The west wind came over the Eagles,
gathered purity from the evergreen slopes of the mountains, blew
across the foothills and league wide fields, and came at length to
the stallion with a touch of coolness and enchanting scents of
far-off things. Just as his head went up, just as the breeze lifted
mane and tail, Marianne Jordan halted her pony and drew in her
breath with pleasure. For she had caught from the chestnut in the
corral one flash of perfection and those far-seeing eyes called to
mind the Arab belief.
Says the Sheik: "I have raised my
mare from a foal, and out of love for me she will lay down her
life; but when I comeout to her in the morning, when I feed her and
give her water, she still looks beyond me and across the desert.
She is waiting for the coming of a real man, she is waiting for the
coming of a true master out of the horizon!"
Marianne had known thoroughbreds
since she was a child and after coming West she had become
acquainted with mere "hoss-flesh," but today for the first time she
felt that the horse is not meant by nature to be the servant of man
but that its speed is meant to ensure it sacred freedom. Amoment
later she was wondering how the thought had come to her. That
glimpse of equine perfection had been an illusion built of spirit
and attitude; when the head of the stallion fell she saw the
daylight truth: that this was either the wreck of a young horse or
the sad ruin of a fine animal now grown old. He was a ragged
creature with dull eyes and pendulous lip. No comb had been among
the tangles of mane and tail for an unknown period; no brush had
smoothed his coat. It was once a rich red-chestnut, no doubt, but
now it was sun-faded to the color of sand. He was thin. The
unfleshed backbone and withers stood up painfully and she counted
the ribs one by one. Yet his body was not so broken as his spirit.
His drooped head gave him the appearance of searchingfor a spot to
lie down. He seemed to have been left here by the cruelty of his
owner to starve and die in the white heat of this corral—a
desertion which he accepted as justice because he was useless in
the world.
It affected Marianne like the
resignationof a man; indeed there was more personality in the
chestnut than in many human beings. Once he had been a beauty, and
the perfection which first startled her had been a ghost out of his
past. His head, where age or famine showed least, was still
unquestionably fine. The ears were short and delicately made, the
eyes well-placed, the distance to the angle of the jaw
long—in brief, it was that short head of small volume and
large brain space which speaks most eloquently of hot blood. As her
expert eye ran overthe rest of the body she sighed to think that
such a creature had come to such an end. There was about him no
sign of life save the twitch of his skin to shake off flies.
Certainly this could not be the
horse she had been advised to see and she was aboutto pass on when
she felt eyes watching her from the steep shadow of the shed which
bordered the corral. Then she made out a dapper olive-skinned
fellow sitting with his back against the wall in such a position of
complete relaxation as only a Mexican is capable of assuming.
Hewore a short tuft of black moustache cut well away from the edge
of the red lip, a moustache which oddly accentuated his youth. In
body and features he was of that feminine delicacy which your
large-handed Saxon dislikes, and though Marianne was by no means a
stalwart, she detested the man at once. For that reason, being a
lady to the tips of her slim fingers, her smile was more cordial
than necessary.
"I am looking for Manuel Cordova,"
she said.
"Me," replied the Mexican, and
managedto speak without removing the cigarette.
"I'm glad to know you." she
answered. "I am Marianne Jordan."
At this, Manuel Cordova removed his
cigarette, regardless of the ashes which tumbled straightway down
the bell-mouthed sleeve of his jacket; for a Mexican deems it
highly indecorous to pay the slightest heed to his tobacco ashes.
Whether they land on chin or waistcoat they are allowed to remain
until the wind carries them away.
"The pleasure is to me," said
Cordova melodiously, and made painful preparations to rise.
She gathered at once that the
effort would spoil his morning and urged him to remain where he
was, at which he smiled with the care of a movie star, presenting
an even, white line of teeth.
Marianne went on: "Let me explain.
I've come to the Glosterville fair to buy some brood mares for my
ranch and of course the ones I want are the Coles horses. You've
seen them?"
He nodded.
