THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK
By simply turning about the crowd was in position to watch the race. Of
course it packed dense around the finish on both sides of the lane but
Corson had chosen his position well, the white posts were not more than
a dozen yards above them and they would be able to see the rush of
horses across the line. It was pleasant to Marianne to turn her back on
the scene of the horse-breaking and face her own world which she knew
and loved.
The ponies were coming out to be paraded for admiration and to loosen
their muscles with a few stretching gallops. Each was ridden by his
owner, each bore a range saddle. To one accustomed to jockeys and
racing-pads, these full-grown riders and cumbrous trappings made the
cowponies seem small but they were finely formed, the pick of the range.
The days of mongrel breeds are long since over in the West. Smaller
heads, longer necks, more sloping shoulders, told of good blood crossed
on the range stock. Still, the base-stock showed clearly when the Coles
mares came onto the track with mincing steps, turning their proud heads
from side to side and every one coming hard on the bit. Coles had taken
no chances, and though he had been forced by the rules of the race to
put up the regulation range saddles he had found the lightest riders
possible. Their small figures brought out the legginess of the mares;
beside the compact range horses their gait was sprawling, but the wise
eye of Marianne saw the springing fetlocks kiss the dust and the long,
telltale muscles. She cried out softly in admiration and pleasure.
"You see the Coles mares?" she said. "There go the winners, Mr. Corson.
The ponies won't be in it after two furlongs."
Corson regarded her with a touch of irritation: "Now, don't you be too
sure, lady," he growled. "Lots of legs, I grant you. Too much for me.
Are they pure bred?"
"No," she answered, "there's enough cold blood to bring the price down.
But Coles is a wise business man. After they've won this race in a
bunch they'll look, every one, like daughters of Salvator. See that! Oh,
the beauties!"
One of the range horses was loosed for a fifty yard sprint and as he
shot by, the mares swayed out in pursuit. There was a marked difference
between the gaits. The range horse pounded heavily, his head bobbing;
the mares stepped out with long, rocking gallop. They seemed to be going
with half the effort and less than half the speed, and yet, strangely,
they very nearly kept up with the sprinter until their riders took them
back to the eager, prancing walk. Marianne's eyes sparkled but the
little exhibition told a different story to old Corson. He snorted with
pleasure.
"Maybe you seen that, Miss Jordan? You seen Jud Hopkin's roan go by them
fancy Coles mares? Well, well, it done my heart good! This gent Coles
comes out of the East to teach us poor ignorant ranchers what right hoss
flesh should be. He's going to auction off them half dozen mares after
the race. Well, sir, I wouldn't give fifty dollars a head for 'em. Nor
neither will nobody else when they see them mares fade away in the home
stretch; nope, neither will nobody else."
In this reference to over-wise Easterners there was a direct thrust at
the girl, but she accepted it with a smile.
"Don't you think they'll last for the mile and a quarter, Mr. Corson?"
"Think? I don't think. I know! Picture hosses like them--well, they'd
ought to be left in books. They run a little. Inside a half mile they
bust down. Look how long they are!"
"But their backs are short," put in Marianne hastily.
"Backs short?" scoffed Corson, "Why, lady look for yourself!"
She choked back her answer. If the self-satisfied old fellow could not
see how far back the withers reached and how far forward the quarters,
so that the true back was very short, it was the part of wisdom to let
experience teach him. Yet she could not refrain from saying: "You'll see
how they last in the race, Mr. Corson."
"We'll both see," he answered. "There goes a gent that's going to lose
money today!"
A big red-faced man with his hat on the back of his head and sweat
coursing down his cheeks, was pushing through the crowd calling with a
great voice:
"Here's Lady Mary money. Evens or odds on Lady Mary!" "That's Colonel
Dickinson," said Corson. "He comes around every year to play the races
here and most generally he picks winners. But today he's gone wrong. His
eye has been took by the legs of them Coles hosses and he's gone crazy
betting on 'em. Well, he gets plenty of takers!"
