The Fast Men
by
Tom Mcnab


By the same author

Flanagan's Run Rings of Sand

THE FAST MEN

Tom McNab

Hutchinson

London Melbourne Auckland Johannesburg

To Richard, my editor,

without whom I would not be a writer.

Tom McNab 1986 All rights reserved

This edition first published in 1986

by Hutchinson, an imprint of

Century Hutchinson Ltd

Brookmount House, 62-65 Chandos Place

London we2 4NW

Century Hutchinson Publishing Group (Australia) Pty Ltd

PO Box 496, 16-22 Church Street, Hawthorn Melbourne, Victoria 3122

Century Hutchinson Group (NZ) Ltd

PO Box 40-086, 32-34 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10

Century Hutchinson Group (SA) Pty Ltd, PO Box 337, Bergivei 2012, South
Africa

ISBN 0 09 164210 8 (cased) 0 09 164301 5 (paper)

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data McNab, Tom

The Fast Men.

I. Title 823'.914 [F] PR6063.C6

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Anchor Brendon Limited, Tiptree,
Essex

PROLOGUE

1876 was the year of the Little Big Horn.  It was also the first season
of the National Baseball League, the pennant going to the Chicago White
Stockings.  "Vagrant' won the Kentucky Derby and "Shirley' the
Preakness.  At Covington, Kentucky, the Englishman Joe Goss took the
heavyweight bare-knuckle championship of the world, beating the
American, Tom Alien.  The first national intercollegiate track and
field meet was won by Princeton in July, while a month later the
America's Cup was won by the United States boat Madeleine.

For generations of filmgoers, the Wild West has been the world of
Buffalo Bill, Billy the Kid and Wyatt Earp, a place where speed of draw
was paramount.  But, as they trekked west across the Great Plains,
European immigrants brought with them a complete culture, one ranging
from theatre to sport.

Thus each cow-town or mining camp had, alongside its troupe of visiting
actors, its best fist-fighter, horseshoe pitcher, wrestler or horseman.
And if they were truly fortunate they had a Fast Man: a sprinter on
whom they could lay their money, a man who could show his heels to any
visitor who fancied his fleetness of foot.

This is the story of two such men, foot racers separated only by inches
on the running-path; of their rivalry and their comradeship.

THE MADMEN IN THE VALLEY

White Wolf would always remember the day the madmen came to the
valley.

He had long dreamed of such a moment when the white man would come with
all the warriors gone and only he, White Wolf, there able to save the
tribe.  Then his father Swift Dog would return and White Wolf would
point to what he had done, show the scalps, limp and blood-red,
dangling by Swift Dog's tepee.

But it had not been as he had dreamed.  His father had that morning
posted him on the bluff above the valley and he had spent the hours
peering down its broken slopes to the winding path leading through it,
the only way east to the white man's village, a day's ride away.  But
no one had come, and he had laid at noon on his back on a flat rock
above the canyon, dozily enjoying the warmth of the spring sun on his
stocky brown body.

After a while he had taken to practising with his bow, aiming at a
twisted yucca twenty paces away.  He had loosed a hundred shots, only
sixteen on target, before his arms began to tire, and at noon he had
dawdled his way home down the slopes, kicking at stones, towards the
lazy, vertical smokes of the camp a hundred yards away, on the banks of
a turgid stream.  He had idled through the village, swiping at the camp
dogs with a branch, and stopping for a moment to watch his friends
poking at three tethered sparrows.

He walked on to the tent of his sister, Morning Star, at the edge of
the village, near the stream.  It was for her feast that the warriors
hunted, the feast that would mark her time of readiness.  Five days of
celebration, not a glimpse of which she would be allowed, after which
her eyebrows would be plucked and she would be available to suitors.
White Wolf knew that it would be a great occasion, a time of tall tales
from gnarled warriors of battles with the Spaniards, of days past when
a Sioux on horseback with a quiver of arrows was more than a match for
the White Eye with his slow-loading rifle.  Though he had never
understood the feast's significance, for him it would be a time of a
full belly, of venison, honey-cakes and perhaps even an illicit swig of
the potent twilt-kah-yee.

The thought of the feast made him more aware of his present hunger.  As
he approached her tepee Morning Star was absorbed in her work.  She
squatted in the midday sun, sewing tinsel and bells on to the skirts of
her brown buckskin robe, smiling to herself.  He stood above her,
shifting from foot to foot, eager for her attention.  Without
indicating her knowledge of his presence she abruptly stopped her work
and crawled back into the tepee.

It seemed like hours to him before she emerged, her hands behind her
back, her wide black eyes sparkling.

"Shut your eyes and put out your hands," she said.  This he had
obediently done, to feel something soft in one hand, something hard and
leathery in the other.

"Open them."

When he had done so it was to see two corn flour cakes in his right
hand and some brown pemmican in his left.  As he rushed off to resume
his vigil she shouted after him, "That must last till sundown."  But he
did not hear her.

The food had lasted barely twenty minutes and then, drowsy, he had
experienced difficulty in keeping his eyes open as he lay back on the
rock and gazed down into the mouth of the valley in the still heat of
the early afternoon.  Then he remembered his spear, standing vertical
since morning in the soft earth beside the rock.

He picked it up and laid it flat along his palm, doing as Swift Dog had
told him, placing index and third finger behind the binding to give him
a strong ledge on which to pull.  He was taking aim at the
arrow-scarred yucca when he heard the whinny of horses below.  At once
he dropped his spear,

scampered to the flat overhang and looked down into the shadowy
depths.

A covered wagon, drawn by two horses, had trundled into the mouth of
the valley and had stopped in the shadow of the slope above, furthest
from him, about two hundred yards away to his left.  Its driver, a
tall, lean, slightly stooped man in black trousers and boots, white
collarless shirt and Mexican sombrero, jumped down from the wagon and
walked round to the back where he was momentarily hidden from sight.
When the man reappeared he was naked from the waist up, his trunk stark
white in the shadows.  He was wearing red long-Johns and what appeared
to be black moccasins.  White Wolf scrutinised the white man as he
walked to the front of the wagon and watered his horses.  The man was
clearly not young, about the same age as his father, but strangely his
walk had the spring and bounce of youth.

The man stood for a moment at the base of the hill, then began to run
quickly up its rough, rocky slope.  All the way up the white man's
rhythm was unbroken, until he finally reached the summit and leant
forward, chest heaving, hands on knees.  White Wolf would always
remember him as he stretched and stood to his full height, the marvel
of his whiteness in the sun.  Then the man jogged slowly back down to
the base of the hill.

For a moment, White Wolf considered running back to the village to
bring the other boys.  No, he thought: this is my moment.  I am the one
who was asked to guard the camp, who has spent all day boiling here in
the hot sun.  This is mine.

When the man reached the base of the hill he turned and immediately
started on his way up again, at the same inexorable pace as the first
time.  But as he attained the midpoint of the hill there was another
visitor to the canyon.  It was a younger man, dressed in buckskins and
riding a brown pinto.  The rider looked up at the older man, who was
now struggling, only a few yards away from the hill's crest.  As the
runner reached it and turned to look down into the canyon the newcomer
shouted to him and waved.  The runner, leaning forward, chest heaving,
raised an arm in recognition.  He then jogged down the zigzag path to
the base of the hill, pebbles and dust spurting before him.

The men shook hands, the rider dismounted and both went to the back of
the wagon, out of sight.  When they reappeared a few moments later all
had changed.  For the runner was fully dressed and it was the rider who
was stripped to the waist, clad in white long-Johns and black leather
moccasins.

The younger man walked away from the wagon and out into the depths of
the canyon, taking strange, stretched paces, his arms stiff and
straight.  He walked over a hundred paces into the gloom of an overhang
on the other side, scratched the ground with his right foot in front of
him, stopped, then pawed the earth, first with one foot then the other.
Finally he turned to face the wagon and stood quite still.

The older man shouted and raised his right arm high.  The other raised
his in response.  White Wolf ignored the roughness of the rock as he
stretched full length, straining his eyes to pick out the young man now
standing in shadow on his right.

The man at the wagon suddenly dropped his right hand and the young man
rushed towards him down the valley.  White Wolf had never seen anyone
run at such speed, his legs a white blur.  Stranger still, up from the
valley came a staccato scratching noise with each stride.  The man
surged past the wagon, then eased off to a lope, next a jog, before
turning to walk back to the wagon, where he stood, circling his arms
and talking with the man in black.  Even from the hill White Wolf could
see the gleam of sweat on the runner's milk-white torso.

A few minutes later the whole process was repeated, with the young man
in white long-Johns again bounding up the valley like some wild and
wonderful animal chased by eager hunters.  So engrossed was White Wolf
that he pressed forward, causing a tiny cascade of pebbles to tumble
down towards the valley floor.  But neither of the white men noticed.
They were too involved in studying something which gleamed in the older
man's right hand.

Then came the strangest thing of all.  The runner took off his
long-Johns and shoes, and for the first time in his life White Wolf saw
a naked white man, the hairy blackness at the base of his trunk in
stark contrast to the white of his body and legs.  The older man went
to the back of the wagon and returned with a bucket of water, which he
proceeded to splash over the naked runner, who whooped and shouted as
the cold water hit his skin.

The sun was fading fast as the runner made his way to the back of the
wagon and returned fully clothed in his brown buckskins.  The men shook
hands and the rider re-mounted his pinto and trotted slowly east, down
the valley.  A few moments later the older man again took his place at
the reins of his horses, turned his wagon and made west, into the
setting sun.

White Wolf stood up cautiously then scampered down the hill back into
the village, his head buzzing with the strange tale; but it was hours
before the warriors were due to return, and his story trembled on the
tip of his tongue as he sat waiting beside Morning Star, who continued
to work quietly and assiduously on her robe.

When the warriors returned, three hours later, heavy with deer, White
Wolf rushed to his father, the words tumbling from him.  Swift Dog had
listened with patience, for he knew that his son was as conscientious
in his duties as any boy of ten was likely to be.  Then, summoning the
medicine man, Dark Cloud, and four warriors, Swift Dog made his way
down to the valley floor.

At the mouth of the valley the warriors found what they sought.  Yes, a
lightly-laden wagon had been there, with two horses, both well-shod.
So, too, had a horse and rider.  The slope where White Wolf had' first
seen the older man run was pored over, yard by yard.  It was agreed
that someone had indeed passed that way, the depth of the indentations
clearly indicating that he had run, rather than walked, upon its
surface.

Swift Dog and Dark Cloud together followed the path of the second man
up the canyon, checking every foot of its rough, dusty surface.  It was
clear to see that someone had indeed run upon the canyon floor, but not
with moccasins, nor with white man's shoes.  The marks were unknown to
them, and this disturbed Dark Cloud.

Most troubling of all was the point at which White Wolf had seen the
White Eye start his run.  For there, beside a scrape on the ground,
similar to that made by a knife or a pawing dog, were two shallow
holes, about a foot-length apart.  It was then that Dark Cloud asked if
either man had made any sign, and if so, had it been towards the sun?
White Wolf recalled the raising of the hand and Dark Cloud shook his
head.  But the medicine man appeared most troubled when White Wolf
spoke of the naked man and his cleansing with water, and he began to
shuffle, shake his prayer-bones and mutter to himself.

From all of this Swift Dog kept himself aloof, pressing his lips
together with thumb and index finger and looking up to the mouth of the
valley, then bending to place his fingers in the two indentations.  The
warriors crowded round Swift Dog, jabbering, then fell silent as they
saw that he was at last ready to make his opinion known.

Finally Swift Dog rose, and Dark Cloud, White Wolf and the others
waited in silence for his judgement.  He looked up the canyon and
pointed to its mouth, then placed his hand back to his lips.  Swift Dog
took a deep breath and put his finger to his right temple in a screwing
motion.

"Madmen," he said.  "Madmen."

Buck Miller had passed through Custer's Camp just three miles outside
Canyon City.  The 7th Cavalry were based on the banks of Sun River, a
skeleton force being left to guard the camp while the majority of the
soldiers had ridden into town for the festivities.  As he trotted
through the camp which straddled the road Buck exchanged badinage with
the guards who squatted by their tents rolling cigarettes or playing
cards and dice.  Buck wondered if he might catch a glimpse of Custer's
woman, the fabulous Indian girl Monah Seetah.  She was Custer's
personal interpreter, though he'd heard tell she understood not a word
of English.  Buck often wondered how well she had interpreted the
general.

As he rode, Buck thought of what was to come in Canyon City and of what
lay directly behind him, packed in his saddle bag, sharp, supple and
new, and his pulse quickened.  When they had arrived back in Culver
City he had spent all morning

, 14

greasing them, flexing them, caressing them.  Now both they and he were
ready.

He felt the sweat again begin to gather on his upper lip, hanging for a
moment on the shadow of a past black moustache.  In a reflex action he
wiped his mouth and forehead with the back of his hand.

He came upon the first banner on the outskirts of town, in the Chinese
quarter, a hundred-yard straggle of laundries, eating houses and shops
lying at right angles to Main Street.  It was strung across the dusty
street about six feet above him, a twenty-foot by four-foot banner made
of rough white canvas, declaring, "GRAND FOUNDER'S DAY SPORTS GALA',
with a confetti of Chinese writing underneath it, probably saying the
same thing.

But none of the Chinese showed much of a sporting inclination, he
noted.  Ancient, withered men sat in the boardwalk sun serenely playing
chess or a game involving pebbles which he could not fathom.  Others
practised strange, slow-motion shadow-boxing in the street, oblivious
to the screaming half-naked children who scampered past and round them.
Buck reflected that he had never seen no Chinee worth a lick at no
sport, and never likely would.

But even before he directed his pinto into Main Street he could hear
the noise, a mixture of music, shouting and babble, spilling out from
the town's centre of gravity, the three hundred yards of Main Street
itself.

As he turned right at Comon's Hostelry he was engulfed in a mass of men
on foot and horseback farmers, mountain men, soldiers, miners.  To his
left was a tight circle of men, knees bent, eyes fixed on a flutter of
fighting cocks who screeched below them on the street.  As he passed,
one of the cocks dropped limp on the dust of an improvised cockpit and
the winner's owner grabbed his crowing bird in both hands and kissed
its bloody neck.  Meanwhile his winnings were collected by a friend a
negro in blood-stained dungarees from the circle around the cockpit.

The man, burly and bearded, his face spattered with his bird's blood,
raised the cock above his head in triumph.  "I've got me a dandy
fighting bird!"  he roared, spitting the cock's blood on to the road.
"I got me a real dandy!"

Buck was soon swamped by the crowds and the noise of a brass band,
pumping out a blare of military marches about a hundred yards down the
street, in front of the Last Chance Hotel.  For a moment he was forced
to stop, because of the mass of people pressing around him.  Several
drunks were weaving across the street like corks on a choppy sea.

Buck's mount, distressed by the pressure of the crowds, became
restless, whinnying and twisting.  Buck removed his hat, leaned forward
and cupped his hat to his horse's ear, then whispered into it.  The
effect was immediate.  The animal calmed and steadied.  Buck smiled and
replaced his hat, tightening its face thong at the chin as he did so.

Across the road, to his right, on an improvised stage, stood a large
bearded man, stripped to the waist, his white belly flopping over his
trouser belt.  He was wrestling with a black bear, which seemed to have
little heart for the battle.  It was not much of a bear, a scraggy
creature with rheumy eyes and mangy coat; but then, Buck observed, it
was not much of a man either.  A space opened in front of him and he
moved into it, observing below him a row of steaming brown puddings of
horse droppings.  He wrinkled his nose as the rich smell reached his
nostrils, then leaned forward to check the surface of the street below
him.  It was good.  And flat.  And he had coped with horse-shit
before.

He edged slowly up Main Street, only to be stopped once more, this time
by a crowd which stood transfixed round a card-sharp who had placed a
green baize table at the edge of the sidewalk.  There were three cards
face down on the table and the sharp, a lean, wiry little man with a
waxed snuff-coloured moustache and impeccable white ruffled shirt and
black bow-tie, lifted the middle card and held it aloft, facing his
audience.

"Here you are, gentlemen," he shouted, in a thin, wheedling voice. "The
ace of hearts is the winning card.  Follow it with your eyes as I
shuffle."

He shuffled and reshuffled the three cards on the table surface, then
stopped and looked at his audience.

"Here it is, you see.  And here again.  The ace of hearts, gentlemen,
is the winning card.  Please note that Carl Medina takes no bets from
paupers, cripples or orphan children."

The man continued to move the cards back and forward on the table. Buck
felt certain he had located the ace.  But when the sharp picked it up
from the table Buck knew that he had been wrong.

"The ace of hearts.  It is my regular trade, gentlemen, to move my
hands quicker than your eyes.  Remember, you always have two chances to
my one.  The ace of hearts.  If your sight is good enough, you beat me
and I pay; if not, I beat you and take your money.  The ace of hearts.
You will go me twenty?  My hands against your eyes!"  He reshuffled the
cards on the table and there was a rush to place bets.

Buck smiled and pushed slowly on along the seething street.  There was
a sudden roar from the crowd on his right, just beyond the wrestling
stage, as a cowboy, stripped to the waist, reeled back, spitting blood
and teeth on the raised platform of a crude boxing ring.  The would-be
boxer, bellowing in pain, bounced off the ropes, to be felled in one
blow by a gnarled prizefighter with a face like the shape of Ireland.
The cowboy lay face down, blood spurting from his nose, while friends
stood above him, sloshing water from a bucket over his head.  Above the
ring, leaning from the windows of a house that proclaimed itself The
Golden Nugget Saloon', grotesquely rouged girls from the local sporting
house waved at the men below.

A sure and certain path to pain, embarrassment and mercury ointment,
thought Buck, nudging his way towards the Last Chance, now only fifty
yards away on his left.  Just before the hotel, in direct competition
with a medicine show across the street, stood a gaudily-coloured wooden
wagon, and in front of it a small stage.  Behind them on a tiny stage
was propped an even more garish canvas backdrop, depicting the
drawing-room of a mansion, and having at its top the words, "Paris,
France'.  On the side of the wagon was emblazoned the legend MORI ARTY
THEATRE OF THE WEST' while on the stage stood a man and a woman, facing
each other, waiting for the laughter of the crowd below them to
subside.

The woman, red-haired, in her early thirties, was dressed in a
magnificent green silk gown, and strikingly handsome.  The man,
slightly older, lean and aristocratic, wore a black

"Sunday-go-to-meeting' suit and shining patent leather shoes; but his
most significant feature was a mop of curly black hair.

"Do you believe in clubs for women?"  asked the woman, in a clear,
bell-like voice.

"Only if all else fails," replied the man, winking as the audience
roared.

"Look at my clothes, Moriarty," said the woman.  "If someone came to
visit me they would think I was your cook."

"Not if they stayed to dinner," replied the man, holding his stomach,
as the laughter erupted again.

"And what about your drinking?"  she said, hands on hips.  "If you
hadn't drunk so much last night, you wouldn't be feeling so
horrible."

"The drink had nothing to do with it," replied the man.  "I went to bed
feeling wonderful and woke up feeling horrible.  It was the sleeping
that did the damage."

He surveyed her critically.  "Anyhow, look at you," he said.  "Five
years and you still look the same as you did at our wedding."

She grimaced, arms akimbo.  "I should," she said.  "I'm still wearing
the same dress."

Unlike those around him Buck did not laugh.  Instead, his clear blue
eyes narrowed and he shook his head before dismounting and tying his
pinto to the hitching-rail in front of the Last Chance.  He climbed up
on to the boardwalk, then up the steps to the saloon.

The foyer of the Last Chance buzzed with activity.  On the right, at
the curved reception counter, a sweating clerk struggled desperately to
cope with a babble of enquiries from guests.  On the central staircase,
three ladies from the sporting house negotiated on the hoof as they led
their clients upstairs.  To the left of the staircase, on three sofas
amongst the potted plants, a dozen of Custer's young soldiers, none
more than nineteen years old, sat drinking beer and eyeing the
ladies.

Buck looked about him and found what he sought.  It was an owlish,
bespectacled little man sitting at a desk to which was pinned a white
card on which was printed in black ink '$200 Street Dash'.  The man did
not raise his eyes as Buck came to a halt in front of him but continued
to scribble on a piece of paper.

Buck took off his hat and cleared his throat.  The little man looked
up, blinking at him over his glasses.

"Yes, cowboy, what can I do for you?"

"The Dash," said Buck, pushing back a shock of lank black hair.
"Entries still open?"

"If you got your ten bucks," said the man, dipping his quill into a pot
of ink on his desk.  "But I got to warn you, young feller.  This here's
a scratch race, one-thirty yards straight up, English style.  That
means no starts for no one.  That's the way it's always been, leastways
ever since I been here."

Buck reached up into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a leather
purse.  "Ten dollars, you said, sir?"

"Yup.  Sonnie, you know we got some of the fastest men in the territory
here?"

"I still want to enter, sir," replied Buck, handing over the ten
coins.

The little man took off his spectacles, laid them on the table and
looked up at Buck, squinting.  "Paul Ledoux, you've heard tell of
him?"

"He the feller they calls the Flying Frenchman?"

"The very one.  He's Canyon City's Fast Man.  Picked us up a parcel of
dollars, has Paul Ledoux."  The little official scrutinised a sheet in
front of him.  "And there's young Sam Withers they say he ran two yards
outside even time back in St.  Louis.  Then we got the breed McCluskey
and the feller from Silver City .. ."

That the one they calls "The Savannah Stag"?"  volunteered Buck.

"That's the very feller," said the official.  "Now don't get me wrong,
son.  If you want to run, then that's surely your right and privilege.
Just that I don't want to see no young cowboy throw away ten silver
dollars."

Buck's expression was serious.  "I still want to run, sir."

"You done some sprinting Mr.  ?"

"Miller, Buck Miller.  Yup.  I won me a few picnic races back in
Pennsylvania when I was a boy.  I reckon I still got some starch left
in these legs."

The man shook his head.  "You're a-going to need it, Mr.  Miller.  You
running in spiked shoes, or moccasins?"

Buck did not reply but turned and made his way quickly from the table,
weaving his way through the crowded foyer and out of the swing doors.
The little man blinked, shook his head and returned to his writing.  In
a matter of seconds Buck had returned, spurs jingling, carrying a pair
of shiny new patent leather running-shoes.  He put them on the table,
then turned them over to show the pristine yellow leather, the six
needle-sharp spikes in each sole.

The little man picked up the shoes and surveyed them.  "Them's mighty
fancy running shoes," he said.  "I ain't never seen none to match
them."

"That ole Sears Roebuck catalogue says these are even time shoes,"
replied Buck proudly.

"Only if'n you got even time legs, sonnie," came a deep voice from
behind him.

Buck looked over his shoulder at a tall, middle-aged man with black
droopy moustache, in black bowler hat, with jacket, waistcoat and boots
to match.  On his left breast was pinned a tin star.

"This here's Marshal Boone, Buck.  Mr.  Boone, he's a gentleman of a
considerable sporting disposition," said the official.

"How many boys we got entered for this here dash?"  asked Boone,
ignoring Buck and taking a wet, dying stump of cigar from his lips
before fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for matches.

"Nineteen, Marshal, at the last reckoning.  This Yankee boy here, Buck
Miller, he makes it up to a round twenty."

Boone struck a match on the heel of his boot and relit his cigar.  He
drew on it and exhaled into Buck's face.  "Then give it all you got,
son.  No man can ask more."  The Marshal turned and made his way slowly
through the crowds parting before him at the door.

The little man watched him go and looked at Buck's six-shooter,
nestling snugly on his right hip.

"I suggest you rest your gun here, Mr.  Miller.  And when you leave
call for your pistol.  But don't ride out shooting; omit that.  Most
cowboys think it's an infringement on their rights to give up shooting
in town.  But if it is, it stands, least here in Canyon City.  Your
six-shooters are no match for the Marshal's Winchester.  And Boone's
officers are as game a set of men as ever faced danger."

Buck nodded and withdrew his pistol.  He laid it carefully on the
table.

"I ain't looking for no trouble," he said.  "When are the heats?"

Three o'clock," said the little man.  Buck turned away and walked back
through the crowds towards the swing doors.

"Finals, five o'clock," the official shouted after him.  Then, under
his breath, he added, 'but I don't reckon that'll be your concern,
cowboy."

It was four o'clock.  Professor Moriarty and Marshal Boone sat side by
side in Lung Chow's barber's shop, both laid back at an angle, their
faces swathed in wet towels, from which steam rose, misting the mirrors
in front of them.  From Boone's mouth projected a cigar, its smoke
mixing with the steam above him.  The actor spoke first, his voice deep
and resonant.

"Marshal, if there's anything more pleasurable than a good, clean
shave, then I swear I've yet to hear of it."

"There is," growled Boone through his cigar.  "But I am not disposed to
think of such things, not when I have one hundred silver dollars laid
upon that Frenchman's back in the final."

"You bet your money on Ledoux?"  said Moriarty with interest, as the
barber removed the hot towels and began to replace them with cooler
ones.

"Picked up one hundred bucks on him in his heat," replied Boone.

"Cross-tie," corrected Moriarty.  "In pedestrian circles we call it
"cross-tie", Marshal."

"Heat, cross-tie, call it what you will," growled Boone.  "I bow to
your superior knowledge.  You've won a few big ones in your time, or so
I've heard tell.  But that Frenchie, our Fast Man, he ran five yards
outside even time for one hundred and thirty yards, looking round.  So
I give him two yards better in the final, perhaps three."

"But the Frenchman, can he run with money on his back?"

pressed Moriarty, as Boone's towels were carefully replaced by Lung
Chow so as not to disturb his cigar.

"No question of it, Moriarty.  Ledoux is the Fast Man hereabouts."  The
thin, hard voice came from the door.  It was Carl Medina, the
card-sharp, who had that morning relieved the citizenry of Canyon City
of nearly three hundred dollars of hard-earned cash.  Lean and dapper,
he stood poised at the door of the shop and withdrew from the pocket of
his yellow-flowered waistcoat a gold watch.  "Fifty minutes from now,
gentlemen," he said, pocketing the watch again and seating himself on
the third seat, nearest the window.  "And I will pick me up five
hundred dollars, courtesy of Mr.  Ledoux."

He withdrew a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and surveyed it.
"Lookee here," he said.  "The stop-watch says it all.  Ledoux thirteen
point five seconds, singing the Marseillaise.  McCluskey and Withers
thirteen six, eyeballs out.  This cowboy '

"Buck Miller," offered Moriarty.

"Yes, Miller, that's the feller," said Medina, lying back as the
Chinaman lathered his face with thick white soap.  "I never seen him
before but he ran thirteen point seven, all screwed up tight as a
crab's ass.  So I don't reckon much on him."

Moriarty stood up and took the towel from his face, wiping his jowl
clear of traces of soap as he did so.  He surveyed himself for a moment
in the mirror, and smiled.  The skin of Moriarty's tanned face had the
quality of fine papyrus.  And though his nose was sharp, almost
hawk-like, when he smiled in Lung Chow's mirror he was smiling at
himself, at his own vanity.  He drew his hands through his shock of
black hair, pulled down on his lapels and tightened his bow-tie.

"My money's on young Miller," he said.  "One hundred bucks at four to
one."

"Down the privy," grunted Boone, still somehow retaining his cigar.

The Chinaman began to scrape the left side of Medina's face.  The
card-sharp's eyes hardened.  "What's your reasoning, Professor?"

Moriarty reached forward to the shelf in front of the mirror and took
from it a square green bottle of perfume.  He poured a little on to
both palms and patted his cheeks, wincing as the astringent bit into
his skin.

"Gentlemen, let's just call it instinct," he said, flexing and relaxing
his face muscles.  "Twenty years of pedestrianism."

Boone rose and divested himself of his face-cloths, handing them to
Lung Chow.  "But the cowboy will have to find four, maybe five yards,"
he said, looking into the mirror, both hands on the shelf before it. He
withdrew his cigar stump, wiped a fleck of lather from it, replaced it
in his mouth and stood erect, surveying himself.  "No man ever ran that
fast here, not even the Indian himself."

"He'll have to be slicker than greased ice," said Medina, as the
Chinaman stood poised above him with the open blade.  "A hundred
dollars that's a lot to put on instinct."

Moriarty flipped a dollar to Lung Chow, who caught it, smiling all over
his moon-face, and placed one hand on the door, looking back into the
shop.  He put his index finger to his left nostril and winked.

"See you all at five," he said.

From the moment that Mayor Halsey fired the pistol it was clearly
Ledoux's race.  The handsome Frenchman, who had been offered free
services at Dolly Brown's for a win, surged into an immediate lead over
the first thirty yards, heading Sam Withers by half a yard, with the
other two runners a further half yard behind.

The four men surged up the narrow canyon created by the crowd, swamped
in their cheers, while spectators marvelled at Ledoux's pace.  For the
Frenchie fairly ate up the ground with long, devouring strides, and at
fifty yards had a lead of at least a full three feet.  Medina, watching
with Boone and Moriarty from the balcony of the Last Chance, wished
that he had put a grand on the Frenchman.  For this was not a race; it
was an exhibition.

At seventy yards, Sam Withers seemed to gain a few inches, edging away
from Buck Miller and McCluskey, though as yet no menace to Ledoux.  But
at ninety yards he had gained a foot, and at a hundred yards he was
only a few inches short of the Frenchman, who was beginning to tighten
up.

With only thirty yards to go, and the crowd in a frenzy, young Withers
was level, locked with Ledoux.  Then, from nowhere, like some avenging
angel, came Buck Miller, cutting through the field in the final twenty
yards like a scythe.  With fifteen yards to go, he gave the kiss of
death to a fading Ledoux and ten yards further on he cut down an
already smiling Withers, to take the tape a clear yard ahead.

The band struck up "Hail the Conquering Hero' and there was pandemonium
as Buck was engulfed by the crowd.  He was lifted aloft, holding his
shiny, new leather Sears Roebuck shoes to his chest, grinning all over
his dark, swarthy face.  Above him, on the balcony of the Last Chance,
Medina scowled and Boone stomped his cigar on to the floor.  Beside
them, Moriarty's face was radiant.

"Let me buy you boys a drink," he said.  "Looks to me as if Canyon
City's got itself a new Fast Man."

THE ENGLISH METHOD

The town had never had it so good.  In the months of May and June there
were six challenges to Buck Miller, Canyon City's new Fast Man.  From
Culver City came Carl Pepper, said to have run ten seconds for one
hundred yards though Moriarty had hinted that it had more than likely
been downhill with his mother's finger on the stopwatch.  Buck had put
more than two thousand dollars into the town's economy by his whupping
of Pepper by a clear two yards.

Then General Custer had put up one of his soldier boys, an Irishman
called Scan Riordan.  Custer claimed two yards start on Buck, and laid
$500 on his man.  Medina, fearing a 'ringer', had checked back on
Riordan's record and, reassured, advised the town to put their shirts
on Buck.  The race had been over a hundred yards and the Fast Man had
toyed with Riordan till ten yards from the finish before taking him on
the line.

Then Buck had creamed a Yankee boy, come by train all the way from
Connecticut, name of Plunkett.  It had been close, but Buck had got his
nose in front in 13.4 seconds over one hundred and thirty yards, thus
equalling the time which he had first recorded in the Founder's Day
Dash, then gave Plunkett a yard start for another hundred bucks and
this time beat him by a full stride.

But the Fast Man had declined to take on Professor Moriarty (who
himself had already thrashed the citizenry of Canyon City over half a
mile on Founder's Day before going on to play Tamburlaine that same
evening) over the distance of a mile.

"Short and sharp, for me, Professor," he had said, politely tipping his
hat.  "I knows my distance."

Moriarty had shrugged and accepted gracefully; after all, he was
already two thousand dollars ahead on Buck.  He had, however, missed
the Fast Man's next three winning runs, being absent in Culver City
with his wife Eleanor playing his Selections from Shakespeare and Davy
Crockett to packed houses.

By the time Moriarty had returned to Canyon City in late June to play
in his own version of Oliver Twist Buck had achieved his greatest feat.
It was the day that the St.  Louis Orioles had come to town to play
exhibition ball against the Seattle Comets, beating them 9-3, the same
day as Canyon City's pride, "Boy' McGraw, had his nose broken in two
places by a forty-year-old pug from Chicago by name of Mickey Malone.
The town had lost a parcel of money on McGraw and was licking its
wounds.

Buck had agreed to take on the fastest men of the Comets over their
favourite distance, fifty yards, in three races, within an hour of each
other, all against fresh men.  In addition, he agreed to give each
player a remarkable advantage: the ball players would start straight
up, English style, with Buck lying on his front, his head facing away
from the finish.

There were those, Mayor Halsey among them, who thought that this time
the Fast Man had bitten off more than he could chew, but Boone and
Medina, flush with a month's money from Buck's running, put everything
they had on the Fast Man, both getting odds of six to one against his
winning all three encounters.

The first race had been no contest.  Turning swiftly on all fours, like
a cat, to face forward, Buck had picked up his man at thirty yards and
won strolling.  The Comets then put in two of their best men for the
second race, cursing and swearing at them as they followed them towards
the start.

This time it was real close.  Buck only picked the two Comets up on the
final five yards, throwing himself in on the tape, and finishing
spitting dust and appearing to hurt his shoulder as he landed on the
gritty surface of Main Street.  Medina and Boone together picked Buck
up, wiping the blood from a deep scrape on his cheek, fearful that
their six to-one shot had gone down the privy.  But the Fast Man had
winked and whispered to Medina to put his family jewels on the final
run against the Comets' fastest man.  The gambler had taken him at his
word: he had sold both his watch and his cuff-links for a hundred and
fifty bucks and had got odds of eight to one against the now bruised
and bloody Buck Miller.

Marshal Obadiah Boone was not a man of many words but it was he who was
to say that in the final race Buck Miller 'burned the earth like a
canned dog'.  At thirty yards Buck had trapped his man, and the Comets
went on to San Francisco five thousand dollars lighter than they had
arrived.

Buck took well to his success, bearing it lightly on his broad young
shoulders.  Every Sunday he would be in the front row of the little
Baptist church at the end of Main Street, his strong tenor voice rising
above the congregation.  He was always respectful to the matrons of the
town and never a drop of liquor was seen to touch his lips.  Indeed,
his taste for sarsaparilla might have occasioned remarks by some of the
coarser denizens of Mulligan's Bar, had the Fast Man not been such a
stimulus to the economy of the entire town.

The citizenry could set their watches by Buck Miller's regime.  Nine
o'clock, it was steak and eggs at the Last Chance, the steak always
rare, the eggs done easy over.  A couple of hours' snoozing in a
rocking chair in the shadow of the sidewalk outside Macy's hardware
store, then it was off to Macy's livery stable.  There Buck pursued
rigorous training routines which no one was allowed to witness, deep in
the gloom of Macy's, engulfed in the sweet smell of horse manure.  It
was said that the eight-year-old Ally Broughton had once sneaked a view
of the Fast Man's rituals and been whupped good for it by his paw, but
folks reckoned that was probably all talk.  Ally had whispered to the
other kids of Buck, half-naked, running on the spot, knees to chin,
sweat spraying from him in showers for more than half an hour, of a
hundred push-ups before he had lost count, and other such fancies, but
no one paid much heed.  Anyhow, it was not deemed wise to probe too far
into the mysteries of a man's private training.

At noon, Buck would be down at Lung Chow's for a bath and rub-down,
then it was back to the Last Chance for a modest lunch: two lamb chops,
grilled light, and a glass of luke-warm water.  For the afternoon, Buck
was back to his bed for three hours' further shut-eye, before his
evening two-mile constitutional walk round town and a dinner which
invariably consisted of Irish Stew and a wedge of Pennsylvania Dutch
apple pie, washed down with two cups of coffee, no more, no less.

The people of the town soon grew accustomed to Buck Miller's inexorable
rhythms.  The only exception was on Wednesday afternoon, when Buck gave
up his time to the doing of good works for widow women in outlying
farms, chopping wood, picking up strays, digging potatoes anything that
could be of service.

Had it been known that many of these ladies were satisfied not only
with Buck's labours in the field but also with his less publicised
activities upon their counterpanes then it is doubtful that many hands,
Baptist matrons' apart, would have been raised against him in Canyon
City.  Was it reasonable, after all, the argument would have run, that
the energies developed in the gloom of Macy's should be focused
entirely upon the running-path?  Better, surely, that the Fast Man
should avoid the risks of disease with Dolly Brown's girls and keep his
manhood pure by assisting ladies of undeniable virtue whose only
misfortune was to have lost a husband.

But in early July the matches and with them the money dropped to a
trickle, and though Buck still walked the streets lean and trim folks
began to remark that the Fast Man had begun to look a little stale pea
ky the womenfolk called it.

A flush of prospectors, hot-footing towards the Black Hills, hoping to
steer an illegal path 'twixt 7th Cavalry and Sioux, brought a slight
return to boom times when Buck, carrying a 56 Ib grain bag on his back,
beat the fastest miner over fifty yards; but the prospectors were low
in cash, and it was all small beer compared with the palmy days
following his Founder's Day victory over Ledoux.  But no one blamed
Buck.  It was only natural that few would be willing to take the trail
to Canyon City to challenge a man of such pace.  But, no question of
it, Buck was beginning to look a little pea ky

though none of the recipients of his Wednesday afternoon services was
ever heard to voice a complaint.

Meanwhile the Theatre of the West, now based at Budd's Saw Mill, had
become an established feature of Canyon City life.  The Theatre of the
West travelled light, carrying only a handful of 'sets', confining
itself to the most basic and symbolic of materials.  This meant a
single half-pillar for the senate scene in Julius Caesar or a bare
strip of tapestry for the court scene in Hamlet.  This simplicity
worked well in the primitive circumstances within which they usually
had to work, and Moriarty, who had an excellent feel for form and
texture, used his limited resources to the full.  In this he was
complemented by Eleanor, who created all the company's costumes.  She,
like her husband, kept things simple, for experience had shown that
expensive, complicated costumes did not travel well and would, in any
case, be 'lost' in the shadowy 'theatres' within which she and Moriarty
usually had to play.

Moriarty's Theatre of the West was unique in its mixture of
professional and amateur performances.  The professional 'theatre'
amounted to just Moriarty and Eleanor, and their own performances
consisted of excerpts from Shakespeare, such as the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet or Othello's murder of Desdemona.  Alternatively,
there were soliloquies from Hamlet, Macbeth or The Merchant of Venice
and verse-readings from Shakespeare's sonnets or the works of Byron,
Shelley and Keats.  At the other end of the scale, to leaven the mix,
Moriarty and Eleanor presented farces, popular comic sketches and
knockabout husband-and-wife banter.

But the presentation of full plays (or even Moriarty's 'individually
edited' condensed versions of the classics) required larger casts, and
here he turned the longings of the men and women in the street to his
advantage.  From the best products of their daily classes in Scientific
Speech Production (for which they charged 50 cents a lesson) Moriarty
and Eleanor drew the supporting casts for their big productions.  They
were good teachers, Eleanor calm and supportive, Moriarty the
demon-coach, the inspirer.  "Don't sell the word, don't colour it,
ladies," he would implore them.  "Don't push it down their throats.
Think it."

Eleanor and Moriarty made each of their classes a form of play, and
although their early groups were almost exclusively women, word of the
good times to be had in the Scientific Speech Production Programme
travelled fast and soon shopkeepers and blacksmiths were filling out
the male parts.  Dolly Brown's girls, accustomed as they were to acting
(albeit generally horizontally) begged to be included, though to humour
the God-fearing ladies of the town they always had to be accommodated
in separate sessions and productions.  Moriarty found some of his best
actresses in the ladies of the Sporting House.  He also discovered that
he could let his hair down with them, for these were ladies with few
inhibitions, no false modesty.

"It's a plumbing job, acting," he would roar to the be rouged belles.
"Unblocking the pipes which carry the impulses from the inner to the
outer world, to express the character in you.  So prepare to unblock
your pipes, ladies!"

But it was not Dolly Brown's ladies who were to produce the star of
Canyon City, for Amanda Boone, the daughter of the widowed Marshal
Obadiah Boone, was proving to be the best natural actress of whom
Eleanor and Moriarty had had experience.  Miss Boone, though her
stage-movement was still stilted, possessed two rare qualities a
natural feel for verse and the gift of presence.  After a fortnight,
when she had improved her voice-control through hours of rigorous
diaphragm exercises under Eleanor's tutelage, Moriarty took a chance
and used her as Desdemona in the death scene from Othello.  Mandy Boone
had given an excellent performance for an amateur, winning the pleasure
not only of the populace but even of a grudging father who had
previously shown little interest in or patience with his daughter's
play-acting.  But the after-glow of Othello resulted in no softening of
Obadiah Boone's opposition to his daughter's desire to become an
actress rather than to continue as a teacher of children in Canyon
City.  In the Marshal's view, actresses were only a cut above whores,
whatever Mrs.  Moriarty's airs and graces, and he was not going to see
his only daughter end up in a cathouse, however much she detested
teaching.

Moriarty and Eleanor avoided any part in the debate.  Obadiah Boone had
a lot of pull in Canyon City, and they had no wish to court
unpopularity.

It was Judge Halsey who was first to call Moriarty "Renaissance Man',
though no one was willing to admit that he did not know what that
meant.  Halsey had heard the phrase used of President Lincoln, back in
the palmy days when the Mayor had stumped for Lincoln in his bid for
the presidency.  For Lincoln had been a fancy rassler back in his youth
and no mean foot-racer, and Halsey recollected that your Leonardo da
Vinci had been able to bend coins with his fingers and that George
Washington himself had leapt twenty-two feet in the long jump, a
hundred years or so back.  Thus Moriarty, with his mixture of Thespian
and foot-racing abilities, had become something of an idealised figure
to Halsey, and the tubby little Mayor had been stumbling his way
through history, extolling Henry VII Ps hammer-throwing abilities and
Plato's wrestling skills at the rail of Mulligan's Bar on the day when
the Great Dash first took shape.

It was just on noon, and outside the July sun was hard as a hammer on
the silent street.  Moriarty, Boone, the card-sharp Medina and Buck
were on their third drink of the day, the flies buzzing around them in
the heavy heat as Halsey prattled on interminably about his
"Renaissance Man'.

Then Moriarty, seizing on Halsey's theme, put in his own two bits.
Acting and sport were much the same, he declared.  When you were at
your best, on the boards or on the running-path, there was a feeling of
power, energy flowing unforced through body and mind.  You were above
the performance -it was performing you.

Medina, desperate to change the subject to one with which he had at
least a passing acquaintance, then brought up the news of Bat Wilson's
recent killing of two men in Dodge City.  Halsey promptly asked Boone
if he would be willing to stand against Wilson, should the need ever
arise.

It was an uneasy moment, for the roly-poly little Halsey was
questioning the Marshal's mettle.  But Boone, leaning on his left
elbow, his bottle by his side, was in his cups, and seemed to ignore
the implications of the remark.

"Courage, gentlemen," he said, 'is a mighty peculiar thing."  He
uncorked his bottle with his teeth and slowly poured himself another
large slug.  He lifted his glass and surveyed it before downing its
contents in a single gulp.

Boone looked behind him for Mulligan, the barman, who had been hovering
on the edge of the conversation, and beckoned for another bottle.

"Nobody's got it, at least not all the time.  Take me on a summer day,
full of good grub and a couple of drinks under my belt, I'd stand up to
a regiment and take my chance."

Mulligan placed a fresh bottle at Boone's right elbow.  He poured
himself out another long hit, but this time sipped it, teasing out the
expectation of his listeners.  "But take me before daybreak, in the
rain, hungry and cold, and I'd run from one greaser, if'n he was
hunting me."

There was a pause.  This was not what they had expected to hear.

"But surely, Marshal," said Moriarty, 'there's some difference between
a top gunman and the man in the street?"

"Willing," said Boone enigmatically, sipping his whiskey.  "Willing."
Boone stopped, as if the single word was sufficient explanation.

"I don't quite follow your drift, Marshal," said Carl Medina.

"Your ornery cowpoke ain't willing, Medina.  Sure, they might hate a
guy right enough but they ain't willing to shoot a hole in a man.
They'll draw, but there's just that split second when they're not
willing."

To take the consequences?  To kill?"  pursued Medina.

Boone nodded.  "And that moment, if they're up against a half ways good
man they're on their way to Boot Hill."

"And what about speed?"  asked Moriarty.

"Speed of draw?"  said Boone.

Moriarty nodded.  Boone shook his head and again inspected his glass.
"Only makes a difference if a man's willing."

For a moment the conversation seemed about to die and the four men
could hear only the buzz of bar-flies and the snoring of several drunks
slumped behind them at the tables in a shadowy corner of the bar.

"Buck here has speed, at least in foot-racing," said Moriarty.  "How do
you think he would rate with a six-shooter?"

Boone's reply was immediate.  "Only one way of telling," he said.
"Mulligan," he roared, and the barman, his face white as melted lard,
responded with a shout from the far end of the semi-circular bar. "Seek
out Buck's shooting irons."

In moments Buck's six-shooter was slid along the bar.  Boone picked it
up and scrutinised it.

"Don't look to me as if it's been used much, Buck," he said.

"Never had much occasion in my line of business, Marshal.  When I hear
the sound of gunfire I usually have to get my legs moving."

Boone nodded and smiled sourly through his drooping walrus moustache.
He pushed open the gun, took out its five cartridges and laid them on
the table.  Then he closed the weapon and laid it beside the
cartridges.

"Stand back, gentlemen," he said, reaching into his pocket to withdraw
a silver dollar.  He placed the dollar on the back of his left hand and
held his arm out horizontally.  He then cleared his jacket coat-tails
from his right-hand holster.

"I will drop the dollar, gentlemen, and draw and cock before it hits
the floor."

"Ten says no," whispered Medina to Halsey.

"Taken," hissed Halsey.

The men moved clear of Boone, who seemed to have gained a coolness, a
poise which had been lacking only moments before.  The marshal seemed
to be in some still and distant world, but one in which he was
perfectly clear-headed.

It was over before anyone could draw breath.  The dollar dropped from
Boone's hand, but only inches before it touched the sawdust floor Boone
faced them, bent-kneed, his six-shooter cocked and pointed.

That was worth the ten dollars, just for the seeing, Marshal," said
Medina admiringly.

"How d'you mean?"  said Boone, replacing his gun as if he had returned
from a deep sleep.

"Worth a hundred dollars," said Moriarty, sparing Medina embarrassment.
"What d'you think, Buck?"

Buck pulled his right hand through his glossy hair, his blue eyes
assuming the strange, piercing quality the other men had often
observed, but only before the races.

"Never saw the like," he said, reaching forward to take his pistol from
the bar and put it in his holster.  He lifted the silver dollar from
the floor and surveyed it, shaking his head.  Then he placed it on the
back of his hand, let it drop and, turning his hand, caught it three
times, his brows slightly furrowed.  He placed his six-shooter in his
holster and slowly cleared it, cocking and pointing it in slow motion.
Medina looked at Halsey and shook his head.  Then Buck made three more
attempts at progressively higher speeds, before finally he nodded.

"I'm ready, Marshal."

"Fifty says he can't clear and cock before the second bounce," said
Medina.

"Taken," said Boone.

"Two hundred says he'll take it before it hits the sawdust," said
Moriarty.

"You got it," responded Halsey.

"Let's give Buck here some space," said Moriarty, and the three men
backed off.

Buck wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand, and wrinkled his
nose.  He slowly put the dollar on the back of his left hand and raised
his arm to the horizontal.  For a moment he was fixed and frozen.

Then came the strangest thing.  Buck turned his left hand to release
the coin and appeared to draw and cock simultaneously.  But the
strangest thing of all was that he dropped like a cat and caught the
coin in his left hand when it was only inches from the floor.  For a
moment, even the flies seemed to stop buzzing.  The three men looked at
Buck, cool and still as he straightened up.  He showed no emotion but
the look had now gone from his eyes.

"Jesus Christ!"  exclaimed Medina.

"Darndest thing I ever did see," said Halsey, abstractedly reaching to
the bar for Boone's whiskey bottle.

"That'll be two hundred bucks, Mr.  Mayor," prompted Moriarty.

Buck returned his gun to Mulligan and the dollar to Boone, whose dour
expression had remained set since Buck's feat.

The older man looked at the coin for a moment then replaced it in a
side pocket of his waistcoat.

"Doesn't mean he's willing," he said curtly.

"Of course not, Marshal," said Moriarty.  "Buck's forte is sprinting,
just as yours is defending the peace, and Medina here is skilled at
cards.  Just shows what any man can do with athletic training."  He
accepted a bottle slid along the surface of the bar by Mulligan and
filled the three men's glasses.  "I've done the same with several
athletes over the past ten years."  He lifted his glass.  "Your health,
gentlemen."

Mayor Halsey drew out his money-clip from an inside pocket and withdrew
a wad of notes.  He thumbed through them and handed Moriarty two
hundred dollars.

"You mean to say you reckon you can train anybody to be a Fast Man?"

"If he's young enough, has no major disabilities and has a good set of
teeth," said Moriarty.

"How fast?"  pressed Medina.

"Fast enough," said Moriarty.  "Using the English Method."

Medina frowned.  "Now what the hell is the English Method?"

Moriarty sipped his drink slowly, stretching the moment.  "You've heard
of the Cribb versus Molyneux fight?"

"That up New York way?"  said Halsey.

"No, Mr.  Mayor," said Moriarty patiently.  "It was in England, way
back in 1810.  Tom Molyneux was a nigger, a fine upright figure of a
man.  Came all the way from Virginia to fight Tom Cribb, the Champion
of All England."

"And he used this English Method, this feller Cribb?"  asked Medina.

Moriarty nodded.  "Paradoxically, it was the invention of a Scot,
Captain Barclay Allardice, a gentleman.  When Cribb came to Scotland to
stay with Barclay he was in poor shape.  Two hundred and sixty pounds
of bone and blubber.  Then he was put on an eight-week preparation of
training and medication."

"Like what?"  asked Medina.

Moriarty looked around him and fumbled in an inside jacket pocket.  He
withdrew a small black notebook and thumbed through it, then took from
his waistcoat pocket a pair of pince-nez, which he placed on his nose.
He began to read slowly, the notebook held close to his face.

"The skilful trainer attends to the state of the bowels, the lungs and
the skin and uses such means as will reduce the fat and at the same
time invigorate the muscles.  The athlete is purged by drastic
measures, he is sweated by walking under a load of clothes and by lying
'twixt feather beds.  His limbs are roughly rubbed.  His diet is beef
or mutton.  His drink, strong ale."

"Strong ale?  That's the best thing your captain has said so far," said
Boone, reaching back for his bottle again.

"Sounds like hell on earth to me," said Halsey.

"A man's got to die before he can live, Mayor," said Mori-arty,
lowering the notebook for a moment and taking off his spectacles.  "And
then of course there's "Black Jack"."

"Where's this feller come in?"  said Medina.

Moriarty replaced his spectacles and thumbed through the little black
notebook till he came to the paragraph he sought.  He cleared his
throat, then began.

"The pedestrian must begin with a regular course of physic, called
Black Jack.  It consists of one ounce of caraway seed; half an ounce of
coriander seed; one ounce of root liquorice, and half an ounce of sugar
candy, mixed with two bottles of cider and boiled down to one half."

"That would go straight through a man and end up in his boots," growled
Boone.

"But what about the training?"  persisted Medina.  "The exercises?"

Moriarty took off his pince-nez once again, closed his notebook and
replaced both in his inside pocket.  "I'm afraid I've said far too much
already, gentlemen.  Secrets of pedestrianism."

Buck spoke for the first time, a little smile on his lips.  "And what
about the ladies, Professor?"

Moriarty shook his head.  "Poison to the athlete, Buck.  You must know
that.  Vital bodily fluids.  Ladies sap a man's strength.  A man has to
retain his essential juices."

"And did this fighter feller .. ."  Medina paused.

"Cribb?"

"Yes."

"Did he win his fight?"

Moriarty nodded.  "They carried the negro out in the thirty-third
round.  Molyneux, he had a lot of sand, though.  And as for Cribb, he
said he could face the fight again, but not the training."

Boone pointed over to the drunks snoring in the corner of the saloon.

"You telling me you can train one of them, using your English Method,
to be a Fast Man?"

"A faster man," said Moriarty, defensively.