"But those horses," she continued,
checking off her points, "will not be offered for sale until after
the race this afternoon. They're all entered and they are sure to
win. There's nothing to touch them and when they breeze across the
finish I imagine every ranch owner present will want to bid for
them. That would put them above my reach and I can only pray that
the miracle will happen—a horse may turn up to beat them. I
made inquiries and I was told that the best prospect was Manuel
Cordova's Alcatraz. So I've come with high hopes, Señor
Cordova, and I'll appreciate it greatly if you'll let me see your
champion."
"Look till the heart is content,
señorita," replied the Mexican, and he extended a slim, lazy
hand towards the drowsing stallion.
"But," cried the girl, "I was told
of a real runner—"
She squinted critically at the
faded chestnut. She had been told of a four-year-oldwhile this
gaunt animal looked fifteen at least. However, it is one thing to
catch a general impression and another to read points. Marianne
took heed, now, of the long slope of the shoulders, the short back,
the well-let-down hocks. After all, underfeeding would dull the eye
and give the ragged, lifeless coat.
"He is not much horse, eh?" purred
Cordova.
But the longer she looked the more
she saw. The very leanness of Alcatraz made it easier to trace his
running-muscles; she estimated, too, the ample girthat the cinches
where size means wind.
"And that's Alcatraz?" she
murmured.
"That is all," said the pleasant
Cordova.
"May I go into the corral and look
him over at close range? I never feel that I know a horse till I
get my hands on it."
She was about to dismount when she
saw that the Mexican was hesitating and she settled back in the
saddle, flushed with displeasure.
"No," said Cordova, "that would not
be good. You will see!"
He smiled again and rising, he
sauntered to the fence and turned about with his shoulders resting
against the upper bar, his back to the stallion. As he did so,
Alcatraz put forward his ears, which, in connection with the
dullness of his eyes, gave him a peculiarly foolish look.
"You will see a thing,
señorita!" the Mexican was chuckling.
It came without warning. Alcatraz
turned with the speed of a whiplash curling and drove straight at
the place where his master leaned. Marianne's cry of alarm was not
needed. Cordova had already started, but even so he barely escaped.
The chestnut on braced legs skidded to the fence, his teeth
snapping short inches from the back of his master. His failure
maddened Alcatraz. He reminded Marianne of the antics of a cat when
in her play with the mouse she tosses her victim a little too far
away and wheelsto find her prospective meal disappearing down a
hole. In exactly similar wise the stallion went around the corral
in a whirl of dust, rearing, lashing out with hind legs and
striking with fore, catching imaginary things in his teeth and
shaking them to pieces. When the fury diminished he began to glide
up and down the fence, and there was something so feline in the
grace of those long steps and the intentness with which the brute
watched Cordova that the girl remembered a new-brought tiger in the
zoo. Also, rage had poured him full of such strength that through
the dust cloud she caught again glimpses of that first
perfection.
He came at last to a stop, but he
faced his owner with a look of steady hate. The latter returned the
gaze with interest, stroking his face and snarling: "Once more, red
devil, eh? Once more you miss? Bah! But I, I shall not miss!"
It was not as one will talk to a
dumb beast, for there was no mistaking the vicious earnestness of
Cordova, and now the girl made out that he was caressinga long,
white scar which ran from his temple across the cheekbone. Marianne
glanced away, embarrassed, as people are when another reveals a
dark and hidden portion of his character.
"You see?" said Cordova, "you would
not be happy in the corral with him, eh?"
He rolled a cigarette with smiling
lips as he spoke, but all the time his black eyes burned at the
chestnut. He seemed to Marianne half child and half old man, and
both parts of him were evil now that she could guess the whole
story. Cordova campaignedthrough the country, racing his horse at
fairs or for side bets. For two reasons he kept the animal
systematically undernourished: one was that he was thereby able to
get better odds; the other was that only on a weakened Alcatraz
would he trust himself.At this she did not wonder for never had she
seen such almost human viciousness of temper in a dumb beast.
"As for running, señorita,"
continued Cordova, "sometimes he does very well—yes, very
well. But when he is dull the spurs are nothing to him."
He indicated a criss-crossing of
scars on the flank of the stallion and Marianne, biting her lips,
realized that she must leave at once if she wished to avoid showing
her contempt, and her anger.
She was a mile down the road and
entering the main street of Glosterville before her temper cooled.
She decided that it was best to forget both Alcatraz and his
master: they were equally matched in devilishness. Her last hope of
seeing the mares beaten was gone, and with it all chance of buying
them at a reasonable figure; for no matter what the potentialities
of Alcatraz in his present starved condition he could not compare
with the bays. She thought of Lady Mary with the sunlight rippling
over her shoulder muscles. Certainly Alcatraz would never come
within whisking distance of her tail!
Having reached this conclusion, the logical thing, of course, was for Marianne to pack and go without waiting to see the race or hear the bidding for the Coles horses; but she could not leave. Hope is as blind as love. She had left the ranch saying to her father and to the foreman, Lew Hervey: "The bank account is shrinking, but ideals are worth more than facts and Ishallimprove the horses on this place." It was a rather too philosophical speech for one ofher years, but Oliver Jordan had merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled another cigarette; the crushed leg which, for the past three years, had made him a cripple, had taught him patience.
Only the foreman had ventured to smile openly. It was no secretthat Lew Hervey disliked the girl heartily. The fall of the horse which made Jordan a semi-invalid, killed his ambition and self-reliance at the same instant. Not only was it impossible for him to ride since the accident, but the freeswinging self-confidence which had made him prosperous disappeared at the same time; his very thoughts walked slowly on foot since his fall. Hervey gathered the reins of the ranch affairs more and more into his own hands and had grown to an almost independent power when Marianne came home from school. Having studied music and modern languages, who could have suspected in Marianne either the desire orthe will to manage a ranch, but to Marianne the necessity for following the course she took was as plain as the palm of an open hand. The big estate, once such a money-maker, was now losing. Her father had lost his grip and could not manage his own affairs, but who had ever heard of a hired man being called to run the Jordan business as long as there was a Jordan alive? She, Marianne, was very much alive. She came West and took the ranch in hand.
Her father smiled and gave her whatever authority she required; in a week the estate was hers to control. But for all her determination and confidence, she knew that she could not master cattle-raising in a few weeks. She was unfemininely willing to take advice. She even hunted for it, and though her father refused to enter into the thing even with suggestions, a little help from Hervey plus her indomitable energy might have made her attempt asuccess.
Hervey, however, was by no means willing to help. In fact, he was profoundly disgruntled. He had found himself, beyond all expectation, in a position almost as absolute and dignified as that of a real owner with not the slightest interference from Jordan, when on a sudden the arrival of this pretty little dark-eyed girl submerged him again in his old role of the hired man. He took what Marianne considered a sneaking revenge. He entered at once upon a career of the most perfect subordination. No fault could be found with his work. He executed every commission with scrupulous care. But when his advice was asked he became a sphinx. "Some folks say one way and some another. Speaking personal, I dunno, Miss Jordan. You just tell me what to do and I'll do it."
This attitude irritated her so that she was several times on the verge of discharging him, but how could she turn out so old an employee and one so painstaking in the duties assigned to him? Many a day she prayed for "a new foreman or night," but Hervey kept his job, and in spite of her best efforts, affairs went from bad to worse and the more desperately she struggled the more hopelessly she was lost. This affair of the horses was typical. No doubt the saddle stock were in sad need of improved bloodbut this was hardly the moment to undertake such an expenditure. Having once suggested the move, the quiet smiles of Hervey had spurred her on. She knew the meaning of those smiles. He was waiting till she should exhaust even the immense tolerance of herfather; when she fell he would swing again into the saddle of control. Yet she would go on and buy the mares if she could. Hers was one of those militant spirits which, once committed, fights to the end along every line. And indeed, if she ever contemplated surrender, if she were more than once on the verge of giving way to the tears of broken spirit, the vague, uninterested eyes of her father and the overwise smiles of Hervey were whips which sent her back into the battle.
