[Illustration: By one desperate leap he shook himself clear. (Page 263. )] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HORSES NINE STORIES OF HARNESS AND SADDLE BYSEWELL FORD ILLUSTRATED NEW YORKCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS1905 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1903, byCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published, March, 1903 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TROW DIRECTORYPRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANYNEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS Page SKIPPER 1Being the Biography of a Blue-Ribboner. CALICO 31Who Travelled with a Round Top. OLD SILVER 67A Story of the Gray Horse Truck. BLUE BLAZES 95And the Marring of Him. CHIEFTAIN 125A Story of the Heavy Draught Service. BARNACLES 157Who Mutinied for Good Cause. BLACK EAGLE 181Who Once Ruled the Ranges. BONFIRE 215Broken for the House of Jerry. PASHA 241The Son of Selim. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ILLUSTRATIONS By Frederic Dorr Steele and L. Maynard Dixon By one desperate leap he shook himself clear Frontispiece FACING PAGE There were many heavy wagons 6 For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart 24 He would do his best to steady them down to the work 130 Then let him snake a truck down West Street 144 "Come, boy. Come, Pasha, " insisted the man on the ground 266 Mr. Dave kept his seat more by force ofmuscular habit than anything else 268 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SKIPPER BEING THE BIOGRAPHY OF A BLUE-RIBBONER At the age of six Skipper went on the force. Clean of limb and sound ofwind he was, with not a blemish from the tip of his black tail to theend of his crinkly forelock. He had been broken to saddle by a GreenMountain boy who knew more of horse nature than of the trashy thingswrit in books. He gave Skipper kind words and an occasional friendly paton the flank. So Skipper's disposition was sweet and his nature atrusting one. This is why Skipper learned so soon the ways of the city. The first timehe saw one of those little wheeled houses, all windows and full ofpeople, come rushing down the street with a fearful whirr and clank ofbell, he wanted to bolt. But the man on his back spoke in an easy, calmvoice, saying, "So-o-o! There, me b'y. Aisy wid ye. So-o-o!" which wasexcellent advice, for the queer contrivance whizzed by and did him noharm. In a week he could watch one without even pricking up his ears. It was strange work Skipper had been brought to the city to do. As acolt he had seen horses dragging ploughs, pulling big loads of hay, andhitched to many kinds of vehicles. He himself had drawn a light buggyand thought it good fun, though you did have to keep your heels down andtrot instead of canter. He had liked best to lope off with the boy onhis back, down to the Corners, where the store was. But here there were no ploughs, nor hay-carts, nor mowing-machines. There were many heavy wagons, it was true, but these were all drawn bystocky Percherons and big Western grays or stout Canada blacks whoseemed fully equal to the task. Also there were carriages--my, what shiny carriages! And what smart, sleek-looking horses drew them! And how high they did hold their headsand how they did throw their feet about--just as if they were dancing oneggs. "Proud, stuck-up things, " thought Skipper. It was clear that none of this work was for him. Early on the firstmorning of his service men in brass-buttoned blue coats came to thestable to feed and rub down the horses. Skipper's man had two names. Onewas Officer Martin; at least that was the one to which he answered whenthe man with the cap called the roll before they rode out for duty. Theother name was "Reddy. " That was what the rest of the men in blue coatscalled him. Skipper noticed that he had red hair and concluded that"Reddy" must be his real name. As for Skipper's name, it was written on the tag tied to the halterwhich he wore when he came to the city. Skipper heard him read it. Theboy on the farm had done that, and Skipper was glad, for he liked thename. There was much to learn in those first few weeks, and Skipper learned itquickly. He came to know that at inspection, which began the day, youmust stand with your nose just on a line with that of the horse oneither side. If you didn't you felt the bit or the spurs. He masteredthe meaning of "right dress, " "left dress, " "forward, " "fours right, "and a lot of other things. Some of them were very strange. [Illustration: There were many heavy wagons. ] Now on the farm they had said, "Whoa, boy, " and "Gid a-a-ap. " Here theysaid, "Halt" and "Forward!" But "Reddy" used none of these terms. Hepressed with his knees on your withers, loosened the reins, and made aqueer little chirrup when he wanted you to gallop. He let you know whenhe wanted you to stop, by the lightest pressure on the bit. It was a lazy work, though. Sometimes when Skipper was just aching for abrisk canter he had to pace soberly through the park driveways--forSkipper, although I don't believe I mentioned it before, was part andparcel of the mounted police force. But there, you could know that bythe yellow letters on his saddle blanket. For half an hour at a time he would stand, just on the edge of theroadway and at an exact right angle with it, motionless as the horseridden by the bronze soldier up near the Mall. "Reddy" would sit asstill in the saddle, too. It was hard for Skipper to stand there and seethose mincing cobs go by, their pad-housings all a-glitter, crests ontheir blinders, jingling their pole-chains and switching their absurdlittle stubs of tails. But it was still more tantalizing to watch thesaddle-horses canter past in the soft bridle path on the other side ofthe roadway. But then, when you are on the force you must do your duty. One afternoon as Skipper was standing post like this he caught a newnote that rose above the hum of the park traffic. It was the quick, nervous beat of hoofs which rang sharply on the hard macadam. There werescreams, too. It was a runaway. Skipper knew this even before he saw thebell-like nostrils, the straining eyes, and the foam-flecked lips ofthe horse, or the scared man in the carriage behind. It was a case ofbroken rein. How the sight made Skipper's blood tingle! Wouldn't he just like to showthat crazy roan what real running was! But what was Reddy going to do?He felt him gather up the reins. He felt his knees tighten. What! Yes, it must be so. Reddy was actually going to try a brush with the runaway. What fun! Skipper pranced out into the roadway and gathered himself for the sport. Before he could get into full swing, however, the roan had shot pastwith a snort of challenge which could not be misunderstood. "Oho! You will, eh?" thought Skipper. "Well now, we'll see about that. " Ah, a free rein! That is--almost free. And a touch of the spurs! No needfor that, Reddy. How the carriages scatter! Skipper caught hastyglimpses of smart hackneys drawn up trembling by the roadside, of womenwho tumbled from bicycles into the bushes, and of men who ran andshouted and waved their hats. "Just as though that little roan wasn't scared enough already, " thoughtSkipper. But she did run well; Skipper had to admit that. She had a lead of fiftyyards before he could strike his best gait. Then for a few moments hecould not seem to gain an inch. But the mare was blowing herself andSkipper was taking it coolly. He was putting the pent-up energy of weeksinto his strides. Once he saw he was overhauling her he steadied to thework. Just as Skipper was about to forge ahead, Reddy did a queer thing. Withhis right hand he grabbed the roan with a nose-pinch grip, and with theleft he pulled in on the reins. It was a great disappointment toSkipper, for he had counted on showing the roan his heels. Skipper knew, after two or three experiences of this kind, that this was the usualthing. Those were glorious runs, though. Skipper wished they would come moreoften. Sometimes there would be two and even three in a day. Then afortnight or so would pass without a single runaway on Skipper's beat. But duty is duty. During the early morning hours, when there were few people in the park, Skipper's education progressed. He learned to pace around in a circle, lifting each forefoot with a sway of the body and a pawing movementwhich was quite rhythmical. He learned to box with his nose. He learnedto walk sedately behind Reddy and to pick up a glove, dropped apparentlyby accident. There was always a sugar-plum or a sweet cracker in theglove, which he got when Reddy stopped and Skipper, poking his nose overhis shoulder, let the glove fall into his hands. As he became more accomplished he noticed that "Reddy" took more painswith his toilet. Every morning Skipper's coat was curried and brushedand rubbed with chamois until it shone almost as if it had beenvarnished. His fetlocks were carefully trimmed, a ribbon braided intohis forelock, and his hoofs polished as brightly as Reddy's boots. Thenthere were apples and carrots and other delicacies which Reddy broughthim. So it happened that one morning Skipper heard the Sergeant tell Reddythat he had been detailed for the Horse Show squad. Reddy had salutedand said nothing at the time, but when they were once out on post hetold Skipper all about it. "Sure an' it's app'arin' before all the swells in town you'll be, meb'y. Phat do ye think of that, eh? An' mebbe ye'll be gettin' a blueribbon, Skipper, me lad; an' mebbe Mr. Patrick Martin will have aroundsman's berth an' chevrons on his sleeves afore the year's out. " The Horse Show was all that Reddy had promised, and more. The lightalmost dazzled Skipper. The sounds and the smells confused him. But hefelt Reddy on his back, heard him chirrup softly, and soon felt at easeon the tanbark. Then there was a great crash of noise and Skipper, with some fifty ofhis friends on the force, began to move around the circle. First it wasfours abreast, then by twos, and then a rush to troop front, when, in along line, they swept around as if they had been harnessed to a beam bytraces of equal length. After some more evolutions a half-dozen were picked out and put throughtheir paces. Skipper was one of these. Then three of the six were sentto join the rest of the squad. Only Skipper and two others remained inthe centre of the ring. Men in queer clothes, wearing tall black hats, showing much white shirt-front and carrying long whips, came and lookedthem over carefully. Skipper showed these men how he could waltz in time to the music, andthe people who banked the circle as far up as Skipper could see shoutedand clapped their hands until it seemed as if a thunderstorm had brokenloose. At last one of the men in tall hats tied a blue ribbon onSkipper's bridle. When Reddy got him into the stable, he fed him four big red apples, oneafter the other. Next day Skipper knew that he was a famous horse. Reddyshowed him their pictures in the paper. For a whole year Skipper was the pride of the force. He was shown tovisitors at the stables. He was patted on the nose by the Mayor. TheChief, who was a bigger man than the Mayor, came up especially to lookat him. In the park Skipper did his tricks every day for ladies in finedress who exclaimed, "How perfectly wonderful!" as well as for prettynurse-maids who giggled and said, "Now did you ever see the likes o'that, Norah?" And then came the spavin. Ah, but that was the beginning of the end!Were you ever spavined? If so, you know all about it. If you haven't, there's no use trying to tell you. Rheumatism? Well, that may be bad;but a spavin is worse. For three weeks Reddy rubbed the lump on the hock with stuff from abrown bottle, and hid it from the inspector. Then, one black morning, the lump was discovered. That day Skipper did not go out on post. Reddycame into the stall, put his arm around his neck and said "Good-by" in avoice that Skipper had never heard him use before. Something had made itthick and husky. Very sadly Skipper saw him saddle one of the newcomersand go out for duty. Before Reddy came back Skipper was led away. He was taken to a bigbuilding where there were horses of every kind--except the right kind. Each one had his own peculiar "out, " although you couldn't always tellwhat it was at first glance. But Skipper did not stay here long. He was led into a big ring before alot of men. A man on a box shouted out a number, and began to talk veryfast. Skipper gathered that he was talking about him. Skipper learnedthat he was still only six years old, and that he had been owned as asaddle-horse by a lady who was about to sail for Europe and was closingout her stable. This was news to Skipper. He wished Reddy could hear it. The man talked very nicely about Skipper. He said he was kind, gentle, sound in wind and limb, and was not only trained to the saddle but wouldwork either single or double. The man wanted to know how much thegentlemen were willing to pay for a bay gelding of this description. Someone on the outer edge of the crowd said, "Ten dollars. " At this the man on the box grew quite indignant. He asked if the otherman wouldn't like a silver-mounted harness and a lap-robe thrown in. "Fifteen, " said another man. Somebody else said "Twenty, " another man said, "Twenty-five, " and stillanother, "Thirty. " Then there was a hitch. The man on the box began totalk very fast indeed: "Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--do I hear the five?Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--will you make it five?" "Thirty-five, " said a red-faced man who had pushed his way to the frontand was looking Skipper over sharply. The man on the box said "Thutty-five" a good many times and asked if he"heard forty. " Evidently he did not, for he stopped and said very slowlyand distinctly, looking expectantly around: "Are you all done?Thirty-five--once. Thirty-five--twice. Third--and last call--sold, forthirty-five dollars!" When Skipper heard this he hung his head. When you have been a $250blue-ribboner and the pride of the force it is sad to be "knocked down"for thirty-five. The next year of Skipper's life was a dark one. We will not linger overit. The red-faced man who led him away was a grocer. He put Skipper inthe shafts of a heavy wagon very early every morning and drove him along ways through the city to a big down-town market where men in longfrocks shouted and handled boxes and barrels. When the wagon was heavilyloaded the red-faced man drove him back to the store. Then a tow-hairedboy, who jerked viciously on the lines and was fond of using the whip, drove him recklessly about the streets and avenues. But one day the tow-haired boy pulled the near rein too hard whilerounding a corner and a wheel was smashed against a lamp-post. Thetow-haired boy was sent head first into an ash-barrel, and Skipper, rather startled at the occurrence, took a little run down the avenue, strewing the pavement with eggs, sugar, canned corn, celery, and otherassorted groceries. Perhaps this was why the grocer sold him. Skipper pulled a cart throughthe flat-house district for a while after that. On the seat of the cartsat a leather-lunged man who roared: "A-a-a-a-puls! Nice a-a-a-a-puls! Awho-o-ole lot fer a quarter!" Skipper felt this disgrace keenly. Even the cab-horses, on whom he usedto look with disdain, eyed him scornfully. Skipper stood it as long aspossible and then one day, while the apple fakir was standing on theback step of the cart shouting things at a woman who was leaning halfway out of a fourth-story window, he bolted. He distributed that load ofapples over four blocks, much to the profit of the street children, andhe wrecked the wagon on a hydrant. For this the fakir beat him with apiece of the wreckage until a blue-coated officer threatened to arresthim. Next day Skipper was sold again. Skipper looked over his new owner without joy. The man was evil of face. His long whiskers and hair were unkempt and sun-bleached, like the tipend of a pastured cow's tail. His clothes were greasy. His voice waslike the grunt of a pig. Skipper wondered to what use this man would puthim. He feared the worst. Far up through the city the man took him and out on a broad avenue wherethere were many open spaces, most of them fenced in by huge bill-boards. Behind one of these sign-plastered barriers Skipper found his new home. The bottom of the lot was more than twenty feet below the street-level. In the centre of a waste of rocks, ash-heaps, and dead weeds tottered agroup of shanties, strangely made of odds and ends. The walls werepartly of mud-chinked rocks and partly of wood. The roofs were patchedwith strips of rusty tin held in place by stones. Into one of these shanties, just tall enough for Skipper to enter and nomore, the horse that had been the pride of the mounted park police wasdriven with a kick as a greeting. Skipper noted first that there was nofeed-box and no hayrack. Then he saw, or rather felt--for the only lightcame through cracks in the walls--that there was no floor. His nostrilstold him that the drainage was bad. Skipper sighed as he thought of theclean, sweet straw which Reddy used to change in his stall every night. But when you have a lump on your leg--a lump that throbs, throbs, throbswith pain, whether you stand still or lie down--you do not think much onother things. Supper was late in coming to Skipper that night. He was almost starvedwhen it was served. And such a supper! What do you think? Hay? Yes, butmarsh hay; the dry, tasteless stuff they use for bedding in cheapstables. A ton of it wouldn't make a pound of good flesh. Oats? Not asign of an oat! But with the hay there were a few potato-peelings. Skipper nosed them out and nibbled the marsh hay. The rest he pawed backunder him, for the whole had been thrown at his feet. Then he dropped onthe ill-smelling ground and went to sleep to dream that he had beenturned into a forty-acre field of clover, while a dozen brass bandsplayed a waltz and multitudes of people looked on and cheered. In the morning more salt hay was thrown to him and water was brought ina dirty pail. Then, without a stroke of brush or curry-comb he was ledout. When he saw the wagon to which he was to be hitched Skipper hunghis head. He had reached the bottom. It was unpainted and rickety as tobody and frame, the wheels were unmated and dished, while the shaftswere spliced and wound with wire. But worst of all was the string of bells suspended from two uprightsabove the seat. When Skipper saw these he knew he had fallen low indeed. He had become the horse of a wandering junkman. The next step in hiscareer, as he well knew, would be the glue factory and the boneyard. Now when a horse has lived for twenty years or so, it is sad enough toface these things. But at eight years to see the glue factory close athand is enough to make a horse wish he had never been foaled. For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart, with its hatefuljangle of bells, about the city streets and suburban roads while the manwith the faded hair roared through his matted beard: "Buy o-o-o-o-oltra-a-a-a-ags! Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Olt boddles! Olt copper! Oltiron! Vaste baber!" [Illustration: For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart. ] The lump on Skipper's hock kept growing bigger and bigger. It seemed asif the darts of pain shot from hoof to flank with every step. Bighollows came over his eyes. You could see his ribs as plainly as thehoops on a pork-barrel. Yet six days in the week he went on long tripsand brought back heavy loads of junk. On Sunday he hauled the junkmanand his family about the city. Once the junkman tried to drive Skipper into one of the Park entrances. Then for the first time in his life Skipper balked. The junkman poundedand used such language as you might expect from a junkman, but all to nouse. Skipper took the beating with lowered head, but go through the gatehe would not. So the junkman gave it up, although he seemed veryanxious to join the line of gay carriages which were rolling in. Soon after this there came a break in the daily routine. One morningSkipper was not led out as usual. In fact, no one came near him, and hecould hear no voices in the nearby shanty. Skipper decided that hewould take a day off himself. By backing against the door he readilypushed it open, for the staple was insecure. Once at liberty, he climbed the roadway that led out of the lot. It waslate in the fall, but there was still short sweet winter grass to befound along the gutters. For a while he nibbled at this hungrily. Then aqueer idea came to Skipper. Perhaps the passing of a smartly groomedsaddle-horse was responsible. At any rate, Skipper left off nibbling grass. He hobbled out to the edgeof the road, turned so as to face the opposite side, and held up hishead. There he stood just as he used to stand when he was the pride ofthe mounted squad. He was on post once more. Few people were passing, and none seemed to notice him. Yet he was anodd figure. His coat was shaggy and weather-stained. It looked patchedand faded. The spavined hock caused one hind quarter to sag somewhat, but aside from that his pose was strictly according to the regulations. Skipper had been playing at standing post for a half-hour, when atrotting dandy who sported ankle-boots and toe-weights, pulled up beforehim. He was drawing a light, bicycle-wheeled road-wagon in which weretwo men. "Queer?" one of the men was saying. "Can't say I see anything queerabout it, Captain. Some old plug that's got away from a squatter; that'sall I see in it. " "Well, let's have a look, " said the other. He stared hard at Skipper fora moment and then, in a loud, sharp tone, said: "'Ten-shun! Right dress!" Skipper pricked up his ears, raised his head, and side-stepped stiffly. The trotting dandy turned and looked curiously at him. "Forward!" said the man in the wagon. Skipper hobbled out into the road. "Right wheel! Halt! I thought so, " said the man, as Skipper obeyed theorders. "That fellow has been on the force. He was standing post. Looksmighty familiar, too--white stockings on two forelegs, white star onforehead. Now I wonder if that can be--here, hold the reins a minute. " Going up to Skipper the man patted his nose once or twice, and thenpushed his muzzle to one side. Skipper ducked and countered. He had notforgotten his boxing trick. The man turned his back and began to pacedown the road. Skipper followed and picked up a riding-glove which theman dropped. "Doyle, " said the man, as he walked back to the wagon, "two years agothat was the finest horse on the force--took the blue ribbon at theGarden. Alderman Martin would give $1, 000 for him as he stands. He hashunted the State for him. You remember Martin--Reddy Martin--who used tobe on the mounted squad! Didn't you hear? An old uncle who made afortune as a building contractor died about a year ago and left thewhole pile to Reddy. He's got a fine country place up in Westchester andis in the city government. Just elected this fall. But he isn't happybecause he can't find his old horse--and here's the horse. " Next day an astonished junkman stood before an empty shanty which servedas a stable and feasted his eyes on a fifty-dollar bank-note. * * * * * If you are ever up in Westchester County be sure to visit the stables ofAlderman P. Sarsfield Martin. Ask to see that oak-panelled box-stallwith the stained-glass windows and the porcelain feed-box. You willnotice a polished brass name-plate on the door bearing this inscription: SKIPPER. You may meet the Alderman himself, wearing an English-made riding-suit, loping comfortably along on a sleek bay gelding with two white forelegsand a white star on his forehead. Yes, high-priced veterinaries can curespavin--Alderman Martin says so. CALICO WHO TRAVELLED WITH A ROUND TOP Something there was about Calico's markings which stuck in one's mind, as does a haunting memory, intangible but unforgotten. Surely thepattern was obtrusive enough to halt attention; yet its vagaries were sounexpected, so surprising that, even as you looked, you might hesitateat declaring whether it was his withers or his flanks which werecarrot-red and if he had four white stockings or only three. It wassafer simply to say that he was white where he was not red and red wherehe was not white. Moreover, his was a vivid coat. Altogether Calico was a horse to be remarked and to be remembered. Yet--and again yet--Calico was not wholly to blame for his many faults. Farm breeding, which was more or less responsible for his bizarreappearance, should also bear the burden of his failings. As a colt hehad been the marvel of the county, from Orono to Hermon Centre. He hadbeen petted, teased, humored, exhibited, coddled, fooledwith--everything save properly trained and broken. So he grew up a trace shirker and a halter-puller, with disposition, temperament, and general behavior as