SUPPER over, the hunters drew their chairs around the fireplace, and Dick, after filling his pipe, and drawing a few puffs1 by way of inspiration, said:
“I believe I onct told you ’bout havin’ my hoss pulled out from under me by a grizzly2 bar, didn’t I? Wal, I told you, too, that I ketched another, an’ I had a job to do it, too—to ketch the one I wanted; an’ the time you’ve had tryin’ to ketch that black fox reminds me of it. You know, I s’pose, that large droves of wild hosses roam all over the prairy, an’ them droves ar allers led by some splendid animal—allers a stallion—one that has got the legs to go like lightnin’, an’ the wind to keep it up. An’ he’s allers the cock o’ the walk, too—the best fighter in the drove; an’ when he moves round, it would make you laugh to see the other hosses get out of his way. He holds his place until he dies, unless some other hoss comes along an’ wallops him. Then he takes his place with the common fags o’ the drove, an’ the new one is king till he gets licked, an’ so on. It ar a mighty3 hard thing to capture one o’ them leaders. You can ketch one o’ the others easy enough, but when it comes to lassoin’ the ‘king,’ it’s a thing that few trappers can do. Jest arter my scrape with the grizzly bar, Bill Lawson an’ me fell in with a lot o’ fellers that war goin’ to spend a season on the Saskatchewan, an’ they wanted me an’ Bill to join ’em; so I bought me a hoss of an ole Injun for a couple o’ plugs o’ tobacker—reg’lar Jeems River it war, too—an’ we started out. My new hoss was ’bout as ugly a lookin’ thing as I ever happened to set eyes on. He war big as all out-doors, an’ you could see every bone in his body. An’ he war ugly actin’, too; an’ if a feller come within reach of his heels, the way he would kick war a caution to Injuns. But I hadn’t been on the road more’n a day afore I diskivered that he could travel like a streak4 o’ greased lightnin’. That war jest the kind of a hoss I wanted, an’ I didn’t care ’bout his ugly looks arter that.
“For more’n three year, me an’ Bill had been keepin’ an eye on a hoss that we wanted to ketch. He war the leader of a large drove. He war a sort o’ iron-gray color, with a thick, archin’ neck—a purty feller; an’ the way he could climb over the prairy was a caution to cats. We warn’t the only ones arter him, either, for a’most every trapper in the country had seed him, an’ had more’n one chase arter him. But, bars and buffaler! It war no use ’t all, for he could run away from the fastest hosses, an’ not half try; an’ many a poor feller, who straddled a hoss that every body thought couldn’t be tuckered out, had left his animal dead on the prairy, an’ found his way back to his camp on foot. We war in hopes that we should see him, for we war travelin’ right through his country; an’ I knowed that if we did find him, I would stand as good a chance o’ ketchin’ him as any one, for my ugly-lookin’ hoss was the best traveler in the crowd.
“One night we camped on a little stream, called Bloody5 Creek6. We called it so from a fight that a party of us fellers had there with the Injuns. About an hour arter supper, while we war all settin’ round the fire, smokin’ an’ telling stories, ole Bob Kelly—the oldest an’ best trapper in the country—started up off his blanket, an’, cockin’ his ear for a moment, said, ‘Somebody’s comin’, boys.’ An’, sure ’nough, in a few minits up walked a stranger.
“It ar a mighty uncommon7 thing to meet a teetotal stranger on the prairy, an’ a man don’t know whether he is a friend or foe8; but we war mighty glad to see him, and crowded round him, askin’ all sorts o’ questions; an’ one took his rifle, an’ another pulled off his powder-horn an’ bullet-pouch, an’ a big feller dragged him to the fire, where we could all get a good look at him, an’ made him drink a big cup o’ coffee.
“‘Whar do you hail from, stranger?’ inquired ole Bob Kelly, who allers took them matters into his own hands, an’ we little fellers had to set round an’ listen.
“‘I b’long anywhere night ketches me,’ answered the stranger. ‘I’m an ole trapper in these yere parts.’
“‘Whar’s your hoss?’ asked ole Bob.
“‘I left him dead on the prairy—dead as a herrin’. I rid him a leetle too hard, I reckon. I war chasin’ up the black mustang.’
“If I should live to be a hundred year older ’n I’m now, an’ should live among the Blackfoot Injuns the hull9 time, I shouldn’t expect to hear another sich a yell as ’em trappers give when the stranger mentioned the black mustang. They crowded round him like a flock o’ sheep, all askin’ him questions; an’ he tried to answer ’em all to onct; an’ sich a row as there war round that camp-fire for a few minits! It war wusser nor any Injun war-dance I ever seed. Now, me an’ Bill hadn’t never seed the black mustang, nor heerd o’ him afore, ’cause we hadn’t trapped in that part o’ the country for a’most three year, but we knowed in a minit that it must be the leader o’ some drove. But Bill had lived among the Injuns so much that he had got kinder used to their ways, an’ he didn’t like to see them trappers carryin’ on so, an’ actin’ like a parcel o’ young’uns jest turned loose from school; so, as soon as he could make himself heered, he yelled:
“‘What in tarnation’s the matter with you fellers? As soon as you git through hollerin’, me an’ Dick would like to know what all this yere fuss is about.’
“‘Why, the black mustang has been within ten mile of this yere camp to-night,’ said one of the trappers.
“‘Wal, an’ what o’ that?’ said Bill. ’Ar the black mustang any better hoss than the gray king?’
“They all set up another yell at this, an’ one of ’em said:
“‘Why, the gray ain’t nothin’ ’long side o’ the black mustang. ............