Going Some

by Beach, Rex Ellingwood

  "Well, how do you know I can't win? You never saw this cook run."

  "I don't have to; I've seen you."

  "Just the same, I'm in pretty good shape. Maybe I could run if I really tried."

  "Send yourself along, Kid. It won't harm you none." The speaker fanned himself, and took a seat in the cosey-corner.

  "Ah! Here they come, bearing gifts." Speed rose in pleased expectancy. "I wonder what it can be?"

  The three who had just left re-entered the room, carrying a tray- load of thick railroad crockery.

  "We've brought your breakfast to you," explained Stover. "We'd like you to eat alone till after the race." Still Bill began to whittle what appeared to be a blood-rare piece of flesh, while Willie awkwardly arranged the dishes.

  "You want me to eat as well as sleep here?"

  "Exactly."

  "Oh, I can't do that! I'm sorry, but—"

  "Don't make us insist." Willie looked up from his tray, and Glass raised a moist hand and said:

  "Don't make 'em insist."

  With fascinated stare Speed drew nearer to Stover and examined the meat bone.

  "Why—why, that's raw!" he exclaimed.

  "Does look rar'," agreed the foreman.

  "Then take it out and build a fire under it. I'll consent to eat here, but I won't turn cannibal, even to please you."

  "I'm sorry." Stover did not interrupt his carving.

  "Your diet ain't been right," explained Willie. "You ain't wild enough to suit us."

  Speed searched one serious face, then another. Fresno was nodding approval, his countenance impassive.

  "Is this a joke?"

  "We ain't never joked with you yit, have we?"

  "No. But—"

  "This breakfast goes as she lays!"

  Glass broke abruptly into smothered merriment. "When I laugh nowadays it's a funny joke," he giggled.

  That grown men could be so stupid was unbelievable, and Wally, seeing himself the object of a senseless prank, was roused to anger.

  "Lawrence, get my coat," said he. "I've been bullied enough; I'm going up to the house." When Stover only continued whittling methodically, he burst out: "Stop honing that shin-bone! If you like it you can eat it! I'm going now to swallow a stack of hot cakes with maple syrup!"

  "Mr. Speed," Willie impaled him with a steady glare, "you'll eat what we tell you to, and nothin' else! If we say 'grass,' grass it'll be. You're goin' to beat one Skinner if it takes a human life. And if that life happens to be yours, you got nobody but yourself to blame."

  "Indeed!"

  "You heard me! I've been set to ride herd on you daytimes, the other boys'll guard you nights. We been double-crossed once—it won't happen again."

  "Then it amounts to this, does it: I'm your prisoner?"

  "More of a prized possession," offered Stover. "If you ain't got the loy'lty to stand by us, we got to make you! This diet is part of the programme. Now if you think beef is too hearty for this time of day, tear into them eggs."

  "You intend to make me eat this disgusting stuff, whether I want to or not?" Even yet the youth could not convince himself that this was other than a joke.

  "No." Willie shook his head. "We just aim to make you want to eat it."

  Then Larry Glass made his fatal mistake.

  "Say, why don't you let Mr. Speed buy you a new phonograph, and call the race off?" he inquired.

  Stover, stricken dumb, paused, knife in hand; Willie stared as if bereft of motion. Then the former spoke slowly. "Looks like we'd ought to smoke up this fat party, Will."

  Willie nodded, and Glass realized that the little man's steel- blue eyes were riveted balefully upon him.

  "I've had a hunch it would come to that," the near-sighted one replied. "Every time I look at him I see a bleedin' bullet-hole in his abominable regions, about here." He laid a finger upon his stomach, and Glass felt a darting pain at precisely the same spot. It was as agonizing as if Willie's spectacles were huge burning-glasses focussing the rays of a tropic sun upon his bare flesh. He folded protecting hands over the threatened region and backed toward the prayer-rug, mumbling "Allah! Allah!" No matter whither he shifted, the eyes bored into him.

  "That's where you hit the gambler at Ogden," he heard Stover say —it might have been from a great distance—"but I aim for the bridge of the nose."

  "The belly ain't so sudden as the eye-socket, but it's more lingerin', and a heap painfuller," explained the gun man, and Speed was moved to sympathy.

