Stolen Stallion, page 15
“I’m only about nine years old,” said he, “and I can run within a step as fast as I ever ran in all my days, just now. Don’t talk to me all the time about old horses. There have been horses three times my age, for that matter, before they died.”
“Nine years of slavery!” exclaimed Mischief. “Nine long years of slavery!”
“I was once as free as any of you,” said Brandy. “You can talk down to me, if you please, but I was once as free as any horse in the world.”
“Were you?” The bitter mare sneered. “Free in a pasture — free in a corral — free in a stall — that’s the only freedom you’ve ever known.”
“You were speaking a time ago,” said Brandy, “about the Sierra Blanca. Well, I ranged through that, one time.”
“A very short time,” said the mare.
“I wish it had been longer — except for the hand and the voice of the man I love.”
“It sickens me to hear that sort of talk,” said Mischief. “A precious lot Man ever did for me, except to feed a spur into my side and a Spanish bit into my mouth! You talk of love and Man? I can love my foal, and my free country, and that’s the end — except for such a horse as the king of them all was!”
“And who was the king of them all?” asked Brandy calmly, because his disposition was able to endure worse spite than that of Mischief, even.
“The king of them all,” said Mischief, “was such a horse as was only once in the world. How am I going to tell you about him? Imagine yourself! You’re a good horse. You have lines, and bone, and you can gallop. Imagine yourself sleeked over, beautiful, and fast as the wind. Imagine yourself just escaping from captivity and running out into the desert for the first time. Imagine yourself on the sides of it. That’s the sort of a horse I mean, and he was the king of the world, and he was the father of my colt here!”
“Well,” said Brandy, “I can’t imagine all of the things that you say, but I can imagine the time, well enough, when I got away from captivity, and ran out with a fine mare, a fine, wise, tough-minded, clever mare, right into the Sierra Blanca.”
“You ran — with a mare — into the Sierra Blanca?” said Mischief.
“Yes.”
She came slowly up to the bars, and sniffed at the head of Brandy. Then she asked:
“You went into the Sierra Blanca with a mare? What sort of a mare?”
“Oh,” said Brandy, “she had run wild there. She had been wild-caught and she was still wild, on the inside.”
“Come closer to me, Parade,” said Mischief. “Come closer, and listen. Something is being told to us now. He escaped into the Sierra Blanca, and there was with him a mare that had been wild-caught off the desert — years before.”
“Years before,” said Brandy.
“Then tell me what happened after that!” Mischief demanded of Brandy.
“We came to a herd of wild horses, and there was a leader with them of course — a stallion.”
“What color?” snapped Mischief.
“Cream-colored,” said Brandy. “And I’ll never forget how his tail flashed like metal, when he came sweeping around from the rear of the herd. And then — ”
“Neither shall I forget!” exclaimed Mischief.
“You?” snorted Brandy.
“And how you fought, and how he caught you by the throat — and how you beat him to the ground, and then let him go! Parade, come closer to me! It is the king — it is your father! Time has marred him, but it is he. I should have known him by his gentleness and his forbearance. It is the king!”
“What do you say to me?” asked Brandy.
He touched noses with her; he touched noses with Parade. Out of the past the wild days came over him, the wild and happy days when he had been a king indeed.
“And then a man came,” said Mischief, “and called to you. When I was calling to you, too. I would have taught you how to run free, always! Why did you stand and wait for him to come?”
“You never will know,” said Brandy. “But he understands!”
“Steady, boy!” called the voice of Silvertip suddenly, and Parade turned and went rapidly toward the blankets of the speaker.
“It is true,” said Mischief. “But we have this moment. Here are the three of us. Now let tomorrow bring whatever it will!”
