Edward G. Cheyney

SCOTT GETS ACQUAINTED WITH JED CLARK

Scott came down to breakfast early. He wanted to be on time at the office, but his real reason was to try to dodge some of his numerous critics. He was only partially successful, for there were several others in the dining room, and he caught scraps of conversation followed by loud laughs which were so evidently meant for his ears that it was hard to ignore them. He was almost at the end of his patience, and was glad when the time came to go to the office.

The grouchy clerk was just coming in when Scott arrived, but the supervisor was hard at work and had been for an hour. He greeted Scott briskly. “Good morning,” he looked at Scott keenly. “Have you been able to hold onto yourself?”

“So far,” Scott answered and added doggedly, “but I can’t keep it up much longer. The sooner I get into the brush the better.”

“Maybe you are right,” said the supervisor thoughtfully. “If we can get hold of a good pony this morning maybe we can start after dinner.”

“That will suit me,” Scott said. “I don’t want to start life here with a fight but a man cannot stand this kind of thing forever.”

“Then we will get out as soon as possible,” said the supervisor with decision. “Jed Clark and his crowd would like nothing better than to get you into a fight.”

“Then why not have it and get it over with?” Scott asked. He had been the champion boxer at college, and had many an hour’s training from an old ex-prize fighter in his father’s stable. He was not naturally pugnacious, but he felt confident that he could give a good account of himself and the prospect of a fight did not worry him.

“That would work all right,” said the supervisor smiling, “if they fought your way, but they don’t. They fight with guns in this country. They figure that you know nothing about that and would make you ridiculous if you started anything. That’s what they want.”

Scott had not thought of that. He could see now why Mr. Ramsey had been so anxious to keep him out of a mix-up. He had never handled a pistol, had never dreamed of shooting a man, and was somewhat dazed by this new situation.

The supervisor saw his predicament and came to his rescue. “Have you the money in hand to buy a horse and an outfit?” he asked, “or will we have to buy it on ‘tick’?”

“I have three hundred dollars,” Scott answered absently, still preoccupied with the gun problem.

“Oh, I guess that will be enough,” the supervisor laughed. “Let’s go down to the corral and see what they have there in the way of horse flesh.”

They started for the horse corral which was far out at one end of town. The supervisor seemed a little thoughtful and they walked a block in silence.

“Do you ride?” he asked suddenly as though following out his own train of thought.

“Farm horses,” Scott replied. “I have never tried any bucking bronchos.”

Again the supervisor was thoughtful. “They never expect an Eastern man to know how to ride,” he said. “They will have every bucking skate in the country down there this morning and the boys will all be out to see you thrown.”

Scott’s jaw squared perceptibly but he said nothing.

The supervisor misunderstood his silence and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps I can try them out for you and you can try one later when there are not so many spectators.”

“Thanks,” Scott said, “that is very kind of you, and I do need your judgment in picking a good one, for I do not know very much about a horse myself, but I think that I had better do the riding. They will probably throw me all right but I do not like the idea of side-stepping it.”

The supervisor looked relieved. “Oh, they don’t all buck. The bad ones are pretty well known and I can warn you off of them. The cowboys do not like a bucking horse any better than you do except to play with.”

They reached the corral and as the supervisor had predicted there was a good gallery to see the green-horn spilled. There was also in the corral the finest collection of outlaws that the supervisor had ever seen there. Jed Clark had attended to that personally.

They leaned on the fence and looked the bunch over. Some were old and broken-down plugs, worn out with long service; others were strong enough, but the most of them were Roman-nosed, spike-eared, wild-eyed fellows marked with the scars of many battles. They trotted restlessly about the corral and kept a wary eye on any movement which might indicate the throwing of a rope.

“Don’t think much of any of them,” Mr. Ramsey said, after making a careful survey of the bunch. “They are all either skates or outlaws.”

Scott had been perfectly truthful when he had said that he did not know much about horses. In fact he did not know anything at all about these bronchos. None of the signs which any plainsman could read like a book meant anything to him. But he did have an eye for beauty and there was one horse in that drove which had fascinated him at first glance.

