by Zane Grey
“Lucy, go back to the women till you’re ready to come out on your hoss,” he said. “An’ mind you, be careful to-day!”
He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then he turned to start the day’s sport.
The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the surprises and defeats and victories; the trial tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling—all these Bostil loved tremendously.
But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to—the climax—the great race.
It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads. They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and whites were the predominating colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds.
Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge. He stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. His sage-gray body was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!
Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent gamblers, plunging heavily on him.
Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task. Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this.
“Van,” he said, “it’s your race.”
The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy—quick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other horses.
Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.
Bostil’s eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts’s shoulder, an action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.
Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. “There’s Lucy,” he said. “She’s ridin’ out to join the bunch.”
“Lucy! Where? I’d forgotten my girl!… Where?”
“There,” repeated Holley, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up, having seen Lucy riding down.
“She’s on a red hoss,” said one.
“’Pears all-fired big to me—her hoss,” said another. “Who’s got a glass?”
Bostil had the only field-glass there and he was using it. Across the round, magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his mane waving like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden there. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulse-beat. Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one. But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed.
“Holley, I can’t make out nothin’,” he complained. “Take the glass. Give me a line on Lucy’s mount.”
“Boss, I don’t need the glass to see that she’s up on a hoss,” replied Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the troop of racers on her way to the post. Nothing ever hurried or excited Holley.
“Wal, can’t you see any better’n me?” queried Bostil, eagerly.
“Come on, Holl, give us a tip before she gits to the post,” spoke up a rider.
Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group were excited. Lucy’s advent, on an unknown horse that even her father could not disparage, was the last and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knew that if the horse was fast Lucy would be dangerous.
Holley at last spoke: “She’s up on a wild stallion. He’s red, like fire. He’s mighty big—strong. Looks as if he didn’t want to go near the bunch. Lord! what action!… Bostil, I’d say—a great hoss!”
There was a moment’s intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holley was never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment or praise.
“A wild stallion!” echoed Bostil. “A-huh! An’ she calls him Wildfire. Where’d she get him? Gimme thet glass.”
But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes were wet. He realized now that his first sight of Lucy on the strange horse had been clear and strong, and it was that which had dimmed his eyes.
“Holley, you use the glass—an’ tell me what comes off,” said Bostil, as he wiped his eyes with his scarf. He was relieved to find that his sight was clearing. “My God! If I couldn’t see this finish!”
Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders down the valley. And all waited for Holley to speak. “They’re linin’ up,” began the rider. “Havin’ some muss, too, it ’pears.… Bostil, thet red hoss is raisin’ hell! He wants to fight. There! He’s up in the air.… Boys, he’s a devil—a hoss-killer like all them wild stallions.… He’s plungin’ at the King—strikin’! There! Lucy’s got him down. She’s handlin’ him.… Now they’ve got the King on the other side. Thet’s better. But Lucy’s hoss won’t stand. Anyway, it’s a runnin’ start.… Van’s got the best position. Foxy Van!… He’ll be leadin’ before the rest know the race’s on.… Them Indian mustangs are behavin’ scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared ’em. Now they’re all lined up back of the post.… Ah! gun-smoke! They move.… It looks like a go.”
Then Holley was silent, strained in watching. So were all the watchers silent. Bostil saw far down the valley a moving, dark line of horses.
“They’re off! They’re off!” called Holley, thrillingly.
Bostil uttered a deep and booming yell, which rose above the shouts of the men round him and was heard even in the din of Indian cries. Then as quickly as the yells had risen they ceased.
Holley stood up on the rock with leveled glass.
“Mac’s dropped the flag. It’s a sure go. Now!… Van’s out there front—inside. The King’s got his stride. Boss, the King’s stretchin’ out!… Look! Look! See thet red hoss leap!… Bostil, he’s runnin’ down the King! I knowed it. He’s like lightnin’. He’s pushin’ the King over—off the course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy can’t pull him! She goes up—down—tossed—but she sticks like a burr. Good, Lucy! Hang on!… My Gawd, Bostil, the King’s thrown! He’s down!… He comes up, off the course. The others flash by.… Van’s out of the race!… An’, Bostil—an’, gentlemen, there ain’t anythin’ more to this race but a red hoss!”
