Part 1

+The Wide World Magazine+

Vol. XXII. NOVEMBER, 1908. No. 128.

BARMAID'S STEEPLECHASE.

+By C.C. Paltridge.+

The story of an exciting race, incidentally giving one a vivid glimpse of the humours of an Australian bush meeting in the 'seventies.

I have never been a jockey, but I have ridden races under divers circumstances, having--as is the case with most of us Australians--put in a considerable time in the saddle one way and another.

My people have been mixed up more or less with racing ever since it started in our State--two uncles and a cousin have been crack amateurs over the "big sticks," and my brother and myself have each done his little bit in the same direction, though never attaining to notice in the cities. My own riding has been confined principally to obscure bush meetings, and undertaken on the spur of the moment, generally as a substitute for an absent or "hocussed" jockey.

This was the case at Orroroo, then a newly-surveyed and only partially-settled district in the north of South Australia, and the episode took place at the very first meeting held in that now prosperous and comparatively populous community.

Let me describe the scene, for probably few readers of this magazine outside Australia have ever beheld anything like it, though many of the middle-aged and old men "down under" will slap their thighs and say, "Jove! I've seen it hundreds of times."

Picture to yourself first of all a wide, undulating plain, dotted here and there with clumps of needle-bush growing in loose reddish sand, with lignum and ti-tree not altogether absent, while in the distance could be seen the mingled greens and blues of the salt-bush and blue-bush. Beyond that, miles away, was a long semi-circular line of black--the untouched acacia scrub.

In such a scene as this were gathered, one day in 1877, a small crowd of two or three hundred men, a sprinkling of women and children, and a multitude of dogs, while horses of every size, shape, and colour, from the great draught stallion, brought there to advertise his points to the new settlers, to the slim, clean-limbed thoroughbred, whose business was to make the sport, were tied to trees or being led up and down, awaiting their turn to run. Rogues and vagabonds of every description were among that small crowd--three-card men, purse-trick men, and all the lower strata of the criminal class, for in those days the bush race-meeting was a small goldmine to men for whom the cities and larger towns had become temporarily too warm.

The course was a circle of about a mile and a quarter in circumference, marked out by flags on either side, the jumps for the steeplechase--four sets of three stiff panels of post and rail--being erected just inside the inner flags. The race consisted of three heats of one mile each, run at intervals during the day, the riders, of course, weighing out every time.

I will not detail the events on the flat, from the maidens to the hurry-scurry; they passed off uneventfully amid the usual good-natured enthusiasm of a crowd of rough men out for a day's fun.

Just as the saddling-bell--a kerosene tin beaten with a stick--rang for the first heat of the steeplechase, Brady, the owner of a horse called Barmaid, came up to my uncle, whom I had accompanied to the meeting, and hurriedly whispered in his ear.

"Never!" cried my uncle, in amazement. "You don't mean it!"

"It is a fact," said Brady; "he's lying out there in the ti-tree, absolutely helpless. We nearly shook his teeth out, but he didn't move."

"Hocussed, eh?"

"Yes; and if Lean didn't do it I'm a nigger," snapped Brady. "I told him not to even speak to him, and yet he goes and actually drinks with him! Confound him!" he added, viciously, as he thought of his lost chance, for though the horse Lean owned and was to ride, a big, raking brown gelding called Pawnbroker, was favourite, Brady's little bay mare was a clever fencer, and had pace enough to lose his rival on the flat. The stake, too, was twenty-five pounds, quite a respectable sum for so small a meeting, and Brady had his mare well backed.

Brady was the local publican, and, I believe, an honest man, while Lean made his living by going from meeting to meeting with his two horses, generally winning or losing as best suited his book, stopping at nothing that would make the game pay. At least, that was his reputation.

"What are you going to do?" asked my uncle, presently.

"I don't know," replied Brady; "unless you----"

"Goodness gracious, man!" interrupted my uncle. "With my leg?" He had recently broken it, and still needed a short stick to assist him in walking. "Besides," he added, "I am twelve stone, and you only want nine six." Suddenly he turned abruptly to me. "Do you want a ride, Charlie?"

"Ain't he too little?" objected Brady. "And can he ride?"

"He can ride if he's game."

I felt a hot flush spread over my face and alternate thrills of heat and cold run up and down my body as something like fear gave place to pleasure. At last, in a voice which, I am afraid, was none too steady, I said, "I _am_ game."

