THE MUSTANG, OR WILD HORSE. 467 
of the generous steed, thus breaking through his “guard,” 
and fastening those massive distended clamps upon his wind- 
pipe, hangs there like a bull-dog. 
Then comes a sudden silence, and the frightened dames, 
their bodies clustered together as close as they can crowd, 
their heads all turned toward the combatants, stare in trem- 
bling terror at the death-struggle. Many a frantic plunge 
the poor horse makes—but all the lithe vigor of his polished 
limbs avails him nothing—now rearing erect in the despera- 
tion of his agony, he clatters his fore hoofs upon the tough 
shoulders of his assailant, but they make about as much 
impression there, as they would have done upon the trunk 
of a live oak. Now, with every muscle strained, and the 
big veins almost bursting through his delicate skin, he 
springs wildly forward into the air as though he would 
bound clear over the ugly brute; but no—with a stolid 
and passive sturdiness, he hangs on, until, at last, all his 
mighty strength expended in vain but furious strugglings, 
with a deep smothered groan, the noble stallion falls heavily 
upon his side. And now the rude conqueror condescends to 
quit his hold, and with his bloody jaws distended in a still 
louder bray of triumph, he rushes at the shivering squad of 
mares! And such a scatterment! Like mad, they rush off 
in every direction—he right upon their heels! Soon he 
closes with some wretched unfortunate, and then comes 
another frantic struggle between savage lust and fear. 
The battles between the stallions though, are gallant 
displays of graceful and splendid action—they rear and 
wrestle like the athlete of olden time—their long and 
silky manes dishevelled—their large eye-balls suffused and 
red, glowing with angry fires—their pied and glossy coats 
stained with blood upon the milk white ground, and gleaming 
with the rapid play of agile limbs. Mr. Miller, our artist, 
who took the sketch of the scene we give, on the spot, 
