SHOT ON THE HOME-STRETCH.

       FOR miles around, as far as the eye could reach in one direction, lay undulating prairie, green with rank, tall, swaying grasses or gray with the barren, bitter sage, where the coyote yelped and gambolled and the shy prairie-hen crouched and chuckled. Behind loomed up the blue-brown outlines of the rugged Coast Mountains, the danger-fraught barrier to the El Dorado of the gold-seekers, while far off was a pack of scurrying, barking wolves, busily engaged in picking clean the bones of a fallen buffalo.

       Seth Walker's ranche stood on the banks of Rattler's Creek, a narrow but rapid stream of limpid, icy water whose origin lay high up among the rocky hills. Its low banks of glittering gravel were densely fringed with underbrush and various sorts of heavy timber — cotton and redwood trees — many species of prickly berry-bushes and tangling, creeping vines. The ranche was roughly built of green, hewn logs, dovetailed together at the corners, the interstices, being filled with the limy, gummy mud scraped from the lips of the mineral springs close at hand. Inside were two compartments, termed respectively "the bunk" and "the bar." Split cedar logs, laid side by side, composed the floor, and light entered through a small, unglazed window; in various parts of the room were seven clumsy stools and two rickety tables covered with packs of cards, empty glasses and dice-boxes. The walls were adorned with sundry rifles, revolvers, gaudy pictures of questionable morality and festoons of Brobdignagian shells bought from the Indians, who had gathered them on the Pacific shores.

       The bar proper was a long, circular shelf or desk, behind which stood tall bottles labelled Bourbon, Old Rye, Sherry, Gin and Bitters, ranged in orderly rows; above, on a cedar pedestal, reposed a large wild-cat, killed and stuffed by Seth himself.

       Of the dozen or more scouts, gamblers, trappers and sutlers gathered there, we are particularly interested in two only — Colonel Ringeur and Antoine Vezan. The colonel was a horse-dealer and the keeper of a notorious faro-bank; he was over six feet in height, burly and muscular, perfectly and savagely reckless when angered, and a terror to his enemies. Antoine, also a gambling jockey, was scarcely five feet seven inches in height, round-shouldered and weak in the arms, but, as all admitted, "some with the rifle."

       Ringeur was attired in his usual costume — black velvet trowsers slit from the knee downward, and, after the Mexican fashion, studded with round silver buttons; stout moccasins and beaded buckskin shirt, that fully exposed a brawny, hairy chest and neck; his long, black hair was covered by a wide-brimmed sombrero, and in his gay belt were a pair of Colt's revolvers and a Bowie.

       Vezan's dress was similar, with the exception of the head covering, which consisted of a fox's skin sewn into a skull-cap, the head protruding over Antoine's dull, black eyes.

       "What you take, mon colonel?" and Vezan slapped Ringeur on the back.

       "The usual, thank you, Tony. Bourbon — four fingers — Seth!"

       "So, mon colonel, it is that you have entered two horses for ze race, eh?"

       Antoine referred to the Grand Yearly Valley Race that was to take place in three days, where thousands of dollars annually changed hands and rows innumerable happened.

       "Wall, yes, I've two on hand. There's Jack — you know him well enough — by Ripraps out of Siren; then I've a new bit I don't mind laying a few bags on — Bessie, she's called. Her stock is neither prime nor fancy, but I'm laying that she'll give your Etoile two lengths and beat her!"

       There was a taunting ring in his voice as he said this, and he winked knowingly to the bystanders, who, as a matter of course, followed the example of the facetious soldier.

       "Done, mon colonel! You give Etoile two lengths and beat her with Bessie? Done! How much?"

       "Wall, Tony, be patient; don't get riled. Now, gentlemen, are there any more of ye that want to take odds on my mare?"

       No answer being given to this question, Ringeur resumed:

       "Are you afraid of five thousand, Tony?"

       "No, no. Five thousand it is, mon colonel. You give Etoile two full lengths and beat her? Tres bien!" and he entered the wager in his book at once.

