by J. T. Edson
Arriving with food for the two men, Jeanie listened to Colin’s glowing account of how the ‘blanket’ training had progressed. With his meal eaten and Jeanie seen on her way, Colin took his bedroll to the corral. Although Mogollon stayed on the far side of the enclosure at first, it moved in Colin’s direction after the Scot had settled down in his blankets. Lying without a movement, he saw the bulk of the stallion loom through the darkness. Mogollon advanced cautiously, ears pricked and nostrils testing the air. Colin made no attempt to rise nor speak, but remained perfectly still. Lowering its head, Mogollon sniffed through the rails of the corral at the motionless figure.
A feeling of contentment filled Colin, brought about by the knowledge that Mogollon was his. In the morning he would continue with the ‘blanket’ training, going through the various stages until he achieved his desires. Once Mogollon allowed the blanket to remain on its back, he would rest his elbows upon it, raise his feet and let the horse grow gradually accustomed to accepting his weight. When the time came for the first try at riding astride the stallion, he would lead it belly-deep into a pool along the stream. There Mogollon’s ability to pitch and buck would be restricted and any throw Colin took would result in a ducking rather than a serious injury.
According to the Kid, if all went well the ‘blanket’ training system accustomed the horse to a rider’s weight and reduced bucking to a minimum. With Mogollon broken to the saddle, Colin could call himself a mustanger. He would also be able to use the stallion as a stud when he and Jeanie settled down on their ranch.
Still making plans for the future, with Mogollon standing close by on the other side of the fence, Colin drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Nine
The rumbling of many hooves mingled with the occasional crack of a shot, caused Colin Farquharson to bring Mogollon to a halt. Reaching forward and down, he slid his Henry rifle from its saddle boot. After throwing the lever through its loading cycle, he started the horse moving. Coming to the top of the slope up which he had been riding, he peered cautiously over. What he saw brought a grunt of annoyance and he returned the rifle to the boot.
Ten days had gone by since Mogollon’s capture. Solitude and finding itself in a strange locale had rapidly won over the stallion. The ‘blanket’ training had produced results which Colin had found most satisfying and all had gone as he had hoped it would. The fact that Mogollon had once been broken for riding had done much to reduce the task. Firmness and kindness had done the rest. By the fourth day, he had the horse accustomed to blanket and saddle. Two days later he had ridden Mogollon on dry land for the first time. After that, there had been a growing confidence between the Scot and the manadero.
So far Colin had not started to train Mogollon for any specialized type of work. Instead he intended to use it when scouting for other mustangs. That required no particular skills on the stallion’s part, but permitted a greater understanding to develop between it and the Scot. After discussion with Jeanie, Colin had decided to wait until they had filled the orders for the OD Connected and the Army before commencing Mogollon’s higher education.
What Colin saw as he topped the rim told him that the chances of locating manadas in its vicinity were being ruined. While he had never seen the type of activity being carried out before him, he had heard his companions talk of it. Now he could understand why the mesteneros had cursed its consequences with regard to their work.
Flanked by four fast-moving riders, a small herd of buffalo was racing along the level ground at the foot of the gentle slope beyond the rim. Growling his indignation, Colin studied them. Going by appearances, they ‘ran’ the buffalo for sport rather than to collect meat or hides. That fact increased his antipathy towards them.
At the rear on the side closest to Colin rode a young U.S. Cavalry lieutenant holding a Henry rifle. On the opposite side of the herd, the second man’s buckskin clothing and gun belt with an open-topped holster hinted that he might be an Indian-scout or professional hunter. Up front, ahead of the hunter, a slender man dressed in Eastern riding fashion aimed a Spencer carbine from close range at a buffalo. Also dressed stylishly and Eastern, the fourth member of the party was a beautiful, black-haired woman. She too held a Spencer carbine. Raking her spurs along her horse’s ribs, she goaded it to greater efforts in her attempt to catch up with the leaders of the herd.
Colin was less interested in the composition of the party than with how their ‘running’ the buffalo herd—seeing how many they could shoot on the move—would affect the mustanging prospects. Another good corrida would see the OD Connected’s requirements satisfied and the Army’s contract well on the way to completion. That would not be possible in the surrounding country for some time to come. Even if the wild horses were not driven out of the vicinity, they would be extra wary and alert after such a scare.
