Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance

by Charles M. Horton

  CHAPTER XV

  CHANGE OF MASTERS

  The interior of the shack was comparatively bare. On the floor, whichwas of adobe, and therefore hard and smooth as cement, were fivethree-legged stools and a table, all crude and evidently shaped out ofsaplings from the grove. There was but a single window, high up, tinyand square, containing neither glass nor frame, which looked out uponthe south. Built against the walls were some shelves, upon which lay ascant supply of tinware, and in the opposite wall was a tier of bunks,just now littered with soiled blankets. Evidently this place hadsheltered these men frequently, for each moved about it with easyfamiliarity, and obviously it was a retreat, a rendezvous, ahiding-place against the range police.

  A game of cards was about to be started. The three men were seated roundthe table, and before two of them--the younger man, Jim, and theheavy-set man, the leader, Johnson--was an even distribution of chips.The third man, Glover, was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, evidentlyhaving been cut out of the play.

  "Jim," said Johnson, showing his perfect teeth with an unpleasant grin,"we'll hop right to this! I think my little proposition here is fair andsquare. Thirty dollars in money against that black horse out there. Itold you where you could get a good horse, and you got one sure enough!And he's yours! But I've taken a kind of shine to him myself, and whyain't this a good way to push it over? My little gray and thirty dollarsin money. What's the matter with it?"

  The other did not appear greatly pleased, nevertheless. Thoughtfully heriffled the cards a long moment. Then he looked up into Johnson's blackeyes steadily.

  "Poker?" he asked, quietly.

  "Draw poker," replied the leader, giving his black mustache a satisfiedtwist. He jerked his head in the direction of the chips. "Win all, takeall," he added.

  Jim lowered his eyes again. He was not more than a boy, this outlaw, andhe had formed a strong attachment for the black horse. And because hehad come to understand Pat and to appreciate him, he hated to think ofthe horse's serving under this bloodless man opposite. Pat's life underthis man would be a life of misery. It was so with all of Johnson'shorses. Either they died early, or else, as in the case of the littlegray, their spirits sank under his cruelty to an ebb so low that nothingshort of another horse, and one obviously capable of renderingsuccessful protection, roused them to an interest in their own welfare.This was why the little gray, he recalled, had approached the black thefirst night after reaching the shack. Evidently she had recognized inhim an able protector, should he care to protect her, against thebrutality of her master. And so to play a game of cards, or anythingelse, with a view to losing possession--

  "I don't hear you saying!" cut in the cold voice of the other upon histhoughts. "Ain't the stakes right?"

  Jim looked up. "I guess so," he said. "I'm tryin' to figure--percentagesand the like."

  Again he relapsed into thought. He feared this man as he feared a snake.For Johnson had a grip on him in many ways, and in ways unpleasant torecall. So he knew that to refuse meant a volley of invectives thatwould end in his losing the horse anyway, losing him by force, and alater treatment of the animal, through sheer spite, the brutality ofwhich he did not like to contemplate. So he did not reply; he did notdare to say yes or no. Either way, the horse was gone. For Johnson wasclever with the cards, fiendishly clever, and when playing recognized nolaw save crookedness.

  "Jim," burst out Johnson, controlling himself evidently with effort, "Iwant to ask you something. I want you to tell me something. I want youto tell me who it was grubstaked you that winter you needed grubstakingmighty bad. I want you to tell me who it was got you out of that scrapeover in Lincoln County two years ago. I want you to tell me who it wastook care of you last winter--under mighty trying circumstances,too--and put you in the way of easy money this spring! But you needn'ttell me," he suddenly concluded, picking up the cards savagely. "I knowwho it was without your telling me, and you know who it was without mytelling you. And now what's the returns? When I give you a chance tocome back a little--in a dead-square, open game of cards--you crawl intoyour shell and act like I'd asked you to step on the gallows."

  Jim permitted himself a quiet smile. "I don't think I'm playing the hog,exactly," he rejoined, evenly. "I guess maybe I'm thinking of the horseas much as anything. And not so much of him, either, maybe, as of you,the way you handle horses if they don't dance a two-step when you want atwo-step. In about a week, Johnson," he continued, mildly, "you'd havethat horse jabbed full of holes with them Mexican rowels of yours! Hewouldn't stand for that kind of affection, or I'm no judge ofhorseflesh. He ain't used to it; he ain't that kind of a horse--yourkind! You ought to see that yourself. You don't want no spirited horselike him, because either you'd kill him or he'd kill you. _I_ cansee it, if you can't!"

