Chapter 7

“What's the matter, Mike?” questioned Allis.

“Mather, is it?” began Gaynor, “it's just this, Miss Allis; if yer father thinks I'm goin' to stand by an' see good colts spiled in their timper just because a rapscallion b'y has got the evil intints av ould Nick himself, thin he's mistook, that's all.”

“Who is it Mike--Shandy?”

“That's him, Miss. He's the divil on wheels, bangin' thim horses about as though he was King Juba.”

Allis saw that Gaynor was indeed angry.

“I'll speak to father about him, Mike,” she answered; “I won't have the horses abused.”

“Mark my words, Miss Allis, Diablo'll take it out of his hide some day. The b'y'll monkey wit' him once too often, then there'll be no b'y left.”

“May we see the horses, Mike--are they having their lie-down, or anything?”

“Not yet, Miss; they're gettin' the rub-down now; don't ye hear Diablo bastin' the boords av his stall wid that handy off hind-foot av his?”

“There's a filly for yer life,” exclaimed the Trainer, rapturously, as he opened gently the door of Lucretia's box stall. “There's the straightest filly iver looked through a halter,” he continued, putting his arm with the gentleness of a woman over the brown mare's beautiful neck. “Come here, ould girl,” he said, coaxingly, as he drew the haltered head toward the visitors.

Mortimer looked with interest at the big, comfortable box stall, littered a foot deep with bright, clean, yellow straw. How contented and at home the mare appeared! It seemed almost a complete recompense, this attentive care, for the cruelty he imagined race horses suffered.

“You don't tie her up?” he asked.

“Tie her up!” ejaculated Mike, a fine Celtic scorn in his voice; “I'd rather tie up a wife--if I had one,” he added by way of extenuation. “No man would tie up a mare worth tin thousand dollars if she's worth a cent, an' take chances av her throwin' hersilf in the halter; av coorse she's hitched fer a bit after a gallop while she's havin' a rub-down, but that's all.”

Lucretia's black nozzle came timidly forward, and the soft, velvety upper lip snuggled Allis's cheek.

“She knows ye, Miss,” said Mike. “That's the way wit' horses--they're like children; they know friends, an' ye can't fool thim. Now she's sizin' ye up, Mister,” as Lucretia sniffed suspiciously at Mortimer's chin, keeping a wary eye on him. “She'll know if ye like horses or not, an' I'd back her opinion agin fifty min's oaths.”

Allis watched with nervous interest the investigation. She almost felt that if Lucretia liked her companion--well, it would be something less to dislike in him, at all events. Lucretia seemed turning the thing over in her mind, trying to think it out. There was some mystery about this new comer. Evidently she did not distrust him entirely, else she would have put her ears back a trifle and turned away with a little impatient warning shake of her delicate head. She always turned in that cross manner from Shandy, the stable boy. She had also discovered that the visitor was not completely a horseman; she did not investigate his pockets, nor put her head over his shoulder, as she would have done with Mr. Porter or Mike, or even with one who was a stranger, as was Mortimer, had she felt the unmistakable something which conveyed to her mind that he was of the equine brotherhood.

“Lucretia has found you out,” said Allis, presently. “You do like horses; she knows it.”

“Oh, I like animals, I don't deny,” Mortimer answered, “but I know very little about them--nothing about race horses.”

Mike frowned and looked disparagingly at the visitor. “He must be a quare duck,” he muttered to himself. That a man should know nothing of thoroughbreds was perfectly inexplicable to Gaynor. He knew many racing men whose knowledge of horseflesh was a subject for ridicule, but then they never proclaimed their ignorance, rather posed as good judges than otherwise.

But with startling inconsistency Mike explained: “There's many like ye, sir, only they don't know it, that's all; the woods is full av thim. Would ye like to give the filly a carrot, Miss?” he added, turning to Allis. “I'll bring some.”

When he returned Allis gave one to Lucretia, then they passed to the next stall.

“That's a useful horse,” explained the Trainer; “he's won some races in his 'time.”

“What's his name?” asked Mortimer.

“Game Boy. He's by the Juggler. Ye remember him, don't ye?”

Mortimer was forced to confess that he didn't quite remember Juggler.

“That's strange,” commented Mike, turning the big bay about with evident pride; “he won the 'Belmont,' at Jerome Park, did the ould Juggler. Ye must av heerd av that.”

