Numerically the followers of Clatawa were in the majority; but there was
a weight of metal behind Horned Toad that steadied the market; it came
from a mysterious source. Texas Sam had been played for a blatant
fool; nobody had seen Horned Toad show a performance that would warrant
backing.
The little buckskin was looked upon as a sacrifice to his owner's
well-known determination, his wild gambling spirit, that once roused,
could not be bluffed. They pitied Carney because they liked him; but
what was the use of stringing with a man who held the weakest hand?
And yet when somebody, growing rash, offered ten to one against the
buckskin, a man, quite as calm and serene as Bulldog Carney himself,
looking like a placer miner who worked a rocker on some bend of the
Columbia, would say, diffidently, "I'll take that bet." And he would
make good--one yellow eagle or fifty. It was almost ominous, the quiet
seriousness of this man who said his name was Oregon, just Oregon.
"Talk of gamblers," Iron Jaw said with a spluttering laugh, and he
pointed to the street where little knots of people stood, close packed
against some two, who, money in hand, were backing their faith. Then the
fatty laugh chilled into a coldblooded sneer:
"Snaggle Tooth, we'll learn these tin-horns somethin'; tomorrow your
safe won't be big enough to hold it. But, say, don't let that Texas
brayin' ass have no more booze."
"If you ask me, Blake, I think he's yeller. He's plumb babyfied now
because of Carney--sober he'd quit."
"Carney won't turn a hair when we win."
"Course he won't. But you can't get that into Texas's noodle with a
funnel--he's hoodooed; wants me to plant a couple of gun men at the
finish for fear Bulldog'll grab him."
"Look here, Snaggle, that coyote--hell! I know the breed of them
outlaws, they'd rather win a race crooked than by their horse gallopin'
in front--he just can't trust himself; he's afraid he'll foul the others
when the chance flashes on him. You just tell him that we can't stand
to kiss twenty thousand good-bye because of any Injun trick; the Sheriff
wouldn't stand for it for a minute; he'd turn the money over to the
horse that he thought ought to get it, quick as a wolf'd grab a calf by
the throat."
That was the atmosphere on that sweet-breathed August day in the archaic
town of Walla Walla.
It was a perfectly conceived race; three men in it and each one
confident that he held a royal flush; each one certain that, bar crooked
work, he could win.
The sporting Commandant of the U. S. Cavalry troop had been appointed
judge of the finish at the Sheriff's suggestion; and another officer was
to fire the starting gun.
It was a springy turf course; just the going to suit Waster, whose legs
had been dicky. On a hard course, built up of clay and sand, guiltless
of turf, the fierce hammering of the hoofs might even yet heat up his
joints, though they looked sound; his clutching hoofs might cup out
unrooted earth and bow a tendon.
An hour before race time people had flocked out to the goal where would
be settled the ownership of thousands of dollars by the gallant steed
that first caught the judge's eye as he flashed past the post. Even
Lieutenant Governor Moore was there; that magnificent Nez Perces, Chief
Joseph, sat his half-blooded horse a six-foot-three bronze Apollo, every
inch a king in his beaded buckskins and his eagle feathers. The picture
was Homeric, grand; and behind the canvas was the subtle duplicity of
gold worshipers.
At half-past three a hush fell over the chattering, betting,
vociferating throng, as the judge, a tall soldierly figure of a man,
called:
"Bring out the horses for this race: it is time to go to the post!"
Clatawa was the first to push from behind the throng to the course
where the judge stood. He was a beautiful, high-spirited bay with black
points, and a broad line of white, starting from a star in his forehead,
ran down his somewhat Roman nose. Two men led him, one on either side,
and a blanket covered his form.
Then Horned Toad was led forward by a stable man; beneath a loose
blanket showed the outlines of a small saddle. The horse walked with
the unconcerned step of one accustomed to crowds, and noise, and blare.
Beside him strode Texas Sam, a long coat draping his form.
Behind Horned Toad came the buckskin, at his heels Bulldog Carney, and
beside Carney a figure that might have been an eager boy out for the
holiday. The buckskin walked with the same indifference Horned Toad had
shown.
As he was brought to a stand he lifted his long lean neck, threw up the
flopped ears, spread his nostrils, and with big bright eyes gazed far
down the track, so like a huge ribbon laid out on the plain, as if
wondering where was the circular course he loved so well. He knew it
was a race--that he was going to battle with those of his own kind. The
tight cinching of the little saddle on his back, the bandages on his
shins, the sponging out of his mouth, the little sprinting gallops he
had had--all these touches had brought back to his memory the game his
rich warm, thoroughbred blood loved. His very tail was arched with the
thrill of it.
"Mount your horses; it is time to go to the post!" Judge Cummings
called, watch in hand.
The blanket was swept from Clatawa's back, showing nothing but a wide,
padded surcingle, with a little pocket either side for his rider's feet.
And Snaky Dick, dropping his coat, stood almost as scantily attired; a
pair of buckskin trunks being the only garment that marked his brown,
monkeylike form.
Horned Toad carried a racing saddle, and from a shaffle bit the reins
ran through the steel rings of a martingale.
At this Carney smiled, and more than one in the crowd wondered at this
get-up for a supposed cow-pony.
Then when Texas threw his long coat to a stable man, and stood up a
slim lath of a man, clad in light racing boots, thin white tight-fitting
racing breeches and a loose silk jacket, people stared again. It was as
if, by necromancy, he'd suddenly wasted from off his bones forty pounds
of flesh.
But there was still further magic waiting the curious throng, for now
the buckskin, stripped of his blanket, showed atop his well-ribbed back
a tiny matter of pigskin that looked like a huge postage stamp. And the
little figure of a man, one foot in Carney's hand, was lifted lightly to
the saddle, where he sat in attire the duplicate of Texas Sam's.
With a bellow of rage Iron Jaw pushed forward, crying:
"Hold, there! What th' hell are you doin' on that horse, you damn runt?
Get down!"
He reached a huge paw to the rider's thigh, as though he would yank him
out of the saddle.
His fingers had scarce touched the boy's leg when his hands were thrown
up in the air, and he reeled back from a scimitar-like cut on his
wind-pipe from the flat open hand of Carney, and choking, sputtering an
oath of raging astonishment, he found himself looking into the bore of a
gun, and heard a voice that almost hissed in its constrained passion:
"You coarse butcher! You touch that boy and you'll wake up in hell. Now
stand back and make to Judge Cummings any complaint you have."
Snaggle Tooth and Death-on-the-trail had pushed to Iron Jaw's side,
their hands on their guns, and Carney, full of a passion rare with him,
turned on them:
"Draw, if you want that, or lift your hands, damn quick!"
Surlily they dropped their half-drawn guns back into their pig-skin
pockets. And Oregon, who had thrust forward, drew close to the two and
said something in a low voice that brought a bitter look of hatred into
the face of Snaggle Tooth.
But Oregon looked him in the eye and said audibly: "That's the last call
to chuck--don't forget."
Iron Jaw was now appealing to the judge:
"This match was for owners up."
He beckoned forward the stakeholder:
"Ain't that so, Sheriff--owners up?"
"That was the agreement," Teddy sustained. "Wasn't that the bargain,
Carney?" Iron Jaw asked, turning on Bulldog.
"It was."
"Then what th' hell 're you doin' afoot--and that monkey up?" And Iron
Jaw jerked a thumb viciously over his shoulder at the little man on
Waster.
Carney's head lifted, and the bony contour of his lower jaw thrust out
like the ram of a destroyer: "Mr. Blake," he said quietly, "don't use
any foul words when you speak to me--we're not good enough pals for
that; if you do I'll ram those crooked teeth of yours down your throat.
Secondly, that's the owner of the buckskin sitting on his back. But the
owner of Horned Toad is sitting in a chair down in Portland, a man named
Reilly, and that thing on Ding Dong's back is Slimy Red, a man who has
been warned off every track in the West. He doesn't own a hair in the
horse's tail."
Iron Jaw's face paled with a sudden compelling thought that Carney,
knowing all this, and still betting his money, held cards to beat him.
The judge now asked: "Do you object to the rider of Horned Toad, Mr.
Carney?"
"No, sir--let him ride. I'm not trying to win their money on a
technicality, but on a horse."
"Well, the agreement was owners up, you admit?"
"I do," Carney answered.
"Did this boy on the buckskin's back own him when the match was made?"
"He did."
"Is there any proof of the transaction, the sale?" Major Cummings asked.
"Let me have that envelope I asked you to keep," Carney said, addressing
the sheriff.
When Teddy drew from a pocket the sealed envelope, Carney tore it open,
and passed to the judge the bill of sale to MacKay of the buckskin. Its
date showed that it had been executed the day the match was made, and
Teddy, when questioned, said he had received it on that date, and before
the match was made.
"It was a plant," Iron Jaw objected; "that proves it. Why did he put it
in the sheriff's hands--why didn't the boy keep it--it was his?"
"Because I had a hunch I was going up against a bunch of crooks," Carney
answered suavely; "crooks who played win, tie, or wrangle, and knew they
would claim the date was forged when they were beat at their own game.
And there was another reason."
Carney drew a second paper from the envelope, and passed it to the
Judge. It was a brief note stating that if anything happened Carney his
money, if the buckskin won, was to be turned over to the owner, Billy
MacKay.
When the judge lifted his eyes Carney said, with an apologetic little
smile: "You see, the boy's got the bug, and he's up against it. Molly
Burdan is keeping both him and his sister, and she can't afford it."
Major Cummings coughed; and there was a little husky rasp in his voice
as he said, quietly:
"The objection to the rider of the buckskin horse is disallowed. This
paper proves he is the legitimate owner and entitled to ride. Go down to
the post."
A yell of delight went up from many throats. The men of Walla Walla,
and the riders of the plains who had trooped in, were sports; they
grasped the idea that the gambling clique had been caught at their own
game; that the intrepid Bulldog had put one over on them. Besides,
now they could see that the race was for blood. The heavy betting had
started more than one whisper that perhaps it was a bluff; some of the
Clatawa people believing in the invincibility of their horse, had hinted
that perhaps there was a job on for the two other horses to foul Clatawa
and one of them go on and win; though few would admit that Carney would
be party to cold-decking the public.
But accident had thrown the cards all on the table; it was to be a race
to the finish, and the stakes represented real money.
Before they could start quite openly Carney stepped close to the rider
of Horned Toad, and said, in even tones:
"Slimy Red, if you pull any dirty work I'll be here at the finish
waiting for you. If you can win, win; but ride straight, or you'll never
ride again."
"I'll be hangin' round the finish post, too," Oregon muttered
abstractedly, but both Iron Jaw and Snaggle Tooth could hear him.
The three horses passed down the course, Clatawa sidling like a boat
in a choppy sea, champing at his bit irritably, flecks of white froth
snapping from his lips, and his tail twitching and swishing, indicating
his excitable temperament; Horned Toad and Waster walked with that
springy lift to the pasterns that indicated the perfection of breeding.
Indians and cowboys raced up and down the plain, either side of the
course, on their ponies, bandying words in a very ecstasy of delight.
Old Walla Walla had come into its own; the greatest sport on earth was
on in all its glory.
After a time the three horses were seen to turn far down the course;
they criss-crossed, and wove in and out a few times as they were
being placed by the starter. The excitable Clatawa was giving trouble;
sometimes he reared straight up; then, with a few bucking jumps, fought
for his head. But the sinewy Snaky Dick was always his master.
Atop the little buckskin the boy was scarce discernible at that
distance, as he sat low crouched over his horse's wither. Almost like an
equine statue stood Waster, so still, so sleepy-like, that those who had
taken long odds about him felt a depression.
Horned Toad was scarcely still for an instant; his wary rider, Texas,
was keeping him on his toes--not letting him chill out; but, like the
buckskin's jockey, his eye was always on the man with the gun. They were
old hands at the game, both of them; they paid little attention to the
antics of Clatawa--the starter was the whole works.
Clatawa had broken away to be pulled up in thirty yards. Now, as he came
back, his wily rider wheeled him suddenly short of the starting line,
and the thing that he had cunningly planned came off. The starter,
finger on trigger, was mentally pulled out of himself by this; his
finger gripped spasmodically; those at the finish post saw a puff of
smoke, and a white-nosed horse, well out in front, off to a flying
start.
The backers of Clatawa yelled in delight.
"Good old Snaky Dick!" some one cried.
"Clatawa beat the gun!" another roared.
"They'll never catch him!--never catch him! He'll win off by himself!"
was droned.
Behind, seemingly together, half the width of the track separating them,
galloped the black and the buckskin. It looked as if Waster raced alone,
as if he had lost his rider, so low along his wither and neck lay the
boy, his weight eased high from the short stirrups. A hand on either
side of the lean neck, he seemed a part of his mount. He was saying,
"Ste-a-dy boy! stead-d-dy boy! stead-d-dy boy!" a soft, low monotonous
sing-song through his clinched teeth, his crouch discounting the
handicap of a strong wind that was blowing down the track.
He could feel the piece of smooth-moving machinery under him flatten out
in a long rhythmic stride, and his heart sang, for he knew it was the
old Waster he had ridden to victory more than once; that same powerful
stride that ate up the course with little friction. He was rating his
horse. "Clatawa will come back," he kept thinking: "Clatawa will come
back!"
He himself, who had ridden hundreds of races, and working gallops and
trials beyond count, knew that the chestnut was rating along of his own
knowledge at a pace that would cover the mile-and-a-quar-ter in under
2.12. Methodically he was running his race. Clatawa was sprinting; he
had cut out at a gait that would carry him a mile, if he could keep it
up, close to 1.40. Too fast, for the track was slow, being turf.
He watched Homed Toad; that was what he had to beat, he knew.
Texas had reasoned somewhat along the same lines; but his brain was more
flighty. As Clatawa opened a gap of a dozen lengths, running like a wild
horse, Texas grew anxious; he shook up his mount and increased his pace.
The buckskin reached into his bridle at this, as though he coaxed for
a little more speed, but the boy called, "Steady, lad, steady!" and let
Horned Toad creep away a length, two lengths; and always in front the
white-faced horse, Clatawa, was galloping on and on with a high
deer-like lope that was impressive.
At the finish post people were acclaiming the name of Clatawa. They
could see the little buckskin trailing fifteen lengths behind, and
Horned Toad was between the two.
Carney watched the race stoically. It was being run just as Billy had
forecasted; there was nothing in this to shake his faith.
Somebody cried out: "Buckskin's out of it! I'll lay a thousand to a
hundred against him."
"I'll take it," Carney declared.
"I'll lay the same," Snaggle Tooth yelled.
"You're on," came from Carney.
And even as they bet the buckskin had lost a length.
Half-a-mile had been covered by the horses; three-quarters; and now it
seemed to the watchers that the black was creeping up on Clatawa, the
latter's rider, who had been almost invisible, riding Indian fashion
lying along the back of his horse, was now in view; his shoulders were
up. Surely a quirt had switched the air once.
Yes, the Toad was creeping up--his rider was making his run; they could
see Texas's arms sway as he shook up his mount.
Why was the boy on the little buckskin riding like one asleep? Had he
lost his whip--had he given up all idea of winning?
They were at the mile: but a short quarter away.
A moan went up from many throats, mixed with hoarse curses, for Clatawa
was plainly in trouble; he was floundering; the monkey man on his back
was playing the quirt against his ribs, the gyrations checking the horse
instead of helping him.
And the Toad, galloping true and straight, was but a length behind.
Watching this battle, almost in hushed silence, gasping in the smothered
tenseness, the throng went mentally blind to the little buckskin. Now
somebody cried:
"God! look at the other one comin'! Look at him--lo-ook at him, men!"
His voice ran up the scale to a shrill scream. Other eyes lengthened
their vision, and their owners gasped.
Clatawa seemed to be running backwards, so fast the little buckskin raced
by him as he dropped out of it, beaten.
And Horned Toad was but three lengths in front now. Three lengths?
It was two--it was one. Now the buckskin's nose rose and fell on the
black's quarters; now the mouse-coloured muzzle was at his girth; now
their heads rose and fell together, as, stride for stride, they battled
for the lead: Texas driving his mount with whip and spur, cutting the
flanks of his horse with cruel blows in a frantic endeavor to lift him
home a winner.
How still the boy sat Waster; how well he must know that he had the race
won to nurse him like a babe. No swaying of the body to throw him out
of stride; no flash of the whip to startle him--to break his heart; the
brave little horse was doing it all himself. And the boy, creature of
brains, was wise enough to sit still.
They could hear the pound of hoofs on the turf like the beat of twin
drums; they could see the eager strife in the faces of the two brave,
stout-hearted thoroughbreds: and then the buckskin's head nodding
in front; his lean neck was clear of the black and he was galloping
straight as an arrow.
"The Toad is beat!" went up from a dozen throats. "The buckskin
wins--the buckskin wins!" became a clamor.
Pandemonium broke loose. It was stilled by a demoniac cry, a curse,
from some strong-voiced man. The black had swerved full in on to the
buckskin; they saw Texas clutch at the rider. Curses; cries of "Foul!"
rose; it was an angry roar like caged animals at war.
Carney, watching, found his fingers rubbing the butt of his gun. The
buckskin had been thrown out of his stride in the collision: he stumbled;
his head shot down--almost to his knees he went: then he was galloping
again, the two horses locked together.
Fifty feet away from the finish post they were locked: twenty feet.
The cries of the throng were hushed; they scarce breathed.
Locked together they passed the post, the buckskin's neck in front.
Their speed had been checked; in a dozen yards they were stopped,
and the boy pitched headlong from the buckskin's back, one foot still
tangled in the martingale of Horned Toad.
Men closed in frantically. A man--it was Oregon--twisted Carney's gun
skyward crying: "Leave that coyote to the boys."
He was right. In vain Iron Jaw and Death-on-the-trail sought to
battle back the tense-faced men who reached for Texas. Iron Jaw and
Death-on-the-trail were swallowed up in a seething mass of clamoring
devils. Gun play was out of the question: humans were like herrings
packed in a barrel.
Major Cummings, cool and quick-witted, had called shrilly "Troopers!"
and a little cordon of men in cavalry uniform had Texas in the centre of
a guarding circle.
Carney, on his knees beside the boy, was guarding the lad from the mad,
trampling, fighting men; striking with the butt of his pistol. And then
a woman's shrill voice rose clear above the tumult, crying:
"Back, you cowards--you brutes: the boy is dying: give him room--give
him air!"
Her bleached hair was down her back; her silk finery was torn like a
battered flag; for she had fought her way through the crowd to the boy's
side.
"Don't lift him--he's got a hemorrhage!" she shrilled, as Carney put
his arms beneath the little lad. "Drive the men back--give him air!" she
commanded; and turned Billy flat on his back, tearing from her shoulders
a rich scarf to place beneath his head. The lad's lips, coated with red
froth, twitched in a weak smile; he reached out a thin hand, and Molly,
sitting at his head, drew it into her lap.
"Just lie still, Billy. You'll be all right, boy; just lie still; don't
speak," she admonished.
She could hear the lad's throat click, click, click at each breath, the
ominous tick tick, of "the bug's" work; and at each half-stifled cough
the red-tinged yeasty sputum bubbled up from the life well.
The fighting clamor was dying down; shamefaced men were widening the
circle about the lad and Molly.
The judge's voice was heard saying:
"The buckskin won the race, gentlemen." And he added, strong
condemnation in his voice: "If Horned Toad had been first I would have
disqualified him: it was a deliberate foul."
The cavalry men had got Texas away, mounted, and rushed him out to the
barracks for protection.
"Get a stretcher, someone, please," Molly asked of the crowd. "Billy
will be all right, but we must keep him flat on his back.
"You'll be all right, Billy," she added, bending her head till her lips
touched the boy's forehead, and her mass of peroxided hair hid the hot
tears that fell from the blue eyes that many thought only capable of
cupidity and guile.