Indeed, Colonel Dickinson was stopped right and left to record wagers.
"I got down a little bet myself, this morning, agin his Lady Mary."
Corson chuckled at the thought of such easy money.
"What makes you so sure?" asked Marianne, for even if she were lucky
enough to get the mares she felt that from Corson she could learn
beforehand the criticisms of Lew Hervey.
"So sure? Why anybody with half an eye--" here he remembered that he was
talking to a lady and continued more mildly. "Them bay mares ain't
hosses--they're tricks. Look how skinny all that underpinning is, Miss
Jordan."
"When they fill out--" she began.
"Tush! They won't never fill out proper. Too much leg to make a hoss.
Too much daylight under 'em. Besides, what good would they be for
cow-work? High headed fools, all of 'em, and a hoss that don't know enough
to run with his head low can't turn on a forty acre lot. Don't tell me!"
He forbade contradiction by raising an imperious hand. Marianne was so
exasperated that she looked to Mrs. Corson in the pinch, but that old
lady was smiling dimly behind her glasses; she seemed to be studying the
smoky gorges of the Eagles, so Marianne wisely deferred her answer and
listened to that unique voice which rises from a crowd of men and women
when horses are about to race. There is no fellow to the sound. The
voice of the last-chance better is the deep and mournful burden; the
steady rattle of comment is the body of it; and the edge of the noise is
the calling of those who are confident with "inside dope." Marianne,
listening, thought that the sound in Glosterville was very much like
the sound in Belmont. The difference was in the volume alone. The hosses
were now lining up for the start, it was with a touch of malice that
Marianne said: "I suppose that's one of your range types? That faded old
chestnut just walking up to get in line?"
Corson started to answer and then rubbed his eyes to look again.
It was Alcatraz plodding towards the line of starters, his languid hoofs
rousing a wisp of dust at every step. He went with head depressed, his
sullen; hopeless ears laid back. On his back sat Manuel Cordova,
resplendent in sky-blue, tight-fitting jacket. Yet he rode the
spiritless chestnut with both hands, his body canted forward a little,
his whole attitude one of desperate alertness. There was something so
ludicrous in the contrast between the hair-trigger nervousness of the
Mexican and the drowsy unconcern of the stallion that a murmur of
laughter rose from the crowd about the starting line and drifted across
the field.
"I suppose you'll say that long hair is good to keep him warm in
winter," went on the girl sarcastically. "As far as legs are concerned,
he seems to have about as much as the longest of the mares."
Corson shook his head in depreciation.
"You never can tell what a fool Mexican will do. Most like he's riding
in this race to show off his jacket, not because he has any hope of
winning. That hoss ain't any type of range--"
"Perhaps you think it's a thoroughbred?" asked Marianne.
Corson sighed, feeling that he was cornered.
"Raised on the range, all right," he admitted. "But you'll find freak
hosses anywhere. And that chestnut is just a plug."
"And yet," ventured Marianne, "it seems to me that the horse has some
points."
This remark drew a glance of scorn from the whole Corson family. What
would they think, she wondered, if they knew that her hopes centered on
this very stallion? Silence had spread over the field. The whisper of
Corson seemed loud. "Look how still the range hosses stand. They know
what's ahead. And look at them fool bays prance!"
The Coles horses were dancing eagerly, twisting from side to side at the
post.
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Corson. "What a vicious brute!"
Alcatraz had wakened suddenly and driven both heels at his neighbor.
Luckily he missed his mark, but the starter ran across the track and
lessoned Cordova with a raised finger. Then he went back; there was a
breath of waiting; the gun barked!
The answer to it was a spurt of low-running horses with a white cloud of
dust behind, and Corson laughed aloud in his glee. Every one of the
group in the lead was a range horse; the Coles mares were hanging in the
rear and last of all, obscured by the dust-cloud, Alcatraz ran sulkily.
