The Horse Tamer (9 page)

“A muzzle?” Bill asked curiously. “What’s that for?”

“For him to wear, of course,” Finn answered. “I want him to be as celebrated for his viciousness as you will be for taming him.”

“And I’m to tame him over and over again?” Bill asked.

“That’s right—at every performance. It’ll be the most exciting exhibition in New York. Later on we’ll travel to other big cities. Maybe even go to Europe! Think of that, Bill!”

“I am thinking of it,” Bill Dailey answered. “It would be a circus, all right.”

For the first time Finn became suspicious. “Are you
really
being serious?” he asked.

“Sure,” Bill said steadily, meeting the other’s searching gaze. “About as serious as I am in training a wild zebra to be driven.” He paused for only a second, his eyes as cold as his voice. “We’re through, Finn. Get out and stay away from me.”

The big man said nothing for several minutes. He might have been strong enough to pick up Bill Dailey with one hand and drop him to the floor, but he didn’t try. Instead he recalled the day they had met when he had been whipping his gray colt. The same look was now in Bill Dailey’s eyes and there was latent power in the slight figure that lay quietly beneath the blanket. Finn Caspersen decided, as he had then, that it would be better not to tangle with this man.

“Sure I’ll go, if that’s the way you want it,” he said finally. “Maybe it’s best for both of us, as I said some
weeks ago. But I’m not going back to peddling merchandise, Bill. You gave me an idea today, a good one.”

Finn rose to his full height, towering over the cot. “Remember how you told the folks that you wanted them to learn what you know and then go out on their own, teaching others? Well, that’s what I’m going to do, Bill. Who knows your methods better than I do?” He grinned. “Of course, I’ll add my own stuff. I’ll play it big, bigger than you ever dreamed! I’ll be the most famous horse-tamer in the world
and the richest!
”

Bill Dailey looked at him with contempt. “You have no sense of responsibility, Finn, an’ that’s what my methods require as much as skill. You’re a fraud and you’ll take advantage of a horse and his owner to achieve your dishonest goals.” He got out of bed and stood unsteadily on his feet. “If I hear of you exploiting people and hurting horses, I’ll come after you. Mark my words, I’ll track you down an’ expose you for what you are!”

Finn Caspersen shifted his ponderous weight from one foot to the other. Why should a slight man like this put him on the defensive? Furious with himself, he turned away abruptly. “Don’t get so excited, Little Atlas,” he said with attempted humor. “You’re going to get your stomach all upset again. And remember, while I’m gone no more blueberry pie!”

He strode from the building as if he knew exactly where he was going and what he intended to do.

The next day Bill Dailey visited the owner of the gray horse. If he could get Mr. Miller to give him another chance, other serious-minded horsemen would
come to watch his exhibition. But he met with flat refusal.

“You are a humbug,” the elderly man said, shaking his bald head. “We can learn nothing from you.”

Bill stood uncomfortably before the large office desk. “I can prove to you that I was really sick. I have a note from Dr. Patt.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that you were sick,” Mr. Miller answered, his eyes on the papers in front of him. “But you sold ninety-seven bottles of your taming medicine at ten dollars a bottle. That means you fleeced our citizens of nine hundred and seventy dollars.”

“It was my manager who did it, not I. He’s gone. There won’t be any more sold.”

The man shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t mean to tell you your business and, I suppose, you can sell as much of your medicine as you like if people want to buy it. I simply refuse to have any part in such transactions.

“B-But it’s not what I wanted at all,” Bill persisted.

The old man looked up from his desk. “We were led to believe it
wasn’t
, by your reputation. We had looked forward to—”

“Then why don’t you give me another chance, Mr. Miller?” Bill pleaded. “I have never deceived people and pocketed their money. I’ll even open up the doors and let everyone in free for this first class!”

“So you might sell more bottles of your Arabian Secret?”

“Of course not!” Bill pounded furiously on the flat desk. “Can’t you understand that I mean every word I
say? I want you and your gray horse back
so I can prove the value of my system.
”

Without answering, the old man studied Bill Dailey’s face. Then he turned back to the papers on his desk and shuffled them nervously.

“Will you do it, Mr. Miller? Will you?”

“I know my gray horse very well,” the old man answered gravely. “You cannot manage him.”

“At least give me a chance to try.”

“Is he the only case you’d have to exhibit?”

Bill nodded. “All the other horses were removed by their owners. It won’t be the first time I’ve been limited to a particularly bad horse to manage. It won’t be the last.”

“No, I guess it won’t,” the old man said, looking up from his desk. “And you don’t like it at all, do you?”

“No,” Bill admitted. “Cases like that don’t prove the true value of my system. People who watch me work so hard on extremely bad horses think it would be just as difficult handling an
average
horse, and it wouldn’t be at all.”

Mr. Miller smiled for the first time. “But I don’t suppose bad horses hurt your reputation any.”

“No, they don’t. But that kind of publicity isn’t what I’m after.”

The old man rose to his feet, extending his hand. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Professor. I’m sorry. You see, my horse …”

Bill felt the sudden rise of anger within him. He sought to quell it by saying quietly, “I know your horse is worthless but I’ll give you five hundred dollars for him.”

The smile left Mr. Miller’s face and his hand dropped to his side. “You’d pay that much money just to get him in the ring with you?”

Bill nodded.

The old man said, “You’re right, of course, in saying that he’s worthless. It’s ridiculous for you to pay five hundred dollars for the opportunity of exhibiting your methods upon him. You cannot possibly succeed. No one could.”

Bill ignored the man’s challenge. He took five hundred dollars from his wallet, all the money he had left in the world, and placed it on the desk. “Will you sell him to me?”

