Max Brand (9 page)

"We may not put iron in his mouth," said Jacob, as Connor came up with
the bridle, "but a touch on this will turn him or stop him, as you
wish."

As he spoke he picked up a small rope, which he knotted around the neck
of Abra close to the ears, and handed the end to Connor.

"Look!" he said to the horse, pointing to Connor. "This is your master
to-night. Bear him as you would bear me, Abra, without leaping or
stumbling, smoothly, as son of Khalissa should do. And hark," he added
in the ear of the young stallion; "if the mare of Joseph outruns you,
you are no horse of my household, but a mongrel, a bloodless knave."

Joseph was already trotting through the gate and growing dim beyond, so
Connor put his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He landed
as upon springs, all the lithe body of the stallion giving under the
shock; and Connor felt a quivering power beneath him like the vibration
of a racing motor. Abra's eyes glinted as he threw his head high to take
stock of the new master.

"Go," commanded Jacob; "and remember your speed, for the honor of him
who trained you!"

The last words were whipped away from the ear of Connor and trailed into
a murmur behind him, for without a preliminary step Abra sprang from a
stand into a full gallop. That forward lurch swayed Connor far back; he
lost touch with his stirrups, but, clinging desperately with his knees,
he was presently able to right himself. There was hard gravel beneath
them, but the gait was as soft as if Abra ran in deep sand without
labor; there was no more wrench and shock than the ghost of a man
riding a ghost of a horse.

A column of black shot by on either hand; Connor was through the gate to
the Garden of Eden and rushing down the slope beyond. He knew this
dimly, but chiefly he was aware only of the whipping of the wind.
Something Ephraim had said came into his memory: "If there were ten like
Abra in one corral, and one like Tabari in another, a wise man—" But,
no doubt, Ephraim had jested.

For, glancing up, he saw the tops of tall trees rushing past him against
the sky, and for the first time he knew the speed of that gallop. In his
exultation he threw up his hand, and his shout rang before him and
behind. That taught him a lesson he would never forget when he sat the
saddle on an Eden Gray; for Abra lurched into a run with a suddenness
that swayed Connor against the cantle again.

He steadied himself quickly and called to Abra; the first word cut down
that racing gait to the long, free stride, but the brief rush had taken
the breath of the rider, and now he looked about him.

He had been in California years before, and now he recognized the
peculiar, clean perfume of the trees which lined the road; they were the
eucalyptus, and they fenced the way with a gigantic hedge several rows
deep. It was a winding road that they followed, dipping over a rolling
ground and swinging leisurely from side to side to avoid high places, so
that the vista of the trees was continually in motion, twisting back and
forth; or when he looked straight up he saw the slender tree-points
brushing past the stars. So he galloped into a long, straight stretch
with a pale gleam of water beyond it; and between he saw Joseph.

It was strange that in spite of the speed of Abra, Joseph's mare had not
been overtaken; for no matter what quality the mare might have, she
carried in the gigantic Negro an impost of some two hundred and fifty
pounds. A suspicion of discourtesy on his part must have come to Joseph,
for now he brought his horse back to a canter that allowed Connor to
come close, so close indeed that he saw Joseph laughing in a horrible
soundless way and beckoning him on, very much as though he challenged
Abra. Surely the fellow must know that no horse could concede such
weight to Abra, but Connor waved his arm to signify that he accepted the
challenge, and called on Abra.

There followed the breathless lunge forward, the sinking of the body as
the stride lengthened, the whir of wind against his face; Connor sat the
saddle erect, smiling, and waited for Joseph to come back to him.

But Joseph did not come, and as the mare reached the river and her hoofs
rang on the bridge Connor saw with unspeakable wonder that he had
actually lost ground. Once more he called on Abra, and as they struck
the bridge in turn the young stallion was fully extended, while Connor
swung forward in the saddle to throw more weight on the withers and take
the strain from the long back muscles. Leaning close to the neck of
Abra, with the mane whipping his face, he squinted down the road at
Joseph, and growled with savage satisfaction as he saw the mare drift
back to him. If he could reach her with a sprint she was beaten, for she
bore the extra burden. Once more he called on Abra, and heard a slight
grunt as the stallion gave the last burst of his strength; the hoofs of
the two roared on the hard road, and Joseph came back hand over hand.
Connor, laughing exultantly, squinted into the wind.

