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Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance

by Charles M. Horton · English · Gutenberg #31380 · 435,171 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance

Author: Charles M. Horton


        
Release date: February 24, 2010 [eBook #31380]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31380

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.com


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRED OF THE DESERT: A HORSE AND A ROMANCE ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.com





[Illustration]




BRED OF THE DESERT

A HORSE AND A ROMANCE

BY

MARCUS HORTON

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers




COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PUBLISHED APRIL, 1915




TO

A. D. B. S. H.

WHO TAUGHT CONSIDERATION FOR THE DUMB

THIS WORK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED




CONTENTS

  Chapter                                                     Page
       I. A COLT IS BORN                                         1
      II. FELIPE CELEBRATES                                     15
     III. A SURPRISE                                            27
      IV. A NEW HOME                                            35
       V. LONELINESS                                            47
      VI. THE FIRST GREAT LESSON                                57
     VII. A STRANGER                                            72
    VIII. FELIPE MAKES A DISCOVERY                              85
      IX. THE SECOND GREAT LESSON                               98
       X. THE STRANGER AGAIN                                   112
      XI. LOVE REJECTED                                        126
     XII. ADVENTURE                                            145
    XIII. IN THE WASTE PLACES                                  156
     XIV. A PICTURE                                            172
      XV. CHANGE OF MASTERS                                    175
     XVI. PAT TURNS THIEF                                      186
    XVII. A RUNNING FIGHT                                      199
   XVIII. AN ENEMY                                             210
     XIX. ANOTHER CHANGE OF MASTERS                            228
      XX. FIDELITY                                             240
     XXI. LIFE AND DEATH                                       256
    XXII. QUIESCENCE                                           280
   XXIII. THE REUNION                                          285




BRED OF THE DESERT




CHAPTER I

A COLT IS BORN


It was high noon in the desert, but there was no dazzling sunlight. Over
the earth hung a twilight, a yellow-pink softness that flushed across
the sky like the approach of a shadow, covering everything yet
concealing nothing, creeping steadily onward, yet seemingly still,
until, pressing low over the earth, it took on changing color, from pink
to gray, from gray to black--gloom that precedes tropical showers. Then
the wind came--a breeze rising as it were from the hot earth--forcing
the Spanish dagger to dipping acknowledgment, sending dust-devils
swirling across the slow curves of the desert--and then the storm burst
in all its might. For this was a storm--a sand-storm of the Southwest.

Down the slopes to the west billowed giant clouds of sand. At the bottom
these clouds tumbled and surged and mounted, and then, resuming their
headlong course, swept across the flat land bordering the river, hurtled
across the swollen Rio Grande itself, and so on up the gentle rise of
ground to the town, where they swung through the streets in ruthless
strides--banging signs, ripping up roofings, snapping off branches--and
then lurched out over the mesa to the east. Here, as if in glee over
their escape from city confines, they redoubled in fury and tore down to
earth--and enveloped Felipe Montoya, a young and good-looking Mexican,
and his team of scrawny horses plodding in a lumber rigging, all in a
stinging swirl.

"Haya!" cried Felipe, as the first of the sand-laden winds struck him,
"Chivos--chivos!" And he shot out his whip, gave the lash a twist over
the off mare, and brought it down with a resounding thwack. "R-run!" he
snarled, and again brought the whip down upon the emaciated mare. "You
joost natural lazy! Thees storm--we--we get-tin'--" His voice was
carried away on the swirling winds.

But the horses seemed not to hear the man; nor, in the case of the off
mare, to feel the bite of his lash. They continued to plod along the
beaten trail, heads drooping, ears flopping, hoofs scuffling
disconsolately. Felipe, accompanying each outburst with a mighty swing
of his whip, swore and pleaded and objurgated and threatened in turn.
But all to no avail. The horses held stolidly to their gait,
plodding--even, after a time, dropping into slower movement. Whereat
Felipe, abandoning all hope, flung down reins and whip, and leaped off
the reach of the rigging. Prompt with the loosened lines the team came
to a full stop; and Felipe, snatching up a blanket, covered his head and
shoulders with it and squatted in the scant protection of a forward
wheel.

The storm whipped and howled past. Felipe listened, noting each change
in its velocity as told by the sound of raging gusts outside, himself
raging. Once he lifted a corner of the blanket and peered out--only to
suffer the sting of a thousand needles. Again, he hunched his shoulders
guardedly and endeavored to roll a cigarette; but the tempestuous blasts
discouraged this also, and with a curse he dashed the tobacco from him.
After that he remained still, listening, until he heard an agreeable
change outside. The screeching sank to a crooning; the crooning dropped
to a low, musical sigh. Flinging off the blanket, he rose and swept the
desert with eyes sand-filled and blinking.

The last of the yellow winds was eddying slowly past. All about him the
air, thinning rapidly, pulsated in the sun's rays, which, beaming mildly
down upon the desert, were spreading everywhere in glorious sheen. To
the east, the mountains, stepping forth in the clearing atmosphere, lay
revealed in a warmth of soft purple; while the slopes to the west, over
which the storm had broken, shone in a wealth of dazzling yellow-white
light--sunbeams scintillating off myriads of tiny sand-cubes. The desert
was itself again--bright, resplendent-gripped in the clutch of solitude.

Felipe tossed his blanket back upon the reach of the rigging. Then he
caught up reins and whip, ready to go on. As he did so he paused in
dismay.

For one of the mares was down! It was the off mare, the slower and the
older mare of the two. She was lying prone and she was breathing
heavily. Covered as she was with a thin layer of fine sand, and tightly
girdled with chaotic harness straps, she was a spectacle of abject
misery.

But Felipe did not see this. All he saw, in the blinding rage which
suddenly possessed him, was a horse down, unready for duty, and beside
her a horse standing, ready for duty, but restrained by the other.
Stringing out a volley of oaths, he stepped to the side of the mare and
jerked at her head, but she refused stubbornly to get up on her feet.

Gripped in dismay deeper than at first, Felipe fell back in mechanical
resignation.

Was the mare dying? he asked himself. He could ill afford to lose a
mare. Horses cost seven and eight dollars, and he did not possess so
much money. Indeed, all the money he had in the world was three dollars,
received for this last load of wood in town. So, what to do! Cursing the
mare had not helped matters; nor could he accuse the storm, for there
had been other storms, many of them, and each had she successfully
weathered--been ready, with its passing, to go on! But not so this one!
She--Huh? Could it be possible? Ah!

He looked at the mare with new interest. And the longer he gazed the
more his anger subsided, became finally downright compassion. For he was
reviewing a something he had contemplated at odd times for weeks with
many misgivings and tenacious unbeliefs. Never had he understood it!
Never would he understand that thing! So why lose time in an effort to
understand it now?

Dropping to his knees, he fell to work with feverish haste unbuckling
straps and bands. With the harness loose, he dragged it off and tossed
it to one side. Then, still moving feverishly, he led the mate to the
mare off the trail, turned to the wagon with bracing shoulder, backed it
clear of the prostrate animal, and swung it out of the way of future
passing vehicles. It was sweltering work. When it was done, with the
sun, risen to its fierce zenith, beating down upon him mercilessly, he
strode off the trail, blowing and perspiring, and flung himself down in
the baking sand, where, though irritated by particles of sand which had
sifted down close inside his shirt, he nevertheless gave himself over to
sober reflections.

He was stalled till the next morning--he knew that. And he was without
food-supplies to carry him over. And he was ten miles on the one hand,
and five up-canyon miles on the other, from all source of supplies. But
against these unpleasant facts there stood many pleasant facts--he was
on the return leg of his journey, his wagon was empty, and he had in his
possession three dollars. Then, too, there was another pleasant fact.
The trip as a trip had been unusual; never before had he, or any one
else, made it under two days--one for loading and driving into town, and
a second for getting rid of the wood and making the return. Yet he
himself had been out now only the one day, and he was on his way home.
He had whipped and crowded his horses since midnight to just this end.
Yet was he not stalled now till morning? And would not this delay set
him back the one day he had gained over his fellow-townsmen? And would
not these same fellow-townsmen rejoice in this opportunity to overtake
him--worse, to leave him behind? They would!

"Oh, well," he concluded, philosophically, stretching out upon his back
and drawing his worn and ragged sombrero over his eyes, "soon is comin'
a _potrillo_." With this he deliberately courted slumber.

Out of the stillness rattled a wagon. Like Felipe's, it was a lumber
rigging, and the driver, a fat Mexican with beady eyes, pulled up his
horses and gazed at the disorder. It was but a perfunctory gaze,
however, and revealed to him nothing of the true situation. All he saw
was that Felipe was drunk and asleep, and that before dropping beside
the trail he had had time, and perhaps just enough wit, to unhitch one
horse. The other, true to instinct and the law of her underfed and
overworked kind, had lain down. With this conclusion, and out of sheer
exuberance of alcoholic spirits, he decided to awaken Felipe. And this
he did--in true Mexican fashion. With a curse of but five words--words
of great scope and finest selection, however--he mercilessly raked
Felipe's ancestors for five generations back; he objurgated Felipe's
holdings--chickens, adobe house, money, burro, horses, pigs. He closed,
snarling not obscurely at Felipe the man and at any progeny of his which
might appear in the future. Then he dropped his reins and sprang off the
reach of his rigging.

Felipe was duly awakened. He gained his feet slowly.

"You know me, eh?" he retorted, advancing toward the other. "All
right--_gracios_!" And by way of coals of fire he proffered the
fellow-townsman papers and tobacco.

The new-comer revealed surprise, not alone at Felipe's sobriety, though
this was startling in view of the disorder in the trail, but also at the
proffer of cigarette material. And he was about to speak when Felipe
interrupted him.

"You haf t'ink I'm drunk, eh, Franke?" he said. "Sure! Why not?" And he
waved his hand in the direction of the trail. Then, after the other had
rolled a cigarette and returned the sack and papers, he laid a firm hand
upon the man's shoulder. "You coom look," he invited. "You tell me what
you t'ink thees!"

They walked to the mare, and Franke gazed a long moment in silence.
Felipe stood beside him, eying him sharply, hoping for an expression of
approval--even of congratulation. In this he was doomed to
disappointment, for the other continued silent, and in silence finally
turned back, his whole attitude that of one who saw nothing in the
spectacle worthy of comment. Felipe followed him, nettled, and sat down
and himself rolled a cigarette. As he sat smoking it the other seated
himself beside him, and presently touched him on the arm and began to
speak. Felipe listened, with now and again a nod of approval, and, when
the _compadre_ was finished, accepted the brilliant proposition.

"A bet, eh?" he exclaimed. "All right!" And he produced his sheepskin
pouch and dumped out his three dollars. "All right! I bet you feety
cents, Franke, thot eet don' be!"

Frank looked his disdain at the amount offered. Also, his eyes blazed
and his round face reddened. He shoved his hand into his overalls,
brought forth a silver dollar, and tossed it down in the sand.

"A bet!" he yelled. "Mek eet a bet! A dolar!" Then he narrowed his eyes
in the direction of the mare. "Mek eet a good bet! You have chonce to
win, too, Felipe--you know!"

Felipe did not respond immediately. Money was his all-absorbing
difficulty. Never plentiful with him, it was less than ever plentiful
now, and was wholly represented in the three dollars before him. A sum
little enough in fact, it dwindled rapidly as he recalled one by one his
numerous debts. For he owed much money. He owed for food in the
settlement store; he owed for clothing he had bought in town; and he
owed innumerable gambling debts--big sums, sums mounting to heights he
dared not contemplate. And all he had to his name was the three dollars
lying so peacefully before him, with the speculative Franke hovering
over them like a fat buzzard over a dead coyote. What to do! He could
not decide. He had ways for this money, other than paying on his debts
or investing in a gambling proposition. There was to be a _baile_
soon, and he must buy for Margherita (providing her father, a caustic
_hombre_, bitter against all wood-haulers, permitted him the girl's
society) peanuts in the dance-hall and candy outside the dance-hall. The
candy must be bought in the general store, where, because of his many
debts, he must pay cash now--always cash! So what to do! All these
things meant money. And money, as he well understood, was a thing hard
to get. Yet here was a chance, as Franke had generously indicated, for
him to win some money. But, against this chance for him to win some
money was the chance also, as conveyed inversely by Franke, of his
losing some money--money he could ill afford to lose.

"You afraid?" suddenly cut in Franke, nastily, upon these reflections.
"I don' see you do soomt'ing!"

Which decided Felipe for all time. "Afraid?" he echoed, disdainfully.
"Sure! But not for myself! You don' have mooch money to lose! But I mek
eet a bet--a good bet! I bet you two dolars thot eet--thot eet don' be!"

It was now the other who hesitated. But he did not hesitate for long.
Evidently the spirit of the gambler was more deeply rooted in him than
it was in Felipe, for, after gazing out in the trail a moment, then
eying Felipe another moment, both speculatively, he extracted from his
pockets two more silver dollars and tossed them down with the others.
Then he fixed Felipe with a malignant stare.

"I bet you t'ree dolars thot eet cooms what I haf say!"

Felipe laughed. "All right," he agreed, readily. "Why not?" He heaped
the money under a stone, sank over upon his back with an affected yawn,
drew his hat over his eyes, and lay still. "We go to sleep now, Franke,"
he proposed. "Eet's long time--I haf t'ink."

Soon both were snoring.

Out in the trail hung the quiet of a sick-room. The long afternoon
waned. Once a wagon appeared from the direction of town, but the driver,
evidently grasping the true situation, turned out and around the mare in
respectful silence. Another time a single horseman, riding from the
mountains, cantered upon the scene; but this man, also with a look of
understanding, turned out and around the mare in careful regard for her
condition. Then came darkness. Shadows crept in from nowhere, stealing
over the desert more and more darkly, while, with their coming, birds of
the air, seeking safe place for night rest, flitted about in nervous
uncertainty. And suddenly in the gathering dusk rose the long-drawn howl
of a coyote, lifting into the stillness a lugubrious note of appeal.
Then, close upon the echo of this, rose another appeal in the trail
close by, the shrill nicker of the mate to the mare.

It awoke Felipe. He sat up quickly, rubbed his eyes dazedly, and peered
out with increasing understanding. Then he sprang to his feet.

"Coom!" he called, kicking the other. "We go now--see who is winnin'
thot bet!" And he started hurriedly forward.

But the other checked him. "Wait!" he snapped, rising. "You wait! You in
too mooch hurry! You coom back--I have soomt'ing!"

Felipe turned back, wondering. The other nervously produced material for
a cigarette. Then he cleared his throat with needless protraction.

"Felipe," he began, evidently laboring under excitement, "I mek eet a
_bet_ now! I bet you," he went on, his voice trembling with
fervor--"I bet you my wagon, thee horses--thee whole
shutting-match--against thot wagon and horses yours, and thee
harness--thee whole damned shutting-match--thot I haf win!" He proceeded
to finish his cigarette.

Felipe stared at him hard. Surely his ears had deceived him! If they had
not deceived him, if, for a fact, the _hombre_ had expressed a
willingness to bet all he had on the outcome of this thing, then Franke,
fellow-townsman, _compadre_, brother-wood-hauler, was crazy! But he
determined to find out.

"What you said, Franke?" he asked, peering into the glowing eyes of the
other. "Say thot again, _hombre_!"

"I haf say," repeated the other, with lingering emphasis upon each
word--"I haf say I bet you everyt'ing--wagon, harness,
_caballos_--everyt'ing!--against thot wagon, harness,
_caballos_ yours--everyt'ing--thee whole shutting-match--thot I haf
win thee bet!"

Again Felipe lowered his eyes. But now to consider suspicions. He had
heard rightly; Franke really wanted to bet all he had. But he could not
but wonder whether Franke, by any possible chance, knew in advance the
outcome of the affair in the trail. He had heard of such things, though
never had he believed them possible. Yet he found himself troubled with
insistent reminder that Franke had suggested this whole thing. Then
suddenly he was gripped in another unwelcome thought. Could it be
possible that this scheming _hombre_, awaking at a time when he
himself was soundest asleep, had gone out into the trail on tiptoe for
advance information? It was possible. Why not? But that was not the
point exactly. The point was, had he done it? Had this buzzard circled
out into the trail while he himself was asleep? He did not know, and he
could not decide! For the third time in ten hours, though puzzled and
groping, trembling between gain and loss, he plunged on the gambler's
chance.

"All right!" he agreed, tensely. "I take thot bet! I bet you thees
wagon, thees _caballos_, thees harness--everyt'ing--against
everyt'ing yours--wagon, horses, harness--everyt'ing! Wait!" he
thundered, for the other now was striding toward the mare. "Wait! You in
too mooch hurry yourself now!" Then, as the other returned: "Is eet a
bet? Is eet a bet?"

The fellow-townsman nodded. Whereat Felipe nodded approval of the nod,
and stepped out into the trail, followed by the other.

It was night, and quite a dark night. Stretching away to east and west,
the dimly outlined trail was lost abruptly in engulfing darkness; while,
overhead, a starless sky, low and somber and frowning, pressed close.
But, dark though the night was, it did not wholly conceal the outlines
of the mare. She was standing as they approached, mildly encouraging a
tiny something beside her, a wisp of life, her baby, who was struggling
to insure continued existence. And it was this second outline, not the
other and larger outline, that held the breathless attention of the men.
Nervously Felipe struck a match. As it flared up he stepped close,
followed by the other, and there was a moment of tense silence. Then the
match went out and Felipe straightened up.

"Franke," he burst out, "I haf win thee bet! Eet is not a mare; eet is a
li'l' horse!" He struck his _compadre_ a resounding blow on the
back. "I am mooch sorry, Franke," he declared--"not!" He turned back to
the faint outline of the colt. "Thees _potrillo_," he observed,
"he's bringin' me mooch good luck! He's--" He suddenly interrupted
himself, aware that the other was striding away. "Where you go now,
Franke?" he asked, and then, quick to sense approaching trouble: "Never
mind thee big bet, Franke! You can pay me ten dolars soom time! All
right?"

There was painful silence.

"All right!" came the reply, finally, through the darkness.

Then Felipe heard a lumber rigging go rattling off in the direction of
the canyon, and, suddenly remembering the money underneath the stone,
hurried off the trail in a spasm of alarm. He knelt in the sand and
struck a match.

The money had disappeared.




CHAPTER II

FELIPE CELEBRATES


It was well along in the morning when Felipe pulled up next day before
his little adobe house in the mountain settlement. The journey from the
mesa below had been, perforce, slow. The mare was still pitiably weak,
and her condition had necessitated many stops, each of long duration.
Also, on the way up the canyon the colt had displayed frequent signs of
exhaustion, though only with the pauses did he attempt rest.

But it was all over now. They were safely before the house, with the
colt lying a little apart from his mother--regarding her with curious
intentness--and with Felipe bustling about the team and now and again
bursting out in song of questionable melody and rhythm. Felipe was
preparing the horses for the corral at the rear of the house, and soon
he flung aside the harness and seized each of the horses by the bridle.

"Well, you li'l' devil!" he exclaimed, addressing the reclining colt.
"You coom along now! You live in thees place back here! You coom wit' me
now!" And he started around a corner of the adobe.

The colt hastily rose to his feet. But not at the command of the man. No
such command was necessary, for whither went his mother there went he.
Close to her side, he moved with her into the inclosure, crowding
frantically over the bars, skinning his knees in the effort, coming to a
wide-eyed stand just inside the entrance, and there surveying with
nervous apprehension the corral's occupants--a burro, two pigs, a flock
of chickens. But he held close to his mother's side.

Felipe did not linger in the corral. Throwing off their bridles, he
tossed the usual scant supply of alfalfa to the horses, and filled their
tub from a near-by well. Then, after putting up the bars, he set out
with determined stride across the settlement. His direction was the
general store, and his quest was the loan of a horse, since his team now
was broken, and would be broken for a number of days to come.

The store was owned and conducted by one Pedro Garcia. Pedro Garcia was
the mountain Shylock. He loaned money at enormous rates of interest, and
he rented out horses at prohibitive rates per day. Also, being what he
was, Pedro had gained his pounds of flesh--was alarmingly fat, with
short legs of giant circumference. Usually these legs were clothed in
tight-fitting overalls, and his small feet incased in boots of
high-grade leather wonderfully roweled. Yet many years had passed since
Pedro had been seen in a saddle. Evidently he held to the rowels in fond
memory of his days of slender youth and coltish gambolings. Pedro was
seated in his customary place upon an empty keg on the porch, and
Felipe, ignoring his grunted greeting, plunged at once into the purpose
of his call.

He had come to borrow a horse, Felipe explained. One of his own was
unfit for work, yet the cutting and drawing must go on. While the mare
was recuperating, he carefully pointed out, he himself could continue to
earn money to meet some of his pressing debts. Any kind of horse would
do, he declared, so long as it had four legs and was able to carry on
the work. The horse need not have a mouth, even, he added, jocosely, for
reasons nobody need explain. After which he sat down on the porch and
awaited the august decision.