uneven as his coloring. "The most good-fer-nothin' animal I ever wasted grain on!" declaredUncle Enoch. For the better part of four unproductive years had the life of Calicorun to commonplaces. Then, early one June morning, came an hour bigwith events. Being the nigh horse in Uncle Enoch's pair, Calico caughtfirst glimpse of the weird procession which met them as they turned intothe Bangor road at Sherburne's Corners. Now it was Calico's habit to be on the watch for unusual sights, andwhen he saw them to stick his ears forward, throw his head up, snortnervously and crowd against the pole. Generally he got one leg over atrace. There was a white bowlder at the top of Poorhouse Hill whichCalico never passed without going through some of these manoeuvres. "Hi-i-ish there! So-o-o! Dern yer crazy-quilt hide. Body'd think yernever see that stun afore in yer life. Gee-long a-a-ap!" Uncle Enochwould growl, accenting his words by jerking the lines. A scarecrow in the middle of a cornfield, an auction bill tacked to astump, an old hat stuffing a vacant pane and proclaiming theshiftlessness of the Aroostook Billingses, would serve when nothing elseoffered excuse for skittishness. Even sober Old Jeff, the off horse, sometimes caught the infection for a moment. He would prick up his earsand look inquiringly at the suspected object, but so soon as he saw whatit was down went his head sheepishly, as if he was ashamed of havingagain been tricked. This morning, however, it was no false alarm. When Old Jeff was rousedout of his accustomed jog by Calico's nervous snorts he looked up to seesuch a spectacle as he had never beheld in all his goings and comings upand down the Bangor road. Looming out of the mist was a six-horse teamhitched to the most foreign-looking rig one could well imagine. It hadsomething of the look of a preposterous hay-cart, with the ends ofblue-painted poles sticking out in front and trailing behind. Followingthis was a great, white-swathed wheeled box drawn by four horses. It wascertainly a curious affair, whatever it was, but neither Calico nor OldJeff gave it much heed, nor did they waste a glance on the distant tailof the procession, for behind the wheeled box was a thing which heldtheir gaze. In the gray four o'clock light it seemed like an enormous cow thatrolled menacingly forward; not as a cow walks, however, but with aswaying, heaving motion like nothing commonly seen on a Maine highway. Instinctively both horses thrust their muzzles toward the thing andsniffed. Without doubt Old Jeff was frightened. Perhaps not for ninegenerations had any of his ancestors caught a whiff of that peculiarlyterrifying scent of which every horse inherits knowledge and dread. As for Calico, he had no need of such spur as inherited terror. He hadfearsomeness enough of his own to send him rearing and pawing the airuntil the whiffle-trees rapped his knees. Old Jeff did not rear. Hestared and snorted and trembled. When he felt his mate spring forward inthe traces he went with him, ready to do anything in order to get awayfrom that heaving, swaying thing which was coming toward them. "Whoa, ye pesky fools! Whoa, dod rot ye!" Uncle Enoch, wakened from thehalf doze which he had been taking on the wagon-seat, now began to sawon the lines. His shouts seemed to have aroused the heaving thing, forit answered with a horrid, soul-chilling noise. By this time Calico was leaping frantically, snorting at every jump andforcing Old Jeff to keep pace. They were at the top of a long grade anddown the slope the loaded wagon rattled easily behind them. Uncle Enochdid his best. With feet well braced he tugged at the lines and shouted, all to no purpose. Never before had Calico and Old Jeff met a circus onthe move. Neither had they previously come into such close quarters withan elephant. One does not expect such things on the Bangor road. Atleast they did not. They proposed to get away from such terrors in theshortest possible time. Now the public ways of Maine are seldom macadamized. In places they arelaid out straight across and over the granite backbone of thecontinent. The Bangor road is thus constructed in spots. This slope wasone of the spots where the bare ledge, with here and there six-inchshelves and eroded gullies, offered a somewhat uneven surface to thewheels. A well built Studebaker will stand a lot of this kind ofbanging, but it is not wholly indestructible. So it happened thathalf-way down the hill the left hind axle snapped at the hub. Thereuponsome two hundred dozen ears of early green-corn were strewn along theflinty face of the highway, while Uncle Enoch was hurled, seat and all, accompanied by four dozen eggs and ten pounds of Aunt Henrietta's bestbutter, into the ditch. When the circus caravan overtook him Uncle Enoch had captured therunaways and was leading them back to where the wrecked wagon lay by theroadside. More or less butter was mixed with the sandy chin whiskers andan inartistic yellow smooch down the front of his coat showed that theeggs had followed him. "Rather lively pair of yours; eh, mister?" commented a red-faced man whodropped off the pole-wagon. "Yes, ruther lively, " assented Uncle Enoch, "'Specially when ye don'twant 'em to be. The off one's stiddy enough. It's this cantankerousskewbald that started the tantrum. Whoa now, blame ye!" Calico's nosewas in the air again and he was snorting excitedly. "Lemme hold him 'till old Ajax goes by, " said the circus man. "Thank ye. I'll swap him off fust chance I git, ef I don't fetch backnuthin' but a boneyard skate, " declared Uncle Enoch. As Ajax lumbered by, the circus man eyed with interest the dancingCalico. He noted with approval the coat of fantastic design, the springyknees and the fine tail that rippled its white length almost to Calico'sheels. "I'll do better'n that by you, mister, " said he. "I've got afourteen-hundred pound Vermont Morgan, sound as a dollar, only eightyears old and ain't afraid o' nothin'. I'll swap him even for yourskewbald. " "Like to see him, " said Uncle Enoch. "If he's half what ye say it's atrade. " "Here he comes on the band-wagon team;" then, to the driver: "Hey, Bill, pull up!" In less than half an hour from the time Calico had bolted at sight ofthe circus cavalcade he was part and parcel of it, and helping to pullone of those mysterious sheeted wagons along in the wake of theterrifying Ajax. "The old party don't give you a very good send off, " said the bosshostler reflectively to Calico, "but I reckon you'll get used to Ajaxand the music-chariot before the season's over. Leastways, you're boundto be an ornament to the grand entry. " Calico's life with the Grand Occidental began abruptly and vigorously. The driver of the band-wagon knew his business. Even when half asleephe could see loose traces. After Calico had heard the long lash whistleabout his ears a few times he concluded that it was best to do his shareof the pulling. And what pulling it was! There were six horses of them, Calico being oneof the swings, but on an uphill grade that old chariot was the mostreluctant thing he had ever known. Uncle Enoch's stone-boat, whichCalico had once held to be merely a heart-breaking instrument oftorture, seemed light in retrospect. Often did he look reproachfully atthe monstrous combination of gilded wood and iron. Why need band-wagonsbe made so exasperatingly heavy? The atrociously carved Pans on thecorners, with their scarred faces and broken pipes, were cumbersomeenough to make a load for one pair of horses, all by themselves. Calicowould think of them as he was straining up a long hill. He could almostfeel them pulling back on the traces in a sort of wooden stubbornness. And when the team rattled the old chariot down a rough grade how hehoped that two or three of the figures might be jolted off. But in themorning, when the show lot was reached and the travelling wraps takenoff the wagons, there he would see the heavy shouldered Pans all intheir places as hideous and as permanent as ever. It was a hard and bitter lesson which Calico learned, this matter ofkeeping one's tugs tight. Uncle Enoch had spared the whip, but in theheart of Broncho Bill, who drove the band-wagon, there was no leniency. Ready and strong was his whip hand, and he knew how to make the bloodfollow the lash. No effort did he waste on fat-padded flanks when hewas in earnest. He cut at the ears, where the skin is tender. He couldtouch up the leaders as easily as he could the wheel-horses, and when heaimed at the swings he never missed fire. Travelling with a round top Calico found to be no sinecure. The GrandOccidental, being a wagon show, moved wholly by road. The shortest jumpwas fifteen miles, but often they did thirty between midnight andmorning; and thirty miles over country highways make no short jaunt whenyou have a five-ton chariot behind you. The jump, however, was only thebeginning of the day's work. No sooner had you finished breakfast thanyou were hooked in for the street parade, meaning from two to four milesmore. You had a few hours for rest after that before the grand entry. Ah, thatgrand entry! That was something to live for. No matter how bad the roadsor how hard the hills had been Calico forgot it all during those tendelightful minutes when, with his heart beating time to the rat-tat-tatof the snare drum, he swung prancingly around the yellow arena. It all began in the dressing-tent with a period of confusion in whichhorses were crowded together as thick as they could stand, while theriders dressed and mounted in frantic haste, for to be late meant to befined. At last the ring-master clapped his hands as sign that all was inreadiness. There was a momentary hush. Then a bugle sounded, the flapswere thrown back and to the crashing accompaniment of the band, theseemingly chaotic mass unfolded into a double line as the horses brokeinto a sharp gallop around the freshly dug ring. The first time Calico did the grand entry he felt as though he had beensucked into a whirlpool and was being carried around by someirresistible force. So dazed was he by the music, by the hum of humanvoices and by the unfamiliar sights, that he forgot to rear and kick. Hecould only prance and snort. He went forward because the rider of theoutside horse dragged him along by the bridle rein. Around and around hecircled until he lost all sense of direction, and when he was finallyshunted out through the dressing-tent flaps he was so dizzy he couldscarcely stand. For a horse accustomed to shy at his own shadow this was heroictreatment. But it was successful. In a month you could not have startledCalico with a pound of dynamite. He would placidly munch his oats withinthree feet of the spot where a stake-gang swung the heavy sledges instaccato time. He cared no more for flapping canvas than for the waggingof a mule's ears. As for noises, when one has associated with a steamcalliope one ceases to mind anything in that line. Old Ajax, it wastrue, remained a terror to Calico for weeks, but in the end the horselost much of his dread for the ancient pachyderm, although he never feltwholly comfortable while those wicked little eyes were turned in hisdirection. Hereditary instincts, you know, die hard. During those four months in which the Grand Occidental flitted over theNew England circuit from Kenduskeag, Me. , to Bennington, Vt. , there cameupon Calico knowledge of many things. The farm-horse to whom Bangor'smarket-square had been full of strange sights became, in comparison withhis former self, most sophisticated. He feared no noise save thatsinister whistle made by Broncho Bill's long lash. The roaring sputterof gasoline flares was no more to him than the sound of a runningbrook. He had learned that it was safe to kick a mere canvasman when youfelt like doing so, but that a real artist, such as a tumbler or atrapeze man, was to be respected, and that the person of the ring-masterwas most sacred. Also he acquired the knack of sleeping at odd times, whenever opportunity offered and under any conditions. When he had grown thus wise, and when he had ceased to stumble overguy-ropes and tent-stakes, Calico received promotion. He was put in asoutside horse of the leading pair in the grand entry. He was decoratedwith a white-braided cord bridle with silk rosettes and he wore betweenhis ears a feather pompon. All this was very fine and grand, but therewas so little of it. After it was all over, when the crowds had gone, the top lowered and thestakes pulled, he was hitched to the leaden-wheeled band-wagon tostrain and tug at the traces all through the last weary half of thenight. But when fame has started your way, be you horse or man, youcannot escape. Just before the season closed Calico was put on thesawdust. This was the way of it. A ninety-foot top, you know, carries neither extra people nor sparehorses. The performers must double up their acts. No one is exempt savethe autocratic high-bar folk, who own their own apparatus and dictatecontracts. So with the horses. The teams that pull the pole-wagon, thechariots and the other wheeled things which a circus needs, must alsofigure in the grand entry and in the hippodrome races. Even thering-horses have their share of road-work in a wagon show. To the dappled grays used by Mlle. Zaretti, who was a top-liner on thebills, fell the lot of pulling the ticket-wagon, this being thelightest work. It was Mlle. Zaretti's habit to ride one at the afternoonshow, the other in the evening. So when the nigh gray developed ashoulder gall on the day that the off one went lame there arose anemergency. Also there ensued trouble for the driver of the ticket-wagon. First he was tongue lashed by Mademoiselle, then he was fined a week'spay and threatened with discharge by the manager. But when theincreasing wrath of the Champion Lady Equestrienne of America led her todemand his instant and painful annihilation the worm turned. The driverprofanely declared that he knew his business. He had travelled with YankRobinson, he had, and no female hair-grabber under canvas should callhim down more than once in the same day. There was more of this, addedmerely for emphasis. Mlle. Zaretti saw the point. She had gone too far. Whereupon she discreetly turned on her high French heels and meeklyasked the boss hostler for the most promising animal he had. The bosspicked out Calico. No sooner was the top up that day than Calico's training began. Well itwas that he had learned obedience, for this was to be his one greatopportunity. Many a time had Calico circled around the banked ring'souter circumference, but never had he been within it. Neither had heworn before a broad pad. By dint of leading and coaxing he was made tounderstand that his part of the act was to canter around the ring withMlle. Zaretti on his back, where she was to be allowed to go through asmany motions as she pleased. For a green horse Calico conducted himself with much credit. He did notstumble. He did not shy at the ring-master's whip. He did not try tododge the banners or the hoops after he found how harmless they were. "Well, if I cut my act perhaps I can manage, but if I break my neck Ihope you'll murder that fool driver, " was Mlle. Zaretti's verdict andpetition when the lesson ended. Mlle. Zaretti's gyrations that afternoon and evening were somewhat tamewhen you consider the manner in which she was billed. Calico did hispart with only a few excusable blunders, and she was so pleased that hegot the apples and sugarplums which usually rewarded the grays. The galled shoulder healed, but the lame leg developed into an incurablystiff joint. Three nights later Calico, to his great joy, left theband-chariot team forever, to find himself on the light ticket-wagon andregularly entered as a ring horse. Nor was this all. When the seasonclosed Mlle. Zaretti bought Calico at an exorbitant price. He wasshipped to a strange place, where they put him in a box-stall, fed himwith generous regularity and asked him to do absolutely nothing at all. It was a month before Calico saw his mistress again. He had been takeninto a great barn-like structure which had many sky-lights and windows. Here was an ideal ring, smooth and springy, with no hidden rocks or softspots such as one sometimes finds when on the road. Mlle. Zaretti nolonger wore her spangled pink dress. Instead she appeared in serviceableknickerbockers and wore wooden-soled slippers on her feet. In the middleof the ring a man who was turning himself into a human pin-wheel stoppedlong enough to shout: "Hello, Kate; signed yet?" "You bet, " said Mlle. Zaretti. "Next spring I go out by rail with athree topper. I'm going to do the real bareback act, too. No more broadpads and wagon shows for Katie. Hey, Jim, rig up your Stokes' mechanic. " Jim, a stout man who wore his suspenders outside a blue sweater andtalked huskily, arranged a swinging derrick-arm, the purpose of which, it developed, was to keep Mlle. Zaretti off the ground whenever shemissed her footing on Calico's back. There was a broad leather beltaround her waist and to this was fastened a rope. Very often was thisneeded during those first three weeks of practice, for, true to herword, Mlle. Zaretti no longer strapped on Calico's back the broad pad towhich he had been accustomed. At first the wooden-soles hurt and madehim flinch, but in time the skin became toughened and he minded them notat all, although Mlle. Zaretti was no featherweight. Long before the snow was gone Mlle. Zaretti had discarded thederrick-arm. Urging Calico to his best speed she would grasp the cinchhandles and with one light bound land on his well-resined back. Then, ashe circled around in an even, rythmical lope, she would jump the bannersand dive through the hoops. It was more or less fun for Calico, but itall seemed so utterly useless. There were no crowds to see and applaud. He missed the music and the cheering. At last there came a change. Calico and his mistress took a journey. They arrived in the biggest city Calico had ever seen, and oneafternoon, to the accompaniment of such a crash of music and such achorus of "HI! HI! HI's!" as he had never before heard, they burst intoa great arena where were not only one ring but three, and about them, tier on tier as far up as one could see, the eager faces and gayclothes of a vast multitude of spectators. Calico, as you will guess, had become a factor in "The Grandest Aggregation. " If Calico had longed for music and applause his wishes were surelyanswered, for, although Mlle. Zaretti had jumped from a wagon-show to athree-ring combination that began its season with an indoor Marchopening, she was still a top-liner. That is, she had a feature act. Thus it was that just as the Japanese jugglers finished tossing eachother on their toes in the upper ring and while the property helperswere making ready the lower one for the elephants, in the centre ringMlle. Zaretti and Calico alone held the attention of great audiences. "Mem-zelle Zar-ret-ti! Champ-i-on la-dy bare-back ri-der of thewor-r-r-r-ld, on her beaut-i-ful Ar-a-bian steed!" That was the manner in which the megaphone announcer heralded theirappearance. Then followed a rattle of drums and a tooting of horns, ending in one tremendous bang as Calico, lifting his feet so high and sodaintily you might have thought he was stepping over a row of chinavases, and bowing his head so low that his neck arched almost double, came mincing into the arena. In his mouth he champed solid silver bits, and his polished hoofs were rimmed with nickel-plated shoes. The heavybridle reins were covered with the finest white kid, as was thesurcingle which completed his trappings. Rather stout had Calico become in these halcyon days. His back andflanks were like the surface of a well-upholstered sofa. His coat ofmotley told its own story of daily rubbings and good feeding. The whitewas dazzlingly white and the carrot-red patches glowed like the insideof a well-burnished copper kettle. So shiny was he that you could seereflected on his sides the black, gold-spangled tights and fluffy blackskirts worn by Mlle. Zaretti, who poised on his back as lightly as ifshe had been an ostrich-plume dropped on a snow-bank and who smilinglykissed her finger-tips to the craning-necked tiers of spectators withcharming indiscrimination and admirable impartiality. You may imagine that this picture was not without its effect. Never didit fail to draw forth a mighty volume of "Ohs!" and "Ah-h-h-hs!"especially at the afternoon performances, when the youngsters were outin force. And how Calico did relish this hum of admiration! PerhapsMlle. Zaretti thought some of it was meant for her. No such idea hadCalico. You could see this by the way in which he tossed his head and pawedhaughtily as he waited for the band to strike up his music. Oh, yes, _his_ music. You must know that by this time the horse that had oncepulled the stone-boat on Uncle Enoch's farm, and had later learned thehard lesson of obedience under Broncho Bill's lash had now become anequine personage. He had his grooms and his box-stall. He had whimswhich must be humored. One of these had to do with the music whichplayed him through his act. He had discovered that the Blue Danube waltzwas exactly to his liking, and to no other tune would he consent to dohis best. Sulking was one of his new accomplishments. As for Mlle. Zaretti, she affected no such frills, but she was everready to defend those of her horse. A hard-working, frugal, ambitiousyoung person was Mlle. Zaretti, whose few extravagances were mostly onCalico's account. For him she demanded the Blue Danube waltz in the faceof the band-master's grumblings. When the Grandest Aggregation finally took the road the satisfaction ofCalico was complete. He was under canvas once more. No band-wagon workwearied his nights. He even enjoyed the street parade. In the evening, when his act was over, he left the tents, glowing huge and brilliantagainst the night, and jogged quietly off to his padded car-stall, wherewere to be had a full two hours' rest before No. 2 train pulled out. In the gray of the morning he would wake to contentedly look out throughhis grated window at the flying landscape, remembering with a sigh ofsatisfaction that no longer was he routed out at cockcrow to be drivenafield. Later he could see the curious crowds in the railroad yards asthe long lines of cars were shunted back and forth. As he lazilymunched his breakfast oats he watched the draught horses patiently dragthe huge chariots across the tracks and off to the show lot where _he_was not due for hours. A life of mild exertion, enjoyable excitement, changing scenes, andconsiderate treatment was his. No wonder the fat stuck to Calico's ribs. No wonder his eyes beamed contentment. Such are the sweets of highachievement. * * * * * It was to sell early July peas that Uncle Enoch again took the Bangorroad one day about three years after his memorable meeting with theGrand Occidental. On his way across the city to Norumbega Market hefound his way blocked by a line of waiting people. From an urchin-tossedhandbill, Uncle Enoch learned that the Grandest Aggregation was in townand that "the Unparalleled Street Pageant" was about due. So he waited. With grim enjoyment Uncle Enoch watched the brilliant spectacleimpassively. Old Jeff merely pricked up his ears in curious interest asthe procession moved along in its dazzling course. "Zaretti, Bareback Queen of the World! On her Famous Arabian SteedAbdullah! Presented to her by the Shah of Persia!" Thus read Uncle Enoch as he followed the printed order of parade withtoil-grimed forefinger. For a moment Uncle Enoch's gaze was held by the Bareback Queen, wholooked languidly into space over the top of the tiger cage. Then hestared hard at the "far-famed Arabian steed, " gift of the impulsiveShah. Said steed was caparisoned in a gorgeous saddle-blanket hung withsilver fringe. A silver-mounted martingale dangled between his knees. Holding the silk-tasselled bridle rein, and walking in respectfulattendance, was a groom in tight-fitting riding breeches and a cockadedhat which rested mainly on his ears. The horse was of white, mottledwith carrot-red in such striking pattern that, having once seen it, onecould hardly forget. "Gee whilikins!" said Uncle Enoch softly to himself, as if fearful ofbetraying some newly discovered secret. But Old Jeff was moved to no such reticence. Lifting his head over theshoulders of the crowd he pointed his ears and gave vent to a quick, glad whinny of recognition. The "far-famed Arabian, " turning so sharplythat the unwary groom was knocked sprawling, looked hard at the humblefarm-horse, and then, with an answering high-pitched neigh, dashedthrough the quickly scattering spectators. It was a moment of surprises. The Bareback Queen of the World wasstartled out of her day-dream to find her "Arabian steed" rubbing noseswith a ragged-coated horse hitched to a battered farm-wagon, in whichsat a chin-whiskered old