  "Larry only wanted to please you—eh, Larry?" he said, nervously, but Glass made no reply. His distended orbs were frozen upon Willie. It was doubtful if he even heard.

  "Our honor ain't for sale," Still Bill declared.

  Here Berkeley Fresno spoke. "Of course not. And you mustn't think that Speed is trying to get out of the race. He wants to run! And if anything happened to prevent his running he'd be broken-hearted, I know he would!"

  Willie's hypnotic eye left the trainer's abdomen and travelled slowly to Speed.

  "What could happen?" questioned he.

  "N-nothing that I know of."

  "You don't aim to leave?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Oh, you fellows take it too seriously," Fresno offered carelessly. "He might have to."

  Willie's upper lip drew back, showing his yellow teeth.

  "They don't sell no railroad tickets before Saturday, and the walkin' is bad. There's your breakfast, Mr. Speed. When you've et your fill, you better rest. And don't talk to them ladies, neither; it spoils your train of thought!"

  CHAPTER XIV

  Now that the possibility of escape from the Flying Heart was cut off, the young man felt agonizing regret that he had not yielded to his trainer's earlier importunities and taken refuge in flight while there was yet time. It would have been undignified, perhaps; but once away from these single-minded cattle-men, his life would have been safe at least, and he could have trusted his ingenuity to reinstate him in Miss Blake's good graces. Everything was too late now. Even if he made a clean breast of the whole affair to Jean, or to her brother when he arrived, what good would that do? He doubted Jack's ability to save him, in the light of what had just passed; for men like Willie cared nothing for the orders of the person whose pay-roll they chanced to grace. And Willie was not alone, either; the rest of the crew were equally desperate. What heed would these nomads pay to Jack Chapin's commands, once they learned the truth? They were Arabs who owed allegiance to no one but themselves, the country was wild, the law was feeble, it was twenty miles to the railroad! And, besides, the thought of confession was abhorrent. Physical injury, no matter how severe, was infinitely preferable to Helen Blake's disdain. He cast about desperately for some saving loophole, but found himself trapped—completely, hopelessly trapped.

  There were still, however, two days of grace, and to youth two days is an eternity. Therefore, he closed his eyes and trusted to the unexpected. How the unexpected could get past that grim, watchful sentry just outside the door he could not imagine, but when the breakfast-bell reminded him of his hunger, he banished his fears for the sake of the edibles his custodians had served.

  "Don't you want anything to eat?" he inquired, when Larry made no move to depart for the cook-house.

  "No."

  "Not hungry, eh?"

  "I'm hungry enough to eat a plush cushion, but—"

  "What?"

  "Mary!"

  "Mariedetta?"

  "Sure. She's been chasin' me again. If somebody don't side-track that Cuban, I'll have to lick Carara." He sighed. "I told you we'd ought to tin-can it out of here. Now it's too late."

  Willie thrust his head in through the open window, inquiring, "Well, how's the breakfast goin'?" and withdrew, humming a favorite song:

  "'Sam Bass was born in Indiany;

  It was his natif home.

  At the early age of seventeen

  Young Sam commenced to roam.'"

  "Fine voice!" said Lawrence, with a shudde
r.

  It was perhaps a half-hour later that Helen Blake came tripping into the gymnasium, radiant, sparkling, her crisp white dress touched here and there with blue that matched her eyes, in her hands a sunshade, a novel, and a mysterious little bundle.

  "We were so sorry to lose you at breakfast," she began.

  Wally led her to the cosey-corner, and seated himself beside her.

  "I suppose it is a part of this horrid training. I would never have mentioned that foot-race if I had dreamed it would be like this."

  Here at least was a soul that sympathized.

  "The only hardship is not to see you," he declared softly.

  Miss Blake dropped her eyes.

  "I thought you might like to go walking; it's a gorgeous morning. You see, I've brought a book to read to you while you rest—you must be tired after your run."

  "I am, and I will. This is awfully good of you, Miss Blake." Speed rose, overwhelmed with joy, but the look of Glass was not to be passed by. "I-I'm afraid it's impossible, however." The blue eyes flew open in astonishment. "Why?" the girl questioned.