"Good boy!" he muttered. "Good old Abra! If he had Salvator under him
we'd get him at this rate. We're on his hip—Now!"

He was indeed in touch with the flying mare, and, looking through the
dimness, he marveled at her long, free swing, the level drive of the
croup, and—he saw with astonishment—her pricking ears! Not as if she
were racing, but merely galloping. He flattened himself along the neck
of Abra and called on him again, slapped his shoulder with the flat of
his hand, flicked him along the flank with the butt of the rope; but the
mare held him invincibly; he could not gain the breadth of a hair, and
by the pounding of Abra's forefeet he knew that the stallion was running
himself out. At that moment, to crown his bewilderment, Joseph turned,
laughing again in that soundless way. Only for a moment; then he turned,
and, leaning over the withers of his mount, the mare lengthened, it
seemed to Connor, and moved away.

Her hips went past him, then her tail, flying out straight behind, a
streak of silver; and last of all, there was the hiss of derision from
Joseph whistling back to him.

Connor threw himself back into the saddle and brought the stallion down
to a moderate pace. One hand was clutched at his throat, for it seemed
to him that his heart was beating there. Before him raced a vision of
Ben Connor, king of the racetracks of the world, with horses no
handicapper could measure.

A Second thought made him lean a little, listening closely, and then he
discovered that after this terrific trial Abra was breathing deep and
free. Connor sat straight again and smiled. They must be close to the
lake he had seen from the mountain, for among the trees to his left was
a faint gleam of water. A moment later this glimmer went out, and the
hoofbeats of Abra were muffled on turf. They had left the road and
headed for a scattering of lights. Joseph had drawn the mare back to a
hand-gallop, and Abra followed the example; at this rocking gait they
swept through the grove between two long, low buildings, always
climbing, and came suddenly upon a larger house. On three sides Connor
looked down upon water; the building was behind him. Not a light showed
in it, but he made out the low, single story, the sense of weight, and
crude arches of the Mission style. Through an opening in the center of
the façade he looked into darkness which he knew must be the patio.

Following the example of Joseph, he dismounted, and while the big man,
with his waddling, difficult walk, disappeared into the court, Connor
stepped back and looked over Abra. Starlight was enough to see him by,
for he glimmered with running sweat even in the semidarkness, but it was
plain from his high head and inquisitive muzzle that he was neither
winded nor down-hearted. He followed Connor like a dog when the gambler
went in turn to the mare. She turned about nervously to watch the
newcomer. Not until Abra had touched noses with her and perhaps spoken
to her the dumb horse-talk would she allow Connor to come close, and
even then he could not see her as clearly as the stallion. By running
his finger-tips over her he discovered the reason—only on the flanks
and across the breast was she wet with perspiration, and barely moist on
the thighs and belly. The race had winded her no more than a six-furlong
canter.

He was still marveling at this discovery when Joseph appeared under the
arch carrying a lantern and beckoned him in, leading the way to a large
patio, surrounded by a continuous arcade. In the center a fountain was
alternately silver and shadow in the swinging lantern light. The floor
of the patio was close-shaven turf.

Joseph hung the lantern on the inside of one of the arches and turned to
Connor, apparently to invite him to take one of the chairs under the
arcade. Instead, he raised his hand to impose silence. Connor heard,
from some distance, a harsh sound of breathing of inconceivable
strength. For though it was plainly not close to them, he could mark
each intake and expulsion of breath. And the noise created for him the
picture of a monster.

"Let us go to the master," said Joseph, and turned straight across the
patio in the direction of that sonorous breathing.

