18 - Alcatraz - Victory

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eighteen of Alcatraz by Max Brand. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain 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

(00:22):
mountain desert seem a worthless thing. The companionship of the
mayors 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 forever, Like the stout
Odysseus of many devices, Alcatraz scorned the ways of the

(00:46):
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
a sting of a black snake. The red headed man,
so soft of hand, so pleasant a voice, was for

(01:06):
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, h 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

(01:29):
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 sawed your mouth pretty much in

(01:49):
two with his Spanish contraptions, without a quart or spurs
or a curb to choke you down. You and me,
I'll put on a square fight. So help me God,
because I think I can beat you. Old horse. Here
goes the stallion. Listened to the soothing murmur, listened and waited,

(02:10):
and sure enough he had not long to stay in expectation,
for Paris went to the hole behind the rock and
presently returned, carrying that flapping, creaking instrument of torture a saddle.
To all that followed, the blindfolding, the bridling, the jerk
which urged him to his feet, the saddling. Alcatraz submitted

(02:35):
with the most perfect facility. He understood now that he
was to have a chance to fight for his liberty
on terms of equality, and his confidence grew. In the
old days, that consummate horseman Manuel Cordova had only been
able to keep his seat by underfeeding Alcatraz to the

(02:55):
point of exhaustion. But now from withers to fetlock John
the chest that was conscious of a mighty harmony of
muscles and reserve of energy. The wiles which he had
learned in many a struggle with a Mexican were not forgotten,
and the tricks which had so often nearly unseated the

(03:16):
old master, could now be executed with threefold energy. In
the meantime, he waited quietly, assuming an air of the
most perfect meekness, with the toe of one hind foot
pointed so that he sagged wearily on that side, and
with his head lowered in all the appearance of mild subjection.

(03:40):
The cinches bit deep into his flesh. He tasted that
horror of iron in his mouth, with this great distinction, that,
whereas the bits of Manuel Cordova had been heavy instruments
of torture, this was a light thing, smooth and straight,
and without the wheel of spikes. The cris was coming.

(04:01):
He felt the weight of the rider fall on the
left stirrup, the reins were gathered. Then Paris swung lightly
into the saddle and leading snatched the blindfold from the
eyes of the stallion. One instant. Alcatraz waited for the
sting of the spurs, the resounding crack of the heavy quirt,

(04:23):
the voice of the rider raised in curses, but all
was silence. The very feel of the man in the
saddle was different, not so much in poundage as in
a certain exquisite balance which he maintained. But the paws
lasted no longer than a second after the welcome daylight
flashed on the eyes of Alcatraz. Fear was a spur

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to him, fear of the unknown. He would have veritably
welcomed the brutalities of Cordova, simply because they were familiar.
But this silent and clinging burden. He flung himself high
in the air, snapped up his back, shook himself in
mid leap, and landed with every leg stiff. But a

(05:08):
violence which would have hurled another man to the ground
left Paris laughing, and where beasts understood that laughter was
a shameful mockery, Alcatraz thrust out his head in vain.
Paris tugged at the reins. The lack of curb gave
him no pride on the jaw of the chestnut, and

(05:30):
sheer strength against strength. He was a child on a giant.
The strips of leather burned through his fingers, and the
first great point of the battle was decided in favor
of the horse. He had the bit in his teeth.
It was a vital advantage, for as every one knows
who has struggled with a pitching horse, it cannot buck

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with abandon while its chin is tucked back against its breast.
Only when the head is stretched out and the note
close to the ground can a bucking horse double back
and forth to the full of his agility, twisting and
turning and snapping. As an educated bucker knows how, and

(06:13):
Alcatraz knew none so well. The deep exclamation of dismay
from the rider was sweetest music to his malicious ears,
and in sheer joy of action, he rushed down the
hollow at full speed, bucking straight and with never a
trick attempted. But when the first ecstasy cleared from his brain,

