Stolen Stallion (12 page)

T
HERE WERE ONLY THREE MEN IN THE BACK ROOM OF
the saloon, and they looked as sordid as the atmosphere of the place. There had been a lamp on the table, but now it was moved to an adjoining one, because not one of the three wanted too much light to play over his features. The liquor in the whisky bottle was black, with one trembling highlight in it, blood-red, and in the glasses the drink appeared dull amber. They nursed these glasses with their hands, slowly turning them, drinking, not to one another but out of turn and out of order, their mouths twisting into sneers as the terrible bar whisky burned its way home.

Richmond was one of them, his swollen face creasing and dimpling as he spoke. The frog-faced half-breed, Lake, sat beside him, rarely talking. And opposite them was a lean little brown-faced man, that certain “Mr. Jones” who had brought to the rodeo the chestnut mare that looked fit to cut the wind like a knife.

Mr. Jones talked with a certain amount of dry humor, and frankness.

“You take birds like us, that’ve been barred off the tracks,” said he, “and we can’t pick and choose. We gotta enter our nags where we can, and pick up a livin’, one way or another. That mare of mine has worn fifty different names in fifty different races. She’s worn three or four different complexions, too. She’s been a bleached bay, and she’s been a red-brown. She’s had all black stockin’s, and she’s had ’em all white. But no matter how she’s dressed, she always runs like a lady.”

Lake, at this, grinned down into his glass and suddenly sipped at the contents. Richmond lifted his big head and turned his fat face from side to side, making sure that there was no one near enough to overhear these confessions.

“It ain’t any use to cry over spilt milk,” said Richmond.“But I’ll tell you something worth more than that old sayin’.”

“Fire away,” said Mr. Jones.

“It ain’t any use
talkin’
about spilt milk, either!” added Richmond.

Jones put back his head and his leathery, thin face convulsed in silent laughter.

“You look scared enough for the prison shakes,” he said. “Ever done time, Richmond?”

Richmond scowled at the words. “Whatcha mean by that? Time? Sure I never done time.”

“You never done time?” said Jones, still laughing a little. “No, I guess you never have. Some gents are lucky, like that. Sometimes it’s more than luck; sometimes it’s just brains. Somebody else does the job for ’em — blows the safe — or rides the crooked race!”

He was still laughing, but the laughter was only a pretense. It was apparent that Jones was as ready for trouble as a bird is ready for a grain of wheat.

Richmond, therefore, made a broad, sweeping gesture.

“Lemme just tell you somethin’,” said he.

“You been tellin’ me plenty, right up to now,” said Jones, dropping his head a little, and looking up from under the brows.

“Lemme just tell you this,” said Richmond. “You and me, either we can do business together, or we can’t. And bar-room arguments, they don’t buy you anything, and they don’t buy me nothin’, either. What do you say?”

“I dunno,” said the other. “I dunno what you got in your head, brother. I dunno what your style is, yet, or how you sell on the open market.”

“I get a pretty good price, maybe,” said Richmond. But that ain’t the point. Do we do business, or do we just finish off this drink and bust?”

“Either way,” said Jones. “I don’t care. I put my cards on the table, and I don’t care a whoop. You do what you please.”

“All right,” said Richmond, and he pushed back his chair.

Jones sneered down at his glass of whisky and made no move.

“Wait a minute, chief,” said Lake.

He put his hand on the arm of Richmond, and the big man readily slumped back into the chair from which he was rising.

“Whatcha want, Lake?” he demanded.

“I was just thinkin’,” said Lake. “You two, you oughtn’t to bust up like this here. There’s money for you two to make.”

“There’s bullets for us to get in the neck, too,” said Richmond, “if anybody happens to see us in here together, tonight. They’ll know that we’re saltin’ the race away for tomorrow.”

“Sure they’ll know,” said Jones. “And who cares? Who wants to make crooked money without havin’ somethin’ to flavor it? I wouldn’t steal a dime, if there wasn’t a chance for me to get caught.”

“That’s right, too,” said Richmond, stirring in his chair.

“I’m not backin’ up none,” said Jones. “If you wanta do business, all right. If you don’t all right. I’m not backin’ up none, is all I say.”

“He ain’t backin’ up none. That ain’t what you want — for him to back up, chief,” suggested Lake.

“Sure it ain’t,” said the rancher.

He looked suddenly into the keen, small eyes of Jones, and said: “We could do business together, you fool.”

Jones merely grinned. “You sound more nacheral, now,” he said.

“I been nacheral from the start,” answered Richmond. “The point is, this whole town is nuts about the race tomorrow. It’s crazy about the race, ain’t it?”

“Crazy? Listen!” suggested Jones.

