BEN BUTLER'S LAST RACE
It was the last afternoon of the fair, and the great race was to come off at three o'clock.
There is nothing so typical as a fair in the Tennessee Valley. It is the one time in the year when everybody meets everybody else. Besides being the harvest time of crops, of friendships, of happy interchange of thought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfected horseflesh.
The forenoon had been given to social intercourse, the display of livestock, the exhibits of deft women fingers, of housewife skill, of the tradesman, of the merchant, of cotton—cotton, in every form and shape.
At noon, under the trees, lunch had been spread—a bountiful lunch, spreading as it did from the soft grass of one tree to that of another—as family after family spread their linen—an almost unbroken line of fried chicken, flanked with pickles and salad, and all the rich profusion of the country wife's pantry.
And now, after lunch, the grand stand had been quickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved a horse-race.
Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand!
Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life.
And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned the best horse.
No wonder that everybody for miles around was there.
Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and lusty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong, stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd.
The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people, and but only half way in fashion between the city and country, yet knowing it not.
The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.
Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding—Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare—Trombine—had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.
Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as it spun past the grand-stand.
Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire. It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then settled, to a shining, shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashed in the sun.
The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming up.
The starting-judge was about to clang again—this time more positively—when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar of mingled laughter and applause.
As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his old hat and smiled.
He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith—he was too stern for the fun they were having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had a sponge and bucket!
“Bud Billings a swipe!”
Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. It merely grinned and nudged one another. For Travis had given a half holiday and all Cottontown was there.
The old man's outfit brought out the greatest laughter. The cart was a big cheap thing, new and brightly repainted, and it rattled frightfully. The harness was a combination—the saddle was made of soft sheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also the head-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching. The rest of it was undressed leather, and the old man had evidently made it himself.
But Ben Butler—never had he looked so fine. Blind, cat-hammed and pacing along,—but his sides were slick and hard, his quarters rubber.
The old man had not been training him on the sandy stretches of Sand Mountain for nothing.
A man with half an eye could have seen it, but the funny people in the grand-stand saw only the harness, and the blind sunken eyes of the old horse. So they shouted and cat-called and jeered. The outfit ambled up to the starting judge, and the old driver handed him fifty dollars.
The starter laughed as he recovered himself, and winking at the others, asked:
“What's this for, old man?”
“Oh, jes' thought I'd j'ine in—” smiling.
“Why, you can't do it. What's your authority?”
The Bishop ran his hand in his pocket, while Bud held Ben Butler's head and kept saying with comical seriousness: “Whoa—whoa, sah!”
Pending it all, and seeing that more talk was coming, Ben Butler promptly went to sleep. Finally the old man brought out a faded poster. It was Travis's challenge and conditions.
“Jes' read it,” said the old driver, “an' see if I ain't under the conditions.”
The starting judge read: “Open to the Tennessee Valley—trot or pace. Parties entering, other than the match makers, to pay fifty dollars at the wire.”
“Phew!” said the starting judge, as he scratched his head. Then he stroked his chin and re-read the conditions, looking humorously down over his glasses at the queer combination before him.
The audience took it in and began to shout: “Let him in! Let him in! It's fair!”
But others felt outraged and shouted back: “No—put him out! Put him out!”
The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three starters came up.
Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam, laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore.
“It's preposterous!—it will make the race a farce. We're out for blood and that purse. This is no comedy,” he said.
The old man only smiled and said: “I'm sorry to spile the sport of gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, I know they will stan' by their own rules.”
“It's here in black and white, Travis,” said the starter, “You made it yourself.”
“Oh, hell,” said Travis hotly, “that was mere form and to satisfy the Valley. I thought the entrance fee would bar any outsider.”
“But it didn't,” said the Judge, “and you know the rules.”
“Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!” shouted the crowd, and then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls.
Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown preacher, and the excitement grew intense.
It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup. Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away.
But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart, the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness of it all—the pathos.
Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others, here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables, trying to win the purse from gentlemen.
“Ten to one,” said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly on—“the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed.”
“If that's so,” shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, “if that's the way of it, we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play.”
They arose hastily, each shifting a pistol in his pocket, and butted through the crowd which was thronged around the Judge's stand, where the old man sat quietly smiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup were talking earnestly.
“Damned if I let Trombine start against such a combination as that, sah. I'll drive off the track now, sah—damned if I don't, sah!”
But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said: “Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man,” he laughed, “you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?”
“No,” smiled the Bishop—“an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years.”
“Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty,” laughed Flecker.
Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward and twirled him around like a top.
It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at all; it felt dead.
“Don't hurt nobody, Jack,” whispered the old man, “be keerful.”
The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted—“Fair play, fair play—let him start,” and they came thronging and crowding on the track.
“Clear the track,” cried the starting-judge to a deputy sheriff in charge—“I'll let him start.”
This set the crowd in a roar.
“Square man,” they yelled—“Square man!”
Travis bit his lips and swore.
“Why, damn him,” he said, “we'll lose him the first heat. I'll shut him out myself.”
“We will, sah, we will!” said Col. Troup. “But if that rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National Association, sah. I'll appeal—sah,” and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare.
And now the track was cleared—the grand stand hummed and buzzed with excitement.
It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley. Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart—but that he dared try it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of desperate fun and then—
A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such expressions as these:
“Worth ten dollars to see it!”
“Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!”
“If he did happen to beat that trio of sports!”
“Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!”
“Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun—they'll shut him out!”
In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher.
The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person, and this is the way he told it, heat by heat:
“Fus' heat, Ben Butler—Now if we can manage to save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race—long time—an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git hot—(Clang—clang—clang). That's the starter's bell. Yes—we'll score now—the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us—they'll set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'p us—Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—it's only for them, Ben Butler—fur them. (Clang!—Clang!) Slow there—heh—heh—Steady—ah-h!”
Clang—clang-clang! vigorously. The starter was calling them back.
They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the wire!
The crowd jeered and roared with laughter.
“He'll never get off!”
“He's screwed there—fetch a screw driver!”
“Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!”
“Go back, gentlemen, go back,” shouted the starter, “and try again. The old pacer was on a break”—Clang—clang—clang! and he jerked his bell vigorously.
Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. “I had to pull my mare double to stop her,” he called to the starter. “We were all aligned but the old pacer—why didn't you let us go?”
“Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know my business,” said the starter hotly.
Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage.
Flecker laughed.
They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4—Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.
“Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke—you mus' go this time. We ain't goin' to meetin'—Stretch them ole legs as you did!—oh, that's better—ef we could only score a few more times—look!—ah!”
Clang—clang—clang!
This time it was Col. Troup's mare. She broke just at the wire.
“She saved us that time, Ben Butler. We wus two rods behind—”
They came down the third time. “Now, thank God, he's jes' beginnin' to unlimber,” chuckled the old man as the old pacer, catching on to the game and warming to his work, was only a length behind at the wire, as they scored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up in the air and again the bell clanged.
The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned them that time was up and that he'd start them the next time they came down if he had the ghost of a chance.
Again they aligned and came thundering down. The old man was pale and silent, and Ben Butler felt the lines telegraphing nervous messages to his bitted mouth; but all he heard was: “Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—Steady, old hoss!”
“Go!”
It sounded like a gun-shot in the old man's ears. There was a whirr of wheels, a patter of feet grappling with dirt and throwing it all over him—another whirr and flutter and buzz as of a covey flushed, and the field was off, leaving him trailing.
“Whew, Ben Butler, we're in fur it now—the Lord 'a-mussy on our souls! Take the pole—s'artenly,—it's all yowin, since you're behin'! Steady ole hoss, there's one consolation,—they're breakin' the wind for you, an' thank God!—yes Ben Butler, look! they're after one other,—they're racin' like Tam O'Shanter an' cookin' each other to a gnat's heel—Oh, Lord what fools! It'll tell on 'em—if we can only save our distance—this heat—jes' save our distance—Wh-o-p, sah! Oh, my Lord, told you so—Troup's mare's up an' dancin' like a swamp rabbit by moonlight. Who-op, sah, steady ole hoss—there now we've passed him—Trombine and Lizette ahead—steady—let 'em go, big devil, little devil, an' pumpin' each other—Go now, go old hoss, now's the time to save our distance—go old hoss, step lively now—'tain't no meetin', no Sunday School—it's life, bread and a chance for Cap'n Tom! Oh, but you ain't forgot entirely, no-no,—ain't forgot that you come in answer to prayer, ain't forgot that half in one-one, ain't forgot yo' pious raisin', yo' pedigree. Ain't forgot you're racin' for humanity an' a chance, ain't forgot—there! the flag—my God and safe!”
He had passed the flag. Lizzette and Trombine were already at the wire, but poor Troup—his mare had never been able to settle after her wild break, and she caught the flag square in the face.
The crowd met the old pacer with a yell of delight. He had not been shut out—marvel of marvels!
