It took all of three seconds for Nate to react to being tricked and he promptly jabbed his heels into Pegasus. The gelding responded superbly, breaking into a full gallop in the span of two strides. But by then Robert Campbell already enjoyed a fifteen-yard lead and was racing to beat the wind.
Cheers and shouts of encouragement broke out among the trappers, as did a hasty round of betting. The spur-of-the-moment start had taken them by surprise; few had bothered to offer a wager on their favorite. Now they made up for the oversight in a flurry of yelled amounts and boisterous takers.
Nate held his body flush with the gelding’s broad back, trying to make it easier on the horse. Pegasus flew, and there was no need to apply his
heels again. Unlike Campbell and many Indians, he never used a quirt as a matter of personal choice. Smacking a mount to get it going had never struck him as being particularly humane or even smart when any horse that ever lived responded to human kindness with the same or better results. There were men who beat their mounts as a matter of course, liberally applying a quirt or whip. Such men, Nate believed, were essentially lazy. If they would take as much time to treat their animals with affectionate consideration as they did beating the poor creatures, their horses would do all that was demanded of them and more.
Nate had no idea of the number of races in which Pegasus had participated, but from the energetic manner in which the gelding galloped after Campbell’s black stallion he gathered there had been plenty. Pegasus fairly flew. Head stretched, tail straight, the gelding flowed over the ground like greased lightning.
But it wasn’t enough.
Campbell’s black was more than equal to the occasion. Its lead fell to twelve yards and then it held steady, neither losing ground nor gaining. Campbell repeatedly glanced back and smirked, confident of victory.
Using his thighs as much as possible to grip the gelding instead of his lower legs, Nate urged it on with words of encouragement. “Go, boy, go! Faster, Pegasus! You can do it! Faster!”
The gelding couldn’t possibly understand the words. It could and did respond to the tone, seeming to expend more effort than before.
Only vaguely was Nate aware of the frenzied uproar to his rear. The trappers and Indians were venting a collective roar that rose to the high heavens. He idly wondered if Winona and Shakespeare were cheering for him, then cleared his mind of all distracting thoughts and focused on the race. Paying attention to the terrain was paramount. Otherwise he’d surely lose.
Campbell skirted a thicket and was momentarily lost to view.
Just before doing the same, Nate glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance already covered. A quarter of a mile, probably less, he guessed, and swept around the thicket with the gelding’s hoofs pounding.
A large log lay directly in his path.
Nate’s breath caught in his throat. He started to lift the rope reins, but was on the log in a flash. Appalled, he felt Pegasus leave the ground in a great, arcing jump, and he clung to the gelding’s mane in desperation. The impact when they landed jarred him to his bone marrow. Despite his grip, his body slipped to the right, and for a terrifying instant he thought he was going to fall. Somehow, he clung tenaciously and righted himself.
Robert Campbell was laughing in devilish joy.
A suspicion hit Nate then, and his knuckles became white from the pressure he applied. What if that had been deliberate? What if Campbell knew this stretch of ground well and had tried to get him unhorsed? He wouldn’t put such a ploy past the wily trapper. Perhaps
Campbell had planned to race others and had previously scouted routes that would give his black stallion an advantage. Perhaps, through a quirk of fate, Nate had played right into his hands.
Angry, he rode with renewed vigor, molding his form to the rhythm of Pegasus. Jumping the log had caused him to lose another three or four yards. Somehow he must make up the distance and pull even with the black.
To Robert Campbell’s credit, the man rode with flair, an expert in the saddle. Obviously he had ridden the stallion so often that man and horse were essentially one, although he persisted in using the quirt when doing so wasn’t really necessary. Every twenty or thirty feet he would lash the stallion a few times as if reminding it who was its master.
Their course so far had been across a flat stretch intermittently broken by thickets and small stands of trees. Now they entered a tract of virgin forest, which tested their horsemanship to its limits.
