the Outlaws Of Mesquite (Ss) (1990) (8 page)

"Oh, Marty! Dad's said that after the rodeo if you will buy that Willow Creek range he will give his consent!"

Marty nodded soberly. "Does it have to be right away, honey?" he asked. "I mean, I ... well, I may not make enough money in this show. Added to what I have, it will have to be a good fifteen hundred to swing that deal. I'd have to win four events to make it."

"Not if you win the bronc riding, Marty! They've upped the prize money and have offered a flat thousand dollars for top money! You can win it! You've already beaten both Red Carver and Yannell Stoper before!"

He hesitated, his face flushing. "I'm not riding broncs in this show, Peg," he said slowly. "I'm going to go in for calf roping, bull riding, steer wrestling, and some other stuff, but not bronc riding."

Peg Graham's face had turned a shade whiter, and her eyes widened. "Then ... then it's true what they say! You are afraid!"

He looked at her, then glanced away, his heart miserable within him. "Yeah, I guess I am," he said, "I guess I am afraid of that horse!"

Peg Graham stared at him, "Marty, I'll never marry a coward! I'll never have it said that my man was afraid to ride a horse that other men would ride! Red Carver has asked for that horse!

Yannell says-was "Yannell?" Marty looked at the girl.

"You've been talking to him?"

"Yes, I have!" she flashed. "At least, he's not afraid of a horse!" She turned on her heel and walked swiftly away, every inch of her quivering with indignation.

Mahan started to turn, then stopped. An old man with a drooping yellowed mustache leaned against the corral.

"Tough, kid!" he said. "I didn't aim to overhear, but couldn't help it. You up to ride the Ghost Maker?"

Marty nodded. "I'm not ridin' him, though!" he said. "That horse is a devil! He shouldn't be allowed in shows like this! That isn't sport or skill. ... It's plain, unadulterated murder!"

"Reckon I agree with you," the old-timer said seriously. "It ain't a bit smart to tackle a horse like that! I've seen him in action, an' he's a killer all through!"

Marty nodded unhappily. "He's from my home range in the Black Rock Desert country. He killed my ridin' horse once, about five years ago."

"You Marty Mahan?" the old man inquired.

"I'm Old John. Heard a lot about you. You don't look like no coward."

Marty's eyes flashed. "I'm not! But I am afraid of that horse! I'm not aimin' to fool anybody about that!"

"Takes a good man to admit he's scared," Old John commented thoughtfully. "Who rides him if you don't?"

"Carver an' Stoper both want him. I wish they'd leave him out of this. He's a killer and a devil. There's something in that horse that ain't right."

"Like some men I know," John agreed. "There's killers in all sorts of critters. Just got a streak of meanness an' devil in "em." He hitched up his pants. "Well, luck to you, son.

I'll be amblin"."

Marty Mahan stared after the old man, his brow furrowed. He had never seen him around before.

The memory of Peg's face cut him like a knife. She believed him a coward. ... Well, maybe he was! He walked over to Jeff Alien, chairman of the rodeo committee.

"Jeff, I'm withdrawin' from the bronc ridin'. I won't ride that Ghost Maker."

Alien shifted his cigar in his jaws. "Heard you didn't aim to. You say he's a killer?"

"He sure is." Briefly, Marty related his own experiences with the horse. "Personally, I think you should take him out of the lists."

Jeff Alien shook his head. His cold blue eyes showed disdain. "Not a chance! Just because you're afraid to tackle him don't mean others won't!

Stoper has been around here, beggin' for him!"

Marty saw nothing of Peg Graham, nor of her father. Alone, he waited by the chutes for the calf roping, which was the first event in which he was entered. None of the rodeo hands stopped near him, nor did the contestants. Bitterly, his heart heavy in his chest, he watched them and watched the crowd. Once, over beyond the corral he saw Peg Graham. She was with Yannell Stoper.

Stoper opened in the calf roping and made a quick chase, a clean catch, and a fast tie. It was good time. Red Carver and Bent Wells fell a little short. Marty Mahan's black was a darting flash when the calf left the pens. He swept down his rope streaking like a thrown lance. The catch was perfect and he hit the ground almost as the rope tightened. He dropped his calf, made his tie, and straightened to his feet, his hands in the air.

