A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) by J.T. Edson Read Free Book Online Page B

behind
the pursued and the pursuers. Underfoot, the springy grama grass
grew in such profusion that it prevented the dust from rising
beneath the pounding hooves. Still in the lead of the trio, Jeanie
regarded that as a mixed blessing. While it allowed her an almost
unrestricted view of what lay ahead, the same also applied to the
members of the manada. Holding her gelding to its racing gait, Jeanie could see
the mouth of the draw which held the caracol. Beyond the opening, the yard-wide furrow
dug by the mesteneros stretched across the valley and up the opposite
slope.
    Jeanie knew that the new few
seconds would be of vital importance. The result of the corrida depended on what
happened during them. While wild horses for some reason fought shy
of crossing a naked strip of earth like the furrow, the response of
a manada de
hermanos to
such a sight was far less predictable than that of a mestena. When they reached
the furrow, the stallions might decided to scatter instead of
turning as a band. If so, they would burst apart like an exploding
canister shell spraying out its load of cast-iron balls. Then the
whole band might be lost, or only a fraction of it fall into
the mesteneros’ hands.
    At the sight of the furrow, the
leading stallions of the manada started to swing aside—but not towards the
entrance of the trap. Positioned to counter such an eventuality,
Jeanie’s segundo, Felix Machado and another mestenero made a sudden and rowdy
appearance on top of the slope up which the stallions were heading.
Yelling and waving blankets, they charged towards the manada.
    Watching the whooping,
hard-riding pair approach the stallions, Jeanie caught her breath
in anxiety. Knowing what must be done, she directed her fast-moving
mount towards the edge of the incline down which Felix and Carlos
were making their reckless descent. Equally aware of the danger,
Dusty continued to hold his bayo-cebrunos in the center of the valley and about thirty feet
to the girl’s rear. Approximately the same distance behind Dusty,
Colin steered his bayo-lobo along the foot of the other slope. Confronted by Felix and
Carlos, the stallions skidded into rump-scraping, hoof-churning
turns. At that moment, everything swung on a very delicate
balance.
    ‘ Yeeah!’ Dusty bellowed, giving the start of the battle cry
which with its accompaniment of ‘Texas Light!’ had been so well
known and hated by the Yankee soldiers in Arkansas.
    ‘ Cam
na cuimhne!’ Jeanie screeched, voice hoarse and cracked from its earlier
efforts.
    ‘ Cam
na cuimhne!’ echoed Colin, the wild excitement of the chase stirring his
Highland blood and adding a ringing turbulence to his utterance of
the clan’s slogan.
    Approached on two sides by the
yelling, hated man-creatures, faced by that
mysterious —therefore dangerous and to be avoided—strip of bare ground
on the third, the manada was left with only one way to go. Wild-eyed, tails
streaming in the breeze, the stallions still retained sufficient of
their herding instincts to hold together as they plunged towards
the ‘safety’ offered by the mouth of the draw.
    Only the old manadero saw the danger. Swinging away
just before it reached the entrance, the big stallion gave a
spine-chilling scream and charged at the nearest of its pursuers.
Head thrust forward to the full extent of its outstretched neck,
eyes rolling, ears laid flat back and mouth open to display
worn-down, age-yellowed teeth, mane bristling furiously and tail
spiked straight to the rear, it made a frightening
picture.
    Certainly
Dusty ’s bayo-cebrunos gelding thought so, for it had been the animal
selected by the black manadero to be attacked. While it was now a trained
cow-horse, the bayo-cebrunos had begun its life in a wild mestena. During its formative years, it
had experienced the domination of a master-stallion. No other
creature, except possibly man, exercised such a complete despotic
rule over its offspring. So the bayo-cebrunos, which would face