Pinto Lowery Read Online Free PDF

George Lowery.And there was some question as to whether the white-faced black stallion did either.
    â€œEvery time up’s a puzzle, eh, boy?” Pinto asked as he mounted the defiant stallion one mid-May morning. “You jus’ can’t give yerself over, can you?”
    As if to answer, the stallion shook his head and bucked a moment before Pinto squeezed the rebellion out of the beast with his knees.
    â€œLet’s take a bit of a ride,” Pinto suggested.
    He then trotted toward the fence, dismounted long enough to slide back two rails, and led the horse through. After replacing the rails, Pinto approached the stallion cautiously. Never before had he dared take the horse out into the ravine. As for the stallion, the animal gave a snort and dipped his head. Then it waited meekly for Pinto to climb atop.
    â€œThought you’d skedaddle sure,” Pinto remarked as he urged the stallion into a trot. “Nothin’ holdin’ you, but o’ course you didn’t know.”
    The stallion responded by rearing up on his hind legs and then setting off down the ravine quick as lightning. The horse was a comet—all speed and fury. Pinto hung onto the reins and shouted encouragement.
    â€œGo, won’t you? Show me what you can manage!”
    The animal raced down the ravine, splashed across the Brazos shallows, and galloped on toward the boundless plain. For a time Pinto gave the horse its head. Only later did he turn the stallion west and then north—back to the canyon.
    â€œYer a regular dancer!” Pinto exclaimed upon returning. The mares stirred anxiously as the lathered stallion pranced through the open gate. But Pinto had no trouble sliding the rails back into place, and when he removed the saddle and drew out the bit, the big horse dropped its head onto Pinto’s shoulder. The mustanger stroked the animal and sighed.
    â€œDone stole de wind from you, boy,” Pinto remarked. “Ain’t wild no more. But you’s as good a pony as a man’s got a right to dream ’bout. Time we took ourselves a ride toward town, sold off a few o’ dese others.”
    Pinto slept long and well that night. His dreams filled with the cries of auctioneers as cattlemen gathered to bid up the price of Pinto Lowery’s prime cow ponies.
    â€œThey’s jest mustangs,” one young cowboy declared.
    â€œYou ain’t been alive long enough to know what a good horse is, boy!” another chastised. “Lowery was runnin’ ponies down when you was wettin’ yerself.”
    Stacks of banknotes and fistfuls of gold pieces reduced the herd. That money spelled a prosperous future. Land was cheap, and a few thousand dollars could buy a fine stretch of country. Hadn’t men turned the profits from driving mavericks to Kansas into empires? Bob Toney had started the Lazy T with gold pieces earned from selling the Yank cavalry a batch of remounts.
    Soon the vision of a wealthy and respected Pinto Lowery appeared. Bankers tipped their hats, and ladies curtsied. His credit was good in every saloon west of Fort Worth. Then a big-nosed monster appeared, smoking pistol in hand, and stole it all away.
    â€œGot unfinished business,” Joe Hannigan insisted as he nodded to his brother Pat. The younger Hannigan drew out Muley’s mouth organ and struck up a tune. The first notes of “Dixie” were tormenting Pinto when he suddenly bolted upright. The dream exploded, leaving only bits of nightmare to haunt the nervous mustanger.
    â€œLord, thad was a turn,” Pinto said, mopping his damp brow and fighting to regain control of his heaving chest. “Poor time fer de bad dreams to come back.”
    He steadied his nerves and glanced around at the horses. They were calm enough, and he tried to put aside the vision of Joe Hannigan’s cruel eyes. The memory of Muley’s pale face was heavy in Pinto’s thoughts just then, though, and it was a time