by B. M. Bower
“Say, come alive! What yuh going off in a trance for, when I’m talking to yuh for your own good?” Jerry smiled whimsically, but his eyes were worried.
Bud pulled himself together and reined closer.
“Don’t bet anything on this race, Jerry,” he advised “Or if you do, don’t bet on Skeeter. But—well, I’ll just trade you a little advice for all you’ve given me. Don’t bet!”
“What the hell!” surprise jolted out of Jerry.
“It’s my funeral,” Bud laughed. “I’m a chancey kid, you see—but I’d hate to see you bet on me.” He pulled up to watch the next race—four nervy little cow-horses of true range breeding, going down to the quarter post.
“They’re going to make false starts aplenty,” Bud remarked after the first fluke. “Jeff and I have it out next. I’ll just give Smoke another treatment.” He dismounted, looked at Jerry undecidedly and slapped him on the knee. “I’m glad to have a friend like you,” he said impulsively. “There’s a lot of two-faced sinners around here that would steal a man blind. Don’t think I’m altogether a fool.”
Jerry looked at him queerly, opened his mouth and shut it again so tightly that his jawbones stood out a little. He watched Bud bathing Smoky’s ankle. When Bud was through and handed Jerry the bottle to keep for him, Jerry held him for an instant by the hand.
“Say, for Gawdsake don’t talk like that promiscuous, Bud,” he begged. “You might hit too close—”
“Ay, Jerry! Ever hear that old Armenian proverb, ‘He who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup’? I learned that in school.”
Jerry let go Bud’s hand and took the bottle, Bud’s watch that had his mother’s picture pasted in the back, and his vest, a pocket of which contained a memorandum of his wagers. Bud was stepping out of his chaps, and he looked up and grinned. “Cheer up, Jerry. You’re going to laugh in a minute.” When Jerry still remained thoughtful, Bud added soberly, “I appreciate you and old Pop standing by me. I don’t know just what you’ve got on your mind, but the fact that there’s something is hint enough for me.” Whereupon Jerry’s eyes lightened a little.
The four horses came thundering down the track, throwing tiny pebbles high into the air as they passed. A trim little sorrel won, and there was the usual confusion of voices upraised in an effort to be heard. When that had subsided, interest once more centered on Skeeter and Smoky, who seemed to have recovered somewhat from his lameness.
Not a man save Pop and Bud had placed a bet on Smoky, yet every man there seemed keenly interested in the race. They joshed Bud, who grinned and took it good-naturedly, and found another five dollars in—his pocket to bet—this time with Pop, who kept eyeing him sharply—and it seemed to Bud warningly. But Bud wanted to play his own game, this time, and he avoided Pop’s eyes.
The two men rode down the hoof-scored sand to the quarter post, Skeeter dancing sidewise at the prospect of a race, Smoky now and then tentatively against Bud’s steady pressure of the bit.
“He’s not limping now,” Bud gloated as they rode. But Jeff only laughed tolerantly and made no reply.
Dave Truman started them with a pistol shot, and the two horses darted away, Smoky half a jump in the lead. His limp was forgotten, and for half the distance he ran neck and neck with Skeeter. Then he dropped to Skeeter’s middle, to his flank—then ran with his black nose even with Skeeter’s rump. Even so it was a closer race than the crowd had expected, and all the cowboys began to yell themselves purple.
But when they were yet a few leaps from the wire clothes-line stretched high, from post to post, Bud leaned forward until he lay flat alongside Smoky’s neck, and gave a real Indian war-whoop. Smoky lifted and lengthened his stride, came up again to Skeeter’s middle, to his shoulder, to his ears—and with the next leap thrust his nose past Skeeter’s as they finished.
Well, then there was the usual noise, everyone trying to shout louder than his fellows. Bud rode to where Pop was sitting apart on a pacing gray horse that he always rode, and paused to say guardedly,
“I pulled him, Pop. But at that I won, so if I can pry another race out of this bunch today, you can bet all you like. And you owe me five dollars,” he added thriftily.
