Part 3 (1/2)
”A handsome rascal, eh?” said Mr. Corson.
But she caught at his arm.
”Oh!” gasped Marianne. ”Oh! Oh!”
Three flurries of wild pitching drew forth those horrified whispers. But still the flaming red head of the rider was as erect, as jaunty as ever.
Then the quirt flashed above him and cut Rickety's flank; the crowd winced and gasped. He was not only riding straight up but he was putting the quirt to Rickety--to Rickety!
The piebald seemed to feel the sting of the insult more than the lash.
He bolted across the field to gain impetus for some new and more terrible feat but as he ran a yell from Perris thrilled across the crowd.
”They do that, some men. Get plumb drunk with a fight!”
But Marianne did not hear Corson's remark. She watched Rickety slacken his run as that longdrawn yell began, so wild and high that it put a tingle in her nose. Now he was trotting, now he was walking, now he stood perfectly still, become of a sudden, an abject, cowering figure.
The shout of the spectators was almost a groan, for Rickety had been beaten fairly and squarely at last and it was like the pa.s.sing of some old master of the prize ring, the scarred veteran of a hundred battles.
”What happened?” breathed Marianne.
”Rickety's lost his spirit,” said Corson. ”That's all. I've seen it come to the bravest men in the world. A two-year-old boy could ride Rickety now. Even the whip doesn't get a single buck out of the poor rascal.”
The quirt slashed the flank of the piebald but it drew forth only a meek trot. The terrible Rickety went back to the corrals like a lamb!
”Arizona's got a good man to beat,” admitted Corson, ”but he's got a chance yet. They won't get any more out of Rickety. He's not only been rode--he's been broke. I could ride him myself.”
”Mr. Corson,” said Marianne, full of an idea of her own, ”I'll wager that Rickety is not broken in the least--except for Red Perris.”
”Meaning Perris just sort of put a charm on him?” suggested Corson, smiling.
”Exactly that. You see?”
In fact, the moment Perris slipped from the saddle, Rickety rocked forward on his forelegs and drove both heels at one of the reckless who came too near. A second later he was fighting with the activity and venom of a cat to get away from the ropes. The crowd chattered its surprise. Plainly the fierce old outlaw had not fought his last.
”What _did_ Perris do to the horse?” murmured Marianne.
”I don't know,” said Corson. ”But you seem to have guessed something.
See the way he stands there with his chin on his fist and studies Rickety! Maybe Perris is one of these here geniuses and us ordinary folks can only understand a genius by using a book on him.”
She nodded, very serious.
”There _is_ a use for fighting men, isn't there?” she brooded.
”Use for 'em?” laughed Corson. ”Why, lady, how come we to be sitting here? Because gents have fought to put us here! How come this is part of G.o.d's country? Because a lot of folks buckled on guns to make it that!
Use for a fighter? Well, Miss Jordan, I've done a little fighting of one kind and another in my day and I don't blush to think about it. Look at my kid there. What do you think I'm proudest of: because he was head of his cla.s.s at school last winter or because he could lick every other boy his own size? First time he come home with a black eye I gave him a dollar to go back and try to give the other fellow _two_ black eyes. And he done it! All good fighters ain't good men; I sure know that. But they never was a man that was good to begin with and was turned bad by fighting. They's a pile of bad men around these parts that fight like lions; but that part of 'em is good. Yes sirree, they's plenty of use for a fighting man! Don't you never doubt that!”
She smiled at this vehemence, but it reinforced a growing respect for Perris.
Then, rather absurdly, it irritated her to find that she was taking him so seriously. She remembered the ridiculous song:
”Oh, father, father William, I've seen your daughter dear.