THE GREAT CHIQUITA.
Hatrack and Magpie were now brought up to the starting point.
The boy who traveled with old man Norris was on the back of the latter
horse, sitting in a regular jockey's saddle and stripped of all
superfluous clothing.
He was the typical jockey now. He had put away all the appearance of
youth, and was a crafty and sly man.
It was apparent that the whole outfit was in the racing business, and as
the crowd looked at the discrepancy between the two horses, and observed
that on the best-looking horse was a professional jockey, while on the
crowbait was only a girl, something like a groan went up.
But some of them were game, and cheered Stella to the echo.
"You're all right!" shouted her supporters.
"Hurrah fer ther girl jockey," yelled the cow-punchers. "I got a month's
wages that says she'll win the race."
But the other side had something to say, also. They made all sorts of
fun of Hatrack, and roars of laughter went up as he ambled,
stiff-legged, onto the course.
Clay Whipple was chosen to start the race, and stood beside the track
with a red flag in his hand. The two horses were jockeyed back and forth
for several minutes.
"Are you ready?" shouted Clay, as they came up.
"No!" shouted Stella.
"No!" answered the jockey.
Back again they went, and came up neck and neck, the riders nodding to
Clay.
"Go!" cried Clay, bringing down the red flag with a swish through the
air.
"Vamose!" Stella's clear young voice rang out.
Then an amazing thing happened. Hatrack seemed to be suddenly galvanized
into life. He straightened out, and shot to the front with great, long
horizontal leaps. His body seemed to be gliding close to the earth.
His head was between his legs, and he was running like a greyhound.
Stella was bent low upon his neck, and every moment or two she would
shout in Spanish, "Go it! Vamose!" or, "You're winning! Vamose!"
And winning Hatrack surely was. Now he was half a length ahead of the
fleet Magpie, who was running the race of her life.
Behind her Stella could hear the crowd yelling like mad. The air fairly
shook with the shouts of the multitude as the two horses shot forward.
But it was a short race, and seemed to Stella to have ended almost as
soon as it began.
As she flew past Bud, she got a fleeting glimpse of him jumping up and
down in a very ecstasy of glee, and she knew that she had won, and began
pulling in Hatrack. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Magpie was
already down to a walk a short distance from the wire, and that Cap
Norris and the jockey were talking earnestly.
In a moment she had Hatrack turned, and was going back to where Bud was
waiting for her.
"Bully for you, Stella," shouted Bud. "Yer rode a great race. Jest ez I
wanted it run. Nobody couldn't hev done it better. I told yer ye'd win."
"That was too easy," laughed Stella. "I wish it had been four times as
long."
"That makes it all the better."
"How much did I beat him?"
"A whole length."
"That ought to be enough."
"It was, but I'll bet a cooky they'll make a kick. These crooks always
lay out to win, and won't race unless they can win. If they don't, they
set up a cry of foul, or something of that sort."
"But they can't do that in this case, because I didn't foul him."
Stella became indignant at the very thought.
"Sure you didn't, but that won't keep those wolves from claiming some
sort of a foul."
"You're not going to stand for it, are you?"
"Not in a blue moon. I've got the boys posted. Here comes Norris and his
jockey back."
The old racing sharp walked up to Bud, leading Magpie.
"Well, Magpie's mine," said Bud, not giving the other a chance to speak
first. "Sorry for your sake that you lost, Cap, but the fortunes of
racing often turn unexpectedly, eh?"
"You haven't won," said the old man excitedly.
"Oh, I reckon we won, all right," answered Bud lazily, although there
was an ugly gleam in his eye.
"No, sir, you didn't win fair. Thar wuz a foul at ther start. I see it,
all right; I wasn't shore until I talked with my boy thar, an' he says
as how ther young lady bumped him outer his stride jest ez they wuz
gittin' off."
"Oh, no, you can't work me like that, Cap. They were five feet apart
when the flag fell."
"I tell yer I see it with my own eyes. 'Twas a foul, an' I claim ther
race, er it hez got ter be run over ag'in."
"Never, on yer life. The race goes to the young lady. But I'm not going
to stand here and chew the thing over with you. It's up to the judges."
