THE SWEEPSTAKES
The Clagstone "Six" was parked, Friday afternoon, in its usual place
near the east end of the grandstand and close to the entrance to the
track. Old Heck and Ophelia were alone in the car. Carolyn June and
Skinny, on Pie Face and Red John, watched the afternoon program from the
"inside field" across the race track. Parker and the Quarter Circle KT
cowboys were also mounted on their horses and in the field opposite the
grandstand.
Never had there been such a jam at a Rodeo held in Eagle Butte.
The two-mile sweepstakes, itself the "cow-man's classic" and the great
derby event of western Texas, always drew record crowds the day on which
it was run.
This Friday the grandstand creaked under its load of humanity.
The racing feud between the Quarter Circle KT and the Y-Bar and the
thousands of dollars Old Heck and Dorsey were known to have bet on their
respective favorites acted as tinder on the flame of public interest in
the big event.
Thunderbolt had a great reputation. Last year, and the year before, he
had mastered the field of runners put against him.
The Gold Dust maverick--named in the race "Ophelia"--was a wonder horse
in the minds of the people of western Texas who had heard of the
beautiful, almost super-creature, that had tormented, with her speed and
endurance, the riders of the Cimarron and now at last was caught, and to
be ridden in the sweepstakes, by the Ramblin' Kid.
At two-forty a special exhibition of "Cossack Riding"--participated in
by Lute Larsen, of Idaho; Jack Haines, from Texas, and Curly Piper, a
Colorado cowboy, finished in front of the grandstand.
The announcer trained his megaphone on the vast crowd:
"The next event," he bellowed, "two-mile sweepstakes! Purse one thousand
dollars! Five entries! Naming them in their order from the pole:
Thunderbolt, black Y-Bar stallion, Flip Williams, rider; Say-So, roan
gelding, from the Pecos River, Box-V outfit, Jess Curtis, rider;
Ophelia, Gold Dust filly, the Cimarron outlaw from the Quarter Circle
KT, th' Ramblin' Kid, rider; Prince John, sorrel gelding, from Dallas,
Texas, 'Snow' Johnson, rider; Dash-Away, bay mare, from Jackson Hole,
Wyoming, Slim Tucker, rider. Race called at three o'clock sharp! Horse
failing to score on the dot will be ruled out! Range saddles to be used.
Entries for the two-mile sweepstakes will show at once on the track!"
Dead silence ensued during the announcer's drawling oration.
It was followed by the hum of five thousand voices as they chattered in
eager expectancy.
The band crashed out _Dixie_ and a medley of southern melodies.
Chuck and Bert reined their bronchos up to Parker.
"We're going over and see how th' Ramblin' Kid is making it," Chuck
said. "He might need that filly herded a little to get her through this
jam." And they galloped their horses across the track toward the
stables.
Carolyn June and Skinny decided to watch the sweepstakes from the car,
with Old Heck and Ophelia. They rode Pie Face and Red John over to the
Clagstone "Six." Carolyn June dismounted and stepped up on the
running-board of the car, holding Red John loosely by the bridle rein.
"Gee," she laughed, "but I'm nervous!"
Old Heck reached over and patted her hand.
"Wait till they start to run before you get hysterical," he chuckled.
"There'll be time enough then for excitement!" One could never have
told, by his actions, that within the next few moments he would lose or
win fifty thousand dollars.
Chuck pulled Silver Tip to a stop in front of the stall where Captain
Jack and the Gold Dust maverick were standing.
"They're getting ready for the sweepstakes!" he called, thinking the
Ramblin' Kid was in the compartment with the horses. "You'd better be
putting your rigging on the filly," as he slid from his broncho and
stepped to the door of the stall.
There was no answer. He peered into the half-gloom of the place.
It was empty save for the two horses.
"That's funny as thunder," he said, puzzled, to Bert. "Where'd you
reckon th' Ramblin' Kid is?"
"Darned if I know--ain't he there?" Bert answered, riding up so he could
look into the door.
"Look around a little," Chuck said anxiously. "Maybe he's just stepped
away for a minute--Hey!" he called to an attendant of a stall a short
distance down the stable street, "have you seen anything of th' Ramblin'
Kid--the feller that has these horses?"
"Naw," was the careless answer, "I ain't seen him for two hours."
"Something must be wrong!" Chuck exclaimed. "You stay here and watch!
I'll go see Old Heck--maybe he knows where he is."
