The mustang, as if it recognized the touch of
the master, pricked up one ear and side-stepped. The brief rest had
filled it with all the old, vicious energy.
For once more, as soon as they rode clear of the door, there ensued a
furious struggle between man and beast. The man won, as always, and the
roan, dropping both ears flat against its neck, trotted sullenly out
across the hills.
In that monotony of landscape, one mile exactly like the other, no
landmarks to guide him, no trail to follow, however faintly worn, it was
strange to see the cowpuncher strike out through the vast distances of
the mountain-desert with as much confidence as if he were travelling on
a paved street in a city. He had not even a compass to direct him but he
seemed to know his way as surely as the birds know the untracked paths
of the air in the seasons of migration.
Straight on through the afternoon and during the long evening he kept
his course at the same unvarying dog-trot until the flush of the sunset
faded to a stern grey and the purple hills in the distance turned blue
with shadows.
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