Mr. Miller nodded and Bill Dailey left the room. He had made the worst purchase of his life. But he had done it for the chance to demonstrate that there were no secrets to good horse management … while Finn Caspersen had left town with $970 with the aim of showing that there were.

Mr. Miller’s gray horse was known throughout the Pittsburgh area as the Mustang. He had been shipped from the West with a carload of wild horses, and although he possessed great powers of endurance and strength there was nothing well-bred about him.

The Mustang was as ugly as Tar Heel had been handsome. Bill Dailey watched him being led into the ring for the second time, realizing more than ever that he’d thrown his money away in buying him. Worse still, and more important, he began to doubt his ability to control such an animal before the large crowd that had returned to watch. If he failed, he’d be worse off than before and penniless as well.

He took the Mustang from the groom and held him by a long lead rope. Unlike his first appearance in the ring, the Mustang was quiet, much too quiet. He crouched near the rail, never raising a hoof and apparently indifferent to the noise and gazes of the spectators. There was something about his appearance
that bothered Bill Dailey. He had never seen another horse like this one.

The Mustang had his head down and his ears, which were as heavy and long as a mule’s, were thrown back and outward. His underlip was large and it hung down, leaving his mouth partly open. His eyes were sullen, those of a wild animal, and his nostrils were huge. He was long-haired and at present very dirty, probably as a result of not having been groomed in many months. But outlined beneath his unkempt coat was a body of heavy bone and muscle.

He was the worst horse Bill Dailey had ever seen
and the most dangerous
. There was no telling what the Mustang would do.

The crowd was more quiet now, waiting for Bill to start. He glanced at his young brother, nodding and trying to reassure him that this horse was no different from any of the others he had tamed. But he saw that Hank wasn’t being fooled.

“Let me have my stick,” Bill called to him.

He turned back to the horse, speaking to him kindly, but his voice had no effect on the sullen eyes or the hanging head. Bill touched him lightly with the long slender stick Hank had given him, to learn what the Mustang would do when prodded and under pressure. He found out immediately.

There was a quick unwinding of the crouched body as the horse jumped and struck out furiously with both fore and hind legs. But his flaying hoofs were wide of their mark, and he stopped almost as soon as he’d started. Once more he crouched by the
rail, his eyes rolling now and his huge nostrils opening and closing like a bellows.

As Bill watched him, he knew for certain that taming this horse would take days and days of work and that even then … He listened to the murmurs from the crowd that was waiting for him to go on. He started forward.

Strangely enough, the Mustang made no move as he approached him. Bill got close enough to touch the shaggy body with his hand; the horse continued standing quietly and sullenly.

Bill got over his surprise quickly. He was ready for anything, for now he knew that it was the nature of this horse to strike when apparently submitting to control. His resistance followed no set pattern. He was unpredictable and therefore extremely dangerous.

Bill picked up the shaggy tail and knotted the end. The gray horse remained still. Bill put the halter rope through the tail and tied it with a half-hitch knot so he’d be able to release it quickly when necessary. There was still no resistance on the part of the Mustang, only a more noticeable blowing of his nostrils.

Next, Bill attempted to pull the horse in a circle, but the Mustang wouldn’t budge. Even being prodded with the stick had no effect on him. As Bill prodded harder the Mustang dropped to his side and lay quietly.

There was nothing left to do but untie the tail. As soon as Bill did so, the Mustang jumped to his feet
and came at him with battering hoofs which he narrowly avoided. But this was the kind of resistance Bill was used to and knew how to handle. He moved to the horse’s off side and took the long, thin cord from his pants pocket.

The Mustang quit resisting control as suddenly as he had begun. Once more he crouched, his eyes rolling, his mouth drooping. Once more he awaited his chance to strike.

Bill put the cord around the horse’s neck, adjusting it to size as he had done with Wild Bess so many weeks before. But this bridle would not be as simple as hers had been. More than guidance was needed here. Bill whipped the cord around the Mustang’s head and as the horse reached for him with gaping mouth he pulled the cord through it. Once more he put the cord around the head and now he was able to exert bridle pressure on the Mustang. He pulled the cord slightly, forcing the horse’s mouth open and drawing the cord through it again.

Suddenly the Mustang struck out, fighting control. Encouraged, Bill drew back on the cord again. The success of all his methods lay in overpowering resistance within a short time. Only if the Mustang fought the bridle and was quickly overpowered by its force was there any chance of achieving control over him.

As he worked, Bill kept watching the horse’s eyes for they would tell him how far he should go. He wound the cord around the head once more, careful not to pull too tight and to exert pressure only when necessary. This cord bridle was safe and reliable but
it had to be used with great care and judgment. It applied pressure to a horse’s most vulnerable spot, a point behind the ears. The more cord that was used, the greater the pressure, and it could not be left on too long or the horse’s life would be endangered. Bill used it only when he had to and in this case it was absolutely necessary.

And all the while he never let his attention be drawn away from the Mustang’s eyes. They did not soften. The horse fought the bridle silently. He bore the pressure without striking out. After fifteen minutes Bill Dailey knew the horse had won. To keep applying pressure would not only be unrewarding but dangerous as well. He unwound the cord from the horse’s head.

As soon as the pressure lessened, the Mustang struck out again, this time catching Bill a glancing blow on the leg. The man fell back, twisting his body and rolling under the horse to avoid its hoofs. Then he leaped to his feet, catching hold of the halter again. The Mustang stopped fighting immediately, his huge nostrils opening and closing like wind-driven shutters. Once more he waited cunningly.

Bill had only one method left to try and that was to throw the Mustang repeatedly. He had little confidence that this would prove successful. Disabling the Mustang wholly or partly seemed to have little effect upon him, and throwing him would not be apt to create in him any more of a sense of helplessness. He would simply wait, as he was doing now, for another opportunity to strike out again.