THE PROMISE OF LITTLE SAXON
Rose-bud, the unlovely Chinese cook, made the dawn hideous in the range
house with his pots and pans and rattling stove lids. To him appeared
Red Reckless, touseled and sleepy eyed looking to the astonished
oriental's vision like an avenging demon, threatening to choke him to
death with his own pigtail and to roast him crisp and brown him in his
own oven if he didn't conduct himself with less noise in his pastime of
breakfast getting.
"Gollee!" Rose-bud found his tongue as Wayne disappeared into his
bedroom. "Led, him come back some more. Led, him boss now!" He stood
grinning in slant eyed cunning at the closed door. "Garth him all same
go bye-bye now, maybeso?" He pondered the question, with his evil
featured head cocked to one side. Then his grin became more profoundly
Chinese, more radiantly joyful. "All same hell pop all time now."
And he went about his preparations for breakfast in strange, complacent
silence, making his coffee twice as strong as he had made it for a
year, the way Red Reckless liked it.
Garth Conway breakfasted alone. A glance out toward the bunk house
against the fringe of trees at the far side of the clearing showed him
that there was no smoke there, that the men were not about. A little
angry spot glowing on each cheek he stepped out upon the porch as
though to bring these slumbering men to a swift awakening. But he
turned instead and came back into the dining room.
"You Chink fool," he flung at Rose-bud when his cup of coffee was set
in front of him. "I don't drink ink for breakfast. What's the matter
with you?"
Rose-bud wrapped his body in his long arms and his face in its childish
smile, lifted his vague hints of eyebrows archly and nodded toward
Wayne's room.
"Led, him come back," he said with unutterable sweetness. "Him like
coffee all same black as hell. Him boss now? Too bad. You damn fine
boss, Mis' Garth."
And he shuffled back to the stove leaving Garth scowling angrily after
him.
Garth breakfasted in morose silence, disregarding the many joyful
glances which Rose-bud directed upon him. Afterward he took out his
pipe and stuffed it full with an impatient finger. The hesitation
which had marked him last night seemed to grow with the slow hours of
the idle morning. He had long been absolute, unquestioned dictator of
the destiny of the Bar L-M, and he had grown naturally into the way of
regarding it half with the eye of its permanent master. It had not
only been his entirely so far as management was concerned for more than
twelve months, but there had been always the possibility that it would
be his to have and to hold, to do with as he thought best, if Wayne
should not come back. But Wayne had come back. The coffee was
eloquent of the fact; the slothfulness of the bunk house shouted it in
his ears. He felt a sense of irritation, of injustice.
"The men will sleep until noon," he growled savagely. "Good heavens,
is he crazy? Must he come back and chuck the whole thing to the dogs?"
There was nothing to do but smoke and wait for the next absurdity of a
man who had played ducks and drakes with everything he had ever had,
who was too big a fool to see--or care, which was it?--what was going
to happen when he had run to the end of his rope.
Wayne, rosy from head to foot from his rough bath towel, tingling with
the leaping life within him, showing no signs of the all but sleepless
night, came out to breakfast before Garth had finished his pipe. He
caught Rose-bud by the two shoulders, drove him back against the wall
and held him there while he spoke to him.
"I've a notion to jam you through into the other room, you yellow
heathen," he informed the cook whose smile was just a trifle uncertain.
"If the coffee is good I'll let you off."
Rose-bud's smile became radiant immediately. He poured out the black
beverage with the air of a magician conjuring a stream of gold from the
old coffee pot, and evinced as great a pleasure in watching Wayne
dispose of his breakfast as Wayne himself manifested in the act. Garth
came back into the room while his cousin was eating.
"Well, Wayne," he said. "What's the bill of fare for the day?"
Shandon nodded, swallowed and bade Garth a cheery "Good morning."
"To-day?" he repeated after his cousin. "I'm just going to get a live
horse between my legs and ride! Big Bill tells me that no man has
thrown a leg over Lightfoot's back since I left, and that she's just
full of hell and mustard and aching for a scamper. Bill knows where
she is; he's going with me to help round her up and then . . ."
"Well?" questioned Garth drily. "You're going to work on her to-day?"
Shandon laughed.
"Who said anything about work? You're growing to be an awful
sobersides, old fellow. Here I haven't been back twenty-four hours and
you're already suggesting that I shove my neck into the yoke. Now, you
ought to know better than that."
Garth drew deeply at his pipe, his lips tight about the stem.
"You haven't changed much, Wayne," he said presently.
