“Joey was just sayin’,” Mike said, “that the folks out here haven’t accepted us even after three years. An’ I told him it didn’t matter ’cause we haven’t accepted them yet, either. We’re independent, we are.”
“We can afford to be, on Allen’s money,” Joe said. “If it wasn’t for him, it’d be different, all right.”
Mike withdrew his pipe, and spat in the fire. “Well, we’re helpin’ him make the ranch a payin’ business, aren’t we? He’s got more money now than he had when we came.”
“Thanks to Hank Larom managing things, and Allen’s good sense,” Joe said quietly. “It was Allen who hired Hank, and Allen who bought Hot Feet as a weanling.”
Mike sucked his pipe thoughtfully. “Yep,” he said. “We’re sure beatin’ these Westerners at their own game. Here we got a payin’ cattle ranch an’ the best little quarter horse in the country. That’s what gets ’em, Mac, our havin’ Hot Feet. Folks out here expect most anyone to be able to raise cattle and make a profit, but it’s raisin’ a grand horse like Hot Feet that makes ’em mad. Beatin’ them at their own game, that’s what we’re doin’, all right.”
McGregor put the kettle on the two flat iron bars over the fire, and then he went to the bag of provisions.
“What you fixin’ us tonight, Mac?” Mike asked.
“Boiled rice and steak.”
“An’ onions?”
“Sure.”
Mike lay back on his blanket. “Good,” he said.
The mares nickered, but they were settling down for the night. Mike and Joe as usual had talked their fill, and they would be more or less quiet until morning. McGregor got his pans ready. He found he liked to cook, even had a knack for it. And the one who cooked never had to wash the dishes. He’d be resting after supper, taking it nice and easy while Mike and Joe scrubbed the pots and plates. It was a good life and, most important to him, one set apart from the rest of the world. The wind beat against the hanging utensils, rattling them until he removed them from their hooks. It became quiet, and he felt a sense of aloofness from everything. It was as he wanted it.
Mike spoke from behind him, his voice shattering the peaceful stillness. “Y’know, Mac, between you an’ me, I think Allen’s got somethin’ else in mind for you. He’s never been happy about puttin’ a professional jockey up on Hot Feet like he had to do last year in the big race. I remember he said at the time, ‘Mike, it’s a crime to spend years raisin’ a horse, givin’ him the best you got in you, and then have to turn him over to some little stranger you don’t know a thing about in order to race him.’ ”
The boy froze, a cooking utensil in one hand.
“So what I think Allen has in mind is for you to ride Hot Feet in the races comin’ up at Preston,” Mike continued. “He as much as told me so the other day, sayin’ you were a natural born race rider, usin’ such short stirrups, and sittin’ like you do.”
McGregor never said a word. His feeling of aloofness had been destroyed. He knew that if Mike was right, if Allen made him ride Hot Feet at Preston, somebody might identify him as the boy wanted by the Utah state police, and he would only have to run again. The night air became cold, chilling him.
Shortly before midnight Joe came to him, telling him it was time to get up. He hadn’t slept. Without a word to Joe, he went to his hobbled horse, and saddled him quickly. Later he rode quietly out to where the band grazed, and sat there, watching and thinking. An hour passed, and then another with only the wild sounds of the night to keep him company, to remind him that his job was to keep the mares from straying too far away. He rode around the band, keeping it together, listening to the sound of teeth cropping grass.
He didn’t know how long he’d been on watch when he became aware of the mares’ sudden restlessness. They weren’t moving, but all had stopped grazing; their nostrils were blown out, sniffing the air. Some animal scent was coming to them, yet they seemed unafraid. Whatever it was created more interest than fear in them. McGregor waited a few minutes, and then, when their uneasiness continued, rode quickly back to alert Mike and Joe.
“Something’s up,” he said, awakening them. They rolled from their sleeping bags with no complaints. They knew their jobs.
When he got back to the band, the mares were still facing the unbroken ridge of high trees rising to the west. They were moving now, but in no particular direction. They circled each other, their eyes leaving the western ridge for seconds only, their nostrils still wide and quivering.