Just before coming level with Colin’s position, the male Easterner’s carbine cracked. Caught from a range hardly exceeding two feet, the buffalo in front of the muzzle swerved violently. Its legs buckled and it went down. In falling, its actions startled the animal at which the woman was lining her weapon.
Even as Beatrice, Vicomtesse de Brioude, squeezed her borrowed carbine’s trigger, she saw the buffalo at which she was aiming suddenly alter direction. Flame licked from the Spencer’s barrel. Instead of driving into the animal’s rib cage, the bullet tore a furrow across its hump. Cutting loose with a shrill, enraged hiss that sounded like steam being released under high-pressure from an engine, the wounded beast turned and lunged towards its assailant.
Being trained for buffalo running, Beatrice’s horse knew the danger. Instead of allowing it to avoid the charge, she tried to guide it in what would have been the wrong direction. With a squeal, the bay gelding took the bit between its teeth and hurtled forward. Left to its own devices, it would have carried them both to safety. Beatrice’s intervention delayed it for long enough to put them in a dangerous situation.
Finding that its victim was spurting clear, the buffalo essayed a quick hook which spiked the tip of its horn into the bay’s rump. Again the horse squealed. More pained than hurt, it flung itself onwards at an even greater speed. Being completely surprised by the sudden increase in motion, Beatrice almost went flying from the saddle. Thrown forward, she dropped the Spencer. Up flew her hands, letting the reins fall, and her feet flapped to the rear. The screech she let out did nothing to lessen the bay’s pace. With the bit gripped firmly in its teeth, it raced away from the herd. Instead of retrieving the reins from the horse’s neck and using them to control it, she clung to the saddle horn with both hands. Finding itself free from restraint, the bay followed its natural inclination to put as much distance as possible between itself and the buffalo.
Seeing Beatrice’s horse bolting, Lieutenant Lebel swerved away from the rear of the herd and gave chase. Abe Peet, the hunter, took one glance in her direction and swung his mount behind the last of the buffalo. Not a bad-looking man, Peet had received sufficient encouragement from the Vicomtesse to figure rescuing her would bring a satisfactory reward. He did not want the bow-necked officer to be the one who received it.
Watching the men, Colin realized that neither of them sat a horse capable of overtaking the bay quickly. Maybe they could not even catch the frightened animal. If so, the woman might be carried for miles. Even worse, in her panic she might fall off. At the speed her mount was running, that would be very dangerous.
Nudging Mogollon’s ribs gently with his heels, Colin set the stallion into motion. From the four-beat gait of a collected walk, his further heel and rein signals induced Mogollon to open out into a gallop. He felt the mighty body between his legs change its easy movements to a powerful, pulsating thrust as it increased its speed. Settling into the heels-down, toes-in, leg position, Colin thrust his shoulders forward and chest out. Unlike Beatrice, he retained his hold on the reins and so could keep the stallion under control. Beneath them, the ground was ideally suited for galloping; firm but not so hard that it th
rew undue pressure on the frogs of the hooves. Nor did the gentle slope pose any serious threat, for Mogollon had the agility of a cat over that kind of surface. So the stallion sped on a converging course with Beatrice’s bay. It moved with the flashing speed that had so often carried it to safety when chased by human pursuers.
Becoming aware of his wife’s predicament, the Vicomte de Brioude reined in his horse. While waiting for the buffalo herd to stream by him, his attention transformed from Beatrice to Colin. Stiffening in his saddle and restraining his mount, de Brioude stared in awe at the manner in which the great chestnut stallion was racing in the Vicomtesse’s direction.
Fright had added speed to the bay gelding’s flight and Beatrice’s behavior did not improve matters. Clinging desperately to the saddle horn, swaying from side to side, she repeatedly screamed in a manner calculated to keep the horse running. All the wild exhilaration of the chase had left her and she felt only raw fear.
Fast though the bay moved, it could not match the controlled speed of the chestnut stallion. With each sequence of the galloping gait’s hoof-beats, Mogollon lessened the distance between them. Seeing the gap closing brought up a problem for Colin. How could he save the woman once he reached her?
