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Sands of Sedona
Copyright 1982-2003 TrixiePixGraphics
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Sands of Sedona -- Western Fiction
Approx. 67962 Words
Chapter Six
John reined Chowder east toward the high country. He wanted to camp in the pines. He loved to hear the gentle summer breezes hum through their tops. He liked a bed of pine needles, and the scent of the forest brought back memories of his excursions into the far North, almost to Alaska. There had been a magic in the air for all the time he spent there. There was a wildness and a raw-ness that he'd never found again in the territories of the states.
A day's ride brought John into a region of cool, gray rocks and tall, green trees. The air was thinner and his horse huffed. He'd forgotten how much he missed the high country. Water was abundant and Chowder liked the new grasses.
He made camp between two giant pines. He hobbled Chowder and turned him out. There was never cause to worry about his pony running off of his own accord, but Chowder was often tempted to run with the mustangs if a pack of them came around.
Sometimes, at night, Chowder would call to them, and sometimes, if any were near, they'd come to visit. One night, when Chowder was tied to a tree and John was trying to sleep only a few yards away, John had thrown pine cones at first, and finally small rocks and sticks at his horse for two hours trying to get him to shut up. Chowder remained undaunted, and steadfast in his desire for company of his wild kind. The mustangs finally came in answer to Chowder's incessant invitations.
There were a dozen in the herd and they clomped right into camp, stepping on John as he slept and generally ruining the campsite. John jumped up and chased them away in no uncertain terms. He wasn't sure that Chowder had ever forgiven him for that. Still, wild horses in camp could not be tolerated.
As John lay on his bed of pine needles, gazing at the stars and marveling at the sliver of a moon suspended in the blackness, he tried to find some equilibrium in his life. He tried to put events and wrongs into perspective. Mostly he remembered better times with Wendy....
Wendy's mare showed true mustang blood. It was a spicy little wench, only about thirteen hands tall. She was a roman-nosed, ewe-necked wild paint who'd lived-- and flourished after a fashion-- on the harsh New Mexico range. To say she was tough was an understatement. To say she was utterly intrepid was more accurate.
John had been watching that paint mare on the Indian range. Wendy always liked paints and had mentioned many times that she wanted one, and John had decided to bring this one in for her as a surprise.
At first glance the mare seemed to be just another rag-a-muffin little mustang who'd seen better days and probably didn't have many left. She was small from a lifetime of poor feed, though the original mustang lines were small even with good feed. She was thin and lean from traveling great distances to water and from enduring bitter winters on the high plateau. Her heavy coat was rough and nicked. She was as wary as a deer from spending her life defending her colts from predators, and honestly, like some hardy and clean living frontier women, John just couldn't guess her age.
He made a deal with the Indian who spoke for her. The price was four dollars paid in advance. John had to catch her.
The kids in the Navajo village said they'd last seen her and a new foal down near the arroyo, about five miles to the south. John and a neighbor boy named Arthur set out the following morning to drop a loop on her and bring her in.
The boy rode an old but trustworthy sorrel named Chipper, and John rode Chowder.
About three hours out they spotted the mare's herd where the Indian kids had told them. The horses saw John coming half a mile distant, as it was a particularly spooky herd. Immediately they began to shuffle away.
John changed direction in hopes of convincing them he wasn't really headed their way, and he slipped up into the tree line, thinking he could use it as cover to emerge about a hundred yards downwind from them. From the trees, John thought, they'd make their plans to quickly nab the mare.
It seems, however, that some passle of wily coyotes had pulled this trick on the skittish herd before. They knew just what John and the boy were up to, for when the two emerged from the tree line they saw only a cloud of settling dust, as it disappeared around a red sandstone bluff nearly a mile to the west.
It was at that precise moment that John began to realize the capture of the scrawny little mare was going to involve more than he'd imagined.
The pair turned without a word and headed back from where they came, following the trail left by the herd. This time they tried to keep to high ground, stopping often to peek over the edges of cliffs or ridge tops, trying to stay aware of the movements of the mustangs. This time they were able to get within a quarter mile before the broncos bolted and left them behind without effort.
