Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  “Would you?”

  “Don’t see why not. You’ll need to fix it with the boy up front so I can take him out of the stable.”

  “That’s easy.”

  “Then I’ll just wait until after dark and take him on across. Work him lightly tomorrow and come back over and tell you what I think. If it looks good, you want me to just leave him at my place?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t want anybody to even think of me and that horse in the same breath. You won’t have any trouble getting him back and forth across the river, will you?”

  He just gave me a look. “I live down here.”

  “Let’s go get a drink,” I said. “In a saloon. Maybe you can pick out Flood’s hired hands for me. Then I reckon I’ll have to buy supper.”

  “Seems right to me,” he said.

  * * *

  Wilson and I were eating lunch together at the hotel. He had come and fetched me out of my room and we’d gone down. We were eating roast beef, creamed corn, and stewed tomatoes. Young was drinking iced tea again, but I’d switched back to beer. The tea was fine but I didn’t reckon it was ever going to replace a cold beer. So far he hadn’t said a word about the black. I finally said casually, “I guess you ain’t had a chance to work that horse yet.”

  He was busy eating. “Worked him this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  He looked up at me. “I didn’t bring him back.”

  I said carefully, “What did you think?”

  He put down his knife and fork. “Well, he ain’t foundered. I just worked him light. I got hold of one of them light little military saddles the Mexican officers use in parades and such, and found me a good flat stretch of road about a mile and a half long. Got him warmed up and then tried him to see how he come off the mark. He starts real, real good. But then I just breezed him under a tight hold. He wanted to run. I’d say I worked him at least a total of two, three miles at about half to three-quarters speed. Horse can run.”

  “But it’s hard to tell, ain’t it, without having something to run him against?”

  “I ain’t got nothing to put up against him. He can gallop faster than my pony can run flat out.”

  “I thought all you robbers was supposed to ride such good stock.”

  “Told you I was out of the business.”

  “What do you think of my chances?”

  He picked up a piece of light bread and chewed at it while he thought. “Be hard to say until I can get him going a little harder. But you got to understand that Flood has got a real good horse. And I’m not talking about that long strawberry roan. Or the other one either.”

  “What makes you think he won’t run that stretched-out roan against me? He don’t know what I’m going to be up to.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Not for that kind of money. No, sir. He’ll run that shore enough horse of his. I’ll tell you how good that horse is. Flood named him Bank Money. And that’s what he’s been.”

  “So far.”

  Wilson nodded. “And that black is going to have to be a shore enough racehorse to beat him. Bank Money ain’t all Thoroughbred, but he’s damn close.”

  “Big horse?”

  “Middling. A bay. But hell, you ain’t even made a race yet. I think you ought to run Junior again tomorrow. Get Flood’s interest up. Let him see your roan again.”

  I looked sour. “At three quarters of a mile he’ll put that other horse in, that long strawberry. I ain’t anxious to give Mister Flood a thousand dollars.”

  “Why don’t I ride him? I’ll use that light saddle. Your horse might surprise you. If I can win it will make Flood hopping mad and that much more determined to beat you in a race. And I don’t think that long-runner horse of his is any better than yours. If Junior will take another thousand I’m going to bet it myself.”

  After lunch we rode out to the fairgrounds. As we entered the area around the track I said, “Tell me, do they keep Bank Money out here? I seen some stables at the back.”

  Wilson said, “Naw. Flood keeps him at his ranch. When he ain’t racing he stands at stud.”

  “So he ain’t been cut?”

  “That’s something I forgot to mention. Bank Money ain’t got many faults, but one of them is that he is kind of high-strung and excitable, especially if there’s a filly in heat within three miles. Then he’s hell for his jockey to hold. He’s also got his own ideas about how he wants to run, and I’ve seen him give his jockey all he could handle. But then next time he’s as docile as a twenty-year-old mare.”

  “Hmmmm,” I said.

