The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories Part 3

And so, with any amount of good-natured chaffing from the drivers of the "fast 'uns," and from many that lined the road too,--for the day gave greater liberty than usual to bantering speech,--the speedy ones paced slowly up to the head of the street, with old Jack shambling demurely in the midst of them.

But the horse was a knowing old fellow, and had "scored" at too many races not to know that the "return" was to be leisurely taken, and, indeed, he was a horse of independence, and of too even, perhaps of too sluggish, a temperament, to waste himself in needless action; but he had the right stuff in him, and hadn't forgotten his early training either, for when he came to the "turn," his head and tail came up, his eye brightened, and, with a playful movement of his huge body, and without the least hint from the deacon, he swung himself and the c.u.mbrous old sleigh into line, and began to straighten himself for the coming brush.

Now, Jack was, as we have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed "steadying" at the start, but the good deacon had no experience with the "ribbons," and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving; and so it came about that old Jack was so confused at the start that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off, being all "mixed up," as the saying is,--so much so that the crowd roared at his ungainly efforts, and his flying rivals were twenty rods away before he even got started. But at last he got his huge body in a straight line, and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to his work, and, with head and tail up, went off at so slashing a gait that it fairly took the deacon's breath away, and caused the crowd that had been hooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge of the old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the other.

What a pity, Mr. Longface, that G.o.d made horses as they are, and gave them such grandeur of appearance when in action, and put such an eagle-like spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the plodding motions of the ox, they can fly like that n.o.ble bird, and come sweeping down the course as on wings of the wind!

It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's either, please remember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking old Jack was thus suddenly transformed, by the royalty of blood, of pride, and of speed given him by his Creator, from what he ordinarily was, into a magnificent spectacle of energetic velocity.

With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming straight behind, one ear p.r.i.c.ked forward and the other turned sharply back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet so little was the pace to him that he fairly gambolled in playfulness as he went slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that the honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send his heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent, his action so free, spirited, and playful, as he came sweeping onward, that cheers and exclamations, such as, "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!"

"Look at him! look at him!" "What a stride!" etc., ran ahead of him, and old Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hanger-on at the village tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist, as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past with his open gait, powerful stroke, and stiffles playing well out, brought his hand with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said, "I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer!"

It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or there would surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh was of such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins, and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, was going at so determined a pace, that, had he struck the rear line, with no gap for him to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But, as it was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the c.u.mbrous old sleigh behind him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed, sharp as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to save themselves; and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cl.u.s.ter of leaves.

By this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip,--a frightful pace for an inexperienced man to ride,--and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit, not doubting that old Jack--ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to manage--would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the huge horse took the hint, it was exactly in the opposite manner that the deacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steady pull as an intimation that his inexperienced driver was getting over his flurry and beginning to treat him as a big horse ought to be treated in a race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead.

And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the great horse felt himself steadied and a.s.sisted. And so, the harder the good man tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed, and began to call upon the horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack! whoa, old boy, I say!

Whoa, will you now, that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls, while he pulled away steadily at the reins.

But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressure on the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, and hooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood, the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouraging cries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirling along only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let out another link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and the two were going it nose and nose.

What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage?

Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so much as victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no sooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging him along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into the contest as two unG.o.dly jockeys.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RACE.]

"Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were pelting in showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer will beat us?"

"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon in reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctively lifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted encouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carried away by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"

This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whose blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort; and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he gathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erect in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.

Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--we may say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely be expected as partic.i.p.ants of such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd.

So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy New Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon on his driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that had come over Parson Whitney.

And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go home and eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some reminiscences of his college days, and the sc.r.a.pes he got into, and a riot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and the deacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain Deacon Jones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales and their mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so l.u.s.tily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror.

But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and the laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by, and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself, and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun in him." And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon had left him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that were in them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meant no wrong; and the dear old days were very happy."

Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to thee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward so long that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze of memory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, I ween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates of the new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a day which is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, to lose them and it no more forever, thank G.o.d!

