Valley of Outlaws Page 6

  So he came up again with the stallion, and this time the horse rushed straight ahead, as though frantic with fear. But when the rope shot out, he braced himself to a halt and swerved away from it.

  Shawn had picked the thorns of a cactus out of his shoulder. He shook himself like a dog out of water and found that there were no broken bones. Then he climbed the fence and gave José his aid. So the two of them managed to corner that clever dodger, and the rope of the Mexican went home around the neck of Sky Pilot. The instant he felt the touch of the rope, he stopped and stood, shuddering. Whatever lessons he had learned, plainly he had learned them well.

  “Hold his head,” said Terence Shawn.

  “You ride again, señor?” asked José, a sudden burst of admiration warming his voice.

  “I ride again. Hold him steady.”

  And a second time Shawn leaped into the saddle.

  The story began in the same way. There was a blind rush of speed, a leap into the thin air, a sidewise spin, and shock on stiffened legs. But this time the rider clung to his place; he was prepared.

  Sky Pilot, as though disappointed at this result, started on at a soft jog, and Shawn studied the silken ease of that movement. He gritted his teeth. All this had been revealed to him on the very first day he had mounted the animal, and yet he had closed his eyes against the truth. Who could have guessed that this horse, which he had picked up from a hermit among the mountains, would prove to be a gem, a jewel without price?

  At any rate, the horse had gone from him into the hands of the Mexican.

  These thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of fence-rowing, done with a neatness and finish that put to shame every other talented performer at that line of trade within the experience of Terry Shawn. He felt as though he were riding a section of steel cable, flourished and snapped in the air by some malicious, gigantic hand.

  And then, suddenly, the chestnut was trotting on again. The Mexican was shrieking with excitement, dancing and waving his hands.

  “The whip, señor! The spur! Now let him taste a master in the saddle!”

  But Shawn had not advanced to that stage of confidence. There was some other trick in the wily brain of this animal. Besides, he wanted a bit of a breathing spell, so that the darkness could depart from his own head. It was as though he had been beaten over the back of the head with a bludgeon.

  Then straight into the air plunged the chestnut, and floundered backward. Of all the tricks of man-killing horses, none is so deadly as this, and Shawn barely had time and wit to jerk himself out of the saddle, as the horse fell. Cat-like, the chestnut sprang to his feet again, but, equally quick, Shawn had leaped to his place in the saddle and clung there.

  Once more into the air, and down again. Three times the stallion repeated this maneuver, and each time Shawn escaped by a narrower margin.

  After that, Sky Pilot went on with his soft jog trot, shaking the bridle, and thinking. It reminded Terry Shawn of a battle in the days of his childhood, when in his home town he had stood up to the son of a blacksmith—a lean, tall, hard-muscled boy with blue eyes, as cold as the eyes of a fish. Twenty times he had rushed that lad, and twenty times he had been received with a new trick, a new cunning shift that baffled him. However, in the end he had managed to come to close quarters, and then a few minutes of hearty punching had laid the stalwart lad on his back, defeated. So it might prove with the stallion.

  Barely had he reached that hopeful conclusion, when Sky Pilot began to spin like a humming top. There was no bucking, simply an amazingly rapid revolution, so that he seemed to have been fixed upon a pivot and spun there.

  His head reeling, his body wavering, Shawn gritted his teeth and prayed for success. The star points had turned into long, gleaming circles of light, the trees into vast streaks of blackness, and the Mexican had been multiplied by ten and stood at all sides of the corral—ten men gesticulating, leaping, shouting wildly: “The whip! The whip!”

  Then Sky Pilot stopped himself, with a thrust of the forehoofs that buried them fetlock deep in the soil. He began to spin in the opposite direction, and the brain of Shawn crumbled.

  He fought against defeat, but his muscles seemed to have turned numb and limp. He was leaning far to the left; somehow he could not seem to pull himself back into the saddle. Neither could his knees get a more secure hold, but began to loosen.

