by Max Brand
“I’ve heard that.”
“Doesn’t Jim need money?”
“I think so.”
“Then don’t you see? He’s betting on Long Tom because he’s going to see to it that Jerico won’t win the race.”
“You mean he won’t give Jerico an honest ride?”
“Just that.”
He thought that the silence that followed would never end.
Then she said: “It isn’t possible.”
“I’ve brought you the proof.”
He placed the sack of money on her knees, lighted a match, and by that light spread out Jim Orchard’s note for her to read. Of course she would know the handwriting. And she did know it. She suddenly sank back into the chair, and Garry Munn removed both money and paper.
“I’m sorry, Sue,” he said, after a proper interval.
No answer.
“It isn’t a pleasant thing to do, but you see the boat I’m in? I ask you, friend to friend, could I let you go on with a man like Jim Orchard … a man who would even cheat a horse?”
“I understand.”
“You don’t hold it against me?”
“No.”
For some reason he would have preferred it if she had broken into tears. This thin whisper spoke of a heart withering with pain.
“Once more I’m sorry, Sue … and good night.”
“Good night, Garry.”
And that was all.
But Garry knew well enough that no matter how honestly Jim Orchard rode the next day, if Jerico lost the race Jim had lost Sue Hampton.
XI
It should have been a very quiet and unimportant affair, that race of the next day, because there was a horse entered whose appearance seemed to remove all hope of competition. In spite of the fact that Jerico was entered, several of the cattlemen had decided to let their horses run, but that was merely because they were good sports, and not because they had any hope of beating the black stallion. Garrison had put in his Foxy; Oldham had entered Snorter; Lewis had Trix; and Noonan was backing Mame; to say nothing of Long Tom, the stranger. But it was felt that these horses were merely a background against which Jerico would appear the more glorious.
There were two elements, however, which gave the race a touch of the spectacular. In the first place one could never tell if the mustang would run quietly from the beginning to the end, There seemed every possibility that Jim Orchard had mastered the strange horse, but that remained to be seen. He was as apt as not to stop in the middle of the race and buck like a devil. The second exciting element was that a head as cool as that of Garry Munn had actually chosen to bet against Jerico.
A little money would not have made a great deal of difference, but Garry was apparently willing to stake his entire fortune. It became known that he had stretched his credit at the bank to the uttermost limit to supply the cash and, when that cash was gone, he was willing to give his note for any amount. At first the cattlemen held back, suspecting a trick. After they had gone down to see Jerico out for an exercise canter with Jim Orchard in the saddle, acting like a docile old family pet under the hand of the cowpuncher, and when, again, they had seen Tim Hogan trotting Long Tom at a shuffling, far-stepping gait, they decided that a temporary insanity had taken possession of the young rancher, and they began to cover his money in great chunks. Bets began to be registered in sums of a thousand up. Under the hammering of Garry Munn’s fortune the odds dropped slowly from ten to one to two to one.
The cattlemen were as sure that Jerico would win as they were that they walked and breathed, but the confidence of Garry, backed by money, made them more conservative as the hour for the race approached. Yet two to one was fat enough, when a man was betting on a sure thing, and Garry Munn kept pouring out his fortune in money and notes, until the very value of his ranch itself was almost represented in his outstanding promises.
In spite of that it was the happiest morning of Munn’s life. He went to the race track as if he were stepping into a gold mine.
A full mile around, the track had been hastily constructed and roughly leveled. A flimsy fence on either side of the roadway directed the horses and riders. There was no pretense at a stand to hold the crowd. Both inside and outside the oval track the throng stood along the fences or sat in their buckboards or in the saddle to look over the heads of the early comers. But the noise of wagering was confined to one moving spot, and that was where Garry Munn walked. He paused near Sue Hampton. She stood close to the fence, both hands resting on the top of the post, as though she needed that support. When he spoke to her, she returned no answer. Indeed, her face was that of a sleepwalker. It troubled even the cold nerve of Garry Munn as he turned away.
