# Lord Bill

Extracted from Popular magazine, 1 January 1913, pp. 139-150.
Lord Bill
By Emerson Hough
Author of “The Mississippi Bubble,” "John Rawn,” Etc.
In which you will hear of a picturesque race meet in Canada and of the grit of a young Englishman who, whatever he may have been back home, proved himself a real man in “the colonies”
THE best way to do, when you ain’t goin’ nowhere in particular,” said Curly, “is to travel when you feel like it, an’ stop when you blame please. Here’s grass an’ water. What do you say?”
I said nothing, but dismounted. In a few minutes we had offsaddled and unlashed the packs, although the day’s march was still young. Our stopping point was at a little stream of sweet water somewhere between the Sweet Grass Hills and the mountains of the St. Mary’s country. A wide, gray landscape lay all about, the mountains on the west starting up sharply from the level floor of the plains.
Our horses occupied themselves variously, some wandering down to the little stream to drink, others standing, their sides still wet from the blankets. One or two, State’s horses, lay down and rolled, moaning in comfort. There being no shade against the brilliant sun, Curly took the two rifles and a wiping stick, and manufactured a short tripod, over which he hung his coat. He motioned me to lie down, with my face, at least, in the shade. Perhaps I slept. At any rate, after a time I realized that Curly was lying on his back, his head propped up on his arms, and his gaze turned toward the west. In default of anything better in his state of laziness, he gestured with his foot.
“There’s the ole St. Marys, Sir Algernon,” said he. “Ain’t they fine?”
I followed his gaze, taking in the splendid panorama.
“’Most everything starts right here in the St. Marys,” said Curly, after a time. “Down there, across the Cut Bank, is the old Kootenai Trail, where the Western Injuns used to come across to fight the Blackfeet. Over the range must be Lake McDonald. Off here to the right there comes down the Bow River, an’ the Belly an’ the Milk River, an’ a lot o’ others. Any way you look, she slopes downhill from the ole St. Marys. Over here, back of us, is Whisky Gap; and north of us is Europe.”
“You mean Canada, I suppose, Curly?” said I.
“It’s the same thing. I oughter know, because I was there onct. O’ course, there’s a few Americans in there, an’ some Mormons, but mostly they are English an’ Scotch an’ Galicians an Russians—it’s all Europe, I tell you.”
“How came you to be up there, Curly?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You know, fellers will keep on movin’ where they ain’t no place particular to go. I used to talk with fellers that run whisky through the gap, yonder, to the Injuns in the old days, an’ I allers thought I’d like to see that country up there. I rid along with a bunch of farmers that was leavin’ this country to go up there an’ raise wheat, not havin’ anything else to do they could think of.
“The country looked a good deal like this in here for a ways. Rockies on the left, an’ plains on the right, all the way as you went north. There wasn’t no cows to speak of. Everybody seemed to be crazy to see how much sod they could plow under, passin’ a given point.”
“Why didn’t you take the train, Curly?” I asked lazily.
“That ain’t no way to travel,” he answered. “My experience is, when a cow-puncher goes on a railroad car he has to soak his saddle to pay the fare. I kep’ right on settin’ in my saddle an’ headin’ north, till I got plumb up to that place they call Calgary. Nice town enough; though, of course, it bein’ right in the middle of Europe, there wasn’t nobody there that could talk human speech. By that time, bein’ on the trail quite a time, an’ mostly broke, both me an’ Pinto was somewhat ga’nt, but we was right happy seein’ the sights of Europe, this bein’ our first voyage away from home.
“I don’t reckon you ever been to Calgary, Sir Algernon? Well, you’d oughter go there onct, just for to see the sights. It’s a right thirsty town—they got a couple of breweries an’ a siphon or so that runs whisky into the town from the place where whisky is made in car lots. I rather enjoyed myself, goin’ down the street. Looked like a sort of county fair to me, with nobody workin’ very much.
“Now, these Europeans, like I am tellin’ you, Sir Algernon, they can’t talk human language, and they don’t wear human clothes. Most of the pants I seen had checkers on ’em about the size a lumberjack likes in his mackinaws. Some men, with whiskers, wore pants that was cut off at the knees, 'an’ little caps, an’ long stockin’s, like children—somethin’ I never had saw before that time. A good many, too, they wore these here balloon pants; an’ instead o’ chaps, they had these little spiral stove pipe leggin’s that goes round and round with a strap, lik’ the rag on a sore finger.
“There was a few farmers from down in the States somewhere, an’ onct in a while I would manage to converse with one of them. I could tell them by their clothes. Calgary is some cow camp, or was, an’ about every other feller I seen on the streets wore a white hat with a stiff brim an’ a leather strap to keep it fast onto him. All the rest wore caps—somethin’ you never seen on our part o’ the cow range.
“The street had lots of hosses tied along, an’ folks was ridin’ up and down, busylike, but you couldn’t hardly ever see a cow saddle, only onct in a while, nearly everybody havin’ them little post age-stamp saddles you may ’a’ seen back East.
“One place I seen a couple of cow hosses standin’ with the reins down, an’ I stopped there an’ begun to look aroun’. Natural enough, when I looked up I seen the word ‘Bar.’ I drifts in then.
“Near the door I met a feller who had a tin star on him about as big as a plate, an’ he talkin’ a careful look at me. I reckon I startled him some, an’ maybe he thought I was a wild man from somewhere. Says he: ‘Me good man, you cawn’t go armed in this town.’
‘“Who’s armed?’ says I.
“Sir Algernon, I am pained to remark, I didn’t have no gun, for the very good reason that I had to hock her at the last town before Calgary. I didn’t at that time know how I was goin’ to eat.
