The track was a thorn in my side, and I’m sorry that my brother was so devoted to it. But nobody can be his brother’s keeper in all things. Nor could anyone foresee what terrible consequences would result when Sam caught the contagion in earnest.
That happened the day he returned from a freighting trip to Sherman and walked into my office at the courthouse and stood trembling before me. “Dad!” he said. “The horse in my dream is tied outside!”
The beast that had galloped through Sam’s sleep was a little sorrel mare, about two years old and fifteen hands high. She had only one marking, a white stocking leg, the left hind one. She was a fine animal, but I saw nothing about her that should inspire such ecstasy in a man. I’ve never seen an expression on another face to compare with what I saw on Sam’s. Moses must have looked like that when he beheld the burning bush, and the Emmaus pilgrims when the risen Christ revealed himself to them. It’s blasphemous, I suppose, to compare the effect of a mere horse on a man to revelations of God, but no other comparison will do. Sam trembled as he stood there staring at that animal, and his face shone with a light that I can only call holy. Finally he stepped to the mare as if in a trance and extended his hand, and the mare nuzzled his palm.
“How do you know it’s the one in your dream?” I asked.
“I just know.”
“That mare belongs to Mose Taylor. I’ve seen her many times.”
“I never seen her but in my dream,” he said. “I know she’s the one. I must have her.”
“I doubt Mose will sell.”
“He’ll sell. God wants me to have her.”
That’s the only time I ever heard Sam speak the Lord’s name outside our evening Bible readings, except in curses. His admission that God lives and works in our lives surprised me, and I was moved by it. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll help you find him.”
Mose Taylor was a farmer. He lived in the eastern part of the county, off the McKinney road, and didn’t come to Denton often. But I knew him and, as I said, I had seen the mare before. Mose was standing at the bar in the Wheeler Saloon when I introduced him to Sam.
Sam said, “I want to buy your mare.”
Mose laughed. “So do a lot of people.”
“I don’t want to haggle. How much will you take for her?”
Mose regarded Sam with some surprise. “Six hundred dollars,” he said. His eyes roved over Sam, over his shaggy black hair, his unshaven face, his patched pantaloons and scuffed boots. “Not a penny less.”
He might as well have demanded a million. I knew that, and I knew that Mose knew that. It was a ridiculous price for any horse in Denton County. But Sam didn’t bat an eye. “Give me time to raise the money, and you’ve got a deal,” he said. “Will you shake on that?”
Mose didn’t want to sell the mare. He glanced at me, but I just gave a slight shrug. Then Mose extended his hand. “The shake is good for a week,” he said. “After that there’s no deal. Dad is our witness.”
Sam shook his hand and walked out without another word. I followed him. “You don’t have anywhere near six hundred dollars,” I said.
“No.”
“How much do you have?” “About two hundred.”
“You’re crazy. Where are you going to raise four hundred dollars in a week?”
Sam gave me a tight little smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll get it.”
He did, too. He got it from Army. The next Sunday, they rode out of town together in the morning and returned near sundown, Sam astride the mare and leading his buckskin. He was grinning bigger than I’d ever seen him. “Dad, meet Jenny,” he said. “The fastest horse in Texas.”
Army was grinning, too. He said, “There’s many a dollar in Jenny.”
Then I knew what their intention was, and I was troubled.
Army owned two-thirds of Jenny, but she really belonged to Sam. I gave permission to stable her in my barn, and every day when he finished his work Sam went straight there and put a hackamore over her head and leapt upon her bareback and rode out to the racetrack. There he galloped her up and down the harrowed stretch until darkness brought him home. Sometimes he wouldn’t arrive until after supper, and Mrs. Egan complained of that, but Sam always refused to let her warm it for him. She complained of his no longer milking the cow or gathering the eggs, too, but I reminded her that those were no part of the duties for which I was paying him. Nor was he obligated to carry the children piggyback or attend the Bible readings, which he no longer did. He tended the animals and drove my wagons with the same care and profit as before, and that was all I had a right to ask of him.