But, after all, he argued to himself, Jim’s as big a crook as I am … almost. What’s to choose between us except that he’s a beggar, and I’ll be rich before tonight?
His smile returned, and his voice rang as gaily as ever, shouting: “My last thousand, gentlemen! Who’ll cover it? One to two on Long Tom. There he goes. How do you like his looks? I’m betting on those long legs. Two jumps and he’ll be around the track. Who takes me up?”
The ring of that familiar voice struck across to Jim Orchard as he stood beside the head of Jerico. Tom, the old Negro, was close by.
“You see them others?” he said, pointing to the cattle ponies that were being trotted up and down to make sure they would be warm and loose-muscled for the race. “Them boys thinks they’s on horses, but they ain’t. There’s only one horse here, and that’s Jerico. Oh, Jerry’ll show ’em what’s what today!”
Jim Orchard returned no answer. He had seen close to the fence the white face of Sue Hampton, and the ugly thought had come to him: How is it possible for me to win the woman I most love and honor in the world by a piece of mean chicanery? How will it be possible for me to face her level eyes after this race?
He turned for consolation to Jerico himself. The great stallion kept always behind his new rider, as though he wanted protection from the crowd, which he hated. If a man passed too close to him, his ears flattened instantly, and his nostrils expanded and quivered, but, as soon as the shadow of fear had passed, he would touch the shoulder of Jim Orchard with his nose and then meet the glance of the rider with pricking ears. It was as though he said in mute language: I understand. You look the same, but you’re different.
Every time Jim Orchard saw that noble head his heart sank.
Long Tom came onto the track and was greeted by a murmur of mingled interest and amusement. They were not used to seeing such horses as this, these cattlemen. They could not understand how those gaunt muscles, flattening and sinking at shoulders and thighs, might mean elastic striding power and astonishing speed. To them he was more a freak than a horse for riding.
But Jim Orchard had seen the bay in action, and he understood. It comforted him to see Long Tom. No matter how he rode, what chance had Jerico against this speed machine?
Now they were summoning the horses to the post. He mounted Jerico and jogged slowly to the position. Opposite Sue Hampton, in spite of Jerico’s plunging, as they approached the fence and the crowd, he cut far in and leaned to speak to her.
“Give Jerico luck, Sue!” he called.
She raised her white face and murmured an answer. It was not until he had passed on that he straightened out the meaning of the words.
“Oh, Jim, I’m praying for you.”
Why for me?
He had no time to get to the meaning of the riddle. He was coming past the main section of the crowd, where they were packed around the line that was both start and finish. What a roar went up to greet the black! Jerico crouched and quivered before it. Then, as though he understood that this was a welcome and not a threat, he tossed up his head proudly and looked across the mass of faces.
The places were tossed for. Foxy got the inside; Snorter was number two;
then came Jerico with an ample space on either side for fear of his heels; then Trix, then Mame, and last of all, on the outside, was Long Tom.
“There’s your luck. There’s the end of your freak horse, Garry!” shouted someone in the crowd.
The voice was hissed. It was thought a shameful thing to laugh at a man who had wagered the very home over his head on a horse race. Betting on such a scale was a thing to be almost reverenced.
Jerico behaved at the post as though he had raced a hundred times, standing perfectly still, with the calming voice of Jim Orchard to steady him. Jim looked across the line of horses and saw little Tim Hogan bouncing up and down, as Long Tom pranced awkwardly, eager to be away.
A voice came to him from a distance. It was Judge McCreavy giving the riders their instructions and telling them not to swing wide at the turns, for fear of cutting off horses behind them. He added other instructions. There was a pause. The crowd became deadly silent, and then the crack of the pistol.