fellow who grinned expansively and slyly winkedat her over the horses' heads. "It's all right, ma'am, I won't let on, " he said. Before she could reply, the groom, who had rescued his cockaded hat andhis presence of mind, rushed in and dragged the far-famed steed backinto the line of procession. "Wall, I swan to man, ef Old Jeff didn't know that air Calicker afore Idid, " declared Uncle Enoch, as he described the affair to AuntHenrietta; "an' me that raised him from a colt. I do swan to man!" Mlle. Zaretti did not "swan to man, " whatever that may be, but to thisday she marvels concerning the one and only occasion when her trustedCalico disturbed the progress of the Grandest Aggregation's unparalleledstreet pageant. OLD SILVER A STORY OF THE GRAY HORSE TRUCK Down in the heart of the skyscraper district, keeping watch and wardover those presumptuous, man-made cliffs around which commerce heaps itsFundy tides, you will find, unhandsomely housed on a side street, a hookand ladder company, known unofficially and intimately throughout thedepartment as the Gray Horse Truck. Much like a big family is a fire company. It has seasons of goodfortune, when there are neither sick leaves nor hospital cases toreport; and it has periods of misfortune, when trouble and disasterstalk abruptly through the ranks. Gray Horse Truck company is noexception. Calm prosperity it has enjoyed, and of swift, unexpectedtragedy it has had full measure. Yet its longest mourning and mostsincere, was when it lost Old Silver. Although some of the men of Gray Horse Truck had seen more than tenyears' continuous service in the house, not one could remember a timewhen Old Silver had not been on the nigh side of the poles. Mikes andPetes and Jims there had been without number. Some were good and somewere bad, some had lasted years and some only months, some had been kindand some ugly, some stupid and some clever; but there had been but oneSilver, who had combined all their good traits as well as many of theirbad ones. Horses and men, Silver had seen them come and go. He had seenprobationers rise step by step to battalion and deputy chiefs, winshields and promotion or meet the sudden fate that is their lot. Allthat time Silver's name-board had swung over his old stall, and when thetruck went out Silver was to be found in his old place on the left ofthe poles. Driver succeeded driver, but one and all they found Silverfirst under the harness when a station hit, first to jump forward whenthe big doors rolled back, and always as ready to do his bit on a longrun as he was to demand his four quarts when feeding-time came. Before the days of the Training Stable, where now they try out newmaterial, Silver came into the service. That excellent institution, therefore, cannot claim the credit of his selection. Perhaps he waschosen by some shrewd old captain, who knew a fire-horse when he sawone, even in the raw; perhaps it was only a happy chance which put himin the business. At any rate, his training was the work of a masterhand. Silver was not one of the fretting kind, so at the age of fifteen he wasapple-round, his legs were straight and springy, and his eyes as fulland bright as those of a school-boy at a circus. The dapples on his grayflanks were as distinct as the under markings on old velours, while histail had the crisp whiteness of a polished steel bit on a frostymorning. Unless you had seen how shallow were his molar cups or notedthe length of his bridle teeth, would you have guessed him not more thansix. As for the education of Silver, its scope and completeness, no outsiderwould have given credence to the half of it. When Lannigan had driventhe truck for three years, and had been cronies with Silver for nearlyfive, it was his habit to say, wonderingly: "He beats me, Old Silver does. I git onto some new wrinkle of his everyday. No; 'taint no sorter use to tell his tricks; you wouldn't believe, nor would I an' I hadn't seen with me two eyes. " In the way of mischief Silver was a star performer. What otherfire-horse ever mastered the intricacies of the automatic halterrelease? It was Silver, too, that picked from the Captain's hip-pocket aneatly folded paper and chewed the same with malicious enthusiasm. Thefolded paper happened to be the Company's annual report, in the writingof which the Captain had spent many weary hours. Other things besides mischief however, had Silver learned. Chief ofthese was to start with the jigger. Sleeping or waking, lying orstanding, the summons that stirred the men from snoring ease to tense, rapid action, never failed to find Silver alert. As the halter shankslipped through the bit-ring that same instant found Silver gatheredfor the rush through the long narrow lane leading from his open stall tothe poles, above which, like great couchant spiders, waited theharnesses pendant on the hanger-rods. It was unwise to be in Silver'sway when that little brazen voice was summoning him to duty. More thanone man of Gray Horse Truck found that out. Once under the harness Silver was like a carved statue until thetrip-strap had been pulled, the collar fastened and the reins snappedin. Then he wanted to poke the poles through the doors, so eager was heto be off. It was no fault of Silver's that his team could not make atwo-second hitch. With the first strain at the traces his impatience died out. Asixty-foot truck starts with more or less reluctance. Besides, Silverknew that before anything like speed could be made it was necessaryeither to mount the grade to Broadway or to ease the machine down toGreenwich Street. It was traces or backing-straps for all that was inyou, and at the end a sharp turn which never could have been made hadnot the tiller-man done his part with the rear wheels. But when once the tires caught the car-tracks Silver knew what toexpect. At the turn he and his team mates could feel Lannigan gatheringin the reins as though for a full stop. Next came the whistle of thewhip. It swept across their flanks so quickly that it was practicallyone stroke for them all. At the same moment Lannigan leaned far forwardand shot out his driving arm. The reins went loose, their heads wentforward and, as if moving on a pivot, the three leaped as one horse. Again the reins tightened for a second, again they were loosened. Whenthe bits were pulled back up came three heads, up came three pairs ofshoulders and up came three pairs of forelegs; for at the other end ofthe lines, gripped vice-like in Lannigan's big fist, was swinging a goodpart of Lannigan's one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Left to themselves each horse would have leaped at a different instant. It was that one touch of the lash and the succeeding swing of Lannigan'sbulk which gave them the measure, which set the time, which made itpossible for less than four thousand pounds of horse-flesh to jump afive-ton truck up the street at a four-minute clip. For Silver all other minor pleasures in life were as nothing to thefierce joy he knew when, with a dozen men clinging to the hand-rails, the captain pulling the bell-rope and Lannigan, far up above them all, swaying on the lines, the Gray Horse Truck swept up Broadway to a firstcall-box. It was like trotting to music, if you've ever done that. Possibly youcould have discovered no harmony at all in the confused roar of theapparatus as it thundered past. But to the ears of Silver there weremany sounds blended into one. There were the rhythmical beat of hoofs, the low undertone of the wheels grinding the pavement, the high note ofthe forged steel lock-opener as it hammered the foot-board, the mellowding-dong of the bell, the creak of the forty-and fifty-foot extensions, the rattle of the iron-shod hooks, the rat-tat-tat of the scalingladders on the bridge and the muffled drumming of the leather helmets asthey jumped in the basket. With the increasing speed all these sounds rose in pitch until, when theteam was at full-swing, they became one vibrant theme--thrilling, inspiring, exultant--the action song of the Truck. To enjoy such music, to know it at its best, you must leap in thetraces, feel the swing of the poles, the pull of the whiffle-trees, theslap of the trace-bearers; and you must see the tangled street-trafficclear before you as if by the wave of a magician's wand. Of course it all ended when, with heaving flanks and snorting nostrilsyou stopped before a building, where thin curls of smoke escaped fromupper windows. Generally you found purring beside a hydrant a shinysteamer which had beaten the truck by perhaps a dozen seconds. Then youwatched your men snatch the great ladders from the truck, heave them upagainst the walls and bring down pale-faced, staring-eyed men and women. You saw them tear open iron shutters, batter down doors, smash windowsand do other things to make a path for the writhing, white-bodied, yellow-nosed snakes that uncoiled from the engine and were carriedwriggling in where the flames lapped along baseboard and floor-beams. You saw the little ripples of smoke swell into huge, cream-edged billowsthat tumbled out and up so far above that you lost sight of them. Sometimes there came dull explosions, when smoke and flame belched outabout you. Sometimes stones and bricks and cornices fell near you. Butyou were not to flinch or stir until Lannigan, who watched all thesehappenings with critical and unwinking eyes, gave the word. And after it was all over--when the red and yellow flames had ceased todance in the empty window spaces, when only the white steam-smoke rolledup through the yawning roof-holes--the ladders were re-shipped, you leftthe purring engines to drown out the last hidden spark, and you wentprancing back to your House, where the lonesome desk-man waitedpatiently for your return. No loping rush was the homeward trip. The need for haste had passed. Nowcame the parade. You might toss your head, arch your neck, and use allyour fancy steps: Lannigan didn't care. In fact, he rather liked to haveyou show off a bit. The men on the truck, smutty of face and hands, joked across the ladders. The strain was over. It was a time ofrelaxing, for behind was duty well done. Then came the nice accuracy of swinging a sixty-foot truck in afifty-foot street and of backing through a fourteen-foot door wheelswhich spanned thirteen feet from hub rim to hub rim. After unhooking there was the rubbing and the extra feeding of oats thatalways follows a long run. How good it was to be bedded down after thislung stretching, leg limbering work. Such was the life which Old Silver was leading when there arriveddisaster. It came in the shape of a milk leg. Perhaps it was caused byover-feeding, but more likely it resulted from much standing in stallduring a fortnight when the runs had been few and short. It behaved much as milk legs usually do. While there was no great painthe leg was unhandsome to look upon, and it gave to Old Silver aclumsiness of movement he had never known before. Industriously did Lannigan apply such simple remedies as he had at hand. Yet the swelling increased until from pastern to hock was neither shapenor grace. Worst of all, in getting on his feet one morning, Silverbarked the skin with a rap from his toe calks. Then it did look bad. Ofcourse this had to happen just before the veterinary inspector'smonthly visit. "Old Silver, eh?" said he. "Well, I've been looking for him to give out. That's a bad leg there, a very bad leg. Send him up to the hospital inthe morning, and I'll have another gray down here. It's time you had anew horse in his place. " Lannigan stepped forward to protest. It was only a milk leg. He hadcured such before. He could cure this one. Besides, he couldn't spareSilver, the best horse on his team. But the inspector often heard such pleas. "You drivers, " said he, "would keep a horse going until he droppedthrough the collar. To hear you talk anyone would think there wasn'tanother horse in the Department. What do you care so long as you getanother gray?" Very much did Lannigan care, but he found difficulty in putting hissentiments into words. Besides, of what use was it to talk to a blindfool who could say that one gray horse was as good as another. HenceLannigan only looked sheepish and kept his tongue between his teethuntil the door closed behind the inspector. Then he banged a ham-likefist into a broad palm and relieved his feelings in language bothforceful and picturesque. This failed to mend matters, so Lannigan, putting an arm around the old gray's neck, told Silver all about it. Probably Silver misunderstood, for he responded by reaching overLannigan's shoulder and chewing the big man's leather belt. Only whenLannigan fed to him six red apples and an extra quart of oats did Silvermistrust that something unusual was going to happen. Next morning, sureenough, it did happen. Some say Lannigan wept. As to that none might be sure, for he sat facingthe wall in a corner of the bunk-room. No misunderstanding could therehave been about his remarks, muttered though they were. They wereuncomplimentary to all veterinary inspectors in general, and mostpointedly uncomplimentary to one in particular. Below they were leadingOld Silver away to the hospital. Perhaps it was that Silver's milk leg was stubborn in yielding totreatment. Perhaps the folks at the horse hospital deemed it unwise tospend time and effort on a horse of his age. At any rate, after lessthan a week's stay, he was cast into oblivion. They took away the leadennumber medal, which for more than ten years he had worn on a straparound his neck, and they turned him over to a sales-stable ascarelessly as a battalion chief would toss away a half-smoked cigar. Now a sales-stable is a place where horse destinies are shuffled byreckless and unthinking hands. Also its doors open on the four cornersof the world's crossed highways. You might go from there to find yourwork waiting between the shafts of a baker's cart just around thecorner, or you might be sent across seas to die miserably of tsetsestings on the South African veldt. Neither of these things happened to Silver. It occurred that his arrivalat the sales-stable was coincident with a rush order from the StreetCleaning Department. So there he went. Fate, it seemed, had marked himfor municipal service. There was no delay about his initiation. Into his forehoofs they brandedthis shameful inscription: D. S. C. 937, on his back they flung aforty-pound single harness with a dirty piece of canvas as a blanket. They hooked him to an iron dump-cart, and then, with a heavy lashedwhip, they haled him forth at 5. 30 a. M. To begin the inglorious work ofremoving refuse from the city streets. Perhaps you think Old Silver could not feel the disgrace, the ignominyof it all. Could you have seen the lowered head, the limp-hung tail, thedulled eyes and the dispirited sag of his quarters, you would havethought differently. It is one thing to jump a hook and ladder truck up Broadway to therelief of a fire-threatened block, and quite another to plod humblyalong the curb from ash-can to ash-can. How Silver did hate those cans. Each one should have been for him a signal to stop. But it was not. Inconsequence, he was yanked to a halt every two minutes. Sometimes he would crane his neck and look mournfully around at theunsightly leg which he had come to understand was the cause of all hismisery. There would come into his great eyes a look of such pitifulmelancholy that one might almost fancy tears rolling out. Then he wouldbe roused by an exasperated driver, who jerked cruelly on the lines andused his whip as if it had been a flail. When the cart was full Silver must drag it half across the city to theriverfront, and up a steep runway from the top of which its contentswere dumped into the filthy scows that waited below. At the end of eachmonotonous, wearisome day he jogged stiffly to the uninviting stables, where he was roughly ushered into a dark, damp stall. To another horse, unused to anything better, the life would not haveseemed hard. Of oats and hay there were fair quantities, and there wasmore or less hasty grooming. But to Silver, accustomed to such littleamenities as friendly pats from men, and the comradeship of hisfellow-workers, it was like a bad dream. He was not even cheered by thefact that his leg, intelligently treated by the stable-boss, was growingbetter. What did that matter? Had he not lost his caste? Express anddray horses, the very ones that had once scurried into side streets atsound of his hoofs, now insolently crowded him to the curb. When he hadbeen on the truck Silver had yielded the right of way to none, he hadheld his head high; now he dodged and waited, he wore a blind bridle, and he wished neither to see nor to be seen. For three months Silver had pulled that hateful refuse chariot about thestreets, thankful only that he traversed a section of the city new tohim. Then one day he was sent out with a new driver whose route layalong familiar ways. The thing Silver dreaded, that which he had longfeared, did not happen for more than a week after the change. It came early one morning. He had been backed up in front of a bigoffice-building where a dozen bulky cans cumbered the sidewalk. Thedriver was just lifting one of them to the tail-board when, from fardown the street, there reached Silver's ears a well-known sound. Nearerit swept, louder and louder it swelled. The old gray lifted his loweredhead in spite of his determination not to look. The driver, too, poisedthe can on the cart-edge, and waited, gazing. In a moment the noise and its cause were opposite. Old Silver hardlyneeded to glance before knowing the truth. It was his old company, theGray Horse Truck. There was his old driver, there were his old teammates. In a flash there passed from Silver's mind all memory of hishumble condition, his wretched state. Tossing his head and giving histail a swish, he leaped toward the apparatus, neatly upsetting thefilled ash-can over the head and shoulders of the bewildered driver. By a supreme effort Silver dropped into the old lope. A dozen boundstook him abreast the nigh horse, and, in spite of Lannigan's shouts, there he stuck, littering the newly swept pavement most disgracefully atevery jump. Thus strangely accompanied, the Gray Horse Truck thunderedup Broadway for ten blocks, and when it stopped, before a building inwhich a careless watchman's lantern had set off the automatic, OldSilver was part of the procession. It was Lannigan who, in the midst of an eloquent flow of indignantabuse, made this announcement: "Why, boys--it's--it's our Old Silver;jiggered if it ain't!" Each member of the crew having expressed his astonishment inappropriate words, Lannigan tried to sum it all up by saying: "Silver, you old sinner! So they've put you in a blanked ash-cart, havethey? Well, I'll--I'll be----" But there speech failed him. His wits did not. There was a whisperedcouncil of war. Lannigan made a daring proposal, at which all grinnedappreciatively. "Sure, they'd never find out, " said one. "An' see, his game leg's most as good as new again, " suggested another. It was an unheard-of, audacious, and preposterous proceeding; one whichthe rules and regulations of the Fire Department, many and varied asthey are, never anticipated. But it was adopted. Meanwhile the Captainfound it necessary to inspect the interior of the building, theLieutenant turned his back, and the thing was done. That same evening an ill-tempered and very dirty ash-cart driver turnedup at the stables with a different horse from the one he had driven outthat morning, much to the mystification of himself and certain officialsof the Department of Street Cleaning. Also, there pranced back as nigh horse of the truck a big gray with oneslightly swollen hind leg. By the way he held his head, by the look inhis big, bright eyes, and by his fancy stepping one might have thoughthim glad to be where he was. And it was so. As for the rest, Lanniganwill tell you in strict confidence that the best mode of disguisinghoof-brands until they are effaced by new growth is to fill them withaxle-grease. It cannot be detected. Should you ever chance to see, swinging up lower Broadway, ahook-and-ladder truck drawn by three big grays jumping in perfectunison, note especially the nigh horse--that's the one on the left sidelooking forward. It will be Old Silver who, although now rising sixteen, seems to be good for at least another four years of active service. BLUE BLAZES AND THE MARRING OF HIM Those who should know say that a colt may have no worse luck than to befoaled on a wet Friday. On a most amazingly wet Friday--rain above, slush below, and a March snorter roaring between--such was the natal dayof Blue Blazes. And an unhandsome colt he was. His broomstick legs seemed twice theproper length, and so thin you would hardly have believed they couldever carry him. His head, which somehow suggested the lines of aboot-jack, was set awkwardly on an ewed neck. For this pitiful, ungainly little figure only two in all the world hadany feeling other than contempt. One of these, of course, was old Kate, the sorrel mare who mothered him. She gazed at him with sad old eyesblinded by that maternal love common to all species, sighed with hugecontent as he nuzzled for his breakfast, and believed him to be thefinest colt that ever saw a stable. The other was Lafe, the chore boy, who, when Farmer Perkins had stirred the little fellow roughly with hisboot-toe as he expressed his deep dissatisfaction, made reparation bygently stroking the baby colt and bringing an old horse-blanket to wraphim in. Old Kate understood. Lafe read gratitude in the big, sorrowfulmother eyes. Months later, when the colt had learned to balance himself on thespindly legs, the old sorrel led him proudly about the pasture, showinghim tufts of sweet new spring grass, and taking him to the brook, wherewere tender and juicy cowslips, finely suited to milk-teeth. In time the slender legs thickened, the chest deepened, the barrelfilled out, the head became less ungainly. As if to make up for theseimprovements, the colt's markings began to set. They took the shapes ofa saddle-stripe, three white stockings, and an irregular white blazecovering one side of his face and patching an eye. On chest and bellythe mother sorrel came out rather sharply, but on the rest of him wasthat peculiar blending which gives the blue roan shade, a colorunpleasing to the critical eye, and one that lowers the market value. Lafe, however, found the colt good to look upon. But Lafe himself had noheritage of beauty. He had not even grown up to his own long, thin legs. Possibly no boy ever had hair of such a homely red. Certainly few couldhave been found with bigger freckles. But it was his eyes whichaccented the plainness of his features. You know the color of a ripegooseberry, that indefinable faint purplish tint; well, that was it. If Lafe found no fault with Blue Blazes, the colt found no fault withLafe. At first the colt would sniff suspiciously at him from under theshelter of the old sorrel's neck, but in time he came to regard Lafewithout fear, and to suffer a hand on his flank or the chore boy's armover his shoulder. So between them was established a gentle confidencebeautiful to see. Fortunate it would have been had Lafe been master of horse on thePerkins farm. But he was not. Firstly, there are no such officials onMichigan peach-farms; secondly, Lafe would not have filled the positionhad such existed. Lafe, you see, did not really belong. He was aninterloper, a waif who had drifted in from nowhere in particular, andwho, because of a willingness to do a man's work for no wages at all, was allowed a place at table and a bunk over the wagon-shed. FarmerPerkins, more jealous of his reputation for shrewdness than of hissoul's salvation, would point to Lafe and say, knowingly: "He's a bad one, that boy is; look at them eyes. " And surely, if Lafe'ssoul-windows mirrored the color of his mental state, he was indeed in abad way. In like manner Farmer Perkins judged old Kate's unhandsome colt. "Look at them ears, " he said, really looking at the unsightlynose-blaze. "We'll have a circus when it comes to breakin' thatcritter. " Sure enough, it _was_ more or less of a circus. Perhaps the colt was atfault, perhaps he was not. Olsen, a sullen-faced Swede farm-hand, whoseyouth had been spent in a North Sea herring-boat, and whose dispositionhad been matured by sundry second mates on tramp steamers, was theappropriate person selected for introducing Blue Blazes to the uses of ahalter. Judging all humans by the standard established by the mild-manneredLafe, the colt allowed himself to be caught after small effort. But whenthe son of old Kate first felt a halter he threw up his head in alarm. Abruptly and violently his head was jerked down. Blue Blazes wassurprised, hurt, angered. Something was bearing hard on his nose; therewas something about his throat that choked. Had he, then, been deceived? Here he was, wickedly and maliciouslytrapped. He jerked and slatted his head some more. This made mattersworse. He was cuffed and choked. Next he tried rearing. His head waspulled savagely down, and at this point Olsen began beating him withthe slack of the halter rope. Ah, now Blue Blazes understood! They got your head and neck into thatarrangement of straps and rope that they might beat you. Wild with fearhe plunged desperately to right and left. Blindly he reared, pawing theair. Just as one of his hoofs struck Olsen's arm a buckle broke. Thecolt felt the nose-strap slide off. He was free. A marvellous tale of fierce encounter with a devil-possessed colt didOlsen carry back to the farm-house. In proof he showed a broken halter, rope-blistered hands, and a bruised arm. "I knew it!" said Farmer Perkins. "Knew it the minute I see them ears. He's a vicious brute, that colt, but we'll tame him. " So four of them, variously armed with whips and pitchforks, went down tothe pasture and tried to drive Blue Blazes into a fence corner. But thecolt was not to be cornered. From one end of the pasture to the other heraced. He had had enough of men for that day. Next morning Farmer Perkins tried familiar strategy. Under his coat hehid a stout halter and a heavy bull whip. Then, holding a grain measuretemptingly before him, he climbed the pasture fence. In the measure were oats which he rattled seductively. Also he calledmildly and persuasively. Blue Blazes was suspicious. Four times heallowed the farmer to come almost within reaching distance only to turnand bolt with a snort of alarm just at the crucial moment. At last heconcluded that he must have just one taste of those oats. "Come coltie, nice coltie, " cooed the man in a strained but conciliatingvoice. Blue Blazes planted himself for a sudden whirl, stretched his neck asfar as possible and worked his upper lip inquiringly. The smell of theoats lured him on. Hardly had he touched his nose to the grain beforethe measure was dropped and he found himself roughly grabbed by theforelock. In a moment he saw the hated straps and ropes. Before he couldbreak away the halter was around his neck and buckled firmly. Farmer Perkins changed his tone: "Now, you damned ugly little brute, I've got you! [Jerk] Blast your wicked hide! [Slash] You will, will you?