       "What's the reason you don't back the old favorite, Jack, kernel?" queried one of the trappers, and all drew closer to hear Ringeur's reply, for in all previous races Jack had won every stake, and was thought to be the fastest animal on the Pacific slope.

       "Wall, I have my reasons, and mean to keep them; but I give you my word of honor that Jack will, bar accidents, make as good, if not better, time this year than he did last."

       "Redlips rides Jack, as usual?" asked Vezan, anxiously.

       "She doesn't do anything of the sort, Tony. Redlips is for Bessie this year."

       The colonel referred to a Digger-Indian girl whom he had bred up to use as a jockey, and who was considered the best and most expert rider for a hundred miles around.

       Vezan bit his lip and frowned, snapped his fingers and muttered a curse.

       "But," Antoine began, eagerly, "I thought she was to ride Jack?"

       "No; Redlips is going to put the new mare through, sure;" and Ringeur smiled complacently and sauntered out of the bar.

       No sooner had he disappeared than a handsome but dissipated-looking man entered and saluted the company with a careless "How air ye?" then drank at a single swallow over three-fourths of a tumbler of Bourbon "neat." On the new-comer Antoine looked with a degree of interest that plainly grew stronger every minute, and finally he advanced toward him and requested him to imbibe another glass of whisky, a proposition to which a hasty assent was given.

       The new-comer's name was Charlie Tauter. By profession he was a "monte-thrower" and card sharper, and also the lover of Redlips, before mentioned. A half hour or so of general conversation passed, in which all took a share, when Antoine motioned significantly to Tauter and bade the company good-day.

       A moment later, Tauter tossed off the remainder of his whisky, and also left the ranche. Awaiting him outside was the Frenchman, who looked about him suspiciously, and asked,

       "Eh, mon ami Charles, is it that you laid much on the race?"

       "Wall, Tony, I don't mind telling you; I've backed Etoile, and hedged some hundreds on Jack. I jedge that's about the thing?"

       "You are going to see la belle Sauvage, is it not so, Charles?"

       "Yes, I reckon so; she'll be down at the stables, I guess."

       Antoine was silent for a few minutes, and apparently absorbed in a knotty problem of great importance, judging from the many and varied expressions that came and went on his mobile features.

       "You wanted to see me about —"

       "Yes, yes! One second, and you shall learn what I want. You have heard of ze colonel's new mare, Bessie?"

       "Yes, and she is a puzzler to me, and more besides. The kernel seems to be backing her heavily, and he's not a man to lose money if he can help it. I'm afraid of the critter myself — she's been kept too dark; and Ringeur's moves are rather deceptive sometimes. Do you know anything about her, Tony?"

       What the after conversation between the two worthies produced will be learned further on; but as they parted, Antoine shook Charlie heartily by the hand, and whispered, "If la belle Sauvage will do this, two thousand shall find its way into your pockets; you understand?" To which he responded,

       "All right, Tony; anything for a square pile. Keep still as a Comanche on the trail, and I'll see what can be done. But the gal's a catamount when she gets a notion into her head; and if her mind is set on the mare's success, it will be hard to manage. Why, as much as she loves me, I can't get a word out of her about Bessie, and she'll neither say lay nor don't lay. The job is worth the money."

       Hidden from view among the dense brush by the creekside, about three hours after Tauter and Vezan had parted, stood two persons, conversing in low but rapid tones. One was an Indian girl about seventeen or eighteen years of age. She was small in stature, but superbly proportioned, from her well-poised head down to the slender feet encased in the daintiest braided moccasins. Her hair was long, thick and black, her face oval and her features regular and handsome. At the present moment her large dark eyes were aflame with excitement, and the pouting crimson lips downdrawn at the corners, as in pleading, angry sorrow. She was clad in a soft, gay tunic of fawnskin, and short leggings, ornamented with shells, beads and stained horse-hair, and every motion, every gesture, showed how lithe and supple was her girlish form. The other was Charlie Tauter, who seemed to be angrily expostulating with his companion; his arguments and entreaties, however, were too thickly interspersed with oaths to bear repetition. The following portions of his conversation you may render as spicy as you please:

       "But, Redlips, my gal, I'll lose a pile if you refuse."

