A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) (2 page)

Of perfect proportions, the neck
arched elegantly, being fine and flexible where it connected to the
head at the poll. The head had an almost classical diamond
configuration, with plenty of brain space above the eyes. Carried
upright, the ears moved constantly to catch any warning sound. Set
well out at the sides of the head, the eyes commanded a wide range
of vision and glinted brightly with health. Although the face
narrowed down at the muzzle, the jaws were wide at their junction
with the neck, giving ample space for the
windpipe. The lips closed firmly over
the teeth and the nostrils, fine at the edges, flared open for easy
respiration. Composed of perfectly straight hair, the forelock and
mane were not particularly voluminous—hinting at a good
bloodline—and swept down the left of the neck.

Glowing with health, rippling
with steel-spring powerful muscles, the stallion
’s dark liver-colored chestnut
hide carried a small white star in the center of its forehead and a
white sock on each of its legs.

Watching the stallion as it
stood grazing clear of the
manada,
with frequent pauses to search the surrounding
area for danger to its band, one might have imagined that it had
always been a free-ranging creature of the wild. Such was not the
case. It had been brought into Texas as a war-mount by one of a
raiding Mogollon Apache band just before the War Between the
States. By the time its owner had been shot from its back, the big
young horse had attracted much attention by its speed and
endurance. Those qualities had been so effective that the rest of
the war party could not catch the horse before being driven back to
their own country by Jack Cureton’s Company of Texas
Rangers.

Since that time many stories had
grown around the chestnut stallion left behind by the Apaches.
Gaining control of
a
manada,
it had not only held its growing harem against the other
male horses but led them to safety through many attempts by human
beings to trap them. Men had started speaking of it as ‘that
Mogollon’s horse’, then shortened the name to Mogollon.

‘
So
that’s Mogollon, Jeanie,’ Dusty said. ‘I’ve heard your pappy talk
about it. Curse it some too.’

‘
He
sure did,’ the girl agreed, looking at the
manadero
with longing eyes. ‘Pappy tried most
every year, but even he couldn’t lay hold of that Mogollon hoss.
Each time Pappy would say, “Never again,” but we’d always come back
for another go.’

‘
I can
see why,’ Colin remarked. ‘Yon’s a fine horse, lassie.’

‘
Pappy
allus had his heart set on taking Mogollon,’ Jeanie replied, her
Texas drawl wistful and her fingers slackening their grip on
Colin’s arm. ‘Not to sell, though. He always allowed if we ever got
him we’d keep him as a stud.’

‘
He’d
make a good one at that,’ the Scot confirmed, indicating the
manadero’s
shapely offspring.
‘Look at the young ones he’s sired.’

‘
He
leaves his mark on them for sure,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Do you reckon we
can take him, Jeanie?’

‘
If
only we could!’ the girl sighed. ‘Like I said, Pappy tried plenty
of times and ways.’

‘
With
your ma, Mark and half the
mesteneros
off delivering the first of the Army’s remounts to
Fort Sawyer, we’re a mite short-handed,’ Dusty went on. ‘But we
could make a stab at it.’

‘
He
doesn’t know we’re around,’ Jeanie breathed, looking back the way
she and the two men had come but failing to see any sign of the
remainder of her family’s Mexican assistants. ‘When Felix and the
rest of the boys catch up with us, we might be—’

Before she could finish, Jeanie
heard sounds across the valley. Swinging her gaze to the front, she
noticed that Mogollon had also heard the noise. Pivoting around
with the agility so sought in a cutting-horse, the stallion thrust
up its head as far as its neck would allow and stared up the slope.
Other members of the
manada
turned their attention in the same direction.
Snorts broke from the horses and they moved around restlessly as
they awaited their master’s instructions.

With tails raised so the
snow-white hairs flashed a warning, half-a-dozen buck whitetail
deer appeared on the rim.
They travelled at a fast gallop, instead of using
the more usual canter interspersed by a succession of low leaps
followed by a long, broad jump. That was a sure sign of an enemy
close behind. Five of the band streaked down the slope in the
direction of the horses. As the sixth buck topped the rim, the flat
crack of a rifle shot sounded from behind it. Leaving the ground in
a back-humping bound, the buck seemed to crumple in mid-air. It
buckled forward, crashed to the earth on its side and slid lifeless
down the incline for a few feet then came to a stop.

Even before the shot rang out,
Mogollon had decided that the deer heralded danger. So it cut loose
with a commanding blast of a high-pitched whickering. Instantly the
remainder of the
manada
started moving. Taking the lead, the two oldest mares set
off along the bottom of the valley. After a swift swing of its
shapely head, as if checking that all of its family had fled,
Mogollon strode along after them. Although clearly faster than the
other horses, the big stallion did not attempt to go by them. Only
rarely did a
manadero
lead its band in flight. Mostly it brought up the rear,
holding the others bunched and urging on the laggards with snapping
teeth. If the master-stallion should decide that a change of
direction was necessary, it would increase its speed until it
caught the leaders and enforce its will with a ramming
shoulder-thrust. With the line of flight altered to its
satisfaction, it would drop back to its usual position.

‘
What
—!’ Jeanie gasped as the shooting of the deer speeded the
hurried departure of the
manada.
‘Who the—’

As if in answer to her question,
the deer
’s
killer crossed the rim. Smoke curled lazily from the rifle in his
right hand and he sat afork a great white stallion with such
relaxed grace that he might have been a part of it. The horse was
fully as big, fine and wild looking as Mogollon despite wearing
bridle, bit, reins and a low-horned double girthed saddle as badges
of servitude.

In a way the rider seemed to
match his mount
’s untamed appearance. Around six foot in height, he had a
lean, wiry build that spoke of endurance, agility and steel-spring
resilience. Clad in cowhand clothing of all black, from his hat to
his boots, he matched Colin’s waist armament except that his
Dragoon sported plain walnut grips and his knife was a genuine,
ivory-hilted James Black bowie. Tanned to an almost Indian
darkness, he had handsome features of nearly babyishly innocent
aspect—except for his red-hazel eyes. They warned of his true,
reckless, savage nature. Young he might look, but he rode and
handled his rifle—one of the new model Henry’s soon to be given the
name Winchester ’66, with casual competence beyond his apparent
youth.

Throwing a glance after the
fleeing horses, he dropped from his saddle by the
buck
’s body.
Then his gaze swung across the valley. Detecting Jeanie, Dusty and
Colin as they started to rise, he raised his left hand in a cheery
wave. Putting aside his intention of gutting and bleeding the buck,
he went astride his white with a lithe bound and rode in the trio’s
direction.

‘
Blast
you, Lon Ysabel!’ Jeanie said indignantly as the dark-faced
youngster approached. ‘You scared Mogollon off.’

An expression of pained
resignation crossed the newcomer
’s features and he raised his eyes to the
heavens.

‘
You
hear that,
Ka-Dih?’
the youngster demanded, mentioning the name of the Comanche
Indians’ Great Spirit. ‘There just ain’t no pleasing white folks.
“See if you-all can bring in some pot-meat, Lon,” she said, afore
witnesses for shame, ’n’ when I do it, she starts to blister my
hide.’ He looked at the girl and continued, ‘You sure it was me
spooked them hosses, Jeanie-gal. Way you three was leaping up ’n’
down, it could’ve been you’s did it.’

‘
Confounded Injun!’ Jeanie snorted. ‘Trust you to try ’n’
lay the blame on us white folks.’

When the girl had called Loncey Dalton
Ysabel an Indian, she had come very close to the truth.

Born in the village of
the
Pehnane—
Wasp, Quick-Stinger, Raider—Comanches, the black-dressed
youngster had been raised as a member of that hardy fighting tribe.
His mother had died giving birth to him and his father, a wild
Irish-Kentuckian, had spent much time away from the village on the
family business of smuggling. In the traditional Comanche fashion,
it had fallen on the boy’s maternal grandfather, Long Walker, a
chief of the Dog Soldier war lodge, to educate him and the chief’s
French-Creole
pairaivo—
favorite wife—saw to his welfare.

Long Walker had carried out his
work well.
^viii
By the time the boy had ridden off
upon his first war trail, he was competent in all those matters
a
Pehnane
brave-heart needed to know. Skilled beyond measure in
matters equestrian, he could read and follow tracks barely visible
to the eyes of less capable men. He had few peers in any race at
locating hidden enemies and was equally adept at concealing himself
from hostile eyes. He could handle a variety of weapons adequately
and had attained prominence in the use of two kinds. With a rifle
he could throw lead super-accurately under any conditions. His
skill in wielding a bowie had won him the Comanche man-name
Cuchilo,
the
Knife.

All in all, the Ysabel
Kid
—as he had
come to be known—had led a checkered life. Riding the smuggling
trails with his father, he had learned lessons that were to be of
use in later years. Although the Ysabels had enlisted in Mosby’s
Raiders, the Confederate States’ Government had soon found a better
use for their specialized talents. They had spent the remainder of
the War delivering supplies, run into Matamoros through the U.S.
Navy’s blockade, across the Rio Grande into Texas. While carrying
out those duties, the Kid had earned a reputation for being a real
bad
hombre
to cross. Like Dusty,
Cabrito—
to give him the name spoken in awe by border
Mexicans—had twice become involved in the affairs of the Rebel
Spy.
^ix

Bushwhack lead had ended Sam
Ysabel
’s life
and, while hunting for the killers, the Kid had met Dusty. In
addition to avenging his father, the youngster had helped the small
Texan to accomplish an important mission. With his quest ended, the
Kid had decided that smuggling no longer interested him. So he had
accepted Dusty’s offer to join the OD Connected. Not as an ordinary
cowhand, but as a member of the floating outfit, the elite of a
tough and very capable crew. The larger ranches often made use of
floating outfits, six or so top hands who roamed the more distant
ranges instead of being based at the main buildings.

Along with another member of the
floating outfit, Dusty and the Kid had been sent by Ole Devil
Hardin to assist the Schells in gathering horses for the OD
Connected
’s
remuda.
There were plans afoot to build up the War-ruined economy
of Texas
^x
and, to take a full
part in them, the ranch would need the extra mounts for its hands.
In addition to acquiring their own horses, Dusty, the Kid and Mark
Counter were also helping the Schell family to fill an army remount
contract. Their presence had been of the greatest use, especially
as Colin Farquharson and Jeanie had earned the enmity of a
murderous Mexican
bandido
family. That problem had been attended to, the first two
hundred and fifty horses were on their way to the Army, and the
remainder of the mustanging party headed to their next area of
operations.

‘
Right
sorry I scared off that
manada,
Jeanie-gal,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Anyways I saw
another about three miles north of here. It’s a
manada de hermanos.
About thirty of ’em,
some good ’n’s in it.’

‘
There’ll not be one to come up to Mogollon,’ Jeanie pointed
out sadly.

Listening to the little girl who
had captured his heart, Colin swore to himself that she would have
the horse called Mogollon as his gift at their wedding. As Jeanie
had claimed, the stallion would form a mighty sound base on which
to found their
bloodline when they quit mustanging and settled on a ranch
to raise horses. Mainly, though, his wee Jeanie wanted Mogollon and
that was all the inducement the young Scot needed.