  If only he could hang on for ten seconds longer. Ten eternities, as soon. All at once he lost the right stirrup. He felt his right leg crawling up the flank of the spinning horse, and then, all at once, he was cast free and shot into the dust at the feet of José.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was no question of scrambling or crawling out of the way of another of the stallion’s charges. Where the outlaw fell, there he lay, inert, in a crumpled heap, thoroughly stunned. It was pure good fortune that he had dropped at the feet of the Mexican, for the stallion whirled away from the threatening rope in the hand of his master.

  Afterward, Terence Shawn got uncertainly to his knees, and wavered there like a pugilist trying to pull himself together after a knock-out blow, that he might continue the fight. But continue, Shawn could not—he was beaten.

  When he stood up, all at sea, he managed to keep himself erect by clinging fast to the tall fence until his eyes cleared a little, and then he saw José leading the stallion past him and into the shack.

  In time, he was able to follow. He sat down shakily near the door. All his leg muscles were trembling and twitching, turned quite to pulp, and he had to use all his willpower to keep his head erect, otherwise, it would have lopped over to one side like the cut branch of a tree.

  Then José sat beside him, smoking.

  “It was a bad fall, señor. However, you have no broken bones, and I shall tell you this one thing . . . no other man has sat the saddle on him so long as you. I thought for one moment that he had a master. Ah, well.” There was a profound sorrow in his voice as he spoke. Then he added slowly: “If you have failed, señor, who is there ever to ride him? The devil must live without a master.”

  “My friend,” said the outlaw, beginning to roll a smoke with automatic fingers, “tell me why you hate this horse so much?”

  José laughed savagely, then he asked: “He is a strong horse, señor, is he not?”

  “He’s a lion, José.”

  “He is a beautiful horse, señor?” went on José.

  “He is. I never have seen a finer.”

  “Nor one half so fine. I, to be sure, have lived with good horses all the days of my life. I have raised them and worked them. I have exercised thoroughbreds since I was big enough to sit in the saddle. I never saw one before like him.”

  “Then you should be happy. He’s your horse,” said Shawn.

  “Tell me, señor!”

  “Yes, José?” prompted Terry Shawn.

  “Suppose that was the best horse in the world,” began the Mexican, “would he take the place of a son?”

  “Of course not,” said Shawn.

  “Of a daughter, then?”

  “Certainly he would not, José.”

  “But what of a wife, señor?” asked José softly. “You hesitate. Let me tell you. I don’t mean some old, fat squaw, but a pretty young woman with white teeth and big dark eyes. Is the horse worth a wife like that?”

  “No, no, José. I don’t have to stop to think in order to give you an answer to that question.”

  “But then there are other things,” went on José, half closing his eyes. “A good house for instance . . . a home, señor, with a pretty garden in front of it, like that of an americano. Vegetables behind that house, perhaps, some good ground . . . enough for the plow, and enough for the pasture land, also. Some good cows and goats, as fine as ever filled a milk can or turned on a spit. Plenty of trees for wood and for shade. A stream running around the corner of the hill, all filled with trout. And over the mountains, deer, and all that a man could care to follow with a dog and a gun. Moreover, plenty of other
land to get when one wished, and get cheap. Tell me, señor, would that horse be worth such a place?”

  “Well,” said Terry Shawn frankly, “it depends. To a fellow who wants a home . . . no. To a fellow like me, who needs wings, well . . . that’s different.”

  “Wings. Wings,” said the Mexican, suddenly hoarse with emotion. “Ah, that’s the thing. But consider also that there was a position to be given up. Many kind friends. An employer, out of whose pockets money ran like water out of a spring. ‘How is it with you today, José?’ he would ask. ‘Alas, señor,’ I might answer, ‘I am troubled. My wife sits at home, crying for a new red dress of silk, and I am a poor man.’ ‘Well, José, send her up to see the señora. She has some things she won’t wear again.’ Or another time . . . ‘It is a bright morning, José.’ ‘Yes, señor, bright for those who have sunshine in their hearts already.’ ‘Now what is wrong?’ ‘My corn is ready to reap. The wind is shaking the grain out of the heads. All will be lost.’ ‘Then go at once to save it. Take Miguel, and Pedro, and Gonzales, and Federigo. Go at once, José. Save your corn. Take two days, or three. Then come again.’

