The Last of the Plainsmen

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER 6.

  THE WHITE MUSTANG

  For thirty miles down Nail Canyon we marked, in every dusty trail andsandy wash, the small, oval, sharply defined tracks of the WhiteMustang and his band.

  The canyon had been well named. It was long, straight and square sided;its bare walls glared steel-gray in the sun, smooth, glisteningsurfaces that had been polished by wind and water. No weathered heapsof shale, no crumbled piles of stone obstructed its level floor. And,softly toning its drab austerity, here grew the white sage, waving inthe breeze, the Indian Paint Brush, with vivid vermilion flower, andpatches of fresh, green grass.

  "The White King, as we Arizona wild-hoss wranglers calls this mustang,is mighty pertickler about his feed, an' he ranged along here lastnight, easy like, browsin' on this white sage," said Stewart. Inflectedby our intense interest in the famous mustang, and ruffled slightly byJones's manifest surprise and contempt that no one had captured him,Stewart had volunteered to guide us. "Never knowed him to run in thisway fer water; fact is, never knowed Nail Canyon had a fork. It splitsdown here, but you'd think it was only a crack in the wall. An' thetcunnin' mustang hes been foolin' us fer years about this water-hole."

  The fork of Nail Canyon, which Stewart had decided we were in, had beenaccidentally discovered by Frank, who, in search of our horses onemorning had crossed a ridge, to come suddenly upon the blind, box-likehead of the canyon. Stewart knew the lay of the ridges and run of thecanyons as well as any man could know a country where, seemingly, everyrod was ridged and bisected, and he was of the opinion that we hadstumbled upon one of the White Mustang's secret passages, by which hehad so often eluded his pursuers.

  Hard riding had been the order of the day, but still we covered tenmore miles by sundown. The canyon apparently closed in on us, so campwas made for the night. The horses were staked out, and supper madeready while the shadows were dropping; and when darkness settled thickover us, we lay under our blankets.

  Morning disclosed the White Mustang's secret passage. It was a narrowcleft, splitting the canyon wall, rough, uneven, tortuous and chokedwith fallen rocks--no more than a wonderful crack in solid stone,opening into another canyon. Above us the sky seemed a winding, flowingstream of blue. The walls were so close in places that a horse withpack would have been blocked, and a rider had to pull his legs up overthe saddle. On the far side, the passage fell very suddenly for severalhundred feet to the floor of the other canyon. No hunter could haveseen it, or suspected it from that side.

  "This is Grand Canyon country, an' nobody knows what he's goin' tofind," was Frank's comment.

  "Now we're in Nail Canyon proper," said Stewart; "An' I know mybearin's. I can climb out a mile below an' cut across to Kanab Canyon,an' slip up into Nail Canyon agin, ahead of the mustangs, an' drive 'emup. I can't miss 'em, fer Kanab Canyon is impassable down a littleways. The mustangs will hev to run this way. So all you need do is gobelow the break, where I climb out, an' wait. You're sure goin' to geta look at the White Mustang. But wait. Don't expect him before noon,an' after thet, any time till he comes. Mebbe it'll be a couple ofdays, so keep a good watch."

  Then taking our man Lawson, with blankets and a knapsack of food,Stewart rode off down the canyon.

  We were early on the march. As we proceeded the canyon lost itsregularity and smoothness; it became crooked as a rail fence, narrower,higher, rugged and broken. Pinnacled cliffs, cracked and leaning,menaced us from above. Mountains of ruined wall had tumbled intofragments.

  It seemed that Jones, after much survey of different corners, anglesand points in the canyon floor, chose his position with much greatercare than appeared necessary for the ultimate success of ourventure--which was simply to see the White Mustang, and if good fortuneattended us, to snap some photographs of this wild king of horses. Itflashed over me that, with his ruling passion strong within him, ourleader was laying some kind of trap for that mustang, was indeed benton his capture.

  Wallace, Frank and Jim were stationed at a point below the break whereStewart had evidently gone up and out. How a horse could have climbedthat streaky white slide was a mystery. Jones's instructions to the menwere to wait until the mustangs were close upon them, and then yell andshout and show themselves.

  He took me to a jutting corner of cliff, which hid us from the others,and here he exercised still more care in scrutinizing the lay of theground. A wash from ten to fifteen feet wide, and as deep, ran throughthe canyon in a somewhat meandering course. At the corner whichconsumed so much of his attention, the dry ditch ran along the cliffwall about fifty feet out; between it and the wall was good levelground, on the other side huge rocks and shale made it hummocky,practically impassable for a horse. It was plain the mustangs, on theirway up, would choose the inside of the wash; and here in the middle ofthe passage, just round the jutting corner, Jones tied our horses togood, strong bushes. His next act was significant. He threw out hislasso and, dragging every crook out of it, carefully recoiled it, andhung it loose over the pommel of his saddle.

