by Max Brand
Old Glory, hearing this order, cast a skulking glance at Jim Orchard and then slunk toward the corral. Once outside the barn he seemed to gather courage. He trotted straight for the stallion and, rising on his hind legs under the nose of the horse, barked at him softly. Jerico in answer deliberately and gently tipped old Glory over with a push of his nose. But Glory came up again and danced, with all the agility his fat allowed, around the great horse. Jerico followed, pretending anger, striking gently with his forefeet, wide of the mark.
“Look there, now!” exclaimed Tom delighted. “I ask you, Mistah Orchard, is that the way a man-killin’ horse ought to act? Why, Jerico’s plumb gentle, once he gets to know you. It’s the cussin’ and the whips that he’s been fightin’, not the men.”
“You’re right,” agreed Jim Orchard, amazed at that dumb show in the corral. “You’re right from the first. But what’s the matter with that dog, Tom? Has somebody been beating him?”
“They’s a long story about ol’ Glory, Mistah Orchard. You see him sneakin’ aroun’ like he didn’t have no soul of his own? Well, suh, I seen him the best fightin’ dog that ever was. Plumb wild, ol’ Glory was. His master used to keep him half starved to have him wild, and then he’d bet on Glory to his last nickel … and always Glory won, chewin’ up the other dog sump’n terrible to talk of. But one time Mistah Simpson … that was him that owned Glory … done le’ him go without no food for a long time. Po’ white trash, that man was, suh! An’ he put ol’ Glory all weak and tremblin’ into the ring. Shucks, Glory would’ve made jus’ two mouthfuls of the other dog, if he’d been strong. But he was like a little puppy afraid of the cold that day … he was so weak.
“He got chewed up scandalous, suh, Glory did that day. They got the other dog off him just in time, and after that Glory ain’t been no good. They fatted him up and got him strong and put him back ag’in’ another dog, suh, but Glory jus’ got down in the corner an’ wouldn’t come out. His heart had been broke, suh, you see? An’ ever since he’s been like this. Jus’ draggin’ aroun’ dodgin’ eyes when folks look at him. Even ol’ Tom can’t get Glory to look him in the eye, but he keeps skulkin’ and draggin’ and bumpin’ his nose ag’in’ my heels, suh.”
“But why do you keep him, Tom?”
“You git sorter fond of a dog, suh. But always I keep dreamin’ and thinkin’ of the dog that ol’ Glory used to be and the dog he might’ve been … if the heart hadn’t been plumb busted in him, suh.”
“Tom,” said Jim Orchard, much moved, “you’re a good sort. And you’re right, I figure. I’ve known horses the same way. Particular the wild ones. Beat ’em once and they’re no good ever after. I’ll wager that Jerico might be that sort of a horse. What do you think?”
“They ain’t no doubt. Beat him once and he’ll go aroun’ hangin’ his head … an’ any boy could git on him and thump him with his bare heels.”
Orchard sighed. “Kind of a responsibility, a horse like that. How much do you think Sam Jordan would be wanting for Jerico?”
The Negro shrugged his shoulders and peered up into the face of Orchard with a timid smile. “I don’t think no man has got money to buy him from Mistah Jordan, suh.”
“Why not? Sam isn’t rich.”
“Well, suh …” Tom paused.
“I won’t repeat what you say. Go ahead, Tom.”
“Ever get stung by wasps, Mistah Orchard, and go back to the rest of the boys and say nothin’ about it and get ’em to come and walk over the same hole in the ground to see what’d happen to ’em?”
There was a pause during which the whole meaning of this sunk into the brain of Jim Orchard. He had had the ugly suspicion concerning Sam Jordan before, and he could not forget the singular expression on the face of the cripple at the moment when Jerico stopped bucking. It was a bad affair from the beginning to end.
He glanced out the barn door and saw old Glory trotting back to his master. At that moment a cowpuncher sauntered past. The terrier crouched till his belly touched the ground, skidded deftly around the stranger, and then raced for dear life until he was safe behind the shoes of Tom.
