Alcatraz

VICTORY

Not that he recognized it as such but the touch was a pleasure and the quiet voice passed into his mind with a mild and soothing influence that made the wide freedom of the mountain-desert seem a worthless thing.  The companionship of the mares was a bodiless nothing compared with the hope of feeling that hand again, hearing that voice, and knowing that all troubles, all worries were ended for ever.  Like the stout Odysseus of many devices Alcatraz scorned the ways of the lotus eaters; for well he knew how Cordova had often lured him to perfect trust with the magic of man’s voice, only to waken him from the dream of peace with the sting of a blacksnake.  This red-headed man, so soft of hand, so pleasant of voice, was for those very reasons the more to be suspected.  The chestnut bided his time; presently the torment would begin.

The calm voice was proceeding:  “Old sport, you and me are going to stage a sure enough scrap right here and now.  Speaking personal, I’d like to take off the rope and go at you man to man with no saddle to help me out.  But if I did that I wouldn’t have a ghost of a show.  I’ll saddle you, right enough, but I’ll ride you without spurs, and I’ll put a straight bit in your mouth—­damn the Mexican soul of Cordova, I see where he’s sawed your mouth pretty near in two with his Spanish contraptions!  Without a quirt or spurs or a curb to choke you down, you and me’ll put on a square fight, so help me God!  Because I think I can beat you, old hoss.  Here goes!”

The stallion listened to the soothing murmur, listened and waited, and sure enough he had not long to stay in expectation.  For Perris went to the hole behind the rock and presently returned carrying that flapping, creaking instrument of torture—­a saddle.

To all that followed—­the blind-folding, the bridling, the jerk which urged him to his feet, the saddling,—­Alcatraz submitted with the most perfect docility.  He understood now that he was to have a chance to fight for his liberty on terms of equality and his confidence grew.  In the old days that consummate horseman, Manuel Cordova, had only been able to keep his seat by underfeeding Alcatraz to the point of exhaustion but now, from withers to fetlock joint, the chestnut was conscious of a mighty harmony of muscles and reserves of energy.  The wiles which he had learned in many a struggle with the Mexican were not forgotten and the tricks which had so often nearly unseated the old master could now be executed with threefold energy.  In the meantime he waited quietly, assuming an air of the most perfect meekness, with the toe of one hind foot pointed so that he sagged wearily on that side, and with his head lowered in all the appearance of mild subjection.

The cinches bit deep into his flesh.  He tasted that horror of iron in his mouth, with this great distinction:  that whereas the bits of Manuel Cordova had been heavy instruments of torture this was a light thing, smooth and straight and without the wheel of spikes.  The crisis was coming.  He felt the weight of the rider fall on the left stirrup, the reins were gathered, then Perris swung lightly into the saddle and leaning, snatched the blindfold from the eyes of the stallion.

One instant Alcatraz waited for the sting of the spurs, the resounding crack of the heavy quirt, the voice of the rider raised in curses; but all was silence.  The very feel of the man in the saddle was different, not so much in poundage as in a certain exquisite balance which he maintained but the pause lasted no longer than a second after the welcome daylight flashed on the eyes of Alcatraz.  Fear was a spur to him, fear of the unknown.  He would have veritably welcomed the brutalities of Cordova simply because they were familiar—­but this silent and clinging burden?  He flung himself high in the air, snapped up his back, shook himself in mid-leap, and landed with every leg stiff.  But a violence which would have hurled another man to the ground left Perris laughing.  And were beasts understood, that laughter was a shameful mockery!

Alcatraz thrust out his head.  In vain Perris tugged at the reins.  The lack of curb gave him no pry on the jaw of the chestnut and sheer strength against strength he was a child on a giant.  The strips of leather burned through his fingers and the first great point of the battle was decided in favor of the horse:  he had the bit in his teeth.  It was a vital advantage for, as every one knows who has struggled with a pitching horse, it cannot buck with abandon while its chin is tucked back against its breast; only when the head is stretched out and the nose close to the ground can a bucking horse double back and forth to the full of his agility, twisting and turning and snapping as an “educated” bucker knows how.