Pedro remained silent a long time, the while he moistened his lips with
fitful tongue, and gazed across the tiny settlement reflectively. At
length he drew a deep breath, mixed of disgust and regret, and proceeded
to make slow reply.

It was true, he began, that he had horses to rent. And it was further
true, he went on, deliberately, that he kept them for just this purpose.
But--and his pause was fraught with deep significance--it was no less
true that Felipe Montoya bore a bad reputation as a driver of
horses--was known, indeed, to kill horses through overwork and
underfeed--and that, therefore, to lend him a horse was like kissing the
horse good-by and hitching up another to the stone-boat. Nevertheless,
he hastened to add, if Felipe was in urgent need of a horse, and was
prepared to pay the customary small rate per day, and to _pay in
advance--cash--_

Here Pedro paused and popped accusing eyes at Felipe, in one strong
dramatic moment before continuing. But he did not continue. Felipe was
the check. For Felipe had leaped to his feet, and now stood brandishing
an ugly fist underneath the proprietor's nose. Further--and infinitely
worse--Felipe was saying something.

"Pedro Garcia," he began, shrilly, "I must got a horse! And I have coom
for a horse! And I have thee money to pay for a horse! And if I kill
thot horse," he went on, still brandishing his fist--"if thot horse he's
dropping dead in thee harness--I pay you for thot horse! I haf drive
horses--"

"_Si, si, si!_" began Pedro, interrupting.

"I haf drive horses on thees trail ten years!" persisted Felipe,
yelling, "and in all thot time, Pedro Garcia, I'm killin' only seven
horses, and all seven of thees horses is dyin', Pedro Garcia, when I haf
buy them, and I haf buy all seven horses from you, Pedro Garcia, thief
and robber!" He paused to take a breath. "And not once, Pedro Garcia,"
he went on, "do I keeck about thot-a horse is a horse! But I haf coom to
you before! And I haf coom to you now! I must got a horse quick! And I
bringin' thot horse back joost thee same as I'm gettin' thot horse--in
good condition--better--because everybody is knowin.' I feed a horse
better than you feed a horse--and I'm _cleanin'_ the horse once in
a while, too!" Which was a lie, both as to the feeding and the cleaning,
as he well knew, and as, indeed, he well knew Pedro knew, who,
nevertheless, nodded grave assent.

"_Si_," admitted Pedro. "_Pero ustede--_"

"A horse!" thundered Felipe, interrupting, his neck cords dangerously
distended. "You give me a horse--you hear? I want a horse--a horse! I
don' coom here for thee talk!"

Pedro rose hastily from the keg. Also, he grunted quick consent. Then he
stepped inside the store, followed by Felipe, who made several needed
purchases, and, since he had his enemy cowed, and was troubled with
thirst created by the protracted harangue, to say nothing of the strong
inclination within him to celebrate the coming of the colt, he made a
purchase that was not needed--a bottle of _vino_, cool and dry from
Pedro's cellar. With these tucked securely under his arm, he then calmly
informed Pedro of the true state of his finances, and left the store,
returning across the settlement, which lay wrapped in pulsating noonday
quiet. In the shade of his adobe he sat upon the ground, with his back
comfortably against the wall. Directly the quiet was broken by two
distinct sounds--the pop of a cork out of the neck of a bottle, and the
gurgle of liquid into the mouth of a man.

Thus Felipe set out upon a protracted debauch. In this debauch he did
nothing worth while. He used neither the borrowed horse nor his own
sound one. Each day saw him redder of eye and more swollen of lip; each
day saw him increasingly heedless of his debts; each day saw him more
neglectful of his duties toward his animals. The one bottle became two
bottles, the two bottles became three, each secured only after
threatened assault upon the body of Pedro, each adding its store to the
already deep conviviality and reckless freedom from all cares now
Felipe's. He forgot everything--forgot the stolen money, forgot the
colt, forgot the needs of the mare--all in exhilarated pursuit of
phantoms.

Yet the colt did not suffer. Becoming ever more confident of himself as
the days passed, he soon revealed pronounced curiosity and an aptitude
for play. He would stare at strutting roosters, gaze after straddling
hens, blink quizzically at the burro, frown upon the grunting pigs, all
as if cataloguing these specimens, listing them in his thoughts, some
day to make good use of the knowledge. But most of all he showed
interest in and playfulness toward his mother and her doings. He would
follow her about untiringly, pausing whenever she paused, starting off
again whenever she started off--seemingly bent upon acquiring the how
and why of her every movement.

But it was his playfulness finally that brought him first needless
suffering. The mare was standing with her nose in the feed-box. She had
stood thus many times during the past week; but usually, before, the box
had been empty, whereas now it contained a generous quantity of alfalfa.
But this the colt did not know. He only knew that he was interested in
this thing, and so went there to attempt, as many times before, to reach
his nose into the mysterious box. Finding that he could not, he began,
as never before, to frisk about the mare, tossing up his little heels
and throwing down his head with all the reckless abandon of a seasoned
"outlaw." He could do these things because he was a rare colt, stronger
than ever colt before was at his age, and for a time the mare suffered
his antics with a look of pleased toleration. But as he kept it up, and
as she was getting her first real sustenance since the day of his
coming, she at length became fretful and sounded a low warning. But this
the colt did not heed. Instead he wheeled suddenly and plunged directly
toward her, bunting her sharply. Nor did the single bunt satisfy him.
Again and again he attacked her, plunging in and darting away each time
with remarkable celerity, until, her patience evidently exhausted, she
whisked her head around and nipped him sharply. Screaming with pain and
fright, he plunged from her, sought the opposite side of the inclosure,
and turned upon her a pair of very hurt and troubled eyes.

Yet all the world over mothers are mothers. After a time--a long time,
as if to let her punishment sink in--the mare made her way slowly to the
colt, and there fell to licking him, seeming to tell him of her lasting
forgiveness. Under this lavish caressing the colt, as if to reveal his
own forgiveness for the dreadful hurt, bestowed similar attention upon
her--in this attention, though he did not know it, softening flesh that
had experienced no such consideration in years. Thus they stood, side by
side, mother and son, long into the day, laying the foundation of a love
that never dies--that strengthens, in fact, with the years, though all
else fail--love between mother and her offspring.

Other things, things of minor consequence, added their mite to his early
development. One morning, while the mare was asleep, the colt, alert and
standing, was startled by the sudden movement of a large rooster. The
rooster had left the ground with loud flapping of wings, and now stood
perched upon the corral fence, like a grim and mighty conqueror,
ruffling his neck feathers and twisting his head in pre-eminent
satisfaction. But the colt did not understand this. Transfixed, he
turned frightened eyes upon the cause of the unearthly commotion. Then
suddenly, with another loud flapping of wings, the rooster uttered a
defiant crow, a challenge that echoed far through the canyon. Whereat
the colt, eyes wide with terror, whirled to his mother, whimpering
babyishly. But with the mare standing beside him and caressing him
reassuringly, all his nervousness left him, and he again turned his eyes
upon the rooster and watched him till the cock, unable to stir combat
among his neighbors, left the fence with another loud flapping of wings,
and returned to earth, physically and spiritually, there to set up his
customary feigned quest for worms for the ladies. But the point was
this--with this last flapping of wings the colt remained in a state of
perfect calm.

Thus he learned, and thus he continued to learn, in nervous fear one
moment, in perfect calm the next. And though his hours of life were few
indeed, he nevertheless revealed an intelligence far above the average
of his kind. He learned to avoid the mare's whisking tail, to shun or
remove molesting flies, to keep away from the mare when she was at the
feed-box. All of which told of his uncommon strain, as did the rapidity
with which he gained strength, which last told of his tremendous
vitality, and which some day would serve him well against trouble.

Yet in it all lurked the great mystery, and Felipe, blustering to
occasional natives outside the fence during his week of debauch, while
pointing out with pride the colt's very evident blooded lineage, yet
could tell nothing of that descent. All he could point out was that the
mare was chestnut-brown, and when not in harness was kept close within
the confines of the corral, while here was a colt of a dark-fawn color
which would develop with maturity into coal-black. And there was not a
single black horse in the mountains for miles and miles around. Nor was
the colt a "throw-back," because--

"Oh, well," he would conclude, casting bleared eyes in the direction of
the house, wearily, "I got soom _vino_ inside. You coom along now.
We go gettin' a drink." Which would close the monologue.

One morning early, Felipe, asleep on a bed that never was made up, heard
suspicious sounds in the corral outside. He sprang up and, clad only in
a fiery-red undershirt, hurried to a window. Cautiously letting down the
bars, with a rope already tied around the colt's neck, was the mountain
Shylock, Pedro Garcia, intent upon leading off the innocent new-comer.
Pedro no doubt had perceived an opportunity either to force Felipe to
meet some of his debts, or else hold the colt as a very acceptable
chattel. Also, he evidently had calculated upon early dawn as the time
best suited to do this thing, in view of Felipe's long debauch upon
unpaid-for wine. At any rate, there he was, craftily letting down the
bars. Raging with indignation and a natural venom which he felt toward
the storekeeper, Felipe flung up the window.

"_Buenos dias, señor!_" he greeted, cheerfully, with effort
controlling his anger. "Thee early worm he's takin' thee
_potrillo_! How cooms thot, _señor_?" he asked, enjoying the
other's sudden discomfiture. "You takin' thot li'l' horse for thee
walk--thee exercise?" And then, without waiting for a reply, had there
been one forthcoming, which there was not, he slammed down the window,
leaped to the door, flung it open--all levity now gone from him. "Pedro
Garcia!" he raged. "You thief and robber! I'm killin' you thees time
sure!" And, regardless of his scant attire, and stringing out a volley
of oaths, he sprang out of the doorway after his intended victim.

But Pedro Garcia, though fat, was surprisingly quick on his feet. He
dropped the rope and burst into a run, heading frantically past the
house toward the trail. And, though Felipe leaped after him, still clad
only in fiery-red undershirt, the storekeeper gained the trail and set
out at top speed across the settlement. Felipe pursued. Hair aflaunt,
shirt-tail whipping in the breeze, bare feet paddling in the dust of the
trail, naked legs crossing each other like giant scissors in frenzied
effort, he hurtled forward exactly one leap behind his intended victim.
He strained to close up the gap, but he could not overtake the equally
speedy Pedro, whose short legs fairly buzzed in the terror of their
owner. Thus they ran, mounting the slight rise before the general store,
then descending into the heart of the settlement, with Pedro whipping
along frantically, and Felipe still one whole leap behind, until a
derisive shout, a feminine exclamation of shrieking glee, awoke Felipe
to the spectacle he was making of himself before the eyes of the
community. He stopped; growled disappointed rage; darted back along the
trail. Once in the privacy of his house, he hurriedly donned his clothes
and gave himself over to deliberations. The result of these
deliberations was that he concluded to return to work.

After a scant breakfast of chili and coffee he moved out to the corral.
He leaned his arms upon the fence and surveyed the colt with fresh
interest.

"Thot li'l' _caballo_," he began, "he's bringin' me mooch good
luck. Thot _potrillo_ he's wort' seven--he's
wort'--_si_--eight dolars--thot _potrillo_. I t'ink I haf sell
heem, too--queek--in town! But first I must go cuttin' thee wood!" With
this he let down the bars and entered the inclosure. Then his thoughts
took an abrupt turn. "I keel thot Pedro Garcia soomtime--bet you' life!
He's stealin' fleas off a dog--thot _hombre_!"

Felipe drove the borrowed horse out of the inclosure, and then singled
out the mate to the mare. As he harnessed up this horse, the colt,
standing close by, revealed marked interest. Also, as Felipe led the
horse out of the corral the colt followed till shut off by the bars,
which Felipe hurriedly put up. But they did not discourage him. He
remained very close to them, peering out between the while Felipe
hitched the team to his empty lumber rigging. Then came the crack of a
whip, loud creaking of greaseless wheels, the voice of Felipe in lusty
demand, all as the outfit set out up the trail toward the timber-slopes.
But not till the earth was still again, the cloud of dust in the trail
completely subsided, did the colt turn away from the bars and seek his
mother, and then with a look in his soft-blinking eyes that told of
concentrated pondering on these mysteries of life.




CHAPTER III

A SURPRISE


Next morning, having returned from the timber-slopes, Felipe, fresh and
radiant, appeared outside the corral in holiday attire. Part of this
attire was a pair of brand-new overalls. Indeed, the overalls were so
new that they crackled; and Felipe appeared quite conscious of their
newness, for he let down the bars with great care, and with even greater
care stepped into the inclosure. Then it was seen, since he was a
Mexican who ran true to form, there was a flaw in all this splendor. For
he had drawn on the new overalls over the older pair--worse, had drawn
them on over _two_ older pairs, as revealed at the bottoms, where
peered plaintively two shades of blue--lighter blue of the older pair,
very light blue of the oldest pair--the effect of exposure to desert
suns. So Felipe had on three pairs of overalls. Yet this was not all of
distinction. Around his brown throat was a bright red neckerchief, while
between the unbuttoned edges of his vest was an expanse of bright
green--the coloring of a tight-fitting sweater.

There was reason for all this. Felipe was going to town, and he was
taking the mare along with him, and the mare naturally would take her
colt; and because he had come to know the value of the colt, Felipe
wished to appear as prosperous in the eyes of the Americans in town as
he believed the owner of so fine a colt ought to appear.

Therefore, still careful of his overalls, he set about leisurely to
prepare the team for the journey. He crossed to the shed, hauled out the
harness, tossed it out into the inclosure. Promptly both horses stepped
into position. Also, the older mare, whether through relief or regret,
sounded a shrill nicker. This brought the colt to her side, where he
fell to licking her affectionately, showing his great love for her bony
frame. And when Felipe led the horses out of the corral he followed
close beside her, and when outside held close to her throughout the
hitching, and to the point even when Felipe clambered to the top of the
high load and caught up the reins and the whip. Then he stepped back,
wriggling his fuzzy little tail and blinking his big eyes curiously.

"Well, _potrillo_," began Felipe, grinning down upon the tiny
specimen of life, "we goin' now to town! But first you must be ready!
You ready? All right! We go now!" And he cracked the whip over the team.

They started forward, slowly at first, the wagon giving off many creaks
and groans, then fast and faster, until, well in the descent of the hard
canyon trail, the horses were jogging along quite briskly.

The colt showed the keenest interest and delight. For a time he trotted
beside the mare, ears cocked forward expectantly, eyes sweeping the
canyon alertly, hoofs lifting to ludicrous heights. Then, as the first
novelty wore off, and he became more certain of himself in these
swift-changing surroundings, he revealed a playfulness that tickled
Felipe. He would lag behind a little, race madly forward, sometimes run
far ahead of the team in his great joy. But he seemed best to like to
lag. He would come to a sudden stop and, motionless as a dog pointing a
bird, gaze out across the canyon a long time, like one trying to find
himself in a strange and wonderful world. Or, standing thus, he would
reveal curious interest in the rocks and stumps around him, and he would
stare at them fixedly, blinking slowly, a look of genuine wonderment in
his big, soft eyes. Then he would strain himself mightily to overtake
the wagon.

Once in a period of absorbed attention he lost sight of the outfit
completely. This was due not so much to his distance in the rear as to
the fact that the wagon, having struck a bend in the trail, had turned
from view. But he did not know that. Sounding a baby outcry of fear, he
scurried ahead at breakneck speed, frantic heels tossing up tiny spurts
of dust, head stretched forward--and thus soon caught up. After that he
remained close beside his mother until the wagon, rocking down the mouth
of the canyon, swung out upon the broad mesa. Here the outfit could be
seen for miles, and now he took to lagging behind again, and to frisking
far ahead, always returning at frequent intervals for the motherly
assurance that all was well.

As part of the Great Scheme, all this was good for him. In his brief
panic when out of sight of his mother he was taught how very necessary
she was to his existence. In his running back and forth, with now and
again breathless speeding, he developed the muscles of his body, to the
end that later he might well take up an independent fight for life. In
the curious interest he displayed in all subjects about him he lent
unknowing assistance to a spiritual development as necessary as physical
development. All this prepared him to meet men and measures as he was
destined to meet them--with gentleness, with battle,--with
affection--like for like--as he found it. It was all good for him, this
movement, this change of environment, this quick awakening of interest.
It shaped him in both body and spirit to the Great Purpose.

This interest seemed unbounded. Whenever a jack-rabbit shot across the
trail, or a covey of birds broke from the sand-hills, he would come to a
quick pause and blink curiously, seeming to understand and approve, and
to be grateful, as if all these things were done for him. Also, with
each halt Felipe made with _compadres_ along the trail, friends who
entered with him in loud badinage over the ownership of the colt--an
ownership all vigorously denied him--the colt himself would cock his
ears and fix his eyes, seemingly aware of his importance and pleased to
be the object of the cutting remarks. And thus the miles from mountain
to the outskirts of town were covered, miles pleasurable to him, every
inch revealing something of fresh interest, every mile finding him more
accustomed to the journey.

They reached a point on the outskirts where streets appeared, sharply
defined thoroughfares, interlacing one with the other. And as they
advanced vehicles began to turn in upon the trail, a nondescript
collection ranging from an Indian farm-wagon off the Navajo reservation
to the north to a stanhope belonging to some more affluent American in
the suburbs. With them came also many strange sounds--Mexican oaths,
mild Indian commands, light man-to-man greetings of the day. Also there
was much cracking of whips and nickering of horses along the line. And
the result of all this was that the colt revealed steadily increasing
nervousness, a condition enhanced by the fact that his mother, held
rigidly to her duties by Felipe, could bestow upon her offspring but
very little attention. But he held close to her, and thus moved into the
heart of town, when suddenly one by one the vehicles ahead came to a
dead stop. Felipe, perched high, saw that the foremost wagons had
reached the railroad crossing, and that there was a long freight-train
passing through.

Team after team came into the congestion and stopped. Cart and wagon and
phaeton closed in around the colt. There was much maneuvering for space.
The colt's nervousness increased, and became positive fear. He darted
wild eyes about him. He was completely hedged in. On his right loomed a
large horse; behind him stood a drowsing team; on his left was a
dirt-cart; while immediately in front, such was his position now, stood
his mother. But, though gripped in fear, he remained perfectly still
until the locomotive, puffing and wheezing along at the rear of the
train, having reached the crossing, sounded a piercing shriek. This was
more than he could stand. Without a sound he dodged and whirled. He
plunged to the rear and rammed into the drowsing team; darted to the
right and into the teeth of the single horse; whirled madly to the left,
only to carom off the hub of a wheel. But with all this defeat he did
not stop. He set up a wild series of whirling plunges, and, completely
crazed now, darted under the single horse, under a Mexican wagon, under
a team of horses, and forth into a little clearing. Here he came to a
stop, trembling in every part, gazing about in wildest terror.

Following its shrill blast, the engine puffed across the crossing, the
gates slowly lifted, and the foremost vehicles began to move. Soon the
whole line was churning up clouds of dust and rattling across the
railroad tracks. Felipe was of this company, cracking his whip and
yelling lustily, enjoying the congestion and this unexpected opportunity
to be seen by so many American eyes at once in his gorgeous raiment. In
the town proper, and carefully avoiding the more rapidly moving
vehicles, he turned off the avenue into a narrow side street, and pulled
up at a water-trough. As he dropped the reins and prepared to descend, a
friend of his--and he had many--hailed him from the sidewalk. Hastily
clambering down, he seized the man's arm in forceful greeting, and
indicated with a jerk of his head a near-by saloon.

"We go gettin' soomt'ing," he invited. "I have munch good luck to tell
you."

Inside the establishment Felipe became loquacious and boasting. He now
was a man of comfortable wealth, he gravely informed his friend--a
wizened individual with piercing eyes. Besides winning a bet of fifteen
dollars in money, he explained, he also held a note against Franke
Gamboa for fifty dollars more on his property. But that was not all.
Aside from the note and the cash in hand, he was the owner of a colt now
of great value--_si_--worth at least ten dollars--which, added to
the other, made him, as anybody could see, worthy of recognition. With
this he placed his empty glass down on the bar and swung over into
English.

"You haf hear about thot?" he asked, drawing the back of his hand across
his mouth. Then, as the other shook his head negatively, "Well, I haf
new one--_potrillo_--nice li'l' horse--_si_!" He cleared his
throat and frowned at the listening bartender. "He's comin' couple days
before, oop on thee mesa." He picked up the glass, noted that it was
empty, placed it down again. "I'm sellin' thot _potrillo_ quick,"
he went on--"bet you' life! I feed heem couple weeks more mebbe--feed
heem beer and soom cheese!" He laughed raucously at the alleged
witticism. "Thot's thee preencipal t'ing," he declared, soberly. "You
must feed a horse." He said this not as one recommending that a horse be
well fed, but as one advising that a horse be given something to eat
occasionally. "_Si!_ Thot's thee preencipal t'ing! Then he's makin'
a fast goer--bet you' life! I haf give heem--" He suddenly interrupted
himself and laid firm hold upon the man's arm. "You coom wit' me!" he
invited, and began to drag the other toward the swing-doors. "You coom
look at thot _potrillo_!"