Mike and Joe rode up, taking their positions about the band. There was nothing to fear now. Working together they’d be able to keep the mares in hand and protect them. Protect them from what? Nothing that human eyes could see. Nothing a human nose could smell.
For a long time the mares continued to be restless. Flashing eyes, manes and tails. Moving hoofs and nostrils. Then suddenly their action became faster, their eyes brighter. And with this came the scream, low at first and then mounting, becoming more and more shrill until it was the loudest and clearest of whistles. It claimed the high, unbroken ridge for its own and then rocked the air about. It lasted for a good many seconds, and then died slowly over the distant, rolling plain.
The men had no time to think about it then. The mares were moving to the west, and they rode after them, turning them back, holding them together until they had them quiet once more. Now the night was deathly still. The mares kept their heads up, sniffing the air for a long while before losing interest and grazing again. The scent, like the scream, was gone.
McGregor sat on his horse, looking over at the western ridge. Everything was as it had been before, except that Mike and Joe were now beside him.
“What kind of a scream was that?” Mike asked. “Sure no animal I ever heard before.”
“Could have been a bird,” Joe suggested. “Maybe an eagle.”
Mike shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe so, Joey. Anyway, it’s gone.”
“But we’d better stick together the rest of the night,” Joe said. “It might come back, and it sure made the mares act queer. Yeah, Mike, we’d better stay with Mac. We don’t want anything happening to the mares. We sure don’t, not with Allen coming around early tomorrow morning.”
They turned to the boy, watching him as he continued to gaze at the western ridge. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Mac?” Mike asked. “Whatcha thinkin’?”
“That was a horse we heard,” the boy said quietly. “A stallion … a wild stallion.”
“You’re kiddin’.” Mike turned to Joe, laughing. “The kid’s kiddin’, Joe!”
“Maybe he isn’t,” Joe said. “Mac, are you sure? Have you ever heard a horse scream like that before?”
A minute passed, then another. They didn’t think McGregor was going to answer. Finally his words came, so low they could hardly hear them. “Yes, I’ve heard a horse scream like that … a long, long time ago.”
One more step on the road back. He had recognized the whistle of a wild stallion. Where had he heard it before?
Joe said, “I don’t think you’re right, but it’s sure going to give Allen something to worry about when we tell him in the morning.”
“It was an owl, that’s what it was,” Mike said. “I guess I know an owl when I hear one.”
The boy glanced at him but said nothing.
THE BLACK OUTLAW
11
Dawn came with the paling of the eastern sky, and with the red flash of the sun Allen arrived on the upland range. He rode his champion, and the small, dark bay was still full of run after his long climb. Hot Feet came toward the camp with a graceful sweep, his strides short but quick. He tossed his head as though furious with Allen for sitting so upright in the saddle and creating more wind resistance.
Allen was urging him on, but his seat in the saddle lent no help to the running horse. His shouts pealed up and down the range. He kept Hot Feet in full stride until he was only a few yards from the dying campfire, and then he raised the reins. The small horse came to an abrupt, pl
unging halt.
As he witnessed this amazing, sudden stop from a full gallop, the boy remembered Gordon’s saying, “Sure, the quarter horse is fast over short distances. And he’s quick and easy to handle. He’s a type developed to work the range, but he’s no racehorse. The Thoroughbred is the racehorse.”
Maybe Gordon would have told all this to Allen, and maybe not. The boy knew only that such words would never come from him. He realized this simply by looking into Allen’s eyes, and seeing the love and pride that shone there for Hot Feet. The small horse had his ears back, and his feet were pounding the ground, sending up dust clouds. Just beyond were the mares, their heads held aloft, their ears cocked forward, watching him.