It was getting interesting indeed.
Bud and Jack met him with water and a blanket. How proud they were! But the heavy old cart had told on Ben Butler. He panted like a hound, he staggered and was distressed.
“He'll get over that,” said the old driver cheerily to Bud's tearful gaze—“he ain't used to it yet—ten years, think of it,” and Jack led Ben Butler blanketed away.
The old man looked at the summary the judges had hung up. It was:
1st Heat: Trumps, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd; Ben Butler, 3rd; Trombine distanced. Time, 2:17½.
Then he heard a man swearing elegantly. It was Col. Troup. He was sitting in his sulky in front of the grand stand and talking to Travis and the genial Flecker:
“A most unprofessional thing, gentlemen,—damned unprofessional, sah, to shut me out. Yes, sah, to shut out a gentleman, sah, an' the first heat, sah, with his horse on a break.”
“What!” said Flecker excitedly—“you, Col'nel? Shut out—why, I thought it was the old pacer.”
“I swear I did, too, Colonel,” said Travis apologetically. “I heard something rattling and galloping along—I thought it was the old pacer and I drove like the devil to shut him out!”
“It was me, sah, me! damned unprofessional, sah; my mare throwed a boot!”
He walked around and swore for ten minutes. Then he quieted down and began to think. He was shut out—his money was gone. But—“By gad, sah,” he said cracking his whip—“By gad I'll do it!”
Ten minutes later as Ben Butler, cooled and calm, was being led out for the second heat, Col. Troup puffed boisterously up to the Bishop: “Old man, by gad, sah, I want you to use my sulky and harness. It's a hundred pounds lighter than that old ox-cart you've got. I'm goin' to he'p you, sah, beat that pair of short dogs that shets out a gentleman with his horse on a break, sah!”
And that was how the old man drew first blood and came out in a new sulky and harness.
How proud Ben Butler seemed to feel! How much lighter and how smoothly it ran!
They got the word at the first score, Trumps and Lizzette going at it hammer and tongs—Ben Butler, as usual, trailing.
The old man sat pale and ashy, but driving like the born reinsman that he was.
“Steady, old hoss, steady agin'—jes' save our distance, that's all—they've done forgot us—done forgot us—don't know we're here. They'll burn up each other an' then, oh, Ben Butler, God he'p us! Cap'n Tom, Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh! Steady, whoa there!—Lord, how you're lar'nin'! How the old clip is comin' agin! Ho—hi—there ole hoss—here we are—what a bresh of speed he's got—hi—ho!”
And the grand-stand was cheering again, and as the old man rode up the judges hung out:
2nd Heat: Trumps, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd; Ben Butler, 3rd. Time, 2:15½.
The old man looked at it in wonder: “Two fifteen an' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind? My God, can we make it—can we make it?”
His heart beat wildly. For the first time he began to hope.
Trumps now had two heats. As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out—he was distressed greatly—in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell.
“Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette—what will Travis do?—Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!”
It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could.
“They're at it ag'in—ole hoss, what fools! Whoa—steady there! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see—No sand left in his crops, cooked—watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler—there—he's up now—up an' done fur—Go now—move some—hi—”
Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh and blood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken, tired break. It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length.
Lizzette had won the heat. The judge hung out:
3rd Heat: Lizzette, 1st; Ben Butler, 2nd; Trumps distanced. Time, 2:20.
Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see.
“The old pacer—the old pacer!”—they yelled.
Travis bit his lip—“what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!”
The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky.
“Great hoss! great! great!” yelled Bud as he trotted along bringing the blanket.
The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment, amid the crash of the band and the noise of the crowd:
“Dear God—my Father—I thank Thee. Not for me—not for Ben Butler—but for life—life—for Shiloh—and Cap'n Tom. Help us—old and blind—help us! O God—”
Col. Troup grasped his hand. The Tennesseans, followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too, was there—chagrined, maddened—he too had joined his forces with the old Bishop.
“Great Scott, old man, how you do drive! We've hedged on you—me and the Colonel—we've put up a thousand each that you'll win. We've cooked ourselves good and hard. Now drive from hell to breakfast next heat, and Travis is yo' meat! Fools that we were! We've cut each other to pieces like a pair of cats tied by the tails. Travis is at your mercy.”
“Yes, sah, Flecker is right. Travis is yo' meat, sah,” said the Colonel, solemnly.
The old man walked around with his lips moving silently, and a great pulsing, bursting, gripping pain in his heart—a pain which was half a hope and half despair.
