The bar act
brush, hardly daring to breathe. The faint sounds of hoofs striking
hard ground drifted back to them and after a while they continued on
their journey, running faster now to catch up.
It is indeed surprising how far a horse can go without stopping to rest
and sit by the roadside. Possibly that thought has never occurred to
anyone except these boys who considered it vital to follow one. In any
case many miles were eaten up in this strange marathon.
High-heeled boots, made snug and in some cases actually tight, are not
the proper kind of footwear to use on a long-distance cross-country run.
But in this instance they were worn by the runners, adding a good deal
to their discomfort. Bare-headed, they looked like Indians trailing a
victim--crippled Indians, poor, aged, worn-out Indians, wobbling at the
knees and groaning from the pain and soreness of their feet. But with
admirable spirit they raced on, jaws set and breathing heavily, their
hair wet with sweat and shirts open at the neck.
The horse ahead left the road and led the chase through sagebrush and
short grass, slippery as glass. Prairie dog mounds and badger holes
tripped the tired runners. Corns and bunions began to howl for mercy.
Was there to be no end to this bitter endurance contest?
* * * * *
The lights of the town had disappeared behind the last hill. None of
the tired pursuers knew in what direction they were traveling. No
star twinkled in the sky. No breeze to cool feverish brows. A hot,
dark, oppressive night. A high fence loomed ahead. Hopes soared high.
Possibly an objective had been reached. Indistinct white, immobile
white shapes appeared on the other side of the fence, mounds of fresh
earth, a smell of wilted flowers.
“A hell of a place to hold a workout!” panted Slim. “A danged
graveyard!”
The mounted figure in the lead came to a stop. His followers dropped
to the ground and strained their eyes to catch any movement. A match
flared, went out, and a tiny red glow pierced the darkness.
“Carter don’t smoke!” exclaimed Buck.
“Who--what the----”
The horseman was backtracking and all lay down, faces in the grass. A
rod away from the group, a voice shattered the stillness and gloom of
the place. A voice that sounded so loud and clear in the silence and
the total obscurity that every word seemed to cause a bright flash,
like that of a pistol being fired in a tunnel.
“Haw! Haw! You hombres wanted to play ghost and this is a dum good place
to do it. Good night, little fellers. I have a date with the queen of
Poland to play cards, and I must toddle off. Tata! Glad t’ have metcha!”
Then sudden sounds of galloping hoofs that swiftly receded, a faint
laugh echoing across the prairie, then silence again. The deep ominous
silence of the graveyard.
Sudden realization of a sad mistake was followed by other disclosures.
The man on the horse was not Carter. The man upon which almost certainly
depended the fate of the cursed Bar Act was missing. The horse was not
Spots. Somewhere in transit a shift had been made and at this precise
moment Leonard Carter was practicing the thing, learning to execute it
more gracefully, sealing the fate of men who wanted most of all to take
off their boots and sleep a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Resplendent in colorful raiments, the trick riders rode gracefully to an
appointed place, previous to presenting to the spectators, and more
especially the judges, the most daring feats of fancy riding known to
them. Their horses were groomed to an astonishing brilliancy. Flashes of
sunlight striking highly polished silver blazed on gaudy masterpieces of
the saddlemaker’s art. The band stopped playing and every participant in
this contest was introduced to the crowds, riding past at breakneck
speed and waving their hats at the appreciative audience. At the other
end, a quick drawing was held for turns. Carter drew number one.
Away from close scrutiny of the crowd, smiles left the apparently happy
faces of the riders to be replaced by grim, purposeful expressions. Hats
were pulled down and safely anchored, for it is the trick rider’s pride
of accomplishment to attain the most crazy positions possible, to gyrate
in a perfect frenzy of motion hanging on to a running horse, and yet to
never lose their hats.
Heads were drawn together in a last-minute council. Supple bodies leaned
out of their saddles to whisper a few words. Carter stood alone, testing
straps upon which depended the success of his most difficult tricks.
“Seen anything yet?” said Lou.
“He ain’t got the outfit on yet,” answered Buck, who was watching Carter
like a hungry hawk. “His helper Sam Briggs has got the thing hid by the
chutes. At the last minute, they will fix it on the saddle and bingo
goes first money!”
“It was Sam as fooled us into followin’ him last night,” remarked Slim.
“The danged, ornery, misfit, pistol-necked, poisonous centipede! Every
time he looked at me this afternoon the old t’rantla would snicker. I’d
like to run a number-nine boot heel down his lyin’ neck. The dum,
thievin’, dirty heeled, horse currier!” Slim literally shook with rage.
“Four miles on the run, and four miles back--on the limp,” mused Bobby
thoughtfully. “My feet are so sore that every time they touch something
solid I get a permanent wave in my backbone and I see a million stars. I
have to bite on a nail to keep from yellin’ out loud. Daggone the luck
anyway!”
“The bird that mentioned that prospectin’ expedition last night is no
friend of mine!” put in Lou.
“When I was layin’ on that grave last night, tryin’ to get rested up
so as to go to town,” added Buck, “I happened to look up and there was
a blamed good epitaph on the tombstone: ‘Here lies Ephraim Alexander
Biddle. His weary feet will never tread the soil he loved so well. He
lived a useful life, he will not roast in hell.’”
“Not knowin’ much about poetry,” said Lou, “I can’t say as to that. But
now, by golly, that must be a great feelin’. Knowin’ just where you’re
headed for, like a parcel post package and all! And that there piece
about not havin’ to stomp on the ground no more. Downright cheerful, I
calls it!”
* * * * *
“There he goes! You follow him, Slim,” said Buck, and all hands turned
to the business at hand. Carter was galloping his horse past the stands.
Kicking both stirrups loose, he grasped the saddle horn in both hands,
slid to the ground easily, bounced on the hard-packed racetrack and
without apparent effort he leaped over his running horse, touched ground
lightly on the other side and repeated the process. Without pause he did
the same thing again and again.
Grinning widely, he worked smoothly, in a misleading, careless manner.
There was nothing careless about it. Every move was figured out before
hand, timed to a split second and rehearsed uncountable times. He
reached the outer end, settled in the saddle and extended both arms in
a friendly gesture to the audience. Selling his stuff. The stands
roared with approval.
A simple trick but good showmanship; just getting warmed up for the
real work ahead. Slim followed, performing as well if not better than
Leonard. Then Buck. All did their one trick. Then Carter went out
again.
Under the hot Texas sun, these boys drove their hard, supple bodies
to the utmost in attempting to outdo one another in daring and skill.
But the main purpose was to beat Leonard Carter. Under the threat of
the mysterious Bar Act, they had reached an agreement. They were to
do their very best and all prizes won would be split evenly.
Toward the close of the contest, Bobby, who was attempting to go
underneath his horse, missed his hold and fell to the ground. His body
rolled and taxied along in a sickening fashion. Then he lay very still.
An ambulance whizzed out from behind the chutes. Two attendants in white
ran out carrying a stretcher. In a few seconds the track was clear again
and the show went on.
Someone in the grandstand, possibly an Eastern visitor, exclaimed in
surprise, “It looked so easy! So smooth! How could anything like that
happen?”
There lay the catch. To make anything look easy which is anything but
simple.
At last there was a pause and the announcer boomed out, “Now, ladies and
gentlemen, your attention is called to the next feature. An entirely new
feat of daring performed by Mr. Carter. The Bar Act!”
During this short announcement a man had emerged from behind the chutes
carrying the mystifying elongated object. As he ran for Carter, he
peeled from around it a blanket which he let drop on the ground.
The remaining riders stopped wiping the sweat from their faces to gaze
at the approaching instrument. They leaned ahead and stared intently.
Some sort of a rail.
* * * * *
Lou, gifted with a better sight than the rest, identified it for what
it was and exclaimed, “I hope to bust a cinch if it ain’t a daggone
Ford axle!”
A Ford axle it was, and with great speed it was being adjusted on
Carter’s saddle, sticking out and away from it like a handlebar of a
bicycle.
“Lissen!” said Buck excitedly. “We can beat him yet. Slim, you run out
and get anything you can find that we can hook up on our saddles. Bring
a rope with you. Go like hell and come back faster. We’ll watch this and
go old Carter one better!”
Slim did not stop to argue. Straight for the chutes he rode his horse
at the speed of a comet. Nothing there. Out through a gate he flew and
disappeared from sight.
Carter was ready. His helper withdrew from the track. He leaped
gracefully onto his horse and loped toward the stands. Suddenly he
leaned out, grasped the extreme end of the axle and left the saddle.
On the end of the galloping trapeze he began whirling around like a
whirligig. The effect of a man spinning so fast as to cause a blurred
vision, doing his spinning away from a horse running full speed, was
startling to say the least. Everyone present stood up and gasped,
open-mouthed, with wonder and admiration.
Soon it was all over and a mighty roar of appreciation filled the air.
The Bar Act had been a success and a sure winner, unless---- The tall
figure of Slim, belaboring his racing horse with a singular object and
carrying another of the same shape, was seen crossing the centerfield
at great speed.
Between him and his friends, dressed in the height of cow country
elegance, a trick roper was tenderly coiling his expensive ropes prior
to laying them away in a silk-lined trunk. He was occupying himself
picking short blades of grass from a sixteen-dollar Manila rope made in
old Mexico. The strands of that rope had been twisted together so
painfully and exactingly that a steel awl could not be driven between
them. It had been balanced so exquisitely at the hondo with fine copper
wire that its owner could handle it like a thing alive. It was called a
double ocean wave rope. It took several years to break in such a rope
so that it was worth its salt. This particular roper would sooner lose
an eye than his beloved trick rope.
But Slim was in need of a rope. In the excitement, he had forgotten to
procure one. The man who stood in his path, engaged in his peaceful
occupation, reminded him of his mission. He had no time to go back and
so he did the next best thing. Leaning away from his horse, in the
fashion of a bulldogger about to jump on a steer, he grabbed the rope
out of the astonished trick roper’s hands and made for his waiting
friends.
To see the apple of his eye being borne away by a locoed trick rider
was not a thing to be taken lightly by the owner. With a bellow meant
to denote rage and intention to do murder, he set out after the thief