They all approached the judges' stand, where apparently a lively
argument was in progress.
Ben and the big man who had been chosen by Norris were talking
excitedly, and the other man was listening.
All about the stand an angry crowd of men was surging, all talking at
once, so that nothing could be made out of the babel of shouts, except
when some person with unusually good lungs made himself heard in a
denunciation of one or the other riders.
Ted had joined the crowd, waiting for the arrival of Bud and Stella. Bud
was walking by the side of Stella, whose face showed the disappointment
she felt at not being declared at once the winner.
It was so evidently a job to steal the race from Hatrack that the leader
of the broncho boys was both angry and disgusted.
"This is what you get for having anything to do with this mob of
gamblers and thieves," he said to Kit, who was standing by his side.
"What's that you said, young feller?" said a man, edging up.
"I wasn't talking to you, my friend," answered Ted coolly.
"No, but you was talkin' at me," said the other.
"Why, are you a thief and a gambler?" asked Ted, with a lifting of his
eyebrows that expressed a great deal that he did not say.
"I guess it's the other way around," answered the fellow, snarling.
"I don't see how you make that out."
"Well, I do. The gal bumped the rider o' Magpie."
"She did nothing of the sort. I stood beside the starter of the race,
and I was nearer to the horses than you were, and if any one could see
them I could. The horses were several feet apart when they started."
"Why, sure. You and your pals are interested in the bone heap that went
in first through a foul."
"That will be about enough of that."
A bright red spot burned on each of Ted's cheeks, the danger signal of
his wrath.
"Now, see here, young fellow, you can't throw any bluff into me," said
the fellow, approaching Ted with one shoulder raised.
"You let him alone. He's all right, and has got as much right to talk as
you have," said another man, elbowing his way up.
He was one of those who had bet on Hatrack, and Ted recognized him as
the foreman of the Running Water horse ranch.
"Well, the gal stole the race fer these fellers, an' we ain't goin' ter
stand fer it. They needn't think they kin bring any o' their gals in
here to do their dirty work. They all look alike to us."
"See here," said Ted coolly, "let me give you a piece of advice. Leave
the young lady out of it, or I'll give you something else to think about
for a while."
"Rats fer you," said the fellow, snapping his fingers under Ted's nose.
He picked himself from the ground ten feet away, wiping his bleeding
nose and wondering what had happened to him.
"Say, boy," said the foreman of the Running Water, "that was as pretty
and clean a blow as ever I see. You can handle them mitts o' yours right
handy."
A score of men had rushed up and surrounded Ted and Kit, all shouting
and gesticulating at the same time.
Meantime, Ben was having his troubles in the judges' stand.
He had, of course, decided in favor of Hatrack, while the big man had
declared for a foul and no decision, and the third judge stood wavering.
On the face of it the whole thing was a steal on the part of the
gamblers, who had evidently decided beforehand that if the race went
against them to claim a foul and bluff it through.
But they had argued without their host. They did not know what they were
opposing when they ran against Ted Strong.
Ted was sorry that he had gone into the affair at all, but once in he
was there to stick to the finish. The fellow whom he had knocked down
had retired to the rear to attend to his broken nose, and to give his
friends an opportunity to fight his battle.
The foreman of the Running Water had disappeared. He had foreseen
trouble when the gamblers got together, and attempted to force the race
through, and had gone to collect the cow-punchers and others who had
been induced to bet on Hatrack.
Ted stood his ground patiently, waiting until a decision should be
handed down by the judges before declaring himself.
Stella was sitting in her saddle on Hatrack a few feet away from the
stand watching the proceedings, and listening to the arguments on both
sides made by the angry men.
Bud and Kit stood on either side of her, to protect her from the remarks
of the disgruntled gamblers.
Suddenly a man pushed his way through the throng, mounted on a Spanish
mule.
He was a fine-looking man, dressed after the manner of the plainsman,
and might have been either a cow-puncher in prosperity or a ranch owner.
As the crowd made way for him he caught sight of Bud, and stopped and
stared for several moments without speaking.
Bud had not noticed him, but when he did look up he returned the stare,
and his forehead was wrinkled in thought.
Somewhere in the back part of his head he carried a picture of this
man, but under different circumstances.
Who could he be, and where had he been met, were the things that were
puzzling Bud.
"Hello, pard, you don't seem to place me," said the man on the Spanish
mule. "But I haven't forgotten you by a dern sight. Think hard."
"I've saw yer som'er's," said Bud thoughtfully, "but it wa'n't like
this. You're som'er's in my picture gallery o' faces, but yer ain't ther
same as when I saw yer last."
"Right ye are," said the man. "How's Chiquita getting along?"
"Ah, I've got yer now. How did yer come out? Middlin' well, ter jedge
from ther mule yer ridin', an' yer ginral appearance o' prosperity."
"You bet I be," said the man, "an' if it hadn't been fer you I wouldn't
have been nowhere. I've come a long ways ter hunt yer up, ter thank yer,
an' to get better acquainted with yer."
"Well, ye've got me inter a heap o' trouble," said Bud, laughing.
"So I see, an' I'll help yer get out o' it. What seems ter be the
trouble?"
"Well, old Chiquita, er Hatrack, ez ther boys in ther outfit calls him,
won a race just now, an' ther gamblers won't stand by it. They sent out
word that Hatrack was a sure winner, an'--"
"Same old thing. Chiquita fooled them all."
"I didn't know he could do it myself, but I remembered what you said
about him, an' when an ole maverick come along an' banters me fer a race
I jest took him up, an' this is how it come out. He took us fer a bunch
o' gillies, an' used us to try to fleece the people."
"What's his name?" asked the man on the Spanish mule softly.
"Cap Norris."
"Oh, ole Pap Norris, eh? Calls hisself Cap now, does he?"
"That's what he does, an' he's a derned ole skin."
"None skinnier. But where is he? I should like to see him."
"He's sashayin' around here som'er's attendin' ter his dirty work.
Lookin' after his grandson, little Willie, I reckon."
"What, is that thief still hangin' on to him?"
"Yes. I see you seem to know him."
"Know him! Well, I should gurgle I do know him. I thought every hoss man
in the country knew him. Little Willie, the orphaned grandson, is almost
old enough to be a grandfather himself. He's an outlawed jockey, an' he
an' Pap go about the country skinning countrymen and cow-punchers with
his fake races. He never won a square race in his life. I should say I
did know him. Here he comes now. Watch me wake him up."
The old fellow was bustling up to the crowd.
"See here, young fellow, get ther gal offen that hoss, he's mine, er as
good as mine in a moment. The jedges are goin' ter award ther race ter
me on account o' ther foul," he shouted to Bud.
"I reckon ther hoss stays right with me," said Bud smoothly. "But I want
ter tell yer thet yer better bring in that magpie hoss so's I kin git
him quick. He ain't yours no more."
"Come, come! None o' yer foolishness with me," blustered the old man.
"Git ther gal off before she's pulled off."
"You or any other man put your finger on thet young lady if yer dare,"
said Bud. "Jest try it once if yer think I'm bluffin', men."
"Hello, Pap," said the man on the Spanish mule. "Up ter yer ole tricks,
I see."
The old man looked up at the man on the mule, then turned pale and
slunk away without another word.
"Men," said the man on the mule, addressing the crowd, "you've been
stung. This old bag o' bones is Chiquita, the best race horse ever
produced in Mexico, an' I brought him over here, where I traded him for
a plain cayuse an' gave something ter boot. If any o' you men know
anything about hosses ye'll recognize ther great Chiquita, what made an'
lost more money fer ther people o' Mexico than any one other thing. Pap
didn't know it until he see me, then he suddenly remembered a little
deal me an' him was in. I know this Magpie hoss well, an' it couldn't
stand no more show of winnin' a race from Chiquita than a snail would.
Take it from me that ye've been caught at yer own game, an' have been
done."
At the name of Chiquita a groan went up from the gamblers.
"And who are you?" asked Bud.
"Come nearer, an' I'll tell you in your ear," was the reply.
Bud went close to him, and the man stooped in his saddle and whispered a
word in his ear, at which the old cow-puncher looked startled, then
burst into a fit of laughter.