Jim Orchard had seen enough. He was filled with an insane desire to find that former master of the fighting bull terrier and beat the brutal fellow to a pulp, until he became as cringing a coward as he had made his dog.
So he walked to the front of the shack and stopped beside Sam Jordan. There was no hint of friendliness in the glance that the cripple cast at him. There was a smile, to be sure, but it was so forced and bespoke so much hidden malice, that it chilled the tall puncher’s blood.
“That was a pretty clever trick,” said Sam Jordan, still smiling. “What’d you do? Dope Jerico first? Get old Tom to mix something in his feed before you tried him out?”
“Did I have a chance to get at Tom before I tried to ride Jerico?”
Sam Jordan thought a moment. “I dunno,” he admitted grudgingly. “It don’t seem no ways possible.”
“How about selling Jerico, Sam?”
“Selling him? Not in a thousand years!”
“But what’s he worth to you, man?”
The grin of Sam Jordan became a horrible caricature of mirth. “He’s worth … this.” With a slow, inclusive gesture, he indicated the crippled legs. “I’ve paid for him with my legs. Do you think you could raise that price, maybe, Jim?”
“But what use is he to you, man?”
“I dunno. I’m just sort of used to having him around. You planning on turning him into a family pet, Jim? Just keep watching your step, partner. Jerico ain’t through by no means.”
“But I’ve thought of this, Sam. By the time I have him tame enough to ride in the race tomorrow he’ll be pretty well broken. Besides, I don’t think the thousand is worth the chance I’m taking.”
“You ain’t calling the bargain off, Jim?” asked the cripple, growing suddenly conciliatory. His expression made Orchard think of the spider that sees the fly creeping off beyond his reach. He decided to see what bluffing would do.
“I’ll stick to the bargain, if you’ll let me make another deal with you. Suppose I take all the chances, and I’m able to ride Jerico in the race? Well, then, name a reasonable price and let me buy him when the race is over.”
“No chance, Jim.”
“Then I’m through. Try out somebody else for your jockey.”
“Wait!”
“You’ve heard me, Sam. I mean it.”
“Take a price after the race is finished?” Sam Jordan argued, evidently turning the proposition in his mind and deciding that there was very little chance of Jim Orchard or any other man staying on the back of the stallion through the excitement that was bound to seize the mustang during a contest with other horses.
“Name a good round figure, Sam.”
“One thousand for Jerico, then, if you stick on him through the whole race.”
“A thousand it is.”
They shook hands, and the fingers of Sam Jordan were bloodless and cold to the touch.
VIII
Turning his back on Jordan, Jim Orchard strode off down the street. He had taken on a new obligation. To the original $5,000 which had been his goal, and which he now had an excellent chance of winning, provided Jerico was first in the race, there was added the purchase price of the stallion. The total he needed was $6,000.
Again he was glad that Sue could not know. He had already placed his chance of happiness under the danger of a mortgage. What would she think if she knew that he had admitted a brute beast—a horse—on the same plane with her?
He turned on his heel. Jerico was still visible. He had pressed forward against the fence of the corral, and he was watching his late rider disappear. He even tossed up his head and whinnied when he saw Jim turn. The latter remained for a moment staring, a lump growing in his throat. Then he resumed his walk.
I’ve
got to have that horse, Orchard thought conclusively. Then his mind turned happily to Sue Hampton. Of course, she would not have had the courage to come to see the riding and, though she must have learned of the outcome of his daring by this time, no doubt she would be glad to see him and be reassured that all was well. He went to her house.
She was on the little veranda with a heap of silky stuff in her lap and a basket beside her. She raised her head and watched him coming up the path. When she saw him, she laid aside the sewing and folded her hands, and Jim Orchard knew that he was distinctly out of favor. Another girl in such a mood would have pretended not to see him. But it was one of Sue’s peculiarities that she made no pretenses. She was as inexorable with herself as she was with others. He had known her to go out of her way to make quaint confessions of wrong thoughts that had been in her mind, after she had been proved wrong. But the terrible part of this was that she more or less expected others to treat her as she treated them. Unfortunately she expected the qualities of a saint in an ordinary cowpuncher.
