"Why, sure," said Young Jake. "Rains in this country now 'n again, so I've heard." He took his two sandwiches from the saddlebag and tucked them inside his shirt. He untied the blanket and bag from behind the cantle and draped them over his shoulders. He tickled with spurs and Jimmie Dun stepped into the shallow water, splashing some and enjoying the splashing, then sobering to the serious business of feeling forward for footholds in the gravel and stones of the bottom.
They came to the first of the deeper channels and Jimmie Dun surged into it, swimming strongly and steadily, and scrambled out on the sandbar beyond. This crossing was not bad at all. There were only three stretches of swimming water and these narrow with only mild pull of current.
Jimmie Dun stepped onto dry ground on the far side and shook himself like an oversize dog and Young Jake swayed in the saddle, grabbing at the bag and blanket, and turned to look back. The others were in mid-stream, following his course across.
"Good a place as any for noonin'," said Young Jake and rode to a small clump of trees and swung down. He spread-eagled his saddle on the ground and hung the saddle blanket over a tree limb. They would dry quickly in the warm noontime air. He tethered Jimmie Dun on a short length of rope and stripped off the bridle and unrolled his one thin blanket under Jimmie Dun's nose and dumped the meager contents of the bag on it. He leaned against a tree and stood on one foot then the other, pulling off his boots and emptying water out of them and struggling to get them on again over his damp socks. He knew from old experience they would be stiff and shrunken if he let them dry off his feet. He sat down on the ground, back against the tree, and watched the other men, bunched again and dismounted where the road climbed out of the ford, fussing with their boots and wiping their saddles. They were talking again and looking his way.
"They'll be havin' late lunch," said Young Jake. "What with the wagons havin' to go around by that other road." He unwrapped his sandwiches and bit into one and watched the other men mount and move on, impatient and hurrying.
In the hush of dusk dropping towards dark Young Jake sat on a flat-topped rock by Petey Corle's campfire eating Petey Corle's short-order specialty, singed beef and refried beans. Twenty feet away the skimpy supply wagon was a squat shape in the dimness. Forty feet beyond, Jimmie Dun cropped grass in companionable competition with two long-legged mules. A third of a mile further along the road and closer to it several other fires made their own small circles of flickering light.
"All of 'em over there," said Petey Corle. "They stopped early today. Saw me here an' stopped till they was gathered like they wanted to be somewheres near."
Young Jake grunted. He was too busy eating to say anything.
"Them mules," said Petey. "They're almighty tired."
Young Jake scraped his tin plate and lifted it to lick away the last traces of the beans. "Better'n three hunnerd fifty miles by now," he said. "Make it a hunnerd sixty-seventy to go. Them mules now. They last through tomorrow, that'll do it. Me'n Jimmie'll be in the homestretch after that."
The darkness deepened and Young Jake was sitting on the ground, back against the flat-topped rock, and Petey was at the wagon, measuring feed into the bag, when they heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the other fires. Young Jake sat up straighter, peering into the dark, and Petey reached further into the wagon and took his gunbelt and buckled it on and eased around by the edge of firelight, between it and Jimmie Dun.
There were three of them, the thin-faced man and the black-bearded man and the eye-twitching man.
"You got time for a little conversation?" said the thin-faced man.
"Mebbe so," said Young Jake.
"Short an' sweet," said Petey Corle.
"You don't know it yet," said the thin-faced man, "but Henderson's out. That Sorrel Clipper horse of his has been took sick. He's leading it on to the next town. But it's out. That leaves four of us."
"Wasn't sick back at the river," said Young Jake. "Wore down some. An' skittish. But a good hoss. A lot left in 'im."
"Not now," said the thin-faced man. "Things happen. Like I say, that leaves four of us. And there's four prizes. A thousand, five hundred, three hundred, two hundred. Add those and you get two thousand. Divide that by four and you get five hundred."
"I can figger," said Young Jake. "Where you headin'?"
"Well, now," said the thin-faced man. "Suppose we just agree among ourselves, nobody else knowing, that no matter how we come in, we pool those prizes. Then we split even, five hundred apiece. No sense killing ourselves and the horses on these last miles. Just make it look good at the finish. We cut cards to see who's to come in first, but no matter what the cards say, we pool it and split even."
