Quince, the Roan Pacer of the Shadscale

Quince, the Roan Pacer of the Shadscale By Albert R. Lyman In the dry shadscale stretches at foot of Clay Hill, a lone horse-track crossed the trail. It had appeared before in the red dust of that vicinity, but where it came from, and whether the creature itself were worth having, no one knew. Since a hand of horse thieves escaped over that trail from New Mexico, four years before, it had been there, but care of the herd or necessity of haste had so far prevented any investigation. When Steve Edson made his first trip to Pagahrit, that track simply ignited the dry stuff in his curiosity. He hired to Walt again in September, and when they met at the appointed place, behold Steve had with him a bay, and a gray built chiefly for speed. At Cow Tank he proposed to "cut a big sign" over the mesas and by all possible watering holes east of the trail, — and asked his employer to wait at a certain place in the shadscale. Late that afternoon, impatient at so much delay in the scorching fun, Walt Wilson discovered his hired man approaching over a distant ridge. His horse bore telltale stratas of dry lather and dust, and he began talking when hardly within hooting distance. "He waters at Hawk Tank," he yelled, "oh say! it's a bully place to catch 'im, — and he is certainly a daisy — a single-footer. 1 came on to 'im slap dab, and tried to turn 'im up this way, but 'e just simply went off and hid." "It's getting late," protested Walt, who had killed good horses on the trail of bad ones more times than he liked to re- member, "we'll have to be moving if we reach Clay Hill before dark." "You know old Kid, here, c'n run," Steve proceeded, ignor- ing his employer's demur, "but Kid lost on him every jump, in spite of me." Wilson hesitated: he had resolved that his faithful horse- servants should not be required to squander their noble strength for this wild, desert creature. "An 'es a broke horse," Kid's resolute master went on, after a lapse of two jiffies, "spots over 'is kidneys big as y'r hand." "I don't want 'im," growled the other. Edson's eyes came half shut in a scowl of disappointment.

QUINCE, THE ROAN PACER OF THE SHADSCALE 619 Pushing back his wide hat, he shoved his thick fingers through his blonde hair. "These old fellers trust me an' do their best," declared Wil- son, warming with aggressive love for his dumb helpers, "they can't decide — I'm their judge and their advocate, an' I pro- nounce against any scheme to make them do more than our bargain calls for." "But look 'e here — we c'n cache ourselves there above Hawk Tank, an' when 'e comes to drink tonight, fer 'e's sure to come, Ave step out in the trail behind 'im, an' 'e's ours. That's all there is to it." "Yes it looks simple, but I want to say right here, I'll not run my horses a rod after that locoed thing." "Why, when we get 'im, we'll more'n make it up to these horses by ridin' 'im." "We ain't got 'im yet," snarled Wilson, and started the out- fit on for the hill. "Will you agree to this?" Steve urged, using all opposition, as usual, to render his own resolution more impregnable, "camp down at Hawk tonight, and I pay all delay, and furnish horse- flesh till we go on?" They turned back over Edson's track, stopping at dark a mile from the wild mustang's watering place. They heaped the packs under a tarpaulin by a rock, hobbled the loose horses, and riding on into the night, cached themselves in a shadow overlooking the trail which led to the tank in the gulch. The hollow croak of toads echoed up from the water, and a dismal owl groaned every ten minutes from some indefinite place among the shadscale, otherwise those hours were still and tire- some and long-drawn-out. It must have been midnight when the all but inaudible footfalls of a horse reached Steve's ear. "Listen!" he whispered. The sound grew louder. Straight down the trail it came with wonted regularity of ease and assurance, till Walt could hear his own quick pulse of uncertain anticipation. They could even trace the little cayuse's form silhouetted against the gray rocks. A second more, he would enter the stony gate of his trap. But he stopped — his head raised high — his ears like two vertical pegs on the top thereof. But a moment he waited, analyzing, as they both knew, certain offensive elements of the breeze, in his strange chemical laboratory. Then he uttered that peculiar wild-horse snort, like the puff of a steam engine, fierce and loud, and turning flew on fleet hoofs up the trail. Suddenly, again all became still, then again that engine suort. He had confirmed his fears and was gone. But no, he seemed to kick and plunge, — he bawled like a vicious colt under

