Archie B. trotted off, striking a path leading through the wood. It was a near cut to the log school house which stood in an old field, partly grown up in scrub-oaks and bushes.
Down in the wood, on a clean bar where a mountain stream had made a bed of white sand, he stopped, pulled off his coat, counted his gold again with eyes which scarcely believed it yet, and then turned handsprings over and over in the white sand.
This relieved him of much of the suppressed steam which had been under pressure for two hours. Then he sat down on a log and counted once more his gold.
Ozzie B., pious, and now doubly so at sight of his brother's wealth, stood looking over his shoulder:
“It was the good Lord done it,” he whispered reverently, as he stood and looked longingly at the gold.
“Of course, but I helped at the right time, that's the way the Lord does everything here.”
Then Archie B. went down into his coat pocket and brought out a hollow rubber ball, with a small hole in one end. Ozzie B. recognized his brother's battery of Gypsy Juice.
“How—when, oh, Archie B.!”
“-S-h-h—Ozzie B. It don't pay to show yo' hand even after you've won—the other feller might remember it nex' time. 'Taint good business sense. But I pumped it into Bonaparte at the right time when he was goin' round an' round an' undecided whether he'd take holt or git. This settled him—he got. The Lord was on the monkey's side, of course, but He needed Gypsy Juice at the right time.”
Then he showed Ozzie B. how it was done. “So, with yo' hand in yo' pocket—so! Then here comes Bonaparte round an' round an' skeered mighty nigh to the runnin' point. So—then sczit! It wus enough.”
Ozzie B. shuddered: “You run a terrible risk doin' that. They'd have killed you if they'd seen it, Jud an' Billy. An' all yo' money up too.”
“Of course,” said his brother, “but Ozzie B., when you bluff, bluff bold; when you bet, bet big; when you steal, steal straight.”
Ozzie B. shook his head. Then he looked up at the sun high above the trees.
He sprang up from the log, pale and scared.
“Archie B.—Archie B., jes' look at the sun! It must be 'leven o'clock an—an think what we'll ketch for bein' late at school. Oh, but I clean forgot—oh—”
He started off trembling.
“Hold on, hold on!” said his brother running and catching Ozzie B. in the coat collar. “Now you sho'ly ain't goin' to be sech a fool as that? It's too late to go now; we'll only ketch a whuppin'. We are goin' to play hookey to-day.”
But Ozzie B. only shook his head. “That's wrong—so wrong. The Lord—He will not bless us—maw says so. Oh, I can't, Archie B.”
“Now look here, Ozzie B. The Lord don't expec' nobody but a fool to walk into a tan-hidin'. If you go to school now, old Triggers will tan yo' hide, see? Then he'll send word to paw an' when you get home to-night you'll git another one.”
“Maw said I was to allers do my duty. Oh, I can't tell him a lie!”
“You've got to lie, Ozzie B. They's times when everybody has got to lie. Afterwards when it's all over an' understood they can square it up in other ways. When a man or 'oman is caught and downed it's all over—they can't tell the truth then an' get straight—an' there's no come ag'in! But if they lie an' brazen it out they'll have another chance yet. Then's the time to stop lyin'—after yo' ain't caught.”
“Oh, I can't,” said Ozzie B., trying to pull away. “I must—must go to school.”
“Rats”—shouted Archie B., seizing him with both hands and shaking him savagely—“here I am argu'in' with you about a thing that any fool orter see when I cu'd a bin yonder a huntin' for that squirrel nest I wus tellin' you about. Now what'll happen if you go to school? Ole Triggers'll find out where you've been an' what a-doin'—he'll lick you. Paw'll know all about it when you git home—he'll lick you.”
Ozzie B. only shook his head: “It's my duty—hate to do it, Archie B.—but it's my duty. If the Lord wills me a lickin' for tellin' the truth, I'll, I'll hafter take it—” and he looked very resigned.
“Oh, you're playin' for martyrdom again!”
“There was Casabianca, Archie B.—him that stood on the burnin' deck”—he ventured timidly.
“Tarnashun!” shouted his brother—“an' I hope he is still standin' on a burnin' deck in the other worl'—don't mention that fool to me!—to stay there an' git blowed up after the ship was afire an' his dad didn't sho' up.” He spat on a mark: “Venture pee-wee under the bridge—bam—bam—bam.”
“There was William Tell's son,” ventured his brother again.
“Another gol-darn id'jut, Ozzie B., like his dad that put him up to it. Why, if the ole man had missed, the two would'er gone down in history as the champion ass an' his colt. The risk was too big for the odds. Why, he didn't have one chance in a hundred. Besides, them fellers actin' the fool don't hurt nobody but theyselves. Now you—”
“How's that, Archie B.?”