We were hurt by his withdrawal from our family circle, though. Even I, who as a horseman understood his enthusiasm for his new possession, couldn’t help being offended by the indifference he displayed toward us, since we had gone the extra mile to befriend him.
I won’t say I was angry. I was disappointed. Yes. And my disappointment wasn’t eased by his constant company with the least worthy of his companions, the derelict husband and freighter, Henry Underwood. That ne’er-do-well now walked in Sam’s shadow like a cur, and he rode out to the track every day, too. I mentioned to Sam one night that I didn’t like the company he was keeping.
“What’s wrong with Henry, Dad?” he asked.
“He’s no good.”
“Aw, there ain’t nothing wrong with Henry. He’s just helping me train Jenny.”
“Yes, when he should be at home with his wife.”
“His wife’s a bitch, Dad. There ain’t nothing wrong with Henry.”
I had never heard Sam refer to a woman in that way, and I bit my tongue to hold back the reply I wanted to make. It would serve no purpose, and I might wind up losing my most valuable hand. So I said nothing. But I didn’t like Sam’s new cockiness, and I didn’t like his mare for inspiring it, and I didn’t like Army’s involvement with either of them. That part of it came to a head on the day the mare won her first race.
I heard Sam and Army long before they reached the house. They were shouting and singing in the night, and I knew they were drunk. I stood at the gate, watching for them to come up the lane. They were on foot, weaving hither and yon, leading their three horses. I sent Mrs. Egan and the children into the house and told them to shut the door. I stood waiting, and when they reached the house Army handed his reins to Sam and staggered up to me. He grinned in a silly way and took off his hat and handed it to me. “Hold it with both hands, brother,” he said. Then he stuck his hands into his pockets and dropped several silver dollars into the hat. He rummaged in other pockets and found more and dropped them in, too. “Wooo!” he hollered.
“Quiet!” I said. “The children will hear you.”
He grinned in the same stupid way and tipped his absent hat and took the reins from Sam, who stepped up and dropped more money into the hat. He said, “Old Army told you there were lots of dollars in that Jenny. That’s how many she throwed up for us today.”
But it wasn’t Jenny who had “throwed up.” Army’s shirt and vest were covered with vomit, and his sour odor filled the air between us. Sam noticed my disgust. “Old Army taken sick and fell off his horse,” he said. “That’s why we was walking.”
I gave the hat and its heavy contents to Sam and gathered the reins from Army’s hand. “I’ll help Army with the horses,” I said.
“Army, he’s too drunk…”
“I want to talk to my brother in private,” I said. “Don’t go inside until you’re sober.” I put my arm around Army’s shoulders and half led, half carried him toward the barn, pulling the horses behind. Army mumbled, and leaned heavily against me, and it was hard to keep my balance in the darkness. But I made it to the barn and managed to prop Army against the wall. I unlatched the door and lit the lantern and led the horses inside and unsaddled them. While I was currying Jenny I called out, “How much will you take for your part of this mare, brother?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” he called back. Then he giggled to himself, and I didn�
��t speak to him again until I had put the animals up and fed and watered them.
When I closed the door Army was sitting against the barn. His chin lay on his chest. He appeared to be asleep, but he raised his head when I nudged him with my toe, and I said, “I’ll give you four hundred dollars in the morning, brother. Take it or be damned.”
He frowned, trying to focus on me, but said nothing. “Our dead mother demands it,” I said. “She would weep to see you now.”
Army wept. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t. “Sleep in the barn,” I said. “I don’t want you in my house.” Then I left him.
Sam was slouched on the porch still, but seemed fairly sober. Either he hadn’t drunk as much as Army or he held it better. Army’s hat was in his lap, and he was counting the silver into two neat stacks. “So you won,” I said.
“Yeah. Where’s Army?”
“Asleep.”
“I couldn’t stop him, Dad.”
I shrugged. “He’s a grown man. He’s responsible for himself. But I’m buying his part of the mare.”
Sam smiled and offered his hand. “Good,” he said. “Shake, pard.”
“No, I won’t be your partner. The four hundred is a loan. The mare is all yours.”
Sam gazed thoughtfully at the stacks of dollars. “It’ll take a while to pay back four hundred of those.”
“Take as long as you need. I should have loaned you the money in the first place. It’s not good for me or my family to be mixed up in horse racing.”
“I’m sorry about Army, Dad.”
“It’s not your fault. Sam, do you have to race her?”
“Yeah. If I do it right, she’ll be my ticket to big things.”
“What things, Sam?”
He waved at the stacks of dollars. “Money’s what makes us men, ain’t it, Dad? Without it, nobody can be much more than a nigger. You’ve treated me good, and now I’m your head nigger. But I’m still a nigger. I’ve been a nigger all my life. But I come to Texas to stop being a nigger, and Jenny’s going to help me do that.”
I laid my hand on his knee. “You’re looking for a short cut where there isn’t any,” I said, “but that’s none of my business. Let’s go inside.”
“No, I’ll stay with Army,” he said.
That happened in the fall of ‘74, and I’m proud to say that Army never went to the track again. But the races became the most important thing in Sam’s life. He associated himself with a skinny nigger called Dick, who became his jockey, and a remarkable one. He rode Jenny without saddle or bridle. He used only a hackamore, and slathered the mare’s back and sides with molasses before each race. He stuck to her like a fly, and seemed to communicate with her in a mysterious way that no one, except maybe Sam, understood. It wasn’t long before Dick and Jenny had beaten every fast horse in Denton County and several challengers from other parts.
By the spring of ‘75 Jenny had become known far and wide as The Denton Mare, and Dick’s unorthodox way of riding her gave rise to tall tales about the animal’s speed and the human fly who urged her to her victories. As the mare’s owner, Sam was regarded as something of a gentleman, and became one of the better-known men in Denton County. Sometimes his winnings were considerable, and even though he presented generous shares of them to the darky and Henry Underwood, who now bragged of being Jenny’s manager, Sam always made at least a small payment on the loan.
The rest he squandered, like the Prodigal Son in the far country. When the sporting crowd rode into town from the track on Sunday evenings, he made the rounds of all the saloons, usually with Dick and Henry in his train, and bought drinks for all present. When he left one saloon to move to another, many of the drinkers would follow, in hope of picking up another free drink at the next stop. Sam never turned them down, so he became a popular man. But he was popular with trash. Henry Underwood and the darky were pet dog and monkey to him, and most of his crowd were worse. Hard drinkers, gamblers, thieves and such, men who lived by guile and wit. The boy Frank Jackson and Jim Murphy were the only decent people in his company.
Inevitably there came the day when the owners of other horses and those who bet on the losers ceased to wonder at the speed and consistency of The Denton Mare and began to suspect that she was helped along by some clandestine means. The quarrels began with a mound of dirt in The Denton Mare’s starting chute. Since our racetrack has no turns, a horse’s place in the chutes gives it no advantage or handicap, you see, as it would on an oval track. But some horsemen held a superstitious affection for one chute or another, and out of courtesy their competitors usually didn’t object to their always using their favorites. Sam was one who always used the same chute, and he somehow got the idea that a downhill start would give his mare an advantage over the other horses. So he and Dick built a mound of dirt, about three feet high, in her chute, so Jenny’s first stride or two would be downhill.
I don’t know whether the mound gave the mare an advantage or not, but the judges allowed it, and the owners of rival horses found it a convenient excuse for their losses. Cries of foul became a part of the regular Sunday doings at the track, and the quarrels and bickerings that started there continued into the carousing in town and became more bitter and dangerous with every glass of whiskey consumed.
I told Sam that his dirt mound was playing hob with my Sunday nights, and he gave his rivals a headstart of a length or two thereafter. But no pride is larger or more easily injured than that of the owner of a fast horse, and as The Denton Mare continued undefeated the alibis of the losers’ backers became more and more farfetched until one finally accused Sam of outright crime.
The beaten horse was from out of town, and his owner didn’t know how well Sam was liked in Denton. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have made such a foolish accusation, especially in the Parlor Saloon. Maybe the man knew Sam was in the place at the time, maybe he didn’t. Anyway, the stranger was standing at the bar, and the man next to him, a staunch Bass supporter, started needling him about the drubbing his horse had taken from The Denton Mare. And he replied: “Well, he would have done better if he hadn’t been poisoned before the race.”
Sam was sitting at a table nearby and heard him. He got up and confronted the man. “Who do you think poisoned your horse?” he asked.
The fool persisted. “Somebody who was afraid of a fair race,” he said.
Sam struck him hard in the face. The man reeled back against the bar, then reached under his coat and came up with a gun. But Jim Murphy, who was standing behind the bar, grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back very hard. The man screamed and dropped the gun, and somebody kicked it out of reach. If Jim hadn’t been where he was, Sam might have been killed, for he wasn’t armed, and the man had the drop on him anyway. As I said, Jim Murphy was a handy man around a saloon.
The man could have filed a complaint against Sam for striking the first blow, I guess, but no Denton County jury would have convicted him. Maybe he figured as much. He left town that night and never raced in Denton again.
That incident was the end for Sam and me, though. I had worried all along that Sam’s involvement with racing and the racing crowd held a potential for my political disgrace. That’s why I forced Army to end his association with Sam and The Denton Mare. No decent man can consort with thieves and gamblers indefinitely without sharing their taint, and Army’s drunkenness after that first race showed me he didn’t have the will to resist even the grossest temptations. Indeed, his stupor convinced me that his slide to hell was greased, and his upright behavior since that drunken night proves I did right in invoking our dead mother’s name and asserting my authority as elder brother.
Of course I didn’t hold that kind of sway over Sam. He was in my hire and lived in my house, and The Denton Mare was stabled in my barn, but I knew those facts didn’t give me the right to dictate to a man who was free, white and over twenty-one and wasn’t my kin.
However, the incident in the Parlor convinced me that Sam was in for trouble, so
long as The Denton Mare beat all comers. I knew it was only a matter of time until Sam would be a party to some violence or other, and whether he was the victor or the vanquished, my impartiality as an officer would be put in jeopardy. From any point of view racing and its attendant vices are bad, and my association with them, even in so remote a way as through my hired hand, could ruin what good I might do for peace in Denton County, not to mention any political aspirations I might have now that the carpetbaggers were losing their power in Austin. So I called Sam into my office and told him he would have to give up either his mare or his job.
I might as well have clubbed him between the eyes. He groped to a chair and sat down. Those Indian eyes stared so long at me that I became nervous, which isn’t characteristic of me, and began shifting in my chair.
“Do you really mean that, Dad?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, and I began explaining my reasons, but he interrupted me.
“You know I can’t give up Jenny,” he said. “Remember my dream?”
“That dream means nothing,” I said. “Jenny’s a fine animal, but she’s not that special.”
“Then why ain’t nobody beat her?”
“There seem to be several opinions about that,” I said. Sam glared and started to rise, but I waved him down. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not even dropping any hints. I just can’t afford the sort of thing that happened last night. I can’t have it associated with me in any way. Don’t you understand that?”
“Well, I can’t give up Jenny.”
“Stop racing her then.”
Sam smiled. “What’s the good of owning a race horse if you don’t race her?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s your choice. Stop racing or stop working for me.”
He was silent for some time, just sitting there twisting the brim of his hat in his hands, never taking his eyes from mine. Then he expelled his breath in a kind of hopeless sigh and said, “It ain’t much of a choice, Dad. I’ll be out of your house by tonight.”
Sam Bass Page 3
