“Well!” chuckled Corson, not unkindly,
“I thought it would be more Perris than Arizona
in the wind-up!”
She reddened, but not because of his words. She
was thinking of the impulsive note in which she asked
Red Perris to call at the hotel after the race and
ask for Marianne Jordan. Remembering his song
from the street, she wondered if he, also, would have
the grace to blush when they met.
THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK
By simply turning about the crowd was in position
to watch the race. Of course it packed dense
around the finish on both sides of the lane but Corson
had chosen his position well, the white posts were
not more than a dozen yards above them and they would
be able to see the rush of horses across the line.
It was pleasant to Marianne to turn her back on the
scene of the horse-breaking and face her own world
which she knew and loved.
The ponies were coming out to be paraded for admiration
and to loosen their muscles with a few stretching
gallops. Each was ridden by his owner, each bore
a range saddle. To one accustomed to jockeys and
racing-pads, these full-grown riders and cumbrous trappings
made the cowponies seem small but they were finely
formed, the pick of the range. The days of mongrel
breeds are long since over in the West. Smaller
heads, longer necks, more sloping shoulders, told of
good blood crossed on the range stock. Still,
the base-stock showed clearly when the Coles mares
came onto the track with mincing steps, turning their
proud heads from side to side and every one coming
hard on the bit. Coles had taken no chances,
and though he had been forced by the rules of the race
to put up the regulation range saddles he had found
the lightest riders possible. Their small figures
brought out the legginess of the mares; beside the
compact range horses their gait was sprawling, but
the wise eye of Marianne saw the springing fetlocks
kiss the dust and the long, telltale muscles.
She cried out softly in admiration and pleasure.
“You see the Coles mares?” she said.
“There go the winners, Mr. Corson. The
ponies won’t be in it after two furlongs.”
Corson regarded her with a touch of irritation:
“Now, don’t you be too sure, lady,”
he growled. “Lots of legs, I grant you.
Too much for me. Are they pure bred?”
“No,” she answered, “there’s
enough cold blood to bring the price down. But
Coles is a wise business man. After they’ve
won this race in a bunch they’ll look, every
one, like daughters of Salvator. See that!
Oh, the beauties!”
One of the range horses was loosed for a fifty yard
sprint and as he shot by, the mares swayed out in
pursuit. There was a marked difference between
the gaits. The range horse pounded heavily, his
head bobbing; the mares stepped out with long, rocking
gallop. They seemed to be going with half the
effort and less than half the speed, and yet, strangely,
they very nearly kept up with the sprinter until their
riders took them back to the eager, prancing walk.
Marianne’s eyes sparkled but the little exhibition
told a different story to old Corson. He snorted
with pleasure.
