THE DAY OF THE GREAT RACE
It was pay-day in Gila. Miners from far and near were in camp.
Cow-punchers had come from the range; cowlasses, also, were to be seen
here and there, chaffing with men they knew. The one street had
suddenly taken on human interest. Representatives of different nations
were to be seen in all directions, some going to, and some coming from
the saloons. Groups of men and women gathered to gossip. Comments on
affairs of the community, and especially on the approaching race, were
freely interlarded with profanity. Along the street, strolled Lord
Kelwin, puffing away at a cigar. Apparently he was a good "mixer."
"So you've entered your mare fur the race," said a cow-puncher,
slapping him familiarly on the back. "What in blank do you expect her
to do? She ain't fit fur nothin' but takin' gals hossback ridin', eh?"
And he laughed uproariously at his attempt at wit. "Better cut out
that part of the race. That belongs to another brand o' cattle. Come!
Have a drink." Saying which, they entered the saloon where Pete
Tompkins presided.
The air was already stiff with smoke and profanity. Men had
congregated there soon after receiving their wages.
In a little room apart, sat men intent on a game of cards. Lord
Kelwin joined them. One of the players, a mining engineer, was a
professional gambler, who frequently raked into his pockets the
hard-earned wages of many laboring men. Everyone save the engineer
seemed tense. Once in a while, a smothered oath was heard. At the
close of the game, the Irish lord, also, began to play. He had been
drinking, and though an experienced player, he was no match for the
sober gambler. He lost heavily. At the close of the game, he drank
again, then staggered out of the door. Ah, how many had done the same!
Pete Tompkins followed, gibing him about entering the mare in the
race.
"What in blank are ye enterin' her fur?" asked the aforesaid Pete.
The men gathered about expectant of a fray.
"What am--I--entering her--for--(staggering and hiccoughing)--entering
her for? Ye blanked Americans!--I'm entering her for Miss Bright--Miss
Bright, ye know--Miss Bright--" He laughed a silly laugh. "I'm going
to marry her." Here, he indulged in a drunken jest that sent some of
the men into fits of laughter.
A few, standing outside the door, had attended the men's club and the
Sunday service. Jack Harding, passing at that moment, stopped to speak
with one of the men, and overheard the reference to Esther Bright. His
face grew sternly white. He stepped in front of the boastful Irishman,
and said in a stern, quiet voice:
"Brute, say that you lied."
"Blank you, you religious hypocrite," roared Lord Kelwin, "you can't
bully me!"
Jack Harding sprang upon him, gripped his throat like a vice, and
demanded that he retract every insulting word he had said about the
teacher. "What is that to you? Blank you!" gasped the Irishman.
Jack Harding's grasp tightened.
"Say it," he repeated, in deadly quiet tones. "Say that all you said
about that pure, good woman is a lie."
His tone was as inexorable as fate.
The Irishman's eyes grew fixed with terror, his tongue hung from his
mouth, his face grew purple. Still that calm intense voice reiterating
in his ear:
"Say it! Say that all you said was a lie."
Seeing Lord Kelwin's extreme danger, some one attempted to interfere.
Cries were heard:
"Let them alone!"
"It's none of your funeral!"
"Jack Harding was right. Kelwin _did_ lie, and he's a blackguard for
saying what he did."
Then man after man took up the cry:
"Kelwin, ye blanked coward, _say_ ye lied! Ye know ye lied!"
At last the Irishman gave the sign. Jack Harding released him. Then,
somewhat sobered, he muttered:
"I did lie about a true woman. All I said was a lie."
He staggered from the scene, and Jack Harding passed on his way.
The race was to be on a track in the valley below. As it was Saturday,
John Clayton had suggested to Esther that she and Edith take a
horseback ride with him, to see the last part of the race; for, he
assured her, she would see human life, as well as horse speed, there.
As they approached the track from the mountain road, hoarse cries and
yells could be heard. Excitement ran high.
A few thoroughbreds had been entered for the race, but the greater
number of entries were for horse-flesh that could boast neither
registered sires nor grandsires. They were just "horses."
The last race began just as the Clayton party turned and looked down
on the wriggling, shoving, cursing crowd below. It is doubtful if
Esther Bright had ever heard such language, in all her life, as she
heard that day. She shuddered, and turning to her escort, asked why he
had brought her there.
"Just for you to see what animals human beings are, and how great is
their need of refining, uplifting influences."
"Is John Harding here?" she asked, uneasily.
"We are all here," he answered, smiling, "including Jack. You need
never worry about him again. You found him a sinner, and--"
"And he has become a saint?" she supplemented.
"Not exactly a saint," he answered, "but you have brought about a
complete transformation in the man's life and character. Jack could
never return to what he was, be sure of that!"
"Kelwin! Kelwin's ahead!" shouted a hoarse voice, above the noise of
the crowd.
"Blank ye!" retorted another, "Bill Hines is ahead! I seen 'em turn
fust!"
"Ye lie!" continued the first.
Away to the right, speeding around a curve in the race course, four
horses were straining every muscle. Occasionally a cow-puncher would
lift his quirt, and make it hum through the air, or lash the poor
beast, already straining to its utmost speed.
For a few moments, the racers were concealed from view by a mass of
rocks. When they emerged again, they were greeted by yells from
bystanders. A cowlass, mounted on a spirited animal, was in the lead.
She swore almost constantly at her horse, occasionally cutting him
with her quirt.
Lord Kelwin, now somewhat sobered, made a close second; and Bill Hines
and Bill Weeks were neck and neck behind the Irishman.
The crowd cheered and cheered.
The girl leading was as fine a specimen of the human animal as the
horse she rode was of the horse kind. She sat her horse superbly.
Finally, Lord Kelwin gained upon her, and the horses were neck and
neck. The girl again whirled her quirt around till it cut the air with
a hissing sound, and spoke to her horse. It was enough.
The betting grew louder. The stakes grew heavier.
"I know Kelwin'll win yet."
"No, he won't. Kate Brown'll win. She's a devil to ride, that girl
is!"
Again the Irishman gained upon her. Again she sent her quirt singing
through the air, and her horse obeyed as though horse and rider were
one. He sped faster and faster, passed Lord Kelwin, then the starting
point, and the race was won.
"Hurrah for Kate Brown and Lightning!" shouted hoarse voices; and
cowboys and cowlasses and everyone else yelled and shouted, and
shouted and yelled. It seemed as though pandemonium had been let
loose.
Jack Harding had gone to the races chiefly to dog the steps of Lord
Kelwin; so, if the Irishman had been inclined to speak lightly of
Esther Bright again, he would have had to reckon with him. Kelwin felt
himself shadowed by the cowboy, and a great fear took possession of
him.
As he dismounted, his scant clothing was wet, and clung to his person.
The race had not improved his temper any. To be beaten, and beaten by
a woman, and that woman an American cowlass, was the very limit of
what he could endure from "raw America" that day. He swore to the
right of him; he swore to the left of him. Then glancing over the
crowd, he discovered the Clayton party overlooking the scene.
John Clayton, ignorant of the episode at the saloon, was beckoning him
to join them. Lord Kelwin was about to do so, when Jack Harding
stepped up to him and said:
"Don't you dare enter that woman's presence!"
Lord Kelwin placed his hand on his gun, saying:
"Oh, you needn't give me any of your impudent American advice, you
mongrel cur!"
"Never mind what I am," said Jack; "that woman is one of the truest,
purest souls on earth. You are not fit to enter her presence. You have
_me_ to deal with, remember."
His great eyes flashed upon the Irishman, who quailed before him.
"Oh, you needn't be so high and mighty," said Lord Kelwin, changing
his tactics. "I don't care a blank about her, anyway. She's only an
American working woman, an Indian at that."
"So this is nobility," Jack said to himself. "Nobility! What is it to
be _noble_?"
The race was followed by a dance in one of the saloons, and the lowest
of the low were there. At four o'clock in the morning, those sober
enough went to their homes; the others stretched out anywhere, in a
deep drunken sleep; and pay-day and its pleasuring were over. Men and
women awakened to find their money gone; and for the first time in
years, they felt shame.
Sunday came. The hour of the service drew near. Esther Bright had
thought out what she would say that day about the Race for Life. But
when she rose to speak, she had a strange experience. All she had
thought to say, vanished; and before her mind's eye, she saw the
words, "The wages of sin is death."
There were perhaps a hundred people before her in the timber (where
the services were now held),--men and women among them, who, the day
before, had forgotten they were created in the image of God, and who
had groveled to the level of beasts.
These men, these women, had come to this spot this day, why, they did
not know. Why Esther Bright said the things she said that day, _she_
did not know, either. All she knew was that the words came, and that
there were men and women before her whom she must help.
Those who had sunken so low the day before, cried out in repentance,
as they listened to her words. God's message, through Esther Bright's
voice, had come to men's business and bosoms. Called of God, she said
they were,--called to be true men, true women. From time to time, she
quoted, "The wages of sin is death." One could almost hear his heart
beat.
The meeting was over, so far as Esther Bright's part in it was
concerned; then it passed from her control. First one, then another
rose, confessed his sins, and asked for her prayers.
And what of Esther? She sat as pale as death, her face alight with a
sweetness and compassion that did not seem of earth.
Kenneth Hastings watched her with deepening reverence. Her words had
gone to his heart, too, and he sang with deep feeling:
"Just as I am, without one plea."
As the song ceased, Pete Tompkins (to everyone's amazement) sprang to
his feet.
"Ye'll be s'prised ter hear from me, I reckon,"--Here he shoved his
hand, lean and gaunt, up through his hair. "But I've been listenin'
ter schoolma'am ever sence she begun preachin' in the timber, an' all
I've got ter say is she ain't _our_ brand, or the Devil's brand
either. When the Boss sent out his puncher ter round up folks, he cut
her out an' branded her with the mark o' God. I know she's tellin' the
gospel truth. She's got more courage 'n any blanked one o' yer. I done
'er a mean trick onct. I said blanked mean things about 'er. I'm sorry
I done it, blanked ef I ain't! Ter show 'er an' you that I mean ter be
differ'nt, I say, here an' now, that I wanter see these meetin's go
on, 's long 's schoolma'am 'll be our angel an' pilot us. Ter prove I
mean it, I'll plank down this hunderd dollars" (holding up a
hundred-dollar bill) "toward buildin' a meetin' house; an' I'll give
more, blanked ef I don't! How many wants a meetin' house in Gila?
Stand up!"
Many stood.
"_Stand up, the hull blanked lot o' ye!_" said the self-appointed
leader in forcible tones. To Esther's astonishment, the people rose,
and remained standing.
The notes of a thrush were caught up by a mocking bird, then a warbler
joined in, and the waiting people listened. The song of the birds
"came like the benediction that follows after prayer."
At last the company dispersed, and Esther Bright sat alone, absorbed
in silent prayer.