62C IMPROVEMENT ERA the saddle. What could it mean? Did he really mock at the plot he had foiled? But now he went for sure — his beating hoofs died away over the hills. "Oh say!" gasped Edson, at length, for he realized there was more "to it" than he had imagined. Next day on Steve's horses they followed the track ten miles, and sighted the mustang in a swale near Cow Tank. East and south of him yawned the cavernous gulch, and a rocky hill stretched along on his north. If Walt would patrol the hilltop, his hired man would come in from the west, and they would crowd the little singlefooter over on the cliff-brow and lasso him. But their approach must be by a round-about way and with great caution, or the wind would betray it. Wilson reached his post, and peered eagerly down the south side. He saw nothing. The place where the ponv had stopped was directly below him. Later on, old Kid and his rider came up in view, but nothing else moved. Walt proceeded cautiously along the rocky backbone, till a string of deeply-cut tracks caught his eye. He signaled Edson to come up. "Y'u satisfied?" he asked. Steve bent over the mute evidence in the dust, and gazed anxiously in the direction it had taken. "Oh say!" he moaned, slabbing his blonde locks with his thick fingers, as if to prod his despair into new resolution, "that broom-tail ain't had a drink since yesterday. That's sure. If 'e finds water, 'e'l pod up till 'e can't run, an' if 'e don't find it, 'e'l peter out." It was still morning, Kid and Whiskers hadn't sweat a hair. Their master took account of these things, and became himself at once. "We'll run the varmint down," he declared with rising spirit, and his employer fell in line like a hired man. Ascertaining the general direction of the track, they "cut signs" every half mile to make sure it had gone in the direction they expected it would go. "He's making straight f'r that cove," Steve announced, after two miles of silence, "an' when 'e strikes the bluff over there on them red hills, an' when you see 'im coming like mad, an' me burnin' the earth at his heels, you turn 'im back an' flv at 'im around the cove again while I wait." Wilson considered it all a "wild goose chase," nothing more, but he had agreed to one day of it, and he rode Whiskers on a lively trot to "them red hills," and "cached" himself on the tallest one. Edson's guess was correct; in half an hour a rousing dust progressed toward the tall gray horse, who stood awaiting the rowel's touch. How near or far old Kid "burned the earth

QUINCE, THE ROAN PACER OF THE SHADSCALE 621 behind," could not be seen tor dust, and no time to investigate. When Walt galloped out in full view waving his hat, the wild creature bent his bee-line of dust around in a long curve to the north. Furiously after him dashed Whiskers fresh and strong, crushing brush and weeds, and scattering gravel left and right. The first essential was to pass the flying single-footer, and prevent his going beyond this well-arranged cove. And the cove's mouth was two miles across, — a horse-killing race-track for boiling September noonday. Whiskers gained by quick and masterly leaps, till he ran even with his desert competitor, though fifty yards to one side. In even race they covered a mile, each doing his level best — the tame and the wild horse reaching alike for advantage they could not win. Then Whiskers began to fail — no encouraging word or touch of spurs could hold him to his place, — the place he should pass to save the day. And the wild mustang drove straight ahead, his long tail resting horizontally on the breeze. Should Walt kill this willing gray horse, or bear the fail- ure of Steve's foolish undertaking? Half a mile stretched be- tween them and the coveted pass. With a thrust of spurs and a sharp word, poor Whiskers improved a little, still falling behind. Suddenly Wilson drew up to a full stop, threw himself to the ground, snatched his rifle from its scabbard, and dropping to one knee fired at the pass he was failing to reach. His bullet sang to its mark, throwing up a small cloud of dust. Again he fired, again the dust; the desperate pony saw the disturbance before him and turned sharply into the cove. Whiskers, all panting and lather from head to hoofs, had now an advantage: he could cut straight across the inside, while his antagonist ran wildly around the outside of the circle. He therefore "burned the earth" in glorious style at the mustang's heels as they approached "them red hills." Out from his cache galloped Edson, hat in hand; but the desperate cayuse, seeming to turn to the right, whirled abruptly to the left, passing Kid and his rider at close range in a volume of thick dust. The race proceeded straight for Clay Hill. Three miles down the country, Walt overtook Steve, — but where the wild thing had gone, he neither knew nor guessed. A huge blotch of dirty foam covered Kid, — the poor brute panted and his great heart thumped as if he would drop dead in his tracks. Whis- kers couldn't prosecute the chase alone, even if their quarry were in sight. They headed for Hawk Tank, moping slowly and silently up one slope and down the next. It was three o'clock afternoon, and hot as that flaming here- after to which we look uncomfortably forward. "I could spit