“ ’Morning, boys,” Allen said, but his eyes were only for the mares, and the love he had for Hot Feet was bestowed upon them as well. He, more than Mike and Joe, had become a part of the West. He had been wise in listening to men far more experienced than he, and through them he had selected the right ranch, cattle and hands to make this new venture pay for itself. In those early days, only the purchase of the weanling Hot Feet had been his decision alone. He had seen the potential speed in the small colt when others had shaken their heads. So Allen, more than anyone else, shared Hot Feet’s glory when the championship had been won last year. Afterward he had traveled throughout Arizona, and to California, New Mexico and Texas, selecting broodmares he alone felt best suited for Hot Feet’s court. His ranch and cattle were making him rich, but his sole joy was Hot Feet and the mares. Through them he had found his place, his niche in the West.
Only when Mike began telling him of the band’s restlessness during the night did he turn away from the mares. At first he was curious and only mildly interested, but he became genuinely concerned when Mike attempted to explain what the eerie scream had sounded like.
Mike ended with, “It could have been an owl. I guess it coulda been that, Irv.”
“Too shrill for an owl,” Joe said. “My guess is that it was an eagle. But Mac here says …” He stopped, and turned to the boy. “Maybe you’d better tell him, Mac.”
The boy turned from Joe to Allen. He saw that Mike’s and Joe’s suggestions had failed to wipe out the concern that still showed in the man’s eyes. Mares didn’t react the way these had from nocturnal sounds made by an owl or an eagle. Allen knew this, and so did he.
“Yes, Mac,” Allen said. “What do you think it was?”
“A stallion.” He saw the fear come quickly, brightly to the man’s eyes. He saw the sudden stiffening of Allen’s seat in the saddle, and the tightening of his legs about Hot Feet, sending him dancing again.
Mike’s and Joe’s eyes shifted nervously from the boy to Allen, and then back again. The swinging of their legs in their long stirrups indicated the stress they, too, felt because of Allen’s reaction to McGregor’s reply.
Allen finally spoke. “You’re sure?” he asked. He felt both cold and hot. His gaze never left the boy, and he realized that McGregor didn’t need to answer him. The boy was certain of what he’d heard. He couldn’t question those eyes.
Mike said, “Joey and I think the kid’s all mixed up. Irv. There ain’t no wild horses in this section. We know that, all right, same as you do.”
Allen’s eyes were on the western ridge. He removed his glasses to wipe them, then put them on again. “No, Mike,” he said, “we don’t know that at all. Lots of things could be up in that country without our knowing.”
“But Hank Larom would know,” Mike insisted, “an’ all the other guys who’ve lived around here longer’n we have. They’ve said lots of times, and you’ve heard them, that any wild mustangs around here were long ago driven up into the roughest part of the country, an’ have either been starved or hunted to death by wolves ’n mountain lions.”
Allen never took his eyes off the high ridge as he said, “I’m not thinking of mustangs, Mike.”
“Then you ain’t got anything else to worry about!” Mike attempted a short laugh. “We’re here, boss. We won’t let anything happen to ’em. Will we, Joey?”
Allen said, “I had a letter yesterday from a friend of mine over in Pueblo … that’s about fifty miles east of here. He said a wild, outlaw horse had stolen two of his best mares.”
Mike laughed again. “They prob’ly just roamed away from his men, Irv. I guess he don’t have good men like you do. I guess not.”
“No, Mike. He saw them go.”
“Y’mean he saw the stallion, Irv?” Joe asked.
“Yes. It was night but he caught a glimpse of him. He said he wasn’t any mustang but big and black, coal black. The horse ran faster than he’d ever seen one run before, and took the mares with him. They chased them, but he was too smart. They lost the tracks.”
“You’re kiddin’, Irv. Aren’t you kiddin’?” Mike asked.
“Why would I want to kid you?” Allen’s voice was impatient, angry. He turned again to the western ridge. “That wild outlaw might have come over here. He might even be out there now.”
“You’re crazy,” Mike said. Now he wasn’t speaking to his employer but to Irving Allen, who had owned the gasoline station not far from his own barbershop four years ago in New York City. “Y’been readin’ too many westerns. You’re wild and woolly like they are … an’ those days are done with, Irv.”
