Part 28 (1/2)

”That's what I call the mirror of health,” said Langdon, in an unwonted burst of poetic eloquence, as he pa.s.sed his hand across the horse's ribs. Then feeling that somehow he had laid himself open to a suspicion of gentleness, added, ”He's a h.e.l.l of a fine looker; if he could gallop up to his looks he'd make some of the cracks take a back seat.”

Even Diablo had resented either the mellifluous comparison or the rub of Langdon's hand, for he lashed out furiously, with a great farreaching leg that nearly caught Crane unawares.

”Your polite language seems to be as irritating to him as the blacksmith's oaths,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Crane, as he came back from the hasty retreat he had beaten.

”It's only play. Good horses is of two kinds when you're saddlin' 'em.

The Dutchman there'll hang his head down, and champ at the bit, even if you bury the girt' an inch deep in his belly; he's honest, and knows it's all needed. That's one kind; and they're generally the same at the post, always there or thereabouts, waitin' for the word 'go.' An' they race pretty much the same all the time. If you time 'em a mile in 1:40 at home, they'll do it when the colors is up, an' the silk a-flappin'

all about 'em in the race.

”Whoa! Hold still, you brute! Steady, steady! Whoa!” This to Diablo, for while talking he had adjusted the weight cloth with the gentleness of a cavalier putting a silk wrap about his lady love's neck, and had put a fold of soft woolen cloth over the high-boned wither.

”Stand out in front of him and hold his head down a bit;” this to the boy. Then as he slipped the saddle into place and reached underneath for the girths, he continued his address to Crane on the peculiarity of racers.

”Now this is a horse of another color, this one; he ain't takin' things easy at no stage of the game. He objects to everything, an' some day that'll land him a winner, see? He'll get it into his head that the other horses want to beat him out, an' he'll show 'em a clean pair of heels; come home on the bit, pullin' double. Whoa, boy! Steady, steady, old man!” Then he ceased talking, for he had taken the girth strap between his teeth, and was cinching up the big Black with the firm pull of a grizzly. Diablo squirmed under the torture of the tightening web on his sensitive skin, and crouched as though he would fall on the Trainer.

”Yes, sir;” continued Langdon, as he ran the stirrups up under the saddle flap out of the way, and motioned to the boy to lead Diablo about. ”Yes, sir; this fellow's different. He's too d.a.m.n sensitive.

At the post he's like as not to act like a locoed broncho, an' get one blamed for having 'juiced' him, but he don't need no dope; what he needs is steadying. If he gets away in front, them long legs of his will take some catchin'. He's the kind that wins when the books are layin' a hundred to one against him. But the worst of it is with his sort, like as not the owner hasn't a penny on them; but the public'll howl; they'll call it in-an'-out runnin'; an' the scribblers'll get their paper to print a notice that the stable ought to be ruled off; an' all the time you're breakin' your heart trying to get him to give his true--h.e.l.lo!

there's Colley out on The Dutchman; mount your horse, Westley--wait, you don't need no spurs; yes, carry a whip, an' give the guys that is watchin' a stage play with it; but don't hit the Black. We'll just see what he'll do himself, this trip,” he added, addressing Crane.

Taking Westley's small-booted foot in his hand, he lifted the lad to Diablo's back, and led the horse out through a gate to the course.

XX

The two boys cantered their mounts down to the quarter post carelessly, as though they were going around to the far side.

”Look at 'em!” cried the Trainer; ”isn't he a little gentleman?”

To the uninitiated this might have been taken as a tribute to one of the boys, Westley, perhaps; but the Trainer was not even thinking of them.

They were of no moment. It was the wine-red bay, The Dutchman, cantering with gentle, lazy grace, that had drawn forth this encomium. His head, somewhat high carried, was held straight and true in front, and his big eyes searched the course with gentle inquisitiveness, for others of his kind, perhaps.

”He's a lovely horse,” commented Crane, knowing quite well to what Langdon referred.

”He's all that, but just look at the other devil.”

Diablo was throwing his nose fretfully up and down, up and down; grabbing at the bit; pirouetting from one side the course to the other; nearly pulling Westley over his neck one minute, as with lowered head he sought to break away, and the next das.h.i.+ng forward for a few yards with it stuck foolishly high, like a badmouthed Indian cayuse.

”But Westley'll manage him,” Langdon confided to Crane, after a period of silent observation; ”he'll get his belly full of runnin' when he's gone a mile and a quarter with The Dutchman. Gad! that was neat; here they come;” for the two boys had whirled with sudden skill at the quarter post, and broke away, with Diablo slightly in the lead. ”My G.o.d!

he can move,” muttered Langdon, abstractedly, and quite to himself. The man at his side had floated into oblivion. He saw only a great striding black horse coming wide-mouthed up the stretch. At the Black's heels, with dogged lope, hung the Bay.

”Take him back, take him back, Westley!” yelled Langdon, leaning far out over the rail, as the horses raced by, Diablo well in front.

The Trainer's admonition seemed like a cry to a cyclone, as void of usefulness. What power could the tiny dot lying close hugged far up on the straining black neck have over the galloping fiend?

”Yes, that's the way,” Langdon said, nodding his head to Crane, and jerking a thumb out toward the first turn in the course, where the two horses were hugging close to the rail; ”that's the way he's worked here.”

”Which one?” asked his companion.