It was one of the things that made Orchard love her; it was also one of the things that kept him at arm’s length and gave him, occasionally, a little touch of dread. Today it made him a little more swaggering. He tried to bluff his way through.
“Well,” he greeted her, “you see everything’s all right?”
It was always wonderful to see her brighten. “Then you’re not going to ride Jerico?”
“But, Sue, I’ve already ridden him.”
“I mean in the race tomorrow?”
“But he’s safe enough. Haven’t I just finished trying him out?”
“I heard about it,” said the girl. “They told me how you … almost tempted him to kill you.”
“It was the only thing to do,” said Jim, growing sullen as he saw what position she was going to take. “Other fellows have fought Jerico … plenty of them … and I thought I’d try persuasion.”
“I think I know,” she answered with that deadly softness. “There was such a crowd … you had to do something to thrill them. So you forgot about your own safety … you forgot about me … you gave the crowd a show.”
The injustice of it rankled in him. “Do you think that I’m low enough for that?”
It was her turn to flush with anger. “You shouldn’t have said that, Jim. But if we start out with misunderstanding …”
“You’re going to threaten to give that ring back to me again?” he asked coldly.
“I think it would be better.”
Jim Orchard for the moment almost forgot that he was talking to a woman—the woman he loved. He put his boot on the edge of the veranda, dropped his elbow on his knee, and lectured her with a raised forefinger.
“You’ll keep that ring till the end of tomorrow,” he said fiercely. “It makes me tired, Sue, the way you women act. A gent might think that honor didn’t have nothing to do with women. It’s just for men only. I give you a promise and I got to stick to it to the bitter end. You gave me a promise that you’re going to stick by me until tomorrow night. Now you welch and try to get out of your promise, but it doesn’t work with me. You’re going to keep that ring, Sue. And if I’ve got the money by tomorrow night, you’re going to marry me. Don’t you forget it in the meanwhile.”
Then he turned his back on her and strode away without further ado, rage straightening his shoulders. Sue Hampton gazed after him as though a new star had swum into her heaven—a blazing comet dazzling her. She sat for a long time with her sewing unheeded, while the day faded and the darkness came. Before the end she was smiling tenderly to herself.
There’s something about Jim, she mused, something different.
The “something different” made Jim stamp his way up the stairs of the hotel to his room and fling himself on his cot. In the nick of time he recalled a comforting remark that a friend of his had once made.
No man that’s worth his salt ever understands his womenfolk, really. The point is women are like mules … they go by opposites.
This reflection cheered Jim Orchard vastly, and he was about to go downstairs for his dinner when a knock came at the door, and a little man with a fleshless face of excessive ugliness stood before him.
“You’re Jim Orchard?”
“Yes.”
“You’re interested in the race?”
“I’m riding Jerico.”
“Can you give me half an hour, Mister Orchard?”
“Why, sure.”
He was putting his hat on as he spoke. Of course it might be some sort of a trap, but the little man was reckless, indeed, if he were trying to bait a trap for Jim Orchard. He followed down the stairs and stepped into a buckboard beside the other.
“I’m Tim Hogan,” said the small man, and not once did he open his lips after that, but sent his span of horses at full speed across the town and over the dusty road. They turned to the left after a time and bumped over a cattle trail, the driver skillfully picking his way in spite of the dimness of the moonlight. When they reached a little shack, before which a tall bay horse stood saddled, they stopped and climbed down.
“Now,” said Tim Hogan, “have you got a stopwatch?”
“Nope.”
“I have. Here it is. You take it. It works like this,” he explained deftly. He went on: “It’s four hundred yards from the stump yonder to that white rock. Want to pace it?”
