Part 2

Lady Ebony stood for a moment looking at the chestnut stallion, then she arched her neck and kicked her heels high. With a toss of her head she trotted toward him. They met in the center of the meadow with the mares watching out of calm, uninterested eyes. The mares fell to feeding while the colts bucked and bounced.

For a moment the noses of the two horses met, then the black mare whirled and lashed out at the stallion with her trim hoofs. He dodged and whinnied shrilly. Lady Ebony broke and ran down the meadow with the stallion thundering after her. He laid back his ears and charged with all his speed, but the flying black mare was faster. She pulled easily away from him and the sight of her slim body slipping away made the big stallion scream savagely. Never before had a mare been able to outrun him, to slip away from him with ease.

Seeing that she was leaving the big fellow behind, Lady Ebony whirled and halted, her front feet on a little hummock of grass. She waited until he was almost upon her, then she dodged past him and raced toward the mares. Again she outran him easily.

The chestnut was filled with a wild desire to drive this fleet mare into his band and lead her away. He swerved and charged. She dodged and leaped past him. Lady Ebony was not trying to escape, she was giving play to the pulsing life within her. The coming of the chestnut stallion was something she had expected. She had been restless and nervous; now that restlessness was gone and she was filled with surging energy.

The chestnut raced around the meadow again, trying to overtake Lady Ebony. He finally halted and stood with heaving sides. There was a savage light in his protruding eyes. Lady Ebony trotted toward him and stood nickering softly. She wanted to run some more. But the big stallion knew he was beaten. He was aware that he had made a great deal of noise, and noise was likely to bring riders with rifles. He turned and began driving his band off the meadow.

As they trotted toward the narrow trail leading down into Shadow Canyon, Lady Ebony tossed her head and trotted after the band. The big stallion lunged at her with bared teeth. She humped her back and jigged up and down, warning him that if he nipped her she would lash out at him. He reached out to snap at her flanks and was met by two small hoofs which smashed against his wide chest. With a snort he leaped aside. He did not lunge at her again. She was much to his liking, a fighter and a swift runner.

Lady Ebony fell in with the mares and the band moved down into the deep, green twilight of the canyon. They kept going until they reached the bottom. There they paused, crowding to the edge of the river, thrusting their muzzles into the cold water foaming over the rocky bed.

When the horses had drunk their fill they moved on down the canyon. Several miles of fast moving brought them to a high wall of red cliffs. Here Crazy River turned east and the canyon deepened. The chestnut sent the band up a trail which switchbacked and looped up out of the depths. With bared teeth and smashing hoofs he shoved the band up the trail and onto a mesa. Out on flat ground he let them rest. He was heading toward the desert where they would be free of attack from armed riders.

The mares fed on the bunch grass which carpeted the mesa. They kept well together and jerked up their heads, whinnying to their colts when the little ones strayed. There was danger in each adventurous trip the colts made, for they had not yet learned to watch and to listen. This broken country was the natural home of the cougar. It was also the den area for the gray wolves. When the colts trotted too far, their mothers followed and herded them back.

Above the mesa towered the snow peaks of the Crazy Kill Range. The snowbanks were not so close as they had been that morning, but seen through the high, thin air they seemed to be brooding no more than a short canter above the tableland. To the south, seen through a forest of trees and leaves much lighter green than the spruce, lay the desert, flat, eroded, purple in the evening light. The meadow was bordered on the lower side by an aspen grove. When the wind came up out of the canyon, the aspens seemed to shudder. A cross made of aspen wood had once been lifted on Calvary, so the preachers and the circuit rider said; possibly the aspens remembered. They quaked and their round leaves rattled and rustled like a million tiny cymbals. Below the aspen belt lay the scrub oaks, stunted trees with twigs as tough and hard as iron.

The chestnut stallion felt safer here on the edge of the wild, high country. A short run would take his band into the scrub oaks where no rider could follow without dismounting.

