The Rangeland Avenger, Above the Law & Alcatraz (3 Wild West Adventures in One Edition). Max Brand
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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 God’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 class 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.
Will you trade her for the brindled cow and the yellow steer?”
Marianne frowned.
The shout of the crowd called her away from herself. Far from broken by the last ride, the outlaw horse now seemed all the stronger for the exercise. Discarding fanciful tricks, he at once set about sun-fishing, that most terrible of all forms of bucking.
The name in itself is a description. Literally Rickety hurled himself at the sun and landed alternately on one stiffened foreleg and then the other. At each shock the chin of Arizona Charley was flung down against his chest and at the same time his head snapped sideways with the uneven lurch of the horse. An ordinary pony would have broken his leg at the first or second of these jumps; but Rickety was untiring. He jarred to the earth; he vaulted up again as from springs—over and over the same thing.
It would eventually have become tiresome to watch had not both horse and rider soon showed effects of the work. Every leap of Rickety’s was shorter. Sweat shone on his thick body. He was killing Arizona but he was also breaking his own heart. Arizona weakened fast under that continual battering at the base of his brain. His eyes rolled. He no longer pretended to ride straight up, but clung to pommel and cantle. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth. Marianne turned away only to find that mild old Corson was crying: “Watch his head! When it begins to roll then you know that he’s stunned and the next jump or so will knock him out of the saddle as limp as a half filled sack.”
“It’s too horrible!” breathed the girl. “I can’t watch!”
“Why not? You liked it when a man beat a hoss. Now the tables are turned and the hoss is beating the man. Ah, I thought so. There goes his head! Rolls as if his neck was broken. Now! Now!”
Arizona Charley toppled loose-limbed from the saddle and lay twisted where he fell, but it had taken the last of Rickety’s power. His legs were now braced, his head untriumphantly low, and the sweat dripped steadily from him. He had not enough energy to flee from those who approached to lift Arizona from the ground. Corson was pounding his knee with a fat fist.
“Ever see a fight like that in your life? Nope, you never did! Me neither! But Lord, Lord, won’t Red Jim Perris take a mule-load of coin out of Glosterville! They been giving five to one agin him. I was touched a bit myself.”
For the moment, Marianne was more keenly interested in the welfare of Arizona Charley. Perris, with others following, reached him first and strong hands carried the unconscious champion towards that corner of the field where the Corson buckboard stood; for there were the water-buckets. They were close to the goal when Arizona recovered sufficiently to kick himself loose feebly from his supporters.
“What the hell’s all this?” Marianne heard him say in a voice which he tried to make an angered roar but which was only a shrill quaver from his weakness. “Maybe I’m a lady? Maybe I’ve fainted or something? Not by a damned sight! Maybe I been licked by that boiled-down bit of hell, Rickety, but I ain’t licked so bad I can’t walk home. Hey, Perris, shake on it! You trimmed me, all right, and you collect off’n me and a pile more besides me. Here’s my boodle.”
At the mention of the betting a little circle cleared around Perris and from every side hands full of greenbacks were thrust forward. The latter pushed back his sombrero and scratched his head, apparently deep in thought.
“It’s a speech, boys,” cried Arizona Charley, supporting himself on the shoulder of a friend. “Give Red air; give him room; he’s going to make a speech! And then we’ll pay him for what he’s got to say.”
There was much laughter, much slapping of backs.
“That’s Arizona,” remarked Corson. “Ain’t he a game loser?”
“He’s a fine fellow,” said the girl, with emotion. “My heart goes out to him!”
“Does it, now?” wondered Corson. “Well, I’d of figured more on Perris being the man for the ladies to look at. He’s sure set up pretty! Now he makes his little talk.”
“Ladies and gents,” said Red Perris, turning the color of his sobriquet. “I ain’t any electioneer when it comes to speech making.”
“That’s all right, boy,” shouted encouraging partisans. “You’ll get my vote if you don’t say a word.”
“But I’ll make it short,” said Perris. “It’s about these bets. They’re all off. It just come to my mind that two winters back me and this same Rickety had a run in up Montana-way and he come out second-best. Well, he must of remembered me the way I just now remembered him. That’s why he plumb quit when I let out a whoop. If he’d turned loose all his tricks like he done with Arizona, why most like Charley would never of had to take his turn. I’d be where he is now and he’d be doing the laughing. Anyway, boys, the bets are off. I don’t take money on a sure thing.”
It brought a shout of protest which was immediately drowned in a hearty yell of applause.
“Now, don’t that warm your heart, for you?” said Corson as the noise fell away a little. “I tell you what—” he broke off with a chuckle, seeing that she had taken a pencil and a piece of paper from her purse and was scribbling hastily: “Taking notes on the Wild West, Miss Jordan?”
“Mental notes,” she said quietly, but smiling at him as she folded the slip. She turned to the stripling, who all this time had hardly taken his eyes from her even to watch the bucking and to hear the speech of Perris.
“Will you take this to Jim Perris for me?”
A gulp, a grin, a nod, he was down from the wagon in a flash and using his leanness to wriggle snakelike through the crowd.
“Well!” chuckled Corson, not unkindly, “I thought it would be more Perris than