The announcer trained his megaphone on the vast crowd:
"The next event," he bellowed, "two-mile sweepstakes! Purse one thousand dollars! Five entries! Naming them in their order from the pole: Thunderbolt, black Y-Bar stallion, Flip Williams, rider; Say-So, roan gelding, from the Pecos River, Box-V outfit, Jess Curtis, rider; Ophelia, Gold Dust filly, the Cimarron outlaw from the Quarter Circle KT, th' Ramblin' Kid, rider; Prince John, sorrel gelding, from Dallas, Texas, 'Snow' Johnson, rider; Dash-Away, bay mare, from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Slim Tucker, rider. Race called at three o'clock sharp! Horse failing to score on the dot will be ruled out! Range saddles to be used. Entries for the two-mile sweepstakes will show at once on the track!"
Dead silence ensued during the announcer's drawling oration.
It was followed by the hum of five thousand voices as they chattered in eager expectancy.
The band crashed out Dixie and a medley of southern melodies.
Chuck and Bert reined their bronchos up to Parker.
"We're going over and see how th' Ramblin' Kid is making it," Chuck said. "He might need that filly herded a little to get her through this jam." And they galloped their horses across the track toward the stables.
Carolyn June and Skinny decided to watch the sweepstakes from the car, with Old Heck and Ophelia. They rode Pie Face and Red John over to the Clagstone "Six." Carolyn June dismounted and stepped up on the running-board of the car, holding Red John loosely by the bridle rein.
"Gee," she laughed, "but I'm nervous!"
Old Heck reached over and patted her hand.
"Wait till they start to run before you get hysterical," he chuckled. "There'll be time enough then for excitement!" One could never have told, by his actions, that within the next few moments he would lose or win fifty thousand dollars.
Chuck pulled Silver Tip to a stop in front of the stall where Captain
Jack and the Gold Dust maverick were standing.
"They're getting ready for the sweepstakes!" he called, thinking the Ramblin' Kid was in the compartment with the horses. "You'd better be putting your rigging on the filly," as he slid from his broncho and stepped to the door of the stall.
There was no answer. He peered into the half-gloom of the place.
It was empty save for the two horses.
"That's funny as thunder," he said, puzzled, to Bert. "Where'd you reckon th' Ramblin' Kid is?"
"Darned if I know—ain't he there?" Bert answered, riding up so he could look into the door.
"Look around a little," Chuck said anxiously. "Maybe he's just stepped away for a minute—Hey!" he called to an attendant of a stall a short distance down the stable street, "have you seen anything of th' Ramblin' Kid—the feller that has these horses?"
"Naw," was the careless answer, "I ain't seen him for two hours."
"Something must be wrong!" Chuck exclaimed. "You stay here and watch!
I'll go see Old Heck—maybe he knows where he is."
"Hell, yes!" Bert said as the other started Silver Tip in a run toward where the Clagstone "Six" was parked. "He's got to be found! Nobody else but him can ride the maverick!"
At the car, before his horse was fairly stopped, Chuck leaned over and asked, tensely:
"Have any of you people seen th' Ramblin' Kid?"
Old Heck straightened up.
"Ain't he at the stables?" he inquired uneasily. "He was there this morning—"
"No," Chuck replied hurriedly, "he's been gone two hours!"
"Good lord," Old Heck exclaimed, "he's got to be found! The race starts in ten minutes."
"And nobody but him can ride the filly!" Skinny interrupted. "I wonder if he's—" he started to say "drunk," but stopped as Carolyn June looked quickly at him. The word was in both their minds.
"It ain't natural!" Old Heck cried; "there must be something dirty! You boys go look for him; I'll, keep my eyes open here!"
As Old Heck said "dirty" the picture of Mike Sabota flashed into Carolyn June's mind. Some intuition seemed to couple, in her inner consciousness, the big Greek with the Ramblin' Kid's disappearance.
The horses for the two-mile sweepstakes were already beginning to come on to the track. Flip Williams was walking Thunderbolt up and down in front of the grandstand, trying to keep the high-spirited stallion quiet until time came to mount; the rider of Say-So was doing the same thing with his entry; Slim Tucker was already sitting on Dash-Away, the trim Wyoming mare standing unruffled near the starting line, while Snow Johnson, like Tucker, already on his mount, was circling Prince John in wide loops behind the others.