“This party with the tin plate he looks some skeptical. Says he: ‘It’s no use tryin’ to spoof me, me good fellow.’
“What do you reckon he meant by that? I didn’t speak to him no more, but pushed on in. The fact is, I seen one or two fellers inside that looked good to me.
“‘Hello, Curly,’ says one of them, when I started in. It was Press Wilson, from down in the Judith, an’ along with him was another puncher, called Petie, both American boys.
“‘Hello, Press,’ says I. ‘How come you up here?’
“‘Same as you, Curly,’ says he. ‘What’ll you have?’
“‘Some,’ says I. Then we had some; an’ maybe some more, a little later.
“I looks around in that bar. I don’t know as I ever have saw a busier crowd in my life than them fellers was, ladlin’ things into their system. Mostly they drunk this yellow whisky which is made in Scotland. Of course, it ain’t real whisky, not bein’ red, but it gets some action if you’re patient. Press an’ Petie an’ me was real patient, although I explains to them about my bein’ some hungry as well as a good deal thirsty.
“‘Forget it, Curly,’ says Press to me. ‘We’ll have plenty of money this time to-morrow!’
“‘What d’ you mean?’ says I.
“‘I am speakin’ of money,’ says he. ‘Here is where money is made, an’ where it comes from original. Petie an’ me has came up here, from far, far away, just to break off some easy coin.’
“‘An’ how are you-all obtainin’ such?’ says I to him.
“‘Curly, where you been livin’ all this time?’ he asts me. ‘Then you don’t know nothin’ about the Cochran race meet?’
“I had to admit I never heard o’ no such thing, an’ he goes on to explain.
“‘Why, you see,’ says he, ‘this here city of Calgary is about the sportin’est town ever was. Lots of money comes in here these days from settlers crazy over anything that looks like land, an’ lots of other money comes to be invested in anything that has a resemblance to a mortgage on land. More’n that, there’s all kinds of ranch people, cowmen an’ hoss ranchers back in these hills, an’ some of them has sold their ranches an’ others has sold their hosses. Everybody’s got money. Now, onct a year everybody comes in here to Calgary to this hoss-racin’ meet—they hold it at Cochran, a little station a short way out here on the railroad. On this particular day—which is to-morrow,’ says he, ‘all these young Englishmen an’ Canadians here in town, they cease in their hard labors of playin’ polo an’ tennis an’ drinkin’ tea, and they git right down to the serious business of life, which is to bet all the money they can raise or borrow on these here hoss races.’
“‘Do they have real hosses, Press?’ says I.
“‘Do they?’ he answers. ‘I should say they did! They is hosses here that can run some, an’ men that can ride a few, if you leave it to me. Besides that, they hang up money scandalous. Moreover, they have any kind of a race that you can think of—even races for punchers like you an’ me, one hundred yards out an’ back, turn round a barrel at each end. This is what Petie an’ me is layin’ for—three hundred an’ fifty hung up. I don’t know what we are goin’ to do with all that money.’
“‘Don’t bother about that none, Press,’ says I. ‘We’ll go into committee of the whole after we git it, an’ perhaps by hard effort we can spend a few of it.’
“‘Then there is other races beside that,’ he goes on tellin’ me; ‘gentlemen riders, perfessional jockeys, flat races, hurdle races, short races an’ long ones, races for Injuns, races for cow-punchers, races for anybody that wants to enter. Why, three hundred an’ fifty dollars,’ says he, ‘that ain’t nothin’. There’ll be a hundred thousand change hands out there on the prairie to-morrow afternoon. I wouldn’t miss it fer anything.’
“‘Ner me,’ says I to him; ‘not that I’m special hooked up to do business, bein’ broke.’
“‘What kind of rollin’ stock you got?’ he asts.
“‘Nothin’ but old Pinto, out there,’ says I, ‘an’ he ain’t had a square meal in forty days an’ forty nights, ner me neither.’
“‘That' don’t make no difference,’ says Press. ‘That’ll only git you down to good racin’ lines. As to money,’ says Press, ‘when we win that barrel race maybe we can git busy somewheres else. Come on now, an’ let’s go eat.’
“Well, him an’ me an’ Petie went into the dinin’ room of the same hotel where the bar was at. It was about the middle of the afternoon, an’ there wasn’t very many people there. At one table was a tall man with a thin mustache waxed out to a point each side. Didn’t need to have no card hung on him sayin’ ‘English.’ He was wearin’ balloon pants an’ them spiral chaps made out of hard leather, an’ he looked horsey all over.
“Next to him was a little dried-up chap—looked like a perfessional jock, not much bigger’n a monkey, an’ not much handsomer. I heard the jock call the other feller ‘Captain,’ an’ they seemed to be talkin' together right close.
“Over at another table was another feller, likewise English if you ast me, but a good-lookin’ chap, too He was disguised as a Western ‘rawncher,’ an’ looked just like most young fellers in England hopes to look when they ‘go out to the colonies,’ as they say; only I reckon he had been out here in the colonies for some time. He was burned good an’ brown, like you an’ me, Sir Algernon, but was right fair-haired and thin-skinned. He had sort of blue eyes that popped out, an’ he was that bashful that it seemed like he couldn’t talk none—just his Adam’s apple would work up an’ down his throat, an’ he’d kind of gasp an’ gurgle like he was tryin’ to swaller somethin’.
“Press an’ me looked round to see what it was made him so bashful like. I see a right handsome young woman dressed in black with a white apron, an’ she wore glasses like a schoolma’am—nice-lookin’ girl, an’ quiet. Evident she waited on the tables.