Archie B. lowered his voice to a gentle persuasive whisper: “Don't do it, ole man—come now—be reasonable. If we stay here in the woods, Triggers'll think we're at home. Dad will think we're in school. They'll never know no better. It's wrong, but we'll have plenty o' time to make it right—we've got six months mo' of school this year. Now, if you do go—you'll be licked twice an'—an', Ozzie B., I'll git licked when paw hears of it to-night.”
“Oh,” said Ozzie B., “that's it, is it?”
“Yes, of course; if a man don't look out for his own hide, whose goin' to do it for him? Come now, ole man.”
Ozzie B. was silent. His brother saw the narrow forehead wrinkling in indecision. He knew the different habits—not principles—of his nature were at work for mastery. Finally the hypocrite habit prevailed, when he said piously: “We have sowed the wind, Archie B.—we'll hafter reap the whirlwind, like paw says.”
“Go!” shouted his brother. “Go!” and he helped him along with a kick—“Go, since I can't save you. You'll reap the whirlwind, but I won't if my brains can save me.”
He sat down on a log and watched his brother go down the path, sobbing as usual, when he felt that he was a martyr. He sat long and thought.
“It's bad,” he sighed—“a man cu'd do so much mo' in life if he didn't hafter waste so much time arguin' with fools. Well, I'm here fur the day an' I'll learn somethin'. Now, I wanter know if one squirrel er two squirrels stays in the same hole in winter. Then there's the wild-duck. I wanter kno' when the mallards go south.”
In a few minutes he had hid himself behind a tree in a clump of brush. He was silent for ten minutes, so silent that only the falling leaves could be heard. Then very cautiously he imitated the call of the gray squirrel—once, twice, and still again. He had not long to wait. In a hole high up in a hickory a little gray head popped out—then a squirrel came out cautiously—first its head, then half of its body, and each time it moved looking and listening, with its cunning, bright eyes, taking in everything. Then it frisked out with a flirt of its tail, and sat on a limb nearby. It was followed by another and another. Archie B. watched them for a half hour, a satisfied smile playing around his lips. He was studying squirrel. He saw them run into the hole again and bring out each a nut and sit on a nearby limb and eat it.
“That settles that,” he said to himself. “I thought they kept their nuts in the same hole.”
There was the sound of voices behind him and the squirrels vanished. Archie B. stood up and saw an old man and some children gathering nuts.
“It's the Bishop an' the little mill-mites. I'll bet they've brought their dinner.”
This was the one thing Archie B. needed to make his day in the woods complete.
“Hello,” he shouted, coming up to them.
“Why, it's Archie B.,” said Shiloh, delighted.
“Why, it is,” said her grandfather. “What you doin', Archie B.?”
“Studyin' squirrels right now. What you all doin'?”
“I've tuck the kids out of the mill an' I'm givin' 'em their fus' day in the woods. Shiloh, there, has been mighty sick and is weak yet, so we're goin' slow. Mighty glad to run upon you, Archie B. Can't you sho' Shiloh the squirrels? She's never seed one yet, have you, pet?”
“No,” said Shiloh thoughtfully. “Is they like them little jorees that say Wake-up, pet! Wake-up, pet? Oh, do sho' me the squirrel! Mattox, ain't this jes' fine, bein' out of the mill?”
Archie B.'s keen glance took in the well-filled lunch basket. At once he became brilliantly entertaining. In a few minutes he had Shiloh enraptured at the wood-lore he told her,—even Bull Run and Seven Days, Atlanta and Appomattox were listening in amazement, so interesting becomes nature's story when it finds a reader.
And so all the morning Archie B. went with them, and never had they seen so much and enjoyed a day as they had this one.
And the lunch—how good it tasted! It was a new life to them. Shiloh's color came in the healthful exercise, and even Bull Run began to look out keenly from his dull eyes.
After lunch Shiloh went to sleep on a soft carpet of Bermuda grass with the old man's coat for a blanket, while the other children waded in the branch, and gathered nuts till time to go back home.
It was nearly sun-down when they reached the gate of the little hut on the mountain.
“We must do this often, Archie B.,” said the Bishop, as the children went in, tired and hungry, leaving him and Archie B. at the gate. “I've never seed the little 'uns have sech a time, an' it mighty nigh made me young ag'in.”
All afternoon Archie B. had been thinking. All day he had felt the lumpy, solid thing in the innermost depths of his jeans pocket, which told him one hundred dollars in gold lay there, and that it would need an explanation when he reached home or he was in for the worst whipping he ever had. Knowing this, he had not been thinking all the afternoon for nothing. The old man bade him good-night, but still Archie B. lingered, hesitated, hung around the gate.
“Won't you come in, Archie B.?”
“No-o—thank you, Bishop, but I'd—I'd like to, really tho', jes' to git a little spirt'ul g'idance”—a phrase he had heard his father use so often.
“Why, what's the matter, Archie B.?”
