The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

by Mayne Reid

The “ole mar,” that for many long years had carried Rube over the mountains and prairies, was a creature that scarce yielded to himself in peculiarity.

She was a lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned animal, long-eared like all of her race—for she belonged to the race of Rosinante. The long ears caused her to look mulish, and at a distance she might have been mistaken for a mixed breed; but it was not so—she was a true mustang, and, spite of her degenerate look, a pure Andalusian. She seemed to have been, at an earlier period of her life, of that dun yellowish colour known as “clay-bank”—a common hue among Mexican horses—but time and scars had metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed colour. She was badly wind-broken, and at stated intervals, of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she was trying to kick, and couldn’t. Her body was as thin as a rail, and her head habitually carried below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye—for she had but one—that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. As Rube often alleged, “she was game to the backbone.”

Such was the “ole mar,” and it was to her that our attention was now so suddenly called.

Having parted from her on the prairie, in the wild gallop that followed, we had thought no more of the creature, not caring—that is, Garey and myself—what became of her.

Rube, however, was far from sharing our indifference as to her fate. He would almost as soon have parted with one of his “claws” as that same faithful companion; and we had heard him expressing his hopes that no harm would come to her.

Or course, we had concluded that she would either be shot or lazoed by one of the guerrilleros.

It appeared, however, that this was not to be her fate just then. Resolving not to be parted from her master so easily, she had galloped after us. Being slow, she soon fell behind, and for a while was mixed up with the horses of the guerrilleros. Of course the men had noticed her, but seeing that she was a worthless brute, had not deigned to make a capture of her.

In due time she fell into the rear of the whole troop; but even that did not turn her from her original intention, and at the moment of Rube’s exclamation, she was just breaking through the line of deployment on her way to join her master. From the manner in which her nose was held as she ran, she appeared to be trailing him by the scent!

Seeing her pass, one of the guerrilleros dashed after to capture her; perhaps because there was an old saddle with some of Rube’s traps buckled upon it.

Mare, saddle, and all, were scarcely worth the fling of lazo, and so the man appeared to think; for instead of using his lazo, he rode forward with the intention of seizing the mare by the bridle.