622 IMPROVEMENT ERA dust," swore Edson, his face a dark map of perspiration and sand. "We found water down here last spring," Wilson suggested, and without further words they turned down a gulch to their left. Seventy-five yards below, a trail led in from one side, and on it a lone horse-track. "Oh say!" Steve exploded, alive in a second, as if it were morning and all hands fresh and full. "Can he get out?" and he waited with dropped jaw to know whether his dream should yet be realized. Wilson wasn't exactly sure about the topography of that particular place, and both horsemen struck up a lively trot. Farther on the lone track seemed to have been coming back, but it turned again down the gulch with violent stride. As the canyon became deeper and more box-like, their lively trot developed into a gallop; and when that engine snort echoed out assuringly from a bend just ahead, they spurred up to a keen run. The mustang could flee no farther without plunging sev- enty feet from a ledge. Snorting and trembling, head and tail erect, it waited, near the rim, the appearance of its pursuers. Both lassos hung ready, loop and coil, before the game was sighted, and capture was but the inexorable process of advantage claiming its own. The pony yielded to the rope, he had known it before, and the saddle, too, as those "spots over his kidneys" plainly indicated. He opened his teeth to the foamy bit just pulled from Kid's mouth, and he humped and shivered and flinched when Kid's hot blankets and saddle were laid on his back. He was a mare — bay, inclined to roan, weighing perhaps seven hundred pounds. "Oh say!" laughed Steve, reaching for the cinches, "she's about as big as fifteen cents." Discovering a fussy little Mexican brand on her shoulder, "Mexicano?" he asked, examining it. "El tamano de quince centavos, no ob- stante," he added, carefully tightening the laragos. They referred to her next as "Quince centavos," but ever since then she had been Quince. "She won't buck," declared Edson, seizing the cheek-band and the horn, and flattering himself as usual that he compre- hended horse psychology from a to z, "she's too blame full of water, even if she had the inclination." But Quince held a nervous ear cocked on her captor like the hammer of a shotgun. Her fiery little eye, arched neck and dynamic posture, looked anything but submission. Had she sur- rendered? "Never! Never! Never!" She couldn't say it with tongue of man, but she could proclaim it emphatically with

