Crusader

by Max Brand

  He had hope still. If he could come even within striking distance of the mare by the time she turned over the crest, Crusader would have more than a chance. Weary as he might be, and tireless as her energy seemed to be, yet on the long, smooth downslope on the farther side of the mountain and then across the long level at its foot to the starting point, the long legs and the tremendous stride of the stallion were sure to tell for his advantage. Even Loring must know this.

  Camden had loosed the reins on the stallion and let him work his own way along, only heartening him and steadying him with a word now and again, or perhaps picking out a more roundabout, but less steep, route up among some difficult place among the rocks. The great horse worked like the giant that he was, heaving himself and his burden up and up the slope. Twice Camden saw the leader turn in his saddle and look back to mark the tireless progress of the stallion. After each backward glance, he urged the mare forward more fiercely.

  He was afraid then, and, sensing the fear, Camden himself grew more confident, for he knew that fear is a load in the heart and a load in the saddle. Fear is the thing that turns flesh of man or beast into lead.

  They had crossed the first and the sharpest of the rises of the mountainside, and on a little shelving plateau, with smoother ground ahead of him all the way to the round summit of Jericho Mountain, Camden halted the stallion to let the fine animal breathe. The stallion, letting his head fall as soon as his master was dismounted, propped his legs a little more firmly and panted with heaving sides. Camden listened anxiously. There was not a rattle; there was not a sign of roughness. All was well with the great black if only he could have a few moments to recover from this sudden exhaustion that the race had brought him.

  But Loring, well above now, was still climbing like a madman, forcing his mare on and on, with never a pause or a breathing space. It was supreme folly for such a horseman to ride in such a way. Horseflesh could not stand it. But Camden, with a giddy beating heart, knew the reason. Fear was whipping Loring along, fear of defeat, fear of the loss of the prize that was so nearly won.

  Camden looked beneath him. Far below, he caught glimpses of the laggards—five, six, ten, or a dozen of them altogether. But half of them would never finish the race that day. Never! They were working as slowly as snails at the enormous mass of the mountainside. For the pace that Crusader had set in the march across the desert had been truly killing.

  Now the final stage of the upward progress must begin. Far, far away now, was the brown mare, laboring along with the light form of Loring on her back. Would she ever come back to them?

  At that, the heart of Camden leaped. He had to set his teeth, and then, leaping onto the blanket, he put the stallion up the slope. He would have burst into a gallop, even up that terrible angle, for the great heart of the horse could not brook a leader so far ahead as the mare. For well he knew, wise old racer that he was, that this was not a mere pleasure jaunt. This was the sort of work a victory in which brought extra oats and sweet apples, crushing deliciously under the teeth, and petting and fondling, and long days of delightful idleness in some green pasture. More than all, there was the mind of this man on his back, willing him on and pushing him on with a mental force, like a great controlling hand. The man’s will was his hope, and the strength of the heart of Camden was the strength of the heart of the great stallion.

  Yet he was reined in short and forced to take the upward way with short, mincing steps. Wise rider. For one upward leap was more exhausting than half a mile of such more careful travel. Now they were gaining, steadily, steadily, on the mare above them. Her head was down, she was plodding with a religious determination, but it was madness of the first degree to rush her up that great ascent with never a pause. Beyond a doubt, her master knew the folly he had committed and was cursing himself.

  Across the ear of Harry Camden broke a sharp report, like the clangor of two sledge-hammers slung hard and brought face to face. Then a wicked humming, followed by a second hammer stroke.

  The echoes rolled wildly around him. He did not know in what direction to take shelter, but one thing he did know, and this was that someone with a repeating rifle was firing point-blank at him. Another instant and then he was struck a rude blow on the left shoulder—a stunning shock, combined with a swift and searing pain.

  NECK AND NECK

  He looked straight above him. Yonder was Loring, struggling toward the summit. He had heard the shot, for he had turned in the saddle, waving a derisive arm. He could not have done the firing. Then Camden caught the glint of winking steel in the sun.

  At such a time the mind acts, not the body. There was no volition in the lightning draw that snatched the revolver out of Camden’s holster and made him fire. All that he saw was that one blink of light, and then a blur of shadow moving behind a shrub, but as he fired, he heard a scream, and a short, broad-shouldered man staggered out from the bush, dropped his rifle, and fell on his face.

  Far, far above, Loring, turning again in the saddle at the last shot, saw what had happened and leaned suddenly over the horn of his saddle. But Camden, turning Crusader to the right, was instantly by the side of his victim.

  It was the same man who had opened the door at the hotel and brought him word that Loring wished to see him. He was dead, or dying, for his face was a smear of red. The snap shot had gone home. As Camden, regardless of his own wound, dropped beside the fallen body, the eyes flashed open, scowled up at Camden, and then the lips mumbled: “Loring! He put me here. He was the one. . . .” That was all. The stare grew fixed. There was no struggle. Death came to him with no sting.

