“No; nor you, nor anyone. We are the best riders on the plains; we cannot do that.”
“I can,” affirmed the bull-fighter, with emphasis.
“He is boasting! he is a fool,” shouted several.
“Let us see!” cried one. “Give him a horse; there is no danger.”
“Give me my own horse, and I will show you.”
“Which is your horse?”
“None of them now, I suppose; but bring me that spotted mustang, and clear me a hundred lengths of him on the prairie, and I shall teach you a trick.”
As I looked to ascertain what horse Sanchez meant, I saw the mustang which he had ridden from the Del Norte. I noticed my own favourite, too, browsing with the rest.
After a short consultation among themselves, the torero’s request was acceded to. The horse he had pointed out was lassoed out of the caballada and brought up, and our comrade’s thongs were taken off. The Indians had no fear of his escaping. They knew that they could soon overtake such a steed as the spotted mustang; moreover, there was a picket constantly kept at each entrance of the valley. Even could he beat them across the plains, it would be impossible for him to get out to the open country. The valley itself was a prison.
Sanchez was not long in making his preparations. He strapped a buffalo-skin tightly on the back of his horse, and then led him round for some time in a circle, keeping him in the same track.