They went outside. On the curb, Felipe gazed about him, first with a
look of pride, then with an expression of blank dismay. He stepped down
off the curb, roused the drowsing mare with a vigorous clap, again
looked about him worriedly. After a long moment he left the team,
walking out into the middle of the street, and strained his eyes in both
directions. Then he returned and, heedless of his new overalls, got down
upon his knees, sweeping bleared eyes under the wagon. And finally, with
a last despairing gaze in every direction, he sat down upon the curb and
buried his face in his arms.

For the colt was gone!




CHAPTER IV

A NEW HOME


With the beginning of the forward movement across the railroad the colt,
ears cocked and eyes alert, moved across also. Close about him stepped
other horses, and over and around him surged a low murmuring,
occasionally broken by the crack of a whip. Yet these sounds did not
seem to disturb him. He trotted along, crossing the tracks, and when on
the opposite side set out straight down the avenue. The avenue was
broad, and in this widening area the congestion rapidly thinned, and
soon the colt was quite alone in the open. But he continued forward,
seeming not to miss his mother, until there suddenly loomed up beside
him a very fat and very matronly appearing horse. Then he hesitated,
turning apprehensive eyes upon her. But not for long. Evidently
accepting this horse as his mother, he fell in close beside her and
trotted along again in perfect composure.

Behind this horse was a phaeton, and in the phaeton sat two persons.
They were widely different in age. One was an elderly man, broad of
shoulders and with a ruddy face faintly threaded with purple; the other
was a young girl, not more than seventeen, his daughter, with a face
sweet and alert, and a mass of chestnut hair--all imparting a certain
esthetic beauty. Like the man, the girl was ruddy of complexion, though
hers was the bloom of youth, while his was toll taken from suns and
winds of the desert. The girl was the first to discover the colt.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, placing a restraining hand upon the other.
"Whose beautiful colt is that?"

The Judge pulled down his horse and leaned far out over the side. "Why,
I don't know, dear!" he replied, after a moment, then turned his eyes to
the rear. "He must belong with some team in that crush."

The girl regarded the colt with increasing rapture. "Isn't he a perfect
dear!" she went on. "Look at him, daddy!" she suddenly urged,
delightedly. "He's dying to know why we stopped!" Which, indeed, the
colt looked to be, since he had come to a stop with the mare and now was
regarding them curiously. "I'd love to pet him!"

The Judge frowned. "We're late for luncheon," he declared, and again
gazed to the rear. "We'd better take him along with us out to the ranch.
To-morrow I'll advertise him in the papers." And he shook up the mare.
"We'd better go along, Helen."

"Just one minute, daddy!" persisted the girl, gathering up her white
skirts and, as the Judge pulled down, leaping lightly out of the
phaeton. "I've simply _got_ to pet him!" She cautiously approached
the colt.

He permitted her this approach. Nor did he shy at her outstretched hand.
Under her gentle caresses he stood very still, and when she stooped
before him, as she did presently, bringing her eyes upon a level with
his own, he gazed into them very frankly and earnestly, as if gauging
this person, as he had seemed to tabulate all other things, some day to
make good use of his knowledge. After a time the girl spoke.

"I wish I could keep you always," she said, poutingly. "You look so nice
and babyish!" But she knew that she could not keep him, and after a time
she stood up again and sighed, and fell to stroking him thoughtfully.
"I'll have you to-day, anyway," she declared, finally, with promise of
enjoyment in her voice, as one who meant to make the most of it. Then
she got back into the phaeton.

The Judge started up the horse again. They continued through the town,
and when on its northwestern outskirts turned to the right along a trail
that paralleled the river. The trail ran north and south, and on either
side of it, sometimes shielding a secluded ranch, always forming an
agreeable oasis in the flat brown of the country, rose an occasional
clump of cottonwoods. The ranch-houses were infrequent, however; all of
them were plentifully supplied with water by giant windmills which
clacked and creaked above the trees in the high-noon breeze. To the
left, across the river, back from the long, slow rise of sand from the
water's edge, rose five blunt heights like craters long extinct; while
above these, arching across the heavens in spotless sheen, curved the
turquoise dome of a southwestern midday sky, flooding the dust and dunes
below in throbbing heat-rays. It was God's own section of earth, and not
the least beautiful of its vistas, looming now steadily ahead on their
right, was the place belonging to Judge Richards. House and outhouses
white, and just now aglint in the white light of the sun, the whole
ranch presented the appearance of diamonds nestling in a bed of
emerald-green velvet. Turning off at this ranch, the Judge tossed the
reins to a waiting Mexican.

Helen was out of the phaeton like a flash. Carefully guiding the colt
around the house and across a _patio_, she turned him loose into a
spacious corral. Then she fell to watching him, and she continued to
watch him until a voice from the house, that of an aged Mexican woman
who presided over the kitchen, warned her that dinner was waiting.
Reluctantly hugging the colt--hugging him almost savagely in her sudden
affection for him--she then turned to leave, but not without a word of
explanation.

"I must leave you now, honey!" she said, much as a child would take
leave of her doll. "But I sha'n't be away from you long, and when I come
back I'll see what I can do about feeding you!"

The colt stood for a time, peering between the corral boards after her.
Then he set out upon a round of investigation. He moved slowly along the
inside of the fence, seeming to approve its whitewashed cleanliness,
until, turning in a corner, he stood before the stable door. Here he
paused a moment, gazing into the semi-gloom, then sprang up the one
step. Inside, he stood another moment, sweeping eyes down past the
stalls, and finally set out and made his way to the far end. In the
stall next the last stood a brown saddle-horse, and in the last stall
the matronly horse he had followed out from town. But he showed no
interest in these, bestowing upon each merely a passing glance. Then,
discovering that the flies bothered him here more than in the corral, he
walked back to the door and out into the sunlight again. In the corral
he took up his motionless stand in the corner nearest the house.

He did not stand thus for long. He soon revealed grave uneasiness. It
was due to a familiar gnawing inside. He knew the relief for this, and
promptly set out in search of his mother. He hurried back along the
fence, gained the door of the stable, and stepped into the stable, this
time upon urgent business. He trotted down past the stalls to the family
horse, and without hesitation stepped in alongside of her. Directly
there was a shrill nicker, a lightning flash of heels, and the colt lay
sprawling on the stable floor.

Never was there a colt more astonished than this one. Dazed, trembling,
he regained his feet and looked at the mare, looked hard. Then casting
solicitous eyes in the direction of the saddle-horse, he stepped in
alongside. But here he met with even more painful objections. The horse
reached around and bit him sharply in the neck. It hurt, hurt awfully,
but he persisted, only to receive another sharp bite, this time more
savage. Sounding a baby whimper of despair, he ran back to the door and
out into the motherless corral.

He made for the corner nearest the house. But he did not stand still. He
cocked his ears, pawed the ground, turned again and again, swallowed
frequently. And presently he set out once more in search of his mother;
though this time he wisely kept out of the stable. He held close to the
fence, following it around and around, pausing now and again with eyes
strained between the boards. But he could not find his mother. Finally,
resorting to the one effort left to him that might bring result, he
flung up his little head and sounded a piteous call--not once, but many
times.

"Aunty," declared the girl, rushing into the genial presence of the
Mexican cook, "what shall I do about that colt? He must be hungry!"

The old woman nodded and smiled knowingly. Then she stepped into the
pantry. She filled a long-necked bottle with milk and sugar and a dash
of lime-water, and, placing the bottle in the girl's hands, shoved her
gently out the door and into the _patio_.

Racing across to the corral, Helen reached the colt with much-needed
aid. He closed upon the bottle with an eagerness that seemed to tell he
had known no other method of feeding. Also, he clung to it till the last
drop was gone, which caused Helen to wonder when last the colt had fed.
Then, as if by way of reward for this kindly attention, he tossed his
head suddenly, striking the bottle out of her hands. This was play; and
Helen, girlishly delighted, sprang toward him. He leaped away, however,
and, coming to a stand at a safe distance, wriggled his ears at her
mischievously. She sprang toward him again; but again he darted away.
Whereupon she raced after him, pursuing him around the inclosure, the
colt frisking before her, kicking up his heels and nickering shrilly,
until, through breathlessness, she was forced to stop. Then the colt
stopped, and after a time, having regarded her steadfastly, invitingly,
he seemed to understand, for he quietly approached her. As he came close
she stooped before him.

"Honey dear," she began, eyes on a level with his own, "they have
telephoned the city officials, and your case will be advertised
to-morrow in the papers. But I do wish that I could keep you." She
peered into his slow-blinking eyes thoughtfully. "Brownie--my
saddle-horse--is all stable-ridden, and I need a good saddler. And some
day you would be grown, and I could--could take lots of comfort with
you." She was silent. "Anyway," she concluded, rising and stroking him
absently, "we'll see. Though I hope--and I know it isn't a bit
right--that nothing comes of the advertisement; or, if something does
come of it, that your rightful owner will prove willing to sell you
after a time." With this she picked up the bottle and left him.

And nothing did come of the advertisement. Felipe did not read the
papers, and his knowledge of city affairs was such that he did not set
up intelligent quest for the colt.

So the colt remained in the Richards' corral. Regularly two and three
times a day the girl came to feed him, and regularly as his reward each
time he bunted the bottle out of her hand afterward. Also, between meals
she spent much time in his society, and on these occasions relieved the
tedium of his diet with loaf sugar, and, after a while, quartered
apples. For these sweets he soon developed a passion, and he would watch
her comings with a feverish anxiety that always brought a smile to her
ready lips. And thus began, and thus went on, their friendship, a
friendship that with the passing months ripened into strongest
attachment, but which presently was to be interrupted for a long time.

Hint of this came to him gradually. From spending long periods with him
every day his mistress, after each feeding now, took to hurrying away
from him. Sometimes, so great was her haste to get back to the house,
she actually ran out of the corral. It worried him, and he would follow
her to the gate, and there stand with nose between the boards and eyes
turned after her, whimpering softly. And finally, with his bottle
displaced by more solid food, and the visits of his mistress becoming
less frequent, he awoke to certain mysterious arrivals and departures in
a buggy of a sharp-eyed woman all in black, and he came to feel, by
reason of his super-animal instinct, that something of a very grave
nature was about to happen to him. Then one morning late in August he
experienced that which made his fears positive convictions, though
precisely what it was he did not immediately know.

His mistress stepped into the corral with her usual briskness, and,
walking deliberately past him, turned up an empty box in a far corner
and sat down upon it, and called to him. From the instant of her
entrance he had held himself back, but when she called him he rushed
eagerly to her side. She placed her arms around his neck, drew his head
down into her lap, and proceeded to unfold a story--later, tearful.

"It's all settled," she began, with a restful sigh. "We have discussed
it for weeks, and I've had a dreadful time of it, and aunty--my Mexican
aunty, you know--and my other aunty, my regular aunty--I have no
mother--and everybody--got so excited I didn't really know them for my
own, and daddy flared up a little, and--and--" She paused and sighed
again. "But finally they let me have my own way about it--though daddy
called it 'infant tommyrot'--and so here it is!" She tilted up his head
and looked into his eyes. "You, sir," she then went on--"you, sir, from
this day and date--I reckon that is how daddy would say it--you, sir,
from this day and date shall be known as Pat. Your name, sir, is
Pat--P-a-t--Pat! I don't know whether you like it or not, of course! But
I do know that I like it, and under the circumstances I reckon that's
all that is necessary." Then came the tears. "But that isn't all, Pat
dear," she went on, tenderly. "I have something else to tell you, though
it hurts dreadfully for me to do it. But--but I'm going away to school.
I'm going East, to be gone a long time. I want to go, though," she
added, gazing soberly into his eyes; "yet I am afraid to leave you alone
with Miguel. Miguel doesn't like to have you around, and I know it, and
I am afraid he will be cruel to you. But--but I've got to go now. The
dressmaker has been coming for over a month; and--and I'm not even
coming home for vacation. I am to visit relatives, or something, in New
York--or somewhere--and the whole thing is arranged. But I--I don't seem
to want--to--to go away now!" Which was where the tears fell. "If
things--things could only be--be put off! But I--I know they can't!" She
was silent, silent a long time, gazing off toward the distant mountains
through tear-bedimmed eyes. "But when I do come back," she concluded,
finally, brightening, "you will have grown to a great size, Pat dear,
and then we can go up on the mesa and ride and ride. Can't we?" And she
hugged him convulsively. "It will be glorious. Won't it?"

He didn't exactly say. His interest was elsewhere, and, resisting her
hugging, he began to nuzzle her hands for sweets. Whereupon she burst
into laughter and forcibly hugged him again.

"I forgot," she declared, regretfully. "You shall have them,
though--right away!" Then she arose and left him--left him a very much
mystified colt. But when she returned with what he sought he looked his
delight, and closed over the sweets with an eagerness that forced her
into sober reflection. "Pat," she said, after a time, "I don't think you
care one single bit for me! All you care about, I'll bet, is what I
bring you to eat!" Then she began to stroke him. "Just the same," she
concluded, after a while, tenderly, "you're the dearest colt that ever
lived!" She dallied with him a moment longer, then abruptly left him,
running back to the house.

The days which followed, however, were full of delight for him. Now that
the mysterious activity in the house was over with, his mistress began
to visit him again with more than frequent regularity. And with each
visit she would remain with him a long time, caressing him, talking to
him, as had been her wont in the earlier days of their friendship. But
as against those earlier days he had changed. Possibly this was due to
her absence. Instead of frisking about the inclosure now, as he had used
to frisk--whirling madly from her in play--he would remain very still
during her visits, standing motionless under her caresses and love-talk.
Also, when she took herself off each time, instead of hurrying
frantically after her to the gate, he would walk slowly, even sedately,
into his corner, the one nearest the house, and there watch her soberly
till she disappeared indoors. Then--further evidence of the change that
had come upon him--he would lie down in the warm sunlight and there
fight flies, although before he had been given to worrying the family
horse or irritating the brown saddler--all with nervous playfulness.

And he was dozing in his corner that morning when his mistress came
fluttering to him to say good-by. He slowly rose to his feet and blinked
curiously at her.

"Pat dear," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "I'm going now!" She flung her
arms around his neck, held him tightly to her a moment, then stepped
back. "You--you must be good while--while I'm gone!" And dashing away a
persistent tear, she then hurriedly left him, speeding across the
_patio_ and stepping into the waiting phaeton.

He watched the vehicle roll out into the trail. And though he did not
understand, though the seriousness of it all was denied him, he
nevertheless remained close to the fence a long time; long after the
phaeton had passed from view, long after the sound of the mare's
paddling feet had died away, he stood there, ears cocked, eyes wide,
tail motionless, in an attitude of receptivity, spiritual absorption, as
one flicked with unwelcome premonitions.




CHAPTER V

LONELINESS


Pat's mistress was gone. He realized it from his continued disappointed
watching for her at the fence; he realized it from the utter absence out
of life of the sweets he had learned to love so well; and he realized it
most of all from the change which rapidly came over the Mexican hostler.
Though he did not know it, Miguel had been instructed, and in no
mistakable language, to take good care of him, and, among other things,
to keep him healthily supplied with sweets. But Miguel was not
interested in colts, much less in anything that meant additional labor
for him, and so Pat was made to suffer. Yet in this, as in all the other
things, lay a wonderful good. He was made to know that he was not wholly
a pampered thing--was made to feel the other side of life, the side of
bitterness and disappointment, the side at times of actual want. And
this continued denial of wants, of needs, occasionally, hardened him, as
his earlier experiences had hardened him, toughened him for the
struggles to come, brought to him that which is good for all
youth--realization that life is not a mere span of days with sweets and
comforts for the asking, but a time of struggle, a battle for supremacy,
and it is only through the battle that one grows fit and ever more fit
for the good of the All.

Not the least of his trials was great loneliness. One day was so very
like another. Regularly each morning, after seeking out his favorite
corner in the corral, he would see the sun step from the mountain-tops,
ascend through a cool morning, pour down scorching midday rays, descend
through a tense afternoon, and drop from view in the chill of evening.
Always he would watch this thing, sometimes standing, other times
reclining, but ever conscious of the dread monotony of it all. Nothing
happened, nobody came to caress him, no one paid him the least
attention. A forlorn colt, a lonely colt, doubly so for lack of a
mother, he spent long days in moody contemplation of an existence that
irked.

One day, however, came something of interest into the monotony of his
life. Evidently tiring of attending each horse in turn in the stalls,
Miguel built a general box for feed in one corner of the inclosure, and
then, by dint of loud swearing and the free use of a pitchfork,
instructed the colt to feed from it with the others. Not that Pat
required instruction as to the feeding itself--he was too much alive to
need driving in that respect. But he did show nervous timidity at
feeding with the other horses, and so Miguel cheerfully went to the
urging with fork and tongue. But only the one time. Soon the colt took
to burying his nose in the box along with the others, and would wriggle
his tail with a vigor that seemed to tell of his gratitude at being
accepted as part of the great establishment and its devices. And then
another thing. With this change in his method of feeding, he soon came
to reveal steadily increasing courage and independence. Oftentimes he
would be the first to reach the box, and, what was more to the point,
would hold his position against the other horses--hold it against rough
shouldering from the family horse, savage nipping from the saddler, even
vigorous cursing and flaying from the swarthy hostler.

With the approach of winter he revealed his courage and temerity
further. Of his own volition one night he abruptly changed his
sleeping-quarters. Since the memorable occasion when the mare had kicked
him out of her stall he had sought out a stall by himself with the
coming of night, and there spent the hours in fear-broken sleep. But
this night, and every night thereafter, saw him boldly approaching the
mare and crowding in beside her in her stall, where, in the contact with
her warm body and in her silent presence, he found much that was
soothing and comfortable. Which, too, marked the beginning of a new
friendship, one that steadily ripened with the passing winter and, by
the time spring again descended into the valley, was an attachment close
almost as that between mother and offspring. When in his playful
moments, rare indeed now for one of his age, he would inadvertently
plunge into her, or stumble over a water-pail, she would nicker grave
disapproval, or else chide him more generously by licking his neck and
withers a long time in genuine affection.

Thus the colt changed in both spirit and physique. And the more he
changed, and the larger he grew, the greater source of trouble he became
to the Mexican. Before, he had feared the man. Now he felt only a kind
of hatred, and this lent courage to make of himself a frequent source of
annoyance.

With the return of warm weather he resumed his old place in his favorite
corner. He did this through both habit and a desire to warm himself in
the sun's rays. And it was all innocent enough--this thing. Yet,
innocent though it was, more than once, in passing, the Mexican struck
him with whatever happened to be in his hands. At such times, whimpering
with pain, he would dart to an opposite corner, there to stand in
trembling fear, until, his courage returning, and his hatred for the man
upholding him, he would return and defiantly resume his day-dreaming in
the corner. This happened for perhaps a dozen times before he openly
rebelled. And when he did rebel--when the Mexican struck him sharply
across the nose--he whipped around his head like lightning and, still
only half awake, sank his teeth savagely into the man's shoulder.
Followed a string of oaths and sudden appearance of a club, which might
have proved serious but for the Judge's timely call for the horse and
phaeton. Whereupon the Mexican slunk off into the stable. But as he went
Pat saw the gleam in his black eyes, and knew that some day punishment
most dire and cruel would descend upon him.

He passed through his second summer, that period of trial and sickness
for many infants, in perfect health. In perfect health also he passed
through the autumn and on into his second winter. Growing ever stronger
with the passing seasons, he came to reveal still further his wonderful
vitality, and to reveal it in many ways. Often he would take the
initiative against the Mexican, kicking at him without due cause,
refusing always to get out of his way, once nipping him sharply as he
hurried past under pressing orders from the house. Also, having grown to
a size equal to the brown saddler, he began to reveal his antipathy for
this animal. Not only would he shoulder him away from the feed-box, but
he would kick and snap at him, and once he tipped over the water-pail
for no other reason, seemingly, than to deprive the saddler of water.
The result of all this was that, with the passing seasons, both the
Mexican and the saddler showed increasing respect for him, and the
former went to every precaution to avoid a serious encounter.

But it was bound to come in spite of all his efforts to avoid it.
Fighting spring flies in the stable one morning, Pat was aroused by a
familiar sound in the corral. It was the sound which usually accompanied
feeding, and, whirling, he plunged eagerly toward the door. As he did so
the Mexican, about to enter the stable, appeared on the threshold. Pat
saw him too late. He crashed headlong into the Mexican and sent him
reeling out into the inclosure. From that moment it was to the death.

