Loaded Dice Part 4

And then, walking up from the paddock in the dignified, time-honored procession before the race, the nine horses filed slowly by the grandstand on their way towards the start. The Cynic, a bright bay, third in the line, his jockey gorgeous in the blue and gold of the Highcliff stables, walked somewhat soberly along, but the glance from his big, kind eyes seemed to say, "I don't show off beforehand like some of these youngsters, but when the flag drops, then watch out."

Even more sedate was old Yarboro', the veteran of a hundred races, to all appearance as fit as ever, but looking as if he considered he had fairly earned the right to an honorable discharge from active racing and a peaceful retirement to the big green pastures of some quiet farm. Farther back in the line Lady May, sporting the red and white of Palmer's stable, was doing her utmost to pull her jockey's arms off, and her dainty hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the track as she pranced and curvetted by the grandstand.

Gordon gazed at the mare in admiration. "She looks awfully fit," he muttered. "Good enough to take a lot of beating."

The girl, not hearing, laid her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, d.i.c.k," she cried softly, "look at Highlander. Isn't he the darling!"

The black colt, bringing up the rear of the procession, was undeniably a beauty. His glossy coat shone like satin in the soft sunshine, and he looked to be in the very top-notch of condition, lean and hard and wiry, and yet not overfine, but as if he had plenty of speed and strength in reserve. On his back was Bowman, the colored boy, known the country over as the "Kentucky Midget," McMurtrie's first string jockey, resplendent in the gorgeous crimson jacket that made the Major's entry by far the easiest to distinguish of the field.

Back to the barrier, a quarter of a mile away, walked the horses; then came that trying, nerve-racking five minutes of jockeying for position, cautioning of riders by the judges, fretting of the high strung horses, and then, just as it seemed as if the strain were growing unendurable, all at once the barrier leaped upward, the red flag flashed, and the great crowd gave vent to its pent-up feelings in one mighty roar as the nine thoroughbreds leaped forward through the faint haze of dust to a well-nigh perfect start.

Then fell silence, far more eloquent than any mere din of voices could have been, as thirty thousand pairs of eyes were strained to watch the flying racers as they tore down the track. Past the stand they came, Firefly, a rank outsider, running wild a length or two in the lead, then The Cynic, Rebellious and Lady May, bunched close, then Yarboro', a length and a half back, with Highlander at his girth, and the others already tailing, for Firefly had carried the field along at a tremendous clip, the watches catching twenty-four and three-fourths as she flew past the quarter.

Too fast, indeed, for the light-weighted filly, and at the half she had fallen back, leaving The Cynic and Rebellious in the lead, Lady May dropping back a half length and Yarboro' and Highlander moving up almost on even terms with the mare. Forty-nine seconds for the half, and still the five ran true and strong, with no change in the long, steady, machinelike strides. Past the five furlongs, past the three-quarters, and then, as if riding to orders, the jockey on Rebellious for the first time raised his arm and brought it down once, twice and again. Nor had he to wait for his answer; with a mighty bound the game colt shot forward, and in a trice a clear length of daylight showed between him and The Cynic.

A cry burst from the crowd. "Rebellious wins! They'll never head him!

The favorite's beat!" The big, red-faced man snarled like a wild beast. "The fools," he muttered savagely. "A half mile more to go.

They've spoiled his chance now."

Gordon nodded in mute a.s.sent, but for the next furlong it looked as though the crowd was right. Away and away drew the colt, crazed with the joy of feeling the choking pull released from his tender mouth; two lengths, three, four, and then--still he strove, still he seemed to run as fast and free as ever--but the four lengths remained four, and rounding the turn, just before coming into the straight, the colt, suddenly tiring, was thrown for a moment from his stride, and when he swung into the stretch, The Cynic's head was at his shoulder and it was a fresh horse against a beaten one.

And then, as the field squared away for home, old Yarboro' made his challenge for the lead. Out from the ruck he came, past Rebellious, past The Cynic, the long gray head just for a moment showing clear in the lead, and then, with a rush, fresh and strong, The Cynic again shot by, and the old hero of a hundred races, game to the core, disputing desperately every inch of the way, fell slowly back, beaten by a younger but not by a better horse, the old, remorseless, inevitable story of youth and age.

