for yourself, eh? _Don't_ stand there and look wise when I'm talking
to you! Ain't there a race in this country long enough for you to
win? A mile and a half ought to give you a chance to open up and
step, but what do you do? You come last, just beginning to warm up
and go some! Sometimes I think I ought to sell you to a soap factory,
you clumsy false alarm, you ugly old fraud, you cross between a mud
turtle and a carpenter's bench, you----"
At this point Slim Kern became extremely personal, speaking his mind
concerning the horse Pharaoh, his morals, his habits, and his
ancestors. Some of his statements would have raised blisters on a
salamander, but Pharaoh listened calmly and with grave dignity.
Pharaoh was not handsome. He was, as Slim had said, a hammer-headed
brute of imposing proportions. But for his eyes no turfman would have
looked at him twice. They were large, clear, and unusually
intelligent; they redeemed his homely face. Without them he would
have been called a stupid horse.
An elderly gentleman sat on a bale of hay and listened to Slim's
peroration. As it grew in power and potency the listener ceased to
chew his straw and began to shake his head. When Slim paused for
breath, searching his mind for searing adjectives, a mild voice took
advantage of the silence.
"There now, Slim, ain't you said enough to him? Seems like, if it was
me, I wouldn't cuss a hoss so strong--not _this_ hoss anyway. He
ain't no fool. Chances are he knows more'n you give him credit for.
Some hosses don't care what you say to 'em--goes in one ear and out
the other--but Pharaoh, he's wise. He knows that ain't love talk.
He's chewin' it over in his mind right now. By the look in his eye,
he's askin' himself will he bite your ear off or only kick you into
the middle of next week. Cussin' a hoss like that won't make him win
races where he never had a chance nohow."
"I know it," said Slim. "I know it, Curry, but think what a wonderful
relief it is to me! Take a slant at him, standing there all dignified
up like a United States senator! Don't he look like he ought to know
something? Wouldn't you think he'd know where they pay off? He makes
me sore, and I've just got to talk to him. I've owned him a whole
year, and what has he done? Won once at a mile and a quarter, and
he'd have been last that time if the leaders hadn't got in a jam on
the turn and fell down. He was so far behind 'em when they piled up
that all he had to do was pull wide and come on home! He had sense
enough for that. I've started him in all the distance races on this
circuit; he always runs three feet to their one at the finish, but
he's never close enough up to make it count. He must have some notion
that they pay off the second time around, and it's all my boy can do
to stop him after he goes under the wire. Why won't he uncork some of
that stuff where it will get us something? Why won't he? I don't
know, and that's what gets me."
Old Man Curry rose, threw away his straw, and circled the horse three
times, muttering to himself. This was purely an exhibition of
strategy, for Curry knew all about Pharaoh: had known all about him
for months.
"What'll you take for him?" The question came so suddenly that it
caught Slim off his balance.
"Take for him!" he ejaculated. "Who wants an old hammer-head like
that?"
"I was thinkin' I might buy him," was the quiet reply, "if the price
is right. I dunno's a hoss named Pharaoh would fit in with a stable
of Hebrew prophets, 'count of the way Pharaoh used Moses and the
Isrulites, but I might take a chance on him--if the price is right."
Now, Slim would have traded Pharaoh for a nose bag or a sack of
shorts and reckoned the intake pure gain, but he was a horseman, and
it naturally follows that he was a trader.
"Well, now," said he, "I hadn't thought of selling him, Curry, and
that's a fact."
"Did anybody but me ever think of buyin' him?" asked the old man
innocently.
"He's got a wonderful breeding," said Slim, ignoring the question.
"Yes, sir; he's out of the purple, sure enough, and as for age he's
just in his _prime_. There's a lot of racing in him yet. Make me an
offer."
"You don't want me to talk first, do you? I don't reckon I could make
a real offer on a hoss that never wins 'less all the others fall
down. Pharaoh ain't what you might call a first-class buy. From his
looks it costs a lot to keep him."
"Not near as much as you'd think," was the quick rejoinder.
"Pharaoh's a dainty feeder."
"Ah, hah," said Old Man Curry, stroking his beard. "About as dainty
as one of them perpetual hay presses! That nigh foreleg of his has
been stove up pretty bad too. How he runs on it at all beats me."
"He's sound as a nut!" declared Slim vehemently. "There ain't a thing
in the world the matter with him. Ask any vet to look him over!"
"Well, Slim, I dunno's he's worth the expense. Come on, now; tell me
what's the least you'll take for him?"
"Five hundred dollars."
"Give you a hundred and fifty cash."
"Say, do you want me to make you a present of him?" demanded Slim,
indignantly sarcastic. "Maybe you think I'd ought to throw in a
halter so's you can lead him away!"
"No," said Old Man Curry. "I won't insist on a halter. I got plenty
of my own. You said yourself he wa'n't no good and I thought you
meant it. I was just askin' if you'd sell him; that was all. Keep him
till Judgment Day, if you want him. No harm done." Old Man Curry
began to walk away.
"Hold on a minute!" said Slim, trying hard to keep the anxious note
out of his voice. "Be reasonable, old-timer. Make me an offer for the
horse: one that a sensible man can accept."
Old Man Curry paused and glanced over his shoulder.
"Why," said he, faintly surprised, "I kind of thought I'd done that
a'ready!"
"_Look_ at him!" urged Slim. "Did you ever see a more powerful horse
in your life? And smart too. A hundred and fifty dollars! One side of
him is worth more than that!"
"Likely it is," agreed the old man solemnly. "Seems to me I saw a
piece in the paper 'bout a cannery where they was goin' to put up
hoss-flesh!"
"I admit he's had a lot of bad luck," persisted Slim, "but get
Pharaoh warmed up once and he'll surprise you. Didn't you see how
fast he was coming to-day?"
"The numbers was up before he got in," was the dry response. "What's
the good of a hoss that won't begin to run until the race is over?
You said yourself he only won for you when all the others fell down.
It's kind of difficult to frame up races that way. Jockeys hate to
take the chances. Will two hundred buy him? Two hundred, right in
your hand?"
"Oh, come over here and set down!" said Slim. "You ain't in any
hurry, are you? Nothing you've said yet interests me. On the level,
you ain't got a suspicion of what a good horse this is!"
"No, but I kind of suspicion what a bad hoss he is." Old Man Curry
resumed his seat on the bale of hay and produced his packet of
fine-cut tobacco. "You tell me how good he is," said he, "and I'll
listen, but before you open up here's what Solomon says: 'The simple
believeth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going.'
Hoss tradin' is no job for a simple man, but I made a livin' at it
before you was born. Now fire away, and don't tell me this Pharaoh is
a gift. 'Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds and
wind without rain.' I reckon Solomon meant mostly wind. Now you can
cut loose an' tell me how much hoss this is."
Two hours later Old Man Curry arrived at his barn leading Pharaoh. He
had acquired the hammer-head for the sum of $265 and Slim had thrown
in the halter. Shanghai, Curry's hostler and handy man, stared at the
new member of the racing string with open-mouthed and pop-eyed
amazement.
"Lawd's sake! What _is_ that, a cam-u-el?"
"No, I don't reckon he's a camel, exactly," replied the old man. "I
don't know just what he is, Shanghai, but I'm aimin' to find out
soon. The man I got him from allowed as he was a race hoss."
"Huh-uh, kunnel! He sutny don' ree'semble no runnin' hawss to _me_. I
neveh yet see a head shape' like that on anything whut could run."
Shanghai came closer and examined the equine stranger carefully. "Yo'
an ugly brute, big hawss: ugly no name faw it. Oh-oh, kunnel; he got
a knowin' eye, ain't he? If this hawss is wise as he look, he ought
to be a judge in the Soopreme Cote! Yes, suh; somepin' besides bone
in that ole hammeh-head!"
"I bought him for his eyes," said Old Man Curry. "His eyes and his
name. This is Pharaoh, Shanghai."
"Faro, eh?" The negro chuckled. "Thass a game where yo' gits action
two ways: bet it is or it ain't. Now, mebbe this yere Faro is a race
hawss, an' mebbe he ain't, but if yo' eveh puts him in with early
speed an' a short distance to go, betteh play him with a copper,
kunnel. He got same chance as a eagle flyin' a mile 'gainst
pigeons."
"The thing to do," said Old Man Curry with his kindly smile, "is to
find out the eagle's distance."
Little Mose was dreaming that he had piloted the winner of the Burns
Handicap and was being carried to the jockey's room in a floral
horseshoe which rocked in a very violent manner. The motion became so
pronounced that Mose opened his eyes, and found Old Man Curry shaking
him.
"Get up, you lazy little rascal! Got a job for you this mornin'. Turn
out!"
The jockey sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes.
"Solomon must have had at least one little black boy," said the old
man. "'Love not sleep lest thou come to poverty.' Hurry up, Mose!"
"Yes, suh," mumbled the drowsy youngster. "Reckon Sol'mun neveh had
to gallop a string an' ride 'em too. I sutny earns whut I gits when I
git it."
Dawn was breaking when Jockey Moseby Jones emerged from the tack room
to find Old Man Curry and Pharaoh waiting for him. As they were
walking to the track the owner gave his orders.
"One trouble with this hoss," said he, "is that the boy who has been
ridin' him wasn't strong enough in the arms to keep his head up."
"That ol' hawss has got a head whut weighs a thousan' pounds!"
murmured Mose sulkily. "'Spect he'll 'bout yank both arms outen me!"
"You're pretty stout for a boy your size," said the old man, "an' you
may be able to hold this big, hard-stridin' hoss together an' shake
something out of him. Send him two miles, Mose, keep his head up if
you can, an' ride him every jump of the way."
"But, boss, they ain't no two-mile races in thisyer part o' the
country!"
"Keep on, an' you'll talk yourself into a raw-hidin' yet, little
black boy. I ain't askin' you to tell me 'bout the races on the
jungle tracks. All you got to think about is can you handle as much
hoss as this over a distance of ground. If you can, an' he's got the
stayin' qualities I think he has, you an' me an' Pharaoh may go on a
long journey--down into Egypt after corn. Git up on him, Mose, an'
let's see what you both can do."
The hammer-head loafed away at a comfortable stride and his first
mile showed nothing, but his second circuit of the track was a
revelation which caused Old Man Curry to address remarks to his stop
watch. It took every ounce of Mose's strength to fight Pharaoh to a
standstill: the big brute was just beginning to enjoy the exercise
and wanted to keep on going.
"Well, think you can handle him?"
"Boss," panted little Mose, "I kin do--everything to thisyer
hoss--but stop him. He sutny--do love to run--once he git goin'. All
the way--down the stretch--he was asayin' to me: 'Come on, jock!
Lemme go round again!' Yes, suh, he was beggin' me faw 'notheh mile!"
"Ah-hah," said Old Man Curry. "That's the way it looked to me. Well,
to-morrow we'll let him do that extra mile, but we'll get up earlier.
By an' by when he's ready, we'll let him run four miles an' see how
he finishes an' what the watch says."
Little Mose rolled his eyes thoughtfully.
"Seem like I ain't heard tell of but _one_ fo'mile race," he hinted.
"'Tain't run in Egypt neitheh. They runs it down round 'Frisco. The
Thawntum Stakes is whut they calls it. Boss, you reckon Pharaoh kin
pick up any corn in California?"
Old Man Curry's eyes twinkled, but his voice was stern.
"If I was a little black boy," said he, "an' I was wantin' my boss to
take me on a trip down into Egypt, I wouldn't call it California. If
I knew anything 'bout a four-mile stake race, I'd try to mislay the
name of it. If I had been ridin' a big, hammer-headed hoss, I don't
think I'd mention him except in my prayers. If I was goin' after
corn, I don't believe I'd say so."
Mose listened, nodding from time to time.
"Boss," said he earnestly, "I sutny always did want to see whut
thisyer Egypt looks like. Outside of that, I neveh heard nothin', I
don't know nothin', an' I can't tell nothin'. Beginnin' now, a clam
has got me beat in a talkin' match!"
Old Man Curry smiled and combed his long, white beard.
"That is the very best way," said he, "to earn a trip down into
Egypt. 'A talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithful
spirit concealeth the matter.'"
"Thass me all oveh!" chuckled Mose. "I bet I got the faithfulest an'
the concealin'est spirit whut is!"
Port Costa is a small town on the Carquinez Straits, that narrow
ribbon of wind-swept water between San Pablo and Suisun Bays. The
early empire builders, striving to reach the Pacific by rail, found
it necessary to cross the Carquinez Straits, and to that end built a
huge ferryboat capable of swallowing up long overland trains. It was
then that Port Costa came into being: a huddle of hastily constructed
frame saloons along the water front and very little else. All day and
all night the big ferryboat plied between Benicia and Port Costa,
transferring rolling stock. While the trains were being made up on
the Port Costa side passengers in need of liquid sustenance paid
visits to the saloons. They got exactly what the transient may expect
in any country.
Henry Ashbaugh sat at a table in Martin Dugan's place and eyed the
bartender truculently. He had purchased nothing, for the most
excellent of reasons, but he had patronised the free lunch
extensively.
"You don't need to look at me like that," said Henry when the silence
became unbearable. "I'm waiting for a friend and when he comes he'll
buy."
At this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit the
friend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in a
battered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. Ashbaugh jumped
up with a yell.
"Well, you old son of a gun! It's good for sore eyes to see you! How
long has it been, eh?"
"Quite some years," answered Old Man Curry, allowing himself to be
guided to the bar. "And how's the world been usin' you, Henry?"
"It's been using me rough, awful rough," replied Ashbaugh. "I ain't
even got the price of a drink."
Curry laid a silver coin upon the bar.
"Have one with me," said he.
"Don't mind if I do," said Ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libation
of water-front whisky. Old Man Curry took water, and the wise
bartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet.
"How!" said Henry, tilting the poison into his system.
"My regards!" said Old Man Curry, sipping his water slowly.
"Same old bird!" ejaculated Ashbaugh, clapping Curry on the back.
"Solomon on the brain! Speaking of birds, though, did you ever see
one that could fly with only one wing?"
"I never did," was the grave response. "Have another?"
"If you force me," said Ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose.
Old Man Curry took more water. Ashbaugh gulped once and passed the
back of his hand over his lips.
"We have talked of birds," said he, wheedlingly. "Leave us now talk
of centipedes."
"No," said Curry quietly. "No, I reckon not, Henry. There's something
else to talk about. You got my telegram?"
"This afternoon," said Ashbaugh with a lingering glance at the
bottle. "That's why I'm here."
"You've still got your place out on the Martinez road?" asked Old Man
Curry.
"I can't get rid of it," was the answer.
"I'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks,
Henry."
"The place is all yours!" said Ashbaugh with wide gestures. "All
yours! A friend of mine can have anything I've got, and no questions
asked. Where is this here horse?"
"They'll be takin' him out of a freight car about now," said Curry.
"Could I git him down to your place to-night?"
"You can if you walk it."
"Is the road as good as it used to be?"
"Same road. Just like it was when you used to train horses on it."
"Mebbe we ought to be going," suggested Old Man Curry.
"Then you won't talk about centipedes?"
"Oh, well," smiled the old man, "I might discuss a three-legged
critter with you--once."
"Put that bottle back on the bar!" said Ashbaugh.
The overnight entry slips, given out on the day before the running of
the Thornton Stakes, bore the name of the horse Pharaoh, together
with that of his owner, C. T. Curry, whereat the wise men of the West
chuckled. A few of them had heard of Old Man Curry, a queer, harmless
individual who owned bad horses and raced them on worse tracks. A
hasty survey of turf guides brought the horse Pharaoh to unfavourable
light as a nonwinner in cheap company, and in no sense to be
considered as a competitor in the second greatest of Western turf
classics. In addition to this, those who made it their business to
know the business of horsemen were able to state positively that no
such horse as Pharaoh had arrived at the Emeryville track outside of
Oakland. Consequently, when the figuring was done (and a great deal
of figuring is always done on the eve of an important stake race),
the Curry entry was regarded as among the scratches.
On paper, the rich purse was a gift to the imported mare Auckland.
Australian horses, bred to go a distance, had often won this longest
of American stakes, and Auckland was known to be one of the very best
animals ever brought across the Pacific. It was only a question of
how far she would win, and the others were considered as competing
for second and third money. On the night before the race all the talk
was of Auckland; all the speculation had to do with her price, and
how many dollars a man might have to bet to win one. At noon on the
day of the race a horse car was shunted in on one of the spur tracks
at Emeryville, and a group of idlers gathered to watch the unloading
process. No little amusement was afforded them by the appearance and
costume of the owner, but Old Man Curry paid not the slightest
attention to the half-audible comment, and soon the "Bible horses"
found their feet on the ground once more.
Among the loafers were some "outside men" employed by the bookmakers,
and these endeavoured to acquire information from Old Man Curry,
without success. The negro Shanghai proved more loquacious. He
trudged at the end of the line leading a big hammer-headed brute
which he often addressed as "Faro."
"Who owns these hawsses?" repeated Shanghai. "Mist' Curry--thass him
in front--he owns 'em. We got here jus' in time, I reckon. Thisyer
hawss whut I'm leadin', he goes in that Thawntum Stakes to-day."
"Nix!" said the outside man. "Just off the cars, and he's going to
start? It can't be done!"
"I ain't heard the boss say he'd scratch him," said Shanghai.
"But how long have you been on the way?"
"Oh, I reckon 'bout five days. Yes, suh; we been exackly five days
_an'_ nights gettin' here."
"Then you're kidding about that horse going to start in the Thornton
Stakes."
"No, suh; I ain't kiddin' nobody. Thass whut we brought him oveh faw:
to staht him in them Thawntum Stakes. I reckon he'll have to do the
bes' he know how."
"Are you going to bet on him?"
"Says _which_?" Shanghai showed a double row of glistening ivories.
"No, indeedy! Hawss got to show me befo' I leggo my small change!
