Part 9 (2/2)
The moon floated higher and higher as the night grew old and at length there was a dim lightening in the east which foretold dawn, but Marianne kept on. If she lost the mares it would be very much like losing her last claim to the respect of her father. She could see him, in prospect, shrug his shoulders and roll another cigarette; above all she could see Lew Hervey smile with a suppressed wisdom. Both of them had, from the first, not only disapproved of the long price of the Coles horses, but of their long legs as well and their ”d.a.m.ned high heads.” She had kept telling herself fiercely that before long, when the mares were used to mountain ways and trails, she would ride one of them against the pick of Hervey's saddle ponies and at the end of a day he would know how much blood counts in horse fles.h.!.+ But if that chance were lost to her with the mares themselves--she did not know where she could find the courage to go back and face the people at the ranch. Meantime the dawn grew slowly in the east but even when the mountains were huge and black against flaming colors of the horizon sky, there was no breaking of Marianne's gloom. Now and then, hopelessly, she raised her field gla.s.ses and swept a segment of the compa.s.s. But it was an automatic act, and her own forecast of failure obscured her vision, until at last, saddle-racked, trembling with weariness and grief, she stopped the mare.
She was beaten!
She had turned the bay towards the home-trail when something subconsciously noted made her glance over her shoulder. And she saw them! She needed no gla.s.s to bring them close. Those six small forms moving over the distant hill could be nothing else, but if she doubted, all room for doubt was instantly removed, for in a moment a group of hors.e.m.e.n pa.s.sed raggedly over the same crest. Hervey had found them, after all! Tears of relief and astonishment streamed down her face. G.o.d bless Lew Hervey for this good work!
Even the bay seemed to recover her spirit at the sight. She had picked up her head before she felt the rein of the mistress and now she answered the first word by swinging into a brisk gallop that overhauled the others swiftly. How the eyes of Marianne feasted on the reclaimed truants! They danced along gaily, their slender bodies s.h.i.+ning with sweat in the light of the early day, and Lady Mary mincing in the lead.
A moment later, Marianne was among her cowpunchers.
They were stolid as ever but she knew them well enough to understand by the smiles they interchanged, that they were intensely pleased with their work of the night. Then she found herself crying to Hervey: ”You're wonderful! Simply wonderful! How could you have followed them so far and found them in the night?”
At that, of course, Hervey became exceedingly matter of fact. He spoke as though the explanation were self-evident.
”They busted away in a straight line,” he said, ”so I knew by that that something was leading 'em. Them bays ain't got sense enough of their own to run so straight.” She noted the slur without anger. ”Well, what was leading 'em must of been what let 'em out of the corral; and what let 'em out of the corral--”
”Horse thieves!” cried Marianne, but Hervey observed her without interest.
”Hoss stealing ain't popular around these parts for some time,” he said.
”Rustle a cow, now and then, but they don't aim no higher--not since we strung Josh Sinclair to the cottonwood. Nope, they was stole, but not by a man.”
Here he made a tantalizing pause to roll a cigarette with Marianne exclaiming: ”If not a man, then what on earth, Mr. Hervey?”
He puffed out his answer with the first big cloud of smoke: ”By another hoss! I guessed it right off. Remember what I said last night about the chestnut stallion and the bad luck he put on my gun?”
She recalled vividly how Hervey, with the utmost solemnity, had avowed that the leader of the mustangs put ”bad luck” on his bullets and that they had not seen the last of the horse. She dared not trust herself to answer Lew but glanced at the other men to see if they were not smiling at their foreman's absurd idea; they were as grave as images.
”The chestnut wanted to get back at us for killing his herd off,” went on Hervey. ”So he sneaks up to the ranch and opens the corral gate and takes the mares out. When I seen the mares were traveling so straight as all that I guessed what was up. Well, if the hoss was leading 'em, where would he take 'em? Straight to water. They was no use trying to run down them long-legged gallopers. I took a swing off to the right and headed for Warner's Tank. Sure enough, when we got there we seen the mares spread out and the chestnut and the grey mare hanging around.”
He paused again and looked sternly at Slim, and Slim flushed to the eyes and glared straight ahead.
”Slim, here, had been saying maybe it was my b.u.m shooting and not the bad luck the stallion put on my rifle that made me miss. So I give him the job of plugging the hoss. Well, he tried and missed three times. Off goes the grey and the chestnut like a streak the first crack out of the box, but we got ahead of the mares and turned 'em. And here we are.
That's all they was to it. But,” he added gravely, ”we ain't seen the last of that chestnut hoss, Miss Jordan.”
”I guess hardly another man on the range could have trailed them so well,” she said gratefully. ”But this wild horse--do you really think he'll try to steal our mares again?”
”Think? I know! And the next time we won't get 'em back so plumb easy.
Right this morning, if they'd got started quick enough when he give 'em the signal, we'd never of headed 'em. But they ain't turned wild yet; they ain't used to his ways. Give him another whirl with them and they'll belong to him for good. Ain't no hosses around these parts can run them mares down!”
She heard the tribute with a smile of pleasure and ran satisfied glances over the six beauties which cantered or trotted before them.
”But even wild things are captured,” she argued. ”Even deer are caught.
If the chestnut _did_ run off the mares again why couldn't--”
Hervey interrupted dryly: ”Down Concord way, Jess Rankin was pestered by a black mustang. Jess was a pretty tolerable fair hunter, knowed mustangs and mustang-ways, and had a right fine string of saddle hosses.
Well, it took Jess four years of hard work to get the black. Up by Mexico Creek, Bud Wilkinson had a grey stallion that run amuck on his range. Took Bud nigh onto five years to get the grey. Well, I seen both the grey and the black, and I helped run 'em a couple of times. Well, Miss Jordan, when it come to running, neither of 'em was one-two-three beside this chestnut, and if it took five years to get in rifle range of 'em for a good shot, it'll take ten to get the chestnut. That's the way I figure!”
And as he ended, his companions nodded soberly.
<script>