“‘That’s Annie,’ says Press to me.
“You see, Press an’ Petie had been in town two days, an’ knowed ’most every body.
“‘Who’s Annie?’ says I.
“‘Annie,’ says Press to me, ‘is a school-teacher down at Cardston. She come from Newbrasky original, an’ she’s American, as you can see.’
“‘Well, what is she doin’ shootin’ biscuits in this hotel, Press?’ says I.
“‘Why shouldn’t she?’ says he. ‘She’s a good, hard-workin’ girl, an’, like everybody else, has got a quarter section of land to pay for if she has luck. When school ain’t keepin’ she can make more in a month here than she can teachin’ school the same time. Everybody knows Annie, an’ likes her.’
“‘An’ some likes her special?’ says I.
“‘Shore! Look at Lord Bill over there. They tell me he eats here regular, an’ has right nigh moved in from his ranch, all on account of Annie. Good family, too, over in England, like enough. An’ he’s got all kinds of money.’
“Ain’t it astonishin’, Sir Algernon,” asked Curly of me, turnin’ over on one side, “how much like human bein’s folks is? Now, here’s this young English man, like enough heir to a lot o’ money. He comes out here ‘to the colonies,’ as he calls it, an’ he sees a little Newbrasky schoolma’am, an’ he gets all broke up—so bad he can’t sight her across the room without tryin’ to swaller his Adam’s apple! Why, Press said, when she’d ast him what he wanted to eat, he’d go into a trance, an’ not be able to make no sort of articerlate speech at all. You have to read the first chapter in the Bible to understand that.
“Well, Press an’ me an’ Petie we ordered some bacon an’ aigs an’ potatoes an’ things an’ coffee, an’ we set there an’ talked over the race meet. I noticed this here Cap and the jock would look onct in a while over at Lord Bill an’ whisper, an’ both of them kep’ look in’ at Annie. Some folks thinks that all biscuit shooters is free to make a crack at, thataway.
“Annie, she kep’ goin’ on about her work. I must say she looked a good deal more like a schoolmarm than a biscuit shooter. By an’ by the Cap motions her to come over to his table. She stands near by, waitin’ respectful. Just about then, little monkey of a jock, he reached out an’ takes hold of Annie’s arm, an’ says something up at her. I seen her face get right red.
“Well, sir, Lord Bill rather beat Press an’ me to it. He got up easy an’ gentle like, but prompt. In about two steps he’s over to the Cap’s table, an’ he has little monkey the jock by the lower part of his ear. He leads him around the table, to where his boss is settin’, an’ says he: ‘Captain Kingsdon, you’d better take care of this.’
“Seems like Lord Bill could talk, after all, when the time come. He looks at Annie, an’ his face gits so red I was afraid the window curtains would take fire from it. Then he strolls back to his own table, an’ goes on tryin’ to swaller his Adam’s apple again.
“Annie she looks at him, he havin’ his back turned. Fact is, she kep’ on lookin' at him.
“Bimeby the Captain an’ the little jock got up an’ went out. Lord Bill set right on. Annie seems to forget that Press an’ Petie an’ me is there, an’ bimeby she strolls over casual like to Lord Bill’s table. Then them two engages in some sort of conversation, private, so far as we was concerned.
“‘Press,’ says I, ‘he’s game.’
“‘Uh, huh!” says Press, his mouth bein’ full of aig.
“After while Press an’ Petie an’ me got up an’ went out. We all takes a look at Pinto an’ the other hosses. Press allowed that the best thing we could do was to start out that evenin’ an’ ride along slow an’ easy that night an’ next mornin’ to Cochran—little town on the Bow Valley where the racin’ was always held. We laid out that night, but we come in fairly fresh next mornin’.
“Well, sir, next day you’d thought all Europe an’ most of America had got off of the jerkwater train that just come out from Calgary—all the men an’ women in the whole wide world. Then there was plenty more come out in wagons, an’ buggies, an’ buckboards, an’ otermobiles. Barrin’ the punkins, it shore looked like a county fair.
“Press an’ Petie an’ me was down near the station, lookin’ at these folks come in, never havin’ saw people like this before, an’ wonderin’ how they understood each other when they talked. All at once we seen Lord Bill get off the train, an’ reach up his hand to help some one else down. He was still dressed in his wide hat with the stiff rim, an’ the leather band, an’ he had on new accordion pants, an’ the south end of his legs was done up in them leather spirals, like sore fingers, an’ he was red in the face as ever, an’ couldn’t talk for his Adam’s apple working up an’ down his neck, same as it did always. An’ who you think was with him? Why, Annie!
“Now, all the ladies in that entire colony of Calgary was there, an’ it was easy to see that every one of ’em knowed Lord Bill, an’ that every one wanted Lord Bill to know that she didn’t know him; that bein’ because of Annie, her bein’ a biscuit shooter. I read in a book onct about ladies in waitin’. They may go all right in England, but ladies that waits don’t go nowheres else, seems like. Anyhow, they all had it in for Annie, that was shore. She seen it, too, an’ I reckon she wished she hadn’t ’a’ came. Lord Bill he stood pat.
“‘Press,’ says I, ‘he’s game, an’ real game.’
“‘Uh, huh!’ says Press, his mouth bein’ full of terbacker now.
“Right soon we rid on out to where the race tracks was at, a little ways from the town. Ever been there, Sir Algernon? You know there ain’t no race track at all at Cochran—only a track marked out by a rope tied to stakes, an’ the hosses run right on the grass.