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he found that Paris was still with him, riding light
as a creature of mist rather than a solid mass
of bone, and muscle. In place of jerking and straining
and wrenching, in place of plying the quirt or clinging
with a tearing spurs, he was riding straight up and
obeying every rule of that unwritten code which prescribes the

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manner in which a gentleman cowpuncher shall combat with his
horse for superiority. Again, the thrill of terror of the
unknown passed through the stallion. Could this apparently weaponless enemy
cling to him in spite of his best efforts, he
would see, And that very shortly, without going through the

(07:22):
intermediate stages by which the usual educated broncho rises to
a climax of his efforts, Alcatraz began at once, the
most dreaded of all forms of bucking sun fishing. The
wooded hills were close now, and the ground beneath him
was firm underfoot, assuring him full use of all his

(07:43):
agility and strength. His motion was like that of a
breaking comber. First he hurled himself into the air, and
then pitched sharply down and landed on one stiffened fore leg,
the jar being followed by the deadly whiplash nap to
the side as he slumped over, then again driven into

(08:06):
the air by the impulse of those powerful hind legs,
he landed on the alternate foreleg and snapped his rider
in the opposite direction, a blow on the base of
the brain, and another immediately following on the side underfed
Mustangs have killed men by this maneuver. Repeat it without end.

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Alcatraz was no starveling mongrel, but the fierceness of a
wild horse and the tireless durability of a mustang. He
united the subtlety which he had gained in his long
battle with the Mexican. And above all this his was
the pride of one who had already conquered man. His
fierce assault began to produce results. He saw Red Paris

(08:53):
sway drunkenly at every shock his head, seen the swing
on a pivot from side to side. Under that fear
jolting his mouth was ajar, his eyes staring a fearful
mask of a face. Yet he clung in place when
he was stunned. Instinct still kept his feet in the

(09:13):
stirrups and taught him to give lightly to every jar.
He fought hard, but in time even Red Paris must collapse.
But could the attack be sustained indefinitely grim as were
results of sun fishing on the rider, they were hardly
less vitiating for the horse. The four legs of Alcatraz

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began the grown numb below the shoulder. His knees bowed
and refused to give the shock its primal snap to
the very withers. He was an increasing ache. He must
vary the attack. As soon as that idea came, he
reared and flung himself back to the earth. He heard

(09:56):
a sharp exclamation from the rider. He felt that tug
as the right foot of Paris hung in the stirrup,
then the stunning impact on the ground. To make sure
of his prey, he whirled himself to the left, But
even so his striking feet did not reach the great enemy.
Paris had freed himself in the last fraction of a second,

(10:19):
and pitching headlong from the saddle, he rolled over and
over in the dirt. Safe. The fall opened a new
hope to Alcatraz. Had he possessed his full measure of agility,
he would have gained his feet and rushed the man.
But the long struggle had taken the edge from his activity,

(10:39):
and as he lunged up he saw paris, springing almost
on all fours, animal like leap through the air, and
his weight struck home in the saddle quick now before
the enemy gained a secure hold, before that reaching foot
attained the other's stirrup, before the proper balance was struck

(11:00):
up in the air, went the chestnut down on one
stiff fore leg, with a great swelling of the heart.
He felt the rider's slump far to one side, clinging
with one leg from the saddle, one hand wrapped in
the flying mane. Now victory. With a last effort, again
he leaped high and struck stiffly on the opposite fore leg,

(11:23):
But alas that very upward bound swung Paris to the
erect and with incredible and catlike speed he slipped into
the saddle. He received the shock with both feet lodged
again in the supporting stirrups. The frenzy of disappointment gave

(11:43):
Alcatraz renewed energy. It was not sun fishing now, but
fence rowing, cross bucking, flinging himself to the earth again
and again, racing a little distance and stopping on braced legs,
sun fishing to end the program. As he fought, he
watched results. It was as though invisible fists were crashing

