4. THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK

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      By simply turning about the crowd was in position to watch the race. Of course it packed dense around the finish on both sides of the lane but Corson had chosen his position well, the white posts were not more than a dozen yards above them and they would be able to see the rush of horses across the line. It was pleasant to Marianne to turn her back on the scene of the horse-breaking and face her own world which she knew and loved.

      The ponies were coming out to be paraded for admiration and to loosen their muscles with a few stretching gallops. Each was ridden by his owner, each bore a range saddle. To one accustomed to jockeys and racing-pads, these full- grown riders and cumbrous trappings made the cowponies seem small but they were finely formed, the pick of the range. The days of mongrel breeds are long since over in the West. Smaller heads, longer necks, more sloping shoulders, told of good blood crossed on the range stock. Still, the base-stock showed clearly when the Coles mares came onto the track with mincing steps, turning their proud heads from side to side and every one coming hard on the bit. Coles had taken no chances, and though he had been forced by the rules of the race to put up the regulation range saddles he had found the lightest riders possible. Their small figures brought out the legginess of the mares; beside the compact range horses their gait was sprawling, but the wise eye of Marianne saw the springing fetlocks kiss the dust and the long, telltale muscles. She cried out softly in admiration and pleasure.

      “You see the Coles mares?” she said. “There go the winners, Mr. Corson. The ponies won’t be in it after two furlongs.”

      Corson regarded her with a touch of irritation: “Now, don’t you be too sure, lady,” he growled. “Lots of legs, I grant you. Too much for me. Are they pure bred?”

      “No,” she answered, “there’s enough cold blood to bring the price down. But Coles is a wise business man. After they’ve won this race in a bunch they’ll look, every one, like daughters of Salvator. See that! Oh, the beauties!”

      One of the range horses was loosed for a fifty yard sprint and as he shot by, the mares swayed out in pursuit. There was a marked difference between the gaits. The range horse pounded heavily, his head bobbing; the mares stepped out with long, rocking gallop. They seemed to be going with half the effort and less than half the speed, and yet, strangely, they very nearly kept up with the sprinter until their riders took them back to the eager, prancing walk. Marianne’s eyes sparkled but the little exhibition told a different story to old Corson. He snorted with pleasure.

      “Maybe you seen that, Miss Jordan? You seen Jud Hopkin’s roan go by them fancy Coles mares? Well, well, it done my heart good! This gent Coles comes out of the East to teach us poor ignorant ranchers what right hoss flesh should be. He’s going to auction off them half dozen mares after the race. Well, sir, I wouldn’t give fifty dollars a head for ‘em. Nor neither will nobody else when they see them mares fade away in the home stretch; nope, neither will nobody else.”

      In this reference to over-wise Easterners there was a direct thrust at the girl, but she accepted it with a smile.

      “Don’t you think they’ll last for the mile and a quarter, Mr. Corson?”

      “Think? I don’t think. I know! Picture hosses like them—well, they’d ought to be left in books. They run a little. Inside a half mile they bust down. Look how long they are!”

      “But their backs are short,” put in Marianne hastily.

      “Backs short?” scoffed Corson, “Why, lady look for yourself!”

      She choked back her answer. If the self-satisfied old fellow could not see how far back the withers reached and how far forward the quarters, so that the true back was very short, it was the part of wisdom to let experience teach him. Yet she could not refrain from saying: “You’ll see how they last in the race, Mr. Corson.”

      “We’ll both see,” he answered. “There goes a gent that’s going to lose money today!”

      A big red-faced man with his hat on the back of his head and sweat coursing down his cheeks, was pushing through the crowd calling with a great voice:

      “Here’s Lady Mary money. Evens or odds on Lady Mary!” “That’s Colonel Dickinson,” said Corson. “He comes around every year to play the races here and most generally he picks winners. But today he’s gone wrong. His eye has been took by the legs of them Coles hosses and he’s gone crazy betting on ‘em. Well, he gets plenty of takers!”

      Indeed, Colonel Dickinson was stopped right and left to record wagers.

      “I got down a little bet myself, this morning, agin his Lady Mary.” Corson chuckled at the thought of such easy money.

      “What makes you so sure?” asked Marianne, for even if she were lucky enough to get the mares she felt that from Corson she could learn beforehand the criticisms of Lew Hervey.

      “So sure? Why anybody with half an eye—” here he remembered that he was talking to a lady and continued more mildly. “Them bay mares ain’t hosses—they’re tricks. Look how skinny all that underpinning is, Miss Jordan.”

      “When they fill out—” she began.

      “Tush! They won’t never fill out proper. Too much leg to make a hoss. Too much daylight under ‘em. Besides, what good would they be for cow-work? High headed fools, all of ‘em, and a hoss that don’t know enough to run with his head low can’t turn on a forty acre lot. Don’t tell me!”

      He forbade contradiction by raising an imperious hand. Marianne was so exasperated that she looked to Mrs. Corson in the pinch, but that old lady was smiling dimly behind her glasses; she seemed to be studying the smoky gorges of the Eagles, so Marianne wisely deferred her answer and listened to that unique voice which rises from a crowd of men and women when horses are about to race. There is no fellow to the sound. The voice of the last-chance better is the deep and mournful burden; the steady rattle of comment is the body of it; and the edge of the noise is the calling of those who are confident with “inside dope.” Marianne, listening, thought that the sound in Glosterville was very much like the sound in Belmont. The difference was in the volume alone. The hosses were now lining up for the start, it was with a touch of malice that Marianne said: “I suppose that’s one of your range types? That faded old chestnut just walking up to get in line?”

      Corson started to answer and then rubbed his eyes to look again.

      It was Alcatraz plodding towards the line of starters, his languid hoofs rousing a wisp of dust at every step. He went with head depressed, his sullen; hopeless ears laid back. On his back sat Manuel Cordova, resplendent in sky- blue, tight-fitting jacket. Yet he rode the spiritless chestnut with both hands, his body canted forward a little, his whole attitude one of desperate alertness. There was something so ludicrous in the contrast between the hair- trigger nervousness of the Mexican and the drowsy unconcern of the stallion that a murmur of laughter rose from the crowd about the starting line and drifted across the field.

      “I suppose you’ll say that long hair is good to keep him warm in winter,” went on the girl sarcastically. “As far as legs are concerned, he seems to have about as much as the longest of the mares.”

      Corson shook his head in depreciation.

      “You never can tell what a fool Mexican will do. Most like he’s riding in this race to show off his jacket, not because he has any hope of winning. That hoss ain’t any type of range—”

      “Perhaps you think it’s a thoroughbred?” asked Marianne.

      Corson sighed, feeling that he was cornered.

      “Raised on the range, all right,” he admitted. “But you’ll find