He lifted his hand.

It was well past the hour at which Parmalee was ordinarily asleep, but this was a night of nights, and a steady uproar rose from the place, higher than the flying dust. In the street there were two big parties of whisky-maddened cowpunchers who were sweeping back and forth down the long street, yelling, shooting off their guns, whooping. And when either of these groups came near, the thundering of hoofs and guns, the screeches of the riders, made talk impossible. Afterward the wave of tumult sudsided, but it was always present in the air.

Besides these climaxes, there was a steadier undertone of noise that moaned and laughed and roared its way out of Parmalee. There were two improvised dance halls, with two very improvised orchestras blaring out tunes well out of date, and from those halls came the laughter, the waves of sudden outbreaks of heavy voices of men, or single, piercing notes of women; and again the silence would be so profound that one could hear, even across the street, even behind flimsy walls, the whispering of the many feet upon the floor.

“Crazy? I’ll tell you the town’s crazy for tomorrow,” said Mr. Jones.

“If they got an idea that anything crooked was pulled in that race, they’d take us out of the saddles and hang us up,” said Richmond.

“They won’t take
you
out of the saddle,” said Jones, sneering. “You won’t be ridin’.” He looked at Lake, and sneered again, and nodded his evil head.

“That’s all right,” said Richmond hastily. “They’ll know that I was behind the hoss and the arrangin’.”

“Well,” said Jones to Lake, “how good are you, kid?”

“I can put the mufflers on,” said Lake, “and you wouldn’t know a thing. Besides, I’ve rode Brandy every race he ever run. What I mean, though — he
can
run.”

“So can the mare,” said Jones. “And I can ease her down to a whisper, and make it look like she was just plain played out.”

“The thing to do,” said Richmond, “is to put our money on the mare. Put it up to her, to win, and a little to place, because the favorite is goin’ to be Brandy. The boys around here know Brandy. They’ve seen him win a lot, and the odds are goin’ to be favorin’ him.”

“Some are bettin’ on Parade,” put in Lake.

“Yeah? The fools!” commented Richmond.

“I seen the big guy out on Parade today,” said Jones. “That nag can gallop.”

“Silvertip is the only man in the world that can ride him, and Silver weighs two hundred pounds, and more,” said Richmond.

“Yeah,” said Jones, “but that nag can gallop.”

“The race is a mile and a half. No horse can carry two hundred pounds a mile and a half and beat Brandy,” said Lake.

“No?” persisted Jones. “I’ll tell you somethin’ else. Silvertip is full of brains, and brains take off weight. Brains don’t weigh nothin’ in a race.”

“Silvertip can go hang,” said Lake savagely.

Mr. Jones licked his lips, and laughed. He filled his glass, sloshing off the whisky out of the bottle, and tossed off another drink. Then he laughed again loudly.

“You two birds are scared of Silver, ain’t you?” And still he laughed.

Lake said, with slow emphasis: “Yeah, we’re scared. Everybody’s scared of him.”

“Listen to me,” said Jones. He lifted a crooked brown forefinger. ”
I
ain’t scared of Silvertip.”

“Then you’re just a plain fool,” said Lake.

Richmond jerked his glance suddenly toward Lake and then back toward Jones. It looked as though Mr. Jones were about to draw a gun. He had half risen from his chair, and his eyes burned. But presently he settled back again.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Jones. “Maybe I ought to be scared of him.”

“Sure you had oughta be,” persisted Lake.

“Let it go!” commanded Richmond. “The thing to do is you and me declare the mare to win.”

“She’d beat Brandy, anyway,” said Jones. “She’s younger, and she can go like the wind.”

“She couldn’t beat Brandy,” said Lake calmly.

“Shut up!” ordered Richmond. He added: “The mare wins, and we split everything two ways.”

“And me?” said Lake.

“I’ll take care of you,” growled Harry Richmond.

Lake turned on his employer a yellow, sour grin. “Yeah, you’ll take care of me,” he muttered.

“That’s fixed,” said Jones. “You can’t bet agin’ yourselves, so you hand me the money, and I bet for you.”

“I have to hand you the cash,” agreed Richmond slowly, and he drew out his wallet.

Then his hand paused. His face turned bright with perspiration.

“I give you the cash — ” he muttered.

“When I play a game with a gent, I play the game,” said Jones. “But I don’t care. You can all go hang, for all of me!”

Richmond opened the wallet, took out three small bills, and pushed the rest of the money across the table.

“Listen,” said Richmond. “It’s everything I’ve got. I used to have a ranch. All I got now is a mortgage — since I followed the racing business. This is the last that I could get together. Listen — put some down on the mare to place. We gotta make sure.”