Archie B. rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I'm—I'm—thinkin' of j'inin' the church, Bishop.”
“Bless yo' h'art—that's right. I know'd you'd quit yo' mischeev'us ways an' come in—an' I honor you fur it, Archie B.—praise the Lord!”
Archie B. still stood pensive and sobered:
“But a thing happened to-day, Bishop, an' it's worryin' me very much. It makes me think, perhaps—I—ain't—ain't worthy of—the bestowal of—the grace—you know, the kind I heard you speak of?”
“Tell me, Archie B., lad—an' I'll try to enlighten you in my po' way.”
“Well, now; it's this—jes' suppose you wus goin' along now—say to school, an' seed a dorg, say his name was Bonaparte, wantin' to eat up a little monkey; an' a lot of fellers, say like Jud Carpenter an' Billy Buch, a-bettin' he cu'd do it in ten minutes an' a-sickin' him on the po' little monkey—this big savage dorg. An' suppose now you feel sorry for the monkey an' somethin'—you can't tell what—but somethin' mighty plain tells you the Lord wus on the monkey's side—so plain you cu'd read it—like it told David—an' the dorg wus as mean an' bostful as Goliath wus—”
“Archie B., my son, I'd a been fur the monkey, I sho' would,” said the Bishop impressively.
Archie B. smiled: “Bishop, you've called my hand—I wus for that monkey.”
The old man smiled approvingly: “Good—good—Archie B.”
“Now, what happened? I'm mighty inter'sted—oh, that is good. I'm bettin' the monkey downed him, the Lord bein' on his side.”
“But, s'pose furst,” went on Archie B. argumentatively, “that you wanted to give some money fur a little church that you wanted to j'ine—up on the mountain side, a little po'-fo'k church, that depended on charity—”
“I understan's, I understan's, Archie B., that wus the Lord's doin's,—ten to one on the monkey, Archie—ten to one!”
“An' that you had ten dollars in gold around yo' neck in a little bag, given you by your ole Granny when she died—an' knowin' how the Lord wus for the monkey, an' it bein' a dead cinch, an' all that—an' these fellers blowin' an' offerin' to bet ten to one—an' seein' you c'ud pick it up in the road—all for the little church, mind you, Bishop—”
“Archie B.,” exclaimed the old man excitedly, “them bein' the facts an' the thing at stake, with that ole dorg an' Jud Carpenter at the bottom of it, I'd a put it up on the monkey, son—fur charity, you know, an' fur the principle of it,—I'd a put it up, Archie B., if I'd lost ever' cent!”
“Exactly, Bishop, an' I did—at ten to one—think of the odds! Ten to one, mighty nigh as great as wus ag'in David.”
“An' you won, of course, Archie B., you won in a walk?” said the old man breathlessly. “God was fur you an' the monkey.”
Archie B. smiled triumphantly and pulled out his handful of gold. The old man sat down on a log, dazed.
“Archie B., sho'ly, sho'ly, not all that? An' licked the dorg, an' that gang, an' cleaned 'em up?”
Archie B. told him the story with all the quaint histrionic talent of his exuberant nature.
The Bishop sat and laughed till the tears came.
“An' Bonaparte went down the road with the monkey holt his tail—the champion dorg—an' you won all that?”
“All fur charity, Bishop, except, you know, part fur keeps as a kinder nes' egg.”
“Of co-u-r-se—Archie B., of—course, no harm in the worl'—if—if—my son—if you carry out your original ideas, or promise, ruther; it won't work if you go back on yo' promise to God. 'God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform,'” added the Bishop solemnly.
Archie B. slipped fifty of his dollars into the old man's hands.
“Do you know, Archie B., I prayed for this las' night? Now you tell me God don't answer prayers?”
He was silent, touched. Seldom before had a prayer of his been answered so directly.
“Fur charity, Archie B., fur charity. I'll take it, an' little you know what this may mean.”
Archie B. was silent. So far so good, but it was plain from his still thoughtful looks that he had only half won out yet. He had heard the old man speak, and there had been a huskiness about his voice.
“Now there is paw, Bishop—you know he ain't jes like you—he don't see so far. He might not understan' it. Would you mind jes' droppin' him a line, you know? I'll take it to him—in case he looks at the thing differently, you know, fur whut you write will go a long way with him.”
The old man smiled: “Of course, Archie B.—he must understan' it. Of course, it 'ud never do to have him spile as good a thing as that—an' fur charity, all fur the Lord—”
“An' why I didn't go to school, helpin' you all in the woods,” put in Archie B.
“Of course, Archie B., why of course, my son; I'll fix it right.”
And he scribbled a few lines on the fly leaf of his note book for Archie B. to take home:
“God bless you, my son, good-night.”
