Horses by Stephen Crane
Richardson pulled up his horse, and looked back over the trail where
the crimson serape of his servant flamed amid the dusk of the mesquit.
The hills in the west were carved into peaks, and were painted the
most profound blue. Above them the sky was of that marvellous tone of
green—like still, sun-shot water—which people denounce in pictures.
José was muffled deep in his blanket, and his great toppling sombrero
was drawn low over his brow. He shadowed his master along the dimming
trail in the fashion of an assassin. A cold wind of the impending night
swept over the wilderness of mesquit.
"Man," said Richardson in lame Mexican as the servant drew near, "I
want eat! I want sleep! Understand—no? Quickly! Understand?"
"Si, señor," said José, nodding. He stretched one arm out of his
blanket and pointed a yellow finger into the gloom. "Over there, small
village. Si, señor."
They rode forward again. Once the American's horse shied and breathed
quiveringly at something which he saw or imagined in the darkness,
rider drew a steady, patient rein, and leaned over to speak
tenderly as if he were addressing a frightened woman. The sky had faded
to white over the mountains, and the plain was a vast, pointless ocean
Suddenly some low houses appeared squatting amid the bushes. The
horsemen rode into a hollow until the houses rose against the sombre
sundown sky, and then up a small hillock, causing these habitations to
sink like boats in the sea of shadow.
A beam of red firelight fell across the trail. Richardson sat sleepily
on his horse while his servant quarrelled with somebody—a mere voice
in the gloom—over the price of bed and board. The houses about him
were for the most part like tombs in their whiteness and silence, but
there were scudding black figures that seemed interested in his arrival.
José came at last to the horses' heads, and the American slid stiffly
from his seat. He muttered a greeting, as with his spurred feet he
clicked into the adobe house that confronted him. The brown stolid face
of a woman shone in the light of the fire. He seated himself on the
earthen floor and blinked drowsily at the blaze. He was aware that the
woman was clinking earthenware, and hieing here and everywhere in the
manoeuvres of the housewife. From a dark corner there came the sound
of two or three snores twining together.
The woman handed him a bowl of tortillas. She was a submissive
creature, timid and large-eyed. She gazed at his enormous silver spurs,
his large and impressive revolver, with the interest and admiration
of the highly-privileged cat of the adage. When he ate, she seemed
transfixed off there in the gloom, her white teeth shining.
José entered, staggering under two Mexican saddles, large enough for
building-sites. Richardson decided to smoke a cigarette, and then
changed his mind. It would be much finer to go to sleep. His blanket
hung over his left shoulder, furled into a long pipe of cloth,
according to the Mexican fashion. By doffing his sombrero, unfastening
his spurs and his revolver belt, he made himself ready for the slow,
blissful twist into the blanket. Like a cautious man he lay close to
the wall, and all his property was very near his hand.
The mesquit brush burned long. José threw two gigantic wings of shadow
as he flapped his blanket about him—first across his chest under his
arms, and then around his neck and across his chest again—this time
over his arms, with the end tossed on his right shoulder. A Mexican
thus snugly enveloped can nevertheless free his fighting arm in a
beautifully brisk way, merely shrugging his shoulder as he grabs for
the weapon at his belt. (They always wear their serapes in this manner.)
The firelight smothered the rays which, streaming from a moon as large
as a drum-head, were struggling at the open door. Richardson heard from
the plain the fine, rhythmical trample of the hoofs of hurried horses.
He went to sleep wondering who rode so fast and so late. And in the
deep silence the pale rays of the moon must have prevailed against the
red spears of the fire until the room was slowly flooded to its middle
with a rectangle of silver light.
