_ CHAPTER XXII. THE YUMA COLT
The Oro Rancho sent out word that the fiftieth year of its existence would be celebrated with an old-fashioned Spanish barbecue. The invitation was general, including every one within a radius of fifty miles.
Added to the natural interest in good things to eat and drink was that of witnessing the pony races. Each rancher would bring, casually, almost accidentally, as it were, one pony that represented its owner's idea of speed and quality. No set programme offered, which made the races all the more interesting in that they were genuine.
The Oro Ranch had long ago established and proudly maintained a reputation for breeding the best saddle-and work-stock in Southern California. In fact, the ranch survived the competition of the automobile chiefly because it was the only important stock-raising ranch in the southland.
Good feeling went even so far as to include the sheep-ranchers of the old Spanish Grant, by special invitation.
It was the delight and pride of native Californians to ride their best saddle-horses on such occasions. True, motor-cars came from the city and from the farthest homes, but locally saddle-horses of all sizes and kinds were in evidence. Sleek bays with "Kentucky" written in every rippling muscle, single-footed in beside heavy mountain ponies, well boned, broad of knee, strong of flank, and docile; lean mustangs of the valley, short-coupled buckskins with the endurance of live rawhide; Mexican pintos, restless and gay in carved leather, and silver trappings; scrawny stolid cayuses that looked half-starved, but that could out-eat and out-last many a better-built horse; they all came, and their riders were immediately made welcome.
Under the trees, along the corrals and fences, in and around the stables, stood the ponies, heads tossing, bits jingling, stamping, thoroughly alive to the importance of the festive occasion, and filling the eye with an unforgettable picture--a living vignette of the old days of the range and riata.
Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Marshall, Louise, Dr. Marshall, and Walter Stone were among the earlier arrivals. A half-dozen men sprang to take their horses as they rode up, but Collie gathered the bridle-reins and led the ponies to the shade of the pepper trees. Then he wandered over to the corrals. His eyes glowed as he watched the sleek ponies dodging, wheeling, circling like a battalion, and led by a smooth-coated, copper-hued mare, young, lithe, straight-limbed, and as beautifully rounded as a Grecian bronze. He moistened his lips as he watched her. He pushed back his hat, felt for tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. This was the renowned "Yuma colt," the outlaw. He wanted her. She was a horse in a thousand.
In some strange way he was conscious that Louise stood beside him, before he turned and raised his sombrero.
"More beautiful than strong men or beautiful women," said Louise.
"That's so, Miss Louise. Because they just live natural and act natural. And that copper-colored mare,--she's only a colt yet,--there's a horse a man would be willing to work seven years for like the man in the Bible did for his wife."
Louise smiled. "Would you work seven years for her?" she asked.
"I would, if I had to," he said enthusiastically.
"Of course, because you really love horses, don't you?"
"Better than anything else. Of course, there are mean ones. But a real good horse comes close to making an ordinary man feel ashamed of himself. Why, see what a horse will do! He will go anywhere--work all day and all night if he has to--run till he breaks his heart to save a fellow's life, and always be a friend. A horse never acts like eight hours was his day's work. He is willing at any time and all the time--and self-respectin' and clean. I reckon a knowin' horse just plumb loves a man that is good to him."
Louise, her gray eyes wide and pensive, gazed at the young cowboy. "How old is the colt?" she asked.
"They say three years. But she's older than that in brains. She is leading older horses than her."
"Then if you worked seven years for her, she would be ten years old before you owned her."
"You caught me there. I didn't think of that."
"Uncle Walter says she is outlaw. I believe she could be tamed. Boyar was pretty wild before he was broken to ride."
"If you want that pony, Miss Louise, she's yours. I guess I could break her."
"They won't sell her. No, I was only romancing. Isn't she beautiful! She seems to be almost listening to us. What a head and what a quick, intelligent eye! Oh, you wonderful horse!" And laughing, Louise threw a kiss to the Yuma colt. "I must go. I came over to see the horses before the crowd arrived."
Collie stood hat in hand watching Louise as she strolled toward the ranch-house. He saw her stop and pat Boyar.
"I kind of wish I was a horse myself," he said whimsically. "Either the black or the outlaw. She treats them both fine."