Mortimer compromised by admitting that he had probably forgotten it.

“Well, I haven't,” declared Mike, reproachfully. “If Game Boy stands a prep this summer ye'll hear from him,” he confided to Mortimer, as they left the stall. “Jist remember Game Boy; see, ye can't forget--a big bay wit' a white nigh fore leg, an' a bit rat-tailed. Yes, Game Boy's all right,” monologued Mike; “but here's a better; this is Diablo. He must have tabasco in his head, fer he's got the divil's own timper. But he can gallop a bit; he can go like a quarterhorse, an' stay till the cows come home; but he's like Lauzanne acrost yonder, he's got a bee in his bonnet an' it takes a divil to ride him.”

“That's hard on me, Mike,” expostulated Allis. “You see, Lauzanne goes better with me in the saddle than any of the boys,” she explained to Mortimer.

“The divil or angels, I was going to say, Miss, when ye interrupted me,” gallantly responded Mike.

Diablo's head was tied high in a corner of the stall, for Shandy, the boy, was hard at work on him with a double hand of straw, rubbing him down. The boy kept up a peculiar whistling noise through his parted lips as he rubbed, and Diablo snapped impatiently at the halter-shank with his great white teeth as though he resented the operation.

Mortimer gazed with enthusiasm at the shining black skin that glistened like satin, or watered silk. Surely there was excuse for people loving thoroughbreds. It was an exhilaration even to look at that embodiment of physical development. It was an animate statue to the excellence of good, clean living. Somehow or other Mortimer felt that though the living creature before him was only a horse, yet nature's laws were being adhered to, and the result was a reward of physical perfection and enjoyment of life. He began to feel that a man, or even a woman--it was the subtle presence of the woman at his side that made him involuntarily interject this clause into his inaudible thoughts--yes, even a woman of high moral attributes might find the most healthy form of interested amusement in watching the superb development of horses that were destined for no other purpose than to race and beget sons and daughters of the same wondrous stamina and courage and speed. His detestation of racing had been in reality an untutored prejudice; he had looked upon but one phase of the question, and that quite casually, as it introduced itself into his life by means of sensational betting incidents in the daily papers. To him all forms of betting were highly disastrous--most immoral. But here, like a revelation, came to him, in all its fascination, the perfect picture of the animal, which he was forced to admit stood next to man in its adornment of God's scheme of creation.

As Shandy swept his wisp of straw along the sensitive skin of Diablo's stomach, the latter shrunk from the tickling sensation, and lashed out impatiently with a powerful hind leg as though he would demolish his tormentor.

“He's not cross at all just,” explained Mike; “he's bluffin', that's all. Shure a child could handle him if they'd only go the right way about it.”

Then he leaned over and whispered in an aside to the visitors--“Bot' t'umbs up!” (this was Mike's favorite oath). “Diablo hates that b'y an' some day he'll do him up, mark my words.”

“Here, Shandy,” he cried, turning to the rubber, “loose the Black's head an' turn him 'round.”

Mortimer almost shrank with apprehension for the boy, for Diablo's ears were back on his flat, tapering neck, and his eyes looking back at them, were all white, save for the intense blue-shimmered pupil. To Mortimer that look was the incarnation of evil hatred. But the boy unsnapped the halter-shank without hesitation, and Diablo, more inquisitive than angry, came mincingly toward them, nodding his head somewhat defiantly, as much as to say that the nature of the interview would depend altogether upon their good behavior.

“See that!” ejaculated Mike, a pleasant smile of satisfaction rippling the furrows of his face; “see how he picks out the best friend the stable's got.”

Diablo had stretched his lean head down, and was trying to nibble with gentle lip the carrot Allis held half hidden behind her skirt. There was none of Lucretia's timidity in Diablo's approach; it was full of an assumption of equality, of trust in the intentions of the stranger who had come with the mistress he hart faith in.

“They're all like that when Miss Allis is about,” explained Mike; “there never would be a bad horse if the stable-b'ys worked the same way. Tie him up, Shandy,” he added. “Even the jockeys spoil their mounts,” Gaynor continued in a monotone; “the horse'll gallop better for women any time--they treat thim gentler, that's why.”

“Most interesting,” hazarded Mortimer, feeling some acknowledgment of Mike's information was due.

