Under Handicap | Page 3

Prairie City manifested a mild interest in the arrival of
Number 1.
"I guess you called the turn," sputtered the fat man. "Here come the
crazy folks now!"
A cloud of dust swirling higher and higher in the still air, the clatter of
hoofs, and two horses swept around the farthest house, carrying their
riders at breakneck speed into the one and only street. At first Greek
took it to be a race, and then he thought it a runaway. As it was the first
interesting incident since Grand Central Station had dropped out of
sight four days ago, he craned his neck to watch.
The two riders were half-way down the street now, a tall bay forging
steadily ahead of a little Mexican mustang until ten feet or more
intervened between the two horses. The train jerked; the Wells Fargo
man, with his truck alongside the express-car far ahead, yelled
something to the man who had taken his packages aboard.
"The bay wins," grinned the fat man. "It looks--Gad! It's a woman!"
Greek saw that it was a woman in khaki riding-habit, and that the spurs
she wore were gnawing into her horse's flanks. He began to take a
sudden, stronger interest. He leaned farther out, hardly realizing that he
had called to the conductor to hold the train a moment. For it was at last
clear that these were not mad people, but merely a couple of the
dwellers of the desert anxious to catch Number 1. But the conductor
had waved his orders and was swinging upon the slowly moving steps.
From the windows of the train a score of heads were thrust out, a score
of voices raised in shouting encouragement. And down to the tracks the
woman and the man behind her rushed, their horses' feet seeming never
to touch the ground.
A bump, a jar, a jerk, and the Limited was drawing slowly away from
the station. The woman was barely fifty yards away. As she lifted her
head Greek saw her face for the first time. And, having seen her ride,
he pursed his lips into a low whistle of amazement.

"Why, she's only a kid of a girl!" gasped the fat man. "And, say, ain't
she sure a peach!"
Greek didn't answer. He was busy inwardly cursing the conductor for
not waiting a second longer. For it was obvious to him that the girl was
going to miss the train by hardly more than that.
But she had not given up. She had dropped her head again and was
rushing straight toward the side of the string of cars. Greek held his
breath, a swift alarm for her making his heart beat trippingly. He did
not see how she could stop in time.
Again a clamor of voices from the heads thrust out of car windows,
warning, calling, cheering. And then suddenly Greek sat back limply.
The thing had been so impossible and in the end so amazingly simple.
Not ten feet away from the train she had drawn in her horse's reins,
"setting up" the half-broken animal upon his four feet, bunched
together so that with the momentum he had acquired he slid almost to
the cars. As he stopped the girl swung lightly from the saddle and,
seeming scarcely to have put foot upon the sandy soil, caught the
hand-rail as the car came by and swung on to the lowest step. The man
behind her caught up her horse's reins, whirled, sweeping his hat off to
her, and turned back.
"Which is some riding, huh?" chuckled the fat man, his own head
withdrawn as he reached for his beer-glass.
"What's the excitement?" Roger's interest had not been great enough to
send him to the window.
"Some people trying to catch the train," Greek told him, shortly. For
some reason, not clear to himself, he did not care to be more definite.
"I don't blame the poor devils. Think of waiting there until another
came by!" Roger washed the dryness out of his mouth with a generous
sip of his whisky and seltzer.

The fat man finished his glass of beer and rang for another. Greek sat
gazing out over the wide wastes of the desert. He had never before been
in a land like this. Now that more than two thousand miles lengthened
out between him and New York, he had felt himself more than ever an
exile. Heretofore he had given no thought to the people dwelling here
beyond the last reaches of those things for which civilization stood to
him. He was not in the habit of thinking deeply. That part of the day's
work could be left to William Conniston, Senior, while William
Conniston, Junior, more familiarly known to his intimates as "Greek"
Conniston, found that he could