John Parker's boredom had been cured by a stop-watch. One week after
Panchito had given evidence of his royal breeding, Parker's old
trainer, Dan Leighton, arrived at the Palomar. Formerly a jockey, he
was now in his fiftieth year, a wistful little man with a puckered,
shrewd face, which puckered more than usual when Don Mike handed him
Panchito's pedigree.
"He's a marvelous horse, Danny," Parker assured the old trainer.
"No thanks to him. He ought to be," Leighton replied. His cool glance
measured Allesandro Trujillo, standing hard by. "I'll have that dusky
imp for an exercise boy," he announced. "He's built like an
aeroplane--all superstructure and no solids."
For a month the training of Panchito went on each morning. Pablo's
grandson, under Danny Leighton's tuition, proved an excellent exercise
boy. He learned to sit his horse in the approved jockey fashion; proud
beyond measure at the part he was playing, he paid strict attention to
Leighton's instructions and progressed admirably.
Watching the horse develop under skilled scientific training, it
occurred to Don Mike each time he held his father's old stop-watch on
Panchito that race-horses had, in a great measure, conduced to the ruin
of the Noriagas and Farrels, and something told him that Panchito was
likely to prove the instrument for the utter financial extinction of
the last survivor of that famous tribe. "If he continues to improve,"
Farrel told himself, "he's worth a bet--and a mighty heavy one.
Nevertheless, Panchito's grandfather, leading his field by six open
lengths in the home-stretch, going strong and a sure-fire winner,
tangled his feet, fell on his nose and cost my father a thousand steers
six months before they were ready for market. I ought to leave John
Parker to do all the betting on Panchito, but--well, he's a
race-horse--and I'm a Farrel."
"When will Panchito be ripe to enter in a mile and a sixteenth race?"
he asked Parker.
"About the middle of November. The winter meeting will be on at Tia
Juana, Baja California, then, and Leighton wants to give him a few
try-outs there in fast company over a much shorter course. We will win
with him in a field of ordinary nags and we will be careful not to win
too far or too spectacularly. We have had his registry brought up to
date and of course you will be of record as his owner. In view of our
plans, it would never do for Danny and me to be connected with him in
any way."
Don Mike nodded and rode over to Agua Caliente Basin to visit Bill
Conway. Mr. Conway was still on the job, albeit Don Mike hazarded a
guess that the old schemer had spent almost two hundred thousand
dollars. His dam was, as he facetiously remarked, "taking concrete
shape," and he was rushing the job in order to have the structure
thoroughly dry and "set" against the coming of the winter rains. To
his signal relief, Farrel asked him no embarrassing questions regarding
the identity of the extremely kind-hearted person who was financing
him; he noticed that his young friend appeared a trifle pre-occupied
and depressed. And well he might be. The secret knowledge that he was
obligated to Kay Parker to the extent of the cost of this dam was
irritating to his pride; while he felt that her loving interest and
sympathy, so tremendously manifested, was in itself a debt he would
always rejoice in because he never could hope to repay it, it did irk
him to be placed in the position of never being able to admit his
knowledge of her action. He prayed that Bill Conway would be enabled
to complete the dam as per his contract; that Judge Morton would then
rush to trial Conway's suit for damages against Parker for
non-performance of contract; that Conway would be enabled immediately
to reimburse himself through Parker's assets which he had attached,
repay Kay and close the transaction.
On November fifteenth Danny Leighton announced that Panchito was "right
on edge" and, with a few weeks of experience in professional company,
fit to make the race of his career. The winter meeting was already on
at Tia Juana and, with Farrel's consent, Panchito was lovingly
deposited in a well-padded crate mounted on a motor truck and
transported to El Toro. Here he was loaded in an express car and,
guarded by Don Mike, shipped not to Tia Juana, as Parker and his
trainer both supposed he would be, but to San Diego, sixteen miles
north of the international boundary--a change of plan originating with
Farrel and by him kept a secret from Parker and Danny Leighton. With
Panchito went an ancient Saratoga trunk, Pablo Artelan, and little
Allesandro Trujillo, ragged and bare-footed as usual.
Upon arriving in San Diego Don Mike unloaded Panchito at the Santa Fe
depot. Gone now were the leg bandages and the beautiful blanket with
which Danny Leighton had furnished Panchito at starting. These things
proclaimed the race-horse, and that was not part of Don Mike's plan.