“I’ll take your word,” Jim Orchard said, wondering if he had fallen into the hands of a maniac.
“Here goes.”
Tim Hogan climbed up the lofty side of the bay and dropped into the saddle. He rode to the stump.
“Now raise your left arm.”
Jim obeyed.
“When you drop that arm, I’m going to start the bay for the rock … when I start the bay, you start the watch.”
At last Orchard understood. “Good.”
He raised his arm, and as he did so the rider raised himself a little in his short stirrups and threw his weight well over the withers of the horse. He was bowed so that his body was straightened out at right angles to the perpendicular.
“Go!” exclaimed Jim, dropping his arm, and with the word the long bay gathered himself and flung out.
He was going at full speed in half a dozen jumps—and such jumps! The flying legs well-nigh disappeared in that dim light. It seemed that the rakish body and the long, snaky neck were shooting through space with no visible means of support. The dark outline whipped past the white rock, and Jim stopped the watch.
He raised it high to read the hand in the dim light, and in this position he remained as one turned to stone. So Tim Hogan found him when he jogged back on Exeter, alias Long Tom. He dismounted, grinning broadly, but the dimness concealed his exultation.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Without a word Jim Orchard returned the stopwatch to the jockey. “A quarter of a mile is not a mile,” he said.
“Never anything truer that I’ve heard say,” returned Tim. “And the longer the distance the better for the horse with the lightest weight up. I guess that’s straight, Mister Orchard.”
“Hmm,” said Jim.
“Jerico never saw the day he could step a quarter as fast as that one … and he never will,” said Tim.
“What’s the main idea behind all this?” Jim asked suspiciously.
“The main idea is that Long Tom is going to win tomorrow.”
“Why bring me out in the night to show that to me? Why not win my money and tell me after the race is run?”
“Look here,” said Tim, “I’m laying my cards on the table.”
“That’s the way to talk to me. Now come out with it.”
“Well, sir, I’ve put up a lot of hard cash on this race, and tomorrow I’m going to get down a lot more.”
“Well?”
“What do you think
of the chances of the rest of the ponies against Long Tom … eh?”
“Jerico …”
“Leave out Jerico.”
“Leave out Jerico and there’s no race. They’ll be too far back of Long Tom … the rest of ’em … to eat his dust.”
“You’ve said a mouthful, general. With Jerico out it’d be just an exercise gallop for Long Tom. But the rest of the boys around here don’t know it. They ain’t seen what Ex- … Long Tom can do. They haven’t any idea. They figure his long legs will get all tied up in knots, and he’ll break down inside a hundred yards. But he ain’t going to get tied up. He’s going to win.”
“You’ve said that plenty of times, partner. What’s the point?”
“The point is the rest of the gents around here are going to plunge on Jerico. They got an idea that nothing can beat that horse. They’re going to give me big odds on Long Tom, and I’m going to cover every cent they’ll put up. Besides, I’ve got backing. I’ve got a backer who’s investing every cent he can rake together … going into this up to his eyes. Now you can figure for yourself that he wants to make this a safe race, eh?”
“That’s easy to follow.”
“And there’s only one danger … that’s Jerico. You see, I’m putting the cards on the table.”
“I see.”
“What we want to be sure of is that no matter what happens to the rest of the horses, and no matter how fast Long Tom has to run to beat ’em, he won’t have to worry about Jerico.”
“But you’ve already tried to show me, partner, that you ain’t a bit afraid of Jerico.”
“Have I? Well, we are afraid, a little. At least he’s what keeps our game from being a sure thing. Nobody knows just how fast Jerico can run if he’s put to it, or how far he can carry the weight. Now, our proposition is to make sure that Jerico finishes behind Long Tom. That is, if Tom’s leading. Mind you, if one of the other ponies gets out in front, then you’re free to let go with Jerico and win if you can. But as long as Tom’s in front you’re to keep back with the black. Is that clear?”