Coal black, with a shiny velvet coat which glistened in the sunshine, his shapely head held high on a gracefully arching neck, he seemed the very essence of grace. He kept a little apart from the drove but was evidently their acknowledged leader. He kept almost continually on the go except when he paused momentarily to scan some movement outside the fence. There was a certain royal dignity in all his graceful movements, and a scorn of man in his every glance. Scott knew at once that he would have that horse regardless of cost or expert advice to the contrary. He had been surprised at the supervisor’s comment but supposed it was just part of the horse dealer’s stock in trade.

“Isn’t that black a beauty?” he whispered.

“Keep off of him,” the supervisor warned. “He belongs to Jed Clark and is the wildest in the bunch. Nobody has ever ridden him and Jed would not sell him for a thousand dollars. He only put him in here to try to kill you. He certainly is a beauty, though.”

“Why haven’t they ridden him?” Scott asked, curious but not discouraged.

“Well, Jed just keeps him for breeding and he is so wild that even the cowboys are half afraid of him. He killed a man once. That sorrel over there looks like the best buy to me.”

“How much do they want for him?” Scott asked absently.

“How much for the sorrel, Mose?” the supervisor asked of the man who was in charge of the corral.

“Sixty dollars,” Mose grunted indifferently. A general look of disappointment passed over the crowd, for if Scott bought the sorrel there would be no show for them.

“Not the sorrel,” Scott said, “I meant the black.” The crowd perked up and nudged each other expectantly.

“Sixty-five dollars,” Mose answered with the same indifference; but the crowd held its breath. The supervisor looked at Scott curiously.

“I’ll take him,” Scott said with as much indifference as he could assume. He was really so excited that he could hardly talk. It seemed to him that there never had been anything which he wanted quite as badly as he wanted that horse. Jed Clark started up and waited anxiously with the others for the answer to the next question.

“Want to ride him home?” Mose drawled.

The supervisor listened anxiously along with the others. The situation had passed beyond his control. He knew that it would be extremely foolhardy for Scott, ignorant of Western horses as he was, to tackle that untamed, beautiful brute. It might mean serious injury, it would certainly keep him off of the job for a few days at a time when he was badly needed, and yet the supervisor knew that he would like Scott better if he accepted the challenge and fought it out before them all. If he did not attempt to ride the horse he had bought he would be generally branded as a coward, even by many men who would not dare try it themselves, but if he took his chance he would make a substantial advance in the appreciation of the community no matter how poor an exhibition he made.

“I’ll ride him if I can borrow a saddle and bridle,” Scott replied without the least hesitation. The crowd heaved a sigh of relief and Jed Clark settled comfortably back against the fence with a wink at his neighbor.

“Saddle him up, will you, Jed?” Mose called without changing his position or interrupting his conversation.

Jed was the only man in the country who could put his hand on that beautiful stallion without using a rope and there were very few who could rope him. He had taught him that as a colt but he had never tried to ride him. “Is the undertaker here?” he whispered to one of his friends as he climbed leisurely into the corral. The other horses dashed wildly into the opposite corner, but the big black stood his ground and watched his approaching master with head high and sensitive nostrils aquiver. He lowered his head a little condescendingly when Jed patted his shiny neck, took a lump of sugar with great relish, and allowed himself to be bridled without any objection. He was used to that. He followed along quietly enough when Jed led him over to the fence, and picked up a light English saddle, carefully wrapped in a blanket and slipped it gently over his back. Jed buckled the girth and whispered to one of his admirers, “He thinks it’s just a blanket, he’s used to that.”

“All right, you,” he called to Scott as he led the horse back to the middle of the corral.

The supervisor was just giving Scott a little final advice. “Don’t monkey with him any more than you have to before you get on, it makes ’em nervous. Walk right up, put your foot square in the stirrup, mount as quickly as you can without a jerk, be sure to catch the second stirrup, and hold on tight with your knees. Never let him see you hesitate or think that you are afraid of him.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” Scott replied quietly, “but I do not suppose that I can stay on long,” and he started to climb the fence.

Just then the supervisor caught sight of the English saddle. “Hold on there, Jed,” he called angrily, “what kind of a saddle is that for a bucking broncho?”