“Sho! Shucks almighty!” spluttered Pop, reaching reluctantly into his pocket for the money. “Jeff, he done some pullin’ himself—I wish I knowed,” he added pettishly, “just how big a fool you air.”
“Hey, come over here!” shouted Jeff. “What yuh nagging ole Pop about?”
“Pop lost five dollars on that race,” Bud called back, and loped over to the crowd. “But he isn’t the only one. Seems to me I’ve got quite a bunch of money coming to me, from this crowd!”
“Jeff, he’d a beat him a mile if his bridle rein had busted,” an arrogant voice shouted recklessly. “Jeff, you old fox, you know damn well you pulled Skeeter. You must love to lose, doggone yuh.”
“If you think I didn’t run right,” Jeff retorted, as if a little nettled, “someone else can ride the horse. That is, if the kid here ain’t scared off with your talk. How about it, Bud? Think you won fair?”
Bud was collecting his money, and he did not immediately answer the challenge. When he did it was to offer them another race. He would not, he said, back down from anyone. He would bet his last cent on little Smoky. He became slightly vociferative and more than a little vain-glorious, and within half an hour he had once more staked all the money he had in the world. The number of men who wanted to bet with him surprised him a little. Also the fact that the Little Lost men were betting on Smoky.
Honey called him over to the bank and scolded him in tones much like her name, and finally gave him ten dollars which she wanted to wager on his winning. As he whirled away, Marian beckoned impulsively and leaned forward, stretching out to him her closed hand.
“Here’s ten,” she smiled, “just to show that the Little Lost stands by its men—and horses. Put it on Smoky, please.” When Bud was almost out of easy hearing, she called to him. “Oh—was that a five or a ten dollar bill I gave you?”
Bud turned back, unfolding the banknote. A very tightly folded scrap of paper slid into his palm.
“Oh, all right—I have the five here in my pocket,” called Marian, and laughed quite convincingly. “Go on and run! We won’t be able to breathe freely until the race is over.”
Wherefore Bud turned back, puzzled and with his heart jumping. For some reason Marian had taken this means of getting a message into his hands. What it could be he did not conjecture; but he had a vague, unreasoning hope that she trusted him and was asking him to help her somehow. He did not think that it concerned the race, so he did not risk opening the note then, with so many people about.
A slim, narrow-eyed youth of about Bud’s weight was chosen to ride Skeeter, and together they went back over the course to the quarter post, with Dave to start them and two or three others to make sure that the race was fair. Smoky was full now of little prancing steps, and held his neck arched while his nostrils flared in excitement, showing pink within. Skeeter persistently danced sidewise, fighting the bit, crazy to run.
Skeeter made two false starts, and when the pistol was fired, jumped high into the air and forward, shaking his head, impatient against the restraint his rider put upon him. Halfway down the stretch he lunged sidewise toward Smoky, but that level-headed little horse swerved and went on, shoulder to shoulder with the other. At the very last Skeeter rolled a pebble under his foot and stumbled—and again Smoky came in with his slaty nose in the lead.
Pop rode into the centre of the yelling crowd, his whiskers bristling. “Shucks almighty!” he cried. “What fer ridin’ do yuh call that there? Jeff Hall, that feller held Skeeter in worse’n what you did yourself! I kin prove it! I got a stop watch, an’ I timed ’im, I did. An’ I kin tell yuh the time yore horse made when he run agin Dave’s Boise. He’s three seconds—yes, by Christmas, he’s four seconds slower t’day ’n what he’s ever run before! What fer sport d’ you call that?” H
is voice went up and cracked at the question mark like a boy in his early teens.
Jeff stalked forward to Skeeter’s side. “Jake, did you pull Skeeter?” he demanded sternly. “I’ll swan if this ain’t the belly-achiness bunch I ever seen! How about it, Jake? Did Skeeter do his durndest, or didn’t he?
“Shore, he did!” Jake testified warmly. “I’da beat, too, if he hadn’t stumbled right at the last. Didn’t yuh see him purty near go down? And wasn’t he within six inches of beatin’? I leave it to the crowd!”
