03 - Alcatraz - Concerning Fighters

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter three of Alcatraz by Max Brand. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain. Concerning fighters, the race track
had come into existence by grace of accident. For it
happened that a lane ran a ragged course about a
big field, taking the corners without pretense of making true curves,

(00:25):
with almost an elbow turn into the straightaway. But since
the total distance of round was over a mile, it
was called the track. The sprints were run on the straightaway,
which was more than the necessary quarter of a mile,
but occasionally there was a longer race, and then the
field had to take that dangerous circuit, sloppy and slippery

(00:47):
with dust. The land enclosed was used for the bucking contest.
For the two crowning events of the Gloucesterville Fiesta. The
race and the horse breaking had been saved for this
last day. Mary Anne Jordan gladly would have missed the
latter event because it sickens me to see a man

(01:09):
fight with a horse, she often explained, But she forced
herself to go. She was in the rocky mountains now,
not on the bluegrass. Here, riding bucking horses was the
order of the day. It might be rough, but this
was a rough country. It was a day of undue humidity,

(01:30):
and the Eagle Mountains were pyramids of blue smoke. Closer
at hand, the roofs of Gloucesterville shone in the fierce sun,
and between the village and the mountains, the open fields
shimmered with rising heat waves. A hardy landscape meant only
for a hardy people. One can't adopt the country, thought

(01:53):
Mary Anne. It's the country that does the adopting. If
I'm not pleased by what pleases other people in the West,
I'd better leave the ranch to lou Hervey and go
back east. This was extraordinarily straight from the shoulder thinking,
but all the way out to the scene of the festivities,
she pondered quietly, the episode of the mayors was growing

(02:17):
in importance. So far, she had been able to do
nothing of importance on the ranch. If this scheme fell through, also,
it would be the proverbial last straw. In spite of
her intentions, she had delayed so long that the riding
was very nearly ended before she arrived. Buckboards and automobiles

(02:40):
lined the edges of the field in ragged lines, but
these did not supply enough seats, and many were standing,
they weaved with a continual life. Now and again, the
rider of one of the pitching horses bobbed above the crowd,
and the rattle of voices sharpened with piercing single calls.

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Always the dust of battle rose in shining wisps against
the sun, and Marianne approached with a sinking heart, for
as she crossed the track and climbed through the fence,
she heard the snort and squeal of an angry, fear
tormented horse. The crying of a child could not have
affected her so deeply. The circle was too thick to

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be penetrated, it seemed, but as she drew closer, an
opening appeared, and she easily sifted through to the front
line of the circle. It was not the first time
she had found that the way of women is made
easy in the west. Just as she reached her place,
a horse scudded away from the far end of the field,

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with a rider yelling the swaying head and shoulders back.
He seemed to be shrinking from such speed, but as
a matter of fact, he was poised and balanced nicely
for any chance whirl. When it had gained full speed,
the broncho pitched high in the air, snapped its head
and heels close together, and came down stiff legged. Mary

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Anne sympathetically felt the impact jar home in her brain,
but the rider kept his seat. Worse was coming. For
sixty seconds, the horse was in an ecstasy of furious
and educated bucking, flinging himself into odd positions and hitting
the earth. Each whip snap of that stinging, struggling body

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jarred the rider shrewdly, yet he clung in his place
until the fight ended with startling suddenness. The gray dropped
out of the air in a last effort, and then
stood head down, quivering. Beaten. The victor jogged placidly back
to the high fenced corrals, with shouts of applause going

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up about him. Hey, lady, called a voice behind, and
a bo Maryanne, might be you would like to sit
up here with us. It was a high bodied buck
board with two improvised seats behind the driver's place, and
Marianne thanked him with a smile. A fourteen year old
stripling sprang down the helper, but she managed to step

(05:19):
up without his hand. She was taken at once and
almost literally into the bosom of the family. Three boys,
a withered father, a work faded mother, all with curious,
kindly eyes. They felt she was not their order. Perhaps
the sun had darkened her skin, but would never spoil

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it into their sweating noonday she carried a morning freshness,
so they propped her in the angle of the driver's
seat beside the mother and made her at home. Their
name was Corson. The family had been in the west
pretty nigh onto always, but they had a place down
the Telefe Arrow River, and they had heard about the

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Jordan ranch. All of this was huddled into the first
two minutes. They brushed through the necessaries and got at
the excitement of the moment. I guess there ain't any doubt,
said Corson. Arizona Charley winds he won two years back too.
Minds me of Pete Langley, the way he rests in