“It’s an English saddle and your friend’s English, ain’t he?” Jed sneered. It was a brilliant retort but it did not bring the response that he expected except from a few of his friends.

“I don’t care what nationality he is,” responded the supervisor resolutely. “I don’t want to spoil your fun, but I am not going to stand here and see one of my men murdered. There is not a cowboy in this crowd who would try to ride that horse with that saddle and you know it.”

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. They were perfectly willing to see Scott spilled, had come there for that particular purpose, but they wanted fair play and an English saddle was no saddle at all in their eyes. Mr. Ramsey was right when he said that none of them would have used it. There is nothing for which a cowboy has more genuine contempt than for an English saddle. Jed was embarrassed by the decided disfavor of the crowd where he had expected unanimous support, but he stood his ground doggedly.

“That ain’t no fair game, Jed,” Mr. McGoorty, the hotel keeper and mayor of the town called from the fence, “and you ain’t goin’ to boost no greenhorn onto that fingernail affair in this town with my consent.”

“Mack’s scared he’s goin’ to lose a boarder,” Mose drawled.

The controversy bid fair to become serious with the odds very much against Jed Clark when Scott unexpectedly brought it to an abrupt termination. “That is the only kind of saddle I have ever used,” he said, “and I might as well try it. He can’t throw me much farther out of that than he could out of the other kind.”

He walked quietly up to the horse behind Jed, who was facing his opponents, grasped the reins firmly, and before any one realized what he was doing he was squarely astride the big black. A sudden stillness fell upon the crowd. Jed Clark, seeing what had happened, made a wild dash for the fence. He had enjoyed posing as the only man who could pet that beautiful wild animal, but he had no desire to be within reach when the royal beauty learned of the indignity which had been put upon him. Scott felt just as he had many a time before when he had put on the gloves with a man who, he knew, could outbox him. He had no hope of success but was determined to do his best. He had never seen a Western horse perform and did not fully realize the seriousness of the situation.

For a moment the great horse stood dazed and puzzled by this new burden. He had never had any experience in throwing a man; no man had ever before presumed to burden him. He moved nervously and Scott’s tightening knees drove terror and rage to his very heart. He forgot the inherited secret of his race; he forgot the wily strategy he had often seen his fellows use to such good purpose; it never occurred to him to buck. He wanted only to get away, to be rid of that devil on his back. With a mighty bound he started at full speed for the six foot fence around the corral, his eyes flaring and his nostrils distended with abject terror. The supervisor’s heart sank as the maddened brute, blinded with rage approached the barrier. Then there arose a gasp of mingled astonishment and admiration as the great horse, heedless of the scattering crowd, rose to the fence like a bird, cleared it by a wide margin, and tore away down the main street. There was a great scurrying among the spectators to get their saddle horses for the pursuit, but every one knew that there was not another horse in the country which could compare with Jed Clark’s stallion for speed, and long before any of the cowboys had mounted, the black had cleared the east end of the town leaving a train of staring excited faces behind him.

It was by the merest chance that Scott had been able to stick on when his horse had jumped the high fence. He had been leaning too far forward and had received a tremendous blow on the nose from the horse’s head. Nothing but his boxing experience prevented him from going off. He had learned to keep his balance for an instant even when completely stunned. He recovered quickly from the blow and found himself clinging tightly to the horse’s mane as the hazy houses whisked past on either side. Then he shot out into the open plain and the wind roared in his ears. It did not seem to Scott as though he had ever traveled as fast before even in an automobile.

The rush of the wind soon cleared his brain and with his returning senses he regained his nerve which the unexpected blow had badly shattered. He did not know whether the horse had jumped over the fence, something that did not seem possible, or through it. At any rate this was lots better than bucking. His stirrups were too long and bothered him, but he was beginning to feel that he might stay on if the horse did not do anything but run. Surely no horse could keep up that pace long and he might be manageable when he was tired out.

But he had not counted on the wonderful endurance of a range-bred stallion which ran almost as much as he walked. Mile after mile his mighty strides carried him over the sun-baked plain. Scott looked back toward the town and saw a few specks in the distance, hard riding cowboys doing their best but falling hopelessly behind. “If he keeps this up for an hour,” Scott thought, “and then throws me, it will take me a week to walk back.” Ten miles of plain separated them from the town and the steady pounding of his hoofs was still as rhythmical as clock work.