  "They won't let me. I—I'm supposed to keep to myself."

  "They? Who?"

  "Glass."

  Miss Blake turned indignantly upon Larry. "Do you mean to say Mr.

  Speed can't go walking with me?"

  "I never said nothing of the sort," declared the trainer. "He can go if he wants to."

  "Just the same, I—oughtn't to do it. There is a strict routine— "

  A lift of the brows and a courteous smile proclaimed Miss Blake's perfect indifference to the subject, just as Willie sauntered past the open window and spoke to Glass beneath his breath:

  "Git her out!"

  "I'm so sorry. May I show you a surprise I brought for you?" She unwrapped her parcel, and proudly displayed a pallid, anaemic cake garlanded with wild flowers.

  Speed was honestly overcome. "For me?"

  "For you. It isn't even cold yet, see! I made it before breakfast, and it looks even better than the one I baked at school!"

  "That's what I call fine," declared the youth. "By Jove! and I'm so fond of cake!"

  "Have a care!" breathed Larry, rising nervously, but Speed paid no attention.

  "Break it with your own hands, please. Besides, it's too hot to cut."

  Miss Blake broke it with her own hands, during which operation the brown face of the man outside reappeared in the window. At sight of the cake he spoke sharply, and Lawrence lumbered swiftly across the floor and laid a heavy hand upon the cake.

  "Mr. Speed!" he cried warningly.

  "Here, take your foot off my angel-food!" fiercely ordered the youth. But the other was like adamant.

  "Bo, you are about to contest for the honor of this ranch! That cake will make a bum of you!"

  "Oh—h!" gasped the author of the delicacy. "Stop before it is too late!" Glass held his hungry employer at a distance, striving to make known by a wink the necessity of his act.

  "There is absolutely nothing in my cake to injure any one," Helen objected loyally, with lifted chin; whereupon the corpulent trainer turned to her and said:

  "Cake would crab any athlete. Cake and gals is the limit."

  "Really! I had no idea I was the least bit dangerous." Miss Blake, turning to her host, smiled frigidly. "I'm so sorry I intruded."

  "Now don't say that!" Speed strove to detain her. "Please don't be offended—I just have to train!"

  "Of course. And will you pardon me for interrupting your routine?

  You see, I had no idea I wasn't wanted."

  "But you are, and I do want you! I—"

  "Good-bye!" She nodded pleasantly at the door, and left her lover staring after her.

  When she had gone, he cried, in a trembling voice: "You're a fine yap, you are! She got up early to do something nice for me, and you insulted her! You wouldn't even let me sit and hold her hand!"

  "No palm-readin'." Speed turned to behold his trainer ravenously devouring the cake, and dashed to its rescue.

  "It's heavier than a frog full of buckshot. You won't like it,

  Cul."

  "It's perfectly delicious!" came the choking answer.

  "Then get back of them curtains. Willie'd shoot on sight."

  All that morning the prisoner idled about the premises, followed at a distance by his guard. Wherever he went he seemed to see the sun flash defiance from the polished surface of those lenses, and while he was allowed a certain liberty, he knew full well that this espionage would never cease, night or day, until—what? He could not bear to read the future; anything seemed possible. Time and again he cursed that spirit of braggadocio, that thoughtless lack of moral scruple, which had led him into this predicament. He vowed that he was done with false pretences; henceforth the strictest probity should be his. No more false poses. Praise won by dissimulation and deceit was empty, anyhow, and did he escape this once, henceforth the world should know J. Wallingford Speed for what he was—an average individual, with no uncommon gifts of mind or body, courage or ability.

  Yet it was small comfort to realize that he was getting his just deserts, and it likewise availed little to anathematize Fresno as the cause of his misfortune.

  At noon Wally went through the mockery of a second blood-rare meal, with no cake to follow, and that afternoon Glass dragged him out under the hot sun, and made him sprint until he was ready to drop from exhaustion. His supper was wretched, and his fatigue so great that he fell asleep at Miss Blake's side during the evening. With the first hint of dawn he was up again, and Friday noon found him utterly hopeless, when, true to his prediction, the unexpected happened. In one moment he was raised from the blackest depths to the wildest transports of delight. It came in the shape of a telegram which Jean summoned him to the house to receive. He wondered listlessly as he opened the message, then started as if disbelieving his eyes; the marks of a wild emotion spread over his features, he burst into shrill, hysterical laughter.

