no mustang escape. Hamlet took Dell and the breed aside. The result was that Pierre agreed that both he and Dell should ride on the northwest lap the next day.
At dawn on the third morning, Pierre took Verne Downs with him to start the band. Under rigid orders the boy circled to the south, surprised the mustangs with a quick dash and a fusillade of shots, and returned to his own station.
Le Roi was pleased, returned to camp, changed horses, and reported on the northwest station an hour in advance of the arrival of the herd. Hamlet again received the wild horses from young Downs, pushed them hard for a few miles to the north, where Archie Lee was substituting for Dell Wells.
Dim pistol firing to the northward warned the quartet that theirs would be the next lap under test. Bob Downs urged the breed to hide behind a broken Spanish dagger and chance a shot at the determined leader.
'Here's where he attempted to break yesterday. Notice the lay of the ground; solid footing to the west, surrounded on every hand with sandy country. That stallion knows this range better than any of us. Let me hobble your horse and picket him to a Spanish bayonet. Crouch down behind that fallen dagger and throw lead with a vengeance. I see their dust now.'
Pierre's arms thrashed the air. 'No, ba gar, no! Big chief Pine Ridge res'vation, good frien' me, want heem! Get buf'loo robe, get buckskin, get moccasin. No, no, M'sieu, Bob. No, ba gosh!'
There was no time for argument. Singleton had met them, borne in on the band, closed to within a few hundred yards, and leading them by a safe margin for over a mile. Bob Downs relieved him, pressing the mustangs by a safe lead up to the point where the attempted break was made the day before, when the band circled inward and came to a halt. Here the stallion lashed his harem with a savage frenzy with teeth and heels on rear and flank.
No mercy was shown. The tired mares took his brutal beatings and nursed their colts. It was a pathetic moment. On one hand lay freedom, on the other captivity. All that guarded the line was two horsemen who rode slowly toward the milling mustangs. The tyrant whipped his band up to within easy rifle shot, but, when he attempted to lead them to liberty, they broke back to safety.
It was the hunter's inning then. Two horsemen pushed them, rear and flank, until relieved by Dell, who instantly lost his head. Instead of merely pointing them through the sand-dunes, he raised the yell of a Comanche, shook out Dog-Toe, a favorite horse, closed in on the spent mustangs, fairly riding onto the weaker ones, and never reining in until the gateway of the sand-hills was entered.
'That's a boy,' smiled Downs to Pierre, as the trio jogged along. 'Better leave me at the wagon tomorrow. You could have shot that stud and ended this hunt. Tom here and myself fought all morning with M'sieu Dell to save his horse. You saw the answer. Might as well talk to mules. Mustang hunters, are you? There's your buddy, on a spent horse.'
'Say, men, that black stallion's a beauty!' shouted Dell, as the trio rode up from the rear. 'I could have roped any one of half a dozen colts. And there's mules among them.'
There was a long, distinct pause. Neither Downs nor Singleton even looked at the boy, but rode on in silence.
'What is it?' insisted Dell. 'What's the matter with you varmints?'
'It's simply a waste of warm breath to warn you to save horseflesh,' regretfully said Downs. 'If Joel were here, the chances are he would allow you to carry that San Jose saddle back to camp. I'm not going to say a word, understand, that you run a good old horse two miles without any excuse. And after all our warning and your pledged word. Poor old Dog-Toe! And you always spoke so kindly of him, too! A breath of excitement seems to sap your gray matter.'
Dell and the mustang hunter fell to the rear. The others refused to ride away, and all four reached camp together. Hamlet was taken aside, and he received the report amid general laughter.
'Leave it to me,' said he. 'I'll take those cronies out in the dunes to-night and make a little medicine. I'll stage a little Injun pow-wow, with feathers fluttering. You couldn't give me one of those mustangs as a gift, with a barrel of sugar thrown in for sweetening. Not by a long shot will we tire or abuse a horse on this hunt. Dell must listen to me, or I'll beat the tom-tom so loud that our guest will see a great light; he'll see the hunt abandoned and a remuda and wagon start home in the morning. Trust to me to lead those little Injuns in out of the wet. I'll cure those boys of horning the brush.'
The ruse had its effect. Pierre went back to his own station, of starting the band in the morning, and receiving it again at nightfall. Quinlin took Hamlet's relay, while Dell, banners trailing, returned with the quartet.
The latter left camp early. While en route to their post, the question of man-killing horses arose. It was fully agreed that it was more a legend of the plains than a fact, though Tom Singleton was inclined to the latter view.
'When cornered any animal will fight,' he insisted. 'A cow, even, goes on the prod. Mustangs kill each other. A wild stud will kill any horse. In Texas many a mustang stallion came into a ranch, killed his range rival, and made away with a whole band. This one may give us a fight. Bear in mind, he's a wild horse, with every instinct on the defensive. If ever he drops his eye on little Tom, I want to be a-riding my best horse. And I want my six-pistol handy.'
The scene was reached in good time. A standing Spanish bayonet afforded the base for a perfect blind and possible refuge. Other rubbish of the plain was gathered. Several fallen daggers were dragged up. The shelter was perfected with yucca plants and grass. The impromptu screen was perfect.
Hamlet agreed to handle the rifle. His horse was taken a mile distant, unsaddled, picketed, hobbled, and side-lined. No chance must be taken on losing a good horse.
Dell took Singleton's trick on the line, while the latter remained where the break was expected. The band was tiring fast; it took actual riding to send them on a hundred-mile circle in a day.
The danger point was guarded by good range-men. All agreed that this was the exit and entrance, the gateway, where the band had entered or left the range for years past. To the west lay Colorado, a known range of mustangs.
