MORGAN TRIES CONCLUSIONS WITH THE COXCOMB AND HIS FRIENDS.
After his triumph at Chase’s Mill, the Morgan and Evans often stopped
there on their way home from work.
A welcome more cordial than usual greeted them one sweet and tranquil
afternoon. Cowbells tinkled in the distance, coming home along the
River Road for the milking hour, and the chains of Morgan’s harness
jangled an echo from his sides. The leather parts of this harness
were mended here and there with bits of white string, and his usually
glossy, short hair was rough and lacked care. He was not pretty, but
always bold and fearless in his style of movement.
As was his custom, Nathan Nye sat whittling his birch stick into
useless shavings.
“Let the Morgan see if it’s _in him to do it_!” he cried to Evans.
“What’s the game to-day?” asked Evans, cheerfully.
With a backward nod and a frown Nye indicated three strangers
standing in the doorway of the little shop.
“Travellers from over to Benedict’s,” he explained, in an undertone.
“They heard about our horse and have come to try out against him.
I’ve got a sneaking idea that we can take the starch out o’ their
biled shirts for ’em!” He shut his knife with a determined click and
rose. “_They_ claim size is necessary for speed and endurance,” he
went on; “they are just from The Plains of Abraham; on their way back
to New York; came yesterday and hearing at the stage-house that we
had something of a horse in these parts staid over to-day to satisfy
their curiosity.”
“We’ll satisfy it!” laughed Evans, confidently.
Three strange horses stood hitched near by, and Evans went to take a
look at them, as if casually. The Morgan followed, as a faithful dog
might, extending his nostrils as he caught sight of a cloak thrown
over one of the saddles. He caught the scent and blew his breath on
it in a disgusted way. He had recognized the odor of the Coxcomb,
Master Knickerbocker!
Nye had also followed Evans.
“I’d just like to show these New York dandies the sort of horses we
can raise in Vermont,” he said, apparently oblivious of the fact
that the best and first part of True’s raising had been done in
Massachusetts. “Even if we can’t afford to use all that ody cologne,
and wear frills on our shirt fronts. They say these two horses were
bred on the Winooski at the Ethan Allen farm, but this one”--he
indicated the horses as he spoke--“is from down New York way.”
Evans walked around and looked at them critically.
“Good horses, all of them,” he remarked, with appreciation, “and
fresh.”
“Rested all night at the Inn,” Nye corroborated, resentfully.
The Morgan was working himself up over the scent of the cloak--any
test for him against the horse on whose saddle it lay was as good
as won already. He had an intuition that Mistress Lloyd would like
him to defeat the Coxcomb, whose horse was a fretful, vicious
animal--handsome enough, it was true, and with many races to his
credit--but he was too full of conceit and self-confidence to please
Morgan.
The Ethan Allen horses were quieter and gave the impression of
reserve power. All three were stylish and well cared for, while
Morgan was ungroomed and neglected; there were a few burrs in his
heavy black tail, too, which seemed to strike the New Yorkers as
extremely amusing. The Morgan, himself, however, had never seen
anything very comical about a mere cockle-burr, and was nettled at
their foolish remarks and jeers.
“Yes,” repeated Nye, “fresh as flowers, and fed to the top-notch.
Those men have a fine plan to take us down a peg or two.”
“Is it a clean, fair race, think you?” asked Evans, under his breath.
“It’s no clean and no fair race,” Nye gave reply, indignantly, and in
the same low, resentful tone he added,[9] “they want our horse to run
three separate races, one after the other, and him all tuckered out
with a day’s plowing.”
“It ain’t fair,” agreed Evans, vehemently. “My horse ain’t only
tired, but my saddle and bridle, that I left over here t’other day,
ain’t light and easy like theirs. It ain’t reasonable…. Not but what
Morgan can do it,” he added, quickly, “but it’s hard on him.”
“Of course he can do it,” assented Nye, confidently. “They say we’ve
got to show ’em--or shut up our bragging over to Benedict’s--with the
word being passed on from North to South, as never was!”
“All right,” said Evans. “We’ll show ’em. As long as Morgan’s alive
we ain’t got no cause to shut up bragging.”
“Every man to ride his own horse,” Nye further explained.
“My legs are a leetle mite too long to be pretty,” laughed Evans.
“But if Morgan can stand it, I can.”
True heard all this as he stood cropping grass near at hand. When
they ceased speaking he came and rubbed his nose on Evans’ shoulder
reassuringly, as he often did in his affectionate, demonstrative way.
At this moment the strangers joined them, and True recognized
the Coxcomb as he swaggered forward, tapping his tall boots with
a beautiful riding whip. Spurs gleamed on his heels and his
insolent manner was in strong contrast to the simple bearing of the
straightforward farmer’s.
At a glance, Morgan had seen it would be no great feat to beat the
Ethan Allen horses, but he also saw with the same quick glance
that the New York horse was to be reckoned with; he was evidently
accustomed to successes on the course.
When the races were arranged, Evans removed the dangling plow-harness
from True’s back. At sight of him without it the strangers seemed to
be more amused than ever. Their contemptuous remarks affronted Evans.
“Fix up your bets,” he called out a moment later, impatiently, seeing
how uncomfortable True was with his cumbersome saddle and coarse bit.
“I want to get home-along.”
He spoke as if he were so sure of winning that it was but the
question of a moment or so.
His tone irritated the Coxcomb. He came forward.
“Odd brute that,” he sneered, “to put against horses that have won on
The Plains of Abraham. But I suppose the _fun_ of the races will make
up to you for your losses. Why, this is nothing but a Canadian scrub!”
True shook himself in disgust. To be called a striding Canadian. A
horse who travels with purposed exertion, while he glided over the
ground with scarce an effort. A Canadian scrub, indeed, a horse whose
thick nostrils speak of low birth and whose flat sides and thick
hair seem made for much cold and beating; and _he_, with the blood of
the South in his veins!
It was too much for Evans.
“This is no Canadian,” he contradicted, shortly; “this horse is a
Thoroughbred.”
The Coxcomb laughed derisively, and flicked his boot.
“None the less, the brute would answer to the order ‘_Marches
donc!_’… Not so, my friend?” He struck True on the side with his keen
whip, making him spring forward.
“What said I?” he scoffed with a shrug. “The _horse_ does not lie
about his pedigree.”
Ignoring the insulting inference, Evans quieted Morgan with a caress
and cried:
“For shame, sir! Would you have me strike _your_ horse thus?”
But Master Knickerbocker had moved away, laughing insolently.
The course was measured, the scratch drawn and Nathan Nye stood
ready to drop the hat. Several of the men went to the finish-line to
witness and testify to the result of the three races.
The course faced the east, so that the eyes of the horses and their
riders were turned from the sunset glow which was then illumining
the world. The road was smooth, and a recent rain had laid the dust;
the conditions were better than usual. The pungent odor of new-sawn
lumber filled the air and the chirping of birds from the nearby
forest made sweet music.
One of the Ethan Allen horses walked briskly forward under his rider,
while the Morgan joined him in the friendly way which was his natural
manner towards all animals. They waited pleasantly, yet spiritedly,
for the drop of the hat.
When the signal was given they ran neck and neck for a short
distance--then with a sudden and unexpected spurt the Morgan dashed
in a length ahead.
His friends cheered Morgan lustily; the other faction were too
astonished to other than gasp slightly, and were silent. Evans
himself was expressionless--if anything, he, as well as Morgan,
looked a little bored at the easy victory, and cantered back to the
starting point for the next race with a sort of indifference.
The second was twin to the first. Morgan seemed just waking up, as
he sprang forward perfunctorily at the finish, winning with ease. He
moved as if he knew not fatigue, even after the hard day’s work. It
was the Desert training of his ancestors within him, their marvellous
staying qualities.
When they returned the second time the Coxcomb was waiting, his
restive horse trembling in anticipation of a victory.
One or two false starts, and they were off.
The Morgan was away toward the goal like an arrow from an Indian’s
bow--his small extended muzzle and deep wide chest seemed to cut the
air. In the short length of the course he thought of Flying Childers
winning his historic race against the runner Fox, about seventy-five
years before, of which his father told him. Perhaps this memory and
the strain of this great ancestor awakened possibilities within
him--the road ran past, his small, well shaped black feet spurned the
earth, and before he knew it he was at the finish almost a length
ahead of the horse who had won so many races on The Plains of Abraham.
The chagrin of his antagonist’s rider was not lessened by the laughs
and cheers of the farmers, as they clustered about Morgan and patted
his round, deep body and oblique shoulders.
The Coxcomb took his defeat ungracefully and having settled his bets
rode impatiently away with his friends.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Morgan Horses, Linsley, page 137.