"Come on, Moriarty, stand your ground," said Medina, for the first time
in the conversation going on the offensive.  He walked over into the
shadows of the saloon and stood above a grey-haired man who slumped
face down at a table, the spittle oozing from bleeding lips.

"Not him, Medina," said Mayor Halsey.  "That's Sam Bunce.  A horse
stomped his foot in the livery stable two years back."

Medina moved to his right, to the next table, at which a man sat nose
to table, his arms straight in front of him.  He lifted the man's head
for Moriarty's scrutiny.  The drunk was bloated, pock-marked, and at
least forty-five years of age.

Moriarty raised his right hand, palm forward.  "I said I could train
men, not raise the dead."

Medina shrugged and moved to the next table.  Beneath it a young man
was curled, in foetal position.  Medina knelt and put his face close,
scrutinising him.

"He looks young enough-," he said.  "Someone fetch me a jug of
water."

Boone walked over to the table and surveyed the man while Buck went for
the water.  The Marshal lifted the man's head.  He was young, blonde
and baby-faced and dressed in brown buckskins.

"I know him," said Boone.  "From Texas.  A drummer, sells
patent-leather shoes.  Been booze-blind for a fortnight."

"I saw him open his shirt collar just to have a piss," said Halsey,
handing Medina a pitcher.

Medina slowly poured the water over the young man's face.  "This looks
like the very man, Professor," he said.  "To run against Buck
Miller."

"What's your name, son?"

The young man spat out the water which had got into his mouth,
struggled to his feet and sat up on the table.

"Speed, sir," he said.  "Billy Joe Speed."

BUCK VERSUS BILLY JOE

It had taken a further day's protracted wrangling for the terms to be
agreed for the match-race between Billy Joe Speed and Buck Miller, for
Speed had shown no great inclination to subject himself to the rig ours
of the English Method, or indeed any other.  In the end, it was
economics that had the final say.  For the Texan, though unquestionably
an excellent salesman of Benjamin's patent leather shoes, had, in the
previous fortnight, drunk and gambled away every cent of his
commissions.  Aside from the rumpled clothes he stood in and six pairs
of size 13 black patent leather shoes (for which Boone assured him the
citizens of Canyon City would have little use) Billy Joe Speed was in a
state of bustitude.

But the big problem had been Moriarty.  First, he had demanded a
ten-yard start for Billy Joe.  Of course, he protested, he could make
Billy Joe faster; that was not in question.  But to get him anywhere
close to Buck Miller would test the abilities of Captain Barclay
himself, God rest his soul.  No, if Billy Joe were expected to race in
a match on scratch terms against Buck Miller it would require some
fancy odds, plus a month's free food and lodging and complete freedom
from surveillance or interference by any interested parties.

He had asked for odds of ten to one.  That Billy Joe, one night in a
drunken stupor, had claimed an unbeaten record as a sprinter was,
reasoned Moriarty, of no great account.  Sixty-yard dashes,
three-legged competitions and sack races back in Texas at the age of
twelve were, he argued, no great record of pedestrian achievement.
Buck, after all, was probably the swiftest man in Arizona, perhaps only
a couple of whiskers off the Indian himself.  Ten to one was therefore
only just.

Medina, however, had been adamant.  If Billy Joe had been a one-legged
man then ten to one was fair odds, but the Texas boy had two good legs
and was a well-set young fellow, with all his teeth in good order. Five
to one was all he could stretch to, and Halsey and Boone agreed. At
that point Moriarty would not budge, and the bet looked set to fall
through when Medina, tongue in cheek, suggested a side bet at ten to
one if Billy Joe could beat the record time for the street dash of 13.4
seconds for the 130 yards, win or lose, and Mayor Halsey took five
hundred bucks from Moriarty at those odds.

It all ended with Moriarty putting in a thousand at five to one with
both Medina and Boone, and five hundred with Buck himself, and another
thousand in the winning time with Halsey.  The Last Chance Hotel put up
the month's room and Mulligan's the vittles, while Macy's agreed to
allow Buck and Billy Joe to have free training facilities at different
times during the day.

Billy Joe's preparation began on 1 July 1875, with a 6.30 a.m. visit to
Lung Chow's.  There he was weighed and the result inscribed in the
little black notebook which lodged in Moriarty's wallet by day and in
the Last Chance's safe by night.

Then, a day later, came Billy Joe's first 'sweat'.  It also marked the
initiation of the Chinaman's brand new sweat-box, which had arrived
from St.  Louis only a week before.  At 7.30 a.m."  after a vigorous
massage by Lung Chow, Billy Joe was placed in the box, naked, and
seated on a wooden bench.  The box was then closed and hot vapour
injected into it.  Billy's screams as the jets of vapour burned his
thighs prompted even the stern heart of Moriarty to pity.  The box was
opened and Billy Joe provided with thick towels to protect his legs.

Moriarty decided that half an hour would be ample for the first 'sweat'
and Billy Joe, the moisture pouring in streams down his body, was duly
released, dried off, weighed and the results noted in Moriarty's black
book.  Then Billy Joe,

roaring, was doused by Lung Chow for ten minutes in icy water and again
massaged vigorously.  By 8.30 a.m. Billy was seated in Mulligan's,
eating stale bread and half-raw mutton chops and drinking ale.

Then Moriarty took his charge back to the Last Chance for an hour's
sleep, sitting outside his locked door to discourage intruders.  Sixty
minutes later the pair were off in a two-horse buggy to Blanco Canyon,
an hour's ride away, for Billy Joe's first time-trial.

No one would ever know how fast Billy Joe had run on that first day in
July; indeed, it was unlikely that even the Lord God Almighty was
permitted a peek at Moriarty's stopwatch.  Whatever the time, (and even
Obadiah Boone himself did not venture to enquire) Moriarty's visage had
been gloomy when he returned and he drank more than usual that night.
When asked about Billy Joe's condition he had made only one remark,
"Out of snow, you can't make cheesecake', and Carl Medina had spent a
fair part of the evening trying to figure that one out.

After the first day the training became a ritual, similar to that of
Buck, albeit without the Wednesday afternoon gymnastic diversions. 6.30
- 8.30 a.m. Lung Chow's for sweats and massage; 8.30 - 9.30 a.m.
breakfast; 9.30 - 10.30 a.m. snooze; 10.30 12.30 p.m. running training;
12.30 1,30 p.m. lunch; 1.30 - 3.0 p.m. snooze; 3.0 - 5.0 p.m. exercises
at Macy's livery; 5.0 - 6.0 p.m. bath and massage; 6.0 7.0 p.m. dinner;
7.0 9.0 p.m. cards with Moriarty and his wife Eleanor, or attendance at
Oliver Twist; Shakespearean Selections; Mose in New York; The Bells, or
Dramatic Recitations.

For Eleanor, her husband's involvement in Billy Joe's preparations
meant that the day-to-day running of the Theatre of the West bore more
heavily upon her.  The business side of the enterprise had always been
her responsibility, but now practical matters such as clearing up the
theatre, the issue of playbills and the repair of sets also fell upon
her, as the bulk of her husband's day was being spent with his charge.
Here Mandy Boone was a tower of strength, and her father, only too
aware that she was his main link with Billy Joe Speed, was content to
allow her her hobby.

But Obadiah Boone's none too subtle probing on Billy Joe's state of
health elicited little useful information from his daughter, intent as
she was in learning the basics of theatre life.  Moriarty, occupied
with preparations for the match, had cut down on his number of
productions and Eleanor had taken the opportunity to repair sets and
patch up costumes.  Thus Mandy Boone was heavily employed in these
mundane but necessary tasks.  But Boone did discover that Billy Joe had
lost ten pounds in his first two weeks of preparation, most of it in
Lung Chow's sweat-box, a piece of information casually thrown Mandy's
way by the Texan one day at lunch.  This was not much use for the likes
of Boone and his crony Medina, but it was better than nothing.

But Billy Joe's appearance in Julius Caesar after a fortnight's
training gave Boone and the sporting fraternity of Canyon City their
best picture of the contender's condition.  Billy Joe, appearing in a
toga as Casca in Moriarty's half-hour version of Shakespeare's play,
provided Boone and his cronies a clear glimpse of what they longed to
see his legs.  The general opinion was that they looked good: thick
calves and heavy, muscular thighs.  Not that there was much time to get
a good view, for in the assassination of Caesar scene a Navajo, seeing
the daggers and the blood, ran a-whooping and screaming from the
saw-mill, raving that the White Eyes were murdering each other.  In the
general confusion, other Indians rioted and several of the ladies
present fainted.  When order was finally restored Moriarty decided to
discontinue Julius Caesar and go on to the less controversial Mose in
New York.  But Boone had got his money's-worth; a sixteen-inch calf and
a twenty-three-inch thigh that was the general opinion, and odds
against the Texan dropped.

Mandy Boone, waiting in the wings to play Portia, viewed Billy Joe's
limbs from an entirely different perspective, as had several other
ladies in the audience.  The Texan, whatever his history of debauchery,
was a strapping young fellow, and perhaps worthy of attention.

Billy Joe, after a fortnight of 'sweats' and Black Jack, seemed anyway
to have dried out and appeared to the citizenry to be a quiet,
personable young man, less outgoing than Buck perhaps, but then that
was perhaps not surprising, considering the amount of time he spent in
the John.  Halsey had checked him out and concluded that in the first
fortnight Billy Joe had spent an average of three hours a day in the
privy.

Medina had enquired of Moriarty how he had kept his man from boredom
during these long hours of excretion.  The actor's reply had been
prompt.  Billy Joe, it seemed, did not waste his time, and devoured the
works of William Shakespeare, though he was occasionally allowed some
light relief in the form of the Canyon City Enquirer.

By the end of the first fortnight the Black Jack regime appeared to
have done its work and Billy Joe's bowels were allowed to pursue their
normal rhythms.  During this period Medina, Halsey and Boone continued
to keep close watch on Moriarty and his charge, but the actor's
security was impeccable, and even during his dramatic shows, in which
the Texas boy had played several minor parts in Moriarty's Merchant of
Venice, Billy Joe was never out of his sight.  Indeed the talk of the
town had been Mandy Boone's fine Portia.  The trio also kept a close
watch on their own investment, but Buck's behaviour was beyond
criticism; indeed, his step seemed to have acquired a fresh spring, as
if in anticipation of the big race.

Even when the odds rose to four to one on Buck, hardly fancy odds,
money kept coming in on the Fast Man's back, with Halsey, Boone and
Medina becoming the town's unofficial bookmakers.  Dolly Brown's
ladies, though they had never had an opportunity to inspect their
investment at close hand, laid three thousand dollars on the Fast Man's
legs, while, at the other end of the social spectrum, whey-faced
Baptist ladies were venturing a cautious ten bucks on the Chapel's best
tenor.  By contrast, in Chinatown, the population, reckoning that at
least a tenth of Billy Joe's body weight had been poured into their
part of town via Lung Chow's sweat-box, bet heavily on the Texas boy at
high odds.

Thus, for the first time, the whole town, rich and poor alike, was
involved in a foot-race; but they were betting blind, and the pressure
on Medina, Boone and Halsey to check out their gamble became painfully
acute.  Access to Macy's had been denied them, but the judicious use of
children as spies brought one notable, if curious, piece of
information.  It appeared that Billy Joe was using a speed-ball, daily
executing thousands of blows in the gloom of Macy's, under Moriarty's
stern gaze.

This was established on 13 July by two of the older boys, who had
enlarged a knot-hole sufficiently to confirm what some of the younger
lads had only deduced from the sound of Billy Joe's endless, rhythmic
pummelling.  Halsey and his colleagues discussed this report in serious
conference, but could come to no useful conclusion.

It was the day after this information had been gleaned that the first
break in protocol occurred, when Boone and Medina decided to break
their solemn agreement and look in on Moriarty and Billy Joe's daily
visits to Blanco Canyon.  Accordingly, on 14 July at 8.0 a.m."  Boone
and Halsey trotted discreetly through town, past Lung Chow's, on their
way to the canyon.  There, an hour later, perched high on a bluff, they
sat chewing jerky and drinking bourbon under the blistering summer sun,
anxiously awaiting the arrival of Moriarty and his charge.

At 11.30 a.m. precisely Moriarty and Billy Joe arrived and immediately
got down to business.  First, Billy Joe's trainer scraped a
starting-line and slowly paced one hundred and thirty steps up the flat
surface of the canyon, removing all stray stones and branches as he did
so.  Meantime, Billy Joe pranced up and down on the spot like a
fractious filly, stripped to the waist, dressed in white long-Johns and
black spiked shoes.

Finally, all was ready, and Moriarty stood, gun aloft, with Billy Joe
coiled like a spring at the mouth of the canyon.  The explosion of the
gun released Billy Joe and, high above them the flickering hand of
Medina's 1/100 second stopwatch fluttered on its circular path.  The
angle was bad but Medina reckoned that he had the time accurate to
within a couple of tenths.  Boone peered over his shoulder.

"What did you get?"

"Fourteen point six five seconds," said Medina.  "Give or take a
tenth."

"Not bad," said Boone.  "Moriarty's done a good job."  "Good?"  hissed
Medina.  "He's over ten yards out.  It's money in the bank."

"More like money down the privy," observed Boone,

smiling.  "It'll take Billy Joe one helluva lot of shitting to take off
another whole second."

Though they were both bent upon the same task, neither Billy Joe Speed
nor Buck Miller showed the slightest sign that he was aware of the
other's existence.  Indeed no one could recollect either man having
passed words with the other since that first day in the saloon and
Billy Joe, had he been asked, could hardly have remembered those.  Both
men lived in the same town, breathed the same air; but for practical
purposes they lived on different planets.

Naturally, it was Billy Joe's fitness which still occasioned most
discussion.  It had been clear, after only a week, that he had lost
considerable weight some said as much as six pounds, but Lung Chow's
lips remained sealed.  It was clear, too, half-way through the
preparation, that he was walking tall, that there was a new spring in
his step.  But Moriarty would say nothing about the condition of his
precious charge, and the knot-hole at Macy's Livery was bunged up, thus
ending all possibility of further intelligence from that quarter.

The town was split down the middle, father against son, husband against
wife.  True, the Fast Man had brought a few bucks into Canyon City; but
the odds against Billy Joe were too tasty to ignore anything from five
to eight to one, depending on the brightness of Billy Joe's eyes that
day, or the vigour with which Buck attacked Ma Mulligan's stew.  Not a
nuance of either man's behaviour was ignored, from the length of his
sleeping hours to the amount of liquid he consumed.  There was too much
at stake not only the dollars placed on each man's back, but each
investor's pride in his ability to assess a man's condition, a matter
of art as much as science, and one in which elderly Methodist matrons
felt they possessed at least as much skill as any butcher or
bartender.

Meanwhile Moriarty's thrice-weekly dramatic performances maintained
their quality, revealing none of the tension that his onerous athletic
responsibilities might well have produced.  Buck looked hard and fit as
ever, but so now did the quiet Texas boy the living embodiment of the
English Method.  No one knew if Billy Joe could run a lick, but sure as
hell he was beginning to look like a runner.  The odds against him
began to drop.

They only began to rise again after 21 July, when Moriarty took Billy
Joe Speed out to Blanco Canyon for his next trial.  At precisely 10.30
a.m. their buggy trotted slowly out on the hour-long drive and there
was not a man in town that did not know their purpose.  Certainly
Medina, Boone and Halsey did, for since 8.30 a.m. they had been perched
on the bluff above the canyon, awaiting the two men's arrival.

At 11.30 a.m."  almost to the minute, Moriarty and Billy Joe made their
appearance.  Halsey, who had never before seen Billy Joe stripped off,
remarked on the leanness of the Texan boy.  Moriarty ritually paced out
the necessary one hundred and thirty yards; Billy Joe performed his
setting-up exercises, and there, as had occurred over a month before,
was Moriarty, gun aloft, poised at the mouth of the canyon, with Billy
Joe Speed frozen in his starting position, arms high, ready for the
signal.

The gun exploded and Billy Joe rushed towards Moriarty, showing a
balance and rhythm that had not been evident on Boone and Medina's
first illicit surveillance.  It took him fully thirty yards to slow up
and return to his trainer.  As the two men walked together away down
the canyon for the last time Moriarty consulted his watch.

"What did you get?"  said Halsey, peering over Medina's shoulder.  His
companion took out a magnifying glass and consulted his stopwatch.  He
shook his head.

"Mighty good!"

"Good be damned!"  expostulated Halsey, his face red as meat.  "What
was the time, man?"

Medina smiled and showed his watch to Halsey.  "Fourteen dead."

"That's 'bout what I got," said Boone, from behind, handing Medina his
own watch.  "Fourteen and one-sixteenth of a second."

"Then we got 'em cold," said Halsey.  That's still six-tenths of a
second out."

"Six yards', agreed Medina.  "A lifetime."

"There's more," said Boone, pointing down into the valley as below them
Moriarty's buggy made its way back to Canyon City.  "Look at the
wind."

Down in the valley, tumbleweed was rolling down into the canyon
mouth.

"Billy Joe had a wind behind him.  A back-wind."

"How much is that worth?"  said Halsey.

"Two-tenths of a second, perhaps a tenth more," said Boone.

Medina stood and dusted himself down.  "Marshal, you are one helluva
man," he said.  "I bet you wipe your ass before you shit."

Boone also got to his feet, withdrew a white handkerchief from his top
pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.  "Now however did you know
that?"

The day after that particular trial, the odds against Billy Joe
mysteriously rose.

Nothing like it had ever happened in Canyon City, nor would it again.
It was quite unlike Founder's Day, with its clan-jam fry of fighting
cocks, fist-fighting and drunken carousal.  This was not merely a race,
rather a contest between the forces of modern science, personified by
Professor Moriarty and his English Method, and natural, God-gifted
athletic ability in the form of the dark-haired, blue-eyed Buck
Miller.

The race had been set for high noon on 21 August, and Boone had made
certain that Main Street was closed to traffic for an hour beforehand.
Macy had been commissioned to clear the street of horse-shit and, using
a small army of Chinamen, had also raked and flattened it.  Moriarty
had also insisted on separate stringed lanes for each runner Sheffield,
England style and as no one had ever seen such a construction it was
left to him to instruct Macy on their setting up.

There had, however, been problems in appointing suitable officials,
since it was difficult to find anyone in town who did not have a stake
in the race.  Finally it was agreed that Judge Perry (who freely
admitted to having fifty bucks on

Billy Joe) should be Chief Finish Judge and Timekeeper, and that he
enlist five God-fearing non-gamblers who, though , they might lack
experience in judging foot-races, could be guaranteed to act fairly in
such a serious situation.  And Judge Perry's team of a bank clerk, a
school teacher, a pastor, a 7th Cavalry Lieutenant and a mule skinner
was not lacking in training for the day.  Indeed, they practised
assiduously for a week, holding their own races outside town between
the local children for prizes of candy.

So, on the morning of 21 August 1875, two stringed lanes four feet wide
stood in Main Street two narrow corridors within which the hopes and
dreams of Canyon City would rest for just a few brief seconds.  That
morning folks had walked past the race area in awe, whispering to each
other as if they were in a cathedral.  An hour before the race the
street had been completely cleared and crowds had begun to gather on
the boardwalks and at the windows of shops, saloons and houses above
the race-area.  A quarter of an hour before, Judge Perry's team had
solemnly assembled at the finish, stopwatches finally checked by the
local cobbler, Paul Schwarz, Judge Perry reckoning that a Swiss (even a
Swiss shoemaker) would be liable to know more about timepieces than
most ordinary folks.

Ten minutes before the start Judge Perry summoned the two rivals to the
front of the Last Chance, where he stood on the stage of Professor
Moriarty's Theatre of the West.  First he called Buck to the stage from
behind the swing doors of the Last Chance.  Buck walked out dressed in
his customary white long-Johns, over which he wore dark blue shorts and
his black Sears Roebuck spiked shoes.  As he mounted the stage he
raised both hands above his head, to loud and raucous applause.

Judge Perry then called upon Billy Joe, but when the "Texan Challenger'
appeared there were gasps and a hubbub of discussion while the ladies
hid their eyes.  For Billy Joe Speed was wearing white, knee-length
shorts, his thick hairy calves fully exposed to public gaze.

The Judge held up both hands for silence.

"All parties concerned have already discussed the question of Billy
Joe's apparel and no objection has been raised by

Buck Miller or any of his backers.  There ain't no sporting rules
pertaining to a man's clothing, save what's within the bounds of
decency, and it's my belief that these have been observed.  I want to
declare to both competitors that I wish them the best of good fortune
and to make it clear to every man here that I wish only a fair race and
no favour."

Thus saying, he descended from the platform and strutted along the
street towards the finish.

The starter, Father McCarthy, ordered the two runners to approach the
starting line.  The two men descended from the stage and McCarthy
tossed a silver dollar to decide lanes.  Billy Joe lost, the men shook
hands, and Buck chose the lane nearest the Last Chance Hotel, closest
to his main body of supporters.

Father McCarthy had no need to call for silence.  As the two men walked
to their marks a hush travelled along Main Street, covering the one
hundred and thirty yards of the race quicker than any Fast Man had ever
done.

"Get to your marks .. ."

Buck and Billy Joe stood on the scratch line, toes to the line, legs
flexed, each man staring glassily at the ground in front of him, the
point at which the first stride would land.

"Get set..  ."

Both men raised their arms straight; one arm back, the other forward,
and for a moment they were like characters in an ancient frieze.

The gun unleashed them, releasing too the roar of the crowd.  Billy Joe
and Buck got off the mark at the first attempt, as one man, their first
strides perfectly synchronised, like dancers.  For the first twenty
yards the two men were locked together, not an inch between them, still
matching strides.  Then Billy Joe started to edge ahead and at fifty
yards there was daylight between the two.  But Boone and Medina,
watching from the balcony at Mulligan's, had seen Buck give away a yard
or more before and finish like a god, and were not troubled.

For ten yards the gap remained steady, with both runners, despite the
roar of the crowd, appearing to move in some still, silent world all
their own.  Then Billy Joe's whippy, high-stepping stride stretched his
lead to a yard and at Macy's

Livery, with fifty yards to go, the gap increased further to a yard and
a half.

"C'mon Buck, start your rush," hissed Medina to himself.  But at ninety
yards Billy Joe had increased his lead to two yards, and was going
away.

Then came Buck's rush, the grandstand finish that had put so many
greenbacks in the pockets of the citizens of Canyon City.  In ten yards
he had picked up a foot, then in the next ten another foot, and the
same again in the next.

But Buck had run out of time.  Billy Joe preserved his pumping,
high-knee action right through the tape, to win by a clear yard.  Judge
Halsey's shouts of "Thirteen point two!  Thirteen point two!"  were
lost in the roar that swamped the two men, as Buck, head down, hands on
knees, was almost bowled over in the rush as the crowds poured off the
sidewalks to get at Billy Joe, Canyon City's new Fast Man.

Above them, Medina and Boone, stricken, looked at the teeming throng in
disbelief.  Boone checked his watch.

"Got Buck at thirteen and a quarter," he said.  "Fastest he ever ran
hereabouts."

"But not fast enough."  It was Moriarty, on the balcony behind them,
his face straining hard to conceal his delight.

Buck had left town before nightfall, though no one had seen him go.  He
had, however, publicly met his debt to Moriarty in the bar of the Last
Chance three and a half thousand dollars, every cent that he had earned
that sweet, swift summer in Canyon City.  Folks were sorry to see him
leave, for everyone was agreed that he was a fine fellow.  But he was a
loser, and folks had no time for that, especially when their
hard-earned bucks were riding on his back.

Moriarty had been magnanimous to a fault.  With ten thousand bucks from
Halsey, five from Medina and five from Boone he could afford to be.  It
had been drinks for everyone all round at Mulligan's, and none of your
panther piss or Taos Lightning either.  No, it was your genuine Paris,
France champagne, crate upon crate of it at fifty bucks a box.

Nor was there any ill-feeling from the principals.  Moriarty, Halsey,
Medina and Boone stood drinking together at the rail, while over in the
corner, where they had first encountered him, Billy Joe, the travails
of the English Method far behind him, was whooping and hallooing it up
with half the riffraff of the neighbourhood.

Mulligan stood behind the bar, his great fat face glowering.  He had
lost two hundred bucks on Buck.

"You best find yourself another line of work, Medina," he said, pushing
a fresh bottle of champagne across to the card-sharp.  "This one sure
don't fit your pistol."

Medina scowled and poured some of the bubbling liquid into his glass.
"I got no beef," he said.  "It was all fair and square."

"No question," said Boone.  "We caught Buck at thirteen and a quarter
seconds, a tenth faster than he ever ran here."

"Just Billy Joe ran one yard quicker," said Medina.

"But you clocked him," hissed Halsey as Moriarty turned to collect
another bottle.  Medina gestured Halsey to keep his voice down, and
withdrew his stopwatch from his fob pocket.  He surveyed it, shook it,
held it close to his ear, then shook his head.

"Must be full of prairie dust," he said finally.  "You in need of a
timepiece, Mulligan?"  He flipped the watch to the barman who caught it
and examined it with interest.

"Just don't time no fast men with it," said Halsey.

"I got to hand it to you, Moriarty," said Boone, stroking his walrus
moustache.  "Your English Method had us all beat."

Moriarty tapped the side of his nose.  "The wonders of modern science,
Marshal," he said.  "Billy Joe simply proved to be an ideal vehicle."

"Never thought to see all that sweating, shitting and running bringing
a man to such a pitch," growled Boone.

Moriarty did not reply, but sipped his drink, coughing as the icy
bubbles hit the back of his throat.  "No," he said.  "The deciding
factor had nothing to do with the English Method.  It was something
quite different.  A new element in athletic training, some might say a
revolutionary one."

"And what was that?"  asked Boone.

"Well, the sweats and the Black Jack, even the punch-ball training,
that was all part of the Captain's regime, followed, I might say, to
the very letter.  But I've watched a parcel of foot-races in my day and
I've seen many a fast man fall apart in the final twenty yards.  "DOA",
we call it in the profession."  He sipped his drink.

"DOA?"  said Medina, his brows furrowed.

"Dead on Arrival," explained Moriarty.  "They tighten up, 'cos they
don't have the bottom."

"Bottom?"  prompted Medina.

"Endurance," said Boone testily.

"So I decided, let's have Billy Joe do his fast work at Macy's, starts
and so on, but out at Blanco Canyon I'll pace me out one hundred and
forty yards, ten more than the racing distance .. ."

"One hundred and forty?"  said Halsey, spluttering on his drink.

"Yes," said Moriarty, blithely.  "My walking stride is exactly
thirty-nine inches long and I took one hundred and thirty paces, which
measures just over one hundred and forty yards.  It certainly paid off,
because I knew that Buck had a big rush at the finish.  But I must say
Billy Joe held him off good."

The three men round the Professor could scarcely bear to look at one
another.  Moriarty reached back to the bar to pick up a fat
leather-bound volume.  He put it under his left arm and drained his
glass.

"I must go.  Virginia City next Saturday, so Eleanor and I must make an
early start.  Hamlet.  I must say that it's been a pleasure doing
business with you gentlemen."

He shook each man by the hand.

"What was the name of that stuff you fed Billy Joe?"  said Medina.

"Black Jack," said Moriarty.  He reached into his inside pocket,
withdrew a small slip of paper and passed it to Medina.  "Here's the
recipe."

"I'll start tomorrow," mumbled Medina.

Then take this," said Moriarty, handing him the volume.  The Works of
William Shakespeare.  It'll help you pass the time in the John."

It was almost dark, and in the gloaming Moriarty's wagon could just be
seen in the light of his flickering camp-fire, while, a few feet
beyond, the waters of the stream glinted as the moon passed from behind
a cloud.  The evening was still and the approaching lone horseman could
be heard for miles before Moriarty saw him finally break the gloom and
enter the perimeter of their camp.

Moriarty was busying himself with the basting of a chicken on a spit
when the rider's identity finally became clear.  "Buck!"  he said.
"Come join us.  Just in time for supper."  Buck Miller dismounted,
taking off his hat in deference to Eleanor, who had that moment come
out of the caravan, carrying four tin plates.

"Thank you, Mr.  Moriarty.  Evening, ma'am."  He sat down on a log,
warming his hands, but hardly had he settled than there was the sound
of another horseman, this time galloping.  It was Mandy Boone who
trotted into the light of the fire, her pinto wet and foaming. Moriarty
and Eleanor were pleased to see her but hardly surprised, for it had
been clear to them for weeks that Mandy had no heart for school-mar
ming in Canyon City and that her real interest lay in acting. Mandy,
indifferent to Buck's presence, babbled on endlessly about her
ambitions over the Arbuckle's at the camp-fire and they were glad to
indulge her.  Eleanor nevertheless made it clear to her that Moriarty's
Theatre of the West was no Niblo's Theatre, New York.  She also made it
clear that Mandy's disappearance would be a severe blow to her father,
a betrayal which he was unlikely to forgive.  But Mandy Boone was
adamant.  At twenty-one she was old enough to make up her own mind, she
said, and if they would only have her she would accept whatever terms
they offered.  Moriarty looked across the fire at Eleanor and her nod
was sufficient.  The company had a new member.

The last visitor arrived half an hour later, the sound of his horse
clear for miles in the still night.  The rider stopped and dismounted
in a single movement.  He walked swiftly into the light of the
camp-fire, rubbing both hands together as he did so.

"Evening, folks," he said.  "What's for supper?"  Moriarty rose and
reached into his back pocket, withdrawing a fat money-clip.

"Fifteen thousand dollars, Billy Joe," he said.

THE MAKING OF MORI ARTY

The dark and secret paths of pedestrianism were second nature to
Moriarty, who had been virtually born into the sport, by courtesy of
his father, Alan Cameron, late of Sutherland, Scotland.

It was 1848, and Moriarty had been eight years old named "Douglas'
after his grandfather when famine had struck his home town.  The
population, already ravaged by the brutal clearances imposed by the
Countess of Sutherland in order to free the land for sheep-farming, had
been almost entirely dependent on the potato harvest.  But that year
the crop had been attacked by blight and the crofters left with only an
evil black slime.

Douglas's mother, Morag, had died of tuberculosis that first bitter
winter following the failure of the crop, and his father had hacked the
frost-bound ground in the churchyard for two days and nights in order
that she might be given a decent burial.  That night, in March 1848, he
and his father had sat huddled round the peat fire in the dim light of
a candle in the freezing croft.

"We're done here, son," said his father, as if Douglas were an adult.
"We're off.  Away."  He had paused.  "When I get strong."

The next morning he had slaughtered their only surviving animal, an
ancient cow, and they had spent the next two days dismembering its tea
ky carcass and salting down the beef.  The two Camerons had virtually
lived off salt beef and porridge for the next eight weeks, until the
snows had melted from the sour mosses of Glencalvie.  And each day his
father had left Douglas on his own for the two hours between 10.00 a.m.
and noon, returning mysteriously on each occasion red and sweating, and
breathing heavily.

On 28 June they had packed their belongings.  It had not taken long,
and neither Alan nor his son had taken a backward glance at the croft
as they had trekked up the glen towards the kirk at Glencalvie.  Once
at the church, Alan had informed the minister that his furniture and
what remained of the beef should be disposed of amongst the crofters,
as the-minister saw fit.  After a few moments at his wife's grave, Alan
Cameron and his son walked south, hand in hand.

That week of walking would always be sharply etched in Moriarty's
memory.  Luckily the weather had been good and man and boy made fifteen
to twenty miles a day through Sutherland's mountain-ranges, their
harshness now mellowed by the warm summer sun.  Though the
eight-year-old Douglas was well-shod in sturdy, hand-made brogues, his
young legs could not take the long miles.  But the boy's pride would
not accept his being carried, and somehow he kept going, never knowing
how long the next painful stint might be.

Every night they would find shelter beneath an overhang or a tree, and
his father would devise a makeshift bed of heather.  There, covered in
their Cameron plaids, they would sleep till early morning, Alan Cameron
hugging the eight-year-old lad closely to him.

Moriarty would later reflect that those few short days had irrevocably
bound him to his father.

Each morning they had slaked their thirst from the mountain streams
that slashed the bleak Highland mosses and used the water to make their
porridge, his father adding the necessary salt from a leather pouch.
Then it was onwards south, the lonely figures of man and boy dwarfed by
mountains looming over them like sleeping monsters.

At Altnaharra, on the second day, they had stopped at a crofter's house
to buy milk, and the little boy, already quivering with fatigue
although they had only covered some half-dozen miles, could hardly hold
the bowl of creamy milk to his lips.  His father had spoken to the
crofter in the Gaelic, for the man had little English, and Douglas had
strained to catch a wisp of their conversation.  But the words he had
picked up had meant nothing to him.  "Games' were mentioned, and sums
of money, but he could make little of it.

On the fourth day they had reached the village of Lairg and there,
their salt beef depleted, had bought their first meat.  Douglas had
never before eaten a meat pie and he devoured it like a hungry dog, as
if somehow its nourishment might immediately revive his jaded body.

Bonar-Bridge was reached a day later, and there father and son had sat
by the river, allowing the cold water to run over their tired legs.
Then it was on to Dingwall, the first town which either Douglas or his
father had ever seen.  They had spent the day wandering wide-eyed
through its cobbled streets, gazing at its immaculate grey-stone,
two-storey houses and goggling at the gentry in their carriages.
Douglas felt happier when he felt his father's grip strengthen as they
made their way south, out of Dingwall, and the signs began to show
"Strathpeffer'.

That last morning, long before they had reached Strathpeffer, they
could hear the wail of pipes, floating down the sunlit glen towards
them, guiding them to what proved to have been their immediate
destination.  Alan Cameron's grip on his son's hand had tightened once
again, and they had quickened their pace.

Then, suddenly, below them lay Strathpeffer, nestling in the summer
sunshine, two lines of cottages.  But at the entry to the village, in a
grassy bowl, hundreds perhaps thousands of people had gathered,
wreathed in the sound of a score of pipes.

The Games," said his father, without explanation.  Half an hour later
they had reached the games field and Alan Cameron had made his way
through the milling crowds to the Secretary's tent.  There a
tam-o'-shantered little man swamped by bristling mutton chop whiskers
sat at a collapsible camp table, scratching busily with a quill pen.

"Well, ma man?"  he said gruffly in English.

"When are the running events, sir?"  asked Alan.

"You're no' a local man then?"

"No."

"Then ye'll have to compete in the open races, at three o'clock.  Which
events?"

"All of them."

The little man's eyebrows rose but he said nothing and duly entered
Alan Cameron's name for every event from the 100 yards to the hill
race.  Then Douglas's father had gone to the competitors' tent to rest
till the afternoon, leaving the boy to wander about the games field

The Strathpeffer Games were known in the area as "The Gathering', for
that was what it was, a gathering of country folk after the rig ours of
a Highland winter.  No one could remember when they had first been
held.  Certainly it had been before the horrors of Culloden Field in
1746, when the Jacobite clans had been slaughtered by the king's forces
under "Butcher' Cumberland.  The Games, under pressure of restrictive
laws, had then lapsed until 1786, when they were revived, and now even
the once-banned kilt was permitted.

These were the hardest times, a time of the destruction of the Highland
population by the lairds as the subsistence farming of crofters was
brutally replaced by sheep-farming.  Many Highlanders had died in the
famine, while tens of thousands had emigrated to the Dominions or moved
down to the industrial towns of central Scotland.  A culture was dying,
and the gatherings were one of its last manifestations.

Young Douglas had watched all that morning as the local heavies had
launched putting-stone and sledge-hammer, struggled with the giant
two-hundred-pound Strathpeffer caber, and finally battled to lift the
Clach Cuid Fir, the Stone of Manhood, weighing over two hundredweight.
Then had come the wrestling, Cumberland style, an exhausting physical
exchange that left sturdy Highlanders limp with fatigue.

It was two o'clock when Douglas had wakened his father for the first
event, the 100 yards, and half an hour later Alan Cameron, dressed in
white long-Johns and shirt, and barefooted, stood poised at the start
of the sprint final, having finished second in his heat.  A blast of a
trumpet signalled the start and the ten runners bounded up the narrow
bumpy track, jostling and elbowing.  From the start, Alan Cameron
struggled in the middle of the field, never able to catch the leaders
and always under pressure from the runners behind him.  Cameron had a
loping, rangy stride, but there was no thrust, no power in it, and he
ended in fifth position, out of the money.

Half an hour later, in the 220 yards, it was the same story, though
this time Alan Cameron ended fourth; but there were only three prizes.
His first success came in the quarter mile, where he was placed third,
earning himself five shillings.

By the time the half mile (with a first prize of 1) had arrived, the
thousand-strong crowd had begun to notice the lean, leggy Sutherland
man, and there were shouts of encouragement as he came to the starting
line.  At the blast of the trumpet Cameron bounded off into the lead,
his long legs devouring the ground.  At half-way he was twenty yards
ahead, and with only a furlong to go he held on to fifteen of those
yards.  But coming into the final straight his legs began to weaken and
he was being drawn in on a long rope by a stocky young Ballater runner.
When he reached the finishing line and fell to the ground on the rough
grass beyond it he was only inches ahead but he had finally come first.
Douglas rushed to his father as officials levered him to his feet, and
walked proudly beside him as he was half-dragged to the competitors'
tent.

There, in a corner amid the steamy moistness of the tent, Alan Cameron
sat on the damp grass, sweat pouring down his lean open face, while his
son crouched anxiously in front of him.  Cameron sensed Douglas's
unspoken question.

"We're going to America, laddie," he said, speaking in gasps.  "Just
the mile and the hill race to go.  Then it's on tomorrow to Ballater
Games and Aboyne.  That's where the big money is."

Suddenly Alan became aware that there was someone else in the tent.
There, standing at the tent-flap, was a plump little moustachioed man
in bowler hat and loud check suit, a thick cigar projecting from his
lips.

"America, is it?"  he said, in a thick Glasgow accent.  "You'll no' get
as far as the Broomielaw Dock on the Clyde, no' the way ye're going."
He crossed the tent and bent down to extend a soft fat hand.

"Edward Bell," he said.  "Supporter of Scottish pedestrianism."  He
bent down further so his face came in line with Alan Cameron's.

"Now, you've got bottom, lad, and a wee bit of pace."  he said.  "And a
heart as big as a pumpkin.  But you're no' using the heid."  At this he
took out a watch from an inside waistcoat pocket.  "Ah clocked you at
inside sixty seconds for the first quarter mile out there.  But the
second lap, that was closer to eighty."  He wagged a finger.  "Ye've
got to pace yerself, man.  Pace ye self

Alan Cameron did not reply.  The pulse in his left temple was still
throbbing, the perspiration continuing to pour down his face.

"How much have ye won?"

His father said nothing.  "One pound five shillings," volunteered
Douglas.

"Ye'll no' go far on that," said Bell, not unkindly.

Alan Cameron coughed, and involuntarily spat a gob of phlegm on to the
grass in front of him.

"I'll run at Ballater and Aboyne," he said.

"Ballater?  Aboyne?  It'll be a week afore you're fit to run again,
man," said Bell.  "And the best foot racers in Scotland, they'll all be
there.  Ye won't pick up five bob at Ballater or Aboyne, ye can take
Edward Bell's word for that."

Bell checked his watch.  "It's an hour to the mile and an hour after
that there's the hill race.  If ah put yer prize-money on a wee double
with one of the gentry, ah can put twenty-five quid in yer pocket.  But
ye've got to follow my instructions.  Run to orders.  What dye say?"

"Does that mean I've got to win both races?"

The little man nodded.  "Ye can do it.  As I said, ye've got bottom and
ye've got a wee bit o' speed.  All ye've got to do is to pace yerself.
Use the heid and we can both come out with a few pounds.  What dye
say?"

This time it was Alan Cameron who nodded, and Bell began to talk to him
in a low, urgent voice.

An hour later the Sutherland man, leading the field, duped the
following runners into a slow first three-quarters of a mile and strode
away in the final quarter-mile to win easily, to be handed a guinea in
prize money.

The hill race was less easy, for the fatigue of a week's walking and
the day's racing had caught up with Alan Cameron.  But the hills had
been his life and his legs were well used to the localised agonies of
fell-running.  He came home to win by a good ten yards and to a prize
of thirty shillings.

The Strathpeffer Gamesfield was deserted when Edward Bell drew open the
flap of the tent and entered.  He held in his hand a thick wad of
notes, more money than Alan Cameron had ever seen.

"Ah got better odds than ah thought," Bell said.  "Forty-two pun'
fourteen shillings.  Ye can go to America first class."

And so on 1 August 1848 the Camerons had set sail for the United
States.

Alan Cameron would not for worlds have admitted it, but he knew as
little of New York as his young son.  For his only experience of a
large town Dingwall had hardly been that -had been the three weeks they
had spent together in Glasgow, living at a grimy tenement boarding
house off Argyll Street, as he and Douglas waited for the departure of
their ship.

Glasgow was like a decayed tooth, its dark, wet alleys lined with
poverty like a scale-furred kettle.  The two Camerons were glad to see
the back of it as they sailed on the S.S. Troy from the black, greasy
waters of the Broomielaw Quay.

Alan Cameron had heard terrible tales of the steerage trip to America,
from letters that had come back to Glencalvie from the New World since
the late 1780s, when the first of the terrible Clearances had begun.
They were stories of vomiting agonies in the depths of sea-washed,
rat-infested holds, and he had therefore resolved that even if he were
to arrive in New York penniless he and his boy would travel in comfort.
Thus he had secured a small, well-appointed two-berth cabin.

Next door was lodged a man who was to change both of their lives,
Gregor McGregor.

McGregor was a strapping giant of a man, fully six feet four and
sixteen stones.  He was making his way to the New World to appear on
the stage of the Park Street Theatre in a revival of Rob Roy, the
Highland Rogue, having previously distinguished himself in that role in
London and Leeds.

Each night, after (and sometimes during) dinner Gregor would regale his
fellow passengers with readings from Rob Roy, King Lear and Richelieu,
booming on endlessly in his sonorous Highland bass.  Cameron and his
son sat transfixed, the older man amazed that anyone could possess so
many words, let alone remember them or repeat them in such tumbling
profusion.  Fortunately for Alan, Gregor was complemented by another
Thespian, an Irish comic actor, Dennis Flaherty, also bound for New
York to play a supporting role in the Irish farce Brulgruddery.
Flaherty had an endless flow of stories and kept his audience helpless
with mirth so that even the normally shy Alan Cameron lost his reserve
and joined in the general laughter.

But for young Douglas Cameron the rantings of McGregor and the banter
of Flaherty triggered off something at his very core.  He observed each
night the faces of the other passengers and noted how they hung on
every word of the two actors, saw how the tears streamed down their
faces as McGregor became the mad King Lear and yet how only moments
later more tears, this time of laughter, poured forth as Flaherty told
stories of his Irish past.  It was then that Douglas Cameron resolved
to become an actor.

The giant McGregor and his tiny Irish friend Flaherty decided between
them to take the Sutherland man and his son under their wing.  Flaherty
had been in New York ten years before, in the palmy days of the great
tragedian, Junius Brutus Booth, and knew it to be a tough town for
penniless immigrants, offering even the toughest Irish labourers only a
miserable twenty dollars a month.  It was therefore resolved that Alan
Cameron and his son would stay with Flaherty, at least until they had
found their feet.

On their arrival in New York McGregor was greeted by the management of
the Park Street Theatre like royalty and was met on the quay by a
carriage.  So Flaherty and the Camerons arrived at Flaherty's flat
above the Burton Theatre in some style.

New York was a city beyond the Camerons' wildest imaginings, a seething
maelstrom of broad streets, houses five storeys and more high, of
thoroughfares loud with the squeal of horses, the bellowing of street
traders and the grind of carriages.  Alan Cameron had cause to be glad
that Flaherty was giving them shelter, for he had, in that first
confused day of arrival been shocked and disturbed by the brutal world
he had seen through the carriage windows.  To the Presbyterian Cameron,
New York was a Babylon, a melee of all the races of the world clawing,
jostling and elbowing for position.  Life in Sutherland had been hard,
but it had related to the simple demands of the land.  Here he felt
lost.

Unlike McGregor, Dennis Flaherty was a practical and sensitive man, and
he realised that the Camerons would have difficulty in surviving
without help.  Despite rehearsal demands he made sure that Alan Cameron
was fully employed helping backstage, as a carpenter, paying Alan seven
dollars a week wages out of his own pocket, then, under pressure from
the proud Scotsman, taking back three in rent.  Meanwhile, Douglas
Cameron wandered freely about the wonderland of the Park Street
Theatre, his head full of dreams.

But it was, surprisingly, from Gregor McGregor that the Sutherland
man's big opportunity was to come.  McGregor had been a hit in Rob Roy
in more ways than one.  Each night at the Park Street Theatre Rob Roy
had several stage battles, all of which McGregor pursued with manic and
often alcoholic fury.  The result was that in the first tumultuous
fortnight the Scot had put four of New York's finest stage-swordsmen in
hospital.

During the voyage on the S.S. Troy, Alan Cameron had frequently
practised with McGregor on deck with wooden sword and quarter-staff and
could easily cope with him with both weapons.  It was therefore to
Cameron that Hamblin, the manager of the theatre, came, at McGregor's
prompting, to ask him to play three separate parts, for the salary of
thirty dollars a week.

Alan Cameron could not believe his luck.

Thus six nights a week, and on Saturday matinees, Alan Cameron battled
with Gregor McGregor with claymore and quarter-staff on the stage of
the Burton Street Theatre.  Soon, as their battles became stereotyped
the two men began to think of ways in which they could develop their
'fights', which had become a popular feature of the play.  Alan saw
that one way lay in the reconstruction of the sets, using different
levels, so that jumps could be employed.  Then he created a springboard
so that McGregor could soar from one level to another, and finally
added ropes so that he and "Rob Roy' could swing across the stage.

The fights in Rob Roy became a feature of the New York season, one
which embraced works as diverse as Edwin Forrest's Hamlet, Marty's
Havana Opera, the Irish farce His Last Legs and P. T. Barnum's sundry
offerings at his Museum.

At one end of the scale, in the 'stews' of the Bowery, rats scuttled
between the legs of an audience who had paid 12 and a half cents to sit
on hard wooden benches; at the other, a dollar changed hands in order
to witness Shakespeare at Niblo's Gardens.

For Alan Cameron, Rob Roy had been a perfect opportunity to make his
way in the strange fantasy-world of theatre, itself a salient part of
the fastest-growing city on earth.  But he had no desire to spend the
rest of his life staging sword-fights.  He had discovered, at the Park
and then at Burton's, that he had a talent for the building of sets,
and when in February J.P. Marsh looked for a set-designer for a musical
play, The Enchantress, it was to Alan Cameron that he came.

On 26 August the play opened with its first big set-piece, "Pirates'
Ship at Anchor', which drew spontaneous applause.  The Enchantress was
a slim piece, little more than a series of linked musical sketches and
tableaux, but its sets were impressive, and one of the final scenes,
"The Regent's Palace on Fire', was so realistic that it nightly drew
forth screams from ladies in the audience.  At curtain-call Marsh was
forced to break with tradition and bring his young Scots set-designer
before the audience.

Alan Cameron was made.  In the autumn of 1849, he moved with Douglas to
a fine three-storeyed house in Park Avenue.  For Douglas, his father's
turn of fortune meant that he could now live in a world in which he
already felt completely at home.  However, Alan Cameron's feelings for
his homeland were strong, and he soon linked up with other Scots
expatriates, members of the New York Caledonian Society.  Douglas was
sent to a Scots school on Fifth Avenue, where an inflexible Glasgow
dominie called Alexander McCanna taught him the basics of Reading,
Writing and Arithmetic.

There, in the tiny one-room school, the young Cameron daily scraped
away upon his slate-board and recited his tables in constant fear of
Mr.  McCanna's leather tawse upon his palms.  But the world that he
longed for was that in which his father now lived that of the theatre.
When Niblo's Gardens sought a Puck for their 1850 production of A
Midsummer Night's Dream, twelve-year-old Douglas begged his father for
the chance to audition for the part.  Alan Cameron agreed, and Junius
Brutus Booth himself was engaged to coach him for the role.

Booth, now old and almost mad, had been the great hope of the American
theatre in the early part of the century.  He had originally come from
England and had in 1825 returned to put himself to the test against
Edmund Kean, who had already established himself as the greatest
Shakespearean actor of his time.  But Booth soon realised that he was
not in the same class.  The English actor showed Booth that he had no
'bottom', that he simply did not have the psychic endurance for the
great classic roles.  Booth realized that he had cruised through the
greater part of the plays, saving himself for the big dramatic
speeches; this was not great acting, rather merely a form of dramatic
oratory.  He returned to the United States a wiser man.

Whatever his limitations as an actor, the eccentric Booth was an
excellent teacher.  Shakespeare was his home territory and Douglas
Cameron was taught how the rhythm of the verse gave weight to the
words.  Booth also devised all manner of play-activities and word-games
to enliven the monotony of learning.  He taught Douglas not only the
fundamentals of diction but, equally importantly, set him daily
voice-projection exercises to enable him to throw his voice from the
diaphragm rather than the throat.

On the afternoon of 15 January 1851 the twelve-year-old Douglas
auditioned for the part of Puck in the Niblo's

Gardens against twenty-five youthful aspirants of both sexes.  Gregor
McGregor, Flaherty (himself playing Bottom) and the boy's father, Alan
Cameron, sat in the almost empty theatre, trembling on the outcome. But
mad old Junius Brutus Booth had done his work well, and Douglas secured
the part, showing admirable control under the pressure of the audition.
It was then that his proud mentor dubbed him "The New Moriarty' after
an outstanding child actor of half a century back. Douglas thought that
it was a fine name, though his father and Mr. McCanna had doubts, for
it was certainly not a Scottish one.

The Niblo's Theatre "Dream' was an outstanding success, not least
because of Flaherty's marvelous performance as Bottom.  The production
centred on Flaherty, ignoring the romantic and poetic elements of the
play, pivoting rather upon the drolleries of Bottom and his
mechanicals.  Flaherty drilled his bumpkins till they became an
uproariously funny comic team, and Niblo's "Dream' ran well into the
spring of 1851.

But the young Moriarty's performance was not lost in the lunacies of
Bottom and his bumpkins.  Moriarty gave a splendid account of Puck,
making up for what he lacked in dramatic experience by the gymnastic
vigour of his acting.  Alan Cameron devised a series of invisible
pulleys for Puck's flights and, using concealed trampettes, gave
Douglas natural-seeming 'flights' which enraptured Niblo's audiences
and drew sighs and loud applause.

Early in 1852 Moriarty acquired a mother in the personable form of Mary
Sweeney ('the Irish Nightingale'), a young singer from Kerry who had
achieved considerable success on the Eastern seaboard.  Mary, though
sharing her husband's belief in the formality of a Scottish education,
was sensitive to Moriarty's enthusiasm for the stage.  Under her
patient tuition he developed as a singer and in the recitation of comic
monologues.

This final part in Moriarty's dramatic development began,
appropriately, at the point when his earlier tutor, Junius Brutus
Booth, died, in May of 1852; for Moriarty had grown to like and respect
the strange old man.

It was also in 1852 that Moriarty was first to show his abilities in
the athletic world, winning a handicap youths' half-mile in the New
York Caledonian Games, from a generous start, at the Myrtle Gardens.

Since his eleventh birthday, Moriarty had been a member of the German
Gymnastics Institute which stood only a few blocks away from his home.
Excited by the physical challenges of the gymnasium, with its
horizontal and parallel bars and vaulting horses, Moriarty also found
above the gymnasium, on the balcony, a curved track, one hundred and
forty-five yards round, and he was encouraged by Herr Steinbach, the
burly, mustachioed trainer who managed the Institute, to run a couple
of miles daily on its board surface.  In 1852, at the age of thirteen,
he had, clocked by Steinbach, run just over six minutes for a mile on
the cramped curves of the Institute track.

The prizes at the New York Caledonian Games were generous; they could
afford to be, for the Gathering drew crowds of over 20,000 at up to 50
cents a ticket.  Thus young Moriarty saw for the first time
professional foot-racers, men who made their living at the sport of
pedestrianism, for runners from all over the Eastern seaboard flocked
to New Tork for the big money prizes.

But though the Scottish expatriates dominated their traditional
throwing and jumping events, few of them could cope with hardened
'peds' from St.  Louis and Chicago, an elite capable of running close
to even time for a hundred yards and well inside five minutes for a
mile.