This Faro, he can't seem to win no mile races, so the boss he thinks
he might do betteh in a long one. But me, I ain't bettin' on him, no
suh!"
Only five horses faced the barrier in the Thornton Stakes. Second
money was not enough of a temptation to the owners, who could see
nothing but the Australian mare, Auckland. The opening prices bore
out this belief. Auckland was quoted at 1 to 5, a prohibitive figure;
Baron Brant, the hope of the California contingent, at 4 to 1; The
Maori at 8 to 1; Ambrose Churchill at 12 to 1, and Pharaoh was held
at 15 and 20. The bookmakers had heard that the Curry horse had been
taken from the car at noon, and wondered at the obstinacy of his
owner in starting him, stiff and cramped from a long railroad
journey.
"Must be figuring to give him a workout and a race all at once," said
the chalk merchants.
All these things being known, a certain elderly gentleman did not
have to beg the bookmakers to take his money. He passed from block to
block in the big ring, stripping small bills from a fat roll, and
receiving pasteboards in exchange. Round and round the ring he went,
with his monotonous request:
"Ten on Pharaoh to win, please."
Every bookmaker was glad to oblige him; most of them thanked him for
the ten-dollar bills. There were thirty-two books in the circle, and
Old Man Curry visited each one of them several times. He stopped
betting only when he heard the saddling bell ringing in the paddock.
After a few words with Little Mose, he returned to the betting ring
and the distribution of his favours.
When the five horses stood at the barrier in front of the grand
stand, Pharaoh was conspicuous only for his size and the colour of
his rider. The mare Auckland, beautifully proportioned, her smooth
coat glistening in the sun, was the ideal racing animal.
The word was soon given, the barrier whizzed into the air, and the
five horses were on their long journey. The boy on Auckland sent her
to the front at once, and the mare settled into her long, easy
stride, close to the rail, saving every possible inch. Pharaoh
immediately dropped into last position, plodding through the dust
kicked up by the field. The big hammer-head showed nothing in the
first mile save dogged persistence. At the end of the second mile
Auckland was twenty lengths in front of Pharaoh, and running without
effort. The Maori and Ambrose Churchill were beginning to drop back,
but Baron Brant still clung to second place, ten lengths behind the
favourite.
It was in the third mile that Jockey Moseby Jones began to urge the
big horse. At first there seemed to be no result, but gradually,
almost imperceptibly, the heavy plugging stride grew longer. Auckland
still held her commanding lead, but Pharaoh marked his gain on
Ambrose Churchill and The Maori, leaving them a bitter and hopeless
battle for fourth place. In the home stretch the pace began to tell
on Baron Brant, and he faded. Pharaoh caught and passed him just at
the wire, with the Australian mare fifteen lengths in front and
eating up the distance in smooth, easy strides.
The stubborn persistence of the hammer-headed horse had not escaped
the crowd, and those who support the underdog in an uphill fight gave
him a tremendous cheer as he swung down to the turn. It was then that
Little Mose leaned forward and began hand-riding, calling on Pharaoh
in language sacred and profane.
"Hump yo'self, big hawss! Neveh let it be said that a mare kin make
you eat dust! Lay down to it, Faro, lay down to it! Why, you ain't
begun to run yit! You jus' been foolin'! You want to show me up befo'
a big town crowd! Faro, I ast you from my _heart_, lay down to it!"
And Pharaoh lay down to it. The ugly big brute let himself out to the
last notch, hugging the rail with long, ungainly strides. The jockey
on Auckland had counted the race as won--in fact, he had been
spending the winner's fee from the end of the second mile--but on the
upper turn the thud of hoofs came to his ears, and with them wild
whoops of encouragement. He looked back over his shoulder in surprise
which soon turned to alarm; the big hammer-head was barely six
lengths away and drawing nearer with every awkward bound. Jockey
McFee sat down on his imported mount and began to ride for a
five-thousand-dollar stake, a fat fee, his reputation, and several
other considerations, but always he heard the voice of the little
negro, coming closer and closer:
"Corn crop 'bout ripe, Faro! Jus' waitin' to be picked! That mare,
she come a long ways to git it, but she goin' git it good! Them
ribbons don't keep her f'um rockin'; she's all through! Go git her,
big hawss! Go git her!"
Jockey McFee slashed desperately with his whip as Pharaoh thundered
alongside, and the game mare gave up her last ounce: gave it up in a
losing fight. Once, twice, the ugly, heavy head and the head of the
equine aristocrat rose and fell side by side; then Auckland dropped
back beaten and broken-hearted while her conqueror pounded on to the
wire, to win by five open lengths....