Trailin! | Page 2

were brought into the
arena and to these the master of ceremonies now turned his attention.
"From the wildest regions of the range we have brought mustangs that
never have borne the weight of man. They fight for pleasure; they buck
by instinct. If you doubt it, step down and try 'em. One hundred dollars
to the man who sticks on the back of one of 'em--but we won't pay the
hospital bill!"
He lowered his megaphone to enjoy the laughter, and the small man
took this opportunity to say: "Never borne the weight of a man! That
chap in the dress-suit, he tells one lie for pleasure and ten more from
instinct. Yep, he has his hosses beat. Never borne the weight of man!
Why, Drew, I can see the saddle-marks clear from here; I got a mind to
slip down there and pick up the easiest hundred bones that ever rolled
my way."
He rose to make good his threat, but Drew cut in with: "Don't be a
damn fool, Werther. You aren't part of this show."

"Well, I will be soon. Watch me! There goes Ananias on his second
wind."
The announcer was bellowing: "These man-killing mustangs will be
ridden, broken, beaten into submission in fair fight by the greatest set
of horse-breakers that ever wore spurs. They can ride anything that
walks on four feet and wears a skin; they can--"
Werther sprang to his feet, made a funnel of his hand, and shouted:
"Yi-i-i-ip!"
If he had set off a great quantity of red fire he could not more
effectively have drawn all eyes upon him. The weird, shrill yell cut the
ringmaster short, and a pleased murmur ran through the crowd. Of
course, this must be part of the show, but it was a pleasing variation.
"Partner," continued Werther, brushing away the big hand of Drew
which would have pulled him down into his seat; "I've seen you bluff
for two nights hand running. There ain't no man can bluff all the world
three times straight."
The ringmaster retorted in his great voice: "That sounds like good
poker. What's your game?"
"Five hundred dollars on one card!" cried Werther, and he waved a
fluttering handful of greenbacks. "Five hundred dollars to any man of
your lot--or to any man in this house that can ride a real wild horse."
"Where's your horse?"
"Around the corner in a Twenty-sixth Street stable. I'll have him here in
five minutes."
"Lead him on," cried the ringmaster, but his voice was not quite so
loud.
Werther muttered to Drew:
"Here's where I hand him the lemon that'll curdle his cream," and ran

out of the box and straight around the edge of the arena. New York,
murmuring and chuckling through the vast galleries of the Garden,
applauded the little man's flying coat-tails.
He had not underestimated the time; in a little less than his five minutes
the doors at the end of the arena were thrown wide and Werther
reappeared. Behind him came two stalwarts leading between them a
rangy monster. Before the blast of lights and the murmurs of the throng
the big stallion reared and flung himself back, and the two who lead
him bore down with all their weight on the halter ropes. He literally
walked down the planks into the arena, a strange, half-comical,
half-terrible spectacle. New York burst into applause. It was a trained
horse, of course, but a horse capable of such training was worth
applause.
At that roar of sound, vague as the beat of waves along the shore, the
stallion lurched down on all fours and leaped ahead, but the two on the
halter ropes drove all their weight backward and checked the first
plunge. A bright-coloured scarf waved from a nearby box, and the
monster swerved away. So, twisting, plunging, rearing, he was worked
down the arena. As he came opposite a box in which sat a tall young
man in evening clothes the latter rose and shouted: "Bravo!"
The fury of the stallion, searching on all sides for a vent but distracted
from one torment to another, centred suddenly on this slender figure.
He swerved and rushed for the barrier with ears flat back and bloodshot
eyes. There he reared and struck at the wood with his great front hoofs;
the boards splintered and shivered under the blows.
As for the youth in the box, he remained quietly erect before this brute
rage. A fleck of red foam fell on the white front of his shirt. He drew
his handkerchief and wiped it calmly away, but a red stain remained. At
the same time the two who led the stallion pulled him back from the
barrier and he stood with head high, searching for a more convenient
victim.
Deep silence