by Max Brand
The unblushing old liar turned with a smile and a wave toward his new- found patron.
Lee Garrison saddled by a mechanical effort and led Moonshine out through the gate and swung onto his back. After that the crowd that had started for Sheep Valley carried them along. Passing the hotel, Lee looked up and saw Alice at the window with the sun on her face. She pointed to herself and then back to him, and at last brandished a handful of greenbacks — sign language to say she had weighed heavily on his good fortune. Then she hung out the window, kissing her hand to him.
How could she smile on him today, he wondered vaguely, when last night was such a short distance behind them? But she and the yellowing sunshine and the faces it glinted upon and the rolling of voices were dreamy things that he saw as a child sees when it is tired. So he and his followers came out below the town and into the open where the hills pushed back. To the right Crooked Creek hummed and talked to one side and twisted its muddy waters down the slope. But the drift of people — and everyone from the mines had gathered before them or was hastening now from the rear — set in toward a flat tableland of sandy ground, the partially filled floor of the valley from which the river had disappeared long centuries before. But it wound back now as a river valley will, the white sand turning to brown and to blue in the distance where the valley disappeared. The populace of Crooked Creek had bunched at the mouth of the plain in the greater part, for the start and the finish could be best seen from there.
But others, willing to miss the two most exciting instants for the sake of seeing a greater portion of the race from a good angle, had spread thin lines that, with many a gap, roughly stretched the four-mile loop of the course, and their forms dwindled in the distance, at the far end more obscured by a haze of dust a wind of gathering force blew up the valley.
So much Lee saw before his attention focused on Laughter. She was full sixteen-three, and the more exaggerated in apparent height by the size of the boy in the saddle. There was no need of Chandler, standing at the head of the brown mare, to identify it. There could not be two of that kind. This was the invincible Laughter, and what a heart-stopping beauty as she danced and tossed her head, played with the bit, shrank back and winced to the side, and then pawed a cloud of dust into the air, jerking her nervous head about to watch the dust whipped into nothingness by the wind.
No wonder Harry had wagered his last dollar on her, for she was framed and molded to one thing only — speed. She pranced about and faced Lee. It was a knife-edge that she presented to the wind of her gallop. There was lung space enough where the girths ran, but her chest was not so broad as to interfere with the long, elastic sweep of the shoulders. Her neck was straight as a string, and her head on the eye of it was snaky thin. How different from the haughty and arched crest of the stallion. Now Harry loosed her head and off she went, going out into a long, rolling gallop. Lee Garrison watched her shoot past the watchers.
They gave her an excited shout of admiration as her diminutive rider brought her up and turned her back — she was clumsy and sprawling in that turn, Lee thought. Then he saw the face of the boy who was exercising her.
It was Buddy Slocum.
Those who had gathered in wait saw the gray champion coming, and they raised a cheer that showed in a thrice where their hearts lay. The horse they valued truly was one they knew could answer the test of the desert and mountain and fierce labor day by day under a withering sun that would kill Laughter between sunrise and sunset. There were cowpunchers, also, who might gasp in admiration at the enormous bounds of the mare, but who, thinking of the short stops, the twists and turnings of the roundup, the foot-handiness a horse must have to be worth his salt, shook their heads when they saw the tall black sprawling as she turned. For them, and for all who had ridden the grisly trail from sea-level desert to timber-line snow, Moonshine was the horse. A full hand shorter than Laughter, he had twice her strength in his sturdy quarters and in the rubbery cords of muscle that slipped and bunched along his shoulders. That gaunt belly of hers would tuck up to famine leanness in a day or two, and the greyhound back would buckle under a crushing burden, whereas Moonshine with a fine long line below that promised speed enough had the shortness above that meant strength. He would gallop all day with a quarter of a thousand pounds.
The confidence of the stallion’s supporters grew. They shouted affectionate encouragement to him. A reckless miner ventured too close, and the heels of the stallion flashed and hit the hand the man threw up to shield his face. He fell flat on his back and rolled to safety in a roar of applause. In the eyes of that crowd, Moonshine could do no harm. They blamed him no more than they would have blamed a captive eagle. No matter where their money lay, he was champion of their heart of hearts.
