Stolen Stallion (13 page)

M
EN BET THEIR PAST WAGES, AND THEIR FUTURE.
M
EN
bet their spurs and saddles, and a saddle is the last thing that a cowpuncher places in jeopardy. Men bet with borrowed money, and with stolen money, too, for when a Westerner makes up his mind about the winner of a race, he makes it up with a violence, and with a perfectly firm conviction. They would have bet the skins off their bodies, if there had been money value attached.

And nearly half of those bets went down on Parade.

Common sense might say that the slenderer lines of the mare of Mr. Jones, and Brandy, meant greater speed over a distance as short as a mile and a half. But common sense is not the virtue of the great West. And when those cow-punchers looked upon Parade, his beauty and his fame joined in their souls and stirred their hands toward their pocketbooks to place their wagers.

There were plenty of others, calm and crafty-minded people, who laid their money with what seemed greater discretion, and these bet on the “dark horse” of Mr. Jones, or on the celebrated speed of Brandy.

There were other entries, but they hardly counted. Eight horses danced and pranced at the post, with Silvertip towering head and shoulders above the rest, both on account of his own stature and the almost seventeen hands of Parade. Next to him was Brandy. And this strange thing was noticed even by the excited, abstracted eyes of the bystanders — that the two stallions actually touched noses more than once, in the intervals of fiddling for the start. But presently they were as wild as the rest of the horses. Only the long, rangy mare of Mr. Jones remained alert, but without wasting an effort, at her end of the line, and she was the farthest from the inside position.

As for Brandy, he was exclaiming: “We’re going to run! We’re going to race! Parade, try hard to keep close to me. I can feel the wind in my heels. I’m going to run faster than a storm. Stay as close to me as you can and try to be second. Watch the mare. She has the lines of speed, too. Watch the mare, and follow me, and you won’t be disgraced!”

Then a gun boomed, and as the others lurched away from the start, Parade was left half-turned, standing flat-footed.

He got away like a wildcat, with the wailing cry of despair from his supporters ringing through the air.

He saw the mare sweep with wonderful speed right across the face of the field, and then settle down to the best position, on the rail, where she ran easily, with no effort, and kept the rest at bay. Brandy came up to her and looked her in the eye, and would have gone ahead, but the firm hand of Lake held him back.

“Make a race of it! Let her go!” called Lake.

There was nothing around them. The best of the range-bred horses were already laboring well to the rear, only able to fight it out for third-place money, and Parade was among them.

“There’s plenty of time!” called back Jones. “Bear out a little, and watch Parade!”

“Parade’s sunk already!” called Lake.

That was how they swept around the course for the first round. It was a three-quarter-mile track, and they would travel about it twice. And going by the little grandstand, where most of the people were thronged on the outside of the inside of the track, the voices rose up in waves, and smote the horses and riders in the face. There was the high, joyous staccato of the supporters of the mare and Brandy. There was the groaning despair of those who had bet on Parade.

He was out and away from the other range horses now, but a great distance from the leaders. And yet Silvertip was making no effort to urge him. He swung his body low along the neck of the stallion, like a jockey, and he had a high, strong grip with his knees, to keep his weight off the running muscles that come up under the saddle; but outside of position, and a firm but light grip on the reins, he was making no effort.

That was why they yelled at him. That was why some excited men called him a fool and a crook, and threatened to have it out with him after the race.

But he knew that whatever was in the body and the brain and the soul of Parade was his, and in his hand, ready to be poured out when he pleased. He told it by that electric current which quivered up and down the reins. He told it by the slight turn of the head of the horse, that showed Parade was studying his rider, waiting for him, ready for the supreme effort. And so Silvertip waited still. He was not exactly tense. It was something beyond tenseness, this pull on the strings of the heart, and this knowledge that he was riding for possession of the horse.

He remembered Lefty, pale-faced, keen, saying: “I’ve bet everything on Parade. Maybe I’m a fool, but I’ve bet more on you than on the nag. I don’t have to tell you to do your best. You get Parade if you win!”

“And Chuck?” Silvertip had said.

“If Chuck opens his mug, I’ll tell the true story — how Chuck put a bullet into you after you had Parade in your hand!”

That was how it would go — if he could win!

And little by little, as he hung quietly, in perfect balance, over the running machine beneath him, he saw that they were creeping up on the leaders — not rapidly, but little by little.

He knew it was unfair, this test. He knew that Parade could maintain this speed for an indefinite time, and run the others into the ground if there were ten miles to cover. But what would happen when he asked for everything that Parade could give, and entered the stretch with the leaders — those narrower, clipper-built sprinters?

