04 - Alcatraz - The Strength Of The Weak

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Episode Transcript

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Chapter four of Alcatraz by Max Brand. This LibriVox recording is in the public
domain. The strength of the weak. By simply turning about, the crowd
was in position to watch the race. Of course, it was packed dense
around the finish on both sides ofthe lane, but Corson had chosen his

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position well. The white posts werenot more than a dozen yards above them,
and they would be able to seethe rush of horses across the line.
It was pleasant to marry Anne toturn her back on the scene of
the horse breaking and face her ownworld, which she knew and loved.
The ponies were coming out to beparaded for admiration and to loosen their muscles

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with a few stretching gallops. Eachwas ridden by his owner. Each bore
a ranged saddle to wun accustomed tojockeys and racing pads. These full grown
riders and cumbrous trappings made the cowponies seem small, but they were finally
formed the pick of the range.The days of mongrel breeds are long since

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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 Coals mayers came onto thetrack with mincing steps, turning their proud
heads from side the side, andeveryone coming hard on the bit. Coles

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had taken no chances, and thoughhe had been forced by the rules of
the race to put up the regulationrange saddles, he had found the lightest
riders possible. Their small figures broughtout the legginess of the mayors beside the
compact range horses. Their gait wassprawling, But the wise eye of Marianne

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saw the springing fetlocks kissed the dustand the long tell tale muscles. She
cried out softly in admiration and pleasure. You see the Coals mayors, she
said, There go the winners,mister Corson. The ponies won't be in
it. After two furlongs, Corsonregarded her with a touch of irritation.

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Now don't you be too sure,lady, he growled, lots of legs,
I grant you too much for me. Are they purebred? No,
she answered, there's enough cold bloodto bring the price down. But Coals
is a wise business man. Afterthey've won this race in a bunch,
they'll look every one like daughters ofSalvatore, see that, oh the beauties.

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One of the range horses was loosedfor a fifty yards sprint, and
as he shot by, the mayorsswayed out in pursuit. There was a
marked difference between the gates. Therange horse pounded heavily, his head bobbing.
The mayors stepped out with long,rocking gallop. They seemed to be
going with half the effort and lessthan half the speed, And yet strangely

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they very nearly kept up with asprinter until their riders took them back to
the eager prancing walk. Marianne's eyessparkled, but the little exhibition told a
different story. To old Corson,he snorted with pleasure. Maybe you seen
that, miss Jordan, You seenjud Hopkins's roan, Go buy them fancy

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coal mayres. Well, well itdone, my heart good. This gent
coal's comes out of the east toteach us poor ignorant ranchers what right horse
flesh should be. He's going toauction off them half dozen mayors after the
race. Well, sir, Iwouldn't give fifty dollars a head for him,

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nor neither will nobody else When theysee them mayors fade away in the
home stretch. Nope, neither willnobody else. In this reference to over
wise Easterners, there was a directtrust at the girl, but she accepted
it with a smile. Don't youthink they'll last for the mile and a
quarter, mister Corson, think,I don't think I know. Picture horses

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like them, Well, they oughtto be left in books. They run
a little inside half a mile,they'll bust down. Look how long they
are, but their backs are short. Put in Mary Anne hastily. Back's
short, scoffed Corson, Why lady, look for yourself. She choked back

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her answer. If the self satisfiedold fellow could not see how far back
the withers reached and how far forwardthe quarters, so that the true back
was very short, it was thepart of wisdom to let experience teach him.
Yet she could not refrain from saying, you will see how they last

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in the race, mister Corson,we'll both see, he answered, there
goes a gent that's going to losemoney. To day, a big red
faced man, with his hat onthe back of his head and sweat coursing
down his cheeks, was pushing throughthe crowd, calling with a great voice.
Here's lady Mary. Money even herodds on, Lady Mary, that's

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Colonel Dickinson, said Corson. Hecomes around every year to play the races
here, and most generally he pickswinters. But today he's gone wrong.
His eye had been took by thelegs of them Coal's horses, and he's
gone crazy betting on him. Well, he gets plenty of takers. Indeed,

