The Rangeland Avenger, Above the Law & Alcatraz (3 Wild West Adventures in One Edition). Max Brand
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spoil it; into their sweating noonday she carried a morning- freshness, so they propped her in the angle of the driver’s seat beside the mother and made her at home. Their name was Corson; their family had been in the West “pretty nigh onto always”; they had a place down the Taliaferro River; and they had heard about the Jordan ranch. All of this was huddled into the first two minutes. They brushed through the necessaries and got at the excitement of the moment.
“I guess they ain’t any doubt,” said Corson. “Arizona Charley wins. He won two years back, too. Minds me of Pete Langley, the way he rests in a saddle. Now where’s this Perris gent? D’you see him? My, ain’t they shouting for Arizona! Well, he’s pretty bad busted up, but I guess he’s still good enough to hold this Perris they talk about. Where’s Perris?”
The same name was being shouted here and there in the crowd. Corson stood up and peered about him.
“Who is Perris?” asked Marianne.
“A gent that come out of the north, up Montana way, I hear. He’s been betting on himself to win this bucking contest, covering everybody’s money. A crazy man, he sure is!”
The voice drifted dimly to Marianne for she was falling into a pleasant haze, comfortably aware of eyes of admiration lifted to her more and more frequently from the crowd. She envied the blue coolness of the mountains, or breathed gingerly because the sting of alkali-dust was in the air, or noted with impersonal attention the flash of sun on a horse struggling in the far off corrals. The growing excitement of the crowd, as though a crisis were approaching, merely lulled her more. So the voice of Corson was half heard; the words were unconnotative sounds.
“Let the winner pick the worst outlaw in the lot. Then Perris will ride that hoss first. If he gets throwed he loses. If he sticks, then the other gent has just got to sit the same hoss—one that’s already had the edge took off his bucking. Well, ain’t that a fool bet?”
“It sounds fair enough,” said Marianne. “Perris, I suppose, hasn’t ridden yet. And Arizona Charley is tired from his work.”
“Arizona tired? He ain’t warmed up. Besides, he’s got a hoss here that Perris will break his heart trying to ride. You know what hoss they got here today? They got Rickety! Yep, they sure enough got old Rickety!”
He pointed.
“There he comes out!”
Marianne looked lazily in the indicated direction and then sat up, wide awake. She had never seen such cunning savagery as was in the head of this horse, its ears going back and forth as it tested the strength of the restraining ropes. Now and then it crouched and shuddered under the detested burden of the saddle. It was a stout-legged piebald with the tell-tale Roman nose obviously designed for hard and enduring battle. He was a fighting horse as plainly as a terrier is a fighting dog.
Arizona Charley, a tall man off a horse and walking with a limp, moved slowly about the captive, grinning at his companions. It was plain that he did not expect the stranger to survive the test.
A brief, deep-throated shout from the crowd.
“There’s Perris!” cried Corson. “There’s Red Perris, I guess!”
Marianne gasped.
It was the devil-may-care cavalier who had laughed and fought and whistled under the window of her room. He stepped from the thick of the circle near Rickety and responded to the voice of the crowd by waving his hat. It would have been a trifle too grandiloquent had he not been laughing.
“He’s going through with it,” said Corson, shivering and chuckling at the same time. “He’s going to try Rickety. They look like one and the same kind to me—two reckless devils, that hoss and Red Jim Perris!”
“Is there real danger?” asked Marianne.
Corson regarded her with pity.
“Rickety can be rode, they say,” he answered, “but I disremember anybody that’s done it. Look! He’s a man-killer that hoss!”
Perris had stepped a little too close and the piebald thrust out at him with reaching teeth and striking forefoot. The man leaped back, still laughing.
“Cool, all right,” said Corson judicially. “And maybe he ain’t just a blow-hard, after all. There they go!”
It happened very quickly. Perris had shaken hands with Arizona, then turned and leaped into the saddle. The ropes were loosed. Rickety crouched a moment to feel out the reality of his freedom, then burst away with head close to the ground and ragged mane fluttering. There was no leaning back in this rider. He sat arrowy-straight save that his left shoulder worked back in convulsive jerks as he strove to get the head of Rickety up. But the piebald had the bit. Once his chin was tucked back against his breast his bucking chances were gone and he kept his nose as low as possible, like the trained fighter that he was. There were no yells now. They received Rickety as the appreciative receive a great artist—in silence.
The straight line of his flight broke into a crazy tangle of criss-cross pitching. Out of this maze he appeared again in a flash of straight galloping, used the impetus for a dozen jarring bucks, then reared and toppled backward to crush the cowpuncher against the earth.
Marianne covered her eyes, but an invisible power dragged her hand down and made her watch. She was in time to see Perris whisk out of the saddle before Rickety struck the dirt. His hat had been snapped from his head. The sun and the wind were in his flaming hair. Blue eyes and white teeth flashed as he laughed again.
“I like ‘em mean,” he had said, “and I keep ‘em mean. A tame horse is like a tame man, and I don’t give a damn for a fellow who won’t fight!”
Once that had irritated her but now, remembering, it rang in her ear to a different tune. As Rickety spun to his feet, Perris vaulted to the saddle and found both stirrups in mid-leap, so to speak. The gelding instantly tested the firmness of his rider’s seat by vaulting high and landing on one stiffened foreleg. The resultant shock broke two ways, like a curved ball, snapping down and jerking to one side. But he survived the blow, giving gracefully to it.
It was fine riding, very fine; and the crowd hummed with appreciation.
“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 passing 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