THE LEAF OF RED ROSE.

THE LEAF OF RED ROSE:

THE OLD TRAPPER'S STORY.

A story? Why, yes. If Henry, there, will translate it And put it in verse and print as he promised To do when it happened. Will he do it? I doubt.

He dislikes to dabble with rhyme and with measure.

Says that good honest prose is the best and the sweetest If the words be well chosen, short, Saxon, and pithy.

And that making of verse is the business of women, Of green boys at school, and of lovers when spooning.

But try him. It may be he will. For a lesson Is in it, and that makes it worth telling.

The woods have their secrets and sorrows and struggles As well as the cities. You can find in the woods Many things, if you look, beside trees, rocks, and mountains.

Jack Whitcomb he said his name was, though I doubted.

For the name on his bosom, tattooed in purple, Didn't point quite that way. But that doesn't matter.

One name in the woods is as good as another If a man answers to it and it's easily spoken.

So we called him Jack Whitcomb and asked nothing further.

Brave? Why, of course he was brave. Men are not cowards.

Cowards don't come to the woods. They stay in the cities, Where policemen are thick and the streets are all lighted.

In the woods men trail with their ears and eyes open, And sleep when they sleep with their hands on their rifles.

Why? Well, panthers are plenty and cunning and quiet, And a man is a fool that goes carelessly stumbling Under trees where they crouch, under crags where they gather.

Furthermore, with the saints, now and then there are sinners That live in the woods; and some half-breeds are wicked, And know nothing of law unless taught by a bullet.

I've done what I could to teach knaves the commandments.

Yes. Jack Whitcomb was brave. Brave as the bravest.

His glance was as keen and his mouth was as silent As a trailer's should be who looks and who listens By day and by night, having no one to talk to.

His finger was quick when it handled the trigger, And his eye loved the sights as lightning loves rivers.

I've seen him stand up when the odds were against him.

Stand up like a man who takes coolly the chances.

That proves he was brave as I understand it.

One day we were boating on far Mista.s.sinni.

We were fetching the portage above the great rapids, Where they whirled, roaring down, freshet full, at their whitest, When we saw from a rock that stretched outward and over The wild hissing water as it swept on in thunder, A canoe coming down, rolling over and over, With a little papoose clinging tight to the lashings; And as it lanced by Jack went in like an otter.

How he did it G.o.d knows, but at the foot of the rapids, Half a mile farther down racing onward, I found him High and dry on the beach in a faint like a woman, With the little papoose pulling away at his jacket.

And when he came to, he put child to his shoulder, Nor stopped till it lay in the arms of its mother.

We were trailing, Henry and I, trailing and trapping In the land to the north, where fur was the thickest, And knaves were as plenty as mink or as otter.

We took turns at sleeping, and trailed our line double To keep our own skins, if we didn't get others.

It was folly to stay where we were, and we knew it, For the knaves they got thicker, and soon there was shooting Going on pretty lively. But we held to the business And scouted the line once a week like true trappers.

And no accident happened save some holes in our jackets, And my powder-horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet.

So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively.

But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened Around us each day, and we weren't quite decided To stand in for a fight and settle the matter, Or pull up our traps and get out of the country, When it settled itself. And in this way it happened.

We were scouting the lake on the west sh.o.r.e one morning, To find the knaves' camp and how many were in it, When a short s.p.a.ce ahead there came of a sudden A crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen Or twenty placed rifles had burst an ambushment.

And then in an instant there sounded another.

Two sharp, twin reports and the death yells that followed Told us as we listened where the lead had been driven.

Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb.

Do you think men who live by trapping and shooting Don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles?

Jack was trailing the lake to find our encampment, For far away in the south there had come to his cabin A rumor that we in the north land were holding Our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting.

So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing To give us the help of another good rifle.

That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble He was there by your side. You could always count on him, With finger on trigger and both barrels loaded.

So Henry and I both took to our covers Right and left of the trail Jack must take in retreating.