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his saddle. Now, where's this Paris? Gent d'ye see em my?
Ain't they shoutin for Arizona? Well he's pretty bad, busted up,
but I guess he's still good enough to hold this Paris.
They talk about where's Paris? The same name was beIN
shouted here and there in the crowd. Corson stood up

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and peered about him. Who's Paris, asked Marianne. A gent
that come out of the north up Montanaway. I hear
he's been betting on himself to win this buckin contest,
coverin' everybody's money. A crazy man, he sure is. The
voice drifted dimly to mary Anne, for she was falling

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into a pleasant haze, comfortably aware of eyes of admiration
lifted to her more and more frequently from the crowd.
She envied the blue coolness of the mountains, or breathed
gingerly because the sting of alkali dust was in the air,
or noted with impersonal attention the flash of sun on

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a horse struggling in the far off corrals. The growing
excitement of the crowd, as though a crisis were approaching,
merely lulled her. More so the voice of Carson was
half heard. The words were unconnotative sounds. Let the winter
pick the worst outlaw on the lot. Then Paris will

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ride that hoss first, ve Guestroode he loses. If he sticks,
then the other gent has just got to sit the
same hoss, one that's already had the edge took off
his buckin. Well, ain't that a fool. Bet it sounds
fair enough, said Maryanne. Paris, I suppose hasn't ridden yet,
and Arizona Charlie is tired from his work. Arizona tired,

(08:17):
he ain't warmed up. Besides, he's got a horse here
that Paris will break his heart trying to ride. You
know what horse I got here to day? I got rickety, yeplay,
sure enough, got old rickety, He pointed, There he comes out.
Marianne looked lazily in the indicated direction, and then sat

(08:38):
up wide awake. She had never seen such cunning savagery
as was in the head of this horse, its ears
going back and forth as it tested the strength of
the restraining ropes now and then it crouched and shuddered
under the detested burden of his saddle. It was a
stout legged piebald with the tell tale Roman nose, obviously

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designed for hard and enduring battle. He was a fighting horse,
as plainly as a terrier is a fighting dog. Arizona Charlie,
a tall man off a horse and walking with a limp,
moved slowly about the captive, grinning at his companions. It
was plain that he did not expect a stranger to

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survive the test. A brief, deep throated shout from the crowd.
There's Paris, cried Corson. There's Red Paris, I guess. Marianne gasped.
It was the devil may Care Cavalier who had laughed
and fought and whistled under the window of her room.

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He stepped from the thick of the circle near Rickety
and responded to the voice of the crowd by waving
his hat. It would have been a trifle too grandiloquent
had he not been laughing. He's going through with it,
said Corson, shivering and chuckling at the same time. He's
going to try Rickety. They look like one in the

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same kind to me, two reckless devils, that Hoss and
Red Jim Parris. Is there a real danger, asked Marianne.
Corson regarded her with pity. Rickety can be rowed, they say,
he answered, But I disremember anybody that's done it. Look

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he's a man killer. That horse. Paris had stepped a
little too close, and the piebald thrust out at him
with reaching teeth and striking forefoot. The man leaped back,
still laughing. Cool all right, said Corson, judiciously, and maybe
he ain't just a blow hard after all. There they go.

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It happened very quickly. Paris had shaken hands with Arizona,
then turned and leaped into the saddle. The ropes were loosed.
Rickety crouched a moment to feel out the reality of
his freedom, then burst away, with head close to the
ground and ragged mane fluttering. There was no leaning back

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in this rider. He sat arrowly straight, save that his
left shoulder worked back in convulsive jerks as he strove
to get the head of Rickety up. But the piebald
had the bit. Once his chin was tucked back against
his breast, his bucking chances were gone, and he kept
his nose as low as possible, like the trained fighter

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that he was. There were no yells now. They received
Rickety as the appreciative receive a great artist in silence.
The straight line of his flight broke into a crazy
tangle of crisscross pitching. Out of dismaze, he appeared again
in a flash of straight galloping, used the imputus for

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a dozen jarring bucks, then reared and toppled backward to
crush the cowpuncher against the earth. Marianne covered her eyes,
but an invisible power dragged her hand down and made
her watch. She was in time to see Paris whisk
out of the saddle before Rickety struck the dirt. His

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hat had been snapped from his head. The sun and
the wind were in his flaming hair. Blue eyes and
white teeth flashed as he laughed again. I like a mien,
he had said, And I'll keep a mean A tame
horse is like a tame man. And I don't give
a damn for a fellow who won't fight. Once that

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had irritated her, but now remembering it, rang in her
ear to a different tune. As Rickety spung to his feet,
Paris vaulted to the saddle and found both stirrups in
mid leap, so to speak. The gelding instantly tested the
firmness of his rider's seat by vaulting high and landing
on one stiffened fore leg. The resultant shock broke two

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ways like a curved ball, snapping down and jerking to
one side, but he survived the blow, giving gracefully to it.
It was fine, riding, very fine, and the crowd hummed
with appreciation. A handsome rascal, uh said mister Corson, but

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she caught at his arm. Oh, gasped mary Anne, Oh, Oh.
Three flurries of wild pitching drew forth those horrified whispers.
But still the flaming redhead of the rider was as
erect as jaunty as ever. Then the quirt flashed above
him and cut Rickety's flank. The crowd winced and gasped.