The crowd was full of argument, and some bets were paid under protest. But they were paid, just the same. Burroback Valley insisted that the main points of racing law should be obeyed to the letter. Bud collected his winnings, the Scotch in him overlooking nothing whatever in the shape of a dollar. Then, under cover of getting his smoking material, he dared bring out Marian’s note. There were two lines in a fine, even hand on a cigarette paper, and Bud, relieved at her cleverness, unfolded the paper and read while he opened his bag of tobacco. The lines were like those in an old-fashioned copy book:
“Winners may be losers. Empty pockets, safe owner.”
And that was all. Bud sifted tobacco into the paper, rolled it into a cigarette and smoked it to so short a stub that he burnt his lips. Then he dropped it beside his foot and ground it into the sand while he talked.
He would run Smoky no more that day, he declared, but next Sunday he would give them all a chance to settle their minds and win back their losings, providing his horse’s ankle didn’t go bad again with today’s running. Pop, Dave, Jeff and a few other wise ones examined the weak ankle and disagreed over the exact cause and nature of the weakness. It seemed all right. Smoky did not flinch from rubbing, though he did lift his foot away from strange hands. They questioned Bud, who could offer no positive information on the subject, except that once he and Smoky had rolled down a bluff together, and Smoky had been lame for a while afterwards.
It did not occur to anyone to ask Bud which leg had been lamed, and Bud did not volunteer the detail. An old sprain, they finally decided, and Bud replaced his saddle, got his chaps and coat from Jerry, who was smiling over an extra twenty-five dollars, and rode over to give the girls their winnings.
He stayed for several minutes talking with them and hoping for a chance to thank Marian for her friendly warning. But there was none, and he rode away dissatisfied and wondering uneasily if Marian thought he was really as friendly with Honey as that young lady made him appear to be.
He was one of the first to ride back to the ranch, and he turned Smoky in the pasture and caught up Stopper to ride with Honey, who said she was going for a ride when the races were over, and that if he liked to go along she would show him the Sinks. Bud had professed an eagerness to see the Sinks which he did not feel until Marian had turned her head toward Honey and said in her quiet voice:
“Why the Sinks? You know that isn’t safe country to ride in, Honey.”
“That’s why I want to ride there,” Honey retorted flippantly. “I hate safe places and safe things.”
Marian had glanced at Bud—and it was that glance which he was remembering now with a puzzled sense that, like the note, it had meant something definite, something vital to his own welfare if he could only find the key. First it was Hen, then Jerry, and now Marian, all warning him vaguely of danger into which he might stumble if he were not careful.
Bud was no fool, but on the other hand he was not one to stampede easily. He had that steadfast courage, perhaps, which could face danger and still maintain his natural calm—just as his mother had corrected grammatical slips in the very sentences which told her of an impending outbreak of Indians long ago Bud saddled Stopper and the horse which Honey was to ride, led them to the house and went inside to wait until the girl was ready. While he waited he played—and hoped that Marian, hearing, would know that he played for her; and that she would come and explain the cryptic message. Whether Marian heard and appreciated the music or not, she failed to appear and let him know. It seemed to him that she might easily have come into the room for a minute when she knew he was there, and let him have a chance to thank her and ask her just what she meant.
He was just finishing the Ave Maria which Marian had likened to a breath of cool air, when Honey appeared in riding skirt and light shirtwaist. She looked very trim and attractive, and Bud smiled upon her approvingly, and cut short the last strain by four beats, which was one way of letting Marian know that he considered her rather unappreciative.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE SINKS
“We can go through the pasture and cut off a couple of miles,” said Honey when they were mounted. “I hope you don’t think I’m crazy, wanting a ride at this time of day, after all the excitement we’ve had. But every Sunday is taken up with horse-racing till late in the afternoon, and during the week no one has time to go. And,” she added with a sidelong look at him, “there’s something about the Sinks that makes me love to go there. Uncle Dave won’t let me go alone.”
Bud dismounted to pull down the two top bars of the pasture gate so that their horses could step over. A little way down the grassy slope Smoky and Sunfish fed together, the Little Lost horses grouped nearer the creek.
