THE TURF MEET
The great brown shadows of the rolling hills had quite filled the hollows between and were slowly climbing up the western slope of every undulation when Shock reached the lip of the broad river bed in which lay, the little fort town.
The white clump of buildings standing by themselves he knew to be the barracks of the North-West Mounted Police.The flag floating above showed that, as well as the air of military neatness about them.
The town straggled along two intersecting streets, and then frayed out over the flats in isolated and dejected-looking shacks.The more imposing building on the main street Shock guessed were the hotels and stores.One of the latter he recognised from its flag as that of the ancient and honourable Hudson's Bay Company.On a back street here and there stood a house surrounded by a garden and scrubby trees, a pathetic attempt to reproduce in this treeless country what in other lands had been fondly called home.
Away on every side stretched the vast sweep of rolling prairie to where the amber of the sky-line mingled with the grey blue of the earth.
How insignificant, how miserable and wretched in the midst of this expanse of sky and earth, seemed the huddling bunch of dejected buildings, and yet the whole interest of heaven above and earth around centred in those straggling shacks, for they were the abodes of men.
From feasting his heart upon the marvellous beauty of the expanse of rounded hills, with their variegation of sunlight and shadow, and the expanse of cloudless sky, deep blue overhead and shading by indefinable transitions through blues and purples into pearl greys and rose tints, and at last into glorious yellow gold at the horizon, Shock, with almost a shudder, turned his eyes to the little ragged town beneath him.How marvellous the works of God! How ugly the things man makes!
It was partly the infinitude of this contrast that wrought in Shock a feeling of depression as he followed the trail winding down the long slope toward the town.As he became aware of this depression, he took himself severely to task.
"What's the matter with me, anyway?" he asked himself impatiently.
"I'm not afraid of them." And yet he had a suspicion that it was just this that troubled him.He was afraid.The feeling was not one with which he was unfamiliar.Often before a big match he had been shamefully conscious of this same nervous fear.He remembered how his heart had seemed too big for his body, till he felt it in his throat.But he remembered now, with no small comfort, that once the ball was kicked his heart had always gone back to its place and its work and gave him no further concern, and to-day he hoped this might be his experience again.
It was a great day at the Fort, nothing less than the Spring Meeting of the South Alberta Turf Association; and in that horse country, where men were known by their horses rather than by personal characteristics, the meeting of the Turf Association easily took precedence over all other events, social or political.
This spring, to the interest naturally centring in the races, there was added a special interest, in that, behind the horses entered for the Association Cup, there gathered intense local feeling.The three favourites were representative horses.The money of the police and all the Fort contingent in the community had been placed on the long, rangey thoroughbred, Foxhall, an imported racer who had been fast enough to lose money in the great racing circuits of the East, but who was believed to be fast enough to win money here in the West.
The district about the fort town was divided into two sections, the east and the west.In the eastern section the farming industry was carried on to an almost equal extent with ranching; in the west, up among the hills, there was ranching pure and simple.Between the two sections a strong rivalry existed.In this contest the east had "banked" on Captain Hal Harricomb, rancher and gentleman farmer, and his black Demon.The western men, all ranchers, who despised and hated farmers and everything pertaining to them, were all ranged behind the Swallow, a dainty little bay mare, bred, owned, and ridden by a young Englishman, Victor Stanton, known throughout the Albertas, south and north, as "The Kid," or, affectionately, "The Kiddie," admired for his superb riding, his reckless generosity, his cool courage, and loved for his gentle, generous heart.
Already two heats had been run, one going to the Demon and one to the Swallow, Foxhall sustaining his Eastern reputation as a money-loser.
The excitement of the day had gradually grown in intensity, and now was concentrated in the final heat of the Association Cup race.
All unconscious of this excitement and of the tremendous issues at stake, Shock sent his little cayuse peacefully trotting along the trail to where it met the main street.The street was lined on either side with men and horses.Something was evidently going on, but what Shock could not see.
But no sooner had he turned up the street than there was a fierce outburst of yells, oaths, and execrations, and at the same moment he heard behind him the pounding of hoofs.
Hastily glancing over his shoulder, he saw thundering down upon him half a dozen or more mounted men.In vain he tugged at his cayuse.
The little brute allowed his stubborn head to be hauled round close to the shaft, but declined to remove his body; and, indeed, had he been ever so eager, there would hardly have been time.A big black horse was plunging wildly not more than ten feet behind him.Afierce oath, a shower of dust and gravel in his face, a flash of legs and hoofs, and the big black was lifted clear over Shock and his cayuse, and was off again down the street between the lines of yelling men.
"Here, blank your blank head! Git off the course! Don't you know nothin'?"When Shock came to himself, he was aware that a tall, lanky cowboy in chaps, woollen shirt, and stiff, broad-brimmed hat was pounding his cayuse over the head with his heavy whip.