Brand Williams, Bud Light, Parson Long, Billy Dime, and Miguel rode up, talking, joking, laughing.
"Fall to the kid!" said Miguel, indicating Collie. "I guess I'm scalded if he ain't nailed to the fence. He's just eating his head off thinking about the Yuma horse he dassent ride. No? Eh, Collie?"
"Hello, Miguel. Nope. I'm taking lessons in tendin' to my own business--like them." And Collie nodded toward the horses.
"Ain't he purty?" said Billy Dime. "All fussed up and walkin' round like a new rooster introducin' hisself to a set of strange hens. Oh, pshaw!"
"And you're making a noise like one of the hens trying to get the notice of the new rooster, I guess."
"Well, seem' I got the notice, come on over and I'll show you where they keep the ice--with things on it," said Billy Dime.
The Moonstone riders dismounted, slapped the dust from their shirts and trousers, and ambled over toward the refreshments.
The little group, happy, talkative, pledged each other and the Moonstone Ranch generously.
Brand Williams, close to Collie, nudged him. "If you are thinkin' of takin' a fall out of the outlaw cayuse, don't hit this stuff much," he said. And Collie nodded.
The Moonstoners would one and all back Boyar for a place in the finals of the pony races, despite the Mexican "outfit" that already mingled with them making bets on their favorite pinto.
"Who's ridin' Boyar?" queried Bud Light.
"In the races? Why, Miguel here," said Williams, slapping the Mexican on the shoulder. "He don't weigh much, but he's some glue-on-a-sliver when it comes to racin' tricks. The other Mexicans are after our pesos this time. Last year we skinned 'em so bad with Boyar takin' first that some of 'em had to wait till dark to go home."
Collie, listening, felt his heart pump faster. He turned away for an instant that his fellows might not see the disappointment in his face. He had hoped to ride Boyar to victory.
"Miss Louise could get more out of Boyar in a race than even Miguel here," said Billy Dime.
"I dunno," said Williams. "She give me orders that Miguel was to ride Boyar if they was any racin'."
So Louise herself had chosen Miguel to ride the pony. Collie grew unreasonably jealous. Once more and again he pledged the Moonstone Rancho in a brimming cup. Then he wandered over to the Mexican ponies, inspecting them casually.
A Mexican youth, handsome, dark, smiling, offered to bet with him on the result of the races. Collie declined, but gained his point. He learned the Mexican's choice for first place, a lean, wiry buckskin with a goat head and a wicked eye, but with wonderful flanks and withers. Collie meditated. As a result he placed something like fifty dollars in bets with various ranchers, naming the Mexican horse for first place. Word went round that the Moonstone Kid was betting against his own horse.
Later Brand Williams accosted him. "What you fell up against?" he asked sternly. "What made you jar yourself loose like that?"
"It's horses with me to-day--not home-sweet-home, Brand. Bet you a pair of specs--and you need 'em--to a bag of peanuts that the Chola cayuse runs first."
"Your brains is afloat, son. You better cut out the booze."
Unexpectedly Collie encountered Louise as he went to look after his own horses.
"I hear that you intend to ride the outlaw Yuma. Is it so?"
Collie nodded.
"I had rather you didn't," said Louise.
"Why?" asked Collie, tactlessly.
Louise did not answer, and Collie strode off feeling angry with himself and more than ever determined to risk breaking his neck to win the outlaw.
Boyar, the Moonstone pony, ran second in the finals. The buckskin of the Mexicans won first place. Collie collected his winnings indifferently. He grew ashamed of himself, realizing that a foolish and unwarrantable jealousy had led him into a species of disloyalty. He was a Moonstone rider. He had bet against the Moonstone pony, and
her pony. He was about to ask one of the other boys to see to the horses when a tumult in the corrals drew his attention. He strolled over to the crowd, finding a place for himself on the corral bars.
Mat Gleason, superintendent of the Oro Ranch, loafed, his back against a post. Two men with ropes were following the roan pony round the corral. Presently a riata flipped out and fell. Inch by inch the outlaw was worked to the snubbing-post. One of the Oro riders seized the pony's ear in his teeth and, flinging his legs round her neck, hung, weighing her head down. There was the flash of teeth, a grunting tug at the cinchas, a cloud of dust, and Jasper Lane, foreman of the Oro outfit, was in the saddle. The cloud of dust, following the roan pony, grew denser. Above the dun cloud a sombrero swung to and fro fanning the outlaw's ears. Jasper Lane had essayed to ride the Yuma colt once before. His broken shoulder had set nicely, in fact, better than Bull O'Toole's leg which had been broken when the outlaw fell on him. Billy Squires, a young Montana puncher working for the Oro people, still carried his arm in a sling. All in all, the assembled company, as Brand Williams mildly put it, "were beginning to take notice of that copper-colored she-son of a cyclone."
Jasper Lane plied spurs and quirt. The visiting cowmen shrilled their delight. The pony was broncho from the end of her long, switching tail to the tip of her pink muzzle.
Following a quick tattoo of hoofs on the baked earth came a flash like the trout's leap for the fly--a curving plunge--the sound as of a breaking willow branch, and then palpitating silence.
The dun cloud of dust settled, disclosing the foam-flecked, sweat-blackened colt, oddly beautiful in her poised immobility. Near her lay Jasper Lane, face downward. The pony sniffed at his crumpled sombrero.
"That horse is plumb gentle," said Collie. "Look at her!"
"Crazy with the heat," commented Billy Dime, jerking his thumb toward Collie.
Tall, slim, slow of movement, Collie slipped from the corral bars and secured the dangling reins. Across the utter silence came the whistle of a viewless hawk. The cowmen awakened from their momentary apathy. Two of them carried Jasper Lane toward the ranch-house. Some one laughed.
Gleason, the superintendent, gazed at the outlaw pony and fingered his belt. "That's the fourth!" he said slowly and distinctly. "She ain't worth it."
"The fourth Oro rider," said a voice. "You ain't countin' any Moonstone riders."
"Ain't seen any to count," retorted Gleason, and there was a general laugh.
Strangely enough, the outlaw pony followed Collie quietly as he led her toward Gleason, "The boys say there's a bet up that nobody can stick on her two minutes. She's the bet. Is that right?" said Collie.
"What you goin' to do?" queried Gleason, and some of the Oro boys laughed.
"I don't know yet," said Collie. "Maybe I'll take her back to the Moonstone with me."
Miguel of the Moonstone removed his sombrero and gravely passed it. "Flowers for the Collie kid," he said solemnly.
Collie, grave, alert, a little white beneath his tan, called for Williams to hold the pony. Then the younger man, talking to her meanwhile, slipped off the bridle and adjusted a hackamore in its place. He tightened the cinchas. The men had ceased joking. Evidently the kid meant business. Next he removed his spurs and flung them, with his quirt, in a corner.
"Just defending yourself, eh, Yuma girl?" he said. "They cut all the sense out of you with a horse-killin' bit and rip you with the spurs, and expect you to behave."
"He'll be teachin' her to say her prayers next," observed Bud Light. "He's gettin' a spell on her now."
"He'll need all
his for himself," said Pars Long.
The pony, still nervously resenting the memory of the mouth-crushing spade-bit, and the tearing rowels, flinched and sidled away as Collie tried to mount. Her glossy ears were flattened and the rims of her eyes showed white.
"Jump!" whispered Williams. "And don't rough her. Mebby you'll win out."
And even as Collie's hand touched the saddle-horn, Williams sprang back and climbed the corral bars.
With a leap the Moonstone rider was in the saddle. The pony shook her head as he reined her round toward the corral gate. The men stared. Gleason swore. Billy Dime began to croon a range ditty about "Picking little Posies on the Golden Shore." The roan's sleek, sweating sides quivered.
"Here's where she goes to it," said Williams.
"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" shouted the crowd.
Rebellion swelled in the pony's rippling muscles. She waited, fore feet braced, for the first sting of the quirt, the first rip of the spurs, to turn herself into a hellish thing of plunging destruction.
Collie, leaning forward, patted her neck. "Come on, sis. Come on, Yuma girl. You're just a little hummingbird. You ain't a real horse."
With a leap the pony reared. Still there came no sting of spur or quirt. She dropped to her feet. Collie had cleverly consumed a minute of the allotted time.
"One minute!" called Williams, holding the watch.
"Why, that ain't ridin'," grumbled an Oro man.
"See you later," said Williams, and several of his companions looked at him strangely. The foreman's eyes were fixed on the watch.
Collie had also heard, and he dug his unspurred heels into the pony's sides. She leaped straight for the corral gate and freedom. With a patter of hoofs, stiff-legged, she jolted toward the plain. The men dropped from the bars and ran toward the gate, all, except Williams, who turned, blinking in the sun, his watch in his hand.
A few short jumps, a fish-like swirl sideways, and still Collie held his seat. He eased the hackamore a little. He was breathing hard. The horse took up the slack with a vicious plunge, head downward. The boy's face grew white. He felt something warm trickling down his mouth and chin. He threw back his head and gripped with his knees.
"They're off!" halloed a puncher.
"Only one of 'em--so far," said Williams. "One minute and thirty seconds."
Then, like a bolt of copper light, the pony shot forward at a run.
On the ranch-house veranda sat Walter Stone conversing with his host, where several girls, bright-faced and gowned in cool white, were talking and laughing.
The pony headed straight for the veranda. The laughing group jumped to their feet. Collie, using both hands, swung the hackamore across the outlaw's neck and tugged.
She stopped with a jolt that all but unseated him. Walter Stone rose. "It's one of my boys," he said. And he noticed that a little stream of red was trickling from Collie's mouth and nostrils.
His head was snapped back and then forward at every plunge. Still he gripped the saddle with rigid knees. The outlaw bucked again, and flung herself viciously sideways, turning completely round. Collie pitched drunkenly as the horse came down again and again. His eyes were blurred and his brain grew numb. Faintly he heard Brand Williams cry, "Two minutes! Moonstone wins!" Then came a cheer. His gripping knees relaxed. He reeled and all around him the air grew streaked with slivers of piercing fire. He pitched headforemost at the feet of the group on the veranda.
In a flash Louise Lacharme was beside him, kneeling and supporting his head. "Water!" she cried, wiping his face with her handkerchief.
Boot-heels gritted on the parched earth and spurs jingled as the men came running.
The pony, with hackamore dangling, raced across the plain toward the hills.
"This'll do jest as well," said Williams, pouring a mouthful of whiskey between Collie's lips. Then the taciturn foreman lifted the youth to his feet. Collie dragged along, stepping shakily. "Dam' little fool!" said Williams affectionately. "You ain't satisfied to get killed where you belong, but you got to go and splatter yourself all over the front yard in front of the ladies. You with your bloody nose and your face shot plumb full of gravel. If you knowed how you looked when she piled you--"
"I know how she looked," said Collie. "That's good enough for me. Did I make it?"
"The bronc' is yours," said Williams. "Bud and Miguel just rode out after her."
Then Williams did an unaccountable thing. He hunted among the crowd till he found the man who had said, "Why, that ain't ridin'." He asked the man quietly if he had made such a remark. The other replied that he had. Then Williams promptly knocked him down, with all the wiry strength of his six feet of bone and muscle. "Take that home and look at it," he remarked, walking away.
Through the dusk of the evening the Moonstone boys jingled homeward, the horses climbing the trail briskly. Two of them worked the outlaw up the hill, each with a rope on her and each exceedingly busy. Collie was too stiff and sore to help them.
Miguel, hilarious in that he had ridden Boyar to second place, and so upheld the Moonstone honor, sang many strange and wonderful songs and baited Collie between-whiles. Proud of their companion's conquest of the outlaw colt, the Moonstone boys made light of it proportionately.
"Did you see him reclinin' on that Yuma grasshopper," said Bud Light, "and pertendin' he was ridin' a hoss?"
"And then," added Billy Dime, "he gets so het up and proud that he rides right over to the ladies, and 'flop' he goes like swattin' a frog with a shingle. He rides about five rods on the cayuse and then five more on his map. Collie's sure tough. How's your mug, kid?"
"It never felt so bad as yours looks naturally," responded Collie, puffing at a cigarette with swollen lips. "But I ain't jealous."
"Now, ain't you?" queried Williams, who had ridden silently beside him. "Well, now, I was plumb mistook! I kind of thought you was." _