The crowd was on tip-toe. Never before had such a race been paced in the Tennessee Valley. Could he take the next heat from Lizzette? If he could, he had her at his mercy.
Grimly they scored down. Travis sullen that he had to fight the old pacer, but confident of shutting him out this time. Confident and maddened. The old man, as was his wont in great emergencies, had put a bullet in his mouth to clinch his teeth on. He had learned it from Col. Jeremiah Travis, who said Jackson did it when he killed Dickinson, and at Tallapoosa, and at New Orleans.
“GO!”
And he heard Travis whirl away with a bitter curse that floated back. Then the old man shot out in the long, stealing, time-eating stride the old pacer had, and coming up just behind Lizzette's sulky he hung there in a death struggle.
One quarter, half, three-quarters, and still they swung around—locked—Travis bitter with hot oaths and the old man pale with prayer. He could see Travis's eyes flashing lightning hatred across the narrow space between them—hatred, curses, but the old man prayed on.
“The flag—now—ole hoss—for Jesus' sake!—”
He reached out in the old way, lifted his horse by sheer great force and fairly flung him ahead!—
“Flu-r-r-r!” it was Lizzette's breath as he went by her. He shot his eyes quickly sideways as she flailed the air with her forefeet within a foot of his head. Her eyes glowed, sunken,—beat—in their sockets; with mouth wide open, collapsed, frantic, in heart-broken dismay, she wabbled, staggered and quit!
“Oh, God bless you, Ben Butler!—”
But that instant in the air with her mouth wide open within a foot of the old man's head her lower teeth exposed, the old driver saw she was only four years old. Why had he noticed it? What mental telepathy in great crises cause us to see the trifles on which often the destiny of our life hangs?
Ben Butler, stubborn, flying, was shaking his game old head in a bull-dog way as he went under the wire. It maddened him to be pulled up.
“So, softly, softly old fellow! We've got 'em licked, you've got religin' in yo' heels, too. Ain't been goin' to church for ten years for nothin'!”
The old man wanted to shout, and yet he was actually shedding tears, talking hysterically and trembling all over. He heard in a dazed way the yells and thunder from the grand-stand. But he was faint and dizzy, and worst of all, as he laughed to himself and said: “Kinder sissy an' soft in spots.”
Jack and Bud had Ben Butler and were gone. No wonder the grand-stand pulsed with human emotion. Never before had anything been done like this. The old, blind pacer,—the quaint old preacher—the thing they were going to shut out,—the pathos, the splendor of it all,—shook them as humanity will ever be shaken when the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purest marble. Here it was:
4th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:19½.
What a record it was for the old pacer! Starting barely able to save his distance, he had grown in speed and strength and now had the mare at his mercy—the two more heats he had yet to win would be a walk around for him.
Oh, it was glorious—glorious!
“Oh, by gad, sah,” shouted Col. Troup, pompously. “I guess I've hedged all right. Travis will pay my thousand. He'll know how to shet out gentlemen the nex' time. Oh, by gad, sah!”
Flecker and the Tennesseans took drinks and shouted themselves hoarse.
Then the old preacher did something, but why he never could explain. It seemed intuition when he thought of it afterwards. Calling Col. Troup to him he said: “I'm kinder silly an' groggy, Col'nel, but I wish you'd go an' look in her mouth an' see how old Lizzette is.”
The Colonel looked at him, puzzled.
“Why?”
“Oh, I dunno, Col'nel—but when a thing comes on me that away, maybe it's because I'm so nervous an' upsot, but somehow I seem to have a second sight when I git in this fix. I wanted you to tell me.”
“What's it got to do with the race, sah! There is no bar to age. Have you any susp—”
“Oh, no—no—Col'nel, it's jes' a warnin', an intuition. I've had 'em often, it's always from God. I b'leeve it's Him tellin' me to watch, watch an' pray. I had it when Ben Butler come, thar, come in answer to prayer—”
Colonel Troup smiled and walked off. In a short while he sauntered carelessly back:
“Fo' sah, she was fo' years old this last spring.”
“Thank ye, Col'nel!”
The Colonel smiled and whispered: “Oh, how cooked she is! Dead on her feet, dead. Don't drive yo' ole pacer hard—jes' walk around him, sah. Do as you please, you've earned the privilege. It's yo' walk over an' yo' money.”
The fifth heat was almost a repetition of the fourth, the old pacer beating the tired mare cruelly, pacing her to a standstill. It was all over with Lizzette, anyone could see that. The judges hung out:
5th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:24.
