Tough to Kill

by Matt Chisholm

  People started to gather around the starting point and, as riders started to come forward, the two deputy-sheriffs with several helpers began to push the people back off the track. The first rider to call out his name to be ticked off by George Gibson was a hungry-looking mustanger mounted on a half-broken mustang. Markham eyed the grass-fed horse with some malicious satisfaction and smiled: “Crowbait.” His four horses would walk away from that one. Then a half-bred Nez Percé who had drifted down from the north country doing work around the ranches as a horse-breaker came up on a stout-looking Appaloosa with a thick neck, short legs and with bottom from there to eternity and Markham knew from his knowledge of horseflesh and some irritation that here was a stayer who would still be running fresh at the end of the race. Next came two sons of nearby ranchers mounted on cowponies that were mustang with a dash of quarter horse in them. They were no opposition. Then Markham’s boy wrangler, Johnny Kelso, called his name from the back of Starflight and Markham glowed with pride as an admiring murmur went through the watching crowd. There followed a mixed raggle-taggle of Kiowas, Arapahoes and Cheyenne mounted on what looked to him as half-starved ponies that might be tough and have good wind but had no turn of speed.

  One of the last to arrive, or so Markham thought, was a fine Spanish horse owned by Martin Burville, a wealthy rancher of the district. It was a sorrel with a white forefoot and was called Chief. On its back was a fight-weight wrangler. Markham eyed this animal with some misgiving. There was opposition there.

  He turned to the sheriff.

  “That’s the lot, Gibson,” he said.

  George looked at him and said: “Four more an* here they come.” He turned to watch the approaching riders. Markham turned to follow his gaze and his mouth fell open. The first person he saw was his sister, Carlotta. Immediately behind her, mounted on a chunky dun was the man McAllister. Then came a slip of a girl mounted on a bad-tempered red stud that was already snapping at the geldings near it. Behind her came the rest of the gang: Kiowa McShannon on his sorrel and Jack Owen on his bay. Markham’s hot eyes fell from the riders to the horses and he saw, though the horseflesh was nothing spectacular to look at, there was plenty of bottom there. The red stud had plenty of go in him and the dun McAllister was on would be a stayer. The sorrel and the bay were nothing to sneer at.

  Markham snarled to Gibson: “You mean these outlaws’re running in my race?”

  “Yes indeedy,” affirmed the sheriff and there may have been the ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

  “They are not,” Markham roared.

  The people nearby heard every word and gathered closer, interested.

  “Their names’re down,” the sheriff said.

  “They do not run in my race,” Markham shouted.

  Carlotta rode past him and ignored him. He glared at her impotently.

  The sheriff turned his head and said: “Judge, Markham objects to McShannon, McAllister and young Sarie.”

  “What?” howled Markham. “You mean that damn brat’s runnin’ in my race?”

  “Her name’s down.”

  “None of ’em don’t run.”

  The judge pushed forward.

  “Their names’re down,” he declared, staring coldly at the angrily glaring Markham. “And they stay down.” “I’ll cancel the race.”

  The sheriff said: “I’m holdin’ the stake money, Markham. An’ I say it goes on.”

  Markham bellowed: “This is robbery.”

  The judge said with a little glimmer of a smile: “Reckon those horses of yours can’t beat the stud, Markham.”

  “My horses can beat anything on four legs in the West.”

  “Folks’ll think you got windy if you back out now.”

  “You know damn well I ain’t windy. My thoroughbreds’re the fastest things alive.”

  McAllister heard the last part of this talk as he maneuvered the dun into line. Beyond him, McShannon and Jack Owen were waving to Alvina and Lucy. Markham spotted Carlotta going in the direction of his daughters and he wanted to stop her. His attention was divided.

  McAllister said loud so everybody could hear:. “You talk a good race, Markham. We got four horses here say you’re all wind.”

  Markham looked fit to be tied.

  Foley bringing his gray thoroughbred into line, said softly through his teeth to McAllister: “Watch yourself, man, I’m goin’ to stick closer’n skin to you.”

