Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  He said, “I say something funny?”

  I shook my head. “No, I just never had nobody sit down at my table and nonchalantly tell me they’d robbed my bank.”

  “Hell, I’ll give it back to you if you want. I’ll have to run over across the river, though.”

  I waved my hand at him. “Never mind, never mind. My brother is a mighty careful man. He took out insurance. I thought it was a waste of money at the time, but—well, I like to have never heard the end of it.” I tried to stop laughing by drinking some beer that the waitress had just brought.

  Wilson smiled slowly. “I see,” he said. “Guess your brother rode you about it. I can see now I never done you no favor.”

  “You’d have to know my brother to understand.”

  Wilson Young said, “Never had one.”

  I got out a cigarillo and lit it. “I guess I will smoke with you after all. But you got to admit you give me a shock.” I sat there looking at him. So this was Wilson Young. I’d been hearing about him for at least ten years. I was surprised to see how young he was. From all I’d heard that he’d done I’d figured he’d have to have been a hundred and ten years old. I told him so.

  He smiled gently. “Yeah, them kind of stories do get started. They are a hell of a lot easier to start than they are to stop. I heard the other day that I’d just robbed a bank somewhere up near Dallas. Hell, I ain’t been north of the Colorado in five years.”

  “I’d heard you were kind of from my part of the country. Corpus Christi.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t stay around there long. I was about fifteen when I took out. Wasn’t long before I discovered the owlhoot trail. And nobody showed it to me. I found it all on my own. And I ain’t proud either.”

  The whole thing was passing strange. He seemed like such a nice fellow I had a hard time believing he’d robbed everything short of the poor box in church or shot half the men in Texas over the age of eighteen.

  But like he said, the stories got started.

  The waitress came with our supper and we gave our energies over to eating. I finished up my meal with a piece of apple pie, not quite having gotten my sweet tooth satisfied from the long drought on the trail. Wilson Young had coffee and brandy, pouring the brandy shot into his cup of coffee. He sipped at it and then lit another of his mean-looking little Mexican cigarillos.

  I said, “I never could take them Mexican pistols. Too damn strong for me.”

  He looked at the cigarillo and said, “Well, I reckon I’ve spent so much time in Mexico I got used to them. Man can get used to anything, I reckon.”

  This Wilson Young might have been an outlaw, but he was no ruffian. There was a decided intelligence in his eyes and his words. And even though he had a gentle manner about him, I reckoned him not to be a man to be regarded lightly. Not in any respect.

  I said, “You used to have a gang.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I reckon you could call them that. They was friends mostly. They’re all gone now. Some dead, scattered. I don’t know.”

  “What line of work you in now?”

  “Gambling. That and a little smuggling. Gold mostly.”

  “No cattle?”

  He smiled slightly. “Naw, that’s pretty well covered by folks got here before me. And it really ain’t work I’d fancy.” He looked up at me. “Though some do.”

  “Well, if you’re a gambler I got a good bet for you. I’m going to race that Junior Borden’s horse tomorrow morning. Bet on the other horse.”

  He blew smoke toward the ceiling. “You going to run a race even knowing he’ll switch horses?”

  I said carefully, “It’s something to do. I got a feeling I was meant to do it.” I said the last kind of sarcastically, but I knew there was more truth than not.

  “Well, I guess you must know something. Junior’s in with Flood. In a kind of puppy-dog way. But I reckon you knew that.”

  “No,” I said, “I didn’t. Flood is no friend of mine. The backwards of it as a matter of fact.”

  “I see,” he said.

  I wanted to trust him, but I was afraid to. I had a good feeling about him, but he was still a wanted outlaw and he was on Flood’s home ground.

  I said, “I’m just playing out a hand.”

  He gave me a look but didn’t say anything.