Richardson was awakened by the sound of a guitar. It was badly
played—in this land of Mexico, from which the romance of the
instrument ascends to us like a perfume. The guitar was groaning and
whining like a badgered soul. A noise of scuffling feet accompanied the
music. Sometimes laughter arose, and often the voices of men saying
bitter things to each other, but always the guitar cried on, the treble
sounding as if some one were beating iron, and the bass humming like
bees. "Damn it—they're having a dance," he muttered, fretfully. He
heard two men quarrelling in short, sharp words, like pistol shots;
they were calling each other worse names than common people know in
other countries. He wondered why the noise was so loud. Raising his
head from his saddle pillow, he saw, with the help of the valiant
moonbeams, a blanket hanging flat against the wall at the further end
of the room. Being of opinion that it concealed a door, and remembering
that Mexican drink made men very drunk, he pulled his revolver closer
to him and prepared for sudden disaster.
Richardson was dreaming of his far and beloved north.
"Well, I would kill him, then!"
"No, you must not!"
"Yes, I will kill him! Listen! I will ask this American beast for his
beautiful pistol and spurs and money and saddle, and if he will not
give them—you will see!"
"But these Americans—they are a strange people. Look out, señor."
Then twenty voices took part in the discussion. They rose in quavering
shrillness, as from men badly drunk. Richardson felt the skin draw
tight around his mouth, and his knee-joints turned to bread. He slowly
came to a sitting posture, glaring at the motionless blanket at the
far end of the room. This stiff and mechanical movement, accomplished
entirely by the muscles of the waist, must have looked like the rising
of a corpse in the wan moonlight, which gave everything a hue of the
My friend, take my advice and never be executed by a hangman who
doesn't talk the English language. It, or anything that resembles
it, is the most difficult of deaths. The tumultuous emotions of
Richardson's terror destroyed that slow and careful process of thought
by means of which he understood Mexican. Then he used his instinctive
comprehension of the first and universal language, which is tone.
Still, it is disheartening not to be able to understand the detail of
threats against the blood of your body.
Suddenly, the clamour of voices ceased. There was a silence—a silence
of decision. The blanket was flung aside, and the red light of a torch
flared into the room. It was held high by a fat, round-faced Mexican,
whose little snake-like moustache was as black as his eyes, and whose
eyes were black as jet. He was insane with the wild rage of a man
whose liquor is dully burning at his brain. Five or six of his fellows
crowded after him. The guitar, which had been thrummed doggedly during
the time of the high words, now suddenly stopped. They contemplated
each other. Richardson sat very straight and still, his right hand lost
in his blanket. The
Mexicans jostled in the light of the torch, their
eyes blinking and glittering.
The fat one posed in the manner of a grandee. Presently his hand
dropped to his belt, and from his lips there spun an epithet—a hideous
word which often foreshadows knife-blows, a word peculiarly of Mexico,
where people have to dig deep to find an insult that has not lost its
savour. The American did not move. He was staring at the fat Mexican
with a strange fixedness of gaze, not fearful, not dauntless, not
anything that could be interpreted. He simply stared.
The fat Mexican must have been disconcerted, for he continued to
pose as a grandee, with more and more sublimity, until it would have
been easy for him to have fallen over backward. His companions were
swaying very drunkenly. They still blinked their little beady eyes at
Richardson. Ah, well, sirs, here was a mystery! At the approach of
their menacing company, why did not this American cry out and turn
pale, or run, or pray them mercy? The animal merely sat still, and
stared, and waited for them to begin. Well, evidently he was a great
fighter! Or perhaps he was an idiot? Indeed, this was an embarrassing
situation, for who was going forward to discover whether he was a great
fighter or an idiot?
To Richardson, whose nerves were tingling and twitching like live
wires, and whose heart jolted inside him, this pause was a long horror;
and for these men, who could so frighten him, there began to swell in
him a fierce hatred—a hatred that made him long to be capable of
fighting all of them, a hatred that made him capable of fighting all
of them. A 44-calibre revolver can make a hole large enough for little
boys to shoot marbles through; and there was a certain fat Mexican with
a moustache like a snake who came extremely near to have eaten his last
tomale merely because he frightened a man too much.