Travis's face was set, set in pain and disappointment when he went to the stable. He looked away off, he saw no one. He smoked. He walked over to the stall where they were cooling Lizzette out.
“Take the full twenty minutes to cool her, Jim.”
In the next stall stood Sadie B. She had been driven around by Jud Carpenter, between heats, to exercise her, he had said. She was warmed up, and ready for speed.
Travis stood watching Lizzette cool out. Jud came up and stood looking searchingly at him. There was but a glance and a nod, and Travis walked over to the grand-stand, light-hearted and even jolly, where he stood in a group of society folks.
He was met by a protest of feminine raillery: “Oh, our gloves, our candy! Oh, Mr. Travis, to get beat that way!”
He laughed: “I'll pay all you ladies lose. I was just playing with the old pacer. Bet more gloves and candy on the next heat!”
“Oh—oh,” they laughed. “No—no-o! We've seen enough!”
Travis smiled and walked off. He turned at the gate and threw them back a bantering kiss.
“You'll see—” was all he said.
The old man spent the twenty minutes helping to rub off Ben Butler.
“It does me good—kinder unkeys me,” he said to Bud and Jack. He put his ear to the old horses' flank—it pulsed strong and true.
Then he laughed to himself. It vexed him, for it was half hysterical and he kept saying over to himself:
“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty—
All Thy works shall praise Thy name, in earth and sky and sea;
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty—”
Some one touched his arm. It was Jack: “Bishop, Bishop, time's up! We're ready. Do you hear the bell clanging?”
The Bishop nodded, dazed:
“Here, you're kinder feeble, weak an', an' sorter silly. Why, Bishop, you're recitin' poetry—” said Jack apologetically. “A man's gone when he does that—here!”
He had gone to the old man's saddle bags, and brought out his ancient flask.
“Jes' a swaller or two, Bishop,” he said coaxingly, as one talking to a child—“Quick, now, you're not yo'self exactly—you've dropped into poetry.”
“I guess I am a little teched, Jack, but I don't need that when I can get poetry, sech poetry as is now in me. Jack, do you want to hear the gran'est verse ever writ in poetry?”
“No—no, Bishop, don't! Jack Bracken's yo' friend, he'll freeze to you. You'll be all right soon. It's jes' a little spell. Brace up an' drop that stuff.”
The old man smiled sadly as if he pitied Jack. Then he repeated slowly:
“Holy, holy, holy, all the saints adore Thee
Castin' down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim an' Seraphim, fallin' down before Thee
Which wert an' art, an' ever more shall be.”
Feebly he leaned on Jack, the tears ran down his cheek: “'Tain't weakness, Jack, 'tain't that—it's joy, it's love of God, Whose done so much for me. It's the glory, glory of them lines—Oh, God—what a line of poetry!”
“Castin' down their golden crowns around the glassy sea!”
Ben Butler stood ready, the bell clanged again. Jack helped him into the sulky; never had he seen the old man so feeble. Travis was already at the post.
They got the word immediately, but to the old man's dismay, Travis's mare shot away like a scared doe, trotting as frictionless as a glazed emery wheel.
The old man shook up Ben Butler and wondered why he seemed to stand so still. The old horse did his best, he paced as he never had before, but the flying thing like a red demon flitted always just before him, a thing with tendons of steel and feet of fire.
“Oh, God, Ben Butler, what is it—what? Have you quit on me, ole hoss?—you, Ben Butler, you that come in answer to prayer? My God, Cap'n Tom, Shiloh!”
And still before him flew the red thing with wings.
At the half, at the three-quarters: “Now ole hoss!” And the old horse responded gamely, grandly. He thundered like a cyclone bursting through a river-bed. Foot by foot, inch by inch, he came up to Travis's mare. Nose to nose they flew along. There was a savage yell—a loud cracking of Travis' whip in the blind horse's ears. Never had the sightless old horse had such a fright! He could not see—he could only hear the terrible, savage yell. Frightened, he forgot, he dodged, he wavered—
“Steady, Ben Butler, don't—oh—”
It was a small trick of Travis', for though the old pacer came with a rush that swept everything before it, the drive had been made too late. Travis had the heat won already.
Still there was no rule against it. He could yell and crack his whip and make all the noise he wished, and if the other horse was frightened, it was the fault of his nerves. Everybody who knew anything of racing knew that.
A perfect tornado of hisses met Travis at the grand-stand.