And Alcatraz knew, none so well!  The deep exclamation of dismay from the rider was sweetest music to his malicious ears, and, in sheer joy of action, he rushed down the hollow at full speed, bucking “straight” and with never a trick attempted, but when the first ecstasy cleared from his brain he found that Perris was still with him, riding light as a creature of mist rather than a solid mass of bone and muscle—­in place of jerking and straining and wrenching, in place of plying the quirt or clinging with the tearing spurs, he was riding “straight up” and obeying every rule of that unwritten code which prescribes the manner in which a gentleman cowpuncher shall combat with his horse for superiority.  Again that thrill of terror of the unknown passed through the stallion; could this apparently weaponless enemy cling to him in spite of his best efforts?  He would see, and that very shortly.  Without going through the intermediate stages by which the usual educated bronco rises to a climax of his efforts, Alcatraz began at once that most dreaded of all forms of bucking—­sun-fishing.  The wooded hills were close now and the ground beneath him was firm underfoot assuring him full use of all his agility and strength.  His motion was like that of a breaking comber.  First he hurled himself into the air, then pitched sharply down and landed on one stiffened foreleg—­the jar being followed by the deadly whiplash snap to the side as he slumped over.  Then again driven into the air by the impulse of those powerful hind legs, he landed on the alternate foreleg and snapped his rider in the opposite direction—­a blow on the base of the brain and another immediately following on the side.

Underfed mustangs have killed men by this maneuver, repeated without end.  Alcatraz was no starveling mongrel, but to the fierceness of a wild horse and the tireless durability of a mustang he united the subtlety which he had gained in his long battle with the Mexican and above all this, his was the pride of one who had already conquered man.  His fierce assault began to produce results.

He saw Red Perris sway drunkenly at every shock; his head seemed to swing on a pivot from side to side under that fearful jolting—­his mouth was ajar, his eyes staring, a fearful mask of a face; yet he clung in place.  When he was stunned, instinct still kept his feet in the stirrups and taught him to give lightly to every jar.  He fought hard but in time even Red Perris must collapse.

But could the attack be sustained indefinitely?  Grim as were results of sun-fishing on the rider, they were hardly less vitiating for the horse.  The forelegs of Alcatraz began to grow numb below the shoulder; his knees bowed and refused to give the shock its primal snap; to the very withers he was an increasing ache.  He must vary the attack.  As soon as that idea came, he reared and flung himself back to the earth.

He heard a sharp exclamation from the rider—­he felt the tug as the right foot of Perris hung in the stirrup, then the stunning impact on the ground.  To make sure of his prey he whirled himself to the left, but even so his striking feet did not reach the Great Enemy.  Perris had freed himself in the last fraction of a second and pitching headlong from the saddle he rolled over and over in the dirt, safe.  That fall opened a new hope to Alcatraz.  Had he possessed his full measure of agility he would have gained his feet and rushed the man, but the long struggle had taken the edge from his activity and as he lunged up he saw Perris, springing almost on all-fours, animal-like, leap through the air and his weight struck home in the saddle.

Quick, now, before the Enemy gained a secure hold, before that reaching foot attained the other stirrup, before the proper balance was struck!  Up in the air went the chestnut—­down on one stiff foreleg and with a great swelling of the heart he felt the rider slump far to one side, clinging with one leg from the saddle, one hand wrapped in the flying mane.  Now victory with a last effort!  Again he leaped high and again struck stiffly on the opposite foreleg; but alas! that very upward bound swung Perris to the erect, and with incredible and catlike speed he slipped into the saddle.  He received the shock with both feet lodged again in the supporting stirrups.