[Yank] I'll larn you!" [Slash. ] Man and colt were almost exhausted when the "lesson" was finished. Itleft Blue Blazes ridged with welts, trembling, fright sickened. Neveragain would he trust himself within reach of those men; no, not if theyoffered him a whole bushel of oats. But it was a notable victory. Vauntingly Farmer Perkins told how he hadhaltered the vicious colt. He was unconscious that a pair of ripegooseberry eyes turned black with hate, that behind his broad back wasshaken a futile fist. The harness-breaking of Blue Blazes was conducted on much the same planas his halter-taming, except that during the process he learned to usehis heels. One Olsen, who has since walked with a limp, can tell youthat. Another feature of the harness-breaking came as an interruption tofurther bull-whip play by Farmer Perkins. It was a highly melodramaticepisode in which Lafe, gripping the handle of a two-tined pitchfork, hisfreckled-face greenish-white and the pupils of his eyes wide with thefear of his own daring, threatened immediate damage to the person ofFarmer Perkins, unless the said Perkins dropped the whip. This Perkinsdid. More than that, he fled with ridiculous haste, and in craventerror; while Lafe, having given the trembling colt a parting caress, quitted the farm abruptly and for all time. As for Blue Blazes, two days later he was sold to a travellinghorse-dealer, and departed without any sorrow of farewells. In the weeksduring which he trailed over the fruit district of southern Michigan inthe wake of the horse-buyer, Blue Blazes learned nothing good and muchthat was ill. He finished the trip with raw hocks, a hoof-print on hisflank, and teeth-marks on neck and withers. Horses led in a bunch do notimprove in disposition. Some of the scores the blue-roan colt paid in kind, some he did not, buthe learned the game of give and take. Men and horses alike, heconcluded, were against him. If he would hold his own he must be readywith teeth and hoofs. Especially he carried with him always a black, furious hatred of man in general. So he went about with ears laid back, the whites of his eyes showing, and a bite or a kick ready in any emergency. Day by day the hate in himdeepened until it became the master-passion. A quick foot-fall behind himwas enough to send his heels flying as though they had been released bya hair-trigger. He kicked first and investigated afterward. The meresight of a man within reaching distance roused all his ferocity. He took a full course in vicious tricks. He learned how to crowd a managainst the side of a stall, and how to reach him, when at his head, byan upward and forward stroke of the forefoot. He could kick straightbehind with lightning quickness, or give the hoof a sweepingside-movement most comprehensive and unexpected. The knack of liftingthe bits with the tongue and shoving them forward of the bridle-teethcame in time. It made running away a matter of choice. When it became necessary to cause diversion he would balk. He no longercared for whips. Physically and mentally he had become hardened toblows. Men he had ceased to fear, for most of them feared him and heknew it. He only despised and hated them. One exception Blue Blazesmade. This was in favor of men and boys with red hair and freckles. Suchhe would not knowingly harm. A long memory had the roan. Toward his own kind Blue Blazes bore himself defiantly. Double harnesswas something he loathed. One was not free to work his will on thedespised driver if hampered by a pole and mate. In such cases he nippedmanes and kicked under the traces until released. He had a specialantipathy for gray horses and fought them on the smallest provocation, or upon none at all. As a result Blue Blazes, while knowing no masters, had many owners, sometimes three in a single week. He began his career by filling a threemonths' engagement as a livery horse, but after he had run away a dozentimes, wrecked several carriages, and disabled a hostler, he was soldfor half his purchase price. Then did he enter upon his wanderings in real earnest. He pulledstreet-cars, delivery wagons, drays and ash-carts. He was sold tounsuspecting farmers, who, when his evil traits cropped out, swapped himunceremoniously and with ingenious prevarication by the roadside. In thenatural course of events he was much punished. Up and across the southern peninsula of Michigan he driftedcontentiously, growing more vicious with each encounter, more daringafter each victory. In Muskegon he sent the driver of a grocery wagon tothe hospital with a shoulder-bite requiring cauterization and fourstitches. In Manistee he broke the small bones in the leg of a baker'slarge boy. In Cadillac a boarding-stable hostler struck him with an ironshovel. Blue Blazes kicked the hostler quite accurately and verysuddenly through a window. Between Cadillac and Kalaska he spent several lively weeks with farmers. Most of them tried various taming processes. Some escaped with bruisesand some suffered serious injury. At Alpena he found an owner who, having read something very convincing in a horse-trainer's book, elaborately strapped the roan's legs according to diagram, and then wentinto the stall to wreak vengeance with a riding-whip. Blue Blazesaccepted one cut, after which he crushed the avenger against the plankpartition until three of the man's ribs were broken. The Alpena man wasfished from under the roan's hoofs just in time to save his life. This incident earned Blue Blazes the name of "man-killer, " and it stuck. He even figured in the newspaper dispatches. "Blue Blazes, the MichiganMan-Killer, " "The Ugliest Horse Alive, " "Alpena's Equine Outlaw"; thesewere some of the head-lines. The Perkins method had borne fruit. When purchasers for a four-legged hurricane could no longer be found, Blue Blazes was sent up the lake to an obscure little port where theyhave only a Tuesday and Friday steamer, and where the blue roan's recordwas unknown. Horses were in demand there. In fact, Blue Blazes was soldalmost before he had been led down the gang-plank. "Look out for him, " warned the steam-boat man; "he's a wicked brute. " "Oh, I've got a little job that'll soon take the cussedness out of him, "said the purchaser, with a laugh. Blue Blazes was taken down into the gloomy fore-hold of a three-mastedlake schooner, harnessed securely between two long capstan bars, and setto walking in an aimless circle while a creaking cable was wound about adrum. At the other end of the cable were fastened, from time to time, squared pine-logs weighing half a ton each. It was the business of BlueBlazes to draw these timbers into the hold through a trap-door openingin the stern. There was nothing to kick save the stout bar, and therewas no one to bite. Well out of reach stood a man who cracked a whipand, when not swearing forcefully, shouted "Ged-a-a-ap!" For several uneventful days he was forced to endure this exasperatingcondition of affairs with but a single break in the monotony. This cameon the first evening, when they tried to unhook him. The experimentended with half a blue-flannel shirt in the teeth of Blue Blazes and abadly scared lumber-shover hiding in the fore-peak. After that they putgrain and water in buckets, which they cautiously shoved within hisreach. Of course there had to be an end to this. In due time the Ellen B. Wasfull of square timbers. The Captain notified the owner of Blue Blazesthat he might take his blankety-blanked horse out of the Ellen B. 'sfore-hold. The owner declined, and entrenched himself behind a puretechnicality. The Captain had hired from him the use of a horse; wouldthe Captain kindly deliver said horse to him, the owner, on the dock? Itwas a spirited controversy, in which the horse-owner scored severalpoints. But the schooner captain by no means admitted defeat. "The Ellen B. Gets under way inside of a half hour, " said he. "If youwant your blankety-blanked horse you've got that much time to take himaway. " "I stand on my rights, " replied the horse-owner. "You sail off with myproperty if you dare. Go ahead! Do it! Next time the Ellen B. Puts inhere I'll libel her for damages. " Yet in the face of this threat the Ellen B. Cast off her hawsers, spreadher sails, and stood up the lake bound Chicagoward through the Straitswith Blue Blazes still on board. Not a man-jack of the crew wouldventure into the fore-hold, where Blue Blazes was still harnessed to thecapstan bars. When he had been without water or grain for some twelve hours the wrathin him, which had for days been growing more intense, boiled over. Having voiced his rage in raucous squeals, he took to chewing thebridle-strap and to kicking the whiffle-tree. The deck watch gazed downat him in awe. The watch below, separated from him only by a thinpartition, expressed profane disapproval of shipping such a passenger. There was no sleep on the Ellen B. That night. About four in the morningthe continued effort of Blue Blazes met with reward. The halter-strapparted, and the stout oak whiffle-tree was splintered into many pieces. For some minutes Blue Blazes explored the hold until he found thegang-plank leading upward. His appearance on the deck of the Ellen B. Caused something like apanic. The man at the wheel abandoned his post, and as he started forthe cross-trees let loose a yell which brought up all hands. Blue Blazescharged them with open mouth. Not a man hesitated to jump for therigging. The schooner's head came up into the wind, the jib-sheet blocksrattled idly and the booms swung lazily across the deck, just grazingthe ears of Blue Blazes. How long the roan might have held the deck had not his thirst beengreater than his hate cannot be told. Water was what he needed most, forhis throat seemed burning, and just overside was an immensity of water. So he leaped. Probably the crew of the Ellen B. Believe to this day thatthey escaped by a miracle from a devil-possessed horse who, finding thembeyond his reach, committed suicide. But Blue Blazes had no thought of self-destruction. After swallowing asmuch lake water as was good for him he struck out boldly for the shore, which was not more than half a mile distant, swimming easily in theslight swell. Gaining the log-strewn beach, he found himself at theedge of one of those ghostly, fire-blasted tamarack forests which covergreat sections of the upper end of Michigan's southern peninsula. Atlast he had escaped from the hateful bondage of man. Contentedly he fellto cropping the coarse beach-grass which grew at the forest's edge. For many long days Blue Blazes revelled in his freedom, sometimeswandering for miles into the woods, sometimes ranging the beach insearch of better pasturage. Water there was aplenty, but food wasdifficult to find. He even browsed bushes and tree-twigs. At first heexpected momentarily to see appear one of his enemies, a man. He heardimaginary voices in the beat of the waves, the creaking of wind-tossedtree-tops, the caw of crows, or in the faint whistlings of distantsteamers. He began to look suspiciously behind knolls and stumps. Butfor many miles up and down the coast was no port, and the only evidenceshe had of man were the sails of passing schooners, or the trailingsmoke-plumes of steam-boats. Not since he could remember had Blue Blazes been so long without feelinga whip laid over his back. Still, he was not wholly content. He felt astrange uneasiness, was conscious of a longing other than a desire for agood feed of oats. Although he knew it not, Blue Blazes, who hated menas few horses have ever hated them, was lonesome. He yearned for humansociety. When at last a man did appear on the beach the horse whirled and dashedinto the woods. But he ran only a short distance. Soon he picked his wayback to the lake shore and gazed curiously at the intruder. The man wasmaking a fire of driftwood. Blue Blazes approached him cautiously. Theman was bending over the fire, fanning it with his hat. In a moment helooked up. A half minute, perhaps more, horse and man gazed at each other. Probablyit was a moment of great surprise for them both. Certainly it was forthe man. Suddenly Blue Blazes pricked his ears forward and whinnied. Itwas an unmistakable whinny of friendliness if not of glad recognition. The man on the beach had red hair--hair of the homeliest red you couldimagine. Also he had eyes of the color of ripe gooseberries. * * * * * "You see, " said Lafe, in explaining the matter afterward, "I was huntingfor burls. I had seen 'em first when I was about sixteen. It was oncewhen a lot of us went up on the steamer from Saginaw after black bass. We landed somewhere and went up a river into Mullet Lake. Well, one dayI got after a deer, and he led me off so far I couldn't find my way backto camp. I walked through the woods for more'n a week before I came outon the lake shore. It was while I was tramping around that I got into ahardwood swamp where I saw them burls, not knowing what they were at thetime. "When I showed up at home my stepfather was tearing mad. He licked megood and had me sent to the reform school. I ran away from there after awhile and struck the Perkins farm. That's where I got to know BlueBlazes. After my row with Perkins I drifted about a lot until I got workin this very furniture factory, " whereupon Lafe swept a comprehensivehand about, indicating the sumptuously appointed office. "Well, I worked here until I saw them take off the cars a lot of thoseknots just like the ones I'd seen on the trees up in that swamp. 'Whatare them things?' says I to the foreman. "'Burls, ' says he. "'Worth anything?' says I. "'Are they?' says he. 'They're the most expensive pieces of wood you canfind anywhere in this country. Them's what we saw up into veneers. ' "That was enough for me. I had a talk with the president of the company. 'If you can locate that swamp, young man, ' says he, 'and it's got in itwhat you say it has, I'll help you to make your fortune. " "So I started up the lake to find the swamp. That's how I come to runacross Blue Blazes again. How he came to be there I couldn't guess anddidn't find out for months. He was as glad to see me as I was to seehim. They told me afterward that he was a man-killer. Man-killernothing! Why, I rode that horse for over a hundred miles down thelake-shore with not a sign of a bridle on him. "Of course, he don't seem to like other men much, and he did lay up oneor two of my hostlers before I understood him. You see"--here Mr. Lafe, furniture magnate, flushed consciously--"I can't have any but red-headedmen--red-headed like me, you know--about my stable, on account of BlueBlazes. Course, it's foolish, but I guess the old fellow had a toughtime of it when he was young, same as I did; and now--well, he justsuits me, Blue Blazes does. I'd rather ride or drive him than anythoroughbred in this country; and, by jinks, I'm bound he gets whateverhe wants, even if I have to lug in a lot of red-headed men from otherStates. " CHIEFTAIN A STORY OF THE HEAVY DRAUGHT SERVICE He was a three-quarter blood Norman, was Chieftain. You would have knownthat by his deep, powerful chest, his chunky neck, his substantial, shaggy-fetlocked legs. He had a family tree, registered sires, you know, and, had he wished, could have read you a pedigree reaching back to SirNavarre (6893). Despite all this, Chieftain was guilty of no undue pride. Eight years inthe trucking business takes out of one all such nonsense. True, as athree-year-old he had given himself some airs. There was small wonderin that. He had been the boast of Keokuk County for a whole year. "We'llshow 'em what we can do in Indiana, " the stockmaster had said asChieftain, his silver-white tail carefully done up in red flannel, wasled aboard the cars for shipment East. They are not unused to ton-weight horses in the neighborhood of theBull's Head, where the great sales-stables are. Still, when Chieftainwas brought out, his fine dappled coat shining like frosted steel in thesunlight, and his splendid tail, which had been done up in straw crimpsover night, rippling and waving behind him, there was a great craning ofnecks among the buyers of heavy draughts. "Gentlemen, " the red-faced auctioneer had shouted, "here's a buster; oneof the kind you read about, wide as a wagon, with a leg on each corner. There's a ton of him, a whole ton. Who'll start him at three hundred?Why, he's as good as money in the bank. " That had been Chieftain's introduction to the metropolis. But thetriple-hitch is a great leveller. In single harness, even though onedoes pull a load, there is chance for individuality. One may toss one'shead; aye, prance a bit on a nipping morning. But get between the polesof a breast-team, with a horse on either side, and a twelve-ton load atthe trace-ends, and--well, one soon forgets such vanities as pride ofchampion sires, and one learns not to prance. In his eight years as inside horse of breast-team No. 47, Chieftain hadforgotten much about pedigree, but he had learned many other things. Hehad come to know the precise moment when, in easing a heavy load down anincline, it was safe to slacken away on the breeching and trot gently. He could tell, merely by glancing at a rise in the roadway, whether aslow, steady pull was needed, or if the time had come to stick in histoe-calks and throw all of his two thousand pounds on the collar. He hadlearned not to fret himself into a lather about strange noises, and notto be over-particular as to the kind of company in which he foundhimself working. Even though hitched up with a vicious Missouri Modoc onone side and a raw, half collar-broken Kanuck on the other, he would dohis best to steady them down to the work. He had learned to stop atcrossings when a six-foot Broadway-squad officer held up one finger, andto give way for no one else. He knew by heart all the road rules of thecrowded way, and he stood for his rights. [Illustration: He would do his best to steady them down to the work. ] So, in stress of storm or quivering summer heat, did Chieftain toilbetween the poles, hauling the piled-up truck, year in and year out, upand down and across the city streets. And in time he had forgotten hisNorman blood, had forgotten that he was the great-grandson of SirNavarre. Some things there were, however, which Chieftain could not whollyforget. These memories were not exactly clear, but, vague as they were, they stuck. They had to do with fields of new grass, with the elasticfeel of dew-moistened turf under one's hoofs, with the enticing smell ofsweet clover in one's nostrils, the sound of gently moving leaves inone's ears, and the sense that before, as well as behind, were longhours of delicious leisure. It was only in the afternoons that these memories troubled Chieftain. Inthe morning one feels fresh and strong and contented, and, when one hastime for any thought at all, there are comforting reflections that inthe nose-bags, swung under the truck-seat, are eight quarts of goodoats, and that noon must come some time or other. But along about three o'clock of a July day, with stabling time too faraway to be thought of, when there was nothing to do but to standpatiently in the glare of the sun-baked freight-yard, while Tim and hishelper loaded on case after case and barrel after barrel, then it wasthat Chieftain could not help thinking about the fields of new grass, and other things connected with his colt days. Sometimes, when he was plodding doggedly over the hard pavements, withevery foot-fall jarring tired muscles, he would think how nice it wouldbe, just for a week or so, to tread again that yielding turf he hadknown such a long, long time ago. Then, perhaps, he would slacken just abit on the traces, and Tim would give that queer, shrill chirrup ofhis, adding, sympathetically: "Come, me bye, come ahn!" Then Chieftainwould tighten the traces in an instant, giving his whole attention tothe business of keeping them taut and of placing each iron-shod hoofjust where was the surest footing. In this last you may imagine there is no knack. Perhaps you think it isdone off-hand. Well, it isn't. Ask any experienced draught-horse used tocity trucking. He will tell you that wet cobble-stones, smoothed by muchwear and greased with street slime, cannot be travelled heedlessly. Either the heel or the toe calks must find a crevice somewhere. If theydo not, you are apt to go on your knees or slide on your haunches. Flat-rail car-tracks give you unexpected side slips. So do the raisedrims of man-hole covers. But when it comes to wet asphalt--your calkswill not help you there. It's just a case of nice balancing andtrusting to luck. Much, of course, depends on the man at the other end of the lines. Inthis particular Chieftain was fortunate, for a better driver than TimDoyle did not handle leather for the company. Even "the old man"--thestable-boss--had been known to say as much. Chieftain had taken a liking to Tim the first day they turned outtogether, when Chieftain was new to the city and to trucking. DriverDoyle's fondness for Chieftain was of slower growth. In those days therewere other claimants for Tim's affections than his horses. There was aMrs. Doyle, for instance. Sometimes Chieftain saw her when Tim drove thetruck anywhere in the vicinity of the flat-house in which he lived. Shewould come out and look at the team, and Tim would tell what fine horseshe had. There was a young Tim, too, a big, growing boy, who would nowand then ride on the truck with his father. One day--it was during Chieftain's fifth year in the service--somethinghad happened to Mrs. Doyle. Tim had not driven for three days that time, and when he did come back he was a very sober Tim. He told Chieftain allabout it, because he had no one else to tell. Soon after this young Tim, who had grown up, went away somewhere, and from that time on thefriendship between old Tim and Chieftain became closer than ever. Timspent more and more of his time at the stable, until at the end, hefixed himself a bunk in the night watchman's office and made it hishome. So, for three years or more Chieftain had always had a good-night pat onthe flank from Tim, and in the morning, after the currying and rubbing, they had a little friendly banter, in the way of love-slaps from Timand good-natured nosings from Chieftain. Perhaps many of Tim'sconfidences were given half in jest, and perhaps Chieftain sometimesthought that Tim was a bit slow in perception, but, all in all, eachunderstood the other, even better than either realized. Of course, Chieftain could not tell Tim of all those vague longingswhich had to do with new grass and springy turf, nor could he know thatTim had similar longings. These