Carolyn June was stunned for a moment by the thought that had come into her mind when the picture of the burly Greek flashed before her. She clenched her hands and her cheeks whitened.
"Come on, Skinny!" she said suddenly, stepping off the running-board of the car and swinging on to Red John, "we'll go help look for the Ramblin' Kid!"
She whirled the big bay around the end of the grandstand and rode in a fast gallop straight for the box stall, Skinny and Chuck following close behind her. A quick resolution formed in her mind: "Nobody but the Ramblin' Kid could ride the filly?"
She could ride the mare!
Even if the Ramblin' Kid was not found Sabota and his crowd should not be allowed to win by dirty work—if dirty work had been done!
At the stall Carolyn June sprang from Red John.
Bert was nervously walking about, calling occasionally the name of the missing Quarter Circle KT cowboy.
"Have you found him?" Carolyn June asked as Skinny and Chuck came up behind her.
"No," Bert answered glumly, "he ain't showed up yet! There ain't no signs of him around here."
"What'll we do?" Skinny asked excitedly. "The race is almost ready to start and—do you reckon you could ride the filly, Bert?" he finished with a gleam of hope.
"I doubt it, but, well, I'll try her—if Captain Jack'll let me get her out."
"You boys keep back!" Carolyn June interrupted, stepping to the door of the stall and opening it, "Captain Jack knows me and—I—I—think the filly does, too—I can handle her—" as she stepped boldly inside the compartment with the horses.
"Don't go in there!" Skinny cried, "Car—Carolyn June, they'll kill you!"
"You boys keep away!" she laughed. "And don't get the horses nervous!
They won't hurt me!" she answered, going ahead toward the animals.
Captain Jack looked at her suspiciously an instant
"Jack-Boy—Jack-Boy!" she called with a caress in her voice. "Careful! We're friends!" The attitude of the stallion changed instantly and the menace was gone from his eyes.
The Gold Dust maverick heard the voice and with a friendly little nicker rubbed her head against the outstretched hand.
In a corner was the Ramblin' Kid's saddle, bridle, blanket and worn leather chaps.
With a light pat of the outlaw filly's cheek Carolyn June turned and began quickly and deftly putting the riding gear on the beautiful mare.
* * * * *
For an hour and a half the Ramblin' Kid lay as he had fallen when he started to hand the coffee cup back to Gyp. Breathing heavily, his face flushed, he was as one in the deep stupor of complete intoxication. At last he stirred uneasily. An unconscious groan came from his lips. His eyes opened. In them was a dazed, puzzled look. Where was he? He tried vainly to remember—the clean life, the iron constitution and youth—aided perhaps by an indomitable subconscious will protesting against this something that had happened to him—were throwing off the effects of the drug hours before an ordinary man would have regained even a hint of sensibility.
He stood up—reeling unsteadily. He was deathly sick. Lightning flashes of pain throbbed through his head. Waves of blackness rolled before his eyes. Surges of numbness swept over his legs and arms. He tried hard to remember. There was something—what was it? Th'—th'—what th' hell?—th' race! That was it—th'—th'—th' sweepstakes! In an instant the thought was gone. It kept beating b
ack: Th' sweepstakes—th' race—What time was it? Had it been run? He staggered to the door. It was locked! His head was bursting. If he could only get over the nausea. He felt his knees start to give way. No! No! My God, he wouldn't give up! He—oh, yes. Th' race! Captain Jack—no—th'—th'—maverick—he had to ride—He must get out! There was a—a—window—sometimes they had them—in the back of the stalls. Maybe the hay was over it. He climbed on the bales. Behind them he could see the opening. God, he was weak! With the sweat of terrible nausea bursting from every pore of his body he pulled the bales back. He fell over the bale on which he had been lying. One hand brushed his hat which had fallen from his head. Mechanically, with stiff fingers, he picked it up and jammed it on again. Then he climbed—crawled—over the hay and pitched forward through the opening, in a limp heap, on the ground outside.