The Mexican painfully gained his feet and, swearing a mighty vengeance,
caught up a heavy shovel. Pat saw what was coming and, dashing out into
the corral, sought protection behind the feed-box. But the infuriated
man hunted him out, dealing upon his quivering back blow after blow,
until, stung beyond all caution, Pat sprang for the object of his
suffering. But the man leaped aside, delivering as he did so another
vicious blow, this time across Pat's nose--most tender of places. Dazed,
trembling, raging with the spirit of battle, he surveyed the man a
moment, and then, with an unnatural outcry, half nicker, half roar, he
hurtled himself upon his enemy, striking him down. But he did not stop
here. When the man attempted to rise he struck him down again, and a
third time. Then, seeing the man lying motionless, he uttered another
outcry, different from the other, a whimpering, baby outcry, and,
whirling away from the scene, hurried across the corral and into the
stable, where he sought out the family horse and, still whimpering
babyishly, stood very close beside her, seeking her sympathy and
encouragement.

This closed the feud for all time. Miguel was not seriously hurt. But he
had learned something, even as Pat had learned something, and thereafter
there existed tacit understanding between them.

The seasons passed, and the third year came, and with it the beginning
of the end of Pat's loneliness. One morning late in June he was aroused
by the voice of the Mexican, who, with brushes and currycomb in hand,
had come to clean him. Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though
wallowing but little, leaving that form of exercise to the older horses,
he nevertheless was gritty with sand from swirling spring winds. So he
stood very still under the hostler's vigorous attention. But Miguel's
ambition did not stop here. He turned to the other horses and curried
and brushed them also, working till the perspiration streamed from him.
But this was not the end. He set to work in the stable, and scraped and
cleaned to the last corner, and rubbed and scoured to the smallest
harness buckle. It was all very unusual, and Pat, standing attentive
throughout it all, revealed marked interest and something of surprise.
Soon he was to know the reason.

Along toward noon, as he was feeding at the box, he saw a very dignified
young woman leave the house, cross the _patio_ in his direction,
and come to a stop immediately outside the fence. Though the feed-box
always held his interest above all other things, and though it was
strongly attracting him now, he nevertheless could not resist the
attention with which this young woman regarded him. He returned her gaze
steadily, wondering who she was and what she meant to do. He soon found
out, for presently she set out along the fence and came to a stop
directly in front of him. She did more. She held out a hand and sounded
a single word softly.

"Pat!" she called.

And now something took place inside the colt. With the word, far back in
his brain, in the remotest of cells, there came an effort for freedom.
It was a grim struggle, no doubt, for the thing must fight its way
against almost all other thoughts and scenes and persons in his memory.
But at length this vague memory gained momentum and dominance. And now
he understood. The young woman outside the fence was his little mistress
of early days! Lifting his head, he gave off a shrill and protracted
nicker of greeting.

Helen dropped her hand. "Bless you!" she cried, and sped along the
fence, opened the gate, and ran inside. "You do know me, don't you?" she
burst out, and, hurrying to his side, hugged him convulsively. "And I'm
so glad, Pat!" she went on. "It--it has been a long three years!" She
stepped back and looked him over admiringly. "And you have grown so!
Dear, oh, dear! Three years!" Again she stepped close and hugged him. "I
am so proud of you, Pat!"

All this love-talk, this caressing and hugging, was as the lifting of a
veil to Pat. Within him all that had lain dormant for three
years--affection, desires, life itself--now pressed eagerly to the
surface. And though his mistress did not look the same to him--though he
found himself gazing down now instead of up to engage her eyes--yet, as
if she had been gone but a day, he suddenly nuzzled her hand for loaf
sugar and quartered apples. Then as suddenly he regretted this. For she
had left him--was running across the corral. Frantically he rushed after
her and, with a shrill cry of protest, saw her enter the house. But soon
she appeared again, and when close, and he saw the familiar sweets in
her hand, he nickered again, this time in sheer delight. And if he had
doubted his good fortune before, now, with his mouth dripping luscious
juices, he knew positively that he had come into his own again.

Sometime during the feast Helen noticed a scar across his nose. "Why,
Pat!" she exclaimed. "How ever did you get that?"

But Pat did not say. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, in this happiest of
moments, he would have descended to such commonplaces. But it was no
commonplace to Helen, and she promptly sought out the Mexican. Yet
Miguel declared that he knew nothing of the scar. He had been very
watchful of the colt, he lied, cheerfully, and the scar was as much a
mystery to him as it was to her. Whereupon Helen decided that Pat had
brought it about through some prank, and, after returning to him and
indulging in further caresses and love-talk, reluctantly took leave of
him, returning to the house, there to begin unpacking her numerous
trunks.

Thus their friendship was renewed. Pat was older by three years, as the
girl was older by three years. But each was much older than that in
point of development. Where before had been baby affection in him and
girl affection in her, now was a thing of greater worth and more lasting
quality--affection of a grown horse and a grown woman. In the days which
followed this was brought out in many ways. The colt did not once frisk
and play about the inclosure, a trait she remembered best; yet she did
not wish it. She preferred him as he was, finding in his mature conduct
something that enhanced his beauty; and rare beauty it was, as she
frequently noted in running proud eyes over his lines, and in noting it
came more and more to feel not alone great pride for him, but a sure
love as well--not the love woman gives to man, of course, but the love
she can give, and does give, without stint, to all dumb animals.




CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST GREAT LESSON


Helen spent much time in the society of the horse. Aside from attending
to his wants, such as food and water, she more than once took comb and
brush in hand and gave him a thorough cleaning. This invariably brought
a grin to the ugly features of Miguel, and when the Judge was present,
which was not often, a smile of delight mixed with derision to his ruddy
features. But never would Helen permit them to discourage her. She would
brush and curry Pat till his coat shone like new-mined coal, and then,
after surveying the satiny sheen critically, she would comb out his long
tail, sometimes braid his glossy mane, and, after that, scour his hoofs
till they were as clean and fresh as the rest of him. In her pride for
him she liked to do these things, and often regretted that he did not
require her attention more than he did.

One day, with characteristic suddenness, she decided to have him broken
to saddle. Therefore, next morning, three horse-breakers--one
professional and two assistants--armed with ropes and saddles, appeared
in the corral. Pat was sunning himself in his corner, and at their
entrance only cocked his ears and blinked his eyes lazily. Outside the
inclosure Helen, together with a scattering of spectators, attracted by
the word of this treat in town, stood quietly expectant. One of the
assistants, a raw-boned individual with hairy wrists, drove Pat out of
his corner, while the professional, a large man of quiet demeanor,
turned to Miguel, who was standing in the stable door, and put a
question to him. Miguel, out of his own experience, warned them against
the horse. Whereupon the large man neatly roped Pat, settling the noose
skilfully around the horse's neck.

Instantly Pat was a quivering bundle of nerves. Bracing his legs, he
drew back on the rope. But the man held to it grimly. The man did more.
He suddenly raced across the inclosure, gave the rope a deft twist, and
followed the twist with a vigorous jerk. Pat plunged heavily to the
ground.

He lay dazed, breathing laboriously, till the rope slackened. Then he
started to rise. But he only gained his fore legs. The second assistant,
a slender youth, resisted his efforts, forcing Pat's head back by
sitting upon it. Pat twisted and writhed to throw him off. But the man
stayed with him, and finally had him prone to earth again. Whereupon Pat
experienced the chagrin of his first defeat. Yet he could see. Upon the
retina of each eye danced a picture. It was that of his mistress,
surrounded by open-mouthed spectators, outside the fence, gazing down
upon him with seeming approval. This once, but only this once, he felt
dislike for her.

One of the men approached with a halter. Pat had seen these things in
the stable, and he instinctively knew what they were for. But he would
not accept this one. Embittered by his fall, chafing under the weight
upon his head, he struggled so successfully that he finally dislodged
the man. Then he sprang to his feet again, and, trembling in every part,
glared savagely at his tormentors.

"Better give him a twist," quietly suggested the professional.

Pat heard the remark. But he did not understand, and so remained quiet.
Presently he felt a light hand creeping up along his neck, pausing,
patting him, creeping along farther, pausing and patting him again. It
was not unpleasant, and under the soothing influence he came to believe
that his tormentors had experienced a change of attitude. But he was
mistaken. Suddenly his ear was gripped as in a vise. Also, it was
twisted sharply, once, twice, and then held in a relentless grip. He
stood still as death. Up and down his spine, from his ear to his tail,
coursed shrieking pain, hacking him like the agony of a thousand
twisting knives. Under the terror of it he stopped breathing--stopped
till he must breathe or swoon. Then he did take air, in short, faint
gasps, but each gasp at terrible cost. And standing thus, fearing to
move, he accepted the halter. He could do naught else.

The raw-boned assistant turned to Helen apologetically. "Lively hoss,
Miss Richards," he declared. "Reckon we're in for a little exercise."
And he grinned.

Anxiously Helen mounted the fence, standing upon a lower board. "You
won't hurt him, I hope--that is, needlessly! I don't want that, you
know!" And she gazed at Pat with pitiful eyes.

The other laughed. "No; 'tain't that," he hastened to reassure her.
"He's lively--that's all."

The professional looked Pat over speculatively, and again made a
suggestion. "Better blindfold him, Larry," he said.

Pat heard this as he had heard the other. And because he was coming to
know this man's voice, and to interpret it correctly, despite the agony
it cost him he went on his guard, spreading and bracing his legs as
against shock. He did not receive shock, however. Merely a piece of soft
flannel was tucked gently under his halter and drawn carefully over his
eyes. Against the soft pressure of it he closed his eyes. As he did so
the hand released his ear. Conscious of sweet relief from the dread pain
now, he opened his eyes again, only to discover that he could not see!

Here was new distress! He did not understand it. He knew that his eyes
were open; knew that it was the time of sunshine; knew with grim
certainty that he was awake. Yet he could not see! He flung up his head;
tossed it across and back; flung it down again. Yet the unnatural
darkness! He took to pawing the ground. He began to recall his
surroundings before this strange darkness had descended upon him--the
girl outside the fence, the spectators upon the fence, the tormentors
inside the fence, the glorious sunlight, the distant shimmering
mountains, the stable and outhouses and cottage. But all were gone from
him now. Everything was black with the blackness of night! Again he
tossed his head--and again and again. But still the darkness! He was
afraid.

Here came a change. Across his vision leaped sudden flashing lights,
myriads of them, dancing strangely before him. Gripped in new fear, he
watched them closely, saw them hurry, pause, hurry again, all in
dazzling array. They kept it up. Breathlessly he saw them dart to and
fro, speed near, whirl and twist, until out of sheer distress he closed
his eyes for relief. But he got no relief. He saw the lights as before,
saw them dancing and pirouetting before his eyes, and suddenly whisk
away, as though satiated with their fiendishness. But they left him limp
and faint and with a throbbing pain in his head. Again he stamped the
earth and shook his head. But the darkness clung. He could not throw off
the thing before his eyes. Yet he persisted. He tossed his head until
dizziness seized him. Then he stopped all effort and relaxed. His head
began to droop; he let it droop, low and lower, until he smelled the
earth. This aroused him. His spirit of fight rose again. He jerked up
his head, sounded a defiant outcry, stiffened his legs for action. This
for a moment only, for he did not act--somehow felt it was not yet time.
But he gave way to a grim restlessness. He took to rocking like a
chained elephant--from right hind to left fore, from left hind to right
fore legs--changing, always changing.

"Well, old son," came a voice on his chaotic thoughts, "we've just found
a bridle that'll suit. But it took us a mean long time to do it, didn't
it?"

Pat stopped swaying. He stopped suddenly, as one checked by a mighty
force. And so he was. For he knew now that the time had come. Here was
his tormentor! Here was one of them within reach! The time had come to
strike, to strike this man, to crush him to earth, to kill the cause of
his suffering--

"Here, hoss," went on the voice, soothingly, the while Pat smelled a
something of the stable underneath his nose. "Go to it! It's right
harmless--now, ain't it?" Which it seemed to be from the smell.

But Pat struck--reared with the speed of lightning and struck.

The blow was unexpected. It sent the man spinning, whirling across the
inclosure. He dropped into a corner like a log.

There was a tense moment. Spectators sat dazed; horsemen stood rigid;
the girl screamed. Then the large man ran to the prostrate form. He bent
over, gazed briefly, straightened up with a reassuring smile. Presently
the assistant arose and, rubbing his shoulder ruefully, caught up the
fallen bridle. Soon the work of breaking was resumed as though nothing
had happened.

Pat was standing motionless. But he was keenly alert. He heard the man
draw near, felt the hand creeping along his neck, but he had learned his
lesson well. He reared and struck again--this time only empty air. Yet,
as he returned to earth, almost before he touched ground, the hand was
around his ear, another was around his other ear, he was feeling the
dread twist again, twofold. Every twitch of muscle, every least gasp for
air, sent excruciating pain throughout the ends of him. Fearing to move,
yet clamoring for breath, he slowly opened his mouth.

Which was what they wanted, evidently. He felt a cold something suddenly
thrust between his teeth. It was hard as well as cold. He tasted it,
rolled it over his tongue, and found it not painful. Then came something
else. His head was being hurriedly fitted with a leathery contrivance.
But neither was this painful, save only as it touched his twisted ears,
and he therefore experienced no increasing alarm. Then, with this
adjusted, he was introduced to something else--a something held close
under his nose. He smelled this carefully; noted that it reeked with
odors of the stable; smelled it again. Next he knew it was being placed
gently upon his back. It was soft, and quite hairy, and though it
irritated him a little, he accepted it without loss of composure. But
when it was followed, as it was directly, by a heavier something, a
something fitting his back snug and hard, he instantly determined to
rebel, despite his twisted ears. But he could not withstand the
increased pain, and he permitted the thing to be made secure with straps
around his body. And now came a heavier something, a free and loose
weight, something with spring and give to it, and which had flung up
from the ground. And suddenly, flaying his pained senses, understanding
flashed upon him. This was a man. There was a tormentor upon his back,
gripping the thing in his mouth, holding him solidly to the ground. He--

"Go!"

It was a word of command. With the word Pat felt his ears released. As
he thrilled with relief the cloth was jerked off his eyes. For a time
the fierce daylight blinded him. Then the pupils of his eyes contracted
and all objects stood out clearly again--the men in the corral, the
spectators on the fence, his mistress outside the fence. Also he saw the
sunlit stable, and Miguel in the doorway, and the house in the trees.
All had come back to him, and he stood gazing about him blinkingly,
trying to understand, conscious of straps binding his body and
restraining his breathing.

Then suddenly he understood--remembered--remembered that he had been
abused, had been tortured as never before. And he awoke to the fact that
he was still being tortured. There was this thing in his mouth. There
was this contraption on his head. There was that thing on his back, and
the weight upon the thing. Also, there was that binding of his belly,
and the irritation due to the prickly something pressing his back and
sides. All these facts stung him, and under the whip of them he awoke to
a mighty urging within. It was his fighting spirit rekindling--the thing
that was his birthright, the thing come down to him from his ancestors,
the thing that told him to rebel against the unnatural. And heeding
this, voice, heeding it because he knew no other, he decided to give
decisive battle.

In a frenzy of effort he suddenly reared. He pirouetted on hind legs;
pawed the air with fore legs; lost his balance. Failing to recover
himself, he went over backward. He struck the earth resoundingly, but he
realized that the weight was gone, and he felt a faint glow of victory!

"Wow!" yelled a spectator, excitedly.

Pat heard this and hastily regained his feet. And because he was
uncertain of his next move he remained motionless. This was a mistake,
as he soon discovered. For he saw two men leap, grasp both his ears;
felt the dread twist again. So he remained still, and he felt the man
mount again. Then came rumbling in upon his tortured soul again the
insistent voice telling him to rebel further, and to keep on rebelling
until through sheer brute strength he had mastered these unnatural
things. With the grip on his ears released he once more gave heed to
this clamoring within.

He leaped straight up into the air. Returning to earth with
nerve-shattering shock, he whirled suddenly, pitched and bucked, tossed
and twisted, all in mad effort. But the weight clung fast. He whirled
again, and again leaped, leaped clear of the ground, returning to it
this time on stiffened legs. But he could not shake off the weight. He
flung across the corral, twisting, writhing, bucking; flung back
again--heart thumping, lungs shrieking for air, muscles wrenching and
straining; and again across, responding, and continuing to respond, to
the ringing voice within, like the king of kings that he was. But he
could not dislodge the weight.

"Great!" yelled an excited spectator.

"See that hoss sunfishin'!" burst out another.

"An' corkscrewin'!" added a third.

"Better 'n a outlaw!" amplified a fourth.

And now the first again: "Stay with him, Alex! I got two dollars--Oh,
hell!"--this disgustedly. "Come out o' that corner!" Then suddenly he
turned, face red as fire, and apologized to Helen. "I beg your pardon,
Miss Richards," he offered, meekly. But he turned back to the spectacle
and promptly forgot all else in his returning excitement. "Shoot it to
him, Alex!" he yelled. "Shoot it; shoot it! He's a helldinger, that
hoss!" Frenziedly he then yawped, cowboy fashion:
"Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip! Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip!"

Yet Helen--poor Helen!--had not heard. Holding her breath in tense fear,
eyes upon her pride fighting his fight of pride, half hopeful that he
would win, yet fearful of that very thing, she watched the strife of man
skill against brute strength, keyed up almost to snapping-point.

But her horse did not win. Neither did he lose. She saw him take up, one
after another, every trick known to those familiar with horses, and she
marveled greatly at his unexpected knowledge of things vicious. Along
one side of the inclosure, across the side adjacent to it, back along
the side opposite to the second, then forward along the first
again--thus round the corral--he writhed and twisted in mighty effort,
bucking and pitching and whirling and flinging, the while the sun rose
higher in the morning sky. Spectators clambered down from the fence,
stood awhile to relieve cramped muscles, clambered on the fence again;
but the horse fought on; coat necked with white slaver, glistening with
streaming sweat in the sunlight, eyes wild, mouth grim, ears back, he
fought on and on till it seemed that he must stop through sheer
exhaustion. But still he fought, valiantly, holding to the battle until,
with a raging, side-pitching twist, one never before seen, he lost his
footing, plunged to the ground, tore up twenty feet of earth, crashed
headlong into the fence, ripped out three boards clean as though struck
by lightning--lay motionless in a crumpled heap.

The man was thrown. He arose hastily. As he wiped away his perspiration
and grime he saw blood on his handkerchief. He was bruised and bleeding,
and wrenched inwardly, yet when Pat, returning to consciousness, hastily
gained his feet, the man leaped for the horse, sounding a muffled curse.
But he did not mount. And for good reason. For Pat was reeling like a
drunken man--head drooping, fore parts swaying, eyes slowly closing. At
the sight one of the spectators made a plea in Pat's behalf.

"Whyn't you take him outside?" he demanded. "Into the open. This ain't
no place to bust a horse like him! That horse needs air! Get him out
into about three-quarters of these United States! Git ginerous! Git
ginerous! I hate a stingy man!"

Whereupon Helen at last found voice. "Wait!" she cried, evenly, and,
turning, sped along the fence to the gate. Inside the corral she hurried
to the horse and flung her arms around his neck. "Pat dear," she began,
tenderly, "I am so sorry! But it's 'most over with now, if you'll only
accept it! Can't you see, Pat? It is so very necessary to both of us!
For then I myself can ride you! Please, Pat--please, for my sake!"
Whereupon Pat, as if all else were forgotten--all the torture, all the
struggle and shock--nickered softly and nuzzled her hands for sugar and
apples. Suppressing a smile, and accepting this as a good omen, she
stroked him a few times more and then stepped back. "Later, dear!" she
promised and left him, suddenly mindful of spectators. But, though she
felt the blood rush into her cheeks, she did not leave the inclosure.
The horse-breaker stepped resolutely to Pat and, laying firm hands upon
the bridle, waited a moment, eying Pat narrowly, then flung up into the
saddle. Pat's sides heaved, his knees trembled, but he did not resist.
Eyes trained upon his mistress, as if he would hold her to her promise,
he set out peacefully, and of his own volition, across the inclosure.
Further, even though he could not see his mistress now, he turned in
response to the rein and started back across the inclosure. And he kept
this up, holding to perfect calm, breaking into a trot when urged to it,
falling back into a walk in response to the bridle, round and round and
round until, with a grunt of satisfaction, the man dismounted close
beside the girl and handed her the reins.

"Rides easy as a single-footer, Miss Richards," he declared. "Where can
I wash up?"