       "Oh, Charlie, Redlips would do anything for you but this. Don't ask her to betray the man who has been her friend ever since she was a motherless papoose."

       "Who is your best friend?" he roughly demanded.

       Winding her bare bronze arms around his neck, and kissing him passionately, she replied — and a love-smile brightened her saddened face — "You, my brave; Redlips' only love."

       "Then why can't you obey your best friend's command, eh?"

       She was silent.

       Thrusting her from him with a fierce imprecation, Tauter exclaimed, "Redlips, understand this now, if you don't do what I've told you, you need never speak to me again; if you do I'll shoot you."

       Fawneye staggered against a cotton tree and sobbed convulsively as she murmured, "Oh, Charlie, Redlips would die for you gladly, but she cannot turn traitor to —"

       "Redlips, my little gal, forgive me!" cried Charlie, and throwing his arms about her waist, he toyed caressingly with her hair, and kissed her until her head dropped back on his shoulder, and her heavy wet lashes trembled on her cheek.

       And then he spoke to her tenderly and lovingly; and ere long she whispered in faint, tremulous tones, "Redlips is a snake — she will obey."

       We must now proceed to Col. Ringeur's stables, where at various times have been stabled the fastest pacers, trotters and runners in the Western country. Redlips stood leaning against the hitching post, polishing a pair of large Mexican spurs; Ringeur was sitting astride of the corn-chopper, with his keen eyes fixed searchingly on the face of his girl-jockey.

       "Wall, Redlips, to-morrow is the race."

       She bent her head and rubbed more energetically on the glittering rowels.

       "Now, you know the mare's tricks as well as you know your own; you know what she can do, and what she can't. She can beat any horse or mare in the stable, and she can't stand being fretted on the mouth. Be careful on this point; never mind how she throws her head, don't tauten on the bit. If you do, she'll break her pace and lose the race. You must come in at least two lengths and a half ahead, and I'll give you one fourth of my winnings."

       Redlips bent low her face, as though to breathe on a grease stain, but at the same time her lips quivered piteously, and the dusky pink on her full cheeks gave place to a sickly paleness.

       Biting off a fresh quid, and plastering the old one on a rafter overhead, Ringeur resumed in an abrupt, peremptory manner,

       "Gal, look me in the eyes; no flinching."

       Redlips slowly lifted her face and obeyed.

       "What pile has your boss, Charlie Tauter, laid altogether?"

       "Redlips does not know."

       "You lie. Has he laid on Bessie? Have you been blabbing of what she can do?" and his voice grew hard and stern.

       "He has not laid a picayune on Bessie. Redlips' tongue has been silent. He has laid on Jack and Etoile."

       "Oh, ah! good!" Rising, he was about to leave, when, turning quickly, he said, in suspicious tones, "Gal, I've heard that the Frencher and Charlie had a long confab together the other day. Do you know what they were talking about?"

       "No."

       "Humph! You're such a liar when that boy is concerned, that I never know what to believe or disbelieve. 'Fore I go, I'll run over the orders again, so that you won't forget. First and foremost, Bessie must come in by at least two lengths and a half. Don't let that leave your head for an instant. Now, as to the ways and means. Of course, you know it's a three-mile heat: hold in on the first mile and half of the second; give her half her head on the last of the second; then, in spurs and whip, give her her own way, and, if you have to kill her, land her home number one. Now, mind you, gal, she can do it if you help her. If you lose this hyar, I'll shoot you on the stand!"

       Redlips shook in every limb, and grasped the post to steady herself. Noticing her agitation, the colonel added, in a kindlier manner:

       "Don't be scared, gal! Bessie will do the thing if you obey orders."

       "Manitou, help your slave!" moaned the distracted girl, as her master strode down the yard, and throwing her arms around Bessie's arching neck, she sobbed hysterically.

       The racing ground was a scene of indescribable confusion and uproarious excitement; thousands of interested spectators crowded and surged together on every side, for to the Grand Valley race came always all those in any way interested in betting, jockeyship, or "free fights;" and the race never failed to give ample satisfaction to those desiring to indulge in any, or all, of the three. White men, Chinamen, Indians, half-breeds, trappers, scouts, brokers, gamblers — every one was on hand for either one purpose or another. The judges' stand was occupied by three bronzed and bearded trappers, whose reputations for jockeyship, bravery and fairness were proverbial. Gathered in groups near the stand were the several owners of the horses and the more favored of their friends. Of course, the colonel was there, encompassed by his friends, some of whom were vainly seeking to penetrate his reasons for preferring the strange mare to the old and tried favorite, Jack. Antoine Vezan was standing a few yards away, earnestly advising his jockey to guard against "le colonel's Bessie," and every few minutes consulting his betting-book.

       The track was oval in shape, and every foot around its circling length of three miles was crowded with anxious spectators, impatiently awaiting the opening of the race. Suddenly a terrific and far-reaching roar heralded the advent of the horses, and the noise became deafening as Etoile appeared in sight — a dun mare, bestrode by a diminutive jockey dressed in buff and black. Following Etoile came six other racers, prancing, capricoling, and champing playfully at their bits; last of all appeared Bessie, with Redlips in the tiny saddle. Her dress consisted of tight but flexible leggings, and a short jacket of blue silk, slashed with crimson; her braided hair lay gathered in a lustrous knot behind her ears, and was securely fastened by narrow crimson ribbons.

       "Tiger for Redlips!" was yelled up and down the long lines of admiring lookers-on, and the girl rose in her stirrups and kissed her hand, which trembled like a leaf, while her sparkling eyes were filled with a strange, fiery light.

       Stepping to Bessie's side, Ringeur handed Redlips a flask of brandy, which she eagerly drank from, and then returned with a short "Thanks."

       "Lean over, my beauty," and she bent her head on Bessie's neck.

       "Be careful, Redlips! Ride to orders — to orders! First mile, hold in; let slip some on the last half of the second, then pile home like a shot! That's all." And Ringeur patted the mare's neck and flanks, who whinnied, pawed the ground and playfully kicked in recognition of the caresses.

       For the next hour nothing was accomplished but the laying of wagers, great or small. Ringeur and Vezan mutually agreed to increase the previous bet of five thousand dollars to eight thousand, and the colonel "accepted" various other challengers desirous of betting against Bessie. The crowd generally, however, seemed to be afraid of the strange mare, though Bessie was heavily backed by several veteran jockeys on account of her rider, "the Digger gal who had never lost one race out of fifty!"

       "Whang!" and those obstructing the course crept hurriedly under the barriers, while the wires under which the racers were to pass were drawn from the judges' stand to a post opposite.

       "Whang!" and the eight horses were wheeled about, and trotted fifty yards farther down beyond the stand.

       "Whang!" and the eager racers sped toward the wire, and two — Etoile and Jack — were even past its boundary, when a fresh signal sent all back to their places for a fresh start. These preliminaries were repeated several times, and fully an hour was consumed before they all started fairly together. It was a thrilling sight to see them fly along, neck and neck, for a few moments, then begin to scatter. The greatest interest was centred in Jack, Etoile and Bessie, and to these we shall pay undivided attention, premising that, at the outset, Colonel Ringeur had clambered up on the stand beside the judges, whence he could take in the whole course at a glance.

       Jack led the van from the start, Etoile was a nose's length behind him, and Bessie a full length behind Etoile. For the first mile these relative positions remained unchanged; at the first half of the second, Etoile was neck and neck with Jack, while Bessie had fallen behind nearly another length; the last half of the second mile saw Etoile a half length in advance of Jack, and Bessie's nose almost touching Etoile's hind quarters. At this momentous instant Ringeur sprang from the stand into the course, and rested his right hand on the butt of his long navy revolver. All eyes, however, were riveted on the racers, and his action excited no comment, except, indeed, that Charlie Tauter, who stood close by, turned rather pale and edged nearer to the watchful colonel.