"Who wants to change?" Shandon retorted lightly. "One would think I'd
been away ten years and it was time for grey hairs and long hours of
sitting still in the sun." He favoured his cousin with a merry,
searching glance and added, "You haven't changed much yourself that I
can see."
For no apparent reason Conway flushed slightly and then frowned.
"I had a good hard day's work cut out for the boys," he said casually.
"You're finding plenty to keep them busy, I'll bet," grinned Shandon.
"Yes," carelessly. "We're a bit short handed just now and there is
always a lot to do. I've let a man go here and there when he was just
eating his head off for us. A half day lost means that much more hard
work to be made up."
"Get them busy then, will you, Garth? It's decent of you to save all
you could for me, but hang it, don't mind putting on a new man when we
need him. The boys have had enough sleep by now and I've sort of
slipped out of the routine of the work. Will you go ahead and run the
outfit for me until I get back into it? It would be a big favour to
me."
Conway swung about toward the door eagerly, and so swiftly that Shandon
did not see the light that sprang up in his eyes.
"Glad to," he called back as he went out. "Take your time about
getting back into the traces, Wayne."
"Good old Garth," Shandon muttered with deep satisfaction. And then he
turned his attention again to the biscuits and bacon.
Garth went immediately to the bunk house. He found the men all asleep;
he left them all wide awake.
"Tony," he cried sharply, "come alive there and get the boys some
breakfast. You men know that Mr. Shandon is back, don't you? Do you
want him to think that this is the way we've been attending to his
business for him while he was gone? Bill, get a couple of horses
saddled while Harris is getting breakfast for you, and as soon as you
eat report at the house with them. You are to help find Lightfoot."
The boys scrambled out of their bunks, and Tony Harris in picturesque
night raiment was thrusting paper and kindling into his stove before
Garth had gone ten steps from the door he had slammed behind him. Did
they want Wayne Shandon to think that they had neglected his interests
in his absence? Not by a jug full, growled Big Bill. And he wasn't
the kind to think it in the first place or to care in the second, he
grunted as he jerked on his overalls and shoved his big feet into his
shoes. Mister Shandon! Huh!
But they took their cue from Conway's sharp words and did not wait for
breakfast to get ready for the day's work. Big Bill was the first in
the corral but the others came trooping after him, roping their horses,
saddling and bringing them to the bunk house door to be mounted swiftly
as soon as the morning meal could be finished. And, as usual little
Andy Jennings saddled an extra horse, a graceful, cat-footed mare,
cream coloured, with white mane and tail, for Garth Conway.
There were few words spoken in the bunk house as the men made their
hurried meal. Steve Dunham demanded to be told if Red was going to let
Conway "run things" for him, or if he was going to be his own foreman
as his brother had been before him. More than one man lifted his
shoulders at the question. And since there was no answer to be given
yet, since that was the one thing they were all thinking about, it was
almost a wordless meal.
In a little while Garth Conway was back at the bunk house and swung up
into the saddle, his perfect animal, his own graceful form, his
somewhat picturesque costume, riding breeches, puttees, wide soft hat
and gauntlets making a bit of pleasant colour against the
commonplaceness of the ranch yard. He waited impatiently a few minutes
until the men came out and then rode away toward the lower end of the
valley ordering them curtly to follow him. It was Garth's way; they
didn't know what the day's work was to be, although they might come
close to guessing, until he chose to tell them. Big Bill alone
remained behind, making his way with two horses to the house, where
Wayne came down the steps to meet him.
"Hello, Bill," Wayne greeted him lightly. "Feeling sore this morning?"
"Hello, Red," Big Bill retorted with what was meant to be a scowl but
which twisted itself in spite of him into a widening grin. "Not sore
outside, seein' as I fell easy. Jus' kinda sore inside thinkin' you'd
go an' play a low down Jap trick on a man. But nex' time . . ."
He shook his head in mock sorrow thinking of the thing that was going
to happen to the merry eyed man from whom he took his pay.
Red laughed, strapped on the spurs clinking at the saddle horn, vaulted
from the steps to his horse's back and bending suddenly forward shot
ahead of Big Bill, and sped toward the upper end of the valley where
the unused horses were grazing. The cowboy, racing behind him, watched
him with shrewd eyes and a grunted comment that he hadn't forgotten how
to ride.