That would have to be seen.

They rounded into the back stretch, and Parade was coming closer up. Silvertip saw Lake turn his head — a single flash of that ape-like countenance, and then Brandy moved faster, and the mare moved faster beside him. Like a team, the mare and Richmond’s stallion were keeping together, while the crowds went mad with excitement.

Not only the voices of their supporters, but now the majority of the men, who had bet on Parade, were beginning to yell also. For they saw the favorite creeping up with every stride.

The horses rounded the turn toward the head of the stretch, and then Silvertip set his teeth, and made his call.

The answer took his breath away. It was like leaping from a height. It was like being caught by the race of a river that is all white water. It was like being hurled from the hand.

The lurch of increased speed threw Silver back a little in the saddle. He had to struggle forward into the better position. And with that first rush, as they rounded the turn into the stretch, he came straight up on Brandy and the mare.

The two stallions jarred together. Brandy lagged; Parade, thrown completely out of stride, fell well to the rear, and the mare went winging on alone.

A screech of rage and disappointment went up from those at hand, along the fence, and murder flashed from the heart of Silvertip into his brain. They would die for this — Lake and Jones! He saw the plot as clearly as though he had sat at the table where it had been hatched.

And Parade? Could he come again, with that crushing burden on his back? Could he loose again that long-bounding stride, that seemed to be buoyed up by the beat of invisible wings?

He called, with his heart in his voice, and Parade answered. He swayed a little, but found himself, and shot ahead.

Brandy, running with wonderful strength, was beside the mare again, but bearing well out toward the middle of the track, and the gap was plain and free before Silvertip. That was why he tried to put Parade through it, instead of passing around to the outside. It seemed impossible that Lake would attempt to foul him twice.

The finish was not far way. The two white-washed posts gleamed nearer and nearer. The frenzy of uproar did not come, it seemed, from human voices, but from wild beasts, and from blaring brazen trumpets.

Men were standing up on the rails, and pulling their favorites ahead with foolish gestures; and here and there someone with a weaker heart looked down at the ground, white-faced and overcome.

But the same rush of speed came pouring out of Parade, the same dazzling outburst as before. It would not endure long, this time. By a certain tenseness and brittleness in the body that labored beneath him, Silvertip recognized that fact.

Then he saw an odd thing, for as the ultimate strain was placed on both Parade and Brandy, as they stretched their heads out, they twisted them a little to the right, and bored into the wind of their own gallop, as though they were about to turn a corner. They were identical in style — and chance could not make this! There was only one great difference, and that lay in the greater sweep of the stride of Parade. It bore him rapidly up. The head of the stallion was on the hip of the mare, when suddenly Brandy was swiftly swung in again to close the gap.

It was too patent. Everyone in the stands, everyone in eyeshot along the fences could see the dirty device, and a howl of rage went upward.

But that was not what stopped Lake.

He would risk the rage of the crowd, knowing that every penny of money that Richmond possessed had been bet on the mare. He would risk everything, hoping to get his percentage, if only he could shut off Parade.

But now, as Parade came up, something happened in Brandy. The head which usually gave so easily to the slightest pull of the reins, now stiffened. The mouth became iron. There was a sudden outthrust of the neck of the stallion that tore the reins through the strong hands of the jockey, and Brandy was running straight and true toward the finish line, leaving plenty of space between him and the mare.

It was like the opening of a gate of hope, to Silvertip. The rage vanished from his heart.

He shouted again to the stallion. He saw the ears of Parade shudder as the horse heard the voice. He felt the final, desperate effort come out of the quivering body. That stride could not be made more rapid, and yet it beat more rapidly. That stride could not be lengthened, and yet actually it was extended!

The long, lean mare drew back in jerks. Those jerks represented the strides of Parade, one by one.

Then the sardonic face of Mr. Jones turned. He seemed not in the least degree excited. His whip worked rhythmically. Still something like a smile was on his face as he fell behind.

But the head of Parade was not in the lead. It was Brandy, running like a nimble-footed three-year-old, running as he never had run before, perhaps. Still his head was in front, while Lake, his frog face contorted, screamed out curses and plied the whip.

And then two great pulses, and Parade was ahead. The white posts flashed past. Had he gained that vital ground in time?

Silvertip did not know. It might still be Lefty’s horse that he bestrode, he thought, as he turned back toward the grandstand. But then all doubt left him as men leaped over the fence or crawled through it, and came pouring toward him, and as they ran, they kept screeching out one name:

“Parade! Parade!”