"Hell, yes!" Bert said as the other started Silver Tip in a run toward
where the Clagstone "Six" was parked. "He's got to be found! Nobody else
but him can ride the maverick!"
At the car, before his horse was fairly stopped, Chuck leaned over and
asked, tensely:
"Have any of you people seen th' Ramblin' Kid?"
Old Heck straightened up.
"Ain't he at the stables?" he inquired uneasily. "He was there this
morning--"
"No," Chuck replied hurriedly, "he's been gone two hours!"
"Good lord," Old Heck exclaimed, "he's got to be found! The race starts
in ten minutes."
"And nobody but him can ride the filly!" Skinny interrupted. "I wonder
if he's--" he started to say "drunk," but stopped as Carolyn June looked
quickly at him. The word was in both their minds.
"It ain't natural!" Old Heck cried; "there must be something dirty! You
boys go look for him; I'll, keep my eyes open here!"
As Old Heck said "dirty" the picture of Mike Sabota flashed into Carolyn
June's mind. Some intuition seemed to couple, in her inner
consciousness, the big Greek with the Ramblin' Kid's disappearance.
The horses for the two-mile sweepstakes were already beginning to come
on to the track. Flip Williams was walking Thunderbolt up and down in
front of the grandstand, trying to keep the high-spirited stallion quiet
until time came to mount; the rider of Say-So was doing the same thing
with his entry; Slim Tucker was already sitting on Dash-Away, the trim
Wyoming mare standing unruffled near the starting line, while Snow
Johnson, like Tucker, already on his mount, was circling Prince John in
wide loops behind the others.
Carolyn June was stunned for a moment by the thought that had come into
her mind when the picture of the burly Greek flashed before her. She
clenched her hands and her cheeks whitened.
"Come on, Skinny!" she said suddenly, stepping off the running-board of
the car and swinging on to Red John, "we'll go help look for the
Ramblin' Kid!"
She whirled the big bay around the end of the grandstand and rode in a
fast gallop straight for the box stall, Skinny and Chuck following close
behind her. A quick resolution formed in her mind: "Nobody but the
Ramblin' Kid could ride the filly?"
_She could ride the mare_!
Even if the Ramblin' Kid was not found Sabota and his crowd should not
be allowed to win by dirty work--if dirty work had been done!
At the stall Carolyn June sprang from Red John.
Bert was nervously walking about, calling occasionally the name of the
missing Quarter Circle KT cowboy.
"Have you found him?" Carolyn June asked as Skinny and Chuck came up
behind her.
"No," Bert answered glumly, "he ain't showed up yet! There ain't no
signs of him around here."
"What'll we do?" Skinny asked excitedly. "The race is almost ready to
start and--do you reckon you could ride the filly, Bert?" he finished
with a gleam of hope.
"I doubt it, but, well, I'll try her--if Captain Jack'll let me get her
out."
"You boys keep back!" Carolyn June interrupted, stepping to the door of
the stall and opening it, "Captain Jack knows me and--I--I--think the
filly does, too--I can handle her--" as she stepped boldly inside the
compartment with the horses.
"Don't go in there!" Skinny cried, "Car--Carolyn June, they'll kill
you!"
"You boys keep away!" she laughed. "And don't get the horses nervous!
They won't hurt me!" she answered, going ahead toward the animals.
Captain Jack looked at her suspiciously an instant
"Jack-Boy--Jack-Boy!" she called with a caress in her voice. "Careful!
We're friends!" The attitude of the stallion changed instantly and the
menace was gone from his eyes.
The Gold Dust maverick heard the voice and with a friendly little nicker
rubbed her head against the outstretched hand.
In a corner was the Ramblin' Kid's saddle, bridle, blanket and worn
leather chaps.
With a light pat of the outlaw filly's cheek Carolyn June turned and
began quickly and deftly putting the riding gear on the beautiful mare.
* * * * *
For an hour and a half the Ramblin' Kid lay as he had fallen when he
started to hand the coffee cup back to Gyp. Breathing heavily, his face
flushed, he was as one in the deep stupor of complete intoxication. At
last he stirred uneasily. An unconscious groan came from his lips. His
eyes opened. In them was a dazed, puzzled look. Where was he? He tried
vainly to remember--the clean life, the iron constitution and
youth--aided perhaps by an indomitable subconscious will protesting
against this something that had happened to him--were throwing off the
effects of the drug hours before an ordinary man would have regained
even a hint of sensibility.
He stood up--reeling unsteadily. He was deathly sick. Lightning flashes
of pain throbbed through his head. Waves of blackness rolled before his
eyes. Surges of numbness swept over his legs and arms. He tried hard to
remember. There was something--what was it? Th'--th'--what th'
hell?--_th' race_! That was it--th'--th'--th' sweepstakes! In an instant
the thought was gone. It kept beating back: _Th' sweepstakes--th'
race_--What time was it? Had it been run? He staggered to the door. It
was locked! His head was bursting. If he could only get over the nausea.
He felt his knees start to give way. No! No! My God, he wouldn't give
up! He--oh, yes. _Th' race! Captain Jack--no--th'--th'--maverick--he had
to ride_--He must get out! There was a--a--window--sometimes they had
them--in the back of the stalls. Maybe the hay was over it. He climbed
on the bales. Behind them he could see the opening. God, he was weak!
With the sweat of terrible nausea bursting from every pore of his body
he pulled the bales back. He fell over the bale on which he had been
lying. One hand brushed his hat which had fallen from his head.
Mechanically, with stiff fingers, he picked it up and jammed it on
again. Then he climbed--crawled--over the hay and pitched forward
through the opening, in a limp heap, on the ground outside.
For a moment he lost consciousness completely again: _Th'--th' race--th'
maverick! he mustn't forget_--
He fought his way to his feet and groped along back of the building--the
stall--which way was it? Down there? No--the other way--
As Carolyn June tightened the rear cinch on the Gold Dust maverick and
turned toward the door of the stall with: "Look out, boys--I'm coming
out!" the Ramblin' Kid, clutching at the side of the building, reeled
around the corner of the stall. The cowboys saw him. He himself saw only
black shapes where their horses were.
"Good God!" Skinny cried, "he's drunk!"
Carolyn June heard Skinny's exclamation at the instant the Ramblin' Kid,
catching at the half-open door, almost fell into the stall. His eyes
stared with a dull, puzzled, unrecognizing vacancy first at Carolyn June
and then the Gold Dust maverick. "_Who th' hell_--" he mumbled stiffly.
"What--th'--oh, yes--there's th' filly--_th'--th'--race_. It
must--be--time. Th' mare's saddled! That's--that's--funny! I can't
remember. Th' race--th' sweepstakes--that's it--"
Reaching over he jerked the reins from the hand of Carolyn June.
"Who--who--get the--" came like the thick growl of a beast from his
throat. "You--you--can't ride--she'll--_she'll--kill--_"
Carolyn June shrank back as if she had been struck. She pressed her
hands against her cheeks and stepped away with a look of horror and
disgust as the Ramblin' Kid backed out of the stall with the Gold Dust
maverick. Outside he fumbled grotesquely at the silky mane and climbed
weakly into the saddle.
Chuck and Bert started toward him.
"Get--the--hell--" he snarled as he saw their horses--mere shadow shapes
they were to him--approach.
"Let him alone!" Skinny said. "He's drunk! You'll just scare the filly
and make her hurt him!"
The boys let him go.
With blanched cheeks Carolyn June mounted Red John and with Skinny, Bert
and Chuck, rode back to the Clagstone "Six." Her heart was utterly sick.
So this was it? It had come out--the brute--the beast that was in him!
They reached the car as the Ramblin' Kid, at the horse entrance, at the
other end of the grandstand, came on the track with the Gold Dust
maverick.
Old Heck looked up when the group approached. He saw the agony in
Carolyn June's eyes and started to speak.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid's drunk," Skinny said dully. "He showed up--yonder he
is--" as the beautiful copper-tinted, chestnut filly appeared behind the
other horses entered for the two-mile sweepstakes.
"Drunk?" Old Heck cried incredulously. "Are you sure?"
"Watch him!" Chuck said miserably.
The starter was standing with arm outstretched and flag ready to fall.
The filly came down the track jumping nervously from side to side in
short springing leaps. The starter paused, watch in hand. A shout of
admiration and wonder went up from the crowd as the splendid creature
dancing down the track was recognized. The next instant it was succeeded
by a cry of horror that rolled in a great wave from a thousand throats.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid is drunk! He's drunk--the mare will kill him!" as they
saw the slim rider weaving limply in the saddle, his head dropped
forward as if he were utterly helpless.
"Rule that horse off the track!" Dorsey, who was standing with Mike
Sabota, in a box-seat just below the judges' stand, shouted as he saw
the Ramblin' Kid, even in his half-conscious condition, reining the Gold
Dust maverick with consummate skill into position, "her rider's drunk!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard the voice and--by some miracle of the
mind--recognized it, although his eyes, set and glassy, could not see
the speaker.