Again they followed the herd five miles up into higher country at the ninety-three hundred foot level. Chipper and Chowder were breathless and trembling by the time they reined up and took a long look at the mustangs from behind some trees. John had nearly killed their ponies climbing the grade, while the mustangs, who had sprinted nonstop to the top, stood quietly munching the high altitude grass. Through the binoculars John could see not one heaving rib cage and not one damp spot on any coat.
They crept back to where their ponies were tied, hidden behind a big Mexican Hat rock, and sat down to eat some lunch, and to plot.
The afternoon proved as fruitless. They sneaked along like bandits for miles trying to get in some proximity to that herd. The mustangs knew every inch of the country and John did not, at least not in the intimate way that an animal who lives there knows it. This was the mustangs' home range and they didn't miss a trick.
By dark the two had come no closer to the herd. The horses had sprinted around a great basin all day, up its sides, or down to the bottom of it where a major arroyo cut through the red earth. The mustangs had hardly had a workout. John's and Arthur's horses were so exhausted they could barely carry them home.
The two saddled up fresh mounts the next morning and headed out, this time with bright new plans and higher hopes. But they never saw hide or hair of the herd on the second day, and they rode home in the dark and the rain dejected and depressed. The four dollars John had put out for the haggard mare was not worth this much trouble to recover, he thought, but it was becoming a matter of principle.
The following morning dawned gray and bleak with a cold north wind whining through the trees. Chowder and Chipper were rested and well grained, and it was still dark when they trotted out through the back gate, bound for the Indian range.
The snow wasn't sticking and it turned the clay to grease as they slid down into the great basin where the mustangs lived. Chowder bulldozed along, stout, wide, tractor of a horse that he was. Poor ancient Chipper was a little slow, and his footing was not so sure as it once might have been. At some point along the trail Chipper's feet just went out from under him. John saw it clearly and he still couldn't speculate as to the cause of the fall. The horse had been in a slow lope along a snowy trail that was straight and level, and he simply flipped upside down, as cleanly as though he'd done it on purpose. Chipper lay there a minute, pressed into a snow bank, while the boy wriggled out from underneath him. Then Chipper came around, snorted once or twice to clear the snow from his nostrils, and he scrambled to his feet, ready to go again.
About noon they spotted the raggedy herd bunched up in a cluster of pinions with their butts to the gale, just trying to wait out the early spring storm. John was luckily downwind of them and the noise of the wind helped him get within fifty yards of the herd.
John and Arthur stood quietly in the trees, begging neither saddle horse to whinny, assessing their options and making plans.
It was finally agreed that the two should split up, and on a prearranged cue, they'd both head quietly and slowly for the herd from different directions. The idea was to flank the animals and to move them down the hill and into the open, next to the edge of the big arroyo. There was a finger of solid ground where the arroyo made a sharp turn, and they would try to drive the herd out onto that peninsula of high ground. It was a sheer cliff eighty feet to the bottom, and that would serve as a fence. John would then gently cut out the mare and her foal, and let the herd go on its way. Then they could box her in and rope her. That, the two cowboys figured smugly, would be that.
They started the herd moving down the slope and to their amazement the horses headed right for the spot they had selected. Even though they stayed well back, the herd moved quickly. John didn't want the mustangs to get too far ahead and turn away from the trap, so he picked up the pace as well.....and the horses did as well......and before long they were all bolting helter skelter down the hill, slipping in the snow, tripping in the prairie dog holes, all bound for that point of high ground on the edge of the canyon.
It was a spooky herd to be sure, and with two cowboys galloping after them like lunatics, the herd didn't slow down at all when they came close to the edge of the arroyo. Art and John reined up in plenty of time, as they certainly didn't want to kill the wild horses by driving them over the edge.
