Scott Burton on the Range

by Edward G. Cheyney

It was by the merest chance that Scott had been able to stick on when his horse had jumped the high fence. He had been leaning too far forward and had received a tremendous blow on the nose from the horse’s head. Nothing but his boxing experience prevented him from going off. He had learned to keep his balance for an instant even when completely stunned. He recovered quickly from the blow and found himself clinging tightly to the horse’s mane as the hazy houses whisked past on either side. Then he shot out into the open plain and the wind roared in his ears. It did not seem to Scott as though he had ever traveled as fast before even in an automobile.

The rush of the wind soon cleared his brain and with his returning senses he regained his nerve which the unexpected blow had badly shattered. He did not know whether the horse had jumped over the fence, something that did not seem possible, or through it. At any rate this was lots better than bucking. His stirrups were too long and bothered him, but he was beginning to feel that he might stay on if the horse did not do anything but run. Surely no horse could keep up that pace long and he might be manageable when he was tired out.

But he had not counted on the wonderful endurance of a range-bred stallion which ran almost as much as he walked. Mile after mile his mighty strides carried him over the sun-baked plain. Scott looked back toward the town and saw a few specks in the distance, hard riding cowboys doing their best but falling hopelessly behind. “If he keeps this up for an hour,” Scott thought, “and then throws me, it will take me a week to walk back.” Ten miles of plain separated them from the town and the steady pounding of his hoofs was still as rhythmical as clock work.

“Oh, you beautiful wonder!” Scott exclaimed aloud in affectionate tones and stroked the glossy neck while he still held onto the mane with his other hand. “I would not trade you for all the others in the corral even if I never learn to ride you.”

The gentle voice and the stroking had produced a peculiar effect on the maddened horse. The rushing wind and the freedom of his movements—for Scott had not attempted even to hold onto the reins—had somewhat restored his shattered nerves and soothed his injured dignity. He had been expecting something terrible to happen and instead a kindly voice had spoken to him and a gentle hand had stroked his neck. It had usually meant sugar for him and no harm had ever come of it. The madness slowly left his eyes and his pace slackened to an easy lope, a trot and then he stopped in a little hollow and looked curiously around at the man on his back.

Scott had put some sugar in his pocket that morning for the purpose of opening up friendly relations with his new mount and he promptly produced a lump. The horse accepted it after an inquisitive sniff and the battle was over. He did not seem to be at all distressed by the terrific race he had run and nibbled a little willow bush apparently at perfect ease. He seemed perfectly reconciled to his new partnership.

The next thing was to get him home. He had been bridle broken in a way. That is, he had been led around a little, but he had never been driven and knew nothing of a rider’s management. He pricked up his ears and arched his neck when Scott gently gathered up the reins and spoke to him calmly, but he knew nothing of the “clucks” which usually urge a horse ahead, and Scott was afraid to slap him or nudge him with his heels. He pulled on one rein and succeeded in turning him toward home, but that was all.

Suddenly the great horse raised his beautiful head and with ears pricked forward gazed intently at the rim of the rise of ground ahead of him. His keen ears had caught the thud of pounding hoofs from the direction of the town. Scott could not hear them, but he guessed what had attracted the horse’s attention. He waited expectantly for he did not know what effect the approach of other horses would have on his high-strung mount.

A moment later a bunch of hard riding horsemen swept over the crest of the knoll. At the sight of Scott sitting calmly erect on his fingernail saddle they stopped in astonishment and then sent forth a mighty shout of admiration, the tribute of expert horsemen to the nerve of a man who had dared what few of them would have done. They realized perfectly the danger of rushing down on this newly tamed horse and rode slowly and quietly down the slope.

The cautious approach seemed to arouse the suspicion of the big black. He advanced a few steps toward them proudly. He was a leader and in no mind to be trapped as he had often seen those same riders trap less wary animals. With a defiant toss of his lordly head he broke into a graceful trot and circled swiftly to the left. Beyond the last rider he struck a swinging gallop and headed for town. The cowboys’ horses were pretty well blown with the long race and did not care to push the homeward pace. So the great stallion, none the worse for his wild dash for liberty, proudly and with many a backward glance, led the procession back down the main street of the town.