Patches (Hawkes)/Chapter 12
PROBABLY the most thrilling event for the entire three days was the great free-for-all two-mile running race which was next staged. Every one had been talking about it since the first day of the rodeo and, if the truth is told, probably many bets had been placed. The race was supposed to bring together some of the finest running horses to be found anywhere west of the Mississippi River, between the Rio Grande and the Canadian line. When the seven starters finally lined up under the wire beside the judges' stand they represented all types of running horses. To the astonishment of all, Pony Perkins on his mouse-colored Jack Rabbit was there. Pony had won a half mile race the day before with the Jack Rabbit and this success had gone to his head. Against the better judgment of Hank Brodie and Long Tom and the rest of the Crooked Creek cow-punchers he had entered the little horse for this long hard race, His friends had expostulated with him in vain and there he was at the pole.
"Well," said Long Tom to Hank Brodie as Pony had hurried away to the paddock fifteen minutes before, "he is a sensible chap about most everything in this world but he goes fairly nutty about that little hoss of his. Why, the Jack Rabbit may last for half a mile, but after that he won't even be a spectator."
Next to the Jack Rabbit stood our old friend Patches called for this race, Prince Patches. He was ridden by his beloved master, Larry Winton. The two horses contrasted strangely. The Jack Rabbit was the typical mouse-colored mustang with large ears, an ewe neck, thin mane and tail, and rather insignificant to look at. But for a short dash he was really a very fast horse. Patches, on the other hand, although he was part mustang, looked every inch of him the thoroughbred. He was a bright bay with three cream-colored spots on one side and four on the other. His ears were small, his head was clean-cut, his eyes were full of fire and his nose was as soft as velvet, his crest was beautifully arched, his mane and tail were heavy and his shoulders and flanks were muscular and powerful. His legs were clean-cut and he stood well upon his toes like a thoroughbred.
Next to him stood a black stallion called Arizona Knight. He was from the great stock farm near Tucson, a horse of Mexican breeding and probably of Moorish origin. He was said to be the fastest horse in the southwest.
Next to him stood Knocka-knees, a milk-white mustang from the great Sioux reservation. He was ridden by an Indian boy and said to be the fastest horse owned by the Sioux nation. He had some of the mustang characteristics although he showed breeding as well.
Next to the white favorite of the Sioux came King California, called King Cal, a large gray running horse from the great stock farm at Palo Alto. He was tall and rangy with little excess fat and he looked like a great runner. Next to him was the Antelope, a tall roan, the pride of the Black Feet Indians. He also was ridden by an Indian boy. The last in line was Rainbow, a splendid chestnut gelding of English origin perhaps descended from a bard, from a horse ranch in southeastern Montana. Rainbow, King Cal and Arizona Knight had all taken prizes in running races and were rated as three of the best horses in the west.
Larry had received hasty instructions from his uncle before taking his place in the race.
"Now remember, boy," Uncle Henry had said, "that this two-mile race is a regular marathon for horses, A half-mile horse like the Jack Rabbit is of no earthly use. Even a good mile and one-eighth running horse couldn't stand the racket. This race would kill some of the best mile and one-quarter running horses. It is the last long mile that counts. Don't forget that, but save your horse during the first mile. You just try to keep him fresh. Let the rest of them spurt and you trail. Remember it is the last mile that counts, even then do not shove him for all he is worth until the last quarter. It is the finish that tells. Good luck, boy, we are all betting on you."
As everybody had expected at the crack of the pistol the Jack Rabbit sprung into the lead. Pony saw to that, even if he could not be in at the end of the race he was going to have some glory for his little horse so he didn't spare the small mustang, but put him at once to his best pace. The Indian boy on Knocka-knees also had this intention and he and Pony had a lively race up to the half, but Pony and the Jack Rabbit led at the half by a hundred feet. They were closely followed by the Antelope who could better afford an early spurt than they could for he had wind like a moose. The rest of the horses were contented to trail on behind these racers who had set out to cover the first half mile in record-breaking time.
At the half as everyone had expected the Jack Rabbit began to show signs of slackening. Knocka-knees and the Antelope passed him and by the three-quarters he was at the tail end of the procession nearly a hundred feet behind.
At the three-quarters Knocka-knees and the Antelope staged a brilliant run to the finish of the first mile and they came in under the wire fifty yards ahead of the rest of the horses. Larry did not mind that he and Patches were at the tail end of this procession for he was remembering what his uncle had said and was saying his horse.
As Patches passed under the wire at the end of the first mile, however, a new spirit seemed to animate him. For there was born in his heart and brain a new idea. It was not his own but was an inheritance; it came to him through generations of racing ancestors. It was the heritage of his great-grandfather who had broken the world's record at Churchill Downs, and it even ante-dated that for it was the soul of his Arabian forbears, horses fleet as the wind, who had carried Arabian shieks over the desert in record-breaking time. It was this heritage that came surging into Patches' veins causing his heart beat to quicken and his muscles and sinews to receive new life. In this race, at the very second that he passed under the wires at the end of the first mile, Prince Patches, the American race horse was born.
With the beginning of the second mile Larry began feeling out his horse by shoving him forward. His uncle had shouted to him as he Passed the grand stand. He had not made out what he said amid the cheers of the crowd but he knew it was an admonishment to settle down to business and to begin the long hard fight ahead.
At the end of the eighth Larry found himself seemingly in a pocket behind Knocka-knees and the Antelope with the three other horses perhaps fifty feet ahead. He tried first the pole and then the outside, but each time he moved over to pass, the horse ahead of him moved to check his progress. Three times they did this and then the game was apparent to Larry. These two horses were trying to put him out of the race. At the thought great indignation welled up in the boy's heart and he eagerly watched for an opportunity to outwit the strategy. Presently it came, Knocka-knees surged over a yard or so away from the Antelope and at that instant Larry let the quirt fall heavily on Patches' side and called to him in a ringing voice. No one of the thirty thousand excited spectators, or even the judges in the grand stand, ever knew just how it was done. Some said Patches went through the opening like an express train, others said he went like a bullet and you could not see him at all. But when he had passed, the beautiful Knocka-knees limped into the ditch with a dislocated stifle and his part in the race was done. The Antelope, too, had been so much upset by the jar that Patches had given him as he passed that he lost his stride and when he finally regained it he was two lengths behind, but he was a great running horse and the Indian boy who rode him was a cunning driver and at the end of an eighth of a mile he had drawn up abreast of Patches. They held these relative positions,
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Rainbow, King Cal and Arizona Knight in the lead and Patches and the Antelope fifty feet behind them, up to the three-eighths mark. Even at the half the position was relatively the same, only Patches and the Antelope had moved up to within twenty-five feet of the other horses. Then it was that Larry stecled his will and brought his quirt into play. They were now going like the wind. The air cut Larry's face like a March breeze. The continual roll of hoof beats was in his ears. The track ahead of him was a brown blur and the mighty audience on his right was a backward rushing mass.
At the five-cighths mark the five horses were running neck and neck, but the Antelope had clearly been pushed to his limit and was Wavering and before the three-quarters was reached he began to fall behind. Patches on the other hand began to show his mettle, Foot by foot, yard by yard, he crept up on the other three horses until at the three-quarters the four matchless racers were running neck to neck. Then King Cal's rider lashed him mercilessly with the quirt and by sheer force drove him two lengths ahead until half of the next eighth had been covered. Then he collapsed and fell behind and Patches moved up to take his Next Rainbow was shoved to the end of his endurance and he, too, forged ahead for a length, but at the seven-eighths fell behind and left the race for Patches a Arizona Knight.
The finishing line was just forty rods away. Up to this point Larry had used his quirt the least of any of the drivers and even now he felt that he could do more with Patches through love than he could with the whip. So he leaned over and patted him on the neck and talked to him. "Patches," he said, "Go, go, your master wants you to go. Heigh, heigh, go." If Patches had responded magnificently beneath the quirt, beneath the caress of his master's voice he became dynamic. Larry felt the great muscles in his shoulders and hips—intensify. He felt the mighty effort that this splendid racing machine was making just as plainly as though he had been the horse himself, and in fact horse and rider were one and that is why Patches knew what his master wanted. Seeing that his voice availed him more than the quirt he dropped the whip by his side and continued to talk to Patches, "Go, heigh, go." Foot by foot Patches drew ahead of his adversaries. At first it was barely perceptible, just a nose length, then half a neck, then a full neck, and at the end of the two miles he thundered under the wire half a length ahead of the black racing horse from Arizona and the race was won. As Larry brought his beloved steed to a standstill two hundred feet beyond the judges' stand he appreciated what a terrible strain the race had been. In spite of all he could do his senses reeled and he clung to the horn of his saddle while the mighty cheering of the crowd about him became indistinct and incoherent. But this only lasted for a second or two, then his fine vitality asserted itself and he pulled himself together. Yes, it was true, this mighty crowd of thirty thousand men and women were shouting it. Prince Patches had won, and this made him the greatest running horse west of the Mississippi River and one of the greatest in the entire world.
Then as a sort of grand finale to the great race which had seemingly stretched the nerves of the excited crowd to the breaking point, there was enacted as a sort of anti-climax a feature known as the wild horse race.
Fifteen or twenty wild horses from the plains had been secured for this event. So far as was known these horses had never had a bridle or saddle upon them. They were like other wild animals, keenly suspicious of man and ready to fight for their freedom and their lives to the last ounce of their strength. One by one these wild horses were delivered to the contesting cow-punchers on the arena inside the inner fence. One of the cow-punchers was mounted upon his favorite pony with rope in readiness and was allowed several helpers. His stunt was to rope and throw the wild horse and then to blindfold, saddle and bridle him and ride him once around the track. It was a sort of impromptu wild horse breaking done under the watch. If a cow-puncher failed to subdue his steed in a certain number of minutes he was disqualified and some one else took his place.
Then for the next hour and a half the audience beheld the most hair-raising incidents that they had yet seen during the rodeo. There were broncs upon four' legs and broncs upon two legs, cow-punchers in the saddle and cow-punchers flying through the air or sprawling in the dirt. Some of the latter limped away with sprained ankles or nursed sprained wrists while one poor fellow had to be carried away on a stretcher and it was subsequently learned that he had ridden his last race.
These practically wild horses squealed, snorted, and bucked, kicked, and bit, and the cow-puncher had to act like lightning, always keeping his head. Occasionally a woman shrieked or covered her eyes or even fainted, men who were enured to such scenes gasped in fear and astonishment. Several horses crashed through the inner fence and before the contest was over much of this fence was in kindling wood. One of the frantic broncs finally leaped the outside fence and before the audience was aware of what was happening was in among the spectators, but men had been placed in readiness for such an event and the frantic horse was almost immediately enmeshed in half a dozen lariats and rendered helpless.
When the great audience had shouted, screamed, laughed, and wept until every man, woman and child in the concourse was nearly a physical wreck the last cow-puncher rode the last wild horse to the paddock and the rodeo was over. Then to the music of the bands the oval was emptied and this great western assembly from half a dozen states representing all walks of life made their way back to Wyanne and thence to their homes. They had seen the first of the American rodeos and felt well repaid with the entertainment. They did not know it then but they had seen a feature of western entertainment which was destined to become historic and the little cattle city of Wyanne had led the way.