The trees were pines, tightly spaced. Nate used the reins adroitly, avoiding rough trunk after rough trunk, swinging wide around branches that threatened to snare him or injure the gelding. Again and again he had to duck low to save himself from a nasty rap on the skull.
Another log loomed directly ahead and he girded himself. True to form, Pegasus went over the obstacle as if endowed with the wings of his namesake. This time Nate was prepared and stayed aboard.
He broke from the forest only ten yards behind the black. Excited, he urged the gelding to go faster, then suddenly realized Campbell had intentionally slowed.
Why?
No sooner had the question come to mind than he saw the steep bank and the shallow creek below, a creek littered with flat, slick stones. The black went down the bank on its haunches, rose, and crossed the creek in short jumps.
The gelding was going far too fast when it reached the near bank. It was all Nate’s fault and he knew it. He attempted to rein up, but Pegasus had too much momentum to do more than plunge down the steep bank at a lurching run, a run that carried them into the stream, where Pegasus’s hoofs came down on the slick stones and the inevitable occurred.
Pegasus slipped and fell.
A blurred image of the ground rushing up to meet him prompted Nate to propel himself from the gelding. He hit hard on his right shoulder and rolled, inhaling water as he did. Pain speared through his right arm. In a heartbeat he was on his knees in the middle of the creek and staring in horror as Pegasus struggled to stand.
Ignoring the pain, Nate bounded to the gelding’s side and grasped the bridle. He tugged, helping the horse to rise, afraid it might have sustained a broken leg.
Pegasus immediately headed for the opposite bank.
Swept off his feet, Nate frantically swung on top of the surging animal. If Pegasus had been harmed by the spill, there was no indication of it. Grinning, soaking wet, he clung to the reins as the gelding vaulted the rim of the bank and cut out after the black.
Campbell now held a thirty-yard lead.
Nate was dismayed. Given the black’s strength and speed, he didn’t see how he could overtake the voyageur before the race ended. A ten-yard lead he could surmount, maybe. Certainly not a thirty-yard gap. Nevertheless, he forged onward, refusing to acknowledge defeat. He would see the race through to the end. No one had ever accused him of being a quitter and no one ever would.
They were now crossing an area cut by gullies. Not deep gullies, nor very steep, but of sufficient number to render breakneck speed impossible.
Nate saw the trapper slow down and did likewise, not caring for a repeat of his narrow escape in the creek. Pegasus sensed the need for care and took the gullies one at a time, leaping each in a single mighty jump, then trotting on to the next. Negotiating the erosion-worn ditches was a slow, arduous process, but Nate was sorry when the dangerous stretch ended because he had reduced Campbell’s lead by eight or nine yards. The black had balked at a few of the gullies until Campbell vigorously flailed away with the quirt, and the delays had proven costly.
Before them lay clear, flat land all the way to the top of the hill. Campbell lashed his mount in a frenzy, determined to regain lost ground.
Nate concentrated on staying calm and riding the best he knew how. His thighs were sore and his shoulder ached, but neither bothered him enough to ruin his concentration. As the seconds seemed to crawl by, he narrowed Campbell’s lead. And the smaller it became, the more furious the trapper became. Campbell was belaboring his poor horse like a madman.
The gentle slope of the hill posed no problems for either man. Campbell reached the rim, whirled, and started back down. As he passed Nate he cackled and shouted, “Fool! Those hundred pelts are mine!”
Not bothering to banter words, Nate galloped to the crest, turned the gelding, and raced toward the flatland. Was it his imagination or was the black stallion running a shade slower than previously? Perhaps Campbell had pushed it too hard during the first leg of the race. If so, Nate stood a chance, a slim one, of saving those hides for the fur company buyer.
The second time across the gullies didn’t take half as long. Pegasus knew what was required and took to the challenge like a frisky colt to its first run around a pasture. Those sturdy, powerful legs cleared each ditch with ease.
Much to Robert Campbell’s evident distress, his black faltered at the last few gullies, and he only got it across them by pounding the quirt on the animal’s head and neck.