In 1853 and 1854, Moriarty tried his hand successfully at other
Caledonian Games in Boston and Chicago.  After again winning the
youths' mile in New York in 1854, off a modest start, Moriarty decided
in 1855 that it was time to compete with the men on scratch terms.  He
was now close on six feet, broad-shouldered and muscular from his years
at the Institute, his freckled face and twinkling blue eyes set off by
a mop of curly black hair.  Moriarty always looked as if he had just
heard a joke, or was just about to tell one.  His years of formal
Scottish education under Mr.  McCanna, an innate Scots Calvinism, and
his pleasure in physical skills had retained in him a lack of guile, an
innocence rare in someone in the theatrical profession.

So, in 1855, a rapidly-maturing Moriarty entered for the men's open
mile, taking on the half-breed Steeprock and the recently-arrived
Scottish 'ped', Ewan Mcllwain.

Before a crowd of 25,000 and urged on by his father, two of the Booth
sons, Edwin and John Wilkes, and most of New York's theatrical
population, Moriarty clung to Steeprock and Mcllwain for the first
three laps.  Then, throwing caution to the wind, as the trumpet sounded
for the final lap he sprinted into the lead.  The two 'peds', who
already had an 'agreement' that Mcllwain would win, were taken by
surprise.  But the nut-brown Indian, Steeprock, responded, his long,
thin legs eating up the four-yard gap which Moriarty had created.
Behind him the veteran, Mcllwain, slip-streamed, only a foot behind,
all the way up the back straight.

Then it happened.  On the final bend, with only two yards spanning the
three men and Moriarty, gasping, struggling to retain his slim lead,
Steeprock reached forward and tapped Moriarty's rising right heel.  The
touch was enough to send the young runner tumbling, off-balance, into
the infield.

Steeprock looked to his right at Mcllwain, nodded, and the two men
prepared to stage a mock 'battle' up the final hundred yards of the
home straight.  They would give the crowd a good show.

But Moriarty was not finished.  Somehow he regained his balance and,
rubber-legged, returned to the curve of the track, now seven yards down
on his two adversaries.  Anger momentarily engulfed his fatigue.  He
began to sprint, pumping his knees high in front of him, his breath
raging in his throat.  With eighty yards to go he was only three yards
down.  Fifty yards from the tape he was a mere yard away.

Then, just as he was drawing level and with thirty yards still to go,
the two 'peds', acting according to plan, made their dash for the tape.
For ten yards Moriarty held them, before the accumulation of fatigue
caught up with him and his legs, unable to support his weight, gave way
and he fell past the finishing-line on to his face, well behind
Steeprock and the pre-ordained victor, Ewan Mcllwain.

Those New York Caledonian Games had been a revelation to Moriarty.
First he had discovered that there existed men like Steeprock and
Mcllwain to whom foot racing was a trade; he had learnt too that the
race does not always go to the swift.  But most of all he learnt that
he had a talent, like his father, for distance-running.

At the same time he saw no clash of interest between his developing
acting career and his involvement in foot-racing.  In this he was
supported by Edwin Booth, the most talented actor of the family. Edwin,
frail of body himself, argued that an actor's physique was part of his
capital and that Mori-arty's athleticism could only be of value in his
professional career it was common knowledge he said, in the acting
profession, that the legs were always the first to go.

By 1857, at the age of eighteen, Moriarty was playing everything from
Irish farce in such deathless dramas as Mother Grogan's Daughter to
Laertes in Hamlet.  His father's thriving stage-design business now
spanned New York, Boston and Philadelphia, and Moriarty would not only
play in theatres in these towns but also visit plays in rehearsal,
watching such Shakespearean stars as Charlotte Cushman in preparation,
and observing how, in the dusty anonymity of the rehearsal-room,
performances were built.

At the other end of the scale, back in New York, the young Scot was
able to visit the many circuses and freak-shows which battled for
survival there.  He learned the rudiments of horsemanship (Colonel
Farrell) and acrobatics (Young Hengler) and the elements of conjuring
(Professor Anderson, the Wizard of the North) at Phineas T. Barnum's
American Museum.

When Moriarty was not greedily absorbing all that the stage had to
offer, he was exercising his body mightily at the German Gymnastics
Institute.  Steinbach would not permit his young charge simply to run
round the gallery track.

"No," he said in his fractured English.  "Runner must be all-body
strong."  Moriarty therefore daily pursued a rigorous routine of
exercises created by the great German physical educationist, Jahn.

Though the pedestrian activities of New York and district were not as
dense as its theatrical life, there were weekly matches between local
runners and, less frequently, with visitors from towns as far apart as
New Orleans, St.  Louis, Chicago and Boston.

During 1857, Moriarty, now eighteen, took on three matches against
local opposition over half a mile and a mile and was victorious in
every race, earning himself and his backers a total of over five
thousand dollars.  In late 1857, he was matched with the Irish
'champion' Muldoon over three-quarters of a mile and took the Irishman
on the tape, winning judiciously by a bare yard.  The New York Irish
demanded a re-match and on 1 January 1858, for a wager of two hundred
dollars, Moriarty gave Muldoon the kiss of death in the final straight
over the same distance, to win this time by a clear ten yards.

Barnum, the shrewdest of Moriarty's mentors, advised that he lie low
for most of 1858, and wait for rich pickings from runners coming from
outside town.  Thus, during the spring of 1858 he played in the Irish
farce Tom The Tyler and then as Demetrius in A Midsummer Night's Dream,
while daily keeping in condition at the Institute.

Other aspects of Moriarty's education had not been lacking.  In July
1858, when he was playing Demetrius at the Park for the first time,
Mrs.  Alice Clay, playing Queen Titania, had thrown her regal status to
the winds when he had visited her dressing-room between acts, carrying
a replacement prop the substitute crown.  Mrs.  Clay had been standing
behind a screen when he had entered her dressing-room.

She had been nothing if not direct.  "Bring it over here, young
Moriarty," she had cried in her deep, languorous voice, only her head
and shoulders visible above the screen.  He had stood, hesitantly, in
front of her.

"Put it down there," she said, pointing over the screen to her
candlelit dressing-table.  Obediently he had done as he was told.

"Come round here a moment," she ordered, beckoning with her right hand.
He moved to the right of the screen.

As he reached its edge he felt his knees go soft.  For Mrs.  Clay was
completely naked.  His first shocked impression was of curved whiteness
and of two great pouting pink nipples, perched on massive breasts.  He
had never seen a naked woman before and he felt a sweaty redness engulf
his face and neck.

"Not much time, young man," she said.  "So let's see what you're made
of."

She briskly pulled down his tights and cod-piece and his genitals
flopped out, his penis stiffening visibly.  She leant back and surveyed
him.

"Not bad.  Not bad at all."

She turned to a little table behind her, dipped her hand into a pot of
cold cream and slapped the cream between her legs.

"Now this is what I'm going to do.  I'm going to lie over there."  She
walked over to a couch in the corner, lay down and spread her legs.
"Fine," she said.  "Now come over here."

Numbly, Moriarty obeyed.  She pulled him down on top of her and deftly
slipped him inside her.

"Okay, Demetrius," she said.  "Let's go."

Instinctively, he drove down and felt her hips press up into him in
response.  Alice Clay's breathing soon began to quicken.

"It's close," she groaned.  "Jesus, it's close."

Suddenly her rhythm increased and for the first time during the
encounter Alice Clay was no longer in control.

"Hit me, hit me, hit me!"  she exclaimed, and he thrust hard down into
her.

"Man, man, man!"  she shouted, shuddering and scratching his shoulders
and back.  Then she subsided, though Moriarty involuntarily kept
driving down on her, and in a flurry of thrusts he was gone, exploding
into her, shouting as he did so.

She looked him in the eyes, her deep, curved lips smiling.  "Not bad,"
she said.  "For a first attempt."

There was a knock and she looked out over the screen as a stage-hand
poked his head round the door.

"Two minutes, Mrs.  Clay," he said.

Alice Clay smiled serenely and nodded over the top of the screen as the
stage-hand's face disappeared.  At her side Moriarty was desperately
trying to rearrange his clothing.

The production of A Midsummer Night's Dream lasted a further four
weeks, and in that short month Alice Clay took Moriarty through a
lifetime of sexual experience.  For although Mrs.  Clay's first assault
upon him had been perfunctory, she was, in the comfort and luxury of
her Park Avenue apartment, to show him a gentler, if still erotic side
to her nature.  Moriarty learned about foreplay, learned to dominate,
if temporarily, his more experienced partner, both by teasing her
towards a climax and by suddenly rushing her towards it without
warning.  Thus, when Alice Clay left for Boston to play Lady Macbeth to
Edwin Forrest's Thane -their sexual relationship, if not yet one of
equals, was achieving a satisfactory balance.

News of Moriarty's sexual prowess was not long in travelling through
the world of New York theatre, for Alice Clay was nothing if not
garrulous, and the young actor-athlete was soon followed in both his
Thespian and foot racing pursuits by a devoted claque of young ladies.
However, his innate Scottish Calvinism, coupled with his Spartan zeal
in his training at the gymnasium, made him sparing with his favours.
This in turn only increased the ardour of his followers and the period
from 1858 to 1860 was rich in sexual experience.

His first experience with Alice Clay had been a shock to Moriarty.  For
he had discovered in himself a carnality which he had not expected.  He
had always liked girls, but from a distance, in an abstract way, being
engrossed on the one hand with the development of his acting career and
on the other with his athletic prowess.

But now, even though his sexuality had been aroused, it was neither
random nor promiscuous, for by some strange personal rationalisation
Moriarty reckoned that there was nothing much wrong with copulation if
the ladies came to him rather than him going to them and if they were
unmarried.

From the beginning, Moriarty's main backer in his pedestrian pursuits
had been the ebullient showman Phineas T. Barnum.  To Barnum, who was
no sportsman himself, all life was a gamble.  What else could it be for
the man who had, single-handed, created the American Museum, who had
brought to the American public General Tom Thumb and Jenny Lind?  From
the day that they had first met, Barnum had taken to

Alan Cameron and his precocious son and helped the young Moriarty to
develop a plethora of skills from the artistes in his Museum.  When
Moriarty had shown a talent for the running-path, Barnum, with Edwin
Booth, had been his most enthusiastic backer, and he had picked up good
money on him in the handicaps in Boston and Pittsburgh and in his
match-races.  So far Barnum had resisted the temptation to put Moriarty
up against the hard men of pedestrianism, the 'cracks' of the East
Coast or touring English professionals.  But now his sensitive antennae
told him that the young Scot was ready to take on one of the top-ranked
foot racers and there would be long odds, since Moriarty's form had not
yet been fully exposed.

So in December 1858 a match was made against the Frenchman, Yves
Latour, to take place in February of 1859.

Latour had whipped everything set against him in the South, even
beating a horse (running four laps to its eight) in New Orleans and
achieving four and a half minutes for the mile in so doing, the first
man in the United States to run such a time.

The Frenchman, a Basque, had started, like many from the Basque region,
as a jumper, and in 1853 in his late teens had cleared five and a half
feet in the high jump and twenty-one feet in the long jump, and was
unbeaten on the East Coast.  Then, at nineteen, a heel injury had ended
his jumping career and turned him to middle-distance running.  Latour
had shown an immediate talent for the distances and had cracked five
minutes in his first mile at New Orleans Race Course in a thunderstorm.
He had not been beaten since 1856, and came to New York with over ten
thousand dollars on his back.  Barnum and Booth got odds of between
three and five to one against Moriarty for a match on 4 February at the
Manhattan Island Race Track.

The race against Latour took place on one of the coldest days of a
bleak, snowbound February.  Phineas T. Barnum and Latour's backers
agreed upon stakes of $500, and ensured a flat course of packed snow.
At two o'clock that afternoon Moriarty and Latour stood at their marks,
arms raised, frozen men in a frozen landscape.  Then thick, swirling
snowflakes began to fall, covering the runners and the two thousand
spectators who had gathered at the rail of the course and on the fleecy
mound of snow above the track on the infield.

The one-mile race was to be a single lap round the Manhattan Race
Course.  On the gun, the swarthy Frenchman bounded into an immediate
lead.  His backers had done a little checking on the young New York
man; he was a novice, had only run against local boys, never been
really pushed to his limits.  More, Moriarty was an actor, so he would
have seen plenty of the good life and would not have the 'bottom' for a
really hard race.  Thus Latour had been told to push hard from the
start.  So the Frenchman, clad in black long-sleeved vest and
long-Johns, churned up the snow a couple of yards in front, of Moriarty
as they pounded into the thin winter mist, their breathing throwing
plumes of vapour in front of them.  The going was surprisingly good,
though both men could feel the cold through the soles of their thin
moccasins.  As they passed the first quarter-mile post, where Barnum,
his father, and Edwin Booth stood with Latour's backers, by their
steaming horses, the snow thickened, matting Moriarty's eyebrows and
causing moisture to engulf his eyes, like tears.

"Sixty-nine, seventy," roared Barnum, as Latour's men shouted their
advice.  "Stay close, m'boy."

He then turned, with Booth and Cameron, and they mounted their horses
and galloped off, churning through the snow and mist towards the
half-mile post.

The pace was fast and the snow was swirling down thickly as they took
the long left-hand curve towards the half-mile post, and the crisp,
firm path was now overlaid by a skin of fluffy snow, making it slippery
and uncertain.  Moriarty pinned himself grimly to Latour's right
shoulder, the steam rising from his all-white vest and long-Johns, as
they closed in on the half-mile post.

Suddenly Moriarty felt Latour slacken and before he knew what had
happened he was in the lead, making his own path through the white wall
of snow, increasingly aware of his breathing and the burning, sweaty
sensations in his face and neck.  Somewhere in the far distance he
could hear the roar of the crowd, which for its part was still quite
unable to see either of the runners, but, eyes on their watches, knew
that both men were less than two minutes away.

They passed the three-quarter-mile point with Moriarty in a one yard
lead, but this time only Barnum and his father were at the post,
Barnum's roaring Three minutes forty-six seconds.  Whip him boy, whip
him!"  lost in the blizzard and his own gathering fatigue.  For
Moriarty's breath was now raging in his throat and his legs were
beginning to tire.  Ahead was only the roar of the crowd, the
finish-line an infinity away.  The snow and his fatigue merged into a
great frozen pain, and it was at that moment that Latour passed him,
his choppy, powerful strides throwing snow back into Moriarty's face.
It was then, with three hundred yards to go, that Moriarty felt
core-fatigue, pain far beyond his muscles, for the first time in his
life.  He knew that he had dug deep and that there was nothing more
left.  Latour was only a dim, wraith-like figure moving away from him,
and Moriarty felt he was no longer racing: simply surviving.

Then with a furlong to go, as the roar of the crowd came more strongly,
piercing the cocoon of snow which enfolded him, he heard a clear
bell-like voice.  It was that of Edwin Booth, who sat astride his mount
at the furlong point.

"The moment, Moriarty!  The moment!"

They had often talked of 'being in the moment' during rehearsals, of
being completely absorbed and committed to a role.  That was the point
at which all cohered, all became true and real in any drama.

Somehow, Booth's words reached deep inside Moriarty, touching something
beyond his pain.  His opponent was no longer in sight, but that did not
matter, for what was happening no longer had anything to do with
Latour, or the wager, or anything material.

Moriarty started to sprint, his breath rasping in his throat like
fingernails on emery paper.  Somehow, his flagging legs were driven on,
the softness of the snow ignored.  With a hundred yards to go Latour
was in sight, only ten yards away.  The New Orleans man's hips were
low, his feet hitting the ground heel-first a sure sign of fatigue.

But Moriarty was beyond picking up clues to his opponent's condition.
He ran like a machine, his arms working like pistons, driving into the
snow.  With fifty yards to go, he could almost touch the fading Latour.
But the impulse of Booth's words had nearly melted from Moriarty's
psyche and the two yards between him and Latour seemed an impassable
gulf.

Then it happened.  With thirty yards to go, Latour took a single,
desperate look over his right shoulder.  That was enough the
confirmation that the Frenchman hurt as much as he did, the
confirmation of the man's frailty, his humanity, penetrated Moriarty's
isolation.  He launched himself forward; all technique lost in a void
of suffering.  With five yards to go he had caught and passed Latour
and he toppled through the tape, furrowing the snow beyond it.

It was a week before Moriarty was allowed to leave hospital and even
then, seven days after his triumph, he was still the hero of New York,
applauded before the curtain at plays as diverse as Hamlet, Mother
Carey's Daughters and The Heroes of Fort McCoy.  He was unable to work
for a month and Phineas T. Barnum provided, in addition to his share of
the wager and the side bets amounting to $1500, all hospital bills and
two months' salary.  Then, five weeks after the race, Barnum linked
with the Booths, Forrest and other New York theatrical luminaries to
hold a gala benefit which raised eight thousand dollars on Moriarty's
behalf and two thousand for the gallant Latour.

In early April Moriarty went to his next appointment with Doctor
Sutherland, who had conducted his treatment since the race.  He left
Sutherland's surgery a broken young man.  For the doctor's advice had
been categorical: Moriarty had 'athlete's heart', and all thoughts of
pedestrianism must be discarded for ever.

THE FURTHER MAKING OF MORI ARTY

The first night of the three-week voyage Moriarty dreamt of jungle
drums.  The second morning he fancied he heard a rhythmic thud
somewhere far above him, but it faded, to be replaced by the familiar
slap of waves on the hull of the S.S. Troy, as it steamed on a placid
Atlantic, bound for Liverpool, England.

The years since the match with Latour had been fruitful ones.
Moriarty's friendship with the Booths had brought him a host of good
roles in New York, while he had also toured several times with the
eccentric and volatile John Wilkes Booth as Laertes to his Hamlet.

But it was his friendship with Barnum which had extended his range.
Barnum had encouraged him to play in comedy and melodrama and
introduced him to gymnasts and equestrians, so that before long he
became, somewhat to his surprise, an accomplished rider and acrobat.
Edwin Booth had supported this policy, reasoning that the wider the
range of Moriarty's skills the more he would have to offer in all
branches of theatre.

Moriarty's marriage of 'serious' drama with farce, circus and melodrama
was in perfect accord with the melting-pot of the mid-century New York
stage; it also answered something within Moriarty himself, an intense
desire to acquire every possible skill.  He realised well enough that
he was not in the same class as Edwin Booth as a tragedian, and never
would be.  But he did have a range which even Booth would never
possess; he was, as Barnum put it, 'an inch deep, but a mile long'.

Thus, when in late 1861 Booth decided to tackle the English stage, as
had his father thirty-six years before him, and asked his young friend
to accompany him, Moriarty jumped at the chance.  His enthusiasm was
heightened by two other factors.  The first was that Alice Clay, now
Mrs.  Millard Cohen, the wife of a ruthless New York millionaire, had
made it clear before departing in September 1861 on the Grand Tour that
she had already tired of her corpulent, middle-aged spouse and would
look to re-establish their relationship on her return.  But Moriarty
had no desire to tangle with any of Cohen's ex-prizefighter henchmen,
even for someone as beguiling as Alice Clay.

The second was that England was the home of pedestrianism, and Moriarty
was eager to view the greatest foot-racers in the world.  Only a year
before, the English impresario George Martin had brought the cream of
British professional running to New York and they had thrashed the best
that America had to offer.  There had been calls in the New York press
for Moriarty to return to the running-path to face the all-conquering
English.  He had, quite rightly, demurred.

Not that he had followed Sutherland's advice to the letter.  Moriarty
found it impossible to give up athletics, and only a few weeks after he
had been cleared by Dr.  Sutherland he returned to the Institute
gymnasium and began a programme of light gymnastic exercises.  By
September 1859 he had started to trot round the curves of the gallery,
at first only a mile a day, at a gentle seven-minute mile speed.  Two
years later he was cruising round the indoor Brooklyn track, three
miles every day at only a few seconds outside five minutes per mile.
Thus, by the combination of skeletal exercise, using Indian clubs and
dumbbells, and a gentle, progressive running programme, at the age of
twenty-three Moriarty had unwittingly made himself again into a
powerful running machine, with reserves that he had not possessed
before, even in his competitive days.

But although he trained rigorously Moriarty resisted the temptation to
race again.  Training was physical but racing was emotional.  Thus he
saw no contradiction between Dr.  Sutherland's diagnosis of 'athlete's
heart' and his ability to turn out mile after mile of quality running
round a cramped Brooklyn gymnasium.  Moriarty desperately feared that
extra five per cent of effort that competition demanded, and although
he had longed to challenge the great English athletes he knew he no
longer possessed the courage to compete at such a level.  If he did
push himself, he knew it might prove fatal.

There it was again, that steady, rhythmic thudding above him on the
deck.  It was no dream.

He swung both legs out of bed, pulled on his dressing-gown and thrust
his feet into leather slippers.  He opened the door of his cabin and
ran along the narrow corridor towards the companionway that led to the
deck, bumping his shoulders against its oak walls as the ship rolled in
light waves.  As he pushed open the door at its end.  The morning sun
and the wet salt sea-breeze rushed down into the corridor as Moriarty
made his way up the steps, ignoring the door swinging behind him.

He looked up the planked deck, towards the ship's bow, as the S.S. Troy
cruised easily through the light morning swell.  Empty.  Then he heard
the thudding again, more dimly, on his right, growing in intensity.
Suddenly he realised what it was the footfall of a runner.

A moment later a tall, heavily-muscled man, aged about thirty-five,
dressed in thick polo-neck sweater and white long-Johns and moccasins,
ran into view.  He stopped just above Moriarty with his back to him,
unaware of the other man's presence, and put both hands on the ship's
rail.  He proceeded to bend and straighten his knees, breathing in
deeply as he did so.

Moriarty scrutinised the man.  The runner had long, jet-black hair tied
in a bow at the nape of his neck.  Even from behind, Moriarty could see
that the man's skin and hands were nut-brown.  He coughed lightly.

The runner turned to face him.  He had sharp, clearly-defined features
and piercing brown eyes like a hawk, thought Moriarty, walking towards
him, right hand outstretched.

"My apologies if I've interrupted your training."

The runner extended his right hand to Moriarty in a firm grip.  "No,"
he said.  "I was just finishing."

"My name's Moriarty."

"Moriarty?"  said the man, nodding.

"And yours?"

"Louis Bennett," said the man.  "Some call me Deerfoot."

Moriarty had heard of Bennett, a full-blooded Seneca Indian, the only
American runner to have seriously challenged "Clipper' White,
"Crowcatcher' Lang and the other great English professionals who had so
thoroughly whipped the Americans during their tour of the Eastern
seaboard.  Now, Bennett soon explained, he was being brought to England
by the bookmaker, William M. Bunn, and George Martin, the P. T. Barnum
of English pedestrianism, to take on the best English runners on home
territory.

During breakfast, Bennett discussed his forthcoming tour.  There were
to be genuine races against English runners, from three to twelve
miles.  Matches against time were also to be undertaken, his central
aim being to run twelve miles inside the hour.  Finally, George Martin
was planning a travelling 'circus' of top pedestrians, looking for
crowds of up to twenty thousand at each venue.  Bennett looked forward
to a highly lucrative four weeks.

Moriarty mentioned his own pedestrian background and Bennett was
dismissive of Dr.  Sutherland's diagnosis.  The Indian nations were a
running culture, he said, and this way of life had absorbed the
introduction by the white man of the horse in the eighteenth century,
and still had a rude and healthy existence.  Thus racing, which was
deemed to have a religious significance, enriching the earth and
stimulating the crops, was still a central feature of Indian life.  So,
if there were any such condition as 'athlete's heart', centuries of
Indian running had failed to produce evidence of it.

Next morning at six the thud of Moriarty's footfalls was added to that
of Deerfoot's as the two men matched stride for stride around the
cramped deck of the S.S. Troy.  The clocking for that first day was a
modest twelve minutes for two miles but within a week they had together
sliced a minute from that performance, and a week later were inside ten
minutes for the first time.

Deerfoot was undoubtedly an athlete of the highest calibre, fully
capable of going inside half-an-hour for the six miles, something no
man had ever done.  Moriarty's only doubt was that Deerfoot, though
intelligent and articulate, had little experience as a professional
athlete and might find the cutthroat world of English pedestrianism too
hard.  Barnum had some experience of England, and had told Moriarty of
a dark world of 'fixes' and ringers, where runners had been 'stopped'
with drugs or bought off.  Deerfoot, a simple, natural athlete, could
flounder and perish in such a world.

The three-week voyage allowed ample time for rehearsals, though Edwin
had, through his agent, already arranged to pick up most of his
supporting cast in England.  Booth and Moriarty rehearsed Richelieu,
Richard HI and Hamlet, with Booth's wife, Mary, already well into her
first pregnancy, filling all the women's roles.  When Moriarty
expressed surprise at such activity Mary Booth regaled him with
countless tales of actresses who had performed on stage until well into
the final month of pregnancy.  Fortunately, she was not about to face
that situation herself, as her husband planned to prepare casts of
English actors for each production.

Edwin Booth was the dramatic opposite of his father.  Not for him
Junius Brutus's cruise through the great roles, punctuated by sustained
ranting in the big speeches.  Rather, Edwin had an interior
nervousness, an unfocused energy, which bubbled beneath the surface of
each performance.

Alas, the manic streak of his father lay deep within Edwin too.  He
drank five bottles of wine a day, despite Moriarty's pleas for
moderation, and his sexual life had always been wildly exuberant.
Moriarty reflected that of Booth and Deer-foot it was the actor, for
all his inheritance and his dramatic skills, who was the more
uncertain.  Had he chosen the right plays, the best theatres?  Would he
have adequate supporting casts, decent scenery, good costumes?  What
did the English public already know of him?  These questions nagged at
the introspective Booth throughout the long sea voyage.

Deerfoot, in his innocence, had no such doubts.  He had discovered that
English runners, though they honed themselves into superb condition for
match-races or big handicap events, allowed themselves to go to seed
between races,

debauching themselves in the taverns which were the hub of English
pedestrianism.  Deerfoot was of a different feather.  He came from a
running culture, one in which men ran regularly as a part of the very
fibre of their daily life.

He also had another weapon in his armoury.  The British foot racers who
had come to the Eastern seaboard had only one tactic to run from the
front at a steady, even pace.  But Deerfoot had trained assiduously
using a different technique.  It involved using regular devastating
bursts of speed over distances between a furlong and a half-mile, in
order to destroy the rhythm of tracking runners.  This was a tactic
which the hidebound, conservative English had never faced.

Edwin Booth was soon to find Deerfoot as engaging as Moriarty did, and
the Seneca Indian was a frequent visitor to their dinner table.  At
breakfast on the deck of the S.S. Troy on the morning of their arrival
in Liverpool, Moriarty and Deerfoot reached an informal agreement, for
it was clear they were both in England in search of fame and success.

"I will pray for the success of your ventures," said Deerfoot, as the
Troy slowly moved into the dock, 'and will keep watch on them."

"And I yours," said Moriarty, shaking the Indian's hand.

The tour started disastrously.  On setting foot in Liverpool Booth
found that vital letters to him had passed him on his way to Great
Britain.  There had been problems in booking theatres; his English
business manager, Alfred Thrush, had been ill; it had been a bad winter
for London theatre.  To top it all, British public opinion on the war
between the States was for the Confederates and Booth was a confirmed
Yankee.  Thus Philip Barrett, who had taken over from the ailing Thrush
as Booth's English manager, had hastily penned a letter to Booth in New
York advising cancellation, or at least postponement.  Still, they were
now here, and a tour of sorts had to be cobbled together; but it was a
despondent troupe who departed by train for London and their first
engagement at the Haymarket.

They sat in silence as the miles clicked by, Booth's face set as he sat
hunched in a corner of the carriage opposite his wife.  Intensely
superstitious, he reflected to Moriarty that he had brought it all upon
himself.  He should never have given away his birth-caul, just before
leaving New York.  And he should have brought with him the skull of
Lovett, a horse-thief, which he always used in the gravedigger scene in
Hamlet.

Moriarty felt almost as low as Booth, but decided to try to be
cheerful, and by judicious prompting egged Booth on to recall various
stories from his acting past.  By such means the trip to London passed
more pleasantly than it might otherwise have done, and Philip Barrett
and his American visitors arrived in the capital that evening in good
spirits, and were installed in apartments in Sloane Square.

Booth pondered mightily over the choice of his first play at the
Haymarket, now just three weeks away.  Finally, he decided to play
Shylock to Moriarty's Bassanio in The Merchant, and auditions were held
four days after their arrival.  Fortunately, a touring company had
recently finished playing the piece in Birmingham and Booth was able to
engage them virtually en bloc, though the company's Portia would never
again glimpse forty.  The supporting cast, Moriarty excepted, was not
of high quality, but Booth had little choice.  Shylock was a role which
he had played to great effect in the United States, and it was the part
with which he wished to make his first impact with the English
public.

Alas, sets and costumes were of even poorer quality, the former being
battered and patched from six months on tour and the latter an
ill-fitting assembly of clothing spanning several centuries.

Booth, undeterred, spent the next fortnight knocking his tatterdemalion
company into shape, his energies undiminished either by his vast daily
consumption of alcohol or by the fact that Mary was now only two months
away from the birth of their first child.

He even had time along with Moriarty to follow Deerfoot's first British
appearance.  This was against Edward Mills, better known as "Young
England," at Hackney Wick, over six miles for a purse of 500, and
before a crowd of ten thousand.  Sadly, though Deerfoot gave Mills a
race all the way to the line, he had still to recover from his ocean
voyage and lost narrowly in a modest time of 32 minutes 30

seconds.  But a few days later, after crowds had broken into the
Salford ground to catch a glimpse of the Indian 'wonder', Deerfoot had
whipped Jack White, "The Gateshead Clipper', one of the team of runners
George Martin had brought to the US.  Moriarty remarked that at least
one American now seemed to be winning; perhaps they could, too.

Booth's opening performance as Shylock showed him at his best, in a
subtle and compassionate interpretation which affected even his
mediocre English supporting cast, some of whom were stimulated to
performances of which they had not realised they were capable. Moriarty
could feel the power of Edwin's acting, feel himself being drawn into
it, and even Mrs.  Moody, their arthritic Portia, seemed to shed her
years.

The audience's reaction was strong but restrained, for this was not the
Shylock of their experience.  Moriarty took a carriage from their
lodgings to Fleet Street in the early hours of the next morning to pick
up the first reviews and bring them back to Sloane Square.  The English
critics were, at best, reserved: "Mr.  Booth, in avoiding the excesses
of his late father, has taken to the other extreme and at times his
performance is barely audible," said The Times.  "So complete is Mr.
Booth's disgust for ranting and play-effect that he adopts the opposite
extreme," noted the London Review.  Moriarty read the reports with
increasing dismay as his carriage trundled back through the night.  At
best, the London critics damned with faint praise; at worst, they were
downright offensive.  Heavy-hearted, he handed the reviews to Edwin.

Booth was in despair; the critics had wounded him.  He had started off
with his best classical part what could he now do to sway London
audiences, before he moved north to Manchester and Leeds?

Moriarty intervened.  Why not try Richelieu, he suggested, a role in
which Edwin was well versed?  There were two weeks to audition and
rehearse, and before that the invitation of a long weekend to
recuperate at the Earl of Grafton's estate up in Cumberland.  Booth
agreed, auditions began three days later, and a cast was quickly
chosen.

The Graftons had long been known as benevolent eccentrics.  Junius
Brutus Booth had met the late Earl during his ill-fated English tour of
1825 and found that they shared a common interest in wine and wenching.
Junius Brutus had also met the then-teenage Maurice, Grafton's son, who
had revelled in the American's acting and in his fund of tales.
Grafton's meeting with Booth had stimulated a lifelong interest in
drama and he had built himself, in his grounds, a hundred-seat theatre
equipped with every modern facility.  There it was his custom to hold
amateur theatricals, mixing local gentry with farmers and shepherds,
or, for lavish fees, to bring leading actors of the calibre of Macready
to perform in professional productions.

Now Maurice was Lord Grafton, a 52-year-old veteran of the Charge of
the Light Brigade, a man who would spend all day with the best pack of
foxhounds in the nation and rant Othello in the evening to bewildered
rustics.

As their carriage passed through an arch of silver branches up the
sunny, mile-long gravel path to Grafton's home, Moriarty prayed that
their stay in Cumberland would repair Edwin's confidence.  In his heart
Booth knew that his Shylock was the best he had done, felt certain it
had a truth that answered something central in Shakespeare's Jew.  On
the other hand, there were the critics, so could he trust his
instincts?  Moriarty knew that this problem gnawed at Booth every mile
of their journey.

When they viewed Grafton Hall, it was as if they had come home.  For
the old Earl had built his house as a copy of a Southern mansion, of
the type, alas, under cannon-fire from Union troops at that very
moment.  Four soaring white marble pillars towered above the Booths and
Moriarty.  At the top of a broad stairway stood the fifty-eight members
of staff, from shepherds and butlers to cooks and gardeners, in two
lines.  And at the doorway the Earl himself, a lean, towering man of
six foot four with a ruddy face and a massive shock of grey hair.  He
wore the breeches, white stockings and waistcoat of a Regency buck.
Beside him stood his wife, three sons and a daughter.

The actors got down from the carriage, blinking in the bright sunshine,
Edwin and Moriarty supporting the pregnant Mary as she descended.

"Edwin!"  roared Grafton, running down the stairs.  Booth was
surprised, for they had never met.  He was immediately engulfed by the
giant Earl and drawn, with his wife and Moriarty, up the staircase into
the house.  Moriarty looked around him as they moved through the
doorway: this might just be what Edwin required.

Grafton's little theatre proved a delight, containing a small, well-lit
proscenium stage equipped with the most modern mechanical devices for
speedy and effective scene-changes.  The lush velvet seating was
luxurious, better even than the best of London and New York theatres,
and the auditorium's sight-lines and acoustics were faultless.

But it was in Grafton's performance in excerpts from Othello that the
hairs on Moriarty's neck started to prickle.  Grafton was undoubtedly a
physically impressive Moor, though this only highlighted his dramatic
deficiencies, particularly as he had requested Booth to play lago.

However, it was the Desdemona of Eleanor, the Earl's twenty-year-old
daughter, which was to capture Moriarty.  Eleanor was no professional.
She showed it in the way she moved, the manner in which she allowed
even an amateur Othello to upstage her.  But she had a warm, lustrous
voice and, most important, she had stage-presence.  When she spoke, she
drew the audience to her like filings to a magnet.

When, later in the evening, his own turn came and he acted the King to
Booth's Richelieu and then performed Hamlet's soliloquy, he played to
her and to no one else.

At the interval, Booth and Moriarty joined the audience for drinks in
the crowded foyer.  "Capital!"  roared the Earl, champagne in hand,
still in his Othello robes, enfolding them both in his arms.  "Ever
played Petruchio, m'boy?"  he asked his younger guest.

Moriarty replied that he had understudied the role.  The Earl turned
and beckoned to his daughter.  As she moved through the crowds towards
them Moriarty's eyes were drawn to her slim, bright red hair, full,
soft lips and high cheekbones, all accentuated by stage make-up which
seemed to heighten rather than coarsen her sensuality.  He felt himself
flush.

The Earl put one arm on Moriarty's shoulders and the other on
Eleanor's.  "How about the last couple of pages of the "Shrew"?  You
know it by heart, Eleanor done it a thousand times up in the Hall. Your
best part, woman."

Eleanor did not reply, but turned her head to look squarely at
Moriarty.  Meanwhile, her father blustered on.

"Trouble is, Moriarty, Eleanor always takes all our Petru-chios apart.
Browbeats the poor young fellers.  So perhaps what's wanted is the
professional touch.  What d'you say?"

"Perhaps that is what is needed, Father."  The girl's voice was
tremulous, and her eyes avoided those of Moriarty.  "The professional
touch."

"So where shall I begin?"  said Eleanor, her hands in her lap.

Eleanor and Moriarty were facing each other in the candlelit stillness
of the Green Room.  The tension between them was almost palpable.

Moriarty swallowed.  He looked down at the text in front of him.

"Here we are," he said, sitting, aware of her perfume as she stood and
bent over his shoulder.  "Just before your big speech."  He put his
finger on the page.  "I come in with "I say she shall: and first begin
with her."  And then you go into your big final speech."

"Where it says, "Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth"?"

"That's part of it," said Moriarty, feeling his voice tremble.  His
finger found the line.  "It starts "Fie, He!  unknit that threatening
unkind brow."  '

Eleanor did not need the text.  She moved to stand in front of Moriarty
in her green velvet gown, and Kate's final speech simply flowed from
her.  Moriarty, trapped in the moment, let her give what was
essentially a recital, but all the while he made his own mental notes.
When she had ended, the words came from him sharp and clear.  In the
short term, there were three key points in the speech which, if
improved, could substantially change its dramatic impact.  Moriarty
made his suggestions with confidence and authority, aware as he spoke
that the balance between them was changing, that he was now in
charge.

Eleanor was also aware of what was happening.  She nevertheless
responded well to his coaching.  They ran through their entire parts
three times in all, sitting facing each other throughout.  Moriarty let
each run-through take its course, uninterrupted, accepting her minor
errors in order to preserve the dramatic momentum.

Then, as they reached the end of their final scene for a third time,
there was silence.  Eleanor sat in front of him, her eyes scanning the
lines as if they had yet to give up some special secret.  Moriarty
looked at her intently.  The girl was completely absorbed.  He realised
that here was a keen dramatic intelligence at work.  More: sitting in
the stillness of the shadowy little Green Room, among the props of
productions long past, he was aware that for the first time he was with
a woman with whom he was completely at one.  But he was also aware that
this was no Alice Clay, and that he had simply no idea of how to
approach such a woman.

Eleanor looked up from her text.

"I'm ready," she said, standing up.

"For a full rehearsal?"  said Moriarty.  "Without books?"

"Yes," she said.  They pushed back the chairs to give themselves space.
Soon they were in full swing, until it had reached the point where
Moriarty cried,

"Why, there's a wench!  Come on, and kiss me, Kate."  As he said the
words Moriarty froze, unable to summon the courage to lay hands upon
his partner.

In a moment, he was assaulted by her soft, yielding mouth as her arms
pulled him to her.  He tried to pull away but she held him fast.
Moriarty's head swam.  Then finally, gasping, he was free.

"Well done, Moriarty," she said, laughing.  Later, he was to remember
that this was the first time she had omitted the appellation
"Mister'.

In the performance itself, an hour later, when the time for the kiss
came Moriarty decided to risk all, and to throw caution to the wind.
Ignoring the audience, he kissed Eleanor tenderly and passionately;
Eleanor responded at once, her own tongue darting, active in
response.

He could feel her pull him in towards her, the light, butterfly touch
of her hand at the back of his neck.  Moriarty held the kiss as long as
he dared, though not as long as he would have wished, and there was no
resistance.  He swept Eleanor off to resounding applause, his heart
throbbing as quickly as it had in the races of his youth; albeit for
different reasons.

The evening had been a resounding success.  After the play Moriarty was
the life and soul of the party, entertaining his hosts with stories of
America, of the Wild West, and of his plans for the future.  Both Mary
and Edwin, as well as Lady Grafton, had been quick to note the true
nature of Moriarty and Eleanor's final embrace, but Lord Grafton,
oblivious, was determined that his guests' time should not be wasted:
the Saturday morning would be spent in riding in the magnificent
Cumbrian countryside, while the afternoon as it happened was allocated
to attendance at Ambleforth sports.

The Ambleforth meeting had been held for centuries on the village
green, which nestled between two mountains, Black Tor and the Combe. It
was essentially a local meeting, though wrestlers and fell runners came
from as far as Carlisle and the Scottish borders to contend for money
prizes worth as much as three months' wages for an agricultural
labourer.

The various contests were no more than an English version of the
Highland games, minus the throwing events.  Not for these hardy men of
Cumberland and Westmoreland the spiked running shoes worn by the crack
pedestrians of London; indeed, many ran and jumped in bare feet.  By
contrast, the bulky Cumberland wrestlers wore gaudily-decorated
costumes and, indeed, there was even a prize for the best-dressed
competitor.

Throughout the afternoon the Earl and his family and guests sat,
sheltered from the sun, in a specially-constructed stand made of canvas
and wooden scaffolding.  In a tent nearby their servants dispensed iced
champagne and hors d'oeuvres.  Moriarty looked at the dales men in the
arena wiry and lean, faces thin and lined and reflected that here were
the 'two nations' from which he and his father had fled back in 1848.
Through chance, he now had a foot in both these worlds, but he knew
that his true interests lay with athletes running their guts out for a
few shillings.

Grafton's suggestion to him that he should run in one of the races had
come out of the blue.  Booth had let it drop that Moriarty had been a
champion foot racer and Grafton's response had been immediate.

"The fell race!"  he had said.  "The last event of the Games!"

Moriarty had begged to be excused, observing that his medical advisors
had counselled against serious racing.  But Grafton, bluff and
imperious, had insisted.  Then, still bent on refusal, Moriarty had
caught Eleanor's eye over her father's shoulder.  It was clear to him
what she wanted him to do.  He was lost.

An hour later, as Moriarty lined up with twenty-seven other runners for
the race, he looked up to the top of the Black Tor, a thousand feet
above.  At its peak was a stone cairn round which the runners had to
turn before making their way down.  From the games field the mountain
appeared a mixture of brown and green, the clouds casting shifting
shadows across its blend of grass and rock, the single snaky path to
the summit only partly visible.  About a half mile to the top, thought
Moriarty: perhaps eight minutes' hard running.  He looked around.  The
age-range of the other competitors surprised him everything from
smooth-chinned teenagers in moccasins to grizzled, white-bearded
veterans in walking-boots.

On the report of the gun, Moriarty sprinted into an immediate lead,
aiming to get to the path first.  He reached it with twenty yards to
spare and scrambled up its pebbled surface, throwing up a spray of dust
and stones behind him.  But there was no rhythm to this type of
running, and after only a couple of hundred yards of twisting and
turning up the bumpy, tussocky path he felt the fronts of his thighs
begin to ache.  Twenty yards later two runners passed him on either
side, elbowing him as they went past.  Twenty yards later three more
passed, two of them wearing walking-boots.  With only three hundred
yards of Black Tor covered Moriarty was in deep trouble, for the fronts
of his legs were close to spasm and he was having difficulty even in
trotting.  When six more runners passed him in the next hundred yards
he was almost beyond caring; his legs had gone, his breathing was
beginning to go and he wanted to retch.  This was not like any normal
race it presented him with problems that he had never faced before.

By the time he had staggered round the cairn at the top of Black Tor he
was back in fourteenth position, sweat pouring into his eyes as he
struggled for breath.

Moriarty's heart thudded like a hammer inside his chest.  Somehow,
despite his fatigue, he was pleased.  So much for medical advice; he
had scaled a mountain and was little the worse for it.  Then it came
up, his lunch, spilling out in a bitter green stream on to the grass
below him.  Moriarty, gasping, shook his head and looked down the
mountain.  Far below he could seen Grafton's white marquee.  Nearer
him, the dales men ignoring the path, were taking the fastest way down,
covering it in great bounds.  This is it, he thought.  Do or die.
Taking the mountain anywhere his feet could find it, he launched
himself down Black Tor, somehow holding his balance on thighs that he
hardly dared ask to support him.  Despite the uncertain and
unpredictable nature of the rocky terrain, he somehow found a rhythm,
quite unlike that of conventional running, and half-way down had picked
up seven places and was only a hundred and fifty yards away from the
front group of runners.  With a hundred yards to the foot of the hill
he was just eighty yards from the four leaders, who were crossing the
main road before entering the games-ground for a final lap.  By the
time they had entered the ground he was a bare fifty yards down and
closing fast, his breath coming in great, greedy gulps.

As he passed the Earl's stand on his right, every occupant stood; but
Moriarty was now flat-footed, legs bent, in a sweaty, desperate
approximation of running.  The leaders, thirty yards ahead of him, he
saw as a confused blur.

Then, with a furlong to go and Moriarty only ten yards behind, it
happened.  His running dropped to a wobbling, stumbling trot, an
athletic grotesque, as he fumbled for the cues that would re-activate a
muscular memory long forgotten.  Somehow he kept on his feet,
staggering from side to side, only blind, animal instinct keeping him
from falling.

The three leaders hit the tape.  Moriarty still kept coming,

oblivious to the crowd's roar as other runners entered the ground
behind him.  Eight yards from the line, he fell to his knees and
dropped forward on to his hands, sweat pouring into his eyes.  Then
suddenly triumph pierced through his pain, the glorious realisation
that he had done it, had pushed himself to his limits.  And nothing had
burst, nothing had broken.  He was alive.

He thought of Eleanor all the long way on the train back to London: he
seemed to have a lump stuck at the base of his throat which, however
much he tried to clear it, would not be removed.

After the race, he had seen nothing of her.  For Eleanor had been
hustled off by Lady Grafton, who had seen enough to know that the
relationship between the American and her daughter had gone far beyond
play-acting.  That evening, when Moriarty had fully recovered, it had
been time to take the train south, and when Grafton had seen his guests
off at Ambleforth station Eleanor was nowhere to be seen.

The Booths noted their young colleague's unnatural silence and, sensing
its source, were themselves quiet and restrained, Edwin confining
himself to discussion of the forthcoming production of Richelieu at
Covent Garden.  Lytton's play was a hoary old potboiler, but always
went down well, had plenty of big moments and gave Booth an opportunity
to express the flamboyant side of his nature.  The cast was already
chosen, and Barnett had been busy in London assembling costumes and
creating sets.  Moriarty, recalling how he had tried to tease Booth out
of his melancholy on their arrival from the United States, appreciated
his friend's concern, but found it difficult to raise enthusiasm for
the enterprise.  He knew that in Eleanor he had come up against someone
outside his experience, someone who, because of her class and
background, made his stage chivalries and Green Room banter seem
trivial and irrelevant.  Whatever the figure he cut before the
flickering footlights of the New York or London theatre, and whatever
his New World views on the British aristocracy, the fact was that he
was at best a mere actor, at worst the son of a crofter.  He travelled
to London with the

Booths in silence, his thoughts far from Richelieu and Covent Garden.

The omens for Richelieu, however, were good from the outset.  Deerfoot
had climaxed a series of seven successful races in three weeks, an
arduous schedule, by whipping three of the best men in England, White,
"Crowcatcher' Lang and Richards, over six miles, before 15,000
spectators at the Copenhagen Grounds, Manchester, forcing all but the
Crow-catcher to retire from the race.  Deerfoot's policy of injecting
repeated bursts of speed had found no answer from the hidebound English
professionals.

And, sure enough, Richelieu too was a triumph, Booth's art overcoming
the flimsy plot.  Even the London critics came close to admitting that
they might have been a mite hasty in their earlier assessments.  "Mr.
Booth, in his great final scene, seemed visibly to grow in the part'
acknowledged The Times.  Moriarty had smiled wryly on reading that
particular review, for he knew that Edwin, dressed in a flowing gown,
in that particular scene had stood on tiptoe throughout.

Booth was buoyant, and the decision was made to retain Richelieu to
within three days of their departure for Manchester with Richard III,
Hamlet and The Merchant, leaving precious little time for rehearsal in
the North.

The company left for Manchester on 16 August.  Moriarty's first glimpse
of the city did little to lift his lovesick spirits, for even in summer
the sun was blotted out by the pall of grit that spewed remorselessly
from its factories and mills.  As the train trundled through the seamy
rows of back-to-back houses and factories Moriarty recalled his days of
touring in Iowa and Kansas, and the endless open spaces of the West. It
was difficult to believe that Manchester and Kansas were even on the
same planet.

The performances went well, with Booth in top form, but it was from a
new young supporting actor, Henry Irving, that Moriarty was to learn
most.  For it was immediately clear to him that Irving was exceptional,
a man who put his stamp on everything he played.  When he was lago to
Booth's Moor there was no way even Booth could dominate the stage: it
was a meeting of equals.

The month in Manchester passed quickly, despite Mori arty's melancholy.
Both he and Booth continued to follow Deerfoot's progress, though now
through the sporting magazine Bell's Life.  Things were not going so
well for the Seneca athlete.  For Martin's Grand Tour of Champions had
turned into a shabby, tattered crew, lacklustre and weary, trudging
from venue to venue and carrying their portable 'arena' with them. This
arena consisted of several hundred yards of canvas and fencing which
the athletes themselves had to set up on convenient stretches of grass
to form an impromptu stadium, before charging the public sixpence a
time to watch their 'contests'.

It soon became clear to the sporting public that the races, occurring
almost every day of the week, were hardly more than exhibitions,
bearing little resemblance to true athletic competition.  Rumours had
begun to circulate that Deerfoot had a liking for firewater and by the
middle of the tour it was obvious that the Indian was well out of
condition.  By the end of August Martin was forced to cancel the
remainder of the programme in a blizzard of litigation.  For the first
time, the parallel progress of the tours of Booth and Deerfoot had
diverged sharply.

However, during his stay in Manchester Moriarty had developed other
contacts with English foot racing for the town was a hive of pedestrian
activity.  Match-races were held daily on any stretch of open space in
the area, with the big handicaps at the Copenhagen Grounds just outside
the city.

It was here, in the soot and grime of Manchester, that Moriarty was to
complete his athletic education, to learn of runners competing in
lead-soled shoes to deceive handicappers of 'ringers' from outside the
area, introduced by bookmakers to clean up local competition before
moving on to another part of the country, of the secrecy in which
trainers would enshroud their charges in order to prepare them for a
match-race or a big handicap.  It was thus in Manchester that Moriarty
first began to plan his future as actor, runner and manager.

Old Junius Brutus had always said he should never look at the audience;
not at least until the final curtain.  It was a dictum that Moriarty
had no difficulty in following, for if he were truly 'in the moment'
the audience was an irrelevance.

But, for some reason he would never understand, on that final night in
Manchester, while playing Laertes to Booth's Hamlet, Moriarty's eyes
had strayed to the front row of the stalls.  And there sat Eleanor. For
a moment he almost lost his concentration, and struggled to respond to
the next lines "I embrace it freely and will this brother's wager
frankly play.  Give us the foils.  Come on," which introduced the duel
with Hamlet.

When at last he had recovered himself, he embarked upon the fight with
a ferocity which surprised his partner.  Fortunately their choreography
had been well-planned, and Booth was able to hiss a warning to his
colleague to back off.  The words brought Moriarty to his senses.  For
the rest of the duel he was under control and 'died' perfectly.

It was another agonising twenty minutes at least before Moriarty was
able to take his curtain-call.  Eagerly his eyes roamed the front row,
seeking out Eleanor.  Her place was empty.  He felt his heart sink, and
Booth had once more to hiss a warning "Bow, you fool!"

A few minutes later Moriarty was making his way slowly backstage, his
head down.  At his shoulder, an exuberant Edwin Booth was full of talk,
bubbling with delight at the audience's enthusiastic response.  As soon
as they reached their tiny dressing-rooms, deep in the bowels of the
theatre, Moriarty went into his room and closed the door behind him.
For a few moments he sat staring into the cracked mirror.  With a long
sigh he peeled off his moustache and reached for his pot of cleansing
cream.  He smeared the greasy white substance on his face with both
hands, still staring into the mirror.  With another sigh he picked up a
cloth from the table and lifted it to his face.

It was then he heard a light knock on the door behind him.  Moriarty
did not even bother to wipe the cream from his face.  He leaped for the
door, overturning his chair as he did so.

Eleanor, dressed in blue velvet, and a marvelous, massive floral hat,
stood before him, her dark eyes sparkling.

She looked him squarely in the eye, her lips trembling as she stifled a
laugh.  Moriarty hastily wiped the cream from his face.

"That's better," she said.

For a moment Moriarty stood immobile.  Eleanor wrinkled her nose,
mock-seriously.

"So when do we go, Moriarty?"

"Go?"  The words tumbled from him.  "Go where?"

"West, of course," she said.  "To America."

Moriarty would always be grateful that the Earl of Grafton was a few
bricks short of a dozen.  For when back in July after the actors had
left Cumberland his daughter Eleanor had told him her first lie saying
that Moriarty had proposed to her Grafton, unlike his wife, had been
enthusiastic.  Like the rest of his family, he had been entranced by
Moriarty's tales of the Wild West, and it seemed only reasonable to him
that a fine, well set-up lass like Eleanor should wish to set off with
such a strapping fellow to the New World.

