Cow Country
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B. M. Bower >> Cow Country
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"When you pulled him, Jeff!" a mocking voice drawled. "And
that was when you wasn't bettin' yourself."
Jeff turned injuredly to Bud. "Now don't that sound like a
piker?" he complained. "It ain't reason to claim I'd pull my
own horse. Ain't that the out doinest way to come back at a
man that likes a good race?
Bud swelled his chest and laid his hand on Jeff's shoulder.
"Just to show you I'm not a piker," he cried recklessly,
"I'll bet you twenty-five dollars I can beat your Skeeter
with my Smoky horse that I rode in here. Is it a go?"
Jeff's jaw dropped a little, with surprise. "What fer horse
is this here Smoky horse of yourn?" he wanted to know.
Bud winked at the group, which cackled gleeful!, "I love the
sport of kings," he said. "I love it so well I don't have to
see your Skeeter horse till Sunday. From the way these boys
sidestep him, I guess he's a sure-enough running horse. My
Smoky's a good little horse, too, but he never scared a bunch
till they had cramps in the pockets. Still," he added with a
grin, "I'll try anything once. I bet you twenty-five dollars
my Smoky can beat your Skeeter."
"Say, kid, honest I hate to take it away from yuh. Honest, I
do. The way you can knock the livin' tar outa that pyanny is
a caution to cats. I c'd listen all night. But when it comes
to runnin' horses--"
"Are you afraid of your money?" Bud asked him arrogantly.
"You called this a bunch of pikers--"
"Well, by golly, it'll be your own fault, kid. If I take your
money away from yuh, don't go and blame it onto me. Mebbe
these fellers has got some cause to sidestep--"
"All right, the bet's on. And I won't blame you if I lose.
Smoky's a good little horse. Don't think for a minute I'm
giving you my hard earned coin. You'll have to throw up some
dust to get it, old-timer. I forgot to say I'd like to make
it a quarter dash."
"A quarter dash it is," Jeff agreed derisively as Bud turned
to answer the summons of the music which was beginning again.
The racing enthusiasts lingered outside, and Bud smiled to
himself while he whirled Honey twice around in an old-
fashioned waltz. He had them talking about him, and wondering
about his horse. When they saw Smoky they would perhaps call
him a chancey kid. He meant to ask Pop about Skeeter, though
Pop seemed confident that Smoky would win against anything in
the valley.
But on the other hand, he had seen in his short acquaintance
with Little Lost that Pop was considered childish--that
comprehensive accusation which belittles the wisdom of age.
The boys made it a point to humor him without taking him
seriously. Honey pampered him and called him Poppy, while in
Marian's chill courtesy, in her averted glances, Bud had read
her dislike of Pop. He had seen her hand shrink away from
contact with his hand when she set his coffee beside his
plate.
But Bud had heard others speak respectfully of Boise, and
regret that he was too fast to run. Pop might be childish on
some subjects, but Bud rather banked on his judgment of
horses--and Pop was penurious and anxious to win money.
"What are you thinking about?" Honey demanded when the music
stopped. "Something awful important, I guess, to make you
want to keep right on dancing!"
"I was thinking of horse-racing," Bud confessed, glad that he
could tell her the truth.
"Ah, you! Don't let them make a fool of you. Some of the
fellows would bet the shirt off their backs on a horse-race!
You look out for them, Bud."
"They wouldn't bet any more than I would," Bud boldly
declared. "I've bet already against a horse I've never seen.
How 's that?"
"That's crazy. You'll lose, and serve you right." She went
off to dance with someone else, and Bud turned smiling to
find a passable partner amongst the older women--for he was
inclined to caution where strange girls were concerned. Much
trouble could come to a stranger who danced with a girl who
happened to have a jealous sweetheart, and Bud did not court
trouble of that kind. He much preferred to fight over other
things. Besides, he had no wish to antagonize Honey.
But his dance with some faded, heavy-footed woman was not to
be. Jerry once more signalled him and drew him outside for a
little private conference. Jerry was ill at ease and inclined
to be reproachful and even condemnatory.
He wanted first to know why Bud had been such a many kinds of
a fool as to make that bet with Jeff Hall. All the fellows
were talking about it. "They was asking me what kind of a
horse you've got--and I wouldn't put it past Jeff and his
bunch to pull some kind of a dirty trick on you," he
complained. "Bud, on the square, I like you a whole lot. You
seem kinda innocent, in some ways, and in other ways you
don't. I wish you'd tell me just one thing, so I can sleep
comfortable. Have you got some scheme of your own? Or what
the devil ails you?"
"Well, I've just got a notion," Bud admitted. "I'm going to
have some fun watching those fellows perform, whether I win
or lose. I've spent as much as twenty-five dollars on a
circus, before now, and felt that I got the worth of my
money, too. I'm going to enjoy myself real well, next
Sunday."