“There wasn’t the sign of a fence nowhere, an’ there wasn’t no entrance money, because there wasn’t no gate, an’ no place to put one. One side the track was a little sort of band stand, ’bout as big as you’d see in a baseball park in a little town. Here was where the band was goin’ to play, an’ where the ladies and gentlemen was goin’ to set, an’ where the judges was at. Right out in front of that, you looked out across the open prairie—sort of a little rim around it, of foothills, there was, an’ beyond that on one side, the white tops o’ the Rockies showin’ in a line for a hunderd miles. Finest place you ever seen in your whole life.
“Now, like I told you, everybody from all Europe an’ ’most everybody from America was there, an’ I reckon they was the most mixed-up lot you ever seen. There was folks with plug hats an’ white gaiters, an’ single-barrel eyeglasses with strings to ’em, an’ ladies dressed fit to kill. I don’t suppose you ever have saw a red silk parasol out here on the plains, either, have you, Sir Algernon? Well, there was plenty, all colors. There was lots of men wearin’ wide stripes an’ caps, an’ some had short pants, an’ a good many wore corduroys.
“Mixed in with them was some American farmers, an’ Mormons, with just human clothes on. Mixed in again, was lots of folks they called ‘rawnchers,’ the same bein’ English people come West to be cowmen in the colonies. They was all dressed just like Lord Bill, with wide hats, an’ balloon pants, an’ sore-finger leggin’s.
“There was a good many farm women settin’ around on the seats of the wagons that was drawed up near to the race track, an’ in here, too, was quite a number of otermobiles, that had came out from Calgary, with folks all togged out with leather clothes, veils, and black goggles. Around in the bunch onct in a while you’d see a good old American cow-punch, with the trimmin’s of such. Then, all around over the ground, there was right smart of Injuns, blanket Injuns, too, with their hair done in braids down their back, and brass wire and pieces of lookin’-glass tied on, like in such cases made an’ pervided.
“These Injuns was Stonies, and Sarcees, from the reservation, a little farther over in the foothills, in the Rockies. It was great fun for them to git in a otermobile, an’ take a ride 'round the track. I don’t know if I ever seen fifteen or twenty blanket bucks in a otermobile before.
“Take it all in all, crowd like that, out there on the prairie, with the Rockies lookin’ on, an’ every one feelin’ gaylike, I don’t know as I ever seen a sight just like that whole layout. I was plumb happy, for all the world seemed gay an’ younglike. Didn’t seem to me as there was anything like trouble nowhere, an’ as for hoss races, why, Press an’ Petie an’ me, we just knowed we couldn’t lose, that was all. Which was just the way everybody else in that crowd felt. This here air is shore inspirin’.
“Now, as to hosses, we seen right soon we was up against a plumb sporty game. These colonists back here in the Alberta ‘rawnches,’ they wasn’t raisin’ bronks, but roadsters an’ saddlers, an’ race stock. You ever been in Kaintucky, Sir Algernon? Same kind of hosses was here—greyhound built, skin so thin you could see the veins in ’em, and every one of ’em polished like a new stove. There wasn’t a buck from the Sarcee reservation that didn’t have his own racer along, too, an’ some of ’em looked right fast. All us punchers had our best string on hand. I taken a look at Pinto, and, believe me, Sir Algernon, he was the sorriest-lookin’ hoss on that ground.
“She was a gay crowd, for shore, everybody perfectly happy, walkin' around an’ visitin’, an’ all of them people knowin’ each other, ’cept none of ’em knowin’ Lord Bill an’ Annie. Press an’ Petie an’ me had a right good time, because we had about eight dollars left between us, not mentionin’ the three hunderd an’ fifty we was goin’ to win, an’ there was kinder a lunch counter around under the band stand, where you couldn’t get cocktails, but could get that yeller stuff they call whisky up there, which I told you done you some good if you was patient. Well, we was still patient.
“We had taken several drinks, an’ every time we done so, we wished Pinto didn’t look like the way he did. ‘But, pshaw!’ says Press, ‘way I feel to-day, we can’t lose, nohow—we got to win, or else how’ll we get back home?’ Which was shore convincin’ argyment.
“’Long ’bout now another train come in, an’ off of that there got eighteen people that they allowed was human bein’s, although they didn’t look like it to me at first, me never havin’ saw any like ’em before. They was the band, an’ they carried things to play on such as I never have saw. At first I thought they might get arrested, because, let alone cuttin’ their pants off at the knees, none of ’em had on no pants at all; only stockin’s and a sort of skirt, an’ a horsetail apern, an’ a wide sash, an’ a little black, folded hat with no rim, an’ a black ribbon on it.
“‘Petie,’ says I, when I seen the band, ‘have I been drinkin’, or is this real?’
“‘Danged if I know,’ says Petie. ‘But let’s wait an’ see. I’m feelin’ kind o’ jumpy myself over this.’
“Now, Sir Algernon, you wouldn’t think folks like them could play real music, would you—special when they didn’t have no bass drum, an’ no cymbals, an’ no oompah horn—but what them pantless people done was to play the only real music I ever did hear in my life.
“They filed by, in front o’ the band stand, an’ touched their hats to the lord mayor an’ the judges, an’ come up on the seats, an’ they begun to play, and they kep’ on a-playin’. But it was the sort of music that don’t bother you much. It was just soft an’ low, didn’t interfere with the game nohow. They played old Scotch an’ Irish an’ English tunes—‘Robin Adair,^ an’ ‘Oft in the Stilly Night,’ an’ ‘Killarney,’ an’ ‘Annie Laurie’—all them old tunes that makes yore hair kind of crawl when you hear ’em, an’ makes you stop talkin’, an’ think of the folks back home. Sir Algernon, maybe I hadn’t understood that crowd before, but when that music begun, spite o’ the fact them fellers didn’t have on pants, I begun to understand them.