“Start the race,” said old Billy Sidney feverishly. “It’s ten minutes to five already, and Moonshine is running a mile every minute you wait.”
Behind the fence of the corral Moonshine had endured the nearness of men well enough, for that fence was a symbol that none could approach him, saving the master. But here in the open there could be seen nothing between him and their hands, which moved with fire, and their mouths, which puffed forth smoke like the nostrils of a hungry bear on a frosty morning. Moreover, their nearness made his heart go out suddenly to the freedom of the wide sands before him. As Lee swung down to the ground, he crowded closer against the back of the master, keeping his head high, with his upper lip thrust out stiffly, and his frightened eyes glittering. He shrank and trembled at the raising of every hand, the sound of every voice. Compared with this horror of men that set the gray dripping with perspiration, the nervous eagerness of the mare was statuesque calm.
Lee turned from a glance at his horse to Harry Chandler. Between the moment the bet was laid and five o’clock, Harry had spent the equivalent of two sleepless nights. He had the same battered look, and the eyes he lowered toward his cigarette were circled with purple.
“With Slocum in the saddle,” said someone, “Laughter looks good enough to beat the wind, but she’ll size up a lot different when you fit into the stirrups, Chandler. That’s what we’re counting on.”
“You are?” asked Harry, and, glancing around the circle at the nodding heads, he exclaimed with a vicious pleasure: “Who said that the owners were to ride? Was that laid down in the conditions? No! Buddy Slocum rides Laughter today.”
XXVI. THE RACE
NEVER DID ORATOR, pausing in declamation to receive applause, fall into an attitude more carefully studied than that of the ex-jockey. Before the surprising announcement of Harry had brought attention to quick focus on his champion, little Buddy Slocum had stiffened in the saddle, and now he sat with his arms folded and his chin high and the long visor of his hat shadowing his face down to the joyous grin. Thousands of dollars had been wagered on Moonshine. Now in a breath, hope was snatched from the backers of the stallion. The excitement that had frothed and bubbled in Crooked Creek for half a day expired in a murmured groan from half the crowd and a buzz of contented comment from the rest. Tricks were not popular, nevertheless, and this underhand maneuver brought solemn glances in the direction of Harry.
As for Lee Garrison, the sight of Slocum in the saddle meant that there would be excuse for the defeat of Moonshine. The honor of the stallion would be saved. But, oh, to mate this treacherous move on the part of Harry Chandler by a mighty effort of his own — by a ride that would fairly lift the gray horse over the ground! Yet his hands were chained.
There was now a frantic clamor from those who had bet on Moonshine and now wished to change and cover their money. In ten seconds there were odds of three to one being freely offered on Laughter, and no Moonshine money in sight. The whole crowd was in a hubbub. Harry Chandler defended himself as well as he could.
“There are plenty of other lightweights,” he said. “I don’t care who put you up, Garrison, damned if I do! There’s Charlie Morton’s kid. He doesn’t weigh over a hundred and twenty pounds, if he’s an ounce. Get him!”
There was no need for Lee to answer. A dozen stern voices told Harry what he must already know — that Lee Garrison was the only man whose life was worth a penny on the back of the mustang. That murmur brought dark blood into the cheeks of Chandler. He had lived so long in the public eye and with public applause that this sound was poison in his ear, and his impulsive start told Lee that the big man was on the verge of taking the saddle himself. But he checked that impulse. There was too much at stake.
“All right,” called Billy Sidney, “if everything’s settled, let’s start the race. Moonshine is fair wearing himself out. He ain’t used to crowds like this, Chandler.”
Harry looked again at the sweat-darkened body of the gray and set his jaw. He slipped his watch into his open palm.
“The race was set for five o’clock,” he announced, “and it’ll be run off at that time — no sooner! If your horse can’t stand a crowd, you should have kept him away from it.”