  The red stallion tried attacking the gray and Sarie had her work cut out holding him. Foley and Markham howled their protest.

  “That animal’s wild,” Markham declared. “It shouldn’t ought to be allowed to run.”

  The sheriff said in a stern voice: “If you can’t keep that horse in order, girl, pull him outa the line.”

  The red tried nipping an Indian pony that came near and McAllister said: “Take him back a mite, Sarie.” He knew the stud would be better for a start free of the other horses. Sarie obeyed him and backed the red until it was a length behind the other horses. The sight seemed to please Markham. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Carlotta was talking to Alvina and Lucy. He would have something to say about that later. Right now he couldn’t take his eyes off the horses.

  Most of them were in line now. It wasn’t much of a line, because the Indian ponies didn’t like the whitemen’s mounts and vice versa. There was a lot of biting and kicking going on. Every now and then a horse would break the line and pitch forward and its rider would fight it back into place again. The riders were sweating and nerves were starting to show.

  The sheriff walked out in front and declared in a loud voice: “Boys …” A shout went up from the crowd. “Boys,” he began again, “an’ Miss Sarah, I’m going to holler ready, there will be a short pause then I’m going to shout ‘go’ and drop my handkerchief. Got that?”

  They all told him they got it and told him to get on with it. Another horse, a Cheyenne pony, broke line and had to be manhandled back again before the sheriff, moving back to one side, shouted: “Ready… Go.”

  16

  A loud cheer went up, a couple of shots were fired into the air and something like thirty horses gathered their hind legs under them and were quirted into flying starts, earth clods flew, a mass of horses and riders seemed for a moment to be jammed tightly together and then suddenly to burst asunder as the quick starters shot away from the slower animals.

  Markham’s Starlight crashed out like a meteor, immediately taking the lead by a length, its small rider crouched over its shoulders. Off to one side, the halfbreed on the Appaloosa took the attention of the watchers, head stretched, its rider beating it at once into a dead run. Then came Foley on the gray, then another Markham thoroughbred, a sorrel, then Burville’s gelding and Jack Owen on his bay neck-and-neck with McShannon on his sorrel a half-length behind. After that there was a close bunch of Indians and cowhands, behind whom was McAllister on his dun, hanging back to let Sarie come up on the stud.

  Red made a bad start as McAllister knew he would. He didn’t like the presence of the other horses, but that didn’t worry his young rider because she knew that he hated nothing more than having other horses in front of him. He acted up a little, pitched a couple of times, tried a sunfish, swerved to one side and then straightened out and made off after the other horses. McAllister heard Sarie sing out to him in her treble voice.

  Her gear was unconventional. She herself was dressed like a boy, which had brought comments from the crowd, and around her head to stop her hair getting in her eyes, was a silk scarf. The stud carried nothing more than a surcingle with light stirrups attached to it and a hackamore. Its mouth was free. Men who noted this declared that a kid that size could never have controlled that much horse with a Spanish bit in its mouth. With a hackamore, it would run away with her.

  As the horses thundered across the stretch of flat through which the creek ran, Markham spotted Burville and rushed across to him to taunt him into making a reckless bet. Burville who was as proud
of his horseflesh as Markham was of his, came to meet him.

  McAllister carved a way with the dun between two Indian ponies, a scrawny pinto and a chunky little roan, and Red tucked in behind him. The dun was a running companion of his and he didn’t like to see it getting away from him like that. Past the Indian ponies, McAllister threw a tight grin at Sarie over his shoulder. The child grinned back and the stallion started to edge up on the dun.

  All the way along the creek, Starlight led the running, hitting an easy long pace, stretched out to swallow the ground beneath its neat feet, apparently not even trying yet. The Appaloosa was trying all right and it showed. The halfbreed rode with a grim set look on his face like a man who knows that victory has to be bitterly fought for. The Nez Percé horse was running well, but even before the field swept away from the creek and onto rougher ground, it was at its limit of speed. It was a good length to the rear of the leader and Foley on his gray was pressing him hard. Behind, knee to knee almost, came McShannon and Jack Owen fighting it out with the rest of the thoroughbreds in the race. Behind them came the bulk of the field made up of Indians and cowhands. These started to string out after the first mile and this gave McAllister and Sarie a chance to start moving up through them.