The herd had been high strung, that was sure, but John never suspected his presence had terrified them. He was forced to consider that, however, as the entire herd, sixteen beautiful horses in all, stampeded headlong for that sheer precipice..................and disappeared cleanly over the edge without so much as a scuffle. It was ghastly.
John could still recall the spectacle, burned into his mind's eye for all time-- the ghostly images of sixteen proud and regal mustangs, obscured in the wet, driving snow, fleeing off that embankment without so much as breaking stride, without so much as looking back or trying to turn away. It was a beautiful gesture in a twisted way, to think of a herd of mustangs proudly throwing themselves to their deaths, rather than to be captured and domesticated by man. To remember how he felt at the time brought tears to John's eyes even years after the fact, as he lay in his blankets under the stars, sixty miles out of Paydirt.
For a moment he remembered where he was. The image of those proud, wild horses was incongruous with that of Paydirt, a dirty, backwards, greedy town that would, in all likelihood, he thought, cost him his life before he was through..
From another point of view the demise of the mustang herd was ugly; it was a despicable and cold blooded act on his part. He had reined up at the last minute to give the horses more than enough room to veer away without feeling pressed. There was two hundred yards between the cowboys and the herd when they reached the edge of the cliff. But perhaps he had crowded them more than he knew, he thought at the time, and the noble animals had been pushed to their deaths solely by John's selfish pursuit.
He and the boy sat still and quiet in their saddles for a long moment as the snow piled up on their hats and the necks of their ponies. The blizzard intensified just then, and the two cowboys were left alone in a small world of swirling white, alone with their thoughts, and their guilt. They sat there in shock, silently chastising themselves for being so foolish and so crude and so unspeakably heartless. John sat there praying that God would cast them in stone, or strike them down with lightning bolts, for he believed they deserved no less.
Finally they moved out, down the hill, to look over the edge to take in the grisly scene. Perhaps there were a few survivors lying crippled at the bottom, who would have to be put down. John ran his hand along the weathered stock of his Winchester as they walked slowly out onto the vantage point. At least, he thought, he could put the mangled survivors out of their misery without screwing it up.
Suddenly eight riders galloped straight at him from out of the snow. John stopped forty feet from the edge of the cliff and let them ride up. It was a group of mean looking Indians on rangy, rough coated mounts.
A big one in a raggedy top hat asked what John and the kid were doing on their land. As he spoke, several Indians strained to look over the edge and into the arroyo. The big Indian's steely stare held John's eyes and he noticed that one of the group pulled a rifle from a scabbard and held it purposefully across his saddle horn.
John looked at Arthur. The boy's eyes were wide and he knew they were in trouble. John felt badly that he had caused the boy's death. He could not hope to out-shoot all the Indians who surrounded them, when they discovered the dead herd in the arroyo.
In answer to the question John explained meekly that he had bought a little mare named Crazy Eyes from the old man who lived in the hogan on the hill, and that they were only trying to catch her. John put his hand inside his coat to show the Indian the receipt he had extracted from the owner of the horse, which showed the old man's "x". The Indian tensed as John moved his hand, and John heard a hammer click back, from underneath one of the Indian's ponchos. John moved more slowly and deliberately, so as to not get himself shot any sooner than was necessary. John figured he would explain the killing of the whole herd last of all.
As they talked, John noticed that two of the Indians had sidled their ponies to the edge of the cliff and were looking down into the arroyo. He noticed that they spoke to one another quietly and then looked straight at him. Then one of them said something in Navajo to the big Indian John was talking to. The big Indian looked at John intently for a moment. John moved his hand closer to his Walker. The moment was at hand.
The big Indian said bluntly, "Crazy Eyes. Yes, I know her. Good horse." The comment startled John. The Indian made a fist to indicate strength. He held it in the air, then spurred his horse.
John may have opened his mouth to say something but before he could speak the group had leapt to a gallop and were fading into the snow, along the edge of the arroyo. John thought for a moment that the riders wanted to be a little ways away when they shot him like the dog he was, so they wouldn't get blood on their ponies. It was the only thing that came into his head. He drew his Colt and waited.
