Great American Horse Stories Page 8
“Sure she’s gone. An’ the whole place down there—where the willows was an’ the sandbar—it was deep under water.”
“What will become of Creech’s horses?” asked Lucy, breathlessly.
“My God! Ain’t it a shame!” went on Bostil, and he could have laughed aloud at his hypocrisy. He felt Lucy’s blue eyes riveted upon his face.
“That’s what we all was sayin’,” went on Van. “While we was watchin’ the awful flood an’ listenin’ to the deep bum—bum—bum of rollin’ rocks some one seen Creech an’ two Piutes leadin’ the hosses up that trail where the slide was. We counted the hosses—nine. An’ we saw the roan shine blue in the sunlight.”
“Piutes with Creech!” exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyes lighting. “By all that’s lucky! Mebbe them Indians can climb the horses out of that hole an’ find water an’ grass enough.”
“Mebbe,” replied Van, doubtfully. “Sure them Piutes could if there’s a chance. But there ain’t any grass.”
“It won’t take much grass travelin’ by night.”
“So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they shook their heads. An’ Farlane an’ Holley, why, they jest held up their hands.”
“With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his hosses out,” declared Bostil. He was sure of his sincerity, but he was not certain that his sincerity has not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was able to meet the eyes of his daughter. That was his supreme test.
“Oh, Dad, why, why didn’t you hurry Creech’s horses over?” said Lucy, with her tears falling.
Something tight within Bostil’s breast seemed to ease and lessen. “Why didn’t I? . . . Wal, Lucy, I reckon I wasn’t in no hurry to oblige Creech. I’m sorry now.”
“It won’t be so terrible if he doesn’t lose the horses,” murmured Lucy.
“Where’s young Joel Creech?” asked Bostil.
“He stayed on this side last night,” replied Van. “Fact is, Joel’s the one who first knew the flood was on. Some one said he said he slept in the canyon last night. Anyway, he’s ravin’ crazy now. An’ if he doesn’t do harm to some one or hisself I’ll miss my guess.”
“A-huh!” grunted Bostil. “Right you are.”
“Dad, can’t anything be done to help Creech now?” appealed Lucy, going close to her father.
Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the golden head press close to his shoulder.
“Child, we can’t fly acrost the river. Now don’t you cry about Creech’s hosses. They ain’t starved yet. It’s hard luck. But mebbe it’ll turn out so Creech’ll lose only the race. An’, Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he’d have lost that anyway.”
Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and then he turned to his rider at the door. “Van, how’s the King?”
“Wild to run, Bostil, just plumb wild. There won’t be any hoss with the ghost of a show tomorrow.”
Lucy raised her drooping head. “Is that so, Van Sickle? . . . Listen here. If you and Sage King don’t get more wild running tomorrow than you ever had I’ll never ride again!” With this retort Lucy left the room.
Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. “What’d I say, Bostil?” he asked, plaintively. “I’m always rilin’ her.”
“Cheer up, Van. You didn’t say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She’s got a hoss somewhere an’ she’s goin’ to ride him in the race. She offered to bet on him—against the King! I’ve a hunch there’s a dark hoss goin’ to show up here, Van. So don’t underrate Lucy an’ her mount, whatever he is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever see him?”
“I sure haven’t. Fact is, I haven’t seen Lucy for days an’ days. As for the hunch you gave, I’ll say I was figurin’ Lucy for some real race. Bostil, she doesn’t make a hoss run. He’ll run just to please her. An’ Lucy’s lighter ’n a feather. Why Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue Roan or some other hoss as fast I’d—I’d just wilt.”
Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. “Wal, she won’t show up on Blue Roan,” he replied, with grim gruffness. “That’s sure as death. . . . Come on out now. I want a look at the King.”
Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand and one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late the next morning.
Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the procession of villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage.
The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors, than Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred him. Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush huts where the Indians cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun; burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were chasing the wiry mustangs. Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by the monuments.
Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench that overlooked the home end of the racecourse. He calculated that there were a thousand Indians and whites congregated at that point, which was the best vantage-ground to see the finish of a race. And the occasion of his arrival, for all the gaiety, was one of dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in anything it was in an hour like this. His liberality made this event a great race-day. The thoroughbreds were all there, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders. In the center of the brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock, which had been Bostil’s seat in the watching of many a race. Here were assembled his neighbors and visitors actively interested in the races, and also the important Indians of both tribes, all waiting for him.
As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a face that suddenly froze the thrilling delight of the moment. A tall, gaunt man with cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him and seemed waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. Instinctively Bostil stood on guard. For years he had prepared himself for the moment when he would come face to face with this noted horse-thief.
“Bostil, how are you?” said Cordts. He appeared pleasant, and certainly grateful for being permitted to come there. From his left hand hung a belt containing two heavy guns.
“Hello, Cordts,” replied Bostil, slowly unbending. Then he met the other’s proffered hand.
“I’ve bet heavily on the King,” said Cordts.
For the moment there could have been no other way to Bostil’s good graces, and this remark made the gruff old rider’s hard face relax.
“Wal, I was hopin’ you’d back some other hoss, so I could take your money,” replied Bostil.
Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil. “I want to enjoy this race,” he said, with a smile that somehow hinted of the years he had packed those guns day and night.
“Cordts, I don’t want to take your guns,” replied Bostil, bluntly. “I’ve taken your word an’ that’s enough.”
“Thanks, Bostil. All the same, as I’m your guest, I won’t pack them,” returned Cordts, and he hung the belt on the horn of Bostil’s saddle. “Some of my men are with me. They were all right till they got outside of Brackton’s whisky. But now I won’t answer for them.”
“Wal, you’re square to say that,” replied Bostil. “An’ I’ll run this race an’ answer for everybody.”
Bost
il recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts’s gang he did not know. They were a hard-looking lot. Hutchinson was a spare, stoop-shouldered, red-faced squinty-eyed rider, branded all over with the mark of a bad man. And Dick Sears looked his notoriety. He was a little knot of muscle, short and bow-legged, rough in appearance as cactus. He wore a ragged slouch hat pulled low down. His face and stubby beard were dust-colored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a dusty, scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake. Bostil eyed this right-hand man of Cordts’s and certainly felt no fear of him, though Sears had the fame of swift and deadly skill with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor loath to face Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the little horse-thief in a manner that no one could mistake. Sears was not drunk, neither was he wholly free from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assuredly he had no fear of Bostil and eyed him insolently. Bostil turned away to the group of his riders and friends, and he asked for his daughter.
“Lucy’s over there,” said Farlane, pointing to a merry crowd.
Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently mistaking his action, came forward, leading one of her ponies. She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf, and a skirt over overalls and boots. She looked pale, but she was smiling, and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blue eyes. She did not have on her sombrero. She wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above her forehead. Bostil took her in all at a glance. She meant business and she looked dangerous. Bostil knew once she slipped out of that skirt she could ride with any rider there. He saw that she had become the center toward which all eyes shifted. It pleased him. She was his, like her mother, and as beautiful and thoroughbred as any rider could wish his daughter.
“Lucy, where’s your hoss?” he asked, curiously.
“Never you mind, Dad. I’ll be there at the finish,” she replied.
“Red’s your color for today, then?” he questioned, as he put a big hand on the bright-colored head.
She nodded archly.
“Lucy, I never thought you’d flaunt red in your old Dad’s face. Red, when the color of the King is like the sage out yonder. You’ve gone back on the King.”
“No. Dad. I never was for Sage King, else I wouldn’t wear red today.”
“Child, you sure mean to run in this race—the big one?”
“Sure and certain.”
“Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup today will be seein’ you get beat. But if you run second I’ll give you a present that’ll make the purse look sick.”
Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. Old Horse, the Navajo, beamed benignly upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians. Silver, his brother chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil’s pride and regret. Some of the young riders showed their hearts in their eyes. Farlane tried to look mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy’s confidence.