Young Jake noticed that one of his fingernails was cracked and needed attention. He took out his pocketknife and went to work on the nail, thinking hard and fast. He remembered that thousands of dollars were bet on those other horses to win or to place. He remembered seeing that same thin-faced man handle cards in Deadwood and make them behave as if they had gone through school and were well educated. He knew it was a dead-center certainty that however the cards were cut, there was one rider who would not show the winning card and he was that one. But to be honest with himself he had to admit this pooling scheme had its points.
At the moment all he had certain at the finish line was fourth place. Two hundred dollars. Anything more was still doubtful, had still to be won. Five hundred guaranteed and with no bone-wearying last-stretch fighting for position was a mighty attractive proposition. He could be a fool to trust those other men any further than he could spit into a high wind. On the other hand they would have strong incentive to play straight with him if he took the card-cutting without squawking. It was the win-and-place betting more than the prize money they were interested in. He tried to balance the three hundred more that would be reasonably certain for him against the fact he would be letting down the rest of the Triple X trail crew. Shucks, Petey would string along with him on anything and he could pay back the small amounts the others would lose out of the five hundred and still be well ahead.
He stared down at his fingernail, remembering many things. He remembered that even though he was still called Young Jake, he was not as young as he used to be and this last long drive out of New Mexico had tightened his belt and put an ache of tiredness in his bones that was already renewed by the riding of the past five days. He remembered that he was still just an often overworked cowhand at thirty and found a month who had never had anything like five hundred dollars jingling in his pocket. And then he remembered something else. A smallish dun mustang cropping grass about sixty-five feet away.
That horse never asked odds of anything life threw at it. He had talked big and that horse was ready to give the last ounce of stubborn endurance in it to back up his talk. This was Jimmie Dun's race too.
Young Jake raised his head. "No," he said. "I started this thing as a hoss race an' I'll just finish it the same."
"Is that final?" said the thin-faced man. "Final," said Young Jake.
"Double-cinched," said Petey Corle.
"You'll regret it," said the thin-faced man. "Like I told you, things happen." He turned away.
"You'll never even finish," said the eye-twitching man, turning to follow.
"Right," said the black-bearded man. "We'll run that jug-headed mutt of yours off its legs tomorrow." And he too turned and followed.
The footsteps died away. Young Jake and Petey Corle looked at each other.
"Took sick," said Young Jake. "Mighty sudden."
"Yeah," said Petey Corle. "An' neither of us is doing any moving on tonight. Not past that bunch in the dark. They'll keep till morning anyway. You need the rest too. I don't count. You bed down an' I'll keep an eye on Jimmie."
Sounds of hurried doings tapped at Young Jake's eardrums, penetrating at last to awareness. He came out of sleep still tired and with a stiffness in his backbone. The darkness of sky overhead had shifted to a dull gray and a few stars still
fought against the seeping glimmer of the false dawn. He raised on one elbow and looked around. Petey was by the wagon with the two mules, slapping harness on them.
Young Jake pushed up and stretched. He took the bucket half full of water which Petey had placed near him and walked a short distance away for a wash-up and other necessary activities. Five minutes later he was back by the dead campfire, setting down the empty bucket to stretch again, and Petey was hurrying towards him with a tin cup of cold coffee in one hand, a bulky sandwich in the other.
"Gobble these," said Petey. "Fast. An' kick me. Hard."
"Loco," said Young Jake.
"I must of dozed some," said Petey. "Take a look over there."
Young Jake looked. On ahead, near the road, where the other camps had been, was only a blank emptiness in the dingy grayness of dawn.
"Yeah," said Petey. "They slipped out in the dark. Could have fifteen-twenty miles on you by now. I'd of saddled Jimmie but you know how he fights anyone but you." Petey grabbed the bucket and ran to the wagon and threw the bucket in and jumped to the driving seat. He slapped with reins and was moving past towards the road. "I'll push ahead fast as I can. See what I can find out."
