The following day Don Mike, Pablo and the latter's male relatives, who
had so mysteriously appeared on the premises, were early ahorse,
driving to El Toro the three hundred-odd head of cattle of all ages and
sizes rounded up on the Palomar. The cattle were corraled at a ranch
half-way to El Toro the first night, and there watered and fed; the
following night they were in the cattle pens at El Toro, and the
following day Farrel loaded them aboard the cars and shipped them out
to Los Angeles, accompanying the shipment personally. Two days later
he was back on the ranch, and the Parkers noticed that his exuberant
spirits had not in the least subsided.
"I'd give a ripe peach to know what that fellow is up to," John Parker
complained. "Confidentially, I've had him shadowed from the moment he
arrived in Los Angeles until the moment he returned to El Toro and
started back for the ranch. He has conferred with nobody except the
stock-yard people. Nevertheless, he has a hen on."
"Yes, and that hen will hatch a young bald-headed eagle to scratch your
eyes out," his daughter reminded him, whereat he chuckled.
"Old Bill Conway's drilling away at his dam-site," he volunteered
presently, "and his suit against me for damages, due to breach of
contract, is set for trial so far down Judge Morton's calendar that the
old judge will have to use a telescope to find it. However, I
shouldn't charge the judge with a lack of interest in my affairs, for
he has rendered a judgment in my favor in the matter of that mortgage
foreclosure and announced from the bench that if this judgment doesn't
stick he'll throw the case out of court the next time it is presented
for trial. I wonder what Farrel's next move will be?"
"I heard him announce that he was going to get ready for the _fiesta_,"
Kay replied.
For two weeks he was busy harrowing, disking and rolling the old
race-track; he repainted the weather-beaten poles and reshingled the
judge's stand; he repaired the fence and installed an Australian
starting-gate, dug a pit for the barbecue and brought forth, repaired
and set up under the oaks close to the race-tracks, thirty long wooden
tables at which, in an elder and more romantic day, the entire
countryside, as guests of the Farrels and Noriagas, had gathered to
feast. Farrel worked hard and saw but little of his guests, except at
meal-times; he retired somewhat early each night and, insofar as his
guests could note, he presented a most commendable example of a young
man whose sole interest in life lay in his work.
"When do you plan to give your _fiesta_, Miguel?" Kay inquired one
evening as they sat, according to custom, on the veranda.
"In about a month," he replied. "I've got to fatten my steers and
harden them on a special diet before we barbecue them. Don Nicolás
Sandoval will have charge of the feast, and if I furnished him with
thin, tough range steers, he'd charge me with modernism and disown me.
Old Bill Conway never would forget it. He'd nag me to my grave."
"When do we give Panchito his try-out, Don Mike?"
"The track is ready for it now, Kay, and Pablo tells me Panchito's
half-brother is now a most dutiful member of society and can get there
in a hurry when he's sent for. But he's only a half thoroughbred.
Shall we start training to-morrow?"
"Oh, goody. By all means."
The long and patient methods of education to which a green race-horse
is subjected were unknown on the Rancho Palomar. Panchito was a
trained saddle animal, wise, sensible, courageous and with a prodigious
faith that his rider would get him safely out of any jam into which
they might blunder together. The starting-gate bothered him at first,
but after half a dozen trials, he realized that the web, flying upward,
had no power to hurt him and was, moreover, the signal for a short,
jolly contest of speed with his fellows of the rancho. Before the week
was out he was "breaking" from the barrier with speed and serenity born
of the knowledge that this was exactly what was expected of him;
whereupon the other horses that Don Mike used to simulate a field of
competitors, took heart of hope at Panchito's complacency and broke
rather well with him.
Those were long, lazy days on the Palomar. June had cast its withering
smile upon the San Gregorio and the green hills had turned to a parched
brown. Grasshoppers whirred everywhere; squirrels whistled; occasional
little dust-devils whirled up the now thoroughly dry river-bed and the
atmosphere was redolent of the aroma of dust and tarweed. Pablo and
his dusky relatives, now considerably augmented (albeit Don Mike had
issued no invitation to partake of his hospitality), trained colts as
roping horses or played Mexican monte in the shade of the help's
quarters. Occasionally they roused themselves long enough to justify
their inroads upon Don Mike's groceries by harvesting a forty-acre
field of alfalfa and irrigating it for another crop, for which purpose
a well had been sunk in the bed of the dry San Gregorio.
The wasted energies of these peons finally commenced to irritate John
Parker.
"How long are you going to tolerate the presence of this healthy lot of
_cholo_ loafers and grafters, Farrel?" he demanded one day. "Have you
any idea of what it is costing you to support that gang?"
"Yes," Farrel replied. "About ten dollars a day."
"You cannot afford that expense."
"I know it. But then, they're the local color, they've always been and
they will continue to be while I have title to this ranch. Why, their
hearts would be broken if I refused them permission to nestle under the
cloak of my philanthropy, and he is a poor sort of white man who will
disappoint a poor devil of a _cholo_."