(12:06):
against the head and body of the unfortunate rider. From
nose and ears and gaping mouth, the blood trickled, his
eyes were blurs of red. His head rolled hideously on
his shoulders. Ten times he was saved by a hair's
breadth from a fall. Ten times he righted himself again,

(12:26):
and a strange and bubbling voice jerked out defiance to
the horse buck. Damn you go at, you devil. I'll
beat you still, I'll break you. I'll make you come
when I whistle, I'll make you a lady's horse. Consuming
terror was in the stallion, and the fear that incredible

(12:50):
as it seemed he was being beaten by a man
who did not use man's favorite weapon pain. No, not
once had the spurs clung in his flanks, or the
quirk whirled and fallen. Not once, above all, had his
mouth been torn in his jaw nearly broken by the

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wrenching of a curb. It came vaguely into the brute's
mind that there was something to be more dreaded than
either bit, spur or whip, and that was the controlling
mind which spoke behind the voice of Paris which was
telegraphed again and again down the taut rains that fear

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as much as the labor drained his vigor. His knees buckled.
Now he could no longer sunfish. He could not even
buck straight with the bone breaking energy. He was nearly done,
with a tell tale wheeze in his lungs, with blood
pressure making his eyes start well nigh from his head,

(13:53):
and a bloody froth choking him. Red Paris also was
in the last stage of a exhaustion. One true pitch
would have hurled him limp from his seat, Yet with
his body numb from head to toe, he managed to
keep his place by using that last and greatest strength
of a feeble man, power of will. Alcatraz, coming at

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last to a beaten stop, looked about him for help.
There was nothing to aid, nothing save the murmur of
the wind in the trees just before him. Suddenly his
ears pricked with new hope, and he shut out the
weak voice which murmured, huskily, I've got you, now, I've

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got you, Alcatraz. I've all by myself, no whip, no spur,
no leather pulling. I've rowed you straight up and Alcatraz
lunged out into a rickety gallop. Only new hope sustained
him as he had it straight for the trees. Even
the day eased brain of Paris understood with all his

(15:03):
force he wrenched at the bit it was hopelessly lodged
in the teeth of the stallion, and then he groaned
in despair, and a moment later swayed forward to avoid
a bow brushing close overhead. There were other branches ahead
on galloped Alcatraz, heading cunningly beneath the boughs until he

(15:25):
was stopped by a shock that dropped him staggering to
his knees. The pommel had struck a branch, and Red
Paris was still in place. Once more, the chestnut started
reeling heavily in his slope, this time to avoid the
coming peril. The rider slipped far to one side, and

(15:46):
Alcatraz veered swiftly towards a neighboring tree trunk. Too late,
Red Paris saw the danger and strove to drag himself
back into the saddle, but his numbed muscles refused to act,
and Alcatraz, felt the burden torn from his back, felt
a dangling foot tug at the left stirrup. Then he

(16:08):
was free. So utter was his exhaustion that, in checking
himself he nearly fell, But he turned the look at
the mischief he had worked. The man lay on his back,
with his arms flung out crosswise. From a gash in
his forehead. The blood streamed across his face. His legs

(16:29):
were twisted oddly together. His eyes were closed from head
to foot. The stallion sniffed that limp body, then raised
a fore hoof to strike. With one blow he could
smash the face to a smear of red, as he
had smashed Manuel Cordova the great day, long before the

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hoof fell. Was checked and wandering at himself, Alcatraz found
that his blow had not struck home. What was it
that restrained him? It seemed to the conqueror that he
felt again the gentle finger tips which had worked down
the muscles of his shoulder and trailed down his neck.

(17:12):
More than that, he heard the smooth murmur of the
man's voice, like a kindly ghost beside him. He dreaded
red Paris still, but hate the fallen rider he could not. Presently.
A loud rushing of the wind among the branches above
made him turn and in a panic, he left the

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forest at a shambling trot end of chapter eighteen.