a rope. It happened that Mack owned nothing but his horse, the one he rode, which seemed to be the worse for hard riding. The men did not know that all that Mack wanted at this time was to get a good horse so that he could ride to the southern border and cross over into Old Mexico.
One day well along in the afternoon Mack was riding alone, a long distance from the Almazan Ranch, when he saw a horse that caused him to ride quickly into some woods and hide. He saw two horses, in fact, two that were standing close together and dozing in the warm sunshine. These horses were Mustang and Old Bill. They had wandered farther from the Horseshoe Ranch than ever before. But, if left alone, both would have returned as usual. It was Mustang that Mack wanted. He saw at once that Mustang was a young horse and a strong one—a tall, rangy horse, the kind that could run.
There was no wind that day to tell Old Bill and Mustang of the presence of the man hiding in the woods. And there was nothing to tell them that a man was there with a rifle and that he was a remarkably good shot. It must be admitted that Mack was different from most Mexicans of that day in that he was a good shot. He had more than once successfully “creased” horses and so captured them. To “crease” a horse meant to shoot at him so that the rifle bullet would strike him near the spine at the top of the neck. This would knock him unconscious and he would lie stunned, but only for a brief time, and when that brief time passed he would jump up and be as good as ever.
Mack was within easy rifle shot from where he hid. He dismounted from his old horse, who was already standing with his head down, tired out and half asleep. Mack took a rest with his rifle on a dead limb near the trunk of a tree. The rifle cracked. Mustang fell and Old Bill, terrified, ran away. Mack mounted his old horse and spurred quickly to Mustang. One look and he saw that the bullet had only grazed Mustang’s neck. But Mack must work swiftly. This he did with skill. When Mustang came to himself he tried to leap to his feet and got half up, then he fell back. There were ropes on both his front legs so that they were held rather close together. But the next instant he tried again and this time he stood up, but when he tried to plunge he fell to the ground again. He lay for a second looking with wild eyes at Mack, and again Mustang got to his feet. He didn’t try to leap this time. He didn’t want to fall again. He only stood, trembling and waiting, trying like a wild horse to think how best to act here.
The cunning Mack was prepared for this. He put a hackamore, or rope halter, on Mustang’s head with a long rope attached. Holding this long rope Mack picked up the saddle he had taken from his own horse and dropped it on Mustang’s back. Mustang flinched. But the saddle did not frighten him so much. Sam had often put a saddle on him. It was the man here that was frightening. While Mustang stood trembling, with his forefeet tied, Mack reached under him, got the big broad girth and quickly cinched the saddle on Mustang.
With a snort he leaped quickly to one side and bucked with all his power.
Everything had happened so quickly to Mustang that he stood trembling and scared and still a little weak from the shock of it all. He stood while Mack slowly took the rope from his feet, then just as Mack grabbed the saddle horn and started to mount, Mustang began to fight. He whirled, but the skillful Mack swung up into the saddle as easily as a bird might fly to a nest.
When Mustang saw that the man on his back stayed on, he decided to get him off. With a snort he leaped quickly to one side and out on the plain and bucked with all his power. So high did he leap and whirl and plunge that Mack, top rider though he was, time after time was nearly thrown, but he stayed in the saddle. And after a while Mustang stopped bucking and stood still, his feet wide apart, his nostrils distended while he puffed with exertion. His once bright bay coat was dark with sweat. Now Mack tapped him with the end of the halter rope. Mustang sprang forward and, not knowing what else to do, he galloped away rapidly, and Mack was pleased, since this was what he wanted Mustang to do. He wanted him to go toward the south and he wanted him to go as fast and as long as he could. Fortunately for Mustang the day was far spent when he was captured, and as he galloped on and the darkness fell, the cool of the night revived him.
Mustang all at once slowed down to a walk. The Mexican, who had lost one of his spurs, began to gouge Mustang with the other. Suddenly Mustang reared up so high and quickly that he lost his balance and fell over backward. Only Mack’s skill saved his own life. He got out of the saddle and when Mustang, considerably jarred from the fall, got to his feet, Mack leaped back in the saddle. He decided, however, that here was a horse that would not stand punishment from a spur. Mack mumbled to himself, “He’s a crazy horse. He’s big, swift, but he’s crazy. I be careful and I trade him. I trade him off for another horse on account he’s crazy!”
Horses, and sometimes mules and oxen, were the main source of transportation in these days, and horses especially, if they were even fairly good ones, could always be sold or traded to advantage.
Mustang, at a gentle tap of Mack’s hand, started forward, but he only walked. And now Mack began to use his cunning brain. He knew where there was a wagon trail—a trail where men in “prairie schooners,” or covered wagons, were crossing the plains, and it came to him that if he could keep Mustang going until morning he might possibly trade him to one of these travelers for another horse.
Presently they came to a small stream in the low plain and here Mustang was allowed to stop and drink. After he had drunk of the cool water he felt refreshed and he walked across the shallow sandy place to the other side, and when his captor tapped him slightly with the end of the halter rope he set out in an easy canter, and to Mack’s surprise, Mustang held this pace for a long time. He seemed now not to tire and Mack had half a mind to keep him. But well along in the night two things happened that made the Mexican change his mind quickly. The first was that he came upon a wagon trail and the second was that, without thinking, he gouged Mustang with the spur. Instantly Mustang reared high and stood straight up. He did not fall over backward this time but he was so near to it that Mack was scared and disgusted. He knew now that he would trade him at the first chance.
He kept Mustang moving along the wagon trail in the starlight into the middle of the night, when Mack decided to sleep. Arrived at a tree near the trail he tied Mustang and, moving off a little distance, Mack slept for a few hours. On awakening he mounted Mustang and continued along the wagon trail.
The dawn was just coming when Mack saw a small campfire just ahead of him. He rode up to find a lone traveler—a short, stocky man with a bushy dark beard. He had already cooked and eaten his breakfast and was about to hitch up his horses. Mack spoke to the man, who introduced himself as Cole Hunter. It turned out that he had two old plugs of horses, little more than skin and bones, and also a tough, wiry broncho that was led behind the wagon. Cole Hunter and Mack talked for a time and a trade was made. Mack said that he would trade Mustang for the tough broncho because the broncho could stand travel and Mustang couldn’t as he was too young. Cole was clever. He knew the broncho could not be made to pull the wagon. He had tried him. The animal would try to kick everything to pieces, then he would lie down. Mustang could, at least, be no worse. So the trade was made. The saddle was put on the broncho. The Mexican mounted and, after the usual spell of bucking, the broncho galloped away at a fast pace. With a wave of his hand, Mack, who was the cause of all Mustang’s trouble, rode away toward the border.
Cole Hunter did not intend to be cruel to his horses. He was simply, as he thought, practical. He let the poorest of his old horses loose, and, with Mustang tied to the wagon, he put the harness on him. Mustang was very tired and hungry after his long journey and could not fight as he would have done if he had been rested. Even so it took the man, who was skilled with horses, some time to get Mustang hitched up with the old horse, but this was finally done. While Cole did not want to be cruel he did want to get to his distant destination. It seemed to him that Mustang, being in good flesh, should pull most of the load and, accordingly, Cole put what was known as a stay-chain on the double-tree behind Mustang. In this way the old horse could, if the driver allowed him, lag back a little and Mustang would have to pull the whole load. This was a common practice in these days, to put a strong horse with a small one or with