Yellow Man and his sons galloped up the ridge and dropped into the sand wash. A thin smile parted the lips of the tall hunter as he noticed how fagged his horse was. They were chasing no ordinary wild scrub ponies. The chestnut stallion had trained his band well and kept them in fine condition. They had run the legs right out from under the Navajo ponies. He urged his pinto up the sand wash as fast as the little beast could travel.
The chestnut saw the riders coming and noticed that they were working their way to the side as though aiming to come up alongside. He suspected a trick though he was disdainful of the slow-running ponies coming up from below. He changed his course a little to the north. Now the pursuers would have to travel much farther than his band to overtake them. The Navajo riders swung north too, and kept following close to the dust cloud.
The chase thus took a circular course with the chestnut keeping the mares moving as fast as the colts could follow. But now the horses’ sides were heaving, sweat was streaking their flanks and caking in lather-matted ridges above the hair. The big stallion snorted triumphantly as they topped a ridge. They had run away from their pursuers. The Indians were plodding along far behind. He allowed the mares to slow their pace to a lope while he galloped to right and then to left, looking down into washes and canyons for a hiding place.
Suddenly the mares heard yells from their right. They saw five red-bronze riders charging down on them from a cover of junipers. Mounted on fresh horses, these braves came swiftly from their ambush. The chestnut stallion rushed on his band and sent them racing down into a canyon. The retreat led over a ledge and down a rocky hill. The slope was steep and covered with loose stones, but the sure-footed horses took the broken ground at a mad rush. One of the mares slipped and went down, rolling over and over, until she was stopped by a big boulder. She struggled to her feet and staggered around the hill. Her colt bounded after her nickering wildly.
The charge of the hunters carried them close on the heels of the flying band. When the mare went down, two of the hunters swerved and followed her. The chestnut let her go and gave his attention to speeding the rest of the band. In a few seconds the speed of the wild horses carried them ahead of the Navajos’ lean ponies. But the three hunters following the mares kept yelling and galloping.
The two hunters who had swerved to follow the crippled mare and her colt soon overtook them. They paid no attention to the mare but charged down on the colt. One of them swung a rope. The loop sailed out and dropped over the straining neck of the little fellow. The colt fought and kicked, but the Navajo boy knew how to handle a fighter. He kept his rope tight, almost to the choking point, and let the little horse wear himself out. In a short time he had mastered the colt and was heading toward camp with him. His companion galloped away to overtake the band.
The chestnut stallion could not understand the attack of the Navajos. They did not start shooting when they got in close and they did not try to rope any of the mares. They just kept riding on the heels of his fast-tiring band, yelling and waving their arms. They were not like the wolf or the cougar, they did not strike when they got close, but they never left the heels of the herd. The big stallion shifted his course and again they began moving in a wide circle.
This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists. They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare and the colts.
The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded against the wolf or the bear.
Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted: