CHAPTER II
THE RACE
The coyotes were barking when the cook's triangle brought Dave from hisblankets. The objects about him were still mysterious in the pre-dawndarkness. The shouting of the wranglers and the bells of the remudacame musically as from a great distance. Hart joined his friend and thetwo young men walked out to the remuda together. Each rider had on theprevious night belled the mount he wanted, for he knew that in themorning it would be too dark to distinguish one bronco from another. Theanimals were rim-milling, going round and round in a circle to escape thelariat.
Dave rode in close and waited, rope ready, his ears attuned to the soundof his own bell. A horse rushed jingling past. The rope snaked out, felltrue, tightened over the neck of the cowpony, brought up the animalshort. Instantly it surrendered, making no further, attempt to escape.The roper made a half-hitch round the nose of the bronco, swung to itsback, and cantered back to camp.
In the gray dawn near details were becoming visible. The mountains beganto hover on the edge of the young world. The wind was blowing across halfa continent.
Sanders saddled, then rode out upon the mesa. He whistled sharply. Therecame an answering nicker, and presently out of the darkness a ponytrotted. The pinto was a sleek and glossy little fellow, beautiful inaction and gentle as a kitten.
The young fellow took the well-shaped head in his arms, fondled thesoft, dainty nose that nuzzled in his pocket for sugar, fed Chiquito ahalf-handful of the delicacy in his open palm, and put the pony throughthe repertoire of tricks he had taught his pet.
"You wanta shake a leg to-day, old fellow, and throw dust in thattinhorn's face," he murmured to his four-footed friend, gentling it withlittle pats of love and admiration. "Adios, Chiquito. I know you won'tthrow off on yore old pal. So long, old pie-eater."
Across the mesa Dave galloped back, swung from the saddle, and made abee-line for breakfast. The other men were already busy at this importantbusiness. From the tail of the chuck wagon he took a tin cup and a tinplate. He helped himself to coffee, soda biscuits, and a strip of steakjust forked from a large kettle of boiling lard. Presently more coffee,more biscuits, and more steak went the way of the first helping. Thehard-riding life of the desert stimulates a healthy appetite.
The punchers of the D Bar Lazy R were moving a large herd to a new range.It was made up of several lots bought from smaller outfits that had goneout of business under the pressure of falling prices, short grass, andthe activity of rustlers. The cattle had been loose-bedded in a gulchclose at hand, the upper end of which was sealed by an impassable cliff.Many such canons in the wilder part of the mountains, fenced across theface to serve as a corral, had been used by rustlers as caches into whichto drift their stolen stock. This one had no doubt more than once playedsuch a part in days past.
Expertly the riders threw the cattle back to the mesa and moved themforward. Among the bunch one could find the T Anchor brand, the CircleCross, the Diamond Tail, and the X-Z, scattered among the cows burnedwith the D Bar Lazy R, which was the original brand of the owner,Emerson Crawford.
The sun rose and filled the sky. In a heavy cloud of dust the cattletrailed steadily toward the distant hills.
Near noon Buck, passing Dave where he rode as drag driver in the wake ofthe herd, shouted a greeting at the young man. "Tur'ble hot. I'm spittin'cotton."
Dave nodded. His eyes were red and sore from the alkali dust, his throatdry as a lime kiln. "You done, said it, Buck. Hotter 'n hell or Yuma."
"Dug says for us to throw off at Seven-Mile Hole."
"I won't make no holler at that."
The herd leaders, reading the signs of a spring close at hand, quickenedthe pace. With necks outstretched, bawling loudly, they hurried forward.Forty-eight hours ago they had last satisfied their thirst. Usually Doblewatered each noon, but the desert yesterday had been dry as Sahara. Onlysuch moisture was available as could be found in black grama and needlegrass.
The point of the herd swung in toward the cottonwoods that straggled downfrom the draw. For hours the riders were kept busy moving forward thecattle that had been watered and holding back the pressure of thirstyanimals.
Again the outfit took the desert trail. Heat waves played on the sand.Vegetation grew scant except for patches of cholla and mesquite, asand-cherry bush here and there, occasionally a clump of shining poisonivy.
Sunset brought them to the Salt Flats. The foreman gave orders to throwoff and make camp.
A course was chosen for the race. From a selected point the horseswere to run to a clump of mesquite, round it, and return to thestarting-place. Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge.
Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman. The animalwas an ugly brute as to the head. Its eyes were set too close, and theshape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake'ssting. But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer. The horsewas built for speed. The cowpuncher's heart sank. His bronco was fast,willing, and very intelligent, but the little range pony had not beendesigned to show its heels to a near-thoroughbred.
"Are you ready?" Doble asked of the two men in the saddles.
His brother said, "Let 'er go!" Sanders nodded. The revolver barked.
Chiquito was off like a flash of light, found its stride instantly. Thetraining of a cowpony makes for alertness, for immediate response. Beforeit had covered seventy-five yards the pinto was three lengths to thegood. Dave, flying toward the halfway post, heard his friend Hart'striumphant "Yip yip yippy yip!" coming to him on the wind.
He leaned forward, patting his horse on the shoulder, murmuring words ofencouragement into its ear. But he knew, without turning round, that theracer galloping at his heels was drawing closer. Its long shadow thrownin front of it by the westering sun, reached to Dave's stirrups, crept toChiquito's head, moved farther toward the other shadow plunging wildlyeastward. Foot by foot the distance between the horses lessened to twolengths, to one, to half a length. The ugly head of the racer cameabreast of the cowpuncher. With sickening certainty the range-rider knewthat his Chiquito was doing the best that was in it. Whiskey Bill was afaster horse.
Simultaneously he became aware of two things. The bay was no longergaining. The halfway mark was just ahead. The cowpuncher knew exactly howto make the turn with the least possible loss of speed and ground. Toooften, in headlong pursuit of a wild hill steer, he had whirled as on adollar, to leave him any doubt now. Scarce slackening speed, he swept thepinto round the clump of mesquite and was off for home.
Dave was halfway back before he was sure that the thud of Whiskey Bill'shoofs was almost at his heels. He called on the cowpony for a last spurt.The plucky little horse answered the call, gathered itself for the homestretch, for a moment held its advantage. Again Bob Hart's yell driftedto Sanders.
Then he knew that the bay was running side by side with Chiquito, wasslowly creeping to the front. The two horses raced down the stretchtogether, Whiskey Bill half a length in the lead and gaining at everystride. Daylight showed between them when they crossed the line. Chiquitohad been outrun by a speedier horse.
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