Trying to rope the gelding offered no solution, Mogollon lacked the training necessary for such work. Nor did Colin think much of his chances if he tried to come alongside the woman’s horse, lean over and grab at the reins or headstall. While his riding skill would be equal to the task, any slight mistake on his part or panic by the woman could throw the bay off balance with fatal consequences for her. As far as Colin could see, there was only one way that he might effect the rescue. It would be as risky as hell, but better than any of the other means which had occurred to him.
Drawing level with the woman, Colin began to edge Mogollon closer to the bay. He saw a beautiful face, distorted by fear, turn towards him.
‘Help me!’ Beatrice screeched, speaking French in her fright.
There was no time for Colin to say anything comforting, nor to discuss his plan for her salvation. Already the gelding showed signs of moving away from what might be a source of further pain and danger. Mogollon still remained under Colin’s control, striding out fast and ignoring the other horse. Gripping the reins in his left hand, Colin steered his mount until his right leg almost brushed against the hem of Beatrice’s divided skirt.
‘Get your feet out of the stirrups!’ Colin snapped, hoping that she retained sufficient sense to obey.
Making sure of his balance on the saddle, he leaned over and hooked his right arm about Beatrice’s waist. Immediately he sensed rather than saw the bay veering away and felt its rider being drawn from its back. Moaning in terror, Beatrice locked her arms around his neck in a vice-like grip. Colin felt a momentary surge of concern. Unless she had heard and obeyed him, they would be in deadly peril. He doubted if she would release her hold no matter what the consequences.
The gelding continued to move away. Still supported by his arm and clinging to Colin’s neck, the woman parted company with it. Whether she had heard his instructions, or had already lost her stirrup irons, Colin could not guess. Whichever reason, she had left the bay and not become entangled with the stirrups. With her body dangling from him, Colin devoted his whole attention to bringing Mogollon to a halt. He was not helped any by her wildly kicking legs, or arms clinging to his neck and half strangling him.
‘You can let go now, ma’am,’ Colin gritted as he finally stopped the stallion. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe enough now.’
With that, he bent over and lowered her feet to the ground. For a moment she retained her hold, then opened her arms and stepped away. Colin had thought her to be beautiful during his earlier, brief glimpses. Taking his first uninterrupted look at her, he decided that he had never seen a more seductively attractive woman. That feeling increased when, after a few seconds, the fear left her features. Staring up, her eyes roved over him.
‘You saved my life!’ Beatrice purred, studying her rescuer with an expression that went beyond the bonds of gratitude.
Brought about by the Vicomtesse’s predatory scrutiny, an uneasy sensation bit into Colin. However, before any more could be said, the young officer arrived and brought his horse to a rump-sliding halt. An instant later, while Lebel was still throwing himself from his saddle, Peet thundered up. The newcomers’ eyes swung from Beatrice to Colin. Conscious of their cold scowls, the Scot figured that his intervention had not been welcomed by either man and could guess why. Beatrice was dressed as she had been on her first meeting with Mark. Although her glove hid the wedding ring, Colin felt sure that she would never allow a minor detail like having a husband interfere with her dealings with other men.
‘Are you all right, Beatrice?’ Lebel gasped, concern showing on his face. Since leaving Fort Sawyer, his scruples about lovemaking with a married woman had been reduced and he was completely infatuated by the Vicomtesse.
‘You’re safe, thank God!’ Peet barked, leaping from his mount and letting it stand with trailing reins.
‘Thanks to this gentleman I am!’ Beatrice replied coldly. ‘Perhaps one of you can manage to catch my horse.’
‘Go and get it, Peet!’ Lebel ordered.
‘Go fetch it yourself, blue-belly!’ the hunter spat back. ‘I ain’t in the blasted Army so I—’
‘Don’t start bickering!’ Beatrice commanded, the thought of the narrowly averted danger putting a sharp edge in her voice. ‘I want my horse collecting. Right now!’
‘I’ll go for it,’ Peet offered. ‘The luff’ll xvi likely get hisself all lost if he went off without somebody to hold his hand.’
‘That damned, no-account—!’ the officer began, glaring at Peet’s departing back then becoming aware that Beatrice was paying no attention to his words.