  CHAPTER 9

  I took my time getting out to the fairgrounds the next day, arriving some few minutes after ten. The colt was plenty frisky after standing around for near a day and a half with no work to do. He was full of run as I rode him out of town, and only settled down when I spoke sharply to him. He was an intelligent animal, for a horse, and had come to sense my moods. I figured the time on the trail had given him more endurance than might be expected.

  As I rode into the fairgrounds I could see the scene was pretty much the same as it had been the day before, a lot of men standing around holding horses and trying to look sly. On the track some runners were being worked out, apparently in preparation for the races to come on Saturday. These were real racehorses with jockeys on their backs and using those little saddles. With the racetrack as crowded as it was I didn’t see how me and Mister Borden were going to have a race.

  But even as I rode up a gent in a little platform thing on the finish line, a box on stilts about as high as a windmill, commenced waving a flag and the horses started drifting off the track. I figured it was open only a certain amount of time for practice and then the track judge, or whoever it was up in the platform, signaled folks to clear off. That platform, being where it was, I guessed was the judges’ stand to determine who ran first or second or what.

  I rode to the fence and dismounted. It wasn’t more than two or three minutes before I spied Junior Borden strutting across the fairgrounds toward me. The black buggy was nowhere in sight. If I’d read the situation correctly Flood had directed Junior, for whatever reason, to banner me into a race. That being the case it seemed like the least he could do was come out and watch. Of course I hadn’t the foggiest idea why he’d want me to race one of Borden’s horses. But then, I had no idea what he was after in the first place. I hoped to find that out that afternoon at one o’lock back at the hotel.

  I took notice that Borden wasn’t leading the horse he’d had the day before. I remembered what Wilson Young had said, that he’d switch off a short-distance horse on me that looked almost the same but wasn’t. I figured he didn’t want me to see the horse until race time in hopes I would have forgotten what he looked like.

  Borden came up and said, in a too loud voice, “Well! So you’re here! Lookin’ to take some of my money!”

  I never could figure out why little short-stuff men like him had to strut and talk overloud and wear red vests, and just generally call attention to themselves more than was necessary. Borden wasn’t the first one I’d seen like that by a long shot, but it didn’t really make a damn to me.

  I said mildly, “I ain’t deaf, Mister Borden. And I don’t reckon you need to tell everybody in this part of the country our business.”

  He said loudly, looking surprised, “What’cha talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’m here. My horse is here. Let’s get it over with.”

  “All right,” he said loudly. “You’re right. And when a man is right I say he’s right. We’re here to horse-race, let’s horse-race. Let’s see. We are a-runnin’ six-sixty yards for five hunnert dollars. That’s the size of it.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We are running a half a mile for five hundred dollars.”

  He snorted and stepped back, almost like a horse. “Hell, we never said that. We said six hundred and sixty by God yards!”

  What I’d done was hit him right in the middle between his short-distance horse and his long runner. That was what was getting him so excited. I said, “No, we never agreed on a distance. You said six-sixty yards, said it would be to the disadvantage of your horse because he liked a longer distance. I never sa
id yes or not. Well, here is a longer distance for you. It ought to make you happy.”

  Except I knew it wouldn’t because it wasn’t long enough. A half mile was only 220 yards further than a 660, but I figured it to be an important 220 yards. It would stretch his little short-coupled mainly quarter horse, and still wouldn’t be long enough for the roan I’d seen the day before that had so much American Standardbred in him.

  He said, stuttering around a little, “Hell, you can’t go to changing the distances on a man overnight! I uh ... I mean, I uh . . .”

  “You going to try and tell me you got your horse ready to run six-sixty instead of a half mile?”

  “Well ... Well, yeah. Damnit!”

  I laughed. “Borden, you are full of horseshit. It ain’t that much difference.”

  “Then hell, let’s run a three-quarter mile! If you can change the distance so can I.”

  I shook my head. “Borden, you bannered me up for a race. It’s customary then for me to pick the distance. And you offered to let me pick the distance.”

  “I never!”

  A voice just over my shoulder said, “Oh, yes you did, Junior. I heard you.”