All that then remained for Eleanor was to bring Moriarty into her
little lie.  For Grafton's daughter had no doubt what faced her if she
spent the rest of her days in England.  Within a year she would be wed
to some vague, aristocratic nobody, within five years there would be a
couple of children and she would be marooned on some vast estate,
dedicated to a life of country sports and charitable works.  She had
known that Moriarty was her man from the first moment she had set eyes
upon him.  The Taming of the Shrew had merely set the seal upon their
union, even if Moriarty, in his own words, was not yet 'in the moment'.
She was realistic enough to know that their life would bear no
relationship to the tales of Western derring-do with which Moriarty had
regaled Grafton and his guests, but that was of no matter.  Moriarty
was the man, and if he were to be a pioneer then they would pioneer
together.

The Booths postponed their return to America in order to attend the
wedding.  Which was fortunate, for Mary Booth gave birth to a son,
Edwin, on 16 September.  Three Booths therefore attended the wedding of
Douglas Cameron and Eleanor Sinclair on 25 September in the tiny chapel
on the Grafton estate, and Edwin, in celebration of the happy event,

performed a series of excerpts from Shakespeare, including, for
Eleanor's benefit, that fateful sword-fight from Hamlet.

Mercifully, Lord Grafton, involved as he was in the
wedding-preparations, required less dissuasion than usual from
performing Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

The next day the couple made their way south with the Booths, just in
time for a final view of Deerfoot, who, his reputation in tatters after
the ignominy of Martin's 'circus', was tackling the world one-hour
record.

On 10 October 1862 Louis Bennett stood at his mark before 10,000
spectators on the cramped little 260 yard track at Brompton, London,
the cream of British foot-racing stretched around the track in front of
him.  The Indian had decided to finish his tour in style.  He had given
starts to every English runner in the race, from a quarter of a mile to
the veteran Jackson down to a hundred yards to England's best,
"Crowcatcher' Lang.

Deerfoot, now with a month of solid preparation behind him, was again
lean and hard, and throughout the next hour picked off his opponents
with ease, subjecting any who tried to stay with him to devastating
bursts of speed which left them straining in his wake.  With a lap to
go, having taken world records for nine, ten and eleven miles, he had
only the great Lang ahead of him, just twenty yards away, all the other
runners having retired.

The Indian went after his man with a will, the English crowd rising to
him.  With twenty yards to go the runners were almost level, but
Deerfoot, spent, could make no further impression.  The two men
staggered across the line locked together, to be engulfed by the
crowds.

To the Booths and Moriarty it seemed a dead heat.  But the smart money
had been on Lang and the decision was given to the Englishman, with
Deerfoot having to be content with a new world one-hour record, one
that was to endure far beyond his lifetime.

The tour was, for all practical purposes, over.  Booth gave two
dramatic readings in London and two more in the universities of Oxford
and Cambridge, and the company became tourists for a week, on Edwin's
insistence spending several days at 'the great man's birthplace' at
Stratford-upon-Avon.  As Moriarty and his new wife boarded the S.S.
Galatea at Southampton he reflected that both Booth and Deerfoot had,
in the end, come through in England, despite adversity.  But he,
Moriarty, who had travelled only in hope, had come back with the best
prize of all.

Eleanor had decided on the stage-name of "Eleanor Cameron' during the
honeymoon trip back to New York.

It was also on the voyage from Liverpool that Eleanor first began to
keep a diary.  She felt that she was travelling to a new life and this
was therefore an ideal time to keep a record of events.  At first she
wrote in secret, in the confines of her cabin, but when Moriarty came
upon her and gently teased her on her 'secret journal', she decided to
keep the diary openly, knowing that her husband would respect her
privacy.

It had been a working voyage, and Moriarty and the Booths had drilled
her remorselessly in the basic elements of acting.  Eleanor was an apt
pupil and quickly absorbed the mass of advice proffered to her.  She
proved an equally apt pupil when the day's dramatic lessons were
concluded.  Eleanor had now travelled beyond her first nights with
Moriarty when she had been stunned by the outrageous messages which her
nerve-ends had sent to her brain.  The couple were at that most
thrilling point of any relationship, when they would explore every
square inch of their partner's flesh, sharing the surprise and delight
of every new discovery.

She knew that Moriarty would take a long time to know, for both as
athlete and actor he had lived a life of self-concern, always working
within the boundaries of his own imagination and his own desires.  But
within him lay a great generosity, even a kind of nobility.  She
resolved that her task in life would be to turn Moriarty into a more
complete human being.

THE MAN FROM ST LOUIS

In their first years in the New York theatre and in their occasional
forays into the boondocks of Iowa and Kansas, Eleanor Cameron learned
the actress's craft, and learned also to be a resourceful and loving
partner.  And in 1865, with the assassination of President Lincoln by
Edwin Booth's brother, John Wilkes, it was her strength of character
which helped to bring Edwin through a period of despair during which
even his wife Mary could not reach him.

Then, in 1869, came Booth's disastrous venture in theatre management,
with his purchase of Booth's Theatre at 6th Avenue and 23rd.  Within a
year the project had collapsed in a plethora of debts.  Again, Eleanor
was a tower of strength, in 1871 helping Moriarty to bring Booth back
to the finest acting of his career.  But the Moriartys' forays to the
Mid-West had stimulated a taste in them for the thrill of touring.
After the War, the whole nation seemed to be moving West out into the
dry vastnesses of the Great Plains, and it was there, they reasoned,
that a new audience waited, eager for drama.  In late 1871, Moriarty
and Eleanor sold everything they had and set off.  Moriarty's first
Theatre of the West was born.

They had met Bern Muller in the summer of 1874 at the St.  Louis
Fair.

Bern was the only son of Karl Muller, a former member of the Hanau
Turnverein.  This was a politically radical German gymnastics club
which had, in the year of revolution of 1848, when Prussia and other
reactionary German states had invaded the state of Baden, held out with
its six hundred poorly-armed members against the finest army in Europe.
But after four weeks of bitter fighting the Hanau volunteers had
finally been defeated.  About two hundred and forty of them, including
Karl Muller, had reached the Swiss frontier and the rest had been
killed in action or shot as rebels after capture.  Muller had made his
way by foot across Switzerland and into France and for a few months had
scratched a living as an acrobat in a Paris circus.  Then, in May 1850,
like thousands of other political refugees he had travelled across the
Atlantic to the United States.

Karl Muller settled in Boston, where in 1851 he found a position as a
teacher of gymnastics in a German private school.  Two years later, he
married Marita Mauermeyer, a Latin teacher at the same school, and in
January 1854 Bern Muller was born.

Even before he could walk, young Muller was familiar with a variety of
physical skills.  By the age of eight, he was accomplished on parallel
and horizontal bars and at nine could perform a forward somersault from
a run.  Turnen competition began at eight in Boston's German community,
and young Muller was not only victorious in his first competition, but
went on to win every year until he was fourteen, in 1868.  That was the
year when he was first taken to the Boston Caledonian Games.

Bern had never before seen athletes in action.  The Scots and Irish
amazed him with their feats of strength in hammer, putting-stone and
caber, for he had never believed it possible that any man could hurl
such heavy weights such vast distances.  But it was the jumping and
running which fascinated him most, and in particular the sprinters,
their spikes clawing the soft turf of the Boston games field

It was the totality of the effort that attracted him the perfect, utter
commitment to cover short distances in a blaze of speed, without hint
of reserve.  From the moment he first saw sprinters, he knew that was
what he wanted to be.

In 1869 he entered the junior hundred-yard dash and, competing against
boys at least two years older, finished third.  In 1870 he won the
junior race and finished last in the final of the men's open
hundred-yard dash.  A year later, at the age of seventeen, Bern entered
for the men's hundred yards and the furlong and finished fourth in
both.

By now Bern was acting as assistant gymnastics instructor to his father
at the school, his body like a rock from years in the gymnasium.  He
did no specific sprint training, relying instead on the hard core of
fitness he had developed under his father's tutelage.

Bern's father believed that gymnastics was central to all sporting
skill, providing as it did a complete vocabulary of movement.  He
believed too that his son should be exposed to a wide variety of
disciplines; thus by his early teens Bern had competed with distinction
not only in local swimming meets but also in horseshoe-throwing and
rifle-shooting.

By 1871 he had become a regular competitor at 'picnic' games in the
Boston area during the summer months, making good money at every event
from hundred yards to high jump, but a win at the Boston Caledonian
Games eluded him.  There, the running events were dominated by hard
match-racers from New York to St.  Louis, men like the Irish sprinter
Reardon and the great distance-runner Moriarty; there was little hope
for a local boy against professionals of such calibre.

Then, in July 1873, after finishing third to Manderson at Boston in the
hundred yards, Bern met William Cummings.

Cummings, plump and swarthy, introduced himself as a backer and manager
of fighting men and foot racers  In his black suit and shiny bowler
hat, his belly straining at the buttons of his check waistcoat,
Cummings seemed to have made a good living from his work.

The manager had come to Boston for a match between his protege
Hutchings and the young Irish star Reardon for a wager of $200.
Hutchings had gone down to Reardon by a yard, losing Cummings over two
grand in bets, and the gambler had stayed on for the Caledonian Games,
hoping to recoup his losses.

But Hutchings had gone down again in both dashes, and it was the young
Muller who had caught Cummings's eye.  The Boston boy was raw, but he
had run six yards outside even time on rough grass.  With preparation,
reasoned

Cummings, he could trim four yards off that time, taking him into
championship class St.  Louis class.

After the race Cummings had approached Bern.  Two months' preparation
deep in the Adirondacks, twenty bucks a week folding money, win or
lose; then down to St.  Louis in September to take on the fastest men
in the States, for the St.  Louis Sprint Sweepstake.  This meant each
one of between ten and twenty runners putting up $200, winner take all.
If Muller won he picked up the total cash, and Cummings would cut him
in for ten per cent of all bets, which could come to another $2,000.

Cummings, an Irishman, was persuasive.  Bern could not lose, he argued:
even if he lost the race he would still have a couple of hundred bucks
in his pocket and a trip to St.  Louis behind him.  And his chances
were good, for two yards over evens would be enough to win, and
Cummings reckoned that a couple of months with his trainer Sergeant
Routledge would guarantee that time.  So what did he say?

It did not take Bern long to answer.  A week later he was established
in a rough log cabin deep in the Adirondacks, a few miles south of Lake
Placid, with a surly little ex-Union soldier called Archibald
Routledge.  The one-eyed Routledge was an American disciple of the
great Captain Barclay.  At first Bern had thought that the Captain
might have been Routledge's commanding officer in the Union Army, but
Routledge soon made it clear that the famous captain was an Englishman,
the father of modern athletic training.

The first week was spent in clearing Bern's bowels of all waste, using
an evil black potion of Routledge's own devising, and Bern's main
sprinting was done between the cabin and the log privy twenty yards
away.  This cleansing of the bowels was accompanied by daily 'sweats'
which were accomplished by long runs in the heat of summer clad in
long-Johns, woollen jersey and balaclava, followed by an hour in bed
swathed in blankets.

It might have been thought that, with all the sweating, Bern might have
been allowed the relief of a modicum of liquid.  But not so, for
Sergeant Routledge had extended the Captain's already harsh regime by
denying his charge all but the minimum of fluids.  Bern Muller
therefore spent most of the day dehydrated, dementedly seeking water.
Once, when Routledge had caught Bern desperately licking moisture from
the leaves of bushes after a sudden rainfall, he had punished the young
sprinter by pushing him out on yet another torrid hill run.

Routledge was not a coach, but he was a conditioner of men.  He viewed
it as his primary task to bring Bern Muller down to one hundred and
fifty-five pounds of bone and muscle, and this he would do even if he
had to kill Muller in the process.  Thus, within a month, by which time
Bern had reached his target weight, Routledge had achieved his main
aim.  For the next four weeks he confined himself to gun-starts and
time-trials, gradually honing and sharpening Muller by trial and error
into an efficient sprinting machine.  By a week before departure for
St.  Louis, Bern had run 10.3 seconds for a hundred yards on a flat
stretch of grass on the meadow below the cabin, under the scrutiny of
his backer, William Cummings.

It was then that Cummings had asked Bern to choose a nom-de-guerre,
which was the custom of all professional runners.  Bern had read many a
dime novel featuring a buckskin hero called "Buck Brady Terror of the
plains', and he immediately chose Buck for his first name.  Although he
spoke hardly a word of German, he was proud of his German antecedents
and for his surname decided on the English equivalent of Muller.  Thus,
on 1 August 1874, Bern Muller became Buck Miller.

Buck's trip to St.  Louis was undertaken in conditions of the utmost
secrecy.  Before leaving the Adirondacks he had, on Routledge's orders,
grown a moustache, and, wearing clothes more appropriate to a man of
fifty, he was shepherded to Chicago, where he was sequestered for a day
on the top floor of the Grand Union Hotel.  Thence he was taken, in the
company of Sergeant Routledge, on 7 September, two days before the
race, to a farmhouse just outside St.  Louis to stay with an elderly
Irish couple called McCarthy.

The St.  Louis Fair was dedicated to the holy pursuit of the fast buck.
Centred on the newly-built St.  Louis Racecourse, the Races were a
hotbed of gambling based on horse-racing, foot-racing, prizefighting,
cock fighting and dog-fighting.  The

Races were therefore a magnet to every gambler, pickpocket and whore in
the West, offering as they did a full four days of dedication to the
goddess Chance.

Billy Joe Speed had arrived two days before Buck and promptly lost all
but his last hundred dollars on a trotting horse called Pretty Sally.
He had at once entered a one-hundred-and-fifty yards handicap dash.
Billy Joe's handicap, he being a stranger, was not generous at three
yards, but he was nevertheless giving away up to ten yards in starts,
with such 'cracks' as the Irishman Reardon and the Indian on scratch
behind them.  However, Billy Joe had picked up his field by one hundred
yards and was still a short yard ahead of the fast-closing Indian when
he hit the tape.  The prize of a hundred dollars plus five hundred in
side bets gave him a renewed feeling of confidence in his left-hand hip
pocket, but he decided not to risk another handicap race against
Reardon and the Indian where the handicapper, having now seen him in
action, would undoubtedly pare down his start to a more realistic
level.

So Billy Joe had allowed himself some relaxation, and had been
booze-blind for two days on a local version of Taos Lightning before
returning to the Races to view the final day's sport.

In those two days of Billy Joe's debauchery, Moriarty had distinguished
himself in another way, winning both half-mile and mile handicaps from
scratch.  But the shorter distance had been a close-run thing, both
Moriarty and a young Southern boy called La Salle hitting the tape
together at exactly two minutes four seconds, the fastest time ever
recorded in St.  Louis.  Moriarty reflected that, at thirty-six years
of age, some of the sap had gone out of his legs and that this was
beginning to tell over the shorter distances.  But in the mile he had
shown a clean pair of heels to a field of thirteen runners, some almost
half his age, winning easily in a fifth of a second inside four minutes
forty seconds.

In the stands, Eleanor watched with a mixture of pleasure and dismay,
for as long as Moriarty could still whip the best of American foot
racers so long would he continue his wanderings and delay his plan to
set up a permanent Theatre of the West in San Francisco.  Still, she
could not complain,

for already thirty thousand dollars lay snug in the San Francisco
vaults of A. P. Wagstaffe, banker; fifty thousand more and the Theatre
of the West might become a reality.  And today's haul of a thousand
dollars would swell the coffers even further.

The St.  Louis trip had been more athletic than aesthetic.  Thus it had
ever been since their first visit there in 1866.  They had presented no
full-length plays, or even excerpts, instead confining themselves to
two drama readings at the Barn Theatre and a guest appearance at
Colonel Blincoe's Hall of Fantasies.  St.  Louis had, however, given
Eleanor the breathing-space to repair costumes and purchase fresh
horses for the final part of the season, which would start in Dodge.
St.  Louis was fun; it gave Moriarty the opportunity to be young again
and earn money at the same time, while for Eleanor it was a brief
respite before a period of intensive travel.

Moriarty had sought out Billy Joe and Buck directly after his first
victory, for he had long been looking for one partner, and possibly
two, for a speculative venture which contained, he told Eleanor, 'all
the best elements of both sport and drama."  But Speed had vanished
from sight immediately after his victory, while Buck had been closely
guarded by Cummings' bruisers.  Then, in a melee in the refreshment
tent on that last day of the Races, Moriarty had suddenly come upon
Billy Joe standing by his side, whey-faced from his two days of
drinking, downing a beer.  Moriarty introduced himself to Billy Joe,
who seemed to know nothing of the older man's victories, and invited
the young Texan to sit in the stands as his guest.  Billy Joe agreed,
and so, on the morning of 11 September 1874, he, Moriarty and Eleanor
sat watching the heats of the hundred yards sweepstake, while Moriarty
explained the nature of his venture.

The race-course was no place for fast times in the dash, for the grass,
pock-marked by the hooves of six heats of trotters earlier in the day,
was bumpy and uneven and the sprinters were running into a stiff
head-wind.  Fifteen runners had each put up two hundred dollars and had
been divided into three heats, with the first two in each heat going
into the final.

Moriarty had liked the look of Buck Miller from the beginning.  The
Boston boy won his heat easily in six yards outside evens, two-tenths
of a second faster than the next fastest, a little Mexican called
Gomez.  Hutchings, who had whipped Buck in Boston, only just made the
final, finishing second in the last heat.

Moriarty decided to give young Miller a few moments to cool down, then
walked down through the milling racecourse crowds towards Buck's tent
behind the stands.  But as he approached he saw that it was guarded by
two of Cummings' prizefighters who stood impressively, arms folded,
their faces an argument he couldn't win.  To Moriarty it made sense:
with only a couple of hours to go before the final Cummings was keeping
a close watch on his man.  He therefore decided to put a little more on
Buck's back, and made his way to his bookmaker, the little Jew, Len
Levine.  He was surprised to find that the odds on Buck had gone up to
evens from two to one on, while Hutchings' odds had dropped to evens
from three to one against.  So something was up.  Big, late money was
therefore being laid on Hutchings, indicating that there was a coup in
the air.  Moriarty made his way back to Buck's quarters, this time
taking a back route, so that he would reach the rear of the tent.

With two hours to go, Buck was feeling good.  He lay back on his
camp-bed while the impassive Routledge gently rubbed liniment into his
legs.  The semi-final heat had been easy and he had had two yards or
more to spare, of that he was certain.  With fifteen runners in the
sweepstake, it would be three thousand silver dollars waiting for him
in the stake holders tent at the finish.  He could already feel the
money heavy in his pocket.  It had all been worth it the laxatives, the
sweats, the endless miles in the Adirondacks and now it was only a
couple of hours away.

Suddenly, he realised Cummings was standing over him.

"Dandy," he said, in his soft Irish brogue.  "A fancy piece of running,
if ever I saw one."

Buck sat up on both elbows.  Thanks, Mr.  Cummings," he said.

Cummings leaned over the bed and Buck winced as he took in the stale
smell of beer and cigars.

"And how are you feeling about the final?"

"I can take it for you, Mr.  Cummings."

"Of course you can, m'boy," said Cummings, his patron.  "Only man here
can beat Buck Miller is the Indian his self eh Routledge?  And he ain't
running."

Routledge nodded and continued to knead Buck's calves.

Cummings withdrew from his coat pocket a transparent glass bottle which
appeared to contain a dark brown cough mixture.

"Got a little pick-me-up for ye here, Buck.  Give you an extra yard."

Buck lay back.  "No need, Mr.  Cummings, thank you kindly."

Cummings gave Routledge a veteran's look and the trainer stopped
massaging Buck's legs and wiped his hands on a rough towel.  He made
his way to the entrance of the tent and closed the flaps before making
his way back to the bed.

"Money in the bank, Buck me boy," said Cummings softly, taking a large
spoon from a table beside the bed.  Something in Cummings' voice caused
Buck to rise again on both elbows.  He saw that the two bruisers now
stood, with Routledge, above him, one on each side, as Cummings slowly
poured the brown fluid on to the spoon.

"Part of the training programme, Buck me boy," said Cummings softly.

Before Buck could move the two thugs had pinned him to the bed.  At the
same time Routledge swiftly pulled open his jaws.  Cummings ladled the
spoonful down Buck's throat.  He coughed reflexly, splattering the two
heavies.  It made little difference.  Cummings poured out another large
spoonful and again ladled it down Buck's throat; this time it stayed
down as Buck strained, impotently, tears and sweat streaming down his
cheeks.  Cummings nodded to his three helpers and Buck, spluttering and
coughing, was released.

"Run your heart out, me beauty," Cummings said.  "You got no chance."
He nodded once more to the other men and slipped the bottle and spoon
into a jacket pocket.  Even before they had left the tent Buck had
begun to retch.

Moriarty, standing at the rear of the tent, heard it all.  Even before
Cummings had left the tent he was running through the crowds towards
Professor Tancredi's Medicinal Show.  He had a good idea what Buck had
been given: a violent emetic, calculated to bring him to the line a
mere shadow.  He cursed himself for not having seen it earlier, when
the odds on Hutchings had suddenly started to drop.  Hutchings had been
their man from the beginning, from the summer when he had lost to
Reardon and had gone down again at the Boston Caledonian Games.  Buck
had merely been the decoy.

As soon as he reached Tancredi's tent he blurted out to The Professor'
what had happened.  Tancredi's response was swift.  Of the potions
which he sold most were merely alcohol-rich placebos, but some did work
and Hiawatha's Snake Juice was one of them, being an excellent antidote
for stomach upsets.  Armed with a bottle, and having advised the
Professor to put a hundred dollars on Buck's nose, Moriarty rushed back
to the tent.

It was no longer guarded; there was now no need.  When Moriarty entered
Buck was on his hands and knees on the floor, green bile spewing from
his mouth.  Moriarty pulled him to his feet and on to the edge of the
camp-bed.  He dragged a sheet from the bed and ripped off a corner,
wetting it in a bucket of water that stood by the side of the bed. With
this he wiped the sick from Buck's face.  The runner's eyes were
closed, his mouth open and slack.

"Now listen to me," hissed Moriarty, taking the stopper from the bottle
which he withdrew from his pocket.  "And listen good.  You're going to
come out of this smelling of roses."

Buck opened his eyes and Moriarty answered his unspoken question.

"Doesn't matter who the hell I am," he said.  "I've got money on your
back, that's all that matters."

He handed Buck the bottle.  "Get this down you," he said.  "We'll make
those sons of bitches pay."

Buck blinked and took a tentative swig, coughing as he did so.  It
tasted like liquid chalk.  Moriarty gave a sidelong glance at the
entrance to the tent and tapped the bottle.

"Take some more," he said.  Buck took another swig, the tears spurting
from his eyes.

"Now lie down," said Moriarty, withdrawing his watch from his pocket.
"We've got exactly one hour to go.  So just you pin back your ears, and
run to orders."

An hour later, when Buck Miller emerged from his tent, he looked
dreadful.  Pale and unsteady, and enveloped in a blanket, he walked
with Cummings and Routledge through the crowds to the start of the
race, pausing occasionally to give a racking cough.  By the time he had
reached the start, odds against him had risen to three to one and
Moriarty had put on another three hundred bucks.

It was a good race, for Hutchings was no slouch.  At thirty yards he
and Buck were locked together, with the others at least two yards back.
At fifty yards Buck edged ahead and from then to the finish gradually
eased away from the older runner, taking him by a clear yard at the
line.  But Buck did not stop running.  Instead, he maintained his
speed, zigzagging through the crowd towards the prize-tent, a hundred
yards beyond the finish.

Behind him, an enraged Cummings and his henchmen stumbled through the
milling crowds in hopeless pursuit.

Entering the tent, sweat-streaked, Buck demanded his stake, as a few
yards away, on a megaphone, the track referee announced his victory.
Seizing his pouch of three thousand dollars from the official, Buck
rushed out again and vaulted over the race-track rail, sprinting for
the road leading from the track.  There stood Moriarty and his wagon
and behind him a mounted Billy Joe Speed and a spare horse.  Within
minutes they were galloping on their way west, far from the clutches of
Cummings, Routledge and their cronies.

THE KANGAROO START

It was a day in mid-August, 1875, and the guns had not stopped since
dawn.

Billy Joe and Buck had begun by practising their speed of draw with
empty pistols, each taking turn at 'calling' his partner, standing
there like statues in the morning mist, first side by side, then facing
each other.  Neither man took count of the number of draws, though
somehow by some unspoken agreement each knew when it was time to
conclude one area of practice and move on to the next.  Second had come
the draw and fire practices, using some old Arbuckle's cans placed
twenty yards distant, perched on rocks.  Here the men were matched
perfectly, the cans spinning off into the dust almost simultaneously as
they drew, as if jerked away by some ghostly hand.  Finally, the cans
were thrown into the air and hit in flight.  There had been occasional
misses, but precious few.

By the end of the practice session no one watching the two men could
have separated them with confidence, for no matter who 'called' both
often appeared to draw, cock and point simultaneously.  Surprisingly,
it did not appear a competitive affair; rather, each man constantly
helped the other, suggesting changes in stance, hand-position and angle
of gun-butt.  It was as if Billy Joe and Buck sought together for some
absolute moment when reaction, reflex and action would flow into a
fluid and perfect whole.  But behind the co-operation, the striving for
perfection, there was, too, an unspoken struggle, tinged with
bitterness.  As ever, it all came easily to Billy Joe.  Two-gun
cross-draw, fanning, left-handed draw whatever new practice they turned
to, it was the Texan who was the first to master it.  Behind him
plodded dour, dark Buck, taking twice as many attempts to reach what
the golden-haired Billy Joe achieved immediately, with ease and grace.
But Buck, performing repetition after repetition, would eventually get
there and in the end was often a shade faster than his friend.  And
Billy Joe would never know how much practice went on at night, long
after he was asleep.

Well satisfied with their morning's work, Billy Joe and Buck walked up
towards the wagon, where Eleanor and Mandy Boone were preparing
breakfast.

Moriarty looked up as the two men approached the pit-fire, above which
stood a three-legged skillet spluttering with bacon.  He pulled out his
watch from his waistcoat pocket and inspected it.

"You boys must have worked up a fair appetite out there," he said in
his deep, morning voice, turning the bacon with a fork in his other
hand.  "Sounded like Bull Run."  He beckoned them to sit on their
saddles, which lay beside the camp-fire.

Mandy came from the wagon and handed them each a tin plate, smiling.
"You know what they always say.  Practice makes perfect."

"Practice makes permanent, more like," growled Moriarty.  He sat in
front of the fire as Mandy doled out the biscuits and bacon.  He poured
some steaming Arbuckle's and handed it to Buck just as Eleanor joined
them, immaculate as always in her gingham dress with its high, white
collar.

"Who's top man?  Still Billy Joe?"  she asked, mock-innocently.

Buck, his face masking his displeasure, nodded.  "Not much in it," he
said.  "Wouldn't like to live off the difference."

Moriarty grunted and handed a mug of coffee to him as Buck added: "But
it don't tell us much."

"How dye mean?"  said Billy Joe.  His tone too was level, betraying
nothing about his feelings.

"Just like I say," said Buck.  "It ain't real."

"I think I know what Buck means," said Eleanor, glancing at each of the
younger men in turn.  "Firing at cans and rocks:

it's a bit like us rehearsing.  You may know the lines, but it's never
the same as being in front of a live audience."

Moriarty forked a piece of fried bread and placed it on his plate.
"Mandy's father said it all, back in Canyon City," he said.  "You got
to be willing.  Your fancy-dan shot isn't used to having the split part
of a second between his living and his dying.  The gunfighter is
schooled to kill.  He's not a man whose nerves trouble him in a tight
moment."

Buck nodded.  "You got it, Moriarty," he said.  "If he ain't an apt
scholar at his business in the early beginning he gets killed and never
is heard of no more."

"This is no fit subject for breakfast discussion," said Eleanor, aware
of how the conversation was developing.  "I've never seen much point in
all this gun-practice every morning anyway.  Just tell me this has any
of you ever fired one of those wretched things at anyone?"

There was silence.  Buck and Billy Joe chewed on, both men gazing
sullenly forward into the fire.

"It's a dangerous world, Eleanor," said Moriarty.  "The boys have got
to learn how to take care of themselves."

Eleanor looked at Buck and Billy Joe.  There was no point in arguing.
Her face relaxed into a smile.  "I suppose you're right," she said. "So
what are our future plans, husband?"

Moriarty scratched his nose.  "No point in trying the English Method
again for a while," he said.  "Takes too long to set up, though the
money's good.  We'll try Diamond City first.  Then maybe Fort Hall. And
there's a street dash up in Virginia City in three weeks: always good
pickings there.  We'll play it straight as usual: let Billy Joe run on
his merits."

"And what about me?"  asked Buck.

"I reckon we'll call it a day for you for this season," said Moriarty
flatly.

Buck's face fell and Eleanor nudged Moriarty in the ribs.

"Leastways, for the big-money races," he quickly added.  "But I've got
great plans for you, Buck.  I see you taking on the long sprints next
year, a furlong, maybe longer.  You've got bottom, we all know that,
but we've got to find you the right race.  Meantimes, we've got the
shows to put on, and in Virginia City it's lago for you, Desdemona for
Mandy here."

Ill

Buck shook his head.  "I hate lago," he said.  "He's so 'ornery."

"Then you got no problems," said Billy Joe, laughing.  "Just act
natural."

Buck scowled.

"But you do it well, Buck," insisted Eleanor, providing him with
another thick rasher of bacon whilst applying her toe to Billy Joe's
rump.

Buck, mollified, turned towards her.  "You think so?"

"Eleanor's right," interjected Mandy, replenishing Buck's mug and
studiously ignoring that of Billy Joe.  "You're the best lago ever came
to Canyon City."

Billy Joe grunted and, leaning forward, poured his own coffee.  "And
just how many times you seen Othello in Canyon City?"

"Twice," said Mandy, fiercely.  "And excerpts at the drama club.  And
none of them a patch on Buck here."

Buck's spirits visibly revived.  He shook his head.  "That lago," he
said.  "If'n only I knew why he was so go damned 'ornery."

"No one knows that, Buck," said Moriarty.  "Not even Shakespeare
himself, though we can take a good guess.  I've seen it played every
which way.  Perhaps it's because Othello's a nigra with a white woman,
perhaps it's just envy, 'cos he's a leader of men.  But whatever the
reason, you've got to play him as a scheming son-of-a-bitch."

Buck nodded.  "And are we doing Davy Crockett?"  he said.  "Do I get to
play Crockett?  I'd like that."

Moriarty speared the last piece of bacon from the skillet and smiled.
"Whatever you say, Buck," he said.  'lago one night, Davy Crockett the
next."

So it was decided.  After Diamond City, Billy Joe, then Moriarty, Mandy
and Eleanor would meet at Fort Hall, entering the camp a day apart.
There might be fancy pickings from the boys in blue who always had a
fast man.  Buck would take a separate trail to Virginia City to arrive
first and assess the situation with their local 'spy', the schoolmarm
Belinda Fyfe.  Two days later Moriarty and his party would arrive,
start rehearsals and 'discover' a promising young travelling actor,
Buck Miller, and bring him into their company.

Billy Joe Speed would then arrive a day later and show more capacity
for the alcoholic pleasure of Taos lightning than for the
running-path.

From the diary of Eleanor Cameron, 28 August 1875 The reviews in
Diamond City were excellent.  I had thought Moriarty over-optimistic in
casting Mandy so early in the lead role in The Drunkard's Daughter, for
tara diddle of this type needs to be played to the hilt, and this is
usually difficult for a novice.  But our little ingenue came through
with flying colours, even if she did dry up half-way through the second
act.

Certainly, Moriarty was delighted, as he had every reason to be.

He was equally pleased with Billy Joe's performance (running under his
real name, Clark) in the handicap street race.  Giving starts of up to
ten yards, he won by a clear yard, gaining us a thousand dollars.  Then
he challenged any man in the town over fifty yards on scratch terms, he
to be handicapped by carrying a 281b rail on his shoulders.  Moriarty
staked a thousand dollars at three to one on Billy Joe, who just took
his challengers on the line.

From all this competition Buck was kept apart, as Moriarty is holding
him under wraps for another attempt next year at the English Method.
This makes sense, with a mustachioed Billy Joe running here in
disguise; but it is clear that Buck is still unhappy at all the
attention that Billy Joe is being given.  Moriarty assures him that it
will even up, in the long run, but I seriously doubt if Buck sees it
that way.

Now on to Virginia City, where our 'spy' tells us the best foot racers
in the territory will soon gather.  For myself, I look forward to
playing Gertrude to Moriarty's Prince in the bedroom scene, and to
tutoring Mandy to play Desdemona in her bedroom scene in Othello.

Buck Miller read and re-read the letter all the way to Virginia City,
in particular the part relating to the Street Dash.  By the time he had
reached the town the letter was crumpled and stained.

113 i

'..  . the distance of the Dash is said to be one hundred and forty
yards, but I have paced it several times at a hundred and forty-six, so
Billy Joe's swift finish could be of considerable value.  It is uphill
for the first forty yards and bumpy, then a dip at Turk's Livery
Stables, which is often shitty, so Billy Joe must watch his footing
there.  The final fifty yards take a slight curve and there is another
sudden slope twenty paces before the finish.

I know of one local boy, a barman, Wallace by name, who has disposed of
most of the fast men around this vicinity.  He has clocked fifteen
seconds for the distance, but rumour has it that he has run two yards
faster in a secret trial for his backer, a tinhorn gambler called Cyrus
O'Shaughnassy.  Word here is that a swift Scotchman called Baird is
being brought in from San Francisco and an Italian, Dalla Barba, from
Los Angeles, both rumoured to be speedy, but I have no clockings for
either of them.  I look forward to your arrival, as the past two months
here have come hard to me.  I sincerely trust that this information has
been worth all the trouble.

I hope to see you all soon and advise you, as usual, to get moving and
pump all the way to the finish!  Yours, Belinda Fyfe'

This was the second time that they had used Belinda Fyfe as a 'scout',
the first occasion having been at Blade City, Kansas, a year before.
Belinda, who had been the resident post mistress had been entranced by
the Theatre of the West and had kept Moriarty posted on the doings of
the Blade City sporting fraternity through her discreet questioning of
an eight-year-old pupil, the son of one of the town's leading gamblers.
Belinda's inside information had resulted in Mori-arty's wallet being
two thousand dollars heavier on his departure.

Belinda longed to be an actress but, though possessing an attractive
face and figure, she had no talent for the stage.  Virginia City would
be her last work for them, for she was now betrothed to a banker,
Marcus Alien, now mercifully away on business in San Francisco.

The letter had been addressed to Moriarty, and they had picked it up at
Fort Hall, where Billy Joe had won two hundred bucks in bets in a
fifty-yard sack race against some soldiers, and later had given the
camp's best runner ten yards' start in a race for another two hundred
dollars.  Then, starting on his back, Billy Joe had picked up the
camp's best sprinter on the tape, and gave him a further five yards'
start in a decider, pocketing another two hundred dollars.  "Like
taking candy from children," Billy Joe had sighed contentedly.

Billy Joe had entered Fort Hall separately from Moriarty, a day behind
him, as he intended to on his arrival in Virginia City, for they
planned to keep their distance from each other before the Virginia City
Street Dash, in order to give them freedom in laying their bets.  Any
hint of a direct link between Moriarty and Billy Joe would have
twitched the sensitive antennae of O'Shaughnassy and other Virginia
City men of a sporting disposition.

Moriarty had decided upon his Selections from Shakespeare for Fort
Hall, and had enrolled the wives of the officers to take part in minor
supporting roles, always a popular device to attract large and
attentive audiences.

Their three days at Fort Hall passed pleasantly and profitably.  All
was now ready for the last big hit of the summer season, the Virginia
City Street Dash.

The man had entered Belinda's darkened bedroom stealthily, carrying his
spurred Mexican boots in his hands.  He stood in the gloom at the door,
watching as the young woman took her afternoon siesta.

He undressed slowly, as if the disengagement of each button might
awaken the sleeping girl, lowering his vest and shirt gently to the
ground beneath him, then his trousers.  Finally, he unbuttoned his
white long-Johns and peeled them off.

Belinda gave an involuntary sigh and turned in her sleep as the man,
tiptoeing towards the bed, suddenly trod on a loose floor-board.
Belinda continued to sleep, the sound of her breathing filling the
darkened room.  The intruder placed one knee on the bed, causing the
springs to creak.  Belinda awoke abruptly and, turning, propped herself
up, pulling her nightgown over her bosom.

"Sir!  I do declare!"  she cried, fumbling with the buttons of her
gown.  "You have me at a disadvantage."

"I sure do hope so," said Buck, crawling towards her along the bed,
pulling the blankets over him and drawing her to him.  For a moment
they kissed each other greedily, then she pulled herself away.

"Moriarty got my letter?"  she said.

"Yes."

"Then recollect what I advised."

"Committed it to memory," he said, nestling into her.  He paused.  "You
know: human beings are the only animals that make love face to face?"

Belinda shook her head, and her head continued to shake, only soon to
an inner rhythm, as Buck's attentions became more insistent.  Gasping,
she gathered herself and put both hands on Buck's shoulders.

"You never heard tell of preliminaries?"  she reproached him.

"You knew I was on my way, so I reckon you have been doing your
preliminaries all afternoon," he replied, moving back into a steady
rhythm.

"You haven't answered my question," she said, gulping.

"About your letter?"

"Yes."

"Get moving and pump all the way to the finish?  No problem, that's
exactly what I plan to do."

Moriarty and Eleanor were staying at the Eldorado, and had begun to
play, as a preamble to Othello and Davy Crockett, excerpts from
Richelieu, Mose in New York and Rory O'More.  A week later Buck and
Billy Joe had arrived, a day apart.  Buck established himself at the
Palace and Billy Joe at the Excelsior, the stomping ground of Cyrus
O'Shaughnassy, the leader of Virginia City's gambling fraternity.

There was still a week to the Street Dash, and as Billy Joe casually
strolled the main street on that first still Sunday morning he found
that Belinda Fyfe had done her work well.  The distance was indeed one
hundred and forty-six yards exactly, and the terrain just as she had
described it in her letter.  She had also been useful in checking out
such matters as the likely entrants, the honesty of judges and
timekeepers and the most reliable bookmakers.

Moriarty's arrival in Virginia City could not have come at a better
time, for Eustace L. Chanfrau, the son of Frank S. Chanfrau, the
creator of Ned Buntline's character "Mose', which he had played with
great success in New York in the 1850s, was in town with his wife
Sarah.  Chanfrau, rubicund and bucolic though only in his mid-thirties,
and an inveterate gambler, was no longer an actor, but was now, with
Sarah, peddling Dr.  Spooner's Snakewater Oil and the Incredible
Magnetic Belt.  He was, however, delighted to make a few extra
greenbacks by playing nightly in Moriarty's Theatre of the West.

The rest of Moriarty's casts were local amateurs and it was in their
training that Eleanor and Moriarty were to find their greatest
pleasure.  It always amazed them how even the most repressed Baptist
matron nursed a secret desire to perform on stage.  Equally, it
surprised them how much raw talent often lay behind a facade of
whale-bones and high-necked bodices.  It was all there: it only
required release.  And that was their job to let out what was within.

Ultimately it often came down to a few simple mechanisms.  Thus Eleanor
and Moriarty would have their amateurs play charades in order to relax
them, and a few slugs of Spooner's Snakewater Oil (90 per cent alcohol)
would complete the task.

"Unless ye become as little ones ye cannot enter the kingdom of art,"
Moriarty would boom as his volunteers pretended to be flowers or trees.
Then, as his pupils began visibly to glow, Take the stage as the bird
takes the air; it's your medium, ladies and gentlemen."

Whatever the limitations of Moriarty's charges' performances, there was
never any question of modifying Shakespeare's plays or playing down to
his audiences, for many knew the classics off by heart.  Thus, although
Moriarty produced Othello with a cast which doubled up on parts, the
text was played to the letter.  More liberties could be taken with
Davy

Crockett, and there Moriarty allowed Buck to ham it up outrageously.

In the second act the heroine, Eleanor (played by Mandy) reads to Davy
(played by Buck) the ballad of Young Loch-invar, but just then the
howling of wolves is heard.  Soon the wolves are throwing themselves at
the door of the cabin.  Eleanor: Nothing can save us.  Davy: Yes, it
can.  Eleanor: What?

Davy (kissing Eleanor): The strong arm of a backwoodsman.  (Davy bars
the door with his arm.  The wolves attack the house.  Their heads are
seen through an opening in the hut and under the door).

CURTAIN

The curtain to that second act always dropped to a standing ovation and
Buck milked it for all he was worth.  Even Billy Joe, frowning at the
back of the hall as Buck and Mandy embraced, was usually drawn to
reluctant applause.

The Chanfraus' final performance in Othello as Cassio and Emilia ended
less successfully.  Eustace Chanfrau was in debt to the Mayor for two
hundred dollars on a game of stud and Moriarty could hardly keep his
face straight as, thrusting a dagger to his chest in the final scene,
he watched in the wings the 'dead' Emilia, played by Sarah Chanfrau,
hurriedly packing in preparation for a quick getaway with her husband,
a 'dismayed' Cassio, still onstage.

From the diary of Eleanor Cameron, 14 September 1875 Never have we
played Othello with such success.  Even hardened Southerners, who have
in the past voiced audible objections during the love-sequences, were
swept away by the quality of the production.  Buck was a particular
success; he seems to have an intuitive feeling for the part of lago,
for the cancer of envy of Othello which consumes him.  The Sawmill
Theatre is one of the best in the West, its stage a perfect size for
our smaller productions, thus removing the need for large numbers of
amateur players.  Davy Crockett, which we played on two consecutive
nights, alternating casts, is a dreadful piece of old rubbish,

but the denizens of Virginia City loved every minute of it, cheering
and halooing when Buck slew four Indians in the final sequence.  Alas,
the truth is that many of our followers see little difference between
the mawkish melodrama of Mayo's Davy Crockett and the true red meat of
Shakespeare's classic.  But we can only do our best, whether it is
Shakespeare, Ned Buntline or Frank Mayo.  And that we are assuredly
doing.

One small cloud has, however, appeared upon the horizon.  At the
curtain of Davy Crockett, with Mandy playing the female lead, Buck
pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth, ending the play as we
always do.  As I stood in the wings I caught sight of Billy Joe's face.
There can be no doubt as to where his interests lie.

The Dash was a big-money race, being a $100-a-man sweepstake, offering
anything up to $3,000 to the winner, plus side bets.

Billy Joe was not known in Virginia City and his entry for the Dash
caused little comment, for the race had always drawn entries from
optimistic cowhands whose only credentials were that they had whipped
the best men on their ranch.  They were invariably left for dead in the
first twenty yards by the hard men from Los Angeles or San Francisco,
and from their standpoint their $100 entry money might as well have
been thrown down the nearest drain.

Moriarty found that he could place money on Billy Joe at as high as
three to one, and he and Buck duly laid bets quietly through the week,
all over town, until they had well over five thousand dollars on Billy
Joe's back.  In the meantime, the Texan maintained a low profile,
keeping his spiked shoes well hidden in the bottom of his chest of
drawers and avoiding any discussion of running or runners during his
frequent forays to the bar of the Excelsior.  Billy Joe in fact drank
little, for he hated liquor, but Moriarty thought it essential, to keep
the odds up, that Billy Joe appear a drinking man.  So each night Billy
Joe took a bottle of redeye up to his room and poured its contents into
the roots of a potted plant, which amazingly survived for three days
before expiring.

Dalla Barba arrived on Thursday, Baird on Friday, and Buck was duly
despatched to check them out.  The Italian was short for a sprinter,
barely five foot six inches, but Buck could see that, even in his
street clothes, the man was thick in the thigh and big in the haunches,
and that meant he was probably swift over the first fifty yards. Baird,
on the other hand, was a tall, angular Scot, a red-haired giant who
sported a tiny chin-beard.  He gave all the signs of being a man
well-versed in the business of professional running.  Moriarty sounded
him out one night after a performance of Othello.

It turned out that Baird had run at the renowned Sheffield Sprint
Handicap in 1873, coming first in a blanket finish.  He had been
brought to San Francisco in 1874 by a Scots gambler called Fraser to
race over a furlong against a local fast man, a Frenchman by name of
Charles Le Ventre.  But Baird had pulled a muscle in the final week of
his preparation, had gone down by five yards to Le Ventre, and been
abandoned by Fraser.  Since then he had picked up odd races in Los
Angeles and San Francisco, though he had kept clear of Dalla Barba, who
was rumoured to be mustard over short sprints.  But Baird was still a
Sheffield man, and that meant he had done some fancy running.

By Friday evening, therefore, Moriarty had the field sized up.  Dalla
Barba might provide trouble at the start, but the long-legged Baird
would be more liable to stay the distance and come through fast.  The
others were an unknown quantity, being composed of local boys such as
Wallace, who had beaten off all recent contenders, but Moriarty did not
reckon Wallace to be better than four yards over even time.  By Friday
evening, on the eve of the Dash, Moriarty considered he had everything
under control.  He therefore blacked up for Othello feeling confident
that come Saturday evening he would play the Moor fourteen thousand
bucks the richer.

When Buck recognised, in spite of his beard, the man called the Indian
checking in at the Excelsior he broke even time getting across to the
Sawmill where Moriarty had just strangled Eleanor to perfection.

Moriarty was not surprised that the Indian was wearing a beard.  When
Buck expostulated that Indians could not grow beards, Moriarty
explained that the Indian was not an Indian.

"He's Welsh," said Moriarty, without turning his gaze from his
dressing-room mirror.  "Name of Nythbran."

"Welsh?"

"Yes," said Moriarty, continuing to apply grease to his face.  "Claims
his great-grandfather was the great Guto Nythbran.  He ran twelve miles
in an hour about a hundred years ago against a soldier called Prince
back in seventeen hundred and God knows when.  Then he keeled over,
stone dead."

Buck whistled through his teeth.  Twelve miles in an hour.  I'm not
surprised," he said.  "But then how come he's called "the Indian"?"

"His father," said Moriarty, wiping his face clean with a rag and
surveying himself.  "Spent a lot of time up in the Indian territories
with the Blackfeet.  They called him "the Welsh Indian".  So people
started calling his boy "the Young Indian".  When he started running,
he cut out the "young"."

"So what do we do?"

Moriarty completed the cleansing of his face and stood up.  "Stay cool.
We can't spill the beans on the Indian or he'd do the same to us and
we'd all be in hot water," he said.  "We've just got to make sure that
Billy Joe does some fancy running."

First came the camel-races.  These animals had been brought out to the
South West in 1855 by the Army, and by 1857 seventy-five of them had
been quartered in Camp Verde, Texas, which became known as "Little
Egypt'.  However, the experiment had never looked like succeeding.
Veteran cavalrymen, whose legs were permanently callipered to the
dimensions of a horse, were unable to stay on the beasts, while rookies
became violently 'seasick'.

The Army programme was therefore abandoned and the camels sold to a San
Francisco-based camel-importing company, and camel caravans were
established in the South West until the 1860s.  The Civil War then put
an end to the venture.  The herds were split up, many finding their way
into zoos and sideshows, while others were left to wander off into the
wilderness.  It was the progeny of these strays which were yearly used
in Virginia City for racing purposes.

After four heats of camel-racing the boardwalks of the Main Street
filled again, for the first heats of the Dash were less than an hour
away, and final bets were laid.  Somewhere in the crowd Moriarty knew
that Claud Feeney, the Indian's manager, would be laying quiet money on
his boy, with half a dozen others doing the same.  Moriarty had never
seen the Indian this far west, certainly never under wraps, and even he
had difficulty in recognising him under the heavy, black beard.

The Indian was a class runner, and from 1871, when they had first met
in New Orleans, Feeney had handled him beautifully.  Six foot tall, one
hundred and sixty-eight pounds and split to the ears, Nythbran was a
perfect running machine.  Feeney had used him sparingly, making only
two or three big hits a year, taking the big man to Cuba in 1873 to
whip a trotting horse over fifty yards and to Paris the year after to
cane the best men that Europe had to offer.  The Indian had been
regularly clocked at even time for a hundred yards on level ground and,
in New Orleans in 1874, two yards inside evens for one hundred and
thirty yards.  Now twenty-six years of age, he was at his peak, a full
yard or more faster than Billy Joe by any reckoning, and just as much a
master of his craft as Deerfoot had been over a decade before.

The heats started in the heavy heat of the midday sun in a Main Street
narrowed to a stringed five-lane funnel, with spectators pressing in
heavily on the outside lanes.  The Indian took the first heat in 14.7
seconds, scarcely breathing hard as he hit the finish five yards up.
The local boy Wallace took the second four-tenths slower, only just
holding off a feisty little Mexican called Aquido.  Baird and Dalla
Barba took the next two heats easily in the same time, 14.9 seconds,
and Billy Joe the final heat even more easily, again in 14.9.

Watching from the balcony of the Eldorado, Moriarty saw that, though
Billy Joe was running well, there would still be a clear yard between
him and the Indian.  That yard was made at the start where Billy Joe,
never quite in balance, could not match the Indian's fluid surge from
the gun.  Once he was off his mark, Billy Joe could equal his opponent,
but that was academic the result was a foregone conclusion.

With three hours to go before the final, Moriarty repaired to the
Sawmill Theatre to confer with Billy Joe and Buck.

There he found Billy Joe on his face on the dirt and sawdust floor of
the passageway of the improvised theatre.  Above him stood Buck, his
expression a mask of frustration.

"You speak to him, Moriarty," he said, shaking his head.  "He's gone
plumb loco."

Billy Joe turned to sit facing his manager, and wiped himself down.

"I can win this one," he said.  "I can taste it."

"Of course you can," said Moriarty, placatingly.

"No.  I mean it," insisted Billy Joe.  "Just you hear me out."

At this he got up and sat on a bench on one side of the passageway,
while Moriarty and Buck did likewise on the other.  He leant forward,
elbows on knees.

"Now what's the worst part of my dash?"

"The start," said both the other men simultaneously.

Billy Joe grinned.  "Right," he said.  "I start like this, standing
up."  He got up and stood frozen in the standing-start position, facing
towards the darkened stage.

Moriarty nodded.  "I've seen all this before," he said.

"Now I can't ever get my balance right?"

"That's true," said Moriarty.

"And I don't seem to be able to push off good?"

Moriarty nodded, then stood and raised both hands in exasperation.
"Where's all this getting us?  I've seen you run hundreds of times.
You're a lousy starter."

"Only because I can't get my balance."

"Balance?"  said Moriarty.  "Who d'you think you are Blondin?"

Billy Joe smiled a patient smile.

He got down onto his front on the soft dirt, facing away from the
stage.

"Now we've taken a parcel of money from suckers by me starting face
down, while they're standing up, haven't we?"

"Yes," said Buck.  "That's because they're suckers."

"And I can usually pick them up in the first ten yards, can't I?"

"Right so far," said Moriarty.

mt

"It's because I've got a better push when I turn around like this."

Billy Joe turned round swiftly and got into an all-fours position, now
facing the stage.  "Then off I goes like a bat out of hell!"

Billy Joe stood up, dusting himself down.

"Where's all this taking us?"  said Moriarty.  "Are you saying that
you're going to start in the final lying on your face, pointing in the
wrong direction?  Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Billy Joe shook his head.  "Look at this," he said, turning again to
face the stage.  He got down on to his marks, right knee opposite his
left instep, facing forward.  He leant forward, placing both hands on
the ground.  His fingers and thumbs formed a triangular shape a
shoulder-width apart, a foot or so ahead of his left toe.

"Say "on your marks"," he said.

"On your marks," said Buck, sullenly.

Billy Joe settled himself.  "Say "set"."

"Set," growled Buck.

Billy Joe raised his hips, so that his spine was parallel with the
floor.

"Go," said Buck, automatically.

Billy Joe sprinted down the passageway, only just managing to stop
before he reached the stage.  He turned, smiling.

"See what I mean?"  he said.

"No, I don't," said Moriarty.  "I saw you get down.  Then I saw you get
up.  So why the hell get down in the first place?  It doesn't make
sense."

"It's not scientific," said Buck.