I was promptly hurried away to a bough "humpy," the only edifice of any kind on the course, constructed of forked uprights supporting a dozen short cross-pieces, or rafters, surmounted by green gum-boughs and ti-tree; this served as a drinking-booth (its chief purpose), weighing-room, stewards' room, clerk's room, and all the other offices required on a racecourse. An ordinary steelyard, such as butchers use, dangled from one of the rafters, to which was fixed a stirrup. I placed my foot in this, having previously donned a blue and yellow jacket and cap, and clung on until the clerk of the scales said, "Eight stone two." With a saddle and bridle weighing twelve pounds I had to carry six pounds of dead weight, made up partly of lead, in the usual way, and partly by rolling up a big rug and tying it on to the saddle, swag-fashion.

"It will help to keep you on, my boy," said my uncle as he fixed it.

The crowd jeered good-temperedly at me as I was led out. "Why don't you tie him on?" said one.

"Going on the wallaby?" (tramping), inquired another.

As we proceeded to the post, Brady addressed me in low tones. "I don't want to frighten you, sonny," he said; "but that Lean is a bad lot, so don't let him be too close to you as you go through the needle-bush. You'll be out of sight there and he might pull you off; run just ahead of him if you can, but don't have him alongside. When you are going at the jumps let her pick her own panel. Give her her head and sit tight; she won't stop and she won't fall. And win this heat if you can; it's two out of three, you know." A moment later I was among the half-dozen starters.

In a few minutes we were off, and I felt my heart come up into my throat as, leading the field, Barmaid took off at the first jump. Being practically a child--I was only twelve years old--I had not the hands of an expert, but I managed to steady her a bit between the fences, and, giving her her head at each obstacle, I won that heat without being caught, Pawnbroker being a not very close second. Two of the others fell, and a third was still declining the first fence when we finished.

In the second heat I was not permitted to have things so much my own way. Lean caught me at the first fence, and we rose and landed together. I tried to get in front of him, but he kept Pawnbroker's head at the mare's shoulder and came on ever faster as I increased the pace, and we took the next fence at top speed. Lean had evidently thought I should funk it and pull off; the rest of the field were hopelessly behind.

Approaching the next fence, I foolishly steadied the mare and dropped back to his flank. This just suited him. We were racing at the moment through a small belt of low ti-tree, only our shoulders being visible to the crowd. The next jump was in the clear, a few yards from the bushes, and as we approached it--and while we were still almost concealed--Lean suddenly crossed right under the mare's nose, almost turning her off the course and throwing her completely out of her stride. Before she could recover we were upon the fence. She rose at it, there was a great crash, and I was thrown forward to her neck, while she floundered with her nose on the ground. I heard the sound of a great shout as the crowd cried, with one voice, "She's down!" The next moment, however, the plucky little mare had recovered herself, and we were sailing after the big brown as fast as bone and muscle could carry us. Just over the last jump I caught him again, and, sending the mare for all she was worth, just failed by a neck to beat him; that made us heat and heat.

I, of course, got a great lecture from my uncle for trying to catch him after the accident.

"There's another heat, you young duffer," he said; "why didn't you keep the mare for that?"

"I never thought of it," I told him, truthfully enough. In my excitement, and being so inexperienced, my only thought had been to get in first.

The crowd, however, were loud in their praises, patting me on the back, shaking my hand, and loading me with gifts of fruit and sweets.

When we came out for the third and last heat the sun was near setting, long shadows stretched over the dry grass, and a cool south-westerly breeze fanned our faces and blew the scraps of paper in which luncheons had been wrapped hither and thither among the crowd.

Barmaid had been well rubbed down and a couple of buckets of water poured over her, so that, barring an ugly mark on her stifle where she had struck, she looked almost as fresh as paint. She was led up to the humpy and I weighed out for the last time. Lean was not yet ready, and while we waited for him a man, more than half-tipsy, staggered up to the booth, leading his horse with a rein hung over his arm. The animal, evidently unused to a crowd, hung back, and only by dint of much persuasion was he at last brought close; then his liquor-soaked owner hooked the rein over the steelyard on which I had just weighed in and staggered to the counter for a drink.

The horse, already nervous and fidgety, was almost frightened to death by the noise of popping corks, breaking glass, and the mingled voices of the now noisy crowd. Suddenly, without warning, he started back, gave one, two, three desperate tugs at the rein--and down came the whole humpy, bringing with it, of course, those who had been sitting on the roof to enjoy the last heat of the steeplechase!

The bridle of stout plaited greenhide held, and after a few wild plunges the horse went careering madly away over the plain towards the acacia scrub, the steelyard still dangling from the rein.

The scene that ensued is entirely beyond me to describe. Beneath the boughs and rafters of the fallen humpy--kicking, cursing, and shouting--struggled forty or fifty men, fighting wildly to release themselves.

"Who the dickens done that?" "Get orf my 'ed, whoever you are!" "Here, pull us out o' this, somebody!"--all sorts of weird cries and exclamations floated out from the mix-up, until at last, with many oaths, they emerged one by one from their captivity.