But today, when she regained herroom in the hotel, she walked up and down with the feeling that she was struggling against manifest destiny. And in a rare burst of self-pity, she paused in front of the window, gritting her teeth to restrain a flood of tears.
A cowpuncher rocked across the blur of her vision on his pony, halted, and swung down in front of the stable across the street. The horse staggered as the weight came out of thestirrup and that made Marianne watch with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless riding since she came West and it always angered her. The cowpunchers used "hoss-flesh" rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot. If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be ridden. That was one of her maxims. She stepped closer to the window. Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped steadily into the dust and the reins had chafed his neck to a lather. Marianne flashed into indignation and that, of course, made her scrutinize the rider more narrowly. He was perfect of that type of cowboy which she detested most: handsome, lithe, childishly vain in his dress. About his sombrero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was bluesilk; his bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible; and on his heels glittered—gilded spurs!
"And I'll wager," thought the indignant Marianne, "that he hasn't ten dollars in the world!"
He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against one hip while he surveyed his mount. In spite of all his vainglory he was human enough to show some concern, it appeared. He called for a bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony. Marianne repressed a cry of warning: a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that. But the gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the reaching nose.
The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of the stable, only shifting from time to timeto keep in shadow, passed his beard through his fist and spoke. Every sound, even of the panting horse, came clearly to her through the open window.
"Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss."
"Not so small," said the rider. "About fifteen two, I guess."
"Measured him?"
"Never."
"I'd say nigher onto fifteen one."
"Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he's fifteen two; and that's good odds for you."
The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.
"I'll take that bet if—" he began.
Therider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again. Of course he knew the height of his own horse and it would be criminal to take the old loafer's money, but that was his determination.
"Get a tape, son. We'll see."
The stable boy disappearedin the shadow of the door and came back at once with the measure. The grey gelding, in the meantime, had smelled the sweetness of hay and was growing restive but a sharp word from the rider jerked him up like a tug on his bit. He tossed his head and waited, his ears flat.
"Look out, Dad," called the rider, as he arranged the tape to fall from the withers of the horse, "this little devil'll kick your head off quicker than a wink if he gets a chance."
"He don't look mean," said the greybeard, stepping back in haste.
"I like 'em mean and I keep 'em mean," said the other. "A tame hoss is like a tame man and I don't give a damn for a gent who won't fight."
Marianne covertly stamped. It was so easy to convert her worries into anger at another that she wasbeginning to hate this brutal-minded Beau Brummel of the ranges. Besides, she had had bitter experience with these noisy, careless fellows when they worked on her ranch. Her foreman was such a type grown to middle-age. Indeed her anger at the whole speciescalled "cowpuncher" now focused to a burning-point on him of the gilded spurs.
The measuring was finished; he stepped back.
"Fifteen one and a quarter," he announced. "You win, Dad!"
Marianne wanted to cheer.
"You win, confound it! And where'll I get themates of this pair? You win and I'm the underdog."
"A poor loser, too," thought Marianne. She was beginning to round her conception of the man; and everything she added to the picture made her dislike him the more cordially.
He had dropped on one knee in the dust and was busily loosening the spurs, paying no attention to the faint protests of the winner that he "didn't have no use for the darned things no ways." And finally he drowned the protests by breaking into song in a wide-ringing baritone and tossingthe spurs at the feet of the others. He rose—laughing—and Marianne, with a mental wrest, rearranged one part of her preconception, yet this carelessness was only another form of the curse of the West and Westerners—extravagance.
He turned now to a tousle-headed three-year-old boy who was wandering near, drawn by the brilliance of the stranger.
"Keep away from those heels, kiddie. Look out, now!"
The yellow-haired boy, however, dazed by this sudden centering of attention on him, stared up at the speaker with his thumb in his mouth; and with great, frightened eyes—he headed straight for the heels of the grey!
"Take the hoss—" began the rider to the stable-boy. But the stable-boy's sudden reaching for the reins made the grey toss its head and lurch back towards the child. Marianne caught her breath as the stranger, with mouth drawn to a thin, grim line, leaped for the youngster. The grey lashed out with vicious haste, but that very haste spoiled hi...