That's it," said Moriarty.  "You got it, Buck.  It's not scientific. It
stands to reason.  Why go down when you've got to waste all that energy
just to get back up again?  You try that against the Indian and he's
going to take you by five yards, not one."

"In other words, you think my idea stinks."

Moriarty stood up and made to leave.  "Not in other words," he said.
"Those would be exactly the words."

He walked down the aisle.  "You try to talk some sense into him, Buck,"
he said.  "See you at the race."

No question of it, Billy Joe had drawn the best lane, plumb in the
centre, with the Indian on his left and Dalla Barba on his right, with
Baird to the left of the Indian and Wallace to the right of Dalla
Barba.  Thus he would have pressure on either side of him, all the way
to the finish.

But when Mayor Beauregarde brought the runners to their marks, there
was a burst of chatter when Billy Joe Speed went down on one knee and
placed both hands about a foot beyond the line.

"Stand away from the line, gentlemen," said Beauregarde from his
position on a raised stage in front of the Excelsior.

All but one of the runners did as they were bidden.  The exception was
Billy Joe.

"Mr.  Speed?"

Billy Joe looked up at the starter.  "Yes, sir?"

"You do have a passing acquaintance, sir, with the rudiments of
starting?"

"Yes, sir, I think that I do."

"Then please get to your mark, sir, and do as the others do."

Billy Joe stood up, put his hands on his hips, and his clear blue eyes
stared up at Beauregarde.

"I got a new way, sir.  A new method of starting."

Beauregarde looked around him in exasperation.  "There's only one way
of starting, sir.  Sheffield-style.  The straight standing-up way, like
a man, not on all fours like a coyote."

Billy Joe shook his head stubbornly.  "I got both feet behind the
line," he said.  "That's what it requires in the rules, sir."

"That's right, judge."  It was Moriarty from the balcony above;
sticking up for Billy Joe no matter what.  "Nothing in the regulations
says that a man has to stand up.  I have it here.  Sheffield Rules."

He threw a small brown book down to Beauregarde, who caught it
surprisingly deftly in his right hand.  The Mayor perused it for a
moment, shook his head, then looked again at Billy Joe.

"You're right, young man, I got to admit it.  Nothing in the

Sheffield Rules says that a man can't get down on all fours if he has a
desire to.  But I warn you, sir, look to yourself."

He paused to regain his composure.  "Gentlemen, get to your marks."

The runners returned to their positions, the Indian muttering in Welsh
under his breath as he took his mark.  It was impossible to make out
whether it was an imprecation or a prayer.

Billy Joe scratched a shallow hole in the dust with his left foot.  He
screwed his foot into the hole, then bent to place his right knee on
the ground opposite his left foot.  Finally, he placed his hands in
front of him in the brown dust as precisely and delicately as if he
were playing the piano.  The Indian watched for a moment, transfixed,
then suddenly turned to face up the track, his focus now upon the
race.

"Get set."

A child scuttled across the track at the finishing mark, probably
hoping to get himself a better view.  Then Main Street was
cathedral-still, and only the banners flapping over the start could be
heard.  Billy Joe slowly raised his hips.

The gun exploded, filling the silence.  It released them with a rush
and Billy Joe went into an immediate lead, coming off his mark as if
someone had thrust a red-hot poker to his rump.

To Moriarty, watching from the balcony above, it was a revelation.
Billy Joe was three feet up on the Indian at twenty yards, with the
others nowhere.  He was running as if he had somehow come from a point
ten yards behind the start, already in motion.  He surged out now, each
stride rangy and fast, making even the Indian look sluggish.  At fifty
it was only Billy Joe and the Indian, with the others threshing around
a couple of yards back.

Billy Joe held his yard into sixty, cutting through the roar of the
crowd.  Had there been no others with whom to compare him, he would not
have seemed to be moving at speed, for there was no sign of effort, no
hint of tension.  For he ran as if to a sure and certain inner rhythm,
oblivious of the race and its imperatives.  He is beautiful, thought
Moriarty; win or lose, you got to give it to him.  My boy is
beautiful.

But the Indian was not finished.  By seventy he had clawed back a foot,
and at ninety yards another foot.  At a hundred he was nearly level
Billy Joe could almost feel him.  But the Texan held on and as they hit
the tape both were as a single man as the watches stopped at 14.4
seconds.

Buck, in line with the finish, knew it was close, with probably only
six inches between them, but felt in his gut it was Billy Joe's race.
As the runners were engulfed by the crowd the chairman of the judges'
panel, Sheriff Kennedy, boomed from the balcony of the Excelsior that
the judges were going into closed session to decide on the result.

Buck and Moriarty did not dare go near Billy Joe as they waited for the
decision.  Somehow the outcome was a very secondary matter: it was the
fact that for the first time Billy Joe had put it together, the start,
the middle, the finish, all fused into one fine coherent whole.

Twenty minutes later, the plump, white-haired Beaure-garde, dressed in
morning coat and top hat, stood on the balcony, with a crowd of two
thousand standing expectantly below.

"There is a split decision," he said.

There were boos and hisses from the crowd.  The winner, by a majority
verdict, is Dai Nythbran, in a time of fourteen point four seconds."

Billy Joe Speed sat slumped on a bench in the dark, empty theatre.  It
was nearly eight o'clock in the evening and as far as the others were
concerned he had vanished from sight with a bottle of redeye directly
after the race.  Moriarty had let him go, and had also counselled Buck
and Mandy to leave him be.  He had never seen Billy Joe drink for real,
but this was as good a time as any.  He had told him that it was a fix,
that Beauregarde and Kennedy both had money on Nythbran, that they knew
for certain that Billy Joe had beaten the Indian.  But the Texan was
inconsolable.  He sat in the front row of the theatre, staring at the
empty stage, and was unaware of someone standing behind him.

The Indian coughed.  Billy Joe looked round, his eyes vacant.

The runner put out his hand and Billy Joe saw that it contained a wad
of notes.

Take it," said the Indian.  "You won it fair."

For a moment Billy Joe was nonplussed.

"Come on," said the Indian.  "I ain't never been beat before, but I do
know when I am.  Take it."

He sat down beside Billy Joe.  "Where the hell d'you ever learn to
start so fast?"  he said.  "I never saw no man start that way."

"Science," said Billy Joe, blearily, passing his bottle to the
Indian.

"Could you show me?"  said Nythbran, taking a swig.

"No problem," said Billy Joe, standing up a little unsteadily.  He got
down on the sawdust floor and the Indian, checking each movement, got
down parallel to him.

"What do you call it?"  asked Nythbran, looking sideways at his fellow
runner.

Billy Joe paused for a moment.  The Kangaroo Start', he said.  "I call
it the Kangaroo Start."

Mandy had never seen Billy Joe Speed so down in the mouth.  Since
Virginia City he had ridden silently with Buck alongside the wagon
while she sat beside Eleanor and Moriarty.  They were making their way
to Ogden and the railhead where they would embark for their winter
quarters in San Francisco.  Nudged by Eleanor, she attempted to engage
him in conversation about his past, and gradually Billy Joe began to
relax.

Billy Joe's father, Adam Clark, had been an Englishman, he told her, a
miner from Kent, transported to Australia in 1843 for attempting to set
up a trade union.

Adam Clark had escaped from Australia in 1850 and had made his way with
other ex-convicts to San Francisco via Hawaii.  There the Sydney Ducks,
a lawless band of Australian expatriates, almost an alternative
government, were in the city, but Adam had refused to join them, siding
instead with the Vigilante Committee, headed by the equally ruthless
and ebullient politician Sam Brannan.  By 1852 the Ducks had been wiped
out by Brannan and his vigilantes, who had mobilised the law-abiding
citizens of San Francisco into a fighting force, and Clark had made his
way south to

San Antonio to scratch out a living by ranching, and in 1854 had
married a Spanish girl called Maria Ordonez.

William Joseph had been born a year later, and almost as soon as he
could walk he was running.  In his youth Adam Clark had been a runner
too, part of a Kent culture which had for centuries raced village
against village, using a running game called "Prisoner's Bases'.  When
Billy Joe was five his father, then thirty, could give him fifty yards'
start in a hundred.  Seven years later, Billy Joe's start on his father
was down to a mere ten yards, and in 1868, at the age of twelve, Billy
Joe did what he had aimed to do for nine years he beat his father from
scratch.

That night, they sat side by side at the camp-fire, twenty miles short
of Ogden.  Near them, seated on saddles, Moriarty and Buck rehearsed
Macbeth while Eleanor repaired damaged costumes.

Somehow Mandy felt closer to Billy Joe in his failure than she had in
his success.  For the first time he seemed vulnerable.  But as the
gloaming began to envelop them Billy Joe grew quieter and she could
feel that he was again re-living the disappointment of Virginia City.
As Billy Joe stared into the fire Mandy felt that she could almost see
in its flickering flames that desperate finish with the Indian.

"And how did you come to find out that you could really run fast?"  she
asked.  "Outside of San Antonio, I mean."

Billy Joe's reply was immediate.  "Because of a doughnut," he said.
"Want me to tell you about it?"

THE DAY OF THE DOUGHNUT

Billy Joe Speed would always be able to declare with absolute certainty
the exact moment that the course of his life had irrevocably changed.
It was 7 June 1873: the Day of the Doughnut.

It had been the eighteen-year-old Billy Joe's first trail-drive for the
Circle X, and he had thus ridden drag for the first three weeks,
breathing in the choking dust of seven hundred beeves being driven
north from San Antonio to the Union Pacific at Ogallala, Nebraska.

They had made good time, for the trail-boss, Cal Frenn, a leathery,
six-foot-four Texan of thirty-six, had an excellent remuda of horses,
while his beeves, Texas Longhorns, had plenty of bottom and could make
fifteen miles or more a day.  Billy Joe had picked himself out from the
remuda a fine sorrel fifteen hands and one inch high, with a thick
belly and fleshy haunches which would help him stay over long drives.

The trail had gone well until the Red River.  Only seventeen beeves
lost, ten to a 'friendly' fCiowa chief who would in any case have had
his braves help themselves to another ten had they not presented them
to him as a 'gift'; five to an Apache chief who claimed them as tribute
for passing through land which he did not own; and two on river
crossings.

The rivers had been unusually high for the time of the year, but the
Red River, just beyond Doan's Store, presented a special problem, for
it was over a hundred yards wide, four to six feet deep and had a
vicious undertow.  This, together with a quicksand bottom which would
bog a saddle blanket,

forced Cal Frenn to reconnoitre several miles north and south to check
on more suitable fording-points.  There was none.

The only alternative was to wait it out for a couple of days, in the
hope that the level of the river would drop.  But Frenn decided to take
a chance and the crossing was made.  His driving philosophy was simple
"Never let a be eve take a step in any direction that is not towards
his destination' and this he followed on the crossing, by putting
forward the best swimming horses to lead the herd.

Only, from the beginning, everything went badly.  Two drovers, Ben Tate
and Bobby Rice, were thrown, and Billy Joe was forced to leave the
herd, pull the men to safety, then drag their horses from sucking
quicksands.  Next, several of the wagons, which had been placed on
rafts, broke clear of the ropes which held them, and in re-securing
them Frenn had gashed his knee against a wagon wheel.

It took over six hours to make a crossing which should have taken two,
and in so doing three horses were lost and twenty-five Longhorns.  It
was therefore a sodden, bruised and bedraggled bunch of cowboys who
straggled in for dinner that evening on the north bank of the Red
River.

Frenn was a good leader of men.  He ordered Stumpy, the cook, to fix a
mess of son-of-a-bitch stew, and in no time at all the Circle X men
were savouring the smell of a brown, bubbling hash consisting of liver,
sweetbreads and the choicest parts of a Longhorn which had drowned that
morning in the river.  Stumpy had always claimed that he put in
'everything but the hair and the holler', and after a couple of
helpings of son-of-a-bitch the world was beginning to look an
altogether better place.

Half an hour later, after two wedges of apple pie washed down by
endless mugs of Arbuckle's coffee, some of the boys were ready to
tackle the Mississippi, let alone the Red River.

Even so, the gamble on the crossing had not paid off, and Frenn elected
to cut his losses.  He himself was injured, the cattle and the horses
were bushed, and few of the boys of the Circle X had any stomach for an
immediate return to fifteen miles a day of dry mouth and dust.  He
therefore decided on two things.  The first was a two-day rest.  The
second was that Stumpy should produce his piece de resistance hot
doughnuts.

Now Stumpy Wood's doughnuts had a lustre and a fame in Texas camp-lore
not far short of Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett and the other doughty
defenders of the Alamo.  Indeed, men had been known to forsake spring
round-up, four aces and the comforts of hearth and home for Stumpy's
confectioneries.  But although his creations were light, they were not
to be taken lightly, and Stumpy would no more attempt to produce
doughnuts in the course of a daily stint of fifteen miles than
Michelangelo might leave off painting the garden fence to start work on
the roof of the Sistine Chapel.  No, Stumpy's doughnuts were more art
than craft, and the respite afforded by Boss Frenn was just the sort of
period needed by Stumpy for work of such sophistication.

So, on the next morning, he set to his task with a will, while the boys
of the Circle X got to work repairing the ravages of the river
crossing.  Lots were drawn to decide who would ride ahead to check out
the next couple of day's trail, the unlucky losers, Jess Holt and Sam
Peck, being assured that their ration of doughnuts would be guarded and
waiting for them on their return.  Thus mollified, the two men had
early that morning ridden north, the smell of Stumpy's cooking already
wafting temptingly in the morning air.

Then men began to appear from nowhere.  By noon ten cowboys had
appeared at the camp, offering their services free for the day, and by
the middle of the afternoon seven more, so that the visitors now
outnumbered the crew of the Circle X itself.  Though nothing was said,
it was clear that Holt and Peck had spread the news of the
confectioneries far and wide, and that the Day of the Doughnut had
indeed arrived.  By dinner-time that night chores which would have
taken a further day had been mopped up by men driven south by the
maddening promise of Stumpy's preparations, odours of which seemed to
cover tens of acres of Texas land.

Sitting that night by the camp-fire, Billy Joe made a rough estimate of
the total mileage that had been covered that day in pursuit of the Holy
Doughnut.  A conservative guess was five hundred miles, but there was
not a man amongst them who did not think his trip was worth it.

The men gobbled down the son-of-a-bitch wolfishly, not merely because
they were so hungry, but rather because it would bring them more
speedily to that which they longed for, hungered for, lusted after.
Stumpy teased out the moment, doling out helping after helping of the
stew, until the cook-pot was empty.  Finally even Frenn could stand it
no longer.  He gave Stumpy what the men knew as the "Iron Eye', at
which the bearded, bandy-legged little cook shuffled off, muttering,
into the darkness, towards the chuck-wagon.

When he returned it was with a skillet heavy with hot, moist doughnuts,
rolled in cinnamon and sugar.  That first helping went down so quickly
that they barely touched the back of the throat, and Stumpy replenished
the men's mugs with more Arbuckle's.  His recipe for Arbuckle's coffee
was simple.  "Damp it down with water for two hours then throw in a
horseshoe; if it sinks, then the coffee ain't ready."

Another glare from the Iron Eye and Stumpy returned with a fresh batch:
fluffy, light and warm, the aristocrats of the doughnut world.  These
went down with the same speed, again washed away with black draughts of
Arbuckle's.  From then on there was no need for the Iron Eye, as
Stumpy, warming to his task, was remorseless, bringing tray after tray
of steaming doughnuts as if he were monarch of a kingdom of
confectionery.  Billy Joe ate in a sweet dream, releasing notch after
notch in his waist-belt, then finally discarding it altogether.

Finally, bloated, the men could eat no more.  They sat round the circle
of light spread by the camp-fire belching and sighing, as down beside
the river the Longhorns lowed contentedly.

When the two groups of cowboys got to talking it was of horses and
Indians, and the lead was taken by O'Grady, a grizzled veteran in
greasy brown buckskins who had been one of the men lured into camp by
the Siren of the chuck-wagon.

Most folks didn't realise, stated O'Grady, whose accent still bore
traces of his childhood in County Kerry, that your Indian didn't have a
horse till about a hundred years back.  No, they were running men, with
plenty of speed and bottom and, indeed, when they caught a white man
they often took pity on him and allowed him the Run of the Arrow.

This meant that they shot an arrow about a hundred paces away and then,
when the prisoner had reached it, he set off at a lick and the fastest
braves got to hunting him.  Not many white men had ever survived such
an ordeal, and to O'Grady's knowledge only Daniel Boone and Davy
Crockett had ever laid claim to such a feat.

It had been the Spaniards, stated O'Grady, warming to his story, that
had first set the Indians up as a horse people, for it was they who had
first brought horses to the West.  Your Apache took as natural to
horse-thieving as a duck to water, and it wasn't long before they were
breeding them and on the way to being the best horse-soldiers in the
world, a match even for your Tartars and Cossacks.

None of the boys had ever heard of either Tartars or Cossacks; indeed,
some assumed they must be Indians from up Canada way.  So it was, said
O'Grady, that the Indian with his sheaf of arrows was often more than a
match for the pursuing white man at least, till the middle of the
century.  So perhaps the white man did have a musket, but it was too
damn slow to reload, and this gave the Indian ample time to launch a
volley of arrows.  The equaliser was the revolver of the 1840s, and the
relationship between white man and Indian had never been the same
since.

Talk then drifted on to the speed of horses, and again O'Grady was a
mine of information.  Your Kentucky racehorse, he said, that was an
endurance animal, capable of going close to forty miles an hour for a
mile and a half.  Your trotter pulling a sulky that could only make
thirty miles an hour over the same distance.  But for real, blazing
speed it was the quarter-horse that could run better than forty miles
an hour over a quarter of a mile; and turn on a dime, moreover.  And
he, O'Grady, had one jim-dandy of a quarter-horse, the fastest animal
west of the Mississippi.

At this point Frenn interjected, in his slow, measured tones.  He had
viewed O'Grady's steed, he said, and he would not give two nickels for
its chances against any one of six of his fastest quarter-horses from
the remuda.  O'Grady had not responded immediately, digesting the last
of his doughnut with a draught of the now lukewarm Arbuckle's.

When he laid down his cup, he looked around him at the faces of the men
of the Circle X and grinned all over his grey stub bled face.  "Looks
like I've got me a race," he said.

O'Grady had gone back north to Doan's Store for a couple of days to
complete some business and pick up some money.  He then returned from
town ready for the fray, and the terms of the wager were laid.  It was
to race his horse, Blackie, over a quarter of a mile, over an out and
back course, against the Circle X's best man and the best horse in the
remuda.

Whilst O'Grady was at Doan's Store the cowboys of the Circle X held
their trials.  It was clear that Lightning, a sturdy little grey owned
by Cal Frenn, was the fastest horse over a quarter; it had already put
money in Frenn's pocket in races in Austin and San Antonio and was
particularly good on tight turns.  The Circle X trials were simple.
Every hand was to have a time-trial on Lightning and another on the
next fastest horse, the pinto, Diablo, both runs to be clocked by Cal
Frenn.  The rider with the lowest total time on the two runs would
represent the Circle X against O'Grady and Blackie.

The result was close.  Billy Joe clocked 24.2 seconds on Lightning and
24.8 seconds on Diablo, while the next fastest, the little Mexican,
Louis de Gama, did 24.6 seconds on Lightning and the same on Diablo, so
Billy Joe scraped home by only a fifth of a second, a margin just as
likely to rest on the accuracy of Frenn's timing as on any difference
between himself and the Mexican.

The camp was scoured for money but Frenn was adamant that the wages for
the trail-drive were not to be touched and that no saddles or horses
were to be bet.

The night before the race, Stumpy, who claimed to have trained the
fastest quarter-horses in Kansas (though no one had ever heard of a
fast horse from Kansas), spent two hours rubbing down Lightning with a
foul liniment of his own devising and then an hour pummelling Billy Joe
with the same malodorous concoction.  After that, both man and horse
were given a dose of Thunderer, an evil black laxative, and every hand
was warned to stay well clear of them until race-time.

When O'Grady returned from Doan's Billy Joe was still out, down by the
swollen river, evacuating his bowels, and the Irishman was kept busy
taking bets.

The Circle X cowpokes laid heavily on Lightning, and O'Grady took
everything they offered over five hundred dollars, almost all the money
in the camp.  That morning, 10 June 1873, the track was cleared of
stones and branches and all was ready for the race, to be started by
the report of Boss Frenn's shotgun.

Frenn himself had laid a hundred bucks on Lightning's back and half an
hour before the race could be seen earnestly conversing with Billy Joe
at the side of the chuck-wagon.  The Circle X hands took this as good
medicine.  Frenn knew Lightning well, and but for his bum leg would
undoubtedly have run the horse himself against O'Grady.

Finally, at ten o'clock all was ready.  The sun was hot but not too
heavy and there was not a hint of a breeze as Frenn called both riders
to a start-line drawn in flour by Stumpy on the rough, brown surface of
the plain.  Ahead of them, a furlong away, stood a cactus eight foot or
more tall which would serve as their turning-point.  Frenn and Billy
Joe knew that it was essential to get there first, then turn tight and
neat before hitting back for home.  Half a length there could be worth
more than a length at the finish.

As they came to the start, Billy Joe ventured a glance at O'Grady.  The
Irishman had shaved and had removed his battered Stetson, revealing a
brown, bald head.  His greasy buckskins had been replaced by a suit of
clean, light brown-skins: somehow the effect was to make O'Grady look
leaner and lighter.  Certainly this was no longer the cracker-barrel
raconteur of the camp-fire three days before.  Alexander P. O'Grady had
come back to the Circle X loaded for bear.  Billy Joe, for the first
time in his life, could hear the beat of his heart as he sat, coiled,
at the start by O'Grady's side, tasting his sweat as it trickled warm
and salt down into his mouth.

When the gun went, the two horses surged off to the whooping and
hollering of the Circle X boys.  Over the first hundred yards the
horses were locked together, O'Grady riding high, eyeing Billy Joe on
his right as he put leather to his mount, a sturdy thick-haunched
black.  As they approached the cactus they were still level but on the
turn Billy Joe, spattering stones and grit behind him, turned best and
came out a vital half-length ahead.

At once he dug in his heels and laid his quirt to both sides of
Lightning's neck as, leaning forward, he made for the cheering knot of
Circle X men roaring Lightning home.  And his steed responded.  Billy
Joe could feel the sudden quickening of the pulse of the little horse
beneath him.  But suddenly O'Grady and Blackie were there at his side,
a menacing blur on his right.  With fifty yards to go, Blackie was a
neck ahead and going away for ever.  There was no catching him. O'Grady
left Billy Joe for dead over those last fifty yards and finished up
close on a length ahead, to a stunned silence from the men of the
Circle X. Billy Joe did not dare to look at his supporters as he
dismounted, shaking his head.  His opponent got down and patted his own
horse on its sweating rump.  "Just like I told you boys.  I got me a
regular jim-dandy here."

O'Grady, grinning, held out both hands, palms up, and in a few moments
he was five hundred dollars the richer.  Billy Joe paid over his own
wager of twenty dollars, fighting back the tears.

"Another race, O'Grady," he said.  "Double or quits?"

O'Grady looked up from counting his money.  "You got another horse?
Just give me an hour to rest up and Blackie and me will race against
the best you have."

The Irishman walked away, continuing to thumb through his money,
towards the chuck-wagon.  Billy Joe followed him.

"No, O'Grady, not a horse-race."

O'Grady turned.  "Not a horse-race, Billy Joe?  Then in Jesus name
what?"

"Me.  Just me against Blackie."

Behind them Cal Frenn and the cowboys of the Circle X had heard the
exchange.  They stopped talking and slowly began to gather behind Billy
Joe.

O'Grady stuffed his winnings into an inside waistcoat pocket, the thick
wad of note's standing out like a woman's breast.  From his back pocket
he withdrew a crumpled red handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.

He shook his head.  "Now let me get this straight, Billy Joe.  You
saying that you want to run against Blackie?  A footrace?"

Billy Joe nodded.

"You're not joshing, Billy Joe?  A man should always take a bet
serious."

Billy Joe shook his head.  "Blackie against me.  A footrace.  I lay my
wages for the drive."

"No, you don't, Billy Joe."  It was Frenn's voice from the back of the
crowd.  "No ways you bets your wages.  I told you that."

O'Grady rolled his tongue beneath his lower lip as he looked at the
cowboys clustered around him.

Then "My horse and saddle," replied Billy Joe.

O'Grady shook his head.  "No ways I take a cowboy's horse and saddle,
boy."

There was silence.

"I'll back him.  Two hundred bucks one hundred for me, forty for Billy
Joe and sixty for the rest of the boys'.  It was Frenn, who had pushed
his way to the front of the group.  He pulled out a wad of notes and
peeled off two hundred.

O'Grady smiled, the sweat still pouring down his smooth face.  "That's
good enough for me," he said.  "Okay, cowboy what are your terms?"

The distance agreed was fifty yards, but the unusual feature of the
race, on which Billy Joe had insisted, was that both he and Blackie
were to face away from the direction of the finishing line, with Billy
Joe actually lying on his stomach.  O'Grady had agreed readily, but the
money from the rest of the Circle X was slow in coming, and only
started to be laid when the Irishman, who had taken an evens bet from
Frenn gave odds of two to one against the young Texan.

But two to one were tastier odds, for they could recover all they had
lost on the horse-race and more.  Thus every scrap of spare cash
remaining in the camp was rustled up, with Frenn allowing each man to
bet twenty-five bucks from his wages for the drive.  By two o'clock
that afternoon over four hundred dollars had been laid on Billy Joe's
back, though no one could explain why they should lay money on an
eighteen-year-old, starting from a prone position, racing against a
quarter-horse.

The fifty yards was measured out at noon on the prairie surface in
stride-lengths by Cal Frenn, closely observed by Alexander P. O'Grady,
who then checked it with his own crabby little strides and pronounced
it to be fifty yards or as near as could be reasonably estimated.  Then
Frenn and his men went over each yard of the track which Billy Joe
would run, clearing it of large stones and twigs, after which Stumpy
brushed it meticulously with a broom.  Finally, Frenn laid his last
hundred bucks on Billy Joe at two to one just five minutes before the
start of the race.

When Billy Joe came to the mark the boys saw that he had discarded his
boots.  Now he wore a pair of brown, Indian-style moccasins.  Further,
he had stripped to the waist and was clad in pristine white long-Johns.
O'Grady scrutinised him as he mounted his horse, his gaze lingering for
a moment on the moccasins.  Meanwhile Cal Frenn ordered Stumpy to lay
out a fresh starting-line in white flour on the brown dust of the
prairie.  This the cook did with all the ritual of a Catholic priest at
Mass.

Frenn, six-gun aloft, called the two men to their marks.  There would
be two starting-commands, as required by the laws of pedestrianism,
laid down in Sheffield, England, then the gun.  As he walked to his
mark, Billy Joe looked down the track to the finish where Stumpy and de
Gama held a strip of white cotton which would serve as the
finishing-tape.

On the command 'get to your marks' Billy Joe lay face down on the dust,
while O'Grady steadied Blackie, both men as agreed facing away from the
direction of the race.  On 'get set', Billy Joe placed his hands
directly beneath his shoulders and dug both toes into the soft ground.
When Frenn's six-gun exploded Billy Joe quickly pushed himself up into
the horizontal press-up position, turned on all fours and bounded
off.

Billy Joe was eight yards up before O'Grady had even turned Blackie
round, ten before the Irishman had propelled his horse forward.
Meanwhile, Billy Joe was on his way to the finish as if the hounds of
hell were behind him.  Blackie

came after him fast, his hooves throwing up stones and dust behind him
as he gained speed.  O'Grady, leaning forward high in the saddle,
applied his quirt to his mount's neck and Blackie somehow responded
again, but this time it was all too late, for Billy Joe was two yards
up and there was now no catching him.  He finished hands held high, a
long yard ahead.

It was a chastened Alexander P. O'Grady who sat that night at the
Circle X camp-fire, munching the last batch of Stumpy's doughnuts.  He
did not consume them with the vigour of the first, marvelous tasting.
When he had finished O'Grady sipped the remains of his coffee and
beckoned Billy Joe away from the Circle X men, towards the shadows of
the chuck-wagon, about twenty yards away.

The two men sat on the ground against the wagon wheel and O'Grady
withdrew from a pouch on his waist-belt a stick of chewing tobacco.  He
pulled out his knife from its sheath, cut himself off a chew, then held
the stick out to Billy Joe, who shook his head.

"S'pose not," said O'Grady ruminatively.  "An athlete's got to keep
away from baccy and such things.  Keep himself in shape.  Live
clean."

He chewed steadily for a moment, as if considering his next words with
care.  "You cleaned me out good, out there today," he said at last.  "I
swear to God I never saw any man run so fast.  Quicker than a shithouse
rat."

He spat a long ribbon of brown tobacco juice at a spider scuttling a
few feet away.

"You had it coming to you, O'Grady," said Billy Joe.

"I don't quite take your meaning," replied the Irishman, looking
straight ahead.

"You had two horses," said Billy Joe.  "The first one, the dog you had
here on Doughnut Day, that one couldn't run fast enough to scatter its
own dung.  The second one, Blackie, must've been its 'zact twin, but it
could run like a stag."

"You got any evidence to support this?  Them are mighty serious
charges, young feller."

Billy Joe nodded.  "The night you left, I marked your horse with a
piece of black tar underneath the saddle.  When you came back today
there was no tar."

"So, how come you didn't tell all the other boys?"

"Boss Frenn knew, but we kept it close."

O'Grady shook his head and chuckled.  "I should have knowed it," he
said.  "When I seen them moccasins.  I seen Injuns' running shoes
before."  He spat another brown line of juice on to the ground.  "I
thought I was some bunco man, but I can see I been bun coed real good."
He shook his head.  "But I'm a gambling man.  I been in over my head
more'n once."

He cut himself off another piece of tobacco, still chuckling, and put
it in his mouth.

"You thinking of staying a cowboy for the rest of your natural span,
Billy Joe?"

Billy Joe considered the question.  "I never thought of much different.
Maybe, perhaps, save what I can and buy myself a spread."

O'Grady scowled.  "Cowboys."  He gestured towards the Circle X men
sitting at the camp-fire.  "That's what they all say.  Used to say it
myself when I was your age."

He shook his head.  "But there ain't no profit being a cowboy, Billy
Joe.  Just end up at forty with a sore ass and busted legs."

He pointed again to the camp-fire where the Circle X men were now
singing.  Those boys over there, they ain't got much else, never will
have.  But you, Billy Joe, you've got fast legs.  That's what I would
call a negotiable commodity."

Billy Joe sensed something in the air.  "How d'you mean?"

O'Grady chewed for a moment.  "I mean that not many men can move their
ass like you.  One in a million, maybe, throughout the whole of the
Union.  And there's plenty of sawbucks for those that can."

"Where?"

The older man cut himself another plug of tobacco and replaced his
knife in its sheath.

"The real big money's in New York and St.  Louis, in the towns, so I've
been told.  But all over, there's street dashes in Kansas, Missouri,
Arizona.  Every town's got its Fast Man, Billy Joe.  We could live off
the fatheads of the land."

The implication was not lost on the younger man.  "So what would you
do?"

O'Grady smiled and spread both arms, palms open.  "I'd be your manager.
Fix up your races, put down the money at fancy odds, do all the
planning and arrangements.  All you'd have to do is move your legs like
a fiddler's elbow a coupla times a week."

Billy Joe thought for a moment.  "And what's the split?"

"Fifty-fifty."

Billy Joe shook his head.  "No.  If I got to do all the running, then I
get the thick end.  Seventy-thirty."

O'Grady pondered for a moment.  "Seventy-thirty but only if you meet
your own training expenses."

Billy Joe looked back at the Circle X men at the camp-fire.  Then he
nodded and put out his hand.  "Partners," he said.

"Partners," replied O'Grady.

Alexander O'Grady had always been firm in his belief that the great
issue of the nineteenth century had not been Secession, but rather the
more esoteric question of whether or not in a sack race a man should
try to run inside his sack Missouri-style or bounce two-footed, as in
Ireland.  Billy Joe resolved the question one baking Saturday afternoon
in Virginia City on 21 July 1873 over sixty yards, winning three
hundred bucks in the process.  The fact that he did so in a massively
broad sack of his own construction was neither here nor there.  He had
clocked eleven seconds, had won by a clear ten yards and there the
controversy rested at least, as far as O'Grady was concerned.

O'Grady was cunning, but not always wise.  Money that he had earned
during the day by the sweat of Billy Joe's brow was often lost on the
turn of a card that night, or on crazy bets on jumping frogs or the
speed of a bed-bug.  The Irishman loved to live on the edge of
disaster, for that for him was where life was lived at its fullest.
Billy Joe, despite his youth, was more prudent.  For him there was no
such thing as gambling, only betting on the certainty of his own speed
and agility.  So perhaps occasionally O'Grady would give some greenhorn
half a yard too much of a start and they would end up on the wrong side
of the money; but that was simply bad judgement.  With frogs and
bed-bugs and the like it was all in the lap of the gods rather than the
lip of O'Grady.

During the summer and autumn of 1873 a strong bond of friendship was
forged between the Irishman and the young Texan.  O'Grady was a bunco
artist extraordinary, no question of it, but with Billy Joe he was
completely straight.  He did, however, insist that if Billy Joe was
going to take up pedestrianism as a career then he would have to
acquire a pseudonym.  It was the standard practice in pedestrian
circles in England; some runners had more than one, as a means of
confusing the handicappers.  And he wanted a real jim-dandy pseudonym,
none of your ordinary Smith, Jones or Brown.  So, in September 1873,
William Joseph Clark became Billy Joe Speed.

Most of Billy Joe's races were of a more conventional variety, from
fifty to a hundred and thirty yards, up in the little mining towns of
Montana, where every town had its strong man, its best 'rassler', its
fast man.  The miners, whose very lives were a gamble, loved a bet, and
there O'Grady saw to it that Billy Joe learned that it was not always
wise to run his fastest.  Rather, he would instruct Billy Joe to try,
on the first race, to take the local champion on the line, winning by
feet rather than yards.  This meant that if, in a re-match, Billy Joe
had to give the local boy a start, the distance given would be modest,
perhaps only a couple of yards, when the real gap between the men was
closer to double that distance.

Also, the mining boys always liked novelty events, and Billy Joe earned
good money in hopping-races, backwards running and his favourite,
stone-picking, which involved four hundred yards of running out and
back to pick up ten stones placed twenty yards from the starting-line.
But by the coming of autumn of 1873 both O'Grady and Billy Joe had
exhausted the possibilities of the Montana mining towns and O'Grady,
flush with dollars, had decided to winter in the fleshpots of San
Francisco, leaving Billy Joe to return to his parents in San Antonio.
The two men agreed to meet in Wichita the following spring for an
assault upon the pockets of the citizens of Kansas.

Back in San Antonio, on his parents' ranch, Billy Joe found that his
father, Adam, approved of his son's new profession.  Years before, his
father had told Billy Joe of the Men of Kent who had regularly raced
village against village for centuries.  The nineteen-year-old Billy
Joe, who had never really understood the significance of his father's
tales of running in far-off England, now listened with attention.  The
older man was able to pass on to his son running lore from long past,
of the purgatives essential to cleanse the system of its wastes, of the
need for strength-building meat, of the value of regular massage.  But
it was an old English newspaper which his father had picked up in
Austin that was to fan the younger man's enthusiasm for running.

The newspaper was yellow and tattered, but still readable, and was
Bell's Life of London, dated 2 March 1871.  The front page was
unremarkable, consisting of sundry advertisements for stallions, lost
property and horse-race meetings.  The opening inside pages contained
reviews of plays, Naval Intelligence, Court News and reports of
race-meetings.  All of this was interesting, giving as it did a glimpse
of a world of culture and taste remote from the life of a Texan ranch,
but the page which caught Billy Joe's attention was that on
pedestrianism, four whole columns of news of English foot racing  First
there were the challenges "Higgins of Barnsley, having defeated Figg of
Bolton, Smith of Norwich and Batten of London, all of whom were
acknowledged Champions of the World, now lays claim to this title and
offers to run any distance from one furlong to a quarter of a mile,
against any man breathing'; "Carr of Preston, having received no
satisfactory reply from Clowrey of Glasgow or Sherdon of Newmarket,
will give ten yards' start over a mile to any man in the kingdom'; and
many more.

The page was full of such stuff, together with reports of foot-racing
matches and 'pedestrian carnivals'.  It was clear to Billy Joe that the
world of foot-racing was a serious business, and that if he were to
flourish as a runner then he would have to be professional both in
thought and deed.  He was fast, no question of that; but it would not
always be a matter of beating hicks for a few hundred bucks.  One day,
perhaps soon, he would have to line up with other Fast Men, some of the
swiftest in the Union.  Mere talent would not be enough to deal with
them.

Thus, each day, after doing his daily chores on the ranch,

he turned his mind to his preparation for his spring pedestrian
offensive.  But he had little idea of how he should set about his task,
short of repeatedly sprinting on a hundred-yard stretch alongside the
corral.

So, one night in November of 1873, Billy Joe and his father sat in the
ranch-house in the dim candlelight as the sharp wind whistled outside,
while Maria Clark sat by the fire darning socks.  Adam Clark had a good
analytical mind.  The first thing in any dash, he suggested, was to get
fast off the mark.  They would therefore have pistol-practice at least
twice a week to sharpen Billy Joe up, running over twenty yards.  Then
it was important to stay the distance, what the Kentish men called
'bottom'.  It was obviously essential to run beyond the furthest sprint
distances, possibly up to a furlong: that seemed to make good sense.
And Adam Clark remembered that, in his youth, when he had seen runners
stripped, they had revealed well-defined stomachs, like washboards.  It
would be necessary to strengthen the stomach with exercises.  Finally,
it stood to reason that a man could run best if he were scoured of all
fat, like a racehorse.  "Muscle carries you, you carry fat," was Adam's
view.  Between them they decided that they would check regularly on
Billy Joe's 'fighting weight', which they reckoned to be one hundred
and fifty pounds.  It would matter little if it rose in winter that was
only natural as long as he could pull himself down to the necessary one
hundred and fifty by the time it came to rejoin O'Grady in the
spring.

At the end of each day's training, both men would spend half an hour on
the most enjoyable practice of all, with their six-guns.  Adam Clark
had learned during his Vigilante days with Sam Brannan in San Francisco
the importance of skill with a gun.  He himself was not fast, but
deadly accurate with a six-gun at up to twenty yards.  Billy Joe, on
the other hand, was obsessed with quickness of draw, and his father had
difficulty in convincing him that speed was useless without accuracy.
Billy Joe was a quick learner, for he relished the challenge of new
physical skills.  By the spring of 1874 he would have become in every
way a Fast Man.

Then came a letter from O'Grady himself, which Adam Clark had picked up
in San Antonio.  While waiting for service in a San Francisco sporting
house, O'Grady wrote, he had come upon a Sears Roebuck catalogue.
There, nestling on page 125, was an advertisement for patent leather,
spiked, running shoes 'as used by the Champion Pedestrians of England
and the Antipodes'.

O'Grady had torn out the advertisement and posted it with his letter,
and the two male members of the Clark family had devoured its text. The
shoes looked like black moccasins, with six sharp spikes on each sole,
and were claimed to have been used by such great English athletes as
Hutchens of Putney and Gent of Darlington.  They were priced at $10 the
pair, postage included, and remembering the pulpy, slimy streets of the
mining towns on which he had run Billy Joe reckoned that they would be
good value for money.  He promptly despatched $20 for two pairs.

The shoes had arrived in San Antonio in mid-February.  Billy Joe could
not wait to run in them, but his father counselled caution.  It stood
to reason, he said, that these newfangled spiked shoes might well
change a runner's action, might even cause a muscle-pull.  Billy Joe
had dutifully taken a few easy strides in his new shoes, gradually
increasing the speed as he felt more confident.  But after six runs
along the track beside the corral he decided to give it all he had.  It
was a revelation.  For the first time, he felt that he gripped the
ground beneath him, particularly in the first strides of acceleration.
Somehow he could feel, as never before, force being transmitted from
the thick muscles of his thighs and calves down into the ground.
Somehow, too, he felt that even when he was running at top speed he had
another, deeper reserve of speed on which he could now call.

O'Grady asked him, in a further letter, to meet him in Wichita on 21
May and told him to bring all the money he could raise.  What O'Grady
did not say was that he had squandered his own nest-egg of the previous
autumn in the sporting houses and gambling dens of San Francisco. Billy
Joe had saddled his sorrel and packed his Sears Roebuck spiked shoes
and set off north to meet O'Grady in the Palace Hotel, Wichita.

Billy Joe had taken his time getting to O'Grady, making plenty of
stops, as too much time in the saddle was bad for the legs.  He
reflected that he had never in his life seen a good bow-legged
sprinter.  Every two or three days he would find a suitable spot,
usually in a valley or box-canyon, and stretch his legs with an easy
run.  He was a pro, he told himself, and from now on mind and body
would be focused on that narrow corridor between start and finish.

But when he arrived at the Palace, on the evening of 20 May, O'Grady
was not there.  There was nothing to do but wait.  For two days Billy
Joe, eager to start his first real season with his mentor, performed
hundreds of push-ups in his room, interspersed with a re-reading of the
now papyrus-like copy of Bell's Life, which he felt he now knew by
heart.

Then the letter arrived.  It was nestling in a pigeon-hole behind the
hotel clerk when he came down for breakfast on the morning of 23 May.
It read:

Ellsworth, Kansas 3 May 1874 Dear Mr.  Speed,

I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance and sincerely
regret that I must be the bearer of bad tidings.  They are that your
friend, Mr.  Alexander P. O'Grady, is no longer with us.  Three days
ago, Mr.  O'Grady entered into dispute with a gentleman by the name of
Curly Bob over a horse-race.  It appears that Mr.  O'Grady may have
been guilty of the crime of substitution, and when brought to task by
his accuser attempted to draw on him.  This was a serious error on the
part of Mr.  O'Grady, resulting in his taking two slugs in the chest
from which he died two days later.  Before expiring, he asked that I
contact you to the effect that you would have to continue your
pedestrian career without him, and wishing you all possible good
fortune in the future.  Yours sincerely, Elias Crane (Undertaker)

P.S. There is a small matter of four dollars fifty cents for the burial
(which I have met from my own resources)

which I would be pleased if you will meet, if you ever have a mind to
pass this way.

Billy Joe had stood frozen in the foyer of the Palace staring at the
letter.  He felt a great lump at the back of his throat.  For the first
time in his adult life, tears streamed down his young cheeks.

A day later Billy Joe was wending his way through the crowded,
dung-strewn streets of Wichita, north towards Ellsworth.

The town had, until the end of 1873, been the biggest of all the
trail-towns, but it was beginning to decay, its traders having begun to
price it out of business as early as 1871.  Now Dodge City, fed by the
Aitchison Topeka and Santa Fe railroad, was beginning to boom in its
place, and the red lamps of the railroad crews would dangle outside
Dodge's sporting houses, creating the first 'red light' districts.

On 1 June 1874, Billy Joe was standing, bareheaded in the morning sun,
above O'Grady's grave on Boot Hill outside Ellsworth.  The Irishman had
not even merited a proper cross, the undertaker having found only two
dollars fifty cents on him after Curly Bob had divested him of his
winnings and both his horses.  Crane had lashed together a couple of
spars of wood from a crate and burnt on them "A.  P. O'Grady, 1821 74',
for a seven-dollar funeral.  Billy Joe was surprised: he had always
thought his friend and manager much older.

Billy Joe went down to Elias Crane, paid off O'Grady's debt and for
twenty-one dollars bought a cross.  On it he had inscribed "Alexander
P. O'Grady, Bunco Artist Extraordinary, 1821-1874.  RIP."  He thought
O'Grady would like that.

While the inscription was being made, Billy Joe enquired of Crane after
the whereabouts of Curly Bob.  It appeared that O'Grady's killer was
still in town, resident at the Bella Union Saloon, one of the town's
three best boarding houses; and that he had claimed O'Grady's horses
and had already successfully raced Blackie twice since his master's
death.

Somehow, intuitively, Billy Joe knew what he had to do.  He checked his
Colt 45, greasing, cocking and re-cocking it,

before pulling in his gunbelt a notch and tightening his leg-thong.  He
then mounted his sorrel and, perspiring heavily in the midday heat,
trotted down into Ellsworth.

It was only when he pushed his way through the swing doors of the Bella
Union that he felt the sound of his own heart, which seemed to throb
through him like some deep, insistent drum.  As he made his way up to
the curved wooden bar of the saloon he was aware of the dryness in his
mouth.  The saloon was a good deal less than full maybe twenty men
strong.  He ordered a beer and moments later relished the cold feel of
the liquid at the back of his throat.  For a few brief seconds the
thudding within him seemed to recede.

Billy Joe laid his left elbow on the bar and half-turned to look round
the almost deserted saloon.  The chuk-a-luk and the keno tables were
empty.  In a corner, three drunks were snoring off their exertions of
the previous evening beneath a painting of The Stag at Bay'.  In the
centre of the room four men were playing poker, the only sounds their
calls and the movement of chips across the table.

He looked round at the bartender, a weasel-faced little man with a
droopy moustache, who was breathing on some glasses as he polished
them.  The thudding of Billy Joe's heart began again.

"You seen anything of Curly Bob?"  His voice, though strong, wavered.

The barman continued to polish the glasses.  Over at the table a bald,
bullet-headed man in a red check shirt laid down his chips and looked
round.

"I'm Curly Bob," he said.

The thudding was becoming unbearable, and for a moment Billy Joe
wondered if they could all hear it.  But somehow the words he needed
came out clear and strong from a throat as dry as a powder horn.

"Then you're the man who killed my friend O'Grady."

Curly Bob slowly picked up his chips again, took the two cards that he
had been given and added them to his three.

"Yup, I'm the man who killed that Irish son-of-a-bitch bunco artist.
You any kin of his?"

"No," said Billy Joe.

"Then I have no quarrel with you, young feller."  His gaze fell to his
cards.  "I'll up you twenty," he said, looking across at the
white-bearded man across the table.

"I don't see it that way."  It was Billy Joe who spoke, but the words
seemed to come from somewhere else.  This time Curly Bob slowly laid
down his cards and stood up.  He was a big man, but with a fair gut on
him, his belly swelling over his black gunbelt.  He pulled back his
chair, its legs squeaking against the board surface of the floor as he
did so.  Curly Bob's eyes now focused on those of Billy Joe and his
heavy features were a solemn mask.  He stepped forward to face Billy
Joe and the men at his table hurriedly cleared away to the side.

A great stillness came over the saloon.  For a moment it was like a
tableau, only the buzzing of a fly above the bar disturbing the
silence.

Everything happened slowly.  Billy Joe saw the gambler's hand quiver at
his side then move to his gun.  Then his own gun was in his hand,
cocked and ready.  Curly Bob's weapon had not even cleared its leather
casing.

The gambler's jaw went slack and his fingers released the gun, which
dropped back into his holster.  Sweat beaded on his bald head, and
started to run down the side of his face.  Curly Bob gulped, and when
he spoke it was a croak.

"Jesus Christ," he said.  "Don't kill me."

As Billy Joe made his way East by rail to St.  Eouis he sat watching
the endless miles flicker by, and his mind returned constantly to that
moment in Ellsworth.  It had been a reflex action, the result of hours
of practice and nights of dreams, dreams of that magic moment when he
would draw on a man and be slick as greased ice.  And it had been just
as he had dreamt.  He was quick, just as fast as in practice, and more
important he had been fast under pressure.

But he had not fired.  And he knew that under other circumstances this
might have cost him his life, and the unformed question that his
hesitation suggested haunted him all the long miles across the Great
Plains.  His speed had rendered irrelevant the central question of
whether or not he could fire upon a man, let alone shoot to kill.  But
there would be other times when that would not be enough, when he would
not be so far ahead that he would have no need to fire.  What would he
do then?

He had taken O'Grady's horses from Curly Bob and sold them that
afternoon for three hundred bucks.  The man to whom he had sold them, a
skinny white-bearded Scot called Angus Gordon, had haggled dourly for
two hours over the sale, and seemed well pleased with his eventual
purchase.

The sale over, the old Scot had become loquacious.

He would race Blackie in July in St.  Louis, Gordon said, at the big
horse-racing and foot-racing meet; he would make himself a parcel of
money on the little black.

At this, Billy Joe's ears had pricked up.  The St.  Louis Fair was the
mecca of gambling men, it appeared, and regularly attracted the best
horseflesh and foot racers in the country.  Had done since before the
War, whatever they might say about that newfangled horse-racing track
over Saratoga way.  But Billy Joe was not too concerned about the
horseflesh, and pressed Angus Gordon for more information about the
foot-racing.

Gordon, however, had only a passing interest in the pedestrian aspect
of the Fair.  "Never bet on anything on two legs, laddie, that's mah
advice," he counselled.  He remembered that there were distance-races a
mile and over he had seen a fellow Scot, an actor fellow, win there
once and play Othello the same night, to boot, in a real-life theatre
outside one of the main saloons.  For the dashes, Gordon was of the
opinion that there was one long race, about three hundred yards, and
something shorter, probably closer to a hundred, both held on the same
racecourse as that on which the horses ran.  And big money, of that he
was quite certain.  Big money.

THE GREAT SAN FRANCISCO _______HIGH JUMP_____

7 March 1876, Palace Hotel, San Francisco Eleanor scrutinised herself
in the mirror, pushing back her hair at the temples with both hands as
she did so.  She had noticed the first flecks of grey only a few months
before, in Virginia City.

Still looking forward into the mirror, she puffed out her cheeks, and
allowed the air to expire slowly, in a regretful sigh.  If she were
ever to become a mother, then surely the time was now.  That she was
not one already was certainly not for want of trying.

She crossed her arms and slipped her hands inside her dressing-gown,
cupping them so that she could feel the full, pendulous weight of her
breasts.  Yes, they were still firm and full, a perpetual delight to
Moriarty.  The paradox was that for Eleanor her breasts had never been
a source of sensual pleasure, whatever Moriarty's passionate
ministrations.  But she had pandered to him, performing the one-act
sexual curtain-raiser till he had transferred his attentions to her
intensely sensitive thighs and hips, and the real drama could begin.

For a moment, still looking into the mirror, she shifted her attention
from her own body to Moriarty, lying behind her on the bed.  He lay
sprawled, flat on his face, his right arm dangling over the edge of the
bed, like some wilful child.

At thirty-four, she was five years his junior, but Eleanor had for some
years realised that it was she rather than her husband who would have
to plan their future.  For Moriarty was in many ways still the young
athlete of the New York Caledonian Games of 1856.

Since taking up with Billy Joe and Buck at St.  Louis in 1874 they had
tried the English Method twice, on both occasions successfully, and
with other profitable minor 'stings' in the years between had earned
over $30,000 towards the permanent Theatre of the West which was his
avowed goal and her fervent desire.  For she was tired of the endless
miles across desert plains, weary of bug-ridden hotels and rat-infested
theatre barns.  She was even wearier of the endless deceptions involved
in the betting coups.  It was surely time to settle down.

For Eleanor, her early years in the West had been a great adventure.
But soon it had become clear to her that her dreams, fuelled in New
York by dime novels and romantic plays about frontier life, bore little
relation to reality.  For the West had little in the way of drama
except that brought to it by actors like herself and Moriarty.  What it
did provide was vast empty spaces, appalling sanitary facilities,
extremes of heat and cold, occasional sudden death and in its
population a consuming desire for the golden dollar.

For Moriarty, however, the English Method and its athletic mutations
had given him the perfect mix of sport and theatre; marvelous, flexible
little dramas in which he could star and direct and come out at the
curtain far richer than at the conclusion of any play.  Eleanor could
see no end to it, could imagine herself, grey and lined, in middle-age
still trekking remorselessly back and forth across Montana, Kansas and
Arizona, duping the gambling fraternities of the West, playing
Shakespeare and Ned Buntline back to back in draughty barns and
sawmills.

Strangely, despite his obsession with foot-racing, Mori-arty's dramatic
performances had yearly gained in strength.  Though no Edwin Booth, he
had considerable dramatic range and even in the heavy Shakespearean
parts such as Richard III and Macbeth was beginning to show himself an
actor of ability.  Similarly, Eleanor, though lacking her husband's
depth of dramatic background, was now, in her mature years, proving
herself an actress of great talent.

As for the others, Billy Joe Speed never ceased to surprise her.
Acting, like running, came easily to him.  Shakespeare, Dickens,
Buntline, Marlowe it was all the same to Billy.  She was sure that he
did not understand half the language in Shakespeare, yet the verse
flowed from his lips in perfect balance, as if new-minted.  Buck, too,
was good, often even better than Billy Joe, but for him, as with the
running, it came hard, and he sweated nightly over his lines while
Billy Joe played keno and blackjack.

Mandy had been a revelation to everyone.  She had from the beginning
shown an immense appetite for the theatre, devouring manuscripts
voraciously, and was now word-perfect in all their major classical
productions as well as at least a dozen of the potboilers.  Her main
worries as they had been with Eleanor fourteen years before lay in
voice projection and in the mechanics of stage-movement.  Her
occasional tendency to forget the right positions had, on more than one
occasion, almost resulted in catastrophe.

Overall, Eleanor reasoned, this was surely the time for them to leave
the unreliable world of gypsy theatre and the English Method and to
settle down, form a small repertory company at an established theatre
like the Jenny Lind in San Francisco, and start acting in earnest.
Their yearly winters in that city only confirmed her in this belief,
for in the security of its theatres they produced some of their best
work.

But whatever it meant to Eleanor and Mandy, to Moriarty, Buck and Billy
Joe the winter in San Francisco was only a respite, a time to plan
fresh coups for the spring and summer of 1876.

Eleanor got up and sat on the edge of the bed.  Perhaps she was wrong
to be so hard on Moriarty, because from the outset his life with
Barnum, Edwin Booth, Alice Clay and Junius Brutus Booth had itself been
like a dream.  Indeed, part of that early life had surfaced the
previous spring in San Francisco in the shape of Gregor McGregor.

Gregor, in his early fifties, now playing character parts at San
Francisco's Palace Theatre, had come to Moriarty with a hare-brained
scheme to prospect for gold in the Black Hills, where traces of the
yellow metal had recently been reported.  "Chunks of yellow stuff, big
as turkeys' eggs," McGregor had roared.  So perhaps there was a treaty
with the Indians, so perhaps General Crooke had strict orders to keep
out all prospectors; but for a grub-stake of five thousand dollars
wasn't it at least worth a try?  Moriarty had been intrigued, and
staked McGregor and five tough young Scots miners.  In March 1875 the
actor and his companions had duly set off East, vowing to make
themselves and Moriarty rich men on their return.

Eleanor had not grudged McGregor the money, even though part of it was
hers.  She knew that without the generosity of the actor the Camerons
would never have survived that first bleak New York winter of 1848, and
Moriarty was never a man to forget his friends.  She did, however, feel
that Moriarty had overreached himself now.  For it was only a few weeks
before that the Great San Francisco High Jump had been brought into
being.

It was all Phineas T. Barnum's fault.  The showman had made and lost
several fortunes since his last involvement with his Scottish friend.
His Museum had been destroyed in 1865 during the Confederate plot to
burn down New York, and Barnum had been forced to supplement his income
by embarking upon the lecture circuit.  But the man who had brought to
the world the Mermaid from Fejee, General Tom Thumb, the Cardiff Giant,
Chang and Eng the Siamese Twins and the White Whale, was not to be
deterred by fire, plague or flood, and had soon taken to a yet more
spectacular branch of the entertainment business.  "Barnum's Circus'
had arrived in San Francisco in early January, had established its
massive three-ring marquee in the Exhibition Grounds at the corner of
California and Pine, and had done thriving business.  Only a few blocks
away was the Jenny Lind Theatre where Moriarty, Eleanor and Mandy (with
occasional support from Buck and Billy Joe) were disporting themselves
in a winter season of drama which extended from selections from
Shakespeare to Ned Buntline farce.

Barnum had summoned 'at massive expense' from Newmarket, England, 'the
Equestrian Wonder of the Age, Captain Whitby and his noble steed
Salamander'.  The huge mare's great achievement was to clear ten
hurdles, each five feet high, spaced ten yards apart, 'a feat never
before achieved in equestrian history'.  No one had challenged Barnum's
claim.

"Captain Whitby' was, surprisingly for Barnum, a real captain.  At the
age of twenty-three, during the Crimean Campaign of 1856, Lieutenant
Mark Whitby had acted as aide-de-camp to Lord Raglan.  Dim and
imperious, Whitby was a classic example of the least endearing of the
English upper class.  In Darjeeling, in 1869, having risen to captain
and after six years of whoring, debauchery and polo, he had been found
in flagrante delicto in his quarters with his colonel's wife and
strongly advised to resign his commission.  He had drifted to the
United States in 1870 and in 1871 had set up a riding school for the
offspring of the gentry near Hartford, Connecticut.

Salamander, a magnificent white mare standing a full sixteen hands
high, had been brought to Whitby by a local farmer, Herbert Kranzlein,
who had been delighted to accept a hundred dollars for his beast.
Salamander had already been jumped by Kranzlein, but under Whitby's
expert tutelage became a magnificent leaper.  The mare possessed that
rare quality of always taking off in perfect balance and of responding
sensitively to Whitby's subtle promptings in the space between
barriers.  She also appeared to have no fear of even the heaviest of
hurdles, whatever their height, and Whitby had taken her regularly
close to five feet even in her first few months of training.

Whitby's problem was that there was, in Connecticut, no real means of
capital ising on the mare's abilities, for appearances at local fairs
barely covered the mare's feed-bills.

It was in late 1874 that Phineas T. Barnum had entered the Captain's
life.  Barnum had come to Hartford in quest of an eight-foot German
'giant' and had, as was usual in these pilgrimages, discovered that the
'giant' was substantially over-stated on this occasion only six foot
ten inches tall.  However, whilst in Hartford he had heard of Captain
Whitby's mare and had travelled out to the Englishman's stables to
investigate.

A quick look round Whitby's crumbling establishment had shown the
perceptive Barnum that the Captain's enterprise was in a bad way.  But
the milk-white Salamander was magnificent; might the Captain be tempted
to leave his Hartford haven?

Whitby was at first cool.  Working in a circus was hardly, after all,
an appropriate life for an officer and a gentleman, even at a salary of
two hundred dollars a week.  That evening, however, he did decide that
at a weekly three hundred and fifty dollars, with bonuses for 'world
records', it might be acceptable after all.

Although Barnum found the Captain, with his uneasy mix of social
pretensions and sexual promiscuity, something of a trial, there was no
doubting his star quality.  Billed as a 'survivor of the Great Charge
of the Light Brigade' (though the gallant Captain had merely surveyed
the carnage through field glasses from a hill a mile away), Whitby,
with his haughty bearing and stiff-upper-lip insouciance, went down
well with American audiences.  And Salamander was truly splendid,
appearing to conquer gravity in her long, soaring leaps.  So, when
Barnum had brought Whitby and his steed to San Francisco, Leland
Stanford's mansion was naturally his first port of call.

Salamander's performances had already caught the attention of the
wealthy Leland Stanford even before Barnum's arrival.  Stanford was one
of the 'big four' of Stanford, Huntington Hopkins and Crocker, who had
created the Central Pacific Railway.  Leland Stanford took a high view
of himself.  He saw himself as a horse-breeder rather than as a man who
had cheated the United States Government of millions of dollars by
false route-specifications.  This, and the blackmailing of towns all
the way from San Francisco to Promontory Point into paying
'compensation' in order that the Central Pacific would pass through
their townships, had made Stanford and his colleagues
multi-millionaires.  Now, as a result of a bribe of half a million
dollars, he was Governor Stanford, a pillar of Californian society.

The Central Pacific had been a money machine, and Stanford, Huntington,
Hopkins and Crocker wallowed in riches.  Of the four, only Huntington,
a grim New Englander, ruthless as a crocodile, had maintained his
business muscle into later life, scornfully observing his partners
building mansions on Nob Hill, or gathering worthless French
paintings.

Stanford's consuming passion was horses.  True, he had spent a fortune
building the California Street Cable Railway up to his hilltop home so
that guests could get off at the front door from the cable car, but his
pride and passion was his Palo Alto Farm, 9,000 acres containing two
racetracks.  The farm, with sixty acres of trotting park, one hundred
and fifty hired hands, sixty stud stallions, two hundred and fifty
brood mares and the same number of colts and fillies, grew sixty acres
of carrots for the horses alone.

Thus, when on 11 February 1876 Whitby and Salamander had arrived in San
Francisco it was only natural that America's greatest showman should
soon bring them to the Palo Alto Farm for Leland Stanford's scrutiny.
There Barnum and Moriarty were reunited, for Leland Stanford had
engaged the actor to give his Selections from Shakespeare at a party at
his home in early March, and with Buck, Billy Joe, Mandy and Eleanor,
Moriarty had travelled out to Palo Alto for preliminary discussions.

Stanford was not known for his prolixity.  Bulky and slow-voiced,
speaking for him was like having his teeth drawn.  But as he stood in
his paddock in the thin winter sunshine, watching Whitby put Salamander
through her paces, the portly Stanford waxed eloquent.  Never, he said,
had he seen such a piece of horseflesh, such a masterpiece of equine
athleticism.  Would Whitby take $20,000?  But the Captain was in no
position to dispose of Salamander, tempting as Stanford's offer
undoubtedly was, for he was under contract to Barnum till the end of
1877, and in debt to him for ten thousand dollars, the result of
raising against an inside straight, held by a midget in St.  Louis.

Billy Joe, Moriarty and Buck had watched Salamander's performance with
interest, all being expert horsemen, though only Moriarty had had
direct experience of jumping, from his days with Barnum twenty years
before.

Stanford had called for refreshment, and within minutes a stream of
black servants in colourful livery had come down by carriage from the
main house, bringing tables, ice buckets and crates of wine.  By the
time Whitby had finished his exhibition Stanford's servants had created
a dining area in a small marquee previously erected beside the paddock.
Stan ford guided Eleanor and Mandy gently towards it.  There the
millionaire's staff had laid out a magnificent luncheon of cold game
and meats, to be washed down with draughts of Stanford's ice-cold
home-produced wine, the work of a team of vintners imported from
France.

Eleanor masked a wince as she took her first tentative sip.

"Delicious," she said, smiling serenely at Stanford.  The wine had a
harsh, metallic after-taste.

"The best vines, ma'am, in the civilised world, all the way from
Europe," he responded in his slow, heavy voice.

Mandy noted Eleanor's reaction and stifled a cough as she followed
Eleanor's lead, her face frozen in a glassy smile as her drink was
recharged.  Buck and Billy Joe, both with big thirsts, knowing no
better, had gulped down Stanford's wine as if it were beer.  It was not
long before they were joined by Barnum and Moriarty, and by Whitby,
still dressed in his riding-gear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to the world's record equine
high-jumper," Barnum said, as he raised his glass to Whitby, his lumpy,
florid face red with pride.  Whitby smiled and raised his glass in
response.

"Just what is the official high jump record, Phineas?"  asked Moriarty,
his antennae up.

Whitby answered.  "There is, sir, no official record," he said in his
clipped tones, accepting a glass of wine.

"So what you are saying, Captain Whitby, is that no one really knows
for sure how high a horse can jump?"  pursued Moriarty.

"No, sir, not precisely.  Though we have heard of English hunters
clearing close on six feet during a chase."

"On level ground?"

Whitby shook his head.  "No, sir, it has never been accurately
checked."

"And your Salamander, Captain Whitby it can clear six feet?"  It was
Stanford, his voice slightly slurred.  Whitby looked at Stanford
directly, but kept his normal hauteur from his eyes.  "Without
question, sir."

"And how high d'you reckon those hurdles were, out there in the
paddock?"

This from Billy Joe, who was now decidedly the worse for wear.  He had
already consumed four large glasses of wine and was beginning to feel
it.

"I can tell you for certain, Mr.  Speed," said Leland Stanford, as he
reached for a chicken leg from a servant hovering at his side.  "Five
foot three inches."

"Well, Cap'n Whitby," said Billy Joe, bleary-eyed.  "I don't reckon
that your Salamander was clear by much more than three inches."

Moriarty could see Whitby's hackles rise, but the Englishman controlled
his temper well.  "Are you doubting my word, sir?"

"No," replied Billy Joe.  "I'm only saying that by my reckoning your
mare can clear about five foot six inches.  And that's it."

"Do you wish to place a wager on it, sir?"

Barnum looked at both men.  Nothing could be better for his circus than
a bet on Salamander, made at Leland Stanford's ranch, particularly if
the millionaire himself could be persuaded to throw in a few bucks.
Moriarty caught Barnum's eye and grinned.  His instincts were to let
Billy Joe venture his own money this time, for he made it his custom
never to bet in the dark.  In Moriarty's view, Salamander was probably
only clearing about five foot six inches; but how much had the mare in
reserve?

"Yes," said Billy Joe, as his glass was refilled.  "But I'll do more
than that, Captain.  I'll jump against her myself."

Whitby let out a short bark, then, unable to prevent himself, started
to laugh uncontrollably.  In a matter of moments everyone in the tent,
the lugubrious Stanford included, had joined in the laughter.  Only
Billy Joe did not share in the general mirth.  Indeed, his face grew
more stern as the merriment around him grew.  Gradually, however, it
subsided.  Whitby withdrew a white silk handkerchief from the pocket of
his jodhpurs and dabbed at his eyes.  He looked at Stanford.

"You must forgive me, sir," he said.  He then looked across the tent at
Billy Joe.  "Now let me get this absolutely clear, Mr.  .. ."

"Speed," said Billy Joe.

"Mr.  Speed.  You are telling me that you wish to compete in a jumping
match with Salamander?"

"That's right," said Billy Joe, ignoring Buck pulling desperately on
his left sleeve.  "I've jumped plenty, back in Texas.  Never once been
beat.  Never in my life."

"You've never been beaten in high jump?"  pressed Barnum, already
visualising the headlines.

Billy Joe shook his head.  "Never a once," he said ponderously, swaying
slightly against Buck.

Moriarty saw his chance.  "What odds would you give Billy Joe in a
contest, Phineas?"

The showman looked around him, oblivious of Eleanor's, grim, warning
glances at her husband, but nevertheless aware that Billy Joe had only
the dimmest idea of the situation.

"What's your opinion, Mr.  Stanford?"  he said.

Stanford's face was impassive.  He scrutinised Billy Joe.  "How old are
you, young man?"

"Twenty-four, sir," replied Billy Joe, unsteadily.

Stanford took Billy Joe by both shoulders and looked him straight in
the eye.  He then looked at Moriarty.  "With horseflesh, Mr.  Moriarty,
it always does to look at a beast's teeth."

Billy Joe flashed a toothy, drunken grin.  "I got nothing to hide, Mr.
Stanford," he said, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

Stanford looked at Moriarty, then back at Whitby.  "You are sure your
horse can clear six feet?"

For a moment doubt flickered in Whitby's eyes.  "Certain, sir."

"Are you a Christian man, Mr.  Speed?"  asked Stanford.

"Calvinist," said Billy Joe.

"I am now going to ask you a question, sir, which I require you to
answer honestly as a Christian gentleman.  Do you swear to do so?"

"Yes, sir," said Billy Joe.  "Fire away."

"What is the greatest height you have ever cleared in high jump?"

The tent was utterly still as Billy Joe gathered his thoughts.  Even
the waiters, who had caught the gist of what was happening, stood
frozen in their work.  Billy Joe's voice was strong as he answered.

"Four foot ten inches sir,"

For the first time in his life Moriarty broke one of his most sacred
rules; he bet on instinct.  There were also, he rationalised later,
good reasons for putting money on Billy Joe.  At six to one, the odds
against his man were juicy.  There was also the fact that he had never
seen the Texan beaten in any physical test, from a handicap dash to a
sack race.  But for Moriarty the best reason of all was to wipe that
condescending smile off Captain Whitby's aristocratic face.  That night
in San Francisco he laid six thousand dollars on Billy Joe: only
Eleanor's intervention prevented him laying four thousand more.

It had taken just a day for Billy Joe to dry out, but by that time San
Francisco was buzzing with the story of the Great High Jump, which
event Barnum had agreed to hold a month later in a gala night at his
circus.

Every level of San Francisco society became immediately involved, from
the toffs on Nob Hill to the pretty waitresses who made themselves
available twenty times a day down on the Barbary Coast.  First, the
odds rose to eight to one against, and that opening week the athlete's
hotel was besieged by-Chinamen, leaders of Tongs who had laid money on
Billy Joe, eager to check on their investment.  Then someone had the
bright idea of checking on the height of the hurdles at Barnum's
circus, and found that they were only just four foot nine tall: the
odds immediately dropped to three to one against Billy Joe.  The match
prompted the Examiner to run a series on "The Athletic Powers of Man',
with contributions from learned professors of anatomy who argued that
it was surely against the laws of nature for a man to clear above his
own height: the odds rose again.  A Scot called Anderson then wrote in
to say that many a Scot in his time had cleared five foot nine inches,
but he had heard of none who could clear six feet: though Billy Joe
claimed no Scots ancestry, the odds dropped.

An Irishman, Keane, then wrote a long letter to the Examiner claiming
that the Irish had been jumping and throwing long before the Scots had
even started to walk erect.  This had been in the Tailtean Games, about
two thousand years before the birth of Christ.  Their great champion
Cuchulain had developed the technique of the 'salmon leap', whereby,

by flicking his lower legs, he could stay in flight pretty much as long
as he liked.  In fact, claimed Keane, Cuchulain only came down from his
jumps to help out the officials.

Professor Schmidt, a professor of mathematics, then wrote a complex
article, containing a dozen equations, saying that if a man's centre of
gravity was raised to the height of six feet six inches, then it was
just possible for him to clear six feet.  Though no one understood
Schmidt's thesis, inexplicably, the odds dropped still further.
Finally, a Methodist minister called Frewer opined, quoting scripture,
that it was against God's will that any man should clear his own
height, and since Billy Joe was only five foot ten tall even to attempt
six feet was verging on sacrilege.  The odds rose again and settled at
five to one.

When Schmidt and Keane finally met on a public platform and the
Irishman restated the feats of the great Cuchulain and of his 'salmon
leap', Schmidt's response had been brisk.  "What," he asked, 'about the
law of gravity?"  "Oh," replied Keane, 'he paid no attention to
that."

From all of this Captain Whitby remained aloof, concentrating instead
on stabilising Salamander's approach runs.  It was true that her
nightly jumps at the circus were less than five feet, but in training
Whitby now pushed Salamander to regular clearances of five foot six
inches, with an occasional slither over five foot eight which, had the
Captain been truthful, was the best that Salamander had ever
achieved.

On the other hand, Leland Stanford was in his element.  He had placed a
bet with Barnum and Whitby that if Salamander lost he would be able to
buy Whitby's contract and the horse at a price of thirty thousand
dollars.  But, equally important, Leland Stanford was right in the
public eye, a man of the people, possibly even, he reflected, a future
President of the United States.

For Barnum it was like a dream come true.  Crowds packed his circus
nightly, simply to see the "Greatest Jumping Horse in the World', soon
to "Compete against a Man to decide the Greatest Jumper in Creation' -
Barnum's own phrase.  Demand was so great that within a week of the
wager he had added a Wednesday matinee and two weekly lectures
conducted by "Captain Mark Whitby, The World's Greatest

Equestrian' on "The Art and Science of Equitation'.  The take on the
matinees and lectures was never less than $500, and this Barnum split
down the middle with Whitby, whose status as a gentleman had never
dulled his instincts for a sharp buck.

Moriarty soon found himself sucked into a gambling fever, a fever which
gripped the town.  By the end of the second week he had laid a total of
ten thousand dollars at odds between four and six to one, ignoring the
advice of both Eleanor and his banker, A. P. Wagstaffe.  But a tiny
voice inside him told him that he was in way over his head and when the
first flush of the moment had faded, Moriarty's innate Scots canniness
reasserted itself.  The day after the wager had been made he measured
four foot ten on the side of his bedroom door with a tape, marking it
in chalk.  Then he measured six feet, only an inch above his own
height.  He then stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the two marks.
Moriarty frowned.  Four foot ten looked like nothing, but six feet that
looked dam' near impossible.

It was at that moment that he resolved that Billy Joe and Buck would
have to be despatched out of town for special preparation.  Clearly,
there was no possibility of Billy Joe's training in San Francisco, for
there were too many distractions in the city, too many prying eyes, too
many possibilities for skulduggery.  In other circumstances he would
have supervised Billy Joe's training himself, but there were plays to
rehearse and perform; and in any case he had not the slightest idea of
how to prepare a high jumper.

Early in the morning of 21 February, Buck and Billy Joe, along with a
Mexican cook called Manuel, were sent on their way to The Hacienda, a
remote ranch twenty miles to the south, to prepare for the Great Match.
Billy Joe, now aware of the gravity of the situation, had asked
Moriarty for advice.

His response had been brusque.  "Practice, practice, practice."

A week after they had left Moriarty, buoyed by a rapturous reception of
his Macbeth, decided to ride down to check on his investment.  He
arrived there at noon on a bright spring day, and from a distance he
could see Buck and Billy Joe squatting in the corral, a few feet away
from two vertical wooden stands supporting a wooden crossbar.  The
stands had holes drilled in their surfaces at one-inch intervals from a
height of four feet to their tops, which looked close to eight feet.
The wooden crossbar, sagging only slightly in the middle, looked
appallingly high.  Buck and Billy Joe sat in front of it, eyes fixed on
the bar, saying nothing, Billy Joe chewing impassively on a straw.

Moriarty alighted quietly from his horse and went over to stand behind
them, sharing their silence.  This was a pleasure to witness, two men
clearly deeply involved in Billy Joe's athletic preparations.

At last, seemingly unaware of Moriarty's presence, Buck spoke.

"The way I see it, Billy Joe, you don't use enough psychology."

Billy Joe looked sideways at Buck, scowling.  "The hell I do!"  he
said.  "I wash, I slick up, I use the best perfume .. ."

Buck shook his head, chewing on a straw.

Moriarty's expression hardened.  It was now clear to him that they were
not discussing high jumping.

"You don't take my meaning," said Buck.  He paused.  "You mind if I
give you some advice about Mandy?"

"Advise away!"  said Billy Joe.

"You're shy, and that's the plain truth of it.  You of all people."

Billy Joe flushed.  "Keep talking."

Buck slowly got to his feet and walked towards the crossbar.  He stood
under it and turned to face Billy Joe, at last noting Moriarty behind
them.  He nodded to Moriarty, but did not change tack.

"It's 'cos you're shy that you don't mosey up to her, ask her how she
feels, tell her how good she looks, you know what I mean.  Women like
that.  You've seen Moriarty do Romeo?"

That's play-acting," said Billy Joe sourly, looking behind him to
acknowledge his manager.

Buck returned to sit beside Billy Joe.

"With women it's all play-acting," he said.  "The whole dam' thing. You
take my word for it.  I been there times enough."

Moriarty had had his fill.  He had not ridden all morning to listen to
the details of Billy Joe's social life just days before an important
contest.  Shaking his head, he walked forward and stood under the bar,
facing the two men.  The bar was a good couple of inches above his
head.

"This must be well over six feet," he said.

The two younger men did not reply, but continued to gaze morosely in
front of them.

"I said, well over six feet," repeated Moriarty, raising his voice.

"We can hear you," said Billy Joe, getting slowly to his feet.  He was
stripped to the waist and dressed in his long-Johns.  On his feet were
his black patent leather running shoes.

"Well," said Moriarty, withdrawing a vast white handkerchief from an
inside pocket.  "Does this mean you've cleared it?"

"Are you loco?"  said Billy Joe, standing underneath the bar.  "It's
way over my head."

"Jesus Christ," said Moriarty, taking off his stove-pipe hat and
mopping his brow.  "Do you two know how much we've got riding on
this?"

"No," said Billy Joe, measuring the space between his head and the
bottom of the bar.  He looked down at Buck.  "Y'know, Buck, this is one
helluva height."

Buck nodded in agreement.

"You should have thought of that before you got us all into this,"
exploded Moriarty.

"He thinks by the inch and talks by the yard," said Buck, standing up
and moving to the bar.  He stood under it, shaking his head as he gazed
at,it.  "That is one helluva height."

"Stop saying that!"  shouted Moriarty.

He took off his jacket, placed it on the ground and sat on it.  "Now
I've ridden twenty long miles just to check on you guys.  So in
heaven's name let me see some fancy jumping -and Billy Joe, if you tell
me you can still only clear four feet ten then I'll swing for you, so
help me."

Billy Joe turned to look at Moriarty.  "No," he said, his face serious.
"I can do better'n that."

"Then will you tell me why in God's name you've got it up at way over
six feet?"

Buck tapped his temple with his right index finger.  "Mental," he said.
"It's six foot two inches.  So when I put it down, say at five nine, it
looks low.  You take my meaning?"

"Yes," said Moriarty, nodding.  "That makes a lot of sense.  But can
you clear five nine?"

Billy Joe walked away from the bar, over to a mark which he had
scratched in the dust behind him, and stood at it.

"Course not," he said, still surveying the bar.  "That's 'bout as tall
as I am."  He beckoned to Buck.

"Put it down," he said.  "To five feet."

"Five feetf Moriarty exploded again.

"Hold on to your britches," said Billy Joe, making placatory movements
with both hands as Buck adjusted the crossbar.  "Just watch this."

Billy Joe took three easy, springy strides then four faster ones as he
closed in.  He jumped in a light, lissom way, like an antelope, and
cleared the bar in a seated position, with plenty to spare.

Moriarty smiled and stood up.  "Now that's a horse of a different
colour," he said.

"Put it up to five foot three."  Billy Joe beckoned to Buck, who
adjusted the pegs and steadied the crossbar at its new height.  Billy
Joe looked at the bar for a moment, then, using the same light, springy
run, cleared it easily.

"That's my boy," said Moriarty, clapping both hands.

Billy Joe's expression was unchanging.  "Give me five foot six," he
said.  Buck complied.

This time, Billy Joe took a little longer before he began his run,
blinking as he focused on the bar, and rocking from one foot to
another.  Then he began his approach and flowed up out of his take-off
into a high, hanging leap.  He touched the bar on the way up but it
stayed on.  Then, at his high point, in the seated position, he swung
his rear leg up.  It touched the bar, and after he landed Billy Joe
looked up to see it still trembling above him.  But it stayed on. Billy
Joe got up and walked back to his mark.

"Put it up to five nine," shouted Moriarty.  "Give us five nine."

Buck looked at Billy Joe, who nodded, so he raised the bar a further
three inches.

But this time, as Billy Joe turned to face the bar, Moriarty could see
that his eyes had gone.  No longer was there that glazed fixity of
purpose that had marked his previous jumps.  Billy Joe's gaze was fixed
upon the bar, trying to see himself clear of it, but his imagination
would no longer take him there.  He started his approach-run, ran three
strides, then turned and walked back, shaking his head.  Buck looked at
Moriarty, warning him with his eyes to be silent.

Billy Joe looked at the bar again, a thin trickle of sweat running down
his left temple, his weight moving from one foot to the other.  Then
once more his nose twitched like a rabbit's, and he started his run.
But this time there was no guts in the approach, no certainty, and long
before Billy Joe had taken off Moriarty knew that the jump was doomed.
Indeed, his leap would not have got him clear of three foot nine, let
alone five nine; for he virtually ran through the bar, falling over it
as it hit the ground and tumbling forward on to his face into the dust
of the corral.

"Shit," said Moriarty.  "Have another jump."

Billy Joe stood up, shaking his head.  "No, Moriarty," he said. "That's
it for today."  He dusted himself down.

"Is that it?"  said Moriarty.  That's all?  Five foot six?  That's what
I've got ten thousand bucks riding on?  And Eleanor she thinks it's
only six thousand!"

Buck stole a worried glance at Billy Joe.  "Don't forget we've got two
thousand each on it, too," he said, handing Billy Joe his shirt.

"But five foot six!"  groaned Moriarty.

He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a faded clipping which he
handed to Buck.

"You're the trainer, Buck," he said.  "So read this.  It's about
jumping, by some professor guy called Schmidt.  I can't make head nor
tail of it.  Something about the centre of gravity."

Buck took the clipping and scrutinised it, Billy Joe peering over his
shoulder.

Moriarty picked up his jacket, dusted it down and put it on.  Billy Joe
handed him his hat.  Then Buck and Billy Joe watched as Moriarty
trudged slowly back towards his horse, head down.

"Leave it to us, Moriarty," shouted Buck after him, holding the
clipping aloft.

"Yes," shouted Billy Joe.  "Centre of Gravity, Moriarty, Centre of
Gravity."

When Moriarty had returned from the ranch it had not surprised Eleanor
that he had said little about what he had seen.  Both boys were in good
health, and preparations were going well, and of course Billy Joe, a
born jumper, was going to cream that jackass Captain Whitby.  That was
all that her husband would say.

But Moriarty's terseness did not trouble Eleanor.  She was used to the
traditions of secrecy in athletic preparation, well aware that the less
she knew the better, in case by any chance she gave away vital
information which might influence the odds.

She was more concerned about a conversation which she had had that
morning with Mandy, during rehearsals for The Merchant of Venice.  The
problem was Billy Joe Speed.  Mandy had taken to him from the
beginning, but despite her feelings the Texan seemed oblivious to her,
if not actually hostile.  Billy Joe, to whom the skills of sprinting
and acting seemed to come so easily, appeared to glide in some still,
silent world of his own, beyond her reach.

Buck, on the other hand, she could relate to easily.  Ever gracious and
attentive, plodding dourly towards levels of performance on
running-path and stage which Billy Joe achieved with ease and
effortless ness he was already a firm friend.  And she valued that
friendship just as much as she longed for something more than that from
Billy Joe.

Eleanor had been supportive.  She recalled for Mandy her first Green
Room experiences with an uncertain Moriarty.  She had been forced to
take the initiative then, and it had been worth it.  Perhaps, she
counselled Mandy, it was something to do with the inward,
self-concerned life of the athlete.  Such men had difficulty stepping
out of themselves, moving towards other people.  Certainly, she said,
Mandy should not look upon it as any reflection upon herself, for the
nightly admirers at the stage-door of the Jenny Lind Theatre were sure
testimony to her charms.  Mandy would simply have to be patient, and
wait for her moment.  It would come.

Moriarty did not know why he had even bothered to send spies to check
up on Captain Whitby.  It was, after all, a horse they were competing
against, not one of Barnum's freaks, and a horse was a four-legged
animal specially designed by the Almighty for running and jumping.
Okay, so Billy Joe had once beaten one over fifty yards; but that was a
short distance, and Billy Joe had fixed the terms so that he was
halfway to the finish before the horse had even got moving.  But this
time they were on an equal footing, and the reports from Moriarty's
spies at Barnum's Circus only deepened his gloom.  For although Whitby
had always insisted on complete security during his work-outs one of
Moriarty's informants, a little Australian clown called Boyle, had
hidden himself in a vaulting box and had witnessed a session in which
Salamander had leapt to massive heights, perhaps six foot or more.
Certainly Whitby seemed pleased with his steed, rewarding her with
chocolates at the end of the work-out.

Moriarty had not dared to go back down to the Hacienda to check out on
Billy Joe's progress.  His money was lost, and he resolved to put as
good a face upon it as possible.  Yet Billy Joe's disappearance only
served to increase the hysteria which had gripped San Francisco, with
gamblers pouring in from New York, Chicago and St.  Louis.  Everyone
had a theory, everyone an angle on the competition, and the town was
rife with rumour.  There were stories that Moriarty was bringing in
some new type of jumping shoes with springs in the soles, that it was
all a fix, that a spring-board or a trampoline was going to be set
under the surface in the circus, and a consortium of the city's
sporting men had demanded an inspection of the surface by an
independent jury directly before the competition to which Barnum had
readily agreed.

Moriarty responded to these stories with increasing incredulity.  True,
if he had been able to secure Billy Joe spring-loaded shoes he would
happily have done so.  But he had visited the ranch, he had seen Billy
Joe barely scrape his butt over five feet six inches, and damn lucky to
do so.  No, Billy Joe could only clear six feet if he had somehow
devised some new method of defying the law of gravity, something akin
to the discovery of the Holy Grail, or perpetual motion.

The Great High Jump Match had done wonders for their presentations at
the Jenny Lind Theatre, however.  The newspapers, abetted by Barnum,
had portrayed Moriarty as the trainer of the age, capable of turning
base athletic metal into gold.  The Scot had been pressed into a series
of joint lectures on "Modern Man and the Athletic Ideal', which he and
Barnum gave at the Jenny Lind on evenings when no drama was playing.
And Barnum had been generous to a fault, reasoning that, as the
lectures were good publicity for the Circus, Moriarty could have
seventy-five per cent of the take.

Eleanor had early decided that there was no useful point in discussing
the wager with her husband.  In the first week after the bet had been
made she had contented herself with looking up at doorways (which were
just over six feet) and shaking her head as she passed through them:
but that seemed to have little effect.  After Moriarty's first and last
visit to the Hacienda it was clear to her that his first mood of blithe
optimism had changed.  For he would not talk to her about the visit, or
the wager, and she could only assume that something awful had happened
and that he realised that all was lost.  Since she had assumed that
from the beginning, it made little difference to her, and she therefore
concentrated instead on the creation of new costumes for their April
production of Julius Caesar.

In down-town San Francisco on the morning of 17 March counterfeit
tickets were going at ten times their face value of three dollars.
Inside Barnum's massive marquee, six thousand three hundred and
twenty-three buzzing spectators looked down upon the raked and rolled
earth surface of the central circle of Barnum's three-ring circus.
Outside stood ten thousand others who had paid a buck simply to gain
entrance.  This was to a newly-fenced area which Barnum had constructed
to surround his vast black-and-white-striped marquee.  Clowns and
conjurors entertained the crowd before being replaced by barkers with
megaphones who provided a running commentary on the progress of the
events within.

No question of it, Moriarty reflected, as he entered the vast marquee:
Barnum had milked the competition for every dime and sawbuck.  Posters
showing Billy Joe flying through the air as if from the barrel of a
cannon and of Salamander floating like some latter-day Pegasus were
selling like hot cakes.  Barnum had sold the food and drink concessions
for monstrous sums, while there were at least twenty medicine shows and
astrologers willing, for suitable remuneration, to vouchsafe the result
of the competition.

At noon Moriarty was standing alongside Barnum in the central ring as
the high jump stands were brought in with the sort of ceremony that
might have accompanied the entry of the Tzar of Russia.  The crowd
oohed and aahed as if they were viewing the arrival of the Crown Jewels
rather than merely a set of plain brown wooden stands and half-a-dozen
ordinary hickory laths.

The stands were ceremonially placed in the middle of the central ring
by tiny circus hands dressed in the costume of some obscure Ruritanian
militia, and the six laths placed at the side, at right angles to them.
Two of the 'militia' stayed behind each one, each standing stiffly
beside one vertical upright.  Barnum, who was carrying a megaphone in
one hand and a hand bell in the other, raised the hand bell and rang
it, its peals bringing almost immediate silence.

"In a scientific experiment of this awesome dimension," he began,
through the megaphone, turning slowly through a full three hundred and
sixty degrees as he did so, 'it is essential that every aspect of the
competition be absolutely fair and thoroughly scrutinised.  It has
therefore been agreed by the sporting fraternity of San Francisco that
Dr.  Augustus Friedrich well-known in this area as a distinguished
medical practitioner of unimpeachable ethical standards, together with
Cardinal Thomas Feeney and Pastor Ian McGuffie, representing the
Catholic and Protestant Churches, be asked to check and validate the
take-off area to ensure that there are no mechanical aids by way of
trampolines, springboards, rockets' at this there were good-natured
boos and laughter

'or the like, on the surface from which either competitor might gain
advantage."

He paused.  "I therefore call upon these three illustrious citizens who
will, with Governor Leland Stanford as final arbiter, act as a jury of
appeal' Stanford stood in the V.I.P area, hands above his head, to
accept his measure of applause to perform this necessary official
function."

The three men stepped forward, smiling and raising their hands in
response to the ovation from the crowd.  Friedrich was dressed formally
in a black, long-tailed jacket and pinstriped trousers and top hat,
while both churchmen were in their clerical garb, Feeney in his red
cardinal's costume and McGuffie in the more sober black vestments of
the Presbyterian Church.

Barnum, loving every moment of it, solemnly conducted his jury to the
area directly in front of the high-jump stands.  The three judges, none
of them quite sure what they might be expected to find beneath the
earth in front of the jumping-stands, stood before him uncertainly.
Cardinal Feeney finally took the lead by stamping his red-sandal led
foot on the surface of the ring, then bending to scoop up a handful of
its surface.  Taking their cue, the other two men did the same,
Friedrich stretching the moment by taking out a small magnifying glass
from an inside pocket to scrutinise his own handful of grit.  Moriarty
could hardly keep his face straight and wondered if Friedrich had
brought his stethoscope, or if Feeney might venture to bless the
surface with holy water.

Next, all three knelt to pat and scrape the area before getting back to
their feet.

Barnum saw that he could squeeze no more from the ceremony.
"Gentlemen," he roared.  "Are you satisfied that this is a true and
genuine jumping surface?"

The three men nodded and Barnum handed the megaphone to Cardinal
Feeney.

The Cardinal's brogue was thick but his voice was clear and strong.  "I
hereby confirm," he said, 'on behalf of me fellow judges, that the
surface which we have inspected is as genuine a lepping ground as I
have ever set eyes upon.  Me best wishes to both of the competitors on
behalf of all members of the jury."

II

Led by Barnum, the three men then walked from the arena, to a sustained
ovation, to join Leland Stanford.

Barnum made his way to the middle of the central ring and stood beside
the stands.  He again swung his hand bell and the applause subsided.

"Finally," he roared, 'in the interests of modern science, Governor
Leland Stanford has asked the great English photographer and student of
human and animal movement, Eadweard Muybridge, to engage in the taking
of a series of photographic plates of the competition.  I give you Mr.
Eadweard Muybridge!"

Muybridge, a slight, bearded man standing at the edge of the central
arena with a massive square camera resting on a tripod, smiled weakly
and waved at the crowd, then vanished inside the black linen folds
behind the camera.  Muybridge looked through the lens, focusing on
Barnum.  There was not enough light, but he would open the lens wide
and hope for the best.

Barnum looked around the vast concourse, arms raised to his sides as if
in supplication.

He then lifted his megaphone again.  "And now let the competition
begin."

There was a full-bellied roar from the crowd, filling the marquee, as
the circus band entered, playing "See the Conquering Hero Comes'.

But still no Billy Joe, still no Captain Whitby and Salamander.  The
band performed four circuits of the circumference of the central ring,
then marched to its centre, behind the high-jump stands, where they
halted.  At a signal from their leader, they abruptly ceased playing,
then marched off, leaving the centre of the ring to Barnum.  Again he
swung his hand bell again silence.

"And now," he bellowed, 'the marvel of the world of equitation, the
greatest jumper in the recorded history of the animal kingdom, with its
rider Captain Whitby, hero of the immortal Charge of the Light Brigade
... I give you .. . Salamander!"

All eyes focused on the entrance to the ring.  There, pristine white,
surmounted by Whitby in his Royal Fusiliers' uniform, was Salamander.
Whitby pulled on the reins, causing the horse to rear almost
vertically, pawing the air.  Moriarty observed the scene gloomily.  Her
hooves, he estimated, were at least eight feet above ground level: all
the beast had to do was to follow them up and she had cleared the bar.
Whitby trotted Salamander round the central ring, smiling and doffing
his pillbox hat in response to the crowd.  Where was modesty, where was
the celebrated English stiff upper lip, brooded Moriarty.

A nod from Barnum directed Whitby to the centre of the ring, where he
circled Salamander, rearing on her back legs, in response to the
continuing roars and applause of the crowd.  Then it was Barnum again
with his bell, but this time it took him several minutes to restore
order.

"And now," he roared into the megaphone, 'the greatest jumper of the
western world."  Moriarty winced.  Billy Joe had not, as far as he
knew, ever competed in adult competition.  "A leaper extraordinary, a
man who defies the very laws of gravity!  I give you, ladies and
gentlemen .. . from Texas Mr.  Billy Joe Speed!"

Barnum turned to the entrance to the arena, right arm raised.  It was
empty.  Then suddenly there was Billy Joe in gleaming white tights and
vest and shining, black patent leather shoes, a scarlet cape flowing
behind him.  Moriarty groaned audibly.  It was getting worse by the
minute.  He looked for Buck, and saw that he had quietly followed Billy
Joe into the arena and stood a few yards from the entrance, head down,
hands lightly clasped in front of him.

Well, this was Billy Joe's moment and he was milking it for all it was
worth.  He strode round the ring, arms horizontal, so that for a moment
he looked like some great red and white bird.  Would that he were,
Moriarty reflected: then they would see off Whitby and a whole regiment
of British cavalry.

If anything, Billy Joe got an even more rapturous response than
Salamander.  Indeed, the citizens of San Francisco got to their feet,
waving programmes, Union flags, newspapers, handkerchiefs and anything
else they could lay their hands upon.  Moriarty felt himself curdle
inside and dared not look up at Eleanor and Mandy, sitting serenely in
the V.I.P box alongside Friedrich, the two churchmen and Stanford.

After two circuits Billy Joe joined Whitby and Salamander in the centre
of the ring.  With a flourish he doffed his cape and threw it back to
Buck, who caught it, smiling sourly.  Barnum again clanged on his bell,
this time taking a full three minutes before he had established order.
Moriarty went to the back of the ring to join Buck on a bench.

"It has been agreed," shouted Barnum, again rotating slowly as he
spoke, 'that the opening height should be five feet and that the
crossbar should rise by three inches at a time.  Each competitor will
be allowed only one attempt at each height, a failure resulting in
immediate withdrawal from the competition."  He paused.  "The first
round of the jumping match will now begin."

There was a roar, from crowds both inside and outside the marquee, but
amid the din Whitby could be seen gesticulating furiously at Barnum,
pointing at the jump-stands.  Then Billy Joe joined in the discussion,
and soon Whitby had stopped waving his arms and even began to smile.
Barnum beckoned to the two attendants standing behind the stands, and
the uprights were moved back about two yards.

Barnum again pealed on his hand bell until there was silence.

"Captain Whitby," he said, 'has complained that the placement of the
uprights in the centre of the arena does not allow a sufficient
approach-run to Salamander.  Billy Joe Speed has shown himself a true
sportsman by agreeing to allow the stands to be displaced by six
feet."

There was another round of applause, this time mixed with a volley of
impatient shouts, and Moriarty wondered if Barnum was not stretching it
too far.  But no: the old master, unbowed, held the centre of the arena
and the crossbar was placed at five feet.

"A coin will be tossed to determine starting position," he roared.  Not
that it matters a hoot, thought Moriarty.

The crowd was again hushed.  Barnum spun a silver dollar into the air
and Buck called 'heads' and gestured to Whitby that he would like him
to jump first.

The dollar hit the dirt surface of the ring.  Barnum inspected it.

"Heads it is," he boomed.  "Captain Whitby jumps first, at a height of
five feet."

Whitby raised his pillbox to the crowd, trotted to the edge of the
ring, turned Salamander round and paused.  There was silence.  Then a
slight dig of the heels and Salamander surged forward, the noise of her
hooves pushing through the marquee.  Her jump was merely a continuation
of her run, and there appeared to be a clear foot between Salamander's
white belly and the crossbar.  It was a couple of minutes before the
cheers started to die as Billy Joe slowly paced out nine paces to the
right of the high-jump stands.  As he turned there was again complete
silence.

Moriarty looked at Billy Joe.  There was an inner silence in the man,
an indefinable quality that had not been in evidence at the ranch.
Billy Joe looked at the bar for a moment, then began his springy,
prancing run.  He jumped.  It was a good leap, but he only cleared the
bar by a couple of inches, landing lightly on the ground on the far
side.  In the crowd, amid the roars, the bookmakers put Billy Joe down
to five to one against.  Meanwhile Barnum's man put the bar up to five
foot three inches.

Salamander's next jump was a formality, and she cleared the bar by a
good six inches, with Whitby raising his hat to the crowd as he rode
back to get into position for his next jump.

Then it was Billy Joe's attempt.  He rocked back and forward, wrinkling
his nose like a chipmunk.  Then he began his run.  His take-off was
strong and balanced and he cleared the bar without touching it, but
Moriarty could now see only about an inch of daylight between Billy
Joe's hips and the lath.

The crossbar was raised to five foot six inches, and there was no need
for Barnum's bell as Whitby steadied Salamander for the jump.  Whitby's
face set in a mask of determination as he impelled Salamander forward
in her attempt.  The mare seemed for a moment to hang in flight.  There
was still a good three inches, perhaps four, between Salamander and the
crossbar; in the bleachers the bookies stopped taking money on Whitby
at any odds, and Billy Joe went up again to six to one.

Billy Joe's jump was a good one.  But he reached the peak of his flight
just before the bar, and there was an 'aah' from the crowd as he
touched it with his hips.  The bar wobbled but stayed on, and the sighs
were replaced by cheers as Billy Joe returned to his mark, smiling,
hands raised.  The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast, thought
Moriarty.

For the first time, when the bar was raised to five foot nine, it began
to look high.  This was possibly because Barnum had deliberately
employed attendants of around five foot four in height to put the
crossbar in place, and Moriarty wondered gloomily why Barnum hadn't
gone the whole hog and used midgets.

Whitby faced the new challenge with his face set in the same resolute
aspect as he had assumed at the previous height.  If anything,
Salamander seemed to be moving even faster into the jump, crouching
like a great white cat at take-off.  Whitby had her balanced perfectly,
his weight well forward as Salamander extended her thick, powerful rear
legs.  It was a perfect clearance, albeit a narrow one.  A smiling
Whitby again raised his cap to the crowd, allowing his sangfroid to
melt in the joy of the moment.

Moriarty looked at Billy Joe, who was now in conference with Barnum.
The showman listened for a moment, then walked out of the ring towards
the V.I.P box where sat Dr.  Friedrich, the two clergymen and Leland
Stanford.  There they conferred for fully five minutes, before Barnum
made his way down through the buzzing crowd, back into the arena.  He
clanged his hand bell then bellowed into the megaphone.

"We have a point of order, ladies and gentlemen.  Billy Joe Speed
wishes .. . and I use his exact words ... to modify his jumping
technique, and requests the use of a mattress for that purpose.  I have
consulted our jury of appeal, who see no objection."  He looked towards
Whitby.  "Captain Whitby?"

Whitby raised his hat in acceptance and the crowd bellowed its
approval.  An English sportsman, no question of it.  In a flash, Buck
had vanished from Moriarty's side and returned to the arena dragging
two grey straw mattresses, which he placed on the far side of the
uprights, about a foot from them, one on top of the other, at right
angles to the bar, at its middle.

Billy Joe moved from his previous starting-point and walked to the
centre of the crossbar.  He stretched his right arm, touching the
centre of the bar, and stood, both feet together.  Then he stepped out
nine stiff-legged walking paces away from the bar and turned to face
the uprights.  Moriarty gazed at Buck, who had returned to his side, in
mute appeal.  The younger man looked him straight in the eye.

"Centre of gravity, Moriarty," he said.  "Don't trouble yourself."

Billy Joe now faced the crossbar head-on.  Moriarty had never seen him
like this before, not even in the fiercest of the street-dashes.  His
eyes were glazed, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he moved
back and forward from foot to foot as if transfixed.

This time Billy Joe sprinted forward, rushing in upon the bar as if it
were a finishing-tape.  When he took off, about two yards from the
uprights, he leapt as if he had been shot from a cannon, his body at
right angles to the bar.  At the peak of his flight, his belly a couple
of inches above the bar, he dipped his head so that his body assumed a
jack-knife position.  Then he was clear, rolling forward on to the
mattresses as pandemonium broke out in the crowd.

The roars could be heard three blocks away as the information was
relayed to the ten thousand spectators massed outside the marquee.

Billy Joe sprang to his feet and ran around the arena, hands raised as
before.  Even Salamander became fractious, snorting and champing as the
roars continued, and Whitby was forced to lean forward to quieten her.
This time all Barnum's frantic bell-ringing failed to calm the crowd.

Barnum put down his bell and beckoned his attendants to raise the bar
to six feet.  Billy Joe jogged over to Moriarty.

"Put it all on," he hissed.  "Put all you got on my ass.  The family
jewels."

Moriarty was infected by the moment.  Within minutes, he and Buck had
laid another two grand with bookies in the crowd at odds which had now
dropped to evens.

On his return, he noted that Barnum had given up any in attempt to
control the crowd and was sitting on a wall at the edge of the ring
apparently waiting for the pandemonium to die down.

Then, as if by common consent, the noise of the crowd began to
diminish.  There were occasional isolated shouts of encouragement,
mainly directed at Billy Joe, but there were hisses for silence in
response.  Finally there was silence and Barnum strutted to the centre
of the ring, hands raised.  He accepted his megaphone from a steward.

"Six feet," he said, pointing to the crossbar.  "Six feet a height
never before cleared, or indeed attempted, by man or beast.  In the
event that neither competitor clears at this height, then there will be
a two-attempt jump-off.  If neither competitor clears successfully in
the jump-off then the bar will be lowered to five feet ten inches and
each competitor allowed one attempt at that height."

There was a buzz of discussion and Barnum waited for silence, lowering
his megaphone.  When it had come he again raised it to his lips.  "And
here, may I crave your indulgence.  We must ask for complete silence
during each attempt.  Complete silence.  Thank you, ladies and
gentlemen."

Moriarty looked at Whitby.  The Englishman, poised on Salamander, now
had the same glazed, distant look as Billy Joe had possessed only a few
moments before.  The man, for all his airs and graces, was a
competitor.  Somehow, too, Salamander seemed to have become part of her
master's psyche, her eyes fixed on the crossbar.  She snorted lightly,
her muscular rump twitching and flickering.

Finally, Whitby was ready.  He pressed Salamander forward and his steed
flowed smoothly into her run at the jump.  Her gather for the leap was
perfect and she hit exactly the correct take-off spot.

Salamander's white belly had a clear three inches of daylight at the
peak of her flight.  There was no question of it, the jump was the most
wonderful, most marvelous, ever made by any animal.  But the timing of
her rear legs was out, albeit only fractionally, as she dropped towards
the landing.  They touched the crossbar, which quivered and continued
to wobble as Salamander landed and galloped on.  Whitby pulled up his
mount and turned to look at the bar for what seemed an eternity.
Slowly, it dropped, the sound of its fall echoing in the hushed tent.
Whitby blinked and Moriarty could see a tear in the Englishman's eye,
and thought the better of him for it.

The bar was replaced at six feet, and while Billy Joe was checking it
Buck carefully replaced the mattresses, one on top of the other.

Billy Joe walked slowly back to his mark and turned to face the bar.

He took a long breath which could be heard by Eleanor and Mandy in the
V.I.P box ten rows back.  Next he blinked hard and took another deep
gulp, before focusing upon the crossbar.  Then he started his rocking
back-and-forward movement, wiping his lips with the back of his left
hand as he did so.

Billy Joe sighed again, deeply.  At last he started his run, rushing in
as if pursued by devils.  His run and take-off flowed together, a unity
of speed and spring, and for a moment after take-off Billy Joe's head
was well above the crossbar.  Then, at the peak of his jump, came the
jack-knife, and Moriarty could see clear daylight between Billy Joe's
belly and the lath.  Then his legs swung up and over and he landed on
the middle of the mattresses, well clear.

The crowd went crazy in a blizzard of hats, programmes and
handkerchiefs, and within moments the mob outside were grappling with
guards at the entrance in their attempt to get into the arena. Moriarty
got to Billy Joe first, as the crowds broke into the ring to get to the
competitors, hugging his protege to him.

A couple of months later news came from England that some college boy,
name of Marshal Brooks, had gone over six feet, the first athlete ever
to clear the height, so they said.  San Francisco folks knew better.
Four hours earlier on the same day Billy Joe Speed had done it, clean
and easy, and those Limeys well, they could believe whatever they
liked.