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Colonel Dickinson was stopped right and leftto record wagers. I got down
a little bet myself this morning again, is lady Mary. Corson chuckled at
the thought of such easy money?What makes you so sure, asked Mary
Anne. For even if she werelucky enough to get the mayor's she felt
that from Corson she could learn beforehandthe criticisms of lou Hervey. So sure,

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why anybody with a half an eyehere? He remembered that he was
talking to a lady and continued,more mildly than they mayors ain't horses their
tricks. Look at how skinny allthat underpining is Miss Jordan. When they
fill out, she began, tush, they won't never fill out proper,

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too much leg to make a horsetoo much daylight under him. Besides,
what good would they be for cowwork? High headed fools all of em,
and a horse that don't know enoughto run with his head low can't
turn on a forty acre lot.Don't tell me. He forbade contradiction by

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raising an imperious hand. Mary Annewas so exasperated that she looked to missus
Corson in the pinch, But thatold lady was smiling dimly behind her glasses.
She seemed to be studying the smokygorges of the eagles. So mary
Anne wisely deferred her answer and listenedto that unique voice which rises from a

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crowd of men and women when horsesare about to race. There is no
fellow to the sound. The voiceof the last chance better is the deep
and mournful burden. The steady rattleof comment is the body of it,
and the edge of the noise isthe calling of those who are confident with

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inside dope. Mary Anne, listening, thought that the sound in Gloucesterville was
very much like the sound in Belmont. The difference was in the volume alone.
The horses were now lining up forthe start, It was with a
touch of malice that mary Anne said, I suppose that's one of your range

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types, that faded old chestnut,just walking up to get in line.
Corson started to answer, and thenrubbed his eyes to look again. It
was Alcatraz, plodding towards the lineof starters, his languid hoofs rousing a
wisp of dust at every step.He went, with head depressed, his

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sullen, hopeless ears laid back onhis back. Sat Manuel Cordova, resplendent
in sky blue, tight fitting jacket. Yet he rowed the spiritless chestnut with
both hands, his body canted forwarda little, his whole attitude one of
desperate alertness. There was something soludicrous in the contrast between the hair triggered

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nervousness of the Mexican and the drowsyunconcern of the Stallion that a murmur of
laughter rose from the crowd about thestarting line and drifted across the field.
I suppose you'll say that long hairis good to keep him warm in winter,
went on the girl sarcastically. Asfar as legs are concerned, he

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seems to have about as much asthe longest of the Mayor's. Corson shook
his head in depreciation. You cannever tell what a fool Mexican will do.
Most lack. He's riding in thisrace to show off his jacket,
not because he has any hope ofwinning. That horse ain't any type of
range. Perhaps you think it's athoroughbred, asked Marianne. Corson sighed,

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feeling that he was cornered. Raisedon the range, all right, he
admitted, But you'll find free coursesanywhere, and that chestnut is just a
plug. And yet ventured Marianne,it seems to me that the horse has
some points. This remark drew aglance of scorn from the whole Corson family.

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What would they think, she wondered, if they knew that her hopes
centered on this very stallion. Silencehad spread over the field. The whisper
of Corson seemed loud. Look howstill the range horses stand. They know
what's ahead, and look at themfool Baize prance. The coals horses were
dancing eagerly, twisting from side toside at the post. Oh, cried

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missus Corson, What a vicious brutealcatraz had wakened suddenly and driven both heels
at his neighbor. Luckily he missedhis mark, but the starter ran across
the track and lessened Cordova with araised finger. Then he went back.
There was a breath of waiting.The gun barked. The answer to it

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was a spurt of low running horseswith a white cloud of dust behind,
and Corson laughed aloud in his glee. Every one of the group in the
lead was a range horse. Thecoals mayers were hanging in the rear,
and last of all, obscured bythe dust cloud, Alcatraz ran sulkily.

