 | CHAPTER III.
DON FULANO. John Brent |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
DON FULANO.
Hector of Troy, Homer's Hector, was my first
hero in literature. Not because he loved his
wife and she him, as I fancy that noble wives
and husbands love in the times of trial now; but
simply because he was Hippodamos, one that
could master the horse.
As soon as I knew Hector, I began to emulate
him. My boyish experiments were on donkeys,
and failed. “I could n't wallop 'em. O no,
no!” That was my difficulty. Had I but met
an innocent and docile donkey in his downy
years! Alas! only the perverted donkey, bristly
and incorrigible, came under my tutorship. I
was too humane to give him stick enough, and so
he mastered me.
Horses I learned to govern by the law of love.
The relation of friendship once established between
man and horse, there is no trouble. A
centaur is created. The man wills whither; the
horse, at the will of his better half, does his best
to go thither. I became, very early, Hippodamos,
— fiendish beings apart, — unless spoilt by treachery,
seek the society of the higher; as man, by
nature, loves God. Horses will do all they know
for men, if man will only let them. All they
need is a slight hint to help their silly willing
brains, and they dash with ardor at their business
of galloping a mile a minute, or twenty miles an
hour, or of leaping a gully, or pulling tonnage.
They put so much reckless, break-neck frenzy in
their attempt to please and obey the royal personage
on their back, that he needs to be brave
indeed to go thoroughly with them.
The finer the horse, the more delicate the magnetism
between him and man. Knight and his
steed have an affinity for each other. I fancied
that Gerrian's black, after our mutual friendly
recognition on the prairie, would like me better
as our intimacy grew.
After hobnobbing with cracked tumblers of the
Mission Dolores wine, Gerrian and I mounted
our mustangs and rode toward the corral.
All about on the broad slopes, the ranchero's
countless cattle were feeding. It was a patriarchal
scene. The local patriarch, in a red flannel
shirt purpled by sun and shower, in old
buckskin breeches with the fringe worn away
and decimated along its files whenever a thong
was wanted, in red-topped boots with the
stamped in gilt letters on the red, — in such
costume the local patriarch hardly recalled those
turbaned and white-robed sheiks of yore, Abraham
and his Isaac. But he represented the
same period of history modernized, and the
same type of man Americanized; and I have
no doubt his posterity will turn out better than
Abraham's, and scorn peddling, be it Austrian
loans or “ole clo'.”
The cattle scampered away from us, as we
rode, hardly less wild than the buffaloes on the
Platte. Whenever we rose on the crest of a
hillock, we could see several thousands of the
little fierce bullocks, — some rolling away in
flight, in a black breadth, like a shaken carpet;
some standing in little groups, like field officers
at a review, watching the movements as squadron
after squadron came and went over the
scene; some, as arbitrators and spectators, surrounding
a pair of champion bulls butting and
bellowing in some amphitheatre among the
swells of land.
“I tell you what it is, stranger,” said Gerrian,
halting and looking proudly over the landscape,
“I would n't swop my place with General
Price at the White House.”
“I should think not,” said I; “bullocks are
better company than office-seekers.”
It was a grand, simple scene. All open country,
north and south, as far as the eye could see.
Eastward rose the noble blue barrier of the Sierra,
with here and there a field, a slope, a spot,
or a pinnacle of the snow that names it Nevada.
A landscape of larger feeling than any we can
show in the old States, on the tame side of the
continent. Those rigorous mountain outlines
on the near horizon utterly dwarf all our wooded
hills, Alleghanies, Greens, Whites. A race
trained within sight of such loftiness of nature
must needs be a loftier race than any this land
has yet known. Put cheap types of mankind
within the influence of the sublimities, and they
are cowed; but the great-hearted expand with
vaster visions. A great snow-peak, like one of
the Tacomas of Oregon, is a terrible monitor
over a land; but it is also a benignant sovereign,
a presence, calm, solemn, yet not without
a cheering and jubilant splendor. A range of
sharp, peremptory mountains, like the Sierra Nevada,
insists upon taking thought away from the
grovelling flats where men do their grubbing for
the bread of daily life, and up to the master
heights, whither in all ages seers have gone to
be nearer mystery and God.
It was late August. All the tall grass and wild
oats and barley, over lift, level, and hollow, were
ripe yellow or warm brown, — a golden mantle
in the simple, broad picture, — clear, deep, scintillating
blue in the sky, melting blue in the
mountains, and all the earth a golden surging
sea.
