“And they always drink from that stream,” Jacob agreed. We sat our horses, studying them. We would have to cull them, turn the rejects back to their freedom, and then start breaking the others. Watching them from where we were, we could see a few that could be turned out, but by and large they were in good shape, a well-built bunch of horses. “Give ‘em a few years,” Monte said, “and you’ll look a long time to find any horses you want to keep. We’ll cut this bunch for culls, and the next bunch, too. Then along will come some other wild-horse hunters, and they’ll cut for the best stock, too. It won’t be no time at all until all you find out there will be culls.”
“Do you suppose Miss Nesselrode was thinking of that?” I wondered. Jacob shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve given up trying to second-guess that woman. I just know that seven times out of ten she’s right, and when she makes a mistake, she swallows it and never tries to blame anybody else.” The quicker we could get rid of the culls, the better off we’d be, as there would be that much more grass for what remained. We stayed away, watching from a distance, letting them get settled down.
“Funny thing about wild horses. Folks think it’s the stallion who keeps them together. It’s true that he herds them around, fights off varmints and any other stallions who want to take over, but there’s something more going for them. Take away the stallion, and the others will fight to get back together. “They’ve become a family. Good neighbors, at least, and they want to stay with their friends. Watch ‘em, you’ll see.”
Jacob indicated the black stallion. “That one’s a troublemaker. He’s too smart.
I think we should get rid of him.”
“I want him,” I said.
“Look,” Jacob warned, “that stallion is anyway six years old. He’s been runnin’ wild all that time. He’s tough and he’s smart, and he looks to me like a fighter. He’ll make you no end of trouble.”
“He’s right, Johannes,” Monte said.
“I want him,” I insisted. “Leave him to me.”
“Your funeral,” Jacob said, “and it could be just that.”
The weather held. It was bright and clear, day and night, and we took our time. Nobody was in a hurry, nobody was waiting for us. Nobody had a watch and nobody had a calendar. We just forgot all about time except for dawn and sunset. When we quit work, we’d eat, and then I’d stroll down to the corral. I’d already learned that singing will quiet a herd, mostly because it knows where that sound is coming from and that you’re not some varmint sneaking up on them. I’d lean on the gate and keep my voice low. I wanted them to get to know me, and especially that black, who seemed to know that gate was the way out. He watched it like a hawk, never far away, always watching his chance. We started weeding them out on the first day, two of us riding into the corral and just easing the culls out, with a man on the gate ready to open and close it. Some of the culls ran away; others hung around looking for their friends, like Jacob had said.
We tried not to make any fuss. We wanted them to get used to our moving around and to the feeling that we didn’t represent trouble. We spotted a couple wearing brands, and there were three mules in the lot which showed signs of having been worked.
Even in the pasture we’d created, they separated into bunches. The black stallion kept his lot to one side, but never far from the gate. “Horses may seem stupid,” Jacob said, “but they know what they have to know to get along, and you can teach them a lot if you take time. Wild horses have learned a lot by just surviving out there, so be careful.”
By the fourth day, taking our time and raising no dust, we had weeded out most of the culls. We were sitting by the fire considering our next step when Ramon came in and squatted near us. He accepted a cup of coffee, sipped a little, and then said, “Somebody is out there.”
Jacob looked over at him. “Injuns?”
“White men. Six, maybe seven. They watch us.”
“Could be Fletcher,” I said. “I never liked that man.” Jacob agreed. Monte reached for the coffeepot. “Why don’t we take turns standing by with rifles? Maybe two at a time?”
Fletcher it could be, but there was also my grandfather. His holdings were vast and he had many riders, few of whom I knew by sight. There were other dangers, too, the Mohaves, who raided deep into the settlements at times, and the few lingering Piutes who came down from the Tehachapis. There was also, somewhere around, old Peg-Leg Smith. Supposedly he had left the country, but one could never be sure. He was a wily old pirate, and if I judged him right, he would wait until we had our horses broken to ride, and then steal them. They would bring more money.
I said as much, but Jacob doubted his presence. “Heard he was up Frisco way. You know, that little town on the bay?”
“Monterey?” Monte suggested.
“North of there. Yerba Buena, they called it. I heard the name was changed.” There was good talk around the campfire, and occasionally the Indians joined in, but usually it was Alejandro who did the talking. He had left the Cahuilla country as a young boy and worked on the west side of the mountains; then for a time he had gone north and worked for a doctor up there, often riding with him when he made calls on the sick.
We moved our camp closer to our horses, both to protect them and to let them become familiar with us. Jacob decided after studying the horses that aside from the mules there were at least four horses that showed signs of having been ridden. Separating them from the others, we brought them outside, and Monte offered to ride them.
Ramon was quiet, speaking rarely. He had an easy way with horses and occasionally led one out of the corral, walked it around, let it graze where the grass was green and fresh while he held the picket rope himself. His way of gentling horses took time, but when he called them, they came to him. For three weeks we worked hard, breaking horses to lead and to ride. The Cahuillas we had were all riders, but Francisco was the best of the lot. Even Ramon avoided the black stallion. “He is a devil,” he warned. “I’d say turn him loose or shoot him,” Monte advised. “He’s been wild too long and has been leading that herd too long. Look at the teeth scars and hoof scars. He’s a fighter.”
Nobody needed to tell me that. It showed in every line of him, and he was wary, watching his chance to escape and take his bunch with him. Sometimes I’d gather some green grass from near the water and drop it over the fence, and his mares would eat it, but not him.
At night when I was on watch I’d move over close to the corral where I could keep an eye on the horses. They would know if trouble was coming before I would, and it was a lot easier to watch them than to stare into the shadows under the trees. Sometimes I’d talk to them, low-voiced. Mostly I was talking to him, and I had an idea he knew it.
I’ve known men who thought horses stupid, but it’s been my impression that horses are only as stupid as their masters. A riding man in wild country becomes very close to his horse, and most talk to them as to another person. The horse listens, and although he may not understand, there is communication and he senses the kinship of interests if no more.
The black stallion was wild and might have been wild all his years, yet sometimes I wondered about that. Sometimes I had a feeling he had belonged to somebody sometime, maybe when he was very young. Each morning we roped a few head and took them out of the corral, where any fighting they did wouldn’t get the others wrought up. Monte McCalla was a first-class hand, more experienced with breaking horses than any of us. Alejandro was good, too, as he’d broken horses for the doctor up north. We were settling down to eat when we heard a horse walking. Jacob stayed where he was by the fire, but Monte an’ me, we faded back into the dark. The Cahuillas were already there.
We waited, and then somebody called out, “Hello, the camp! How’s for some coffee?”
“Ride in,” Jacob Finney said, “but ride easy, with your hands in sight.” He was a tall, very lean man, a little stooped. He had quick, ferretlike eyes and he rode a dapple-gray gelding, a fine animal. There was no blanket roll behind his saddle.