  I turned around. Wilson Young had come quietly up behind me. I said, “Well, howdy.”

  “Mister Williams,” he said. He gave me part of a wink. “You having trouble with Junior here about the distance?”

  “No. He’s having trouble with his memory. He claims I agreed to a six-sixty and now I’ve changed on him and want to run a half mile. Claims he had his horse all prepared for the shorter distance.”

  Young said drily, “I’ll just bet he did.”

  Borden said loudly, “You jest can’t go to changing the distance. It ain’t right, I tell you.”

  Young said, “You challenged him, Junior. And it’s his pick of the distance. He’s picked a half mile. You going to run him or you want it to get around the track that your word ain’t no damn good?”

  Borden opened his mouth and closed it. He did it again. Then he said, “All right! But I ain’t giving you no two-length head start.”

  I said, “Now wait a minute. You were willing to do that yesterday on a shorter race. Why not on a longer race? Especially when you said yourself your horse liked a longer distance.”

  Young said, “Yeah, Junior, what about that?”

  I took him off the hook. I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t much care what happened in the race. I was more interested in Mister Flood. I said, “Forget the head start, Borden. Go and get your horse and let us either race or forget it.”

  “I’m going,” Borden said. “I’m going, though I still don’t think it’s right.”

  Wilson Young said, “Junior, I’ll take five hundred of that also.”

  Borden said, “What?” He hunched his head down in his shoulders and peered at Wilson Young. “You know something about this man’s horse?”

  Young said mildly, “Not a damn thing. I just don’t much care for you and if he beats you I want some of it.”

  Borden didn’t seem to react to the insult Young had paid him. “I can’t let you have five hunnert. Two hunnert. Even money.”

  “Okay,” Young said.

  We watched Borden go scurrying away, heading for a back corner of the fairgrounds. Young said, “He’s probably trying to decide which horse.” He laughed. “I bet his mind is going twenty to the dozen.”

  “Which one you think he’ll fetch?”

  Young narrowed his eyes and thought. “If it was me I’d take the close-coupled quarter horse. You understand he ain’t all quarter horse, just mainly. It’s too short a distance for that long-backed runner of his. He don’t start getting wound up for a half a mile.”

  “By the way, I hope you remember I told you I ain’t ever raced this colt. I have no idea what he can do.”

  Young shrugged. “I told you I was a gambler. Besides, like I told Borden, I don’t much care for him or any of that crowd that hangs around J.C. Flood. If I lose I ain’t really going to care. Ain’t that much money. But if I win it is going to grind on Junior. It’ll grind on Flood too, because it’s his money behind Junior.”

  That last part aroused my curiosity, but I didn’t say anything. Instead I said, “How would you race him?”

  “If he brings that short-distance horse I’d crowd him all I could. He is going to get off the mark first, you can bet on that. He’s as quick off the mark as anything around here. But I’d get right on him and push him. He’ll probably lead you around the homestretch curve, but he ought to start wearing out about then. But you’ll have to push him hard. Borden has got an old ex-bronc-rider for his jockey, and he’ll probably try and hold the horse and save something for the finish, but don’t let him. Pass him if he goes to rating the horse. That is, if your horse has got a lot of bottom, staying power.”

  “That I don’t know.” Then I said, “He’ll have a jockey?”

  He looked at me, surprised. “Yeah. You didn’t think Borden was going to ride the horse, did you? Are you riding yours?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He whistled. “You’re pretty big. I guess he must not mind the load.”

  “I don’t see where he’s got much choice. I ain’t got no jockey.”

  Young said, “I could ride him for you. I’m at least fifteen pounds lighter than you. And I got a pretty good seat.”

  “Much obliged for the offer, but he’s young and skittish and he’s used to me. He’s going to be nervous enough on that track. I reckon I better take him.”

  Just then we saw Borden and another man, one even shorter than he was, leading a strawberry roan toward us. Young said, “He’s got the quarter horse.”