“I’ll do that,” said Jones. “I’ll write down the bets and the odds. I’ll show you the list, afterward, and we’ll split everything two ways. You trust me?”

Richmond sighed. “Yeah, I trust you,” he answered.

“Then there’s Parade,” said Jones. “We gotta fix Parade.”

“Why, you couldn’t buy Silvertip. You dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” retorted Richmond. “You couldn’t buy him. He’s one of those honest fools. He’d kill himself sooner than turn a corner short. Besides, you don’t have to think about him, unless that crazy stallion of Lefty’s runs amuck and kicks the daylights out of the mare at the post. And that ain’t likely.”

“Parade can gallop,” said Jones scowling. “I watched him, and I seen him gallop.”

“He’s got two hundred pounds up,” argued Richmond patiently.

“Take off fifty pounds of that for brains,” said Jones. “Silvertip ain’t anybody’s fool.”

“Well — just in case,” remarked Lake, “we could box him.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Jones. “No matter what Silvertip may do at the finish, the mare and Brandy have got the early foot. The last half mile — suppose that the stallion comes along pretty fast — you and me, we box him. I guess I’ll be on the rail, and we’ll box him! Understand?”

Lake chuckled at that. “Whatcha think?” he demanded. “Understand? Sure I understand. I’ll nail a lid right down over Parade; if he tries to sneak up between us. I’ll ride wide of the mare, and get ready to box off, if he tries to slip through.”

T
HE NIGHT WAS WARM AND PERFECTLY STILL, AND THE
stars kept burning down closer and closer to the earth, until no man could keep them out of his eyes, and heads were sure to be lifted toward the zenith and the Milky Way.

Inside, not outside, the corral fence, Silvertip was putting down his tarpaulin, and then unrolling his blankets; Parade, near at hand, kept sniffing at everything. When the bed was made, he caught the edge of it with his teeth and tossed everything into confusion. Silver shouted at him. He fled across the corral and came romping back. His great eyes glowed bright through the starlight.

“Yeah, he knows you, all right,” said Charlie Moore. “How come?”

“How does it come that Brandy knows you, Charlie?” asked Silvertip.

“There was a question of him livin’ or dyin’, a long time back,” said Moore, “and a hoss ain’t like a man. A hoss never forgets.”

“Well,” said Silver, “it was a question once of both of us going over the edge of a cliff — or both being saved. He was sliding, and I wouldn’t let go my hold on him. I couldn’t let go. Something inside of me kept saying that it was better to go together, or live together. I couldn’t let go — and we had the luck, together.”

“I know,” said Charlie Moore. “You goin’ to sleep out here all night?”

“I am. It’ll keep Parade quiet. He raises the devil if I’m not around, and he needs to be himself tomorrow.”

“Silvertip,” said Charlie Moore, “I want to wish you luck. I’d sure like to see you win and get that hoss. But you know how it is — you know how Brandy can run, and you know what you weigh.”

“I’m not thinking,” said Silvertip. “I’m only praying, Charlie. Let’s not talk about it. It means too much to me. What are you going to do, old timer, after this race — if Richmond moves out of this neck of the woods? They say that he’s broke, and that he may have to move. About all that’s left to him is Brandy, and I don’t suppose that he’ll take you along with the horse.”

“He wouldn’t take me along,” agreed Charlie Moore, “and what I’d do without Brandy, I dunno. You take a life like my life, there’s been only one thing in it.”

“Come along, Charlie,” agreed Silvertip. “Back yonder, in the old days — there was a girl or two, eh?”

“Never no women,” said Charlie Moore. “You see how it is? I didn’t have no tongue to talk to ’em. You gotta have a tongue, to talk to a girl. She can’t see you by what you do, same as a man can. She’s gotta have talk. No, there never was no woman. There never was nothin’ else, except days of work, and pay at the end of the month, and that sort of a thing.”

“That’s hard,” agreed Silvertip. “But you’ve had your friends, Charlie.”

“I’ve had you, Silver,” said Charlie Moore. “I guess you smile at me, a good deal, but to be smiled at is a lot better than to be laughed at. You’re the closest friend that I’ve ever had.”

Silvertip could not answer. He wanted to say something pleasant, but pity choked him.

Charlie Moore went on: “There’s only been Brandy. It seems like the time before I had Brandy, I didn’t have nothin’. Come here, Brandy, and talk to me.”

Brandy came rapidly across the corral and pushed his head out between the rails. The hand of Moore began to wander over the fine, bony head.

“And when Brandy steps out,” said Charlie Moore, without bitterness, with a sort of calmness of acceptance, “I’ve been havin’ a feelin’ that I’d step out, too. Just a sort of a feelin’, if you know what I mean, but I guess I won’t. The days’ll go on, one after another, like walkin’ down a long road, with no home at the end of it. You know how it is, Silver.”

“Aye,” said Silver. “I know something about that.”

“So long,” said Charlie Moore. “Good night, Brandy. Run like a three-year-old tomorrow, you old tramp!”

He turned and disappeared into the darkness. Behind him, Silvertip set for a time on his blankets, hugging his knees. Then he turned in.

He looked at the frosty brightness of the stars for a moment. He thought of the test which was coming on the morrow. He thought of Parade as his own horse, bearing him through a greater, a freer, a nobler life. His heart leaped, and yet a moment later he was soundly asleep.

A little after that, Brandy lay down, with a groan.

“So, so!” exclaimed Mischief. “That’s the way with old horses. They can’t keep their feelings to themselves. They have to grunt and groan and maunder, and make themselves disgusting and life ridiculous for everyone else!”

Brandy had endured much. Now he started lightly to his feet.

“I’m only about nine years old,” said he, “and I can run within a step as fast as I ever ran in all my days, just now. Don’t talk to me all the time about old horses. There have been horses three times my age, for that matter, before they died.”

“Nine years of slavery!” exclaimed Mischief. “Nine long years of slavery!”

“I was once as free as any of you,” said Brandy. “You can talk down to me, if you please, but I was once as free as any horse in the world.”

“Were you?” The bitter mare sneered. “Free in a pasture — free in a corral — free in a stall — that’s the only freedom you’ve ever known.”

“You were speaking a time ago,” said Brandy, “about the Sierra Blanca. Well, I ranged through that, one time.”

“A very short time,” said the mare.

“I wish it had been longer — except for the hand and the voice of the man I love.”

“It sickens me to hear that sort of talk,” said Mischief. “A precious lot Man ever did for me, except to feed a spur into my side and a Spanish bit into my mouth! You talk of love and Man? I can love my foal, and my free country, and that’s the end — except for such a horse as the king of them all was!”

“And who was the king of them all?” asked Brandy calmly, because his disposition was able to endure worse spite than that of Mischief, even.

“The king of them all,” said Mischief, “was such a horse as was only once in the world. How am I going to tell you about him? Imagine yourself! You’re a good horse. You have lines, and bone, and you can gallop. Imagine yourself sleeked over, beautiful, and fast as the wind. Imagine yourself just escaping from captivity and running out into the desert for the first time. Imagine yourself on the sides of it. That’s the sort of a horse I mean, and he was the king of the world, and he was the father of my colt here!”

“Well,” said Brandy, “I can’t imagine all of the things that you say, but I can imagine the time, well enough, when I got away from captivity, and ran out with a fine mare, a fine, wise, tough-minded, clever mare, right into the Sierra Blanca.”

“You ran — with a mare — into the Sierra Blanca?” said Mischief.

“Yes.”

She came slowly up to the bars, and sniffed at the head of Brandy. Then she asked:

“You went into the Sierra Blanca with a mare? What sort of a mare?”

“Oh,” said Brandy, “she had run wild there. She had been wild-caught and she was still wild, on the inside.”

“Come closer to me, Parade,” said Mischief. “Come closer, and listen. Something is being told to us now. He escaped into the Sierra Blanca, and there was with him a mare that had been wild-caught off the desert — years before.”

“Years before,” said Brandy.

“Then tell me what happened after that!” Mischief demanded of Brandy.

“We came to a herd of wild horses, and there was a leader with them of course — a stallion.”

“What color?” snapped Mischief.

“Cream-colored,” said Brandy. “And I’ll never forget how his tail flashed like metal, when he came sweeping around from the rear of the herd. And then — ”

“Neither shall I forget!” exclaimed Mischief.

“You?” snorted Brandy.

“And how you fought, and how he caught you by the throat — and how you beat him to the ground, and then let him go! Parade, come closer to me! It is the king — it is your father! Time has marred him, but it is he. I should have known him by his gentleness and his forbearance. It is the king!”

“What do you say to me?” asked Brandy.

He touched noses with her; he touched noses with Parade. Out of the past the wild days came over him, the wild and happy days when he had been a king indeed.

“And then a man came,” said Mischief, “and called to you. When I was calling to you, too. I would have taught you how to run free, always! Why did you stand and wait for him to come?”

“You never will know,” said Brandy. “But
he
understands!”

“Steady, boy!” called the voice of Silvertip suddenly, and Parade turned and went rapidly toward the blankets of the speaker.

“It is true,” said Mischief. “But we have this moment. Here are the three of us. Now let tomorrow bring whatever it will!”