Long afterwards some hors.e.m.e.n dubbed the Ess.e.x of the year "The race of surprises," and surely it merited the t.i.tle. For now the chestnut colt showed clear in the lead, only a furlong from home, and the sight had brought the mult.i.tude to its feet, wild with delight, already shouting itself hoa.r.s.e in antic.i.p.ation of the favorite's win. And now the mighty roar for just an instant died away, only to burst forth again in redoubled volume as a gleam of crimson and black flashed like lightning, and McMurtrie's colt, the pride of all Kentucky, shot forward like a thunderbolt and challenged the leader in his turn. And this time it was not old Yarboro' who was to be shaken off. This time it was youth against youth, strength and speed and spirit the same, the same brave blood of racing sires surging and pulsing in their veins, the same fleet limbs and mighty hearts opposed, and now it was the black, and now the chestnut, that seemed to gain.

Gordon sat motionless, his face showing no sign of emotion, but his race-card was torn in his hands, and his nails were gripped deep into the flesh. The girl, her lips parted, her breath coming in little gasps, oblivious of everything else, sat with eyes riveted on the flying Highlander, Bowman's crimson jacket gleaming, as the little jockey, riding far forward, brought into play the last ounce of skill and cunning for which he was famous as, nearing the wire at every stride, he lifted his willing mount along. Only a hundred and fifty yards to go, but half a lifetime seemed crowded into those few brief moments. Now, both jockeys crouched low over their horses' withers, at last gone to the whip and riding like demons, the two thoroughbreds came tearing down the stretch, locked stride for stride, Highlander not only holding his own, but gaining inch by inch, the crimson showing clear ahead of the blue and gold, and the win only a hundred yards away; and then--suddenly, hugging the outside rail, a flash of red and white caught the crowd, and Palmer's mare, nostrils distended, eyeb.a.l.l.s bloodshot, glaring, with a mad burst of speed, bore down on the struggling leaders, caught them twenty yards from the finish, and flashed under the wire a scant head to the good, queen of the turf, and winner of the fastest Ess.e.x ever run.

CHAPTER V

THE TRAP IS BAITED

The dilapidated little engine, with its train of two battered cars, puffed despondently away around the curve, and disappeared in the forest, leaving Rose and Gordon standing alone, the sole occupants of the small station platform.

Everything about the place spoke of desolation. With each gust of wind the weather-beaten door swung to and fro on its rusty hinges; the two cracked windows stood open; beneath their feet the rotting timbers sagged creaking; around them, on every side, the tall black pines towered upward against the sky, save where the narrow ribbon of the little single track stretched away a stone's throw to right and left before losing itself among the winding curves of the forest wilderness.

The girl, glancing about her with much disfavor, gave a shiver of repulsion. "You must be fond of shooting," she said, "if you can stand coming here for it. It's worse even than your description."

Gordon smiled. He remembered vividly his own first impressions of the place, and his wonderment that such a spot could exist only fifty miles from civilization.

"Oh, well," he answered defensively, "it isn't exactly Fulton Street, of course. This is the worst of it, though. Wait till you've seen the island, and you'll change your mind."

For twenty minutes they followed what was by courtesy known as the road, and then, turning abruptly down a narrow wooded path, plunged ahead straight into the heart of the huge pines. To the girl, after the ceaseless roar and tumult of the city, the silence was almost appalling. No sound echoed from their footsteps as they trod the carpet of fragrant pine needles and velvet moss. About them all was dark, and solemn with the hush of the great forest's majestic repose.

Far overhead the sun appeared to shine less brightly and the blue of the sky seemed infinitely far away. Ahead and to the right a bluejay screamed. A squirrel poised a moment on the top of a stump before darting away in headlong flight. The girl, subdued and silent, kept close to Gordon's side. "I wish I hadn't come," she sighed, half in jest, half in earnest. Gordon, less imaginative, thoroughly familiar with his surroundings, smiled at her mood. "Just you wait," he kept repeating encouragingly; "you'll see."

At last the trees grew less thickly together. Bushes, higher than one's head, began to appear, and tangled vines stretched themselves underfoot Occasional gleams of sunlight lay quivering across their path. Faintly, as if from far away, a swamp-sparrow's song rang sweet and clear. Chickadees bustled and scolded in the branches. And then, on the instant, Gordon and his companion turned straight to the left, and the lake burst on their sight.

