Standing at the mouth of a draw, Colin studied the range ahead of him with the aid of Dusty’s field glasses. Scattered in concealment in front of him, half a dozen mesteneros waited for the signal to commence a corrida. Out beyond the mesteneros, Mogollon’s lathered and leg-weary manada moved uneasily. In between snatching up mouthfuls of grass, the mustangs threw nervous glances about them. Only the big chestnut stallion retained any semblance of its former alertness. Examining the manadero, Colin concluded that its capture was still anything but certain despite the events of the past four days.
A gloomy band of mustangers had returned to the camp after the first abortive attempt to capture Mogollon. About the only good thing any of them could say had been that at least the manadero was not kill-crazy. If it had been, Colin would not be alive.
There had been many methods by which the stallion might be caught discussed that night. In times of a water shortage, hanging ‘scarers’, pieces of rag fixed to flap and blow in the breeze, at all but one of the remaining drinking holes would frighten the manada and bring it to the waiting mesteneros. There had been too much rain for that to work. Felix had told of capturing one of a band, fastening a dummy rider on its back and turning it loose. When its companions saw it coming, they would run away. It followed them until all were exhausted, at which point the mesteneros moved in. Unfortunately none of Mogollon’s band could out-run the manadero. An old Comanche Indian trick had been to turn loose a stallion near the mestena and catch the manadero as it fought with the potential rival. Jeanie had warned that, when tried on Mogollon, it had run until clear of the men, turned and killed the other stallion. Neither Jeanie nor Colin would allow the Kid to try to ‘crease’ Mogollon. While a bullet raking across the spinal nerve would knock a horse unconscious for long enough to let it be secured, the margin for error was so slight that more animals were killed than taken by the method.
At last it had been decided that they would try to ‘walk down’ Mogollon’s band. To do that, riders working in relays followed the manada day and night, giving the mustangs no rest nor time to drink and graze. A manada always travelled in a circular route on its home range. By keeping to the inside of the circle, the men doing the ‘walking’ covered a shorter distance than the mustangs and at a more even pace. Their horses also received adequate rest, food and water, so kept in better condition than the manada.
For four days, Colin, the Kid, Bernardo and Carlos had taken turns to keep after Mogollon’s band. It had been hard, exacting work, but at last the time had come when they would make the final effort at catching the manadero.
‘It’s lucky that Libby and Mark got back with the rest of the men,’ Dusty remarked from his place at Colin’s right side. ‘We can use their help.’
‘That’s the living truth,’ agreed the Kid to Dusty’s right. ‘Damned if ole Mogollon don’t look like he could take another four days’ “walking down”.’
‘There’s Jeanie’s signal now!’ Colin put in as a sparkle of flashing light showed at the far side of the range.
‘We’d better get to our horses,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Bernie and the boys’ll be making their move soon.’
Each of the trio had his best horse waiting with a double-girthed saddle and a new rope on the horn. Running to the animals, Dusty, the Kid and Colin gathered up the trailing reins, then mounted. Even as they were riding to the mouth of the draw, they heard Bernardo cut loose with a ringing whoop.
Leaving their hiding places, the six mesteneros charged towards the manada. Yelling like drunken savages, they held their ropes ready to be thrown. The tired mustangs fled from the new menace, with Mogollon bringing up the rear and urging the slower animals to greater efforts. Bernardo’s party did not attempt to close in on the mustangs at first, but acted as if trying to drive them towards the hill where Jeanie, Mark and Felix were waiting.
‘It’s working, Dusty!’ Colin ejaculated. ‘There he goes now!’
Following the tactics it had used on the first corrida, Mogollon tore to the front of the manada. On reaching the leading mare, the manadero started to force her around. As if realizing that its tired band could not hope to escape in a bunch, Mogollon made a rearing, skidding, hoof-flailing turn. It gave a piercing, screaming whistle that caused the other mustangs to scatter.
Horses fled in all directions, while Bernardo and his men swept in to make what captures they could. Everything seemed to be in a state of chaos and confusion but the mesteneros mounts were still fresh and not tired by a long period of continuous harrying.
Racing back the way it had come during the brief chase, Mogollon burst out of the wild mill. Always before the refusal to be driven had brought it safety. Following their orders, the mesteneros allowed the manadero to go, concentrating on the rest of the band. Each man had three ropes and hoped to make a catch on all of them. Striding out at a pace not much slower than at the start of the ‘walking down’, the chestnut stallion approached the draw which hid Dusty, the Kid and Colin.
‘Now!’ Dusty hissed, freeing his rope and shaking out the loop.