When the horses had "run off" their early morning restlessness the two
men drew them down to a swinging walk and riding side by side found
much to talk about. Shandon asked about this, that and the other
horse, giving each its name as if they were men he spoke of, and Big
Bill reported promptly and in full detail. Brown Babe had been sick
during the winter; a cold running on until it was touch and go if she'd
go down with the pneumonia. Doc Trip had taken a hand though, Bill
himself having ridden thirty miles to fetch the cowboy who had a rude
skill as a veterinary and no little reputation with it, and Brown Babe
had pulled through as good as a two year old. Her colt out of Saxon?
Say there was a bit of horse flesh for you! Close to three year old
now and never a rope on him. Little Saxon they called him. Little?
Big Bill laughed softly. The name had stuck since he had been a colt.
He was bigger than his dad already, although not so heavy, of course,
and he had more speed right now than his mother ever thought of having.
If they ever did put on a race--Endymion, Little Saxon's full brother?
Big Bill shook his head and spat thoughtfully. Sold six months ago.
"Sold?" cried Shandon sharply. "Who sold him?"
"Conway, of course. He's the only man as has sold any Bar L-M stock."
Shandon started to speak, then closed his lips tightly. Big Bill
looked at him quickly, then drew his eyes away and let them rest upon
his horse's bobbing ears.
"Of course Garth couldn't know that I didn't want any of the horses,
the best horses, sold," Shandon said quietly after a moment. "I wrote
to him to use his own judgment in all things, to sell and buy as he
thought best. It isn't his fault but-- Hang it, I'm just a little
sorry I didn't think to tell him. Who bought Endymion, Bill?"
"Sledge Hume," answered Big Bill. "He was crazy stuck on the colt the
firs' time he ever laid eyes on him. I guess Conway held him up for a
pretty stiff price too. He sure had the chance."
"So Hume bought Endymion," said Shandon thoughtfully. And he seemed
less pleased than before. "Oh, well, we'll see what we can do with
Little Saxon."
"Little Saxon's a better horse any day in the week," cried Big Bill
loyally. "He ain't got the stren'th yet, of course, an' he ain't got
the savvy as comes with trainin'. But he's got the speed an' he's got
the spirit. Lord, Red, you've got a horse there! Wait ontil you see
him runnin' with the herd. He don't eat dust off nobody's heels."
Shandon's eyes brightened. He had seen possibilities in the two year
old before he went away, when the colt belonged to Arthur, and it was
good to know that Little Saxon had fulfilled the promise of youth. And
he saw too, a morning's work ahead of him, such work as the leaping
spirit of Red Reckless loved. A wild scamper across the upper end of
the narrow valley, skirting the lake perhaps; a headlong race after a
horse born of Brown Babe and the high spirited stallion Saxon; the
swinging of a rope in a hand that had not known the feel of one for a
year; and the final conquest that would come when at last that rope
settled about the defiant neck.
"For we'll get Lightfoot first, Bill," he said eagerly. "Little
Saxon'll have to go some when I've got Lady Lightfoot under me. And
then we'll take the three year old in and begin breaking him."
Big Bill chuckled joyously. And as Garth had said before him he
muttered that Wayne Shandon hadn't changed much.
As they rode the valley widened for a little before them, the steep
wall of cliffs and crags drawing back upon the right, lifting their
crests ever higher, topped by few scattering pines, firs and tamaracks.
Here and there a giant cedar flourished in isolated majesty, lifting
its delicately formed cones a hundred and fifty feet above its ancient,
gnarled roots. The valley itself was for the most part clear of timber
and scrub. The herds had not yet come up here this year, and would not
come until the lower end had been thoroughly fed off. For here there
would be grazing land in abundance until the winter came and all herds
must be moved to the pastures far down the mountains where the snow
fall was never more than a few thawing inches.
Conversation between the two men died down as they pushed deeper into
the solitudes. When they had ridden a couple of miles, the valley
narrowed again, the timber line crept in closer at every yard, the
mountains drew in abruptly and rose more precipitously in sheer,
frowning, dominant majesty, the river shot hissing down its rocky
course, a wild thing plunging madly toward freedom and an open world.
So with few words, each man's thoughts wandering as chance and the
river and mountains directed them, Shandon and Big Bill rode slowly.
That trail brought them at last down close to the edge of the stream as
the banks on either hand drew closer together until finally the water
choked and fumed and thundered through a narrow pass. Here they must
turn away from its course, climbing a steep shoulder of the mountain,
making a difficult way along a seldom used trail, until they came to
the crest of the ridge which shot down from the right. Another fifty
yards, almost level going, a steep descent and suddenly the fury of the
river was but a faint rumbling in their ears, the stillness of the
mountains crept down on them and they were at the margin of Laughter
Lake.