“Lucy, if you are really goin’ to race I’ll withdraw my hoss so you can win,” said Wetherby, gallantly.
Bostil’s sonorous laugh rolled down the slope.
“Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours,” said old Cal Blinn. Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the other principals, paid laughing compliments to the bright-haired girl.
Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity of regard in the cavernous eye of Cordts. That gave him a shock. Cordts had long wanted this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King. There were dark and terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. Bostil regretted his impulse in granting the horse-thief permission to attend the races. Sight of Lucy’s fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordts—this Kentuckian who had boasted of his love of horses and women. Behind Cordts hung the little dust-colored Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a long-dormant fire—a stealing along his veins, a passion he hated.
“Lucy, go back to the women till you’re ready to come out on your hoss,” he said. “An’ mind you, be careful today!”
He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then he turned to start the day’s sport.
The Indian races ran in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the surprises and defeats and victories; the trial tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling—all these Bostil loved tremendously.
But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to—the climax—the great race.
It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads. They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and whites were the predominating colors, and the horses and mustangs were alike in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds.
Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge. He stood out strikingly in contrast to the other horses. His sage-gray body was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!
Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent gamblers, plunging heavily on him.
Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task. Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this.
“Van,” he said, “it’s your race.”
The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy—quick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other horses.
Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.
Bostil’s eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts’s shoulder, an action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.
Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. “There’s Lucy,” he said. “She’s ridin’ out to join the bunch.”
“Lucy! Where? I’d forgotten my girl! . . . Where?”
“There,” repeated Holley, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up, having seen Lucy riding down.
“She’s on a red hoss,” said one.
“’Pears all-fired big to me—her hoss,” said another. “Who’s got a glass?”
Bostil had the only field glass there and he was using it. Across the round, magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his mane waving like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden there. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulse beat. Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one. But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed.
“Holley, I can’t make out nothin’,” he complained. “Take the glass. Give me a line on Lucy’s mount.”
“Boss, I don’t need the glass to see that she’s up on a hoss,” replied Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the troop of racers on her way to the post. Nothing ever hurried or excited Holley.
“Wal, can’t you see any better ’n me?” queried Bostil, eagerly.
“Come on, Holl, give us a tip before she gits to the post,” spoke up a rider.
Holley at last spoke; “She’s up on a wild stallion. He’s red, like fire. He’s mighty big—strong. Looks as if he didn’t want to go near the bunch. Lord! What action! . . . Bostil, I’d say—a great hoss!”
There was a moment’s intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holley was never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment or praise.
“A wild stallion!” echoed Bostil. “A-huh! An’ she calls him Wildfire. Where’d she get him? . . . Gimme that glass.”
But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes were wet. He realized now that his first sight of Lucy on the strange horse had been clear and strong, and it was that which had dimmed his eyes.
“Holley, you use the glass—an’ tell us what comes off,” said Bostil, as he wiped his eyes with his scarf; he was relieved to find that his sight was clearing. “My God! If I couldn’t see this finish!”
Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders down the valley. And all waited for Holley to speak. “They’re linin’ up,” began the rider. “Havin’ some muss, too, it ’pears. . . . Bostil, that red hoss is raisin’ hell! He wants to fight. There! He’s up in the air. . . . Boys, he’s a devil—a hoss killer like all them wild stallions. He’s plungin’ at the King—strikin’! There! Lucy’s got him down. She’s handlin’ him. . . . Now they’ve got the King on the other side. That’s better. But Lucy’s hoss won’t stand. Anyway, it’s a runnin’ start. . . . Van’s got the best position. Foxy Van! . . . He’ll be leadin’ before the rest know the race’s on. . . . Them Indian mustangs are behavin’ scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared ’em. Now they’re all lined up back of the post. . . . Ah! Gun-smoke! They move. . . . It looks like a go.”
Then Holley was silent, strained in watching. So were all the watchers silent. Bostil saw far down the valley, a moving, dark line of horses.