From the diary of Eleanor Cameron, 18 March 1876

The Great High Jump is over, and even those who have lost heavily on
the outcome somehow do not feel themselves to be losers.  It is
strange, this release, this joy, that men (and, dare I say it, women)
gain from the witnessing of sport at its best.  Perhaps it was because
nothing that they saw yesterday in Barnum's arena was sham, that in the
losing of their money they felt no real loss.  Certainly no one who
witnessed the occasion will ever fail to have it etched indelibly upon
his memory, Billy Joe soaring like some great white bird over the lath.
Even Captain Whitby himself accepted it all with good grace, and is
with Salamander now in the employ of Leland Stanford as a riding
instructor, Barnum having released him from his contract.  But the
ladies of San Francisco will have to be on their mettle, for Captain
Whitby is rumoured to be even more dangerous as an instructor of riding
than ever he was with Cardigan at the Charge of the Light Brigade.

THE RUN OF THE ARROW

From the diary of Eleanor Cameron, 24 March 1876

At the end of the first act of "The Scots Play' (I really cannot take
seriously Moriarty's superstitious insistence that the name "Macbeth'
never be mentioned) word was brought to us of the return of Gregor
McGregor and a member of his party, Alistair Blain, from their
prospecting expedition.  I had always considered the monies given by us
to McGregor over a year ago (it is called a 'grub stake' in these
parts) to be of the nature of a donation rather than an investment, but
this has not proved to be so.  Certainly, McGregor is altogether
lighter and will no longer have to go on a diet in order to play
Falstaff, but he has returned to San Francisco considerably the richer,
albeit with a tragic and terrible tale to tell.

By the time McGregor and his five Scottish compatriots had arrived in
Dakota, in late April, 1876, the army had discovered and evicted the
first group of prospectors under James Gordon, who had taken the
Thieves' Road' (as the Sioux called it) into the territory.  McGregor
was only a bare few weeks ahead of others who were now forming parties
and setting out from all over the United States, pouring round the
patrols set up by the Army.  More by luck than good judgement McGregor,
unlike other 'sooners', had steered clear of both army patrols and
wandering bands of Sioux, and by June had established himself and his
men by a river in a heavily-wooded valley fifty miles west of North
Platte, having picked up 'colour' there on their first attempt.

McGregor's party had consisted entirely of Scots.  Two, the
nineteen-year-old Alistair Blain and his twenty-one-year-old brother
Fergus, had both mined for coal in life since their early teens.  The
other three, Jim Keir, Calum Law and Douglas Bell, had also been
miners, all in their mid-twenties.  They had worked on the other side
of Scotland, at Leadhills in Lanarkshire, toiling six days a week in
narrow, two-foot seams, for wages of fifteen shillings.  Leadhills had
the added advantage that its hills contained a thin streak of gold
which was not worth mining, but which afforded Keir and his friends
excellent experience in identifying and panning the precious metal.

McGregor's group, unlike many of the others which followed it, was
well-equipped, having used oxen rather than mules to carry the
provisions, heavy Dutch oven, galvanised water pails, frying pans and
grub boxes essential for camp-feeding, and the spades, axes, sieves and
pans required for the operation itself.  They themselves travelled
light, carrying sleeping-tarpaulins rather than heavy tents, and each
man toted a Colt, a needle-gun and a Spencer carbine.

It took a fortnight to build the eight-foot-long wooden cradle called
the "Long Tom'.  This was on rockers, open at the foot, at its head a
coarse grating; the bottom was rounded, with small cleats nailed
across.

Five men were required to operate the Long Tom.  One dug earth and grit
from the bank close by the stream, one carried it to the Long Tom and
emptied it on to the grate.  The third and fourth men rocked the cradle
back and forth, while McGregor himself dashed water on to the earth.

The sieve kept coarse stones from entering the Long Tom, the water
washed off earth, and mud and gravel was gradually carried out at the
base of the cradle, leaving any gold mixed with the heavy, black sand
above the first cleats.  Sand and gold were then drawn off through
auger holes into a pan below and dried in the sun, later separated by
blowing off the sand.

McGregor's first attempt was only a modest success.  True, there was
'colour', but each day's ten hours of backbreaking labour was bringing
in only ten dollars-worth of dust.  After two months' prospecting, he
decided to break camp and go deeper into the Black Hills.

Two weeks later, twenty miles further west, they set up Camp Scotia in
a wooded valley at the junction of the same river with a narrow
tributary pouring down from a brown, rocky hill above.  It was now late
June and each day the sun hit the six men like a hammer as they poured
their sweat into the diggings.  Again, the river showed colour, but
thin pickings, still only just over twelve dollars a day.

Then, at the end of August, there was a vicious rainstorm which left
the camp a sodden morass and which turned the tributary from the
mountain above into a torrent.  On impulse, McGregor set up the Long
Tom parallel to the tributary and began to take samples from its
depths.

The results were immediate, with great golden specks and flakes
totalling $320 in the first day.  In the first week, McGregor and his
men picked up over $2,000, and by the onset of winter in mid-October
the party had taken out over $60,000.

From that first day on 29 August, they worked like madmen, rotating
their roles so that there was always a fresh man for the heavy work of
digging.  It really needed only four men to operate the Long Tom, so
the free men either rested or hunted for game in the hills.  The Scots
filled every moment of' each day with work, and the mountain above
never failed to respond, even when at the end of the first fortnight
after the rainstorm the flow of water began to ebb.

From early August they had known that there were Indians in the area,
for there was no lack of smoke.  So, although no one even caught sight
of an Indian, each night a guard was set up on the horses.

The attack came only a day before, supplies exhausted, they planned to
return to San Francisco.  There was a swish and a thud.  Fergus Blain
fell, face down, in the stream, a strange surprised look on his face,
hit between the shoulder-blades by an arrow.  Then as Douglas Bell,
also at the river, dropped his pan and ran for his rifle, he was hit in
the left shoulder by an arrow and dropped back into the stream,
shouting in pain, his blood mixing in the icy water with that of
Blain.

McGregor reached for his Spencer first and poured shot after shot
wildly up into the hill above, while Alistair Blain dragged his dying
brother from the stream towards the horses.  Law and Keir had almost
reached their guns when they were brought down by rifle shots, Law in
the hip and Keir, mortally, in the chest.

Blain left his brother's corpse and joined McGregor as they rushed for
the horses, which were already saddled, while the wounded Law and Bell
staggered towards them.  But the two wounded men were taken out by
withering rifle-fire only a few yards from their mounts.  McGregor
poured more shots into the hill above him, then he and Alistair Blain
took to the horses and galloped madly down the valley, parallel to the
river, as gunfire continued to pour down upon them.

Their first mistake was to skirt Deadwood, which was less than a
hundred miles away.  The town, which had grown in less than a year from
a single digging to a brown, pockmarked morass of workings, was flush
with miners.  But McGregor and Blain, with twenty thousand dollars in
their belts, forty thousand lying back in the camp and God only knew
how much more still in the mountain, had no wish to give anything away
to the gold-crazy men in Deadwood or to the thousands of others now
pouring into the Black Hills from all over the nation.

But their main error was to ignore their own bodies.  Both men had
existed for almost a year on a scurvy-inducing diet of sowbelly and
sourdough and a daily output of work that would have taxed the powers
of even well-fed agricultural labourers.  The adrenalin of gold-fever
had driven them through the summer and autumn of 1875, but now, the
deaths of their friends lying heavy upon them, the two Scots made slow
progress throughout December, south-west across the windy, freezing
plains of Wyoming.

A chance encounter with a friendly party of Sioux making their way
north enabled the enfeebled Scots to replenish their depleted stores of
food, albeit in return for their six-guns (though they retained their
Sharps).  More important, the Indians directed them towards a trading
post a hundred miles south-east, itself only two hundred miles from the
Union Pacific railroad.

Though Blain was now barely able to sit astride a horse, the two Scots
rode on towards Evans Station, three log cabins owned by Dai Evans, a
rapacious little Welshman whose family had made several fortunes
serving the needs of miners since the first great gold rush of 1848.
Evans Station was ideally situated for prospectors coming into Dakota
from the west via the Union Pacific, and had already done well from
those who had passed through between the spring and autumn of 1875.

Evans, swarthy and cunning as a ferret, sized up McGregor from the
start, noting that neither he nor his young companion ever left their
goods unattended, and that both were undoubtedly wearing thick
money-belts.  He insisted on cash, charging them a hundred dollars a
week for the use of a rat-infested barn.  Food was extra.  Only minutes
after meeting Evans, McGregor knew that he had hated him for years.

All into February McGregor, himself weak, nursed Blain with the limited
medication available from Evans, which had consisted of Hostetter's
Bitters, laudanum and cold compresses.  By mid-February his reserves of
cash had run out and he was forced to pay the Welshman in dust though
he never allowed him to see his money-belt.

McGregor's constitution was a living paradox, for at six foot four and
two hundred and twenty pounds he possessed an inner animal strength
that seemed to exist independent of and untouched by the excesses of
smoking, alcohol or gluttony.  But even he had reached its outer
limits.

In late February McGregor himself went down with a raging fever, and it
was the barely-recovered Blain who was now forced to cope with his
older colleague in the frozen barn at Evans Station, while outside
sixty-mile-an-hour winds raced across the Wyoming Plains.  The actor,
in his delirium, raved his way through the works of Shakespeare,
Dickens and Marlowe; long stretches of them coming forth without pause
or error.  Had Blain had the disposition, his nursing of McGregor might
well have afforded him a rare education.

Finally, in the second week of March, McGregor recovered sufficiently
to travel.  Thus, two thousand two hundred dollars poorer, the two
Scots made their way slowly south towards the Union Pacific, which they
reached on 17 March

1876, the day of the Great San Francisco High Jump, catching the train
at Callender, seventy-five miles east, a week later.

The discretion of A. P. Wagstaffe was legendary.  By evening on the day
of McGregor and Blain's arrival the Scots' gold, estimated at eighteen
thousand two hundred and seventy-seven dollars, had been deposited in
the vaults of the Wagstaffe bank, with no one in San Francisco any the
wiser.  By the end of the week Moriarty had his five-thousand-dollar
grub-stake back, and the remaining money was split evenly between
himself, Blain and McGregor, with four thousand dollars set aside to be
divided between the four dead men's next-of-kin.

Neither Blain nor McGregor had any desire to go back to the Black
Hills.  It was the young life man's intention to return to Dakota, but
to set himself up as a supplier of goods to miners in Deadwood, not to
prospect.  That was where the certain money was, he reasoned: in the
provision of services, not in scouring Godforsaken Indian-ridden
territory for gold.

McGregor's reluctance derived from a different source.  It was shame.
The actor had always taken a romantic view of combat, more directly
related to the theatricals of Rob Roy, The Highland Rogue, than to the
realities of battle.  He had thought that on attack by hostiles he
would fight and stand his ground, bellowing defiance to his enemies.
But when Blain's blood had stained the river and bullets had begun to
fly it had not been as he had expected.  It had all been squalid and
desperate, a rush to escape with scarcely a backward glance.  Indeed,
he could hardly even be certain that one or more of the four men left
behind had not still been alive.

Eleanor and Moriarty's insistence that he had shown himself a true
Highlander in steering the sick Blain back to civilisation did not
mollify him much.  By his own standards he had been tried and found
wanting, and henceforth he would confine his acts of heroism to the
stage.  The diggings and all that remained there at Camp Scotia were
Moriarty's to do with as he pleased, and a detailed map was given to
the actor.

Buck and Billy Joe, still flush with the glory of the Great

High Jump, devoured McGregor's story, pressing him to repeat it over
and over again.  Billy Joe checked the map: it would be a piece of pie
to get there, he announced, for Camp Scotia was less than one hundred
miles north-west of Deadwood.  The camp would be virtually untouched,
for the Sioux had probably only wanted the horses and guns.  The dust,
all $40,000 or more of it, would still be there, stashed in the men's
sleeping tarpaulins.  Why then, they pressed Moriarty, could they not
mosey on up to Camp Scotia, travelling light, and pick up the gold?
Moriarty could send up another band of fully-equipped miners to
continue to work, and, if he and Buck could pick up a few choice
nuggets while they awaited the second party, then all to the good.

At first, everyone else was against it, Mandy in particular.  Four men
had already lost their lives, the Black Hills were crawling with
Indians, and General Crooke had been appointed to stem the rush of
prospectors there.  In the end, however, one argument was crucial and
it came, surprisingly, from Eleanor.  As she pointed out, $40,000 was
the sum that would finally enable Moriarty to take a long lease on the
Jenny Lind Theatre.  If any other party came upon the Scotia, however,
then the mine, its $40,000 and all future earnings from it would
vanish.  They'd never get another chance like this.

It was rare for Eleanor to come down strongly on the side of a
speculative venture, and it was this more than anything else that
prompted Moriarty to agree to Billy Joe and Buck's project.  But their
terms of reference were inflexible.  They were to find the Scotia,
secure what gold they could and await the arrival of a group of miners
from San Francisco which Moriarty would assemble in the next fortnight.
They were on no account to mine for gold, as they had a running
assignment in Cheyenne, where there was a street dash on 14 June, and
on the first sight of Indians were to hightail it out of the area. When
the mining party arrived they were to make their way back towards
Cheyenne.

The two men were so keen on their adventure they would have signed an
affidavit, had Moriarty demanded it.  On 1 April they were aboard the
Union Pacific, on their way east, armed to the specifications of a
British regiment of the line.

Giving a wide berth to Deadwood, Buck and Billy Joe entered the Black
Hills a fortnight later.  They came upon General Crooke's men only a
day after, camped on the banks of the Black River.  Lacking, as they
did, all the accoutrements of a mining party and, with their Sharps and
needle-gun, possessing sufficient armaments to clear the Black Hills of
all game, Buck and Billy Joe were easily able to pass themselves off as
hunters.  On the morning of their departure they were also able to
relieve Crooke's soldiers of two hundred dollars as the result of a
three-legged race.

Buck and Billy Joe had brought four mounts and were thus able to make
their way speedily into the depths of the hills, which were now basking
in the warmth of spring sunshine, a far cry from the icy bleakness
through which Blain and McGregor had fled.  But they were reminded of
McGregor's warning on the weather in the Dakotas "If you don't like the
weather, then just wait a minute': on the third day, when they were
only fifty miles short of Camp Scotia, spring rain lashed down upon
them.

They picked up McGregor's first camp a day later, its Long Tom still
intact, and two days after that came upon the remnants of Camp
Scotia.

The four men were still just as they had fallen, their bones long since
picked clean and white by buzzards and coyotes.  Two of them, the elder
Blain and Law, still wore their body-belts, the gold spilling out of
them from the punctures made by the birds.  It was a more difficult
task than either man had expected to disengage the belts before giving
the Scots a Christian burial.

Altogether it was not a bit as they had imagined.  A year ago, four fit
young men like themselves had left San Francisco in hope and optimism.
Now they were only dry skeletons in a nameless valley, their lives
having been taken merely for a few horses and guns.

Nevertheless, Buck and Billy Joe set about finding the rest of the
gold.  It said much for the trust in which the Scots had held each
other that the caches had not been buried, but were found beneath their
sleeping tarpaulins.  So they had it all, every cent.  They transferred
the gold to their body-belts and anxiously watered and fed the horses
as a weak spring sun settled in the dark trees above them on their
right.  As darkness fell that first night at Camp Scotia both men hoped
that Moriarty would not take long in organising a mining party to
follow them.

White Wolf had recognised the man immediately; he was one of the madmen
in the valley.  There he was, down by the river, stripped to the waist,
his body as lean and white as it had been that strange day almost a
year before.

As he looked down towards them White Wolf could not believe his luck.
The men were well armed: at least four rifles and two hand guns, all
close by, with the Sharps and the needle-gun capable of causing
considerable damage.  But the men appeared to be preoccupied, shouting
to each other as they dug at the river's edge and shook a long wooden
trough, the heat of the sun causing their torsos to gleam with sweat.
White Wolf watched them for over an hour; they appeared to be oblivious
to all else but their work.  There was no question of it, even so.  One
of the men, the golden-haired one, he had never seen before.  But the
other was assuredly the runner.  He scampered back to the camp.

Swift Dog, sitting by his tent, saw his son running towards him down
the slope through the village and smiled.  The little boy lived in the
afterglow of his discovery of the White Eyes the year before.  Try as
he might, Swift Dog could still make nothing of it.  For the Sioux,
running was indeed a way of pleasing the gods and thus enriching the
earth had been since time began but he had never heard of any similar
customs among the White Eyes.

He reflected briefly how, since the madmen in the valley, it had been a
bad winter for his people, the warriors returning time after time from
the hunt with almost nothing to show for their day's work.  The tribe
had had to exist on thin rations of maize, eked out by an occasional
rabbit or mountain deer, and even on his daughter Morning Star's
betrothal to Black Fox the feast had been meagre.  But the snows had
melted, winter was over, and now they faced new challenges, perhaps the
greatest challenge of all.  For every treaty had been broken and now
the White Eyes, lured by the gold of the Dakotas, were pouring into the
territory.  And it was clear that the

Army was dedicated to the destruction of the Indians of the North
Plains.  So Sitting Bull had called the Sioux to him in Montana, and
soon they would link up with other parts of the tribe and their
Cheyenne, Arapaho and Gros Ventre brothers to face the White Eyes.

White Wolf had stopped a few feet away from him, gasping for breath,
having zigzagged through the camp at breakneck speed.  Lungs heaving,
sweat streaming down his face, he seemed scarcely able to speak.

"The runner," he gasped at last.  "The runner."

"What runner?"

"The White Eye in the valley."

Swift Dog motioned his son to sit down and called across to the
medicine man, Dark Cloud, to join them.

"Tell what you have seen," he said.

The words poured from the little boy, and as they did so the lined,
solemn face of Dark Cloud slowly creased into a smile.  "The bad
medicine of the winter', he said, 'it can now be changed.  Not only for
the tribe, but for all Sioux."  He, Dark Cloud, would tell Swift Dog
how it would be done.

When Swift Dog and the warriors arrived above the valley the two men
below were dancing in the shallows of the stream, the golden-haired one
holding above his head a metal dish.  The Sioux had heard their
whooping and shouting long before they reached the valley.  The White
Eyes were either mad or drunk and quite oblivious to the Sioux poised
above them on both sides.  When they did notice the presence of Swift
Dog and his warriors it was too late.  In any case, it would have made
no difference if they had managed to draw their guns, for the warriors
were many.

As the two white men were put under guard, White Wolf had an
opportunity for the first time to see the runner close at hand.  The
young black-haired man was still stripped to the waist, the muscles of
his abdomen and shoulders clearly defined as if carved from wood.  The
other man, though golden-haired, was almost identical, like a Sioux
warrior in the finest condition.  Were all White Eyes men like this?

The little boy was, as a mark of favour, allowed to ride one of their
four horses back to camp.

The White Eyes were led through the encampment, to the whooping of the
warriors and the screaming of the women, who struck at them with
branches as they passed, while the camp dogs snapped at their feet.
Finally they were placed outside the tent of White Wolf's uncle, Black
Moon.

The two men sat, hands bound behind them, in the heat of the midday
sun, the sweat streaming down their bodies as some of the more
adventurous of the young women of the tribe pressed forward to inspect
them.  Some poked them with sticks, others threw dust on to their white
skins, while others simply gazed at them, giggling.

Swift Dog, Dark Cloud and the elders of the tribe sat round the
camp-fire in conference.  White Wolf now sought the opportunity to
satisfy a burning curiosity.  He scampered off, ignoring the pleadings
of his friends, and made his way round the group of squaws inspecting
the White Eyes, through the flap into the gloom of the tepee behind
them, where lay the White Eyes' goods.

The Great Manitou, Dark Cloud explained to the tribe, had surely
brought the White Eyes to them as a sign.  For the two men were
undoubtedly runners and therefore big medicine.  Had not young White
Wolf last summer seen the dark-haired one run like an antelope through
the valley, towards the sun, always towards the sun?  Had he not seen
him naked, cleansed in the water of the mountain streams, the stuff of
life itself?  And what of the marks, like those of animals, along the
valley floor?

It was then that White Wolf brought the barbed moccasins to his father.
He had found them in the saddle-pouches of the White Eyes, two pairs of
them.  White Wolf sat with his father and Dark Cloud as Swift Dog
scraped the dry earth with the sole of a shoe, shaking his head.  What
was the song they had sung the last time Black Moon and the other
members of the tribe had run?

The hawk laid out the racetrack The hawk laid out the racetrack On it
the man won.  Ah!  Wild the man came here; A hawk's heart he won. Ah!

Evening is falling

Like an eagle I move

Back and forth

Morning is standing!

Like a hawk I run back and forth.

Dark Cloud listened as his chief began to chant the running song, then
joined him in the singing.

Since they had been captured, Buck and Billy Joe had spoken hardly a
word.  All the reflexes they had expected in response to their first
sight of the Indians had failed them, and their capture stayed fixed in
their minds, a crime against their honour, all the way to the camp.

The two men lay on their backs, bound, on the dry, brown earth of Black
Moon's tent.  Buck was the first to speak.

"Who are they?"

"Sioux," replied Billy Joe.

"What will they do with us?"

Billy Joe shook his head.  The possibilities running through his mind
were too terrible to voice.  He swore, adding, "These savages'll slit
your throat just to keep in practice."  The words felt bitter in his
throat.

"What do they want?"

"Horses, guns."

"Then they might let us go?"

"I wouldn't lay bets on it.  This is their land.  We shouldn't be here.
No white man should."

The tent-flap opened and a tall, lean warrior in his mid-thirties
entered.  He was big for an Indian, and in the light gloom they could
see only the gleam of his eyes, hear the rattle of beads round his
neck, smell his strange, musky sweat.  He levered Billy Joe to his
feet, then Buck, and pulled them out into the warm spring night.
Surprisingly, the camp looked less menacing in the darkness than it had
in the light of day.  Gone were the yapping dogs and the squaws with
their lashing birch-boughs.  The tepees were shrouded in gloom, only
the light of the central camp-fire visible, round which twenty Sioux
sat, dressed in brightly decorated buckskins.  Their Indian guard
pushed Buck and Billy Joe towards the heat of the fire and forced them
down to their backsides, facing a middle-aged Indian in full head-dress
across the bright, crackling fire.

"You understand any Sioux?"  hissed Buck, as behind him his arms were
unbound.

"Yes," whispered Billy Joe out of the side of his mouth, rubbing his
wrists as they were released.  "But don't let on."

There was silence as the Indian held up a pair of black running shoes,
the spikes catching the light of the fire as he did so.

"Shoes," he said in English in a thick, guttural accent.

Billy Joe nodded, gulping.

"For battle?"

Billy Joe shook his head and stood up.  "For running," he said in
English.  The Indian did not respond, so Billy Joe made running
movements on the spot, paddling with his hands at the same time.

"Running," he repeated.

This time the Indian nodded and looked sideways at a scrawny old brave
wearing a necklace of bones, then around him.  There were grunts of
agreement from other braves.

"Runner said the Indian, who was clearly the chief.

"Yes.  We are runners," said Billy Joe, nodding, as he sat down
again.

A young brave, resplendent in feathered head-dress, stood up, slowly
walked round the circle and inspected Buck from above.  Then he bent
down, put a hand on each side of Buck's chest and squeezed.  It was not
painful, but Buck gasped.  Then the brave scrutinised Billy Joe,
finally fingering his blonde hair.  He pulled hard, extracting several
strands, which he inspected closely before walking.  back to his
place.

The scrawny old man sitting on the chief's left now spoke in Sioux.
"They are big medicine, Swift Dog', he said.  They run for the White
God.  Their speed gives the White Eyes the earth and all it bears."

Swift Dog's eyes turned again to Buck and Billy Joe.  "Why you run?"

Billy Joe's reply was immediate.

"For our Gods," he replied.  "It pleases them."

Swift Dog looked at the old man at his side.  "Dark Cloud?"  he said.

"If we kill them now we kill nothing," responded Dark Cloud.  "But if
we defeat them in speed then we will assuredly weaken the White Eyes
and their God, for future battles."

Swift Dog was silent for a moment, stroking his chin.  He stood up and
walked round the fire to his two prisoners.  He pulled Buck to his feet
and felt his shoulders and abdominal muscles with both hands.  Then he
raised up Billy Joe till he was standing and suddenly, alarmingly,
grabbed the middle of his left thigh.  Billy Joe almost let out a cry
of pain, while the Indian merely nodded, and returned round the fire to
his place, to the grunts of the warriors and elders.

"These are runners," he said.  "There is speed in their loins.  Great
speed."

"Then our fastest warriors must contest with them in the Run of the
Arrow," pursued Dark Cloud.

Swift Dog nodded.  "You run," he said, pointing to Buck and Billy
Joe.

He held up their spikes in both hands.  "Run of Arrow.  Dawn."

The food had been delicious, particularly so because they had eaten
nothing since their capture: broiled legs of rabbit and strange, sweet
honey cakes, all washed down with goats' milk.  Next they had been
taken to the river at the edge of the village to defecate and wash,
then taken back to the tepee, where they were again bound at the
wrists, laid on the ground and covered in woollen blankets.

About an hour or so later, as dusk gathered, two shadows flickered for
a moment on the thin skin of the tent.  Buck, still awake, felt a chill
sweat form on his brow and a cold spot in the pit of his stomach.  He
dug the sleeping Billy Joe in the ribs.  The tent-flap opened and the
two figures were framed in the flickering camp-fire behind them.

Neither of the two girls was more than sixteen years of age.  They
stood whispering for a moment, then the taller of the two put her
finger to her lips, closed the tent-flap behind her and stood above
Billy Joe, who was now awake.  She pulled the blanket from him,
scrutinising him as she did so in the shadowy gloom of the tent.  Then
she bent down and Billy Joe could smell the smoke of the camp-fire on
her body as she timidly drew her hands through his silky blonde hair.

She whispered something in Sioux.

"What's she saying?"  asked Buck.

Billy Joe did not answer.

The girl continued to speak in whispers, drawing her companion towards
Billy Joe.

"What's she saying?"  pursued Buck.

"She says I'm beautiful," whispered Billy Joe.

The girl spoke again to her companion, who even in the gloom of the
tepee-could be clearly seen to be short and plump.

"They want to take my clothes off," said Billy Joe.

"And are you just going to sit there and let them?  We got a race for
our lives at dawn tomorrow, don't you forget that," said Buck,
testily.

"Don't see that I got much choice," answered Billy Joe.

The tall girl undid his belt and pulled down on his buckskins,
motioning the other girl to help her.  Her companion needed no urging
to join her and together they pulled down Billy Joe's clothing,
giggling as they did so.  Irrationally, Billy Joe realised he was glad
that his white long-Johns were relatively clean.  Then both girls sat
above Billy Joe, each pointing at the other and shaking their heads.
Buck levered himself up on to his elbows, while Billy Joe looked from
one girl to the other.  Then the first girl spoke and for the first
time Billy Joe knew what it was all about.

"If I do it, he is mine."

The other girl did not reply, and the first girl's response was
immediate.  She pulled on Billy Joe's long-Johns, drawing them down to
his knees, exposing him.

There it is," she said.  "As I have said.  It is not the length of a
long branch.  It is just as I have told you."

Indeed it was not, being at that moment of twig rather than branch
length.  The plumper girl, reassured, crawled over to Buck and quickly
confirmed the finding of her friend.

From that moment on it was the plump girl who was to make the running,
for neither Buck nor Billy Joe had ever seen anyone divest herself of
her clothes at such speed.  The girl pulled off her buckskin dress in
one movement, revealing in the shadows a stocky, nut-brown body and
firm, pointed breasts.

Her friend was not far behind and Billy Joe looked up, helpless, at the
flat belly and fluffy, black pubic V of the taller girl.  The girl
pointed to herself.

"Swift Deer," she said, in Sioux.  Then she pointed at her friend.
"Bright One," she said.  Then she knelt down and took him in her mouth,
as Bright One did the same with Buck.  Each girl appeared to treat Buck
and Billy Joe as an experiment, for there was no orifice, no area of
their bodies which they did not probe, scratch, caress or explore.

At first neither man was able to respond, but in the end persistence
triumphed.  For the two girls were nothing if not industrious,
nibbling, scratching and biting, all the while crooning and mumbling to
themselves.  Before long Buck and Billy Joe's sexual reflexes asserted
themselves, and they began to enjoy it.

When they had finished, the girls dressed with much the same celerity
as they had previously undressed, still giggling, as if sharing a
private joke.  Billy Joe smiled in the darkness.  They were comparing
notes.

Buck was the first to have something moist and sticky pressed into his
mouth, by his plump partner, and Billy Joe's Indian girl soon did the
same for him.  Then the girls left the tent.

Buck cautiously bit on the object.

"Honey cake," said Billy Joe, through mouthfuls.  "Suppose they reckon
that they've taken something out of us, so they're duty bound to put
something back."

"Figures," said Buck, chewing.

Then the tent-flap opened again and two further shadowy figures
appeared, whispering, framed against the camp-fires outside.

"Jesus.  More," said Buck, licking his lips clear of the last remnants
of the honey cake.

The figures vanished almost immediately and there was the sound of an
angry man's voice outside.  Then silence.

"What the hell's happening out there?"  asked Buck.

"Coupla more ladies wanted to test us out," said Billy Joe.

"The old medicine man's just chased them off.  Says a runner has to
have all his holy juices intact."

"Then he's too late," said Buck.

It was only four hours after the girls had left them that Buck and
Billy Joe were led out, blinking, into the weak morning sunshine.  The
camp-fire was now only smoulder and smoke, and Buck and Billy Joe
walked through the village past tribes-people who no longer slashed at
them with birch-boughs.  Instead, the women looked at them silently,
nudging each other, smiling and whispering.

Swift Dog stood at the fire beside Dark Cloud, clasping a pair of
running shoes in each hand, this time holding them out in front of him
like offerings.  Buck and Billy Joe's bonds were cut and they spent
several minutes massaging their wrists.  They took their spiked shoes
from Swift Dog and slipped them on, lacing them tightly.

Swift Dog pointed across the camp-fire to three warriors painted in
vertical stripes of blue and white and wearing only breech-cloths and
moccasins.  Beside them stood Black Moon, taller and broader than the
others, though similarly painted and dressed.

"These our best, our swiftest warriors."  He pointed first to Black
Moon.  "Black Moon," he said.  "Hollow Stone, Grey Deer, Black Dog," he
added.

He sat down, as did Black Cloud, and Buck and Billy Joe inspected the
men against whom they would race.

Each bore a quiver of six arrows, slung on a leather strap diagonally
across his trunk, and a bow.  Dark Moon looked a natural runner, with
long legs and short trunk, though he was now clearly in early
middle-age.  Hollow Stone was a younger, squint-eyed little Sioux, no
more than five foot four, with powerful thighs and thin, scrawny
calves.  Good for a fast fifty yards, thought Buck; after that he would
fade.  He looked at Grey Deer, a bandy-legged, rangy young man with a
doleful expression, probably about the same age as himself.  No power
there, but he might be a stayer.  Finally, Black Dog: of all of the
Sioux he looked the most likely to give them trouble.  At roughly
five-nine in height, he was tall for an Indian and long-legged, with
big buttocks and thighs; all the power in the right places.  But it all
depended how far they would have to run and how far the Sioux could
accurately fire their arrows.

"What's the distance?"  asked Billy Joe, echoing Buck's thoughts.

Swift Dog looked sideways at Dark Cloud.  The medicine man pointed
south-east, towards the distant hills beyond the plain on which the
Sioux camp rested, and spoke in Sioux to his chief.

Swift Dog turned to look at Buck and Billy Joe.

"You must run to the end of our land," he said.  "Your horses wait at
Deer Leap."

"How many paces?"  asked Billy Joe.

Swift Dog shook his head.  He could not compute in English.

Billy Joe looked sideways at Buck.  It was too important.  He threw
caution to the winds.  "How many paces?"  he blurted, in Sioux.

Swift Dog's eyes narrowed and he pulled on his lower lip.  "Three
thousand," he said, also in Sioux.

"A mile and a half to two miles," said Billy Joe to Buck.  He was
surprised that Swift Dog had not reacted more strongly when he had
spoken in Sioux.  Somehow, he did not know why, it troubled him.

The two men looked out across the plain.  They could see no end to it.
Perhaps the chief was trying to trick them, pressing them into
exhausting themselves early in the chase.  Perhaps it was six miles to
the horses.  What if it went on for ever?

"Three thousand paces?"  confirmed Billy Joe, in Sioux, his voice a
question.

Swift Dog nodded.  "Your horses are at Deer Leap with your food and
guns," he added, still in Sioux.  He pointed out across the plain, and,
irrelevantly, Billy Joe noted the crepey, brown skin of his upper
arm.

"My son, White Wolf, will fire an arrow as far as he can," he said.
"When you reach it, my warriors will come after you."

Billy Joe translated for Buck.

"First time we ever been given a start," said Buck, trying to prevent
his voice trembling.

Billy Joe gulped.  "We run it in bursts," he said.  "Sprints and
jogs."

Buck nodded.  "Keep together," he said.

"All the way," said Billy Joe, his voice thin and hard.

Buck and Billy Joe looked around them at the Sioux.  None of them was
smiling.  It was as if they had all wagered heavily on the race,
thought Buck, but more than money.  Swift Dog took his runners to the
side, away from the tribe, with Dark Cloud.  Billy Joe could not hear
distinctly what he said to them, though the Chief's staccato barks were
sharp and vigorous.  The words 'gods' and 'big medicine' did, however,
recur.

Swift Dog pointed to White Wolf.  The little boy strutted forward,
self-important, carrying his bow.  The chief beckoned to Buck, Billy
Joe and his runners, and together they walked through the village, with
warriors, women and children following silently behind them.

They reached the perimeter of the camp, at which point Swift Dog raised
his right arm and the procession stopped.  Little White Wolf pressed
his way to the front, paused, inserted an arrow in his bow, paused
again, then unleashed it.  It swished through the morning air and
landed about eighty yards away, hitting the base of a yucca tree.

The chief smiled and patted White Wolf on the head.

Buck and Billy Joe stood for a moment as the arrow quivered at the base
of the yucca.

"Let's go," said Buck, walking forward.

The two men walked slowly away from the silent congregation behind
them, as the four warriors stood, hands on knees, coiled, ready to give
chase.

Billy Joe looked ahead but could see only the shimmer of heat-haze on
the apparently endless plain, the mountains like a distant dream
beyond.  They were now only thirty yards from the arrow, and again Buck
felt the thud throbbing in his temple and neck, the dryness in his
mouth.  Billy Joe broke the silence.

"Take it slow," he said.  "No point in wasting energy."

Buck nodded.  He was beginning to feel the ground hard beneath his
feet, the soft feeling leaving his legs.  He concentrated on deepening
his breathing.  He spoke, continuing to face forward, as if the Sioux
behind them could hear, "We got to bust their balls early."

Billy Joe nodded, also looking forward.  "When we get to that arrow,
really get moving," he said, harshly.  "Let's run the guts outa these
boys early on.  Burn 'em out."

They reached the arrow.  "Now!"  bellowed Billy Joe.  Both men
accelerated as one, their spikes gaining good grip on the dry surface
of the plain, the earth spurting in their wake.  Behind them came the
collective whoop of the tribe as their chosen warriors raced off in
pursuit.

Black Moon took the lead, running at full speed, with little Hollow
Stone pattering at his shoulder and Grey Deer and Black Dog loping
along two yards or so back.  The Sioux zigzagged through the brush,
oblivious to branches and thorns which ripped at their legs.  After
only a furlong it was obvious to the Indians that they were making no
impression.  Indeed, the white men appeared to be further away than
ever, and little Hollow Stone was already beginning to labour, his
breath coming in deep sucking gasps, though Black Moon, Grey Deer and
Black Dog were still running strongly.

By a quarter of a mile, Hollow Stone had dropped twenty yards back, and
Black Moon and the two other runners could already feel the breath
begin to rasp in their throats and their legs grow heavy.  Ahead of
them, the white men seemed like elusive spirits of the plain, hardly
making contact with the ground.  They were now more than two hundred
paces away.  Black Moon dropped his arms and slowed to a trot, and
Black Dog and Grey Deer did the same.  Soon even Hollow Stone had
caught up.

Buck and Billy Joe were well ahead, and they knew it.  They had covered
a quarter-mile at close to sprint speed, fear masking their fatigue.

They dropped to a slow trot for a hundred yards, sucking hard.

"Okay," said Billy Joe.  "Hit it."

The two men surged off again, this time at no more than a fast
stride.

Behind them, Black Moon thought for a brief moment that he and his men
were catching up.  They started to increase their speed.  Then the
white men seemed to be stretching away again, white wraiths in the
desert heat.  After only half a mile Hollow Stone was reduced to a
shambling trot, his breathing a bronchial wheeze, as he wobbled a
hundred yards behind his companions, tripping on stones and roots.
Black Moon looked behind him.  Hollow Stone was all but finished, but
beside him Grey Deer and Black Dog strode remorselessly on, their
bodies gleaming with sweat.

Then, at a mile, for the first time Buck saw the horses.  They appeared
quite close, but it was difficult to judge, for the.  image was
distorted by the heat.  Strangely, they could only see the top halves
of the animals.

For the next half-mile Buck and Billy Joe kept up the same tactics, but
the distance was beginning to take its toll on their sprinters'
muscles, and each time they began their quarter-mile dash their strides
became heavier, more flat-footed.  With half a mile to go, Billy Joe's
breathing was harsh and his stride low, and for the first time Buck
looked back.

The Indians were gaining.  Perhaps they lacked speed, but they had
stamina, and were beginning to pull their prey in on a long rope.  They
were less than a hundred and fifty yards away.

With a shout, Black Moon stopped his men and they charged their bows.
The Sioux fired singly.  The arrow from Hollow Stone, now barely able
to support himself, was a good forty yards short of the white men, Grey
Deer's and Black Dog's about twenty yards closer.  But Black Moon took
his time.  His purpose was not to hit his quarry he was too far off for
that it was to sap their spirits.  His arrow landed five yards in front
of Buck and Billy Joe, thudding into the soft earth and triggering off
in them a sudden, frightened spurt.  For the first time they were
within firing range.

But, with a quarter of a mile to go, their legs bowing with fatigue,
Buck and Billy Joe could see the horses quite clearly could see that
they were saddled, and still.  The sight gave fresh impetus to their
flagging legs.

But Black Moon was only sixty yards behind, and sensed that he had his
men.  There was no escape.  He beckoned his braves to stop and recharge
their bows.  Hollow Stone and Grey Deer fired together, their arrows
splitting the still morning air.  The shafts landed almost in line,
thudding into the dry earth only a yard ahead of a wobbling Billy Joe.
His knees buckled and he fell forward on to his face, the grit mixing
with his sweat to cake his chest and arms.

Buck, gasping, stood above Billy Joe, straddling him, then bent down to
pull him to his feet.  As he did so an arrow landed between Buck's
legs, only a few inches from Billy Joe's blonde head.  This produced
another convulsive spurt from Buck, but Billy Joe, staggering behind
him to his feet, was gone.  Buck stopped, for Billy Joe was now ten
yards back.  His action saved him, for Black Moon's arrow, perfectly
flighted, would have landed between his shoulder blades.  It whistled
harmlessly beyond him.

Then, two hundred yards on, Buck saw the horses through the heat-haze
again, but this time clearly.  He realised why Swift Dog had smiled
when he had spoken of Deer Leap.  The animals appeared to be on their
knees.  As they ran closer, they saw that it was because the horses
were on the other side of a chasm, and at least two feet below them.
But it was a leap of a good five yards.

Buck looked back.  Fifty yards behind them, Black Moon and the other
two Sioux had dropped to their knees, gasping, with Hollow Stone
staggering a hundred yards behind.  Black Moon was motioning to the two
men to recharge their bows once more, and within moments the three men
loosed another flight.  But their muscles were heavy with fatigue, and
the arrows landed ten yards short of the white men, who squatted,
exhausted, just seventy yards away, a bare ten yards from the chasm.

Buck jogged forward to the edge of the cliff face and peered over.  On
the other side the horses whinnied tantalisingly.  There was no way
down, for it was almost vertical, and the chasm seemed to stretch
endlessly on either side of them.  For the first time he realised they
had been on a plateau.  He ran back to Billy Joe, who stood sobbing
with fatigue, hands on knees.  Behind them Black Moon pointed to Buck
and Billy Joe.

"Look," he said.  They are finished."

The four Sioux started to walk unsteadily forward towards the white
men, and were soon within thirty yards of them, and in sight of Deer
Leap.  Then something happened that

Black Moon would recount to his children all his life, even in the same
breath as the victory over Yellow Hair, the white soldier.  For the two
White Eyes suddenly stood and rushed at the chasm like devils,
launching themselves into space.  The dark-haired one cleared with much
to spare, but the golden-haired one was short, landing just on the
edge, which crumbled, and he slid down, hanging on to the cliff-edge by
his fingers.

Then the other White Eye pulled on the armpits of his friend and slowly
levered him up.  The two men lay, exhausted, on the other side of Deer
Leap.  By this time Black Moon and his men had advanced to within ten
yards of the chasm, and Black Dog made to place an arrow in his bow.
But Black Moon put his hand on his arm, restraining him.  He walked to
the edge of the plateau, followed by Black Dog and Grey Deer, as the
white men, too tired to move quickly, struggled to mount their
horses.

Black Moon raised his bow high above his head in salutation, the sweat
streaming down his dark body.

"Runners," he shouted, his voice resounding in the morning air.
"Runners."

SHOWDOWN IN CHEYENNE

4 June 1876

Swift Dog had never really expected the White Eyes to reach their
horses.  He had reasoned that Black Moon and his braves would run them
down long before Deer Leap, and that if by some chance the two men did
reach the chasm first they would not attempt to clear it.  But the will
of the Great Manitou had to be observed and respected, and it was thus
that Buck and Billy Joe found two well-groomed horses, the same beasts
as they had lost at Camp Scotia, on the far side of Deer Leap, with
their rifles and clothing, and food capable of taking them as far as
the first trading station.

The two men had said little in the first hours after their escape,
concentrating instead on putting distance between them and Black Moon,
for there was no understanding the Indian mind.  That first day they
rode thirty-five miles, making camp in a glade by a stream, an area
which afforded them good vision on all sides.  Billy Joe rustled up
some hot sourdough biscuits on the skillet, while Buck concentrated on
the Arbuckle's, and they sat by the fire in the gloaming while the
horses whinnied lightly behind them.

"Thought you were done for back there," said Buck.

"Me?"  said Billy Joe.  "No trouble.  I had plenty of starch left in
these legs."

"Didn't look like that to me," said Buck, sipping his coffee.  "You
looked clean tuckered out."

"Well, it's not my distance, is it?"  growled Billy Joe, sliding some
steaming sourdough off the skillet on to a plate and handing it to his
companion.

"A mile and a half wasn't mine neither," said Buck, struggling to cut
off a piece of the hot bread.

"Well, good for you," said Billy Joe.  "You get the long distance
medal.  You can tell Moriarty all about it when we catch up with him in
Cheyenne."

There was silence as both men let the moment simmer.  They chewed at
their sourdough.

"Anyhow," said Billy Joe, gulping down the remains of his coffee, "I
had me an ace in the hole all the time."

Buck laid down his plate.  "How d'you mean?"

"I mean if'n those savages had turned real bad, I could've got both of
us out of there as easy as pie."

Buck stood and poured Billy Joe out another mug of coffee.

"And how exactly would you have worked that?"

Billy Joe paused.  "Shut your eyes," he said, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand.

"What the hell-' protested Buck.

"I said, shut your eyes," insisted Billy Joe.  Buck dutifully did as he
was told.

"Just you keep 'em closed," said Billy Joe, laying down his mug and
plate, standing up and drawing down his buckskins, then pulling down
his long-Johns and fumbling behind him.  Then he pulled up both
long-Johns and buckskins and buckled his belt.

"You can open 'em up now," he said, sitting down again.

When Buck opened his eyes he saw that Billy Joe was holding in his
right hand in the flickering light of the camp-fire what looked like a
thin sliver of steel.  He took it from him and examined it, turning it
over and over.  The sliver was about two inches long and half an inch
wide; it was sharp on one side, like a razor.

He laughed.  "So you've got a dwarf's razor what about it?"

Billy Joe did not laugh, his face solemn as he retrieved the razor from
Buck.

"This ain't no ordinary razor.  This, my good friend, is a cutting edge
it can go through ropes, open locks .. ."

"I didn't see much in the way of locks back there with them Sioux '

"You're full of piss and vinegar!"  exploded Billy Joe.  "I had this
hid, and hid good."

"Where?"

"You promise not to tell?"

Buck put on a mock-solemn face and spat into the fire.  "Cross my heart
and hope to die."

"Up my ass," said Billy Joe, winking conspiratorially.

Buck wrinkled his nose in incredulity.  "What do you mean?"

"Can't put it no plainer, Buck.  Up my ass, anal cavity, dung trap.
Shakespeare himself can't put it no plainer than that."

"You really mean to tell me you've been toting a razor up your
asshole?"

"That's exactly the situation."

Buck shook his head and poured himself out another mug of coffee.  "For
how long?"

"Close on three years.  My pap once told me oP Daniel Boone carried one
on him since he was twelve.  "Scaped from Indians many a time because
of it.  But it was the Great Marko first put me on to it proper."  The
Great Marko?"

"An escap ... an escapamol a magician feller I met once down in San
Antonio back in '72.  He used to tie himself up in ropes and chains and
straitjackets, get buried in a coffin, that sort of thing.  And ten
minutes after he was out, cool as eggs."

"So how did this .. . this Marko feller come to let you in on it?"

Billy Joe lifted a lump of sourdough, smelt his hand, thought better of
it and threw the bread on the fire.  He then wiped his mouth with the
back of his other hand.

"Marko was in deep to me, for two hundred wheels in a game of stud.  He
told me all about the razor, so I let him go clear."

"And you're telling me that I've been a-riding these past three years
with a man with a razor sticking up his backside?"

Billy Joe nodded.  "You sure as hell have, and dam' lucky for you."

Buck stretched his bottom lip and bit on it with his top teeth.  "Isn't
it a mite .. . uncomfortable?"

Billy Joe shook his head.  "Hell, it ain't like your Sears Roebuck
cut-throat exactly what kind of orifice d'you think I've got?"

"I never gave it much thought, leastways not till now," said Buck.

"Look at this," said Billy Joe, holding up the razor.  "It's only got
one sharp edge the whole dam' thing's only two inches long and half an
inch wide.  And I got it wrapped up in rawhide' he held up a thin strip
of leather 'skinned down real thin.  Anyhow, I can tell you Buck, it's
my experience that the human arse hole a mighty accommodating place."

"Sure sounds like it to me," said Buck, eyeing the rawhide with
distaste.  "But if it ain't a question that troubles you, how about
your natural processes?"

"Shitting?  Stands to reason I takes it out for my natural functions,
else ways it's way down the privy every goddam time."

Buck nodded, then threw the remains of his coffee on to the fire.
"Billy Joe, just tell me one thing.  How did you plan to get your hands
on it back there, them being tied an all?"

"It sure as hell ain't easy.  You got to be dam' supple, for starters.
I spent him nerds of hours practising Kansas City, Ellsworth, Wichita,
all over."

"Just for this?"

"It could've paid off!  We could've been in a jailhouse, could've been
anywhere.  It'.s an ace in the hole, Buck, I'm telling you."

Buck thought for a moment.  "Billy Joe, just you promise me one
thing."

"Anything you say, Buck."

"You get any other ideas, like storing vittles up there, jerky and such
things, just count me out."

"I got you," replied Billy Joe, throwinjg his coffee grains on the
fire.

Buck stood up and looked down at Billy Joe.

"And if you've got any more surprises, such as a Derringer in your ear
or a Bowie knife in a hollow tooth, just let me know, next time.  Good
and early."

10 June 1876, Cheyenne

Moriarty eased himself slowly out of bed and made his way gingerly
across the floor of the bedroom towards the washbowl.  He carefully
avoided putting his heels on the ground, for his Achilles tendons still
ached as a result of a half-mile handicap run only the day before.  He
had been vain and foolish, having given starts of up to a hundred and
fifty yards and had been beaten on the post by a beardless young
Wyoming cowboy of sixteen to whom he had given a start of eighty
yards.

Moriarty groaned as his right heel dropped on a loose floorboard,
sending pains shooting up his leg.

"You hurt?"  asked Eleanor drowsily from the bed.

"No," answered Moriarty, turning his head towards her.  "Just some
parts wake up faster than others.  The running parts take a mite
longer, that's all."

He surveyed his face in the mirror.  It was remarkably unlined, indeed
childlike, but his mop of curly black hair now showed flecks of grey.
The hair on his head did not trouble Moriarty.  No, it had been finding
a single grey pubic hair only a few months before in San Francisco:
that had brought to him intimations of mortality.  It had been a bad
moment, if only because it had been so unexpected.  And now he had been
taken by a stripling over half a mile.  He continued to stare at his
face and stroked his grey-black, unshaven chin.

"Pretty soon I'll look like an old prune," he said.

"I like prunes," said Eleanor from the bed.

"I'm getting old, Eleanor.  I'm not the man I was ten years ago."

Eleanor levered herself from the bed, got out and donned her dressing
gown.

"You're not the man you were ten minutes ago."  She joined him at the
mirror and peered into it.  "You're thirty-nine years of age," she
said.

"The hell I am!  I'm thirty-eight."

She turned and walked to her dresser on the right of the bed as
Moriarty splashed cold water on his face.

"You know, ten years ago I could've run with the best Deerfoot, the
Suffolk Stag, the Norfolk Chicken .. ."

"Yes, I know," said Eleanor, pouring water into the white porcelain
bowl on her dresser.

"The whole menagerie.  They feel like kin to me."

Moriarty dipped his shaving brush into the water, then circled it in
his shaving bowl until he had achieved a rich, white foam.

"Eleanor," he said, looking down at the brush, 'if it hadn't been for
the war, I could've had the world ten-mile record.  Fifty minutes!  I
could've run five-minute miles all the way."

Eleanor lapped water on her clear white skin and surveyed herself.

"Nobody gets to be an athlete for ever," she said.  "Let Buck and Billy
Joe do the running."

Moriarty applied the foam generously to his face, sneezing as it made
its way into his nostrils.

"The hell I will.  I've got one big run in me, Eleanor ... I know it."
He scraped his right cheek, pulling down on his chin.

Eleanor dried her face.  "You're looking in a narrow mirror," she said,
turning to him.

Moriarty whetted his razor on his stropping belt.  "How d'you mean?"

She walked across the room and stood behind him as he continued his
shaving.  "Since San Francisco I've begun to feel something."

He put down his razor, turned to her and grabbed her by the shoulders,
looking down at her stomach.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No such luck," she said.  "No, I mean our work.  Our real work, in the
theatre.  I feel it's coming good."

He released her, turned away, lifted his razor and started once more to
scrape his right cheek.  "It's always been good."

That's where you're wrong."  She caught his eyes in the mirror.
"Sometimes it's been good.  A lot of the time it's been awful.  You
remember that time in Canyon City when you played Julius Caesar?"

"When that Navajo came in when Buck and Billy Joe were killing me,
started whooping with fear and rushed out before anyone could stop
him?"

"Yes."

Moriarty smiled into the mirror.  "Well, you can't blame me if a dam'
fool Indian can't distinguish drama from the real thing."

"Can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Distinguish it from the real thing?"

Moriarty completed his shaving, inspected himself and lapped his face
with cold water.  He turned to her, to welling his face.

"Eleanor, you're talking in riddles.  It's too early in the morning."
He pulled her to him.  "What's bothering you?"

"You," she said.  "You remember when we first came out here and you had
such great plans?"

He looked at her solemnly.  "I've still got them."

"Mr.  and Mrs.  Moriarty in Moriarty's Theatre of the West that's what
you said then."

"And I seem to remember you said then that was one helluva lot of
Moriarty."

She grinned and fondled the hairs on his chest.  Then her face became
serious.  "Well, I don't feel that you want to do it anymore.  Now it's
all running and the English Method and high jumps against horses and
God knows what else."

"But that's what's made the money.  Sixty thousand dollars back in A.P.
Wagstaffe's Bank in San Francisco.  We only just about break even on
the shows, you know that."

"But you still want to set up a theatre in San Francisco?" 

"Moriarty's Theatre of the West'?  Of course I do."

She looked up into his face.  "I feel as if we're in a race," she said.
"A race to get to the money we need for the theatre before .. ."

"Before what?"

"Before something bad happens."

