CHAPTER XIII.
The Black Mustang.
SUPPER over, the hunters drew their chairs around the fireplace, and Dick, after filling his pipe, and drawing a few puffs by way of inspiration, said:
“I believe I onct told you ’bout havin’ my hoss pulled out from under me by a grizzly bar, didn’t I? Wal, I told you, too, that I ketched another, an’ I had a job to do it, too—to ketch the one I wanted; an’ the time you’ve had tryin’ to ketch that black fox reminds me of it. You know, I s’pose, that large droves of wild hosses roam all over the prairy, an’ them droves ar allers led by some splendid animal—allers a stallion—one that has got the legs to go like lightnin’, an’ the wind to keep it up. An’ he’s allers the cock o’ the walk, too—the best fighter in the drove; an’ when he moves round, it would make you laugh to see the other hosses get out of his way. He holds his place until he dies, unless some other hoss comes along an’ wallops him. Then he takes his place with the common fags o’ the drove, an’ the new one is king till he gets licked, an’ so on. It ar a mighty hard thing to capture one o’ them leaders. You can ketch one o’ the others easy enough, but when it comes to lassoin’ the ‘king,’ it’s a thing that few trappers can do. Jest arter my scrape with the grizzly bar, Bill Lawson an’ me fell in with a lot o’ fellers that war goin’ to spend a season on the Saskatchewan, an’ they wanted me an’ Bill to join ’em; so I bought me a hoss of an ole Injun for a couple o’ plugs o’ tobacker—reg’lar Jeems River it war, too—an’ we started out. My new hoss was ’bout as ugly a lookin’ thing as I ever happened to set eyes on. He war big as all out-doors, an’ you could see every bone in his body. An’ he war ugly actin’, too; an’ if a feller come within reach of his heels, the way he would kick war a caution to Injuns. But I hadn’t been on the road more’n a day afore I diskivered that he could travel like a streak o’ greased lightnin’. That war jest the kind of a hoss I wanted, an’ I didn’t care ’bout his ugly looks arter that.
“For more’n three year, me an’ Bill had been keepin’ an eye on a hoss that we wanted to ketch. He war the leader of a large drove. He war a sort o’ iron-gray color, with a thick, archin’ neck—a purty feller; an’ the way he could climb over the prairy was a caution to cats. We warn’t the only ones arter him, either, for a’most every trapper in the country had seed him, an’ had more’n one chase arter him. But, bars and buffaler! It war no use ’t all, for he could run away from the fastest hosses, an’ not half try; an’ many a poor feller, who straddled a hoss that every body thought couldn’t be tuckered out, had left his animal dead on the prairy, an’ found his way back to his camp on foot. We war in hopes that we should see him, for we war travelin’ right through his country; an’ I knowed that if we did find him, I would stand as good a chance o’ ketchin’ him as any one, for my ugly-lookin’ hoss was the best traveler in the crowd.
“One night we camped on a little stream, called Bloody Creek. We called it so from a fight that a party of us fellers had there with the Injuns. About an hour arter supper, while we war all settin’ round the fire, smokin’ an’ telling stories, ole Bob Kelly—the oldest an’ best trapper in the country—started up off his blanket, an’, cockin’ his ear for a moment, said, ‘Somebody’s comin’, boys.’ An’, sure ’nough, in a few minits up walked a stranger.
“It ar a mighty uncommon thing to meet a teetotal stranger on the prairy, an’ a man don’t know whether he is a friend or foe; but we war mighty glad to see him, and crowded round him, askin’ all sorts o’ questions; an’ one took his rifle, an’ another pulled off his powder-horn an’ bullet-pouch, an’ a big feller dragged him to the fire, where we could all get a good look at him, an’ made him drink a big cup o’ coffee.
“‘Whar do you hail from, stranger?’ inquired ole Bob Kelly, who allers took them matters into his own hands, an’ we little fellers had to set round an’ listen.