The Lonesome Trail and Other Stories | Page 3

quarter-mile stretch of level trail beyond the
stockyards to witness the running; when they would hurry back to settle
their bets over the bar where they had drunk to the preliminaries.
Bert Rogers came early, riding Flopper. Men hurried from the saloon to
gather round the horse that held the record of beating a "real
race-horse" the summer before. They felt his legs sagely and wondered
that anyone should seem anxious to question his ability to beat
anything in the country in a straightaway quarter-mile dash.
When the Flying U boys clattered into town in a bunch, they were
greeted enthusiastically; for old Jim Whitmore's "Happy Family" was
liked to a man. The enthusiasm did not extend to Glory, however. He

was eyed askance by those who knew him or who had heard of his
exploits. If the Happy Family had not backed him loyally to a man, he
would not have had a dollar risked upon him; and this not because he
could not run.
Glory was an alien, one of a carload of horses shipped in from Arizona
the summer before. He was a bright sorrel, with the silvery mane and
tan and white feet which one so seldom sees--a beauty, none could
deny. His temper was not so beautiful.
Sometimes for days he was lamblike in his obedience, touching in his
muzzling affection till Weary was lulled into unwatchful love for the
horse. Then things would happen.
Once, Weary walked with a cane for two weeks. Another time he
walked ten miles in the rain. Once he did not walk at all, but sat on a
rock and smoked cigarettes till his tobacco sack ran empty, waiting for
Glory to quit sulking, flat on his side, and get up and carry him home.
Any man but Weary would have ruined the horse with harshness, but
Weary was really proud of his deviltry and would laugh till the tears
came while he told of some new and undreamed bit of cussedness in
his pet.
On this day, Glory was behaving beautifully. True, he had nearly
squeezed the life out of Weary that morning when he went to saddle
him in the stall, and he had afterwards snatched Cal Emmet's hat off
with his teeth, and had dropped it to the ground and had stood upon it;
but on the whole, the Happy Family regarded those trifles as a good
sign.
When Bert Rogers and Weary ambled away down the dusty trail to the
starting point, accompanied by most of the Flying U boys and two or
three from Bert's outfit, the crowd in the grand-stand (which was the
top rail of the stockyard fence) hushed expectantly.
When a pistol cracked, far down the road, and a faint yell came
shrilling through the quiet sunshine, they craned necks till their muscles
ached. Like a summer sand-storm they came, and behind them clattered
their friends, the dust concealing horse and rider alike. Whooping
encouraging words at random, they waited till a black nose shot out
from the rushing cloud. That was Flopper. Beside it a white streak, a
flying, silvery mane--Glory was running! Happy Jack gave a raucous
yell.

Lifting reluctantly, the dust gave hazy glimpses of a long, black body
hugging jealously close to earth, its rider lying low upon the straining
neck--that was Flopper and Bert.
Close beside, a sheeny glimmer of red, a tossing fringe of white, a
leaning, wiry, exultant form above--that was Glory and Weary.
There were groans as well as shouting when the whirlwind had swept
past and on down the hill toward town, and the reason thereof was plain.
Glory had won by a good length of him.
Bert Rogers said something savage and set his weight upon the bit till
Flopper, snorting and disgusted--for a horse knows when he is
beaten--took shorter leaps, stiffened his front legs and stopped, digging
furrows with his feet.
Glory sailed on down the trail, scattering Mrs. Jenson's chickens and
jumping clean over a lumbering, protesting sow. "Come on--he's going
to set up the drinks!" yelled someone, and the crowd leaped from the
fence and followed.
But Glory did not stop. He whipped around the saloon, whirled past the
blacksmith shop and was headed for the mouth of the lane before
anyone understood. Then Chip, suddenly grasping the situation, dug
deep with his spurs and yelled.
"He's broken the bit--it's a runaway!"
Thus began the second race, a free-for-all dash up the lane. At the very
start they knew it was hopeless to attempt overtaking that red streak,
but they galloped a mile for good manners' sake; Cal then pulled up.
"No use," he said. "Glory's headed for home and we ain't got the papers
to stop him. He can't hurt Weary--and the dance opens up at six, and