“Press an’ me an’ Petie begun to look over the bill of fare that was printed for the races. There certainly was any kind o’ game you wanted, an’ good money up all along the line. There was races for gentleman riders, any horse, an’ for gentlemen ridin’ horses of their own breedin’, an’ races for perfessional jockeys, an’ hurdle races, an’ flat races, quarter-mile, half-mile, mile, two-mile, an’ four-mile flat races, cowboy races, Injun races, free-for-all races, handicap races—every kind of race that was ever knew, any place in the world.
“Press an’ Petie an’ me sort of kep’ our eye on that barrel race—hunderd yards out an’ back, turnin’ a barrel at each end an’ repeat ten times. ‘I reckon here’s where we git our three-fifty, or else maybe we don’t git it at all,’ says Press to me, an’ he taken a last look at Pinto, which we reckoned was maybe the best cow horse on our string.
“There wasn’t no county officers with blue ribbons on ’em or them things, or no sheriff, or nothin’, ’cept one little feller in a red coat, white hat with a stiff brim, an’ high yeller boots—mounted police he was—a boy about twenty years old, maybe, with two hairs in his mustache. He didn’t have on no gun, just carried a little, thin ridin’ whip. He didn’t look hooked up right to me to boss a race meet in Arizony, with mixed greaser an’ Texas entry, but the English is great for law, an’ I reckon he was the law.
“Well, after a while, somebody blowed a bugle, an’ the head judge called the first race, which was for gentlemen jockeys, mile an’ a half flat, two hurdles in the last furlong—hurdles up for the last lap.
“‘Press,’ says I, ‘there’s that little monkey an’ his boss talkin’ together.’
“‘Uh, huh!’ says Press, his mouth full o’ chewin’ gum. ‘They call that feller Captain Kingsdon. English army, he was, an’ he’s rid all over the world. Looks as if he dropped in here for some easy amachure money, but if he ain’t perfeshional, I don’t know.’
“That case I’d have to back him fer this race,’ says Petie, ‘but I’d have to need money mighty bad ’fore I’d back him fer anything.’
“Well, whether we backed him or not, the Captain he went out an’ win that race against eight other riders, hands down. He had some sort of connection with a ranch back in the foothills where they kep’ a private race track. He could ride, all right, an’ his hoss was trained. Me, I’d fall off one of them little candy saddles of theirn, but the Captain rode like a jock, an’ went over the hurdle jumps like a bird. I seen him look over at Lord Bill an’ kinder grin. He had a hard kind of a face, dry, like leather. I know personal that whisky didn’t take no hold on him at all.
“Well, sir, we three punchers stood around an’ had some fun watchin’ the next few races, which was mostly between perfessional riders, jockeys, an’ didn’t mean much to us, ’cause we didn’t know the boys or the hosses. The little monkey, he win ’em all easy.
“Most fun was the Injun race, four-mile flat. Now, you know what Injuns will do—they’ll bet their last blanket an’ pair of moccasins on a hoss race. There was four hosses here, but the big plunge was made on little old Red Crow, a wizened, dried-up little Sarcee, ’bout a hunderd an’ fifty years old, who had a long, low, rakish hoss, ’bout ten feet long, with a leg on each corner, which didn’t look as if he could run enough to keep warm in the sunshine.
“‘Press,’ says I, ‘there’s somethin’ doin’ on that hoss.’ I seen the Sarcees pilin’ up their blankets an’ money, an’ makin’ signs that invited all comers. I found a Mormon who had a good-lookin’ six-shooter in his wagon—’gainst rules an’ regulations—an’ I bet him my pair of chaps against his gun that this here long-coupled Sarcee hoss would win.
“Well, sir, ole Red Crow he win that race from the start—he just begun to lick old Mr. Long-horse right from the jump, an’ he hammered him around an’ around, never lookin’ behind him, an’ never crackin’ a smile when the judges handed him two hunderd an’ forty dollars. He walks over an’ begins to sort out blankets an’ things he’d won, an’ I saunters over to my Mormon an’ says I: ‘Looks as if I don’t lose my chaps.’ He grinned, but he paid.
“Race after that was gentlemen riders, four-year-olds, owners’ breedin’, two miles, with six hurdles. An’, believe me, them was real hurdles, too. We lit up over this race some, ’cause we seen Lord Bill go out an’ get on top of one of his own hosses. The ‘Cap’ was ridin’ in that race, too—as he did in most o’ the others—an’ I seen him sort of grin at Lord Bill. I knowed it was for blood, an’ no love lost between ’em. There was fifty guineas up, what ever that is.
“That was a right pretty race, an’ we seen that Lord Bill was a rider, too, all right. He hadn’t anything on Cap Kingsdon at that, for the Cap was shore perfessional. They left their field, an’ rid for each other, both takin’ their hurdles clean. At the stretch, they come down neck an’ neck, an’ at the last hurdle I seen the Cap ride deliberate into Lord Bill with his big, bony sorrel. It knocked Lord Bill’s hoss to his knees when he come over, an’ the Cap finished half a langth ahead.
“Lord Bill, he didn’t make no protest, but got redder, an’ his Adam’s apple become more active. The Cap he grinned, an’ took his money, which he hands to his side partner, the little jock.
“Press an’ Petie an’ me, we was watchin’ all them hosses close, an’ there wasn’t no race for us till it came to the barrel race. Now, this was marked down as a cowboy race. The judges was some surprised when Cap’n Kingsdon comes up an’ declares himself in on this race, too. He’d won steady, ridin’ every race he could get into, him or his jockey, all day, an’ winnin’ two-thirds of what had- been won, not always too clean. The judge, he kinder raised his eyebrows, an’ says he:
“‘Captain, I say, now how can you declare yourself in as a cowboy?’