Archie B. struck out across the fields jingling his remaining gold and whistling. At home it was as he expected. Patsy met him at the gate. One look into her expectant face showed him that she was delighted at the prospect of his punishment. It was her hope deferred, now long unfulfilled. He had always gotten out before, but now—
“Walk in, Mister Gambler, Mr. Hookey—walk in—paw is waitin' fur you,” she said, smirking.
The Deacon stood in the door, silent, grim, determined. In his hand were well-seasoned hickories. By him stood his wife more silent, more grim, more determined.
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said the Deacon, “I'm gwinter lick you fur gamblin'.”
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said his mother, “I'm goin' to lick you fur playin' hookey.”
“Pull it off, Archie B.,” said his sister bossily, “I'm goin' to stan' by an' see.”
Archie B. pulled off his coat deliberately.
“That's all right,” he said, “Many a man has been licked befo' fur bein' on the Lord's side.”
“You mean to tell me, Archie B. Butts, you bet on a dorg fight sho' nuff,” said his father, nervously handling his hickories.
“An' played hookey?” chimed in his mother.
“Tell it, Archie B., tell the truth an' shame the devil,” mocked Patsy.
“Yes, I done all that—fur charity,” he said boldly, and with a victorious ring in his voice.
“Did you put up that ten dollars yo' Granny lef' you?” screamed his mother.
“Did you dare, Archie B.,” said Patsy.
His father paled at the thought of it: “An' lost it, Archie B., lost it, my son. Oh, I mus' teach you how sinful it is to gamble.”
Archie B. replied by running his hand deep down into his pocket and bringing up a handful of gold—five eagles!
His father dropped the switches and stared. His mother sat down suddenly in a chair and Patsy reached out, took it and counted it deliberately:—
“One—two—three—fo'—five—an' all gold—my gracious, Maw!”
“That's jes' ha'f of it,” said Archie B. indifferently. “I gave the old Bishop five of 'em—fur—charity. Here's his note.”
The Deacon read it and rubbed his chin thoughtfully: “That's a different thing,” he said after a while. “Entirely different proposition, my son.”
“Yes, it 'pears to be,” said his mother counting the gold again. “We'll jes' keep three of 'em, Archie B. They'll come in handy this winter.”
“Put on yo' coat, my son,” said the Deacon gently.
“Patsy, fetch him in the hot waffles an' syrup—the lad 'pears to be a leetle tired,” said his mother.
“How many whippings did you git, Archie B.?” whispered his brother as Archie B., after entertaining the family for an hour, all about the great fight, crawled into bed: “I got three,” went on Ozzie B. “Triggers fust, then paw, then maw.”
“None,” said Archie B., as he put his two pieces of gold under his pillow.
“I can't see why that was,” wailed Ozzie B. “I done nothin' an'—an'—got all—all—the—lickin'!”
“You jes' reaped my whirlwind,” sneered his brother—“All fools do!”
But later he felt so sorry for poor Ozzie B. because he could not lie on his back at all, that he gave him one of his beautiful coins to go to sleep.
It was the last afternoon of the fair, and the great race was to come off at three o'clock.
There is nothing so typical as a fair in the Tennessee Valley. It is the one time in the year when everybody meets everybody else. Besides being the harvest time of crops, of friendships, of happy interchange of thought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfected horseflesh.
The forenoon had been given to social intercourse, the display of livestock, the exhibits of deft women fingers, of housewife skill, of the tradesman, of the merchant, of cotton—cotton, in every form and shape.
At noon, under the trees, lunch had been spread—a bountiful lunch, spreading as it did from the soft grass of one tree to that of another—as family after family spread their linen—an almost unbroken line of fried chicken, flanked with pickles and salad, and all the rich profusion of the country wife's pantry.
And now, after lunch, the grand stand had been quickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved a horse-race.
Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was three thousand!
Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life.
And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned the best horse.
No wonder that everybody for miles around was there.
Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and lusty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong, stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd.
The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people, and but only half way in fashion between the city and country, yet knowing it not.
The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.
Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding—Trumps, and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's mare—Trombine—had her partisans who were also vociferous. But Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.
Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as it spun past the grand-stand.
Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire. It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then settled, to a shining, shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashed in the sun.
The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming up.
The starting-judge was about to clang again—this time more positively—when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar of mingled laughter and applause.
As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his old hat and smiled.
He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith—he was too stern for the fun they were having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had a sponge and bucket!
“Bud Billings a swipe!”
Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. It merely grinned and nudged one another. For Travis had given a half holiday and all Cottontown was there.
The old man's outfit brought out the greatest laughter. The cart was a big cheap thing, new and brightly repainted, and it rattled frightfully. The harness was a combination—the saddle was made of soft sheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also the head-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching. The rest of it was undressed leather, and the old man had evidently made it himself.
But Ben Butler—never had he looked so fine. Blind, cat-hammed and pacing along,—but his sides were slick and hard, his quarters rubber.
