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Page 8 text:
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6 THE ACORN punchers swore hilariously with him, too drunk to realize or care. But Tim, with a white, scared face, slipped out behind the bar, and with a fast beating heart took the road to the Ross stock farm, his determina- tion to save the fort and the captain he loved strengthening every move- ment. The stable door was locked, but he knew a trick with the window, and in a few moments he had dropped to the floor on the inside, breath- less, and was fumbling with shaking hands at the catch which opened the door of Mowitza’s box stall—Mowitza, the great bay thor ughbred, that had carried off scores of trophy cups and purses. The big horse snorted and laid back his ears until he heard Tim’s voice and felt Tim’s quick hands run down his neck with the steady stroke he kew, and then the loose end of a rope was thrown around his neck and he was led out to be bridled, his blanket whipped off, and a light Mexican saddle thrown on and cinched up in a few seconds. And all the time Tim was saying to himself, “If only I can make it, oh, if only [I can make it.” The stable door swung open noiselessly and Mamitza stepped out into the bitter night, eyes wide and nostrils sniffing the air nervously. In another moment Tim was up, the first time he had ever mounted a genuine racer, and he felt a thrill through his body as the big horse gathered himself together under the pressure of his knee and the touch of his hand. Softly by the house and out the drive, and then Tim leaned far forward and with the long ends of the bridle reins he cut the horse a stinging blow across the flank. Perhaps he had forgotten he was not riding another mustang, at any rate it was the first time in all his life that Mowitza had ever been struck. For a moment he paused in sheer amazement, and then with a mighty bound was off and away across the plains, his body flying low along the ground like a dark streak against the white snow. But this pace cold not last forever, and as they neared the foot- hills Tim drew rein, and Mowitza settled down to a long swinging gallop. Now they were up among the bleak pines, with the cold wind shrieking at them as they flew along, the horse’s hoofs ringing and re- echoing on the frozen ground, and Mowitza’s breath coming in long sighs and the foam from his wide open mouth blew back and streaked his dark sides with white. Tim, crouched low over the pommel was numb with cold. By and by, as the hours went by, he lost all sense of coldness and was almost drowsy, when out of the black woods ahead rang a shot!—and then another! and another! The gloom seemed suddenly peopled with shadowy forms and bullets rang on all sides. Tim felt a quick pain run like fire along his arm, and pre- sently he could feel the warm blood soaking through his thin sleeve. [nstinctively he crouched lower and urged Mowitza to his utmost: and spent though he was the Indian mustangs were no match for an English thoroughbred. For a time Tim’s pursuers were left behind and the shots died away, but Mowitza’s breath was coming in great gasps now, his legs were weak and shaky, another mile and the In-
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Page 7 text:
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THE ACORN 5 When the door had closed behind him the captain drew a deep breath and turned to his son, a hard look in his eyes. “You’re right, Will,’ he said, “the boy’s a coward.” And Will breathed a sigh of relief. Three months had passed since that day in early October when Tim had walked out of Fort Rucker with bitterness and hate in his heart; had walked down out of the foothills and into the plains, and away off to the little Arizona mining camp of Pearce, thirty miles away. For three months he had hung around saloons and billiard rooms, idle, fo1 his story had followed him, and no one wanted a thief, much less a “coward” to do odd jobs for them. Round-up season was over, winter had come with its biting wind and snow ;there was no place for Tim in Pearce. Occasionally cow punchers drifted into town from winter work on the range and Tim earned a quarter now and then, for looking after their broncos. That was all. His one pleasure was to go over to the Ross stock farm, about a mile out of town, and leaning over the paddock gate, watch the fine thoroughbred horses exercised by the stablemen. Mr. Ross was a wealthy New York man who had started a stock farm on the rich pasture land of Southern Arizona for the purpose of raising thoroughbred horses for Eastern tracks. It was late one afternoon of Christmas Eve, and bitter cold out- side, but within the Lone Star saloon all was warmth and boisterous merriment. A crowd of cow punchers were assembled around the vari- ous tables, laughing uproariously at their own jokes and drinking each light-hearted cow-boy element, there were rough characters here, among others one particularly brutal faced hunter and trapper, known as Big Tom, who had been several times in jail for stirring up Indian insurrec- tions, and was even now suspected of being in league with a warlike tribe of Apaches, whose raids on Fort Rucker and lonely ranches were the terror of the whole country. More than one massacre had accurred under his leadership—for those were troublesome times in Arizona be- fore the government stepped in and controlled affairs. Just now Big Tom was becoming very confidential, having imbibed quite a good deal more whisky than was good for him. For some time past he had been hinting darkly of Indian uprisings, and now urged on by the clamorous cow punchers, all of whom were more or less in the same condition as himself, he disclosed a dark plot. The Apaches had gathered in a stronghold in the mountains and en this night were coming down in full force on Fort Rucker, knowing well through Big Tom that but a scant dozen of the men were holding the Fort at present—the rest having been sent north to quell another uprising. During this recital no one had noticed Tim, who had crept shiver- ing, in through a back door and taken his place behind the stove, from whence he listened with wide, frightened, eyes. “Too late t’ save ’em now, boys!”’ roared Big Tom, “nothin’ on earth carr save ’em now, and I get my share of the booty, yo bet, after the whole affair’s hushed up—with no one the wiser!’ and the cow
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