With a sigh long, deep, lung filling, Wayne Shandon curbed his horse to
a standstill. Big Bill turned his head away and a little hurriedly
sought for his "makings." For Big Bill had a memory, as so many sons
of the frontier places have, a memory that filed and kept record of
little things as well as of what the world calls big things. He
remembered the day when Wayne Shandon had last ridden here, just the
day before Arthur was killed. Wayne and Arthur had come here together;
Arthur with some business reason, of course; equally of course Wayne in
a mere spirit of idling. The younger brother had ridden along to try
out a new rifle he had bought--
"Come on, Bill. Let's find the horses."
Wayne leaned forward suddenly in the saddle, loosened his reins and
touched his horse's sides with his spurred heels. And so they raced
along the side of the lake as they had raced from the range house, Red
Reckless sitting straight in the saddle, his head lifted, his broad hat
pushed far back, his tall, powerful body swaying gracefully, easily
with his horse's stride.
They found Lady Lightfoot with a herd of half wild animals in a little
hollow beyond the head of the lake. A great snorting and stamping, a
flinging aloft of proud heads upon arching necks, the flurry of manes
and tails, black, red, white, all confused in a rush of colour, the
hammering thud of unshod hoofs on soft grassy soil and the herd had
followed Lady Lightfoot's lead in wild flight toward the far end of the
tiny valley. A wonderful creature was Lady Lightfoot, trim and slender
and graceful as a maiden, her coat a little rough from her year in the
woods, her silken mane snarled, but her spirit showing in the toss of
her head, the cock of her ears, the flare of her nostrils, the fire of
her eyes.
"Watch!" yelled Big Bill as he and Shandon thundered along after them,
their ropes already in their hands, nooses widening. "See who takes
her lead away from her!"
It was half a mile to the far end of the little valley where the almost
sheer pitch of the mountains would bring the fleeing animals to a stop.
And before they had gone a hundred yards Wayne Shandon's eyes had
discovered Little Saxon.
The colt had been almost the last of the two score horses when their
startled flight began; already he was seeking the place that was
rightfully his, already he had passed half of the herd and running like
some great greyhound, was eating up the distance which lay between his
outstretched nose and Lady Lightfoot's flickering hoofs. A horse to be
seen in a flash by a knowing eye even in a herd many times bigger than
this one. A king of a horse, standing a hand taller than the tallest
of his companions, with great flowing muscles moving liquidly, with
iron lungs under a vast iron chest, with a neck every fine line of
which revealed the racing thoroughbred, with tireless strength in the
tensing shoulders and hips, with speed in the delicately formed,
slender legs; running easily, every leaping stride hurling his great
body in advance of some one of the other horses, his floating mane and
tail spun silk that flashed in the sun like shimmering gold, his
flashing hoofs like a deer's for dainty grace, his coat a deep, rich,
red bay.
"Watch him run!" shouted Big Bill. "Watch him run!"
Two lengths behind Lady Lightfoot, a length . . . and then Little Saxon
had slipped by, flashed by, passed like a gleam of summer sunlight, and
the mare snapped viciously at the lean, clean body that brushed against
her own, robbing her of her place. Big Bill laughed joyously.
"Jealous as a cat, huh, Red? See that?"
"And no man has ever ridden him," muttered Shandon. "Only one man is
ever going to ride you, Little Saxon."
But that day they did not take Little Saxon with them back to the home
corrals; it would be many a day yet before Little Saxon's training
began, before his proud spirit compromised with steel and leather and a
master's hand.
With half the distance to the far end of the little valley passed,
Little Saxon was a length ahead of Lady Lightfoot, his quivering
nostrils scenting danger behind, free range and freedom ahead. Thus
Little Saxon first, Lady Lightfoot jealously guarding and keeping her
place as second in the headlong flight, a slim barrelled sorrel close
at the Lady's heels, the rest of the horses following in a close packed
body, the fleeing animals came to the natural bulwark which the
mountains lifted before them. Their ropes swinging in ever widening
loops, hissing swifter and swifter until in broadening circles they
sang shrilly, Wayne Shandon and Big Bill swept on after them.
"Lightfoot first!" cried Shandon sharply. "It's too rocky, Bill--"
The ground was too broken to chance putting a rope over the defiant
neck of the three year old who had never known what it was to have hemp
touch his lithe body. With Lady Lightfoot it was different. She would
leap aside, she would throw her head one way or the other as she saw
the lasso leave the hand of her would-be captor; but once it touched
her she would stop stone still, too wise, too experienced to struggle
against the inevitable.
