Raising the chanter of a set of bagpipes to his lips, Colin Farquharson glanced to his right at the Ysabel Kid then left to Dusty Fog. They nodded their agreement and all turned their eyes towards the range ahead of them. Some thirty horses grazed on the grama grass about half a mile from the trio’s place of concealment amongst a grove of post oaks. It was not Mogollon’s band.
Much as Colin had hoped to commence his quest to catch the manadero, the band of mustangs located by the Kid had taken priority. It was a manada de hermanos, a band of brothers. In other words, a number of young stallions—not necessarily from the same sire—that had been driven from their original family groups by the jealous manaderos and had collected together for companionship or mutual protection. A manada de hermanos offered a larger return for effort than a mestena, a family band of mares and young horses. With luck, the majority of the stallions would be suitable for Army remounts, or to swell the number required by the OD Connected.
Knowing that Jeanie would go along with his wishes, the Scot had not mentioned his intentions regarding Mogollon. Instead, he had accompanied his companions to their base camp and spent the rest of the day preparing for the capture of the manada de hermanos.
After discussion with her mesteneros, Jeanie had decided that the stallions would be in the vicinity of the Caracol de Santa Barbara. So the men had ridden to that enclosure—every major trap had a name—and made preparations for the corrida which, they hoped, would drive the manada into the figure-eight formation of the sturdy log walls.
Experience had taught mustangers that the ordinary circular type of corral did not meet their requirements when gathering in a large bunch of horses. So the gourd or caracol, snail-shaped, enclosure had come into being. Either of them prevented the horses from doubling back out of the gate as frequently happened when a round or lane pen was used.
Selecting the location of a catch enclosure was of considerable importance. In preference, it would be on the bank of a creek at a point where horses regularly crossed. Failing that, wood or scrub-covered hollows, or canyons with sides the horses could not climb served equally well. If possible, the entrance would face the direction from which the wind blew with the greatest regularity. Given a wind that blew towards the corral, the dust stirred up by the manada would roll ahead of them and partially obscure the entrance until it was too late to be avoided.
With the Caracol de Santa Barbara and its surroundings made ready, Jeanie had laid her plans for the corrida. All the party had known that enforcing their will upon the mustangs would be anything but easy. More than on any other corrida dealing with a manada de hermanos called for concerted action on the part of all concerned—and not a little luck.
The Kid had warned that one of the stallions was acting as manadero, which did not surprise his audience. Even after it had been driven from its position of leadership by a stronger rival, a deposed master-stallion would try to take over another band. Failing to gather mares, the ex-manadero would join a bachelor group. Like all herd-living animals, horses maintained an orderly society in which every individual knew and, unless it could improve its station by physical means, kept its place. So, as long as its strength held out, the retired manadero would often dominate its companions.
Unfortunately, the domination a manadero managed to establish over a manada de hermanos was never as strong as upon the members of a mestena. Although generally subservient to their leader’s will, once fright set them to running, the stallions would scatter more readily than the mares and offspring of a mestena.
With that in mind and being short-handed, Jeanie had utilized her small force in a manner which had brought nods of approval from the listening men. When they had ridden out at dawn on the day after seeing Mogollon, every man knew the part he must play in the work ahead of them.
No domesticated horse, burdened by a rider, could hope to run down and catch healthy, unencumbered mustangs, but they had to travel fast over a long distance. So no extra weight could be carried. Instead of using a heavy range saddle, each of the party sat on a sheepskin pad held in place by a single girth to which was attached the leathers of plain brass stirrups. The whole rig weighed a little over three pounds. To further reduce the horse’s load, a hackamore with a bosal and reins replaced the full bridle and metal bit. While light and serviceable, such an outfit demanded a high standard of horsemanship from its user.
Accompanied by Dusty and the Kid, Colin had circled the area in which the manada was grazing. The Scot had a special and important part to play in the corrida. Early in his association with the Schell family, it had been discovered that the music of a set of bagpipes—brought to Texas for a kinsman but so far undelivered—produced an adverse effect upon horses unused to the sound. That aversion had been put to good use in starting the manadas moving.
‘Go to it, amigo!’ Dusty suggested, controlling the eagerness of the small bayo-cebrunos xii gelding he had selected instead of using his paint stallion that day. ‘Start up that caterwauling and let’s see if we can get them headed the way we want them to go.’
Holding down his inclination to defend his native music, Colin started to blow into the chanter’s mouthpiece and the skirl of the pipes rose hauntingly. On hearing the alien sound, the horses in the manada swung to face it. So far they were not frightened, for it came from a sufficient distance to pose no threat. However they paced restlessly, heads tossing and ears pointing towards the trees. Letting out an explosive snort, the big black manadero advanced a few steps in an attempt to form a better impression of what was causing the droning, wailing noise. Although a fair way past its prime, the stallion still looked menacing and savage.
