University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
A HORSE.

Yes, John Brent, you were right when you
called Luggernel Alley a wonder of our continent.

I remember it now, — I only saw it then; — for
those strong scenes of nature assault the soul
whether it will or no, fight in against affirmative
or negative resistance, and bide their time to be
admitted as dominant over the imagination. It
seemed to me then that I was not noticing how
grand the precipices, how stupendous the cleavages,
how rich and gleaming the rock faces in
Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare
about, but to look sharp and ride hard; and I
did it.

Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld
it, every stride of that pass; and everywhere, as I
recall foot after foot of that fierce chasm, I see
three men with set faces, — one deathly pale and
wearing a bloody turban, — all galloping steadily
on, on an errand to save and to slay.

Terrible riding it was! A pavement of slippery,

sheeny rock; great beds of loose stones; barricades
of mighty boulders, where a cliff had fallen
an æon ago, before the days of the road-maker
race; crevices where an unwary foot might catch;
wide rifts where a shaky horse might fall, or a
timid horseman drag him down. Terrible riding!
A pass where a calm traveller would go
quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour
counted him a safe mile.

Terrible riding! Madness to go as we went!
Horse and man, any moment either might shatter
every limb. But man and horse neither
can know what he can do, until he has dared and
done. On we went, with the old frenzy growing
tenser. Heart almost broken with eagerness.

No whipping or spurring. Our horses were
a part of ourselves. While we could go, they
would go. Since the water, they were full of
leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, evening
had come before its time. Noon's packing
of hot air had been dislodged by a mountain
breeze drawing through. Horses and men were
braced and cheered to their work; and in such
riding as that, the man and the horse must think
together and move together, — eye and hand of
the rider must choose and command, as bravely
as the horse executes. The blue sky was overhead,
the red sun upon the castellated walls a
thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm

opened before. It was late, these were the last
moments. But we should save the lady yet.

“Yes,” our hearts shouted to us, “we shall
save her yet.”

An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followed
the pass. It had made its way as water
does, not straightway, but by that potent feminine
method of passing under the frowning front of an
obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there,
while the wild creature it would have held is
gliding away down the valley. This zigzag channel
baffled us; we must leap it without check
wherever it crossed our path. Every second now
was worth a century. Here was the sign of
horses, passed but now. We could not choose
ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel
rock wherever they offered.

Poor Pumps!

He had carried his master so nobly! There
were so few miles to do! He had chased so
well; he merited to be in at the death.

Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.

Poor Pumps!

His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed
rock. He fell short. He plunged down a dozen
feet among the rough boulders of the torrent-bed.
Brent was out of the saddle almost before
he struck, raising him.

No, he would never rise again. Both his fore

legs were broken at the knee. He rested there,
kneeling on the rocks where he fell.

Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly,
horribly, — there is no more agonized sound, —
and the scream went echoing high up the cliffs
where the red sunlight rested.

It costs a loving master much to butcher his
brave and trusty horse, the half of his knightly
self; but it costs him more to hear him shriek
in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put
poor Pumps out of pain.

Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.

“Stop!” he said in his hoarse whisper.

He had hardly spoken, since we started. My
nerves were so strained, that this mere ghost of
a sound rang through me like a death yell, a
grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance.
I seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling
in a flood of thick uproar, until they burst over
the summit of the pass and were wasted in the
crannies of the towering mountain-flanks above.

“Stop!” whispered Armstrong. “No shooting!
They 'll hear. The knife!”

He held out his knife to my friend.

Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain
his hand with his faithful servant's blood?

Pumps screamed again.

Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it
across the throat of the crippled horse.

Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a
moan. Noble martyr in the old, heroic cause!

I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the
thong of my girth. The heavy California saddle,
with its macheers and roll of blankets, fell
to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They had
never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood
beside me quiet, but trembling to be off.

“Now Brent! up behind me!” I whispered, —
for the awe of death was upon us.

I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride
light for a tall man. Brent is the slightest body
of an athlete I ever saw.

Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our
seats.

Then he tore down the defile.

Here was that vast reserve of power; here the
tireless spirit; here the hoof striking true as a
thunderbolt, where the brave eye saw footing;
here that writhing agony of speed; here the
great promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling
to mine, the grand body living to the beating
heart. Noble Fulano!

I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose.
I did not check or guide him. He saw all. He
knew all. All was his doing.

We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must.
Fulano dashed along the resounding pass.

Armstrong pressed after, — the gaunt white

horse struggled to emulate his leader. Presently
we lost them behind the curves of the Alley.
No other horse that ever lived could have held
with the black in that headlong gallop to save.

Over the slippery rocks, over the sheeny pavement,
plunging through the loose stones, staggering
over the barricades, leaping the arroyo, down,
up, on, always on, — on went the horse, we
clinging as we might.

It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eternity,
when between the ring of the hoofs I heard
Brent whisper in my ear.

“We are there.”

The crags flung apart, right and left. I saw a
sylvan glade. I saw the gleam of gushing water.

Fulano dashed on, uncontrollable!

There they were, — the Murderers.

Arrived but one moment!

The lady still bound to that pack-mule branded
A. & A.

Murker just beginning to unsaddle.

Larrap not dismounted, in chase of the other
animals as they strayed to graze.

The men heard the tramp and saw us, as we
sprang into the glade.

Both my hands were at the bridle.

Brent, grasping my waist with one arm, was
awkward with his pistol.

Murker saw us first. He snatched his six-shooter
and fired.

Brent shook with a spasm. His pistol arm
dropped.

Before the murderer could cock again, Fulano
was upon him!

He was ridden down. He was beaten, trampled
down upon the grass, — crushed, abolished.

We disentangled ourselves from the mêlée.

Where was the other?

The coward, without firing a shot, was spurring
Armstrong's Flathead horse blindly up the
cañon, whence we had issued.

We turned to Murker.

Fulano was up again, and stood there shuddering.
But the man?

A hoof had battered in the top of his skull;
blood was gushing from his mouth; his ribs were
broken; all his body was a trodden, massacred
carcass.

He breathed once, as we lifted him.

Then a tranquil, childlike look stole over his
face, — that well-known look of the weary body,
thankful that the turbulent soul has gone. Murker
was dead.

Fulano, and not we, had been executioner.
His was the stain of blood.