Colonel Crockett rode out upon the prairie.  The horses no sooner espied him than, excited, but not alarmed, the whole drove, with neighings, aud tails uplifted like banners, commenced coursing around him in an extended circle, which gradually became smaller and smaller, until they came in close contact; and the Colonel, not a little alarmed, found himself completely surrounded, and apparently the prisoner of these powerful steeds.

The little mustang upon which the Colonel was mounted seemed very happy in its new companionship.  It turned its head to one side, and then to the other, and pranced and neighed, playfully biting at the mane of one horse, rubbing his nose against that of another, and in joyous gambols kicking up its heels.  The Colonel was anxious to get out of the mess.  But his little mustang was not at all disposed to move in that direction; neither did the other horses seem disposed to acquiesce in such a plan.

Crockett’s heels were armed with very formidable Spanish spurs, with prongs sharp and long.  The hunter writes: 

“To escape from the annoyance, I beat the devil’s tattoo on his ribs, that he might have some music to dance to, and we went ahead right merrily, the whole drove following in our wake, head up, and tail and mane streaming.  My little critter, who was both blood and bottom, seemed delighted at being at the head of the heap; and having once fairly got started, I wish I may be shot if I did not find it impossible to stop him.  He kept along, tossing his head proudly, and occasionally neighing, as much as to say, “Come on, my hearties, you see I ha’n’t forgot our old amusement yet.”  And they did come on with a vengeance, clatter, clatter, clatter, as if so many fiends had broke loose.  The prairie lay extended before me as far as the eye could reach, and I began to think that there would be no end to the race.

“My little animal was full of fire and mettle, and as it was the first bit of genuine sport that he had had for some time, he appeared determined to make the most of it.  He kept the lead for full half an hour, frequently neighing as if in triumph and derision.  I thought of John Gilpin’s celebrated ride, but that was child’s play to this.  The proverb says, ’The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,’ and so it proved in the present instance.  My mustang was obliged to carry weight, while his competitors were as free as nature had made them.  A beautiful bay, who had trod close upon my heels the whole way, now came side by side with my mustang, and we had it hip and thigh for about ten minutes, in such style as would have delighted the heart of a true lover of the turf.  I now felt an interest in the race myself, and, for the credit of my bit of blood, determined to win it if it was at all in the nature of things.  I plied the lash and spur, and the little critter took it quite kindly, and tossed his head, and neighed, as much as to say, ’Colonel, I know what you’re after—­go ahead!’—­and he cut dirt in beautiful style, I tell you.”