‘Sacred mother!’ the Vicomtesse ejaculated in French, staring at Mogollon. ‘Never have I seen such a magnificent horse.’
At that moment, her husband arrived. Looking at the slender, dandified figure, Colin formed the impression that he was displaying more interest in Mogollon than towards the woman. With an effort, de Brioude diverted his gaze from the stallion to Beatrice.
‘You are all right, cherie?’ the Vicomte asked.
‘Shaken up a little,’ Beatrice replied, ‘but nothing worse.’
‘You saved my wife’s life, m’sieur,’ de Brioude went on, turning to Colin. ‘None of us has a mount that could have caught her horse so quickly.’
‘This horse of mine’s not slow,’ Colin conceded.
‘Not slow?’ repeated Beatrice, walking forward and extending her right hand. ‘Why he must run like the—’
‘Don’t touch him, ma’am!’ Colin warned as Mogollon snorted and swung its head towards the woman in a threatening manner the Scot had come to recognize. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to strangers handling him.’
‘May I ask my rescuer’s name?’ Beatrice inquired, lowering her hand.
‘Yes, m’sieur,’ de Brioude went on. ‘A rescuer arriving at such an opportune moment is surprising enough. But a Scot wearing a kilt—’
‘My name’s Colin Farhquharson—’
‘Aren’t you the feller who’s working for Libby Schell?’ Lebel interrupted, deciding that an answer in the affirmative would change Beatrice’s feelings towards her rescuer.
‘Aye, that I am,’ Colin confirmed.
Instantly he could sense the chill which came into Beatrice’s manner. Then things began to slip into focus for him. On the night of their return from Fort Sawyer, Libby and Mark had told of the incidents at the hotel and store. The woman Colin had rescued must be the same who had caused Mark so much trouble. Clearly her feelings about Libby matched the blonde’s antipathy towards her.
‘Then you are a—how do you say it—mustanger, m’sieur?’ de Brioude asked eagerly, ignoring his wife’s change of attitude. ‘You catch, break and sell wild horses?’
‘I help do it,’ Colin agreed.
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‘Will you sell the one you are riding to me?’ de Brioude wanted to know.
‘Yes, m’sieur,’ Beatrice put in. ‘Will you? I do so want it.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Colin replied, noticing that a forced smile had come to Beatrice’s lips. ‘Mogollon’s not for sale.’
‘But, m’sieur,’ Beatrice purred seductively, ‘I do so want it. Surely you won’t disappoint me?’
Behind the words lay an implied promise of benefits far greater than mere money. They hinted that Beatrice’s gratitude would be well worth receiving. More than one man, faced with the full force of her voluptuous charm had yielded to her wishes or complied with her desires.
‘It grieves me, ma’am, but I’ll have to,’ Colin answered.
‘But surely you can sell us the horse,’ Beatrice insisted in her most winning manner. ‘As a favor to me. My husband will let you name your own price.’
‘Money doesn’t come into it, ma’am,’ Colin explained. ‘I caught Mogollon as a wedding gift for my fiancée. So, you see, I couldn’t sell him.’
‘But surely you have other horses,’ the Vicomtesse pouted, trying to hide her true feelings.
‘There’s only one Mogollon, ma’am,’ Colin declared. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t sell him. Well, seeing that you’re safe, I’d best be on my way.’
Anybody who knew Beatrice would have read a warning from the way her eyes narrowed and the pout disappeared to turn her full lips into a tight line. Those were signs that her temper approached its boiling point. In addition to anger at having her desires disregarded, she had another reason for wanting the horse.
Already impressed by Mogollon’s size, beauty and presence, learning why Colin would not sell had increased Beatrice’s determination to obtain the horse. The Vicomtesse could not forget how Libby Schell had thwarted her plans regarding Mark Counter. Brooding on the result of the affair, Beatrice had turned much of her hate from the blond giant to Libby. If the fat old bitch had not been with him, Beatrice felt certain that le beau Counter would have rushed willingly into her arms. Discovering that Libby had been in Mark’s bed had increased the Vicomtesse’s hatred. Now she could see a way of avenging herself. Maybe the old woman was the fiancée for whom the stallion was intended. If so, forcing the Scot to sell it would be the more satisfactory.