The old man had not been training him on the sandy stretches of Sand Mountain for nothing.
A man with half an eye could have seen it, but the funny people in the grand-stand saw only the harness, and the blind sunken eyes of the old horse. So they shouted and cat-called and jeered. The outfit ambled up to the starting judge, and the old driver handed him fifty dollars.
The starter laughed as he recovered himself, and winking at the others, asked:
“What's this for, old man?”
“Oh, jes' thought I'd j'ine in—” smiling.
“Why, you can't do it. What's your authority?”
The Bishop ran his hand in his pocket, while Bud held Ben Butler's head and kept saying with comical seriousness: “Whoa—whoa, sah!”
Pending it all, and seeing that more talk was coming, Ben Butler promptly went to sleep. Finally the old man brought out a faded poster. It was Travis's challenge and conditions.
“Jes' read it,” said the old driver, “an' see if I ain't under the conditions.”
The starting judge read: “Open to the Tennessee Valley—trot or pace. Parties entering, other than the match makers, to pay fifty dollars at the wire.”
“Phew!” said the starting judge, as he scratched his head. Then he stroked his chin and re-read the conditions, looking humorously down over his glasses at the queer combination before him.
The audience took it in and began to shout: “Let him in! Let him in! It's fair!”
But others felt outraged and shouted back: “No—put him out! Put him out!”
The starting judge clanged his bell again, and the other three starters came up.
Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-up foam, laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col. Troup, dignified and reserved, said nothing. But Travis swore.
“It's preposterous!—it will make the race a farce. We're out for blood and that purse. This is no comedy,” he said.
The old man only smiled and said: “I'm sorry to spile the sport of gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, I know they will stan' by their own rules.”
“It's here in black and white, Travis,” said the starter, “You made it yourself.”
“Oh, hell,” said Travis hotly, “that was mere form and to satisfy the Valley. I thought the entrance fee would bar any outsider.”
“But it didn't,” said the Judge, “and you know the rules.”
“Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!” shouted the crowd, and then there was a tumult of hisses, groans and cat-calls.
Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it was the old Cottontown preacher, and the excitement grew intense.
It was the most comical, most splendid joke ever played in the Valley. Travis was not popular, neither was the dignified Col. Troup. Up to this time the crowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had they cared which of the pretty trotters received the crown. It meant only a little more swagger and show and money to throw away.
But here was something human, pathetic. Here was a touch of the stuff that made the grand-stand kin to the old man. The disreputable cart, the lifeless, blind old pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness of it all—the pathos.
Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, had given for others, here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainer of the Travis stables, trying to win the purse from gentlemen.
“Ten to one,” said a prosperous looking man, as he looked quietly on—“the Bishop wants it for charity or another church. Like as not he knows of some poverty-stricken family he's going to feed.”
“If that's so,” shouted two young fellows who were listening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Tennessee, “if that's the way of it, we'll go over and take a hand in seeing that he has fair play.”
They arose hastily, each shifting a pistol in his pocket, and butted through the crowd which was thronged around the Judge's stand, where the old man sat quietly smiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup were talking earnestly.
“Damned if I let Trombine start against such a combination as that, sah. I'll drive off the track now, sah—damned if I don't, sah!”
But the two young men had spoken to big fat Flecker of Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said: “Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. We will let the old man start. Say, old man,” he laughed, “you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat, eh?”
“No,” smiled the Bishop—“an' I 'spec you will. Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years.”
“Oh, say, I thought you were going to say twenty,” laughed Flecker.
Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart and attempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some one reached over the head of the crowd and gripped him where his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forward and twirled him around like a top.
It was enough. It was ten minutes before he could lift up his arm at all; it felt dead.
“Don't hurt nobody, Jack,” whispered the old man, “be keerful.”
The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted—“Fair play, fair play—let him start,” and they came thronging and crowding on the track.
“Clear the track,” cried the starting-judge to a deputy sheriff in charge—“I'll let him start.”
This set the crowd in a roar.
“Square man,” they yelled—“Square man!”
Travis bit his lips and swore.
“Why, damn him,” he said, “we'll lose him the first heat. I'll shut him out myself.”
“We will, sah, we will!” said Col. Troup. “But if that rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal to the National Association, sah. I'll appeal—sah,” and he drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare.
And now the track was cleared—the grand stand hummed and buzzed with excitement.
It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in the Tennessee Valley. Not that there was going to be any change in the race, not that the old preacher had any chance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness, and hitched to such a cart—but that he dared try it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. There would be one heat of desperate fun and then—
A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clear through the grand-stand, and along with it, from excited groups, from the promenade, from the track and infield and stables, even, came such expressions as these:
“Worth ten dollars to see it!”
“Wouldn't take a hoss for the sight!”
“If he did happen to beat that trio of sports!”
“Boss, it's gwinter to be a hoss race from wire to wire!”