The band was an hour late in reaching the western pass. The usual dust-cloud and pistol firing sounded the warning. Young Lee pushed them into Dell's hands, who flanked them down the line until Bob Downs received them, the stallion on the inner flank. At the expected point, under the lashings of a merciless master, the band wheeled westward, balked at the sight of a horseman, and fell to milling.
Then something happened. Suspicion took possession of the leader. The blind was only a little over a foot high, the Spanish bayonet had stood there for years, but a horse's sense of smell or caution proved the equal of human cunning. The instinct of self-preservation was alert. In primitive form, the black tyrant showed horse-sense.
Dell arrived. Hamlet lay motionless behind the blind, unable to make a shot. Three horsemen and a rifle now disputed the western passage. It was a tense moment.
'Ride out and bait him,' suggested Downs to Singleton. The leader ignored the challenge. Dell advanced on the other flank. Same result. But when Downs advanced on the center, passing within a few feet of the blind, the stallion rushed out, ears lying back and head low, teeth bared, eager to meet his enemy.
The horseman lured him on toward the screen, when he suddenly raised his head, uttered a snort like a rifle shot, and retreated to the shelter of his band.
'What next?' inquired Dell, blanched in features, as the trio of horsemen met.
The question was instantly answered by the black stud. In a perfect frenzy he lashed the harem into action, into a gallop, heading straight for the rifle blind and Spanish bayonet. Ropes were shaken out, the horsemen scattered for room, advancing to meet the shock of the oncoming band. The leader was at the rear, shielded, when Hamlet arose to his feet, in plain view, and fired over the mustangs, now not a hundred yards distant. They whirled, veered southward, but the stallion never swerved an inch out of his course. Once clear of the other horses, the rifleman, at short range, poured in a murderous fire from a repeater. For an instant, nothing was clear, except as the horse jumped the blind, Hamlet side-stepped him as a matador does a mad bull, and planted a last shot with less than ten feet between the muzzle of the rifle and the mustang's heart. The black swerved, staggered, halted, and fell, game to the last pulse-beat, every inch a king.
Singleton rode to flank in the band. Hamlet sat down on the ground, a silly expression on his face.
'The next time you boys have a mustang to shoot,' said he, gasping, as Dell and Downs dismounted, 'send and get a better man. With me, this is quits. I'm still dazed, and I may want to change my mind about man-killing horses. That Spanish bayonet saved my mutton. If it's all the same to you, this is enough sugar.'
Pierre accepted the report with good grace. 'Wan, two circle more, done,' said he, with perfect assurance. 'Two li'l colty die las' night, buzzard say. Ve-er-y bad. Prett' soon, home, rancho. Fin' hunt, catch plenty hossy, some mule.'
The fifth day required actual riding to push the mustangs around the circle, and toward evening they could be turned at will. A corral was built near camp where the wind had formed an abrupt bank in the side of a sand-hill and scalloped out a pit at its base, forming a half-circle. The wagons were parked against the bank, the web-rope stretched in extending the corral, wings were added with lariats and other ropes, making a stout emergency enclosure.
That night Pierre harangued his forces. 'Tomorrow wan gran' day,' said he, strutting about the fire. 'Me mother Sioux. When li'l' boy, she tel' me about the buf'loo kill, the winter meat. Whang, the tribe off, beeg hunt, plenty robe. Ol' chief say hunter 'fraid to sink de lance in de bull buf'loo, stay in teepee. Bring wood for ol' man, bring water for ol' squaw. One sleep, hunt de mustang. Woof! Whizz go de rope, whirr cry de rawhide, zip, zing say de bullet, mustang fall, crease! Beeg day! Heap shout, night!'
The sixth morning saw the beginning of the end. The half-breed started them, the second relay sent them to the third station, all relay riders hurrying into camp and changing horses to receive the mustangs as they came through the dunes to the west of the lakes. The north station had been abandoned. Bob Downs pointed them through the gateway, driving the wild horses like a flock of sheep. When the band emerged from the hills, every horseman closed in on them.
The final moment had come. The bewildered mustangs made several breaks, as a whole, leaders attempted to force the cordon, but on each repulse the horsemen drew closer and closer, ropes were shaken out, and the band started for the corral.
'Now, now!' shouted Pierre. 'Now for de gran' rush! Flank 'em close, whip up de rear, shoot heem for de corral wing! Quick, point heem straight! Whizz de rope, boy! Hoi' heem hard, hoi' 'em close, mek' sure! Ba gosh, she's runnin' fin'! Hoi' 'em, boys, just one li'l' moment. Sit de saddle deep, shout de whoop! Now, all, all! By gar, she's ours!'
The mustangs were safely inside the corral. There was little resistance left. The band had fought a game but losing fight.
Actual work now began. Half a dozen leaders were roped, thrown, ironed, and pocketed to stout stakes, the remainder only foot-roped, also thrown, and a horseshoe lashed over a pastern joint. The work required several hours, the band numbering seventy-one head, of which four were mules, nine were branded horses, while three were of domestic origin. Among the latter was a chestnut gelding, a beauty, who nickered for corn on being led into camp. The thrall of the open had called him, had held him captive, but he had not forgotten the ration of other days and the kindness of some former master.
'That horse alone,' said Hamlet around the campfire that night, 'was worth all our trouble. Pierre, what are you going to call the chestnut?'
'Heem for M'sieu Joel's saddle,' answered the breed, grinning. 'Call heem -- Call heem -- What tink?'
'Pierre,' said Hamlet, nodding to the half-blood.
The breed stuttered, unable to find a word, but extended his hand. 'M'sieu Joel wan fin' boy. Chestnut, wan fin' hossy. Frien's, so. Good luck go with name. Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!'