The girl uttered a sharp cry of delight, and Gordon, smiling, stood and watched her in silence. Far away, seemingly to the utmost limit of the eye, the blue waves danced and sparkled before the westerly breeze. Far away to the north, the distant sh.o.r.e eluded the vision with the unreality of a mirage. To east and west, the low black line of the pines stretched on and on till they too melted away against the dark blue of the water and the fainter blue of the sky. Half a mile or so from the sh.o.r.e, a little island, pine-covered, also, like its parent sh.o.r.e, lay sleeping in the afternoon sunshine, and the girl's glance, slowly withdrawn from the sweep of the distant horizon, fell suddenly upon it.

"Oh, that's it," she cried. "It's beautiful, d.i.c.k."

Gordon smiled a brief self-satisfied smile, not altogether pleasant to witness. "Yes, isn't it," he answered; "and I think useful as well.

You really couldn't find a better place for duck shooting--or for other things."

Instantly the girl's expression changed, and her face clouded. "Ah, don't, d.i.c.k," she said. "Let's not spoil our day while we're here.

There'll be time enough later to talk of that."

Gordon's expression hardened a trifle. "As you please," he rejoined coolly; "only don't forget that we're here primarily on business, and not for pleasure. If you don't care to discuss things as we go along, I shall take it for granted that you'll at least keep your eyes open."

The girl nodded as if relieved. "Of course," she rejoined, "I'll do that anyway. But out here, on a day like this, to be deliberately planning--well, I can't put it in words exactly, but you know perfectly well what I mean. It's too--cold-blooded--that's the word I want. I've got to get back to Bradfield's before I'll be any good at scheming."

Gordon made no reply, but busied himself with launching the boat. Five minutes later, lying back at ease in the stern of the little rowing skiff, the girl watched the island grow steadily larger and larger as the boat shot forward under Gordon's long, steady strokes. As they approached more nearly, she could see that the whole southern side was guarded by gray cliffs rising sheer from the water's edge, but as they rounded the eastern point they shot into a quiet little cove, narrowing as it ran inland, and ending in a short stretch of smooth gray sand. Here they beached the boat, and walked slowly up the pebbled pathway to the house. Gordon fitted the key to the lock, threw open the door, and stepped back to allow his companion to enter. The girl moved quickly forward, and then paused on the threshold with a soft cry of pleased surprise.

Built square and low, with its back against a huge gray boulder so that winter northeasters might thunder overhead in vain, the shooting-box was little more than the one huge living-room and dining-room combined. To the right were two bedrooms and to the left the tiny kitchen and pantry, but it was on the living-room that Gordon had lavished all his care. Everything was in keeping: the big center-table of dark oak, the enormous fireplace with its store of logs, the heavy rugs on the floor, the guns and sh.e.l.ls in their racks, the shooting and fishing prints upon the walls, all combined to make up a room ideal to the sportsman and charming even to the girl's more critical eye.

Crossing swiftly to the cushioned window-seat she tossed hat and coat aside, and with a deep sigh of contentment threw herself back among the cushions. A pretty enough picture she made, and Gordon, gazing at her a moment, crossed the room, and seating himself by her side, drew her to him and covered her face with kisses. Yielding herself to him, the girl suddenly lifted her face to his and clasped her arms around his neck. "Let's not go back," she whispered; "let's stay here for good and all."

Gordon smiled, humoring her mood. "All right," he answered, "I'm agreeable. I suppose my customers might miss me a little, though. And you," he added, a trifle maliciously, "I know they'd miss you at Bradfield's."

The girl's face flushed, and she drew herself from his embrace. "I hate it, d.i.c.k," she cried pa.s.sionately, "I loathe it more and more every day. n.o.body can be happy leading a life she was never meant to lead. You know that yourself. And every word I've told you about Bradfield's is G.o.d's own truth. What was I when they started me going there? Fifteen years old. Nothing but a baby, d.i.c.k. I swear I never knew what it all meant. And now I've met you. Oh, d.i.c.k, if only you'd marry me, and let us have a little home somewhere, I'd be so happy.

I'd make you the best wife in the world. I'd see to it--" She broke off quickly, with a laugh mirthless, almost of self-contempt; then added, in a very different tone, "but there's no use in saying all this. No man that ever lived can know for a minute what real love--or what a real home--means to a woman. We might as well forget it, I suppose, and go on as we are."

Gordon's face had seemed imperceptibly to harden as she spoke, but his tone, as he answered her, was kindness itself, as one might try to soothe a too insistent child. "I do know," he said, "and I think you're right about it; entirely so. And you know how much I love you, Rose. Just let us get this one thing out of the way, and I give you my sacred word of honor I'll get out of this sort of thing for good, and we'll buy the finest little home in the state, and settle down to farming, or anything else you want. Or we'll go around the world in a steam yacht, if we hit things right. Just which you'd rather. But we can't quit the thing now. It looks too good. After we pull it off, I promise you anything in the world in return, and I shall be very proud of my wife."

He rose quickly, and then, as if to forestall a reply, added with an entire change of manner. "Well, we mustn't get too serious over things, Rose. You were the one that didn't want our day spoiled. So we might as well get down to the point while daylight lasts."

Reluctantly enough the girl rose, with a vaguely dissatisfied feeling of having once more been put off from a definite decision on the unwelcome plan. Gordon's mood, on the contrary, was cheerfulness itself. Taking down his favorite little sixteen-bore from the rack, he snapped it open, ran his eye lovingly through the glistening barrels, tested the safety-catch, and caught up a box of sh.e.l.ls from the table.

"Come on," he cried, with boyish enthusiasm, "ducks for supper, unless I've forgotten how to shoot."

Leisurely enough, in all the glory of the crisp autumn air just tempered by the pleasant warmth of the mellow, waning sunlight, they made their way down towards the point. Gordon, in a mood entirely different from any the girl had ever seen him display, eager as a boy set free from school, kept constantly calling her attention to one thing and another as they strolled along. Here he pointed out the hollow in the rocks where he had lain all through the great northeast gale of two years before, when the frightened wildfowl, storm driven, low sweeping to the southward, had pa.s.sed over his head all day long in countless flocks; there he showed her the little cove where he had stalked the Canada geese, and, nearing the point, he made her shudder as he pointed to the treacherous quicksand beyond the clump of pines where, in reckless pursuit of a wounded duck, he had come within an ace of losing his life.

Twenty minutes later found them in readiness, safely hidden in the gunning box sunk level with the ground on the pebbly point of land which stretched far out to the westward of the island. Before them, the little flock of wooden decoys, moored in the lee of the point, nodded and dipped gaily to the rising breeze. The girl's eyes were bright with excitement. "Will the ducks really come, d.i.c.k?" she whispered.

For answer Gordon pulled out his watch for the twentieth time; then nodded rea.s.suringly. "Of course they will," he answered. "In fact, it's pretty near--there, look! There they come now!"

The girl peered through the screen of bushes that fringed the box.

Sure enough, off to the southward, a flock of ducks was flying swiftly towards them. A moment more, and they swerved farther to the west. She heard Gordon swear softly under his breath, and strangled a hysterical desire to laugh. Then all at once the birds caught sight of the decoys. Just for an instant they seemed to hang motionless against the sky; then, with set wings, came on straight for the blind. The girl felt her heart leap with excitement; for, all in the same breath, she saw the flock wheel quickly, and Gordon rise to his knees. The little sixteen-bore cracked spitefully once--twice--and two of the flock, doubled up in mid-air as if struck by lightning, fell stone dead among the decoys, the others, towering high into the air, made off far to the westward and safety.

Gordon, obeying the wild-fowler's first instinct, swiftly slipped in fresh sh.e.l.ls, then turned to his companion, his eyes bright with the triumph of the hunter, his whole bearing alert, eager, confident.

"Well," he queried briefly, "what do you think?--Look out, there they come again!"

A second flock, larger than the first, was bearing down upon them.

Just in time to escape detection, Gordon sank into the box. Again the birds swung, again Gordon rose, and again two ducks fell dead to the quick right and left of the little sixteen-gage.

Twenty minutes pa.s.sed. Fainter and fainter grew the light, until the sun sank low behind the pines, and the laughing blue and white waves turned sullen and gray. Together they left the blind, and, walking along the beach, Gordon began to gather up his spoils. Poor little wild ducks, there they lay, rising and falling as the tiny waves splashed gently against the sh.o.r.e, as if vainly seeking to rouse them once more to flight. No, they would never fly again; quietly enough they lay there, their bright, glossy feathers stained with a faint crimson, their wild, bright eyes closed in death.