The bar act

One of them, more farsighted than the rest, had gone to a printing office to obtain the next day’s program. And now they sat open-mouthed in a hotel room, called together in a special meeting, to see what could be done about it.

On this program, after Carter’s name, there was printed an enumeration of tricks to be performed by him and after the well-known shoulder stand, vaults, double vaults and others, stood three mystifying words ending the list: The Bar Act!

“And who the hell,” said Bobby Stuart, “ever heard of the Bar Act?”

“If I had never heard it but once,” said Slim Jones, “the sounds of it would give me the earache!”

“Maybe it’s one of them there circus stunts, where some feller rides a barebacked horse and turns handsprings over a go-gadget,” puts in Buck Farrell brightly.

“Yeah, and more likely it’s only the well-known gravity defyin’ feat of puttin’ a live elephant into violent motion by graspin’ him delicately by the tail and propellin’ through space from the back of a runnin’ horse. Who knows?” said Bobby Stuart in a dejected manner.

“We gotta find out!” moaned Lou Warner, holding his head between his hands and gazing ceilingward in a thoughtful expression. “We gotta find out!”

“Most likely it’s some dum fool thing that don’t amount to nawthin’,” said Buck hopefully.

“Shore! Who cares about a thousand dollars anyway?” mused Slim, a sick-looking grin on his face.

“We gotta find out! We gotta find out!” groaned Lou again.

“We’ll never do it a-sittin’ here,” said Bobby in a businesslike tone of voice. “Let’s all go down to the barns where Leonard keeps his horse and watch what takes place. All the practicin’ he done here was mornings, at the show grounds. I know that he never left the hotel at night. His workouts was all performed in plain sight and if he done any Bar Act that I could see, I’m a cockeyed whippoorwill a-whistlin’ for his mate!”

Buck stepped to the window and peered out at the night. “Nice and dark out there,” he said. “Maybe he wouldn’t see us if we was careful. Let’s peel off our big hats and white clothes, them that’s got ’em on.”

His suggestion was taken up at once. Dark shirts were produced from various trunks and cream-colored Stetsons discarded. One by one the vigilance committee filed out of the room into the hall and from there to the street by a back door. The hour was late and the city asleep.

Rubber-tipped boot heels lightly pounded the deserted sidewalks of the slumbering metropolis. Pauses were made to peer around corners and glance behind in efforts to discover any chance trailers. The coast was clear and at the edge of the town the conspirators gathered into the protecting shadows of a barn.

The silence was terrifying and a mere whisper was like the howling of a pack of coyotes. A shadow detached itself from the silent group, slipped easily through a window and disappeared within to return in a few minutes and announce with eloquent gestures and facial expressions that all horses were inside and accounted for.

The ghostly gathering gained sitting postures, ears strained for approaching footfalls. Large chunks of silence floated by. A horse coughed. Nerves tensed, and relaxed. The moon came out from behind a cloud, sneered and slunk back from sight. Trained, hardened muscles became cramped from the immobility and tenseness required by the situation. The grass was slightly damp and, after a time, all felt as disgustingly wet and chilled as if at the bottom of a well.

Buck Farrell repressed a sneeze and whispered, “Fine way to be a-trainin’ to win a trick ridin’ contest! I betcha I’ll be so dum stiff and sore in the mornin----”

“Shet up!” warned a voice. “Lissen!” Ears strained anew and everyone breathed rapidly in short, expectant gasps.

An automobile was approaching from the town, the exhaust firing noisily, no apparent efforts at secrecy being made. “It’s Carter’s buggy,” said someone. “Everybody duck!” Duck they did. Some disappeared behind a manure pile, others lay stretched on the ground, close to the sides of the barn.

The car chugged ahead. A bright light danced on the front of the building. Brakes squeaked. The engine died. A door slammed shut. A tall, slender form wearing a big hat and carrying a long object wrapped in a blanket strode across the lighted path, humming happily. The doors of the barn were shoved open, the rollers grinding on the steel rail.

A voice sounded, talking soothingly in a senseless fashion as a man to a horse to keep from startling the animal. The dull thud of leather slapped on a blanketed form. The dry click of a latigo strap after the knot is made. Carter emerged from the barn into the lights of his car, leading his famous trick-riding horse Spots, and carrying the mysterious wrapped object.

He walked to the automobile, switched off the lights, mounted and rode off at a walk.

Crouching shadows followed into the night.

The average walk of a horse is somewhat faster than that of a man. Some horses naturally fall into a sort of shuffling motion, between a walk and a trot, called a running walk. And that of all the walks is by far the swiftest. Spots was a running walker and easily fell into that gait.

At first, the would-be investigators sneaked slowly and cautiously behind their quarry. But the realization that they would need to attain greater speed or be considerably late at any demonstration of fancy riding urged them on at a faster clip. Keeping a safe distance between themselves and the object of their interest, they struck a dogtrot, stumbling over invisible ruts and stones.

I have offered to prove that a cowboy will walk under certain conditions and now I have a bunch of them running over a rough road in the uncertain hope of seeing another cowboy perform an unknown trick, so they could duplicate it. Strange doings indeed!

Although the night was dark, they were forced to keep at a certain distance in the rear to avoid detection. At times they became alarmed, thinking that Carter was looking back over his shoulder. Especially on straight stretches this fear was more potent. Then they took to the brush, hardly daring to breathe. The faint sounds of hoofs striking hard ground drifted back to them and after a while they continued on their journey, running faster now to catch up.

It is indeed surprising how far a horse can go without stopping to rest and sit by the roadside. Possibly that thought has never occurred to anyone except these boys who considered it vital to follow one. In any case many miles were eaten up in this strange marathon.

High-heeled boots, made snug and in some cases actually tight, are not the proper kind of footwear to use on a long-distance cross-country run. But in this instance they were worn by the runners, adding a good deal to their discomfort. Bare-headed, they looked like Indians trailing a victim--crippled Indians, poor, aged, worn-out Indians, wobbling at the knees and groaning from the pain and soreness of their feet. But with admirable spirit they raced on, jaws set and breathing heavily, their hair wet with sweat and shirts open at the neck.

The horse ahead left the road and led the chase through sagebrush and short grass, slippery as glass. Prairie dog mounds and badger holes tripped the tired runners. Corns and bunions began to howl for mercy. Was there to be no end to this bitter endurance contest?

The lights of the town had disappeared behind the last hill. None of the tired pursuers knew in what direction they were traveling. No star twinkled in the sky. No breeze to cool feverish brows. A hot, dark, oppressive night. A high fence loomed ahead. Hopes soared high. Possibly an objective had been reached. Indistinct white, immobile white shapes appeared on the other side of the fence, mounds of fresh earth, a smell of wilted flowers.

“A hell of a place to hold a workout!” panted Slim. “A danged graveyard!”