“It 's a bigger country 'n old Pike or Missourer
anywhar,” says Gerrian, giving his `curwolyow'
the spur. “I 'd ruther hev this, even ef the
shakes wuz here instidd of thar, and havin' their
grab reglar twicet a day all the year round.”
As we rode on, our ponies half hidden in the
dry, rustling grass of a hollow, a tramp of hoofs
came to us with the wind, — a thrilling sound!
with something free and vigorous in it that the
charge of trained squadrons never has.
“Thar they come!” cried Gerrian; “thar 's a
rigiment wuth seeing. They can't show you a
sight like that to the old States.”
“No indeed. The best thing to be hoped there
in the way of stampede is when a horse kicks
through a dash-board, kills a coachman, shatters
a carriage, dissipates a load of women and children,
and goes tearing down a turnpike, with
`sold to an omnibus' awaiting him at the end of
his run-away!”
We halted to pass the coming army of riderless
steeds in review.
There they came! Gerrian's whole band of
horses in full career! First, their heads suddenly
burst over, like the foam and spray of a black,
stormy wave when a blast strikes it, and wildly
swept by us with manes and tails flaring in the
wind. It was magnificent. My heart of a horseman
leaped in my breast. “Hurrah!” I cried.
“Hurrah 't is!” said Gerrian.
The herd dashed by in a huddle, making for
the corral.
Just behind, aloof from the rush and scamper
of his less noble brethren, came the black, my
purchase, my old friend.
“Ef you ever ride or back that curwolyow,”
says Gerrian, “I 'll eat a six-shooter, loaded and
capped.”
“You 'd better begin, then, at once,” rejoined
I, “whetting your teeth on Derringers. I mean
to ride him, and you shall be by when I do it.”
It was grand to see a horse that understood
and respected himself so perfectly. One, too,
that meant the world should know that he was
the very chiefest chief of his race, proud with
the blood of a thousand kings. How masterly
he looked! How untamably he stepped! The
herd was galloping furiously. He disdained to
break into a gallop. He trotted after, a hundred
feet behind the hindmost, with large and liberal
action. And even at this half speed easily overtaking
his slower comrades, he from time to time
flung out his legs, and then strode on again,
writhing all over with suppressed power.
There was not a white spot upon him, except
where a flake of foam from his indignant nostril
had caught upon his flank. A thorough-bred
horse, with the perfect tail and silky mane of a
noble race. His coat glistened, as if the best
groom in England had just given him the final
touches of his toilette for a canter in Rotten
Row. But it seems a sin to compare such a free
rover of the prairie with any less favored brother,
who needs a groom, and has felt a currycomb.
Hard after the riderless horses came José,
the vaquero, on a fast mustang. As he rode, he
whirled his lasso with easy turn of the wrist.
The black, trotting still, and halting still to
curvet and caracole, turned back his head contemptuously
at his pursuer. “Mexicans may
chase their own ponies and break their spirit by
brutality; but an American horse is no more
to be touched by a Mexican than an American
man. Bah! make your cast! Dont trifle with
your lasso! I challenge you. Jerk away, Señor
Greaser! I give you as fair a chance as you
could wish.”
So the black seemed to say, with his provoking
backward glance and his whinny of disdain.
José took the hint. He dug cruel spurs into
black gave a tearing bound and quickened his
pace, but still waited the will of his pursuer.
They were just upon us, chased and chaser,
thundering down the slope, when the vaquero,
checking his wrist at the turn, flung his lasso
straight as an arrow for the black's head.
I could hear the hide rope sing through the
summer air, for a moment breezeless.
Will he be taken! Will horse or man be
victor!
The loop of the lasso opened like a hoop. It
hung poised for one instant a few feet before the
horse's head, vibrating in the air, keeping its
circle perfect, waiting for the vaquero's pull to
tighten about that proud neck and those swelling
shoulders.
Hurrah!
Through it went the black.
With one brave bound he dashed through the
open loop. He touched only to spurn its vain
assault with his hindmost hoof.
“Hurrah!” I cried.
“Hurrah! 't is,” shouted Gerrian.
José dragged in his spurned lasso.
The black, with elated head, and tail waving
like a banner, sprang forward, closed in with the
caballada; they parted for his passage, he took
his leadership, and presently was lost with his
suite over the swells of the prairie.
“Mucho malicho!” cried Gerrian to José,
not knowing that his Californian Spanish was interpreting
Hamlet. “He ought to hev druv 'em
straight to corral. But I don't feel so sharp set
on lettin' you hev that black after that shine.