“Oh, you beautiful wonder!” Scott exclaimed aloud in affectionate tones and stroked the glossy neck while he still held onto the mane with his other hand. “I would not trade you for all the others in the corral even if I never learn to ride you.”

The gentle voice and the stroking had produced a peculiar effect on the maddened horse. The rushing wind and the freedom of his movements—for Scott had not attempted even to hold onto the reins—had somewhat restored his shattered nerves and soothed his injured dignity. He had been expecting something terrible to happen and instead a kindly voice had spoken to him and a gentle hand had stroked his neck. It had usually meant sugar for him and no harm had ever come of it. The madness slowly left his eyes and his pace slackened to an easy lope, a trot and then he stopped in a little hollow and looked curiously around at the man on his back.

Scott had put some sugar in his pocket that morning for the purpose of opening up friendly relations with his new mount and he promptly produced a lump. The horse accepted it after an inquisitive sniff and the battle was over. He did not seem to be at all distressed by the terrific race he had run and nibbled a little willow bush apparently at perfect ease. He seemed perfectly reconciled to his new partnership.

The next thing was to get him home. He had been bridle broken in a way. That is, he had been led around a little, but he had never been driven and knew nothing of a rider’s management. He pricked up his ears and arched his neck when Scott gently gathered up the reins and spoke to him calmly, but he knew nothing of the “clucks” which usually urge a horse ahead, and Scott was afraid to slap him or nudge him with his heels. He pulled on one rein and succeeded in turning him toward home, but that was all.

Suddenly the great horse raised his beautiful head and with ears pricked forward gazed intently at the rim of the rise of ground ahead of him. His keen ears had caught the thud of pounding hoofs from the direction of the town. Scott could not hear them, but he guessed what had attracted the horse’s attention. He waited expectantly for he did not know what effect the approach of other horses would have on his high-strung mount.

A moment later a bunch of hard riding horsemen swept over the crest of the knoll. At the sight of Scott sitting calmly erect on his fingernail saddle they stopped in astonishment and then sent forth a mighty shout of admiration, the tribute of expert horsemen to the nerve of a man who had dared what few of them would have done. They realized perfectly the danger of rushing down on this newly tamed horse and rode slowly and quietly down the slope.

The cautious approach seemed to arouse the suspicion of the big black. He advanced a few steps toward them proudly. He was a leader and in no mind to be trapped as he had often seen those same riders trap less wary animals. With a defiant toss of his lordly head he broke into a graceful trot and circled swiftly to the left. Beyond the last rider he struck a swinging gallop and headed for town. The cowboys’ horses were pretty well blown with the long race and did not care to push the homeward pace. So the great stallion, none the worse for his wild dash for liberty, proudly and with many a backward glance, led the procession back down the main street of the town.

The people came to the doors and gazed in awe at this mysterious stranger who had tamed Jed Clark’s wildest outlaw; and with such a saddle. Scott was beginning to wonder where the horse would take him and how he would ever get off, when the supervisor rode suddenly out of the alley ahead of him. At the sight of the other horse the black stopped for an instant, and Scott took advantage of the opportunity to dismount.

The supervisor jumped from his horse and hurried to meet him. “By George,” he exclaimed, grasping Scott’s hand, “I’m glad to see you. I was just starting out to look for your remains. You must be some rider.”

“No,” Scott laughed, “but I had some ride. I was just wondering how I would ever get off when you rescued me.”

The big horse was used to being led by his bridle and stood quietly enough.

Mr. McGoorty ran up puffing and grabbed Scott’s hand away from Mr. Ramsey. “Begorra, young man, I’m proud to shake your hand. You can come from Massachusetts or Peru or any place you please, now, and the boys will have nothing to say about it. Here, let me put that horse in my stable.”

Scott caressed the big black and gave him another lump of sugar before he let McGoorty lead him away.

“Yes,” said Mr. Ramsey, “you’ve made good with the boys all right. Here they come now and you’ll find them different.”

And they were. It was half an hour before Mr. Ramsey could tear Scott away from them and get him up to the office.