For a moment he lost consciousness completely again: Th'—th' race—th' maverick! he mustn't forget—
He fought his way to his feet and groped along back of the building—the stall—which way was it? Down there? No—the other way—
As Carolyn June tightened the rear cinch on the Gold Dust maverick and turned toward the door of the stall with: "Look out, boys—I'm coming out!" the Ramblin' Kid, clutching at the side of the building, reeled around the corner of the stall. The cowboys saw him. He himself saw only black shapes where their horses were.
"Good God!" Skinny cried, "he's drunk!"
Carolyn June heard Skinny's exclamation at the instant the Ramblin' Kid, catching at the half-open door, almost fell into the stall. His eyes stared with a dull, puzzled, unrecognizing vacancy first at Carolyn June and then the Gold Dust maverick. "Who th' hell—" he mumbled stiffly. "What—th'—oh, yes—there's th' filly—th'—th'—race. It must—be—time. Th' mare's saddled! That's—that's—funny! I can't remember. Th' race—th' sweepstakes—that's it—"
Reaching over he jerked the reins from the hand of Carolyn June.
"Who—who—get the—" came like the thick growl of a beast from his throat. "You—you—can't ride—she'll—she'll—kill—"
Carolyn June shrank back as if she had been struck. She pressed her hands against her cheeks and stepped away with a look of horror and disgust as the Ramblin' Kid backed out of the stall with the Gold Dust maverick. Outside he fumbled grotesquely at the silky mane and climbed weakly into the saddle.
Chuck and Bert started toward him.
"Get—the—hell—" he snarled as he saw their horses—mere shadow shapes they were to him—approach.
"Let him alone!" Skinny said. "He's drunk! You'll just scare the filly and make her hurt him!"
The boys let him go.
With blanched cheeks Carolyn June mounted Red John and with Skinny, Bert and Chuck, rode back to the Clagstone "Six." Her heart was utterly sick. So this was it? It had come out—the brute—the beast that was in him!
They reached the car as the Ramblin' Kid, at the horse entrance, at the other end of the grandstand, came on the track with the Gold Dust maverick.
Old Heck looked up when the group approached. He saw the agony in
Carolyn June's eyes and started to speak.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid's drunk," Skinny said dully. "He showed up—yonder he is—" as the beautiful copper-tinted, chestnut filly appeared behind the other horses entered for the two-mile sweepstakes.
"Drunk?" Old Heck cried incredulously. "Are you sure?"
"Watch him!" Chuck said miserably.
The starter was standing with arm outstretched and flag ready to fall. The filly came down the track jumping nervously from side to side in short springing leaps. The starter paused, watch in hand. A shout of admiration and wonder went up from the crowd as the splendid creature dancing down the track was recognized. The next instant it was succeeded by a cry of horror that rolled in a great wave from a thousand throats.
"Th' Ramblin' Kid is drunk! He's drunk—the mare will kill him!" as they saw the slim rider weaving limply in the saddle, his head dropped forward as if he were utterly helpless.
"Rule that horse off the track!" Dorsey, who was standing with Mike
Sabota, in a box-seat just below the judges' stand, shouted as he saw
the Ramblin' Kid, even in his half-conscious condition, reining the Gold
Dust maverick with consummate skill into position, "her rider's drunk!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard the voice and—by some miracle of the mind—recognized it, although his eyes, set and glassy, could not see the speaker.
He turned his head in the direction from which the cry came and answered, slowly measuring each word:
"Go—go—t' hell—you—you—coyote!"
The next instant the starter dropped the flag. As it went down the filly crouched and reared straight into the air.
That one second gave the other horses the start.
Then the outlaw mare leaped forward directly behind Thunderbolt, running against the inside rail. Say-So, the Pecos horse, jammed close to the side of the black stallion; Snow Johnson, rider of Prince John, pushed the big sorrel ahead with his nose at the roan's tail; Dash-Away hugged against the heels of Prince John. The Gold Dust maverick was "pocketed!"
A breathless hush fell over the crowd in the grandstand after the first mighty roar:
"They're off!"
Black devils of torture clutched the throat, the mind, the body of the Ramblin' Kid. Streams of fire seemed to be flowing through his veins. He couldn't see—he was blind. "What th'—what th'—hell!" he muttered over and over. He was vaguely conscious of the thunder of hoofs around him—under him. Dimly, black shadows were rushing along at his side. He fought with all his will to master his faculties. Where was he? What was it? Was it a—a—stampede? What? Oh, yes, th' race—th'—th'— sweepstakes—that—that was it—Over and over the fleeting flashes of consciousness kept throwing this one supreme idea on the mirror of his mind!
