Old Jake Hanlon stares at the dream horse of all his days and something like a sob shakes him. "No," he says. "No. I'm tarred with a dirty stick. I ain't fit to ride that one."
It could be that a brief passing smile softens the stern features under the shadowing hat brim. "You are a hard man to please," says the stranger. "But I will try again." Once more he waves an arm in that curious gesture and gives that penetrating whistle and the White Mustang has faded into the mystery from which he has come and other rock-hard hoofs are drumming the good earth. They are drumming out the familiar rhythm of Old Jake's whole life. Yes. There he comes, out of the land that has bred him, just an ordinary mustang, a broomtail, stunted and bony, grass-bellied and cat-hipped, but with mighty lungs in the smallish body, and a strong heart, and steel springs in the lean haunches, and the mark of his kind is on him - the look of eagles in the proud roving eyes.
He too slides to a stop beside the gray and he looks down at Old Jake and his eyes soften some as if he is looking at an old friend. Strange, how he seems to be not one horse but many, as if all the mustangs Old Jake has ever ridden are here molded into one.
"I don't want to hurry you," says the stranger. "But will that one do?"
"He'll do," says Old Jake. "An' he'll outlast that thing you're ridin' too."
"I wouldn't bet on it," says the stranger. "But since you are satisfied, it is time to go." He reaches out an arm again in that curious summoning gesture and across the space between them Old Jake feels the stern yet friendly touch of it on his shoulder.
Old Jake rises to his feet. He is still there slumped against the wall of the house and yet he is up on his feet and he is striding towards the horse waiting there for him with a plain tough working saddle on its back. He puts his left foot into the near stirrup
and swings up and settles himself firmly in the seat.
He feels the mustang moving strong and steady under him. Strange and yet not strange, that the gray horse and its rider have disappeared. There is only endless distance of the sun-drenched golden glory of the big land. There is only Jake Hanlon, not Old Jake, not Young Jake, just Jake Hanlon, man, tall in the saddle on a little southwestern mustang, riding, riding, riding, tireless, into eternity.
Mavericks Page 11