"Folks!" Roberts boomed. "That's mighty fast time! Marty Mahan, internationally famous rodeo star, makes his tie in eleven and two-tenths seconds!"

Three-tenths of a second better than Stoper.

Marty turned, amid cheers, toward his black horse, and then somebody-and away down within him Marty was sure it was Stoper-yelled:

"Where's the Ghost Maker? Get Ghost Maker!"

The crowd took it up, and as Marty cantered from the arena his ears rang with the taunting word.

"Get Ghost Maker! Let him ride Ghost Maker! Yellow!"

White-faced, he dropped to the ground. Old John looked up at him.

"Hard to take, ain't it, boy?"

Mahan did not reply, but his face was pale and set. Yannell Stoper came around the corral, several riders with him.

"There's the hero! Wants milk-wagon horses!"

Marty turned sharply. "That will be enough of that!" he snapped.

Yannell halted, astonished. Then his eyes narrowed. "Why, you yeller-bellied, white-livered son-to "

They started for each other, fists clenched. The loudspeaker boomed out.

"Stoper! Ready for steer wrestling! Stoper! On your horse!"

With a curse the big tawny-headed man turned.

"Saved you from a beatin'!" he sneered. "You get the breaks!"

"See me later, then!" Marty flashed back at him. "Anywhere! Any time!"

Grimly, he walked away. Behind him he heard the roar of the crowd as Yannell went after his steer. For a minute Marty Mahan stood still, listening to that roar behind him. Soon he would be going out there, facing that crowd again, and they would taunt and boo again. It was no use. ... Why bother? He might as well quit now!

Then another thought came and he stopped in midstride. Run? Like the devil he would! He'd go back there and make them eat their taunts. Every word! He wheeled and walked back. When the time came for him to go out he went like a demon, flashing with speed. He took his steer down faster than ever before in his life, and as the loudspeaker boomed out his time, he swung into the saddle.

Taunts and jeers burst from the stands, but this time instead of riding out, he rode over before the stands and sat there, his hat lifted in salute. As the yells, boos, and hisses swept the arena, he sat perfectly still, his face dead-white, his eyes bright, waiting for stillness. It came at last. Then he waved his hat once more and, turning his horse, walked him quietly from the arena, leaving dead silence behind him.

Old John stood beside Peg Graham, who watched, her eyes wide. "That," Old John commented dryly, "took sand!"

She turned quickly to look at him. Then her eyes went back to the man riding from the arena. "I ... guess it did," she agreed hesitantly. Her brows puckered. "I don't know you, do I?"

Old John rolled his quid in his jaws. "No, ma'am, you don't. Nor a real man when you see him!" He turned abruptly and walked off, leaving the girl's face flushing with embarrassment and shame.

As she turned away, she wondered. Had she wronged Marty Mahan? Was he a coward because he refused to ride that horse? If a man went inffcontest riding, he was not expected to be afraid of bad horses. He was expected to ride anything given him. Mostly the riders wanted bad horses because it gave them the best chance to make a good ride.

Even if this horse was as bad as Mahan claimed, was it reason for refusing?

In the last analysis, she guessed it was simply that she could not bear to have him called a coward, or to love a man who was yellow.

Yannell Stoper won the bareback bronc riding in both the first and second go-rounds. Then he appeared in his usual exhibition of trick riding, and the first day of the rodeo ended with Stoper as the hero of the show despite his loss to Marty in the calf roping.

His insistence on riding the horse that Mahan refused caught the crowd's interest.

Mahan was disconsolate. He walked the streets, feeling singularly out of place in his expensive trappings, and wishing he were miles away. Only the knowledge that if he left the show he would be branded a quitter, and through in the arena, kept him in town. That and the fascination exerted over him by the dun horse.

As the evening drew on he heard more and more talk of the dun. Despite their willingness to call him a coward for refusing the horse, people were beginning to wonder if the animal were not a killer after all. At all these rumors Yannell scoffed.