  “In that manner he would speak,” mused José bitterly. “Ah, me.” He dropped his head down upon his chest and was silent.

  Terry Shawn was silent, also. For his own part, he never could have given way to such violent emotion, but he was determined that he would not interrupt the narrative of the Mexican. Here were more words than one expected from the sullen fellow, but that heroic effort to ride the stallion seemed to have warmed the Mexican’s heart and loosened his tongue. The moment of confession was upon him, and presently he continued.

  “All the way of life stretched out like a sweet rose, señor. A beautiful road that goes neither high nor low, but dips pleasantly into the cool of the trees, and curves beside a river, and pauses on a hill. Children, a kind master, a good wife, a bright house, rich land, plenty of money. But then . . .” He caught his breath and threw up both his hands in a wild gesture. “Wings! Wings! One day I saw a yearling come in from the higher pastures. The whole herd galloped . . . the yearling slipped out before them with his mane standing and his tail streaming behind as though it were painted on the wind. He turned his lovely head and looked back to the herd as if saying . . . ‘Let us go faster. Why do you stay behind?’

  “I, José, beheld this. I looked at him no more. I looked up. I could not think. I went blindly home. I sat in the darkness. My wife brought me food. I thrust her away. She sent my two children to me. I shouted at them and sent them flying. All night I sat with my thoughts, and what they were, you have said. Wings! Wings! I felt like a kitchen fowl in the yard. Feathers to beat and flutter, had I, but they would not bear me up. But on the back of such a horse. . . .” José’s eyes flamed with ecstasy, even now, as he thought of the magnificent creature. “Well, then, in the morning, I was already an old man. I had forgotten how to smile, for the fire was in my heart, and I walked about with my eyes turned upon the ground.

  “For a year, I nourished that colt. He had oats each day. He began to feel himself. He was like a stallion of four years. He scorned the earth when he walked upon it . . . the sound of his neigh was louder than ten horns blowing together . . . and his gallop was like the gliding of light over the waters.

  “Now I had envy and desire in my heart, but still I was true to my master until a black day came. He had a great friend who came from Mexico City to see the ranch and the horses. He knew horseflesh. He glanced at all the others, but when he came to the red chestnut, there he stopped. On the way in from the pasture, I heard him talking money, and my heart stopped” José stopped speaking and gulped hastily before he could go on.

  “Well, señor, I must save words and pain by telling you quickly that the next day, we knew the chestnut was to go, and that that night he was to leave us. When I heard that, I went down to the village church and prayed for strength, but no strength came to me, and in the middle of the night I went into the stable and brought out the colt.

  “I did not even think to take one of my own horses to ride. I never had committed any crime before. Only this one. And I said to myself that, if I took this one horse, at least I left behind me my wife, my two children, my house, my lands, and all my old hopes in life. Pile all of them into the scales, weigh them against the horse, and you yourself have said what is the difference.

  “Well, señor, I know that the lawyers would not have understood what I meant, but I felt that God would understand. So I went out from my old life with empty hands, and only that colt. That was how I began again.” He paused a moment, thinking back to that tumultuous time.

  “I went for the high mountains . . . they pursued me . . . I escaped from them. I ran like a deer, and the colt ran beside me. For ten days they hunted us, and the ribs began to stand out through the skin of the chestnut, but at last we escaped. Then for two years I wandered. All men knew what I had done, and all men were against me. Therefore what do I do? I steal, I rob, and I hunt . . . not animals, but men.

  “At last every trail is on fire against me, and I cross the river to the northern shore. I am an exile, and my only companion is my horse. And still, señor, I am on foot. Why? Because evil has come into the soul of the colt. A petted child is the son of the devil. A petted horse is a spoiled horse. Besides, I had no chance to break him properly, for where I paused was only for the day or the night.

  “A hundred times I tried to ride him . . . he learned to pitch me from the saddle, as he pitched you this night. At length I made my heart hard, for I was tortured, having given up my life for the sake of a horse that was a curse to me. I determined that I would conquer him by time and cruelty, and therefore I made up my mind to starve him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The excitement of the Mexican had been growing for some time, and now it became so great that his voice trembled, and his words stumbled upon one another.

  “I began to see,” he explained, “that it was no horse but a devil that I had. A devil it had been in the first place, that tempted me away from my happy life, my home, my work, and gave me that madman’s desire for wings that would carry me faster than any pursuit could follow . . . that would make me strong enough to strike down my enemies and escape from their vengeance, that would make me free, in spite of the numbers against me. When I began to see this, then I swore that I would conquer him or kill him, or that he should kill me.

  “I starved him, then,” said José, “until he was so weak that I could mount him and he could not buck me off. Then I made him go forward. I was cruel. I think that I would have mastered him, if it had not been that three old enemies from south of the Río Grande came upon my trail, and rushed after me.

  “There was nothing for me to do but to hurry ahead. That horse that was too weak to pitch me from the saddle could gallop still a little, and, as long as he could stagger, he still went faster than the other horses could run.

  “At last they persisted no longer. For two days they had followed me, and for two days I had tortured the chestnut . . . then I dismounted and saw that he was no better than a dead horse. He would take neither food nor water, and he had strength only to brace his legs for a few moments before he dropped down. So I left him and carried the saddle back through the trees.

  “But not yet am I through with that devil horse, for he came into the wise hands of Señor Shawn, who brought him back to life once more. And from Señor Shawn the horse was given to another, and from that other I claimed my property. And so here he is again. Once more I may talk with him. Once more he can tempt me and make me miserable.

  “Señor, I have opened my heart to you. Now tell me why it is that I cannot raise a rifle and put a bullet through his head?” He had shouted out the last words, throwing up his hands and beating them back against his face and his breast; his voice broke almost into a sob of desperation.

  Shawn had listened to this story with growing amazement. Now he said: “You steady down, José. Let me tell you that you’re
wrong about one thing. I didn’t gentle the stallion . . . all I know, I’ll tell you. I came through the mountains with twenty men behind me and a dying horse under me. I hit a little valley on the face of Mount Shannon, and there I met an oldish sort of fellow, deaf and dumb, living like a hermit. He had that chestnut before his shack, and I roped and saddled it, and left some money for boot, and then rode like mad.

  “I made all the distance from Mount Shannon down through Overbury Cañon, and then out to Clinker and back to Lister. I left the poor sheriff eating out his heart with rage. And I kept on, and the chestnut never said no. Still, José, I didn’t know what a treasure he was, and so I swapped him, simply because he was tired at last. If I’d known, he never would have come back to you, José.”

  “You are not a believer,” answered José sternly. “You cannot see that men have nothing to do with this and that God has everything. Only, señor, you have not explained one thing. How did you ride my horse down from the mountains? No other man ever dared to sit on his back.”

  “I’ll be honest, José. I rode him just as I found him. He never looked wrong, once, on the way. He never so much as shied, and he never said no to me, no matter what I asked of him. He went all day, and he was coming up against the bit when I finally got rid of him. That’s all I know, José.”

  “The hand of God. The hand of God,” said José.

  “The hand of the old hermit up on Mount Shannon, I should say,” answered the outlaw. “If there’s a mystery, it’s in how that old tenderfoot managed to take that dying horse you talk about and turn him into what we see inside the house here.”

  “It is true. That is very strange,” murmured the Mexican, his thoughts turning in this new direction. “Deaf and dumb, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  José nodded, then he continued: “That is a sign, also. God is upon that man with a curse or with a blessing. All who come into the life of the chestnut are marked men.”