THE camp was astir early. George and Victor Shelton were surprised when told by Deerfoot of the visit received the night previous. A trapper had called upon him with three horses, conversed for an hour or more, and then departed, and was now miles away on the road to St. Louis. The Shawanoe related nothing of what passed between him and Jack Halloway except to say that he was belated in leaving the beaver runs in the mountains and meant to lose no time in reaching his distant home.

The towering peak, crested with snow, showed to the westward, but apparently it was little nearer than when first descried in relief against the blue sky. Mul-tal-la said that instead of keeping on to the peak and the range, which was quite extensive, they would now swerve to the northward and make more directly for the Blackfoot country. The headwaters of the North Fork of the Platte were among these elevations, and the journey would become easier through flanking them, as he and his companion had done when coming eastward. The range, however, trended to the northeast, and they would have to cross it in order to reach the sources of the numerous branches of the Yellowstone and Missouri. Then the course would bend to the northwest, parallel to the great Rocky Mountain range, but always east of it. Remember that the names of rivers and mountains which I use were wholly unknown to our friends, who had to rely for their general knowledge upon the information given by the observant Blackfoot.

The morning meal finished, and animals having been saddled and the packs replaced, Deerfoot, declining all offers to ride, asked George Shelton to loan him his spyglass for a few minutes. He pointed the instrument to the south, and stood for some time closely studying the horizon, for the sky was bright, and in the clear air his vision, thus aided, reached for a long distance.

It was apparent to his friends that he had discovered something of interest. They peered in the same direction, but without seeing anything except the monotonous undulations of the grassy plain. Not a tree, not a mountain, nor any prominent object was in sight.

Still it was evident that the Shawanoe was interested. Finally he handed the glass to George, who was in the saddle on the back of Jack.

“Let my brother tell me what he sees,” he quietly remarked.

The boy leveled the instrument and a moment later exclaimed:

“Horses! There are ten hundred thousand of them!”

“Deerfoot fears his brother has not counted right,” remarked the Shawanoe.

“I may be two or three out of the way,” replied the lad, “but I never before saw so many.”

He passed the glass to the impatient Victor, who took his turn at scanning the remarkable scene. Mul-tal-la sat as immobile as a statue on his horse, calmly waiting for the others to complete their scrutiny. His eyes were turned to the south, and the slight wrinkling of his cheeks showed that he was looking hard, though there was no other evidence of concern. Victor added his expressions of astonishment to those of his brother, and handed the instrument to the Blackfoot, who, of course, had learned its use long before. Thus the round of observation was finished.

That George had been extravagant in his estimate became clear when it was agreed that the drove of wild horses numbered perhaps two or three hundred. They were coming at an easy canter in a direct line for the camp, so that in a short time all were in plain sight of the unaided eye. No doubt they had wandered northward from the plains of Upper Texas—as it is now called—tempted by the fine pasturage, and possibly by that longing for change which sometimes shows itself in a quadruped to a hardly less degree than in a biped.

The picturesque scene did not make our friends lose sight of their own situation as regarded these wild animals. If they chose they could overrun the camp and trample all to death as the stampeded bison threatened to do but a short time before. Would they do so?

Mul-tal-la, whose previous experience gave him greater knowledge, did not think he and his companions were in special danger. Wild horses were not disposed to attack travelers, though there was a possibility of their doing so if provoked or if strangers got in their path or annoyed them. He warned his friends to watch against their own horses dashing out and joining the drove, though even if they did so they were liable to harm by the others, who were likely to resent such an intrusion.

The domestic horses were only a few minutes behind their owners in discovering the strangers’ approach. They showed considerable excitement, throwing up their heads, snuffing the air and staring affrightedly to the south. Only one, however, betrayed a disposition to make closer acquaintance with his wild brethren. It was Zigzag, who broke into a sudden awkward gallop, heading directly for them.

But he had time to go only a few paces when Deerfoot leaped in front of him, seized the rope halter and whirled him around with no gentle force. The horse persisted, but the youth spoke sharply, slapped the side of his head, and Mul-tal-la, who was the only one of the company that had provided himself with a switch, brought it down about the head and neck of the stubborn creature with a vicious vigor that quickly subdued him. Zigzag would have cut a fine figure in bouncing about among the wild animals with his huge pack on his back. Meanwhile a close watch was kept on the others, who could not fail to be impressed by the object lesson that had just been given them.

The drove maintained their easy swinging gallop until within two or three hundred yards. They had acted as if unaware of the little group drawn up on the prairie and scrutinizing them. Then the canter dropped to a trot, and then to a walk, the varying movements when these changes took place adding to the novelty of the picture. Among the horses were piebalds, roans, grays, sorrels and several of a milk-white color. The undulating bodies, with their different tints, were like the changing figures of the biograph.