Which ended Pat's first great lesson at the hands of man. But though
this lesson had its values, since he was destined to serve mankind, yet
he had learned another thing that held more value to him as an animal
than all the teachings within the grasp of men--he had learned the
inevitable workings of cause and effect. His nose was scraped and his
knees were scraped, and all these places burned intensely. And,
intelligent horse that he was, he knew why he suffered these burns--knew
that he had brought them about through his own sheer wilfulness. True,
he was still girt with bands and straps, and in a way they were
uncomfortable. But they did not pain him as the wounds pained him. Not
that he reasoned all this out. He was but a dumb animal, and pure
reasoning was blissfully apart from him. But he did know the difference
between what had been desired of him and what he himself had brought on
through sheer wilfulness. Thus he awakened, having learned this lesson
with his headlong plunge into the fence, and having added to the lesson
of the futility of rebellion the very clear desires of his mistress.
Other and less intelligent horses would have continued to respond to the
ancestral voice within till death. But Pat was more than such a horse.

With the men gone, he revealed his intelligence further. Helen
commissioned Miguel to fit him with her saddle and bridle, then hurried
herself off to the house. Returning, clad in riding-habit and with hands
full of sugar and quartered apples, she fed these delectables to him
till his mouth dripped delightful juices. Then, while yet he munched the
sweets, she mounted fearlessly. Sitting perfectly still for a time to
accustom him to her weight, she then gave him the rein and word. Without
hesitation he responded, stepping out across the inclosure,
acknowledging her guiding rein in the corner, returning to the
starting-place and, with the word, coming to a stop. It was all very
beautiful, rightly understood, and, thrilled with her success, Helen sat
still again, sat for a long time, gazing soberly down upon him. Then she
bent forward.

"Pat," she began, her voice breaking a little with emotion suddenly
overwhelming her, "this begins our real friendship and understanding.
Let us try to make it equal"--she straightened up, narrow eyes off
toward the mountains--"equal to the best that lies within us both."




CHAPTER VII

A STRANGER


As the weeks passed, each day bringing its period of companionship, this
friendship and understanding between them became perfect in its
simplicity. Pat learned to know her wishes almost without the reins, and
he showed that he loved to carry her. Also, with these daily canters on
the mesa he developed in bodily strength, and it was not long before he
was in the pink of condition. Yet it was a perfection that was only
natural for him. The quality of his blood was shown in his nostrils,
which were wide and continuously atremble; in his eyes, which were
bright and keenly alert; and in his ears, which were fine and vibrant.
Stepping through town each morning under Helen's restraining hand, he
would pick up his hoofs with a cleanliness and place them down with a
grace that always commanded the attention of admiring eyes. But he
seemed unconscious of his quality.

Dressed in her usual dark riding-habit, Helen entered the corral one
morning for her daily canter across the mesa. Already Pat was bridled
and saddled. But as she stepped alongside to mount, Miguel appeared in
the stable door with a brief tale of trouble and a warning. It seemed
that he had experienced difficulty in preparing the horse, and between
puffs at a cigarette he strongly advised Helen to be careful.

"He's a-very fresh thees mornin'," he concluded, with an ominous shake
of his head.

Helen looked Pat over. He appeared in anything but a cantankerous mood.
He was standing quietly, eyes blinking sleepily, ears wriggling lazily,
in an attitude of superior indifference toward all the world. So,
untroubled by the hostler's tale, she slipped her foot into the stirrup.
Instantly the horse nickered queerly and stepped away.

"Steady, Pat!" she gently admonished, and again attempted to mount. But,
as before, he stepped away, this time more abruptly. He began to circle
around her, prancing nervously, pausing to paw the ground, prancing
again nervously. She held firm grip on his bridle, however, and sharply
rebuked him. "Pat," she exclaimed, "this is a new trait!" And then,
before he could resist again, she caught hold of the saddle-horn, leaped
up, hardly touching the stirrup, and gathered the reins quickly to meet
further rebellion.

But with her in the saddle Pat was quite another horse. He snapped his
ears at attention, wheeled to the gate, and cantered briskly out of the
corral.

It was a beautiful morning. The air nipped with a tang of frost, and she
rode swiftly through town and up the hill to the mesa in keen
exhilaration. Once on the mesa, Pat dashed off ecstatically in the
direction of the mountains. The pace was thrilling. The rush of the
crisp wind, together with the joy of swift motion, sent tingling blood
into Helen's cheeks, while the horse, racing along at top speed, flung
out his hoofs with a vigor that told of the riot of blood within him.
Thus they continued, until in the shadow of the mountains--just now
draped in their most delicate coloring, the pink that accompanies
sunbeams streaming through fading haze--she pulled Pat down and gave
herself over to the beauty of the scene. The horse, also appreciative,
came to a ready stop and turned his eyes out over the desert in
slow-blinking earnestness.

"Pat!" suddenly cried Helen. She pulled his head gently around in the
direction of the mountain trail. "Look off there!"

Above the distant trail hung a thin cloud of dust, and under the cloud
of dust, and rolling heavily toward town, creaked a lumber rigging,
piled high with wood and drawn by a pair of plodding horses--plodding
despite the bite and snarl of a whip swung with merciless regularity.
The whip was in the hands of a brawny Mexican, who, seated confidently
on the high load, appeared utterly indifferent to the trembling
endeavors of his scrawny team. He was inhaling the smoke of a cigarette,
and with every puff mechanically flaying the horses. The spectacle
aroused deep sympathy in the girl.

"Only consider, Pat!" she exclaimed, after a while. "Those poor,
miserable horses--half-starved, cruelly beaten, yet of God's own
making!" She was silent. "Suppose you had been born to that service,
Pat--born to that oppression! You are one of the fortunate!" And she
bent forward and stroked him. "One of the fortunate!" she repeated,
thoughtfully.

Indeed Pat was just that. But not in the way Helen meant. For such was
the whim of Fate, and such is the limit of human understanding, she did
not know, and never would know, save by the grace of that Fate, that Pat
had been born in just that service, born to just that oppression; that
only by the kindness of Fate he had been released from that service,
that oppression, that he had been guided out of that environment and
cast into a more kindly, bigger, and truer environment--her own!

But Pat only blinked stolid indifference at the spectacle. He appeared
to care nothing for the misery of other horses, nor to appreciate her
tenderness when directed elsewhere than toward himself. After a time, as
if to reveal this, he set out of his own volition toward a particularly
inviting bit of flower, dainty yellow in the brown of the desert.
Plucking this morsel, he fell to munching it in contentment, and
continued to munch it till the last vestige disappeared. Then, again of
his own volition, he broke into a canter. Helen smiled and pulled him
down.

"You're a strange horse, Pat," she declared, and fell to stroking him
again. "And not the least strange thing about you is your history.
Sometimes I wonder whether you are actually blooded. Certainly you look
it, and at times assuredly you act it; yet if you are so valuable, why
didn't somebody claim you that time? It is all very mysterious." And she
relapsed into silence, gazing at him thoughtfully.

Aroused by sudden faint gusts of wind, she glanced around and overhead.
She saw unmistakable signs of an approaching storm, and swung Pat about
toward home. As the horse broke into a canter the gusts became more
fitful and sharper, while the sun, growing dim and hazy, cast
ever-increasing shadow before her. Presently, as far as the eye could
reach, she saw the landscape spring into active life. Dust-devils
whirled about in quick eddies, stray sheets of paper leaped up,
tumbleweed began steady forward movement, rabbit-like, scurrying before
the winds, the advance occupied by largest growths, the rear brought up
with smallest clumps, the order determined by the area each presented to
the winds. It was all very impressive, but, knowing the uncertain
character of the elements, and uncertain whether this foretold violent
sand-storm or milder wind-storm, she was gripped with apprehension. She
urged Pat to his utmost.

And Pat responded, though he really needed but little urging. With each
sudden gust he became increasingly afraid. Holding himself more and more
alert to every least movement about him, he was steadily becoming keyed
up to a dangerous pitch. Rollicking tumbleweed did not worry him any
more than did the swirling dust-devils. These were things of the desert,
each the complexion of the desert. But not so with scraps of paper.
Their whiteness offered a startling contrast to the others, and,
whisking about frantically, they increased his fears. Then suddenly a
paper struck him, whipped madly across his eyes. It was unexpected, and
for an instant blinded him. Gripping the bit in his teeth, he bolted.

His sudden plunge almost unseated Helen. But, recovering, she braced
herself grimly in the stirrups and pulled mightily on the reins. But she
could not hold him. He increased his speed, if anything, and hurtled
across the desert--head level, ears flat, legs far-reaching. She braced
herself again, flinging back head and shoulders, thrusting her feet far
forward, and continued to pull. But it counted for nothing. Yet she did
not weaken, and under her vigorous striving, coupled with the jolting of
the horse, her tam-o'-shanter flew off, and her hair loosened and fell,
streaming out whippingly behind. And then suddenly, struck with terror
herself, she cried out in terror.

"Pat!" she burst out. "Pat! Pat!"

But the horse seemed not to hear. Thundering madly forward, he appeared
blind as well as fear-stricken, and Helen, suddenly seeing a barb-wire
fence ahead, felt herself go faint, for she had never taken a fence, and
she knew that Pat never had. She must get control of herself again. And
this she did. Stiffening in the stirrups, she gripped a single rein in
both hands and pulled with all her strength. But she could not swerve
the horse. On he plunged for the obstruction, evidently not seeing it.
She screamed again.

"Pat! Pat! Pat!"

But, as before, the horse did not heed. He dashed to the fence. He
hesitated, but only for an instant. Throwing up his head, he rose and
took the fence cleanly. Once on the other side, he resumed his frantic
racing--pounding along in the mountain trail, his course clearly
defined, hurtling madly straight toward town. With the fence safely
cleared, and the way ahead free of vehicles, Helen regained much of her
composure. Settling calmly to the rhythmic movement, she permitted the
horse free rein. Once she reached back to gather up her hair, but the
motion of the horse forbade this. So she fell to watching his splendid
energy, finding herself quite calm and collected again, vaguely
wondering how it would end. For the horse seemed tireless.

Wise in his knowledge of first principles, and remembering the terrible
slap across his eyes, Pat continued to rush forward. As he ran he kept
eyes alert about him, fearing another blow. He knew that the thing was
white, and he watched for a white something. Instead of a white
something, however, there presently loomed up beside him a brown
something, browner even than the desert, a something racing along beside
him, moving with a speed equal to his own--even greater than his own!
But he did not pause to analyze this. Instead, he forced himself to
greater efforts, pounding the hardened trail with an energy that hurt
his ankles, stretching neck and legs to their utmost limit of fiber--on
and on in increased frenzy. But he could not best this object beside
him. Yet that did not discourage him. He continued grimly forward, stung
to desperation now by a double purpose, which was to outrun this thing
on his right as well as get away from the other possible pursuing
object. Yet the brown thing gained upon him--drew steadily nearer,
steadily closer--he saw a hand shoot out. He felt a strong pull on his
bridle, a tearing twist on the bit in his mouth, and found himself
thrown out of his stride. But not even with this would he accept defeat.
He reared in a nervous effort to shake off the hand. Finding this
futile, he dropped back again, and at last came to a trembling, panting,
nerve-racked pause.

The thing was a horseman. He hurriedly dismounted, still retaining hold
on Pat's bridle, and smiled up at Helen.

"I--I tried to overtake you--to overtake you before you reached the
fence," he began to explain, pausing between words for breath. "This
horse of yours can--can claim--claim anything on record--for speed." And
he looked Pat over admiringly.

Helen did not speak at once. In the moment needed to regain her
self-possession she could only regard him with mute gratitude. She saw
that he was young and well-built, though lean of features, but with
frank, healthy eyes. He was not at all bad-looking. Also she observed
that he was neatly garbed in puttees and knickerbockers, and she quickly
appraised him as the usual type of Easterner come into the valley to
spend the winter. Then she suddenly remembered her hair. Woman-like, she
hastily gathered it up into a knot at the back of her head before she
answered this young man smiling up at her.

"Pat never ran like that before," she explained, a bit nervously. "I was
beginning to wonder what would happen at the railroad crossing. You
checked him just in time. I--I really owe--"

"Sure he won't charge again?" interrupted the young man, evidently
wishing to avoid any expression of gratitude on her part.

"I--I am quite certain," she replied, and then, after thanking him,
slowly gathered up the reins. But she did not ride on, for the reason
that the other, now absorbed in a cool survey of Pat's outlines,
retained his hold on the bridle. Yet neither the survey nor the grip on
the bridle displeased her.

"A splendid horse," he declared, after a moment. "A beautiful animal!"
Then, evidently suddenly mindful that he was detaining her, he stepped
back.

Helen again prepared to ride on.

"Pat is a beautiful horse," she agreed, still a little nervous. "And
like all beauty," she added, "he develops strange moods at times." Then,
her sense of deep gratitude moving her, she asked, "Were you going
toward town?"

For reply he swung into the saddle. He wheeled close, and they set out.
He appeared a little ill at ease, and Helen took the initiative.

"From the East, I take it?" she inquired. "There are not a few
Easterners down here. Some have taken up permanent residence."

"Yes," he replied, "I'm from the East--New York."

She liked his voice.

"We are here for the winter--mother and myself. Mother isn't strong, and
your delightful climate ought to improve her. I myself came along"--he
turned twinkling eyes toward her--"as guide and comforter and--I
fear--all-round nuisance." He was silent. "I like this country," he
added, after a moment.

Helen liked him for liking her country, for she had true Western pride
for her birthplace. So she said the natural thing, though without
display of pride. "Everybody likes it down here."

He looked at her hesitatingly. "You're not from the outside, then?"

"No," she rejoined. "I am a native."

He showed restless curiosity now. "Tell me," he began, engagingly,
"about this country. What, for instance, must one do, must one be,
to--to be--well, to be accepted as a native!" He said this much as one
feeling his way among a people new to him, as if, conscious of the
informal nature of their meeting, he would ease that informality, yet
did not know precisely how.

Yet Helen found herself quite comfortable in his society now, and,
permitting herself great freedom, she spoke almost with levity.

"You have asked me a difficult question," she said. "Offhand I should
say you must ride every morning, sleep some part of the early afternoon,
and--oh, well, ride the next morning again, I reckon." And she smiled
across at him. "Are you thinking of staying with us?"

He nodded soberly. Then he went on. "What else must one do?" he asked.
"Is that all?" His eyes were still twinkling.

Helen herself was sober now. "No," she replied, "not quite. One must
think a little, work a little, do a little good. We are very close
together down here--very close to one another--and very, very far from
the rest of the world. So we try to make each day register something of
value, not alone for ourselves, but for our neighbors as well." She was
silent. "We are a distinct race of people," she concluded, after a
moment.

He turned his head. "I like all that," he declared, simply. "Though I'm
afraid I won't do--much as I dislike to admit it. You see, I've never
learned to live much in the interest of others." He regarded her with
steady eyes.

Helen liked him for that, too. Evidently he had had too much breeding,
and, from his remark, knew it. So she took it upon herself at least to
offer him encouragement.

"You will learn," she rejoined, smiling. "Everybody does."

With this, Helen discreetly changed the subject. She entered upon less
intimate matters, and soon, sweeping off into a rhapsody over the
country--its attraction for Easterners, its grip on Westerners--she was
chatting with a freedom typical of the country. For by now she was
interested, and for some inexplicable reason she found herself drawn to
the smiling stranger.

Also, Pat was interested. But not in the things which appealed to his
mistress. Pat was pondering the sullen nature of the horse beside him,
and as they rode slowly toward town he stole frequent sidelong glances
at his unfriendly companion. But all he could arrive at was that, while
appearing peaceable enough, this horse was the most self-satisfied
animal chance had ever thrown his way. After a time he ceased all
friendly advances, such as pressing close beside him and now and again
playfully nipping at him, and took up his own affairs, finding deep
cause for satisfaction in the return of his breath after the long race,
and in the passing of pain from his strained legs, to say nothing of the
complete absence of flying papers around him.

They crossed the railroad track and entered the town. Here the young man
took a polite leave of Helen, and Pat, seeing the unfriendly horse
canter away at a brisk gait, himself set out briskly, feeling somehow
called upon to emulate the step of the other. And thus he continued
through town to the river trail, which he followed at an even brisker
stride, and thence to the ranch and the corral. Here his mistress took
leave of him--abruptly, it seemed--and made her way straight into the
house. Directly the Mexican came and removed his saddle and bridle. With
these things off, he shook himself vigorously, and then took up his
customary stand in the corner, and confidently awaited the reappearance
of his mistress with sugar and apples--a reward she never had denied
him.

But he waited this time in vain.




CHAPTER VIII

FELIPE MAKES A DISCOVERY


Pat waited in vain two whole days. Not once did she come to him, not
once did he lay eyes upon her. He became nervous and irritable, and in
this emptiness, equal to that which he had suffered during the three
years she was away, he spent every waking moment in the corral, standing
in his favorite corner, eyes strained toward the house, occasionally
interrupting the silence with a pleading nicker. But his vigil gained
him nothing, his watching remained unrewarded, his outcries went
unanswered. Finally, with the close of each day he would enter the
stable, but only to brood through half the night--wondering, wondering.
But never did he give up hope. Nor had he given up hope now, this
morning of the third day, when, standing in his corner as usual, he
heard a door close in the house.

As always, his heart leaped with expectation, and he gave off a
protracted whinny. Also he pressed close to the fence. This time he was
not disappointed. For coming slowly toward him, with her hands behind
her back, was his mistress.

"Pat," she began, standing close before him, "I have neglected you
purposely. And I did it because I have lost confidence in you." She
regarded him a long moment coldly, then was forced to smile. "I suppose
I feel toward you much as I used to feel toward a doll of mine that had
fallen and cracked its head. I want to shake you, yet I can't help but
feel sorry for you, too." And again she was silent.

Pat shifted his feet uneasily. He did not quite understand all this,
though he knew, despite the smile of his mistress, that it was serious.
Still, encouraged by the smile, he pressed close and asked for sweets,
nuzzling her coat-sweater persistently. But she stepped away. Whereupon
he reached his neck after her, and became almost savage in his coaxing.
Finally he was relieved to see her burst into a peal of laughter.

"Here!" she said, and held out both hands. "I don't care if your head is
broken!"

Glory be! Two red apples in one hand; a whole handful of loaf sugar in
the other! If ever a horse smiled, he smiled then. Also, he promptly
accepted some of the sugar, and, enjoying every delicious mouthful,
reached for an apple. But she drew back. Evidently she was not yet
finished with her reprimand.

"Blissfully unconscious of your behavior that morning, aren't you?" she
continued. "Not a bit ashamed; not one speck regretful!"

Well--he wasn't. He was not a bit ashamed, not one speck regretful.
Merely, he was sweet-hungry. And now that the sugar was gone, he wanted
one of those apples mightily. Finally she gave him one, and then the
other, feeding them to him rapidly, but not more rapidly than he wanted
them. Then she spoke again.

"Pat dear," she said, her voice undergoing change, "I'm troubled. I am
foolish, I know. But I can't help it. I advised that very nice young man
to ride every morning. And he may do it. But if he does, sooner or
later, perhaps the very first morning, we shall meet up there on the
mesa. I want that, of course; but for reasons best known to Easterners,
I don't want it--not yet." She gazed off toward the mountains. "I
reckon, Pat dear," she concluded, after a moment, turning her eyes back
to him, "we'd better ride in the afternoons for a time. Yet the
afternoons are so uncomfortably hot. Oh, dear! What shall I do?"

But the horse did not answer her. All he did was stand very still, eyes
blinking slowly, seemingly aware of the gravity of the situation, yet
unable to help her. Indeed, that her serious demeanor had struck a note
of sympathy within him he presently revealed by once more pressing very
close to her--this in the face of the fact that she had no more sweets
with her and he could see that she had no more. The movement forced her
back, and evidently he perceived his mistake, for he quickly retraced
one step. Then he fell to regarding her with curious intentness, his
head twisting slowly in a vertical plane, much as a dog regards his
master, until, evidently finding this plane of vision becoming awkward,
he stopped. After which Helen playfully seized his ears and shook his
head.

"You're a perfect dear!" she exclaimed. "And I love you! But I'm afraid
we--we can't ride mornings any more--not for a while, at any rate." With
this she left him.

He followed her to the gate, and with reluctance saw her enter the
house. Then he rested his head upon the topmost board and, though he
hardly expected it, waited for her return. Finally he abandoned his
vigil, making his way slowly into the stable. He found both horses in
their stalls, restlessly whisking their tails, offering nothing of
friendliness or invitation. Also he awoke to the depressing atmosphere
here, and after a time returned to the corral, where he took up a stand
in his favorite corner and closed his eyes. Soon he was dreaming.

Sound as from a great distance awoke him. He opened his eyes. Outside
the fence, and regarding him gloatingly, were two swarthy Mexicans in
conversation. This was what had awakened him.

"Bet you' life!" one was saying, the taller man of the two. "Thot's my
li'l' horse grown big lak a house--and a-fine! Franke, we gettin' thot
_caballo_ quick. We--"

A door had closed somewhere. The men heard it and crouched. But neither
abandoned the ground. After some little time, hearing nothing further to
alarm them, they set out along the fence to a rear door in the stable.
It was not locked, and they lifted the latch and tiptoed inside. Up past
the stalls they crept with cat-like stealth, gained the door leading
into the corral, came to a pause, and gazed outside. The horse was still
in his corner, his black coat glistening in the sunlight, and Felipe
once more burst into comment, excited, but carefully subdued.