He led the animal to a vacant lot a few blocks from the depot and,
leaving him there in charge of Pablo, went up town to the Mexican
consulate and procured passports into Baja California for himself and
Allesandro. From the consulate he went to a local stock-yard and
purchased a miserable, flea-bitten, dejected saddle mule, together with
a dilapidated old stock saddle with a crupper, and a well-worn
horse-hair hackamore.
Returning to the depot, he procured his old Saratoga trunk from the
station master and removed from it the beautiful black-leather,
hand-carved, silver-mounted stock saddle he had won at a _rodeo_ some
years previous; a pair of huge, heavy, solid silver Mexican spurs, with
tan carved-leathern straps, and a finely plaited hand-made rawhide
bridle, _sans_ throat-latch and brow-band and supporting a long, cruel,
solid silver Spanish bit, with silver chain chin-strap and heavily
embossed. In this gear he arrayed Panchito, and then mounted him.
Allesandro mounted the flea-bitten mule, the old Saratoga trunk was
turned over to Pablo, and with a fervent "_Adios_, Don Miguel. Go with
God!" from the old majordomo, Don Mike and his little companion rode
south through the city toward the international boundary.
They crossed at Tecarte next day and in the somnolent little border
town Don Mike made sundry purchases and proceeded south on the road
toward Ensenada.
Meanwhile, John Parker, his wife and daughter and Danny Leighton had
motored to San Diego and taken rooms at a hotel there. Each day they
attended the races at Tia Juana, and as often as they appeared there
they looked long and anxiously for Don Miguel José Federico Noriaga
Farrel. But in vain.
Three days before Thanksgiving the entries for the Thanksgiving
handicap were announced, and when Danny Leighton read them in the
morning paper he at once sought his employer.
"That fellow Farrel has spoiled everything," he complained furiously.
"He's entered Panchito in the Thanksgiving Handicap at a mile and a
sixteenth, for a ten thousand dollar purse. There he is!"
Parker read the list and sighed. "Well, Panchito is his horse, Danny.
He has a right to enter him if he pleases--hello! Katie! Kay! Here's
news for you. Listen!"
He read aloud:
DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, JR.
ARRIVE AT TIA JUANA--THEY ENTER PANCHITO IN THE THANKSGIVING HANDICAP
_By the Rail Bird_
Considerable interest having developed among the followers of the sport
of kings at Tia Juana race-track anent the entry of Panchito in the
Thanksgiving Handicap, and the dope books yielding nothing, your
correspondent hied him to the office of the secretary of the Lower
California Jockey Club; whereupon he was regaled with the following
extraordinary tale:
Two days ago a Mexican rode into Tia Juana from the south. He was
riding Panchito and his outfit was the last word in Mexican
magnificence. His saddle had cost him not a _real_ less than five
hundred dollars gold; his silver spurs could have been pawned in any
Tia Juana loan office for twenty-five dollars and many a longing glance
was cast on a magnificent bridle that would have cost any bricklayer a
month's pay. Panchito, a splendid big chestnut with two white
stockings and a blazed face, was gray with sweat and alkali dust and
shod like a plow horse. He wore cactus burrs in his tail and mane and
had evidently traveled far.
His rider claimed to have been on the road a week, and his soiled
clothing and unshaven face gave ample testimony of that fact. He was
arrayed in the traditional costume of the Mexican ranchero of means and
spoke nothing but Spanish, despite which handicap the racing secretary
gleaned that his name was Don Miguel José Maria Federico Noriaga
Farrelle. Following Don Miguel came Sancho Panza, Junior, a stringy
Indian youth of fourteen summers, mounted on an ancient flea-bitten
mule. The food and clothing of these two adventurers were carried
behind them on their saddles.
An interpreter informed the secretary that Don Miguel was desirous of
entering his horse, Panchito, in the Thanksgiving Handicap. The
horse's registration papers being in order, the entry was accepted, Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza, Junior, were each given a badge, and a stall
was assigned to Panchito. At the same time Don Quixote made
application for an apprentice license for young Sancho Panza, who
answers to the name of Allesandro Trujillo, when the _enchiladas_ are
ready.
Panchito, it appears, is a five-year-old, bred by Michael J. Farrel,
whose post-office address is El Toro, San Marcos County, California.
He is bred in the purple, being a descendant of Duke of Norfolk and,
according to his present owner, Don Quixote, he can run circles around
an antelope and has proved it in a number of scrub races at various
_fiestas_ and celebrations. According to Don Quixote, his horse has
never hitherto appeared on a public race-track. Panchito knows far
more about herding and roping steers than he does about professional
racing, and enters the list with no preparation other than the daily
exercise afforded in bearing his owner under a forty-pound stock saddle
and scrambling through the cactus after longhorns. Evidently Don
Quixote knows it all. He brushed aside with characteristic Castilian
grace some well-meant advice tendered him by his countrymen, who have
accumulated much racing wisdom since the bang-tails have come to Tia
Juana. He spent the entire day yesterday telling everybody who
understands Spanish what a speed marvel is his Panchito, while Sancho
Panza, Junior, galloped Panchito gently around the track and warmed him
in a few quarter-mile sprints. It was observed that the cactus burrs
were still decorating Panchito's tail and mane.
Don Quixote is a dead game Mexican sport, however. He has a roll that
would choke a hippopotamus and appears willing to bet them as high as a
hound's back.
Figure it out for yourself. You pays your money and you takes your
choice. Bobby Wilson, the handicapper, says Don Quixote smokes
_marihuana_, but the _jefe politico_ says he knows it's the fermented
juice of the century plant. However, Bobby is taking no chances as the
wise ones will note when they check the weights. Panchito, being a
powerful horse and (according to Don Quixote) absolutely unbeatable,
faces the barrier with an impost of 118 pounds, not counting his shoes,
cactus burrs and stable accumulations.
Watch for Sancho Panza, Junior. He rides barefooted in a two-piece
uniform, to wit, one "nigger" shirt and a pair of blue bib overalls,
and he carries a willow switch.
_Viva_ Panchito. _Viva_ Don Quixote. _Ditto_ Sancho Panza, Junior.
John Parker finished reading and his glance sought Leighton's.
"Danny," he informed the trainer in a low voice, "here is what I call a
dirty, low, Irish trick. I suppose he's been making a night-bird out
of Panchito, but you can bet your last nickel he isn't neglecting him
when they're alone in the barn together. He gets a grooming then; he
gets well fed and well rubbed and the cactus burrs and the stable
accumulations are only scenery when Panchito's on parade. He removed
the racing plates you put on Panchito and substituted heavy work shoes,
but--Panchito will go to the post with racing plates. I think we had
better put a bet down on him."
"I wouldn't bet tin money on him," Danny Leighton warned. "He can
outrun anything in that field, even if he has broken training a little,
but those wise little jockeys on the other horses will never let him
win. They'll pocket him and keep him there."
"They'll not!" Kay's voice rose sharply. "Panchito will be off first,
no matter what position he draws, and Don Mike's orders to Allesandro
will be to keep him in front. But you are not to bet on him, father."
"Why not? Of course I shall bet on him."
"You know very well, Dad, that there are no book-makers of Tia Juana to
make the odds. The Paris Mutuel system obtains here and the public
makes the odds. Consequently the more money bet on Panchito the lower
will be his price. I'm certain Don Mike will bet every dollar he has
in the world on Panchito, but he will bet it, through trusted agents,
in pool-rooms all over the country. The closing price here should be
such that the pool-rooms should pay Don Mike not less than fifteen to
one."
"So you've been his confidante, have you?" Parker scrutinized his
daughter quizzically.
"He had to take somebody into his confidence in order to have his plans
protected," she confessed blushingly.
"Quite so! Somebody with a deal of influence," Mrs. Parker
interjected. "John, this is simply delicious. That rascal of a Don
Miguel has reverted to type. He has put aside his Celtic and Gaelic
blood and turned Mexican. He tells people the truth about his horse
and a reporter with a sense of humor has advertised these truths by
writing a funny story about him and Panchito and the Indian imp."
"They'll have him up in the judge's stand for an explanation five
minutes after the race is won," Danny Leighton declared. "Panchito
will be under suspicion of being a ringer and the payment of bets will
be held up."
"In which case, dad," Kay reminded him demurely, "you and Mr. Leighton
will be furnished with an excellent opportunity to prove yourselves
heroes. Both of you will go to the judge's stand immediately and vouch
for Don Mike and Panchito. If you do not I shall--and I fancy John
Parker's daughter's testimony will be given some consideration, Mr.
John Parker being very well known to every racing judge in America."
"There are days," murmured John Parker sadly, "when I find it
impossible to lay up a cent. I have nurtured a serpent in my bosom."
"Tush! There are no snakes in Ireland," his humorous wife reminded
him. "What if Don Mike has hoisted you on your own petard? Few men
have done as much," and she pinched his arm lovingly.