Reg'lar circus, only thar never was no sich seen
in no circus! You 'll never ride him, allowin'
he 's cotched, no more 'n you 'll ride a alligator.”
Meantime, loping on, we had come in sight of
the corral. There, to our great surprise, the
whole band of horses had voluntarily entered.
They were putting their heads together as the
manner of social horses is, and going through
kissing manœuvres in little knots, which presently
were broken up by the heels of some ill-mannered
or jealous brother. They were very
probably discussing the black's act of horsemanship,
as men after the ballet discuss the first entrechat
of the danseuse.
We rode up and fastened our horses. The
black was within the corral, pawing the ground,
neighing, and whinnying. His companions kept
at a respectful distance.
“Don't send in José!” said I to Gerrian.
“Only let him keep off the horses, so that I shall
not be kicked, and I will try my hand at the
black alone.”
“I 'll hev 'em all turned out except that black
devil, and then you ken go in and take your own
“fwarer toethose! Dayher hel diablo!”
José drove the herd out of the staked enclosure.
The black showed no special disposition
to follow. He trotted about at his ease, snuffing
at the stakes and bars.
I entered alone. Presently he began to repeat
the scene of our first meeting on the prairie. It
was not many minutes before we were good
friends. He would bear my caresses and my arm
about his neck, and that was all for an hour.
At last, after a good hour's work, I persuaded
him to accept a halter. Then by gentle seductions
I induced him to start and accompany me
homeward.
Gerrian and the Mexican looked on in great
wonderment.
“Praps that is the best way,” said the modern
patriarch, “ef a man has got patience. Looker
here, stranger, ain't you a terrible fellow among
women?”
I confessed my want of experience.
“Well, you will be when your time comes. I
allowed from seeing you handle that thar hoss,
that you had got your hand in on women, —
they is the wust devils to tame I ever seed.”
I had made my arrangements to start about
the first of September, with the Sacramento mail-riders,
with their scalps as well secured as might be, ran
the gauntlet every alternate month to Salt Lake.
That was long before the days of coaches. No
pony express was dreamed of. A trip across the
plains, without escort or caravan, had still some
elements of heroism, if it have not to-day.
Meantime one of my ardent partners from
San Francisco arrived to take my place at the
mine.
“I don't think that quartz looks quite so goldy
as it did at a distance,” said he.
“Well,” said old Gerrian, who had come over
to take possession of his share of our bargain;
“it is whiter 'n it 's yaller. It does look about
as bad off fur slugs as the cellar of an Indiana
bank. But I b'leeve in luck, and luck is olluz
comin' at me with its head down and both eyes
shet. I 'm goan to shove bullocks down this here
hole, or the price of bullocks, until I make it
pay.”
And it is a fact, that by the aid of Gerrian's
capital, and improved modern machinery, after a
long struggle, the Fulano mine has begun to yield
a sober, quiet profit.
My wooing of the black occupied all my leisure
during my last few days. Every day, a circle of
Pikes collected to see my management. I hope
they took lessons in the law of kindness. The
and my bargain with Gerrian was noised abroad.
The black would tolerate no one but me. With
me he established as close a brotherhood as can
be between man and beast. He gave me to understand,
by playful protest, that it was only by
his good pleasure that I was permitted on his
back, and that he endured saddle and bridle; as
to spur or whip, they were not thought of by
either. He did not obey, but consented. I exercised
no control. We were of one mind. We
became a Centaur. I loved that horse as I have
loved nothing else yet, except the other personages
with whom and for whom he acted in this
history.
I named him Don Fulano.
I had put my mine into him. He represented
to me the whole visible, tangible result of two
long, workaday years, dragged out in that dreary
spot among the Pikes, with nothing in view except
barren hill-sides ravaged by mines, and the
unbeautiful shanties of miners as rough as the
landscape.
Don Fulano, a horse that would not sell, was
my profit for the sternest and roughest work of
my life! I looked at him, and looked at the
mine, that pile of pretty pebbles, that pile of
bogus ore, and I did not regret my bargain. I
never have regretted it. “My kingdom for a
had given.
But was that all I had gained, — an unsalable
horse for two years' work? All, — unless, perhaps,
I conclude to calculate the incalculable;
unless I estimate certain moral results I had
grasped, and have succeeded in keeping; unless
I determine to value patience, purpose, and pluck
by dollars and cents. However, I have said
enough of myself, and my share in the preparations
for the work of my story.
Retire, then, Richard Wade, and enter the real
hero of the tale.
| CHAPTER III.
DON FULANO. John Brent | |