Marty Mahan was at supper when the cafe door slammed open and big, tawny-haired Stoper came in with Red Carver and Peg Graham. When the girl saw Marty sitting at the table alone she would have turned to leave, but Yannell would have none of it.

They trooped in and, with several hangers-on, seated themselves at tables near Mahan's. At the counter not far away sat Old John, calmly eating doughnuts and drinking coffee.

"Sure I'll ride him!" Stoper boomed loudly. "I'm not yellow! I'll ride anything that wears hair!"

Mahan looked up. Inside he was strangely still and at ease. It was only his mind that seemed suddenly white-hot, yet his eyes were clear and hard. He looked across at Yannell Stoper and their eyes met.

"Finally got showed up, didn't you?" Stoper sneered. "You was always a four-flusher!"

"And you were always a loudmouth," Marty said quietly.

Stoper's face flushed red. Then his blue-white eyes narrowed down and he began to smile. He pushed back from the table.

"I always wanted to get my hands on you and in just about a minute I'll slap all the coward to the surface!"

He got up and started around the table. Carver called to him, and Peg Graham got up, her hand going to her mouth, eyes wide and frightened.

"And in just about a half minute," Marty said, sliding out of his chair, "you'll wish you'd never opened your mouth!"

Stoper walked in smiling and when he got to arm's length, he swung. It was a powerful, wide-armed punch, but Mahan's left shot straight from the shoulder to Stoper's mouth, setting the big rider back on his heels. Then Marty crossed with a smashing right that dropped Yannell to his haunches.

Mahan stepped back, his face calm. "If you want to ride that horse tomorrow," he said, "you'd better save it!"

Stoper came up with a lunge and dove for Marty, who stepped into a chair and tripped. Before he could regain his balance, Stoper was on him with a smashing volley of punches. Mahan staggered and Yannell was all over him, his face set in a mask of fury, his punches smashing and driving. Yet somehow Mahan weathered the storm, covered and got in close. Grabbing Yannell by the belt with one hand and a knee with the other, he upended the furious puncher and dropped him to the floor.

Stoper came up with a growl of rage and Mahan smashed a left and right to the face. The left went to the mouth, to Stoper's already bleeding lips, and showered him with blood. Marty stepped to the side and avoided a right, then countered with a wicked right to the wind.

Yannell gasped and Mahan stabbed a left, then hooked hard to the face. Stoper bulled in close and the two men stood toe to toe amid the wreckage of smashed crockery and threw punches with both hands.

Both men were big and both were powerful. Stoper weighed well over two hundred and Mahan scaled close to the one-ninety mark. Both were in excellent shape.

Stoper roared in close and grabbed Marty. They went to the floor. Stabbing at Mahan's eyes with his thumbs, Stoper missed and fell forward just as Marty smashed upward with his head. Blinded by pain, Stoper was thrown off, and then Marty lunged to his feet.

Stoper got up, blinking away the tears the smash had brought to his eyes. Mahan measured him with a left, then hooked right and left to the body.

Yannell shook his mane of tawny hair and swung a powerful, freckled fist. It missed, and Marty hit him again in the middle. The big rider stooped and Mahan slugged him twice more and the big man wilted and went to the floor.

"Who's yellow, Yannell?" Marty said then.

He mopped the sweat from his brow with a quick motion of his hand and stepped back. "Get up if you want more.

You can have it."

"I'll get up!" Stoper gasped, and heaved himself erect.

Mahan stared at the swaying, punch-drunk rider.

Stoper's eyes were glazed; blood dripped from his smashed lips and from a long cut over his eye. A blue mouse was rising under the other eye. His ear was bleeding. Marty stepped back and dropped his hands.

"You're no fighter," he said dryly, "an" too good a rider to beat to death!" He turned abruptly and walked out of the cafe.

Yannell Stoper brushed a hand dazedly across his eyes and stared after him in drunken concentration, trying to make sense of a man who would walk away from a helpless enemy. He shook his big head and, turning, staggered blindly to a chair at a vacant table. He slumped into it and rested his head on his arms.