Connor followed, by no means at ease. From the withered old men to huge
Joseph had been a long step. How far would be the reach between Joseph
himself and the omnipotent master?

He passed in the track of Joseph toward the rear of the patio. Presently
the big man halted, removed his hat, and faced a door beneath the
arcade. It was only a momentary interruption. He went on again at once,
replacing his hat, but the thrill of apprehension was still tingling in
the blood of the gambler. Now they went under the arcade, through an
open door, and issued in the rear of the house, Connor's imaginary
"monster" dissolved.

For they stood in front of a blacksmith shop, the side toward them being
entirely open so that Connor could see the whole of the interior. Two
sooty lanterns hung from the rafters, the light tangling among wreaths
of smoke above and showing below a man whose back was turned toward them
as he worked a great snoring bellows with one hand.

That bellows was the source of the mysterious breathing. Connor
chuckled; all mysteries dissolved as this had done the moment one
confronted them. He left off chuckling to admire the ease with which the
blacksmith handled the bellows. A massive angle of iron was buried in
the forge, the white flames spurting around it as the bellows blew,
casting the smith into high relief at every pulse of the fire. Sometimes
it ran on the great muscles of the arm that kept the bellows in play;
sometimes it ran a dazzling outline around his entire body, showing the
leather apron and the black hair which flooded down about his shoulders.

"Who—" began Connor.

"Hush," cautioned Joseph in a whisper. "David speaks when he
chooses—not sooner."

Here the smith laid hold on the iron with long pincers, and, raising it
from the coals, at once the shop burst with white light as David placed
the iron on the anvil and caught up a short-handled sledge. He whirled
it and brought it down with a clangor. The sparks spurted into the
night, dropping to the ground and turning red at the very feet of
Connor. Slowly David turned the iron, the steady shower of blows bending
it, changing it, molding it under the eye of the gambler. This was that
clangor which had floated through the clear mountain air to him when he
first gazed down on the valley; this was the bell-like murmur which had
washed down to him through the gates of the valley.

At least it was easy to understand why the servants feared him. A full
fourteen pounds was in the head of that sledge, Connor guessed, yet
David whirled it with a light and deft precision. Only the shuddering of
the anvil told the weight of those blows. Meantime, with every leap of
the spark-showers the gambler studied the face of the master. They were
features of strength rather than beauty from the frowning forehead to
the craggy jaw. A sort of fierce happiness lived in that face now, the
thought of the craftsman and the joy of the laborer in his strength.

As the white heat passed from the iron and it no longer flowed into a
shape so readily under the hammer of the smith, a change came in him.
Connor knew nothing of ironcraft, but he guessed shrewdly that another
man would have softened the metal with fire again at this point.
Instead, David chose to soften it with strength. The steady patter of
blows increased to a thundering rain as the iron turned a dark and
darker red.

The rhythm of the worker grew swifter, did not break, and Connor watched
with a keen eye of appreciation. Just as a great thoroughbred makes its
supreme effort in the stretch by a lengthening and slight quickening of
stride, but never a dropping into the choppy pace of unskilled labor at
speed, so the man at the anvil was now rocking steadily back and forth
from heel to toe, the knees unflexing a little as he struck and
stiffening as he swung up the hammer. The greater effort was told only
by the greater ring of the hammer face on the hardening iron—by that
and by the shudder of the arm of the smith as the fourteen pounds went
clanging home to the stroke.

And now the iron was quite dark—the smith stood with the ponderous
sledge poised above his head and turned the bar swiftly, with study, to
see that the angle was exactly what he wished. The hammer did not
descend again on the iron; the smith was content, and plunging the big
angle iron into the tempering tub, his burly shoulders were obscured for
a moment by a rising cloud of steam.

He stepped out of this and came directly to them. Now the lantern was
behind him, he was silhouetted in black, a mighty figure. He was panting
from his labor, and the heavy sound of his breathing disturbed the
gambler. He had expected to find a wise and simple old man in David.
Instead, he was face to face with a Hercules.