Part 3

The shelter they had found had been formed centuries before by the action of wind and water on the layers of rock forming the crust of the desert. The upper layer was hard and did not weather away as fast as the lower layers. Thus a great, projecting roof was formed with a ceiling that sloped back under the cliff. A thousand years earlier, brown men had passed that way. They had halted in the bed of the canyon and looked up at the great cave. They had held a council and decided to build a city under the rim.

Those brown cliff dwellers had built houses of hewn stone, room upon room, like apartments. Their masonry still stood, back under the rim. The ceremonial kivas built under the ground in circular form with laced log roofs had caved in but the tiers of houses stood against the cliff, their open windows staring into the canyon. The brown men had vanished, down into the canyon, south toward the plains, and west toward the great ocean, but their homes remained.

The wild horses saw the houses piled story upon story, the staring windows and the heaps of broken pottery decorated with strange designs. They were not afraid of the dead houses because the man smell had long since vanished, carried away by the wind and the heat, toward the south and the west.

At night an old lobo wolf halted his bachelor pack on a high rim above the ancient city. The wind lashed and tore at the gray bodies as though trying to tear them from the rocky cliff. The old lobo bared his fangs and lifted his muzzle. He sounded a savage paean of howls and high, dismal calls and his sons joined in the chorus. Their howls rang down the wind curling along the face of the cliff to where the wild horses stood. The mares jerked up their heads, and the big chestnut snorted savagely. But the howls of the pack had none of the savage cry of the kill. The gray ones were defying the storm, daring it to sweep them from their lofty crag. They were answering an age-old urge to challenge the elements, to dare them to do their worst. After a while the old lobo led his sons in a wild chase down the ridge. They leaped along, riding the fierce wind, snapping and snarling eagerly.

For two days the wild band remained under the rim; then the blizzard broke and the sun struggled through the gray clouds to shine feebly into the canyon. The mares moved out and began pawing among the tumbled rocks, digging for grass. They scooped the new snow and swallowed it to wet their throats. Above them, against the turquoise sky, a pair of buzzards wheeled and circled, their round, hard eyes peering down hungrily, watching the horses, eager to see if any showed signs of weakness. The undertakers of the air would follow the band daily, hoping the cold and the scant feed would bring death to some of the band.

The chestnut stallion met the rigors of winter with the same disdain he held for hunters. The colts were watched more closely because the snow and the cold had driven the natural food of the cougar and the wolves to cover. Many of the little dwellers were curled up in deep, warm burrows sleeping. Most of the birds had flown south. But the big killers did not sleep. Winter was a time when hunger and famine stalked their world, when they ran for days with lean, gaunt bellies driving them on. The hunger which cramped their stomachs made them savage and daring, it sharpened their cunning, and made their raids more deadly.

One evening a hungry colt strayed from the band, seeking a spot where the snow was not so deep. His mother was busy pawing through a drift where she had located a clump of bushes with tender twigs in abundance. The colt wandered up to a stand of juniper which stood sprawled against the snow. He dug down experimentally, found no curly buffalo grass and moved on, farther up the slope, closer to the green trees.

He was pawing into a drift when he heard a savage snarling. He jerked up his head and snorted, his round eyes staring with fright. Out of the juniper woods leaped four gray wolves. Their broad chests rose above the snow, spraying it aside in fine spurts. Their red tongues rolled between their bared fangs. The pack was lean and gaunt, but they did not sound the cry of the kill, they ran silently, emitting low snarls.

The colt whirled and floundered toward the mares. The chestnut stallion was the first to see the wolves. With a squeal of rage he charged toward them. The colt plunged along but he had wandered far from the band. Behind him the killers rapidly closed in. Their white fangs slashed the muscles and tendons of his straining legs, hamstringing him. He went down plunging and kicking, and the gray killers leaped upon him ripping and tearing.

At the sound of the chestnut’s shrill warning the mares jerked up their heads and charged to the rescue of the struggling colt. Lady Ebony leaped ahead close beside the big stallion. For a moment the wolves stood their ground, then they faded back, snarling and howling, to circle around the band. The mares milled and stamped around the colt while his mother nosed him and whinnied eagerly. He kicked a little, then lay still.

In the sky above the buzzards shortened their circles and dropped. Their long wait had been rewarded. The mares kept a close guard around the carcass of the colt for a long time. The wolves sat on the snow and stared out of flaming yellow eyes, waiting with slaver-flecked jaws, sure they would feast in due time. They looked up at the buzzards now sweeping low above the snow and growled defiantly.

The frantic mother kept nosing her colt, trying to get him to his feet so that she could lead him away from the blood smell and the wolf taint. The chestnut charged the wolves many times. They leaped away before his lashing hoofs, darting behind him, jumping at his legs and heels. And the buzzards settled down on the snow to wait.

The mares guarded the dead colt for over an hour, then they moved away leaving the mother alone. She remained standing over the twisted carcass, whinnying nervously. Then the killers leaped in and circled around her, darting toward her, two behind and two in front. She lashed at them, pivoted, kicked wildly, her pounding hoofs striking nothing. The chestnut stallion came to her rescue and drove the wolves away, then he drove her down the slope to where the band was feeding. She went slowly, halting to stand with her head up and nicker softly. The wolves leaped on the carcass and began devouring it while the buzzards walked over the snow, halting with their necks stretched out, their hard eyes glittering. They must wait for their share, which would be the gnawed bones.

And so the battle against the snow and the cold went on through the long winter. Another colt was lost to the gray killers, and an old mare went lame. She dropped behind in spite of the savage nipping and crowding of the big stallion. That night she bedded down alone in a little canyon and a gaunt cougar came upon her in the gray dawn. Her end came swiftly, without a struggle.

Then spring came with rushing torrents, slush in the arroyos, and slick, yellow mud on the hillsides. Streams boiled out of the dry canyons thick with raw clay and sand. This was the season when nature carved deeply into the face of the desert. Only the sand washes and the dunes on the flats resisted the water. The sand ate it up and packed hard so that it did not cling and drag when the band galloped over it.

With the speed of a miracle the desert bloomed. The sage flats flared white with the blossoms of the primrose and the mariposa lily. Countless other stunted plants put forth flowers, eager to create and ripen seed before the heat and drought of summer came. And the grass shot out of the ground, rich and sweet. The band cropped and moved on, ever searching for taller grass.

The mares were lean and gaunt, their ribs pushing ridges up under their shedding coats. The chestnut stallion was lean, too, but in a hard-muscled way. Lady Ebony had lost much of her fire and love for frolic. The sun was warm and the air soft but she needed rest. She looked away toward the white slopes of the Crazy Kill Range. Spring would not reach the high mesa for another month, but she was restless. She would have headed away into the foothills but the big stallion kept close watch over his band.

One day a horseman rode out on a rim. He sat on his bony horse and looked down on the wild band feeding on a bench. For a long time he sat there looking intently before he rode away. Yellow Man smiled as he galloped toward his hogan. There were many good colts in the band and one black mare. The black mare was a horse such as he had never seen before, the sort of mount he had always dreamed about. He would tell the other men about the band, but the black mare was to be his because he had been the first to see her.

He rode to his hogan and picketed his pony. Walking to the glowing fire which flickered inside the door he stooped and held out his hands. Four men sat along one wall while a half dozen brown-faced women sat on the other side. On the men’s side of the hogan lay riding things, bridles and blankets, a saddle. On the women’s side were the cooking pots and the blankets. Yellow Man sat down. For a long time he said nothing. His black eyes were on the fire.

Finally Yellow Man lifted his eyes to the face of an old man beside him.

“I have seen many good horses,” he said.

The old man grunted softly while the others bent forward.

“There is a black mare who will have a colt this spring,” Yellow Man said.

They all nodded. The black mare was to belong to Yellow Man, that was understood. Now they waited for him to go on.

“Tomorrow we will run the band. There will be horses for all. The big one who leads may have to be shot. I will take the rifle. The big one is strong and will fight.” Yellow Man’s eyes returned to the fire.

The others nodded and began eagerly planning the drive. Through the long winter they had kept busy with sings and chants, meeting with other families in religious dances and ceremonies. This would be the first hunt of the season.

* * * * *

To the north, behind the high gray walls of the state prison Sam knew when spring came. Through a high, barred window he could see a square of sunlight on the stone wall. Across the upper corner of the square drooped the branches of a cottonwood tree. Sam watched the buds swell and burst into pale-green leaves.

The warden and the guards shook their heads when they walked past his cell. Eight years. The old fellow would be lucky to finish two of them. He refused to work outside, he hated even to exercise in the closed-in yard. He wanted to be left alone, to sit and stare out the little window. But Sam did not share their belief that he would never leave the gray walls. He was sure he would return to the high mesa. He wasn’t going to die cooped up in a gloomy cell; when he died it would be out in the open with his boots on, under a mountain sky.

He did not brood over his trial. His attorney had been irritated to the point of anger when Sam refused to tell where he had been and what he was doing during the three weeks of absence from his cabin. That was his business; he’d need his cache when he got out. Nobody was going to find out about it. His stubbornness had convinced the jury of his guilt. Sam had paid the attorney well though the judge had offered to let the state pay the fee. He didn’t think much about those things, he just sat and stared at the cottonwood branch.

Tex, Major Howard’s foreman, had talked to him. Tex understood better than any of the others, but Sam wasn’t trusting anybody. He had learned from years of battling for gold that the yellow metal was poison to friendship and trust. Tex was a right fine feller, but there was no call to push him too far.

5. Wild Horse Drive

The snow had vanished and the desert was dry and thirsty again. Dust spurted up around the hoofs of the wild horses as they loped down a long ridge. The east was beginning to show a pale flush of red and day came quickly to the barren country, lighting the tall spires and castle rocks and the sharp points of the pinnacles, making the monument valley below appear alive.

The chestnut stallion swung along behind the mares. At their head ran an old roan. She was trailwise and wary. Her nose was leading her unerringly to a big water hole at the base of a cliff. The others pounded along behind her with the colts frisking beside their mothers. The chestnut halted every little while to whirl and sniff the morning air. He held his head high and his protruding eyes rolled as he stared back over the broken country they had left behind.

The roan trotted off the ridge and down through a jumble of rocks to the base of a cliff. The horses nickered softly as they smelled water. The roan’s muzzle was a scant foot from the yellow surface of the pool when wild yells shattered the morning calm. The band whirled and stood with heads up, staring toward a rocky slope. Above them the big chestnut screamed a warning and an order to charge away.

Down the slope toward the water hole galloped four riders. Their naked bodies gleamed copper-red in the new sunlight as they bent low over the necks of their lean ponies. With squeals of fright the band whirled and charged down the canyon. A cloud of yellow dust billowed at their heels. The chestnut stallion crashed down on their flanks with bared teeth and pounding hoofs. When a mare lagged he drove her squealing into the band. The mad charge carried the wild horses away from the four pursuing Navajos, but the trailers did not give up the chase.

Back of the dust cloud Yellow Man rode beside his three sons. Their faces were expressionless; only their black eyes showed the eager excitement that filled them. They did not try to make their gaunt ponies overtake the thundering band but were content to keep a steady pace. The trail left by the wild horses was broad and easy to follow.

Lady Ebony ran ahead of the band, keeping well out in front without effort. She was not badly frightened and the wild panic of the other horses had not gripped her. But she raced along just the same, enjoying the surging flight which gave full play to her powerful muscles. The big chestnut charged in and turned the band up the ridge. As they swept over the top of the rocky hill they saw the Indians galloping along the canyon bed below.

Yellow Man shifted his seat on the bare back of his pinto. His black eyes were following the flight of the black mare, and there was a fierce eagerness in them. The chestnut leader was doing just what he wanted him to do. The big fellow was swinging his band into a wide circle, a curve which would carry them back into the country they had just left.

The band thundered down off the ridge and headed up a sand wash. The drag of the sand and the uphill going slowed them but they kept pounding along, the stallion saw to that. He stayed behind and used his teeth savagely on the rumps of the laggards.

Yellow Man and his sons galloped up the ridge and dropped into the sand wash. A thin smile parted the lips of the tall hunter as he noticed how fagged his horse was. They were chasing no ordinary wild scrub ponies. The chestnut stallion had trained his band well and kept them in fine condition. They had run the legs right out from under the Navajo ponies. He urged his pinto up the sand wash as fast as the little beast could travel.

The chestnut saw the riders coming and noticed that they were working their way to the side as though aiming to come up alongside. He suspected a trick though he was disdainful of the slow-running ponies coming up from below. He changed his course a little to the north. Now the pursuers would have to travel much farther than his band to overtake them. The Navajo riders swung north too, and kept following close to the dust cloud.

The chase thus took a circular course with the chestnut keeping the mares moving as fast as the colts could follow. But now the horses’ sides were heaving, sweat was streaking their flanks and caking in lather-matted ridges above the hair. The big stallion snorted triumphantly as they topped a ridge. They had run away from their pursuers. The Indians were plodding along far behind. He allowed the mares to slow their pace to a lope while he galloped to right and then to left, looking down into washes and canyons for a hiding place.

Suddenly the mares heard yells from their right. They saw five red-bronze riders charging down on them from a cover of junipers. Mounted on fresh horses, these braves came swiftly from their ambush. The chestnut stallion rushed on his band and sent them racing down into a canyon. The retreat led over a ledge and down a rocky hill. The slope was steep and covered with loose stones, but the sure-footed horses took the broken ground at a mad rush. One of the mares slipped and went down, rolling over and over, until she was stopped by a big boulder. She struggled to her feet and staggered around the hill. Her colt bounded after her nickering wildly.

The charge of the hunters carried them close on the heels of the flying band. When the mare went down, two of the hunters swerved and followed her. The chestnut let her go and gave his attention to speeding the rest of the band. In a few seconds the speed of the wild horses carried them ahead of the Navajos’ lean ponies. But the three hunters following the mares kept yelling and galloping.

The two hunters who had swerved to follow the crippled mare and her colt soon overtook them. They paid no attention to the mare but charged down on the colt. One of them swung a rope. The loop sailed out and dropped over the straining neck of the little fellow. The colt fought and kicked, but the Navajo boy knew how to handle a fighter. He kept his rope tight, almost to the choking point, and let the little horse wear himself out. In a short time he had mastered the colt and was heading toward camp with him. His companion galloped away to overtake the band.

The chestnut stallion could not understand the attack of the Navajos. They did not start shooting when they got in close and they did not try to rope any of the mares. They just kept riding on the heels of his fast-tiring band, yelling and waving their arms. They were not like the wolf or the cougar, they did not strike when they got close, but they never left the heels of the herd. The big stallion shifted his course and again they began moving in a wide circle.

This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists. They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare and the colts.

The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded against the wolf or the bear.

Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted:

“He is doubling back! Head him!”

The Indians sent their ponies charging recklessly down the dangerous slope, leaping over boulders and water-gutted ditches. But the band would not be headed. Going downhill had eased them and given them new life. They plunged along with sides heaving and nostrils flaring. Lady Ebony led them, keeping her pace down to their speed.

One of the hunters headed his pony up out of the canyon. He halted on a jutting rock and sat looking down over the desert. His black eyes watched the fine spirals of yellow dust rising from the canyon and he nodded his head. The scattered groups of hunters would be able to locate the new direction the band had taken.

The sharp eyes of three hunters hiding in a juniper grove on the rim of the canyon saw the spirals of dust rising from the dry watercourse above. They slipped across and waited.

The chestnut began to breathe easier. Once again the band had outdistanced their pursuers and no raiders could be seen. But he was nervous and determined to keep the mares moving until they were deep in the rough, canyon-slotted country to the south. The weary horses slowed their pace to a trot. They were suffering for water and their hard muscles were crying for rest. They were used to sudden, wild charges when they would race at top speed for a while, but they were not used to a steady grind, hour after hour.

Several of the mares began weaving away from the herd, sniffing for water, looking for a spot where they could halt and rest. Suddenly the yells they had come to dread broke the silence and echoed along the canyon walls. Three riders came charging toward them from below. The chestnut screamed a warning. For a moment he hesitated. There was an enemy pack behind them, and now one faced them. With a snort and a toss of his head he sent the band up the far slope out of the canyon. The hunters raced whooping and yelling after the mares.

Escape from the canyon did not bring freedom from the worrying red riders. The desert seemed full of them. After every run, when the big stallion thought he had slipped away from his pursuers, a new and fresh band would charge from cover on the jaded mares. In desperation the big horse headed down a deep canyon. The mares could not travel uphill any more. They could not move fast but the hunters did not seem anxious to close in and strike. They kept on the heels of the wild ones. Now there were a dozen of them and they kept up a savage yelling as they stayed close to the band.

Up ahead Lady Ebony began to tire. She was not driven by frantic fear and she was eager to stop and rest. At first she had enjoyed the flight, but now she was thirsty and her sides were heaving. She galloped ahead, leaving the band behind. As she raced along she saw a side canyon. Its floor was solid rock, worn smooth by wind and water. She slipped into the narrow opening and halted behind a shoulder of rock. She lowered her head and stood blowing hard. She had left no tracks on the rocky floor.

The wild horses galloped past the mouth of the side canyon. A great cloud of dust rolled up after them. Lady Ebony heard the Navajos go whooping past. She stood listening until the pounding of hoofs and the yelling died away. Shaking her head, she trotted up the narrow canyon. She craved water and she wanted to be alone, to lie down and rest. She headed north because to the north lay the tall-grass meadows with clear streams bubbling across them. She moved along steadily, keeping to the bottom of the canyon where she was hidden from sight of any black-eyed hunter who might be sitting on a rim high above.

A black rain cloud billowed up above the rims to the north. It rolled down across the desert on the wings of a driving wind which raised clouds of dust and sand. At dusk it swept over the canyon where Lady Ebony was marching along steadily north. It drenched her and gave her needed drinking water, then it moved on down to where the chestnut was making his last stand.