The others were off their marks in a flash, but Jim Orchard purposely allowed Jerico to twist his head around at the last moment. When he twitched the head around and straightened Jerico to run after the pack, there was a groan from the crowd—the rest of the horses were lengths and lengths away! Jim Orchard, calmly, bitterly, cast his eye over that straining line of horseflesh ahead, with the riders bending low over their necks. Each was laboring to the full speed—each except Long Tom. The gaunt bay galloped clumsily, slowly, slowly, on the outside of the string—and yet, somehow, he floated along abreast of the best of the others, and a yell of wonder came from the crowd.
Jim Orchard understood and swallowed a smile. Tim Hogan must have been instructed to make this seem as much like a race as possible, He would race Long Tom along with the rest of the pack, until they straightened away around the last turn with the finish in sight.
Suddenly all things were blotted from the mind of Jim except the one miraculous fact that the horses, which raced ahead of him, were coming back to Jerico as if they were walking, and he running at full speed. Running, indeed!
The evening before, for a hundred yards or so, he had loosed Jerico down the open road and had thought the gait of the stallion breathtaking, but that was nothing compared to the way the black was running now. His body seemed to settle more and more to the ground as his stride lengthened. His ears were blown back flat against his neck. He poured himself over the track. Run? Jim Orchard had never dreamed that horseflesh could race with such smooth, machine-like strides, never a jolt up and down, but driving always straight ahead with dizzy speed.
There was no question that Jerico understood that this was a race, and that he loved it. As for the riders on the other horses, he did not appear to think of them. All that he knew was that here was an old custom of the free days, when the wild band of horses had raced for the water hole. And in the old days his place had always been in the front, leading the rest. He hated this rear running. Snorting the dust out of his nostrils, he sprang on at a harder pace.
Each furlong was marked by a white post and, as the signal for the first eighth flashed by him, Orchard found himself on the very heels of the pack. He drew back on the reins with an iron hand. There was not the slightest response. Jerico had the bit securely in his teeth.
Would the black devil run away and make him break that contract with Tim Hogan? He leaned desperately and called gently to Jerico, and suddenly the head was raised, the ears pricked, and from his running gait the stallion broke into a great rocking gallop. Yet even that pace held him up with the others.
In the distance Jim heard the crowd yelling its delight. That first burst of Jerico’s speed meant everything to them. They would expect him to go on now, and leave the others trailing behind them.
He swung Jerico to the right and drove him straight into a pocket! Trix and Mame ran to left and right of him, and Long Tom and Foxy were in front. The crowd shouted: “Dirty work! They’re boxing Jerico! Let him through!”
They called to each of the other riders in turn, berating them, but the wedge-like formation held, and Jerico galloped easily, easily in the rear.
XII
He could only pray that that pocket formation would hold. They were yelling advice to him to draw back and ride around the others, but he stuck doggedly in his place. To Jerico it was a manifest torment. Again and again he came up against the bit, and then tossed his head impatiently as he heard the steady voice of the master calling him back. Plainly the heart of the stallion was breaking. His place was in front, with the sweet, clean air in his nostrils, not back there breathing the dust of all these horses.
Jim Orchard heard a shrill, cracked cry above the rest. He looked across the track and saw old Tom standing beside the track with old Glory, terrified by the noise, trying to wedge his way to a place of safety between the legs of the Negro.
When they reached the turn at the first quarter, the pocket opened as the horses swung wide around the turn, and a clear way opened before Jerico. He would have sprung through like a greyhound, but the voice of the rider called him back. Then Jim Orchard heard a cry of dismay from the crowd and, looking ahead, he saw the reason for it. Tim Hogan had apparently decided that he had waited long enough and now he was out to show the rubes what real speed in horseflesh meant.
Long Tom had thrust out his long neck, and now he was driving away from the rest. In vain they flogged and yelled at their mounts—Long Tom still drew away, and the crowd groaned.
