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Updated: June 17, 2025
The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off. "Here's to try him." The gun flashed into Slim's hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.
At sunset it takes the color not always, not often, in fact, perhaps a dozen times a year. There are days and days when the range is only white and cold, days when it's black with storms, and days when it's dismal gray. Then there comes an evening when the sun goes down red behind the San Juan, and the snows on Sangre de Cristo run like blood.
In gray-brown desolation the sand dunes rolled away to the foothills, far and violet and dim. All was cold and bleak and forbidding, and the sun itself appeared to be retiring eagerly from a scene so dreary and disheartening. Then came magic. Sangre de Cristo, sharp against the eastern sky, began to change its hue. A pink flush came into the gleaming white.
On reaching the place of rendezvous, Carlton, while in the Sangre de Christo Pass, by the aid of his guide Kit Carson, discovered a trail made by three of the enemy, and on following it up, it was found to join the main path on the Huerfano Creek.
A man on a tall gray, with the legs of speed and plenty of girth at the cinches, where girth means lung power, twisted out of a side trail and swung past El Sangre at a fast gallop. The blood-bay snorted and came hard against the bit in a desire to follow. On the range, when he led his wild band, no horse had ever passed El Sangre and hardly the voice of the master could keep him back now.
The documents were discolored and the ink faded and this much Carson was able to decipher: "Jean Maldonado visited a far distant country north of Santa Fe a wide valley through which flowed a stream, along the banks were bushes that bore fruit like unto those of Spain in the valley were herds of oxen of the bigness and color of our bulls their horns are not so great they have a great bunch upon their fore shoulders and more hair on the forepart than on the hindpart; they have a horse's mane upon their backbone and much hair and very long from the knees downward they have great tufts of hair hanging from their foreheads and it seemeth they have beards they push with their horns they overtake and kill a horse finally it is a fierce beast of countenance and form of body we feared these beasts and stayed near the mountains named the Sangre de Christo.... Climbed the mountain to a great flat rock that stood on end like a platter.... Jean Maldonado, commander of an expedition reached this place 1750.... The mine yielded much gold in a rock like white china Babtiste beat it out with Mattheo returned from Santa Fe with more donkeys loaded donkeys with much unbeaten rock returned to Santa Fe"
With the group was a lieutenant, buttoned close in his gray coat, one button gone, perhaps to make a breastpin for some fair traitorous bosom. A short, stocky man, undistinguishable from one of the "subject race" by any obvious meanderings of the sangre azul on his exposed surfaces. He did not say much, possibly because he was convinced by the statements and arguments of the Dutch captain.
The rancher turned in the saddle and crossed his companion with one of his searching glances, but returned no reply. Presently, however, he sent his own capable Steeldust into a sharp gallop; El Sangre roused to a flowing pace and held the other even without the slightest difficulty. At this Pollard drew rein with an exclamation. "El Sangre as sure as I live!" he declared.
Where the snow peaks rear their summits is the head of Pecos Cañon a sort of snow top to the sides of a triangle, the Santa Fe Range shutting off the left on the west, the Las Vegas or Sangre de Christo Mountains walling in the right on the east. I know of nothing like it for grandeur in America except the Rockies round Laggan in Canada.
With the group was a lieutenant, buttoned close in his gray coat, one button gone, perhaps to make a breastpin for some fair traitorous bosom. A short, stocky man, undistinguishable from one of the "subject race" by any obvious meanderings of the sangre azul on his exposed surfaces. He did not say much, possibly because he was convinced by the statements and arguments of the Dutch captain.
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