There is only one sort of madness that pitches the voices of men as high as that, and that is the madness of victory.

Movement became almost impossible. The throng pressed closer and closer. In vain, Silver shouted to beware of the teeth and the heels of the stallion. The winners did not care. They wanted to touch that gleaming piece of victorious horseflesh if they had to die for it the next moment.

In a vast huddle, growing every moment, they attended Parade down the track.

Only one thing could part them, and that was a small man with a thin face and blazing eyes.

“It’s Lefty — it’s the owner!” men called, and gave place, meagerly, to Lefty.

He came up and gripped the right hand of Silvertip with both of his, and put his foot on Silver’s, and so hoisted himself until he could speak in Silver’s ear.

“I’ve made a fortune!” he shouted, “and you’re goin’ to have a share in it. You’re goin’ to have Parade, too. And welcome, too, because there ain’t another man in the world worthy of settin’ on his back. And it was the greatest race ever rode!”

A
LL THAT
L
AKE COULD THINK OF, AFTER THE DEFEAT,
was whisky. He went back to the same obscure little saloon which he favored, and took what comfort he could, until his eyes blurred, and his senses were dulled.

Afterward, Richmond would come — Richmond ruined, Richmond in a frantic rage. That would be that. Lake hardly cared. A savagery was in him. He had spent these years with Richmond, always waiting for the big clean-up and the time had never come. Now there would be some sort of a settlement.

The door opened from the rear, and Jones came in. He leaned over the chair of Lake to say briefly:

“Better get out of here. Richmond is clean nutty. He can’t take it, the dirty welsher. You get out of Parmalee and stay out, or there’ll be trouble. He thinks you double-crossed him. He can’t see that Brandy took that race in hand at the finish. And what did I tell you? That Parade could gallop — and well he did!”

He laughed, his sneering, mirthless laughter, and went on into the front of the saloon.

He had hardly closed the door behind him when Harry Richmond came in from the rear entrance. Lake looked up askance, and saw the drawn gun in his hand, the big pulpy face thrust forward, the working of the mouth.

It was twilight. The fields and sky were blue outside the open doorway.

And this was to be the end. Lake knew it. He knew it by the fact that the light did not tremble on the gun of Richmond. The hand of the man was steady, and the murder would be done.

They said nothing. Richmond kept inching forward, his gun leveled. Lake got up from the table. He knew that the instant he tried to pull a weapon, he would be shot down. His own hand would give the signal for his death. But while he hesitated, Richmond was edging nearer, making sure of his aim, getting to a range at which he could not miss.

Suddenly the hand of Lake flashed across his coat and up under the flap of it. The Colt boomed in the hand of Richmond. A forefinger of fire stabbed through the murky air at Lake.

The shock of the bullet knocked him backward. He struck a chair. It went over with him. He turned a somersault and landed on his face with hands still clutching the gun he had drawn.

Richmond was still firing, and life was running out of the body of Lake with every throb of his heart. But he lay there stretched on the floor, making a rest of one hand to support the long barrel of the revolver. And from that rest he fired. After Richmond fell, he was not contented.

He wanted to get up and stand over the man and blow his face off. He wanted to crawl to him, and put in a final shot. But he knew that even the effort of getting to hands and knees would make the last of life burst out of him.

Even now, a dimness was being drawn across his face. The agony was entering his throat, closing off his breath. And still he fired.

Richmond began to shriek. He got to his hands and knees, screeching for help. Another bullet knocked him flat on his face.

There was no more firing, as the men broke in from the front of the saloon. Lake lay on his face, dead, smiling; and Richmond was two gasps from death, also.

It was only marvelous that he could exist long enough to speak words, and Jones and the barkeeper leaned over him.

There was an expression of stunned surprise on the face of Richmond. His lower jaw had dropped to his chest.

He kept saying, thickly: “Tha’s a’right. Tha’s a’right,” and a drool of blood spilled over his lip and kept sliding down on his coat.

Jones said, calmly, almost with enjoyment in his voice: “You’re a dirty dog. You’re dying like a dirty dog. But if you’ve got anything to put right, tell me, brother, and I’ll do it for you!”

Harry Richmond looked up at him with vague eyes.

“Old Charlie Moore,” he said.

Bubbles of blood formed and burst on his lips, snapping rapidly.

“Moore — he gets Brandy. I got Brandy away from him — and I got nothing but trouble. Give Brandy back to Charlie — and tell him — ”

He put his head on his shoulder as though he wanted to wipe his bloody lips on his coat, but the head kept on sagging down, for Harry Richmond was dead.