But in a moment the Indians had disappeared completely in the spring blizzard. John figured it might be a good chance to make a run for it-- while the braves could not see them clearly enough to take good aim.
But they never saw the Indians again.
Indians, John reflected, were notional creatures, to be sure.
Chowder and Chipper had been stealing steps toward the edge of the cliff and the cowboys found themselves looking down into the shadows at the bottom. And just then something caught their eyes higher up--
They looked and were rendered speechless to see the entire herd of wild mustangs loping nimbly up the far side of the ravine. The animals cleared the top and were safely over the far rim with Crazy's little paint foal following right on her mother's heels.
Arthur found his voice and let out a string of barnyard exclamations and then caught himself short and looked at John sheepishly, as if to say he didn't know where the words had come from. John pretended not to hear, but found himself repeating the same phrases under his breath.
The entire herd was alive and well. There was an almost indistinguishable goat trail that went over the edge right where they stood; it etched a nick in the far side of the arroyo too. The mustangs had used it before.
They dismounted and crawled to the rim. They could see various scuffs in the side of the bank where hooves must have barely touched the clay as the mustangs virtually fell down its side. Then they saw the hoof notches in the opposite side where the wild horses had scaled it. John had never seen anything like it before or since.
The cowboys recovered their wits quickly and figured there was no time to lose. Half a mile away they found a trail their domesticated horses could negotiate, and they sent them sliding to the foot of it.
Halfway down Chipper accidentally misstepped; he fell, and tumbled the last fifty feet to the bottom. Arthur leaped from the saddle as the horse went over, and fetched up in a pine tree that rose vertically along the bank. It took the boy a few minutes to extricate himself from the tangled branches and to climb down. The sides were not sheer, but John expected to find a broken leg at least.. Arthur was only scratched.
Old Chipper was also unhurt, though John had never seen a nastier spill that did not result in injury or death.
Determined not to lose any more ground behind the mustangs, they remounted and charged on ahead. Chipper crossed the damp muck at the bottom of the arroyo first, and it appeared a trifle soft-- So John decided to cross Chowder a few yards away. He was moving out across the narrow bottom of the arroyo and he cued Chowder to break into a sprint across the flat section. Chowder had just gathered himself and pushed ahead when he hit it. He fell head first into a kind of quicksand bog. His front quarters went down, and then his head disappeared. John thought the horse would go end over end, but he just stuck there with his rear pointing straight up at the sky while it wriggled frantically and farted. Arthur continued on his way and was unaware of John's predicament.
John straddled the saddle horn and put his feet up on the pommel, struggling not to take a swan dive himself. He leaned back across the cantle of the saddle and gripped Chowder's tail behind his head. He didn't want to sink into the goo if he dismounted and he could not seem to reach the solid ground behind him.
John could feel Chowder sucking for air as he sunk clear up to his withers. Chowder was panicking, scrambling to get his hind quarters on solid ground. For the moment John could see nothing to do. He could only hang on and try to keep from sliding into the muck himself, and hope Chowder found a way to get them both out.
Chowder's fat behind finally lowered itself back to drier ground and his hind feet began digging in, pulling himself backward inch by inch. He lurched and strained and his head came out of the bog with a great sucking sound. He fell back into some brush and shook his head to try and get his bearings. He was a powerful horse and was in good shape, and that's what saved his life.
After a few moments Chowder seemed no worse for the wear. John scraped what of the sticky clay and sandy mud off his front end that he could, and followed Arthur up the trail the boy had found, and onto the top on the other side of the arroyo. From there they lit out after the pesky mustangs as fast as they could go.
They spent four more days in pursuit of that four dollar scalawag of a horse. They would have had her a day sooner but for a bad throw of the rope and the fact that she was wily enough to duck her head. Hell, John mused; they couldn't even catch the foal.
John and Art were finally to concede that a mustang could not be caught in a straightforward manner, saddled horse against riderless horse, out on the open range where all is equal. Unless the circumstances were extraordinary or the horse was sick or crippled or wanted to be caught, it just couldn't be done.