“Oh, pshaw! one heat of fun—they'll shut him out!”
In heart, the sympathy of the crowd was all with the old preacher.
The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch, emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regard himself as a third person, and this is the way he told it, heat by heat:
“Fus' heat, Ben Butler—Now if we can manage to save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'll be doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretched them ole muscles of yo's in a race—long time—an' they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck out to you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you git hot—(Clang—clang—clang). That's the starter's bell. Yes—we'll score now—the fus' heat'll be our wuss. They've got it in fur us—they'll set the pace an' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'p us—Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—it's only for them, Ben Butler—fur them. (Clang!—Clang!) Slow there—heh—heh—Steady—ah-h!”
Clang—clang-clang! vigorously. The starter was calling them back.
They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-heads had been too fast for the old ambler. In their desire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind. The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling in his lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and when the strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, and was left at the wire!
The crowd jeered and roared with laughter.
“He'll never get off!”
“He's screwed there—fetch a screw driver!”
“Pad his head, he'll fall on it nex'!”
“Go back, gentlemen, go back,” shouted the starter, “and try again. The old pacer was on a break”—Clang—clang—clang! and he jerked his bell vigorously.
Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. “I had to pull my mare double to stop her,” he called to the starter. “We were all aligned but the old pacer—why didn't you let us go?”
“Because I am starting these horses by the rules, Mr. Travis. I know my business,” said the starter hotly.
Col. Troup was blue in the face with rage.
Flecker laughed.
They all turned again and came down, the numbers on the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4—Travis, Troup, Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.
“Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke—you mus' go this time. We ain't goin' to meetin'—Stretch them ole legs as you did!—oh, that's better—ef we could only score a few more times—look!—ah!”
Clang—clang—clang!
This time it was Col. Troup's mare. She broke just at the wire.
“She saved us that time, Ben Butler. We wus two rods behind—”
They came down the third time. “Now, thank God, he's jes' beginnin' to unlimber,” chuckled the old man as the old pacer, catching on to the game and warming to his work, was only a length behind at the wire, as they scored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up in the air and again the bell clanged.
The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned them that time was up and that he'd start them the next time they came down if he had the ghost of a chance.
Again they aligned and came thundering down. The old man was pale and silent, and Ben Butler felt the lines telegraphing nervous messages to his bitted mouth; but all he heard was: “Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—Steady, old hoss!”
“Go!”
It sounded like a gun-shot in the old man's ears. There was a whirr of wheels, a patter of feet grappling with dirt and throwing it all over him—another whirr and flutter and buzz as of a covey flushed, and the field was off, leaving him trailing.
“Whew, Ben Butler, we're in fur it now—the Lord 'a-mussy on our souls! Take the pole—s'artenly,—it's all yowin, since you're behin'! Steady ole hoss, there's one consolation,—they're breakin' the wind for you, an' thank God!—yes Ben Butler, look! they're after one other,—they're racin' like Tam O'Shanter an' cookin' each other to a gnat's heel—Oh, Lord what fools! It'll tell on 'em—if we can only save our distance—this heat—jes' save our distance—Wh-o-p, sah! Oh, my Lord, told you so—Troup's mare's up an' dancin' like a swamp rabbit by moonlight. Who-op, sah, steady ole hoss—there now we've passed him—Trombine and Lizette ahead—steady—let 'em go, big devil, little devil, an' pumpin' each other—Go now, go old hoss, now's the time to save our distance—go old hoss, step lively now—'tain't no meetin', no Sunday School—it's life, bread and a chance for Cap'n Tom! Oh, but you ain't forgot entirely, no-no,—ain't forgot that you come in answer to prayer, ain't forgot that half in one-one, ain't forgot yo' pious raisin', yo' pedigree. Ain't forgot you're racin' for humanity an' a chance, ain't forgot—there! the flag—my God and safe!”
He had passed the flag. Lizzette and Trombine were already at the wire, but poor Troup—his mare had never been able to settle after her wild break, and she caught the flag square in the face.
The crowd met the old pacer with a yell of delight. He had not been shut out—marvel of marvels!
It was getting interesting indeed.
Bud and Jack met him with water and a blanket. How proud they were! But the heavy old cart had told on Ben Butler. He panted like a hound, he staggered and was distressed.
“He'll get over that,” said the old driver cheerily to Bud's tearful gaze—“he ain't used to it yet—ten years, think of it,” and Jack led Ben Butler blanketed away.
The old man looked at the summary the judges had hung up. It was:
1st Heat: Trumps, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd; Ben Butler, 3rd; Trombine distanced. Time, 2:17½.
Then he heard a man swearing elegantly. It was Col. Troup. He was sitting in his sulky in front of the grand stand and talking to Travis and the genial Flecker:
“A most unprofessional thing, gentlemen,—damned unprofessional, sah, to shut me out. Yes, sah, to shut out a gentleman, sah, an' the first heat, sah, with his horse on a break.”