       In the first half of the third mile, Etoile still led, with Bessie's nose at her saddle-girth, and Jack a full length behind. Suddenly, Bessie shook her head viciously, sprang sideways, and nearly stumbled. A frightful imprecation burst from Ringeur's pale lips, and he exclaimed, in husky, grating tones:

       "Jedges, look there! That gal has balked my mare! Don't ye see her sawing on the off rein? Curse her! Curse her!"

       Drawing his revolver, Ringeur crooked his left arm as a rest, and levelled it at Redlips' heart. By this time the horses were on the home-stretch — Etoile and Jack neck and neck, Bessie a length and a half in the rear.

       "Whang!" and a cry of horror rang out on the air as Redlips threw up her arms, screamed faintly, and tumbled out of the saddle to the ground. All this took place in far less time than I can recount it.

       Freed from her rider, Bessie sprang forward like lightning, passed Jack and Etoile, ran under the wires three lengths in advance of them all, and whinnied as she rubbed her pink nose on the colonel's shirt.

       The scene of confusion that immediately ensued was appalling. Hurling aside a Chinaman standing in front of him, Tauter, blind with rage, fired twice at Ringeur, and missed both times, whereupon the colonel cried, "Now, Tauter, you've had your shots; hold on a while, and I'll give you a square fight to-morrow. I want this other affair settled first." No sooner had Ringeur fired than he was surrounded by his friends, who, in accordance with Western custom, were bound to prevent him being arrested or lynched. Turning to the judges, who had remained calmly stoical and apparently heedless of all that passed, the colonel exclaimed,

       "Now, jedges, hand over the stakes. Ye saw the gal trying to break my mare's pace, and ye heard me tell her 'fore she started to ride to orders and pile in on the homestretch. She's been bribed, and I can prove it. But I want the stakes, then I'll back Bessie with my whole pile — eighty thousand Mexican dollars — against any horse in the country, and give any horse or mare full three lengths."

       Comparative silence reigned for a few minutes after this speech, and the judges held a hurried and whispered consultation, after which the spokesman rose and said:

       "Wall, kernel, after some scrimmagin we're decided this hyar race to be a draw. We intend to consider the point as to whether the race shall go on again to-morrow. There's no doubt the Injun played a foul hand, and deserved what she got, and we kinder think your mare would have easily won, but until we've had time to talk over all the points, we'll retain the stakes. Is that satisfactory?"

       "Yes, yes," cried some. "No, no," others protested; and innumerable click-clickings sounded ominously threatening. Pushing aside his friends, Ringeur drew and cocked both of his revolvers and said, coolly,

       "Now, look here, gentlemen, there's been shooting enough done for one day. The next who cocks a shooter near me is a dead man, unless he's quicker on the pull than Colonel Ringeur. And if there's any one here disputes my words and considers himself a good shot, let him step out, and I'll shoot with him right here on the course at one pace or a hundred. I can't do any more."

       Here Ringeur was tapped on the shoulder by the county sheriff, who said in persuasive tones, "Kernel, I'm sorry, but you air my prisoner."

       "I am, am I?"

       "Wall, kernel, you know I can't force you to come along, but if you'll step down to the court-house, we can have this thing squared up in no time, and to-morrow you'll be all right."

       "Good enough, Sam; I'll come down in an hour or so." And motioning to his friends, Ringeur proceeded toward Seth's ranche to end the day in drunken debauchery.

       After firing at Ringeur, Tauter had leaped over the railings and run toward Redlips, whose pale lips parted in a sad smile. Pressing one hand on her side where the hot scarlet blood leaped forth at every breath, she had thrown the other around her lover's neck and murmured,

       "Charlie, Redlips has loved too well. She goes to Manitou. Kiss her, Charlie; kiss her until she dies."

 
       Little more is necessary to complete our tale. Colonel Ringeur was "honorably discharged" by a jury composed of his friends, and afterward received the stakes of the Grand Yearly Valley race. Antoine Vezan and Charlie Tauter decamped in company the day after the race — the one to avoid paying his "debts of honor," the other to escape being shot at by an unerring marksman. Poor Redlips was buried out in the woods, and a rude cross was erected at the head of her grave, on which were the words, "Redlips — shot on the home-stretch." Peace be with her soul, poor girl! She loved not wisely, but too well.