_CHAPTER FIVE_
Conner shook his head almost sadly. "A horse that stands not a hair morethan fourteen-three, eighteen years old, with a hundred and eightypounds up--No, I'm not a fool."
"Which is it--the roan or the bay?" gasped Townsend. "Which d'you say?I'll tell you about the valley after the race. Which hoss, Mr. Connor?"
Thus appealed to, the gambler straightened and clasped his hands behindhis back. He looked coldly at the horses.
"How old is that brown yonder--the one the boy is just mounting?"
"Three. But what's he got to do with the race?"
"He's a shade too young, or he'd win it. That's what he has to do withit. Back Haig's horse, then. The roan is the best bet."
"Have you had a good look at Lightnin'?"
"He won't last in this going with that weight up."
"You're right," panted Townsend. "And I'm going to risk a hundred onhim. Hey, Joe, how d'you bet on Charlie Haig?"
"Two to one."
"Take you for a hundred. Joe, meet Mr. Connor."
"A hundred it is, Jack. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Connor?"
"I'll go a hundred on the roan, sir."
"Have I done it right?" asked Townsend fiercely, a little later. "Iwonder do you know?"
"Ask that after the race is over," smiled Connor. "After all, you haveonly one horse to be afraid of."
"Sure; Lightnin'--but he's enough."
"Not Lightning, I tell you. The gray is the only horse to be afraid ofthough the brown stallion might do if he has enough seasoning."
For a moment panic brightened the eyes of Townsend, and then he shookthe fear away.
"I've done it now," he said huskily, "and they's no use talking. Let'sget down to the finish."
The crowd was streaming away from the start, and headed toward thefinish half a mile down the street beyond the farther end of Lukin. Mostof this distance Townsend kept his companion close to a run; then hesuddenly appealed for a slower pace.
"It's my heart," he explained. "Nothin' else bothers it, but during ahoss race it sure stands on end. I get to thinkin' of what my wife willsay if I lose; and that always plumb upsets me."
He was, in fact, spotted white and purple when they joined the mob whichpacked both sides of the street at the finish posts; already the choicepositions were taken.
"We won't get a look," groaned Townsend.
But Connor chuckled: "You tie on to me and we'll get to the front in asqueeze." And he ejected himself into the mob. How it was done Townsendcould never understand. They oozed through the thickest of the crowd,and when roughly pressed men ahead of them turned around, ready tofight, Connor was always looking back, apparently forced along by thepressure from the rear. He seemed, indeed, to be struggling to keep hisfooting, but in a few minutes Townsend found himself in the front rank.He mopped his brow and smiled up into the cool face of Connor, but therewas no time for comments. Eight horses fretted in a ragged line far downthe street, and as they frisked here and there the brims of thesombreros of the riders flapped up and down; only the Eden gray stoodwith downward head, dreaming.
"No heart," said Townsend, "in that gray hoss. Look at him!"
"Plenty of head, though," replied Connor; "here they go!"
His voice was lost in a yell that went up wailing, shook into a roar,and then died off, as though a gust of wind had cut the sounds away. Amurmur of voices followed, and then an almost womanish yell, forLightning, the favorite, was out in front, and his rider leaned in thesaddle with arm suspended and a quirt which never fell. The rest were aclose group where whips worked ceaselessly, except that in the rear ofall the rest the little gray horse ran without urge, smoothly, as if hisrider had given up all hope of winning and merely allowed his horse tocanter through.
"D'you see?" screamed Townsend. "Is that what you know about hosses, Mr.Connor? Look at Cliff Jones's Lightning! What do you--"
He cut his upbraidings short, for Connor's was a grisly face, whiteabout the mouth and with gathered brows, as though, with intense effort,he strove to throw the influence of his will into that mass ofhorse-flesh. The hotel-keeper turned in time to see Lightning, alreadybuckling under the strain, throw up his head.
The heavy burdens, the deep, soft going, and the fact that none of thehorses were really trained to sprint, made the half-mile course a veryreal test, and now the big leader perceptibly weakened. Out of the packshot a slender brown body, and came to the girth--to the neck of thebay.
"The stallion!" shouted Townsend. "By God, you do know hosses! Who'd ofthought that skinny fellow had it in him?"
"He'll die," said Connor calmly.
