LD Reuben James shivered at the door of a third-rate township pub, and railed on the man in the street. The man in the street was Tony Lascelles. He had called Reuben from his bed to a half-fledged morning blowing raw down the empty ways with a pallid sunrise behind it and a sinking mist that was chin to bare feet and the bare chest under Reuben’s coat.
Tony stood back on the curb, his mare’s bridle hooked into his left armpit, and the clay of twenty sidings and river-bottoms on his leggings. To the tail of a full day’s labor he had laid forty-one miles of saddle-work, and the swing of his body was still free and light, and his keen young eyes were eager.
Reuben had ridden to the beat of hot blood in his time; but he had forgotten, as men forget the days on their mother’s knees.
“You go ’ome an’ grow sense,” he said; “an’ nex’ momin’ as you wake me through the sleep-time fur a foolery’ as any sane man ’ud put ’is ’eel on, I guess I’ll know it.”
“You’re taking him up for Anderton to break. Don’t be an old chouse, Rube. I only want you to give me first show.”
Reuben had not the pride which makes a man care for the pride of his kind. He huddled his greatcoat about him, and wore round stiffly.
“Anderton’s the fust horse-breaker this side chance. I ain’t goin’ ter hev no bloomin’ Syracuse top o’ that colt. ’Is full brother died dumb-mad on the rein, an’ this one is outcast slap through. Near killed Jolly, he did, an’ Pat Barnes.”
Tony blocked the closing door with his foot. The sap of boyhood was hot in his cheeks, but his temper was under command. A man who would handle horses is schooled to that—first, last, and all hours in between.
“I’m better than Jolly—lumps letter. Let me up on him. Rube, Anderton can tackle him after.”
“What yer doin’ it fur? Been bettin’?”
“No.”
“Plain devilment, then?” Tony noddded.
“He’s thrown every rider in the district ’cept Anderton—and me.”
A quick red shot Rebuen’s dull eyes. Somewhere in the groping past he, too, had known a man’s lust for an equal fight.
“There was young fools back in my day”
“They’ve grown old since. Let me ride him, Rube. I won’t kill him.”
“Well, on yer own ’ead if ’e kills you. Mind that! We kin take ’im ter that empty section jinin’ Mother Marcock’s—but yer’ll hev ter saddle-up in the stall.”
Reuben heard the clatter of the mare’s swift hoofs down the stable alleyway as he climbed back to his room. He sat on the bed with his gray stubble head in hands that shook.
“Eh, my days; my days thet used ter be! Is it a cross in the breed somewheres makes a man guv ’is soul ter be cock o’ ’is own dung’ill, an’ a ’oss stan’ it out till ’e’s cut inter strips. Eh, eh; it’s good buildin’ stuff till the blood-cement rots!” He looked down at his stiff, bony knees; sighed, and rolled back to the pillow. “Messin’ wi’ my mornin’ siasters that away! Wonder will ’e put in some sleep fur ’isself.”
The wild track to windward was for Tony and such men of his make who judge their strength by no tape-measures, but go and find out for themselves. These are the good days before thigh-and-nerve strain take charge to weaken the back-muscles and stiffen the limbs.
Tony found Reuben’s colt in a loose-box. It would lead to the ends of earth unobjecting, and went into the bridle serenely. Tony’s bridle was plain, with straight bit and light curb. He whipped on a lip-strap, took up a last hole in the throat-lash, and talked the soft talk that all horses love while he cast up the points he could give and could take.
The colt was a raking light bay, standing seventeen hands. His crest and wither were plain and too low. Tony guessed how most men had left him. Behind he was mightily made, and the fall of his ribs was perfection. The Bairndale stock showed in his width of chest and in the long, clean, muscular forearm. The Imp temper was awake in his white-rimmed full eye and the proud sideways carriage of his flag.
“‘And she said, “I am glad I have found you, my lad,”’” murmured Tony, backing out into the light of day where fifteen loafers smoked with Reuben.
“Yer won’t saddle ’im in the section,” snapped Reuben.
“Don’t want a saddle. Open the gate, some of you fellows.”
“That ’oss needs more’n jes’ ridin’,” cried Reuben, hobbling after. “Yer needs grit, an’ secon’ sight, an’ the temper o’ a scurifim, an’ jes’ so much more devil’s ’e got ’isself ’at it won’t let yer tire.”