“What!” said Flecker excitedly—“you, Col'nel? Shut out—why, I thought it was the old pacer.”
“I swear I did, too, Colonel,” said Travis apologetically. “I heard something rattling and galloping along—I thought it was the old pacer and I drove like the devil to shut him out!”
“It was me, sah, me! damned unprofessional, sah; my mare throwed a boot!”
He walked around and swore for ten minutes. Then he quieted down and began to think. He was shut out—his money was gone. But—“By gad, sah,” he said cracking his whip—“By gad I'll do it!”
Ten minutes later as Ben Butler, cooled and calm, was being led out for the second heat, Col. Troup puffed boisterously up to the Bishop: “Old man, by gad, sah, I want you to use my sulky and harness. It's a hundred pounds lighter than that old ox-cart you've got. I'm goin' to he'p you, sah, beat that pair of short dogs that shets out a gentleman with his horse on a break, sah!”
And that was how the old man drew first blood and came out in a new sulky and harness.
How proud Ben Butler seemed to feel! How much lighter and how smoothly it ran!
They got the word at the first score, Trumps and Lizzette going at it hammer and tongs—Ben Butler, as usual, trailing.
The old man sat pale and ashy, but driving like the born reinsman that he was.
“Steady, old hoss, steady agin'—jes' save our distance, that's all—they've done forgot us—done forgot us—don't know we're here. They'll burn up each other an' then, oh, Ben Butler, God he'p us! Cap'n Tom, Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh! Steady, whoa there!—Lord, how you're lar'nin'! How the old clip is comin' agin! Ho—hi—there ole hoss—here we are—what a bresh of speed he's got—hi—ho!”
And the grand-stand was cheering again, and as the old man rode up the judges hung out:
2nd Heat: Trumps, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd; Ben Butler, 3rd. Time, 2:15½.
The old man looked at it in wonder: “Two fifteen an' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind? My God, can we make it—can we make it?”
His heart beat wildly. For the first time he began to hope.
Trumps now had two heats. As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out—he was distressed greatly—in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell.
“Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette—what will Travis do?—Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!”
It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could.
“They're at it ag'in—ole hoss, what fools! Whoa—steady there! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see—No sand left in his crops, cooked—watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler—there—he's up now—up an' done fur—Go now—move some—hi—”
Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh and blood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken, tired break. It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length.
Lizzette had won the heat. The judge hung out:
3rd Heat: Lizzette, 1st; Ben Butler, 2nd; Trumps distanced. Time, 2:20.
Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see.
“The old pacer—the old pacer!”—they yelled.
Travis bit his lip—“what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!”
The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky.
“Great hoss! great! great!” yelled Bud as he trotted along bringing the blanket.
The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment, amid the crash of the band and the noise of the crowd:
“Dear God—my Father—I thank Thee. Not for me—not for Ben Butler—but for life—life—for Shiloh—and Cap'n Tom. Help us—old and blind—help us! O God—”
Col. Troup grasped his hand. The Tennesseans, followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too, was there—chagrined, maddened—he too had joined his forces with the old Bishop.
“Great Scott, old man, how you do drive! We've hedged on you—me and the Colonel—we've put up a thousand each that you'll win. We've cooked ourselves good and hard. Now drive from hell to breakfast next heat, and Travis is yo' meat! Fools that we were! We've cut each other to pieces like a pair of cats tied by the tails. Travis is at your mercy.”
“Yes, sah, Flecker is right. Travis is yo' meat, sah,” said the Colonel, solemnly.
The old man walked around with his lips moving silently, and a great pulsing, bursting, gripping pain in his heart—a pain which was half a hope and half despair.
The crowd was on tip-toe. Never before had such a race been paced in the Tennessee Valley. Could he take the next heat from Lizzette? If he could, he had her at his mercy.
Grimly they scored down. Travis sullen that he had to fight the old pacer, but confident of shutting him out this time. Confident and maddened. The old man, as was his wont in great emergencies, had put a bullet in his mouth to clinch his teeth on. He had learned it from Col. Jeremiah Travis, who said Jackson did it when he killed Dickinson, and at Tallapoosa, and at New Orleans.
“GO!”
And he heard Travis whirl away with a bitter curse that floated back. Then the old man shot out in the long, stealing, time-eating stride the old pacer had, and coming up just behind Lizzette's sulky he hung there in a death struggle.
One quarter, half, three-quarters, and still they swung around—locked—Travis bitter with hot oaths and the old man pale with prayer. He could see Travis's eyes flashing lightning hatred across the narrow space between them—hatred, curses, but the old man prayed on.