José had slept the first part of the night in his fashion, his body
hunched into a heap, his legs crooked, his head touching his knees.
Shadows had obscured him from the sight of the invaders. At this point
he arose, and began to prowl quakingly over toward Richardson, as if he
meant to hide behind him.
Of a sudden the fat Mexican gave a howl of glee. José had come within
the torch's circle of light. With roars of ferocity the whole group of
Mexicans pounced on the American's servant. He shrank shuddering away
from them, beseeching by every device of word and gesture. They pushed
him this way and that. They beat him with their fists. They stung him
with their curses. As he grovelled on his knees, the fat Mexican took
him by the throat and said—"I am going to kill you!" And continually
they turned their eyes to see if they were to succeed in causing the
initial demonstration by the American. But he looked on impassively.
Under the blanket his fingers were clenched, as iron, upon the handle
of his revolver.
Here suddenly two brilliant clashing chords from the guitar were
heard, and a woman's voice, full of laughter and confidence, cried
from without—"Hello! hello! Where are you?" The lurching company of
Mexicans instantly paused and looked at the ground. One said, as he
stood with his legs wide apart in order to balance himself—"It is the
girls. They have come!" He screamed in answer to the question of the
woman—"Here!" And without waiting he started on a pilgrimage toward
the blanket-covered door. One could now hear a number of female voices
giggling and chattering.
Two other Mexicans said—"Yes, it is the girls! Yes!" They also started
quietly away. Even the fat Mexican's ferocity seemed to be affected.
He looked uncertainly at the still immovable American. Two of his
friends grasped him gaily—"Come, the girls are here! Come!" He cast
another glower at Richardson. "But this——," he began. Laughing, his
comrades hustled him toward the door. On its threshold, and holding
back the blanket, with one hand, he turned his yellow face with a last
challenging glare toward the American. José, bewailing his state in
little sobs of utter despair and woe, crept to Richardson and huddled
near his knee. Then the cries of the Mexicans meeting the girls were
heard, and the guitar burst out in joyous humming.
The moon clouded, and but a faint square of light fell through the
open main door of the house. The coals of the fire were silent, save
for occasional sputters. Richardson did not change his position. He
remained staring at the blanket which hid the strategic door in the far
end. At his knees José was arguing, in a low, aggrieved tone, with the
Without, the Mexicans laughed and danced, and—it would appear
from the sound—drank more.
In the stillness and the night Richardson sat wondering if some
serpent-like Mexican were sliding towards him in the darkness, and if
the first thing he knew of it would be the deadly sting of a knife.
"Sssh," he whispered, to José. He drew his revolver from under the
blanket, and held it on his leg. The blanket over the door fascinated
him. It was a vague form, black and unmoving. Through the opening it
shielded were to come, probably, threats, death. Sometimes he thought
he saw it move. As grim white sheets, the black and silver of coffins,
all the panoply of death, affect us, because of that which they hide,
so this blanket, dangling before a hole in an adobe wall, was to
Richardson a horrible emblem, and a horrible thing in itself. In his
present mood he could not have been brought to touch it with his finger.
The celebrating Mexicans occasionally howled in song. The guitarist
played with speed and enthusiasm. Richardson longed to run. But in this
vibrating and threatening gloom his terror convinced him that a move
on his part would be a signal for the pounce of death. José, crouching
abjectly, mumbled now and again. Slowly, and ponderous as stars, the
Suddenly Richardson thrilled and started. His breath for a moment left
him. In sleep his nerveless fingers had allowed his revolver to fall
and clang upon the hard floor. He grabbed it up hastily, and his glance
swept apprehensively over the room. A chill blue light of dawn was
in the place. Every outline was slowly growing; detail was following
detail. The dread blanket did not move. The riotous company had gone
or fallen silent. He felt the effect of this cold dawn in his blood.
The candour of breaking day brought his nerve. He touched José. "Come,"
he said. His servant lifted his lined yellow face, and comprehended.
Richardson buckled on his spurs and strode up; José obediently lifted
the two great saddles. Richardson held two bridles and a blanket on his
left arm; in his right hand he had his revolver. They sneaked toward
The man who said that spurs jingled was insane. Spurs have a mellow
clash—clash—clash. Walking in spurs—notably Mexican spurs—you
remind yourself vaguely of a telegraphic linesman. Richardson was
inexpressibly shocked when he came to walk. He sounded to himself like
a pair of cymbals. He would have known of this if he had reflected; but
then, he was escaping, not reflecting. He made a gesture of despair,
and from under the two saddles José tried to make one of hopeless
horror. Richardson stooped, and with shaking fingers unfastened the
spurs. Taking them in his left hand, he picked up his revolver, and
they slunk on toward the door. On the threshold he looked back. In a
corner he saw, watching him with large eyes, the Indian man and woman
who had been his hosts. Throughout the night they had made no sign, and
now they neither spoke nor moved. Yet Richardson thought he detected
meek satisfaction at his departure.
The street was still and deserted. In the eastern sky there was a
lemon-coloured patch. José had picketed the horses at the side of the
house. As the two men came round the corner Richardson's beast set up
a whinny of welcome. The little horse had heard them coming. He stood
facing them, his ears cocked forward, his eyes bright with welcome.
Richardson made a frantic gesture, but the horse, in his happiness at
the appearance of his friends, whinnied with enthusiasm. The American
felt that he could have strangled his well-beloved steed. Upon the
threshold of safety, he was being betrayed by his horse, his friend! He
felt the same hate that he would have felt for a dragon. And yet, as he
glanced wildly about him, he could see nothing stirring in the street,
nothing at the doors of the tomb-like houses.
José had his own saddle-girth and both bridles buckled in a moment. He
curled the picket-ropes with a few sweeps of his arm. The American's
fingers, however, were shaking so that he could hardly buckle the
girth. His hands were in invisible mittens. He was wondering,
calculating, hoping about his horse. He knew the little animal's
willingness and courage under all circumstances up to this time; but
then—here it was different. Who could tell if some wretched instance
of equine perversity was not about to develop? Maybe the little fellow
would not feel like smoking over the plain at express speed this
morning, and so he would rebel, and kick, and be wicked. Maybe he would
be without feeling of interest, and run listlessly. All riders who have
had to hurry in the saddle know what it is to be on a horse who does
not understand the dramatic situation. Riding a lame sheep is bliss
to it. Richardson, fumbling furiously at the girth, thought of these
Presently he had it fastened. He swung into the saddle, and as he did
so his horse made a mad jump forward. The spurs of José scratched and
tore the flanks of his great black beast, and side by side the two
horses raced down the village street. The American heard his horse
breathe a quivering sigh of excitement. Those four feet skimmed. They
were as light as fairy puff balls. The houses glided past in a moment,
and the great, clear, silent plain appeared like a pale blue sea of
mist and wet bushes. Above the mountains the colours of the sunlight
were like the first tones, the opening chords of the mighty hymn of the
The American looked down at his horse. He felt in his heart the first
thrill of confidence. The little animal, unurged and quite tranquil,
moving his ears this way and that way with an air of interest in the
scenery, was nevertheless bounding into the eye of the breaking day
with the speed of a frightened antelope. Richardson, looking down, saw
the long, fine reach of forelimb as steady as steel machinery. As the
ground reeled past, the long, dried grasses hissed, and cactus plants
were dull blurs. A wind whirled the horse's mane over his rider's
José's profile was lined against the pale sky. It was as that of a man
who swims alone in an ocean. His eyes glinted like metal, fastened
on some unknown point ahead of him, some fabulous place of safety.