  “When you planning on challenging Flood to the race?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and truly I didn’t. It appeared to me there was no profit in the situation I was in and I wasn’t looking for none. I was just looking to cut my losses and get out as fast as I could. Howard always said that because I was an officer in the Texas Militia, I always thought like a military general when it came to handling some of the little battles we’d been faced with through the years. If that was the case, then I was outflanked and outgunned and the ground I was holding was weak. My weakness was the ranch and my family. I wasn’t worried about myself at all. But if I made a getaway without settling up with Flood, it would just start all over again. I hated like sin to give in to the man in any way, but sometimes it was necessary to retreat until you found a position you could make a fight from.

  Wilson said, “We still need to find out about that black horse. I’d like to give him a good airing-out tomorrow morning and see how much he’s got, see where his bottom is.”

  I wished mightily for Ben and his knowledge of horseflesh, but I didn’t want to stir him into the pot. Besides, he was needed at the ranch in more ways than one.

  I said, “You see Borden?”

  Wilson pointed toward the track fence near the judges’ stand. “Yonder. Ain’t got on no red vest today. Just a white shirt. Bet he’s got on a bow tie.”

  “A bow tie?”

  Wilson nodded. “Yep. And sometimes he wears a little straw hat they call a boater. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Gets himself up like one of them barkers at the carnival show. Bet you supper he’s wearing a bow tie.”

  “Will Flood run Bank Money at the regular races the Fourth?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Horse is strictly a match-race pony. And then it’s got to be for mucho dinero. He don’t advertise that horse much. Likes to kind of spring him on the unsuspecting. All he ever states is that each man has got to run a horse that he has owned for some time when the match is made. In other words, you can’t go out and buy you a new horse just for that race.”

  We had reached Junior Borden by then. He heard us come up and turned away from the fence, looking up at us. He was indeed wearing a bow tie. I said to Wilson, “Looks like I owe you supper, Mister Young.”

  “Appears to be,” he said.

  Borden said, “What?”

  I said, “A private matter. You can tell your boss, Borden, that I am willing to run your horse tomorrow morning at ten. But that’s the Fourth. Can we run a match race then?”

  Borden went to nodding vigorously. “Oh, yes. Be aplenty of them in the morning. Regular races don’t start until one o’clock. Three quarters of a mile for a thousand dollars?”

  I nodded slowly. “Correct.”

  Wilson said, “I’ll take a thousand dollars, Junior. What odds you giving?”

  He frowned. “Hell, Mister Young, I don’t know if I can do that. Not for a thousand.”

  “Then why don’t you trot over on yore little ol’ legs and ask Mister Flood?”

  Borden gave him a look but there wasn’t much in it. “Mister Flood is not here. Besides, I’m arranging this match.”

  “Then take my bet. One thousand on Mister Williams’s horse.”

  Junior bit his lip. “Five hundred.”

  “You don’t sound very sure, Junior,” Wilson said. “Hell, ain’t you got no faith? Mister Williams is just running an old ranch horse against that
long-gaited runner of yours. I mean Mister Flood’s.”

  Junior said defensively, “What do you know about what horse we’re running? All right, by God, you got a bet. You just show up here with the cash in the morning. I’ll get the judge and the starter. Judge will hold the money. And no odds, even money.”

  Wilson said, “I’ll help you get the judge and the starter.”

  Junior said, “Ain’t no call for you to interfere.”

  Wilson said evenly, “I always interfere when my money is involved.”

  I said, “Speaking of your boss, tell him I’m ready to talk. Tell him I might have a proposition. Tell him to be here tomorrow and I’ll talk to him right after our race.”

  Borden said, “Hell, I ain’t no errand boy. Whyn’t you go out to his ranch an’ tell him yoreself?”

  Wilson laughed. “Junior, you don’t get word to Flood he’ll strangle you with that silly-looking tie you are a-wearing.”

