It was not so certain, however, that the mustang was thus generously disposed; and it became still less so, when the animal, after approaching within twenty paces of the troop, suddenly stopped, threw his nostrils into a horizontal position; loudly inhaled the air; and then with a terrific neigh turned in his tracks and galloped back up the acclivity of the hill.
In the cavallada of tall, scraggy steeds that stood in the street of the village with their noses buried eye-deep in canvas bags—he seemed not to have recognised his own species; or, if so, it was only to identify them as enemies.
The horses of the troop had taken no heed of the shy stranger. They were not in the humour for a “stampede.” They did not even think it necessary to neigh, but remained tranquilly crunching their corn, as if aware that they were making only a temporary halt, and that their time was too precious to be spent in any other occupation.
On reaching the summit of the hill, the mustang came to a stand, and, with head high in air, screamed back a series of wild “whighers,” as if uttered in mockery or defiance.
There was but one horse on the ground capable of capturing that mustang; and perhaps only one rider who could have conducted him to the capture.
Though laying myself open to the accusation of an inordinate vanity, I must specify the horse and the rider thus alluded to. The first was my brave steed Moro—the second was Captain Edward Warfield, in command of a “free corps of rangers.”
An early practice of hare and fox hunting in my native land—continued by the chase of the stag over the forest-clad slopes of the Alleghanies—had given me a seat in the saddle firm as its “tree,” and close as the skin that covered it; while a still later experience on the great western prairies, had rendered me habile in the handling of that wonderful weapon of prairie and pampa—the lazo.
Habit had accustomed me to deem it almost as essential as my bridle; never to go abroad without it; and ever, while riding at the head of my troop of half guerilleros, half-regular cavalry—a coil of thin shining rope composed of twisted hair from the tails of horses, might have been seen hanging from the horn of my saddle.
I esteemed it an arm of equal service with my pistols, whose butts glistened in the holsters beneath. It could be seen in Corral Falso hanging over the withers of my steed, as he stood among the others quietly munching his maize.
My dismounted lieutenant had noticed it, and turned towards me with an appealing look, impossible to be misunderstood.