  "The White Mustang may be yours before dark," he said with the smilethat came so seldom. "Now I placed our horses there for two reasons.The mustangs won't see them till they're right on them. Then you'll seea sight and have a chance for a great picture. They will halt; thestallion will prance, whistle and snort for a fight, and then they'llsee the saddles and be off. We'll hide across the wash, down a littleway, and at the right time we'll shout and yell to drive them up."

  By piling sagebrush round a stone, we made a hiding-place. Jones wasextremely cautious to arrange the bunches in natural positions. "ARocky Mountain Big Horn is the only four-footed beast," he said, "thathas a better eye than a wild horse. A cougar has an eye, too; he's usedto lying high up on the cliffs and looking down for his quarry so as tostalk it at night; but even a cougar has to take second to a mustangwhen it comes to sight."

  The hours passed slowly. The sun baked us; the stones were too hot totouch; flies buzzed behind our ears; tarantulas peeped at us fromholes. The afternoon slowly waned.

  At dark we returned to where we had left Wallace and the cowboys. Frankhad solved the problem of water supply, for he had found a littlespring trickling from a cliff, which, by skillful management, producedenough drink for the horses. We had packed our water for camp use.

  "You take the first watch to-night," said Jones to me after supper."The mustangs might try to slip by our fire in the night and we mustkeep a watch or them. Call Wallace when your time's up. Now, fellows,roll in."

  When the pink of dawn was shading white, we were at our posts. A long,hot day--interminably long, deadening to the keenest interest--passed,and still no mustangs came. We slept and watched again, in the gratefulcool of night, till the third day broke.

  The hours passed; the cool breeze changed to hot; the sun blazed overthe canyon wall; the stones scorched; the flies buzzed. I fell asleepin the scant shade of the sage bushes and awoke, stifled and moist. Theold plainsman, never weary, leaned with his back against a stone andwatched, with narrow gaze, the canyon below. The steely walls hurt myeyes; the sky was like hot copper. Though nearly wild with heat andaching bones and muscles and the long hours of wait--wait--wait, I wasashamed to complain, for there sat the old man, still and silent. Irouted out a hairy tarantula from under a stone and teased him into afrenzy with my stick, and tried to get up a fight between him and ascallop-backed horned-toad that blinked wonderingly at me. Then Iespied a green lizard on a stone. The beautiful reptile was about afoot in length, bright green, dotted with red, and he had diamonds foreyes. Nearby a purple flower blossomed, delicate and pale, with a beesucking at its golden heart. I observed then that the lizard had hisjewel eyes upon the bee; he slipped to the edge of the stone, flickedout a long, red tongue, and tore the insect from its honeyed perch.Here were beauty, life and death; and I had been weary for something tolook at, to think about, to distract me from the wearisome wait!

  "Listen!" broke in Jones's sharp voice. His neck was stretched, hiseyes were closed, h
is ear was turned to the wind.

  With thrilling, reawakened eagerness, I strained my hearing. I caught afaint sound, then lost it.

  "Put your ear to the ground," said Jones. I followed his advice, anddetected the rhythmic beat of galloping horses.

  "The mustangs are coming, sure as you're born!" exclaimed Jones.

  "There I see the cloud of dust!" cried he a minute later.

  In the first bend of the canyon below, a splintered ruin of rock nowlay under a rolling cloud of dust. A white flash appeared, a line ofbobbing black objects, and more dust; then with a sharp pounding ofhoofs, into clear vision shot a dense black band of mustangs, and wellin front swung the White King.

  "Look! Look! I never saw the beat of that--never in my born days!"cried Jones. "How they move! yet that white fellow isn't half-stretchedout. Get your picture before they pass. You'll never see the beat ofthat."

  With long manes and tails flying, the mustangs came on apace and passedus in a trampling roar, the white stallion in the front. Suddenly ashrill, whistling blast, unlike any sound I had ever heard, made thecanyon fairly ring. The white stallion plunged back, and his bandclosed in behind him. He had seen our saddle horses. Then trembling,whinnying, and with arched neck and high-poised head, bespeaking hismettle, he advanced a few paces, and again whistled his shrill note ofdefiance. Pure creamy white he was, and built like a racer. He pranced,struck his hoofs hard and cavorted; then, taking sudden fright, hewheeled.

  It was then, when the mustangs were pivoting, with the white in thelead, that Jones jumped upon the stone, fired his pistol and roaredwith all his strength. Taking his cue, I did likewise. The band huddledback again, uncertain and frightened, then broke up the canyon.

  Jones jumped the ditch with surprising agility, and I followed close athis heels. When we reached our plunging horses, he shouted: "Mount, andhold this passage. Keep close in by that big stone at the turn so theycan't run you down, or stampede you. If they head your way, scare themback."

  Satan quivered, and when I mounted, reared and plunged. I had to holdhim in hard, for he was eager to run. At the cliff wall I was at somepains to check him. He kept champing his bit and stamping his feet.

