The Ramblin' Kid Part 33

Old Heck looked up when the group approached. He saw the agony in Carolyn June's eyes and started to speak.

"Th' Ramblin' Kid's drunk," Skinny said dully. "He showed up--yonder he is--" as the beautiful copper-tinted, chestnut filly appeared behind the other horses entered for the two-mile sweepstakes.

"Drunk?" Old Heck cried incredulously. "Are you sure?"

"Watch him!" Chuck said miserably.

The starter was standing with arm outstretched and flag ready to fall.

The filly came down the track jumping nervously from side to side in short springing leaps. The starter paused, watch in hand. A shout of admiration and wonder went up from the crowd as the splendid creature dancing down the track was recognized. The next instant it was succeeded by a cry of horror that rolled in a great wave from a thousand throats.

"Th' Ramblin' Kid is drunk! He's drunk--the mare will kill him!" as they saw the slim rider weaving limply in the saddle, his head dropped forward as if he were utterly helpless.

"Rule that horse off the track!" Dorsey, who was standing with Mike Sabota, in a box-seat just below the judges' stand, shouted as he saw the Ramblin' Kid, even in his half-conscious condition, reining the Gold Dust maverick with consummate skill into position, "her rider's drunk!"

The Ramblin' Kid heard the voice and--by some miracle of the mind--recognized it, although his eyes, set and gla.s.sy, could not see the speaker.

He turned his head in the direction from which the cry came and answered, slowly measuring each word:

"Go--go--t' h.e.l.l--you--you--_coyote_!"

The next instant the starter dropped the flag. As it went down the filly crouched and reared straight into the air.

That one second gave the other horses the start.

Then the outlaw mare leaped forward directly behind Thunderbolt, running against the inside rail. Say-So, the Pecos horse, jammed close to the side of the black stallion; Snow Johnson, rider of Prince John, pushed the big sorrel ahead with his nose at the roan's tail; Dash-Away hugged against the heels of Prince John. The Gold Dust maverick was "pocketed!"

A breathless hush fell over the crowd in the grandstand after the first mighty roar:

"They're off!"

Black devils of torture clutched the throat, the mind, the body of the Ramblin' Kid. Streams of fire seemed to be flowing through his veins. He couldn't see--he was blind. "What th'--what th'--h.e.l.l!" he muttered over and over. He was vaguely conscious of the thunder of hoofs around him--under him. Dimly, black shadows were rus.h.i.+ng along at his side. He fought with all his will to master his faculties. Where was he? What was it? Was it a--a--stampede? What? _Oh, yes, th' race--th'--th'-- sweepstakes--that--that was it_--Over and over the fleeting flashes of consciousness kept throwing this one supreme idea on the mirror of his mind!

Not a word was spoken by any of the party at the Clagstone "Six" as the five fastest horses ever on the Eagle b.u.t.te track swept past the car toward the first quarter-turn of the course.

Carolyn June's face was as white as marble. Her breast heaved and fell as if it would burst. Dry-eyed, every nerve tense, she stared at the straining racers. Unconsciously she gripped into hard knots of flesh and bone, both hands, while she bit at her underlip until a red drop of blood started from the gash made in the tender skin by her teeth.

"_Drunk_!" she thought, "_drunk!_ Beastly drunk--and throwing away the greatest race ever run on a Texas track!"

Old Heck sat impa.s.sive as though carved from stone and said nothing.

Ophelia nervously chewed at the finger of her glove while her eyes moistened with sympathy and pity.

Skinny, Chuck and Bert sat gloomily, moodily, on their bronchos and watched Thunderbolt lead the quintette of running horses.

For the life of him Skinny could not keep from thinking of the five hundred dollars he had bet with Sabota, on the race, and the number of white s.h.i.+rts and purple ties he might have bought with the money!

Over in the track-field Parker, Charley and Pedro saw the start of the race and each swore softly and silently to himself.

Sing Pete, alone of the Quarter Circle KT crowd, in the jam of the grandstand, stretched his neck and followed with inscrutable eyes the close-bunched racers. The start had puzzled him, yet he murmured hopefully:

"Maybe all samee Lamblin' Kid he beatee h.e.l.l out of 'em yet!"

The loyal Chinese cook had wagered the savings of a dozen years on the speed of the Gold Dust maverick's nimble legs and his faith in the "Lamblin' Kid."

A blanket might have covered the five horses as they swung around the first mile.

The speed-mad animals roared down the homestretch, finis.h.i.+ng the first half of the race in the almost identical position each had taken in the getaway.

The Ramblin' Kid rode the mile more as an automaton than as a living, conscious human being. He had no memory of time, place, events--save for the instants of rationality he forced his will to bring.

Gradually, though, his mind was clearing.

But which was it--the first half?--the last half? How long had they been running? How many times had they gone around the track? He could not remember!

Down the straight stretch the racers came in a mighty whirlwind of speed.

"Thunderbolt is taking it!"

"The Y-Bar horse leads!"

"Th' black's got 'em!" roared from the throats of the crowd in the grandstand and the ma.s.s of humanity crus.h.i.+ng the railing along the track.

Dorsey and Sabota leaped to the edge of the box as the horses thundered past the judges' stand. The voice of the owner of Thunderbolt shrieked out in a hoa.r.s.e bellow:

"Hold him to it, Flip! Keep your lead--you've got the filly!"

The Ramblin' Kid heard again--or thought he heard again--the voice of the Vermejo cattleman. He caught, as an echo, a note of triumph in it.

It was like a tonic to his drug-numbed faculties.

Suddenly he saw clearly. He had just a glimpse of Sabota standing by the side of Dorsey. He understood. In a flash it all came to him. The first half of the great sweepstakes race was behind them! Once more they were to circle the track. The glistening black rump of Thunderbolt rose and fell just ahead of the Gold Dust maverick's nose--at her side, crowding her against the rail, was another horse. Which one? It didn't matter!

Back of it was another. He was "_pocketed_!" h.e.l.l, no wonder Thunderbolt was ahead of the outlaw mare!

Half-way around the quarter-turn he pulled the filly down.

She slackened ever so little. Thunderbolt--the horse at her side--all of them--shot ahead.

He was behind the bunch--clear of the field!

The crowd saw the filly dart to the right. It looked as though she would go over the outside rail before the Ramblin' Kid swung her, in a great arch, to the left clear of, but far behind, the other horses.

He was crazy! The Gold Dust maverick was getting the better of the Ramblin' Kid. He had lost control of the wonderful mare!

So thought the thousands watching the drama on the track before them.

Away over, next to the outside fence, on the far side of the track, open now before him for the long outfield stretch, the Rambling Kid straightened the Gold Dust maverick out. The other racers were still bunched against the inner rail--lengths ahead of the filly.

Leaning low on the neck of the maverick, the Ramblin' Kid began talking, for the first time, to the horse he rode.

"_Baby--Baby! Girl_!" he whispered incoherently almost. "_Go--go_--d.a.m.n 'em! _'Ophelia'_"--he laughed thickly, reeling in the saddle.