Occasionally his mouth puckered in a little unheard cry; and his legs,
bended back, worked spasmodically as his spurred heels sliced his
Richardson consulted the gloom in the west for signs of a hard-riding,
yelling cavalcade. He knew that, whereas his friends the enemy had
not attacked him when he had sat still and with apparent calmness
confronted them, they would take furiously after him now that he had
run from them—now that he had confessed himself the weaker. Their
valour would grow like weeds in the spring, and upon discovering his
escape they would ride forth dauntless warriors. Sometimes he was sure
he saw them. Sometimes he was sure he heard them. Continually looking
backward over his shoulder, he studied the purple expanses where the
night was marching away. José rolled and shuddered in his saddle,
persistently disturbing the stride of the black horse, fretting and
worrying him until the white foam flew, and the great shoulders shone
like satin from the sweat.
At last, Richardson drew his horse carefully down to a walk. José
wished to rush insanely on, but the American spoke to him sternly. As
the two paced forward side by side, Richardson's little horse thrust
over his soft nose and inquired into the black's condition.
Riding with José was like riding with a corpse. His face resembled a
cast in lead. Sometimes he swung forward and almost pitched from his
seat. Richardson was too frightened himself to do anything but hate
this man for his fear. Finally, he issued a mandate which nearly caused
José's eyes to slide outof his head and fall to the ground, like two
coins:—"Ride behind me—about fifty paces."
"Señor——" stuttered the servant. "Go," cried the American furiously.
He glared at the other and laid his hand on his revolver. José looked
at his master wildly. He made a piteous gesture. Then slowly he fell
back, watching the hard face of the American for a sign of mercy. But
Richardson had resolved in his rage that at any rate he was going to
use the eyes and ears of extreme fear to detect the approach of danger;
so he established his panic-stricken servant as a sort of outpost.
As they proceeded, he was obliged to watch sharply to see that the
servant did not slink forward and join him. When José made beseeching
circles in the air with his arm, he replied by menacingly gripping his
revolver. José had a revolver too; nevertheless it was very clear in
his mind that the revolver was distinctly an American weapon. He had
been educated in the Rio Grande country.
Richardson lost the trail once. He was recalled to it by the loud sobs
of his servant.
Then at last José came clattering forward, gesticulating and wailing.
The little horse sprang to the shoulder of the black. They were off.
Richardson, again looking backward, could see a slanting flare of dust
on the whitening plain. He thought that he could detect small moving
figures in it.
José's moans and cries amounted to a university course in theology.
They broke continually from his quivering lips. His spurs were
as motors. They
forced the black horse over the plain in great
headlong leaps. But under Richardson there was a little insignificant
rat-coloured beast who was running apparently with almost as much
effort as it takes a bronze statue to stand still. The ground seemed
merely something to be touched from time to time with hoofs that were
as light as blown leaves. Occasionally Richardson lay back and pulled
stoutly at the bridle to keep from abandoning his servant. José harried
at his horse's mouth, flopped about in the saddle, and made his two
heels beat like flails. The black ran like a horse in despair.
Crimson serapes in the distance resemble drops of blood on the great
cloth of plain. Richardson began to dream of all possible chances.
Although quite a humane man, he did not once think of his servant. José
being a Mexican, it was natural that he should be killed in Mexico;
but for himself, a New Yorker——! He remembered all the tales of such
races for life, and he thought them badly written.
The great black horse was growing indifferent. The jabs of José's spurs
no longer caused him to bound forward in wild leaps of pain. José had
at last succeeded in teaching him that spurring was to be expected,
speed or no speed, and now he took the pain of it dully and stolidly,
as an animal who finds that doing his best gains him no respite. José
was turned into a raving maniac. He bellowed and screamed, working his
arms and his heels like one in a fit. He resembled a man on a sinking
ship, who appeals to the ship. Richardson, too, cried madly to the
black horse. The spirit of the horse responded to these calls, and
quivering and breathing heavily he made a great effort, a sort of a
final rush, not for himself apparently, but because he understood
that his life's sacrifice, perhaps, had been invoked by these two men
who cried to him in the universal tongue. Richardson had no sense of
appreciation at this time—he was too frightened; but often now he
remembers a certain black horse.