Bostil’s heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He was half cold, half hot.
What a horrible, sickening disappointment! Bostil rolled out a cursing query. Holley’s answer was short and sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved. He could not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks of preparation, of excitement, of suspense—only this! There was no race. The King was out! The thing did not seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through Bostil’s mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He cursed Van, he swore he would kill that red stallion. And someone shook him hard. Someone’s incisive words cut into his thick, throbbing ears: “Luck of the game! The King ain’t beat! He’s only out!”
Then the rider’s habit of mind asserted itself and Bostil began to recover. For the King to fall was hard luck. But he had not lost the race! Anguish and pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the Kingwere out it was a Bostil who would w
in the great race.
“He ain’t beat!” muttered Bostil. “It ain’t fair! He’s run off the track by a wild stallion!”
His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw the moving, dark line take shape as horses. A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and larger he grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright color changed to red. Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordts calling—and other voices, but he did not distinguish what was said. The line of horses began to bob, to bunch. The race looked close, despite what Holley had said. The Indians were beginning to lean forward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell. Everything within Bostil grew together in one great, throbbing, tingling mass. His rider’s eye, keen once more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, and that gold was Lucy’s hair. Bostil forgot the King.
Then Holley bawled into his ear, “They’re halfway!”
The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He gloried in what he saw—Lucy low over the neck of that red stallion. He could see plainer now. They were coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! But it was too swift—it would not last. The Indians began to yell, drowning the hoarse shouts of the riders. Out of the tail of his eye Bostil saw Cordts and Sears and Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange that horse-thieves should care! The million thrills within Bostil coalesced into one great shudder of rapture. He grew wet with sweat. His stentorian voice took up the call for Lucy to win.
“Three-quarters!” bawled Holley into Bostil’s ear. “An’ Lucy’s give thet wild hoss free rein! Look, Bostil! You never in your life seen a hoss run like thet!”
Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something shook him. Was that his girl—that tight little gray burr half hidden in the huge stallion’s flaming mane? The distance had been close between Lucy and the bunched riders.
But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a horse was running away from the others. And now they were close—coming into the home stretch. A deafening roar from the onlookers engulfed all other sounds. A straining, stamping, arm-flinging horde surrounded Bostil.
Bostil saw Lucy’s golden hair whipping out from the flame-streaked mane. And then he could only see that red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the wind! Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven.
On came the red stallion—on—on! What a tremendous stride! What a marvelous recovery! What ease! What savage action!
He flashed past, low, pointed, long, going faster every magnificent stride—winner by a dozen lengths.
CHAPTER XIII
Wildfire ran on down the valley far beyond the yelling crowd lined along the slope. Bostil was deaf to the throng; he watched the stallion till Lucy forced him to stop and turn.
Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King. Most of the crowd surged down to surround the racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of many voices. Some of the ranchers and riders remained near Bostil, all apparently talking at once. Bostil gathered that Holley’s Whitefoot had run second, and the Navajo’s mustang third. It was Holley himself who verified what Bostil had heard. The old rider’s hawk eyes were warm with delight.
“Boss, he run second!” Holley kept repeating.
Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when it was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race. Then Bostil’s nerves tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope. Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not appear to be injured. Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off. He was white and shaking.
The King’s glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush. He was not even hot. There did not appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone in his eyes.
“Wal, Van, get it out of your system,” said Bostil, kindly. He was a harder loser before a race was run than after he had lost it.
“Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an’ scared the race out of him,” replied Van, swiftly. “We had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy’s hoss was a surprise. I’ll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wild hoss an’ handled him. Twice she pulled him off the King. He meant to kill the King!… Ask any of the boys.… We got started. I took the lead, sir. The King was in the lead. I never looked back till I heard Lucy scream. She couldn’t pull Wildfire. He was rushin’ the King—meant to kill him. An’ Sage King wanted to fight. If I could only have kept him runnin’! Thet would have been a race!… But Wildfire got in closer an’ closer. He crowded us. He bit at the King’s flank an’ shoulder an’ neck. Lucy pulled till I yelled she’d throw the hoss an’ kill us both. Then Wildfire jumped for us. Runnin’ an’ strikin’ with both feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss’s hell! Then he hit us an’ down we went. I had a bad spill. But the King’s not hurt an’ thet’s a blessed wonder.”
“No race, Van! It was hard luck. Take him home,” said Bostil.
Van’s story of the accident vindicated Bostil’s doubts. A new horse had appeared on the scene, wild and swift and grand, but Sage King was still unbeaten in a fair race. There would come a reckoning, Bostil grimly muttered. Who owned this Wildfire?
Holley might as well have read his mind. “Reckon this feller ridin’ up will take down the prize money,” remarked Holley, and he pointed to a man who rode a huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy’s pony.
“A-huh!” exclaimed Bostil. “A strange rider.”
“An’ here comes Lucy coaxin’ the stallion back,” added Holley.
“A wild stallion never clear broke!” ejaculated Cordts.
All the men looked and all had some remark of praise for Lucy and her mount.
Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. Never had he expected to live to see a wild stallion like this one, to say nothing of his daughter mounted on him, with the record of having put Sage King out of the race!
A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He pranced out there beyond the crowd of men and horses. He did not want to come closer. Yet he did not seem to fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparently exhausted, and she was patting him and caressing him. There were horses and Indians on each side of the race-track, and between these lines Lucy appeared reluctant to come.
Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move back to the slope, he cleared the way and then stood out in front alone.
“Ride up, now,” he called to Lucy.
It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear a spur and she had neither quirt nor whip. She turned Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every few steps, as Lucy touched him, he jumped with marvelous ease and swiftness.
Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded the winner before the applauding throng. And Bostil recorded in his mind that which he would never forget—a wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a giant of a horse, glistening red, with mane like dark-striped, wind-blown flame, all muscle, all grace, all power; a neck long and slender and arching to the small, savagely beautiful head; the jaws open, and the thin-skinned, pink-colored nostrils that proved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broad chest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, the symmetrical dark hoofs that rang on the little stones—all these marks so significant of speed and endurance. A stallion with a wonderful physical perfection that matched the savage, ruthless spirit of the desert killer of horses!
Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom Holley had called attention strode out of the crowd toward Wildfire.
Bostil’s gaze took in the splendid build of this lithe rider, the clean-cut face, the dark eye. This fellow had a shiny, coiled lasso in hand. He advanced toward Wildfire. The stallion snorted and plunged. If ever Bostil saw hate expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he seemed to be tractable to the control of the girl. Bostil swiftly grasped the strange
situation. Lucy had won the love of the savage stallion. That always had been the secret of her power. And she had hated Sage King because he alone had somehow taken a dislike to her. Horses were as queer as people, thought Bostil.
The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wildfire. When Wildfire plunged and reared up and up the rider leaped for the bridle and with an iron arm pulled the horse down. Wildfire tried again, almost lifting the rider, but a stinging cut from the lasso made him come to a stand. Plainly the rider held the mastery.
“Dad!” called Lucy, faintly.
Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wildfire. Lucy was as wan-faced as a flower by moonlight. Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear predominating. Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human reasserted itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. Her fear, her pitiful little smile, as if she dared not hope for her father’s approval yet could not help it, touched Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms. Lucy slid down into them.
“Lucy, girl, you’ve won the King’s race an’ double-crossed your poor old dad!”
“Oh, Dad, I never knew—I never dreamed Wildfire—would jump the King,” Lucy faltered. “I couldn’t hold him. He was terrible.… It made me sick.… Daddy, tell me Van wasn’t hurt—or the King!”
“The hoss’s all right an’ so’s Van,” replied Bostil. “Don’t cry, Lucy. It was a fool trick you pulled off, but you did it great. By Gad! You sure was ridin’ thet red devil.… An’ say, it’s all right with me!”
Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it. Bostil put her down and led her through the lines of admiring Indians and applauding riders, and left her with the women.
When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount Wildfire. It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in the air. When he came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up again he was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild beast, mad to throw the rider. Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by a horse. Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this stranger. Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts. The rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now appeared a part of him. He could not be dislodged. This was not a bucking mustang, but a fierce, powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight took place every time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort of thing riders loved. Most of them would not own a horse that would not pitch. Bostil presently decided, however, that in the case of this red stallion no rider in his right senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the extraordinary strength, activity, and ferocity of the stallion.