Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 23

  Late in August Uncle Eb and I took our Black Hawk stallion to the fairin Hillsborough and showed him for a prize. He was fit for the eye of aking when we had finished grooming him, that morning, and led him out,rearing in play, his eyes flashing from under his broad plume, so thatall might have a last look at him. His arched neck and slim barrelglowed like satin as the sunlight fell upon him. His black mane flew, heshook the ground with his hoofs playing at the halter's end. He hated aharness and once in it lost half his conceit. But he was vainest of allthings in Faraway when we drove off with him that morning.

  All roads led to Hillsborough fair time. Up and down the long hills wewent on a stiff jog passing lumber wagons with generations enough inthem to make a respectable genealogy, the old people in chairs; lightwagons that carried young men and their sweethearts, backswoodsmencoming out in ancient vehicles upon reeling, creaking wheels to get foodfor a year's reflection--all thickening the haze of the late summer withthe dust of the roads. And Hillsborough itself was black with people.The shouts of excited men, the neighing of horses, the bellowing ofcattle, the wailing of infants, the howling of vendors, the pressingcrowd, had begun to sow the seed of misery in the minds of thoseaccustomed only to the peaceful quietude of the farm. The staring eye,the palpitating heart, the aching head, were successive stages in thedoom of many. The fair had its floral hall carpeted with sawdust andredolent of cedar, its dairy house, its mechanics' hall sacred tofarming implements, its long sheds full of sheep and cattle, itsdining-hall, its temporary booths of rough lumber, its half-mile trackand grandstand. Here voices of beast and vendor mingled in a chorus ofcupidity and distress. In Floral Hall Sol Rollin was on exhibition. Hegave me a cold nod, his lips set for a tune as yet inaudible. He wassurveying sundry examples of rustic art that hung on the circularrailing of the gallery and trying to preserve a calm breast. He waslooking at Susan Baker's painted cow that hung near us.

  'Very descriptive,' he said when I pressed him for his notion of it.'Rod Baker's sister Susan made thet cow. Gits tew dollars an' fiftycents every fair time--wish I was dewin 's well.'

  'That's one of the most profitable cows in this country,' I said.

  'Looks a good deal like a new breed.'

  'Yes,' he answered soberly, then he set his lips, threw a sweepingglance into the gallery, and passed on.

  Susan Baker's cow was one of the permanent features of the county fair,and was indeed a curiosity not less remarkable than the sacred ox of MrBarnum.

  Here also I met a group of the pretty girls who had been my schoolmates.They surrounded me, chattering like magpies.

  'There's going to be a dance at our house tonight,' said one of them,'and you must come.'

  'I cannot, I must go home,' I said.

  'Of course!' said a red-cheeked saucy miss. 'The stuck-up thing! Hewouldn't go anywhere unless he could have his sister with him.'

  Then they went away laughing.

  I found Ab Thomas at the rifle range. He was whittling as he considereda challenge from Tip Taylor to shoot a match. He turned and 'hefted'the rifle, silently, and then he squinted over the barrel two or threetimes.

  'Dunno but what I'll try ye once,' he said presently, 'jes t' see.'

  Once started they grew red in their faces and shot themselves weary ina reckless contest of skill and endurance. A great hulking fellow, halfdrunk and a bit quarrelsome, came up, presently, and endeavoured to helpAb hold his rifle. The latter brushed him away and said nothing for amoment. But every time he tried to take aim the man jostled him.

  An looked up slowly and calmly, his eyebrows tilted for his aim, andsaid, 'Go off I tell ye.' Then he set himself and took aim again.

  'Le'me hold it,' said the man, reaching for the barrel. 'Shoot better ifI do the aimin'.' A laugh greeted this remark. Ab looked up again. Therewas a quick start in his great slouching figure.

  'Take yer hand off o' thet,' he said a little louder than before.

  The man, aching for more applause, grew more impertinent. Ab quietlyhanded the rifle to its owner. Then something happened suddenly. It wasso quickly over I am not quite sure of the order of business, but anyhowhe seized the intruder by the shoulders flinging him down so heavily itknocked the dust out of the grass.

  'A fight!' somebody shouted and men and boys came runing from all sides.We were locked in a pushing crowd before I could turn. The intruder laystunned a moment. Then he rose, bare headed, his back covered with dust,pushed his way out and ran.

  Ab turned quietly to the range.

  'Hedn't orter t' come an' try t' dew my aimin',' he said mildly, by wayof protest, 'I won't hev it.'

  Then he enquired about the score and calmly took aim again. The stallionshow came on that afternoon.

  'They can't never beat thet hoss,' Uncle Eb had said to me.

  ''Fraid they will,' I answered. 'They're better hitched for one thing.'

  'But they hain't got the ginger in 'em,' said he, 'er the git up 'n git.If we can show what's in him the Hawk'll beat 'em easy.'

  If we won I was to get the prize but I had small hope of winning. WhenI saw one after another prance out, in sparkling silver harness adornedwith rosettes of ribbon--light stepping, beautiful creatures all ofthem--I could see nothing but defeat for us. Indeed I could see we hadbeen too confident. I dreaded the moment when Uncle Eb should drive downwith Black Hawk in a plain leather harness, drawing a plainer buggy. Ihad planned to spend the prize money taking Hope to the harvest ball atRickard's, and I had worked hard to put the Hawk in good fettle. I beganto feel the bitterness of failure.

  'Black Hawk! Where is Black Hawk?' said one of the judges loudly.

  'Owned by David Brower o' Faraway,' said another looking at his card.

  Where indeed was Uncle Eb? I got up on the fence and looked all aboutme anxiously. Then I heard a great cheering up the track. Somebody wascoming down, at a rapid pace, riding a splendid moving animal, a kneerising to the nose at each powerful stride. His head and flying maneobscured the rider but I could see the end of a rope swinging in hishand. There was something familiar in the easy high stride of the horse.The cheers came on ahead of him like foam before a breaker. Upon myeyes! it was Black Hawk, with nothing but a plain rope halter on hishead, and Uncle Eb riding him.

  'G'lang there!' he shouted, swinging the halter stale to the shiningflank. 'G'lang there!' and he went by, like a flash, the tail of BlackHawk straight out behind him, its end feathering in the wind. It wasa splendid thing to see--that white-haired man, sitting erect on theflying animal, with only a rope halter in his hand. Every man about mewas yelling. I swung my hat, shouting myself hoarse. When Uncle Eb cameback the Hawk was walking quietly in a crowd of men and boys eager tofeel his silken sides. I crowded through and held the horse's nose whileUncle Eb got down.

  'Thought I wouldn't put no luther on him,' said Uncle Eb, 'God's gin''im a good 'nuff harness.'

  The judges came and looked him over.

  'Guess he'll win the prize all right,' said one of them.

  And he did. When we came home that evening every horse on the roadthought himself a trotter and went speeding to try his pace witheverything that came up beside him. And many a man of Faraway, that wepassed, sent up a shout of praise for the Black Hawk.

  But I was thinking of Hope and the dance at Rickard's. I had plenty ofmoney now and my next letter urged her to come home at once.