“‘That describes the race only, and not those who enter for it,’ says the Captain. ‘But I can qualify, because you know I’m a rawncher, and I ride my own stock. If I’m not a cowboy, what am I?’
“Well, Press an’ me knowed he wasn’t either a cowboy or a gentleman, but we knowed he was a rider. From things we had saw, we didn’t want him in our race, because we was layin’ hard fer that three-fifty. We knowed there was only about eight entries, Canadian an’ American punchers, an’ though we figured Pinto to win it, we was all three goin’ to ride our best. We took a look at that big chestnut which the Captain was goin’ to ride, an’ says I to Press: ‘Let him come in. He can’t turn around more than twice a hour in a forty-acre field on that hoss. Pinto, he’s been a cuttin’ hoss for ten years to my knowledge, an’ he can turn on a pocket handkerchief—if he couldn’t I wouldn’t be here,’ says I.
“Press an’ Petie, they said all right. So we never kicked on the Captain.
“Well, sir, that was a right good bunch of people up there on the prairie. When us punchers come out, in full regalia, with woolly chaps an’ silk han’kerchiefs, all of us ridin’ easy, kinder on one laig, them fellers lined up an’ give us a cheer, an’ the band played ‘Yankee Doodle’ just for luck, because they knowed ’most all of us was from south of the line. Lord Bill comes up an’ wishes each of us boys luck, in about two words—still havin’ trouble with his talker. Seemed like he wanted to say something to us, but he didn’t or couldn’t.
“Well, we all lined up, eight punchers an’ a English army officer, an’ they give us a six-shooter start, same as we used to do to start our quarter races on the lower range. Sir Algernon, with a rope throwed on the ground for the score. We socked in the steel, an’ made for that first barrel.
“Pinto was plumb happy, same as me. He kicked a couple of other cow hosses, before the start, an’ at the crack of the gun he jumped about forty feet straight out, an’ lit runnin’. This didn’t suit me so much, because I wanted to see what was goin’ to happen at the turns.
“Well, I seen, all right. The Captain, on his big sorrel, he pulls wide, off the course, at a big angle. Then, just as them punchers bunches to turn around at the barrel, he rides right down into ’em with his big hoss. Result: two punchers throwed an’ out of the race, an’ one hoss a’most crippled.
“I could hear the crowd yell when they seen this, but I had pulled Pinto back just in time. The big sorrel swung wide, but, bein’ fas’ on his laigs, was really ahead of us other fellers on the turn back.
“I seen his game, now, an’ so did the other fellers, but he worked the same trick at the home turn. He upset Petie there, an’ he, bein’ throwed on the barrel, had two ribs broke, an’ didn’t finish. The crowd was still yellin’, but not because they enjoyed this. Nothin’ couldn’t stop us now, an’ me bein’ some riled by now, I set down on Pinto and allowed to ride a few.
“The other fellers hadn’t got on any too well, with this big hoss plungin’ through ’em a couple of times, an’ at the third time at the outside barrels, it came down to pretty near me an’ the Captain. I hugged the barrel twicet, and slapped it on top with my hat as I went by. In he came at me onct more, from outside. You see, a man an’ a hoss makin’ a turn like that is on a slant like a bicycle, an’ it don’t take much to push ’em over at the right time. But I didn’t have to watch Pinto none—he was a cuttin’ hoss from a American cow camp, him, an’ that’s enough said. He swerved an’ straightened just in time. Then I pulled him up an’ let the big sorrel pass.
“It wasn’t a race so much as a fight. He tried to cut me down every turn. At the fifth turn, Pinto, which was runnin’ with his ears flat, an’ mad as a hornet, he didn’t stop for instructions. When the sorrel-comes toward him, he swerves in with his feet, but reaches out his neck, with his ears down, an’ he bites a piece out of old Sorrel’s neck even bigger’n we’d bite out of a ham sandwich, if we was hungry, Sir Algernon.
“Now, all through that race—though us fellers didn’t ask no baby work, an’ claimed to be full-growed men—this feller hadn’t rode fair, an’ we knowed it. He hadn’t lost a chance to slash my hoss, an’ he’d done his best to ride us down. But after that Mr. Sorrel didn’t seem to want to mingle so much with ole Pinto. I set down an’ touched the old boy up a bit, an’ he sailed around the barrels after that, with the hair on my chaps brushin’ the dust off the barrel every turn.
“The Captain, he pulled over off the course. He seen he was beat. Ole Pinto come in, one ear down an’ the other pointin’ forward, lookin’ ca’m now.
“Well, what do you know about it? When I come up to the judges’ table at the foot of the band stand folks waved their hands at me an’ Pinto, an’ they was groanin’ and callin’ out mean words to this Captain Kingsdon, though I was only a cow-punch and him a’ officer in the army. At least he said he was; I don’t know. And blame me if he didn’t protest that race!
“‘Look here, men,’ says he to the judges; and points out his old sorrel’s neck, where Pinto bit out a sandwich. ‘I’ve been fouled deliberately! As we were the only two to finish, the race is mine as a matter of course.’
“I set sideways on Pinto, with my new gun in my scabbard—they let me wear the gun as clothes, to look the part in the cowboy race. What I wanted to do was to take a shot at the Captain, of course, but what I really done was to set sideways an’ chaw tobaccer.
“Right then Lord Bill, who was settin’ kinder lonesome with Annie, in one corner of the band stand, he gets up quiet, an’ goes to the judges. Seems like now his Adam’s apple had got quiet, an’ he could talk.