Meanwhile the crowd, whooping excitedly, were trailing over the plain in the wake of the flying horse. Talk about "two souls with but a single thought," here were two hundred in similar case. Their thought, of course, was the scales, without which the steeplechase could not be decided.

There were men riding, men running, men in carts, men in buggies, men with coats and men without, all laughing, cursing, and calling, while off in front went the runaway. Away they all sailed helter-skelter, some spreading out to the right and left to head the horse off before he reached the scrub.

Fortunately for all of us the fugitive's progress was hampered by the dangling scales, and so he was ultimately turned back, caught, and led triumphantly to the scene of the wrecked humpy, where the scales were hung to the bough of a tree, Lean weighed, and all was once more ready for the final.

There was more than a suspicion among the crowd that Lean had purposely arranged this little diversion in order that he might go out without weighing--an obvious advantage to him, I having already weighed.

One thing he had succeeded in doing--delaying the race until the sun had set and dusk began to fall, making it almost impossible to see across the course in the open, much less in the needle-bush.

There were, of course, only Barmaid and Pawnbroker to run, and I felt none too comfortable as Lean pulled his great brown beast up to my side and looked the mare over. When the flag fell he went away in the lead, evidently intending to repeat his crossing trick, but I lay back a good two lengths behind. After the second fence he slackened pace to let me creep up, but I touched the mare smartly with the whip and shot away in front. I did this so suddenly that he, holding his horse as he was at the moment, was some seconds before he could get going again. Then we both steadied and took the third jump carefully. Between the third and last fences was the clump of needle-bush, extending for about three hundred yards. These trees, as I said, grow in a loose reddish sand, and the going there was very heavy, while the needle-like foliage was so dense that I knew nothing could be seen of the race from the point where the people were. As I approached this point I remembered Brady's words, "Don't let him be too close to you in the needle-bush."

I felt that I had had enough of it all; a three-mile steeplechase is no joke for a youngster, and it was my first race. Lean, I knew, was a very bad man, and would not hesitate to settle me. So, determined to get my ordeal over, I plied my whip, and we literally flew. Pawnbroker, however, being the stronger horse, gained on me every stride in the sand, and it was with a gasp of terror that I presently saw his tan muzzle at my stirrup. "Barmaid! Barmaid!" I cried, as with tiring arm I coiled the whalebone round her flanks, but still that brown head and red, expanded nostril crept along her side. Then I felt a hand snatch at my shoulder. Grasping the rolled blanket on my saddle with one hand, I turned and lashed fiercely at my opponent's face.

With a curse of fury he swayed in the saddle and his horse dropped a little back. Next, grasping his whip, he aimed a blow at me with the handle which would have answered his purpose had it got home, but it fell just too short, and striking the mare just behind the saddle simply served to quicken her pace.

He caught me no more. The last fence I took alone, he coming along steadily some four or five lengths behind. Fearful and excited, however, I finished, using the whip as though running a dead-heat with the Evil One himself.

I told my uncle and Brady what had happened, of course, but, as they said, it was no use complaining; it would only be my word against his. And so the matter ended, Brady rewarding me for winning the race with a silver watch and chain.

Lean, under his proper name, afterwards became a notorious racing swindler, and was warned off most of the principal courses in Australia. He ended his days, appropriately enough, as lessee of one of the lowest "pubs" in Broken Hill.

The Greatest Horse-Race on Record.

+By Alan Gordon, of Denver, Colorado, U.S.A.+

A graphic description of a wonderful six-hundred-miles "endurance race" which took place recently in Wyoming and Colorado, arousing extraordinary public excitement. The photographs accompanying the article were furnished by the "Denver Post," under the auspices of which enterprising newspaper the contest was held and the prizes awarded.

Some time ago, while in Denver, Colorado, Mr. Homer Davenport, the famous American cartoonist, made a statement to the effect that the Arabian steed could travel farther and quicker than any other breed of horse extant. To this the owners of the _Denver Post_, as patriotic Westerners, promptly took exception. For hard, steady going, day after day, they said, the native Western "broncho" could wear the legs off anything that goes on four feet. This was what the proprietors of the _Post_ believed, and so strongly did they feel it that they have since expended nine thousand dollars in instituting an "endurance race," which should demonstrate once and for ever the magnificent "staying" qualities of the broncho.

Prizes were offered ranging in value from a thousand to fifty dollars, and extraordinary public interest was at once manifested in the contest. The whole West woke up, and entries simply poured in from Colorado, Wyoming, South Dakota, Utah, and other neighbouring States. The race was to be over a course five hundred and ninety-five miles long--from Evanston, Wyoming, to Denver, Colorado, along the famous old "Overland Trail." The rules governing the contest were few and simple. Each competitor was to ride from start to finish on one horse. He was at liberty to go as he pleased and keep on as long as he pleased, but at regular intervals there were to be "checking stations," where veterinary surgeons would examine the horses and rule out any animal which was not in a fit state to proceed. In this way cruel overtaxing of the horses' strength--an unpleasant feature of some of the military long-distance races on the Continent--would be prevented. For the rest the rider could use his own discretion as to the best way of covering the six hundred miles of mountain, desert, and rolling plain that lay between the start and the winning-post.