“It's the trut'. Miss Allis'd take Lauzanne, or the Black, or the little mare, an' get a better race out av thim than any jock I've seen ridin' hereabout.”

“Mike,” exclaimed Allis, “you flatter me; you almost make me wish that I were a jockey.”

“Well, bot' t'umbs up! Ye'd av made a good un, Miss, an' that's no disrespect to ye, I'm sayin'.”

Mortimer smiled condescendingly. Allis's quick eye caught his expression of amused discontent; it angered her. Mike's praise had been practically honest. To him a good jockey was the embodiment of courage and honesty and intelligence; but she knew that to Mortimer it simply meant a phase of life he considered quite outside the pale of recognized respectability. Somehow she felt that Mike's encomium had lowered her perceptibly in the opinion of this man whom she herself affected to look upon with but toleration.

They visited all the other stalls, eight of them, and listened to Mike's eulogies on the inmates. Coming down the other side of the passage, the last occupied box stall contained Lauzanne.

“Miss Porter'll tell ye about this wan,” said Mike, diplomatically. “He's shaped like a good horse, an' his sire, old Lazzarone, landed many a purse, an' the 'Suburban,' too--won it on three legs, fer he was clean gone in his pins, I'll take me oath to that. He was a good horse--whin he liked. Perhaps Lauzanne'll do the same some day, fer all I know.”

There was such a tone of doubt in the Trainer's voice that even Mortimer noticed it. Neither was there much praise of the big Chestnut; evidently Mike did not quite approve of him, though hesitating to say so in the presence of his mistress.

“Yes, Lauzanne is my horse,” volunteered Allis. “I even ride him in all his work now, since he took to eating the stable-boy.”

“And you're not afraid?” asked Mortimer.

For answer the girl slipped quietly into the stall, and going up beside the Chestnut, who was standing sulkily with his head in the corner of his box, took him by the ear and turned him gently around.

“He's just a quiet-mannered chap, that's all,” she said. “He's a big, lazy, contented old boy,” and she laid her cheek against his fawn-colored nozzle. “You see,” she explained, “he's got more brains than any of the other horses, and when he's abused he knows it.”

“But he's grateful when he's kindly treated,” commented Mortimer.

“Yes; that's why I like horses better than men.”

“Oh!” the exclamation slipped from Mortimer's lips.

“Most men, I mean,” she explained. “Of course, father, and Alan, and--” she hesitated; “you see,” she went on to explain, “the number of my men friends is limited; but except these, and Mike, and Mr. Dixon, I like the horses best.”

“I almost believe you're right, Miss Porter,” concurred Mortimer; “I've known men myself that I fancy were much worse than even Diablo.”

“Mike thinks Lauzanne is a bad horse,” the girl said, changing the subject, “but he'll win a big race this coming season. You just keep your eye on Lauzanne. Here's your carrot, old chap,” she said, stroking the horse's neck, “and we must go if we're to have that drive. Will you hitch the gray to the buggy for us, Mike?” she asked of Gaynor, as they came out of the stable, “we'll wait here.”

As Mike started off there came to their ears a sound of turmoil from Diablo's box; impatient kicks against the boards from the horse, and smothered imprecations from the boy.

“Hear that fiend!” the girl exclaimed, and there was wrath in her voice.

“He does seem a bad horse,” concurred Mortimer.

“I didn't mean Diablo; it's the boy. It's all his evil doing. Oh, I've only one glove,” she exclaimed. “I know where it is, though; that mischievous rascal, Lauzanne, nibbled it from the front of my jacket; I saw him do it, but forgot to pick it up.”

“Allow me, Miss Porter; I'll get it for you.”

“No; please don't!” with emphasis. As he started back, she laid a detaining hand on his arm. “I'd much prefer to go myself; Lauzanne distrusts strangers and might make trouble.”

As the girl entered the stable, Mortimer sauntered on in the direction Mike had gone.

Allis opened the door of Lauzanne's stall, passed in, and searched in the straw for the lost glove.

X

The noise of strife in Diablo's box had increased. There came the sound of blows on the horse's ribs; a muttered oath, and suddenly a scream of terror from the boy, drowned in an instant by the ferocious battlecry of the enraged stallion. Mortimer, thirty yards away, heard it, and felt his heart stand still; he had never heard anything so demoniac in his life. He turned in such haste that his foot slipped on the frozen earth, and he fell heavily.

