Alcatraz | Page 2

is capable of

assuming. He wore 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 managed to 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-old while 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 girth at 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 wheels to 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