thoughts each kept to himself. But ifChieftain was of Norman blood, a horse whose noble sires had rangedpasture and paddock free from rein or trace, Tim was a Doyle whosefather and grandfather had lived close to the good green sod, and haddone their toil in the open, with the cool and calm of the country tosoothe and revive them. Of such delights as these both Chieftain and Tim had tasted scantily, hurriedly, in youth; and for them, in the lapses of the daily grind, both yearned, each after his own fashion. And, each in his way, Tim and Chieftain were philosophers. As the yearshad come and gone, toil-filled and uneventful, the character of the manhad ripened and mellowed, the disposition of the horse had settled andsweetened. In his earlier days Tim had been ready to smash a wheel or lose one, todemand right of way with profane unction, and to back his word withwhip, fist, or bale-hook. But he had learned to yield an inch onoccasion and to use the soft word. Chieftain, too, in his first years between the poles, had sometimes beenimpatient with the untrained mates who from time to time joined theteam. He had taken part in mane-biting and trace-kicking, especially ondays when the loads were heavy and the flies thick, conditions which trythe best of horse tempers. But he had steadied down into a pole-horsewho could set an example that was worth more than all the six-footlashes ever tied to a whip-stock. It was during the spring of Chieftain's eighth year with the companythat things really began to happen. First there came rheumatism to Tim. Trucking uses up men as well as horses, you know. While it is the hardwork and the heavy feeding of oats which burn out the animal, it isgenerally the exposure and the hard drinking which do for the men. Tim, however, was always moderate in his use of liquor, so he lasted longerthan most drivers. But at one-and-forty the wearing of rain-soakedclothes called for reprisal. One wet May morning, after vainly trying tohobble about the stable, Tim, with a bottle of horse liniment under hisarm, gave it up and went back to his bunk. Team No. 47 went out that day with a new driver, a cousin of thestable-boss, who had never handled anything better than common, light-weight express horses. How Chieftain did miss Tim those next fewdays! The new man was slow at loading, and, to make up the time, he cutshort their dinner-hour. Now it is not the wise thing to hurry horseswho have just eaten eight quarts of oats. The team finished the day wellblown, and in a condition generally bad. Next day the new man let theoff horse stumble, and there was a pair of barked knees to be doctored. Matters went from bad to worse, until on the fourth day came the climax. Sludge acid is an innocent-appearing liquid which sometimes stands inpools near gas-works. Good drivers know enough to avoid it. It is badfor the hoofs. The new man still had many things to learn, and thishappened to be one of them. In the morning Team 47 was disabled. Thecompany's veterinary looked at the spongy hoofs and remarked to thestable-boss: "About three weeks on the farm will fix 'em all right, Iguess; but I should advise you to chuck that new driver out of thewindow; he's too expensive for us. " That was how Chieftain's yearnings happened to be gratified at last. Thecompany, it seems, has a big farm, somewhere "up State, " to whichdisabled horses are sent for rest and recuperation. Invalided driversmust look out for themselves. You can get a hundred truck drivers byhanging out a sign: good draught horses are to be had only for a price. Chieftain and Tim parted with mutual misgivings. To a younger horse thelong ride in the partly open stock-car might have been a novelty, but toChieftain, accustomed to ferries and the sight of all manner of wheeledthings, it was without new sensations. At the end of the ride--ah, that was different. There were the sweet, fresh fields, the springy green turf, the trees--all just as he haddreamed a hundred times. Halterless and shoe-freed, Chieftain prancedabout the pasture for all the world like a two-year-old. With head andtail up he ranged the field. He even tried a roll on the grass. Then, when he was tired, he wandered about, nibbling now and then at atempting bunch of grass, but mainly exulting in his freedom. There wereother company horses in the field, but most of them were busy grazing. Each was disabled in some way. One was half foundered, one had aleg-sprain, another swollen joints; but hoof complaints, such astoe-cracks, quarter-cracks, brittle feet, and the like, were the mostfrequent ills. They were not a cheerful lot, and they were unsociable. Chieftain went ambling off by himself, and in due time made acquaintancewith a rather gaunt, weather-beaten sorrel who hung his head lonesomelyover the fence from an adjoining pasture. He seemed grateful for thenotice taken of him by the big Norman, and soon they were the best offriends. For hours they stood with their muzzles close together or theirnecks crossed in fraternal fashion, swapping horse gossip after themanner of their kind. The sorrel, it appeared, was farm-bred and farm-reared. He knew littleor nothing of pavements and city hauling. All his years had been spentin the country. In spite of his bulging ribs and unkempt coat Chieftainalmost envied him. What a fine thing it must be to live as the sorrellived, to crop the new grass, to feel the turf under your feet, and todrink, instead of the hard stuff one gets from the hydrant, the softsweet brook water, to drink it standing fetlock deep in thehoof-soothing mud! But the sorrel was lacking in enthusiasm for countrylife. About the fifth day of his rustication the sharp edge of Chieftain'sappreciation became dulled. He discovered that pasture life was wantingin variety. Also he missed his oats. When one has been accustomed totwenty-four quarts a day, and hay besides, grass seems a mildsubstitute. Graze industriously as he would, it was hard to get enough. The sorrel, however, was sure Chieftain would get used to all that. In time, of course, the talk turned to the pulling of heavy loads. Thesorrel mentioned the yanking of a hay-rick, laden with two tons ofclover, from the far meadow lot to the barn. Two tons! Chieftain snortedin mild disdain. Had not his team often swung down Broadway with sixteentons on the truck? To be sure, narrow tires and soft-going made adifference. The country horse suggested that dragging a breaking plough through oldsod was strenuous employment. Yes, it might be, but had the sorrel evertightened the traces for a dash up a ferry bridgeway when the tide wasout? No, the sorrel had done his hauling on land. He had never ridden onboats. He had heard them, though. They were noisy things, almost asnoisy as an old Buckeye mower going over a stony field. [Illustration: Then let him snake a truck down West Street. ] Noise! Would the sorrel like to know what noise really was? Then let himbe hooked into a triple Boston backing hitch and snake a truck down WestStreet, with the whiffle-trees slatting in front of him, thespreader-bar rapping jig time on the poles, and the gongs of street-carsand automobiles and fire-engines and ambulances all going at once. Noise? Let him mix in a Canal Street jam or back up for a load on aNorth River pier! And as Chieftain recalled these things the contrast of the pasture'soppressive stillness to the lively roar of the familiar streets camehome to him. Who was taking his place between the poles of Team 47? Hadthey put one of those cheeky Clydes in his old stall? He would not careto lose that stall. It was the best on the second floor. It had a windowin it, and Sundays he could see everything that went on in the streetbelow. He could even look into the front rooms of the tenements acrossthe way. There was a little girl over there who interested Chieftaingreatly. She was trying to raise some sort of a flower in a tin canwhich she kept on the window-ledge. She often waved her hand atChieftain. Then there was poor Tim Doyle. Good old Tim! Where was another driverlike him? He made you work, Tim did, but he looked out for you all thetime. Always on the watch, was Tim, for galled spots, chafing sores, hoof-pricks, and things like that. If he could get them he would put onfresh collar-pads every week. And how carefully he would cover you upwhen you were on the forward end of a ferryboat in stormy weather. Notossing the blanket over your back from Tim. No, sir! It was alwaysdoubled about your neck and chest, just where you most need protectionwhen you're steaming hot and the wind is raw. How many drivers warmedthe bits on a cold morning or rinsed out your mouth in hot weather? Who, but Tim could drive a breast team through a---- But just here Chieftain heard a shrill, familiar whistle, and in amoment, with as much speed as his heavy build allowed, he was making hisway across the field to where a short, stocky man with a broad grincleaving his face, was climbing the pasture-fence. It was Tim Doylehimself. Tim, it seems, had so bothered the stable-boss with questions about thefarm, its location, distance from the city, and general management, thatat last that autocrat had said: "See here, Doyle, if you want to go upthere just say so and I'll send you as car hostler with the next batch. I'll give you a note to the farm superintendent. Guess he'll let youhang around for a week or so. " "I'll go up as hostler, " said Tim, "but you just say in that there notethat Tim Doyle pays his own way after he gets there. " In that way it was settled. For some four days Tim appeared to enjoy itgreatly. Most of his time he spent sitting on the pasture-fence, smokinghis pipe and watching the grazing horses. To Chieftain alone he broughtgreat bunches of clover. About the fifth day Tim grew restive. He had examined Chieftain's hoofsand pronounced them well healed, but the superintendent said that itwould be a week before he should be ready to send another lot of horsesback to the city. "How far is it by road?" asked Tim. "Oh, two hundred miles or so, " said the superintendent. "Why not let me take Chieftain down that way? It'd be cheaper'n shippin'him, an' do him good. " The superintendent only laughed and said he would ship Chieftain withthe others, when he was ready. That evening Tim sat on the bench before the farm-house and smoked hispipe until everyone else had gone to bed. The moon had risen, big andyellow. In a pond behind the stables it seemed as if ten thousand frogshad joined in one grand chorus. They were singing their mating song, ifyou know what that is. It is not altogether a cheerful or harmoniouseffort. Next to the soughing of a November wind it is, perhaps, the mostdismally lonesome sound in nature. For two hours Tim Doyle smoked and thought and listened. Then he knockedthe ashes out of his pipe and decided that he had been long enough inthe country. He would walk to the station, two miles away, and take themidnight train to the city. As he went down the farm road skirting thepasture he saw in the moonlight the sheds where the horses went at nightfor shelter. Moved by some sudden whim, he stopped and whistled. Amoment later a big horse appeared from under the shed and came towardhim, neighing gratefully. It was Chieftain. "Well, Chieftain, me bye, I'll be lavin' ye for a spell. But I'll haveyer old stall ready against yer comin' back. Good-by, laddie, " and withthis Tim patted Chieftain on the nose and started down the road. He hadgone but a few steps when he heard Chieftain whinny. Tim stoppedirresolutely, and then went on. Again came the call of the horse. Therewas no misunderstanding its meaning. Tim walked back to the fence. In the morning the farm superintendent found on the door-sill a roughlypencilled note which read: "Hav goan bak to the sitty P S chefetun warnted to goe so I tuk him. TimDoyle. " They were ten days on the road, ten delightful days of irresponsiblevagabondism. Sometimes Tim rode on Chieftain's back and sometimes hewalked beside him. At night they took shelter in any stable that washandy. Tim invested in a bridle and saddle blanket. Also he bought oatsand hay for Chieftain. The big Norman followed his own will, stopping tograze by the roadside whenever he wished. Together they drank frombrooks and springs. Between them was perfect comradeship. Each was inholiday mood and each enjoyed the outing to the fullest. As they passedthrough towns they attracted no little attention, for outside of thecity 2, 000-pound horses are seldom seen, and there were many admirersof Chieftain's splendid proportions. Tim had many offers from shrewdhorse-dealers. "Ye would, eh? A whole hundred dollars!" Tim would answer with finesarcasm. "Now, wouldn't that be too much, don't ye think? My, my, what agenerous mon it is! G'wan, Chieftain, er Mister Car-na-gy here'll beafter givin' us a lib'ry. " Chieftain, and Tim, too, for that matter, were nearer actual freedomthan ever before. For years the big Norman had used his magnificentmuscles only for straining at the traces. He had trod only the hardpavements. Now, he put forth his glorious strength at leisure, movingalong the pleasant country roads at his own gait, and being guided onlywhen a turning was to be made. Fine as it all was, however, as they drew near to the city both horseand driver became eager to reach their old quarters. Tim was, for he hassaid so. As for Chieftain--let the stable-boss, who knows horse-naturebetter than most men know themselves, tell that part of the story. "Bigger lunatics than them two, Tim Doyle and old Chieftain, I never seteyes on, " he says. "I was standin' down here by the double doorswatchin' some of the day-teams unhook when I looks up the street on asudden. An' there, tail an' head up like he was a 'leven-hundred-poundKentucky hunter 'stead of heavy-weight draught, comes that oldChieftain, a whinnyin' like a three-year-old. An' on his back, mind you, old Tim Doyle, grinnin' away 'sif he was Tod Sloan finishin' first atthe Brooklyn Handicap. Tickled? I never see a horse show anything soplain in all my life. He just streaked it up that runway and into hisold stall like he was a prodigal son come back from furren parts. "Yes, Tim he's out on the truck with his old team. Tim don't have todrive nowadays, you know. Brother of his that was in the contractin'business died about three months ago an' left Tim quite a pile. Tim, hesays he guesses the money won't take no hurt in the bank and that someday, when he an' Chieftain git ready to retire, maybe it'll come inhandy. " BARNACLES WHO MUTINIED FOR GOOD CAUSE With his coming to Sculpin Point there was begun for Barnacles the mostsurprising period of a more or less useful career which had been filledwith unusual equine activities. For Barnacles was a horse, a white horseof unguessed breed and uncertain age. Most likely it was not, but it may have been, Barnacles's first intimateconnection with an affair of the heart. Said affair was between CaptainBastabol Bean, owner and occupant of Sculpin Point, and Mrs. StashiaBuckett, the unlamenting relict of the late Hosea Buckett. Mrs. Buckett it was who induced Captain Bastabol Bean to purchase ahorse. Captain Bean, you will understand, had just won the affections ofthe plump Mrs. Buckett. Also he had, with a sailor's ignorance offeminine ways, presumed to settle off-hand the details of the comingnuptials. "I'll sail over in the dory Monday afternoon, " said he, "and take youback with me to Sculpin Point. You can have your dunnage sent over laterby team. In the evenin' we'll have a shore chaplain come 'round an' makethe splice. " "Cap'n Bean, " replied the rotund Stashia, "we won't do any of themthings, not one. " "Wha-a-at!" gasped the Captain. "Have you ever been married, Cap'n Bean?" "N-n-no, my dear. " "Well, I have, and I guess I know how it ought to be done. You'll havethe minister come here, and here _you'll_ come to marry me. You won'tcome in no dory, either. Catch me puttin' my two hundred an' thirtypounds into a little boat like that. You'll drive over here with ahorse, like a respectable person, and you'll drive back with me, by landand past Sarepta Tucker's house so's she can see. " Now for more than thirty years Bastabol Bean, as master of coastingschooners up and down the Atlantic seaboard, had given orders. He hadtaken none, except the formal directions of owners. He did not proposeto begin taking them now, not even from such an altogether charmingperson as Stashia Buckett. This much he said. Then he added: "Stashia, I give in about coming here to marry you; that seems no morethan fair. But I'll come in a dory and you'll go back in a dory. " "Then you needn't come at all, Cap'n Bastabol Bean. " Argue and plead as he might, this was her ultimatum. "But, Stashia, I 'ain't got a horse, never owned one an' never handledone, and you know it, " urged the Captain. "Then it's high time you had a horse and knew how to drive him. Besides, if I go to Sculpin Point I shall want to come to the village once in awhile. I sha'n't sail and I sha'n't walk. If I can't ride like a lady Idon't go to the Point. " The inevitable happened. Captain Bean promised to buy a horse next day. Hence his visit to Jed Holden and his introduction to Barnacles, as theCaptain immediately named him. As one who inspects an unfamiliar object, Captain Bean looked dazedly atBarnacles. At the same time Barnacles inspected the Captain. With headlowered to knee level, with ears cocked forward, nostrils sniffing andunder-lip twitching almost as if he meant to laugh, Barnacles eyed hisprospective owner. In common with most intelligent horses, he had analmost human way of expressing curiosity. Captain Bean squirmed under the gaze of Barnacles's big, calm eyes for amoment, and then shifted his position. "What in time does he want anyway, Jed?" demanded the Captain. "Wants to git acquainted, that's all, Cap'n. Mighty knowin' hoss, he is. Now some hosses don't take notice of anything. They're jest naturallydumb. Then agin you'll find hosses that seem to know every blamed wordyou say. Them's the kind of hosses that's wuth havin. " "S'pose he knows all the ropes, Jed?" "I should say he did, Cap'n. If there's anything that hoss ain't done inhis day I don't know what 'tis. Near's I can find out he's tried everykind of work, in or out of traces, that you could think of. " "Sho!" The Captain was now looking at the old white horse in aninterested manner. "Yes, sir, that's a remarkable hoss, " continued the now enthusiastic Mr. Holden. "He's been in the cavalry service, for he knows the bugle callslike a book. He's travelled with a circus--ain't no more afraid ofelephants than I be. He's run on a fire engine--know that 'cause hewants to chase old Reliance every time she turns out. He's been astreet-car hoss, too. You jest ring a door gong behind him twice an' seehow quick he'll dig in his toes. The feller I got him off'n said he knewof his havin' been used on a milk wagon, a pedler's cart and a hack. Fact is, he's an all round worker. " "Must be some old by your tell, " suggested the Captain. "Sure histimbers are all sound?" "Dun'no' 'bout his timbers, Cap'n, but as fer wind an' limb you won'tfind a sounder hoss, of his age, in this county. Course, I'm not sellin'him fer a four-year-old. But for your work, joggin' from the P'int intothe village an' back once or twice a week, I sh'd say he was jest theticket; an' forty-five, harness an' all as he stands, is dirt cheap. " Again Captain Bean tried to look critically at the white horse, but oncemore he met that calm, curious gaze and the attempt was hardly asuccess. However, the Captain squinted solemnly over Barnacles's withersand remarked: "Yes, he has got some good lines, as you say, though you wouldn'thardly call him clipper built. Not much sheer for'ard an' a leetle toomuch aft, eh?" At this criticism Jed snorted mirthfully. "Oh, I s'pose he's all right, " quickly added the Captain. "Fact is, Iain't never paid much attention to horses, bein' on the water so much. You're sure he'll mind his helm, Jed?" "Oh, he'll go where you p'int him. " "Won't drag anchor, will he?" "Stand all day if you'll let him. " "Well, Jed, I'm ready to sign articles, I guess. " It was about noon that a stable-boy delivered Barnacles at SculpinPoint. His arrival caused Lank Peters to suspend peeling the potatoesfor dinner and demand explanation. "Who's the hoss for, Cap'n?" asked Lank. It was a question that Captain Bean had been dreading for two hours. When he had given up coasting, bought the strip of Massachusettsseashore known as Sculpin Point, built a comfortable cottage on it andsettled down within sight and sound of the salt water, he had broughtwith him Lank Peters, who for a dozen years had presided over the galleyin the Captain's ship. More than a mere sea-cook was Lank Peters to Captain Bean. He wasconfidential friend, advising philosopher, and mate of Sculpin Point. Yet from Lank had the Captain carefully concealed all knowledge of hisaffair with the Widow Buckett. The time of confession was at hand. In his own way and with a directness peculiar to all his acts, didCaptain Bean admit the full sum of his rashness, adding, thoughtfully:"I s'pose you won't have to do much cookin' after Stashia comes; butyou'll still be mate, Lank, and there'll be plenty to keep you busy onthe P'int. " Quietly and with no show of emotion, as befitted a sea-cook and aphilosopher, Melankthon Peters heard these revelations. If he had hisprejudices as to the wisdom or folly of marrying widows, he said noword. But in the matter of Barnacles he felt more free to expresssomething of his uneasiness. "I didn't ship for no hostler, Cap'n, an' I guess I'll make a poor fistat it, but I'll do my best, " he said. "Guess we'll manage him between us, Lank, " cheerfully responded theCaptain. "I ain't got much use for horses myself; but as I said, Stashia, she's down on boats. " "Kinder sot in her idees, ain't she, Cap'n?" insinuated Lank. "Well, kinder, " the Captain admitted. Lank permitted himself to chuckle guardedly. Captain Bastabol Bean, asan innumerable number of sailor-men had learned, was a person whogenerally had his own way. Intuitively the Captain understood that Lankhad guessed of his surrender. A grim smile was barely suggested by thewrinkles about his mouth and eyes. "Lank, " he said, "the Widow Buckett an' me had some little argument overthis horse business an'--an'--I give in. She told me flat she wouldn'tcome to the P'int if I tried to fetch her by water in the dory. Well, Iwant Stashia mighty bad; for she's a fine woman, Lank, a mighty finewoman, as you'll say when you know her. So I promised to bring her homeby land and with a horse. I'm bound to do it, too. But by time!" Herethe Captain suddenly slapped his knee. "I've just been struck with anotion. Lank, I'm going to see what you think of it. " For an hour Captain and mate sat in the sun, smoked their pipes andtalked earnestly. Then they separated. Lank began a close study ofBarnacles's complicated rigging. The Captain tramped off toward thevillage. Late in the afternoon the Captain returned riding in a sidebar buggywith a man. Behind the buggy they towed a skeleton lumber wagon--fourwheels connected by an extension pole. The man drove away in the sidebarleaving the Captain and the lumber wagon. Barnacles, who had been moored to a kedge-anchor, watched the next day'sproceedings with interest. He saw the Captain and Lank drag up from thebeach the twenty-foot dory and hoist it up between the wheels. Throughthe forward part of the keelson they bored a hole for the king-bolt. With nut-bolts they fastened the stern to the rear axle, adding somevery seamanlike lashings to stay the boat in place. As finishing touchesthey painted the upper strakes of the dory white, giving to the lowerpart and to the running-gear of the cart a coat of sea-green. Barnacles was experienced, but a vehicle such as this amphibious productof Sculpin Point he had never before seen. With ears pointed andnostrils palpitating from curiosity, he was led up to the boat-bodiedwagon. Reluctantly he backed under the raised shafts. The practice-hitchwas enlivened by a monologue, on the part of Captain Bean, which ransomething like this: "Now, Lank, pass aft that backstay [the trace] and belay; no, not there!Belay to that little yard-arm [whiffle-tree]. Got it through thelazy-jack [trace-bearer]? Now reeve your jib-sheets [lines] through themdead-eyes [hame rings] and pass 'em aft. Now where in Tophet does thisthingumbob [holdback] go? Give it a turn around the port bowsprit[shaft]. There, guess everything's taut. " The Captain stood off to take an admiring glance at the turnout. "She's down by the bow some, Lank, but I guess she'll lighten when weget aboard. See what you think. " Lank's inspection caused him to meditate and scratch his head. Finallyhe gave his verdict: "From midships aft she looks as trim as a liner, but from midships for'ard she looks scousy, like a Norwegian