‘He’s a mean one,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Just look at that off ear. It’s damned near been chewed off his head.’
‘That’s one horse we’ll be lucky to take alive,’ Dusty answered, studying the tattered ear and scarred body. ‘And he’ll be damned little use if we do.’
‘They’re moving off,’ the Kid said.
While not frightened, the manada had clearly decided that they did not care for the strange noise. So they loped off without haste, going in the direction of the valley which held the Caracol de Santa Barbara concealed in a draw.
‘Just like Jeanie figured,’ Dusty drawled. ‘That gal’s a living wonder at mustanging. Let’s show ourselves.’
Curiosity compelled first one then another of the manada to swing around and look at the post-oaks. Seeing the three riders appear, they cut loose with snorts of real alarm. This was no strange, but possibly harmless sound, it was a genuine menace. More of the manada turned, studying the human beings. Then the manadero let out an ear-shattering whinny. Twirling around fast, the horses which had been looking at the approaching riders joined their companions in flight.
‘Now!’ Dusty snapped, giving the bayo-cebrunos a heel signal which changed its walk to a gallop.
‘Yeeah!’ screeched the Kid and his strawberry roan increased its pace.
A quick thrust turned the bagpipes to hang by their cord behind Colin’s back. Knowing what would be required of it, the wolf-gray bayo-lobo horse between his legs sprang forward to keep level with the Texans’ mounts.
Forming a wide, crescent-shaped line, Dusty, Colin and the Kid followed the departing manada. Each of them kept up his whooping, to urge the mustangs onwards and alert the other members of their party that the corrida had begun. Striding out at speed, none of the stallions showed signs of separating from the remainder of the band. The black manadero brought up the rear, snaking its neck around occasionally to look at the pursuing men.
On reaching the edge of the valley, the horses plunged unhesitatingly down its gentle side. Laying flat along the neck of her quivering, impatient brown gelding, so as to remain hidden amongst a clump of mesquite, Jeanie watched them. When the leaders started across the level ground, she sent the horse bounding from cover.
‘Cam na cuimhne!’ the girl shrieked, giving the rallying call of the Clan Farquharson, ‘Cairn of Remembrance’, in honor of her fiancé, once more producing a satisfactory start to a corrida.
Gripping a saddle blanket in her left hand, Jeanie waved and flapped it over her head. The girl’s sudden and noisy appearance caused the leading stallions to swerve hurriedly in the required direction along the valley. Some of the following horses showed signs of breaking away and heading up the opposite slope. Placed there to circumvent such tactics, a mestenero called Bernardo appeared on the rim and rode in the deserters’ direction. Turning back, the would-be bunch-quitters rejoined the manada to obtain mutual protection from its numbers.
Hooves rumbled and drummed in a growing crescendo, punctuated by the wild yells of the riders. Turned along the valley in the direction of the fatal draw, the manada was kept on the move by the girl and her companions. While the Kid rode parallel to the rim down which the mustangs had entered the valley, Bernardo remained on the other ridge. Dusty and Colin joined Jeanie on the bottom, urging their horses onwards in an attempt to keep pace with the girl. Being smaller and lighter, Jeanie had the advantage over both of them. Knowing the dangers involved in making a corrida on a manada de hermanos, the girl tried to restrain the brown gelding’s eagerness. Despite all her efforts, she drew ahead as the chase continued. Nor could Colin stay level with Dusty, and the three riders formed an angular line across the valley.
Almost half a mile fell behind the pursued and the pursuers. Underfoot, the springy grama grass grew in such profusion that it prevented the dust from rising beneath the pounding hooves. Still in the lead of the trio, Jeanie regarded that as a mixed blessing. While it allowed her an almost unrestricted view of what lay ahead, the same also applied to the members of the manada. Holding her gelding to its racing gait, Jeanie could see the mouth of the draw which held the caracol. Beyond the opening, the yard-wide furrow dug by the mesteneros stretched across the valley and up the opposite slope.
Jeanie knew that the new few seconds would be of vital importance. The result of the corrida depended on what happened during them. While wild horses for some reason fought shy of crossing a naked strip of earth like the furrow, the response of a manada de hermanos to such a sight was far less predictable than that of a mestena. When they reached the furrow, the stallions might decided to scatter instead of turning as a band. If so, they would burst apart like an exploding canister shell spraying out its load of cast-iron balls. Then the whole band might be lost, or only a fraction of it fall into the mesteneros’ hands.
At the sight of the furrow, the leading stallions of the manada started to swing aside—but not towards the entrance of the trap. Positioned to counter such an eventuality, Jeanie’s segundo, Felix Machado and another mestenero made a sudden and rowdy appearance on top of the slope up which the stallions were heading. Yelling and waving blankets, they charged towards the manada.
Watching the whooping, hard-riding pair approach the stallions, Jeanie caught her breath in anxiety. Knowing what must be done, she directed her fast-moving mount towards the edge of the incline down which Felix and Carlos were making their reckless descent. Equally aware of the danger, Dusty continued to hold his bayo-cebrunos in the center of the valley and about thirty feet to the girl’s rear. Approximately the same distance behind Dusty, Colin steered his bayo-lobo along the foot of the other slope. Confronted by Felix and Carlos, the stallions skidded into rump-scraping, hoof-churning turns. At that moment, everything swung on a very delicate balance.
‘Yeeah!’ Dusty bellowed, giving the start of the battle cry which with its accompaniment of ‘Texas Light!’ had been so well known and hated by the Yankee soldiers in Arkansas.
‘Cam na cuimhne!’ Jeanie screeched, voice hoarse and cracked from its earlier efforts.
‘Cam na cuimhne!’ echoed Colin, the wild excitement of the chase stirring his Highland blood and adding a ringing turbulence to his utterance of the clan’s slogan.
Approached on two sides by the yelling, hated man-creatures, faced by that mysterious—therefore dangerous and to be avoided—strip of bare ground on the third, the manada was left with only one way to go. Wild-eyed, tails streaming in the breeze, the stallions still retained sufficient of their herding instincts to hold together as they plunged towards the ‘safety’ offered by the mouth of the draw.
Only the old manadero saw the danger. Swinging away just before it reached the entrance, the big stallion gave a spine-chilling scream and charged at the nearest of its pursuers. Head thrust forward to the full extent of its outstretched neck, eyes rolling, ears laid flat back and mouth open to display worn-down, age-yellowed teeth, mane bristling furiously and tail spiked straight to the rear, it made a frightening picture.
Certainly Dusty’s bayo-cebrunos gelding thought so, for it had been the animal selected by the black manadero to be attacked. While it was now a trained cow-horse, the bayo-cebrunos had begun its life in a wild mestena. During its formative years, it had experienced the domination of a master-stallion. No other creature, except possibly man, exercised such a complete despotic rule over its offspring. So the bayo-cebrunos, which would face the charge of a hostile longhorn bull without flinching, showed the greatest reluctance to going up against the manadero.
Throwing back its head, the little horse attempted to come to a stop and turn away all in one motion. Dusty felt its feet slipping from under it as it lost its balance. If he had been afork his own saddle, the small Texan might have averted the trouble. The ultra-light rig, combined with the noseband bosal instead of a bit did not allow him to exert the necessary control with his hands or legs.
Feeling the bayo-cebrunos going down and knowing that he could not prevent it, Dusty snatched his right boot from the brass stirrup ‘iron’. The horse was falling that way and he had no desire to be trapped beneath it. Swinging his leg forward and over the gelding’s neck, he kept his other foot in the stirrup to give him support. When the time came to remove it, he felt his boot cling in the grasp of the brass semi-circle.
A sudden jerk ripped Dusty’s foot free, but his equilibrium had been destroyed. Instead of landing running as he had planned, he stumbled and went down. Long experience at riding bucking horses had taught him how to fall, even unexpectedly, with the minimum of pain or chance of injuring himself. Ducking his head forward and twisting his torso, he landed on his left shoulder with his body curled into a ball. Rolling over and over on the grama grass, he knew that he was still far from out of danger.
Shattering the air with its fighting screams, the raging manadero charged at the bayo-cebrunos and ignored Dusty. It almost seemed that the stallion intended to inflict punishment on the fallen horse for its betrayal of their species to the hated human beings. Rearing high on its hind legs, the black flailed its fore feet ready to smash down its hooves upon the helpless little gelding’s body.
Knowing that there was only one way to deal with a kill-crazy manadero, Dusty prepared to do it—if he could. Ending his roll flat on his back, he sent his left hand flashing across to close on and draw the right side Colt. Even as the revolver’s seven-and-a-half inch barrel cleared leather, with his forefinger entering the trigger-guard and thumb easing back the hammer to full cock, he doubted if it possessed the power to halt the stallion in time to save his mount.