The sun dipped downward and hung on the blue rim of the western horizon. It looked like a huge ball of red fire. Slowly it settled from sight. Then shafts of red and gold light radiated upward, filling the sky and the air with a bloody haze. The wind died down and silence settled over the aspen grove. For a short space the world was aflame, then the sunset cooled and steel-blue dusk crept up out of the big canyon. The round moon, which had been dimmed to faint paleness by the sunset, flooded the mesa with soft light.

The chestnut moved close to Lady Ebony. He nickered low. She tossed her head, and they were off on a wild gallop around the meadow. They ran through the moonlight, disregarding rocks and gopher holes, leaping over sage clumps and patches of buckbrush, their manes and tails billowing in the wind, their rushing bodies surging with power. They circled the meadow twice. Lady Ebony easily keeping ahead of the big stallion.

After the second round, the black mare swerved and raced to a high, jutting point. Here she halted and the chestnut charged up beside her. He pawed and shook his head, then reared on his hind legs and his powerful forefeet curved under him. When his forefeet settled to the ground, Lady Ebony moved closer to him, her shoulder pressing against his muscled chest. The chestnut nickered proudly.

From an aspen stand below the feeding mares leaped five shadowy gray forms. They ran with long leaps, their black muzzles lifting and falling with an even, graceful flow of motion. Red tongues lolled over white fangs and yellow eyes flamed in the moonlight. From shaggy chests came eager yelps. The chestnut blasted a shrill warning to the mares, but the wolves did not swerve to attack the colts. They raced across the mesa, running for the pure joy of giving play to their stringy muscles.

At the lower edge of the meadow they startled an old doe who had come out of the aspens to feed. One of the gray killers turned in along the edge of the woods, the others fanned out and their eager yelps changed to a chorus of savage howls. The old lobo at their head had sounded the cry of the kill.

The startled mule deer doubled her slim legs under her and bounded. She landed many yards down the slope, and bounded again. Her white rump patch flashed in the silvery light as she fled. Three of the wolves raced after her while two turned right and leaped away around the hill. The doe reached the edge of the mesa and bounded down the steep slope at a pace which rapidly outdistanced her pursuers. When they were out of sight she swerved and ran around the hill. She intended to return to her feed ground by doubling back, a trick used by both mule deer and big rabbits. She broke out on the mesa a little below where she had been feeding when the killers startled her. Behind her she could hear the faint yelping of the three following lobos. She suddenly planted her feet and tried to pivot so she could plunge back down the hill. Two savage, grinning killers had appeared, one a little above her and one a little below. They were cutting in on her as fast as they could leap over the brush and rocks.

The doe whirled back down the slope, but before she had taken three jumps she was met by the three killers who had stayed on her trail. They were fanned out, running well apart. She slid to a halt and turned to run around the hill, but she was too late. The killers swarmed over her, the two attacking wolves leaping in at almost the same instant. She went down bleating and kicking.

In a few minutes the night was filled with the snarling and growling of the feeding pack. Up on the ledge Lady Ebony crowded closer to the big stallion. He snorted defiantly and rubbed his head against hers.

That night the wild horses stayed on the mesa. The next day Lady Ebony loped down into the desert, one of the wild band, a willing member of the chestnut stallion’s harem. They traveled at an easy lope which their tough bodies could hold for many hours. They halted in little meadows to feed and sought streams and water holes when they were thirsty.

As they moved into the canyon-slotted, eroded world of the desert they left the clear streams behind, and had to depend upon the knowledge of the chestnut stallion or one of the old mares for the location of pools and springs. The grass was shorter, curly buffalo and gamma, growing in clumps that defied shifting sand and hot wind.

The world changed quickly. The spruce, the aspens, and even the scrub oak vanished and in its place there was juniper--dry, defiant of the heat, sending its roots deep into the yellow earth, down cracks in the sand rock. The canyons were walled with red and yellow sandstone. The washes were bedded deep with sand instead of water, and the wind made the sand creep along, piling it into the dunes on the mesas, knifing it out in drifts from the ledges of rimrock. The days were hot and dry, but the nights were cool to the point of chillness.