tramp aftera v'yage round The Horn. " "Color of old Barnacles don't suit, eh? No, it don't, that's so. But Icouldn't find no green an' white horse, Lank. " "Couldn't we paint him up a leetle, Cap'n?" "By Sancho, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Captain Bean. "Course wecan; git a string an' we'll strike a water-line on him. " With no more ado than as if the thing was quite usual, the preparationsfor carrying out this indignity were begun. Perhaps the victim thoughtit a new kind of grooming, for he made no protest. Half an hour laterold Barnacles, from about the middle of his barrel down to his shoes, was painted a beautiful sea-green. Like some resplendent marine monstershone the lower half of him. It may have been a trifle bizarre, but, with the sun on the fresh paint, the effect was unmistakably striking. Besides, his color now matched that of the dory's with startlingexactness. "That's what I call real ship-shape, " declared Captain Bean, viewingthe result. "Got any more notions, Lank?" "Strikes me we ought to ship a mast so's we could rig a sprit-sail incase the old horse should give out, Cap'n. " "We'll do it, Lank; fust rate idee!" So a mast and sprit-sail were rigged in the dory. Also the lines werelengthened with rope, that the Captain might steer from the sternsheets. "She's as fine a land-goin' craft as ever I see anywhere, " said theCaptain, which was certainly no extravagant statement. How Captain Bean and his mate steered the equipage from Sculpin Point tothe village, how they were cheered and hooted along the route, how theyran into the yard of the Metropolitan Livery Stable as a port of refuge, how the Captain escaped to the home of Widow Buckett, how the "splicin'"was accomplished--these are details which must be slighted. The climax came when the newly made Mrs. Bastabol Buckett Bean, herplump hand resting affectionately on the sleeve of the Captain's bestblue broadcloth coat, said, cooingly: "Now, Cap'n, I'm ready to drive toSculpin Point. " "All right, Stashia, Lank's waitin' for us at the front door with thecraft. " At first sight of the boat on wheels Mrs. Bean could do no more thanattempt, by means of indistinct ejaculation, to express her obviousemotion. She noted the grinning crowd of villagers, Sarepta Tucker amongthem. She saw the white and green dory with its mast, and with Lank, villainously smiling, at the top of a step-ladder which had been leanedagainst the boat; she saw the green wheels, and the verdant gorgeousnessof Barnacles's lower half. For a moment she gazed at the fantasticequipage and spoke not. Then she slammed the front door with anindignant bang, marched back into the sitting-room and threw herself onthe haircloth sofa with an abandon that carried away half a dozensprings. For the first hour she reiterated, between vast sobs, that Captain Beanwas a soulless wretch, that she would never set foot on Sculpin Point, and that she would die there on the sofa rather than ride in such anoutlandish rig. Many a time had Captain Bean weathered Hatteras in a southeaster, butnever had he met such a storm of feminine fury as this. However, hestood by like a man, putting in soothing words of explanation andendearment whenever a lull gave opportunity. Toward evening the storm spent itself. The disturbed Stashia becamesomewhat calm. Eventually she laughed hysterically at the Captain'sarguments, and in the end she compromised. Not by day would she enterthe dory wagon, but late in the evening she would swallow her pride andgo, just to please the Captain. Thus it was that soon after ten o'clock, when the village folks hadlaughed their fill and gone away, the new Mrs. Bean climbed thestep-ladder, bestowed herself unhandily on the midship thwart and, withLank on lookout in the bow, and Captain Bean handling the reins from thestern sheets, the honeymoon chariot got under way. By the time they reached the Shell Road the gait of the dejectedBarnacles had dwindled to a deliberate walk which all of Lank's urgingscould not hasten. It was a soft July night with a brisk offshore breezeand the moon had come up out of the sea to silver the highway and lay astrip of milk-white carpet over the waves. "Ahoy there, Lank!" shouted the bridegroom. "Can't we do better'n this?Ain't hardly got steerage-way on her. " "Can't budge him, Cap'n. Hadn't we better shake-out the sprit-sail;wind's fair abeam. " "Yes, shake it out, Lank. " Mrs. Bean's feeble protest was unheeded. As the night wind caught thesail and rounded it out the flapping caused old Barnacles to cast aninvestigating glance behind him. One look at the terrible white thingwhich loomed menacingly above him was enough. He decided to bolt. Bolthe did to the best of his ability, all obstacles being considered. Adown grade in the Shell Road, where it dipped toward the shore, helpedthings along. Barnacles tightened the traces, the sprit-sail did itsshare, and in an amazingly short time the odd vehicle was spinningtoward Sculpin Point at a ten-knot gait. Desperately Mrs. Bean grippedthe gunwale and lustily she screamed: "Whoa, whoa! Stop him, Captain, stop him! He'll smash us all to pieces!" "Set right still, Stashia, an' trim ship. I've got the helm, " respondedthe Captain, who had set his jaws and was tugging at the rope lines. "Breakers ahead, sir!" shouted Lank at this juncture. Sure enough, not fifty yards ahead, the Shell Road turned sharply awayfrom the edge of the beach to make a detour by which Sculpin Point wascut off. "I see 'em, Lank. " "Think we can come about, Cap'n?" asked Lank, anxiously. "Ain't goin to try, Lank. I'm layin' a straight course for home. Standby to bail. " How they could possibly escape capsizing Lank could not understanduntil, just as Barnacles was about to make the turn, he saw the Captaintighten the right-hand rein until it was as taut as a weatherstay. Ofnecessity Barnacles made no turn, and there was no upset. Somethingequally exciting happened, though. Leaving the road with a speed which he had not equalled since the dayswhen he had figured in the "The Grand Hippodrome Races, " his sea-greenlegs quickened by the impetus of the affair behind him, Barnaclescleared the narrow strip of beach-grass at a jump. Another leap and hewas hock deep in the surf. Still another, and he split a roller with hiswhite nose. With a dull chug, a resonant thump, and an impetuous splash the doryentered its accustomed element, lifting some three gallons of salt waterneatly over the bows. Lank ducked. The unsuspecting Stashia did not, and the flying brine struck fairly under her ample chin. "Ug-g-g-gh! Oh! Oh! H-h-h-elp!" spluttered the startled bride, and triedto get on her feet. "Sit down!" roared Captain Bean. Vehemently Stashia sat. "W-w-w-we'll all b-b-be d-d-drowned, drowned!" she wailed. "Not much we won't, Stashia. We're all right now, and we ain't goin' tohave our necks broke by no fool horse, either. Trim in the sheet, Lank, an' then take that bailin' scoop. " The Captain was now calmly confidentand thoroughly at home. Drenched, cowed and trembling, the newly made Mrs. Bean clungdespairingly to the thwart, fully as terrified as the plungingBarnacles, who struck out wildly with his green legs, and snorted everytime a wave hit him. But the lines held up his head and kept his nosepointing straight for the little beach on Sculpin Point, perhaps aquarter of a mile distant. Somewhat heavy weather the deep-laden dory made of it, and in spite ofLank's vigorous bailing the water sloshed around Mrs. Bean's boot-tops, yet in time the sail and Barnacles brought them safely home. "'Twa'n't exactly the kind of honeymoon trip I'd planned, Stashia, "commented the Captain, as he and Lank steadied the bride's dripping bulkdown the step-ladder, "and we did do some sailin', spite of ourselves;but we had a horse in front an' wheels under us all the way, just as Ipromised. " BLACK EAGLE WHO ONCE RULED THE RANGES Of his sire and dam there is no record. All that is known is that he wasraised on a Kentucky stock farm. Perhaps he was a son of Hanover, butHanoverian or no, he was a thoroughbred. In the ordinary course ofevents he would have been tried out with the other three-year olds forthe big meet on Churchill Downs. In the hands of a good trainer he mighthave carried to victory the silk of some great stable and had his nameprinted in the sporting almanacs to this day. But there was about Black Eagle nothing ordinary, either in his bloodor in his career. He was born for the part he played. So at three, instead of being entered in his class at Louisville, it happened that hewas shipped West, where his fate waited. No more comely three year old ever took the Santa Fé trail. Although hestood but thirteen hands and tipped the beam at scarcely twelve hundredweight, you might have guessed him to be taller by two hands. Thedeception lay in the way he carried his shapely head and in the mannerin which his arched neck tapered from the well-placed shoulders. A horseman would have said that he had a "perfect barrel, " meaning thathis ribs were well rounded. His very gait was an embodied essay ongraceful pride. As for his coat, save for a white star just in themiddle of his forehead, it was as black and sleek as the nap on a newsilk hat. After a good rubbing he was so shiny that at a distance youmight have thought him starched and ironed and newly come from thelaundry. His arrival at Bar L Ranch made no great stir, however. They were notconnoisseurs of good blood and sleek coats at the Bar L outfit. Theywere busy folks who most needed tough animals that could lope off fiftymiles at a stretch. They wanted horses whose education included the fineart of knowing when to settle back on the rope and dig in toes. It wasnot a question as to how fast you could do your seven furlongs. It wasmore important to know if you could make yourself useful at a round-up. "'Nother bunch o' them green Eastern horses, " grumbled the ranch boss asthe lot was turned into a corral. "But that black fellow'd make arustler's mouth water, eh, Lefty?" In answer to which the said Lefty, being a man little given to speech, grunted. "We'll brand 'em in the mornin', " added the ranch boss. Now most steers and all horses object to the branding process. Even thespiritless little Indian ponies, accustomed to many ingenious kinds ofabuse, rebel at this. A meek-eyed mule, on whom humility rests as anall-covering robe, must be properly roped before submitting. In branding they first get a rope over your neck and shut off your wind. Then they trip your feet by roping your forelegs while you are on thejump. This brings you down hard and with much abruptness. A cowboy sitson your head while others pin you to the ground from variousvantage-points. Next someone holds a red-hot iron on your rump until ithas sunk deep into your skin. That is branding. Well, this thing they did to the black thoroughbred, who had up to thattime felt not so much as the touch of a whip. They did it, but notbefore a full dozen cow-punchers had worked themselves into such a furyof exasperation that no shred of picturesque profanity was left unusedamong them. Quivering with fear and anger, the black, as soon as the ropes weretaken off, dashed madly about the corral looking in vain for a way ofescape from his torturers. Corrals, however, are built to resist justsuch dashes. The burn of a branding iron is supposed to heal almostimmediately. Cowboys will tell you that a horse is always morefrightened than hurt during the operation, and that the day after hefeels none the worse. All this you need not credit. A burn is a burn, whether made purposelywith a branding iron or by accident in any other way. The scorchedflesh puckers and smarts. It hurts every time a leg is moved. It seemsas if a thousand needles were playing a tattoo on the exposed surface. Neither is this the worst of the business. To a high-strung animal theroping, throwing, and burning is a tremendous nervous shock. For daysafter branding a horse will jump and start, quivering with expectantagony, at the slightest cause. It was fully a week before the black thoroughbred was himself again. Inthat time he had conceived such a deep and lasting hatred for all men, cowboys in particular, as only a high-spirited, blue-blooded horse canacquire. With deep contempt he watched the scrubby little cow ponies asthey doggedly carried about those wild, fierce men who threw theircircling, whistling, hateful ropes, who wore such big, sharp spurs andwho were viciously handy in using their rawhide quirts. So when a cowboy put a breaking-bit into the black's mouth there wasanother lively scene. It was somewhat confused, this scene, but atintervals one could make out that the man, holding stubbornly to maneand forelock, was being slatted and slammed and jerked, now with hisfeet on the ground, now thrown high in the air and now danglingperilously and at various angles as the stallion raced away. In the end, of course, came the whistle of the choking, foot-tanglingropes, and the black was saddled. For a fierce half hour he tookpunishment from bit and spur and quirt. Then, although he gave it up, itwas not that his spirit was broken, but because his wind was gone. Quitepassively he allowed himself to be ridden out on the prairie to wherethe herds were grazing. Undeceived by this apparent docility, the cowboy, when the time came forhim to bunk down under the chuck wagon for a few hours of sleep, tethered his mount quite securely to a deep-driven stake. Before thecattleman had taken more than a round dozen of winks the black hadtested his tether to the limit of his strength. The tether stood thetest. A cow pony might have done this much. There he would have stopped. But the black was a Kentucky thoroughbred, blessed with the inheritedintelligence of noble sires, some of whom had been household pets. So heinvestigated the tether at close range. Feeling the stake with his sensitive upper lip he discovered it to befirm as a rock. Next he backed away and wrenched tentatively at thehalter until convinced that the throat strap was thoroughly sound. Hislast effort must have been an inspiration. Attacking the taut buckskinrope with his teeth he worked diligently until he had severed three ofthe four strands. Then he gathered himself for another lunge. With asnap the rope parted and the black dashed away into the night, leavingthe cowboy snoring confidently by the camp-fire. All night he ran, on and on in the darkness, stopping only to listentremblingly to the echo of his own hoofs and to sniff suspiciously atthe crouching shadows of innocent bushes. By morning he had left the BarL outfit many miles behind, and when the red sun rolled up over the edgeof the prairie he saw that he was alone in a field that stretchedunbroken to the circling sky-line. Not until noon did the runaway black scent water. Half mad with thirsthe dashed to the edge of a muddy little stream and sucked down a greatdraught. As he raised his head he saw standing poised above him on theopposite bank, with ears laid menacingly flat and nostrils aquiver innervous palpitation, a buckskin-colored stallion. Snorting from fright the black wheeled and ran. He heard behind him ashrill neigh of challenge and in a moment the thunder of many hoofs. Looking back he saw fully a score of horses, the buckskin stallion inthe van, charging after him. That was enough. Filling his great lungswith air he leaped into such a burst of speed that his pursuers soontired of the hopeless chase. Finding that he was no longer followed theblack grew curious. Galloping in a circle he gradually approached theband. The horses had settled down to the cropping of buffalo grass, onlythe buckskin stallion, who had taken a position on a little knoll, remaining on guard. The surprising thing about this band was that each and every memberseemed riderless. Not until he had taken long up-wind sniffs was thethoroughbred convinced of this fact. When certain on this point hecantered toward the band, sniffing inquiringly. Again the buckskinstallion charged, ears back, eyes gleaming wickedly and snortingdefiantly. This time the black stood his ground until the buckskin'steeth snapped savagely within a few inches of his throat. Just in timedid he rear and swerve. Twice more--for the paddock-raised black wasslow to understand such behavior--the buckskin charged. Then the blackwas roused into aggressiveness. There ensued such a battle as would have brought delight to the brutesoul of a Nero. With fore-feet and teeth the two stallions engaged, circling madly about on their hind legs, tearing up great clods ofturf, biting and striking as opportunity offered. At last, by a quick, desperate rush, the buckskin caught the thoroughbred fairly by thethroat. Here the affair would have ended had not the black stallion, rearing suddenly on his muscle-ridged haunches and lifting hisopponent's forequarters clear of the ground, showered on his enemy sucha rain of blows from his iron-shod feet that the wild buckskin droppedto the ground, dazed and vanquished. Standing over him, with all the fierce pride of a victorious gladiatorshowing in every curve of his glistening body, the black thoroughbredtrumpeted out a stentorian call of defiance and command. The band, thathad watched the struggle from a discreet distance, now came gallopingin, whinnying in friendly fashion. Black Eagle had won his first fight. He had won the leadership. By rightof might he was now chief of this free company of plains rangers. Itwas for him to lead whither he chose, to pick the place and hour ofgrazing, the time for watering, and his to guard his companions from alldangers. As for the buckskin stallion, there remained for him the choice ofhumbly following the new leader or of limping off alone to try to raisea new band. Being a worthy descendant of the chargers which the men ofCortez rode so fearlessly into the wilds of the New World he chose thelatter course, and, having regained his senses, galloped stiffly towardthe north, his bruised head lowered in defeat. Some months later Arizona stockmen began to hear tales of a great bandof wild horses, led by a magnificent black stallion which was fleeterthan a scared coyote. There came reports of much mischief. Cattle werestampeded by day, calves trampled to death, and steers scattered farand wide over the prairie. By night bunches of tethered cow poniesdisappeared. The exasperated cowboys could only tell that suddenly outof the darkness had swept down on their quiet camps an avalanche of wildhorses. And generally they caught glimpses of a great black brandedstallion who led the marauders at such a pace that he seemed almost tofly through the air. This stallion came to be known as Black Eagle, and to be thoroughlyfeared and hated from one end of the cattle country to the other. TheBar L ranch appeared to be the heaviest loser. Time after time were itspicketed mares run off, again and again were the Bar L herds scatteredby the dash of this mysterious band. Was it that Black Eagle could takerevenge? Cattlemen have queer notions. They put a price on his head. Itwas worth six months wages to any cowboy who might kill or captureBlack Eagle. About this time Lefty, the silent man of the Bar L outfit, disappeared. Weeks went by and still the branded stallion remained free and unhurt, for no cow horse in all the West could keep him in sight half an hour. Black Eagle had been the outlaw king of the ranges for nearly two yearswhen one day, as he was standing at lookout while the band cropped therich mesa grass behind him, he saw entering the cleft end of a distantarroyo a lone cowboy mounted on a dun little pony. With quickintelligence the stallion noted that this arroyo wound about until itsmouth gave upon the side of the mesa not a hundred yards from where hestood. Promptly did Black Eagle act. Calling his band he led it at a sharp paceto a sheltered hollow on the mesa's back slope. There he left it andhurried away to take up his former position. He had not waited longbefore the cowboy, riding stealthily, reappeared at the arroyo's mouth. Instantly the race was on. Tossing his fine head in the air andswitching haughtily his splendid tail, Black Eagle laid his course in adirection which took him away from his sheltered band. Pounding alongbehind came the cowboy, urging to utmost endeavor the tough littlemustang which he rode. Had this been simply a race it would have lasted but a short time. Butit was more than a race. It was a conflict of strategists. Black Eaglewished to do more than merely out-distance his enemy. He meant to leadhim far away and then, under cover of night, return to his band. Also the cowboy had a purpose. Well knowing that he could neitherovertake nor tire the black stallion, he intended to ride him down bycircling. In circling, the pursuer rides toward the pursued from anangle, gradually forcing his quarry into a circular course whosediameter narrows with every turn. This, however, was a trick Black Eagle had long ago learned to block. Sure of his superior speed he galloped away in a line straight as anarrow's flight, paying no heed at all to the manner in which he wasfollowed. Before midnight he had rejoined his band, while far off on theprairie was a lone cowboy moodily frying bacon over a sage-brush fire. But this pursuer was no faint heart. Late the next day he was sightedcreeping cunningly up to windward. Again there was a race, not so longthis time, for the day was far spent, but with the same result. When for the third time there came into view this same lone cowboy, Black Eagle was thoroughly aroused to the fact that this persistentrider meant mischief. Having once more led the cowboy a long andfruitless chase the great black gathered up his band and started south. Not until noon of the next day did he halt, and then only because manyof the mares were in bad shape. For a week the band was moved on. Duringintervals of rest a sharp lookout was kept. Watering places, where anenemy might lurk, were approached only after the most careful scouting. Despite all caution, however, the cowboy finally appeared on thehorizon. Unwilling to endanger the rest of the band, and perhaps wishinga free hand in coping with this evident Nemesis, Black Eagle canteredboldly out to meet him. Just beyond gun range the stallion turnedsharply at right angles and sped off over the prairie. There followed a curious chase. Day after day the great black led hispursuer on, stopping now and then to graze or take water, never allowinghim to cross the danger line, but never leaving him wholly out of sight. It was a course of many windings which Black Eagle took, now swingingfar to the west to avoid a ranch, now circling east along a water-course, again doubling back around the base of a mesa, but in the main goingsteadily northward. Up past the brown Maricopas they worked, across theturgid Gila, skirting Lone Butte desert; up, up and on until in thedistance glistened the bald peaks of Silver range. Never before did a horse play such a dangerous game, and surely noneever showed such finesse. Deliberately trailing behind him an enemy benton taking either his life or freedom, not for a moment did Black Eagleshow more than imperative caution. At the close of each day when, by afew miles of judicious galloping, he had fully winded the cowboy'smount, the sagacious black would circle to the rear of his pursuer andoften, in the gloom of early night, walk recklessly near to the camp ofhis enemy just for the sake of sniffing curiously. But each morning, asthe cowboy cooked his scant breakfast, he would see, standing a fewhundred rods away, Black Eagle, patiently waiting for the chase to beresumed. Day after day was the hunted black called upon to foil a new ruse. Sometimes it was a game of hide and seek among the buttes, and again itwas an early morning sally by the cowboy. Once during a mid-day stop the dun mustang was turned out to graze. Black Eagle followed suit. A half mile to windward he could see the cowpony, and beside it, evidently sitting with his back toward his quarry, the cowboy. For a half hour, perhaps, all was peace and serenity. Then, as a cougar springing from his lair, there blazed out of the bushes onthe bank of a dry water-course to leeward a rifle shot. Black Eagle felt a shock that stretched him on the grass. There arriveda stinging at the top of his right shoulder and a numbing sensation allalong his backbone. Madly he struggled to get on his feet, but he coulddo no more than raise his fore quarters on his knees. As he did so hesaw running toward him from the bushes, coatless and hatless, hisrelentless pursuer. Black Eagle had been tricked. The figure by thedistant mustang then, was only a dummy. He had been shot from ambush. Human strategy had won. With one last desperate effort, which sent the red blood spurting fromthe bullet hole in his shoulder, Black Eagle heaved himself up until hesat on his haunches, braced by his fore-feet set