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Updated: May 29, 2025
"That colt of yours looks a little stiff to me," said McManus critically. "Nonsense! He may be a bit nervous, but he ain't stiff." "Well, I hope he ain't. Curry's horse looks good." Later they levelled their field glasses at the starting point. Johnson could see nothing but his own colours: a blazing cherry jacket and cap; McManus spent his time watching Little Mose and Elijah.
Old Man Curry's voice rose in a high, piping treble, shrill with wrath. "It's good money. I got some of it from you. Your slate says 6 to 5, 'Lisha." "Don't want it," repeated the bookmaker, his eyes roving over the crowd. "Get it next door." "That's a fine howdy-do!" snapped the exasperated old man. "I can't bet on my own horse at a short price, too!"
I'd have lost it some other way, I guess. But, say, what was this proposition of yours about fattening the bank roll? I've got seven dollars between me and the wolf, and he's so close that I can smell his breath." "Seeing that you ain't got any more judgment than that," was Old Man Curry's comment, "I don't know as I ought to tell you."
"That was Old Man Curry's nigger Mose," continued Squeaking Henry, so-called because of his plaintive whine, "and I was wondering if the horse wasn't Elijah. I didn't get a good look at him. Maybe it was Obadiah or Nehemiah. Did you ever hear such a lot of names in your life? They tell me Old Man Curry got 'em all out of the Bible." The Kid nodded.
"I was watching that thing in front Whitethorn.... Yes, and that horse is hurt, Major.... The boy is all right, though. He's on his feet." "It's Old Man Curry's horse," said the other. "Obadiah and I sort of figured him the contender in this race, too.... The boy has got him.... Looks like a broken leg to me.... Too bad.... Better send an officer over there."
"Y as," Curry answered placidly. Thus it soon became apparent that Curry's chief ambition was to agree pleasantly with whatever anybody said, which tended to discredit any information he had to impart. So, as a matter of course, the questions ceased, and when no more were asked him Curry's conversation ceased also.
As the old "Cheyenne," the only sidewheeler on the Assiniboine, churning the muddy water into creamy foam, made its way to the green shore at Curry's Landing, Fred and Evelyn Brydon, standing on the narrow deck, felt the grip of the place and the season.
The next morning he was on hand early enough to see General Duval return from an exercise gallop, and there was a small black boy on the colt's back. "Come here, Gabe," said Pitkin. "Ain't that Curry's nigger jockey?" "Yes, suh; that's Jockey Moseby Jones, suh." "What's he doing around this stable?" "He kind o' gittin' acquainted with the Gen'al, suh." "Acquainted? What for?"
"Well, Frank," said he, "you know something. What is it?" "I know Miles is trying to buy the black horse for Al Engle." Old Man Curry's fist thumped upon his knee. "Engle! How did you find that out, son?" The Bald-faced Kid grinned. "Everybody ain't as close-mouthed as you are, old-timer.
He sent Elisha the distance, driving him hard from the half-mile pole to the wire, and the Bald-faced Kid's astounded comments furnished a profane obbligato. "Take a look at that!" said he, thrusting the watch under Old Man Curry's nose. "Pretty close to the track record for a mile, ain't it? And every clocker on the track got him too!
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