Young Jake drained the cup in two gulps and let it fall. He crunched a bite out of the sandwich and chewed rapidly and crammed the rest into his mouth. He scooped up his blanket and the small bag of feed with one hand, the saddle and trailing bridle with the other, and ran towards Jimmie Dun.
He was pulling on the cinch when he heard, faintly, somewhere off by the road, a sharp crack and a clatter. He hesitated briefly, listening, and heard nothing more. Swiftly he finished saddling and swung up and Jimmie Dun rose in the air, head down and back arched, bucking once, twice, three times, to get the kinks out of his backbone, and leveled into a fast lope towards the road.
There they were, Petey and the mules and the wagon, Petey standing in the road with a hatchetin one hand, the mules motionless except for twitching tails, the wagon tip-tilted with some of its contents spilled and the remainder a crazy jumble. The right rear wheel had hit a boulder and the spokes had shattered.
"I got two kicks coming," said Petey. "But don't you worry none about me. I'll cut me a tree limb an' brace it under for a drag. Make it to the next town an' get a wheel. Drive like hell an' catch up later today."
Young Jake looked forward along the road that stretched to far hill horizon where the first faint flush of color was creeping up the sky. Somewhere beyond three riders on three big strong horses were knocking off more miles. "Take your time," he said. "You ain't agoin' to do no catchin' up. Not the way me'n Jimmie'll be movin' from here on in."
The little crossroads settlement seemed to be deserted in the early morning sunlight. No. A man who had been sitting on a bench by the blacksmith shop was walking out into the roadway. A redhaired man with a jutting chin. He had a hand up signaling. Young Jake reined in.
"I figure they've got about fifteen miles on you," said the man. "They're moving right along. You going to try to nail them?"
"Not try," said Young Jake. "Jimmie here's agoin' to do it."
"I hope he does," said the man. "I'll be hoping mighty hard he does. But watch yourself. I know better'n to say anything else. Just keep a sharp eye out. Watch yourself."
Jimmie Dun moved strong and steady under him. Lope-trot-lope. Lope for half an hour in the smooth undulating stride familiar to anyone who had ever seen a herd of mustangs flowing over the land, their backs rising and falling as easy and regularly as
watery waves. Trot for the next half hour in that swinging double-beat stride mustangs themselves favored for making maximum distance with minimum effort. It was hard, not knowing what was happening ahead, to hold down, to keep from ramming into full gallop. But there was still a long way to go.
"Let's see," said the farmer who was working on a stretch of fence along the roadside. "There was two together. A black and a bay. I'd make that a shade under two hours ago. Then along comes a gray. I'd call that just a mite over one hour."
Only half of the meager contents of the bag for Jimmie Dun at this nooning. Only one of the two sandwiches in the saddlebag for himself.
But there was no water. Nowhere along the last miles had they come on a stream or a farmhouse with its well. Nothing but barren sandy friendless country and one rickety farm wagon drawn by two bony horses with a pinch-faced man and a pursed-mouth woman on the driving seat who failed out of meanness or lethargy to return a passing word.
Only half an hour of resting. "Short rations all around," said Young Jake as he retied the bag behind the cantle. Jimmie Dun whiffled softly in response and turned his head to push gently against him and stood steady as a rock while he swung up into saddle again.
They could see it far ahead, a cluster of weathered board buildings, a house and small barn and shed. And there, in front of the house, a pump and a water trough.
He held Jimmie Dun to a trot then to a walk as they approached. He dismounted twenty feet from the pump and Jimmie Dun stood, groundreined, waiting. He looked around. There was no sign of life anywhere. He strode to the pump and worked with the handle and a stream of water ran into the trough. He strode back to Jimmie Dun and led him to the trough and let him drink sparingly. "Enough's enough," he said and led Jimmie Dun about twenty feet away again and left him again, ground-reined, waiting. He returned to the trough and leaned down and scooped water in his hands and drank.
"Howdy, cowboy. Reckon you're one of those racers.
A man had stepped out of the house, smiling in friendly fashion, very friendly. He held in one hand a bottle two thirds full of an amber liquid. "Water's all right," he said. "Whiskey's better. Perk you up." He moved a few steps forward and held out the hand with the bottle.
