“Out yonder among the plains Indians,” said Roger Lincoln, “they have a habit of showing their friendship by giving you a teepee and everything that’s in it . . . by giving you an entire string of horses . . . by offering you their rifles and the scalps they’ve taken.” He paused, still smiling. “White men can’t offer things like that. It’s too much like buying friendship. What I can say, is that I love my life, Torridon. No one has a better time than I do . . . no one loves his life more. Well, you’ve saved it for me. To be killed by a horse? Bah! That’s worse than to die at the hands of Sioux. But, at any rate, I want to offer you before these people . . . so they’ll be witnesses if ever I break my word . . . I want to offer you my hand and everything that I have . . . my gun, my horse, my money, my heart, Torridon. I’m going to leave in a few moments, if I can ride. As to the black colt, you’re the man to handle him. I should have seen that at the first. In the meantime, if you ever should need me, send after me. This is my mother’s ring, and I’ll always go back with the bearer of it to find you.”
Torridon took it, feeling himself turn from cold to hot. He could not speak. There was not a word in the world that he could bring into his mind.
Then John Brett said: “The lad’s lost his tongue. But he feels what you say, Lincoln. He’s a good lad.”
That covered Torridon’s retreat as he stumbled back into the throng.
Or rather, he tried to get into it and hide himself, but he could not. They drew back from him a little in order that they could see him. Only old Aunt Ellen came and plucked at his arm with fingers like steel claws.
“The heart is the biggest half of the man,” said Aunt Ellen, and cackled at him like a hen.
He moved away. He found a door and escaped.
All the world was new, delightful, gentle, bright. He moved in an ecstasy the more violent because he felt that the appreciation he had met with was undeserved. It was something for nothing. His weak tears, surely, had more than balanced that withstanding of the stallion’s rush. But they were not noticed. Nancy had not said a word.
He went into the trees near the house and waited there, hot with joy, ashamed of seeing the faces of his fellows, until he saw Roger Lincoln depart, riding as straight as ever, but keeping gray Comanche at a walk. No doubt he was dreadfully hurt and shaken by his fall, but no one would have guessed it, except that the dashing rider went now so slowly. The heart of Torridon swelled with admiration and worship.
That was a man!
Some of the young men followed Roger Lincoln, making an escort for him, as befitted his dignity, but all the others came back into the pasture nearby. He saw several of the youngsters sent off by John Brett. Then the voice of the patriarch himself was raised.
“Paul! Oh, Paul! Paul Torridon!”
He came slowly out of the wood and toward them. They had smiles for him. They drew back and opened a lane to where John Brett was standing.
“Sneaked off and hid yourself, eh?” said that giant. “By God, you act like a girl, pretty near, Paul. Now, we all come here today to see Ashur rode. Are you gonna disappoint us?”
Paul blanched as he thought of the plunging black monster and the form of Roger Lincoln hurtling through the air.
“Go get that hoss and ride him here!” roared John Brett.
And the force of his voice blew Torridon away.
He crossed the pasture with shaking knees, but, when he was near, the stallion saw him and came trotting and tossing his head in the unaccustomed bridle. He had broken the reins. Torridon was glad of it and of the little delay that this excused as he knotted them securely once more. Ashur in the meantime was hunting at his pockets for carrots. And, finding none, he transferred his attention to Torridon’s head and began to push his hat about.
He merely turned his head curiously when Torridon put foot in the stirrup. But, when he drew himself off the ground, Ashur grunted and flinched away.
Heaven help me, thought Torridon.
But he was able to throw his leg over the saddle, and by kind fortune it fell exactly in the opposite stirrup.
Ashur, sprawled in a most awkward position, was reaching about and biting at the knee of his new rider. So Torridon in a shaking voice, reassured him.
“Get on,” whispered Torridon. “Good boy, Ashur. If ever I’ve given you carrots and apples, be a good horse today to me.”
Ashur tossed his head and walked a few steps.
A shout of triumph rang from the far side of the pasture and Ashur leaped a dozen feet sideways in acknowledgment of it. But Torridon, braced and ready, was not unseated. He kept the lightest touch on the reins. He made no effort to control Ashur; he merely wanted Ashur to control himself. And the colt turned his head again with a mulish expression, one ear back and one tilted forward. Then, unbidden, he broke into a trot, into a gallop; he bounded high into the air and a groan echoed heavily over the field—an expression of the boy’s heart, although spoken by the crowd. Yet he kept his seat by balance only, and with the reins he barely kept in touch with the stallion letting him have his head freely, but always talking softly, steadily.
Ashur suddenly began to fly. He had been galloping fast before, but this gait had wings to it. He headed straight for the fence.
A crash! thought Torridon, and set his teeth and tried to hope for heaven.
Ashur rose like a bird, floated, landed lightly, and went on in his stride.
Oh, noble Ashur . . . The heart of the boy began to rise.
They flew through the soft meadow beyond. Ashur was loving this run. They reached the brook, and, soaring high, the stallion cleared it and sped on beyond while Torridon shouted with a sudden joy. Fear had been snatched away from him. He understood now. To Ashur it was merely a frolic and the stallion rejoiced to have his old companion with him.
He pulled on the right-hand rein. The head came first. But then, understanding, Ashur curved with the pull and swung back. Once more the silver face of the creek shot beneath them. They winged the fence to the pasture, and now, at the draw of both reins, Ashur fell to a canter, to a trot, to a walk, and came to a stop fairly before John Brett.
A shout of triumph rang up again. Ashur leaped and whirled at the same time and Torridon found himself sitting on the ground. There had been hardly a jar. The colt simply had twitched from beneath him.
“You fools,” groaned John Brett. “You’ve spoiled the chance with your damned yapping. Silence, there! Catch the horse, some of you.”
There was no need, for Ashur came quickly back and sniffed at the shoulder of Torridon, stood like a rock then, while Torridon sprang up and into the saddle again.
“He didn’t mean it,” said Torridon. “He goes like an old horse, without a fault. Look!”
And he began to ride Ashur in a figure eight before them all, at a trot, at a walk, at a canter.
IX
There had been three steps in the climbing of the ladder. Now, dizzy with joy, Paul Torridon found himself at the top—the most considered youth in the clan of which he was not a member.
That very night John Brett grew tired of bellowing the length of the table. He had Torridon come up and sit beside him, where they could converse about horses in general and particularly of that horse that was nearest to the heart of John Brett. He urged Paul to waste no time in other pursuits. The perfect breaking of the stallion so that even a child would be at home on his back was the thing for him to do now.
For a month Torridon had no other occupation. Except that he slept in the house, he was with Ashur every moment. He groomed him in the morning, fed him, watered him. Then exercise in the fresh cool of the day. Then a thorough rub-down and drying out. Then freedom in the pasture, where the teacher followed.