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He was not only riding straight up, but he was
putting the quirt to Rickety. To Rickety, the piebald seemed
to feel the sting of the insult more than the last.
He bolted across the field to gain impetus for some
new and more terrible feat. But as he ran, a
yell from Paris thrilled across the crowd. They do that,

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some men get plumb drunk with a fight. But Marianne
did not hear Corson's remark. She watched Rickety slacken his
run as that long drawn yell began, so wild and
high that had put a tingle in her nose. Now
he was trotting, Now he was walking. Now he stood

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perfectly still, become of a sudden, an abject, cowering figure.
The shout of the spectators was almost a groan, for
Rickety had been beaten fairly and squarely at last, and
it was like the passing of some old master of
the prize ring, the scarred veteran of a hundred battles.

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What happened, breathed Marianne. Rickety's lost his spirits, Horson, That's
all I've seen it come to the bravest men in
the world. A two year old boy could ride Rickety. Now,
even the whip doesn't get a single buck out of
that poor rascal. The quirt slashed the flank of the piebald,

(15:15):
but it drew forth only a meek trot. The terrible
Rickety went back to the corrals like a lamb. Arizona's
got a good man to beat, admitted Corson. But he's
got a chance. Yet. They won't get any more out
of Rickety. He's not only been rowed, he's been broke.
I could ride him myself, mister Corson, said Mary Ann,

(15:38):
full of an idea of her own. I'll wager that
Rickety is not broken in the least except for red Paris,
meaning Paris just sort of put a charm on him,
suggested Corson. Smiling exactly that you see. In fact, the
moment Paris slipped from the saddle, Rickety rocked forward on

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his fore legs and drove both heels at one of
the reckless who came too near. The second. Later he
was fighting with the activity and venom of a cat
to get away from the ropes. The crowd chattered its surprise. Plainly,
the fierce old outlaw had not fought his last. What

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did Paris do to the horse, murmured Mary Anne. I
don't know, said Corson, but you seem to have guessed something.
See the way he stands there with his chin on
his fist and studies Rickety. Maybe Paris is one of
these here geniuses, and us ordinary folks can only understand
the genius by using a book on him. She nodded,

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very serious. There's use for fighting men, isn't there? She brooded?
Use for him, laughed Corson. Why lady, how come we
to be sitting here because gents have fought to put
us here? How come this part of God's country because
a lot of folks buckled on guns to make it
that use for a fighter? Well, miss Jordan, I've done

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a little fighting of one kind or another in my day,
and I don't blush to think about it. Look at
my kid there, What do you think I'm proudest of
because he was head of his class at school last winter,
or because he could lock every other boy's own size
first time he come home with a black eye, A
game a dollar to go back and try to give

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the other fellow two black eyes, and he done it.
All Good fighters ain't good men, I sure know that.
But they never was a man that was good to
begin with and was turned bad by fightin' There's a
pile of bad men around these parts that fight like lions,
but that part of 'em is good. Yes, sir ee,

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there's plenty of use for a fightin man. Don't you
never doubt that? She smiled at his vehemence, but it
reinforced a grower in respect for Paris. Then, rather absurdly,
it irritated her to find that she was taking him
so seriously. She remembered the ridiculous song, Oh father, father William,

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I've seen your daughter, dear, Will you trade her for
the brindled cow and the yellow steer? Mary Anne frowned.
The shout of the crowd called her away from herself
far from broken by the last ride, the outlaw horse
now seemed all the stronger for the exercise. Discarding fanciful tricks,

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he at once set about sunfishing, that most terrible of
all forms of bucking. The name in itself is a description. Literally.
Rickety hurled himself at the sun and landed alternately on
one stiffened fore leg and then the other. At each shock,

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the chin of Arizona Charlie was flung down again against
his chest, and at the same time his head snapped
sideways with the uneven lurch of the horse. An ordinary
pony would have broken his leg at the first or
second of these jumps, but Rickety was untiring. He jarred
to the earth. He vaulted up again, as from springs,

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and over and over the same thing. It would eventually
have become tiresome to watch had not. Both horse and
rider soon showed effects of the work. Every leap of
Rickety's was shorter, sweat shone on his thick body. He
was killing Arizona, but he was also breaking his own heart.