He turned his head in the direction from which the cry came and
answered, slowly measuring each word:
"Go--go--t' hell--you--you--_coyote_!"
The next instant the starter dropped the flag. As it went down the filly
crouched and reared straight into the air.
That one second gave the other horses the start.
Then the outlaw mare leaped forward directly behind Thunderbolt, running
against the inside rail. Say-So, the Pecos horse, jammed close to the
side of the black stallion; Snow Johnson, rider of Prince John, pushed
the big sorrel ahead with his nose at the roan's tail; Dash-Away hugged
against the heels of Prince John. The Gold Dust maverick was "pocketed!"
A breathless hush fell over the crowd in the grandstand after the first
mighty roar:
"They're off!"
Black devils of torture clutched the throat, the mind, the body of the
Ramblin' Kid. Streams of fire seemed to be flowing through his veins. He
couldn't see--he was blind. "What th'--what th'--hell!" he muttered over
and over. He was vaguely conscious of the thunder of hoofs around
him--under him. Dimly, black shadows were rushing along at his side. He
fought with all his will to master his faculties. Where was he? What was
it? Was it a--a--stampede? What? _Oh, yes, th' race--th'--th'--
sweepstakes--that--that was it_--Over and over the fleeting flashes of
consciousness kept throwing this one supreme idea on the mirror of his
mind!
Not a word was spoken by any of the party at the Clagstone "Six" as the
five fastest horses ever on the Eagle Butte track swept past the car
toward the first quarter-turn of the course.
Carolyn June's face was as white as marble. Her breast heaved and fell
as if it would burst. Dry-eyed, every nerve tense, she stared at the
straining racers. Unconsciously she gripped into hard knots of flesh and
bone, both hands, while she bit at her underlip until a red drop of
blood started from the gash made in the tender skin by her teeth.
"_Drunk_!" she thought, "_drunk!_ Beastly drunk--and throwing away the
greatest race ever run on a Texas track!"
Old Heck sat impassive as though carved from stone and said nothing.
Ophelia nervously chewed at the finger of her glove while her eyes
moistened with sympathy and pity.
Skinny, Chuck and Bert sat gloomily, moodily, on their bronchos and
watched Thunderbolt lead the quintette of running horses.
For the life of him Skinny could not keep from thinking of the five
hundred dollars he had bet with Sabota, on the race, and the number of
white shirts and purple ties he might have bought with the money!
Over in the track-field Parker, Charley and Pedro saw the start of the
race and each swore softly and silently to himself.
Sing Pete, alone of the Quarter Circle KT crowd, in the jam of the
grandstand, stretched his neck and followed with inscrutable eyes the
close-bunched racers. The start had puzzled him, yet he murmured
hopefully:
"Maybe all samee Lamblin' Kid he beatee hell out of 'em yet!"
The loyal Chinese cook had wagered the savings of a dozen years on the
speed of the Gold Dust maverick's nimble legs and his faith in the
"Lamblin' Kid."
A blanket might have covered the five horses as they swung around the
first mile.
The speed-mad animals roared down the homestretch, finishing the first
half of the race in the almost identical position each had taken in the
getaway.
The Ramblin' Kid rode the mile more as an automaton than as a living,
conscious human being. He had no memory of time, place, events--save for
the instants of rationality he forced his will to bring.
Gradually, though, his mind was clearing.
But which was it--the first half?--the last half? How long had they been
running? How many times had they gone around the track? He could not
remember!
Down the straight stretch the racers came in a mighty whirlwind of
speed.
"Thunderbolt is taking it!"
"The Y-Bar horse leads!"
"Th' black's got 'em!" roared from the throats of the crowd in the
grandstand and the mass of humanity crushing the railing along the
track.
Dorsey and Sabota leaped to the edge of the box as the horses thundered
past the judges' stand. The voice of the owner of Thunderbolt shrieked
out in a hoarse bellow:
"Hold him to it, Flip! Keep your lead--you've got the filly!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard again--or thought he heard again--the voice of
the Vermejo cattleman. He caught, as an echo, a note of triumph in it.
It was like a tonic to his drug-numbed faculties.
Suddenly he saw clearly. He had just a glimpse of Sabota standing by the
side of Dorsey. He understood. In a flash it all came to him. The first
half of the great sweepstakes race was behind them! Once more they were
to circle the track. The glistening black rump of Thunderbolt rose and
fell just ahead of the Gold Dust maverick's nose--at her side, crowding
her against the rail, was another horse. Which one? It didn't matter!
Back of it was another. He was "_pocketed_!" Hell, no wonder Thunderbolt
was ahead of the outlaw mare!
Half-way around the quarter-turn he pulled the filly down.
She slackened ever so little. Thunderbolt--the horse at her side--all of
them--shot ahead.
He was behind the bunch--clear of the field!
The crowd saw the filly dart to the right. It looked as though she would
go over the outside rail before the Ramblin' Kid swung her, in a great
arch, to the left clear of, but far behind, the other horses.
He was crazy! The Gold Dust maverick was getting the better of the
Ramblin' Kid. He had lost control of the wonderful mare!
So thought the thousands watching the drama on the track before them.
Away over, next to the outside fence, on the far side of the track, open
now before him for the long outfield stretch, the Rambling Kid
straightened the Gold Dust maverick out. The other racers were still
bunched against the inner rail--lengths ahead of the filly.
Leaning low on the neck of the maverick, the Ramblin' Kid began talking,
for the first time, to the horse he rode.
"_Baby--Baby! Girl_!" he whispered incoherently almost. "_Go--go_--damn
'em! _'Ophelia'_"--he laughed thickly, reeling in the saddle.
"_Hell_--_no--'Little--Little--Pink Garter!--that's--that's--_what y'
are! Little--Pink--Garter_--" he repeated irrationally. "_That's
it--show 'em--damn 'em--show 'em what--what runnin'--what real runnin'
is!_" fumbling caressingly at the mare's neck with hands numb and stiff
and chuckling pitifully, insanely, while his face was drawn with agony
nearly unendurable.
Then the Gold Dust maverick ran!
Never had ground flowed with such swiftness under the belly of a horse
on a Texas track.
"Good God!" Skinny yelled, "looky yonder! He's passin' them! Th'
Ramblin' Kid is passin' 'em!"
No one answered him.
His voice was drowned in the mighty roar that surged from five thousand
throats and rolled in waves of echoing and re-echoing sound across the
field.
"He's ridin' round 'em!"
"Th' Ramblin' Kid is goin' around them!"
"Great heavens! Look at that horse go!"
"She's a-flyin'! _She's a-flyin_'!"
The Gold Dust maverick closed the gap--she caught Dash-Away--she
evened up with Prince John--she left the big sorrel behind--she passed
Say-So--nose to nose for a few rods she ran opposite the black
wonder--the Thunderbolt horse from the Vermejo.
Flip Williams, spurs raking the flanks of Dorsey's stallion, looked
around.
The Ramblin' Kid leaned toward him:
"Hell--why--don't you--_make that--thing run_!" he sneered at the Y-Bar
rider.
The next instant the Gold Dust maverick's neck and shoulders showed in
the lead of the Y-Bar stallion.
At the turn for the home stretch the outlaw filly shot ahead of the
wonderful black horse from the Vermejo, swung close to the inside rail,
and like a flash of gold-brown darted down the track toward the wire.
The grandstand was turned into a madhouse of seething humanity. The
immense crowd came to its feet roaring and shrieking with frenzy. Men
smashed their neighbors with clenched fists--not knowing or caring how
hard or whom they struck--or that they themselves were being hit. Women
screamed frantically, hysterically, tears streaming from thousands of
eyes because of sheer joy at the wonderful thing the Gold Dust maverick
was doing. Even the stolid Sing Pete was jumping up and down, shouting:
"_Come on--come on--Lamblin' Kid! Beat 'em--beatee hell out of 'em_!"
Full three lengths in the lead of the "unbeatable" Thunderbolt the Gold
Dust maverick flashed under the wire in front of the judges!
Dorsey, shaken in every nerve, lips blue as though he were stricken with
a chill, reeled out of the box from which he had watched his whole
fortune swept away by the speed of the Cimarron mare. At his side,
profaning horrible, obscene oaths staggered Mike Sabota.
Old Heck, white-faced, but his lips drawn in a smile of satisfaction,
stood up in the Clagstone "Six" and watched the Ramblin' Kid--his eyes
set and staring, his body twitching convulsively, check the filly, swing
her around, ride back to the judges' stand, weakly fling up a hand in
salute and then, barely able to sit in the saddle, rein the Gold Dust
maverick off the track and ride toward the box stall.
Skinny drew a hand across his eyes and looked at Carolyn June.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks.