by Max Brand
One by one Sam hired or tempted famous riders to back his horse. The results were usually disastrous. Sometimes it was merely a broken arm or leg; sometimes it was much worse. Sometimes, to be sure, a lucky fellow got off with merely a stunning fall. But the great danger from Jerico lay not in the fall, but in what was apt to happen afterward—for Jerico would whirl on the fallen man like a tiger and do his best with teeth and hoofs to end his life. Sooner or later, of course, he would succeed and kill his rider—and then it would be necessary to kill Jerico. In fact, why Sam Jordan allowed the beast to live was more than anyone could tell. Yet he professed a great affection for Jerico, and the mustang continued to live on the fat of the land.
Of late, an ugly rumor had sprung up to the effect that Sam Jordan, crippled for life and in constant torment, had come to hate the world, and he kept Jerico merely for the pleasure of seeing the great horse do to others as he had already done to Sam Jordan. But the whisper was so ugly that it was not generally believed. Indeed, it seemed that Bud Castor, the last hero to attempt the subjugation of Jerico, had almost succeeded. The horse had even begun to evince signs of affection for his rider and had never been known to buck his hardest when Bud was in the saddle. Today, however, had ended the reign of Bud Castor in a horrible manner. Jerico was once more free, and the thought of entering him in the race, which was to end the festivities of the rodeo, had become a complete illusion and a dream.
Something of all this went through the mind of Jim Orchard, as he watched Sam drag his body across the veranda. He picked up a chair and met the cripple halfway with it and forced him to sit down. Sam accepted it with a grunt. Lowering himself cautiously into it, he remained speechless for a moment, leaning on his crutches, with his eyes closed and his face covered with perspiration. The agony of moving that deformed body on the crutches would have brought groans from the most stoical, but after a while Sam recovered his self-possession and actually looked up to Jim with a smile. They were unpleasant things to see, those smiles of Jordan’s. Still he did not speak until his breathing became regular and easy, and Jim Orchard, looking down at the other in horror and pity, did not offer to begin the talk.
“So you’re back, Jim?” began the cripple.
“You see me. Back from the mines, Sam.”
“And what luck?”
“My usual luck.”
“That’s been pretty bad, lately. Eh?”
“Worst in the world.”
“Hmm.”
Jordan changed the conversation suddenly. “Did you ever see Jerico run?”
“Never.”
“Don’t know how fast he is?”
“Sure. I have an idea. I’ve heard them tell how they ran him for a whole season with relays of fresh horses and never could get nearer than the smell of his dust. He used to just loaf along and play with the fastest horseflesh they could bring out.”
“Play with ’em … that’s it.” Sam chuckled. “He’s a playful horse, is Jerico … playful all the way through, he is.”
The thought convulsed him with silent mirth, which he checked to look slyly up at Jim Orchard, as though in fear the other might have understood too much. It was sickening to the cowpuncher.
He had known Sam in the old days, free and easy, good-looking, strong, recklessly brave, open of heart as a child. But now there was an indescribable malice in that face. He did not talk, but he purred with caressing tones, and under the purr Orchard was horribly conscious of the malignant heart. The fellow had suffered so much and so long that he seemed to be living on hatred.
“Fast,” went on Sam. “Why, you ain’t got no idea how fast he is. Why, Jerico could run a circle around the fastest horse that’s entered for the race tomorrow. That’s how fast he is. Sort of a shame he ain’t going to have the chance at it, eh?”
“Too bad. No way of getting him ridden?”
“Not a chance, unless you’d try, Jim. That’d be a thing to see … a man that’s never been throwed, and a horse that’s never been rode! That’d be a thing to see.”
All at once Orchard saw the whole point to the talk. Sam Jordan was up to his old tricks, and this time he had picked on Orchard to be the victim of this trained devil in the hide of a horse.
“Who told you I’d never been thrown?” demanded Jim. “I’ve been thrown, and often, too.”
“Not that nobody knows about,” put in Jordan eagerly. “Not that anybody around here remembers. Just this morning I heard a couple of the boys talking. ‘Who’s the best rider around these parts?’ they say. ‘Hawkins,’ says one. ‘Lorrimer,’ says another. ‘Garry Munn,’ says another. ‘You’re fools, all of you,’ says the first gent. ‘They ain’t one of ’em that can touch Jim Orchard. Why he’s never been throwed!’ That’s the way they talk about you around these parts, Jim, and if you was to ride Jerico, everybody’d believe it.”
The malice of the man was patent, now. He kept smiling and nodding so that it would be unnecessary for him to meet the eye of Jim Orchard. But why should he hate such an old friend and companion? Simply because he, Sam Jordan, was a shapeless wreck, and Jim Orchard was as tall and straight and agile as ever.
“It’s no good, Sam. I won’t try Jerico. My pride isn’t that kind. I don’t pretend to be the best rider in the world. Maybe I’m not half as good as the fellows Jerico has pretty near killed in the past.”
Sam Jordan sighed. “I thought maybe I’d find you kind of down in the pocket. I figured on paying quite a bit if you could ride Jerico in the race.”
Temptation surged up in the mind of Jim Orchard, but he shook his head. The memory of Bud Castor came back upon his mind. “I’m not your man, Sam.”
“It ain’t so easy to pick up a hundred every day.”
“I’ll take my money the harder ways, then.”
“Or two hundred, say. I’d like to see my horse entered, Jim.”
“Not any hope of it, as far as I’m concerned.”
The face of Sam Jordan went black and he bowed his head for a moment. “Five hundred,” he whispered suddenly, and Jim winced as though he had been struck.
“What makes you so sure that I’ve got a price today?” he asked fiercely.
“I can tell it by the hungry look you got in your eye. How about it? Five hundred, Jim, payable the minute that horse finishes the race.”
“No. No use in talking, Sam.”
“You’re a hard gent to do business with. Well, here’s my rock-bottom offer … one thousand cold iron men for you, if you ride Jerico in the race, Orchard.”
“It’s a lot of money,” said Jim, “but it’s not as much as I need.”
“Besides, you can bet. The minute they know that Jerico is in the race the odds will drop. They won’t give you even money, but for every three bucks you bet you can win two.”
He paused, for the face of Jim Orchard had become troubled, and he wisely allowed the temptation to work. It was the way the proposition came pat that appealed to the gambling instinct in Orchard. He had $2,000, then $1,000 from Jordan would make $3,000, and the amount won would add $2,000, making up the total of $5,000 that he needed. It was almost as if Jordan knew the amount of money in his pocket and the need he had for exactly $3,000 more.
“Sam,” he said, “I take you.”
“Good boy! I knew I’d fetch you.” He was rubbing his hands together in glee. “When do you want to try out Jerico?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Go down and have him taken out into the corral. Do I have to rope him and saddle him, or do you give me a flying start?”
“Give you every sort of a start. All you have to do is climb into the saddle, and off you go.”
But Jim Orchard turned away with a sick smile. He had not the slightest of hopes, only his gambler’s instinct had ruled him, and the crushed body of Bud Castor came back into his mind with a premonition of death.
B
ut if he were crippled, who would be the donor of $500 to “give him a chance”? Or would he live a cripple with a mind poisoned like that of Sam Jordan? He did one of those foolish things that the oldest and strongest men are apt to do now and then in a pinch. He took out a little leather folder from his pocket, opened a picture of Sue Hampton, and touched it covertly with his lips.
V
There was no need to spread the tidings through the village with messengers. It was late afternoon by this time and, the events of the rodeo having been entirely completed and the crowd packed back into the town to wait for the crowning glory of the race of the next day, rumor took up the tale of what Jim intended to attempt.
Most people were incredulous, but not only did rumor say he was to attempt the riding, but that he would make the first experiment with Jerico on that very day. It was remembered that he had passed the broken body of Bud Castor earlier in the day. The romantic took up the story and embroidered it. Jim Orchard, being an old friend of Bud’s, had sworn to him to ride the stallion into submission, or else die in the attempt. The conversation between Bud and Jim was even invented and elaborated.
All this took place within some thirty minutes. At the end of that time Sue Hampton came to the hotel asking for Jim Orchard. She was shown to his room.
“Shucks,” said the disgusted public, “she’ll keep Jim from going through with it.”
“You don’t know Jim,” answered the fat proprietor of the hotel. “Nothing’ll stop him.”
Jim Orchard had just finished dressing. He knew that he was about to take the center of the stage in a public manner, and whether it ended tragically or happily, he wanted to fit the great occasion. A rap at his door interrupted him, and he opened it to Sue Hampton.
He was so astonished by her appearance that he retreated before her into the center of the room as though she had presented a loaded revolver to his head. She closed the door behind her without taking her resolute eyes from him, and then she followed him a little ways.
“What’s the matter, Sue?” he kept repeating helplessly.
For he was completely at sea. How had the dim, quiet Sue Hampton he knew been transformed into this creature with eyes of fire and trembling lips and flaring color?
“You coward!” cried Sue Hampton. “You coward, Jim Orchard!”
Orchard stood agape. “What’s wrong, Sue?”
“You promised me that you’d play square … and now you’re going to ride Jerico … and get killed like Bud … oh, is it fair, Jim?”
“Bud wasn’t killed. He …”
“What happened to him was worse. I know. I talked to the doctor. Lucky for Bud that you gave him five hundred dollars!”
So that was known. Jim set his teeth. If he ever found that worthless boy, he would skin him alive and throw the skin away. On this day of all days to have such a thing brought to the ear of Sue.
She went running on in a storm of protest. “It isn’t the money. You know it isn’t. All that I want you to prove is that you can make it and keep it long enough. And now you’re throwing yourself away … do you think I could ever raise my head again if anything happened? I want you to promise that you’ll not try to ride Jerico.”
He took her by the arm and led her to the window. “Look down there.”
A crowd of a hundred or more persons had gathered, and more people were constantly arriving.
“They’re getting ready to go along with me when I start for Jerico. That’s why they’re there. Everybody in town knows that I’ve told Sam Jordan I’m going to ride the brute. Do you think I can back down, now?”
“You value your pride more than you do me, Jim.”
He lost a good deal of color at her reply, but he answered gravely: “It’s more than pride. It’s a matter of honor.”
All at once she had slipped into his arms, and her hands were locked behind his head.
“Dear Jim. Dear old Jim. Tell me you won’t?”
It was another revelation to Jim. Something in him started toward her like iron toward a magnet.
“We won’t wait for the money. We’ll marry now … today … this minute. But promise me to give up Jerico! Oh, I’ve seen that horse fight!”
“No.”
He managed to say the word after a bitter effort. And the girl slipped away and looked at him, bewildered.
“Is that the last word, Jim?”
With despair he saw her returning to her habitual placidity. The fire died away and left her more colorless than ever. Her eyes went down to her folded hands.
“It’s a matter of honor, Sue.”
At that she went toward the door, and Jim, sick at heart, tried to stop her. Something about her lowered head, however, warned him not to touch her. She went out, the door closed, and he heard her light, quick step fade away down the hall. It was to Jim as if she had stepped out of his life.
It was a long minute later that the growing murmur of the crowd below gave him the courage to put on his hat and go down. When he came onto the veranda, there was a murmur, and then followed an actual shout of greeting. He saw the weaving faces in a haze. Particularly, as he remembered later, there was the handsome face of Garry Munn at the outskirts of the crowd, and Garry was indubitably worried.
The crowd trailed out behind Jim, as he went down the street, like the tail streaming behind a comet. He came to the shack where Sam Jordan was staying until the rodeo ended. Sam himself was seated in a wheelchair in front of the door, and he began waving and nodding a greeting to the crowd. He seemed in amazing good humor. But Jim Orchard had only a casual glance for the owner. His attention was for the horse. The great black stood in the corral where he had been roped, thrown, blindfolded, and saddled. He was still blindfolded, but as one who senses danger, he stood with his head thrown high and his ears flat against his neck.
