Panguitch

by Zane Grey

  It was still early in the day, for now and then the white sun shone above in the narrow gap between the lofty rims. Chane felt that he would have leisure today and the following days to explore every nook and cranny under the mysterious wall of the great mesa. Brutus walked noiselessly over the rocks and left no trace. Chane avoided the sandbars. If the wild horses were out on top and should come down to see horse tracks in the sand of their secret passageway to and from the mesa, they might, under the leadership of Panguitch, at once turn back. Chane remembered wonderful instances of the intelligence, almost reasoning power, of wild stallions. The longer a stallion was hunted the keener and wilder he became. Panguitch had outwitted a hundred wild horse wranglers. But that had been in open country. Here, deep in these narrow cañons, with their abrupt turns and deep waterways, he would be decidedly at a disadvantage. Chane had not in the least been tempted to bring Alonzo to help him, though he acknowledged the superiority of the vaquero. Chane had the wild horse hunter’s strange ambition, so far as a great stallion was concerned: he would corner and rope Panguitch unaided.

  As Chane progressed down the cañon, he paid strict attention to only those places where a crack in the wall, a branch cañon, or a wide enlargement might hide a possible means of exit to the rim above. It was astonishing what careful investigation brought to light. Chane found places where he might have climbed out on foot, but where Brutus, agile as he was, could not follow.

  At length he reached the big park-like oval, the expansion of the cañon, where in his memorable flight across the rivers and out of this labyrinth he had encountered Panguitch with his band. Near the upper end of this huge oval Chane dismounted to walk along the stones at the edge of the sandy bars, and worked back to where the water disappeared. He found horse tracks, made, he was sure, the day before. They came to the water and went back toward the low rise of red slope. This point was not where he had encountered Panguitch. That, Chane remembered, was a beautiful constriction of this enlargement of the cañon, a bowl-like place, full of cottonwoods and willows, and characterized by a more wonderful slope than this one.

  Chane studied the whole opposite wall, as far as he could see. He could see perhaps a mile of this oval. Just opposite where he stood a wide break in the wall came down to the sand. It was smooth and worn rock, widening like a fan toward the wavy summit of yellow ridges. These he knew were the round knolls so marked when one gazed down upon the cañon country from the rims. Beyond and above, of course, rose Wild Horse Mesa, but Chane could not get a glimpse of it. He noted how the wavy red rock spread beyond and behind bulges of the wall, that to the left and right of him sheered down perpendicularly to his level.

  That one to the right of him held his studious attention because he believed it hid much from his gaze. This huge frowning section of cañon wall lay between the slope opposite him and the one below where he had watched Panguitch climb. It looked to Chane as if the wild horses could come down one slope and go up the other. Then he remembered the narrow gleaming walls and the long deep pools of water. Surely the wild horses could not swim these except when on the way out to the upland country above, or when they were returning to their mysterious abode. Chane decided that it would take days to get a clear map in his mind of this maze.

  Returning to Brutus, he rode on down the oval, keeping to the curve of wall, far from the center. As he rode he got higher, and farther back, so that his view of the slope opposite was better. Soon, however, the bulge of intervening wall shut out his view entirely of that slope. Then he attended more keenly to what lay ahead.

  The oval park ended in a constriction like the neck of a bottle. The sunlight came down from a marvelous slope of red rock, waved and billowed, resembling a sea on end. This slope he recalled so well that he felt a thrill. Here was where he had watched Panguitch climb out. A dark cleft, V-shaped, split the ponderous bulk of the cliff at the end of the oval. It was still far off, but Chane recognized it. Down in there was where he hoped someday to meet Panguitch. His hope was merely a dream, he knew, for the chances were a thousand to one that he never would have such luck.

  “Reckon I’ll leave Brutus and climb that slope,” soliloquized Chane.

  Whereupon he rode on down past the break in the wall toward the grove of cottonwoods. Here there was shade and patches of green grass. As Chane dismounted, Brutus lifted his head and shot up his ears, in the action that was characteristic of him when he heard something unusual.

  “Hey, what’d you hear, old boy?” queried Chane, suddenly tense.

  A distant hollow sound seemed to be filling Chane’s ears. But it might have been just the strangeness of the cañon wind, like the roar of the sea in a cave. Chane waited, slowly losing his tensity. But he observed that Brutus lost nothing of attentiveness. Chane trusted the horse, and, desiring to get under cover, he drew Brutus in among the cottonwoods, and selected a place where he could see in all directions without being seen, and have at least one hidden exit, that down into the V-shaped cleft. Chane remembered Manerube and Bud McPherson.

  Brutus turned so that he could head up the cañon, and only Chane’s hand and low voice kept him still. The keener ears or nose of the horse had reacted to something Chane could not yet detect.

  All at once a weird, horrid blast pealed out, not far from Chane, and higher than where he stood. The echoes bellowed from wall to wall. Chane, seeing that Brutus was about to neigh, clasped his muzzle with strong pressure.

  “Keep still,” whispered Chane fiercely.

  He had never heard a sound so uncanny and fearful. It made his blood creep, and for a second he sustained a shock. Then his quick mind solved the realization that in this country nothing but a horse could peal out such a cry. Therefore, when it was followed by light quick clatter of hoofs, Chane was not at all surprised.

  “Brutus, we’ve heard that before,” he whispered, patting the horse.

  Chane was several hundred yards from where the slope merged into the level cañon floor, and the lower part of it, owing to the cottonwoods, was hidden from his sight. But wild horses were surely coming down, and they might turn to enter the V-shaped cleft instead of up the cañon. Something had frightened them. “By golly,” he muttered, “this a queer deal.” He wanted much to linger there and see the wild horses, but instead of staying he leaped on Brutus, and, riding close to the wall, under protection of the cottonwoods, he made quick time to the end of the grove. Here lay sections of wall that had broken from above. At the mouth of the cleft Chane rode Brutus behind a huge boulder, and dismounting there, he peeped out.

  This point of vantage, owing to the curve of the wall taking him out and away from the restricted view in the cottonwoods, gave him command of the cañon.

  He was just in time to get a glimpse of red and black and bay mustangs entering the cottonwoods from the slope.

  Far up that wavy incline he espied a slight figure, moving down. He could scarcely credit his eyes. Did it belong to an Indian? Yet the quick lithe step stirred his pulse. He had seen it before, somewhere. Dark hair streamed in the breeze.

  “Sue,” whispered Chane in utter astonishment. “Well, I’ll be … she and Chess have wandered up there. They’re having fun chasing wild horses. But where’s Panguitch?”

  Chane could not see that part of the slope to his right, for a projection of overhanging wall hid it from sight.

  Then a band of wild horses burst from the cottonwoods, out into the open sandy space of several acres. They were trotting, bunched close, frightened but not yet in panic. Presently, far out on the sandbar, they halted, heads up, uncertain which way to go.

  From the far side of them Panguitch appeared, trotting with long strides, something in his leonine beauty and wildness, his tawny black-maned beauty, striking Chane as half horse and half lion.

  Certain it was that sight of him sent a gush of hot blood racing over Chane. His mind seemed to be trying to overcome mere tense and vibrating
sensation, to grasp at some strange fatality in the moment. Here he hid. Panguitch was there, not a quarter of a mile away. If Chess should happen to be on the other side of that band of wild horses, they would run pell-mell down toward the V-shaped cleft. Chane’s hand shook as he pressed it close on the nose of the quivering Brutus.

  Panguitch trotted in front of his band, to one side and then the other, looking in every direction. He did not whistle. To Chane he had the appearance of a stallion uncertain of his ground. He looked up the slope, at the girl coming down, choosing the easiest travel from her position, now walking, now running, and working toward a bulge of cliff. Then Panguitch gave no further heed to Sue. He was sure of danger in that direction. He trotted out to the edge of the sandbar and faced down, his head high, eager, strained, wild.

  “By golly, I’m afraid he’s got a whiff of me and Brutus,” whispered Chane. “What a nose he has. The wind favors us. Now, I want to know why he doesn’t make a break up the cañon.”

  Panguitch wheeled from his survey down the cañon to one in the opposite direction. His action now showed that his suspicions were strong in this quarter. His great strides, his nervous halting, his erect tail and mane, his bobbing head, proved to Chane that he wanted to lead his band up the cañon, but feared something yet unseen.

  A sweet wild gay cry pealed down from the slope.

  Chane espied Sue standing on the bulging cliff, high above the cañon floor, and she was flinging her arms and crying out in the exultation of the moment. Chane saw the sunlight on her face. He strained his ears to distinguish what she was voicing to the wildness of the place and the beautiful horses that called it home.

  “Fly! Oh, Panguitch fly!” she was singing to the wind, in the joy of her adventure, in the love of freedom she shared with Panguitch.

  Chane understood her. This was girlish fun she was having, yet her sweet wild cry held the dominant note of her deeper meaning. She loved Panguitch, and all wild horses, and yearned for them to be free.

  “Girl, little do you dream you may drive Panguitch straight into my rope,” muttered Chane grimly.

  The stallion suddenly froze in his tracks, making a magnificent statue typifying fear. A whistling blast escaped him. The nature of the hollow walls must have given it tremendous volume. It pealed from cliff to cliff, and then, augmented by united whistles from the other horses, it swelled into a deafening concatenation.

  Chane’s keen eye detected Chess up the cañon, bounding into view. At the same instant Panguitch wheeled as if on a pivot and leaped into headlong stride down the cañon, with his band falling in behind him.

  Like a flash Chane vaulted into the saddle. He sent Brutus flying over stones and through water into the cool shadow of the cleft. Any narrow place to hide from behind, which he could rope the stallion. All Chane’s force went into the idea. A jutting corner tempted him, as did another huge rock, but the gleam of water drew him on. One of the deep long pools lay just ahead. Brutus padded on at tremendous gait. The cañon narrowed, darkened, and more than once Chane’s stirrup rasped on the wall.

  Full speed Brutus charged into the pool, and plunged through shallow water. To his knees, to his flanks he floundered on—then souse, he went into deep water, going under all but his head. How icy the water to Chane’s heated blood. He gazed back. Not yet could he see any movement of wild horses.

  Fifty yards ahead the straight wall heaved into a corner, around which the stream turned in a curve. If Chane could find footing for Brutus behind that corner, Panguitch would have no chance. What a trap! Chane reveled in the moment. The wildest dream of his boyhood was being enacted.

  He did not spare Brutus, but urged him, spurred him, beat him into tremendous action. The swelling wave made by the horse splashed on the walls. Brutus reached the corner—turned it. Chane reined him into the wall. There was a narrow bench, just level with the water. But that would be of no help unless Brutus could touch bottom. He did. Chane stifled a yell of exultation. Fate was indeed against Panguitch. Brutus waded his full length before he reached the ledge. He was still in five feet of water, and on slippery rocks. Chane had no time to waste. The cracking of hoofs up the cañon rang like shots in his ears. Panguitch and his band were coming. Chane needed room to swing his lasso. Should he get out on the ledge or stay astride Brutus? Both plans had features to recommend them. But it would be best to stay on Brutus.

  Chane turned the horse around. Brutus accomplished this without slipping off the rocks into deep water.

  “Brutus, what do I want with Panguitch when I have you?” Chane heard himself whisper. He did not need Panguitch. It was his hunting instinct and long habit.

  Then Chane had burst upon him the last singular fact in the string of fatalities that now bade fair to doom Panguitch. The important thing at the climax here was to have room to cast the lasso. Chane had felt the nearness of the corner of wall. He had planned to urge Brutus into the water the instant Panguitch appeared. But this need not be risked. There was no necessity to get beyond the corner of wall.

  Chane was left-handed. He threw a noose with his left hand, and in the position now assumed he was as free to swing his rope as if he had been out in the open.

  The trap and the trick were ready. Chane’s agitation settled to a keen, tight, grim exultation. Nothing could save Panguitch if he ever entered that deep pool. Chane listened so intensely he heard his heartbeats. Yes! He heard them coming. Their hard hoofs rang with bell-like clearness upon the boulders. Then the hollow muffled sound of hoofs on rock under the water—then the splashing swish!

  Soon the narrow cañon resounded to a melodious din. Suddenly it ceased. Chane realized the wild horses had reached the pool. His heart ceased to beat. Would the keen Panguitch, victor over a hundred clever tricks to capture him, shy at this treacherous pool? Clip-clop! He had stepped out into the water. Chane heard his wild snort. He feared something, but was not certain. The enemies behind were realities. Clip-clop! He stepped again. Clip-clop! Into deeper water he had ventured. Then a crashing plunge!

  It was followed by a renewed din of pounding hollow hoof cracks, snorts, and splashes. They were all taking to the pool.

  Chane swung the noose of his lasso around his head, tilting it to evade the corner of wall. It began to whiz. His eyes were riveted piercingly upon the water where it swirled gently in sight from behind the gray stone. Brutus was quivering under him. The plunging crashes ceased. All the wild horses were swimming. The din fell to sharp snuffing breaths and gentle swash of water. A wave preceded the swimming band.

  A lean beautiful head slid from behind the wall, with long black mane floating from it. Panguitch held his head high.

  At that short distance Chane could have roped one of his ears. Even in the tremendous strain Chane could wait a second longer. Panguitch was his.

  The stallion saw Brutus and his rider—the swinging rope. Into the dark wild eyes came a terror that distended them. A sound like a horrid scream escaped him. He plunged to turn. His head came out.

  Then Chane cast the lasso. It hissed and spread, and the loop, like a snake, cracked over Panguitch, under his chin and behind his ears. One powerful sweep of Chane’s arm tightened that noose.

  “Whoopee!” yelled Chane with all the power of his lungs. “He’s roped! He’s roped! Panguitch! Oh, ho-ho! He’s ours, Brutus, old boy. After him, old boy.”

  Panguitch plunged back, pounding the water, and as Chane held hard on the lasso the stallion went under. Chane clacked the rope, and urged Brutus off the rocks. Pandemonium had begun around that corner of wall. As Brutus soused in, and lunged to the middle of the stream, Chane saw a sight he could never forget.

  Upward of a score of wild horses were frantically beating and crashing the water to escape back in the direction they had come. Some were trying to climb the shelving wall, only to slip, and souse under. They bobbed up more frantic than before, screaming their terror. Some were
trying to climb over the backs of those to the fore. All were in violent commotion, and uttering some variation of horse sounds.

  Panguitch, hampered by the lasso, was falling behind. Chane pulled him under water, then let him come up. Brutus had to be guided, for he tried to swim straight to the stallion. Chane did not want that kind of a fight. It was his purpose to hold Panguitch in the pool until he was exhausted. With that noose around his neck he must tire sooner than Brutus. This unequal struggle could not last long. Chane had no power to contain his madness of delight, the emotion roused by the feel of Panguitch on the other end of his lasso. Panguitch, the despair of Nevada wranglers long before he had shown his clear heels to those of Utah! Panguitch roped! It was incredible good fortune. It was the great moment of Chane’s wild life.

  “Aha there, old lion mane!” he called, true even in that moment to his old habit of talking to horses. “You made one run too many! You run into a rope! Swim now! Heave hard! Dive, you rascal! You’re a fish. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  But when Panguitch plunged around to make for his adversaries, the tables were turned. Chane’s yell of exultation changed to one of alarm, both to frighten Panguitch, if possible, and to hold Brutus back. Both, however, seemed impossible. Brutus would not turn his back to that stallion. His battle cry pealed out. Chane hauled on the lasso, but he could not again pull Panguitch under.

  Despite all Chane could do, the stallion and Brutus met in head-on collision. A terrific melee ensued. Chane was thrown off Brutus as from a catapult. But he was swift to take advantage of this accident. A few powerful strokes brought him around to Panguitch, and by dint of supreme effort astride the back of the wild stallion.