Beyond the Finish by Max Brand

Author:Max Brand [Brand, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Stories
Publisher: Roy Glashan's Library
Published: 2014-08-21T22:00:00+00:00

IT WAS easy for him then to steer the big Nichols bay far off to the right of the course, but every stride on that slant was costing Calamity extra running, lengthening his race.

But now, at a gap in a cross-fence, Dave flogged the big bay and shot him harmlessly through the opening into the next field. Then he angled Calamity back towards the red flags that marked the course. Up there on the hill the throng of spectators was stirred like a gay field of flowers struck by a wind. Hats and handkerchiefs waved and lashed and all that was for him!

Dave’s whole heart rushed out to the ugly stallion. It would be a pity if so brave a spirit should be beaten. They were halfway around, now, and Dave went on, nursing Calamity, picking the best spots for takeoff, the easiest clearances; he was putting little inches together, here and there, to make up the lost yards and rods.

Dave almost smiled. He was closing the gap little by little. When Herndon Hill hegan to rise, perhaps the imperceptible, deadly slope would bring some of them suddenly back to him; and beyond the hill was the plowed field which the hopes and the strength of many a gallant chaser.

A dimness ran down over Temple Hill. All the bright colors were blurred. First a wind struck him; then slanting rain rattled against him and in a moment he was soaked to the skin, as though buckets of water had been sloshed over him.

Then the rain was gone and the sun laid a warm hand on the back of his neck. They had reached Herndon Hill. Fools who charged Herndon Hill would have spent horses under them at the top, but he only pulled the stallion in a little.

Down the incline the vast stride of Calamity devoured ground. Jeffry Bayne’s black horse went reeling to the rear, and Tomlinson’s washy chestnut, and the Charing bay which had cost so much in England and done so poorly in Virginia. Tomlinson was a surly brute, but even he gave Dave a shout to wish him luck.

Yonder in the ploughed field went Exeter, the great gray horse, now blackened by rain and sweat, and little Tiptoe, after trailing through half the race, was coming on again.

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