But he had won the heat! What did he care? He could scarcely stop his mare. She seemed like a bird and as fresh. He pulled her double to make her turn and come back after winning, and as she came she still fought the bit.
As he turned, he almost ran into the old pacer jogging, broken-hearted behind. The mare's mouth was wide open, and the Bishop's trained eye fell on the long tusk-like lower teeth, flashing in the sun.
Startled, he quivered from head to foot. He would not believe his own eyes. He looked closely again. There was no doubt of it—she was eight years old!
In an instant he knew—his heart sank, “We're robbed, Cap'n Tom—Shiloh—my God!”
Travis drove smilingly back, amid hisses and cheers and the fluttering of ladies' handkerchiefs in the boxes.
“How about the gloves and candy now?” he called to them with his cap in his hand.
Above the judges had hung out:
6th Heat: Lizzette, 1st; Ben Butler, 2nd. Time, 2:14.
When Flecker of Tennessee saw the time hung out, he jumped from his seat exclaiming: “Six heats and the last heat the fastest? Who ever heard of a tired mare cutting ten seconds off that way? By the eternal, but something's wrong there.”
“Six heats an' the last one the fastest—By gad, sah,” said Col. Troup. “It is strange. That mare Lizzette is a wonder, an' by gad, sah, didn't the old pacer come? By gad, but if he'd begun that drive jus' fifty yards sooner—our money”—
Flecker groaned: “We're gone, Colonel—one thousand we put up and the one we hedged with.”
“By gad, sah, but, Flecker, don't you think Lizzette went smoother that last heat? She had a different stride, a different gait.”
Flecker had not noticed it. “But it was a small thing,” he said—“to frighten the old horse. No rule against it, but a gentleman—”
The Colonel smiled: “Damn such gentlemen, sah. They're a new breed to me.”
The old man went slowly back to the stable. He said nothing. He walked dazed, pale, trembling, heart-broken. But never before had he thought so keenly.
Should he expose Travis?—Ruin him, ruin him—here? Then there passed quickly thoughts of Cap'n Tom—of Miss Alice. What a chance to straighten every thing out, right every wrong—to act for Justice, Justice long betrayed—for God. For God? And had not, perhaps, God given him this opportunity for this very purpose? Was not God,—God, the ever merciful but ever just, behind it all? Was it not He who caused him to look at the open mouth of the first mare? Was it not He giving him a chance to right a wrong so long, so long delayed? If he failed to speak out would he not be doing every man in the race a wrong, and Cap'n Tom and Shiloh, and even Miss Alice, so soon to marry this man—how it went through him!—even God—even God a wrong!
He trembled; he could not walk. He sat down; Jack and Bud had the horse, the outlaw's eyes flashing fire as he led him away. But Bud, poor Bud, he was following, broken-hearted, blubbering and still saying between his sobs: “Great—hoss—he skeered him!”
The grand-stand sat stupefied, charged to the explosive point with suppressed excitement. Six terrible heats and no horse had won three. But now Lizzette and Ben Butler had two each—who would win the next, the decisive heat. God help the old preacher, for he had no chance. Not after the speed that mare showed.
Colonel Troup came up: “By gad, sah, Bishop—don't give up—you've got one mo' chance. Be as game as the ole hoss.”
“We are game, sir—but—but, will you do as I tell you an' swear to me on yo' honor as a gentleman never to speak till I say the word? Will you swear to keep sacred what I show you, until I let you tell?”
The Colonel turned red: “What do you mean, sah?”
“Swear it, swear it, on yo' honor as a gentleman—”
“On my honor as a gentleman, sah? I swear it.”
“Go,” said the old man quickly, “an' look in the mouth of the mare they are jes' bringin' in—the mare that won that heat. Go, an' remember yo' honor pledged. Go an' don't excite suspicion.”
The old man sat down and, as he waited, he thought. Never before had he thought so hard. Never had such a burden been put upon him. When he looked up Colonel Troup stood pale and silent before him—pale with close-drawn lips and a hot, fierce, fighting gleam in his eyes.
“You've explained it, sah—” he said. Then he fumbled his pistol in his pocket. “Now—now, give me back my promise, my word. I have two thousand dollars at stake, and—and clean sport, sah,—clean sport. Give me back my word.”
“Sit down,” said the old man quietly.
The Colonel sat down so still that it was painful. He was calm but the Bishop saw how hard the fight was.
Then the old man broke out: “I can't—O God, I can't! I can't make a character, why should I take one? It's so easy to take a word—a nod—it is gone! And if left maybe it 'ud come agin. Richard Travis—it looks bad—he may be bad—but think what he may do yet—if God but touch him? No man's so bad but that God can't touch him—change him. We may live to see him do grand and noble things—an' God will touch him,” said the old man hotly, “he will yet.”
“If you are through with me,” said Colonel Troup, coolly, “and will give me back my promise, I'll go and touch him—yes, damn him, I'll shoot him as he should be.”
“But I ain't gwine to give it back,” smiled the old man.
Colonel Troup flushed: “What'll you do, then? Let him rob you an' me, sah? Steal my two thousand, and Flecker's? Your purse that you've already won—yours—yours, right this minute? Rob the public in a fake race, sah? You've won the purse, it is yours, sah. He forfeited it when he brought out that other mare. Think what you are doing, sah!”
“Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh, too”—winced the old man. “But I forgot—you don't kno'—yes”—and he smiled triumphantly. “Yes, Col'nel, I'll let him do all that if—if God'll let it be. But God won't let it be!”
Colonel Troup arose disgusted—hot. “What do you mean, old man. Are you crazy, sah? Give me back my word—”
“Wait—no—no,” said the Bishop. “Col'nel, you're a man of yo' word—wait!”
And he arose and was gone.
The Colonel swore soundly. He walked around and damned everything in sight. He fumbled his pistol in his pocket, and wondered how he could break his word and yet keep it.
There was no way, and he went off to take a drink.
Bud, the tears running down his cheeks—was rubbing Ben Butler down, and saying: “Great hoss—great hoss!”
Of all, he and the Bishop had not given up.
“I'm afeard we'll have to give it up, Bishop,” said Jack.
“Me, me give it up, Jack? Me an' Ben Butler quit like yeller dogs? Why, we're jes' beginnin' to fight—with God's help.”
Then he thought a moment: “Fetch me some cotton.”
He took it and carefully packed it in the old horse's ears.
“It was a small trick, that yellin' and frightening the ole hoss,” said Jack.
“Ben Butler,” said the old man, as he stepped back and looked at the horse, “Ben Butler, I've got you now where God's got me—you can't see an' you can't hear. You've got to go by faith, by the lines of faith. But I'll be guidin' 'em, ole hoss, as God guides me—by faith.”
The audience sat numbed and nerveless when they scored for the last heat. The old pacer's gallant fight had won them all—and now—now after winning two heats, with only one more to win—now to lose at last. For he could not win—not over a mare as fresh and full of speed as that mare now seemed to be. And she, too, had but one heat to win.
But Col. Troup had been thinking and he stopped the old man as he drove out on the track.
“Been thinkin', parson, 'bout that promise, an' I'll strike a bargain with you, sah. You say God ain't goin' to let him win this heat an' race an' so forth, sah.”
The Bishop smiled: “I ain't give up, Col'nel—not yet.”
“Well, sah, if God does let Travis win, I take it from yo' reasoning, sah, that he's a sorry sort of a God to stand in with a fraud an' I'll have nothin' to do with Him. I'll tell all about it.”
“If that's the way you think—yes,” said the old man, solemnly—“yes—tell it—but God will never stan' in with fraud.”
“We'll see,” said the Colonel. “I'll keep my word if—if—you win!”
Off they went as before, the old pacer hugging the mare's sulky wheels like a demon. Even Travis had time to notice that the old man had done something to steady the pacer, for how like a steadied ship did he fly along!
Driving, driving, driving—they flew—they fought it out. Not a muscle moved in the old man's body. Like a marble statue he sat and drove. Only his lips kept moving as if talking to his horse, so close that Travis heard him: “It's God's way, Ben Butler, God's way—faith,—the lines of faith—'He leadeth me—He leadeth me'!”
Up—up—came the pacer fearless with frictionless gait, pacing like a wild mustang-king of the desert, gleaming in sweat, white covered with dust, rolling like a cloud of fire. The old man sang soft and low:
“He leadeth me, O blessed thought,
O word with heavenly comfort fraught,
Whate'er I do, whate'er I be,
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.”
Inch by inch he came up. And now the home stretch, and the old pacer well up, collaring the flying mare and pacing her neck to neck.
Travis smiled hard and cruel as he drew out his whip and circling it around his head, uttered again, amid fierce crackling, his Indian yell: “Hi—hi—there—ho—ha—ho—hi—hi—e—e!”
But the old pacer swerved not a line, and Travis, white and frightened now with a terrible, bitter fear that tightened around his heart and flashed in his eyes like the first swift crackle of lightning before the blow of thunder, brought his whip down on his own mare, welting her from withers to rump in a last desperate chance.