CHAPTER XXV
THE GREAT RACE
MEN BET THEIR PAST WAGES, AND THEIR FUTURE. MEN bet their spurs and saddles, and a saddle is the last thing that a cowpuncher places in jeopardy. Men bet with borrowed money, and with stolen money, too, for when a Westerner makes up his mind about the winner of a race, he makes it up with a violence, and with a perfectly firm conviction. They would have bet the skins off their bodies, if there had been money value attached.
And nearly half of those bets went down on Parade.
Common sense might say that the slenderer lines of the mare of Mr. Jones, and Brandy, meant greater speed over a distance as short as a mile and a half. But common sense is not the virtue of the great West. And when those cow-punchers looked upon Parade, his beauty and his fame joined in their souls and stirred their hands toward their pocketbooks to place their wagers.
There were plenty of others, calm and crafty-minded people, who laid their money with what seemed greater discretion, and these bet on the “dark horse” of Mr. Jones, or on the celebrated speed of Brandy.
There were other entries, but they hardly counted. Eight horses danced and pranced at the post, with Silvertip towering head and shoulders above the rest, both on account of his own stature and the almost seventeen hands of Parade. Next to him was Brandy. And this strange thing was noticed even by the excited, abstracted eyes of the bystanders — that the two stallions actually touched noses more than once, in the intervals of fiddling for the start. But presently they were as wild as the rest of the horses. Only the long, rangy mare of Mr. Jones remained alert, but without wasting an effort, at her end of the line, and she was the farthest from the inside position.
As for Brandy, he was exclaiming: “We’re going to run! We’re going to race! Parade, try hard to keep close to me. I can feel the wind in my heels. I’m going to run faster than a storm. Stay as close to me as you can and try to be second. Watch the mare. She has the lines of speed, too. Watch the mare, and follow me, and you won’t be disgraced!”
Then a gun boomed, and as the others lurched away from the start, Parade was left half-turned, standing flat-footed.
He got away like a wildcat, with the wailing cry of despair from his supporters ringing through the air.
He saw the mare sweep with wonderful speed right across the face of the field, and then settle down to the best position, on the rail, where she ran easily, with no effort, and kept the rest at bay. Brandy came up to her and looked her in the eye, and would have gone ahead, but the firm hand of Lake held him back.
“Make a race of it! Let her go!” called Lake.
There was nothing around them. The best of the range-bred horses were already laboring well to the rear, only able to fight it out for third-place money, and Parade was among them.
“There’s plenty of time!” called back Jones. “Bear out a little, and watch Parade!”
“Parade’s sunk already!” called Lake.
That was how they swept around the course for the first round. It was a three-quarter-mile track, and they would travel about it twice. And going by the little grandstand, where most of the people were thronged on the outside of the inside of the track, the voices rose up in waves, and smote the horses and riders in the face. There was the high, joyous staccato of the supporters of the mare and Brandy. There was the groaning despair of those who had bet on Parade.
He was out and away from the other range horses now, but a great distance from the leaders. And yet Silvertip was making no effort to urge him. He swung his body low along the neck of the stallion, like a jockey, and he had a high, strong grip with his knees, to keep his weight off the running muscles that come up under the saddle; but outside of position, and a firm but light grip on the reins, he was making no effort.
That was why they yelled at him. That was why some excited men called him a fool and a crook, and threatened to have it out with him after the race.
But he knew that whatever was in the body and the brain and the soul of Parade was his, and in his hand, ready to be poured out when he pleased. He told it by that electric current which quivered up and down the reins. He told it by the slight turn of the head of the horse, that showed Parade was studying his rider, waiting for him, ready for the supreme effort. And so Silvertip waited still. He was not exactly tense. It was something beyond tenseness, this pull on the strings of the heart, and this knowledge that he was riding for possession of the horse.
He remembered Lefty, pale-faced, keen, saying: “I’ve bet everything on Parade. Maybe I’m a fool, but I’ve bet more on you than on the nag. I don’t have to tell you to do your best. You get Parade if you win!”
“And Chuck?” Silvertip had said.