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But you wait, said Mary Anne, sitting tensely erect. Those ponies with
their short legs can start fast,but that's all when the mayors begin to
run. Now now, now,oh you beauties, you DearS. The
field doubled the first jagged corner ofthe track, and the Bay mayors,
running compactly grouped, began to gainon the leader's hand over hand. Looking

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first at the range horses and thenat the mayor's it seemed that the former
were running with twice the speed ofthe latter. But the long rolling gallop
of the bays ate up the groundand bore them down on the leaders in
a bright hurrycane. The cowpunchers,hearing that following of hoof beats, went
to spur and quirt to stave offthe inevitable. But at five furlongs,

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Lady Mary left her sisters and streakedaround the tiring range horses into the lead.
Mary Anne cried out delight. Shehad forgotten her hope that the mayors
might not win. All she desirednow was that blood might tell and her
judgment be vindicated. They won't last, Corson was growling, his voice feeble

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in the roar of the excited crowd. They can't last that pace. They'll
come back after a while, andthe ponies will walk away to the finish.
Have you noticed, broke in missusCorson, that the poor old faded
chestnut seems to be keeping up fairlywell. For as the Bay Mayors cut
around into the lead, Alcatraz wasseen at the heels of the range horses,

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running easily. It seemed with agreat elastic stride. But but it's
not the same horse, Maryanne gaspedto be sure. Alcatraz, in motion
was transformed the hollows among his ribsforgotten, and the broken spirit replaced by
power, the electric power of theracer. It looks very much to me

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as if the Mexican is pulling thathorse, too, said Mary Anne.
For Cordova rode with legs braced,keeping a tight pull that bent the head
of Alcatraz down. He might haveserved for a statue of fear. And
noticed that he makes no effort tobreak around the range horses or through them.

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What's the matter with him? Atseven furlongs, the mayors were in
a group of themselves, lengths infront and drawing away. The heads of
the cow ponies were going up,sure signed that they were spent, and
even Corson was gloomily silent. Hewas remembering his bet against Lady Mary,

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and lo Lady Mary was breezing infront, well within her strength. One
glance at her pricking ears told aneloquent story. Near them, Mary Anne
saw big Colonel Dickinson capering, andthe sight inspired a shrewd suspicion. What
if he knew the reputation of Alcatraz, and to secure his bets on Lady

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Mary had bribed Cordova at the lastmoment to pull his horse. Certainly it
seemed that that was what the Mexicanwas doing. There's a lady. The
colonel was shouting, go it,girl, go it, beauty, Lady
Mary, Lady Mary. Marianne raisedher field glasses and studied the rush of
horses through the fog of dust.It's just as I thought, she cried,

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without lowering the glasses. The scoundrelis pulling Alcatraz. He rides as
if he were afraid of something,afraid that the horse might break away.
Look, mister Corson, I don'tknow, said Corson. It sure does
look sort of queer. Why he'spurposely keeping that horse in a pocket?

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He has him on the rail.Oh, the villain. It was a
cry of shrill rage. He's sawingon the bit, and the chest not
has his ears back. I cansee the glint of his eyes as if
he wants to run simply because heis being held. But there, there,
there, he's got the bit inhis teeth. His head goes out,
mister Corson, is it too latefor Alcatraz to win the race?

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She dropped the glasses. There wasno need of them. Now, rounding
into the long home stretch, Cordovamade a last frightened effort to regain control,
and then gave up his eyes.Rolling with fear, Alcatraz had got
his head. He ran his ownrace. From that point. He leaped

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away from the cow ponies in thefirst three strides and set sail for the
leaders. Because of his ragged appearance, his name had been picked up by
the crowd and sent drifting about thefield. Now they calling in loudly for
every rancher and every ranch hand inGloucesterville was summoning Alcatraz to vindicate the range

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stock against the long legged mares whichhad been imported from the East for the
sole purpose of shaming the native products. The cry shook in a wailing course
across the field Alcatraz and again Alcatraz, with tingling cowboy yells in between,

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and mightily the chest not answered thosecalls. Bolting down the stretch, the
riders of the mayors had sense dangerin the shouting of the crowd, and
though their lead seemed safe, theytook no chances, but sat down and
began to ride out their mounts.Still, Alcatraz gained from the stretching head

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across the withers the straight driving croup. The tail whipped out behind was one
even lying. His ears were notflagging back like the ears of a horse
merely giving his utmost speed. Theywere dressed flat by a consuming fury,
and the same uncanny rage gleamed inhis eyes and trim in his expanding nostrils.