Gamely she responded and forged ahead—the old pacer was beaten!
They thundered along, Travis whipping his mare at every stride. She stood it like the standard-bred she was, and never winced, then she forged ahead farther, and farther, and held the old pacer anchored at her wheels, and the wire not fifty feet away!
There was nothing left for the old man to do—with tears streaming down his cheeks he shouted—“Ben Butler, Ben Butler—it's God's way—the chastening rod—” and his whip fell like a blade of fire on the old horse's flank.
It stung him to madness. The Bishop striking him, the old man he loved, and who never struck! He shook his great ugly head like a maddened bull and sprang savagely at the wire, where the silken thing flaunted in his face in a burst of speed that left all behind. Nor could the old man stop him after he shot past it, for his flank fluttered like a cyclone of fire and presently he went down on his knees—gently, gently, then—he rolled over!
His driver jumped to the ground. It was all he knew except he heard Bud weeping as he knelt on the ground where the old horse lay, and saying: “Great hoss—great hoss!”
Then he remembered saying: “Now, Bud, don't cry—if he does die, won't it be glorious, to die in harness, giving his life for others—Cap'n Tom—Shiloh? Think of it, Bud, to die at the wire, his race won, his work finished, the crown his! O Bud, who would not love to go like Ben Butler?”
But he could not talk any more, for he saw Jack Bracken spring forward, and then the gleam of a whiskey flask gleamed above Ben Butler's fluttering nostrils and Jack's terrible gruff voice said: “Wait till he's dead fust. Stand back, give him air,” and his great hat fluttered like a windmill as he fanned the gasping nostrils of the struggling horse.
The old man turned with an hysterical sob in his throat that was half a shout of joy.
Travis stood by him watching the struggles of the old horse for breath.
“Well, I've killed him,” he said, laconically.
There was a grip like a vise on his shoulders. He turned and looked into the eyes of the old man and saw a tragic light there he had never seen before.
“Don't—for God's sake don't, Richard Travis, don't tempt me here, wait till I pray, till this devil goes out of my heart.”
And then in his terrible, steel-gripping way, he pulled Richard Travis, with a sudden jerk up against his own pulsing heart, as if the owner of The Gaffs had been a child, burying his great hardened fingers in the man's arm and fairly hissing in a whisper these words: “If he dies—Richard Travis—remember he died for you ... it tuck both yo' mares to kill him—no—no—don't start—don't turn pale ... you are safe ... I made Col'nel Troup give me his word ... he'd not expose you ... if Ben Butler won an' he saved his money. I knew what it 'ud mean ... that last heat ... that it 'ud kill him ... but I drove it to save you ... to keep Troup from exposin' yo' ... I've got his word. An' then I was sure ... as I live, I knew that God will touch you yet ... an' his touch will be as quickening fire to the dead honor that is in you ... Go! Richard Travis.... Go ... don't tempt me agin....”
He remembered later feeling very queer because he held so much gold in a bag, and it was his. Then he became painfully acute to the funny thing that happened, so funny that he had to sit down and laugh. It was on seeing Ben Butler rising slowly to his feet and shaking himself with that long powerful shake he had seen so often after wallowing. And the funniest thing!—two balls of cotton flew out of his ears, one hitting Flecker of Tennessee on the nose, the other Colonel Troup in the eye.
“By Gad, sah,” drawled Colonel Troup, “but now, I see. I thought he cudn't ah been made of flesh an' blood, sah, why damme he's made of cotton! An' you saved my money, old man, an' that damned rascal's name by that trick? Well, you kno' what I said, sah, a gentleman an' his word—but—but—” he turned quickly on the old man—excitedly, “ah, here—I'll give you the thousand dollars I hedged now ... if you'll give me back my promise—damned if I don't! Won't do it? No? Well, it's yo' privilege. I admire yo' charity, it's not of this world.”
And then he remembered seeing Bud sitting in the old cart driving Ben Butler home and telling everybody what they now knew: “Great hoss—G-r-e-a-t hoss!”
And the old horse shuffled and crow-hopped along, and Jack followed the Bishop carrying the gold.
And then such a funny thing: Ben Butler, frightened at a mule braying in his ear, ran away and threw Bud out!
When the old man heard it he sat down and laughed and cried—to his own disgust—“like a fool, sissy man,” he said, “a sissy man that ain't got no nerve. But, Lord, who'd done that but Ben Butler?”