  We rode away, leaving Borden with a sullen look on his face. Wilson said, “Junior don’t like folks to know he’s Flood’s pissant. He wants folks to think he’s a big man on his own. Except everybody knows.”

  We rode a little way down the fence and then dismounted to watch what was going on on the track. Some quarter-horse match races were in progress. We stood and watched as a couple of horses thundered by, running a comparatively short race of a little over three hundred yards. Several other horses were warming up on the backstretch, getting ready for their test. I said, “Flood will know immediately that the black is a Thoroughbred?”

  “Oh, yes,” Wilson said.

  “How much time you figure you need to get him ready?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ll know a hell of a lot more after tomorrow morning when I test him a little.”

  “I feel like I’m interfering with your holiday. That is, if you’re on holiday. Hate to see you have to keep running back and forth across the border.”

  He said, not taking his eyes off the track, “Well, hell, after all, I robbed your bank. Seems like the least I can do.”

  Another pair of horses were lining up in front of the starter right in front of us. They were running the whole straightaway. I figured it was a quarter-of-a-mile race. The gun went off and the horses went flying away, slinging little clods of track dirt in the air. Neither horse was being ridden by what you could have called a jockey, just a couple of cowboys in working saddles trying their luck against one another. I said, “Well, if you put it that way, I’m sorry wasn’t more money on hand.”

  “Yeah” he said, “was kind of a short split between the five of us.” He gave me a wink. “Course we had plans for a bank in Carrizo Springs as soon as matters settled down a little. So it tided us over.”

  We went back to the hotel after a time, and then ate supper and hunted up a poker game. Wasn’t a big game, but he and I, both without mentioning it, were careful not to get in a head-butting situation in a hand. I don’t think he or I wanted to test each other in any way, not even in a friendly game of poker. I had developed a friendliness and a respect for Wilson Young. Also, of course, a sense of gratitude for his help. I was of the opinion he regarded me in the same way. It must have been a lonely life for him, with the reputation he had, unable to make casual friends or come to trust easily. I suspected he had a very strict code of honor that did not allow him to take on any man that did not have some sort of chance against him. I felt that because that was my own code, and I recognized the signs in him. But I felt sorry for those who might be foolish enough to let his gentle manner and soft speech fool them into thinking he was a soft touch. Even a man with a code can be pushed too far.

  As was rapidly becoming the case with me and J.C. Flood.

  Wilson went back late that night and I went to bed. I figured I was going to be out a thousand dollars on the morrow as a result of the race, and I’d been just a little surprised at Young backing my play with a bet of his own. Maybe he knew more about my horse than I did. Or maybe he figured he could get more out of him. Hell, I didn’t know. But if we could win I figured it would sting Flood pretty severely, maybe severely enough to give me the advantage in a race for $32,000. But of course, that thinking was ahead of itself. We had to find out, first, how ready the black was and how fast he could run. And even then, we wouldn’t know anything much because we would not have had any measure to gauge him against.

  I had finished breakfast and was in my room when Wilson knocked on the door about nine o’clock. He said, “We better get moving, señor. We got a little horse race to run. Fireworks keep you awake last night?”

  “Hell, I thought they was fighting a war outside.” Shortly after midnight it had seemed like every drunk was firing his pistol into the air and every school kid was lighting a string of fireworks. It had gone on until I’d gone to sleep in spite of the noise. “I didn’t know they was so damn patriotic down here.”

  “Ain’t got nothing to do with that. Just a reason to make some noise.”

  We went down and I got my roan out of the livery stable. He was fit and rested. and a much older horse than he had been when he and I had left the ranch, a departure that now seemed like a year back. I came riding him out of the stable. Wilson joined me in the street. He had the little Mexican military parade saddle tied on behind his Western saddle. There wasn’t much to it that I could see. It was mainly a padded leather seat with no pommel or saddle horn or dish. The leathers were just straps that held shiny iron stirrups.

  I said, “I’d shore as hell not like to work cattle out of that thing.”