  Camden closed his eyes to the glare of the sun. Then he lifted the body with his right arm and placed it in the shadow of the brush. But after that, he had his own wound to attend to. When he ripped his shirt open, he saw at once that it was no serious matter. It was a glancing cut off the bone of the upper arm. Terribly painful, bleeding fast, but easily bandaged. That bandage he made of his shirt, knotting it swiftly. Then he was back on the black stallion and heading once more up that endless slope. Not endless now.

  Suddenly he was at the crest, and there was the brown mare, not so appallingly far in front. Astonishingly near, it seemed to Camden.

  He spoke, and the great Crusader swung forward in his stride. Here was galloping ground, and what could the mare do to the gallop of Crusader? Yes, she did well enough. She was stretching well over the ground, running hard and true, with no sway or swerve to her pace—a wonderful feat, truly, for so small a horse after so long a ride.

  The slope grew sharper; the galloping was discarded. Again the mare gained. Now they entered the rolling foothills, and galloping ground again.

  But now the long, rolling canter of Crusader began to tell. Slowly but steadily they pulled on Loring. Loring, turning in the saddle, saw behind him a wild vision of a man clad in a shirt rent half in pieces, blurred across with bright crimson, his left arm swinging in a helpless pendulum at his side, but with his right hand and with his voice controlling the stallion and riding wonderfully well, and with every stride gaining, gaining!

  A yell of rage, and then almost of terror burst from Loring’s lips, and he swung his quirt. The mare responded. She was true blue to the last bit of strength in her sturdy heart. But how could she stand against the racing legs of Crusader? He swept on and on, closer and closer. Darkness was spreading in the brain of Camden. Twice he felt himself falling forward, faint. Twice he rallied, and then, just before him, he saw the straining body of the mare, and a little way off a great semicircle of men and women and children standing, with the town behind them. It was not a roaring in his brain, then, that he had heard. It was the yelling of that wild crowd, seeing such a finish as the Jericho race had never before furnished and would never furnish again—a driving finish after five hundred miles of terrible labor across mountain and desert—two horses, side-by-side, then neck and neck.

  There was a deep-throated shout from Harry Camden. It caught the stallion in mid-stri
de and flung him forward. The shining black head slid under the wire in front of the straining head of brown. Crusader had won.

  That was what smote against the ears of Harry Camden as he turned the big black horse back to the starting point. The crowd washed about them, fearless of the terrible hoofs of the stallion. Here was Colonel Dinsmore. Here was a white, pretty face—Ruth Manners, making toward him. Here were volleyed questions—what had happened—had he fallen? But yonder sat Loring, crushed in the saddle, and that sight cleared the brain of Harry Camden.

  “The race is over?” he asked hoarsely.

  “All over, lad!” cried the delighted colonel. “Come down here and. . . .”

  Camden came, but it was only to brush them aside with a sweep of his thick right arm, and from the grimness in his face they shrank back. He clove a way through the throng straight to the side of Loring. He reached up and with his one hand tore the man from the saddle and held him in a terrible grip. The man was helpless.

  “Loring,” they heard him say, “that gent on the mountain lived long enough to tell me that you put him there. And I’ve lived long enough to win this race, and now there’s a thing between you and me, Loring . . . how will you want to talk?” As he spoke, he flung Loring from him.

  There was no hesitation in that thin, yellow face. His revolver came out even before he had finished staggering. Twenty men could swear that the gun was clear of the sheath, or nearly clear, before Camden drew his own weapon. Yet when the two guns rang out, Camden stood erect, and Loring crumpled on his side.

  The sheriff was there, one leap too late to stop the fight, but soon enough to snap his own gun into the ribs of Camden.

  “Take my gun,” he heard Camden say. “I’m sick of livin’, I tell you, and so’ll you be when you hear Loring talk . . . if he tells the truth before he dies. I wonder if he will.”

  That was exactly what Loring did. Perhaps conscience wakened in him as death drew near. Perhaps it was fear of a last Judge before whom he dreaded to stand with this stain on his heart.

  He told the truth and the full truth that freed Harry Camden, and sent Mervin fleeing like a frightened rat for his life. He was never found. He disappeared from the face of the earth, and some said that the river must have caught him when he attempted to cross it with his horse.

  Of that they never talked in the later days, Ned Manners and his sister, and his new-made brother, Camden. For one thing, they were too full of happiness to think of evil days. For another, they were too busy working the farm, which the money of Colonel Dinsmore had extended for them to twice its original bounds. But in a plot of the richest ground, near the house, so that he could come and put his head through the window whenever he heard the whistle of Camden, Crusader lived like a king. After all, as the colonel said, he was right royal.