wide apart. Then, just as the cowboy brought his rifle into position for thefinishing shot, the stallion threw up his handsome head, his big eyesblazing like two stars, and looked defiantly at his enemy. Slowly, steadily the cowboy took aim at the sleek black breast behindwhich beat the brave heart of the wild thoroughbred. With fingertouching the trigger he glanced over the sights and looked into thosebig, bold eyes. For a full minute man and horse faced each other thus. Then the cowboy, in an uncertain, hesitating manner, lowered his rifle. Calmly Black Eagle waited. But the expected shot never came. Instead, the cowboy walked cautiously toward the wounded stallion. No move did Black Eagle make, no fear did he show. With a splendidindifference worthy of a martyr he sat there, paying no more heed to hisapproaching enemy than to the red stream which trickled down hisshoulder. He was helpless and knew it, but his noble courage wasunshaken. Even when the man came close enough to examine the wound andpat the shining neck that for three years had known neither touch ofhand nor bridle-rein, the great stallion did no more than follow withcurious, steady gaze. It is an odd fact that a feral horse, although while free even wilderand fiercer than those native to the prairies, when once returned tocaptivity resumes almost instantly the traits and habits of domesticity. So it was with Black Eagle. With no more fuss than he would have madewhen he was a colt in paddock he allowed the cowboy to wash and dresshis wounded shoulder and to lead him about by the halter. By a little stream that rounded the base of a big butte, Lefty--for itwas he--made camp, and every day for a week he applied to Black Eagle'sshoulder a fresh poultice of pounded cactus leaves. In that time the bigstallion and the silent man buried distrust and hate and enmity. Nolonger were they captive and captor. They came nearer to being congenialcomrades than anything else, for in the calm solitudes of the vastplains such sentiments may thrive. So, when the wound was fully healed, the black permitted himself to bebridled and saddled. With the cow pony following as best it might theyrode toward Santa Fé. With Black Eagle's return to the cramped quarters of peopled placesthere came experiences entirely new to him. Every morning he wassaddled by Lefty and ridden around a fence-enclosed course. At first hewas allowed to set his own gait, but gradually he was urged to show hisspeed. This was puzzling but not a little to his liking. Also he enjoyedthe oats twice a day and the careful grooming after each canter. Hebecame accustomed to stall life and to the scent and voices of men abouthim, although as yet he trusted none but Lefty. Ever kind andconsiderate he had found Lefty. There were times, of course, when BlackEagle longed to be again on the prairie at the head of his old band, butthe joy of circling the track almost made up for the loss of those wildfree dashes. One day when Lefty took him out Black Eagle found many other horses onthe track, while around the enclosure he saw gathered row on row of menand women. A band was playing and flags were snapping in the breeze. There was a thrill of expectation in the air. Black Eagle felt it, andas he pranced proudly down the track there was lifted a murmur ofapplause and appreciation which made his nerves tingle strangely. Just how it all came about the big stallion did not fully understand atthe time. He heard a bell ring sharply, heard also the shouts of men, and suddenly found himself flying down the course in company with adozen other horses and riders. They had finished half the circle beforeBlack Eagle fully realized that a gaunt, long-barrelled bay was not onlyleading him but gaining with every leap. Tossing his black mane in thewind, opening his bright nostrils and pointing his thin, close set earsforward he swung into the long prairie stride which he was wont to usewhen leading his wild band. A half dozen leaps brought him abreast thegaunt bay, and then, feeling Lefty's knees pressing his shoulders andhearing Lefty's voice whispering words of encouragement in his ears, Black Eagle dashed ahead to rush down through the lane of franticallyshouting spectators, winner by a half dozen lengths. That was the beginning of Black Eagle's racing career. How itprogressed, how he won races and captured purses in a seemingly endlessstring of victories unmarred by a single defeat, that is part of theturf records of the South and West. There had to be an end, of course. Owners of carefully bred runninghorses took no great pleasure, you may imagine, in seeing so many richprizes captured by a half-wild branded stallion of no known pedigree, and ridden by a silent, square-jawed cowboy. So they sent East for a"ringer. " He came from Chicago in a box-car with two grooms and he wasentered as an unknown, although in the betting ring the odds posted wereone to five on the stranger. Yet it was a grand race. This allegedunknown, with a suppressed record of victories at Sheepshead, Bennings, and The Fort, did no more than shove his long nose under the wire a barehalf head in front of Black Eagle's foam-flecked muzzle. It was sufficient. The once wild stallion knew when he was beaten. Hehad done his best and he had lost. His high pride had been humbled, hisfierce spirit broken. No more did the course hold for him any pleasure, no more could he be thrilled by the cries of spectators or urged intohis old time stride by Lefty's whispered appeals. Never again did BlackEagle win a race. His end, however, was not wholly inglorious. Much against his will thecowboy who had so relentlessly followed Black Eagle half way across thebig territory of Arizona to lay him low with a rifle bullet, who hadspared his life at the last moment and who had ridden him to victory inso many glorious races--this silent, square-jawed man had given him afinal caress and then, saying a husky good-by, had turned him over tothe owner of a great stud-farm and gone away with a thick roll ofbank-notes in his pocket and a guilty feeling in his breast. Thus it happens that to-day throughout the Southwest there are manyblack-pointed fleet-footed horses in whose veins runs the blood of anoble horse. Some of them you will find in well-guarded paddocks, whilesome still roam the prairies in wild bands which are the menace ofstockmen and the vexation of cowboys. As for their sire, he is no more. This is the story of Black Eagle. Although some of the minor detailsmay be open to dispute, the main points you may hear recited by anycattleman or horse-breeder west of Omaha. For Black Eagle really livedand, as perhaps you will agree, lived not in vain. BONFIRE BROKEN FOR THE HOUSE OF JERRY I Down in Maine or up in Vermont, anywhere, in fact, save on a fancystud-farm, his color would have passed for sorrel. Being a high-bredhackney, and the pick of the Sir Bardolph three-year-olds, he was putdown as a strawberry roan. Also he was the pride of Lochlynne. "'Osses, women, and the weather, sir, ain't to be depended on; but, barrin' haccidents, that 'ere Bonfire'll fetch us a ribbon if any does, sir. " Hawkins, the stud-groom, made this prophecy, not in haste or outof hand, but as one who has a reputation to maintain and who speaks bythe card. So the word was passed among the under-grooms and stable-boys thatBonfire was the best of the Sir Bardolph get, and that he was going tothe Garden for the honor and profit of the farm. Well, Bonfire had come to the Garden. He had been there two days. It waswithin a few hours of the time when the hackneys were to take thering--and look at him! His eyes were dull, his head was down, hisnostrils wept, his legs trembled. About his stall was gathered a little group of discouraged men and boyswho spoke in low tones and gazed gloomily through the murky atmosphereat the blanket-swathed, hooded figure that seemed about to collapse onthe straw. "'E ain't got no more life in 'im than a sick cat, " said one. "TheBellair folks will beat us 'oller; every one o' their blooming hentriesis as fit as fiddles. " "Ain't we worked on 'im for four mortal hours?" demanded another. "Wotmore can we do?" "Send for old 'Awkins an' tell 'im, that's all. " A shudder seemed to shake the group in the stall. It was clear that Mr. Hawkins would be displeased, and that his displeasure was something tobe dreaded. Bonfire, too, was seen to shudder, but it was not from fearof Hawkins's wrath. Little did Bonfire care just then for grooms, heador ordinary. He shuddered because of certain aches that dwelt withinhim. In his stomach was a queer feeling which he did not at all understand. In his head was a dizziness which made him wish that the stall would notmove about so. Streaks of pain shot along his backbone and slid downhis legs. Hot and cold flashes swept over his body. For Bonfire had abad case of car-sickness--a malady differing from sea-sickness largelyin name only--also a well-developed cold complicated by nervousindigestion. Tuned to the key, he had left the home stables. Then they had led himinto that box on wheels and the trouble had begun. Men shouted, bellsclanged, whistles shrieked. Bonfire felt the box start with a jerk, and, thumping, rumbling, jolting, swaying, move somewhere off into the night. In an agony of apprehension--neck stretched, eyes staring, ears pointed, nostrils quivering, legs stiffened, Bonfire waited for the end. But ofend there seemed to be none. Shock after shock Bonfire withstood, andstill found himself waiting. What it all meant he could not guess. Therewere the other horses that had been taken with him into the box, someplacidly munching hay, others looking curiously about. There were thefamiliar grooms who talked soothingly in his ear and patted his neck invain. The terror of the thing, this being whirled noisily away in a box, had struck deep into Bonfire's brain, and he could not get it out. So hestood for many hours, neither eating nor sleeping, listening to thenoises, feeling the motion, and trembling as one with ague. Of course it was absurd for Bonfire to go to pieces in that fashion. Youcan ship a Missouri Modoc around the world and he will finish almost assound as he started. But Bonfire had blood and breeding and a pedigreewhich went back to Lady Alice of Burn Brae, Yorkshire. His coltdom had been a sort of hothouse existence; for Lochlynne, youknow, is the toy of a Pennsylvania coal baron, who breeds hackneys, notfor profit, but for the joy there is in it; just as other men groworchids and build cup defenders. At the Lochlynne stables they turn onthe steam heat in November. On rainy days you are exercised in aglass-roofed tanbark ring, and hour after hour you are handled overdeep straw to improve your action. You breathe outdoor air only inhigh-fenced grass paddocks around which you are driven in surcingle rigby a Cockney groom imported with the pigskin saddles and Britishcondition powders. From the day your name is written in the stud-bookuntil you leave, you have balanced feed, all-wool blankets, fly-nettings, and coddling that never ceases. Yet this is the methodthat rounds you into perfect hackney form. All this had been done for Bonfire and with apparent success, but a fewhours of railroad travel had left him with a set of nerves as tenselystrung as those of a high-school girl on graduation-day. That is why adraught of cold air had chilled him to the bone; that is why, afterreaching the Garden, he had gone as limp as a cut rose at a ball. II Hawkins, who had jumped into his clothes and hurried to the scene from anearby hotel, behaved disappointingly. He cursed no one, he did not evenkick a stable boy. He just peeled to his undershirt and went to work. Hestripped blankets and hood from the wretched Bonfire, grabbed a bunch ofstraw in either hand and began to rub. It was no chamois polishing. Itwas a raking, scraping, rib-bending rub, applied with all the force inHawkins's sinewy arms. It sent the sluggish blood pounding throughevery artery of Bonfire's congested system and it made the perspirationooze from the red face of Hawkins. At the end of forty minutes' work Bonfire half believed he had beenskinned alive. But he had stopped trembling and he held up his head. Next he saw Hawkins shaking something in a thick, long-necked bottle. Suddenly two grooms held Bonfire's jaws apart while Hawkins poured aliquid down his throat. It was fiery stuff that seemed to burn its way, and its immediate effect was to revive Bonfire's appetite. Hour after hour Hawkins worked and watched the son of Sir Bardolph, andwhen the get-ready bell sounded he remarked: "Now, blarst you, we'll see if you're goin' to go to heverlastin' smashin the ring. Tommy, dig out a pair o' them burrs. " Not until he reached the tanbark did Bonfire understand what burrswere. Then, as a rein was pulled, he felt a hundred sharp pointspricking the sensitive skin around his mouth. With a bound he leapedinto the ring. It was a very pretty sight presented to the horse experts lining therail and to persons in boxes and tier seats. They saw a blockily builtstrawberry roan, his chiselled neck arched in a perfect crest, his rigidthigh muscles rippling under a shiny coat as he swung his hocks, hisslim forelegs sweeping up and out, and every curve of his rounded body, from the tip of his absurd whisk-broom tail to the white snip on the endof his tossing nose, expressing that exuberance of spirits, that jauntyabandon of motion which is the very apex of hackney style. Behind him ashort-legged groom bounced through the air at the end of the reins, keeping his feet only by means of most amazing strides. It was a woman in one of the promenade boxes, a young woman wearing astunning gown and a preposterous picture-hat, who started the applause. Her hand-clapping was echoed all around the rail, was taken up in theboxes and finally woke a rattling chorus from the crowded tiers above. The three judges, men with whips and long-tailed coats, looked earnestlyat the strawberry roan. Bonfire heard, too, but vaguely. There was a ringing in his ears. Flashes of light half blinded his eyes. The concoction from thelong-necked bottle was doing its work. Also the jaw-stinging burrs kepthis mind busy. On he danced in a mad effort to escape the pain, and onlyby careful manoeuvring could the grooms get him to stand still longenough for the judges to use the tape. And when it was all over, after the judges had grouped and regroupedthe entries, compared figures and whispered in the ring centre; out ofsheer defiance to the preference of the spectators they gave the blue toa chestnut filly with black points--at which the tier seats hissedmightily--and tied a red ribbon to Bonfire's bridle. Thereupon thestrawberry roan, who had looked fit for a girthsling three hours before, tossed his head and pranced daintily out of the arena amid a ringinground of applause. Hardly had Bonfire's docked tail disappeared before the woman in thestunning gown turned eagerly to a man beside her and asked, "Can't Ihave him, Jerry? He'll be such a perfect cross-mate for Topsy. Please, now. " To be sure Jerry grumbled some, but inside of a quarter of an hour hehad found Hawkins and paid the price; a price worthy of Sir Bardolph andquite in keeping with Lochlynne reckonings. "'E's been car sick an' show sick, " said Hawkins warningly, "an' it'llbe a good two weeks afore 'e's in proper condition, sir; but you'll find'im as neat a bit of 'oss flesh as you hever owned, sir. " Nor was Hawkins wrong. When the burrs were taken off and the effect ofthe doses from the long-necked bottle had died out, Bonfire lookedanything but a ribbon-getter. Luckily Mr. Jerry had a coachman who knewhis business. Dan was his name, County Antrim his birthplace. He fedBonfire hot mixtures, he rubbed, he nursed, until he had coaxed the coldout and had quieted the jangled nerves. Then, one crisp Decembermorning, Bonfire, once more in the pink of condition, was hooked up withTopsy to the pole of a shining, rubber-tired brougham and taken aroundto make the acquaintance of Mrs. Jerry. "Oh, isn't he a beauty, Dan!" squealed Mrs. Jerry delightedly, asBonfire danced up to the curb. "Isn't he?" Dan, trained to silence, touched his hat. Mrs. Jerry patted Bonfire'srounded quarter, tried to rub his impatient nose and squandered on him abewildering variety of superlatives. Then she was handed to her seat, the footman swung up beside Dan, the reins were slackened and away theywhirled toward the Park, stepping as if they were going over hurdles. III For three years Bonfire had been in leather and he had found the lifefar different from the dull routine of coddling that he had known at theLochlynne Farm. There was little monotony about it, for the Jerrys wereno stay-at-homes. Of his oak-finished stable, with its sanded floorsand plaited straw stall-mats, Bonfire saw almost as little as did Mrs. Jerry of her white and gold rooms on the Avenue. In the morning it would be a trip down town, where Topsy and Bonfirewould wait before the big stores, watching the traffic and people, untilMrs. Jerry reappeared. After luncheon they generally took her throughthe Park or up and down the Avenue to teas and receptions. In theevening they were often harnessed again to take Mr. And Mrs. Jerry todinner, theatre, or ball. Late at night they might be turned out tofetch them home. What long, cold waits they had, standing in line sometimes for hours, stamping their hoofs and shivering under heavy blankets; for a stylishhackney, you know, must be kept closely clipped, no matter what theweather. Why, even Dan, muffled in his big coat and bear-skinshoulder-cape, was half frozen. But Dan could leave the footman on thebox and go to warm himself in the glittering corner saloons, and when hecame back it would be the footman's turn. For Topsy and Bonfire therewas no such relief. Chilled, tired, and hungry, they must stamp and waituntil at last, far down the street, could be heard the shouting of thestrong-lunged carriage-caller. When Dan got his number they were quiteready for the homeward dash. Seeing them come down the street, heads tossing, pole-chains jingling, the crest and monogram of the house of Jerry glistening on quarter clothand rosette, their polished hoofs seeming barely to touch the asphalt, you might have thought their lot one to be envied. But Bonfire and Topsyknew better. It was altogether too heavy work for high-bred hackneys, of course. Mr. Jerry pointed this out, but to no use. Mrs. Jerry asked pertinentlywhat good horses were for if not to be used. No, she wanted no liveryteams for the night work. When she rode she wished to ride behind Topsyand Bonfire. They were her horses, anyway. She would do as she pleased. And she did. Summer brought neither rest nor relief. Early in July horses, servants, and carriages would be shipped off to Newport or Saratoga, there tobegin again the unceasing whirl. And fly time, to a docktailed horse, isa season of torment. Of Mrs. Jerry, who had once roused the Garden for his sake, Bonfirecaught but glimpses. After that first day, when he was a novelty, heheard no more compliments, received no more pats from her gloved hands. But of slight or neglect Bonfire knew nothing. He curved his neck andthrew his hoofs high, whether his muscles ached or no; in winter hestamped to keep warm, in summer to dislodge the flies; he did his workfaithfully, early or late, in cold and in heat; and all this because hewas a son of Sir Bardolph and for the reason that it was his nature to. Had it been put upon him he would have worked in harness until hedropped, prancing his best to the last. No supreme test, however, was ever brought to the endurance andwillingness of Bonfire. They just kept him on the pole, nerves tense, muscles strained, until he began to lose form. His action no longer hadthat grace and abandon which so pleased Mrs. Jerry when she first sawhim. Long standing in the cold numbs the muscles. It robs the legs oftheir spring. Sudden starts, such as are made when you are called fromline after an hour's waiting, finish the business. Try as he might, Bonfire could not step so high, could not carry a perfect crest. Hisneck had lost its roundness, in his rump a crease had appeared. To Dan also, came tribulation of his own making. He carried a flat brownflask under the box and there were times when his driving was more amatter of muscular habit than of mental acuteness. Twice he wasthreatened with discharge and twice he solemnly promised reform. At lastthe inevitable happened. Dan came one morning to Bonfire's stall, verysober and very sad. He patted Bonfire and said good-by. Then hedisappeared. Less than a week later two young hackneys, plump of neck, round ofquarter, springy of knee and hock, were brought to the stable. Bonfireand Topsy were led out of their old stalls to return no more. They hadbeen worn out in the service and cast aside like a pair of old gloves. Then did Bonfire enter upon a period of existence in which box-stalls, crested quarter blankets, rubber-tired wheels and liveried drivers hadno part. It was a varied existence, filled with toil and hardship andabuse; an existence for which the coddling one gets at Lochlynne Farm isno fit preparation. IV Just where Broadway crosses Sixth Avenue at Thirty-third Street is to befound a dingy, triangular little park plot in which a few gas-stunted, smoke-stained trees make a brave attempt to keep alive. On two sides ofthe triangle surface-cars whirl restlessly, while overhead the elevatedtrains rattle and shriek. This part of the metropolis knows littledifference between day and night, for the cars never cease, thearc-lights blaze from dusk until dawn and the pavements are never whollyempty. Locally the section is sometimes called "the Cabman's Graveyard. " Duringany hour of the twenty-four you may find waiting along the curb a lineof public carriages. By day you will sometimes see smartly kept hansoms, well-groomed horses, and drivers in neat livery. But at night the character of the line changes. The carriages are mostlyone-horse closed cabs, rickety as to wheels, with torn and fadedcushions, license numbers obscured by various devices and rate-cardsalways missing. The horses are dilapidated, too; and the drivers, whomyou will generally find nodding on the box or sound asleep inside theircabs, harmonize with their rigs. These are the Nighthawkers of the Tenderloin. The name is not anassuring one, but it is suspected that it has been aptly given. One bleak midnight in late November a cab of this description waited inthe lee of the elevated stairs. The cab itself was weather-beaten, scratched, and battered. The driver, who sat half inside and halfoutside the vehicle, with his feet on the sidewalk and his back proppedagainst the seat-cushion, puffed a short pipe and watched with indolentbut discriminating eye those who passed. He wore a coachman's coat offaded green which seemed to have acquired a stain for every button ithad lost. On his head sat jauntily a rusty beaver and his face, especially the nose, was of a rich crimson hue. The horse, that seemed to lean on rather than stand in the patchedshafts, showed many well-defined points and but few curves. His thinneck was ewed, there were deep hollows over the eyes, the number of hisribs was revealed with startling frankness and the sagging of onehind-quarter betrayed a bad leg. His head he held in spiritless fashionon a level with his knees. As if to add a note of irony, his tail hadbeen docked to the regulation of absurd brevity and served only to taghim as one fallen from a more reputable state. Suddenly, up and across the intersecting thoroughfares, with a sharpclatter of hoofs, rolled a smart closed brougham. The dispirited bobtaillooked up as a well-mated pair pranced past. Perhaps he noted theirsleek quarters, the glittering trappings on their backs and theirgingery action. As he dropped his head again something very like a sighescaped him. It might have been regret, perhaps it was only a touch ofinfluenza. The driver, too, saw the turnout and gazed after it. But he did notsigh. He puffed away at his pipe as if entirely satisfied with his lot. He was still watching the brougham when a surface-car came glidingswiftly around a curve. There was a smash of splintering wood andbreaking glass. The car had struck the brougham a battering-ram blow, crushing a rear wheel and snapping the steel axle at the hub. From somewhere or other a crowd of curious persons appeared and circledabout to watch while the driver held the plunging horses and the footmanhauled from the overturned carriage a man and a woman in evening dress. The couple seemed unhurt and, although somewhat rumpled as to attire, remarkably unconcerned. "Keb, sir! Have a keb, sir?" The Nighthawker was on the scene, like a longshore wrecker, and wavingan inviting arm toward his shabby vehicle. The man coolly restored to shape his misused opera hat, adjusted hisnecktie, whispered some orders to his coachman and then asked of theNighthawker: "Where's your carriage, my man?" Eagerly the green-coated cabby led the way until the rescued couplestood before it. The woman inspected the battered vehicle doubtfullybefore stepping inside. The man eyed the sorry nag for a moment and thensaid, with a laugh: "Good frame you have there; got the parts allnumbered?" But the Nighthawker was not sensitive. The intimation that his horsemight fall apart he answered only with a good-natured chuckle and asked:"Where shall it be; home, sir?" "Why, yes, drive us to number----" "Oh, we know the house well enough, sir, Bonfire and me. " "Bonfire! Bonfire, did you say?" Incredulously the fare looked first atthe horse and then at the driver. "Why, 'pon my word, it's old Dan! Andthis relic in the shafts is Bonfire, is it?" "It's him, sir; leastways, all there's left of him. " "Well, I'll be hanged! Kitty! Kitty!" he shouted into the cab where mylady was nervously pulling her skirts closer about her and sniffing thetobacco-laden atmosphere with evident disapproval. "Here's Dan, our oldcoachman. " "Really?" was the unenthusiastic reply from the cab. "Yes, and he's driving Bonfire. You remember Bonfire, the hackney Ibought for you at the Garden the year we were married. " "Indeed? Why, how odd? But do come in, Jerry, and let's get on home. I'mso-o-o-o tired. " Mr. Jerry stifled his sentiment and shut the cab-door with a bang. Danpulled Bonfire's head into position and lightly laid the whip over theall too obvious ribs. Bonfire, his head bobbing ludicrously on his thinneck and his stubby tail keeping time at the other end of him, moveduncertainly up the avenue at a jerky hobble. And there let us leave him. Poor old Bonfire! Bred to win a ribbon atthe Garden--ended as the drudge of a Tenderloin Nighthawker. PASHA THE SON OF SELIM Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remaineduntold. The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, wherehe had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore hisbeard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim therewould be for him no joy in life. Also he had wept quite convincingly onSelim's neck--but he finished by taking the heavy purse. That was howSelim, the great Selim, came to end his days in Fayette County, Kentucky. Of his many sons, Pasha was one. In almost idyllic manner were spent the years of Pasha's coltdom. Theywere years of pasture roaming and bluegrass cropping. When the time wasripe, began the hunting lessons. Pasha came to know the feel of thesaddle and the voice of the hounds. He was taught the long, easy lope. He learned how to gather himself for a sail through the air over ahurdle or a water-jump. Then, when he could take five bars clean, whenhe could clear an eight-foot ditch, when his wind was so sound that hecould lead the chase from dawn until high noon, he was sent to thestables of a Virginia tobacco-planter who had need of a new hunter andwho could afford Arab blood. In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables were many good hunters, but nonebetter than Pasha. Cream-white he was, from the tip of his splendid, yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush, his neck as supple as a swan's, and out of his big, bright eyes therelooked such intelligence that one half expected him to speak. His lineswere all long, graceful curves, and when he danced daintily on hisslender legs one could see the muscles flex under the delicate skin. Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very own at first sight. As no one atGray Oaks denied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he belonged from thatinstant. Of Miss Lou, Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew thatbridle-reins were for gentle guidance, not for sawing or jerking, andthat a riding-crop was of no use whatever save to unlatch a gate or tocut at an unruly hound. She knew how to rise on the stirrup when Pashalifted himself in his stride, and how to settle close to the pigskinwhen his hoofs hit the ground. In other words, she had a good seat, which means as much to the horse as it does to the rider. Besides all this, it was Miss Lou who insisted that Pasha should havethe best of grooming, and she never forgot to bring the dainties whichPasha loved, an apple or a carrot or a sugar-plum. It is something, too, to have your nose patted by a soft gloved hand and to have such a personas Miss Lou put her arm around your neck and whisper in your ear. Fromno other than Miss Lou would Pasha permit such intimacy. No paragon, however, was Pasha. He had a temper, and his whims were asmany as those of a school-girl. He was particular as to who put on hisbridle. He had notions concerning the manner in which a curry-comb shouldbe used. A red ribbon or a bandanna handkerchief put him in a rage, while green, the holy color of the Mohammedan, soothed his nerves. Alively pair of heels he had, and he knew how to use his teeth. The blackstable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was knownas "Mars" Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had ridden Pasha once, had riddenhim as he rode his big, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, and Pasha had notenjoyed the ride. Still, Miss Lou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars"Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. That is, they did until the coming ofMr. Dave. In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend. From a far Northern State was Mr. Dave. He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, but after he had bought hiscargo he still stayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha's education, " sohe said. Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pasha liked. He had a gentle manner oftalking to you, of smoothing your flanks and rubbing your ears, whichgained your confidence and made you sure that he understood. He was firmand sure in giving commands, yet so patient in teaching one tricks, thatit was a pleasure to learn. So, almost before Pasha knew it, he could stand on his hind legs, couldstep around in a circle in time to a tune which Mr. Dave whistled, andcould do other things which few horses ever learn to do. His chiefaccomplishment, however, was to kneel on his forelegs in the attitude ofprayer. A long time it took Pasha to learn this, but Mr. Dave told himover and over again, by word and sign, until at last the son of thegreat Selim could strike a pose such as would have done credit to aMecca pilgrim. "It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Lou. But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dave had been teaching tricks tohorses ever since he was a small boy, and never had he found such an aptpupil as Pasha. Many a glorious gallop did Pasha and Miss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayedat Gray Oaks, Dave riding the big bay gelding that Miss Lou, with allher daring, had never ventured to mount. It was not all gallopingthough, for Pasha and the big bay often walked for miles through thewood lanes, side by side and very close together, while Miss Lou and Mr. Dave talked, talked, talked. How they could ever find so much to say toeach other Pasha wondered. But at last Mr. Dave went away, and with his going ended good times forPasha, at least for many months. There followed strange doings. Therewas much excitement among the stable-boys, much riding about, day andnight, by the men of Gray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One day thestables were cleared of all horses save Pasha. "Some time, if he is needed badly, you may have Pasha, but not now, "Miss Lou had said. And then she had hidden her face in his cream-whitemane and sobbed. Just what the trouble was Pasha did not understand, buthe was certain "Mars" Clayton was at the bottom of it. No longer did Miss Lou ride about the country. Occasionally she gallopedup and down the highway, to the Pointdexters and back, just to let Pashastretch his legs. Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips. Sometimes hewould pass many men on horses riding close together in a pack, as thehounds run when they have the scent. They wore strange clothing, didthese men, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knivesthat swung at their sides. The sight of them set Pasha's nervestingling. He would sniff curiously after them and then prick forwardhis ears and dance nervously. Of course Pasha knew that something unusual was going on, but what itwas he could not guess. There came a time, however, when he found outall about it. Months had passed when, late one night, a hard-breathing, foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard and takeninto the almost deserted stable. Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars"Clayton swearing at the stable-boys. Pasha heard his own name spoken, and guessed that it was he who was wanted. Next came Miss Lou to thestable. "I'm very sorry, " he heard "Mars" Clayton say, "but I've got to get outof this. The Yanks are not more than five miles behind. " "But you'll take good care of him, won't you?" he heard Miss Lou askeagerly. "Oh, yes; of course, " replied "Mars" Clayton, carelessly. A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha's back, the girths pulled cruellytight, and in a moment "Mars" Clayton was on his back. They were barelyclear of Gray Oaks driveway before Pasha felt something he had neverknown before. It was as if someone had jabbed a lot of little knivesinto his ribs. Roused by pain and fright, Pasha reared in a wild attemptto unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars" Clayton's knees seemed glued toPasha's shoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake him off by sudden leaps, side-bolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These manoeuvres brought viciousjerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouthsorrily and more jabs from the little knives. In this way did Pashafight until his sides ran with blood and his breast was plastered thickwith reddened foam. In the meantime he had covered miles of road, and at last, along in thecold gray of the morning, he was ridden into a field where were manytents and horses. Pasha was unsaddled and picketed to a stake. Thislatter indignity he was too much exhausted to resent. All he could dowas to stand, shivering with cold, trembling from nervous excitement, and wait for what was to happen next. It seemed ages before anything did happen. The beginning was a trippingbugle-blast. This was answered by the voice of other bugles blown hereand there about the field. In a moment men began to tumble out of thewhite tents. They came by twos and threes and dozens, until the fieldwas full of them. Fires were built on the ground, and soon Pasha couldscent coffee boiling and bacon frying. Black boys began moving aboutamong the horses with hay and oats and water. One of them rubbed Pashahurriedly with a wisp of straw. It was little like the currying andrubbing with brush and comb and flannel to which he was accustomed andwhich he needed just then, oh, how sadly. His strained muscles hadstiffened so much that every movement gave him pain. So matted was hiscoat with sweat and foam and mud that it seemed as if half the pores ofhis skin were choked. He had cooled his parched throat with a long draught of somewhat muddywater, but he had eaten only half of the armful of hay when again thebugles sounded and "Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening the girths, untilthey almost cut into Pasha's tender skin, he jumped into the saddle androde off to where a lot of big black horses were being reined into line. In front of this line Pasha was wheeled. He heard the bugles sound oncemore, heard his rider shout something to the men behind, felt thewicked little knives in his sides, and then, in spite of aching legs, was forced into a sharp gallop. Although he knew it not, Pasha hadjoined the Black Horse Cavalry. The months that followed were to Pasha one long, ugly dream. Not that heminded the hard riding by day and night. In time he became used to allthat. He could even endure the irregular feeding, the sleeping in theopen during all kinds of weather, and the lack of proper grooming. Butthe vicious jerks on the torture-provoking cavalry bit, the flat sabreblows on the flank which he not infrequently got from his ill-temperedmaster, and, above all, the cruel digs of the spur-wheels--these thingshe could not understand. Such treatment he was sure he did not merit. "Mars" Clayton he came to hate more and more. Some day, Pasha toldhimself, he would take vengeance with teeth and heels, even if he diedfor it. In the meantime he had learned the cavalry drill. He came to know themeaning of each varying bugle-call, from reveille, when one began to pawand stamp for breakfast, to mournful taps, when lights went out, and thetents became dark and silent. Also, one learned to slow from a gallopinto a walk; when to wheel to the right or to the left, and when tostart on the jump as the first notes of a charge were sounded. It wasbetter to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk onthe bits or a prod from the spurs. No more was he terror-stricken, as he had been on his first day in thecavalry, at hearing behind him the thunder of many hoofs. Having oncebecome used to the noise, he was even thrilled by the swinging metre ofit. A kind of wild harmony was in it, something which made one forgeteverything else. At such times Pasha longed to break into his long, wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must leave the others nomore than a pace or two behind, although he could have easilyoutdistanced them all. Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire. No more did he dance at thecrack of carbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. He could even hold hisground when shells went screaming over him, although this was hardest ofall to bear. One could not see them, but their sound, like that of greatbirds in flight, was something to try one's nerves. Pasha strained hisears to catch the note of each shell that came whizzing overhead, and, as it passed, looked inquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask, "Nowwhat on earth was that?" But all this experience could not prepare him for the happenings ofthat never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There had been a period full ofhard riding and ending with a long halt. For several days hay and oatswere brought with some regularity. Pasha was even provided with anapology for a stall. It was made by leaning two rails against a fence. Some hay was thrown between the rails. This was a sorry substitute forthe roomy box-stall, filled with clean straw, which Pasha always had atGray Oaks, but it was as good as any provided for the Black HorseCavalry. And how many, many horses there were! As far as Pasha could see ineither direction the line extended. Never before had he seen so manyhorses at one time. And men! The fields and woods were full of them;some in brown butternut, some in homespun gray, and many in clotheshaving no uniformity of color at all. "Mars" Clayton was dressed betterthan most, for on his butternut coat were shiny shoulder-straps, and itwas closed with shiny buttons. Pasha took little pride in this. He knewhis master for a cruel and heartless rider, and for nothing more. One day there was a great parade, when Pasha was carefully groomed forthe first time in months. There were bands playing and flags flying. Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the headof a squadron of coal-black horses, passed in review before a big, bearded man wearing a slouch hat fantastically decorated with longplumes and sitting a great black horse in the midst of a little knot ofofficers. Early the next morning Pasha was awakened by the distant growl of heavyguns. By daylight he was on the move, thousands of other horses withhim. Nearer and nearer they rode to the place where the guns weregrowling. Sometimes they were on roads, sometimes they crossed fields, and again they plunged into the woods where the low branches struckone's eyes and scratched one's flanks. At last they broke clear of thetrees to come suddenly upon such a scene as Pasha had never beforewitnessed. Far across the open field he could see troop on troop of horses comingtoward him. They seemed to be pouring over the crest of a low hill, asif driven onward by some unseen force behind. Instantly Pasha heard, rising from the throats of thousands of riders, on either side andbehind him, that fierce, wild yell which he had come to know meant theapproach of trouble. High and shrill and menacing it rang as it wastaken up and repeated by those in the rear. Next the bugles began tosound, and in quick obedience the horses formed in line just on theedge of the woods, a line which stretched and stretched on either flankuntil one could hardly see where it ended. From the distant line came no answering cry, but Pasha could hear thebugles blowing and he could see the fronts massing. Then came the orderto charge at a gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly at the bit, butfor what reason he did not know. He knew only that he was part of agreat and solid line of men and horses sweeping furiously across a fieldtoward that other line which he had seen pouring over the hill-crest. He could scarcely see at all now. The thousands of hoofs had raised acloud of dust that not only enveloped the onrushing line, but rolledbefore it. Nor could Pasha hear anything save the thunderous thud ofmany feet. Even the shrieking of the shells was drowned. But for therestraining bit Pasha would have leaped forward and cleared the line. Never had he been so stirred. The inherited memory of countless desertraids, made by his Arab ancestors, was doing its work. For what seemed along time this continued, and then, in the midst of the blind andfrenzied race, there loomed out of the thick air, as if it had appearedby magic, the opposing line. Pasha caught a glimpse of something which seemed like a heaving wall oftossing heads and of foam-whitened necks and shoulders. Here and theregleamed red, distended nostrils and straining eyes. Bending above wasanother wall, a wall of dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and ofdust-powdered hats. Bristling above all was a threatening crest ofwaving blades. What would happen when the lines met? Almost before the query wasthought there came the answer. With an earth-jarring crash they cametogether. The lines wavered back from the shock of impact and then thewhole struggle appeared to Pasha to centre about him. Of course this wasnot so. But it was a fact that the most conspicuous figure in eitherline had been that of the cream-white charger in the very centre of theBlack Horse regiment. For one confused moment Pasha heard about his ears the whistle and clashof sabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms, the snorting of horses, and the cries of men. For an instant he was wedged tightly in thefrenzied mass, and then, by one desperate leap, such as he had learnedon the hunting field, he shook himself clear. Not until some minutes later did Pasha notice that the stirrups weredangling empty and that the bridle-rein hung loose on his neck. Then heknew that at last he was free from "Mars" Clayton. At the same time hefelt himself seized by an overpowering dread. While conscious of aguiding hand on the reins Pasha had abandoned himself to the fierce joyof the charge. But now, finding himself riderless in the midst of ahorrid din, he knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. His onlyimpulse was to escape. But where? Lifting high his fine head andsnorting with terror he rushed about, first this way and then that, frantically seeking a way out of this fog-filled field of dreadfulpandemonium. Now he swerved in his course to avoid a charging squad, nowhe was turned aside by prone objects at sight of which he snortedfearfully. Although the blades still rang and the carbines still spoke, there were no more to be seen either lines or order. Here and there inthe dust-clouds scurried horses, some with riders and some without, bytwos, by fours, or in squads of twenty or more. The sound of shootingand slashing and shouting filled the air. To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he had been tearing about the fieldwhen he shied at the figure of a man sitting on the ground. Pasha wasabout to wheel and dash away when the man called to him. Surely thetones were familiar. With wide-open, sniffing nostrils and tremblingknees, Pasha stopped and looked hard at the man on the ground. "Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly. The voice sounded like that ofMr. Dave. "Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man in a coaxing tone, which recalledto Pasha the lessons he had learned at Gray Oaks years before. StillPasha sniffed and hesitated. "Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God's sake, come here!" There was no resisting this appeal. Step by step Pasha went nearer. Hecontinued to tremble, for this man on the ground, although his voice wasthat of Mr. Dave, looked much different from the one who had taught himtricks. Besides, there was about him the scent of fresh blood. Pashacould see the stain of it on his blue trousers. "Come, boy. Come, Pasha, " insisted the man on the ground, holding out anencouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyed until he could sniff the man'sfingers. Another step and the man was smoothing his nose, still speakinggently and coaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pasha was assured thatthe man was really the Mr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pasha was toknow it. "Now, Pasha, " said Mr. Dave, "we'll see if you've forgotten your tricks, and may the good Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir! Kneel, Pasha, kneel!" [Illustration: "Come, boy. Come, Pasha, " insisted the man on theground. ] It had been a long time since Pasha had been asked to do this, a verylong time; but here was Mr. Dave asking him, in just the same tone as ofold, and in just the same way. So Pasha, forgetting his terror under thesoothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice, forgetting the fearful sights andsounds about him, remembering only that here was the Mr. Dave whom heloved, asking him to do his old trick--well, Pasha knelt. "Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard him say. Mr. Dave was dragginghimself along the ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now, Pasha; steady, boy!" He felt Mr. Dave's hand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-o-o!"Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr. Dave crawling into the saddle, andalthough Pasha's knees ached from the unfamiliar strain, he stirred nota muscle until he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!" Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully boundedaway through the fog, until the battle-field was left behind. Of thelong ride that ensued only Pasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seat inthe saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else. A man whohas learned to sleep on horseback does not easily fall off, even thoughhe has not the full command of his senses. Only for the first hour or sodid Pasha's rider do much toward guiding their course. Inhunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is strong. Pasha hadit--especially for one point of the compass. This point was south. So, unknowing of the possible peril into which he might be taking his rider, south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as I have said, only Pasha knows;but in the end he struck the Richmond Pike. [Illustration: Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force ofmuscular habit than anything else. ] It was a pleading whinny which aroused Miss Lou at early daybreak. Under her window she saw Pasha, and on his back a limp figure in a blue, dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was how Pasha's cavalrycareer came to an end. That one fierce charge was his last. * * * * * In the Washington home of a certain Maine Congressman you may see, hungin a place of honor and lavishly framed, the picture of a horse. It isvery creditably done in oils, is this picture. It is of a cream-whitehorse, with an arched neck, clean, slim legs, and a splendid flowingtail. Should you have any favors of state to ask of this Maine Congressman, itwould be the wise thing, before stating your request, to say somethingnice about the horse in the picture. Then the Congressman will probablysay, looking fondly at the picture: "I must tell Lou--er--my wife, youknow, what you have said. Yes, that was Pasha. He saved my neck atBrandy Station. He was one-half Arab, Pasha was, and the other half, sir, was human. "