THE GIFT-HORSE
"Your dog is your own dog," remarked Jerry Strann, still to the back of
the card-laying stranger, "but this ain't your back-yard. Keep your eye
on him, or I'll fix him so he won't need watching!"
So saying he made another step forward, and it brought a snarl from the
dog; not one of those high-whining noises, but a deep guttural that
sounded like indrawn breath. The gun of Jerry Strann leaped into his
hand.
"Bart," said the gentle-voiced stranger, "lie down and don't talk." And
he turned in his chair, pulled his hat straight, and looked mildly upon
the gunman. An artist would have made much of that picture, for there
was in this man, as in Strann, a singular portion of beauty. It was not,
however, free from objection, for he had not the open manliness of the
larger of the two. Indeed, a feminine grace and softness marked him; his
wrists were as round as a girl's, and his hands as slender and as
delicately finished. Whether it be the white-hot sun of summer or the
hurricane snows of winter, the climate of the mountain-desert roughens
the skin, and it cuts away spare flesh, hewing out the face in angles;
but with this man there were no rough edges, but all was smoothed over
and rounded with painful care; as if nature had concentrated in that
birth to show what she could do. Such fine workmanship, perhaps, would
be appreciated more by women than by men; for men like a certain weight
and bulk of bone and muscle--whereas this fellow seemed as light of body
as he was of hand. He sat now watching Strann with the utmost gravity.
He had very large brown eyes of a puzzling quality; perhaps that was
because there seemed to be no thought behind them and one caught the
mystery and the wistfulness of some animals from a glance at him.
The effect of that glance on Strann was to make him grin again, and he
at once banished the frown from his forehead and put away his gun; the
big dog had slunk deeper into the shadow and closer to his master.
"I'm Strann. Maybe you've heard of me."
"My name is Barry," said the other. "I'm sorry that I haven't heard of
you before."
And the sound of his voice made Jerry Strann grin again; it was such a
low, soft voice with the velvet of a young girl's tone in it; moreover,
the brown eyes seemed to apologise for the ignorance concerning Strann's
name.
"You got a hoss out in front."
A nod of agreement.
"What's your price?"
"None."
"No price? Look here," argued Strann, "everything's got a price, and I
got to have that hoss, understand? _Got_ to! I ain't bargaining. I won't
try to beat you down. You just set a figger and I'll cover it. I guess
that's square!"
"He ain't a gentle hoss," said Barry. "Maybe you wouldn't like him."
"Oh, that's all right about being gentle," chuckled Strann. Then he
checked his mirth and stared piercingly at the other to make out if
there were a secret mockery. It could not, however, be possible. The
eyes were as gravely apologetic as ever. He continued: "I seen the
hell-fire in him. That's what stopped me like a bullet. I like 'em that
way. Much rather have 'em with a fight. Well, let's have your price.
Hey, O'Brien, trot out your red-eye; I'm going to do some business
here!"
O'Brien came hastily, with drinks, and while they waited Strann queried
politely: "Belong around these parts?"
"No," answered the other softly.
"No? Where you come from?"
"Over there," said Barry, and waved a graceful hand towards half the
points of the compass.
"H-m-m!" muttered Strann, and once more he bent a keen gaze upon his
companion. The drinks were now placed before them. "Here," he concluded,
"is to the black devil outside!" And he swallowed the liquor at a gulp,
but as he replaced the empty glass on the table he observed, with
breathless amazement, that the whiskey glass of the stranger was still
full; he had drunk his chaser!
"Now, by God!" said Strann in a ringing voice, and struck a heavy hand
upon the top of the table. He regained his control, however, instantly.
"Now about that price!"
"I don't know what horses are worth," replied Barry.
"To start, then--five hundred bucks in cold cash--gold!--for
your--what's his name?"
"Satan."
"Eh?"
"Satan."
"H-m-m!" murmured Strann again. "Five hundred for Satan, then. How about
it?"
"If you can ride him," began the stranger.
"Oh, hell," smiled Strann with a large and careless gesture, "I'll
_ride_ him, all right."
"Then I would let you take him for nothing," concluded Barry.
"You'd--what?" said Strann. Then he rose slowly from his chair and
shouted; instantly the swinging doors broke open and a throng of faces
appeared at the gap. "Boys, this gent here is going to give me the
black--ha, ha, ha!--if I can ride him!" He turned back on Barry.
"They've heard it," he concluded, "and this bargain is going to stick
just this way. If your hoss can throw me the deal's off. Eh?"
"Oh, yes," nodded the brown-eyed man.
"What's the idea?" asked one of Jerry's followers as the latter stepped
through the doors of the saloon onto the street.
"I dunno," said Jerry. "That gent looks kind of simple; but it ain't my
fault if he made a rotten bargain. Here, you!"
And he seized the bridle-reins of the black stallion. Speed, lightning
speed, was what saved him, for the instant his fingers touched the
leather Satan twisted his head and snapped like an angry dog. The teeth
clicked beside Strann's shoulder as he leaped back. He laughed savagely.
"That'll be took out of him," he announced, "and damned quick!"
Here the voice of Barry was heard, saying: "I'll help you mount, Mr.
Strann." And he edged his way through the little crowd until he stood at
the head of the stallion.
"Look out!" warned Strann in real alarm, "or he'll take your head off!"
But Barry was already beside his horse, and, with his back towards those
vicious teeth, he drew the reins over its head. As for the stallion, it
pricked one ear forward and then the other, and muzzled the man's
shoulder confidingly. There was a liberal chorus of astonished oaths
from the gathering.
"I'll hold his head while you get on," suggested Barry, turning his mild
eyes upon Strann again.
"Well," muttered the big man, "may I be eternally damned!" He added:
"All right. Hold his head, and I'll ride him without pulling leather. Is
that square?"
Barry nodded absently. His slender fingers were patting the velvet nose
of the stallion and he was talking to it in an affectionate
undertone--meaningless words, perhaps, such as a mother uses to soothe a
child. When Strann set his foot in the stirrup and gathered up the reins
the black horse cringed and shuddered; it was not a pleasant thing to
see; it was like a dog crouching under the suspended whip. It was worse
than that; it was almost the horror of a man who shivers at the touch of
an unclean animal. There was not a sound from the crowd; and every grin
was wiped out. Jerry Strann swung into the saddle lightly.
There he sat, testing the stirrups. They were too short by inches but he
refused to have them lengthened. He poised his quirt and tugged his hat
lower over his eyes.
"Turn him loose!" he shouted. "Hei!"
And his shrill yell went down the street and the echoes sent it barking
back from wall to wall; Barry stepped back from the head of the black.
But for an instant the horse did not stir. He was trembling violently,
but his blazing eyes were fixed upon the face of his owner. Barry raised
his hand.
And then it happened. It was like the release of a coiled watch-spring;
the black whirled as a top spins and Strann sagged far to the left;
before he could recover the stallion was away in a flash, like a racer
leaving the barrier and reaching full speed in almost a stride. Not
far--hardly the breadth of the street--before he pitched up in a long
leap as if to clear a barrier, landed stiff-legged with a sickening jar,
whirled again like a spinning top, and darted straight back. And Jerry
Strann pulled leather--with might and main--but the short stirrups were
against him, and above all the suddenness of the start had taken him off
guard for all his readiness. When the stallion dropped stiff-legged
Jerry was thrown forward and an unlucky left foot jarred loose from the
stirrup; and when the horse whirled Strann was flung from the saddle. It
was a clean fall. He twisted over in the air as he fell and landed in
deep dust. The black stallion had reached his master and now he turned,
in that same catlike manner, and watched with pricking ears as Strann
dragged himself up from the dust.
There was no shout of laughter--no cheer for that fall, and without a
smile they watched Strann returning. Big O'Brien had seen from his open
door and now he laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the men and
whispered at his ear: "There's going to be trouble; bad trouble, Billy.
Go for Fatty Matthews--he's a deputy marshal now--and get him here as
quick as you can. Run!"
The other spared time for a last glance at Strann and then hurried down
the street.
Now, a man who can lose and smile is generally considered the most
graceful of failures, but the smile of Jerry Strann as he walked slowly
back worried his followers.
"We all hit dust sometime," he philosophized. "But one try don't prove
nothin'. I ain't near through with that hoss!"
Barry turned to Strann. If there had been mockery in his eyes or a
smile on his lips as he faced Jerry there would have been a gun play on
the spot; but, instead, the brown eyes were as dumbly apologetic as
ever.
"We didn't talk about two tries," he observed.
"We talk about it now," said Strann.
There was one man in the crowd a little too old to be dangerous and
therefore there was one man who was in a position to speak openly to
Strann. It was big O'Brien.
"Jerry, you named your game and made your play and lost. I guess you
ain't going to turn up a hard loser. Nobody plays twice for the same
pot."
The hazel eye of Strann was grey with anguish of the spirit as he looked
from O'Brien to the crowd and from the crowd to Satan, and from Satan to
his meek-eyed owner. Nowhere was there a defiant eye or a glint of scorn
on which he could wreak his wrath. He stood poised in his anger for the
space of a breath; then, in the sharp struggle, his better nature
conquered.
"Come on in, all of you," he called. "We'll liquor, and forget this."