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Arizona weakened fast under the continual battering at the base
of his brain. His eyes rolled. He no longer pretended
to ride straight up, but clung to pommel and cantle.
The trickle of blood ran from his mouth. Marianne turned
away only to mine that mild old Corson was crying.

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Watch his head when it begins to roll, then you'll
know that he's stunned, and the next jump or so
will knock him out of the saddle as limp as
a half filled sack. It's too horrible, breathe the girl.
I can't watch. Why not you liked it when a
man beat a horse. Now the tables are turned and
the horses beating the man, ah, I thought, So there

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goes his head rolls as if his neck was broken.
Now now Arizona Charlie toppled loose limbed from the saddle
and lay twisted where he fell. But it had taken
the last of Ricketty's power. His legs were now braced,
his head untriumphantly low, and the sweat dripped steadily from him.

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He had not enough energy to flee from those who
approached to lift Arizona from the ground. Corson was pounding
his knee with a fat fist. Never see a fight
like that in your life, Nope, never did me neither.
But Lord Lord won't read Jim Parris, take a mule
load of coin out of Gloucesterville. They've been given five

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to one again. Em I was touched a bit myself.
For the moment, Marianne was more keenly interested in the
welfare of Arizona. Charley Paris, with others following, reached him first,
and strong hands carried the unconscious champion toward that corner
of the field where the Corson's buckboards stood, for there

(21:34):
were the water buckets. They were close to the goal
when Arizona recovered sufficiently to kick himself loose feebly from
his supporters. What Hell's all this, Marianne heard him say,
in a voice which he tried to make an angered roar,
but which was only a shrill quaver from his weakness.

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Maybe I'm a lady. Maybe I fainted or something not
by a damned sight. Maybe I've been licked by that
bald down bit of hell Rickety. But I ain't licked
so bad I can't walk home. Hey, Paris, shake on it.
You trimmed to me, all right, and you'll collect often
me a a pile more beside me. Here's my boodle

(22:19):
at the mention of the bedding. A little circle cleared
around Paris, and from every side hands full of green
backs were thrust forward. The latter pushed back his sombrero
and scratched his head, apparently deep in thought. It's a speech, boys,
cried Arizona. Charlie supportin himself on the shoulder of a friend.

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Give Red Air, give him room. He's going to make
a speech, and then we'll pay him for what he's
got to say. There was much laughter, much slapping of backs.
That's Arizona, remarked Corson. Ain't he a game loser. He's
a fine fellow, said the girl with emotion. My heart
goes out to him, does it now, wondered Corson. Well,

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I figured more on Paris being the man for the
ladies to look at. He's sure set up pretty now
he makes his little talk ladies and gents, said Red Paris,
turning the color of his soberquet. I ain't any electioneer
when it comes to speech makin' that's all right, boy,
shouted encouraging partisans. You'll get my vote if you don't

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say a word. But I'll make it short, said Paris.
It's about those bets they're all off. It just come
to my mind. At two winters back, me and the
same Rickety had a run in up montanaway An he
come out second best. Well, he must have remembered me
the way I just now remembered him. That's why he

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plumb quit when I let out a whoop. If he'd
turned loose all his tricks like he done with Arizona,
why most likely Charlie would never have had to take
his turn. I'd be where he is now, an he'd
be doin the laughin'. Anyway, boys, the bets are off.
I don't take money on a sure thing. It brought

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a shout of protest, which was immediately drowned in a
hearty yell of applause. Now don't that warm your heart
for you? Said Corson. Has the noise fell away a little?
I tell you what, he broke off with a chuckle,
Seeing that she had taken a pencil and a piece
of paper from her purse and was scribbling hastily, taking

(24:33):
notes on the Wild West, Miss Jordan, Mental notes, she said, quietly,
but smiling at him. Has she folded the slip? She
turned to the stripling, who all this time had hardly
taken his eyes from her, even to watch the bucking
and to hear the speech of Paris. Will you take
this to Jim Parris for me? A gulp, a grin,

(24:56):
a nod. He was down from the wagon in a flash,
and using his leanness to wriggle snakelike through the crowd.
Well chuckled Corson, not unkindly. I thought it would be
more Paris than Arizona in the winda. She reddened, but
not because of his words. She was thinking of the

(25:18):
impulsive note in which she had asked Red Paris 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. End of Chapter three