Evanston is situated in the extreme southwestern part of Wyoming. The course followed the Union Pacific Railroad across the entire State to Cheyenne, in the south-east corner, taking roughly the form of a crescent, and thence dipped southward to Denver. It was a long, difficult stretch, for it crossed the "Continental Divide" of the Rocky Mountains and many a dry, sandy desert forsaken of man and beast. On this occasion, however, few of the riders found it lonesome, for automobiles followed them in many places, and casual friendly cow punchers dropped in and rode a few miles here and there for company with the boys who were entered to prove the supremacy of the broncho.

From Denver a special train was run to Evanston, taking with it the horses and riders of the section, and picking up others _en route_ at little stations in Wyoming and Colorado. Some few of the competitors rode into Evanston on their cow-ponies. Two of these, Workman and Holman, actually came a distance of four hundred and fifty miles, at the rate of sixty-five miles a day, riding the same horses that were entered for the race! Holman, at least, regretted this afterward, as he admitted that his steed was not so fresh for the start as it should have been.

The little town of Evanston was hugely excited, and made a carnival out of the event. There was a big "barbecue" the day before the start, with races, bull-riding, a parade, and sundry other attractions, and the town was noisy with the whoops of the gay young fellows who expected to start out next day on their long, hard trip "down to Denver."

It was early in the morning when the start was made. The twenty-five contestants were lined up and ready for the pistol-shot before six o'clock. One of the judges made a short speech to the riders, cautioning them to ride fair, remember the rules, and do their level best. Then he stepped back, the pistol cracked, and one of the most interesting and important races ever run in the West was "on."

The only recent long-distance ride worthy of comparison with this contest was that between Berlin and Vienna, run between officers of the Austrian and German armies. The distance between these two cities is about three hundred and sixty miles, and it was covered--over perfectly level roads--in seventy-two hours by Count Stahremburg, an Austrian. Second place was secured by Lieutenant Reitzenstein, a German officer, who took about two hours longer. These horses carried very light weights, and both of them were put out of commission for life, one of them falling exhausted at the post and the other dying next day. It remained to be seen whether the American broncho could outlast the thoroughbred steeds of the crack European cavalry regiments.

The race was run with several objects in view. One of them was to determine the value of the native broncho as a cavalry horse for the United States army; another was to discover how the bronchos compared with the standard-bred horses entered in the race. In order to make the data for comparison as complete as possible each horse was thoroughly examined and its markings and measurements noted. The weight of the entrants was about nine hundred pounds on the average, though this varied as much as one hundred and seventy-five pounds each way. The load they carried was about a hundred and eighty pounds, including the rider, saddle, and full equipment.

Charles Workman on Teddy took the lead, followed closely by Smith. An automobile which paced the riders for a few miles came back presently to report that these two were already opening quite a gap between them and the rest of the riders. As the day continued the news indicated that Teddy's long stride was carrying him farther and farther to the front, Smith galloping a mile or two behind, with Charlie Trew on Archie hanging to his flanks. Far behind these three came the rest of the field, scattered over many miles of dusty road.

At Carter, the first checking station, Workman registered at ten-thirty, no other racer being in sight. He was still alone when he passed through Church Buttes, though two other riders were looming up on the distant skyline. At Granger he was still first in and out, Teddy clipping the miles off one by one like a machine. But Smith was coming fast from the rear, and at Smith's heels still hung the game little thoroughbred stallion Archie. It was dark when Workman rode through Bryan, and by this time Smith had dropped back beaten, but side by side with Teddy ran Charlie Trew's Archie. By a great spurt the thoroughbred passed the broncho Teddy and came in to Green River first. Here Trew registered, having ridden one hundred and twelve miles the first day, and as he turned away Workman slipped down from the saddle.

"Halloa, Charlie! Beat me in, eh?" he grinned.

"You bet," came the cheerful answer.

"Your Archie hoss is a great little goer, but Teddy will wear him down to-morrow," commented the other man.

"Mebbe he will, and mebbe he won't," returned Trew, amiably, as he led his pony to the stable.

Both riders fed, watered, and rubbed down their horses before taking any refreshment themselves; then they lay down in the stalls and slept beside their animals till they were awakened before daylight and set off again. Although he did not know it, Trew had already won the prize for the longest single day's travel covered in the least time.