“The flag—now—ole hoss—for Jesus' sake!—”
He reached out in the old way, lifted his horse by sheer great force and fairly flung him ahead!—
“Flu-r-r-r!” it was Lizzette's breath as he went by her. He shot his eyes quickly sideways as she flailed the air with her forefeet within a foot of his head. Her eyes glowed, sunken,—beat—in their sockets; with mouth wide open, collapsed, frantic, in heart-broken dismay, she wabbled, staggered and quit!
“Oh, God bless you, Ben Butler!—”
But that instant in the air with her mouth wide open within a foot of the old man's head her lower teeth exposed, the old driver saw she was only four years old. Why had he noticed it? What mental telepathy in great crises cause us to see the trifles on which often the destiny of our life hangs?
Ben Butler, stubborn, flying, was shaking his game old head in a bull-dog way as he went under the wire. It maddened him to be pulled up.
“So, softly, softly old fellow! We've got 'em licked, you've got religin' in yo' heels, too. Ain't been goin' to church for ten years for nothin'!”
The old man wanted to shout, and yet he was actually shedding tears, talking hysterically and trembling all over. He heard in a dazed way the yells and thunder from the grand-stand. But he was faint and dizzy, and worst of all, as he laughed to himself and said: “Kinder sissy an' soft in spots.”
Jack and Bud had Ben Butler and were gone. No wonder the grand-stand pulsed with human emotion. Never before had anything been done like this. The old, blind pacer,—the quaint old preacher—the thing they were going to shut out,—the pathos, the splendor of it all,—shook them as humanity will ever be shaken when the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purest marble. Here it was:
4th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:19½.
What a record it was for the old pacer! Starting barely able to save his distance, he had grown in speed and strength and now had the mare at his mercy—the two more heats he had yet to win would be a walk around for him.
Oh, it was glorious—glorious!
“Oh, by gad, sah,” shouted Col. Troup, pompously. “I guess I've hedged all right. Travis will pay my thousand. He'll know how to shet out gentlemen the nex' time. Oh, by gad, sah!”
Flecker and the Tennesseans took drinks and shouted themselves hoarse.
Then the old preacher did something, but why he never could explain. It seemed intuition when he thought of it afterwards. Calling Col. Troup to him he said: “I'm kinder silly an' groggy, Col'nel, but I wish you'd go an' look in her mouth an' see how old Lizzette is.”
The Colonel looked at him, puzzled.
“Why?”
“Oh, I dunno, Col'nel—but when a thing comes on me that away, maybe it's because I'm so nervous an' upsot, but somehow I seem to have a second sight when I git in this fix. I wanted you to tell me.”
“What's it got to do with the race, sah! There is no bar to age. Have you any susp—”
“Oh, no—no—Col'nel, it's jes' a warnin', an intuition. I've had 'em often, it's always from God. I b'leeve it's Him tellin' me to watch, watch an' pray. I had it when Ben Butler come, thar, come in answer to prayer—”
Colonel Troup smiled and walked off. In a short while he sauntered carelessly back:
“Fo' sah, she was fo' years old this last spring.”
“Thank ye, Col'nel!”
The Colonel smiled and whispered: “Oh, how cooked she is! Dead on her feet, dead. Don't drive yo' ole pacer hard—jes' walk around him, sah. Do as you please, you've earned the privilege. It's yo' walk over an' yo' money.”
The fifth heat was almost a repetition of the fourth, the old pacer beating the tired mare cruelly, pacing her to a standstill. It was all over with Lizzette, anyone could see that. The judges hung out:
5th Heat: Ben Butler, 1st; Lizzette, 2nd. Time, 2:24.
Travis's face was set, set in pain and disappointment when he went to the stable. He looked away off, he saw no one. He smoked. He walked over to the stall where they were cooling Lizzette out.
“Take the full twenty minutes to cool her, Jim.”
In the next stall stood Sadie B. She had been driven around by Jud Carpenter, between heats, to exercise her, he had said. She was warmed up, and ready for speed.
Travis stood watching Lizzette cool out. Jud came up and stood looking searchingly at him. There was but a glance and a nod, and Travis walked over to the grand-stand, light-hearted and even jolly, where he stood in a group of society folks.
He was met by a protest of feminine raillery: “Oh, our gloves, our candy! Oh, Mr. Travis, to get beat that way!”
He laughed: “I'll pay all you ladies lose. I was just playing with the old pacer. Bet more gloves and candy on the next heat!”
“Oh—oh,” they laughed. “No—no-o! We've seen enough!”
Travis smiled and walked off. He turned at the gate and threw them back a bantering kiss.
“You'll see—” was all he said.
The old man spent the twenty minutes helping to rub off Ben Butler.
“It does me good—kinder unkeys me,” he said to Bud and Jack. He put his ear to the old horses' flank—it pulsed strong and true.
Then he laughed to himself. It vexed him, for it was half hysterical and he kept saying over to himself: