tired? Never thought of how you fooled me, did you? Now, the first thing you get is a good licking.”
He tied them in a little log pen near the cabin and whipped them soundly. And the next few days, while Wallace and I rested, he took them out separately and deliberately ran them over coyote and deer trails. Sometimes we heard his stentorian yell as a forerunner to the blast from his old shotgun. Then again we heard the shots unheralded by the yell. Wallace and I waxed warm under the collar over this peculiar method of training dogs, and each of us made dire threats. But in justice to their implacable trainer, the dogs never appeared to be hurt; never a spot of blood flecked their glossy coats, nor did they ever come home limping. Sounder grew wise, and Don gave up, but Moze appeared not to change.
“All hands ready to rustle,” sang out Frank one morning. “Old Baldy’s got to be shod.”
This brought us all, except Jones, out of the cabin, to see the object of Frank’s anxiety tied to a nearby oak. At first I failed to recognize Old Baldy. Vanished was the slow, sleepy, apathetic manner that had characterized him; his ears lay back on his head; fire flashed from his eyes. When Frank threw down a kit-bag, which emitted a metallic clanking, Old Baldy sat back on his haunches, planted his forefeet deep in the ground and plainly as a horse could speak, said “No!”
“Sometimes he’s bad, and sometimes worse,” growled Frank.
“Shore he’s plumb bad this mornin’,” replied Jim.
Frank got the three of us to hold Baldy’s head and pull him up, then he ventured to lift a hind foot over his line. Old Baldy straightened out his leg and sent Frank sprawling into the dirt. Twice again Frank patiently tried to hold a hind leg, with the same result; and then he lifted a forefoot. Baldy uttered a very intelligible snort, bit through Wallace’s glove, yanked Jim off his feet, and scared me so that I let go his forelock. Then he broke the rope which held him to the tree. There was a plunge, a scattering of men, though Jim still valiantly held on to Baldy’s head, and a thrashing of scrub pinyon, where Baldy reached out vigorously with his hind feet. But for Jim, he would have escaped.
“What’s all the row?” called Jones from the cabin. Then from the door, taking in the situation, he yelled: “Hold on, Jim! Pull down on the ornery old cayuse!”
He leaped into action with a lasso in each hand, one whirling round his head. The slender rope straightened with a whiz and whipped round Baldy’s legs as he kicked viciously. Jones pulled it tight, then fastened it with nimble fingers to the tree.
“Let go! let go! Jim!” he yelled, whirling the other lasso. The loop flashed and fell over Baldy’s head and tightened round his neck. Jones threw all the weight of his burly form on the lariat, and Baldy crashed to the ground, rolled, tussled, screamed, and then lay on his back, kicking the air with three free legs. “Hold this,” ordered Jones, giving the tight rope to Frank. Whereupon he grabbed my lasso from the saddle, roped Baldy’s two forefeet, and pulled him down on his side. This lasso he fastened to a scrub cedar.
“He’s chokin’!” said Frank.
“Likely he is,” replied Jones shortly. “It’ll do him good.” But with his big hands he drew the coil loose and slipped it down over Baldy’s nose, where he tightened it again.
“Now, go ahead,” he said, taking the rope from Frank.
It had all been done in a twinkling. Baldy lay there groaning and helpless, and when Frank once again took hold of the wicked leg, he was almost passive. When the shoeing operation had been neatly and quickly attended to and Baldy released from his uncomfortable position he struggled to his feet with heavy breaths, shook himself, and looked at his master.
“How’d you like being hog-tied?” queried his conqueror, rubbing Baldy’s nose. “Now, after this you’ll have some manners.”
Old Baldy seemed to understand, for he looked sheepish, and lapsed once more into his listless, lazy unconcern.
“Where’s Jim’s old cayuse, the pack-horse?” asked our leader.
“Lost. Couldn’t find him this morning, an’ had a deuce of a time findin’ the rest of the bunch. Old Baldy was cute. He hid in a bunch of pinyons an’ stood quiet so his bell wouldn’t ring. I had to trail him.”
“Do the horses stray far when they are hobbled?” inquired Wallace.
“If they keep jumpin’ all night they can cover some territory. We’re now on the edge of the wild horse country, and our nags know this as well as we. They smell the mustangs, an’ would break their necks to get away. Satan and the sorrel were ten miles from camp when I found them this mornin’. An’ Jim’s cayuse went farther, an’ we never will get him. He’ll wear his hobbles out, then away with the wild horses. Once with them, he’ll never be caught again.”
On the sixth day of our stay at Oak we had visitors, whom Frank introduced as the Stewart brothers and Lawson, wild-horse wranglers. They were still, dark men, whose facial expression seldom varied; tall and lithe and wiry as the mustangs they rode. The Stewarts were on their way to Kanab, Utah, to arrange for the sale of a drove of horses they had captured and corraled in a narrow canyon back in the Siwash. Lawson said he was at our service, and was promptly hired to look after our horses.
“Any cougar signs back in the breaks?” asked Jones.
“Wal, there’s a cougar on every deer trail,” replied the elder Stewart, “An’ two for every pinto in the breaks. Old Tom himself downed fifteen colts fer us this spring.”
“Fifteen colts! That’s wholesale murder. Why don’t you kill the butcher?”
“We’ve tried more’n onct. It’s a turrible busted up country, them brakes. No man knows it, an’ the cougars do. Old Tom ranges all the ridges and brakes, even up on the slopes of Buckskin; but he lives down there in them holes, an’ Lord knows, no dog I ever seen could follow him. We tracked him in the snow, an’ had dogs after him, but none could stay with him, except two as never cum back. But we’ve nothin’ agin Old Tom like Jeff Clarke, a hoss rustler, who has a string of pintos corraled north of us. Clarke swears he ain’t raised a colt in two years.”
“We’ll put that old cougar up a tree,” exclaimed Jones.
“If you kill him we’ll make you all a present of a mustang, an’ Clarke, he’ll give you two each,” replied Stewart. “We’d be gettin’ rid of him cheap.”
“How many wild horses on the mountain now?”
“Hard to tell. Two or three thousand, mebbe. There’s almost no ketchin’ them, an’ they regrowin’ all the time We ain’t had no luck this spring. The bunch in corral we got last year.”
“Seen anythin’ of the White Mustang?” inquired Frank. “Ever get a rope near him?”
“No nearer’n we hev fer six years back. He can’t be ketched. We seen him an’ his band of blacks a few days ago, headin’ fer a water-hole down where Nail Canyon runs into Kanab Canyon. He’s so cunnin’ he’ll never water at any of our trap corrals. An’ we believe he can go without water fer two weeks, unless mebbe he hes a secret hole we’ve never trailed him to.”
“Would we have any chance to see this White Mustang and his band?” questioned Jones.
“See him? Why, thet’d be easy. Go down Snake Gulch, camp at Singin’ Cliffs, go over into