“‘Gentlemen,’ says he, ‘I’m one of the subscribers for the Cochran Association, an’ you know I’m raisin’ hosses out here. Also, I am interested in clean sport. Captain Kingsdon’s ridin’ at this meet has been a disgrace; he ought to have been protested himself in more than, one race before this. As to his protest here, it’s nonsense—it ought to be quite the other way about, as you know very well. We all saw what happened. It is a disgrace to our meetin’. I’ll not have it.’
“The judges looks uncomfortable. One of ’em turns to me, an’ says he: ‘Do you wish to protest the race, sir?’
“‘Not by a danged sight,’ says I. ‘But there’s lots of other things I’d like mighty well to do.’
“‘You’d better go back to your kitchen wench, my lord,’ says Captain Kingsdon, savage, to Lord Bill.
“That’s where the Cochran Race Meet ended that year. Right at that time Lord Bill fetched the Captain a peach under the chin. The crowd pushed in through all the Injuns an’ punchers an’ farmers an’ Mormons, an’ fellers with plug hats, an’ everybody else. The ladies stood up on the seats of the band stand an’ hollered; and the band, just to show that nobody was rattled, begun to play ‘Shall Old Acquaintance be Fergot.’
“Little Red Coat, with two hairs for his mustache, rides in now, an’ touches Lord Bill on the shoulder with his ridin’ whip.
“‘It’s all right, my man,’ says Lord Bill, quiet, an’ then he turns to the judges.
“‘I know this man,’ says he, noddin’ toward Captain Kingsdon, who was bein’ fanned by his jockey. ‘I knew him back home very well, an’ he’s a sharper of the worst sort. He doesn’t belong in the army, he doesn’t belong here, and he doesn’t belong among sportsmen. Because of certain matters I couldn’t very well object to his entry, an’ I didn’t like to make a disturbance, though it’s plain he was here to gobble the meet, fair or foul. It’s all right about his cuttin’ me down—it’s in the game—and I’ll take care of myself. I’m not objectin’ to that.’
“‘Same here, brother,’ says I.
“‘No, it’s not the same,’ says Lord Bill. ‘You’re on a different footin’ here, because you came in as a stranger, an’ are entitled to fair play; an’ you’ve all given us good sport, you boys, in your own sort of game. But this fellow wanted the money, an’ he didn’t want to play the game square. Gentlemen, he’ll ride no more at this meet.’
“Well, didn’t nobody ride no more at that meet. While we was talkin’, little monkey the jock, he disappears in the crowd. All at once, I heard somebody yell, an’ then a lot of the crowd broke off toward the field, away from the judges.
“Now, you see, this was a right fancy kind of a race meet. They didn't pay off in checks, or bills, or due bills, but they had real gold money for the purse of each stake. An’ just to make it look right sporty, the ladies, some of them, had made nice little silk bags with embroidery on ’em, to hold this gold money. So, jus’ to make it kind o’ the real thing, you know, each winner’s money was set in a little sack, on the table at the end of the grand stand.
“I had plumb fergot all about the three-fifty that Press an’ Petie an’ me needed, an’ so had ever’body else, exceptin’ this little jockey. Right quiet, he slips back of the crowd, grabs the bag off’n the table, an’ makes for his fastest hoss.
“Little Red Coat, he’s got plenty things on his hands right now, an’ him settin’ there with no gun—which shows how foolish them Europeans is. Captain Kingsdon, he makes off the other way, for his fastest hoss, too. Band keeps on playin’ ‘Old Lang Syne,’ but people starts to runnin’ every way.
“‘Son,’ says I to little Red Coat, with the two hairs in his mustache—he was lookin’ red and right embarrassed by now—‘you’ve got two or three prisoners here, an’ all of ’em is tryin’ to escape.’ You see, I was thinkin’ of the way sheriffs do down Southwest when prisoners tries to escape that orto be hung; an’ here was two, both of which orto been hung.
“Little Willie Red Coat, he starts off after the jock, who by now has got on his hoss. See’n’ as he had our three-fifty with him, I swing in, an’ ride along, with Red Coat. We line out across the prairie, little jockey ridin’ now like a scared cat, an’ us po’ndin’ along some, but not doin’ much toward ketchin’ up.
“‘Halt!’ hollers little Red Coat several times. But the harder he hollers ‘Halt!’ the faster the jockey rides.
“‘Why in glory don’t you shoot him?’ inquires I, ridin’ along beside him.
“‘I’ve no gun,’ says he.
“‘Take mine,’ says I, an’ I hauls out my new gun I win from the Mormon.
“‘I cawn’t hit anything,’ admits Willie.
“‘Do you give me leave at him?’ says I, balancin’ her up in my hand.
“‘I summons you—posse—name of the law!’ gasps Willie. An’ about then I cut loose with my new gun.
“Sir Algernon, if I do say it, that was a peach of a shot—especially as I hadn’t ever shot her onct before! He must have been sixty yards ahead of us, but, as luck would have it, all of us ridin’ the best we knowed, I busted his left heel fer him, and he come out of the saddle all in one motion.
“‘Leave him alone!’ I hollers to Willie then, and grabbed his bridle. I seen the jock set up an’ grab his heel. I allowed we had him anchored all right, so we turned and rid across lots to where Captain Kingsdon was spurrin’ out of the crowd.
“‘Halt!’ says Willie to him, an’ he halted, jus’ in time. I was gettin’ right fond of that posse work in them circumstances, an’ seen I was goin’ to like the new gun with a little more practice.