At the first sound of blows Allis had started angrily toward Diablo's box. She was at the door when Shandy's cry of terror rang out. For an instant the girl hesitated; what she saw was enough to make a strong man quail. The black stallion was loose; with crunching jaws he had fastened on the arm of Shandy, in the corner of the stall, and was trying to pull the boy down that he might trample him to death. But for a second she faltered; if ever quick action were needed, it was now.

“Back--back, Diablo! back!” she cried, as pushing past the black demon she brought her hunting-crop down with full force between his ears.

Whether it was the sound of his mistress's voice, or the staggering blow, Diablo dropped the boy like a crushed rat, and, half rearing, looked viciously at the brave girl.

“Quick! through the hay window!” commanded Allis, standing between Shandy and the horse, and drawing the whip back over her left shoulder, ready to give it to Diablo full in the throat should he charge again.

Cowed, the boy clambered through the opening. Enraged at the sight of his assailant's escape, the horse gave another scream of defiance and sought with striking forefeet and spread jaws to pull down this new enemy. Not until then had Allis thought of calling for help; her one idea had been for the boy's safety.

Like a flash the full peril of the situation dawned upon her; perhaps her life would be given for the boy who well deserved his punishment. She had seen two stallions fight, and knew that their ferocious natures, once roused, could only be quelled by a force stronger than she possessed. Yes, surely she would be killed-her young life trampled out by the frenzied animal. Incoherently but altogether these thoughts filled her mind; also the knowledge that Mike was beyond hearing.

“Help, Mortimer!” she called.

He heard it as he reached the stable door. Even then he would have been too late had not other rescue come more quickly.

In rushing from Lauzanne's stall Allis had left the door swinging on its hinges. At the first cry of defiance from the black stallion Lauzanne had stretched high his head and sent back, with curled nostril, an answering challenge. Then with ears cocked he had waited for a charge from his natural enemy. When the mingled call of his mistress and Diablo's bugle note came to him he waited no longer, but rushed across the passage and seized the black horse by the crest just as he was overpowering the girl.

It was at that instant Mortimer reached the scene--in his hand a stable fork he had grabbed as he raced down the passage. Even Lauzanne's attack, though it gave Allis a respite, would not have saved her life; the madly fighting horses would have kicked and trampled her to death.

“My God! Back, back, you devils!” And pushing, crowding, hugging the side of the stall, Mortimer fought his way to the girl.

Once Diablo's hoof shot out and the man's left arm, snapping like a pistol, dropped useless at his side. His brain reeled with the shock. The oddly swinging arm, dangling like a doll's, with the palm turned backward, seemed to fascinate him. Why was he there? What was he doing? Why was he hammering the horses over the head with a stable fork held tightly in his right hand? He hardly knew; his mind was clouded; he was fighting by instinct, and always crowding along the wall toward the farther corner. The girl had quite faded from his sight. Somehow he felt that he must drive the horses back, back, out of the stall.

Allis, too, was fighting; bringing the crop down with cutting force over the withers, neck, head, any part of the plunging mass in front of her. She could escape now through the opening where the boy had gone; but was not Mortimer in the same position she had been? She had seen him drop to his knees when Diablo lashed out; he must be sorely hurt; now he was reeling like a drunken man as he fought the mad brutes.

“This way,” she panted, catching him by the coat, and pulling him toward the window.

Ah, that was it! He saw her now. It steadied his senses. It was the girl, and she had called him--“Mortimer!”

“Back,” he yelled irrelevantly, in answer, cutting Diablo across the face with the fork. It was pandemonium.

“Get through the window!” the girl screamed in his ear. “Quick! Now!” and she pushed him toward it.

“You--first--back, you devils!” and he pressed away from her, closer to the horses, thrusting and striking with the steel-pointed fork.

The horses were giving way; Diablo was fighting half through the door, weakening before the onslaught of the powerful chestnut. Even in battle, as in a race, the stamina of the Lazzarone blood was telling; the bulldog courage of the strain was strong upon Lauzanne, now that he was roused.

“Quick! You can get out!” again called the girl.

“You first!”