For one thing Jim was glad; it was no longer necessary to disguise the speed of Jerico. There went Long Tom full tilt. He could loose the black and let him do his best with his sixty-pound handicap. The gap was still opened before him and now, touching the flank of the stallion with his open hand, he sent Jerico through it. It was a marvelous thing, that response from the black. Foxy and Trix drifted back to him and then disappeared behind his shoulders, their heads jerking foolishly up and down as they strove in vain to meet that terrific pace.
But Jerico had slipped through, and there was only Long Tom racing ahead. The three-furlong pole whipped past in a flash of white.
“Oh, Jerry, boy,” said Orchard. “You ain’t got a chance. If we had that skinny bay in the open country, we’d make a fool of him inside half an hour. Go it, boy, but there’s not a chance.”
He dropped his head and waited—waited for Jerico to slacken and fall back under that grilling strain. But there was no slackening. Instead there was a perceptible increase in the rush of wind that beat down the brim of his sombrero.
The groaning of the crowd had ceased, followed by a prolonged series of wild, cowboy yells. Jim looked up again and to his astonishment he saw that Long Tom had not increased his lead. Was Tim Hogan keeping the bay back?
No, Tim Hogan rode with his tiny body flattened along Tom’s neck, giving his mount his head, and Long Tom was doing his noble best. But that best was not good enough!
The stunning truth came home to Jim Orchard. In spite of the cruel handicap of weight, in spite of the poor start, Jerico was slowly, surely, methodically cutting down the lead. Indeed, it might be that the very slowness of the start and the delay while he was held in the pocket were helping him now. It might be that early handicap and restraint had allowed the great stallion to come slowly into his pace, warming him for the greater test, sharpening his nerves and rousing his mighty heart.
All that heart, beyond a doubt, was going into the race for supremacy. By the quiver of the strong body beneath him, Jim knew that the stallion was giving his best. He spoke again, and slowly, unwillingly, tossing his head as though to ask for an explanation, Jerico answered the call and slackened his pace.
But Tim Hogan had been frightened. Jim saw the little fellow glance back and then draw his whip. Long Tom shot into a great lead at once, and there was the long, despairing murmur from the crowd.
The half-mile post gleamed and was gone behind them.
But, oddly enough, a picture came into the mind of Jim Orchard, of old Glory, the bull terrier, crowding close to the Negro for protection. Once that dog might have been among other dogs what Jerico was among other horses. One beating had robbed him of his spirit. One beating had made him what he was today, broken, skulking, a creature that made even the spirit of a man cringe with shame to see. And might not one beating do the same for Jerico? To be conquered by one of his kind, under the handicap that men had imposed on him, might well break his heart. And what would Jerico be then? A stumbling, worthless, shameful caricature of the horse he was today. Whose work? The work of Jim Orchard!
Still keeping the rein taut, he looked ahead. Long Tom had opened up a great gap, and the five-furlong post darted like a ghost behind them! Seeking for courage, Jim Orchard looked back where the crowd was packed at the finish. It was a white blur of faces, and somewhere among them was the face of the girl praying for him—for Jim Orchard. Underneath him Jerico was straining to be free from the restraint, praying, if ever a horse could pray, to follow Long Tom with every ounce of energy in his glorious body.
It was already hopeless to overtake Tim Hogan, surely. And besides, there was the girl—but logic had no hold on Jim Orchard. Suddenly he had dashed the hat from his head with a yell that went pealing across the track and thrilled the crowd. It caught the ear of Tim Hogan and made him turn again in the saddle to look back. It caught Jerico as if with a new force and shot him forward at full speed.
Jim was riding for victory—victory for Jerico, and wretched defeat for himself. But the latter seemed nothing. His fortune—Sue Hampton—nothing mattered except that Jerico should have an honest chance to win his race. A weight fell from his heart as he made that resolve, and it seemed as though a literal weight fell from the back of Jerico as lightly he sprang forward.
Tim Hogan had taken warning. His whip was out again, and he turned the last corner and drove the tall bay frantically into the homestretch. Jim Orchard swung forward in the stirrups, throwing his weight across the withers, where weight least burdens a racing horse.