Hart the Regulator 8 by John B. Harvey

Author:John B. Harvey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cowboys, gunslingers, john wesley hardin, texas rangers, frontier life, western pulp fiction, wes hart, gunfighters of the old west, jb harvey
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Seven

26 May 1874 Comanche, Texas

The rising thunder of hoofs threatened to be lost in the swell of sound from the cheering, raucous crowd. Of the four horses that had started, only two were in contention, but they were racing neck and neck up the length of main street, eager for the finish. Both riders were straining forward in their saddles, feet pushed hard into their stirrups. Whips cracked through the air, slashed down against the animals ’flanks. Saliva flew from the mouths and nostrils of the horses, sweat lathered their coats. Roan and chestnut: chestnut and roan.

The tape was seventy yards off and seemed a mile away.

Sixty.

Fifty.

A man jumped out from the crowd thronging the sidewalk and held a glass of frothy beer aloft and yelled the roan home. Voices drowned him and hands, angry or merely restraining, hauled him back. The beer splashed into the man’s face and down his already-stained shirt front. Others called for both riders to use their whips, their spurs, knock the man alongside clear from the saddle.

Thirty yards and there was still nothing to choose between them; a straw could not have been placed that would have divided them cleanly. The man on the chestnut had his head right over the horse’s fine, broad nose as if he was attempting to drag it across the line through his own physical effort. His rival sat slightly further back and worked his whip hard, flicking it from one side to the other so fast that all that could be seen was a blur of fan-like movement.

‘Come on, you bastard!’

‘Do it, for God’s sake!’

‘C’mon! C’mon!’

‘Sayer! Sayer! Sayer!’

As the chant of his name was roared out, the roan’s rider worked his whip even harder and just when it seemed that neither horse could possibly pass the other within the ten yards remaining, the roan somehow found an extra kick, an extra stride.

As it nosed out the chestnut the sound of Saver’s name became lost in a tremendous shout of exaltation like a thunder clap. Already men were leaping off the sidewalk and running to where both horses were now cantering, slowing, beginning to turn. Boots trampled the broken tape into the broken dirt of the street. Faces were charged with excitement, disappointment. The rider of the chestnut leaned well back in his saddle now and tried to avoid the glances, the threats from those who had lost their money, the occasional cries of sympathy and condolence. Mostly the crowd broke around him and reformed in its dash towards the winner.

Arms reached out towards Sayer and lifted him bodily from the saddle, hoisted him shoulder-high and proceeded to parade him down the street in the direction of the saloon. The horse’s owner, three hundred dollars better off, looked with a certain touch of bitterness at the bloody weals on the roan’s sweating coat before ordering one of his men to lead the horse to the stable and tend to her. That settled, he readjusted his hat, fidgeted his cravat into position and followed the triumphant party through the losers and the mere onlookers.

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