"A-fine! A-fine!" he breathed, rapturously. "He's lookin' joost lak a
circus horse! You know, Franke," he added, turning to the other, "I haf
see thee pictures on thee fences--" He interrupted himself, for the man
had disappeared. "Franke!" he called, whispering. "You coom here. You
all thee time--" He checked himself and smiled at the other's
forethought. For Franke was emerging from a stall, carrying a halter.
"Good!" he murmured. "I am forgettin' thot, _compadre_!" Then once
more he turned admiring eyes upon the horse. "Never--_never_--haf I
see a horse lak thot! Mooch good luck is comin' now, Franke! Why not?"

They stepped bravely forth into the corral. Yet their hour had been well
timed. The house was still, quiet in its morning affairs, while the
countryside around, wrapped in pulsating quiet, gave off not a sound.
Cautiously approaching the horse, Franke slipped the halter into
position, the while Felipe once more uttered his admiration. He was a
little more direct and personal, however, this time.

"Well, you black devil!" he began, doubling his fist under Pat's nose.
"You haf run away from me thot time, eh? But you don' run away
again--bet you' life! I got you now and I keep you thees time! I haf
work for you--you black devil--mooch work! You coom along now!"

They led the horse into the stable, down past the stalls, and out the
back door. Then they set out toward the river trail, and, with many
furtive glances toward the house, gained it without interruption.
Felipe's lumber rigging and team of scrawny horses stood in the shade of
a cottonwood, and Franke made the horse fast to the outhanging end of
the reach. When he was secure both men seated themselves just back of
the forward bolster, one behind the other, and Felipe sent his horses
forward. Safely out of the danger zone, though Felipe entertained but
little fear of the consequences of this act, believing that he could
easily prove his ownership, he became more elated with his success and
burst out into garrulous speech.

"You know, Franke," he began, with a backward glance at the horse
ambling along peacefully in the dust, "thot _caballo_ he's strong
lak a ox. He's makin' a fine horse--a _fine_ horse--in thees wagon!
He's--" He suddenly interrupted himself. "Franke," he offered,
generously, "for thees help I'm takin' off five dolars on thot debt now.
You know? You haf never pay me thot bet--thee big bet--thee one on thee
wagon and thee horses. And you haf steal seex dolars, too! But I'm
forgettin' thot, now, too. All right?"

The other nodded grateful acceptance. Then, as if to show gratitude
further, he very solicitously inquired into the matter, especially with
reference to Felipe's discovery of the horse after all these years. They
were clattering across the mesa now, having come to it by way of a long
detour round the town, and before replying Felipe gave his team loose
rein.

"Well," he began, as the horses fell back into a plodding walk, "I haf
know about thot couple weeks before. I haf see thees _caballo_ in
town one mornin', and a girl she is ridin' heem, and everybody is
lookin', and so I'm lookin'." He paused to roll a cigarette. "And then,"
he continued, drawing a deep inhale of smoke, "I haf know quick lak
thot"--he snapped his fingers sharply--"quick lak thot"--he snapped his
fingers again--"there's my _potrillo_ grown big lak a house! And
so--"

"But how you knowin' thot's thee horse?" interrupted the other. "How you
knowin' thot for sure?" Evidently Franke was beginning to entertain
grave doubts concerning this visit to the corral.

But Felipe only sneered. "How I know thot?" he asked, disdainfully. "I'm
joost tellin' you! I know! Thot's enough! A horse is a horse! And I know
thees horse! I know every horse! I got only to see a horse once--once
only--and I'm never forgettin' thot horse! And I'm makin' no meestake
now--bet you' life!" Nevertheless, flicked with doubt because of the
gravity of the other, he turned his head and gazed back at the horse
long and earnestly. Finally he turned around again. "I know thot horse!"
he yelled. "And I'm tellin' you thees, Franke," he went on, suddenly
belligerent toward the other. "If you don' t'ink I'm gettin' thee right
_caballo_, I have you arrested for stealin' thot seex dolars thot
time! Money is money, too. But a horse is a horse. I know thees horse.
Thot's enough!" Yet he relapsed into a moody silence, puffing
thoughtfully on his cigarette.

Behind the outfit, Pat continued along docilely. In a way he was
enjoying this strange journey across the mesa. It was all very new to
him, this manner of crossing, this being tied to the rear of a wagon,
and he found himself pleasantly mystified. Nor was that all. Not once
had he felt called upon to rebel. In perfect contentment he followed the
rigging, eyes upon the outhanging reach, for he was intent upon
maintaining safe distance between this thing and himself. Once, when
they were mounting up to the mesa, he had met with a sharp blow from
this projection--due to sudden change of gait in the horses--and he only
required the one lesson to be ever after careful. As for the men
forward, he knew nothing of them, and never, to his knowledge, had seen
them before. But in no way was he concerning himself about them. Nor,
indeed, was he worrying over any part of this proceeding. For in his
dumb animal way he was coming to know, as all dumb servants of man come
to know, that life, after all, is service, a kind of self-effacing
series of tasks in the interests of others, and that this ambling along
behind the vehicle was but one of the many kinds.

"And," suddenly broke out Felipe, who, having threshed the matter out to
his satisfaction, now felt sure of his position once more, "I haf follow
thees girl and thee horse. I haf see thee place where she's goin'--you
know." And he winked foxily. "And then I haf coom to thees place, two,
three times after thee horse. But always thee man is there. But thees
mornin' I'm seein' thot _hombre_ in town, and so I haf go gettin'
you to coom help me. But you haf steal seex dolars. I'm forgettin'
thot--not! And if you say soomt'ing to soombody soomtime, I'm havin' you
arrested, Franke, for a t'ief and a robber--same as I ought to arrest
thot Pedro Garcia oop in the canyon."

Franke maintained discreet silence. But not for long. Evidently he
suddenly thought of a point in his own favor.

"You' havin' good luck thees time, Felipe," he declared, tranquilly,
"especially," he hastened to add, "when I'm t'inkin' of thee halter.
Without thee halter, you know, you don' gettin' thees _caballo_."

Felipe ignored this. "I haf need a horse," he went on, thoughtfully.
"Thee mot'er of thees black fel'r--you know, thot's thee mot'er--she's
gettin' old all time. She's soon dyin', thot _caballo_. Thees black
horse he's makin' a fine one in thees wagon." Franke said nothing. Nor
did Felipe speak again. And thus, in silence, they continued across the
mesa and on up the canyon to the little adobe in the settlement. Arrived
before the house, Franke quickly disappeared in the direction of his
home, leaving Felipe to unhitch and unharness alone. But Felipe cared
nothing for this. He was supremely happy--happy in the return of the
long-lost colt, doubly happy in the possession of so fine a horse
without outlay of money. Whistling blithely, he unhitched the team, led
them back into the corral, returned to the wagon again. Here, still
whistling, he untied the black and escorted him also into the inclosure.
Then, after scratching his head a long moment in thought, he set out in
the direction of the general store and a bottle of _vino_.

As the man disappeared, Pat, standing uncertainly in the middle of the
corral, followed him with a look in his eyes that hinted of vague
memories that would not down. And well he might be flicked with vague
memories. For he was at last returned to the brief cradle of his
babyhood.

Late that same afternoon, Helen, attired in riding-habit, left the house
for her first afternoon canter. As she slowly crossed the _patio_,
she noted the absence of Pat from his usual corner, but, assuming that
he was inside the stable, called to him from the gate. But she received
no answering whinny. Slightly worried, she entered the corral and
stepped to the stable door, and again sounded his name. Again she
received no answering whinny. She entered the stable, walked past the
stalls, peered in at each with increasing alarm. Only the saddle-horse
and the family horse met her troubled eyes. She stood for a moment
dismayed, then once more she sounded the horse's name. But, as before,
she received no answering whinny.

Puzzled, perplexed, troubled with misgivings, yet refusing to believe
the worst, she fell to analyzing the thing. She knew that since coming
to the ranch Pat at no time had been outside the corral save in her
charge. Also she recalled that only a short hour or two before she had
given him sweets and had talked with him. Nor could the horse have
strayed out of the inclosure, because she remembered that the gate was
latched when she had reached it. All these facts flashed across her as
she stood with grave eyes sweeping the stable. Finally she stepped back
to the door and gazed out into the sunlight of the corral; but, as
before, the inclosure was empty and silent, and now, somehow,
forbidding. She called again--called to the horse, called to the
Mexican. But again came only the echo of her voice, sounding hollow and
solemn and plaintive through the stable.

Suddenly her heart stopped beating. She remembered that the hostler had
left for town on foot early in the morning. And now her fears broke
bounds. The horse was gone! Some one had come in Miguel's absence. Her
Pat had been stolen! He was gone for ever out of her life! Standing a
moment, trembling with bitterness, she darted out of the stable, out of
the corral, across the _patio_. She sped into the house and her
father's study, caught up the receiver of the telephone.

And then, after a long time, the connection. And her father's voice. And
her frantic inquiry. And the Judge's smiling reply. And her recital of
the facts--pleading, pitiful, almost whimpering. And now the Judge's
serious rejoinder. And then her imperious request that he come home. And
the Judge's regretful reply--could not on account of pressing matters.
And then her tearful, choking outburst into the transmitter! And now
suddenly the wires crossing and a strange voice demanding that she get
off. And with it her utter collapse. She whirled away from the
telephone, flung herself down upon a couch, and gave way to a wild
outburst of tears.

The thing _was_ pitiful. The horse had occupied a very big place in
her life. And because that place now was empty, and because she saw no
promise of its ever being filled, she sobbed wretchedly a long time.
Then, rising quietly, she ascended the stairs to her room. Here she sank
into a chair, one that overlooked the corral, and began an analysis of
the case, taking the affair up from the very first day of Pat's coming
into her life. She did not go further than that. Woman that she was,
endowed with strongest intuitions and insight, she knew she had sounded
the mystery of his disappearance, had sounded it as clearly as though
she had been present.

"Pat's rightful owners have found him and put in their claim!" She got
up and began to pace the floor. "I know it," she declared with
conviction. "I know it as well as I know I'm in this room. Pat--Pat has
been--been taken and--and--" Tears choked back her words. Again she
turned to her bed and gave way to a paroxysm of grief.

Her tears lasted until sleep mercifully descended. And thus she lay,
outstretched and disheveled, until the sun, slanting across the room,
settled its mellow rays upon her. And even though the touch was light
and gentle and somehow sympathetic, it awoke her. She rose and hurried
to a window. Out in the corral all was quiet. She dropped into a chair
and turned her eyes to the east--out over the mesa to the distant
mountains. The mountains were draped in their evening purple, which
seemed to her like mourning for her lost happiness--a happiness that
might have been hers always with the horse.




CHAPTER IX

THE SECOND GREAT LESSON


Next morning Pat, imprisoned in a tiny stable, tried to get out by
thrusting his head against the door. But the door would not give. Alone
in semi-darkness, therefore, he spent the day. Twice a Mexican youth
came to feed and water him, but always the quantity was insufficient,
and always the boy carefully locked the door after him. Because of this,
together with the poor ventilation, Pat became irritable. He longed for
the freedom of the big corral--its sunlight, the visits of his
mistress--but these were steadfastly denied him. And so through another
night and another day, until he became well-nigh distracted. He stamped
the floor, fought flies, dozed, dreamed strange dreams, stamped the
floor again. After three days of this, sounds outside told him of the
return of man and horses. But not till the next morning, and then quite
late, was he released from the odious confinement.

Felipe bustled in, all eager for business. He drove his recent
acquisition out into the corral and set to work harnessing one of the
team--the mate of the aged mare. When she was bridled and standing in
the trail in front of his empty wagon, he hurriedly returned to the new
horse, placed a bridle upon his head, led him forth, and swung him close
beside the other horse. He winced just a little at the incongruity of
the team, though he did not let it delay him. He picked up the half of
the harness and tossed it over the mare's back. Then he caught up the
other half, and, preparing to toss it upon the black, began to
straighten out deep and unexpected tangles.

"Well, you black devil," he began, as he twisted and turned the
much-bepatched harness, "you doin' soom work now! All you' life you
havin' mooch good times! Eet is not for thee fun thot you live, you
know?" he went on, academically, continuing to disentangle the harness.
"Eet is for thee work thot you live! Work--thot's thee answer!" Then,
having straightened the harness at last, with a grunt of satisfaction he
tossed it lightly up.

Instantly there was wild commotion. With a kick and a plunge the horse
flung off the harness.

Felipe stood dumfounded. It had never occurred to him that the horse was
not broken to harness. Horses reared as this one evidently had been
reared ought certainly to be educated to all kinds of service. Yet this
horse evidently was not. He scratched his head in perplexity. To break a
horse to harness was no child's play, as he well knew. To break a horse
of this character to harness, as he well understood also, was a task
that required exceptional patience and hardihood. What should he do?
There was his constant press for money. The aged mare having almost
dropped in the trail the evening before, was unfit for toil, and to
break a horse to harness meant loss of time, and, as every one knows,
loss of time meant loss of money. So what should he do? He was utterly
at a loss.

Striding to the doorstep, he sat down and regarded the horse with
malevolent disgust. After a time, jerking off his hat savagely, he burst
out into a thundering tirade.

"You black devil! You haf give me more trouble than anyt'ing I haf ever
own--chickens, burro, pigs, horses, money--money, even--money I haf owe
thot robber Pedro! First you haf run away thot time! Then you haf mek me
steal you out of thot place couple days before! And now"--he suddenly
leaped to his feet--"now you haf mek me break you to thees wagon and
harness!" He advanced to the startled horse and brandished his fist.
"But I break you!" he snarled--"I break you like a horse never was broke
before! And--and if I don' break you--if you don' do what I haf say--I
break every bone inside!" With this he began feverishly to peel off his
coat.

And this is the lot of the dumb. Merely for not knowing what a man
believed he should know, Pat was to be humiliated, was to be punished
far beyond justice and decency. And because he was a horse abnormally
highstrung and sensitive, this punishment was to be doubly cruel. To him
a blow was more painful than to the average horse, even as a word of
kindness sank deeper and remained longer to soften his memory. On his
maternal side he was the offspring of native stock, but he was blooded
to the last least end of him, and while from his mother he had inherited
his softer traits, like his affection for those who showed affection for
him, it was from his sire, unknown though he was, that he inherited an
almost human spirit of rebellion when driven by lash or harsh word, and
also the strength to exercise it. In the face of these qualities, then,
he was to be broken to harness and a wagon by a man!

Felipe lost little time in preparation. He set out through the
settlement, his destination a distant and kindly neighbor. He moved at a
stride so vigorous that the good townspeople, roused by the rare
spectacle of a man in a hurry, interrupted their passive loafing beside
well and in doorway, and turned wondering eyes after him. But if their
eyes showed wonderment at his going, on his return they showed amazement
and a kind of horror. For Felipe, acting for once in the capacity of
work-horse, was straining along at the end of a huge wagon-tongue
affixed to a crude and mastodonic axle which in turn supported two
monolithic cart-wheels. It was a device by which he meant to break the
horse to harness, and, perspiring freely, and swearing even more freely,
he dragged it shrieking for grease through the settlement, really at
work, but work which was not to be admired. Reaching the clearing in
front of his house, he dropped the heavy tongue and whipped out a red
handkerchief with a sigh of relief. Also, as he wiped away the
perspiration on his forehead and neck and arms, he turned baleful eyes
upon the innocent cause of his toil.

"You black devil!" he growled, after a moment. "I feex you now--bet you'
life! And you can keeck--and keeck and keeck! You don' worry thees cart
mooch! You black devil!"

Then he became active again. He strode back into the corral, sought out
an old harness and a huge collar, and dragged them forward into the
trail. Flinging them aside in the direction of the cart, he then turned
to the mare, removed the work-harness from her, and led her into
position before the warlike vehicle. Again perspiring freely, but losing
no breath now in abusive talk, he quickly harnessed her up and then
strode forward to the black. After eying him narrowly a moment, he
seized his bridle and led him back alongside the mare, where he
proceeded nervously to harness him.

"We see now," he began, as he picked up the massive collar. "You can
stond still--thot's right! And maybe you can take thees t'ing--we see!"

The collar was much too large for workaday use, but it was not too large
for this purpose. Its very size gave it freedom to pass over the head
without the usual twisting and turning. Nor did the horse rebel when it
was so placed--a fact which gave Felipe much relief, since he now
believed that he would not have the trouble he had anticipated. Also,
with the collar in position, he was but a moment in adjusting the hames,
making fast the bottom strap, and hooking the tugs securely. With
everything in readiness he then caught up the reins and the whip, and
stepped away to begin the real work of breaking.

"_Haya!_" he cried, and touched up the off-horse. She started
forward, as always with this command from her master. But she did not go
far.

Pat was the cause of the delay. Understanding neither the contraption at
his heels, nor the word of command from the man, he held himself
motionless and pleasantly uninterested, gazing slowly about at the
landscape. Nor did he offer to move when the man cut him viciously with
the whip. The lash pitted his tender flesh and hurt mightily; but even
though he now understood what was required of him, he only became
stubborn--bracing his legs and flattening his ears, forcefully resisting
the counter efforts of the mare beside him.

And this was his nature. Long before he had demonstrated that he would
not be governed by a whip. That day in the Richardses' corral, when he
was broken to saddle, cruelty alone would never have conquered him.
Cruelty there had been, and much of it; but with the cruelty there had
been other things--evidence of affection at the right moment, both in
his mistress and in the men about him, and these, coupled with quick
understanding, had made the breaking a success. And had there been
evidence of kindness now, somewhere revealed early by this man, Pat
might have drawn the cart as the straining mate at his side was
attempting to draw it. But there was no evidence of kindness, and as a
result he remained stubborn and wilful, standing braced and trembling,
true in every particular to the spirit of his forebears.

Nor was Felipe less true to the spirit within himself. Infuriated,
uncompromising, believing this to be merely the cussedness natural with
the native horses, he abandoned all hope of instant success and gave way
to brutality. Dropping the reins and reversing the whip in his hands, he
began to beat the horse unmercifully, bringing the heavy butt down again
and again, each mighty thwack echoing down the canyon. The result was
inevitable. The horse began to kick--straight back at first, then,
finding his hoofs striking the cart, he swung sideways to the tongue and
kicked straight out. This last was sudden, and narrowly missed Felipe,
who leaped to one side. Then, unable to reach the horse with the butt,
he reversed the whip again and resumed his first torture, that of
pitting the legs of the horse with the lash.

"Keeck!" he snarled, continuing to swing the whip. "Keeck! Keeck! I can
keeck, too!" He swung his arm till it ached, when he stopped.

Whereupon the horse settled down. But his eyes were ablaze and he was
trembling all over. Also, while undoubtedly suffering added distress
from the taut and binding traces, he continued to stand at right angles
to the mare--head high, nostrils quivering, mouth adrip with white
slaver--until the spirit of rebellion appeared to grip him afresh. With
a convulsive heave he moved again, making another quarter turn, which
brought him clear of the tongue and facing the vehicle. Then he set up a
nervous little prancing, whisking his tail savagely, now and again
lifting his heels as if to strike. That was all. He gained no ground
forward, nor did it appear as if he would ever move forward.

"You--you--" began Felipe, then subsided, evidently too wrathful for
words. And he remained silent, gazing wearily toward the settlement, as
though about to call assistance.

The stillness was heavy and portentous. Both horses were motionless.
Felipe continued silent. Off toward the settlement all was still.
Overhead, the early-morning sky pressed low, spotless and shimmering,
brooding. Around and about, the flies seemed to stop buzzing. Everywhere
lurked the quiet. The earth appeared bowed in humiliation, hushed in
prayer as for the unfortunate one, while up and down the trail, basking
in world-old light, lay dust of centuries, smug and contented in its
quiescence. All nature was still, gripped in tense quiet.

The crack of a whip broke it. Felipe, suddenly bestirring himself, had
sprung forward and dealt the horse a blow with the butt. Across the
nose, it had sounded hollow and distant; and the horse, whipping up his
head in surprised pain, now turned upon the man a look at once sorrowful
and terrible, a look which spelled death and destruction. Nor did he
only look. With a strange outcry, shrill and piercing, awaking the
canyon in unnatural echoes, he whirled in his harness and reared, reared
despite his harness, and struck out with venomous force. It was quick as
a lightning flash, but, quick as it was, Felipe avoided it. And it was
fortunate that he did. Terror-stricken and dropping the whip, he sped to
the rear, to a point behind the cart, and there turned amazed eyes at
the pirouetting horse.

What manner of horse was this, he asked himself. Could it be that this
horse, black as night, was truly of the lower regions? Certainly he
looked it, balancing there on his hind legs, with his reddened eyes and
inflamed nostrils! And--But what was this? From the corral had come a
shrill nicker, the voice of the aged mare. But that was not it! With the
outcry, seemingly an answer to the black's maddened outcry, the black
dropped to all-fours again, turning quick ears and eyes in the direction
of the sound! What manner of horse was this, anyway? Never before had he
seen such a horse! He felt himself go limp.

There is a call in nature that sounds for life against death. It is a
call put forth in innumerable different tongues around the world, and it
sounds somewhere every second of the day and darkness--through jungles,
across swamps, down mountains, over plains, out of valleys. It is a cry
of warning, a cry to disarm foes. It is an outcry of good as against
evil--the squawk of a hen to her chicks, the bleat of a sheep to her
lambs, the grunt of a sow to her sucklings, the bellow of a cow to her
calf, the purr of a cat to her kittens, the whine of a dog to her
puppies, the drum of a partridge to her young. A cry from the heart to
the heart, an appeal of flesh to its own flesh, it is the world-old
mother-call.

And the horse heard this call. He probably did not recognize in it a
call of the mother-heart, any more than it was possible for the aged
mare to recognize in his outcry the voice of her own flesh. What he did
hear, no doubt, was the voice of a friend, one who understood and
pitied, and would help if it could help. At any rate, he stood very
still, seemingly grateful for the evidence of a champion, seemingly
anxious that it sound again. But it did not sound again. Yet he made no
further effort to give battle. He held to his attitude of intent
listening, ears cocked forward and eyes straining and tail at rest,
until Felipe, stung into action by an idea wrought out of all this,
hastened out from behind the cart and away in the direction of the
corral. At sight of him the horse became restless again, squaring
himself once more to the mare, stamping his feet and champing his bit
nervously. He seemed to lose all recollection of the outcry, all the
peace it had engendered within him. Of such are the kingdom of the dumb.

Possessed by his idea, an idea so brilliant that he himself marveled,
Felipe was not long in putting it to test. He hurriedly bridled the aged
mare and led her out into the trail. He placed her alongside the
black--for reasons which, had the _compadre_ Franke been present,
Felipe might have suggested with a crafty wink--then hastily began to
unhitch the team-mate. And it was just here that he proved his
foresight. In the work of unhitching the mate, he should have
encountered, and had expected, trouble from the black. But he did not.
The mare sounded another friendly nicker when arranged beside him, and
the black, pricking up his ears sharply, turned to her and proceeded to
establish his friendship by licking her. So Felipe did not meet with
difficulty from that direction; nor did he have trouble in the direction
of the team-mate herself. She seemed glad to be relieved from her
unsuccessful task, and Felipe, glad to relieve her in the light of his
brilliant idea, led her off to one side quickly, then returned and swung
the old mare into her place. He hitched her up, picked up the reins and
whip, and set about with his test.

"We see now," he began, his voice quiet and encouraging. "Maybe you work
wit' thee old woman! We see!" And he gave a low command.

With the command Pat started forward, urged to it by the aged
mare--pulling more than his share of the load. Perhaps it was due to her
presence; perhaps to the note of kindness in Felipe's voice. At any
rate, he moved, and he moved forward, and he moved with a steady pull.
Yet he did not proceed far. Though he did not stop through rebellion. It
was simply to renew his attentions to the old mare. He began to caress
her as if he really recognized in this rack of an animal his own lost
mother. But recognition, of course, was impossible. Long before, the
only source of recognition, appeal made through digestive organs, had
disappeared. Nevertheless, he lavished upon her unwonted affection until
Felipe gently but firmly urged him forward again. Then again he
proceeded, pulling all of the load this time, bringing about a slack in
the traces of the mare and a consequent bumping of her hind legs against
the cart which seemed to awaken some of her dying spirit.

Up and down the trail they moved, the mare sedately, the horse actively,
prancing gaily, appearing to take gleeful pleasure in his task, until
Felipe, kindled with elation and pride, decided to drive on into the
settlement and there become the object of covetous eyes. Therefore he
urged the team forward to a point in front of the general store, where
in lordly composure sat Pedro, occupying his customary seat on an empty
keg on the porch. At sight of him Felipe's joy leaped to the heavens,
and he pulled up the team, ostensibly to adjust a forward buckle, but in
reality to afford Pedro an uninterrupted view of the beautiful black.
Moving forward to the head of the horses, he watched out of the tail of
his eye Pedro's lazy survey of the team.

"Where you got thot horse?" inquired Pedro, after a long moment, as he
slowly removed a cigarette from between his lips. "I mean," he added,
"where you haf _steal_ thot _caballo_?"

Felipe winced. But he did not immediately retort. He carried out his
bluff, unbuckling and buckling one of the straps, then mildly
straightened up and faced the man.

"Pedro," he began, tensely, "you haf know--José, Juan, Manuel,
Francisco, Carlotta--all haf know--thot eet is only one t'ief in all
thees place! And thot man--thot t'ief--is Pedro Garcia!"

Pedro grunted. "Where you haf steal thot horse?" he repeated, without
show of anger. "You can give me thot horse," he continued, placidly.
"You haf owe me mooch money. I take thot horse for payment--everyt'ing.
You give thot _caballo_ to me."

Felipe turned to the team. "I give you one keeck in thee belly!" he
roared. Then he touched up the horses and started back toward the house.
Gone was all elation, all pride, all gleeful consciousness of
possession.

Gaining the clearing, he decided to try out the other horse with the
black. He realized that the aged mare was unfit, even though in the last
hour she had appeared greatly to improve, and he must accordingly match
up a team. So he unhitched her and swung the mate into place. He met
with disagreeable surprise, however. The black would not pull with this
horse. Instead, he held himself quietly at rest, gazing about sleepily
over the landscape, a trick of his, as Felipe had learned, when quietly
rebelling. Felipe looked at him a moment, but did not try to force him
with tongue or lash. For he was coming to understand this horse, and,
concluding that sooner or later, under proper treatment, he would
probably accept duty with any mate, determined to abandon work for the
day. Whereupon he unhitched the horses and led them all back into the
corral. Then he put up the bars and set out in the direction of the
settlement.

Which ended Pat's second great lesson at the hand of man. He was sore
and somewhat stiff from the struggle, but he did not fret long over his
condition, for he soon awoke to the presence of that beside him in the
corral which caused him to forget himself completely. It was the
worn-out structure of skin and bones who had befriended him in his hour
of trial. He gazed at her a moment, then approached and fell to
caressing her, showing in this attention his power to forget
self--aches, sores, troubles--in his affection and gratitude toward all
things warranting affection and gratitude.




CHAPTER X

THE STRANGER AGAIN


Meantime, Helen was becoming desperate over her loss. Unwilling to
accept the theory of her household, which was that Pat had been stolen
by a band of organized thieves and ere this was well out of the
neighborhood and probably the county, she had held firmly to her
original idea, _viz._, that the horse was in the possession of his
rightful owners, and so could not be far out of the community.
Therefore, the morning following his disappearance, having with sober
reflection lightened within her the seriousness of it all, she had set
out in confident search for him, mounted on her brown saddler. But
though she had combed the town and the trails around the town, quietly
interviewing all such teamsters and horsemen as might by any chance know
something about it, yet in answer to her persistent inquiries all she
had received was a blank shake of the head or an earnest expression of
willingness to assist her. So, because she had continued her search for
three days without success, inquiring and peering into every nook and
corner of the community, she finally had come to regard her quest as
hopeless, and to become more than ever an image of despair.

The evening of the fourth day there was a dance. It was one of the
regular monthly affairs, and because Helen was a member of the committee
she felt it her duty to attend. One of the young men, accompanied by his
mother and sister, drove out for her, but she left the house with
reluctance and a marked predisposition not to enjoy herself. But she
forgot this when she presently beheld the young man from the East whom
she had encountered on the mesa. He was standing close beside a rather
frail little woman, undoubtedly his mother, who with the matrons of the
town was seated near a fireplace watching the dancers. He was
introduced. Later they sat out one of his numbers alone together in a
corner behind some potted palms. In the course of their conversation
Helen informed him of the disappearance of her horse, and asked him, as
she asked everybody she met now, if he knew anything or had heard
anything concerning the loss. The young man knew nothing of the great
disappearance, however, though he did offer it as his belief that a
horse of Pat's obvious value could not long remain in obscurity. This
was encouraging, and Helen felt herself become hopeful again. But when
he offered his services in the search, as he did presently, she felt not
only hopeful again, but somehow quite certain now that it would all be
cleared up. For there was that in this young gentleman which caused
confidence. What she told him, however, was that she was grateful for
his offer, and should be greatly pleased to have him with her.

And thus it was that, on the morning of the fifth day, Helen Richards
and Stephen Wainwright--the young man's name--together with two of
Helen's close friends, were riding slowly across the mesa, alert for any
combination in harness which might reveal the lost Pat. Helen and
Stephen were well in the lead, and Helen had broken the silence by
addressing Stephen as a native, recalling their first meeting. Whereupon
the young man, smiling quietly, had wanted to know why; but after she
had explained that it was because he had enlisted himself in the search
for a horse, adding that in doing so he had conformed with one of the
unwritten laws of the country, he still confessed himself in the dark.
This had been but a moment before, and she now settled herself to
explain more fully.

"A horse is, or was, our most valued property," she began. "I reckon the
past tense is better--though we'll never quite live down our interest in
horses." She smiled across at him. "Long ago," she went on, "in the days
of our Judge Lynch, you know, a stolen horse meant a hanged man--or two
or three--as not infrequently happened. But all that is history now. Yet
the feeling remains. And whenever one of our horses disappears--it is
rare now--we all take it more or less as a personal loss. In your
willingness to help find Pat, therefore, you declare yourself one of
us--and are gladly admitted."

He rode along in silence. "Why was the feeling so intense in the old
days?" he inquired, after a time.

"It was due to physical conditions," she replied--"the geography of the
country. Water-holes were few and very far apart, and to get from one to
another often entailed a journey impossible to a man without a horse. To
steal his horse, therefore, was to deprive him of his sole means of
getting to water--practically to deprive him of his life. If he didn't
die of thirst, which frequently he did, at best it was a very grave
offense. It isn't considered so now--not so much so, at any rate--unless
in the desert wastes to the west of us. Yet the feeling still lurks
within us, and a stolen horse is a matter that concerns the whole
community."

He nodded thoughtfully, but remained silent. Suddenly Helen drew rein.
Before her was a horned toad, peculiarly a part of the desert, blinking
up at them wickedly. He drew rein and followed her eyes.

"A horned toad, isn't it?"

Helen shook her head. "Are you interested in such things?" she inquired.

"In a way--yes," he affirmed, doubtfully. "Though I can't see good
reason for their existence." His eyes twinkled. "Can you?"

Helen was thoughtful a moment. "Well, no," she admitted, finally. "Yet
there must be a good reason. Reptiles must live for some good purpose.
All things do--don't you think?" Then, before he could make a rejoinder,
she went on: "I sometimes feel that these creatures were originally
placed here to encourage other and higher forms of life to come and
locate in the desert--were placed here, in other words, to prove that
life is possible in all this desolation."

He glanced at her. "Certainly it has worked out that way, at any rate,"
he ventured. "Good old Genesis!" He smiled.

"It seems to have," she agreed, thoughtfully. "Because you and I are
here. But it goes a long way back--to Genesis--yes. Following the
initial placing, other and higher organisms, finding in their migratory
travels this evidence of life, accepted the encouragement to remain, and
did remain, feeding upon the life found here in the shape of toads and
lizards--to carry the theory forward a step--even as the toads and
lizards--to carry it back again--fed upon the insects which they in
their turn found here. Then along came other forms of life, higher in
the cosmic setting, and these, finding encouragement in the presence of
the earlier arrivals, fed upon them and remained. And so on up, to the
forerunners of our present-day animals--coyotes and prairie-dogs. And
after these, primitive man--to find encouragement in the coyotes and
prairie-dogs--and to feed upon them and remain. Then after primitive
man, the second type--the brown man; and after the brown man, the red
man; and after the red man, the white man--all with an eye to
sustenance, and finding it, and remaining."

Stephen's eyes swept around the desert absently. He knew--this young
man--that he was in the presence of a personality. For he could not help
but draw comparisons between the young woman beside him and the young
women of his acquaintance in the East. While he had found Eastern girls
vivacious, and attractive with a kind of surface charm, never had he
known one to take so quiet and unassuming an outlook upon so broad a
theme. It was the desert, he told himself. Here beside him was a type
unknown to him, and one so different from any he had as yet met with, he
felt himself ill at ease in her presence--a thing new to him, too--and
which in itself gave him cause to marvel. Yes, it was the desert. It
_must_ be the desert! In this slender girl beside him he saw a
person of insight and originality, a girl assuredly not more than twenty
years of age, attractive, and thoroughly feminine. How ever did they do
it?

He harked back in his thoughts to her theory. And he dwelt not so much
upon the theory itself as upon her manner of advancing it. Running back
over these things, recalling the music of her voice, together with her
spoken musings, he came to understand why, with that first encounter, he
had found himself almost instantly curious concerning desert folk. Not
that he had known why at the time, or had given that phase of it
consideration. He did remember that he had been strongly impressed by
the way she had managed her bolting horse. But aside from that, there
had been something in her personality, an indefinable calm and sureness,
a grip upon herself, that he had felt the very first moment. Undoubtedly
all this had flicked him into a novel curiosity. He pulled himself
together with an effort.

"I like your theory," he answered, smiling. "And it must be true,
because I am told horned toads are fast disappearing. Evidently they
have served their purpose. But tell me," he concluded, "what is becoming
of them? Where are they going?"

She laughed. "I can't tell you that. Perhaps they just vanish into the
fourth--or maybe the fifth--dimension!"

And this was the other side of her, a side he had come to learn while
with her at the dance, and which made her lovable as well as admirable.
But she was speaking again, and again was serious.

"I have yet another theory," she said--"one as to why these creatures
are here, you know." She smiled across at him. "It is all my very own,
too! It is that in their presence among us--among mankind--they
unwittingly develop us through thought. Thinking exercises the brain, we
are told, and exercising the brain makes for world-advancement--we are
told." Then, suddenly, "I hope you don't think me silly--Mr. Native?"

But he remained sober. "Tell me," he asked, after a time, "what it is
about this country--I mean other than friendships, of course--that gets
under a fellow's soul and lifts it--to the end that he wants to remain
here? I know there is something, though I can't for the life of me place
it. What is it, anyway?"

She turned upon him sharply. "Do you really feel that way?" she asked,
evidently pleased.

"I feel that way. But why do I feel that way? What is it? You know what
I mean. There is something--there must be!"

"I know what you mean--yes," she replied, thoughtfully. "Yet I doubt if
I myself, even after all these years, can define it. What you 'feel'
must be our atmosphere--its rarity, its power to exhilarate. Though that
really doesn't explain it. I reckon it's the same thing--only much more
healthful, more soulful--that one feels in large cities after nightfall.
I mean, the glare of your incandescent lights. I honestly believe that
that glare, more than any other single thing, holds throngs of people to
an existence not only unnatural, but laden with a something that crushes
as well." She was silent.

Again Stephen felt the strange pull on his interest, but he said
nothing. After a time she went on.

"City-dwellers," she explained, "don't begin their day till the approach
of dark. It's true of both levels of society, too--lower as well as
upper. And I believe the reason for this lies, as I have said, in the
atmosphere--their man-made atmosphere--just as the secret of your
feeling the way you do lies in our atmosphere--God-made. Were this
atmosphere suddenly to disappear, both out of your cities and out of my
deserts, both your world and my own would lose all of their charm."

Stephen bestirred himself. "What psychology do you find in that?" he
asked, dwelling upon the fact that she knew his East so well.

"Merely the effect of softening things--for the soul as well as the
eye--through the eye, indeed, to the soul. Our atmosphere here does
that--softens the houses, and the trees, and the cattle, and the
mountains, and the distant reaches. It softens our nights, too. Perhaps
you have noticed it? How everything appears shrouded in a kind of hazy,
mellow, translucent something that somehow reacts upon you? I have. And
I believe that is the secret of one's wanting to remain in the country,
once he has exposed himself to it. It is a kind of spell--a hypnosis.
When out of it one wants to get back into it.

"I know I felt it when I was East, attending school," she went on,
quietly. "Living always in this atmosphere, I somehow had forgotten its
charm--as one will forget all subtle beauty unless frequently and
forcibly reminded of it. But in the East I missed it, and found myself
restless and anxious to get back into it. Indeed, I felt that I must get
back or die! So one day, when your Eastern spirit of sudden change was
upon me, I packed and came home. It was a year short of my degree, too.
But I could not remain away another day--simply had to get back--and
back I came. My degree--my sheepskin"--she was smiling--"couldn't hold
me!"

"Then you've spent some time in the East?" he asked, tentatively.

"Yes," she replied, "that much--three years. And I didn't like it."

"Why?" he asked, a little surprised.

She regarded him curiously. He saw a look of mild annoyance in her eyes,
one that seemed to tell of her inability to understand so needless a
question.

"I just didn't," she rejoined, after a moment. "I discovered that you
Easterners value things which are diametrically opposite to the things
we value, and that you value not at all those things which we value most
of all."

He had to laugh. "What are they?" he wanted to know.

For an instant she showed shyness. "Oh, I can't say," she declared,
finally. "Some day I may tell you."

Stephen realized that it must be serious. He was hesitating whether to
press her further, when he saw her tighten her reins, put spurs to her
horse, and go flashing off in the direction of the mountain trail. As
she dashed off he heard her call out:

"Pat!" she cried. "Pat! It's Pat!" Then she glanced to the rear. "Adele!
Sam! It's Pat! Come, quick!"

Stephen spurred on with the others. He galloped after this hard-riding
girl--so intensely alive--a girl past his understanding. Over dunes and
across flats he charged, followed closely by the others, urging his
horse to his utmost. But, try as he might, he could not overtake her or
even lessen the distance between them, so furious was her race for her
lost horse. Finally he burst out upon the trail and drew rein beside
her, standing with the others in the path of an oncoming wood-wagon,
anxiously awaiting its slow approach.

It was a curious outfit. One of the team, an aged and decrepit horse,
was laboring along with head drooping and hoofs scuffling the trail,
while beside it, with head erect and nostrils aquiver and hoofs lifting
eagerly, stepped the glorious Pat! Both horses were draped in a
disreputable harness, crudely patched with makeshift string and wire,
and both were covered with a fine coating of dust. Atop all this, high
and mighty upon an enormous load of wood, sat a Mexican, complacently
smoking a cigarette and contentedly swinging his heels, evidently elated
with this prospect of parading his horse before a group of Americans.
But as he drew close a look of uneasiness crept over him, and he pulled
up his team and shrugged his shoulders, as a preliminary, no doubt, to
disappearance behind the Mexican shield of "No sabe!"

Helen swung close to him. There was a choice between a contest and
diplomatic concession. She decided to offer to purchase the horse at
once, believing this to be the easiest way out of the trouble.

"_Señor_," she began in Spanish, "_deseo comprar_ _aquel
caballo negro. Puedo pagar cualquire cantidad razonable por el. Se
perdio y nosotros lo cuidamos, y he aprendido a quererlo mucho. Si usted
quiere venderlo me haria un gran favor. Siento mucho que me lo hayan
quitado._"

The Mexican looked relieved. He slowly removed his hat with true
Castilian courtesy.

"_Señorita_," he replied, "_lo venderia con gusto pero pienso que
me paga lo que quiero por el_."

Which delighted Helen. "_Pagare lo que sea._"

The Mexican hesitated a moment. "_¿Pagara cuarenta pesos?_" he
asked, finally. "_Yo tambien quiero al caballo mucho_," he added.
"_Pero por cuarenta pesos pienso--pienso que lo olvido._" And he
grinned.

Helen turned to the others. For Stephen's benefit she explained what had
been said, and the men promptly offered to make up the required forty
dollars. Helen turned to the Mexican, accepted his price, and requested
him to release Pat from the harness. Whereat the Mexican smiled broadly;
shrugged his shoulders suddenly; forgot his rôle of "No sabe."

"How," he burst out--"how I'm gettin' thees wagon to town? I'm pullin'
eet myself?"

The others laughed. Then Helen, deciding upon another arrangement,
instructed him to drive forward. She could see her father in town, she
explained to the others, and there also, after the exchange of money,
the Mexican could purchase another horse. Which closed the matter. The
Mexican started the team forward, while the others fell in alongside,
ranging themselves on either side. Thus they journeyed into town--a
strange cavalcade--Pat prancing, the mare drooping, the Mexican visibly
pleased, the others gratified by their unexpected success. In town they
turned into a side street, and there Helen left them, going off in the
direction of her father's office. When she returned, the Judge was with
her. He read the Mexican a brief but stern lecture on the law pertaining
to the recovery of lost property, and closed the deal. Whereupon the
wood-hauler unharnessed Pat, bestowed him smilingly upon Helen, and took
himself off, evidently in quest of another horse, for he headed straight
as a plumb-line for the city pound.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Pat was home again. He knew it from many things--the white fence, the
clean stable, the Mexican hostler with broom in hand. And though he was
at home where he wanted to be, yet he found himself filled with vague
uneasiness. After a time he sought to relieve it. He made his way into
the stable, but he found no relief there. He returned to the corral, and
began slowly to circle inside the fence, but neither did this relieve
him. Finally he took up his old stand in the sunlit corner, where he
fell to listening with ears and eyes attentive to least sounds. But even
this did not relieve him.

Nor would anything ever relieve him. Never would he find absolute solace
from his inner disquiet. For what he sought and could not find, what he
listened for and could not hear, was another of those sounds which had
relieved the tedium of his brief stay in the mountains, the friendly
nicker of the aged mare, gone to toil out her life in the racking
treadmill between town and mountain.




CHAPTER XI

LOVE REJECTED


Pat had just been clipped. And never was there a horse nearer
perfection! Shorn of all hair, his splendid physique, now in fullest
maturity, stood out clean-cut and fascinating.

In weight he might have tipped the scales at ten hundred pounds. In
color his skin, which now showed clearly, was a shade darker than that
of the elephant, but it showed the richness of velvet. His body through
the trunk was round and symmetrical; his haunches were wide without
projection of the hip-bones; and his limbs, the stifle and lower thigh,
were long and strong and fully developed. Added to these, he was high in
the withers, the line of back and neck curving perfectly; his shoulders
were deep and oblique; and his long, thick fore arm, knotty with bulging
sinews, told of powerful muscles. And finally, his knees across the pan
were wide, the cannon-bone below thin and short, the pasterns long and
sloping, and the hoofs round and dark and neatly set on. While over
all--over the small, bony head, beautiful neck and shoulders--over the
entire body, clear down to the hoofs--ran a network of veins like those
on the back of a leaf, only more irregular--veins which stood out as
though the skin were but thin parchment through which the blood might
burst. A rare horse, rare in any country, doubly rare in this land of
the small Spanish product, was the rating given to Pat by men trained to
judge value at sight. And so widespread did this appraisal become, along
trail, beside camp-fire, in bunk-house, that it was known throughout the
length and breadth of the Territory, and beyond the Territory, that
Judge Richards was the owner of a horse the like of which never had been
seen south of the Pecos.

For several days after the clipping, Helen did not choose to ride. So
Pat was permitted the doubtful pleasure of loafing about in the
inclosure. Then one morning, when the winter day was unusually warm, he
awoke to a great clatter of hoofs outside the corral. Directly he saw a
party of young people, men and girls under the chaperonage of a comely
matron, dismounting in high spirits. As the party swung down he saw his
mistress appear from the house, attired in her riding-habit, and,
understanding the object of all this, since these parties had become
frequent in the past two months, he pressed close to the fence, anxious
to be off. The Mexican bridled and saddled him; his mistress and the
others mounted; soon all clattered out upon the river-trail.

The day was beautiful, and Helen, riding, as usual, beside Stephen, both
in the rear, enjoyed the morning keenly. Overhead, out of a shimmering
azure sky, the sun beamed mildly down, penetrating the chill of the
morning, yet leaving enough tang to bring a bloom to their cheeks. On
their left the river, high with melted snows from the north, moved in
slow eddies near the shore, quicker eddies away from the shore, steady
and swift flow in the middle--a changing, fascinating panorama. There
fell a long silence before she turned to the young man beside her.

"Well, Mr. Native," she began, smiling, "I hope you don't mean to bury
yourself this morning! For more than a month you have had very little to
say to me. I don't like it, because I can't understand it, and so I
won't have it!" Then she became serious. "Whatever is the matter,
Stephen?"

Pat, walking slowly beside the unfriendly horse, was attentive. He heard
his mistress's voice, and somehow knew she was troubled. Then directly
he had positive proof of this, for she suddenly began to stroke his neck
and shoulders. Always she did this when thoughtful, but though he
strained his ears for further sounds of her voice, he did not hear her.
What he did hear presently was the voice of the young man, and having
learned long before to discriminate between different shades of the
human voice, he knew from its low and tense quality that the topic was a
vital one. He listened sharply, heedful of any least change of
intonation that might be interpreted as a climax. But instead he was
relieved presently to hear the voice of his mistress again, breaking in
upon the low, constrained tones of the young man.

Pat held his ears steadily back. He noted that her voice was well under
control, and she appeared to be answering the young man. Also, it was
quite evident that she was not accepting his argument, whatever it was.
Yet her voice took on many delicate changes. Sometimes he heard a note
of pleading; again, mild exasperation; and once a falling inflection
which hinted at sadness. So it continued, his mistress talking as he had
never heard her talk before, until the group ahead drew rein and
wheeled, indicating their intention of returning. Then once more the
voice of his mistress changed suddenly and became light, even gay,
leaving Pat, as he himself was turned around, a very much mystified
horse.

Yet this gaiety did not last. When they were well on their way back
toward the ranch, with the sun higher and brighter in the heavens, and
the trail correspondingly whiter and more dazzling to the eye, he found
himself listening to grave tones again--the voice of the young man. He
talked steadily now, his flow of words always tense, though occasionally
interrupted by the other with a quiet rejoinder. Then suddenly he ceased
altogether, and Pat, acutely conscious of the silence which descended
upon them, was relieved when it was broken by sounds of laughter ahead.
Still the pair above him did not speak. Each appeared to be adrift on a
sea of thought the like of which he had never known. And it continued,
this ominous silence, and became heavier, until he saw the ranch loom up
ahead. Then he felt his mistress urge him into a canter that she might
join the others for the parting. But when the party broke up, as it did
with much good feeling, and he found himself turned loose to one side,
with his mistress and the young man walking into the shade of a
cottonwood, he found himself forced, since he now was out of range of
their voices, to forego any further listening, keenly against his
desires. So he gave it all up as a bad job.

"Stephen," began Helen, seating herself upon a hummock of earth, "I am
sorry--sorry beyond words--that it has turned out this way! I must admit
that I like you--like you very much! But--but I am afraid it is not the
sort of liking you ask."

He was seated beside her, reclining upon one elbow, absently thrusting
the tip of his riding-whip into a tuft of grass. And now again, as
before that morning, he told her of his very great love for her, his
deep voice vibrant with emotion, grimly acknowledging himself as
unworthy of her, yet asking with rare simplicity that she take him
anyway, take him in spite of his unworthiness, declaring it as his
belief she would find him in time worthy--that he would try to make
himself worthy--_would_ make himself worthy--would overcome those
faults which evidently--though she had not as yet told him what they
were--made him impossible in her eyes. Then suddenly he asked her to
tell him precisely what these faults were. He knew that he had many and
could only blame himself for them. But which of them did she find
chiefly objectionable? He was pitiable in his pleading.

But Helen shook her head. "I--I can't tell you, Stephen," she declared,
her voice breaking. "It--it is too much to ask of--of any girl."

He rose, turning toward the distant mountains, bright and smiling in
their noonday splendor. As his eyes dwelt upon them in brooding silence,
Helen gained her feet. And, aware of her great part in this
wretchedness, she took his hand very gently in her own. Subtly conscious
of the touch, realizing the tumult in his soul, she found herself
suddenly alive to a feeling within her deeper than mere pity and
sympathy. It was the anguish preceding tears. Quickly withdrawing her
hand, she turned and fled to the house. Inside, she slowly approached a
window. He was leading Pat into the corral; and, watching him unsaddle
and unbridle her horse, her treasure, she awoke to something else within
her, a strange swelling of her heart, different from anything she had
ever known. It was like ownership; it was a something as of maternal
pride, a something new to her which she could not fathom. She turned
away. When she looked out again, her eyes dry and burning, he was riding
slowly along the trail toward town.

It was the beginning of the end. Winter passed, with horses abandoned
for the delights, swift-following, of dinner and dance and house party.
These affairs made deep inroads upon Helen's time, and so Pat was left
pretty much to his own reflections.

Yet he managed to fill the days to his satisfaction. Standing in the
stable, he loved to watch the snow-capped mountains, and the tiny white
clouds scudding around them, and the mellow radiance of golden sunlight
streaming over them. Also, gazing out of the little square window, he
spent long periods in viewing the hard brown of the nearer mesaland--the
dips and dunes and thread-like arroyos, with an occasional horseman
crawling between. Or else, when he found himself yearning for his
mistress, he would turn eyes upon the house, and with lazy speculation
regard its sun-flecked windows, tightly shut doors, and smoking
chimneys, in the hope that she might step forth. Then came more mild
weather when he would spend long hours outside the stable, in his corner
in the corral, there to renew his silent vigil over nature and the house
from this vantage. Thus he filled his days, and found them not so long
as formerly in his babyhood, when each hour was fraught with so many
little things that demanded his closest interest and attention.

Nights found him early at rest. But not all nights. Nights there were
when the house would be lighted from cellar to garret, when spectral
forms would move in and out of doors, and when shadows would flicker
across drawn shades. Such nights were always his nights, for he would
hear sounds of merriment, and voices lifted in song, and above the
voices, tinkling toward him on the crisp air, the music of a piano. Such
nights were his nights, for he knew that his mistress was happy, and he
would force open the stable door, step out under the cold stars, and
take up his stand in his corner, there to rest his head upon the topmost
board and turn steady eyes upon the scene of merriment until the last
guest had departed.

Always on these nights, with wintry chills coursing down his legs or
rollicking along his spine, he found himself wanting to be a part of
this gaiety, wanting to enter the house, where he instinctively knew it
was warm and comfortable, where he might nuzzle the whole gathering for
sugar and apples. But this he could not do. He could only turn longing
eyes upon the cottage and stand there until, all too soon, sounds of
doors opening and closing, together with voices in cheery farewell, told
him that the party was at an end. Then he would see mysterious forms
flitting across to the trail, and lights in the house whisking out one
by one, until the cottage gradually became engulfed in darkness. Then,
but not till then, would he turn away from his corner, walk back slowly
into the stable, and, because of the open door, which he could open but
never close, suffer intensely from the cold throughout the long night.

One such occasion, when the round moon hung poised in the blue-black
dome of heaven, and he was standing as usual in his corner, with eyes
upon the brilliantly lighted house, he became suddenly aware of two
people descending the rear porch and making slowly toward him. At first
he did not recognize his own mistress and the young man who had been her
almost constant companion since that memorable fright on the mesa eight
months before. But as they drew closer, and he came to know the slender
form in white, he sounded a soft whinny of greeting and pressed eagerly
close to the fence. The pair came near, very near; but neither of them
paid the least attention to him--a fact which troubled him deeply. And
directly his mistress spoke, but, as she was addressing herself to the
young man, this troubled him even more. But he could listen, and listen
he did.

"Stephen," she was saying, "you _must_ accept my answer as final.
For you must know, Stephen," she went on, quietly, "that I have not
changed toward you. My answer to-night, and my answer to-morrow night,
and my answer for ever, in so far as I can see, will be what it was last
autumn. I am more than sorry that this is so. But it is so,
nevertheless." She was firm, though Pat, knowing her well, knew that it
required all the force of her trembling soul to give firmness to her
words.

Stephen felt something of this as he stood beside her in grim meekness.
With his hungry eyes upon her, he felt the despair of one sunk to utter
depths, of a man mentally and physically broken. For he loved this girl.
And it was this love, God-given, that made him persist. In the spell of
this love he realized that he was but a weak agent, uttering demands
given him to utter, and unable, through a force as mighty as Nature
herself, to do otherwise. Yet though he was utterly torn apart, he was
able, despite this mighty demand within him, to understand her
viewpoint. He had understood it from the first. But the craving within
would not let him accept it.

"I suppose," he rejoined, "that the one decent course for me would be to
drop all this. But somehow I can't. I love you that way, Helen! Don't
you understand? I cannot let go! I seem to be forced repeatedly to
make--make a boor of myself!" There was a moment's silence. "Yet I have
resisted it," he went on. "I have fought it--fought it with all the
power I have! But I--I somehow--cannot let go!"

Helen said nothing. She herself was coming to realize fully the depths
of this man's passion. She knew--knew as few women have known--that here
was a man who wanted her; but she knew also, and she was sorry to know
it, that she could not conscientiously give herself to him. She
regretted it not alone for his sake, but for her own as well. She liked
him, liked him better than any other man she had ever known. But she
knew that she could not marry him, and believed in her heart that her
reasons for refusing him were just reasons. But she remained silent,
true to her decision.

When Stephen spoke again it was not to plead with her; he seemed at last
to have accepted her refusal for all time. But he asked her reason for
absolutely refusing him--not that it mattered much now, since he faced
the inevitable, but thought the knowledge might in future guide and
strengthen him. He talked rapidly, hinting at beliefs and idolatries,
comparing West with East, and East with West, while he stood motionless,
one hand upon the fence--earnest, sincere, strong in his request. When
he had uttered his last sad word, Helen found herself, as she searched
his drawn profile pityingly, no more able to deny him an answer than at
the time of their first chance meeting she could have controlled the
fate which had brought it about.

"Stephen," she burst out, "I will tell you--though I don't want to tell
you--remember! And if in the telling," she hurried on, "I prove rather
too candid--please stop me! You will, won't you?"

He nodded listlessly.

"To begin with," she began, quietly, dreading her task, "we as a people
are selfish. We are isolated here--are far from the center of
things--but only certain things. We are quite our own center in certain
other ways. But we are selfish as regards advancement, and being selfish
in this way--being what we are and where we are--we live solely for that
advancement--for the privilege of doing what we will, and of knowing! It
is the first law of the country down here--of my people! We have aims
and aspirations and courage all peculiar to ourselves. And when we meet
your type, as I met you, we come--(Now, stop me when I get too
severe!)--we come to know our own values a little better--to respect
ourselves, perhaps--though perhaps, too, I shouldn't say it--a little
more. Not that you lack virtues, you Easterners, but they differ from
ours--and probably only in kind. And exactly what your type is you
yourself have made plain to me during our many little trips together in
the saddle. And--and now I fear I must become even more personal," she
broke off. "And I am very sorry that I must. Though I know you will
forgive me. You will, won't you?" And she looked up at him wistfully.
"You thought it might benefit you to know. This is only my opinion.
Others may not see it this way. But I am giving it for what it is, and I
am giving it only because you asked it and have asked it repeatedly."

He roused himself. "Go on," he said, with evident forced lightness. "I
see your viewpoint perfectly."

"Well," she resumed, hurriedly, "you lack ambition--a real ambition. You
have ridden horses, played tennis, idled about clubs. You were a coddled
and petted child, a pampered and spoiled youth. You attended a dozen
schools, and, to use your own language, were 'canned' out of all of
them. Which about sums up your activities. You have idled your time
away, and you give every promise of continuing. I regret that I must say
that, but I regret more deeply that it is true. You have many admirable
qualities. You have the greatest of all qualities--power for sincere
love. But in the qualities which make one acceptable down here--Wait!
I'll change that. In the qualities which would make one acceptable to me
you are lacking to a very considerable degree. And it is just there that
you fill me with the greatest doubt--doubt so grave, indeed, that I
cannot--and I use the verb advisedly--cannot permit myself to like you
in the way you want me to like you."

Again he bestirred himself. "What is that, please? What is that
quality?"

"I have tried to tell you," she rejoined, patiently. "It is a really
worth-while ambition. You lack the desire to do something, the desire to
be something--a desire that ought to have been yours, should have been
yours, years ago--the thing part and parcel of our blood down here. It
may take shape in any one of a hundred different things--business
ventures; personal prospectings; pursuit of art, science; raising
cattle--anything, Stephen! But something, something which will develop a
real value, both to yourself and to your fellow-man. We have it. We have
inherited it. We got it from our grandfathers--our great-grandfathers,
in a few cases--men who wanted to know--to learn--to learn by doing. It
is a powerful force. It must be a powerful force, it must have been
strong within them, for it dragged them out of the comforts of
civilization and led them into the desert. But they found what they
sought; and in finding what they sought they found themselves also. And
what they found--"

"Was something which, having drawn them forward to the frontier, filled
them with dislike for those who remained behind?"

"If you wish to put it that way--yes." Her answer was straight and
clean-cut.

"But what of those who remained behind?" asked Stephen, alert now.
"Surely the quality was there! It must be there yet! Those of the
old-timers who remained behind must have stayed simply because of
circumstances. Good men often curb the adventurous spirit out of sheer
conscientious regard for others who--"

"It is you, Stephen!" interrupted Helen, quietly. "It is you, yourself.
All Easterners are not like you, I well know. Yet you and your type are
found in all parts of the East."

Stephen stood for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the mystic skyline.
Then he turned to her as if about to speak. But there was only the
silent message of his longing eyes. Finally he turned away and, as if
unconsciously, fell to stroking the horse.

He had nothing to say, and he knew it. The girl was right, and he knew
that. She had pointed out to him only what others at different times had
mildly tried to make him see. He was a rich young man, or would be after
a death or two in his family. But that in itself was no excuse for his
inertia. Many had told him that. But he had never taken it seriously. It
had remained for the little woman beside him to make him fully realize
it. She alone had driven it home so that it hurt. Yet between this girl
and the others who had taken him mildly to task there was the difference
between day and darkness. For he loved this girl, and if she would not
marry him for reasons which he knew he could remedy, then it was up to
him to accept her criticism, which was perhaps a challenge, and go forth
and do something and be something, and reveal his love to her through
that effort. What it would be he did not know. He did know he must get
out of the town--get out of the Territory, if needs be--but he must go
somewhere in this country of worthy aspiration and live as he knew she
would have him live, do something, be something, something that for its
very worth to her as well as to all mankind would awaken her ready
response. Such a move he realized, as he stood beside her, would be as
decent in him as she in her criticism had been eloquently truthful. The
vigor, the relentless certainty, with which she had pointed out his
weakness--no one before had had the courage to deal with him like this.
And reviewing it all, and then casting grimly forward into his future,
he suddenly awoke, as he gently stroked this mettled horse, to a strange
likeness between the spirit of horse and mistress. He turned to Helen.

"You are very much alike," he declared--"you and your horse." Then he
paused as if in thought. "The spirit of the desert," he went on,
absently, "shows itself through all the phases of its life."

Helen brightened "I am glad you think that of us, Stephen," she
answered, as if relieved by this unexpected turn. "Pat is truly of the
desert. He was born and bred in this land of _amole_ and cactus."

"And you?" he asked.

"I also," she replied, gravely. "I too was born and bred in this land of
_amole_ and cactus." Suddenly she turned her head. "I am afraid
they are looking for us."

They returned to the house. Helen's guests were preparing to depart.
There was much high humor, and when the last but one was gone, and this
one, Stephen, standing on the porch with hat in hand, Helen found that
for the moment she had forgotten her distress. At sight of him, however,
it all returned to her, and she faced him with earnest solicitude.

"Tell me, Stephen," she burst out, "that you forgive me my unkind words,
and that you will try to forget them. But whether you succeed in that or
not, Stephen," she hastily added, her voice breaking, "tell me that you
will continue to be friendly. We want you, all of us--I want you! I have
enjoyed our rides together so much! They have meant much to me, and I
hope they have been enjoyable to you. So let us go on, on this accepted
basis, and be friends. Tell me you will, Stephen!"

He was silent a long time. Then he told her of his hastily made plans.
He was going away from town, of course. He could not remain, under the
circumstances. Yet where he was going he didn't know. He would go
farther West, probably--go somewhere and try to make good--try to do
something worth while, to be something worth while. Saying which, he
then thanked her fervently for everything--for her society, for her
frank criticism, for having awakened him to an understanding of himself.

Helen stood speechless. She had not anticipated this, that he would go
away, that he would leave her. A deep-surging bitterness gripped her,
and for a moment she almost relented. But only for a moment. The spell
passed, and she looked at him with frank, level eyes.

"I am sorry to hear that, Stephen," she declared, quietly. "We want you
with us--all of us. But--but tell me," she concluded, finding the words
coming with difficulty--"tell me that you feel no--no antagonism toward
me, Stephen, because I can't--can't love you as you want me to love you,
and that you understand that--that in deciding as I have I--I only
wanted to be true--true to both of us!"

For answer he seized both her hands in his. He gazed straight down into
her eyes. "I love you, Helen," he murmured, and then slowly released her
fingers.

He left her so quietly that she hardly knew that he was gone. A step on
the trail aroused her, and, lifting her eyes, she saw him striding away
with shoulders back and head erect, as if awakened to a new manhood. And
watching him go, as she felt, for the last time, she could no more
control a sob than he at the moment could turn back. For a while she
followed him with wistful eyes, then, finding sud

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