Quazen

The rider was dressed in the clothing of a Mexican vaquero: rawhide leggings, a buckskin jacket, and a tattered shawl about his shoulders. But above the shoulders, where the heads should have been, there was nothing. Instead, what appeared to be ahead wearing a wide sombrero was tied to the horn of the saddle, from where it stared blankly out across the plains. This grisly apparition and its mount could appear at any time of day, racing across the open range. It was always alone; the other mustangs shunned it.