They finally resorted to baiting the herd with grain. They'd not done this in the beginning because they didn't want to invest a whole day in the catching of one skinny wild mare and her bug eyed filly.
It took them two more days to do even that, for the mustangs were exceptionally wary after all the chasing John had done, and they weren't, it turned out, all that hungry either. And they had to be taught that grain was good to eat.
Eventually the scruffy little Crazy Eyes was lured into a pen and roped. John dragged her toward home bodily, tied off to Chowder's saddle horn, with the foal following obediently along behind.
Several times Crazy threw a fit and simply lay down. By then Chowder was so mad and tired of pulling her and being pulled upon that he just put his head down, took a deep breath, and dragged her along through the snow and the mud on her side.
Her halter snapped at one point. John figured that would be the end of that, but for that one moment she didn't know she was loose and she just lay there in the mud, catching her breath, throwing a tantrum and being mad. He was able to drop a loop on her then-- at least, he thought, he could do that-- and once Chowder's own halter was fitted to her big mustang hammer head, they were on their way again.
The little horse was to be a present for Wendy, though when John dragged her kicking, snorting and rearing into the yard that evening she seemed more like a consolation prize or a downright insult or even grounds for divorce.
She was a feisty little bronc and from that day forward she hated John, and he her, and he was not ashamed to admit it. She would often sneak over to John while he was engaged in some chore about the ranch, rear up behind him and punch him in the back with a small but powerful hoof. And sometimes, if she was feeling especially spiteful, she would bite him square on the top of the head, and when John turned around to swing his fist at her she would run off across the pasture, kicking and bucking and squealing and, he suspected, laughing some inaudible horse laugh that only other mustangs could hear.
In time, however, she trained out well. She was a calm and polite little girl in Wendy's presence. She proved to be tough and dependable and healthy and problem free. She loved John's wife, who loved her deeply in return. The two enjoyed several years and many miles over many trails together. That's all John had ever hoped for.
Now Wendy was gone, and the little mare killed with the rest of the stock on the ranch. John would never see either of them again.
John turned in his bed between the giant pines and tried to think instead of the pleasantness of the forest and of all the fine times he and Chowder had enjoyed in such places when things were different. But in the end, his thoughts deteriorated and his spirit slipped back into a dark abyss, and he could only clench his fists and plot murder and pain for those responsible.
During the ride to higher ground that day John had, for a moment, entertained the notion of riding away and forgetting the whole affair. His family was gone; nothing could reverse that. Perhaps, he thought, if the folks who now resided in the territory were of such flimsy moral fiber that they would allow vicious, senseless child killers to live and move among them, then they deserved the uncertain life that would be the result of it. Perhaps, he thought at one point, he could let it go and find a new place to make a life for himself. He could, after all, take grim satisfaction in the knowledge that the people who refused to help him now, might also lose their families to the killers. They would deserve it.
But his recollections of the good times he'd enjoyed with Wendy and the girls were more than he could dismiss. If he allowed killers like that to run loose, then he himself was as responsible as those who refused to help him hunt them now. It was just such thinking as that which had allowed the killers to roam free in the first place, free enough to rape and kill all of his girls. There was no law in New Mexico-- probably never would be, he thought. If there was to be any justice at all, it would come from his own hand....or his gun. John Hannal's doubts faded with the darkness, and he resolved at first light to again ride to Paydirt and kidnap Erin. Then he would get the answers he wanted. Then the deputy would die.
Next Chapter
Sands of Sedona, Chap 1
Sands of Sedona, Chap 2
Sands of Sedona, Chap 3
Sands of Sedona, Chap 4
Sands of Sedona, Chap 5
Sands of Sedona, Chap 6
Sands of Sedona, Chap 7
Sands of Sedona, Chap 8
Sands of Sedona, Chap 9
Sands of Sedona, Chap 10
Sands of Sedona, Chap 11
Sands of Sedona, Chap 12