The Splendid Idle Forties | Page 3

depth of girth, immense length from
shoulder-points to hips, big cannon-bones, and elastic pasterns. There
was neither amiability nor pride in his mien; rather a sullen sense of
brute power, such as may have belonged to the knights of the Middle
Ages. Now and again he curled his lips away from the bit and laid his
ears back as if he intended to eat of the elegant Beau Brummel stepping
so daintily beside him. Of the antagonistic crowd he took not the
slightest notice.
"The race begins! Holy heaven!" The murmur rose to a shout--a deep

hoarse shout strangely crossed and recrossed by long silver notes; a
thrilling volume of sound rising above a sea of flashing eyes and parted
lips and a vivid moving mass of colour.
Twice the horses scored, and were sent back. The third time they
bounded by the starting-post neck and neck, nose to nose. José Abrigo,
treasurer of Monterey, dashed his sombrero, heavy with silver eagles,
to the ground, and the race was begun.
Almost at once the black began to gain. Inch by inch he fought his way
to the front, and the roar with which the crowd had greeted the start
dropped into the silence of apprehension.
El Rayo was not easily to be shaken off. A third of the distance had
been covered, and his nose was abreast of Vitriolo's flank. The
vaqueros sat as if carved from sun-baked clay, as lightly as if hollowed,
watching each other warily out of the corners of their eyes.
The black continued to gain. Halfway from home light was visible
between the two horses. The pace became terrific, the excitement so
intense that not a sound was heard but that of racing hoofs. The horses
swept onward like projectiles, the same smoothness, the same
suggestion of eternal flight. The bodies were extended until the tense
muscles rose under the satin coats. Vitriolo's eyes flashed viciously; El
Rayo's strained with determination. Vitriolo's nostrils were as red as
angry craters; El Rayo's fluttered like paper in the wind.
Three-quarters of the race was run, and the rider of Vitriolo could tell
by the sound of the hoof-beats behind him that he had a good lead of at
least two lengths over the Northern champion. A smile curled the
corners of his heavy lips; the race was his already.
Suddenly El Rayo's vaquero raised his hand, and down came the
maddening quirto, first on one side, then on the other. The spurs dug;
the blood spurted. The crowd burst into a howl of delight as their
favourite responded. Startled by the sound, Vitriolo's rider darted a
glance over his shoulder, and saw El Rayo bearing down upon him like
a thunder-bolt, regaining the ground that he had lost, not by inches, but

by feet. Two hundred paces from the finish he was at the black's flanks;
one hundred and fifty, he was at his girth; one hundred, and the horses
were neck and neck; and still the quirto whirred down on El Rayo's
heaving flanks, the spurs dug deeper into his quivering flesh.
The vaquero of Vitriolo sat like an image, using neither whip nor spur,
his teeth set, his eyes rolling from the goal ahead to the rider at his side.
The breathless intensity of the spectators had burst. They had begun to
click their teeth, to mutter hoarsely, then to shout, to gesticulate, to
shake their fists in each other's face, to push and scramble for a better
view.
"Holy God!" cried Pio Pico, carried out of himself, "the South is lost!
Vitriolo the magnificent! Ah, who would have thought? The black by
the gold! Ay! What! No! Holy Mary! Holy God!--"
Six strides more and the race is over. With the bark of a coyote the
vaquero of the South leans forward over Vitriolo's neck. The big black
responds like a creature of reason. Down comes the quirto once--only
once. He fairly lifts his horse ahead and shoots into victory, winner by
a neck. The South has vanquished the North.
The crowd yelled and shouted until it was exhausted. But even
Cabañares made no further demonstration toward De la Vega. Not only
was he weary and depressed, but the victory had been nobly won.
It grew late, and they rode to the town, caballeros pushing as close to
doñas as they dared, dueñas in close attendance, one theme on the lips
of all. Anger gave place to respect; moreover, De la Vega was the guest
of General Castro, the best-beloved man in California. They were
willing to extend the hand of friendship; but he rode last, between the
General and Doña Modeste, and seemed to care as little for their good
will as for their ill.
Pio Pico rode ahead, and as the cavalcade entered the