The bay and the brown went back into the pack together, even as Connorspoke, though the riders were flogging hard, and now the roan drew tothe front. It was plain to see that he had the foot of the rest, for hecame away from the crowd with every leap.
"Look! Look! Look!" moaned Townsend. "Two for one! Look!" He choked withpleasure and gripped Connor's arm in both his hands in token ofgratitude.
Now the race bore swiftly down the finish, the horses looming bigger;their eyes could be seen, and their straining nostrils now, and thedesperate face of each rider, trying to lift his horse into a greatburst.
"He's got it," sobbed Townsend, hysterical. "Nothin' can catch him now."
But his companion, in place of answer, stiffened and pointed. His voicewas a tone of horror, almost, as he said: "I knew, by God, I knew allthe time and wouldn't believe my eyes."
For far from the left, rounding the pack, came a streak of gray. Itcaught the brown horse and passed him in two leaps; it shot by thelaboring bay; and only the roan of Charlie Haig remained in front. Thatrider, confident of victory, had slipped his quirt over his wrist andwas hand-riding his horse when a brief, deep yell of dismay from thecrowd made him jerk a glance over his shoulder. He cut the quirt intothe flank of the roan, but it was too late. Five lengths from the finishthe little gray shoved his nose in front; and from that point, settlingtoward the earth, as he stretched into a longer and longer stride, everyjump increased his margin. The nose of the roan was hardly on the rumpof the gelding at the finish.
A bedlam roar came from the crowd. Townsend was cursing and beating timeto his oaths with a fat fist. Townsend found so many companion losersthat his feelings were readily salved, and he turned to Connor, smilingwryly.
"We can't win every day," he declared, "but I'll tell you this, partner;of all the men I ever seen, you get the medal for judgin' a hoss. Youcan pick my string any day."
"Eighteen years old," Connor was saying in the monotonous tone of onehypnotized.
"Hey, there," protested Townsend, perceiving that he was on the verge ofbeing ignored.
"A hundred and eighty pounds," sighed the big man.
Townsend saw for the first time that a stop-watch was in the hand of hiscompanion, and now, as Connor began to pace off the distance, the hotelproprietor tagged behind, curious. Twenty steps from the starting pointthe larger man stopped abruptly, shook his head, and then went on. Whenhe came to the start he paused again, and Townsend found him staringwith dull eyes at the face of the watch.
"What'd they make it in?" asked the little man.
The other did not hear.
"They ran from this line?" he queried in a husky voice.
"Sure. Line between them posts."
"Fifty-nine seconds!" he kept repeating. "Fifty-nine seconds!Fifty-nine!"
"What about the fifty-nine seconds?" asked Townsend, and receiving noanswer he murmured to himself: "The heat has got to his head."
Connor asked quietly: "Know anything about these gray horses and wherethey came from?"
"Sure. As much as anybody. Come from yonder in the mountains. A Negroraises 'em. A deaf mute. Ain't ever been heard to say a word."
"And he raises horses like that?"
"Sure."
"And nobody's been up there to try to buy 'em?"
"Too far to go, you see? Long ride and a hard trail. Besides, t
hey'splenty of good hoss-flesh right around Lukin, here."
"Of course," nodded Connor genially. "Of course there is."
"Besides, them grays is too small. Personally, I don't hanker after arunt of a hoss. I look like a fool on one of em."
The voice of Connor was full of hearty agreement.
"So do I. Yes, they're small, if they're all like that one. Too small.Much too small."
He looked narrowly at Townsend from the corner of his eyes to make surethat the hotel proprietor suspected nothing.
"This deaf-mute sells some, now and then?"
"Yep. He comes down once in a while and sells a hoss to the first genthe meets--and then walks back to the garden. Always geldings that hesells, I understand. Stand up under work pretty well, those littlehosses. Harry Macklin has got one. Harry lives at Fort Andrew. There's afunny yarn out about how Harry--"
"What price does the mute ask?"
"Thinking of getting one of 'em?"
"Me? Of course not! What do I want with a runt of a horse like that? ButI was wondering what they pay around here for little horses."
"I dunno."
"What's that story you were going to tell me about Harry Macklin?"
"You see, it was this way--"
And he poured forth the stale anecdote while they strolled back to thehotel. Connor smiled and nodded at appropriate places, but his absenteyes were seeing, once more, the low-running form of the little graygelding coming away from the rest of the pack.