It was such bad sportsmanship that the men kept quiet in wonder. There was only one sharp, faint exclamation, and Chandler turned to confront Sally McGuire. The women of Crooked Creek had come in their gayest finery, flower- like in the crowd of miners. How and why they should have brought such clothes into the mountains, no one saving another woman could tell.
Sally McGuire was as drab as any breaker of rock in her short skirt and mannish blouse, but the colors of flowers, indeed, were in her face.
“Shame!” she had cried. “Shame!”
“It’s the rules of the race!” exclaimed Harry. “Besides, why shouldn’t I take advantage, if I can? There’s too much up on this race. Good heavens, Sally, you know what—” He checked himself, for she was looking at him in startled amazement.
She’s true blue, breathed Lee to himself. She’s as square as they come. And maybe — pray to heaven — she’ll learn to look through Harry today. Maybe this race’ll show her. Can’t anybody see what he is? Just a spoiled kid grown into a man.
Harry Chandler deliberately turned his back on her, bracing his feet wide apart as though prepared to go counter to the opinion of the entire world. It was not a pretty exhibition, and old Gus Tree, removing his hat and polishing his bald head with a purple silk handkerchief, communicated that fact to Harry with his accustomed bluntness.
“I’ve bet on your hoss, Chandler,” he said, “but it sure won’t give me no satisfaction, if I win.”
Harry glowered in the direction of the speaker, but, before he could directly answer, Gus was calling to men whom he spotted in the crowd: “Hey, Jerry, bets off if you want!”
“I sure do, Gus. I wasn’t figuring on anything like this.”
“Hello, Joe — we’ll call our bet quits, too.”
That fearless denunciation brought up the silenced chorus, and the others began to say what they thought, although it was by no means all of a piece with the speech of Gus Tree. There was too much money wagered on the black mare, and, although a few imitated the generous example of the barber, the greater majority were loud on defense of the bets they had laid.
It was then that Lee called Billy Sidney to him. “Start betting in my name,” he said. “They’ll take your bets. Keep going until you’ve got down fifteen thousand on Moonshine.”
“Are you plumb crazy?” groaned poor Billy.
“Do what I tell you. I have a reason!” And a good reason it was, for, when Moonshine was beaten, he was resolved that his wallet should be empty.
Across the trembling withers of the stallion Lee found Sally McGuire watching him with wonder, with doubt and with sympathy. He took off his sombrero and smiled at her. That act of grace made her crimson to the eyes.
In another moment he saw that the sheriff, watch in hand, had taken his post at one side of the starting line, which had been made by the simple expedient of dragging a heel through the sand. The mare danced up to her place, and Lee, swinging into the saddle, sent Moonshine gliding after. Side by side, the dancing mare and the crouching gray — the contrasts of height and build were more apparent than ever. Despite his diminutive build, Buddy Slocum’s eyes were above the level of Lee’s. And big Harry Chandler, at the side of his jockey, tucking in the straps of his shortened stirrups, was commanding eagerly: “Send her out right at the start, Buddy. You hear?”
“Sure,” said Buddy, “I’ll run the gray sick in the first quarter, and after that we’ll walk in any way we feel like coming. You leave it to me, boss. I want his blood.”
Lee Garrison leaned over and ran his fingertips down the wet neck of Moonshine. How cruelly unfair it was that the king of the wild horses should be thus tricked into defeat! And by this long-legged racer, unmeant for real use!
Here the voice of the sheriff reached him, a voice pitched high to cut through the rising moan of the wind. “You head down for them black rocks, three of ’em all bunched together. You circle around them and come back here. Now get your horses on the line. I ain’t going to get you prepared. I’m just going to shoot off my gun, and that’s a sign for you to let ’er go!”
Deftly little Buddy Slocum, pitched well forward and high above the saddle, with his hands stretched out on the reins, gathered the mare about him, and by the very touch of his fingers seemed to tell her what he expected her to do. His lean face wrinkled in a smile of expectancy for the wind of the gallop, and he rolled the whites of his eyes at Lee with venomous satisfaction.