Orchard had never seen such a horse. He must have stood a full sixteen hands. Every ounce of him was made for speed and strength in the best combination. There was the long forehead, which meant the rider’s ease in controlling him; there was the long back of the racer, but not too long for weight-carrying purposes; the great breast spoke of the generous heart beneath; the head was poised with exquisite nicety. All this strength was superimposed upon legs slender and strong as hammered iron. There was not a mar in the black, except an irregular white splotch between the eyes, and a single white fetlock.
Such was Jerico. And at sight of him the crowd murmured in fear and admiration. He was like one of those rarely beautiful women who are always new.
At the murmur Jim Orchard looked back across the crowd. In his heart of hearts he despised them. They had come with divided will to see one of the two beaten—either the horse or the man—and he knew that they hardly cared which. To see the horse beaten into submission would be gratifying, but to see the rider thrown and broken would be infinitely more exciting. What right had they to come like spectators to a gladiatorial combat?
His heart went out with a sudden sympathy to the beautiful mustang. The saddle on his back and the heavily curbed bridle were a travesty. He should be shaking that glorious mane in the wind, at the head of a band of his mates. What right had they to imprison and torture him? With speed against speed, which was all that he was supposed to know, he had beaten them. Only by a trick they had taken him. The lesson of cunning and cruelty that they had taught him he now used against his captors. And Jim Orchard silently approved. Strangely he felt a kinship with this imprisoned beast. He was imprisoned, also—blindfolded by a promise to a man—the love of a woman.
He climbed the high fence and dropped into the corral. “We’ll have an even break,” he said to the old Negro who stood near the head of the stallion. “Take the blindfold off Jerico. Take it off, I say,” he repeated, as the other merely gaped at him.
The white-haired old fellow groaned. “Does this heah man knows what all he’s talking a
bout, Glory?” He bowed his head and addressed a fat-bodied, sleepy-eyed bull terrier beside him, and the dog twitched the stump of his tail.
“Don’t act crazy, Orchard!” called someone from the mob. “You’ll never get on that horse unless he’s blindfolded!”
“Let him alone. Jim’ll work it out his own way. He’s going to teach us something new about horse-breaking.” That was Garry Munn’s voice.
Jim deliberately turned and smiled over the heads of the crowd into the face of Garry. This was another thing to be remembered.
He turned back and, at his repeated order, the Negro finally climbed up on the side of the fence and, leaning cautiously, jerked away the bandage from Jerico’s eyes. The latter tossed his head to the light and at the same instant left the ground, bucked in mid-air, and came down with stiffly braced legs, before he seemed to realize that there was no rider in the saddle. Then he stood quivering with excitement and anger in the center of the corral, until he caught sight of Jim Orchard standing alone, unprotected by the fence that kept Jerico from that hated mass of faces.
He snorted once in amazement and suspicion—then lunged straight at the solitary stranger. From the crowd there went up a yell of horror—a familiar music to the ear of Jerico—he had heard it many a time when the would-be rider was flung like a stone from the saddle and crushed against the ground. So let it be with this man.
But Jim Orchard did not stir. All in a split part of a second he reviewed his life, knew he was a fool, and cursed his luck, because there was no escape from this tigerish devil of a horse. And then he stood his ground without lifting a hand and watched death come at him.
It came—and swerved aside. Jerico leaped away and stood beside the bars once more, snorting, stamping, flaunting his tail. Things that did not stir when he charged them were usually lifeless, like the post of a fence. And, if one rashly collided with such things, there was only a stunning repulse for a reward. Certainly, said the brute mind, that is a man, and yet he did not stir. A doubt came to Jerico. This was a man, and yet no man had ever approached him before on foot, unarmed with even the stinging whip. Besides, the others, who had screamed a moment ago and stood so hushed, so terribly silent now, were protected by the fence. This creature must be different from the others.