The frenzy of disappointment gave Alcatraz renewed energy.  It was not sun-fishing now, but fence-rowing, cross-bucking, flinging himself to the earth again and again, racing a little distance and stopping on braced legs, sun-fishing to end the programme.  As he fought he watched results.  It was as though invisible fists were crashing against the head and body of the unfortunate rider.  From nose and ears and gaping mouth the blood trickled; his eyes were blurs of red; his head rolled hideously on his shoulders.  Ten times he was saved by a hair’s-breadth from a fall; ten times he righted himself again and a strange and bubbling voice jerked out defiance to the horse.

“Buck—­damn you!—­go it, you devil—­I’ll—­beat—­you still!  I’ll break you—­I’ll—­make you come—­when I whistle—­I’ll make you—­a—­lady’s hoss!”’

Consuming terror was in the stallion and the fear that, incredible as it seemed, he was being beaten by a man who did not use man’s favorite weapon—­pain.  No, not once had the cruel spurs clung in his flanks, or the quirt whirred and fallen; not once, above all, had his mouth been torn and his jaw nearly broken by the wrenching of a curb.  It came vaguely into the brutes’ mind that there was something to be more dreaded than either bit, spur, or whip, and that was the controlling mind which spoke behind the voice of Perris, which was telegraphed again and again down the taut reins.  That fear as much as the labor drained his vigor.

His knees buckled now.  He could no longer sunfish.  He could not even buck straight with the bone-breaking energy.  He was nearly done, with a tell-tale wheeze in his lungs, with blood pressure making his eyes start well-nigh from his head, and a bloody froth choking him.  Red Perris also was in the last stage of exhaustion—­one true pitch would have hurled him limp from his seat—­yet, with his body numb from head to toe, he managed to keep his place by using that last and greatest strength of feeble man—­power of will.  Alcatraz, coming at last to a beaten stop, looked about him for help.

There was nothing to aid, nothing save the murmur of the wind in the trees just before him.  Suddenly his ears pricked with new hope and he shut out the weak voice which murmured huskily:  “I’ve got you now.  I’ve got you, Alcatraz.  I’ve all by myself—­no whip,—­no spur—­no leather pulling—­I’ve rode straight up and——­”

Alcatraz lunged out into a rickety gallop.  Only new hope sustained him as he headed straight for the trees.

Even the dazed brain of Perris understood.  With all his force he wrenched at the bit—­it was hopelessly lodged in the teeth of the stallion—­and then he groaned in despair and a moment later swayed forward to avoid a bough brushing close overhead.

There were other branches ahead.  On galloped Alcatraz, heading cunningly beneath the boughs until he was stopped by a shock that dropped him staggering to his knees.  The pommel had struck a branch—­and Red Perris was still in place.

Once more the chestnut started, reeling heavily in his lope.  This time, to avoid the coming peril, the rider slipped far to one side and Alcatraz veered swiftly towards a neighboring tree trunk.  Too late Red Perris saw the danger and strove to drag himself back into the saddle, but his numbed muscles refused to act and Alcatraz felt the burden torn from his back, felt a dangling foot tug at the left stirrup—­then he was free.

So utter was his exhaustion that in checking himself he nearly fell, but he turned to look at the mischief he had worked.

The man lay on his back with his arms flung out cross-wise.  From a gash in his forehead the blood streamed across his face.  His legs were twisted oddly together.  His eyes were closed.  From head to foot the stallion sniffed that limp body, then raised a forehoof to strike; with one blow he could smash the face to a smear of red as he had smashed Manuel Cordova the great day long before.

The hoof fell, was checked, and wondering at himself Alcatraz found that his blow had not struck home.  What was it that restrained him?  It seemed to the conqueror that he felt again the gentle finger-tips which had worked down the muscles of his shoulder and trailed down his neck.  More than that, he heard the smooth murmur of the man’s voice like a kindly ghost beside him.  He dreaded Red Perris still, but hate the fallen rider he could not.  Presently a loud rushing of the wind among the branches above made him turn and in a panic he left the forest at a shambling trot.