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It was like a human effort,and for that reason terrible. In
a brute beast, Mary Anne sawColonel Dickinson with the fingers of one hand
buried in his plump breast. Theother had reared his hat aloft, frozen
in place in the midst of thelast flourish And never in her life had
she seen such mingled, incredulity andterror. She looked back again. There

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were three sections to the race.Now the range ponies were hopelessly out of
it. The Coal's horses ran well. In the lead between, coming with
tremendous bounds, was Alcatraz. Hegot no help from his rider. The
light jockey on Lady Mary was aidinghis mount by throwing his weight with the
swing of her gallop. But ManuelCordova was a leaden burden. The most

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casual glance showed the man to bein a blue funk. He rode as
one astripe a thunderbolt, and Alcatrazhad both to plan his race and run
it. The furlong from the finish, he caught the rearmost of the mares
and cut around them, the dustspurting sideways. The crowd gasped, for

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as he passed the bays it wasimpossible to judge his speed accurately, and
after the breath of astonishment, thecheers broke in a wave. There was
a confusion of emotion in Mary Anne. A victory for the chestnut would be
a coup for her pocket book whenit came to buy in the Coal's horses,

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but it would be a distinct blowto her pride as a horsewoman.
Moreover, there was that in thestallion which roused instinctive aversion hatred for Cordova
sustained him, for there was nomuscle in the lean shoulders or the starved
quarters to drive him on at thisterrific pace. In the corner of her

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vision she saw old Horsen, agape pale with excitement, swiftly beating out
the rhythm of Alcatraz's swinging legs,and then she looked to Lady Mary.
Every stride carried the bay back tothe relentless stallion. Her head had not
yet gone up. She was stillstretched out in the true racing form,

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but there was a roll in hergallop. Plainly, Lady Mary was a
very, very tired horse. Sheshot into the final furlong with whip and
spur lifting her on. Every strokebrought a quivering response. All that was
in her strong heart was going intothis race. And still the Chestnut gained.

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At the sixteenth her flying tail wasreached by his nose, and still
he ate up the distance. Yetspent as the Mayor was, the Chestnut
was much farther gone. If therewas a roll in her weary gallop,
there was a stagger in his gait. Still he was literal flinging himself towards
the finish. No help from hisrider, certainly, but every rancher in

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the crowd was shouting hoarsely and swinginghimself towards the finish, as though that
effort of will and body might mysteriouslybe transmitted to the struggling horse and give
him new strength. Fifty yards fromthe end, his nose was at Lady
Mary's shoulder, and Marianne saw thehead of the Mayor jerk up. She

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was through, but the stallion wasthrough also. He had staggered in a
stride, drunkenly. She saw himshake his head, saw him fling forward
again, and the snaky head creptonce more to the neck of the Mayor,
to her ears, And on andon, five hundred voices bellowed his

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name to lift him to the finishAlcatraz. Then they were over the line,
and the riders were pulling up.It was not hard to stop Alcatraz.
He went by Maryan at a reelingtrot, his legs shambling weakly and
his head drooping a weary rag ofhorse flesh, with his ears still gloomily

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flattened to his neck. But whohad won? The uproar was so terrific
that Marianne could not distinguish the nameof the victor, as the judges called
it, waving their arms to commandsilence. Then she saw Colonel Dickinson walking
with fallen head. The fat manwas sagging in his step. His face

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had grown pale and pouchy in themoment, and she knew that the ragged
chestnut had indeed conquered. Courage isthe strength of the weak, but in
Alcatraz. Hatred had occupied that place. End of Chapter four,