“I love that little horse of yours—why, he’s gone lame again!” exclaimed Honey. “Isn’t that a shame! You oughtn’t to run him if it does that to him.”
“He likes it,” said Bud carelessly as he remounted. “And so do I, when I can clean up the way I did today. I’m over three hundred dollars richer right now than I was this morning.”
“And next Sunday, maybe you’ll be broke,” Honey added significantly. “You never know how you are coming out. I think Jeff let you win today on purpose, so you’d bet it all again and lose. He’s like that. He don’t care how much he loses one day, because he gets it back some other time. I don’t like it. Some of the boys never do get ahead, and you’ll be in the same fix if you don’t look out.”
“You didn’t bring me along to lecture me, I know,” said Bud with a good-natured smile. “What about the Sinks? Is it a dangerous place as—Mrs. Morris says?”
“Oh, Marian? She never does want me to come. She thinks I ought to stay in the house always, the way she does. The Sinks is—is—queer. There are caves, and then again deep holes straight down, and tracks of wildcats and lions. And in some places you can hear gurgles and rumbles. I love to be there just at sundown, because the shadows are spooky and it makes you feel—oh, you know—kind of creepy up your back. You don’t know what might happen. I—do you believe in ghosts and haunted places, Bud?”
“I’d need a lot of scaring before I did. Are the Sinks haunted?”
“No-o—but there are funny noises and people have got lost there. Anyway they never showed up afterwards. The Indians claim it’s haunted.” She smiled that baring smile of hers. “Do you want to turn around and go back?”
“Sure. After we’ve had our ride, and seen the sights.” And he added with some satisfaction, “The moon’s full tonight, and no clouds.”
“And I brought sandwiches,” Honey threw in as especial blessing. “Uncle Dave will be mad, I expect. But I’ve never seen the Sinks at night, with moonlight.”
She was quiet while the horses waded Sunk Creek and picked their way carefully over a particularly rocky stretch beyond. “But what I’d rather do,” she said, speaking from her thoughts which had evidently carried forward in the silence, “is explore Catrock Canyon.”
“Well, why not, if we have time?” Bud rode up alongside her. “Is it far?”
Honey looked at him searchingly. “You must be stranger to these parts,” she said disbelievingly. “Do you think you can make me swallow that?”
Bud looked at her inquiringly, which forced her to go on.
“You must know about Catrock Canyon, Bud Birnie. Don’t try to make me believe you don’t.”
“I don’t. I never heard of it before that I remember. What is it makes you want to explore it?”<
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Honey studied him. “You’re the queerest specimen I ever did see,” she exclaimed pettishly. “Why, it’s not going to hurt you to admit you know Catrock Canyon is—unexplorable.”
“Oh. So you want to explore it because it’s unexplorable. Well, why is it unexplorable?”
Honey looked around her at the dry sageland they were crossing. “Oh, you make me tired!” she said bluntly, with something of the range roughness in her voice. “Because it is, that’s all.”
“Then I’d like to explore it myself,” Bud declared.
“For one thing,” Honey dilated, “there’s no way to get in there. Up on the ridge this side, where the rock is that throws a shadow like a cat’s head on the opposite wall, you can look down a ways. But the two sides come so close together at the top that you can’t see the bottom of the canyon at all. I’ve been on the ridge where I could see the cat’s head.”
Bud glanced speculatively up at the sun, and Honey, catching his meaning, shook her head and smiled.
“If we get into the Sinks and back today, they will do enough talking about it; or Uncle Dave will, and Marian. I—I thought perhaps you’d be able to tell me about—Catrock Canyon.”
“I’m able to say I don’t know a thing about it. If no one can get into it, I should think that’s about all, isn’t it?”
“Yes—you’d think so,” Honey agreed enigmatically, and began to talk of the racing that day, and of the dance, and of other dances and other races yet to come. Bud discussed these subjects for a while and then asked boldly, “When’s Lew coming back?”
“Lew?” Honey shot a swift glance at him. “Why?” She looked ahead at the forbidding, craggy hills toward which she had glanced when she spoke of Catrock. “Why, I don’t know. How should I?”
