The Last of the Plainsmen by Zane Grey (bill gates best books .TXT) đ
- Author: Zane Grey
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CHAPTER 6. THE WHITE MUSTANG
For thirty miles down Nail Canyon we marked, in every dusty trail and sandy wash, the small, oval, sharply defined tracks of the White Mustang 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, glistening surfaces that had been polished by wind and water. No weathered heaps of shale, no crumbled piles of stone obstructed its level floor. And, softly toning its drab austerity, here grew the white sage, waving in the breeze, the Indian Paint Brush, with vivid vermilion flower, and patches of fresh, green grass.
âThe White King, as we Arizona wild-hoss wranglers calls this mustang, is mighty pertickler about his feed, anâ he ranged along here last night, easy like, browsinâ on this white sage,â said Stewart. Inflected by our intense interest in the famous mustang, and ruffled slightly by Jonesâs manifest surprise and contempt that no one had captured him, Stewart had volunteered to guide us. âNever knowed him to run in this way fer water; fact is, never knowed Nail Canyon had a fork. It splits down here, but youâd think it was only a crack in the wall. Anâ thet cunninâ mustang hes been foolinâ us fer years about this waterhole.â
The fork of Nail Canyon, which Stewart had decided we were in, had been accidentally discovered by Frank, who, in search of our horses one morning had crossed a ridge, to come suddenly upon the blind, box-like head of the canyon. Stewart knew the lay of the ridges and run of the canyons as well as any man could know a country where, seemingly, every rod was ridged and bisected, and he was of the opinion that we had stumbled upon one of the White Mustangâs secret passages, by which he had so often eluded his pursuers.
Hard riding had been the order of the day, but still we covered ten more miles by sundown. The canyon apparently closed in on us, so camp was made for the night. The horses were staked out, and supper made ready while the shadows were dropping; and when darkness settled thick over us, we lay under our blankets.
Morning disclosed the White Mustangâs secret passage. It was a narrow cleft, splitting the canyon wall, rough, uneven, tortuous and choked with fallen rocksâno more than a wonderful crack in solid stone, opening into another canyon. Above us the sky seemed a winding, flowing stream of blue. The walls were so close in places that a horse with pack would have been blocked, and a rider had to pull his legs up over the saddle. On the far side, the passage fell very suddenly for several hundred feet to the floor of the other canyon. No hunter could have seen it, or suspected it from that side.
âThis is Grand Canyon country, anâ nobody knows what heâs goinâ to find,â was Frankâs comment.
âNow weâre in Nail Canyon proper,â said Stewart; âAnâ I know my bearinâs. I can climb out a mile below anâ cut across to Kanab Canyon, anâ slip up into Nail Canyon agin, ahead of the mustangs, anâ drive âem up. I canât miss âem, fer Kanab Canyon is impassable down a little ways. The mustangs will hev to run this way. So all you need do is go below the break, where I climb out, anâ wait. Youâre sure goinâ to get a look at the White Mustang. But wait. Donât expect him before noon, anâ after thet, any time till he comes. Mebbe itâll be a couple of days, so keep a good watch.â
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 its regularity 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 into fragments.
It seemed that Jones, after much survey of different corners, angles and points in the canyon floor, chose his position with much greater care than appeared necessary for the ultimate success of our ventureâwhich was simply to see the White Mustang, and if good fortune attended us, to snap some photographs of this wild king of horses. It flashed over me that, with his ruling passion strong within him, our leader was laying some kind of trap for that mustang, was indeed bent on his capture.
Wallace, Frank and Jim were stationed at a point below the break where Stewart had evidently gone up and out. How a horse could have climbed that streaky white slide was a mystery. Jonesâs instructions to the men were to wait until the mustangs were close upon them, and then yell and shout 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 the ground. A wash from ten to fifteen feet wide, and as deep, ran through the canyon in a somewhat meandering course. At the corner which consumed so much of his attention, the dry ditch ran along the cliff wall about fifty feet out; between it and the wall was good level ground, on the other side huge rocks and shale made it hummocky, practically impassable for a horse. It was plain the mustangs, on their way up, would choose the inside of the wash; and here in the middle of the passage, just round the jutting corner, Jones tied our horses to good, strong bushes. His next act was significant. He threw out his lasso and, dragging every crook out of it, carefully recoiled it, and hung it loose over the pommel of his saddle.
âThe White Mustang may be yours before dark,â he said with the smile that came so seldom. âNow I placed our horses there for two reasons. The mustangs wonât see them till theyâre right on them. Then youâll see a sight and have a chance for a great picture. They will halt; the stallion will prance, whistle and snort for a fight, and then theyâll see the saddles and be off. Weâll hide across the wash, down a little way, and at the right time weâll shout and yell to drive them up.â
By piling sagebrush round a stone, we made a hiding-place. Jones was extremely cautious to arrange the bunches in natural positions. âA Rocky Mountain Big Horn is the only four-footed beast,â he said, âthat has a better eye than a wild horse. A cougar has an eye, too; heâs used to lying high up on the cliffs and looking down for his quarry so as to stalk it at night; but even a cougar has to take second to a mustang when it comes to sight.â
The hours passed slowly. The sun baked us; the stones were too hot to touch; flies buzzed behind our ears; tarantulas peeped at us from holes. The afternoon slowly waned.
At dark we returned to where we had left Wallace and the cowboys. Frank had solved the problem of water supply, for he had found a little spring trickling from a cliff, which, by skillful management, produced enough drink for the horses. We had packed our water for camp use.
âYou take the first watch to-night,â said Jones to me after supper. âThe mustangs might try to slip by our fire in the night and we must keep a watch or them. Call Wallace when your timeâs up. Now, fellows, roll in.â
When the pink of dawn was shading white, we were at our posts. A long, hot dayâinterminably long, deadening to the keenest interestâpassed, and still no mustangs came. We slept and watched again, in the grateful cool of night, till the third day broke.
The hours passed; the cool breeze changed to hot; the sun blazed over the canyon wall; the stones scorched; the flies buzzed. I fell asleep in the scant shade of the sage bushes and awoke, stifled and moist. The old plainsman, never weary, leaned with his back against a stone and watched, with narrow gaze, the canyon below. The steely walls hurt my eyes; the sky was like hot copper. Though nearly wild with heat and aching bones and muscles and the long hours of waitâwaitâwait, I was ashamed to complain, for there sat the old man, still and silent. I routed out a hairy tarantula from under a stone and teased him into a frenzy with my stick, and tried to get up a fight between him and a scallop-backed horned-toad that blinked wonderingly at me. Then I espied a green lizard on a stone. The beautiful reptile was about a foot in length, bright green, dotted with red, and he had diamonds for eyes. Nearby a purple flower blossomed, delicate and pale, with a bee sucking at its golden heart. I observed then that the lizard had his jewel eyes upon the bee; he slipped to the edge of the stone, flicked out 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 to look at, to think about, to distract me from the wearisome wait!
âListen!â broke in Jonesâs sharp voice. His neck was stretched, his eyes were closed, his ear was turned to the wind.
With thrilling, reawakened eagerness, I strained my hearing. I caught a faint sound, then lost it.
âPut your ear to the ground,â said Jones. I followed his advice, and detected the rhythmic beat of galloping horses.
âThe mustangs are coming, sure as youâre born!â exclaimed Jones.
âThere I see the cloud of dust!â cried he a minute later.
In the first bend of the canyon below, a splintered ruin of rock now lay under a rolling cloud of dust. A white flash appeared, a line of bobbing black objects, and more dust; then with a sharp pounding of hoofs, into clear vision shot a dense black
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