  "We'll now cut for deal," interposed Johnson, grimly.

  "Take myself," went on the other, half smiling "why I like the idea ofkeeping him. I used to kill cats and rob nests and stone dogs when I wasa kid; but later I learned different. I didn't kill cats and rob nestsafter that; dogs I got to petting whenever I'd meet one. I gotacquainted with animals that way. Made the acquaintance from bothangles--seeing how they acted under torture, then learning how theyacted under kindness. I know animals, Johnson," he added, quietly. "Andan animal to me is an animal and something more. A horse, for instance.I see more in a horse than just an easy way of getting around. But thatain't you. You're like a man I once knowed that kept a dog just becausethe dog was a good hunter. If I couldn't see more in a dog than justwhat he's fit for, I'd quit the sport."

  "Now we'll cut for deal."

  Jim had been rocking back and forth easily on two legs of his stool. Henow dropped forward squarely on the floor and nodded assent.

  "Cut for deal," he said, quietly. "You!"

  The game began. Glover, who evidently found interest in discussions, butnone whatever in a game of cards, tilted back against the wall and beganto talk, now that the argument was over.

  "Zeke tells me," he began in a nasal voice, tamping the tobacco into thebowl of his pipe reflectively, "as how they's a bunch o' Injun renegadesmovin' south'ards off the reservation on a hell-toot. I meant to speakof it afore, but forgot, as usual. Jim's talk here o' animals lovin'each other that away reminds me." He lifted gray eyes to Johnson."Didn't Zeke say nothin' to you about that, neither?" he asked,evidently mindful of some other grave oversight on the part of "Zeke."

  Johnson did not reply until after three or four rounds of the cards."Zeke told you a lot of things that hour you sat with him alone," herejoined, with broad sarcasm. "Zeke must like you!"

  "Mebbe," agreed Glover, accepting the remark with all seriousness. "Hesays as how Fort Wingate is out, and I remarks that sich a move aboutterminates the performance. He agrees with me--says fust squint themrenegades gits at regular troops they'll hunt gopher-holes as places o'ginerous salvation."

  The others remained silent. The game was going decidedly against Jim. Ithad gone against him from the first--as he had known it would. Yet hecontinued to play, watchful of his opponent, keen to note anyirregularities. Yet he had discovered nothing that might be interpretedas cheating. Still he was losing, and still, despite all beliefs to thecontrary, he entertained hope, hope that he might win. If he did win, hetold himself, Johnson was enough of a white man to accept the defeat andleave the horse where he was. Yet his chips were steadily dwindling; thecards persistently refused to come his way; only once thus far had heheld a winning hand. But he played on, becoming ever more discouraged,until, suddenly awaking to an unexpectedly good hand, he opened the pot.The raises followed back and forth swiftly, but he lost again. And nowJohnson, as he mechanically drew the chips toward him, broke thesilence.

  "Zeke got you all worked up, didn't he?" he declared, turning his eyesupon Glover. "As for renegades," he went on, beginning to deal the cardsagain, "I've knowed 'em--hull droves of 'em--to stampede on the whistleof a rattler." Evidently he was returning to good humor.

  Glover took his pipe
from his mouth. "Renegades gits stirred up everyjest so often," he observed. "I s'pose it's because of the way they feelabout things. Being run offen the reservations thataway ain't nowisepleasant, to begin with, and then havin' to hang around the aidges forwhat grub their folks sees fit for to sneak out to 'em ought to make itjest that much more monotonous--kind of. Reckon I'd break outmyself--like a man that eats pancakes a lot--under sich circumstances.Zeke says this band--the latest gang to git sore--is a-headin' deadsouth. Talks like we might run agin trouble down there. More'n onebrand, too--the police and the reg'lars all bein' out thataway. They'reall out--Zeke says."