Jerry glanced behind him and lowered his voice, speaking
close to Bud's ear. "Well, there's something I'd like to say
that it ain't safe to say, Bud. I'd hate like hell to see you
get in trouble. Go as far as you like having fun--but--oh,
hell! What's the use?" He turned abruptly and went inside,
leaving Bud staring after him rather blankly.
Jerry did not strike Bud as being the kind of a man who goes
around interfering with every other man's business. He was a
quiet, good-natured young fellow with quizzical eyes of that
mixed color which we call hazel simply because there is more
brown than gray or green. He did not talk much, but he
observed much. Bud was strongly inclined to heed Jerry's
warning, but it was too vague to have any practical value--"
about like Hen's note," Bud concluded. "Well-meaning but
hazy. Like a red danger flag on a railroad crossing where the
track is torn up and moved. I saw one, once and my horse
threw a fit at it and almost piled me. I figured that the red
flag created the danger, where I was concerned. Still, I'd
like to oblige Jerry and sidestep something or other,
but . . ."
His thoughts grew less distinct, merged into wordless
rememberings and conjectures, clarified again into terse
sentences which never reached the medium of speech.
"Well, I'll just make sure they don't try out Smoke when I'm
not looking," he decided, and slipped away in the dark.
By a roundabout way which avoided the trail he managed to
reach the pasture fence without being seen. No horses grazed
in sight, and he climbed through and went picking his way
across the lumpy meadow in the starlight. At the farther side
he found the horses standing out on a sandy ridge where the
mosquitoes were not quite so pestiferous. The Little Lost
horses ;snorted and took to their heels, his three following
for a short distance.
Bud stopped and whistled a peculiar call invented long ago
when he was just Buddy, and watched over the Tomahawk REMUDA.
Every horse with the Tomahawk brand knew that summons--though
not every horse would obey it. But these three had come when
they were sucking colts, if Buddy whistled; and in their
breaking and training, in the long trip north, they had not
questioned its authority. They turned and trotted back to him
now and nosed Bud's hands which he held out to them.
He petted them all and talked to them in an affectionate
murmur which they answered by sundry lipnibbles and subdued
snorts. Smoky he singled out finally, rubbing his back and
sides with the flat of his hand from shoulder to flank, and
so to the rump and down the thigh to the hock to the scanty
fetlock which told, to those who knew, that here was an
aristocrat among horses.
Smoky stood quiet, and Bud's hand lingered there, smoothing
the slender ankle. Bud's fingers felt the fine-haired tail,
then gave a little twitch. He was busy for a minute, kneeling
in the sand with one knee, his head bent. Then he stood up,
went forward to Smoky's head, and stood rubbing the horse's
nose thoughtfully.
"I hate to do it, old boy--but I'm working to make's a home--
we've got to work together. And I'm not asking any more of
you than I'd be willing to do myself, if I were a horse and
you were a man."
He gave the three horses a hasty pat apiece and started back
across the meadow to the fence. They followed him like pet
dogs--and when Bud glanced back over his shoulder he saw in
the dim light that Smoky walked with a slight limp.
CHAPTER TWELVE: SPORT O' KINGS
Sunday happened to be fair, with not too strong a wind
blowing. Before noon Little Lost ranch was a busy place, and
just before dinner it became busier. Horse-racing seemed to
be as popular a sport in the valley as dancing. Indeed, men
came riding in who had not come to the dance. The dry creek-
bed where the horses would run had no road leading to it, so
that all vehicles came to Little Lost and remained there
while the passengers continued on foot to the races.
At the corral fresh shaven men, in clean shirts to
distinguish this as a dress-up occasion, foregathered,
looking over the horses and making bets and arguing. Pop
shambled here and there, smoking cigarettes furiously and
keeping a keen ear toward the loudest betting. He came
sidling up to Bud, who was leading Smoky out of the stable,
and his sharp eyes took in every inch of the horse and went
inquiringly to Bud's face.
"Goin' to run him, young feller--lame as what he is?" he
demanded sharply.
"Going to try, anyway," said Bud. "I've got a bet up on him,
dad."
"Sho! Fixin' to lose, air ye? You kin call it off, like as
not. Jeff ain't so onreason'ble 't he'd make yuh run a lame
horse. Air yuh, Jeff?"
Jeff strolled up and looked Smoky over with critical eyes.
"What's the matter? Ain't the kid game to run him? Looks to
me like a good little goer."
"He's got a limp--but I'll run him anyway." Bud glanced up.
"Maybe when he's warmed up he'll forget about it."
"Seen my Skeeter?"
"Good horse, I should judge," Bud observed indifferently.
"But I ain't worrying any."
"Well, neither am I," Jeff grinned.
Pop stood teetering back and forth, plainly uneasy. "I'd rub
him right good with liniment," he advised Bud. "I'll git
some't I know ought t' help."
"What's the matter, Pop? You got money up on that cayuse?"
Jeff laughed.
Pop whirled on him. "I ain't got money up on him, no. But if
he wasn't lame I'd have some! I'd show ye 't I admire
gameness in a kid. I would so."