Nate was elated to see the gap between them shrink to slightly over ten yards. He patted the gelding and spoke encouragement in its ear, as proud of it as if they had already won.
Campbell looked around, his features contorted in a mask of unbridled rage.
Neither animal experienced a problem at the creek, and then they were dashing through the pines. The black went to clear a log but its hind legs struck the top and it landed unsteadily, almost throwing Campbell. Cursing, the trapper resumed riding, his heels smacking into the black’s flanks.
When they burst from the forest onto the final leg, Nate was only eight yards behind his nemesis. A great cry went up from the spectators. He thought about all the trappers and Indians who must have bet on him and hopped they wouldn’t decide to get even if he lost. When drunk, trappers were highly unpredictable.
A low black shape suddenly materialized to the left of Pegasus, loping along beside the horse. Nate glanced down to find Samson shadowing him. In all the excitement he had completely forgotten about the huge dog that had lain so quietly at Zach’s side during the feast. He had opened his mouth to shout at it to go away, afraid Pegasus would be spooked, when the gelding became aware of the dog’s presence and responded in typical equine fashion.
Pegasus went faster.
Nate grinned and held on, deciding to let Samson tag along. The dog had to increase its speed to stay abreast, and when it did Pegasus compensated by increasing his speed.
Only six yards separated the two horses.
Campbell was beside himself. His quirt hit the black in a nonstop barrage of wicked swings that left welts and drew blood. He looked at the crowd in the Nez Percé village, then at Nate, and screamed at his mount, “Faster, damn you! Faster or I’ll feed you to the wolves!”
The black stumbled, recovered, and gamely raced toward the finish.
But now Nate was only two yards away. Then one. Samson still raced at the gelding’s side, which Pegasus didn’t like at all. With only a hundred yards to go, Pegasus finally pulled even with the black stallion.
Robert Campbell looked at Nate and raised the quirt as if to strike him. Apparently thinking better of the idea, he lowered his bloody prod and hit the stallion instead.
Nate focused on Otter Belt, who stood by himself in a narrow strip of open grass between two long rows of trappers and Indians. He must reach the war chief first to win. Slapping his legs against Pegasus, he smiled when the gelding nosed ahead of the stallion. “You can do it!” he urged. “Just a little bit farther!”
“No!” Campbell screeched. “No!”
The black valiantly tried to overtake the gelding. In a flurry of hoofs it drew even, and they were running neck and neck for a dozen yards. But the wellspring of strength and endurance that had carried it so far was almost empty. Legs rapidly weakening, it abruptly fell to the rear.
Nate reached the lines of cheering mountaineers and Indians. The bedlam was deafening. He swore he felt Pegasus flinch in alarm, and then they were galloping up to Otter Belt and he glimpsed Winona beaming proudly at him and Zach clapping in childish abandon. There was a pounding in his ears as he thundered past the war chief and brought the gelding to a gradual stop.
From all sides swarmed trappers, Nez Percés, Flatheads, Shoshonis, and Bannocks, all offering hearty congratulations in their respective tongues or in sign language. Nate sat numbly in the saddle, inhaling deeply, and nodded in appreciation.
Only when Otter Belt forced his way up to Pegasus did the revelers quiet down.
“Grizzly Killer is the winner,” Otter Belt announced, using his hands to translate the statement in sign. He had to pause as a mighty shout shook the clouds.
A hand fell on Nate’s leg and he looked down into the loving face of his wife and son. He touched her chin and wished he could take her into his arms and kiss her passionately.
In the silence that followed the shouting, the weary plod of hoofs seemed oddly out of place.
Nate twisted and gazed into the hate-filled visage of Robert Campbell. The black stallion’s neck and forehead were caked with blood and it favored a rear leg.
“You’ve won fair and square,” Campbell declared so everyone could hear. “The hundred pelts I wagered will be brought to your camp.” Then he leaned forward and spoke in a venomous whisper. “But don’t think this is the end of it, King. We still have the wrestling issue to settle, and when the time comes I’ll break your back!”