"But you wait!" said Marianne, sitting tensely erect. "Those ponies with
their short legs can start fast, but that's all. When the mares begin to
run--Now, now, now! Oh, you beauties! You dears!"
The field doubled the first jagged corner of the track and the bay
mares, running compactly grouped, began to gain on the leaders hand over
hand. Looking first at the range hosses and then at the mares, it seemed
that the former were running with twice the speed of the latter, but the
long, rolling gallop of the bays ate up the ground, and bore them down
on the leaders in a bright hurricane. The cowpunchers, hearing that
volleying of hoofbeats, went to spur and quirt to stave off the
inevitable, but at five furlongs Lady Mary left her sisters and streaked
around the tiring range horses into the lead. Marianne cried out in
delight. She had forgotten her hope that the mares might not win. All
she desired now was that blood might tell and her judgment be
vindicated.
"They won't last," Corson was growling, his voice feeble in the roar of
the excited crowd. "They can't last that pace. They'll come back after a
while and the ponies will walk away to the finish."
"Have you noticed," broke in Mrs. Corson, "that the poor old faded
chestnut seems to be keeping up fairly well?"
For as the bay mares cut around into the lead, Alcatraz was seen at the
heels of the range horses, running easily. It seemed, with a great
elastic stride.
"But--but--it's not the same horse!" Marianne gasped.
To be sure, Alcatraz in motion was transformed, the hollows among his
ribs forgotten, and the broken spirit replaced by power, the electric
power of the racer.
"It looks very much to me as if the Mexican is pulling that horse, too,"
said Marianne. For Cordova rode with legs braced, keeping a tight pull
that bent the head of Alcatraz down. He might have served for a statue
of fear. "And notice that he makes no effort to break around the range
horses or through them. What's the matter with him?"
At seven furlongs the mares were in a group of themselves, lengths in
front and drawing away; the heads of the cowponies were going up, sure
sign that they were spent, and even Corson was gloomily silent. He was
remembering his bet against Lady Mary, and lo, Lady Mary was breezing in
front well within her strength. One glance at her pricking ears told an
eloquent story. Near them Marianne saw big Colonel Dickinson capering.
And the sight inspired a shrewd suspicion. What if he knew the
reputation of Alcatraz and to secure his bets on Lady Mary, had bribed
Cordova at the last moment to pull his horse. Certainly it seemed that
was what the Mexican was doing.
"There's a lady," the colonel was shouting. "Go it, girl. Go it, beauty.
Lady Mary! Lady Mary!"
Marianne raised her field glasses and studied the rush of horses through
the fog of dust.
"It's just as I thought," she cried, without lowering the glasses. "The
scoundrel is pulling Alcatraz! He rides as if he were afraid of
something--afraid that the horse might break away. Look, Mr. Corson."
"I dunno," said Corson. "It sure does look sort of queer!"
"Why, he's purposely keeping that horse in a pocket. Has him on the
rail. Oh, the villain!" It was a cry of shrill rage. "_He's sawing on
the bit!_ And the chestnut has his ears back. I can see the glint of his
eyes. As if he wants to run simply because he is being held. But there--
there--there! He's got the bit in his teeth. His head goes out. Mr.
Corson, is it too late for Alcatraz to win the race?"
She dropped the glasses. There was no need of them now. Rounding into
the long home stretch Cordova made a last frightened effort to regain
control and then gave up, his eyes rolling with fear; Alcatraz had got
his head.
He ran his own race from that point. He leaped away from the cowponies
in the first three strides and set sail for the leaders. Because of his
ragged appearance his name had been picked up by the crowd and sent
drifting about the field; now they called on him loudly. For every
rancher and every ranch-hand in Glosterville was summoning Alcatraz to
vindicate the range-stock against the long-legged mares which had been
imported from the East for the sole purpose of shaming the native
products. The cry shook in a wailing chorus across the field:
"Alcatraz!" and again: "Alcatraz!" With tingling cowboy yells in
between. And mightily the chestnut answered those calls, bolting down
the stretch.