  "Do tell us!" begged Roberta.

  "Covington—Covington is coming!" Wally felt his head whirl, and failed to note the chaperon's cry of surprise and see the paling of her cheeks. "Covington is coming! Don't you understand?" he shouted. After all, the gods were not deaf! Good old Culver, who had never failed him, was coming as a deliverer.

  Even in the face of his extraordinary outburst the attention of the beholders was drawn to Lawrence Glass, who caused the porch to shake beneath his feet; who galloped to his employer, and, seizing him by the hands, capered about like a hippopotamus.

  "I told you 'Allah' was some guy," he wheezed. "When does

  Covington arrive?" Wally reread the message. "It says 'Noon

  Friday.' Why, that's to-day! He's here now!"

  "'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah! Covington!" bellowed the trainer, and Mrs.

  Keap sank to a seat with a stifled moan.

  "Why all the 'Oh joy! Oh, rapture!' stuff?" questioned Berkeley

  Fresno.

  "As Socrates, the Hemlock Kid, would put it, 'Snatched from the shadow of the grave,'" quoth Glass, then paused abruptly. "Say, you don't think nothin' could happen to him on the way over from the depot?"

  "I'm so sorry we didn't know in time to meet him," lamented Miss

  Chapin.

  "And I could have run over to the railroad to bid him welcome," laughed Speed. "Twenty miles would do me good."

  Still Bill and Willie approached the gallery curiously, and in subdued tones inquired:

  "What's the matter, Mr. Speed?"

  "You ain't been summoned away?" Willie stared questioningly upward. "No, no! My running partner is on his way here, that's all."

  "Running pardner?"

  "Culver Covington."

  "Oh, we was afraid something had happened. You see, Gabby Gallagher has just blowed in from the Centipede to raise our bets."

  "We think it's a bluff, and we'd like to call him."

  "Do so, by all means!" cried the excited athlete. "Come on, let's all talk to him!"


  The entire party, with the exception of Mrs. Keap, trooped down from the porch and followed the foreman out toward the sheds, where, in the midst of a crowd of ranch-hands, a burly, loud- voiced Texan was discoursing.

  "I do wish Jack were here," said Jean nervously, on the way.

  Gabby Gallagher seemed a fitting leader for such a desperate crew as that of the Centipede, for he was the hardest-looking citizen the Easterners had beheld thus far. He was thickset, and burned to the color of a ripe olive; his long, drooping mustaches, tobacco-stained at the centre, were bleached at the extremities to a hempen hue. His bristly hair was cut short, and stood aggressively erect upon a bullet head, his clothes were soiled and greasy beneath a gray coating of dust. A pair of alert, lead- blue eyes and a certain facility of movement belied the drawl that marked his nativity. He removed his hat and bowed at sight of Miss Chapin.

  "Good-evenin', Miss Jean!" said he. "I hope I find y'all well."

  "Quite well, Gallagher. And you?"

  "Tol'able, thank you."

  "These are my friends from the East."

  The Centipede foreman ran his eyes coldly over Jean's companions until they rested upon Speed, where they remained. He shifted a lump in his cheek, spat dexterously, and directed his remark at the Yale man.

  "I rode over to see if y'all would like to lay a little mo' on this y'ere foot-race. I allow you are the unknown?"

  Speed nodded, and Stover took occasion to remark: "Them's our inclinations, but we've about gone our limit."

  "I don't blame you none," said Gallagher, allowing his gaze to rove slowly from top to toe of the Eastern lad. "No, I cain't blame you none whatever. But I'm terrible grieved at them tidin's. Though we Centipede punchers has ever considered y'all a cheap an' poverty-ridden outfit, we gives you credit for bein' game, till now." He spat for a second time, and regarded Stover scornfully.

  A murmur ran through the cowboys.

  "We are game," retorted Stover, "and for your own good don't allow no belief to the contrary to become a superstition." Of a sudden the gangling, spineless foreman had grown taut and forceful, his long face was hard.