  The others were absorbed in play, and so made no retort. Whereat Glover,with a reflective light in his eyes, continued:

  "I've seen something myself," he went on, evidently mindful of Johnson'sobservation. "I've seen better men than Injuns stampede on less thanrattlesnakes--and cover a heap more ground in a lot less shorter time.What I'm talkin' about is skunks," he explained, to nobody inparticular--"hydrophoby skunks--their bite. Why," he continued, warmingto his subject and seemingly ignorant of its myths, "I once seen a manride into San Mercial with his face that white it wouldn't 'a' showed achalk mark! And he was holdin' up his thumb like it was pizen--which itwas! And he was cuttin' for old Doc Struthers that fast his cayuse wassparkin' out of his ears. Bit by a hydrophoby skunk--yes, sirree. Got tothe Doc's just in time, too! But he allus was lucky--the Doc! Money jestrolled into that party all the time. But some folks don't jest quitemake it--horses gives out, or something. And if they ain't got the sandto shoot the finger off--"

  A sudden shadow across the window checked him. He quietly reached forhis gun. Also, Johnson lifted quick eyes to the window. And now Jimturned his head. Directly Glover rose to his feet; Johnson got up offhis stool; Jim flung to the door. A moment they stood tense. Then Jimmoved cautiously to the window. He gazed outside. As he did so hisfeatures relaxed. Presently he returned to the table.

  "That horse," he explained, eyes twinkling.

  The others returned to their places. All were visibly relieved. ButGlover did not go on with his yarn. Lighting his pipe again, he fell tosmoking in thoughtful silence.

  Jim picked up his cards. He saw four kings. But he felt no elation.Before him was a mere dribble of chips, and he knew that he could nothold out much longer. Johnson was coldly surveying his own cards, andafter a studied moment opened the pot. Jim thrust forward half his smallstack, followed by Johnson with a raise, whereupon Jim placed all he hadupon the board. That closed the game. The other spread out his cardsgenerously, and Jim, glancing listlessly at four aces, rose from thetable. Turning to the window, he saw Pat still lingering near the shack.He gazed at him a long moment in silence.

  "He's yours," he said, finally, facing Johnson. "Reckon I'll go outsidefor a little air."

  Outside, he made straight for Pat, removed the hobbles, led him into thegrove. As the horse quenched his thirst, Jim sat down with his backagainst a tree and removed his hat.

  "Sorry, old-timer," he began, quietly, "but it can't be helped. We--" Heinterrupted himself; shoved Pat away a step. "That's better," he wenton, smiling. Then, as Pat looked puzzled, "On my foot--yes," heexplained. "All of your own, too, of course!" he added. "But one ofmine, too!" He was silent. "As I was remarking," he continued, after amoment, "we've got to beat him some other way. You're a likely horse."

  He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. He did know of a way to beat Johnson.That way was to mount Pat, ride hard for the open, and race it outagainst the little gray mounted by Johnson. But already he could see thevindictive and cursing Johnson in pursuit, discharging guns before him.So the idea was hopeless, for he knew that Johnson even now was alertfor some such move. But even if it were feasible, he realized that henever could rid himself of the man. Others had tried, as he wellrecalled--tried to break away from him for all time, with a result in noway to Johnson's credit. Two had never been seen again, which pointedgrimly to the fact that Johnson lived up to his favorite maxim, whichwas that dead men tell no tales. Another was the case of that poorluckless devil who, through some mysterious workings of the law, havingbroken with Johnson, had been arrested and convicted of a crime longforgotten. But Jim knew, as others closely associated with Johnson knew,that it was Johnson who indirectly had sent the unfortunate one to thepenitentiary. So it required courage, a kind of unreasoning desperation,to quit the man and the life he led.

  Suddenly Jim took a new hold upon himself. What, he began to askhimself, was getting into him? Why was he suddenly thinking of quittingJohnson? What would he do if he did quit him? To his kind all decentchannels were closed for any but the exceptional man. But that wasn'tit! Why was he arguing with himself along these lines? What was gettinginto him? He felt as if some good and powerful influence was come intohis life! He had felt like this in Denver when a Salvation Army lassiehad approached him. But this wasn't Denver! Nor was there a woman! Whatwas it, anyway? He could not decide.

  He arose and laid his hand upon Pat's forelock.

  "It's a regular case," he said, leading the horse out of the grove, "forsomething to turn up. It generally does, anyway," he concluded. "Don'tit, Old Gravity?"