  “Be a long day. But it weighs about twenty pounds less than your saddle. And I weigh that much less than you do. I’m about one-seventy.”

  “That’s about right.”

  We rode down the main street of the town. Most of the businesses had closed for the day and most of them bore red, white, and blue bunting. You could still hear fireworks going off all around. Nearly everybody would be at the fairgrounds. There’d be picnicking and games and fireworks and a band concert, and then there was the fair, where they’d be showing everything from pickles to cattle to pigs to quilts. And in the afternoon, the horse racing. The people in Del Rio were mostly Mexican and there ain’t never been a people who take to a day of fiesta like the Mexican people. Some of them that would be celebrating the United States Declaration of Independence were Mexican citizens, but that didn’t matter. A celebration was a celebration no matter what the reason.

  We were about halfway to the fairgrounds before Wilson said anything about the black. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to ask. He said, “Horse is strong, got a lot of bottom. I calculate he was just about in top form when they shipped him off to the States and he got loose from that train. And what little time he spent standing around in that farmer’s catch pen didn’t seem to do him much harm. He’s had a week of good vittles and some work and he ain’t far from being ready. Roach that mane and trim up his tail and he’ll look like what he is, a Thoroughbred race horse.”

  “But how fast is he?”

  Wilson shrugged. “I don’t know. He takes off like a rocket and he feels fast as hell, but I ain’t got nothing to run against him that would tell us anything. And I don’t know how to time him even if I knew what time was good.” He gestured toward the roan. “Only thing I know is to run him against your colt.”

  I looked off in the distance. “Be too late by then,” I said. “If Flood is there I’m going to try and make the match. Hell, I got to get home. One way or the other.”

  We turned into the fairgrounds on the track side. On the other side, where they were having the actual fair, the place was plumb awash with folks. Still, it was crowded on the side of the racetrack where everybody got ready and where the grandstands were, even though it was a good spell until the race program was to begin. I could see a match race going on down the homestretch and, on the backstretch, horses trotting back and forth.

  We finally located Junior Borden. He was standing just be
hind the grandstand and in the shade of the judging stand talking to a couple of likely-looking gents that turned out to be two men on the racing committee. One was Mexican and the other looked like a tinhorn gambler, but Wilson spoke to them and then nodded to me.

  Borden said to me, “These gennelmen has agreed to judge the race and start it an’ hold the money. They agreeable to you?”

  “Fine,” I said. I dismounted.

  Borden said, jerking his thumb at the Mexican, “This here is Mister Rodriquez. He’s gonna judge the finish and hold the money. He’s got the last word. That square with you?”

  I looked over at Wilson. He was busy untying the parade saddle off the back of his own saddle, but he heard what was being said. He looked around and nodded, and I took a thousand dollars out of my pocket and handed it to Rodriquez. Borden did the same. Then Wilson came over and they went through the same rigamarole. Wilson had the light saddle over his arm. I turned and unsaddled my colt and Wilson put on the parade saddle.

  Borden said, alarmed, “Here, what’s this?”

  I said, “Looks like a saddle, Junior. What do you reckon it is?”

  “You didn’t say nothing about changing saddles!”

  About ten yards away I could see the hard-faced jockey standing with the long-backed strawberry roan. I said, “You didn’t say anything about changing horses either.”

  Borden looked at the judge, who reminded me of a cheap gambler, at least by the way he was dressed. The judge shrugged and said, “It’s hoss against hoss. Saddle ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

  Junior saw he wasn’t going to win that argument, and he and I got busy handing both judges five dollars each, which was their fee for services rendered. About that time Wilson stepped up on the colt. Borden caught him out of the corner of his eye. He whirled around. “Hey! What’s this?”

  Wilson was riding the colt off a few yards, getting the feel of him. The colt was dancing around and feeling good. He acted like he knew he was about to get in another horse race and was anxious to get on with the matter at hand. He was beginning to impress me as a mighty quick-learning colt.