Tecumseh obeyed with a snort.
The top of the rise was gained, and the magnificent sight at his base burst upon the trio’s gaze.
Three hundred wild horses, black, white, iron-gray, and piebald, were sweeping along in the glory of majestic beauty and strength. Uncurbed by bit, and unbled by spurs, each looked like a monarch, as with head erect, and flecked with foam, he rushed westward toward the land of the setting sun.
“There’s my horse!” cried the trapper, “there’s the black, and on the edge of the band, too. I’ll crease him now. Be ready with your rifle, George, for we must have two horses to-day; and when I drop the black, poke the gun over my shoulder.”
Frontier Shack had creased more than one wild horse, and for six years he had not fractured a single vertebra.
Creasing a wild horse consists in shooting him through the upper crease of the neck, above the cervical vertebrae, when, the ball cutting a principal nerve, he falls as suddenly as if shot in the brain, and remains senseless for a few moments, during which he is secured with a rope. He is easily tamed after this, and the wound heals without leaving any physical injury.
For the first time the “lost band” was passing within rifle-shot of the trapper, and with a countenance flushed with mingled pride and triumph, he raised the rifle.
His eyes were riveted upon the coal-black stallion; he seemed to see, to think of nothing else, and the two youths watched the doomed horse with an interest truly indescribable.
All at once their ears were saluted with a sharp report—they saw the black horse stop, shake like a storm-tossed reed from head to foot, and then drop to the ground!
“Dash me if I hevn’t dropped ’im at last!” cried Shackelford. “No—no! I don’t want your rifle, George; the black can carry double well enough. He’s as strong as a lion. Tecumseh!”