“If Chuck opens his mug, I’ll tell the true story — how Chuck put a bullet into you after you had Parade in your hand!”
That was how it would go — if he could win!
And little by little, as he hung quietly, in perfect balance, over the running machine beneath him, he saw that they were creeping up on the leaders — not rapidly, but little by little.
He knew it was unfair, this test. He knew that Parade could maintain this speed for an indefinite time, and run the others into the ground if there were ten miles to cover. But what would happen when he asked for everything that Parade could give, and entered the stretch with the leaders — those narrower, clipper-built sprinters?
That would have to be seen.
They rounded into the back stretch, and Parade was coming closer up. Silvertip saw Lake turn his head — a single flash of that ape-like countenance, and then Brandy moved faster, and the mare moved faster beside him. Like a team, the mare and Richmond’s stallion were keeping together, while the crowds went mad with excitement.
Not only the voices of their supporters, but now the majority of the men, who had bet on Parade, were beginning to yell also. For they saw the favorite creeping up with every stride.
The horses rounded the turn toward the head of the stretch, and then Silvertip set his teeth, and made his call.
The answer took his breath away. It was like leaping from a height. It was like being caught by the race of a river that is all white water. It was like being hurled from the hand.
The lurch of increased speed threw Silver back a little in the saddle. He had to struggle forward into the better position. And with that first rush, as they rounded the turn into the stretch, he came straight up on Brandy and the mare.
The two stallions jarred together. Brandy lagged; Parade, thrown completely out of stride, fell well to the rear, and the mare went winging on alone.
A screech of rage and disappointment went up from those at hand, along the fence, and murder flashed from the heart of Silvertip into his brain. They would die for this — Lake and Jones! He saw the plot as clearly as though he had sat at the table where it had been hatched.
And Parade? Could he come again, with that crushing burden on his back? Could he loose again that long-bounding stride, that seemed to be buoyed up by the beat of invisible wings?
He called, with his heart in his voice, and Parade answered. He swayed a little, but found himself, and shot ahead.
Brandy, running with wonderful strength, was beside the mare again, but bearing well out toward the middle of the track, and the gap was plain and free before Silvertip. That was why he tried to put Parade through it, instead of passing around to the outside. It seemed impossible that Lake would attempt to foul him twice.
The finish was not far way. The two white-washed posts gleamed nearer and nearer. The frenzy of uproar did not come, it seemed, from human voices, but from wild beasts, and from blaring brazen trumpets.
Men were standing up on the rails, and pulling their favorites ahead with foolish gestures; and here and there someone with a weaker heart looked down at the ground, white-faced and overcome.
But the same rush of speed came pouring out of Parade, the same dazzling outburst as before. It would not endure long, this time. By a certain tenseness and brittleness in the body that labored beneath him, Silvertip recognized that fact.
Then he saw an odd thing, for as the ultimate strain was placed on both Parade and Brandy, as they stretched their heads out, they twisted them a little to the right, and bored into the wind of their own gallop, as though they were about to turn a corner. They were identical in style — and chance could not make this! There was only one great difference, and that lay in the greater sweep of the stride of Parade. It bore him rapidly up. The head of the stallion was on the hip of the mare, when suddenly Brandy was swiftly swung in again to close the gap.
It was too patent. Everyone in the stands, everyone in eyeshot along the fences could see the dirty device, and a howl of rage went upward.
But that was not what stopped Lake.
He would risk the rage of the crowd, knowing that every penny of money that Richmond possessed had been bet on the mare. He would risk everything, hoping to get his percentage, if only he could shut off Parade.
But now, as Parade came up, something happened in Brandy. The head which usually gave so easily to the slightest pull of the reins, now stiffened. The mouth became iron. There was a sudden outthrust of the neck of the stallion that tore the reins through the strong hands of the jockey, and Brandy was running straight and true toward the finish line, leaving plenty of space between him and the mare.
It was like the opening of a gate of hope, to Silvertip. The rage vanished from his heart.
He shouted again to the stallion. He saw the ears of Parade shudder as the horse heard the voice. He felt the final, desperate effort come out of the quivering body. That stride could not be made more rapid, and yet it beat more rapidly. That stride could not be lengthened, and yet actually it was extended!
The long, lean mare drew back in jerks. Those jerks represented the strides of Parade, one by one.
Then the sardonic face of Mr. Jones turned. He seemed not in the least degree excited. His whip worked rhythmically. Still something like a smile was on his face as he fell behind.
But the head of Parade was not in the lead. It was Brandy, running like a nimble-footed three-year-old, running as he never had run before, perhaps. Still his head was in front, while Lake, his frog face contorted, screamed out curses and plied the whip.
And then two great pulses, and Parade was ahead. The white posts flashed past. Had he gained that vital ground in time?
Silvertip did not know. It might still be Lefty’s horse that he bestrode, he thought, as he turned back toward the grandstand. But then all doubt left him as men leaped over the fence or crawled through it, and came pouring toward him, and as they ran, they kept screeching out one name:
“Parade! Parade!”
There is only one sort of madness that pitches the voices of men as high as that, and that is the madness of victory.
Movement became almost impossible. The throng pressed closer and closer. In vain, Silver shouted to beware of the teeth and the heels of the stallion. The winners did not care. They wanted to touch that gleaming piece of victorious horseflesh if they had to die for it the next moment.
In a vast huddle, growing every moment, they attended Parade down the track.
Only one thing could part them, and that was a small man with a thin face and blazing eyes.
“It’s Lefty — it’s the owner!” men called, and gave place, meagerly, to Lefty.
He came up and gripped the right hand of Silvertip with both of his, and put his foot on Silver’s, and so hoisted himself until he could speak in Silver’s ear.
“I’ve made a fortune!” he shouted, “and you’re goin’ to have a share in it. You’re goin’ to have Parade, too. And welcome, too, because there ain’t another man in the world worthy of settin’ on his back. And it was the greatest race ever rode!”
CHAPTER XXVI
SETTLEMENT
ALL THAT LAKE COULD THINK OF, AFTER THE DEFEAT, was whisky. He went back to the same obscure little saloon which he favored, and took what comfort he could, until his eyes blurred, and his senses were dulled.
Afterward, Richmond would come — Richmond ruined, Richmond in a frantic rage. That would be that. Lake hardly cared. A savagery was in him. He had spent these years with Richmond, always waiting for the big clean-up and the time had never come. Now there would be some sort of a settlement.
The door opened from the rear, and Jones came in. He leaned over the chair of Lake to say briefly:
“Better get out of here. Richmond is clean nutty. He can’t take it, the dirty welsher. You get out of Parmalee and stay out, or there’ll be trouble. He thinks you double-crossed him. He can’t see that Brandy took that race in hand at the finish. And what did I tell you? That Parade could gallop — and well he did!”
He laughed, his sneering, mirthless laughter, and went on into the front of the saloon.
He had hardly closed the door behind him when Harry Richmond came in from the rear entrance. Lake looked up askance, and saw the drawn gun in his hand, the big pulpy face thrust forward, the working of the mouth.
It was twilight. The fields and sky were blue outside the open doorway.
And this was to be the end. Lake knew it. He knew it by the fact that the light did not tremble on the gun of Richmond. The hand of the man was steady, and the murder would be done.
They said nothing. Richmond kept inching forward, his gun leveled. Lake got up from the table. He knew that the instant he tried to pull a weapon, he would be shot down. His own hand would give the signal for his death. But while he hesitated, Richmond was edging nearer, making sure of his aim, getting to a range at which he could not miss.
Suddenly the hand of Lake flashed across his coat and up under the flap of it. The Colt boomed in the hand of Richmond. A forefinger of fire stabbed through the murky air at Lake.