“Well, sir, the judges goes out and collects the jockey, an’ also my three hundred an’ fifty, an’ then Willie the Red Coat begun to collect his prisoners. He left his hoss for some one to take care of, an’ he loaded the jock, an’ the Captain, an’ Lord Bill all in a otermobile—I heard him say something about ‘assizes,’ whatever sizes them is. An’ he put Petie in the same wagon to take him to the hospital. Wonder was he didn’t arrest me for carryin’ concealed weapons. Why on earth he arrested Lord‘Bill I never could find out, fer he hadn’t done nothin’ but punch a son of a gun that needed it.
“The crowd begun to go home right soon after that, but Press an’ me we went around behind the grand stand to try some more of that yeller whisky, me havin’ divided the three-fifty into three pockets in our chaps, one for Petie, who was like to be laid up a few days with his slats.
“Sir Algernon, that was a right pleasant afternoon, all around, come to think of it. Folks begun to scatter in their wagons, an’ buckboards, on foot an’ on hossback, like the wind had blowed ’em off the race grounds. Out yonder the Sarcees an’ Stonies was still sortin’ out their blankets an’ moccasins an’ ponies. Some of the men standin’ around in blankets, bright-colored, an’ the squaws was settin’ round in circles here an’ there, all singin’, right happy.
“At the lunch counter under the band stand was a few fellers from the ranches, an’ some from town with plug hats an' long coats, an’ a occasional Mormon, an’ off on one side some Galicians in sheepskin coats, wonderin’ what it was all about. By an’ by, the band come down in their bare laigs, and perceeded to have somethin’, all in a row; an’ then to have somethin’ more. Us bein’ rich, Press and me had somethin’. By ’n’ by, everybody got friendly like, an’ we all had somethin’.
“One feller in the band began to play somethin’ on a machine that looked like a bellows, with a clarinet fastened in it—funniest thing I ever heard—he squeezed the grief out’n it with his elbows. The last thing I remember of it all was the leader of the band, six foot, with yeller mustaches, an’ blue eyes, playin’ a A-flat cornet. He was solemn drunk, but it only made him play better’n ever. He stood out there in the sunshine, on the prairie, with the white Rockies back o’ him, an’ the wind blowin’ his white horsehair apron, an’ he played. When a Scotchman gits drunk, he gets melancholy an’ thoughtful. This feller was playin’ ‘Robin Adair.’
“Sir Algernon, I can hear it yet, an’ I can see it all, too—the flat prairie, an’ the Rockies raisin’ back of it, white on top. The West still seemed kind o’ young that day.
“I went around the corner of the band stand, an’ there, all by herself, I seen a girl settin’. It was Annie. She sort o’ smiled.
“‘Why, how d’y’do, ma’am,’ says I. ‘Have you been havin’ a right good time?’
“‘Yes,’ says she, kinder shylike. ‘Have you?’
“‘I shore have, ma’am,’ says I. ‘Look at me.’
“‘I seen her kinder lookin’ over my shoulder, toward the houses where this little station of Cochran was. When I turned round, I seen why. There was Lord Bill comin’, on foot, walkin’ up toward us. I reckon they had seen a J. P. at the town, or, at any rate, somehow they had left him off from them assizes, seein’ how he had important business on hand. So I went around the corner again to where Press was.
“‘Press,’ says I, ‘Lord Bill’s game, and he’s all right, too.’
“‘Uh, huh!’ says Press, fer his mouth was full o’ pie now.”
Curly sat up at this point of his narrative, and began to throw little pebbles at his feet. “Sir Algernon,” he said, after a while, “that tells how I visited Europe. It’s right long, but it ain’t much of a story, exceptin’ ’way it shows how much like human bein’s people is sometimes, all over the world. Now, I don’t know who Lord Bill was, an’ I don’t know who Captain Kingsdon was, an’ I don’t know who Annie was really. Question ain’t who they was, but what they was. I reckon whoever Lord Bill was back home, he was a real man out here. Now, he allowed Annie was a real woman out here, too. That’s the sort that comes to stay, an’ my idea is they make real people, too, even if they do live in Canady. Canady is where bars close at seven o’clock Saturday night, right when they orter to begin to open. I ain’t particular about annexin’ Mexico, but I’m strong for takin’ Canada, peaceful if possible, so’s to reform that Saturday-night law. But besides. Lord Bill an’ Annie like enough lives up there now. I liked ’em both, an’ they orto be feller citizens to you an’ me.
“An’ say, I can see it all again, from where we’re settin’ now. Here’s the prairie layin’ out in the sunshine, with the wind blowin’ over it, an’ the Rockies standin’ white an’ tall beyond. Sun’s sinkin’ a little by now. Over yonder, back of the band stand, playin’ soft and low, is Mr. Scotchman, loaded to the guards, an’ playin’ ‘Robin Adair,’ with no pants on. Over beyond, toward the Rockies, I reckon, must have been Lord Bill’s ranch. Maybe he wanted to show it to Annie. Last I seen of them they was walkin’ together, leanin’ toward each other like two tired oxens, walkin’ straight on out inter the sort of red light of the evenin’ sun, you know. They didn’t seem to think there was any one else in all the world. An’ he was lookin’ down at her, an’ she was lookin’ up at him., It ain’t much of a story, of course, Sir Algernon, but there ain’t no story nohow much better’n just Annie an’ Lord Bill, walkin’ there. It sort o’ made you think about the unendin’ youngness o’ the world. I shore wish ’em well.
“Ain’t it funny, Sir Algernon,” added Curly irrelevantly after a time, throwing a pebble at old Pinto’s nose, “what makes them State’s hosses lay down an’ roll when you take the saddles off’n ’em?”
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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