The 1860 Army Colt’s twenty-five grain powder charge and .44 caliber, 212-grain bullet might be effective man-stoppers, but they lacked the energy to fell the horse instantly unless striking a vital spot. Under the circumstances, Dusty lacked the time needed to take a careful aim and ensure he hit such a spot. To merely wound the manadero could easily bring its attention and rage on to him, but he had to take that chance. Flat on his back, lining his Colt above his raised knees, he squeezed the trigger and directed his bullet at the manadero’s ribs. Being hit there might turn the stallion and allow the struggling bayo-cebrunos to regain its feet and escape.
Although Dusty did not know it, help was already coming. Seeing the small Texan’s perilous predicament, Colin acted with speed, decision and purpose. Twisting his right hand palm outwards, he swept the big old Dragoon from its holster. Back reared the hammer beneath his thumb and he thrust the sixty-five ounce revolver to arm’s length. Looking along its round barrel almost as if sighting a shotgun, the Scot tightened his forefinger on the trigger.
Two seconds after Colin’s hand had closed on the ivory butt, flame spurted from a percussion cap. In the uppermost chamber of the cylinder, forty grains of best du Pont powder turned into gases, which drove a conical .44, 219-grain soft lead bullet along the barrel’s rifling grooves. Until improvements in steel made possible the use of the mighty .44 Magnum cartridge, no handgun would exceed the power of the 1848 Colt Dragoon revolver when loaded to its maximum capacity.
Hurling through the air at a velocity of nine hundred feet-per-second, Colin’s bullet struck the side of the stallion’s throat an instant after Dusty’s lead found its rib cage. Plowing through flesh and muscles, the Dragoon’s load broke the manadero’s neck and crumpled it almost immediately to the ground.
Seeing its assailant falling towards it, the bayo-cebrunos screamed in terror. With legs waving wildly, it rolled on to its back. Keeping turning, it avoided being struck by the stallion’s collapsing body. Then it lurched to its feet and went plunging off in the direction from which it had come.
‘Catch my saddle!’ Dusty yelled, sitting up and making the usual request given by a man who had been thrown and saw his horse bolting. xiii
‘No time the now, laddie,’ Colin replied, holstering his Dragoon and grinning at the small Texan as his bayo-lobo carried him by. ‘There’s work to be done—and money to be earned.’
‘Blasted foreigner!’ Dusty bellowed in simulated anger after the Scot’s departing back. ‘I always heard you jaspers from Scotland were mean.’
As Dusty and Colin knew, the loss of the gelding would only be temporary. In fact the long, split-ended reins trailing about its fore legs had already begun to slow its flight. Trained to stand still when the reins dangled free, a precaution against the rider having to dismount and leave the horse in a location which offered no means of tying it up, the bayo-cebrunos did not go far before it came to a halt. Snorting and tossing its head, it made no further attempt to run away.
After watching his companions follow the remainder of the manada into the draw, Dusty walked towards his horse. He caught it without difficulty and, after calming it down, examined it. Finding it lathered, shivering a little, but otherwise unharmed, he took its reins and led it along the valley to rejoin the rest of the mustanging party.
Ignoring the departure of their leader, the stallions entered and ran along the sheer-sided draw towards the gate of the caracol. Urging them on, Jeanie watched anxiously.
Always the actual entry into the enclosure was a tricky, chancy business. Let the mustangs receive just one hint of their danger and no power on earth could force them inside. However, the young stallions did not hesitate. Going by the disguised gate, they penetrated the forward section of the pen.
As soon as all the manada had entered the caracol, the last of the mesteneros who could be spared to take part in the corrida made his appearance. He had been hidden behind the gate, ready to turn back any of the mustangs that tried to escape before it had been closed. Sliding their horses to a halt, Felix and Carlos helped the mestenero to swing the gate shut. Having watched the successful conclusion of their efforts, Jeanie twisted on her saddle and looked back along the draw.
‘Is Dusty all right?’ the girl inquired as Colin joined her.
‘Aye, lassie,’ Colin replied, ‘but I had to shoot yon manadero.’
‘It happens,’ Jeanie said philosophically, and dismounted. Seeing the concern on her fiancé’s face, she continued, ‘Don’t feel bad about it, Colin. It was a quicker end than he’d’ve got had he escaped. He’d likely’ve been kicked to death, or crippled up bad, trying to get in on another manada. Or he’d get so all-fired old ’n’ slow that the wolves or coyotes’d eat him alive.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Colin admitted. ‘There’s no pity for the old in the wild, lassie.’
‘We got the others, anyways,’ Jeanie enthused. ‘You’ve seen how often we have to shoot a manadero?’
‘I have,’ Colin said soberly.
It was one of the points he would have to keep constantly in mind when he started his hunt for the horse called Mogollon.