He began to walk in a circle about his victim, and
Alcatraz shuddered when the conqueror came behind
him. That had been Cordova’s way—to
come to a place where he could not be seen and then
strike cruelly and by surprise. To his unspeakable
astonishment, Perris presently leaned over him—and
then deliberately sat down on the shoulder of the
chestnut. Two thoughts flashed through the mind
of the stallion; he might heave himself over by a
convulsive effort and attempt to crush this insolent
devil; or he might jerk his head around and catch Perris
with his teeth. A third and better thought, however,
immediately followed—that bound as he was
he would have little chance to reach this elusive
will-o’-the-wisp. He could not repress a
quiver of horror and anger, but beyond that he did
not stir.
Other liberties were being taken; Cordova in his maddest
moments would not have dared so much. Down the
long muscles of his shoulder and upper foreleg went
curious and gently prying finger-tips, and where they
passed a tingling sensation followed, not altogether
unpleasant. Again beginning on his neck the hand
trailed down beneath his mane and at the same time
the voice was murmuring: “Oh beauty!
Oh beauty!”
The heart of Alcatraz swelled. He had felt his
first caress.
CHAPTER XVIII
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.
