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Running Fox, a brown blanket twisted over one shoulder, the rest of him stripped down to breechclout and moccasins, padded up to Hilario Trinfan and spoke in the guttural Pima. The mustanger translated. "The horses are still there. But there is a camp of two men on the north slope above the canyon. Both men are Anglos. They are armed with rifles and take turns watching."
There would have been signs of a fire. Or one of the animals cut down. These horses were being moved with care—not pushed too hard. We trailed them on to here." Hilario stabbed his finger into the dust again. "Then—Teodoro, now tell them what you saw." The younger mustanger hung over the crude map. "I climbed, señores, up over the rocks.
The mustanger walked forward with a lurch, his head thrown far back so he could look up at Drew from under the wide brim of his sombrero. "This you could not do with a true wild one," he commented. "I know that, señor. This colt was not an enemy, one who has already been hunted by man. He was only afraid...." "But you have the gift. It is born in one—the gift.
Running Fox materialized in his ghostly fashion, and they retraced at a better speed and less effort the path which had brought them to the canyon perch. Just as they were about to top the ridge behind the mustanger camp, the Pima held up a warning hand. "Long knives...." "Troopers?" They went to their knees and made a stealthy crawl to the crest of the ridge.
"Your patrol picked me up well away from those horses—in the mustanger camp where I was workin’—and Captain Bayliss can’t prove that’s not true, either. Anyway, what difference does it make to you, Sergeant?" "Since you ask, I don’t rightly know, kid. Maybe you was spoilin’ for a fight in th’ Jacks an’ did push our boys—" "But you don’t think so, Sergeant."
"Throw off your guns an’ git down ... one at a time ... th’ Mex first." Drew watched Teodoro slide out of the saddle. "Stand away from that hoss ... easy now." The mustanger obeyed. "Now you ... do jus’ like him." Drew followed instructions carefully. "Hands up—high! Now turn around." They turned.
An’ th’ stolen Mex hosses, they’s drove up here an’ maybe sold to some of th’ same fellas what lost th’ others. Hosses git themselves lost ’long them back-country trails, specially if they’s pushed hard. So them strays join up with th’ wild ones. Iffen a mustanger can rope him one an’ bring it in ... well, if it’s a good one, maybe so he’ll git a reward from th’ man what’s lost him.
Antonio, the "Mustanger" of the Leona. "Creasing" a Wild Horse. The Prairie-dog Town. Wild Turkeys. The Missing Boys. Prisoners in the Hands of the Comanches. The "Lingo" of the Plains. The Ransom and Rescue. Dog Meat. Comanches in the Distance. Attacked. The Fight. The Arapahoe Scout to the Rescue. Wounded. Comanche Signals. More Trouble. The Ambuscade. A Night Attack. A Mule killed.
As he approached he bid us a courteous good-day in English, and inquired if we had chanced to see a "gang" of wild mustangs during the day; saying that he was known as Antonio, the "mustanger" of the Leona, and that his occupation was catching and taming wild mustangs.
The young mustanger went to look down at the Pinto. "He is dead." That was an observation rather than a question. Teodoro knelt in the dust, drew his knife and cut loose strands of the long mane hair. "I shot him." Drew was more intent on Shiloh’s wounds. "He was killin’ Shiloh." He pushed back the thought that although his horse was still on its feet, the Pinto might have killed him, after all.
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