  The stud had by now pulled up almost level with the dun. He had gotten into his stride, but both Sarie and McAllister knew that he had by no means hit his limit; he was merely, at the pace that he could have kept on for hours if need be, McAllister gave a sign to Sarie to hold that pace and the girl nodded acknowledgement. This way they slowly pulled through the main bulk of the riders without straining either the dun or the stud. They slowed a little through the rough country to avoid the risk of a fall or a broken leg. But after they had been met by the curve in the creek and the field had torn the waters up in a ragged cloud of spray they reached the flat of the valley again and speed was once more possible.

  The rough country and the crossing of the creek had eliminated at least three riders. An Indian pony went down with a broken leg in the rough, a cowhand tried to ford in deep water and lost valuable time when his horse swam off down stream and gave up the try. Another cowman lost his seat when he tried to take a too steep part of the bank. The horse rolled on him and it looked to the passing riders that he must have sustained both broken ribs and maybe a leg. Nobody stopped. That was tacitly understood by all the riders. No matter what happened, you kept on going.

  Red gained at the ford because he was lucky enough to reach it with a thinned out bunch of riders. He gained still more on the flat and started to pull up on Foley on his gray. The horse was running superbly and Foley was riding him, as McAllister expected him to, with perfection. But, though a string bean of a man, he was far weightier than Sarie and the roan Was carrying a saddle beside. Red started to pull by him. McAllister heard Foley yell at the girl and pulled the dun over so that he came up on the right of Foley, opposite to Sarie. When Foley, unaware of his presence, raised his quirt to lash either at the girl or the stallion, McAllister flicked his own quirt at Foley’s arm to announce his presence. Foley’s face, sweating and red, turned on McAllister. The man glared with fury, but he did nothing beyond spurring the gray and using the quirt on the animal.

  The dun could now have over taken the gray, but McAllister held him in a little, waiting for the distance and the rough going to take the stuffing out of Foley’s horse before he passed it and tried to catch Sarie.

  This, he considered, might now be impossible. The stallion was stretching out and going hard, determined to overtake the horses in front of him and there was little that Sarie could do about it. McAllister knew that it was now up to Red and that he would run the race his own way, so he prayed that the stud wouldn’t drain himself now so that he could not call on the last ounce of strength and speed when needed. Foley was now riding with anger. It showed in every line of the man. He used the quirt and the spur too much and the gray, unused to such treatment, was getting rattled.

  A good fifty paces ahead now, Starlight was starting to pull away from even the fastest of the other horses. Still it ran easily. It was sweating and its satin coat was now flecked with a little snowlike foam, but its pace was unstrained and steady. The Appaloosa was a good four lengths behind and Jack Owen on his bay was starting to pull past him. Another pace behind, the swearing and teeth-gritting McShannon was pushing hard with his fast little sorrel. Another mile would see them in front of the Nez Percé horse. Then came Burville’s mount, going well and not straining, its rider no doubt planning a last burst of speed at the end of the race. Pushing him hard came Red, looking like nothing, but showing to anybody that knew anything about horses that here was a horse in a thousand who would run all day and get there fresh. Sarie was perched lightly on his shoulders urging him on only with her voice, equipped neither with spur or whip. Burville’s rider glanced over his shoulder at her and, for the first time, looked a little worried. McAllister’s dun slowly pulled past Foley’s gray. Like the mustang it didn’t look much and it was carrying a lot of weight, but it would still be running when a lot of fancier horses had fallen out with heaving sides.