QUINCE, THE ROAN PACER OF THE SHADSCALE 623 muscles and hoofs of a horse. That was no doubt her affirma- tion as she departed from Hawk Tank the previous night. Steve had no more than lifted his leg over the cantle, when she began to say it again, and she continued to say it with rising emphasis across the gulch and back, along the dizzy ledge, and turning up the trail she stomped it with such fury into the sand and over the rocks, that her rider lost hold with fingers and spurs, and bouncing over her head, came down on his own. But Steve Edson, more persistent in his purpose when wrong side up than other men are on their feet, clung to his heavy bridle reins neck or nothing. When Quince would have scattered him along up the gulch and away over the shadscale, Whiskers and his rider forced the argument to a close. "Oh say!" declared Steve, rubbing the dust out of his eyes, spitting it from his mouth, and hastily classifying his jumbled self, "she's sure the concentrated essence of horse! I'll pay big f'r all y'r trouble, an' she's mine. But say, I want y'u to snub 'er when I get on again, — she'll come out a the kinks an' beat anything in the mountains." Walt held her nervy little nose solid to his saddle-horn, and she suffered herself to be ridden without protest. Before they reached camp, she proved her knowledge of all training and discipline that saddle and bridle imply, and she carried her proud little self with elegance to fascinate a king. That night she was hobbled and rehobbled and cross-hob- bled, and strange to say they found her near by in the morning. Over Clay Hill, down to Pagahrit and back to the hill again, she always wore strong hobbles when not in use, which was seldom. "Oh say!" Edson never tired of repeating, "she beats any- thing in the shape of a horse I ever saw. If you'd boil Whiskers an' Kid an' your whole outfit down into one horse, an' offer 'em to me with ten yearling heifers f'r Quince, I'd tell y'u to go to glory." When they approached Clay Hill, the little single-footer's face wore a dejected expression. For a week past she had per- mitted herself to be caught, unhobbled, saddled and ridden, as meekly as Kid or Whiskers. "Say, y'u remember that shelf on the south side?" asked Steve, as the two approached the summit, "always grass there, an' y'u put horses on it an' camp on the trail, they can't get away. Let's camp there tonight so the little mare c'n get some- thing to eat without being hobbled." It was agreed. They made camp in the narrow entrance, and led the weary creatures out into the best grass. Steve

624 IMPROVEMENT ERA glanced at the lofty precipice above, the abrupt ledges below, and pulled the head-stall from Quince's ears. For a minute she stood as any tired horse would stand, and then moving to the edge she looked down. Beyond the foot of the hill, and plainly in view, stretched the shadscale plains she loved, and from their heated surface came the warm evening breeze. Her captors arranged their camp fifty yards away. The glorious instinct of liberty flamed up afresh, soothing her weary limbs, pumping the fire of invincible strength to every tissue. Her neck arched, her shapely head and flowing tail rose high, and she uttered that engine snort which means the desert and liberty. Then over the rim she plunged. She slid with loose earth to the next rim and plunged again. "Oh say!" groaned Edson, leaning desperately out from the top, and searching in the dust and noise for his beloved single- footer. The steep slopes, the high ledges, the loose stones, — no tame horse could follow and save his neck. On the last rim she came into full view; it was higher than the others and she shrank from the mad leap, trying to stop. 'Twas no use. Her own weight would have carried her over, even if the stony avalanche behind had been stayed. Uttering again her cry for liberty, she sprang to clear the rugged wall and disappeared. "She's done for," declared Walt, "she'll roll to the bottom with every bone in splinters." But she appeared again, wending her way among the rocks at the base of the mountain. In the first open space she struck up that rhythmic motion which causes men to look at single- footers with covetous eyes. Before her stretched the night and the shadscale; would she be overtaken? "Never! Never!! Never!!!" After a minute of that graceful step, just to prove herself all there and unbeaten, her heels flew high, — her lithe little form, plunging and whirling declared in the language of horses, "It never shall be!" When she had made her declaration clear to her heart's content, stomping it with uncontradictable decision, in the dust, she snorted her cry of freedom long and loud, looking back in proud disdain at the mountain behind. Then she became a vanishing comet, whose long tail of red dust drifted away over the shadscale. Just where she watered after that, no one ever knew. Steve had no time that trip to undertake her recapture, and a change in his affairs took him away into another state from which lie never returned. When Walt Wilson passed for the last time through that sec-

QUINCE, THE ROAN PACER OF THE SHADSCALE 625 tion, three years later, a lone horse-track in the shadscale re- minded him of "Oh say!" and Steve Edson. Looking away to- wards Hawk Tank at a tiny speck on a ridge, he had barely time to wonder if it were Quince, before it became the moving hand of a comet-like dust, and he knew the little single-footer said again, "Never! Never!! Never!!!" Blending, Utah Logan, Utah The