When justice is done, sometimes it is not done with a feeble hand, but with a certain flourish. That was the case with Charlie Moore. The whole story came out. It had been known before, but dimly. Now the long story of injustices stood up darkly against the bright light of the race and the tragedy that had followed it. And Charlie Moore got Brandy.

He got another horse, too, because when Brandy was led out of the corral, Mischief tried to climb the fence and follow him. Big Silvertip bought Mischief on the spot and presented her to Charlie Moore.

Charlie was leaving Parmalee. He was going into the Northwest, where a comfortable job had been offered him as timekeeper in a big mine.

“Because,” the mine owner had said, “the world’s given the simple old fellow a bad break. Now he can have his horse, and peace, to the end of his life.”

That mine lay on the edge of the Sierra Blanca, among the foothills, and Silvertip rode all the way with Charlie Moore to his new job.

What they said to one another made very little difference, but from horse to horse there was much talk. It was somewhat annoying to the riders because, while Mischief ranged here and there, without so much as a bridle on her head — it would be a simple thing to run her down, if she tried to bolt — the two horses insisted on walking shoulder to shoulder.

“You see,” said Brandy, “that we return to the old places.”

“We return,” said Parade.

He lifted his head, and looked at the white spearlike tips of the Sierra Blanca range.

“Some day,” he said, “perhaps we’ll run together through the valley again, and gather a herd behind us.”

“Never!” said Brandy. “To be free is a great thing; to be loved is a greater thing still. If there had been no whip on me, the other day, perhaps I would have beaten you, Parade, if I had loved my rider as you loved yours. Did he touch you with a whip, from the start to the finish?”

“A whip?” said Parade. “Why should he do that? A whip stroke only makes you twist to the side to escape from the pain. He never has touched me with more than the flat of his hand.”

“And that,” said Brandy, “I understand. But your mother never will. Where are you traveling now?”

“A great ways off,” said Parade. “All I know is that with my master in the saddle, I keep looking at the horizon, because I know that he always wants to be somewhere beyond it. Look at him, father. He is the Great Enemy turned into a friend.”

“Therefore,” said Brandy, “you will be of one blood and one bone with him, all your life. See the man who rides me. He keeps a loose rein. His eye wanders. He trusts me, my son. And the greatest joy in this life is to trust and to be trusted.”

And old Charlie Moore was saying to his companion: “Look at ’em rubbin’ shoulders as they walk, rubbin’ our knees together, too, the old fools. Now, I’ll tell you somethin’, Silver.”

“Fire away,” said Silvertip.

“You seen them in the finish of that race, boring their heads into the wind?”

“I saw them — and their heads twisted out the same way, when they were putting everything they had into the running.”

“D’you think that’s chance?” asked Moore.

“It was a queer thing,” admitted Silver. “What’s the answer?”

“When Mischief got away, long ago, she got away with big Brandy, here, and there’s no doubt in my mind — Brandy’s the father of Parade.”

“Hold on!” exclaimed Silvertip.

“It looks like a long shot, but I think it’s a true one. Two horses don’t run in a queer way like that, unless there’s the same blood in ’em, likely. And look, at the cut of Parade — and then look at Brandy. Years make a difference, but I can remember when Parade and Brandy would’ve been almost blood brothers at a glance. They got the same cut, but Brandy’s finer, and Parade’s bigger — and there you are!”

“You’ll be telling me,” said Silvertip, smiling, “that they
know
that they’re father and son, and that’s why they walk together, like this!”

“There’s strange things in this here world,” said Charlie Moore, “and that’s exactly what I believe.”

“All right,” answered Silver, good-humoredly. “I’m happy enough to believe anything, today.”

“Old son, where might you be bound?” asked Charlie.

“Over yonder!” said Silvertip.

He waved before him toward the shimmer of the desert, alive with the rising of the heat waves, and toward the rugged waves of the mountains, that gave back on either side from a pass.

“Over the pass?” said Charlie Moore.

“Yes, over the edge of the world, somewhere,” said Silvertip. “I’ve spent a life, so far, trying to find one thing that I really wanted. I’ve got it now, and I’m going to use it. I don’t know for what!”

Old Charlie Moore looked on his companion with dreaming eyes for a moment.

“Give a boy a sword, and the man will be a soldier,” he murmured. And then he added: “I’d need to be a younger man, and a stronger man, and Brandy a younger horse under me — but if I could follow you, Silver, I know that I’d find what you’re goin’ to find — the other side of the horizon, and the reason the sky is blue!”