From the rear could be heard a yelling, and once a shot was fired—in
the air, evidently. Richardson moaned as he looked back. He kept his
hand on his revolver. He tried to imagine the brief tumult of his
capture—the flurry of dust from the hoofs of horses pulled suddenly
to their haunches, the shrill, biting curses of the men, the ring of
the shots, his own last contortion. He wondered, too, if he could not
somehow manage to pelt that fat Mexican, just to cure his abominable
It was José, the terror-stricken, who at last discovered safety.
Suddenly he gave a howl of delight and astonished his horse into a
new burst of speed. They were on a little ridge at the time, and the
American at the top of it saw his servant gallop down the slope and
into the arms, so to speak, of a small column of horsemen in grey and
silver clothes. In the dim light of the early morning they were as
vague as shadows, but Richardson knew them at once for a detachment of
Rurales, that crack cavalry corps of the Mexican army which polices
the plain so zealously, being of themselves the law and the arm of
it—a fierce and swift-moving body that knows little of prevention
but much of vengeance. They drew up suddenly, and the rows of great
silver-trimmed sombreros bobbed in surprise.
Richardson saw José throw himself from his horse and begin to jabber
at the leader. When he arrived he found that his servant had already
outlined the entire situation, and was then engaged in describing him,
Richardson, as an American señor of vast wealth, who was the friend
of almost every governmental potentate within two hundred miles.
This seemed profoundly to impress the officer. He bowed gravely to
Richardson and smiled significantly at his men, who unslung their
The little ridge hid the pursuers from view, but the rapid thud of
their horses' feet could be heard. Occasionally they yelled and called
to each other. Then at last they swept over the brow of the hill, a
wild mob of almost fifty drunken horsemen. When they discerned the
pale-uniformed Rurales, they were sailing down the slope at top speed.
If toboggans half-way down a hill should suddenly make up their minds
to turn round and go back, there would be an effect something like that
produced by the drunken horsemen. Richardson saw the Rurales serenely
swing their carbines forward, and, peculiar-minded person that he was,
felt his heart leap into his throat at the prospective volley. But the
officer rode forward alone.
It appeared that the man who owned the best horse in this astonished
company was the fat Mexican with the snaky moustache, and, in
consequence, this gentleman was quite a distance in the van. He tried
to pull up, wheel his horse, and scuttle back over the hill as some of
his companions had done, but the officer called to him in a voice harsh
with rage. "——!" howled the officer. "This señor is my friend, the
friend of my friends. Do you dare pursue
These dashes represent terrible names, all different, used by the
The fat Mexican simply grovelled on his horse's neck. His face was
green: it could be seen that he expected death. The officer stormed
with magnificent intensity: "——!——!——!" Finally
he sprang from his saddle, and, running to the fat Mexican's side,
yelled—"Go!" and kicked the horse in the belly with all his might.
The animal gave a mighty leap into the air, and the fat Mexican, with one
wretched glance at the contemplative Rurales, aimed his steed for the top
of the ridge. Richardson gulped again in expectation of a volley,
for—it is said—this is a favourite method for disposing of
objectionable people. The fat, green Mexican also thought that he was to
be killed on the run, from the miserable look he cast at the troops.
Nevertheless, he was allowed to vanish in a cloud of yellow dust at the
José was exultant, defiant, and, oh! bristling with courage. The black
horse was drooping sadly, his nose to the ground. Richardson's little
animal, with his ears bent forward, was staring at the horses of the
Rurales as if in an intense study. Richardson longed for speech, but
he could only bend forward and pat the shining, silken shoulders. The
little horse turned his head and looked back gravely.