This drear, repetition was the only expression Mortimer's numbed senses were equal to; but he fought with the ferocity of a tiger--his wound but enraged him.

They could both escape, Allis knew, if she could bring Mortimer to understand; but they must do it quick, if at all. It was useless. He seemed conscious of but the one idea that he must drive the fighting animals out into the passage to save her. She was not afraid now; the man's presence had driven that all away. It was useless to speak to him of the window, neither would go first; so, with her riding whip she fought side by side with Mortimer; springing back from the swift-cutting forefeet; sometimes even hugging close to the side of a horse as he lashed out from behind; and once saving her companion from being cut down by pulling him swiftly from under a raised foot. In the end the stallions were forced out into the passage, just as Mike came rushing upon the scene.

But the battle had waned. Twice Diablo had been pulled to his knees, forced down by the fierce strength that was Lauzanne's; the Black was all but conquered. The Trainer's voice checked Lauzanne's fury; even the boy had plucked up courage to return; and between them the Chestnut was driven into his stall. All the fight had been taken out of Diablo. He struggled to his feet, and stood trembling like a horse that had come out of a fierce cutting race. On his neck were the marks of Lauzanne's teeth, where they had snapped like the jaws of a trap; from his crest trickled a red stream that dripped to the floor like water from a running eave. All the fierce fire of hate had gone from his eyes. He hung his head dejectedly, and his flanks quivered. Lauzanne, too, bore evidence of the vicious strife. On one quarter, where Diablo's sharp hoof had ripped, was a cut as though he had been lashed with a sickle, and his withers were torn.

Mortimer and Allis had come out of the stall. The man, exhausted by the struggle, leaned wearily, with pale, drawn face, against the wall; the floor seemed slipping from under him; he felt a sensation of swiftly passing off into nothingness. He was sleepy, that was all; but a sleepiness to fight against--he must still fight.

“You are badly hurt.” It was the girl's voice. He was almost surprised that he recognized it, everything was so confused. He answered heavily, “Yes, I'm--I'm--I want--to lie down.”

“Here, lean on my shoulder.” It was Mike's voice this time. “This is bad business,” the Trainer was saying; “we must get him out of this; he's nearly knocked out. Are ye all right, Miss?” turning to Allis.

The wounded man turned guiltily; he had forgotten the girl. Yes, surely she had been in that hell of noises with him--fighting too.

“I'm just frightened, that's all,” answered Allis. “Mr. Mortimer saved me.”

Had he? he wondered. How had he come in there, anyway? His mind refused to work out the problem; his side was so sore.

“Yer arm's broke,” said Mike, passing to Mortimer's right side. “Come, lean on me, sir. Can ye walk? I'll put ye in the buggy and drive ye to the house.”

At the first step Mortimer staggered and swayed like a drunken man. In his side were many sharp things pulling him down like grappling irons; on his head was a great weight that crushed his feet into the hard planks; his knees gave under this load, and he would have fallen but for Mike's strong arm.

“I'm--afraid;” then he set his teeth hard, his voice had sought to end the sentence in a groan of anguish; the thing that was tearing at his side had whistled in his lungs.

Allis stepped forward swiftly, and passing her arm about his waist, helped Mike lead him to the door. Twice she put her left hand up and brushed tears from her eyes; the struggle had unnerved her. Very helplessly against her swayed the man she had laughed at half an hour before. And he had been crushed saving her! But that was not why the tears came--not at all. She was unstrung. “And he's got grit,” she kept muttering to herself; “he has never even groaned.”

Together they succeeded in getting him into the buggy; then, gently, Mike drove to the house.

XI

Mrs. Porter, reading a book on the veranda, heard the crunch of wheels as a buggy, slow-moving, turned into the drive. She raised her eyes leisurely, the matter of the story still in her mind; but with a quick cry of “John!” she sprang to her feet, the volume, left to itself, rustling from her lap to the floor. The mother eyes saw that something was wrong, and the mother heart felt that some evil had come to Allis. Mrs. Porter had gone white in an instant. Over her hung heavy at all times the dread of some terrible accident coming to Allis through the horses.

“Did you call, wife?” Porter asked as he came to the door. Then he sprang quickly across the veranda at sight of his wife's blanched face, and made to catch her in his arms. But she stopped him, pointing down the drive. “It's Allis, John; oh, my God!”