The riders of the mares had sensed danger in the shouting of the crowd,
and though their lead seemed safe they took no chances but sat down and
began to ride out their mounts. Still Alcatraz gained. From the
stretching head, across the withers, the straight-driving croup, the
tail whipped out behind, was one even line. His ears were not flagging
back like the ears of a horse merely giving his utmost of speed; they
were dressed flat by a consuming fury, and the same uncanny rage gleamed
in his eyes and trembled in his expanding nostrils. It was like a human
effort and for that reason terrible in a brute beast. Marianne saw
Colonel Dickinson with the fingers of one hand buried in his plump
breast; the other had reared his hat aloft, frozen in place in the midst
of the last flourish; and never in her life had she seen such mingled
incredulity and terror.
She looked back again. There were three sections to the race now. The
range ponies were hopelessly out of it. The Coles horses ran well in the
lead. Between, coming with tremendous bounds, was Alcatraz. He got no
help from his rider. The light jockey on Lady Mary was aiding his mount
by throwing his weight with the swing of her gallop, but Manuel Cordova
was a leaden burden. The most casual glance showed the man to be in a
blue funk; he rode as one astride a thunderbolt and Alcatraz had both
to plan his race and run it.
A furlong from the finish he caught the rearmost of the mares and cut
around them, the dust spurting sidewise. The crowd gasped, for as he
passed the bays it was impossible to judge his speed accurately; and
after the breath of astonishment the cheers broke in a wave. There was a
confusion of emotion in Marianne. A victory for the chestnut would be a
coup for her pocketbook when it came to buying the Coles horses, but it
would be a distinct blow to her pride as a horsewoman. Moreover, there
was that in the stallion which roused instinctive aversion. Hatred for
Cordova sustained him, for there was no muscle in the lean shoulders or
the starved quarters to drive him on at this terrific pace.
In the corner of her vision she saw old Corson, agape, pale with
excitement, swiftly beating out the rhythm of Alcatraz's swinging legs;
and then she looked to Lady Mary. Every stride carried the bay back to
the relentless stallion. Her head had not yet gone up; she was still
stretched out in the true racing form; but there was a roll in her
gallop. Plainly Lady Mary was a very, very tired horse.
She shot in to the final furlong with whip and spur lifting her on,
every stroke brought a quivering response; all that was in her strong
heart was going into this race. And still the chestnut gained. At the
sixteenth her flying tail was reached by his nose And still he ate up
the distance. Yet spent as the mare was, the chestnut was much farther
gone. If there was a roll in her weary gallop, there was a stagger in
his gait; still he was literally flinging himself towards the finish. No
help from his rider certainly, but every rancher in the crowd was
shouting hoarsely and swinging himself towards the finish as though
that effort of will and body might, mysteriously, be transmitted to the
struggling horse and give him new strength.
Fifty yards from the end his nose was at Lady Mary's shoulder and
Marianne saw the head of the mare jerk up. She was through but the
stallion was through also. He had staggered in his stride, drunkenly.
She saw him shake his head, saw him fling forward again, and the snaky
head crept once more to the neck of the mare, to her ears, and on and
on.
Five hundred voices bellowed his name to lift him to the finish:
"Alcatraz!" Then they were over the line and the riders were pulling up.
It was not hard to stop Alcatraz. He went by Marianne at a reeling trot,
his legs shambling weakly and his head drooping, a weary rag of
horseflesh with his ears still gloomily flattened to his neck.
But who had won? The uproar was so terrific that Marianne could not
distinguish the name of the victor as the judges called it, waving their
arms to command silence. Then she saw Colonel Dickinson walking with
fallen head. The fat man was sagging in his step. His face had grown
pale and pouchy in the moment. And she knew that the ragged chestnut had
indeed conquered. Courage is the strength of the weak but in Alcatraz
hatred had occupied that place.