From sentinel buttes or rims they sometimes sighted copper-skinned Navajos riding always at a gallop, on lean, bony ponies. The Navajos were always hurrying, though they had no place to go and all eternity to get there in. Once Lady Ebony sighted a summer hogan with two Navajo women and four children sitting in the shade of a canopy of dry leaves and cottonwood branches. The women were patiently slipping colored thread across a loom, back and forth, back and forth, one thread above another. Below the hogan a sad-looking band of sheep and goats cropped at the short grass.

The chestnut stallion snorted angrily when he smelled the grass where the sheep had been. He did not like sheep taint. He led the band far from the pasture lands of that Navajo family.

3. Horse Thief

Sam’s claim was not a gold strike or a bonanza. It was a pocket, very definite, and certainly limited in the amount of gravel and black sand which carried much fine and some coarse gold. Sam knew its extent and its possibilities. He had kept its location a careful secret. It was not legally staked, for in staking it he would have brought a swarm of gold seekers to the ridge, and he wanted this country to himself. He would take out enough to buy the black mare plus enough to buy supplies for the winter. When he finished there would still be gold left, a sort of bank account to be hoarded against the coming seasons.

For three weeks Sam shoveled and panned. At last he had enough yellow dust in his buck-hide pouch. He carefully buried his shovel, pick, and pan under a pile of rocks, covered his workings, and faced down the ridge.

As he trudged slowly through the fields of columbine and mountain lupine, he smiled softly to himself. The major would be completely flabbergasted. Sam laughed aloud, startling a cocky jay. The gaily dressed fellow fluffed his feathers and his purple crest bristled. He burst into a volley of angry chattering as he hopped about in a young balsam tree.

“Got a right to ha-ha,” Sam said aloud. “The ol’ glory hole come through with five hunnert an’ some extra fer grub. Left me a bit fer seed, too.” He continued to chuckle as he tramped along.

He trudged on until he could see his mesa through the red trunks of the spruce. Breaking out at the edge of the meadow he halted and stood looking over the familiar scene. Every detail was so familiar to him that he seemed to be entering a room where he had lived a long time. The old yellowbelly whistler sounded a blasting warning and plunged from his high perch. Ground squirrels romped to their dens. On the semibarren little hill the dogs began scolding, “squit-tuck! squit-tuck!” Sam grinned.

“Yuh ol’ fool, don’t yuh go makin’ me out no enemy,” he said aloud.

His eyes moved eagerly up and down the meadow, then he whistled a few high notes. There was no answering pound of hoofs. The black mare must be at the far end of the mesa.

“Must be off cattin’ around,” he mumbled as he shuffled to his cabin door.

Before Sam entered the cabin the old whistler discovered his mistake. He sounded an all-clear whistle and the meadow came to life. Sam dropped down on his old chair to watch the busy scene. After a time he got to his feet and pulled the latch thong. The door swung inward protestingly. Everything was as he had left it, except that a wandering cowboy had stopped and made himself a pot of tea and fried a snack of bacon. Sam knew, because the skillet was carefully washed and polished and the cracked teapot was washed and turned upside down on the table.

Sam shuffled about the cabin peering at the familiar things within its walls. He finally built a fire. He was hungry for oven biscuits and stove-cooked coffee.

He was poking the pine-knot fire to high heat when a voice from the open door made him turn. His faded eyes lighted up eagerly as he saw Major Howard standing there. The major had a grim set to his eyes and his mustache bristled angrily.

“Come on out, Sam,” he said gruffly.

“Howdy, major,” Sam said. He began to chuckle. Might as well spring the big surprise right away. Then he saw that there were two men with the major, men wearing nickel-plated stars on the flaps of their wool shirts. He blinked his eyes.

“Howdy, sheriff,” he said. He barely knew Sheriff Miller, had met him only a couple of times.

“Now, Sam,” the major broke in harshly, “come clean. What did you do with that Lady Ebony horse?”

“Me?” Sam stared at the major.

“Yes!” the major snapped. “You took an awful fancy to that filly, wanted to buy her. You’ve been away a long spell. I brought the sheriff up here, so you better talk and talk fast.” The major’s face was beginning to redden as his anger rose.

Sam looked from one man to the other, slowly, his gaze searching their faces. Yes, they were in earnest. A horse thief? Bony fingers pulled at his straggling beard. This wasn’t the way men did, it wasn’t square shooting. He did not pause to consider that Major Howard was not a born western mountainman. He stared defiantly.

“So yuh came up here to make me out a hoss thief?”

The sheriff stepped forward and spoke gruffly to the major. “I’m not here, Howard, to help you badger this old coot. You swore out a warrant for his arrest. I’m here to serve it.” He turned to Sam. “Get whatever you want to take along. This warrant calls for your arrest--charge is stealing one black mare.”

Sam blinked and his eyes shifted to the sheriff’s face. In all his life the law had never laid a hand on him. He had had some experiences of his own with horse thieves. When he caught a man with the goods he handled the affair himself. And claim jumpers were met and dealt with according to a man’s rights. He rubbed his bony fingers together. He could explain, he could even take the sheriff to his hidden claim, he could produce the pouch of dust. But it wasn’t the right of any man to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. Besides, the claim wasn’t staked and if fools who didn’t know pockets and glory holes saw that ground there’d be a rush and the whole ridge would be turned upside down. His eyes glinted brightly as he turned toward his door.

He backed past the table and one hand lifted to the belt hanging from its willow peg. His gnarled fingers closed around the familiar butt of his forty-five Colt. The gun slid down and snuggled against his hip. Then he shuffled toward the door.

“Get! Get--afore I blast yuh!” he whispered hoarsely as he stepped into the sunshine.

The deputy saw the gun first. He came to life with a jerk and his hand shot down to his own gun. Sam shot from the hip. His aim wasn’t steady; the black muzzle wavered a little because Sam’s old eyes couldn’t see clearly. Black-powder smoke billowed in a blue-white cloud, filling the doorway. Through the smoke Sam saw the deputy double over, then pitch forward. He was swinging his gun around to bring it down on the major when the sheriff’s boot shot upward and sent it spinning from his hand. The officer’s voice out through the smoke.

“Now you got something to answer for, you old coot!”

He stepped forward and a heavy hand dropped upon Sam’s shoulder. He was jerked forward and in less than a minute his wrists were handcuffed together. He stood silently watching the sheriff and the major plug the deputy’s wound. The man was weak and sick, but he was alive.

The major straightened and glared at Sam. He had never intended to have the old fellow jailed, he merely wanted to scare him into revealing what he had done with the black mare. Sam’s reaction irritated and puzzled him. Now the old fool could take whatever the law handed him; the major made up his mind to that.

Sheriff Miller had a different slant on the affair. He was a mountainman himself. All his life he had dealt with cowhands and miners. He recognized that Sam was acting as most of them would act under the same conditions. He blamed himself because he had thought Sam too old to have any fire left.

“I’m not too proud of this job,” he said sourly to the major.

“You’d better do your duty,” the major snapped.

The sheriff nodded his head. He turned to Sam.

“Now get what you want. We’re going. I’ll go into the cabin with you just to make sure you don’t try anything else.”

“I don’t reckon I need anything,” Sam answered.

4. Desert Winter

Life for the wild horses in the desert was a never-ending battle for food, for protection, and for the chance to slip through the gray dawn to a water hole where eager muzzles could be thrust into murky, yellow water. The chestnut stallion was a hard but wise leader. He knew that man controlled the best of the grazing lands, that mounted riders patrolled the foothills and the deep valleys back against the mountains. He had only savage disdain for the geldings and mares who submitted to man’s saddle and steel bit. No patriot ever cherished his freedom more than the chestnut stallion.

In the desert there were Indian hunters to be watched for. The Navajo people were not like the whites in their way of life. They were wandering nomads, following their herds, never making a home in any permanent spot. In summer they built branch-covered shelters. In the winter they crowded into log and mud hogans. They were children of the wild, untamed desert, as cunning as the gray lobo. The Navajo had strange customs. Among them the women owned the sheep, the goats, the hogan and the children. The men owned the horses, and the hunting weapons, along with the turquoise jewelry they wore. Horses to a Navajo were the same as gold to a white man, they were his measure of wealth and standing. So the Navajo men stalked the wild bands, capturing colts and mares to add to their wealth.

The Navajos knew every water hole in the desert. Like the tawny cougar and the savage lobo, they knew the wild bands must drink, that sooner or later they must slip down to the water hole. So they stalked them near the water holes and swarmed after them, riding in relays, keeping the band moving, keeping them from drinking or resting.

The chestnut stud considered all these things in his own way and met the problems with sharp wits, keen eyes, and keener sense of smell, keeping a constant, alert watch for enemies. He kept his band in the broken country where mesas dropped away in sheer, steep slopes to the depths of the sand washes. From the top of such a mesa the band could easily thunder down into a canyon at a moment’s warning.

Lady Ebony accepted the hard life. She liked the sudden, wild charges, the long runs under the white stars, the savage freedom which was so costly. When the chestnut stallion sounded the alarm she always led the rushing charge, flying ahead of the reaching, pounding hoofs of the mares and colts, slowing her speed to allow them to overtake her. The band foraged for grass at dawn or in the first grayness of dusk, coming out of a canyon to spread over the mesatop. Then as she pulled the scant grass she remembered the high mountain mesa where the grass grew knee-deep and cold, crystal streams rushed over gleaming rocks. She remembered the red and the yellow and the purple flowers, the solid masses of blue lupine, the flaming orange of acres of daisies.

This silent, terrible land was in such sharp contrast to the mountain country that the chestnut’s desire for it seemed foolish to her. Fear of man grew but slowly within her. Man had always been her friend and protector. Sam with his lumps of sugar and his petting, Tex riding up in the fall with the rest of the major’s boys to take her down to the winter pastures. The savage anger of the big stallion when he smelled man scent, the mad charge down the rocky slopes, these were confusing to her, but she accepted them and began to snort and shake her head when the scent came to her.

The desert was a mass of broken mesas, eroded hills, and deep-gutted canyons. There were many rivers, but no water. The eyes of the band could see far, but the scene was the same always. And yet this vast world was filled with a silence that was calm and restful. The desert was a canvas of shifting, changing color. Under the white-hot glare of the day the reds and yellows flamed. At dawn and at sunset it was purple and mauve and steel blue. And always to the north stood the shining mountains, etched blue against the sky, with the white snow line gleaming like a crown above the deep blue of the forests. Lady Ebony often stood and stared through the haze at the ragged outline of the Crazy Kill Range.

Summer slipped past, and fall rains woke the short grass to life, a brief and hurried growth before the cold and the snow came. The wild ones cropped avidly, pulling the tender shoots from their crowns, tasting them eagerly before swallowing them. The chestnut stallion kept the band moving south, down off the higher benches to the deeper canyons where blizzards would not rage so fiercely.

Indian summer slipped away and the purple mists lifted from the cathedral rocks and the spires of the ship rocks. The air cleared and the mornings were cold, with white frost covering the ground. The colts frisked and bucked and raced in little circles until the sun warmed their shaggy coats. Even the mares became spirited when the white frost was on them. Lady Ebony slipped into the slower, less wild way of the mares. She did not run except when the band took alarm, but she still ran at the head of the thundering herd.

One day a wind came down out of the north. It carried fine snowflakes which swirled along the ground and curled upward on the lee side of rocks. Toward night the storm thickened until it became a driving blizzard riding a shrieking wind. The horses turned their tails to the lash of the storm and drifted slowly south, led by one of the old mares. That night they bunched close together in a deep canyon. They crowded under a projecting lip of sandstone where the wind and the snow did not strike them. Fine white particles sifted down, covering their shaggy coats and making them look like white horses as they stood with their heads down waiting for the blizzard to blow itself out.