  And so they swept across the flat and hit the timber. Here the cowponies came into their own, obeying their riders’ wishes on the instant as they weaved this way and that through the trunks of the trees. The thoroughbreds found it gruelling work and the riders were not any happier. Red took it in his stride and needed no guidance. He seemed hardly to slacken his pace at all and his twisting and turning was so rapid that it was all that Sarie could do to stay on his back. Here too, the dun found it easy to leave the sweating and swearing Foley behind. When they started streaming out of the trees, Starlight’s lead had been cut, two riders had come to grief from overhanging branches and one thoroughbred of Markham’s had been turned badly and had run itself into a tree trunk. Jack Owen and McShannon had both overtaken the Appaloosa and Burville’s mount, though still coming on strongly, had been clearly passed by Red. The whole field was now spread over a length of about half a mile.

  They thundered down a slope, hit a short flat and then started up another slope. This was perhaps the trickiest part of the race and McAllister knew that this would be the most gruelling test of all. Starlight’s rider didn’t seem to slacken pace even slightly as he brought the black gelding onto the narrow trail that rose so steeply through the rocks. McAllister lost sight of him for a moment and then when he appeared again he was in trouble. The black was refusing a particularly bad spot. The rider frantically laid on the whip, obviously worried that the horses and riders behind would run into him on the narrow way. McAllister saw Jack Owen run his bay at the first slope and the stout little animal took it gamely. McShannon’s sorrel attacked it with the tenacity of its rider. The Appaloosa, though showing signs of tiredness now, went at it pugnaciously and then there was an almighty pile up and the air was full of curses of men and the neighing of horses. McAllister was debating what he should do when his eye was caught by Sarie on Red. She swerved the big animal to the right, sent him apparently straight into the rocks and disappeared from view. Inwardly, McAllister groaned. This would be the end of the race for the stud. The girl would never manage to get him out of that tangle of brush and rock. But before he knew what he was doing, he swerved the dun and followed her.

  He was no sooner among the rocks than he caught sight of the girl ahead of him. She had dismounted from the stud and was running by his side as he scrambled up the rough hillside like a great dog. And they were making it. McAllister could have cheered. The dun came to a halt and he jumped from the saddle. Together they struggled up the steep rough way with the sound of tumult coming from their left. When he was high enough, McAllister looked back and saw that the field had divided itself, half trying to get through the block and half going the way he and Sarie had gone.

  Exhausted and soaked in sweat, he at last reached the summit almost too tired to heave himself aboard the dun again. Once up he saw that Sarie was a good hundred yards ahead, now on the
stud again and going strong. He gave the dun the spur and went after her.

  He covered a half-mile and looked back as he thundered across the high plain. Starlight was in the lead and coming on fast. But he would have to be a good deal faster than that to catch the stud now, McAllister thought. Why even his old dun carrying his weight might have a chance. When he looked forward again he saw Red and Sarie disappear into a dip in the ground, only to appear a moment later, going hard. At that distance it looked as if the stallion were stepping up his pace. McAllister chuckled to himself. Markham was going to be a very angry man this day. Not only would a mere mustang win his race and beat his precious thoroughbreds, but the winning horse would have been ridden by a mere child.

  When he looked back, he was sure now that Starlight was coming on hard and would overtake the dun before the end of the race, unless the dun had some hidden reserve in it. When he looked back again, he thought he saw McShannon and Jack Owen coming up to the rear of the black horse and then Foley on his gray. They were all hitting a good pace. Far behind he saw the bulk of the other scattered riders. If the stallion could hold this pace it meant that Sarie would win by at least a half-mile.

  The dun topped the ridge and slid down the other side on its haunches, hopped to the bottom and hit a hard pace again. The red stallion was in sight again now, going straight for home, stretching out with the tiny figure of Sarie crouched up on his back. McAllister could have cheered.

  He looked back after a few minutes and saw Starlight come over the ridge. It was in trouble coming down the steep grade, but when it hit the flat it started a fantastic pace. McAllister wondered if it could hold it. The rider was frequently using the quirt now and obviously beating the last ounce of strength from the animal. The sight angered McAllister who knew that wasn’t the way to get the best from an animal. But there was no arguing with the fact that the black was coming up on the dun fast. The dun was strong enough and game enough, but McAllister’s weight was too much for it.