Young Jake suddenly realized he had not had a real drink for five full days and more. That was what he needed, something stronger than water to rake the dust of five days' riding out of his throat. "Thanks," he said and moved towards the man and took the bottle.
He raised it high and let a satisfying slug of the amber liquid gurgle into his mouth. He sloshed this around inside before he let it slide raw and tingling down his throat. "Thanks again," he said and raised the bottle again.
Out of the corner of one eye he saw movement over by Jimmie Dun. Two men had slipped quietly, very quietly, around from the other side of the house. One had hold of Jimmie Dun's reins and the other was stretching out a hand under Jimmie Dun's nose, palm flat, and something showed on the flattened palm.
Young Jake jerked around, dropping the bottle. "Hey," he shouted. "Get away from-" The rest of that breath was jolted out of him. The first man had jumped to grab him from behind.
He struggled to free himself but the man had arms clamped around him. He tried to whistle, high and shrill. Only a desperate small sound came from him - but Jimmie Dun heard. And Jimmie Dun reared back, away from the flattened palm and whatever was on it, jerking on the reins, and the man who held them clung to them and Jimmie Dun reared again, plunging forward, forehoofs striking, and one struck the man in the chest and knocked him away and down and loosened his hold on the reins, and Jimmie Dun was swinging in a fast arc, head high, dodging the third man, aiming for Young Jake.
"I'm acomin'!" gasped Young Jake. He smashed backward with booted heel on the left instep of the man holding him and heaved upward and forward and broke loose and as Jimmie Dun, true to old training, swung to move past him, broadside to him, his hands fastened on the horn and he vaulted into the saddle. Only his grip on the horn held him there as Jimmie Dun surged ahead, picking up speed, away from the men and the house. His feet found the stirrups. Secure in the seat, he leaned forward to take the trailing reins.
Out in the road, moving away, he looked back. No one was following. If the men had horses with them, these were still in the barn or hidden behind the house. Two of the men were bending over the third, who still lay flat on the ground. "You sure did it up right," he said, reaching to rub along Jimmie Dun's
neck. "An' I sure got me a kick comin'."
The wind of motion was ruffling his hair. "Lost my hat," he muttered. Somehow that seemed the final ultimate insult. "From now on," he said, "we ain't trustin' nobody on nothin'."
He became aware that Jimmie Dun was pounding in full gallop. "Easy," he said, tightening on reins. "Easy. Save it for when it counts."
And then he was aware of a nagging ache inside him, under his ribs, growing, increasing, and a nausea creeping through him. He swayed in the saddle and his throat constricted in dry retching. He could feel a weakness taking him and his vision blurred.
He pulled on the reins and Jimmie Dun slowed, stopped. "Two kicks for me too," he mumbled and all but fell from the saddle and was on his knees by the roadside, bent over, and Jimmie Dun stood, head turned some, watching him.
He pushed two fingers down his own throat and his shoulders shook as his throat muscles reacted in spasmodic contractions and he yanked the fingers away and the foul stuff came flooding forth. The taste in his mouth was loathsome and the smell of the mess in front of him more so and all he wanted to do was just to fall away from it and stretch out and sleep and he fought against this and staggered to his feet and to Jimmie Dun and pulled himself up into the saddle. Fingers fumbling, uncertain, he tied the ends of the reins in a clumsy knot and looped them over the horn. "Get amovin', Jimmie boy," he managed to say. "I'll hang on somehow." And Jimmie Dun moved and they were on their way again.
Time passed and he did not know it. Hunched forward, head hanging down, hands clenched on the forward edge of the saddle blanket, he rode in a kind of coma, aware of nothing, not even of the insistent joggle of Jimmie Dun's swinging trot or of the habitual ingrained response of his own muscles holding him there in the saddle. Then gradually awareness fought through the fog gripping him and he knew where he was. He was on Jimmie Dun and he was riding a race, Jimmie Dun's race, and he was the damnedest stupidest fool in the whole of the world and he was letting Jimmie Dun down. He tried to straighten in the saddle, be less of a spineless blob of dead weight on Jimmie Dun's back, and he managed to do so a bit.
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