  “How can you tell? He looks like that horse I saw yesterday.”

  Young said, “I’ve seen them together. Besides, the short horse has got a touch of white just above the fetlock on the right leg. See it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember, you got to push him.”

  Borden wanted to squabble about who was going to hold the bets and who was going to be the starter and the finish-line judge, but Wilson Young settled all that for him. There were two judges there who handled the regular racing and Young prevailed upon them to handle our business. He and Borden went up on the high platform with the finish-line judge, and I passed through a gate and rode the roan out onto the track.

  It was all brand-new to him and he was all eyes and ears, shying away from every sound and every shadow. When we passed the grandstand you’d of thought a freight train was coming the way he jumped sideways. If he kept up much more of that we weren’t going to make much of a showing.

  The track had cleared except for me and my horse and Borden’s horse and jockey. I was walking the colt toward the end of the homestretch when he passed me. I didn’t get a close look at his face, but he was a hard-looking customer. I figured him as being close to forty years of age. He was muscled up in the shoulders and forearms, and from the glimpse I got of his face it looked like he’d been hit with a wagon tongue. But that was about normal for bronc-busters. Most of them got their faces and their noses pretty well rearranged from time to time. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a Western hat, but a little cap. And I saw that the saddle he had on the strawberry roan was a cavalry saddle, about half as light as mine. It appeared my horse was carrying half again as much of a load as his was. He also had a whip in his hand, kind of a flexible sticklike affair.

  But from the looks of it I didn’t see where he was going to need it much. The little strawberry roan was fairly prancing sideways he was so eager to go. He wasn’t going to leave any doubt in anybody’s mind that he was a racehorse and he was damn well ready to show it.

  I turned the roan back and put him into a slow lope, warming him up. When I got to the judges’ stand I took off my hat and pitched it up to Wilson Young. I said, “Hang on to that, will you?”

  He nodded and said, “Press him.”

  The track was a mile track, so the start for ou
r half-mile race was midway down the backstretch. That way the finish line would be right in front of the grandstands and the judges’ platform. I took the roan around the curve leading into the homestretch, keeping him in a slow lope but giving him plenty of opportunity to look things over. He’d settled down considerably and seemed to be enjoying stepping along on a nice, smooth surface, a far cry from the rock-and-cactus path we’d ridden for so many days.

  I got to the starting line. My opponent was already there, circling his horse, having to keep a tight rein on him because the horse was straining at his bit. I didn’t know the etiquette of the procedure, never having ridden in a regular stakes race before, whether I was supposed to speak or just what. But since he was ignoring me I did the same to him.

  A man was standing just inside the railing with a pistol in his hand. He said, “All right, line your horses up in a line across from me. When I fire this pistol that is the start.”

  I had meant to get my horse on the rail, but the little hard-faced man was too quick for me. With his horse dancing around he effectively cut inside me and lined up against the rail right at the starter. I didn’t have any choice but to fall in beside him. The strawberry roan was straining and edging forward. The starter had to tell him several times to get back. But now my colt was picking up some of the excitement off the other horse and he wanted to dance forward. He had just managed to get himself almost turned sideways when the gun fired.

  That strawberry roan was fast off the mark and no mistake. But my colt surprised the hell out of me the way he took off. It had come so unexpectedly that I was caught off guard and got a little back in the saddle. But just like he’d been racing all his life, my colt shot out without a single signal from me.

  We were about a length and a half behind heading down the backstretch to the beginning of the curve, but after about a hundred yards, my colt began making up ground. With every stride he was gaining on the other horse. By the time we started into the curve my roan had his nose up to the other horse’s tail, and then to his saddle, and then we were just a head behind. By now I’d got my seat back and I was leaning forward in the saddle, putting most of my weight in the stirrups, leaning low over the colt’s neck trying to help him on. I hadn’t touched him with a spur or asked him for any extra run. Everything he was doing he was doing on his own.