Deerfoot explained to the boys that nothing was to be done unless the wild creatures continued to advance and showed a purpose to attack. At the proper moment he would give the word and they would fire into them, relying upon bringing down a number and stampeding the herd. Each of the party sat or stood, rifle in hand, awaiting the order from their leader, and closely watching every action of the wild horses, ready to let fly the instant it became necessary.

All at once, as if in obedience to a word of command, the herd paused, threw up their heads and stared at the small group. Several whinnied and showed excitement, for the sight must have been wholly new, and if they were not alarmed they were mystified.

Bug, Jack and Prince behaved better than was expected. They were in a tremor and plainly frightened, but remained under control. Zigzag seemed to be meditating some coup, but Deerfoot stood within a pace of his head, and was prepared to check anything of that nature. The animal had enough sense not to invite any more punishment, and remained still.

But previous to this, all had noticed the most striking feature of the exhibition. The drove was under the lead of a stallion that was the most superb steed upon which any of the travelers had ever looked. He was of large size, of a glossy coal-black color, and had a long flowing mane and a tail that reached almost to the ground. With head erect and every limb and movement the picture of beauty, grace and strength, he was impressively perfect. The sight was one to hold a spectator spellbound with admiration. Even Deerfoot forgot for a moment the situation of himself and companions in his wonder at the picture before him.

Perhaps you know that the roving bands of wild horses are generally under the leadership of a stallion who has attained the honor by beating off all rivals, and who retains his supreme power until, as his years increase and his prowess declines, some younger aspirant dethrones him and takes his place as king. As commander-in-chief of his equine army, the stallion must be of unflinching courage and game to the death. No band of wolves, no matter how numerous, dare attack the compact body under his leadership, nor indeed need the horses fear any marauder of the plains, for with such an example of knightly dauntlessness ever before them, their heels and teeth are impregnable.

Like obedient soldiers, the members of the herd stood motionless, with heads raised, snuffing the air and gazing at the strange creatures, three of whom were astride of members of their own species, and one afoot; and, like an officer who will not permit a subaltern or private to assume a risk that he fears to take himself, the stallion of midnight blackness now advanced, as if to call the strangers to account.

He came forward at a measured deliberate walk, head high in air, tail sweeping near the ground, mane falling low, with his silken ears thrust forward, eyes glowing, and indulging in a peculiar flirting of his nose, as if he sought thereby to sharpen his perceptions. The mouth was partly open, and it was clear that he did not feel quite at ease in thus approaching the strange group. But the eyes of his subjects were upon him, and he would die before faltering in the face of an enemy. So he came on, with a step that was the more impressive because it was so slow, so deliberate and yet so unhesitating.

While Mul-tal-la, George and Victor Shelton were studying him with absorbing intentness, Deerfoot, the Shawanoe, became an actor in the extraordinary drama.

His position was slightly in advance of his friends. He now handed his rifle to Mul-tal-la and coolly walked forward toward the stallion. His arms were hanging at his side, and his step was timed to that of the horse, so that it was as if both were marching to the tap of the same drum. His action centered the eyes of all the animals of both parties as well as those of his friends upon him.

When this singular performance began less than fifty paces separated the Shawanoe and the equine chief. The approach continued until half the interval was passed, when the stallion paused. Evidently he was not clear as to the meaning of the youth’s conduct. The latter slowed his pace, but did not stop. The horse raised his head higher, flirted his nose, flinging a speck of foam over his black breast. Probably, had the two been alone, he would have retreated, for there was something uncanny in the advance of the Shawanoe, but he remembered that the eyes of his own soldiers were upon him, and he could not show the white feather. Possibly, too, he understood that his enemy, as he regarded him, was without any formidable weapon with which to defend himself. The next action of the brute gave reasonableness to this theory, for, after his brief pause, he resumed his approach at a brisker step than before.

Deerfoot now stood still and awaited his coming, his arms still at his side, but with all his muscles, nerves and senses strung to the highest tension. The stallion meant to fight him, and the youth was waiting for the battle to open.

Mul-tal-la hardly breathed, so intense was his interest, but he held his bow and arrow ready to launch the missile if it should become necessary to save his friend. The brothers would have shot the stallion without further delay had they dared to do so, but they could only imitate the Blackfoot—hold themselves ready to interfere at the critical moment. They could not run the risk of offending their friend by interposing until the necessity arose.

The black steed advanced with a more confident step, and Deerfoot stood as if he were a figure carved in stone. Then, when they were within a step or two, the stallion thrust forward his head, and his white teeth were seen to gleam as he made a vicious snap at the face of the youth. The latter recoiled just enough to escape the bite, and with the flat of his hand smote the side of the nose with a vigor that must have given a sharp tingle to the horse. With a neigh of rage he instantly reared and savagely pawed the air with his front hoofs. He struck at the Shawanoe, who leaped slightly back to avoid the feet, which, had they landed, would have cloven his skull in twain. Then he ran swiftly for a few paces and with a single bound rose like a bird in air and dropped astride of the satin back.

“Now throw Deerfoot if you can!” he shouted. Then he called to his dazed friends:

“Leave us alone!”

Who can imagine the rage of the stallion when he found that a man was on his back? It took him a few seconds to understand the mortal insult, and then his fury burst forth like the fires of a volcano. In his wild delirium he emitted a shrieking cry, such as his species sometimes utter when in the extremity of terror, and began rearing and plunging in the very desperation of frenzy. “Bucking,” as displayed by the bronchos of the West in these times, was an unknown science to him, but he seemed one moment to be standing on his fore feet with his flying heels kicking vertically upward, and then, reversing in a flash, became upright like a man. Next he spun around as if he were a top, first to the right and then to the left, up-ended again, alternating with an abruptness that would have made an ordinary spectator dizzy.

Deerfoot held his seat as if he were a part of the brute himself. The luxuriant mane gave him a firm support. Sometimes he lay flat on the back of the steed, when he appeared to be trying to stand on his head, and the next moment was extended on his face and gripping the forelock. Then he was over the shoulders, and, in the same moment, astride of his haunches, but never once did he yield his seat.

While this battle royal was raging the other wild horses did a cowardly thing. Frightened by the struggle, whose nature they could not understand, they broke into a panic and dashed headlong to the southward. Had they possessed a tithe of the courage of their leader and gone forward to his aid, Deerfoot would have been doomed, but they basely deserted him in his extremity. What matter if they lost their despot? There were plenty of rivals to take his place. “The king is dead—long live the king!”

Again the stallion’s head went up in air. The right hand of Deerfoot gripped the forelock, and he seemed to hang suspended, so nearly perpendicular was the position of the two. In the delicate poise the slightest impulse was enough to throw the center of gravity outside the base. The Shawanoe gave that impulse by swinging his feet and body backward while supported by the forelock.

Over went the stallion squarely on his back with a thump that shook the ground. The shock was a severe one and by no means pleasant, nor was it what the brute had figured upon. He pawed the air, kicked and quickly struggled to his feet. The moment he came up Deerfoot, who had easily eluded the danger, sprang upon his back again.

Although he could not have forgotten his overthrow, the stallion reared once more, taking care not to rise as high as before. Standing thus nearly erect, his fore hoofs beating the air, the rider holding himself in place by twisting the fingers of his right hand in the forelock, Deerfoot leaned forward alongside the neck of the brute, and, reaching down with his left hand, seized the ankle of the stallion just below the fetlock, where he could almost span the limb.

The grip was like that of Damascus steel, and when the Shawanoe drew upward and held the hoof against the body of the horse, almost touching the upper part of the leg, because of the abruptness of the bend at the knee, it was as if the foot was imprisoned in a vise. The stallion, in his blind struggles, went forward on one shoulder and rolled over. Deerfoot was off again, and, letting the scared brute clamber to his feet, vaulted upon his back as before.

By this time the stallion was panic-smitten. Sweat was beginning to show, and his satin coat gleamed with new luster. Finding himself once more on his feet, he uttered another wild whinny and burst away over the prairie like a thunderbolt. It is not likely that he recalled the drove of which he was leader. If he did, he must have been angered by their base desertion of him, for he headed straight westward, and, when last seen by our friends, was running at his highest bent toward the snow-clad mountain, with the Shawanoe firmly seated on his back. George Shelton kept the glass to his eye till the two became a flickering speck in the distance and then vanished.

Deerfoot was well satisfied with the way things had gone and were still going. He had “cut out” the stallion from his herd, had mastered him in the furious fight, and, to complete the conquest, it was necessary still further to subdue him; that could be done only by allowing or compelling the brute to exhaust himself. The fight recalled his conquest years before of Thunderbolt, also a black stallion, on the other side of the Mississippi.

The heart of the Shawanoe glowed with admiration and pride in the magnificent creature whom he had resolved to capture and subdue. Never had he bestrode so matchless a steed, nor one with a more beautiful stride, as he flew westward like the wind. Could he be made a prize he would be worth a prince’s ransom.

Deerfoot therefore complacently waited for the stallion to tire himself out. It looked as if he would never do so, but there is a limit to the capacity of every animal. Mile after mile was swept under those rhythmic hoofs with no apparent slackening, but by and by the watchful youth noted a lagging of the gait. The pace was beginning to tell. Waiting until the slowing became more marked, Deerfoot struck his heels against the ribs, slapped the sweaty neck and emitted a series of striking war-whoops.

The stallion was off again as if fired from the throat of a columbiad, and maintained the pace for fifteen or twenty minutes, when he began falling away. The rider kicked, slapped and shouted, and the horse responded with another burst, which made the air whistle in a gale past the ears of the rider. The brute was reeking with sweat, but he struggled gallantly. He had flung many miles behind him and was good for many more.

The alternating slackening and bursts of speed were kept up till finally the sorely pressed animal was unable to respond. After several brave but useless efforts he ceased the attempt. He had done his best and could do no more.