“You ain’t shooting craps now, Garrison! Talking to the dice ain’t going to help you. You’re going to eat dust, cap — you’re going to eat my dust. Steady, lady! Easy, girl!”
By a miracle of control he was keeping the hind feet of the black bunched well forward under her, ready for the leap.
“Keep quiet, folks, will you?” requested the sheriff.
Mortal silence spread among the spectators, and no sooner was it established than the gun exploded and sent a mighty Forty-Five caliber into the sand.
That noise, like a thrust of spurs, sent both horses away from the mark, but in a far different manner. Long trained for a sprinting start, Laughter, with quarters sinking as she dug in her heels, shot away with great bounds, then steadied into a long-sweeping gallop, but Moonshine, away like a ball bouncing off a stone, no sooner felt his head given him than he slackened his pace abruptly, tossed up his head, and made sure that the crowd was not pouring in pursuit. The slap of Lee’s hand against his flank and the call of the master at his ear thrust him away again at a racing gait, but the momentary faltering had given the black a vital advantage.
A straight line from head to the tip of her scanty tail, she flew into the lead, with even her ears flattened as though the wind of her going were too great to prick them against it. Low along her neck crouched Buddy Slocum, so glued to her that she cut the wind for her rider as well as herself. Moonshine, straightened out for his full effort, seemed going twice as fast, but ever that long, bounding stride floated the mare farther and farther away. The clamor was all from the supporters of Laughter. From the backers of Moonshine came only one deep shout of dismay. And the faces past which Lee was driving were blank with incredulity.
His own heart was sinking like a stone. How futile the stretch and stride of the gray compared with that reaching gait of Laughter! Would she canter across the finish line, eight or nine minutes later, with Moonshine a quarter of a mile behind? The shame of it made him weak.
Meantime Moonshine, unurged, had caught the spirit of the thing. No doubt, when he led a herd, some fleet-footed horse had often challenged with speed against speed. Now, as sail after sail is thrown to the wind and the ship gathers headway, so in the deep of his heart the gray was finding strength and greater strength to overtake the flying mare. By jerks his rate increased. Partly for that reason he began to keep even with the pace of Laughter, but there was a greater cause. Buddy Slocum had looked back and, the moment he saw the gap between him and the gray, began to tug at the reins and sit down in the saddle. No doubts remained in the jockey’s heart as to the issue of the
race. No doubts were in the minds of the gloomy men along the course. No doubts were with Lee Garrison. The breeze was quickening to a gale. The air was a rosy haze as the dust increased. If only the blast would grow to the dark of a sandstorm and thus mercifully veil the defeat.
But now, as Moonshine drifted to within three lengths of the mare, Buddy Slocum twisted around and shouted: “I’m going to make it look like a race. You can thank me, Garrison!”
His woman-sharp laughter flew back. Lee gritted his teeth and bent lower. Moonshine was flying at the very top of his speed, but Laughter held him even with consummate ease despite a sharp pull. Wear her down? They had covered the first mile of the course, and she was fresh as a daisy, wild for the running.
Half a mile away were the three black rocks. Straight as a string ran the stallion, and Lee knew that he could maintain that gait for miles and miles, unfaltering. But there would be no such demand as that. The run was nearly half covered, and Laughter was fighting for her head!
Now they were at the rocks. Her jockey took her wide, but generous as the loop was on which he guided her, the long-legged mare lost headway and broke her gait, while Moonshine, darting up on the inside, doubled around the rocks like a jackrabbit. He faced the wind a length in the lead. And what a wind it was! Even going before it, Lee had felt it fanning his back. When they faced it, it struck them heavily. Compressed in Sheep Valley like water narrowing in a flume, the breeze had strengthened to a gale, and now the speed of a running horse was added to it.
Lee Garrison set his teeth in grim satisfaction as Moonshine shook his head at the blast, then pricked his ears. But the spindle-legged mare, designed by generations of careful breeding for speed on a track or over smooth meadows — how would she stand the test?