Made excited by the commotion, the three big horses responded eagerly to the heel-signals of their riders. Bursting from their place of concealment like pigeons leaving a shooting-trap, Dusty’s paint, the Kid’s white and Colin’s bayo-lobo spread out like the triple prongs of a fan. Like the mesteneros’ mounts, the three big horses had done little work that day. Encouraged by their riders, they sped to cut off Mogollon’s escape.
Travelling at a racing gallop, Mogollon became aware of the new danger—but just too late. At the sight of Colin bearing down on it, the stallion swerved in the wrong direction. Its new route took it across Dusty’s and the Kid’s front. By that time, they had reached a distance from which they could throw their ropes.
Standing up in his stirrups, Dusty swung the rope before him and up to the left. Three times he whirled it above his head, delicately testing the momentum it built up in his hand. Satisfied, he twirled the loop forward so that it passed over his right shoulder. Out sailed the Manila rope, converging with Mogollon as the manadero ran at an angle in front of him.
To Colin, it seemed that the loop took hours in its flight. At last it dipped down, passing around the stallion’s head. A touch of Dusty’s heels augmented the manipulation of the reins in his left hand. With its master still standing in the stirrups, the paint tucked its hind legs under its body and spiked its fore feet into the ground. Settling his rump on the saddle, Dusty thrust his feet forward and torso to the rear. Drawn tight between the paint, as it came to a classic sliding stop, and the running manadero, the loop closed around Mogollon’s neck.
Brought to an abrupt halt, but not thrown down, Mogollon screamed in fury. Before the manadero could turn and charge at its captor, the Kid’s overhead loop flew out. Instead of reining in his white as he made his catch, the youngster kept moving. Going past Mogollon, he brought his horse to a stop on the opposite side to Dusty. Their two ropes, lashed to the saddle horns, held the master-stallion so that it could not reach either of them. Snorting, rearing and plunging, Mogollon fought against the constriction of the twin loops.
‘Keep out of it unless one of us busts his rope, Colin!’ Dusty yelled, controlling his paint so that it held the rope taut. ‘Leave us choke him down, then you do the rest.’
That had been the agreement reached while they were planning the final stage of the ‘walking down’. All the rough handling was, if possible, to be carried out by the Texans or mesteneros so that Colin could treat the manadero with nothing but kindness. In that way, he would more easily gain Mogollon’s confidence.
By keeping their big stallions backing away from the manadero, Dusty and the Kid cut off its air supply. Forcing themselves to ignore the hideous sound of the chestnut fighting to breathe, they choked it unconscious. When it went down, Dusty took a set of hobbles which had been tied to his cantle. Allowing his reins to fall free, he dismounted. Trained for such work, the paint kept the rope as tight as if it still carried a rider. Swiftly Dusty buckled the cuffs of the hobbles above the pastern joints on Mogollon’s fore legs. With that done, he caught the hackamore thrown to him by the Kid.
Looking like a cross between a halter and a bridle, the hackamore offered all the advantages of both. It could be equipped with reins or a lead-rope, but made use of a bosal—a rawhide ring about the horse’s head above the mouth—instead of a metal bit. In addition, there was a three-inch wide brow band fitted so that it could be slid down to cover its wearer’s eyes. Although he adjusted the hackamore to Mogollon’s head, Dusty did not use the brow band as a blindfold.
‘Come on over and set him loose, Colin,’ Dusty said.
Leaving his horse ground-hitched, Colin walked across to the stallion. By the time he arrived, Dusty had returned to the paint. At their masters’ commands, the two horses allowed the ropes to sag loosely. Colin opened and removed the loops. With the hobbles fitted, Mogollon could not travel faster than at a walk and, after being choked down, would be in no condition to make an escape bid on its recovery.
Kneeling by the stallion as it dragged air into its lungs, Colin raised its sleek head. He lowered his face to Mogollon’s and blew repeatedly into the flaring nostrils. While uncertain just why it should be, he knew that doing so tended to quieten down the animal so treated. After some seconds, Mogollon regained consciousness and came, snorting and lathered, to its feet. Keeping a gentle hold on the reins, Colin spoke soothingly to the stallion. His free hand caressed its head and neck, occasionally covering the nostrils so that it would become used to his scent.
Oblivious of what was going on around her, Jeanie galloped up on her tobiano gelding. She went by the mesteneros as they swarmed around and held together the leg-weary remains of the manada making for what, to her, was the most important area. For all her delight, she did not attempt to ride straight up to her fiancé and the captured manadero. Instead, she halted alongside Dusty and the Kid.
‘It was just like you figured, Dusty!’ the girl enthused. ‘He bust back through the line.’
‘He tried it once too often,’ drawled the Kid.
Looking at Colin and Mogollon, Jeanie nodded her agreement. She realized just how much the capture of the manadero had been due to Dusty’s grasp of the situation and tactical training. While they had all remembered the manner in which Mogollon had defeated their first corrida, only the small Texan had seen how it might be turned to their advantage.
Jeanie and the mesteneros had been all for the usual method of surrounding the exhausted mustangs, then dashing in and roping any which looked like escaping. Fortunately they had listened to Dusty’s alternative suggestion. It had been at his instigation that Colin’s party took up their position to the rear of the main body. Finding itself apparently being driven into danger, Mogollon had used the tactics which had saved the manada from capture on numerous occasions. With its attention on the men it had evaded, it had run into another trio of riders stationed to cut off its escape. So the trick that had previously saved Mogollon finally brought about its capture.
‘Gracias, Dusty,’ Jeanie said sincerely. ‘You called the play just right.’
‘You’d likely’ve taken him anyways,’ Dusty answered.
‘Maybe,’ the girl replied. ‘He was going faster’n a Nueces steer when he cut around the boys.’
‘Mark and Felix had to go some to catch them two young stallions,’ the Kid went on, nodding to where the two men were returning leading their captives. ‘Ole Mogollon could easy’ve got away.’
‘Talking about getting away,’ Dusty put in, wanting the subject changed, ‘I’d say it’s time we thought about doing just that.’
‘Sure is,’ confirmed Jeanie and looked around. ‘Let’s go, mesteneros.’
Taking turns at holding the exhausted mustangs, the excited and delighted Mexicans had been riding over to study the legendary Mogollon. Wishing to avoid disturbing the stallion, none had gone close. Mogollon stood quietly, allowing Colin to wipe the lather from its flanks. When all the men had looked and commented, he turned to the Kid.
‘Shall we get going, Lon?’
‘Might’s well,’ the Kid replied. ‘Happen we stick around here, somebody’ll find me some work to do.’
‘Let us pull out first, Colin,’ Dusty suggested.
‘Go to it,’ confirmed the Scot. ‘Only let me cover Mogollon’s eyes first. If I don’t, he’ll raise a fuss when he sees you taking his manada.’
Acting with calm deliberation, Colin drew the brow band over the stallion’s eyes. At first it snorted and moved restlessly, but its hobbled feet prevented any violent resistance. Being unable to see them go, it stood quietly as Jeanie’s party drove its band away. Nor did it fight against the gentle pull of the reins as Colin led it to his waiting mount. Swinging into the saddle, he set both horses moving at a slow walk. The pace was leisurely because of the hobbles on Mogollon’s legs and through the need to let the horse cool down after its exertions. Mounting his white stallion, the Kid followed Colin from a distance and in silence.
Instead of going with the others, Colin and the Kid made their way to a small corral in a valley about a mile from the main camp. The enclosure had been erected by the triesteneros to be used if they caught Mogollon. Flowing under one side of the corral, a small stream provided an adequate water supply and the ankle-deep grama grass offered sufficient bulk grazing during Mogollon’s incarceration. Making a curve at that point, the shape of the valley and height of its sides effectively hid the surrounding country from view. The site of the corral had been selected to help persuade the manadero to accept Colin as its companion and master.
Gregarious by nature, a horse needed to have company. Deprived of its own kind, it would always seek to have other animals around it. So Mogollon had been brought to the valley. Finding itself on strange territory and deprived of its manada, the stallion would be more amenable to Colin’s society.
‘I’ll go back on the rim, amigo,’ the Kid said quietly, closing the gate behind Colin and Mogollon. ‘You need help, I’ll get back pronto.’
‘Don’t start shooting unless there’s no other way,’ Colin requested.
Left to himself, Colin removed the reins from the hackamore. Mogollon stood quietly, displaying no fear. Whether the condition would continue when the brow band was raised remained to be seen. Still talking in a soothing manner, Colin eased the band upwards. Then he turned and walked warily to the fence. On the rim, the kid held his rifle ready for use. The precaution proved to be unnecessary. Snorting softly, the stallion swung and hobbled across to the stream. By the time Colin had joined the Kid, Mogollon had quenched its thirst and stood peacefully grazing. The two men exchanged glances of relief. So far Mogollon showed no sign of distress or fretting over its lost freedom.
‘I think I’ll make a start at blanket-training him this evening,’ Colin said.
‘May as well,’ agreed the Kid. ‘He looks to be settling down all right.’
‘If the Apache trained him with a blanket, it should make my work easier.’
‘Or harder. Depends on how the buck treated him.’
After setting up their camp, Colin took a blanket and returned to the corral. Rifle in hand, the Kid flattened himself down on the rim. All too well the dark youngster knew the danger Colin faced. Maybe Mogollon had once been broken and trained, but several years of wild living might have destroyed its respect for human beings. Even with its forelegs hobbled, the manadero would be a formidable beast should it decide to attack the Scot.
Mogollon faced Colin, snorting and wary, but making no move to flee or charge. Back in the days when it had been owned by the Apache, it had learned not to fight against a rope or hobbles. Being choked down by the two Texans had revived memories of those days. There had been other treatment, equally painful, inflicted on it until it had learned to respond to its master’s wishes.
Slowly Colin advanced, moving the blanket leisurely, but erratically in front of him. He had seen the Kid and the mesteneros use similar tactics on mustangs and had tried them himself with satisfactory results.
‘Hoh! Shuh! Hoh! Shuh!’ Colin grunted the traditional ‘horse talk’ from deep in his chest. ‘Hoh! Hoh! Shuh! Shuh!’
All the time, Colin drew closer to Mogollon. The Kid’s light eye squinted along the Winchester’s twenty-six inch octagonal barrel, as he aligned its sights on the white star in the center of the horse’s forehead.
Usually there would have been four men holding the horse while a ‘ghost cord’ served as a further inducement to good behavior. By tying a thin rawhide cord about the horse’s tongue and gums, the man doing the breaking could inflict pain as a punishment for disobedience. When the horse failed to respond, a tug on the cord stabbed agony through it. The method brought results, but often turned the suffering animal into a savage fighter. So Colin refused to use a ghost cord. He hoped to dominate Mogollon with firm, understanding kindness. Using ‘blanket’ training offered him his best chance of doing it.
Continuing the monotonous ‘horse-talk’ and passes with the blanket, Colin held Mogollon’s attention. Without hurry or fuss, he came close enough to place the blanket against the stallion’s nostrils. Being one taken from Colin’s bed, the blanket was impregnated with his scent. After allowing the horse to sniff at the material, he edged himself around to the side of its head. Mogollon snorted and stamped its hind feet, but neither backed away nor tried to attack Scot.
Still talking, Colin gripped the blanket between his knees and began to massage the stallion’s body with his hands. When he saw that Mogollon allowed him to do so, he retrieved the blanket and started to waft it repeatedly on to the horse’s back. When he laid the blanket on to Mogollon’s back, the stallion grunted indignantly and tried to buck it off. The hobbles caused it to stumble. Instantly Colin whipped away the blanket, steadying and soothing the horse. Another session of massage and gentle swishing with the blanket restored Mogollon’s confidence. When the Scot placed the blanket on the stallion’s back for the second time, it stood quietly and made no attempt to throw off the light burden. With that much achieved, Colin retreated from the corral.
‘He’s taking it well so far,’ the Scot remarked as he returned to the Kid.
‘Why sure,’ the youngster replied. ‘Looks like he remembers how he was trained. Was I you, though, I’d sleep outside the corral tonight.’
‘It might be as well,’ Colin admitted, for he would make his bed close to the stallion during the period of winning its confidence.
Arriving with food for the two men, Jeanie listened to Colin’s glowing account of how the ‘blanket’ training had progressed. With his meal eaten and Jeanie seen on her way, Colin took his bedroll to the corral. Although Mogollon stayed on the far side of the enclosure at first, it moved in Colin’s direction after the Scot had settled down in his blankets. Lying without a movement, he saw the bulk of the stallion loom through the darkness. Mogollon advanced cautiously, ears pricked and nostrils testing the air. Colin made no attempt to rise nor speak, but remained perfectly still. Lowering its head, Mogollon sniffed through the rails of the corral at the motionless figure.
A feeling of contentment filled Colin, brought about by the knowledge that Mogollon was his. In the morning he would continue with the ‘blanket’ training, going through the various stages until he achieved his desires. Once Mogollon allowed the blanket to remain on its back, he would rest his elbows upon it, raise his feet and let the horse grow gradually accustomed to accepting his weight. When the time came for the first try at riding astride the stallion, he would lead it belly-deep into a pool along the stream. There Mogollon’s ability to pitch and buck would be restricted and any throw Colin took would result in a ducking rather than a serious injury.
According to the Kid, if all went well the ‘blanket’ training system accustomed the horse to a rider’s weight and reduced bucking to a minimum. With Mogollon broken to the saddle, Colin could call himself a mustanger. He would also be able to use the stallion as a stud when he and Jeanie settled down on their ranch.
Still making plans for the future, with Mogollon standing close by on the other side of the fence, Colin drifted off to sleep.