Not a word was spoken by any of the party at the Clagstone "Six" as the five fastest horses ever on the Eagle Butte track swept past the car toward the first quarter-turn of the course.
Carolyn June's face was as white as marble. Her breast heaved and fell as if it would burst. Dry-eyed, every nerve tense, she stared at the straining racers. Unconsciously she gripped into hard knots of flesh and bone, both hands, while she bit at her underlip until a red drop of blood started from the gash made in the tender skin by her teeth.
"Drunk!" she thought, "drunk! Beastly drunk—and throwing away the greatest race ever run on a Texas track!"
Old Heck sat impassive as though carved from stone and said nothing.
Ophelia nervously chewed at the finger of her glove while her eyes moistened with sympathy and pity.
Skinny, Chuck and Bert sat gloomily, moodily, on their bronchos and watched Thunderbolt lead the quintette of running horses.
For the life of him Skinny could not keep from thinking of the five hundred dollars he had bet with Sabota, on the race, and the number of white shirts and purple ties he might have bought with the money!
Over in the track-field Parker, Charley and Pedro saw the start of the race and each swore softly and silently to himself.
Sing Pete, alone of the Quarter Circle KT crowd, in the jam of the grandstand, stretched his neck and followed with inscrutable eyes the close-bunched racers. The start had puzzled him, yet he murmured hopefully:
"Maybe all samee Lamblin' Kid he beatee hell out of 'em yet!"
The loyal Chinese cook had wagered the savings of a dozen years on the speed of the Gold Dust maverick's nimble legs and his faith in the "Lamblin' Kid."
A blanket might have covered the five horses as they swung around the first mile.
The speed-mad animals roared down the homestretch, finishing the first half of the race in the almost identical position each had taken in the getaway.
The Ramblin' Kid rode the mile more as an automaton than as a living, conscious human being. He had no memory of time, place, events—save for the instants of rationality he for
ced his will to bring.
Gradually, though, his mind was clearing.
But which was it—the first half?—the last half? How long had they been running? How many times had they gone around the track? He could not remember!
Down the straight stretch the racers came in a mighty whirlwind of speed.
"Thunderbolt is taking it!"
"The Y-Bar horse leads!"
"Th' black's got 'em!" roared from the throats of the crowd in the grandstand and the mass of humanity crushing the railing along the track.
Dorsey and Sabota leaped to the edge of the box as the horses thundered past the judges' stand. The voice of the owner of Thunderbolt shrieked out in a hoarse bellow:
"Hold him to it, Flip! Keep your lead—you've got the filly!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard again—or thought he heard again—the voice of the Vermejo cattleman. He caught, as an echo, a note of triumph in it. It was like a tonic to his drug-numbed faculties.
Suddenly he saw clearly. He had just a glimpse of Sabota standing by the side of Dorsey. He understood. In a flash it all came to him. The first half of the great sweepstakes race was behind them! Once more they were to circle the track. The glistening black rump of Thunderbolt rose and fell just ahead of the Gold Dust maverick's nose—at her side, crowding her against the rail, was another horse. Which one? It didn't matter! Back of it was another. He was "pocketed!" Hell, no wonder Thunderbolt was ahead of the outlaw mare!
Half-way around the quarter-turn he pulled the filly down.
She slackened ever so little. Thunderbolt—the horse at her side—all of them—shot ahead.
He was behind the bunch—clear of the field!
The crowd saw the filly dart to the right. It looked as though she would go over the outside rail before the Ramblin' Kid swung her, in a great arch, to the left clear of, but far behind, the other horses.
He was crazy! The Gold Dust maverick was getting the better of the
Ramblin' Kid. He had lost control of the wonderful mare!
So thought the thousands watching the drama on the track before them.
Away over, next to the outside fence, on the far side of the track, open now before him for the long outfield stretch, the Rambling Kid straightened the Gold Dust maverick out. The other racers were still bunched against the inner rail—lengths ahead of the filly.
The Ramblin Kid Page 17