  From my post I could see the mustangs flying before a cloud of dust.Jones was turning in his horse behind a large rock in the middle of thecanyon, where he evidently intended to hide. Presently successive yellsand shots from our comrades blended in a roar which the narrowbox-canyon augmented and echoed from wall to wall. High the WhiteMustang reared, and above the roar whistled his snort of furiousterror. His band wheeled with him and charged back, their hoofs ringinglike hammers on iron.

  The crafty old buffalo-hunter had hemmed the mustangs in a circle andhad left himself free in the center. It was a wily trick, born of hisquick mind and experienced eye.

  The stallion, closely crowded by his followers, moved swiftly I sawthat he must pass near the stone. Thundering, crashing, the horses cameon. Away beyond them I saw Frank and Wallace. Then Jones yelled to me:"Open up! open up!"

  I turned Satan into the middle of the narrow passage, screaming at thetop of my voice and discharging my revolver rapidly.

  But the wild horses thundered on. Jones saw that they would not now bebalked, and he spurred his bay directly in their path. The big horse,courageous as his intrepid master, dove forward.

  Then followed confusion for me. The pound of hoofs, the snorts, ascreaming neigh that was frightful, the mad stampede of the mustangswith a whirling cloud of dust, bewildered and frightened me so that Ilost sight of Jones. Danger threatened and passed me almost before Iwas aware of it. Out of the dust a mass of tossing manes, foam-fleckedblack horses, wild eyes and lifting hoofs rushed at me. Satan, with apresence of mind that shamed mine, leaped back and hugged the wall. Myeyes were blinded by dust; the smell of dust choked me. I felt a strongrush of wind and a mustang grazed my stirrup. Then they had passed, onthe wings of the dust-laden breeze.

  But not all, for I saw that Jones had, in some inexplicable manner, cutthe White Mustang and two of his blacks out of the band. He had turnedthem back again and was pursuing them. The bay he rode had never beforeappeared to much advantage, and now, with his long, lean, powerful bodyin splendid action, imbued with the relentless will of his rider, whata picture he presented! How he did run! With all that, the WhiteMustang made him look dingy and slow. Nevertheless, it was a criticaltime in the wild career of that king of horses. He had been penned in aspace two hundred by five hundred yards, half of which was separatedfrom him by a wide ditch, a yawning chasm that he had refused, andbehind him, always keeping on the inside, wheeled the yelling hunter,who savagely spurred his bay and whirled a deadly lasso. He had beencut off and surrounded; the very nature of the rocks and trails of thecanyon threatened to end his freedom or his life. Certain it was hepreferred to end the latter, for he risked death from the rocks as hewent over them in long leaps.

  Jones could have roped either of the two blacks, but he hardly noticedthem. Covered with dust and splotches of foam, they took theiradvantage, turned on the circle toward the passage way and galloped byme out of sight. Again Wallace, Frank and Jim let out strings of yellsand volleys. The chase was narrowing down. Trapped, the White MustangKing had no chance. What a grand spirit he showed! Frenzied as I waswith excitement, the thought occurred to me that this was an unfairbattle, that I ought to stand aside and let him pass. But the blood andlust of primitive instinct held me fast. Jones, keeping back, met hisevery turn. Yet always with lithe and beautiful stride the stallionkept out of reach of the whirling lariat.

  "Close in!" yelled Jones, and his voice, powerful with a note oftriumph, bespoke the knell of the king's freedom.

  The trap closed in. Back and forth at the upper end the White Mustangworked; then rendered desperate by the closing in, he circled roundnearer to me. Fire shone in his wild eyes. The wily Jones was not to beoutwitted; he kept in the middle, always on the move, and he yelled tome to open up.

  I lost my voice again, and fired my last shot. Then the White Mustangburst into a dash of daring, despairing speed. It was his lastmagnificent effort. Straight for the wash at the upper end he pointedhis racy, spirited head, and his white legs stretched far apart,twinkled and stretched again. Jones galloped to cut him off, and theyells he emitted were demoniacal. It was a long, straight race for themustang, a short curve for the bay.

  That the white stallion gained was as sure as his resolve to eludecapture, and he never swerved a foot from his course. Jones might haveheaded him, but manifestly he wanted to ride with him, as well as tomeet him, so in case the lasso went true, a terrible shock might beaverted.

  Up went Jones's arm as the space shortened, and the lasso ringed hishead. Out it shot, lengthened like a yellow, striking snake, and felljust short of the flying white tail.

  The White Mustang, fulfilling his purpose in a last heroic display ofpower, sailed into the air, up and up, and over the wide wash like awhite streak. Free! the dust rolled in a cloud from under his hoofs,and he vanished.

  Jones's superb horse, crashing down on his haunches, just escapedsliding into the hole.

  I awoke to the realization that Satan had carried me, in pursuit of thethrilling chase, all the way across the circle without my knowing it.

  Jones calmly wiped the sweat from his face, calmly coiled his lasso,and calmly remarked:

  "In trying to capture wild animals a man must never be too sure. Nowwhat I thought my strong point was my weak point--the wash. I made sureno horse could ever jump that hole."