At last the fleeing horses stopped, whirled and with up-pricked ears
and flashing eyes waited and watched. Lady Lightfoot's angry snort
trumpeted her fear and defiance; she moved not so much as a muscle
except of her eyes which swept swiftly back and forth from Big Bill to
Shandon, from Shandon to Big Bill. Then, as almost at the same instant
two ropes sped their hissing way toward her she leaped forward, swerved
aside, dropped her head a little--and then, instead of breaking into a
wild flight, she bunched her four feet and slid to a trembling
standstill before either rope had tightened about a steel saddle horn.
"Wise ol' lady," chuckled Big Bill as he and Shandon rode closer to the
mare coiling their ropes. "Ain't forgot who's who, have you, Lady?"
The other horses saw their chance and took it. Little Saxon in the
lead from the first terrified leap, they shot by Lady Lightfoot,
swerved widely about Shandon, and were off and away down the valley.
"Let 'em go," cried Shandon. "We'll follow in a minute and drive them
on down to the corrals."
He swung down from his saddle and went up to Lady Lightfoot's high
lifted head, a head that rose higher in the air as he drew near.
Laying a gentle hand on the quivering nose, he rubbed it softly,
speaking to the animal in a tone that coaxed and soothed and assured.
He talked to her as a man talks who loves a horse, understands it--as
he might talk to a human being. And Big Bill, watching, nodded and
grunted approval as he saw Shandon slip the hard bit between the strong
teeth, and at last swing up into the saddle and turn a high spirited
but well trained and obedient mare down the valley after the runaways.
Fifteen minutes later they caught up with the stragglers of Little
Saxon's followers. And it was then that Little Saxon snorted his last
defiance at pursuit and achieved his freedom.
The animals had been driven again into a woodland _cul de sac_. Here
there was a wide reaching plot of grassy, unbroken soil, and here the
two men counted upon teaching the three year old his first lesson of
the supremacy of man. As they drew nearer their ropes were again
ready, trailing at their sides. Again the horses drew close together,
bunched in a mass of watchful distrust. Little Saxon alone held
slightly apart, his great head lifted high, scenting mischief. He saw
the ropes before they were lifted, and at the first whirl of hemp into
the hated loop he knew instinctively that it was he whom they
threatened.
"We've got him," grunted Big Bill, confident too soon of easy victory.
Behind the herd rose the cliffs, in front the men came on and at the
side was a deep gorge, so steep sided that a horse would not think of
going down into it, washed wide by the spring torrents. It never
entered Big Bill's head nor Wayne Shandon's nor the heads of the
terrified companions of Little Saxon that there was a way in that
direction open for flight. But Little Saxon saw his enemies coming
threateningly nearer and he took his chance. He drew back until his
golden tail swept the granite cliffs; he paused there a brief second,
with flashing eyes, measuring chance and distance; he gathered his
great muscles as he had never gathered them before; his vast chest
swelled to a mighty sigh; and then, before Wayne Shandon or Big Bill
had guessed the plan that had risen in his brain he had wagered his
life against his liberty.
"Back, Bill!" shouted Shandon warningly, throwing Lady Lightfoot back
on her haunches, swinging her away from the plunging three year old.
"He's going to jump!"
"God!" yelled Big Bill, as he too jerked his horse back. "He'll break
his neck!"
They saw the big horse running, already as a blur of speed before he
had done the thirty yards to the rock walled gorge, saw the glinting
light from floating mane and tail, heard the thunder of his pounding
hoofs, and then--
Then Little Saxon put into his gliding muscles all of the thoroughbred
spirit that was in his blood, and taking recklessly his one chance he
hurled his great body forward, leaping splendidly. For an instant as
that rebellious, beautiful body was suspended in mid air, high above
certain death, neither man breathed. Then, with the sharp sound of
hard hoofs striking hard rock, Little Saxon landed easily and safely
upon the far side, and his silken mane, flowing tail and red bay hide
shining with a metallic gleam in the sunlight, he had passed on,
through the trees, into an open trail, around a bend and out of sight.
Big Bill rode close up to the gorge.
"I wouldn't jump a horse acrost that for a million dollars!" he said,
wondering at what he had seen.
And Wayne Shandon, his eyes very bright, his face a little flushed,
cried eagerly,
"A mere horse, no. But Little Saxon isn't that! He's more clean
spirit than horse flesh!"
Big Bill did not answer. Perhaps he had not heard. He was thinking:
"When he does break Little Saxon--that wild devil of a man on that wild
devil of a horse-- What a pair of them!"