Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance

by Charles M. Horton

Suddenly, out of the canyon poured the cheerful notes of a bugle. On the vibrant wings of the echoes, streaming into the basin from the canyon, swept a body of flying horsemen. Instantly he checked himself. Then his master sounded a shrill outcry, swung his head around violently, and lashed him forward again. He hurtled headlong, dashing toward the distant ridge, the peninsula jutting out into the desert. Grimly he flung out along this new course. But he kept his eyes to the left. He saw the horsemen there also swerve, saw them spread out like a fan, and felt his interest kindle joyously. For this was a race! It was a race for that ridge! And he must win! He must do this thing, for instinctively he knew that beyond it lay safety. There he could flee to some haven, while cut off from it, cut off by these steady-riding men on his left, he must submit to wretched defeat. So he strained himself harder and burst into fresh speed, finding himself surprised that he could. In the thrill of it he forgot his double load, forgot the close-pressing horses, forgot irritating dust. On he galloped, racing forward with machine-like evenness–on his left the paralleling horsemen, to his rear yelling and shooting, on his right his own men and horses, and for them he felt he must do big things.

Suddenly the shooting in his rear ceased. Evidently these men had received some warning from the riders on his left. Then he awoke to another truth. The horsemen on his left were gaining. It troubled him, and he cast measuring eyes to the front. He saw that he was pursuing a shorter line to the ridge; he believed he still could reach it first. So again he strained on, whipping his legs into movement till they seemed about to snap. But the effort hurt him and he discovered that he was becoming woefully tired. Also, the double weight worried him. It had not become lighter with the miles, nor had he grown stronger. Yet he galloped on with thundering hoofs, the tranquil desert before him, the thud of carbines against leather to the left, behind him ominous silence. But he kept his eyes steadily to the left, and presently he awoke to something else there, something that roused him suddenly and in some way whipped his conscience. For now he saw a white figure amid the khaki, racing along with them–a part of them and yet no part of them–a familiar figure wearing a familiar bandage. This for a brief moment only. Then he took to measuring distances again; saw that the cavalrymen were holding to the course steadily, racing furiously as he himself was racing for the ridge. Would he win?

A shrill outcry from his master, and he found himself checked with a jerk. It was unexpected, sudden, and he reared. The movement shook off the second man. Dropping back upon all-fours, Pat awoke to the relief the loss of this load gave him. Grimly determining to hold to this relief, he dashed ahead, following the guidance of his master in yet another direction, hurtled away before the second man could mount again.

He found that he was speeding in a direction almost opposite from the ridge. He did not understand this. But his regret was not long lived. Casting his eyes to his left in vague expectancy of seeing the familiar spot of white again, he saw only his own men and horses, and beyond them the smiling desert. Puzzled, he gazed to the right. Here he saw the cavalrymen, and though puzzled more, he yet kept on with all his power. As he ran he suddenly awoke to the presence of a new body of horsemen on his distant left, a smaller band than the cavalrymen, men without uniforms, most of them hatless, all yelling. He remembered this yell, and now he understood. He was speeding toward the mouth of the canyon; had been turned completely around. And thus it was, he knew, that the horsemen once on his left were now on his right, and the madly yelling group at his rear was now on his left. He awoke to another realization. This was a race again, a race with three new entrants now–all three making toward the canyon. Would he win?

He fell to studying the flanking groups. On his right, riding easily, bent to the winds, their heavy horses swinging rhythmically, their accoutrements rattling, galloped the cavalry–steady, sure of themselves, well in hand. On his left, riding furiously, without formation, dashed the smaller group of riders–their horses wrangling among themselves, one or two frequently bucking, all flinging forward in excited disorder. This disorder, this evident nervousness, he feared. He knew somehow that the first real trouble would come from this source. He knew men to that extent. And suddenly his fears were realized. With the three converging lines of direction drawing closer, and the mouth of the canyon but a short distance away, out of this group on his left came a nasty rifle-fire, followed by a mighty chorus of yells. There was a result at once. Close beside him a horse stumbled; the man astride the horse was thrown headlong; from the cavalrymen on his right came a single shrill, piercing outcry–a cry to desist! But he did not understand this. Nor did he heed it. Galloping forward, eyes upon the ever-nearing canyon, he at length became grimly conscious of approaching defeat–of the firm and ruthless closing in upon him from either side of the two bands. And now, and not till now, realizing as he did that the thing was beyond him, that he could not reach the canyon first–now, and not till now, though soul and body were wrecked by exhaustion, Pat abated his speed.

Instantly pandemonium broke loose. He heard the firing on his left increasing. He felt his master make ready to return it. He saw others around him, twisting vengefully into position, open with repeating rifles. Then the cavalrymen, evidently forced into it by the others, swung to the fray with their carbines, which began to boom on his right. The whole basin echoed and re-echoed sharp reports. Across his eyes burst intermittent flames. His ears rang with shots and yells. The shooting became heavier. Bullets sang close about him–seemed centered–as if the enemy would cut down his master at once and disrupt the others through his loss. The bullets sang closer still. And now immediately about him men and horses dropped, upsetting other riders, tumbling over sound horses–all in a seething chaos. He became dazed. His eyes were blinded with the flashes, and his ears ached with the crash and tumult. He grew faint. A dizziness seized him. But on he labored, his head aching, his eyes growing dimmer, his limbs numb and rebellious, his heart thumping in sullen rebellion, his ears bursting with the uproar.

Another change swept over him. Mist leaped before his eyes. The roaring in his ears subsided. His legs flew off–he had no legs! The mist became a film. Yet he could see–see faintly. He saw a mad jumble of flying men and horses–a riotous mixture of color, arms, and firearms whirling and interlaced, a grim, struggling mass in death-grips. It swept close–crashed over him, struck him full. He felt the impact–then another. The ground rose and struck him. And now there fell upon him a great and wonderful peace–and a blank–then a voice, a familiar voice, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

He was wakened by a fiery liquid in his throat. He slowly opened his eyes. He saw men and horses, many of them, standing or reclining in small groups. He saw them between the legs of a group immediately around him–men gazing down at him pitifully. As he lay thus dazed he heard the familiar voice again. It was sounding his name. He struggled to his feet. Steadying himself against his dizziness, he looked curiously at the young man standing before him. And suddenly he recognized him. This was his young master with the white around his arm and neck–the young man who had ridden him into the Mexican settlement, and who had been so good to him there, giving him generous quantities of alfalfa. He–But the voice was sounding again.

“You poor dumb brute!” said Stephen, quietly; and Pat liked the petting he received. “You’ve just come through hell! But–but if they get you again–anywhere, friend of mine–they’ll wade through hell themselves to do it.” He was silent. “Pat, old boy,” he concluded, finally, “you’re going back home! I–I’m through!”

A strange thing took place in Pat. Hearing this voice now, and seeing the owner of it, though he had seen him and heard his voice many times just before this last heartbreaking task under a strange master, he suddenly found himself thinking of the little ranch beside the river, and of his loving mistress, and also the cold and cruel Mexican hostler. And, thinking of them, he found himself thinking also of another, one who had accompanied him and his mistress on many delightful trips in the valley and up on the mesa in the shadow of the mountains. And now, thinking of this person, he somehow recognized this young man before him fully, and wondered why this had not come to him before. For this was the same young man–curiously pale, curiously drawn and haggard–but yet the same man. Understanding, understanding everything, he nickered softly and pressed close, mindful of yet another thing–something that had helped to make his life on the little ranch so pleasant and unforgettable. What he was mindful of, and what he now sought, was sugar and quartered apples.