So this was the noted man-killer, nicknamed because of his size and his astonishing ability to carry weight—The Big Train! His fame had been borne by leaded column beyond the racing, and to the more general public; for on several occasions he had succeeded in furnishing the yellow newspapers with gory copy.
He had begun his career as a man-killer in his three-year-old form. An unscrupulous owner had directed the jockey to carry an electric battery during an important race. Under the current The Big Train had run like a wild thing, and despite a staggering load placed on him by the handicapper, had won by many lengths.
After the race the stallion had reached back, and getting the jockey's leg between his teeth, had torn him from the saddle. Then before a screaming, horror-stricken grand-stand he had stamped the boy into a red waste.
This was his first and last public atrocity. He had killed men since, but always when they were alone with him. No one had seen him at his murders. He would have been destroyed when his racing days were over, but he possessed the ability to transmit a large measure of his stamina and speed to his offspring, and was greatly in demand as a sire.
I stood before The Big Train's stall, fascinated by his wicked attempts to get at me until Blister's attention was attracted by the thud of the stallion's hoofs against the lower door.
"Come on back here 'n' set down 'n' let that hoss get his rest,' he ordered. I obeyed.
"Why on earth did you take him?" I asked, when once more seated on the bale of straw.
"Well, ole Prindle says he'd give fifty bucks a week to the guy who'll handle him 'n' I needs the money … fur certain reasons."
"Fur certain reasons" was added diffidently, I thought. This was an altogether new quality in Blister. And I remembered the pretty, spoiled-looking, young girl I had seen with him quite often of late. She was rosy, pouty, slim, enticing and thoroughly aware of how desirable she appeared. Blister had told me she was his landlady's daughter, and I knew she lived but a block from the race track. I thought of the head I had seen, and felt certain that fifty thousand a week would not tempt me into an intimate relationship with its owner.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am you've taken him—it's a fearful risk," I said.