Jeff nudged his neighbor into laughter. "There ain't a gamer
old bird in the valley than Pop," Jeff cried. "C'm awn, Pop,
I'll bet yuh ten dollars the kid beats me!"
Pop was shuffling hurriedly out of the corral after the
liniment. To Jeff's challenge he made no reply whatever. The
group around Jeff shooed Smoky gently toward the other side
of the corral, thereby convincing themselves of the limp in
his right hind foot. While not so pronounced as to be
crippling, it certainly was no asset to a running horse, and
the wise ones conferred together in undertones.
"That there kid's a born fool," Dave Truman stated
positively. "The horse can't run. He's got the look of a
speedy little animal--but shucks! The kid don't know anything
about running horses. I've been talking to him, and I know.
Jeff, you're taking the money away from him if you run that
race."
"Well, I'm giving the kid a chance to back out," Jeff
hastened to declare. "He can put it off till his horse gits
well, if he wants to. I ain't going to hold him to it. I
never said I was."
"That's mighty kind of you," Bud said, coming up from behind
with a bottle of liniment, and with Pop at his heels. "But
I'll run him just the same. Smoky has favored this foot
before, and it never seemed to hurt him any. You needn't
think I'm going to crawfish. You must think I'm a whining
cuss--say! I'll bet another ten dollars that I don't come in
more than a neck behind, lame horse or not!"
"Now, kid, don't git chancey," Pop admonished uneasily.
"Twenty-five is enough money to donate to Jeff."
"That's right, kid. I like your nerve," Jeff cut in,
emphasizing his approval with a slap on Bud's shoulder as he
bent to lift Smoky's leg. "I've saw worse horses than this
one come in ahead--it wouldn't be no sport o' kings if nobody
took a chance."
"I'm taking chance enough," Bud retorted without looking up.
"If I don't win this time I will the next, maybe."
"That's right," Jeff agreed heartily, winking broadly at the
others behind Bud's back.
Bud rubbed Smoky's ankle with liniment, listened to various
and sundry self-appointed advisers and, without seeming to
think how the sums would total, took several other small bets
on the race. They were small--Pop began to teeter back and
forth and lift his shoulders and pull his beard--sure signs
of perturbation.
"By Christmas, I'll just put up ten dollars on the kid," Pop
finally cackled. "I ain't got much to lose--but I'll show yuh
old Pop ain't going to see the young feller stand alone." He
tried to catch Bud's eye, but that young man was busy
saddling Smoky and returning jibe for jibe with the men
around him, and did not glance toward Pop at all.
"I'll take this bottle in my pocket, Pop," he said with his
back toward the old man, and mounted carelessly. "I'll ride
him around a little and give him another good rubbing before
we run. I'm betting," he added to the others frankly, "on the
chance that exercise and the liniment will take the soreness
out of that ankle. I don't believe it amounts to anything at
all. So if any of you fellows want to bet--"
"Shucks! Don't go 'n-" Pop began, and bit the sentence in
two, dropping immediately into a deep study. The kid was
getting beyond Pop's understanding.
A crowd of perhaps a hundred men and women--with a generous
sprinkling of unruly juveniles--lined the sheer bank of the
creek-bed and watched the horses run, and screamed their
cheap witticisms at the losers, and their approval of those
who won. The youngster with the mysterious past and the
foolhardiness to bet on a lame horse they watched and
discussed, the women plainly wishing he would win--because he
was handsome and young, and such a wonderful musician. The
men were more cold-blooded. They could not see that Bud's
good looks or the haunting melody of his voice had any
bearing whatever upon his winning a race. They called him a
fool, and either refused to bet at all on such a freak
proposition as a lame horse running against Skeeter, or bet
against him. A few of the wise ones wondered if Jeff and his
bunch were merely "stringing the kid along "; if they might
not let him win a little, just to make him more "chancey."
But they did not think it wise to bet on that probability.
While three races were being run Bud rode with the Little
Lost men, and Smoky still limped a little. Jerry Myers, still
self-appointed guardian of Bud, herded him apart and called
him a fool and implored him to call the race off and keep his
money in his own pocket.
Bud was thinking just then about a certain little woman who
sat on the creek bank with a wide-brimmed straw hat shading
her wonderful eyes, and a pair of little, high-arched feet
tapping heels absently against the bank wall. Honey sat
beside her, and a couple of the valley women whom Bud had met
at the dance. He had ridden close and paused for a few
friendly sentences with the quartette, careful to give Honey
the attention she plainly expected. But it was not Honey who
wore the wide hat and owned the pretty little feet. Bud
pulled his thoughts back from a fruitless wish that he might
in some way help that little woman whose trouble looked from
her eyes, and whose lips smiled so bravely. He did not think
of possession when he thought of her; it was the look in her
eyes, and the slighting tones in which Honey spoke of her.
"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 to-day, 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?"
His 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:
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