"You're absolutely incomprehensible," Parker declared.
Farrel laughed. "You're not," he replied. "Know anything about a
stop-watch?"
"I know _all_ about one."
"Well, your daughter has sent to San Francisco for the best stop-watch
money can buy, and it's here. I've had my father's old stop-watch
cleaned and regulated. Panchito's on edge and we're going to give him
a half-mile tryout to-morrow, so I want two stop-watches on him. Will
you oblige, sir?"
Parker willingly consented, and the following morning Farrel and his
guests repaired to the race-track. Kay, mounted on Panchito in racing
gear, was, by courtesy, given a position next to the rail. Eighty
pounds of dark meat, answering to the name of Allesandro Trujillo and
claiming Pablo Artelan as his grandfather, drew next position on
Peep-sight, as Farrel had christened Panchito's half-brother, while
three other half-grown _cholo_ youths, gathered at random here and
there, faced the barrier on the black mare, the old gray roping horse
and a strange horse belonging to one of the volunteer jockeys.
There was considerable backing, filling and some bucking at the
barrier, and Pablo and two of his relatives, acting as starters, were
kept busy straightening out the field. Finally, with a shrill yip,
Pablo released the web and the flighty young Peep-sight was away in
front, with the black mare's nose at his saddle-girth and the field
spread out behind him, with Panchito absolutely last.
At the quarter-pole Kay had worked her mount easily up through the ruck
to contend with Peep-sight. The half-thoroughbred was three years old
and his muscles had been hardened by many a wild scramble up and down
the hills of El Palomar; he was game, he was willing, and for half a
mile he was marvelously fast, as Farrel had discovered early in the
tryouts. Indeed, as a "quarter-horse" Farrel knew that few horses
might beat the comparatively green Peep-sight and he had been
indiscreet enough to make that statement in the presence of youthful
Allesandro Trujillo, thereby filling that young hopeful with a
tremendous ambition to race the famed Panchito into submission for the
mere sport of a race.
In a word, Allesandro's Indian blood was up. If there was anything he
loved, it was a horse-race for money, chalk, marbles or fun. Therefore
when a quick glance over his shoulder showed Panchito's blazed face at
Peep-sight's rump, Allesandro clucked to his mount, gathered the reins
a trifle tighter and dug his dirty bare heels into Peep-sight's ribs,
for he was riding bareback, as an Indian should. Peep-sight responded
to the invitation with such alacrity that almost instantly he had
opened a gap of two full lengths between himself and Kay on Panchito.
Farrel and Parker, holding their stop-watches, watched the race from
the judge's stand.
"By Jove, that Peep-sight _is_ a streak," Parker declared admiringly.
"He can beat Panchito at that distance, even at proportionate weights
and with an even break at the start."
Farrel nodded, his father's old racing-glass fixed on Allesandro and
Kay. The girl had "gathered" her mount; she was leaning low on his
powerful neck and Farrel knew that she was talking to him, riding him
out as he had never been ridden before. And he was responding. Foot
by foot he closed the distance that Peep-sight had opened up, but
within a hundred yards of the finish Allesandro again called upon his
mount for some more of the same, and the gallant Peep-sight flattened
himself perceptibly and held his own; nor could Panchito's greatest
efforts gain upon the flying half-breed a single inch.
"Bully for the Indian kid," Parker yelled. "Man, man, that's a horse
race."
"They'll never stop at the half-mile pole," Farrel laughed. "That race
will be won by Panchito when Panchito wins it. Ah, I told you so."
"Well, Peep-sight wins at the half by one open length--and the _cholo_
boy is using a switch on him!"
"He's through. Panchito is gaining on him. He'll pass him at the
three-quarter pole."
"Right-o, Farrel. Panchito wins by half a length at the three-quarter
pole--"
"I wish Kay would pull him up," Farrel complained. "He's gone too far
already and there she is still heading for home like the devil beating
tan-bark . . . well, if she breaks him down she's going to be out the
grandest saddle animal in the state of California. That's all I have
to say. . . . Kay, Kay, girl, what's the matter with you? Pull him up
. . . by the blood of the devil, she can't pull him up. She's broken a
rein and he's making a run of it on his own."
"Man, look at that horse go."
"Man, look at him come!"
Panchito had swung into the home-stretch, his white face and white
front legs rising and falling with the strong, steady rhythm of the
horse whose stout heart refuses to acknowledge defeat, the horse who
still has something left for a supreme effort at the finish.
"There is a true race-horse," Parker cried exultantly. "I once won a
ten-thousand-dollar purse with a dog that wasn't fit to appear on the
same track with that Panchito."
The big chestnut thudded by below them, stretched to the limit of his
endurance, passed what would have been the finish had the race been a
mile and a sixteenth, and galloped up the track with the broken
bridle-rein dangling. He slowed down as he came to the other horses in
the race, now jogging back to the judge's stand, and one of the _cholo_
youths spurred alongside of him, caught the dangling rein and led him
back to the judge's stand.
Kay's face was a little bit white as she smiled up at her father and
Farrel. "The old darling ran away with me," she called.
Farrel was instantly at her side and had lifted her out of the saddle.
She clung to him for the barest moment, trembling with fear and
excitement, before turning to examine Panchito, from whom Pablo had
already stripped the saddle. He was badly blown, as trembly as the
girl herself, and dripping with sweat, but when Pablo slipped the
headstall on him and commenced to walk him up and down to "cool him
out," Don Mike's critical eye failed to observe any evil effects from
the long and unaccustomed race.
John Parker came down out of the grand stand, his thumb still tightly
pressing the stem of his stop-watch, which he thrust under Farrel's
nose.
"Look, you star-spangled ignoramus, look," he yelled. "You own a horse
that's fit to win the Melbourne Cup or the American Derby, and you
don't know it. What do you want for him? Give you ten thousand for
him this minute--and I am not so certain that race hasn't hurt him."
"Oh, I don't want to sell Panchito. I can make this ranch pay ten
thousand dollars, but I cannot breed another Panchito on it."
"Farrel, if you refuse to sell me that horse I'm going to sit right
down here and weep. Son, I don't know a soul on earth who can use
twelve--yes, fifteen--thousand dollars handier than you can."
Don Mike smiled his lazy, tantalizing smile. "I might as well be broke
as the way I am," he protested. "What's a paltry fifteen thousand
dollars to a man who needs half a million? Mr. Parker, my horse is not
for sale at any price."
"You mean that?"
"Absolutely."
John Parker sighed. Since that distant day when he had decided that he
could afford such a luxury, his greatest delight had been in owning and
"fussing" with a few really great race-horses. He had owned some
famous sprinters, but his knowledge of the racing game had convinced
him that, could he but acquire Panchito, he would be the owner of a
true king of the turf. The assurance that, with all his great wealth,
this supreme delight was denied him, was a heavy blow.
Kay slipped her arm through his. "Don't cry, pa, please! We'll wait
until Don Mike loses all his sheep and cow money and then we'll buy
Panchito for a song."
"Oh, Kay, little girl, that horse is a peach. I think I'd give a
couple of toes for the fun of getting my old trainer Dan Leighton out
here, training this animal quietly up here in the valley where nobody
could get a line on his performances, then shipping him east to
Saratoga, where I'd put a good boy on him, stick him in rotten company
and win enough races to qualify him for the biggest event of the year.
And then! Oh, how I would steal the Derby from John H. Hatfield and
his four-year-old wonder. I owe Hatfield a poke anyhow. We went
raiding together once and the old sinner double-crossed me."
"Who is John H. Hatfield?" Don Mike queried mildly.
"Oh, he's an aged sinner down in Wall Street. He works hard to make
the New Yorkers support his racing stables. Poor old John! All he has
is some money and one rather good horse."
"And you wish to police this Hatfield person, sir?"
"If I could, I'd die happy, Farrel."
"Very well. Send for your old trainer, train Panchito, try him out a
bit at Tia Juana, Lower California, at the meeting this winter, ship
him to Saratoga and make Señor Hatfield curse the day he was born. I
have a very excellent reason for not selling Panchito to you, but never
let it be said that I was such a poor sport I refused to loan him to
you--provided, of course, Kay agrees to this course. He's her mount,
you know, while she's on El Palomar."
Parker turned to his daughter. "Kay," he demanded, "do you love your
poor old father?"
"Yes, I do, pa, but you can't have Panchito until you do something for
me."
"Up jumped the devil! What do you want?"
"If you accept a favor from Miguel Farrel you ought to be sport enough
to grant him one. If you ever expect to see Panchito in your racing
colors out in front at the American Derby, Miguel must have a renewal
of his mortgage."
"Oh, the devil take that mortgage. You and your mother never give me a
moment's peace about it. You make me feel like a criminal; it's
getting so I'll have to sit around playing mumbley-peg in order to get
a thrill in my old age. You win, Kay. Farrel, I will grant you a
renewal of the mortgage. I'm weary of being a Shylock."
"Thanks ever so much. I do not desire it, Mr. Parker. One of these
bright days when I get around to it, and provided luck breaks my way,
I'll take up that mortgage before the redemption period expires. I
have resolved to live my life free from the shadow of an accursed
mortgage. Let me see, now. We were talking about horse-racing, were
we not?"
"Miguel Farrel, you'd anger a sheep," Parker cried wrathfully, and
strode away toward his automobile waiting in the infield. Kay and Don
Mike watched him drive straight across the valley to the road and turn
in the direction of El Toro.
"Wilder than a March hare," Don Mike commented.
"Not at all," Kay assured him. "He's merely risking his life in his
haste to reach El Toro and telegraph Dan Leighton to report
immediately."