After a few minutes Allen turned to him, and then his gaze shifted to Joe, and finally came to rest on the boy. He said, “Mac, I want you to spend the day up on the ridge. If you find any sign of him I want to know … any sign at all … tracks, anything. If he’s out there I must do something about him.” One hand stroked Hot Feet’s glistening neck, and when he had finished speaking he turned to look at the mares again. All his concern and fear were for them, for they were meant for his champion alone.
An hour later McGregor was riding up the ridge. The slope at first was open and very gradual. His horse became impatient with the slow walk at which he was holding him. He was being careful, for the terrain was covered with small angular rocks and high clods of bunch-grass on which his mount could easily trip. Finally he gave him his head, and was amazed at the way the little quarter horse chose his ground, picking his feet well up and over the rocks and brush-grass, his short strides sure and never faltering.
When the ascent became steep McGregor brought him down to a walk again. Soon they moved through dim forest aisles no different from the mountain range to the east of the plateau, which McGregor had known with Gordon. Above him came the sound of the whistling wind through the treetops. Beyond, and ever upward, was the high country with its majestic peaks.
“Go only to the top of the timberline,” Allen had instructed him, “and in the direction you think the scream came from. If you see his tracks or any indication at all that he’s been there, come back and tell us. Tomorrow we’ll make up a party and go after him, providing you find anything. You’ll be able to sight everything from up there. He’ll have mares with him, so if he’s around you ought to find some indication of their movements. If not, just come back. Maybe Joe was right after all. Maybe what you heard was an eagle.”
No, it was a stallion he’d heard. He was certain of that. He’d swear to it. But why was he so sure?
For many long hours he climbed, and only the horse’s body working between his legs was familiar to him. He had a gun in his holster, and he supposed he’d be able to use it if he had to. But it was a strange, hanging weight at his side. On the saddle’s pommel was his lariat, and he thought he would be even more awkward using that if he needed it. His sole confidence rested in the intelligence of the horse carrying him and in his own riding ability.
The trees thinned as he neared the top of the ridge, and soon he was in high, open country. The stallion could have been somewhere up here last night. He looked down, his eyes roving over the pine trees below and over the grazing range still farther below. He saw the far-off figures of the mares and cattle. His gaze turned to the land about him, land stripped bare of everything but dr
y brush and rock. It was going to be hard to find any tracks here, but he needed to see only a scratch on the weathered stone, the merest indication that a horse’s hoofs had trod here. That was all Allen wanted to know.
Even at this high altitude the air was warmed by the late afternoon sun. It was still, very still, and the great stone ramparts above him, reflecting all the gold of the sun’s rays, were blazing and glorious. He suddenly forgot to look for the tracks of a stallion. He welcomed this silent loneliness. There was no sound, only the great solitude of the upper air. He forgot Gordon and Allen, Joe and Mike. He forgot completely his recent life, the only life he remembered. For the time being he felt absolutely free and alone and secure. Nothing could be so wonderful as this, nothing so thrilling as that world which lay above him. He turned his horse away from the world below.
He climbed toward the great, glowing pinnacles without knowing why he went. His horse moved very carefully over the rugged ground, making no attempt to move faster than a slow walk. McGregor let him pick his way. He knew he must be over ten thousand feet high. He felt he could almost touch the floating cakes of snowy clouds. And above the clouds rose the highest of the peaks. Finally he entered a narrow stone aisle palisaded by tremendous cliffs of granite.
It was there he brought his horse to a stop. It was there he came to his senses, and asked himself why had he come? To sit his horse on top of the world? Was this his only answer?
He remembered the tracks he had been sent to look for. He remembered Allen’s orders not to go any higher than the timberline already two thousand feet below him. He had been told that beyond the crest of this range was the land of the great canyons, seldom touched and unknown. Perhaps that’s why he had come to look upon these lands, for he, too, was unknown.
Since he had come this far, he decided to go to the crest. He urged his horse on again, continuing to climb, and the cliffs closed in upon him. Finally he came to the end of the ascent, and the canyon country was there for him to see.