The Untamed | Page 2

is stopped but only needs a
spark of fire to plunge it into irresistible action. Strangely enough, the
youthful figure seemed in tune with that region of mighty distances,
with that white, cruel sun, with that bird of prey hovering high, high in
the air.
It required some study to guess at these qualities of the rider, for they
were such things as a child feels more readily than a grown man; but it
needed no expert to admire the horse he bestrode. It was a statue in
black marble, a steed fit for a Shah of Persia! The stallion stood barely
fifteen hands, but to see him was to forget his size. His flanks
shimmered like satin in the sun. What promise of power in the smooth,
broad hips! Only an Arab poet could run his hand over that shoulder
and then speak properly of the matchless curve. Only an Arab could

appreciate legs like thin and carefully drawn steel below the knees; or
that flow of tail and windy mane; that generous breast with promise of
the mighty heart within; that arched neck; that proud head with the
pricking ears, wide forehead, and muzzle, as the Sheik said, which
might drink from a pint-pot.
A rustling like dried leaves came from among the rocks and the hair
rose bristling around the neck of the wolflike dog. With outstretched
head he approached the rocks, sniffing, then stopped and turned shining
eyes upon his master, who nodded and swung from the saddle. It was a
little uncanny, this silent interchange of glances between the beast and
the man. The cause of the dog's anxiety was a long rattler which now
slid out from beneath a boulder, and giving its harsh warning, coiled,
ready to strike. The dog backed away, but instead of growling he
looked to the man.
Cowboys frequently practise with their revolvers at snakes, but one of
the peculiarities of this rider was that he carried no gun, neither
six-shooter nor rifle. He drew out a short knife which might be used to
skin a beef or carve meat, though certainly no human being had ever
used such a weapon against a five-foot rattler. He stooped and rested
both hands on his thighs. His feet were not two paces from the poised
head of the snake. As if marvelling at this temerity, the big rattler
tucked back his head and sounded the alarm again. In response the
cowboy flashed his knife in the sun. Instantly the snake struck but the
deadly fangs fell a few inches short of the riding boots. At the same
second the man moved. No eye could follow the leap of his hand as it
darted down and fastened around the snake just behind the head. The
long brown body writhed about his wrist, with rattles clashing. He
severed the head deftly and tossed the twisting mass back on the rocks.
Then, as if he had performed the most ordinary act, he rubbed his
gloves in the sand, cleansed his knife in a similar manner, and stepped
back to his horse. Contrary to the rules of horse-nature, the stallion had
not flinched at sight of the snake, but actually advanced a high-headed
pace or two with his short ears laid flat on his neck, and a sudden red
fury in his eyes. He seemed to watch for an opportunity to help his

master. As the man approached after killing the snake the stallion let
his ears go forward again and touched his nose against his master's
shoulder. When the latter swung into the saddle, the wolf-dog came to
his side, reared, and resting his forefeet on the stirrup stared up into the
rider's face. The man nodded to him, whereat, as if he understood a
spoken word, the dog dropped back and trotted ahead. The rider
touched the reins and galloped down the easy slope. The little episode
had given the effect of a three-cornered conversation. Yet the man had
been as silent as the animals.
In a moment he was lost among the hills, but still his whistling came
back, fainter and fainter, until it was merely a thrilling whisper that
dwelt in the air but came from no certain direction.
His course lay towards a road which looped whitely across the hills.
The road twisted over a low ridge where a house stood among a grove
of cottonwoods dense enough and tall enough to break the main force
of any wind. On the same road, a thousand yards closer to the rider of
the black stallion, was Morgan's place.
CHAPTER II
THE PANTHER
In the ranch house old Joseph Cumberland frowned on the floor as he
heard his daughter say: "It isn't right, Dad. I never noticed it before I
went away to school,