"Nothing's going to happen," he said.  "I promise."

"Promise?"

"Yes," he said.  "Cross my heart."

It was on 10 June that Buck and Billy Joe arrived back in town, bearded
and lean on horses that could now barely trot.  Moriarty had arranged a
secret meeting at Chang's Bath House for a wash and rub-down and a
conference to decide the week's programme.  As the two runners lay
groaning in the hot soapy suds of Chang's deep wooden tubs, Moriarty
extracted from them the story of their travails at Camp Scotia.

He seemed unconcerned about the money, interested only in their welfare
and their experiences with the Sioux.

These Indian girls, what were they like?"  he asked.

Buck replied first.  "Kinda smoky," he said.

"Like sour belly said Billy Joe.

Moriarty laughed.  He explained that the Cheyenne Dash was a short one,
a hundred and five yards uphill on a lumpy, rutted 16th Street for a
hundred bucks.  Buck would enter the race first, immediately, then
Billy Joe would enter late, having established himself in Cheyenne as a
drinker and trencherman over the next few days.  Buck and Billy Joe got
out of the tubs and made their way to Chang's steam hut, where they
were soon joined by Moriarty, who placed himself between them, and the
three men sat naked in the thick steam, the sweat pouring in rivulets
down their bodies.

"Who's running?"  asked Billy Joe.

"A local boy, name of Perkins, clocked five-tenths outside even time,"
said Moriarty.  "Then there's a Sioux half-breed, name of Black Rock,
never wears spikes, runs about the same.  Also an Englishman, an
amateur, calls himself Lord Haldane; says he can go to a yard off
evens."

"No amateur ever run near even time," snorted Billy Joe.

"No English amateur anyway," Buck added.

Moriarty stood and peered through the mist before locating the water
bucket.  He walked to it and splashed some on his head before returning
to the bench.

"Don't be too sure," he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, the
sweat from his head and neck dripping on to the wooden floor.  "Those
University boys at Oxford and Cambridge, they can run some."

"But they're amateurs," said Billy Joe.

That's just it," said Moriarty: They've got more time than most of the
peds up in the north of England, men who've got to work for a living
between matches.  Nothing to do but run, those college boys."

"Your Lord Haldane, he'll have to shift some to take me," said Billy
Joe dourly.

"You think you'll be all right, after that run with the Indians?" asked
Moriarty.

"I never ran faster," said Buck.  "It was better than training."

"It should work out well then," said Moriarty, turning to Billy Joe.
"Money on you to win, Buck to place."

"Why not me to win and Billy Joe to place?"  said Buck sullenly.

Moriarty turned, sensing and not for the first time hostility in Buck's
words.

"Because Billy Joe's a yard faster, that's why," he replied.

"Was a yard faster," said Buck.  "You should've seen it up there in the
Dakotas with those Sioux.  Billy Joe here was on the floor, me still
running like a train."

"It was two miles, Moriarty," interjected Billy Joe.

"Horses for courses," said Moriarty, placatingly.

"I'm no horse," said Buck.  "But what law is it says Billy Joe here's
always got to be a yard faster?  Just you tell me that."

"You're the slower man, Buck," said Moriarty.  "Simple as that."

"Says who?"

"Says twenty years in the profession of pedestrianism," said Moriarty
tersely.  "That's what says."

Buck got up and dashed some cold water on to his naked body before
returning to the bench.

"What if you trained me up, English Method, like Billy Joe?"

Moriarty shook his head, shaking a spray of sweat on to his knees.
"Buck, take my word for it, you could shit and sweat all day and never
have Billy Joe's start."

He slapped the fronts of his thighs with the palms of his hands.
"Because it's all here, Buck.  In the loins.  The power."

He stood up and looked down on both of them.  "Now don't get me wrong,
Buck.  You've got speed, real speed.  If you went to scratch with Billy
Joe over a long dash, say a furlong or a quarter mile, then you might
just take him.  You showed that up in the Dakotas with those Sioux.
You've got bottom, I acknowledge that.  If we ran furlongs .. ."

"If my aunt had balls, she'd be my uncle," said Billy Joe.

Buck made his reflex scowl.

"So on Saturday we run on our merits," said Moriarty.  "No faking we
never fake.  Wouldn't be sportsmanlike.  A little poetic licence over
the betting, maybe.  But once the race is on it's always for real."

He put his hands on their shoulders.  "We're a team, boys.  Come hell
or high water.  But we run on our merits.  Always."

It all went perfectly to plan.  Billy Joe established himself as a
drinker of Bacchanalian proportions during the week that followed,
though his actual consumption was as usual much less than the residents
of Cheyenne were led to believe.  While Fast Men (and imagined Fast
Men) arrived in town in profusion Billy Joe made no mention of his
sprinting prowess, reserving his entry to the tournament until the
Friday evening.  Then, after half a dozen glasses of Taos Lightning in
Hannigan's Bar, Billy Joe Speed unleashed himself.

For well over an hour he kept the citizens of Cheyenne enraptured with
his tale of the Run of the Arrow, a story from which Buck had been
excised with the skill of a surgeon.  But this was not a Billy Joe who
had staggered drunkenly towards Deer Leap; no, this was a mixture of
Hercules and Daniel Boone, a man who had tortured the Sioux with his
devastating bursts of speed before effortlessly launching himself
across a thirty-foot chasm, leaping on to his trusty steed and waving
goodbye to as demoralised a bunch of Indians as ever a man did see.

The denizens of Hannigan's Bar were impressed by Billy Joe's loquacity,
though they expressed not to put too fine a word upon it considerable
reservations about his pedestrian abilities.  Billy Joe, however, was
in no mood to tolerate cynics.  He would enter the Street Dash and show
the runners of Cheyenne as clean a pair of heels as he had those Sioux,
so what odds would they say?  The money was not long in coming in, at
as much as three and four to one against, and even Moriarty, arriving
late, at the conclusion of Billy Joe's performance, was able to lay two
grand at three to one before Billy Joe flaked out on the bar-room
billiard table.

All that morning before the race Moriarty, Mandy and Eleanor laid money
quietly on Billy Joe, and by noon had put on another thousand dollars,
though the odds were now dropping fast, with so much money being laid.
Meanwhile, Billy Joe, his gut raging with Black Jack, had been making
well inside even time in his runs to the privy since the early hours of
Saturday morning.  Then, his colon void of waste, he sat for two hours
in Chang's Bath House, drying himself out.

The afternoon's sport began with a two-mile walk, during which Cheyenne
was treated to as memorable a display of trotting, lurching and
hip-wobbling as had ever appeared west of St.  Louis.  Moriarty
observed that walking was like trying to see who could whisper the
loudest, and would not lay a single dollar on the outcome.  There
followed sack races, children's races and a three-legged race for
members of the fire department, before the first heats of the sprint
were announced.

There were six heats, the winner of each to go into the final an hour
later.  The first was won by "Lord Haldane', whom Moriarty now
recognised as a Bronx boy by the name of Mulligan who had run at St.
Louis back in 1873.  "Haldane', short and stocky, could certainly
shift, but was a good five yards over evens in his heat and looked to
have little more than two more yards remaining in his locker.  The
Indian, Black Rock, incongruously dressed in vest, long-Johns and
tribal feather, was a fast strider rather than a sprinter though he won
his heat in six yards outside even time, as did the lanky,
knobbly-kneed local boy, Perkins.  The fifth heat was won easily by
Buck who, using the kangaroo start, cut the field to ribbons in the
first twenty yards, winning, hands up, in four yards outside.

Then, in the final heat, came Billy Joe, his face as white as his
long-Johns as he came to the line.  As he got down to his mark, a wag
in the crowd shouted, "Don't you a-get down there, Billy Joe.  You'll
never get up!"  There was much raucous laughter.  Judge Watt, the Mayor
and official starter, froze the offender with a stare and got the six
runners away from the line their feet before again setting them to
their marks.

The one hundred and five yards of sprint-path were no Sheffield or
Hackney Wick; indeed, they were not even a St.  Louis or a Canyon City.
Unlaned, they provided a grooved, bumpy stretch of baked earth, scored
at intervals by deep, diagonal gashes, the result of winter rains.
Billy Joe reflected that it was as rough a stretch of running-path as
he had ever faced.  But he made it look good.  He came slowly out of a
standing start and was a good yard down at twenty, and two yards down
at fifty, to the leader, a thick-thighed young mulatto called Snoade,
and marooned in the middle of a struggling field of five runners.

At sixty Snoade still held his two-yard lead, but slowly Billy Joe
pulled him in, and at eighty was only a yard back.  At ninety yards it
was still Snoade's race, but over the last few yards Billy Joe
accelerated and took it by a clear foot, throwing his face at the tape
and staggering into the crowd beyond the finish.  But his time was the
slowest of all the heats, seven yards outside even time, and Billy
Joe's odds stayed at three to one, with Buck and Lord Haldane, who had
both conclusively won their heats, the favourites at evens.  Moriarty
discreetly laid another grand on Billy Joe, spreading his bets around
town.  The mayor took two hundred, the card-sharp, Mat Gumbrell, three
hundred and Joe Delaney, the owner of the Golden Nugget, five hundred,
all at odds which had now dropped to two to one.

When Marshal Obadiah Boone arrived in Cheyenne that night, with a
deputy and the outlaw, Josie Clamp, in custody, the talk was all of the
Great Dash, of how a drunken bum called Billy Joe Speed had run a yard
outside even time in the fastest, humdingingest race ever seen in
Cheyenne.  Boone and his deputy, Will Christie, had deposited Clamp at
the jailhouse and been promised by Sheriff Clay that the $1000 reward
money would be theirs when the banks opened on Monday morning.  He and
Christie then made straight for Hannigan's Bar.  Boone, his rear end
sore and his throat dry as dust from his long ride, stood at the bar
pouring glass after glass of cold beer down his throat, as the story of
the

Dash was told and retold around him, gaining with every telling.

It had all been fought out between Billy Joe and the Eastern boy, Buck
Miller.  Both had got down on their knees at the start, all scrunched
up the 'kangaroo start', they called it.  Speed had gone off like a
crazy-cat, Miller close behind.  No one in Cheyenne had seen the like,
two men ripping down 16th Street, legs pumping like pistons, less than
a yard between them, the rest treading water five yards back.  At the
tape it had been Billy Joe, only a couple of feet ahead, the watches
showing a tenth of a second between the men, and everyone reckoned they
had seen as fair and fine a foot-race as had ever been run.

It was only when Boone had heard of the presence of the Theatre of the
West, the fact that Billy Joe had been booze-blind all week, that it
had all begun to come together .. . Billy Joe the runner, Buck the Fast
Man, Moriarty ... it was exactly the same cast, though in a different
play, but one which always took in big profits.  Boone needed no
reminding that he had lost five grand and a daughter back in Canyon
City a year ago, and till that moment had only regretted the latter.
His next glass of beer completely quenched his thirst.

The girl placed her tongue between Buck's toes and gently licked the
space between them, hearing his groan above her in the darkness.  It
had been strange to her that a man could be so sensitive, or that these
parts of his body could taste so sweet.  Then his probing fingers hit
the spot, that minute area of tissue that always changed in a split
second the sexual balance between them.  Hannah tried to sustain her
licking but it was no good: her fleeting dominance had been plucked
from her.  She reached up and felt for him, but he gently pushed her
away.  It was his turn.  She lay, her head against his legs, longing
for that deep warm wave immediately to engulf her, but hoping that he
would delay it for ever.

The light hit her like a hammer.  Lamps, the hard voices of men, a room
suddenly full of people, the noise of furniture being knocked over.

The girl reflexly attempted to pull the top sheet across herself, but
found only the bottom corner.  Then Buck tumbled off the bed towards
the window, allowing her to draw the whole sheet over her.  She sat,
knees to chest, on the pillow, while all around her kerosene lamps
dangled like pumpkin-lanterns at Halloween.

There were at least six men but it was Judge Watt's Scots voice she
heard first, as Buck was dragged to his feet, struggling, by Marshal
Boone.

Buck, naked, suddenly felt very weak.  Boone and Christie pinned him
against the wall as Sheriff Clay held a pungent lamp only inches from
his face.

"Is this the gentleman, Marshal?"

"I do declare it is, Mr.  Mayor."

"The exponent of the so-called English Method back in Canyon City?"

"The very same."

Boone looked sourly at Buck and replaced his gun in its holster. "Who's
the girl?"  he asked.

Hannah, in shadow, attempted to pull the sheet higher, to mask her
face.  Watt held the lamp in front of her.  He recognised her
immediately.

"She's nothing," said Watt, the darkness hiding his flushed face.
"Works in the saloon.  Hannah Bliss."

Hannah's face hardened.  Watt had been pawing her only a week before.

Mayor Watt looked around at the other four men standing behind him.
"Then get you along to the Chuk-a-Luk and find that other young fellow,
Billy Joe Speed.  We have been cheated and deceived, gentlemen.
Buncoed.  And for that crime there is only one answer."

The rapidity with which Billy Joe was captured was matched only by that
with which Hannah Bliss dressed and made her way from the rear of the
hotel to the livery stable to saddle Buck's horse.  By the time the two
men had been dragged to the jailhouse she had already ridden two miles
out into the darkness, away from a town now being roused into violent
life.

It had taken little more than an hour for the citizens of Cheyenne to
be awoken and apprised of the true facts of that

Dash: that it had borne no more relationship to a true race than had
the death of Caesar to a gunfight in Main Street.

Marshal Boone's testimony made all clear.  Speed was a pro, probably
one of the fastest men in the Union.  His co-conspirator, Miller was
even faster, but had faked the final because all the money had been
laid on his confederate.  Discussions among the town's sporting
fraternity revealed that Moriarty and his troupe had spread over two
thousand dollars on Speed from the moment that he had first committed
himself to the race on Friday night.  It had all been a big fix, just
as it had been in Canyon City.  The one man still to be called to
account was clearly the so-called "Professor' Moriarty, and a posse
would have to be despatched in the morning to bring him to proper
justice.  But at least for the moment they had the two leading
miscreants, Speed and Miller, safely in the jailhouse.

The word about the bunco and the imprisonment of Speed and Miller went
round the town like wildfire.  Cheyenne was in ferment, and by midnight
that night the outraged sportsmen of Cheyenne were awake and dressed,
and a crowd of two hundred was assembled outside Sheriff Clay's
jail-house, whipping themselves into a noisy, dangerous mob.

The outrage of the citizens of Cheyenne derived from two sources.  The
first was financial, for many had placed big sums against Billy Joe;
but for the majority, who had viewed the race simply as a piece of
sporting drama, there was an even deeper rage.

For in the race they felt that they had seen something real, something
true.  They had come from the East in hope, but for most of them the
West had been an intense disappointment.  It had been a place where
they had expected to find riches beyond dreams.  Instead, they had
found loneliness; endless mountains and plains; cholera and typhoid;
and money-grubbing shysters that had milked them of every hard-earned
dollar they had wrung out of the soil.

Now it was clear that even these two fine young athletes were both part
of the same Big Bunco, and the anger felt by the good citizens was
more, far more, than they would have felt had Billy Joe and Buck been
mere card-sharps.

By half past twelve the Cheyenne mob was getting restless and there
were shouts for Clay to bring out these fellows Speed and Miller and
let them take their licks.  At first there was no response.  Then some
of the wilder elements started to let off their six-guns while others,
drawn from saloons by the noise, were sucked into the back of the mob,
which started to press in on the door of the jailhouse.  Those at the
front of the crowd started to thump and kick on the jailhouse door, as
others at the back continued to shoot off their pistols into the night
air.

Inside the jailhouse, Boone and Clay advised Judge Watt that it might
be wise to placate the mob by bringing out Buck and Billy Joe, letting
them have a sight of them, so to speak.  The runners, now in their
underwear, were taken out on to the sidewalk, Boone and Clay and their
deputies clearing a space for them in front of the jailhouse.

Boone had said little, but they could both feel the rage simmering
within the man.  For the marshal's pride had been hurt not by the loss
of Mandy, but by the completeness with which he had been deceived in
Canyon City, the utter perfection of Moriarty's con.

Buck and Billy Joe, held by the arms by Clay's deputies, peered out
into the street.  There was now a mass of nearly three hundred raging
men out there, many of them carrying torches and lamps.  This was a
lynch mob.

Obadiah Boone looked sideways at Clay, who nodded.  The Marshal pointed
his Remington in the air and fired three times.  There was silence,
broken only by Watt's Scots burr.

"Gentlemen," he said, holding both hands, palms out, in front of him.
"It appears we" have been grievously misled."

There was raucous laughter.  Watt had defused the situation.

"You good people, and I include myself, we thought we saw a fair and
honest footrace this afternoon."

He paused.

"Fancy running.  I never saw none fancier.  That's what we thought we
saw.  A fair race."

He paused again.

"But," he looked sideways at Boone.  "Marshal Boone here tells us
another story.  And it's quite a tale, about how last year the good
folks of Canyon City were flim-flammed out of their hard-earned
sawbucks by these same fellows."

Boone nodded.

"And Marshal Boone here lost much more.  He lost a loving daughter to
that evil man at the centre of this whole farrago, Professor Moriarty,
who made off about five hours back."

There were scattered shouts from the crowd.  He paused for effect.

"What must concern us now, gentlemen, is justice.  For this is a
civilised country.  So what I propose is that we let these young men
state their case, clear and simple, here and now."

Buck spoke for them both.  He freely admitted that they had run
together at Canyon City, but claimed that they had both run on their
merits, that there had been no faking of the race itself.  The same, he
claimed, had occurred at Cheyenne.  So perhaps Billy Joe had hammed it
up at the bar the week before, but the race had been fair and square
they would both swear to that fact upon a stack of bibles.

The two runners stood in the torch-light in front of Sheriff Clay's
jailhouse, flanked by Boone, Clay and his deputies and the City
Council, Buck shouting their defence into a crowd of three hundred
outraged men and women.  Buck and Billy Joe felt his words weaken and
fade into the darkness beyond the crowd, for at the heart of their
defence they felt a central weakness the knowledge that, however fair
and valid the race, it was all part of a drama as artificial as any of
those which appeared nightly on Moriarty's stage.

As he spoke, the smell of hot, burning tar began to drift over the
crowd, bringing a cold sweat to the pits of Buck and Billy Joe's
stomachs.

Judge Watt raised his hand to still the shouts as Buck's final words
were lost in the din.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said.  "This is a civilised society.  Now,
we've listened to Marshal Boone and we've heard these young gentlemen
defend themselves.  The spider at the centre of this web of intrigue
appears to be Professor Moriarty, who is at present out of our reach,
though rest assured Sheriff and his deputies will track him down and
bring him to a true and proper justice."

There were cheers at this, and Watt smiled.  "Now, back in

Bonnie Scotland, where I come from, we have three verdicts.  The first
is "not guilty", the second is "guilty", and the third, unique in
jurisprudence, is "not proven"."

"What does "not proven" mean, Judge?"  came a voice from the crowd.

"It means that we dam' well know you're guilty but we can't prove it,"
replied Watt, to roars of laughter.  "So what is it to be?"

"Guilty!"  roared the crowd, as a tub of black tar was dragged in front
of the jailhouse with a sack of feathers.

Watt looked behind him at Buck and Billy Joe.  "You've heard what's the
people's decision, gentlemen," he said.  "As I see it, you boys have
two choices.  A week from now the circuit judge will be here and you
can take your licks fair and square in the court-room in front of a
jury.  I reckon you'll get a couple of years breaking stones in the
penitentiary, at best."

There were shouts from the crowd as Watt held up his hands for
silence.

"Or," he said.  "You have a second choice."  He paused.  "Summary
justice.  The law of the people."

He looked sideways at Boone and Clay but they did not respond.  Then
Weir looked at the tub of bubbling black tar before him and bent down
to pick up a wooden ladle.  He stirred the tar, withdrew the ladle and
watched the boiling liquid drip from it into the tub.

"Wrong, Mr.  Mayor," boomed a voice from the back of the crowd, above
the hubbub.  "You have a third choice."

It was Moriarty, though he could not yet be seen beyond the pool of
light created by the torches and kerosene lamps which lit up the street
in front of the jailhouse.  Moriarty, riding a black mare, trotted
slowly into the edge of the light, flanked on either side by Mandy and
Eleanor.  All carried shot-guns raised to waist-level and pointing
towards Boone and Clay.  Moriarty's countenance was solemn.

Boone peered out into the street, as the crowd turned to face Moriarty.
"Moriarty," he shouted through the hubbub.  "You're in more mess than
you've a long boot to get out of."

"Perhaps," said Moriarty, his resonant actor's voice cutting through
the night air.  "But you have no right to do what you're doing.  It was
a fair race: the boys ran on their merits.  I swear that to you.  So
let them go."

Watt regained his composure.  "Professor Moriarty," he said, the sweat
beading his brow.  "There are three of you and three hundred of us. Put
down your rifle, sir."

"Mr.  Mayor," replied Moriarty.  "Myself and the two girls all have
scatter-guns pointing straight at you good people.  Now neither of the
ladies has ever fired a gun before and surely it will break their
shoulders when they do.  But in the meantime I wouldn't put a figure on
the number of you people of Cheyenne who will never be quite the same
again."

He cocked his rifle, a signal for Mandy and Eleanor to do the same. The
crowd backed away from them, falling over each other to put distance
between themselves and the guns.

"Mandy?"  Boone bellowed out to his daughter.  "You come right in,
honey.  We'll put all this behind us, I promise you."

Mandy Boone's voice trembled as she replied.  "No," she said.  "I stay
here."

Moriarty's voice boomed out again.  "Now you've heard my offer.  It's
up to you.  We don't have much time."

"Don't pay them any heed," roared Boone.  "They don't have the guts."

"Then you're going to have to pay to find out," said Moriarty.

Watt looked nervously around him, then out at Moriarty.  Moriarty
reached into an inside pocket with his left hand, still keeping his
rifle pointing at the crowd.

"Now, I'm a reasonable man," he said.  "So let's sweeten the pot.  You
people here think that you have a reasonable grievance."

He paused.

"I don't want to leave Cheyenne with any ill-feeling," he said.  He
raised a thick money-clip above his head.  "Or any feeling that you
good people have been cheated in any way.  So here's seven thousand two
hundred and twenty-one dollars, all the money we won here.  Judge Watt,
you just give me your solemn word that your posse won't follow us and
the money's yours to give back to those who lost it on the race."

Watt looked around him at the near-silent crowd.  He paused.  "You can
have your boys," he shouted, his voice cracking.

Buck and Billy Joe were released, and scampered through the crowd to
leap on to the spare horses which Moriarty had brought.  Moriarty
handed his rifle to Buck.

"Do I have your solemn word, Judge?"  he shouted.

Watt gulped, the sweat pouring in streams down his face.  "You have my
word."

Moriarty tossed the clip towards the jailhouse.  It landed just short
of the cauldron of tar.  He retrieved his rifle from Buck.

"Gentlemen," he said.  "I swear by Almighty God you witnessed as true
and fair a race today as ever you will see."  Moriarty looked directly
at Boone.  "I swear too that I will kill any man who follows us.  You
have my word on that, Marshal."

From the diary of Eleanor Cameron, 18 June 1876 Cheyenne must surely be
the end, or at least the beginning of the end, of our pedestrian
activities.  This is the first occasion when things have gone seriously
wrong, but it will surely not be the last.  The country is simply
becoming too small for such deceptions, and there is a limit to the
disguises which Buck and Billy Joe can effectively employ.  Certainly,
there is no way by which we would again wish to face a hostile crowd
such as that which we encountered in Cheyenne.  Had Marshal Boone
called our bluff, there is no knowing the outcome.  True, we did
survive, but our company is simply unfitted by our natures for such
adventures.  Surely, then, it is time for us to set our compass for
more tranquil waters, using the money we have to set up a permanent
theatre in San Francisco.  I sincerely hope so.  If only I could be
confident that my beloved husband felt the same.

ENGLAND

"Would you really have fired right into that crowd?"

It was Buck.  Moriarty, Eleanor, Mandy and the boys sat in a pool of
light in the darkness the next evening round the camp-fire, having
placed sixty-two miles between themselves and the angry citizens of
Cheyenne.

"No means of telling," replied Moriarty.  "I've never fired a gun at
anyone in my life."

"I would," said Mandy darkly, as she sipped her coffee.

"Me too," said Eleanor.

"Women," growled Moriarty, shaking his head as he poked the guttering
flames with a stick.

There was a brief silence, as if everyone was preoccupied with their
own thoughts.

"We've used up too many places," said Billy Joe at last.

Buck nodded.  "Too many runners," he said.  "Too many gambling men
moving from town to town, telegraphs and railroads.  It only takes a
Boone, a Judge Weir or a Medina to be around at the wrong time and
we're dead as mutton."

"Have you ever thought of running for real?"

It was Eleanor.  There was silence while the others weighed the import
of her question.

"We always run for real," growled Billy Joe.  "You must know that,
Eleanor."

"Come on, Billy Joe."  It was Mandy.  "It's a fix, always has been.
We're the only ones who really know your merits as runners.  If
everyone else did then we'd be out of the money."

"And what about the English Method?"  pursued Eleanor.  "That's as
phoney as a four-dollar bill."

Buck and Billy Joe looked to Moriarty for a response.

Moriarty poked the fire with a stick, staring into the flames.  "Those
boys," he pointed the burning stick at Buck and Billy Joe, 'always run
on their merits.  Never fixed a race in their lives.  Never will, not
as long as I have anything to do with them."

He paused and breathed deeply.

"But no question of it, we do, as the phrase says, practise to deceive.
And maybe Cheyenne's just the Good Lord's way of telling us that it's
high time for us to change our ways."

"So what do we do now?"  asked Billy Joe.

"Something I've planned for years," said Moriarty.  "Go where we can
find the best foot racers in the world, big money, stadiums full to the
brim.  To the home of pedestrianism."

"Where?"  asked Mandy.  "Let's make it a long way from my paw."

Moriarty withdrew his stick from the fire and lit a cigar with its tip,
pausing to stretch the moment as he puffed.  "England," he said.  "That
far enough for you, Mandy?"

"England?"  said Eleanor, smiling.  "You mean home for a holiday?"

"Not exactly," said Moriarty.  "First we go East to New York, put Billy
Joe in some match-races there honest ones and pick up a few bucks'
folding money.  Edwin will get us some work there in the theatre."

"And what about me?"  asked Buck.

"I've got big plans for you, Buck," said Moriarty, puffing on his
cigar.  "No point in putting you out round New York.  That's home
territory; they know you too well there."

"So what, then?"

"London," replied Moriarty.  "You and Billy Joe go to the Amateur
Athletic Championships in London, April next year."

"Amateur Championships?"  said Buck.  "We're no amateurs.  We're pros,
through and through."

"Yes," replied Moriarty.  "But they don't know that over there.  And
there's always big money in bets on their championships, even though
the runners are all Lord this and Viscount that.  They may be amateurs
but that's never stopped them having a bet.  So we dress you and Billy
Joe real fancy like gentlemen, and we can pick up plenty and have
ourselves a holiday to boot.  We send you, Buck, a few weeks ahead of
Billy Joe for preparation with my very good friend and the world's
finest trainer of pedestrians, George Grimthorp of Norfolk, England,
and the rest of us follow you up a few weeks later to England for the
championships."

Buck smiled and looked into the fire.  This time he would show them.
Special preparation with the best trainer in the world!

"And one other thing," said Moriarty.  "Letters of accreditation as
amateurs.  To these Athletic Association people in England."

"Now who on earth would give Buck and Billy Joe a letter of
accreditation?"  asked Eleanor.

Moriarty paused and looked at each one of the group in turn, puffing
slowly on his cigar.  "Only the next President of the United States,"
he replied, "Buck's friend and mine, General George A. Custer."

It had not worked out as Moriarty had hoped.  Billy Joe had run two
matches in July and August in Chicago and Boston, winning them both
easily, but in September he had agreed to a race with an Irishman
called Maloney, just landed from County Kerry and backed by a bookmaker
called Seamus Flynn.  Maloney, who claimed prodigious distances as a
'lepper' in long jump and hop, step and jump, was a fast, springy
strider rather than a true sprinter.  Indeed, it was only the ferocious
sentimentality of the New York Irish that had brought the match into
being.

On 28 September, at Hoboken Race Course, ten thousand New Yorkers had
gathered to see the contest between Maloney and Billy Joe Speed, the
Texan with the Kangaroo Start.  Billy Joe had given the Kerry man the
kiss of death in the first twenty yards and with only ten yards to go
was in a clear two-yard lead.  The Texan performed as if in a sweet
dream, for his running flowed effortlessly from him and all thoughts of
a close, engineered finish and a re-run were lost as the speed rushed
from his limbs into the grass track.

Then, as he threw himself in on the tape, it happened the knife in the
leg.  For that was how it felt to Billy Joe, as if someone had inserted
a blade deep into the belly of the muscles in the back of his right
thigh.  He pulled up abruptly, hopping, clutching the back of his leg
as Moriarty, Buck and Mandy clustered anxiously around him.

It was what every sprinter dreaded a hamstring pull, and it was a bad
one.  Certainly there was no question of Billy Joe following Buck to
England immediately; instead, he would have to get the best possible
treatment in New York and come over later to help with Buck's final
preparations.  And it would have to be Buck alone who would carry the
flag at the Amateur Athletic Club Championships in April.

For the first time in years Billy Joe Speed was no longer an athlete.
For days he walked with a limp, feeling the injury buried deep, like a
cancer, in the thick wedge of muscle at the back of his thigh.  From
being a Fast Man, a blaze of speed on the cinder path, he felt himself
a nothing, incapable of beating a matron of seventy, let alone an
athlete.

Dr.  Gottinger, the 'anatomical expert' to whom Moriarty referred him,
was useless.  True, he was an able doctor of medicine, but he knew
about as much about the repair of muscle-injuries as he did about the
workings of the human brain.  Gottinger advised rest, the
water-treatment and a course of purgings to cleanse the muscular system
of all waste.

The water-treatment at Gottinger's Heinrich Institute, an establishment
devoted to the treatment of corpulence and debauchery, was a wilderness
of cold plunges, laxatives and showers which left Billy Joe blue with
cold and rippling with goose-pimples.  The purges were simply a
Teutonic version of the English Method and he was in danger of pulling
his left hamstring just in getting to the John.

Mercifully, Moriarty also decided on massage as a means of treatment,
and daily, in the darkness of his room, Billy Joe lay on his front as
Moriarty kneaded evil-smelling horse-liniment into the back of his
right thigh.

But Moriarty knew that more was needed than purges and massage.  Billy
Joe had never been hurt before, could not leap in his imagination from
this present crippled moment to that day in the summer when he would be
restored to full health and vigour and capable once more of taking on
the best foot racers in the Union.  So daily Moriarty retailed to Billy
Joe stories of great runners of the past who had come back from injury
to run better than ever.  Men like Jackson of Barnsley, Wight of
Jedburgh, Cole of Pontypridd.  To hear Moriarty, Billy Joe's injury was
a blessing.

By the time Buck eventually left a wintry New York on the S.S. Harold,
Swift Dog and his Sioux braves had expunged forever the humiliation of
Deer Leap.  General George A. Custer lay dead with all his men on the
Little Big Horn.

Buck was crossing first class, just as Moriarty had done all those
years before, and daily in the first week he pounded the rolling,
slippery deck just as Deerfoot and Moriarty had done.  For this was
going to be Buck's moment, when he would for ever throw off Billy Joe's
shadow.  Thus every day he trotted round the spray-swept boards,
keeping the tone in his legs, and on still, dry days during that first
week he even managed to put in a few faster dashes on the ship's
eighty-yard straight, just to keep his sprinting muscles in shape.

He missed Billy Joe, he acknowledged; for the relaxed, easy-going Texan
had many of the qualities he himself lacked.  Life, like running, came
easy to his friend; it was a play in which he extemporised most of his
lines, but always came good by the final curtain.

The only department in which Buck had any clear lead over Billy Joe lay
in relationships with women.  There, Buck's relaxed charm flowed from
him as easily as Billy Joe's pace on the running path.  But Buck had
given no more thought to this disparity than had Billy Joe to the
differences between them as runners.  Billy Joe, with his wit and easy
ways, possessed the capacity to clear the shadows from Buck Miller's
soul.  The paradox was that he himself was one of those shadows.

For deep in his heart Buck believed he had the beating of Billy Joe.
Each time they had set up a scam he had trained his legs off, hoping
somehow to span that short yard that invariably separated him from the
Texan even though, had he done so, the whole point of the scam would
have been lost.  Strangely, he knew that such a result might not have
displeased Moriarty, apart from the money lost, for the Scot possessed
a strange streak of Puritanism.

In England, Buck felt that he would prove himself honestly once and for
all by whipping all those lords and marquises, running faster than any
man had ever run, even the Indian himself.  Thus, even when the S.S.
Harold bucked and rolled in the green mountains of the Atlantic, Buck
was pumping out hundreds of sit-ups and press-ups on the floor of his
creaking cabin.

The S.S. Harold carried one hundred and forty-one paying passengers and
from the first day offered a rich social life, from deck-games to
bridge and piano-recitals.

To all this Buck was oblivious, as he daily vigorously exercised his
body.  He was now slightly heavy at one hundred and sixty pounds and
hoped at least to hold that body-weight throughout the ocean voyage. He
would take off the final five pounds with Grimthorp in Norfolk in the
three-month period before the English Championships.  Nightly, during
that first week on ship, he took his meals by himself before the other
guests had assembled, in the corner of the dining-room, confining
himself to the bread, meat and porter which Moriarty had specified,
then returning to his cabin.

By 10 January 1877, four days out, as Buck scrutinised a poster
announcing a musical evening, several sporting papers in England had
already given notice of his impending arrival.  The first mention, in
the Sporting Life, had appeared in December in a weekly column "Doings
on the Cinder Path', written by "An Old Pedestrian', a pseudonym for
Arthur Figg, who had run against Deerfoot on his English tour.

DOINGS ON THE CINDER PATH News comes to us from across the Pond that
two cowboys from the Wild West, by name of Buck Miller and Billy Joe
Speed, will contest in the short sprints for the Amateur Championships
to be held at the inaugural foot racing competition at Stamford Bridge
in April.  No specifics are yet to hand, but the word is that Speed and
Miller have run close to even time.  Some of the cognoscenti are saying
that when the Americans perfect their 'kangaroo start'

(which appears to involve some form of crouch position) on the speedy
surfaces of England they can go close to or inside even time for one
hundred yards.  This is a feat never before accomplished by an amateur
and calls into question the status of the two Americans, a perennial
problem for our amateur authorities when our Yankee cousins venture to
cross the water to enter into contest upon the cinder path.

The response from the guardians of English pedestrianism had been
immediate, and for weeks the columns of the sporting press had bristled
with protests on the continuing vigour of the British Bulldog.  A
letter to Bell's Life was typical of those received.

Sir,

I read with interest your intimations of 2 January of the arrival of
two American cowboys to compete in our Amateur Championships.  Since
then other materials on Messrs Speed and Miller have appeared in the
sporting press, attesting not only to their fleetness of foot but also
to such matters as adventures among the Sioux and their skill with
firearms.

Let me first make it clear that I bear no ill will towards our American
cousins.  I must, however, say that as a trainer of pedestrians over a
period of thirty years (Howard of Chester, "Crowcatcher' Lang, Jackson
of Burnley, all world champions) it is my opinion that these Yanks have
no possibility of running even time for one hundred yards, or even
going close.  The only foot racers who can lay claim to feats of such
calibre are your red-blooded English and Scotch pedestrians, men like
Jackson of Sheffield or Clowney of Wigan, trained in the old English
fashion in the Mother Country.  Your native-born American is of a stock
thinned by cross-breeding and your American trainer has never prepared
men for big money match-races at such famous venues as Hackney Wick or
Sheffield.  No, sir, it is in the science of training and in the
breeding that your crack sprint racer is made.  That breed and that
science live here in Old England rather than the Wild West, and your

Yanks, Kangaroo Start or no, will prove to be no match even for our
amateur pedestrians.  Yours in Sport, Albert Clamp (Trainer of
Pedestrians)

But Buck, viewing the poster proclaiming the musical evening, was
unaware of the furore seething ahead of him.  He had found difficulty
in sleeping on board ship, and decided that it might be best if for
once he retire a little later.  The musical evening, lasting as it did
from 8.0 p.m. to 10.0 p.m."  might ensure that he got to bed more
fatigued.  Anyhow, he decided, there was nothing in Moriarty's training
programme saying that he could not enjoy a little culture.

Certainly the first items of the programme were nothing if not
sleep-inducing.  The first performer, a Cornish miner returning home
from Connecticut, delivered a toneless rendering of "Drake is Going
West, M'lads', and was only dissuaded from embarking upon a series of
bird-impressions by the intervention of Captain Clare himself.  Then a
group of Lancashire bell-ringers, fresh from a disastrous season at
Barnum's in New York, filled the dining-room with their dismal
clangings for what seemed like an eternity.

Next, an enormous American matron, who had nightly at the dinner table
exhibited a gluttony to rival Falstaff, launched into an obscure German
folk-song, her thin voice in sharp contrast to the massive frame from
which it emanated.

Buck looked around him in the candle-lit dining-room as the ship swayed
in the light evening swell.  The guests and the ship's officers sat at
heavy oak tables which were secured by chains to the floor, the sixty
first-class passengers filling the tiny room.  On a small improvised
stage Captain Clare had set a grand piano, similarly held fast by
chains, on which the purser, Mr.  Fenwick, had volunteered to accompany
any passengers who wished to offer the assembled company a song.

Buck yawned.  He could not bear much more of this.  It was time to make
tracks.

Then, suddenly, came Hettie Carr.  Buck would never remember what it
was that she sang something about a woman called Mold and a garden but
that was of no account.  Hettie Carr, pert, blonde and five foot four,
dominated the room.  She had a voice of power and range and was clearly
a professional.  Buck could not take his eyes off her clear milky skin,
which was marred only by a mole on her upper lip, just above her lips.
No, thought Buck, not marred, rather enhanced, focusing attention on
those full lips.  It was three songs more before a rapturous audience
would allow her to leave the improvised stage.  Buck was entranced.

For Hettie, her clear, blue eyes shining as her top notes filled the
room, was lush, beautiful, almost edible.

As she returned from the stage and wound her way through the tables to
return to her seat she passed Buck's table.  The mole was even more
wonderful than he had thought, a magnificent, a superlative mole.
Hettie glanced down at him as she passed, and smiled.  A moment later,
when Captain Clare asked for further offers of performance, Buck's hand
was reflexly raised, even though he had no clear idea what he was going
to do.

As in a dream, he made his way through the tables towards the stage. He
was hardly conscious of the Captain announcing him as 'the young
American pedestrian who is travelling to England to take on the best
English amateurs', no longer felt the sway of the ship or heard the
creak of its timbers.

Buck stared dumbly at the audience in front of him as Captain Clare
asked him for the second time what he wished to offer to the assembled
guests.  Before he could think, he had blurted out "Richard III', and
the Captain had motioned with his hands for silence.  Buck had never
played the part, but he had seen Moriarty do so many times, and he and
Billy Joe had often mimicked Moriarty's rendering of the opening speech
behind his back.

"Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun
of York," he began.  The words poured from him but this time it was no
act of mimicry.  For Shakespeare's words had gone deep into Buck, found
something in him and now issued from his lips renewed and refreshed.

Suddenly he was lost in the part and he reached forward to the piano,
took from it the guttering, brass candlestick, and limped back to the
centre of the stage as he had so often seen Moriarty do, the candle's
swaying flame creating twisted patterns of light on his face.  It was
all terrible ham but Buck plunged ever deeper as he limped back and
forward across the creaking stage.  The audience, however, was
transfixed.  When he had finished there was spontaneous applause. Buck,
blushing, nodded his thanks and stepped down from the platform.

He made his way beyond his table, towards Hettie.  Fortunately, she had
an empty chair at her table and he sat down beside her as the purser
began a medley of popular ballads at the piano.

"You are a strange manner of athlete, Mr.  Miller," she said, her Scots
voice soft and low.

Buck, heady with the success of his performance, felt as if he were
drunk.

"I'm a pro," he said.

"In the theatre?"

"The Theatre of the West," said Buck, still flushed and pulsing from
the applause.

"Indeed," said Hettie.

The words tumbled from Buck's lips, all about Moriarty and Eleanor and
of their wanderings in the West, about his foot racing achievements,
albeit with little mention of Billy Joe: and he carefully omitted Mandy
altogether.

"My father had no time for pedestrians," rejoined his companion.  "He
lost many a bawbee on those crooks, or so he used to tell me.  Never
bet on anything on two legs, that's what he used to tell me."

Buck insisted that he was not one of that class of foot racer one who
would bilk honest men out of their hard-won earnings.  No, he was one
of the upright breed, a man who always raced on his merits.  Indeed, he
was now travelling to England to take on the cream of the country's
amateur runners on scratch terms.  Hettie Carr seemed reassured and
impressed.

Captain Clare was now introducing the ship's doctor, who was going to
play Wagner upon a Jew's Harp.

Buck threw caution to the winds.  Lightly squeezing Hettie's arm, he
drew her to her feet and they left the dining-room.

When they had reached the deck they stood for several minutes at the
ship's rail, looking out into the sea-dark, feeling the light sea-spray
on their faces.

Later, Buck could put an exact time on when his shipboard preparations
for the English Amateur Athletic Championships ended.  It was at
precisely 9 p.m. on 10 January 1877, on the ship's deck, when Hettie
Carr, knocked off balance by the roll of the ship, reeled into him and
he held her by the waist.  Then she reached up on her tiptoes, pulled
him down to her and kissed him.  Her mouth tasted of raspberries.  Buck
had barely been able to keep his feet.  He was gone, and that evening
as he lay in his bunk, eyes staring at the ceiling, his mind was full
of Hettie Carr.

All that next week Buck and Hettie had spent every waking hour in each
other's company, talking of everything and nothing as they promenaded
the decks of the S.S. Harold, ignoring the drenching salt spray and the
howl of Atlantic winds.  Hettie was a Glasgow Scot who had been brought
to America in 1873 by her father, a popular comedian, and since then
she had toured the West as "The Scottish Jenny Lind'.  She had been
immensely successful, but it was in September 1876, whilst they had
been on their way to Virginia City, that her father had contracted
cholera and had died only a week later.  She was presently making her
way back to London to play middle of the bill at the Empire, Golders
Green.

Buck listened entranced to Hettie's stories of her childhood in the
bleak, rat-infested slums of Glasgow's Gorbals and of her experiences
with her father in the roistering cow-towns of the West.  But it would
not have mattered to him if she had recited the alphabet.  For Buck
Miller had lost his head, and all thoughts of Billy Joe and of running
those English lords into the dust, all that had gone in the daze that
now hung upon him like a magic mist.

Nightly they sat together amid the dim swaying lights of the
dining-room, as stewards hovered above them awaiting an order.  Nightly
Hettie and Buck went through the menu, and all memories of Moriarty's
training diet were gone, washed away in waves of chilled Moselle.

And daily, surreptitiously, Buck Miller's body lost its athletic
tone.

To Buck, Hettie was untouchable, a goddess, and his carnal instincts
were consequently frozen, anaesthetised.  Even holding hands, as
sometimes they would do at dinner's end, was a privilege, and he would
no more have thought of going further than of allowing his companion to
pay for dinner.

It was strange.  Buck had known many women, but they had fallen into
two classes.  The first had been the work-hardened females of the West,
eager but invariably plain and usually sexually inexperienced.  At the
other end of the scale had been the 'frails' bought in desperation in
trail-towns for a few bucks.  Such ladies had been both vigorous and
imaginative, but at ten tricks a day hardly had the motivation to be
either passionate or loving.  What was to happen with Hettie Carr was
therefore outside Buck's experience.  What occurred on the evening of
20 January 1877 came as a shock to Buck, for till that evening their
days had ended in short kisses outside Hettie's cabin.  Indeed, each
night Buck had lain in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking of
collective words for 'kisses'.  For he had never before enjoyed the
kiss as something in itself, rather always as a preamble to the
inevitable intercourse.

A 'smother' sounded too cloying, a 'blizzard' too cold, as was a
'shower' too wet, a 'welter' too vigorous.  Buck settled on a 'melt' of
kisses, the only word which in any way approximated to what he felt
when he was joined so delightfully to Hettie's creamy, open mouth.

After the night of 20 January all thoughts of 'smothers', 'blizzards'
or even 'melts' were made irrelevant.  For it was then that at exactly
10.30 p.m. Hettie Carr had drawn him gently into her cabin.

Buck would, in future years, recall every moment of that night.  And at
first, in the darkness of Hettie's cabin, its gloom broken only by an
occasional shaft of moonlight as the ship rolled, he felt only the
touch of restless, delicate hands, and heard only the sound of Hettie's
lilting Scots brogue.

Hettie's hands seemed everywhere.  As she unbuttoned his waistcoat, all
the while crooning his name, her other hand was on his neck, then her
fingers probing and caressing his ear.  And then she was behind him,
pulling off his jacket at his right shoulder, her left hand between his
legs, teasing him before being quickly withdrawn.

Buck was in a sweet haze, his legs barely able to support him.  Hettie
took his arm and gently guided him to the edge of the bed, where he sat
down.  Then she bent to her knees, unlaced his shoes and took off his
socks, fondling his bare feet as she did so.

Next she stood up and unbuckled Buck's belt, then pulled down his
trousers, all the while crooning his name.  "Buck, Buck, Buck', she
intoned, almost singing the words.  She pushed him on to his back and
gently pulled down his long-Johns.  Buck, swamped by the moment, lay on
the bed, his breath coming from him in deep gasps.

But Hettie did not take off Buck's shirt.  Instead, she lay parallel to
him, her hands moving like trapped butterflies beneath it.

Then, suddenly, Buck awoke, aware that this tiny creature, protected
behind her cage of stays and swathed in endless petticoats, had so far
taken every initiative.

He sat up, taking Hettie by the shoulders.  He pushed her on to her
face and quickly unbuttoned the back of her dress, ripping away the
buttons if they did not immediately disengage themselves.

He took Hettie from the bed and, standing her up, pulled down her dress
to her ankles.  There was no point messing around with stays.  Standing
behind her, he put his hands on both sides of them and ripped them off
in a single movement.

Hettie's "Buck, Buck, Buck," had now lost its slow crooning quality.
Now a new rasp had entered her voice and his name tumbled from her lips
without control.

Buck struggled with the froth of petticoats but it was no use: it was a
battle in unknown territory, and short of tearing the material to
shreds there was no way forward for him.  But Hettie was equal to the
moment.  She slipped a button at her waist, reached back to undo her
bodice and release her breasts, and in a moment all her softness had
flooded out to him.

Buck scooped Hettie into his arms and lifted her on to the bed.  For a
moment he paused and they looked at each other.  There was plenty of
time.

"What if my Richard III had been awful?"  he said.

"You mean, would I have noticed you?"

He nodded, his face deep in the pillow.

"I picked you out the day you came on the ship," said Hettie.

"So it was just a matter of time?"

"Before I got you to notice me."

For the next week, Buck and Hettie left her cabin only for meals and
rarely for them, preferring instead to have their food brought to them.
Sometimes they lay in bed all day simply kissing; but Buck's 'melt' of
kisses were not the simple and direct embraces of their chaste first
meetings.  Now they took the form of an infinity of nibblings and
lickings and suckings in which the direct contact of lips was merely
the starting-point for the day's pleasures.  For Hettie, ever loving
and attentive, there seemed to be no imagining of Buck's that was not
within her compass and upon which she could not improve.  A few days
short of Liverpool, Buck lived in a sweet and endless dream albeit nine
pounds heavier than when he had embarked.

It came therefore as a surprise that when they were a day from
Liverpool Hettie had suggested that Buck resume his morning training
and, after their final coupling on the evening before, that he also
resume occupancy of his room.  They would meet after breakfast, she
added, then disembark together and make plans for a meeting in London
later that month.

That morning of 7 February, with Liverpool in sight, less than a mile
away, was agony to Buck, for even a half-mile warm-up trot around the
deck in the light sea mist made him gasp.  He could, for the first time
in his life, feel fat move on him as he ran.  He had been five pounds
or so above running-weight when the voyage began, but now the lack of
outdoor exercise, combined with the extra intake of food and wine,
meant he was a full stone overweight.  There was no question of a few
wind-sprints along the deck.  Sweating profusely, he staggered,
rubber-legged, down to his cabin to sponge down and prepare for
breakfast.  As he leant over the basin he saw his belly flop, white and
pudgy, and he belched loudly.  Thank God Moriarty could not see him
now.

When he went to breakfast Hettie was not at her table, and Buck sat
alone for half-an-hour before asking a steward to rouse her.  Only a
few minutes later the man returned.

"Miss Carr has gone, sir."

"Gone?"

"Yes, sir.  Taken off by boat by some gentlemen this morning.  About
seven o'clock, sir, or so I understand."

George Grimthorp could not believe that the Buck Miller he saw before
him on the rain-swept quay at Liverpool was the man whom Moriarty had
described in his letter.  Surely this puffy, whey-faced young man was
not the fellow who had gone close to even time over a hundred yards?

Grimthorp stood, a small, gnome-like man, dressed in sealskin jacket
and trousers, his peaked cap dwarfing his lined, brown face.  He walked
forward along the quay, through the crowds, to welcome the American.
The Yank had a firm grip that was something to be thankful for but his
eyes were dull and he seemed abstracted.  Grimthorp noted that his
waist was thick, his complexion pale, and there was even a hint of a
double chin.  The good life, thought Grimthorp acidly.  It was ever
thus.  It would surely take more than a few weeks of physic to scour
the Yank's system of its excesses.

For Buck, the trip to Norfolk was a nightmare.  He felt sick in the pit
of his stomach, a sickness which would not leave him, as he sat on the
train opposite Grimthorp and the endless miles clicked past on the way
to Norwich.  From the shared rapture of the S.S. Harold he had come to
sit with a dour stranger, with a face like a dried-up orange, looking
out upon a flat, sleet-swept February landscape.  Where was she?  Why
had Hettie gone?  The questions rang like bells in Buck's head all
through the train trip and the weary miles by horse and trap to the Fen
Inn.

The inn stood out like a single wind-scoured gravestone on the desolate
Norfolk plain.  It was a grey, two-storeyed building, just off a muddy,
rutted lane.  Its sign creaked in the wind that swept the fen.  So this
was the Godforsaken spot where he was to train, thought Buck as he
descended from the trap; cold as Alaska and lonely as a lighthouse.

They were greeted at the door by another man, a big, thickset young
fellow with a smiling open face and potato nose.  He was introduced as
Scan Casey, a fist-fighter in training under Grimthorp.  Something
about Scan made Buck feel better despite the heart-sick feeling inside
him.

As they entered the inn Buck wondered who on earth could possibly seek
social communion in such a bleak, sepulchral den.  For the low-beamed
saloon held little more than a bar plus a few bare benches; not a
splash of colour, a spittoon or a dancing lady in sight.  Upstairs, his
room was little better: a flat-board bed with hay mattress, a dresser
and wash-bowl that was all.  Home sweet home, thought Buck till
April.

Grimthorp was well-named.  He was a Lancashire man, a miner brought up
in a hard school, in a world where men would bet on anything that
moved.  He had been a half-miler and miler in the 1840s and had run
five yards behind the great George Reed, when the latter had been the
first man in the world to break two minutes for half a mile.  Then, in
1858, he had himself been the first runner to go inside four and a half
minutes for the mile, running 4 minutes 29.5 seconds on the turnpike
road at Newmarket.  He had been trained by the most vigorous disciple
of the Barclay School, the renowned George Hall of Formby; training, he
had been taught, toughened a man, inured him to hardship, purified him.
The race, when it came, after the period of preparation, should be a
relief.

Buck reflected ruefully that Moriarty, using a Scots phrase of his
father, would probably have said that Grimthorp 'smiled with
deeficulty', and this Buck was to find in his first painful fortnight
at Fen Inn.  Twice daily he took his 'sweats', walking seven miles in a
heavy greatcoat, then returned to lie for hours perspiring under a
feather quilt.  Once a day he took Grimthorp's version of Black Jack,
which seemed to reach his guts before he could even make the door of
his room.  Even Buck's rest was supervised, for Grimthorp, ever mindful
of Mary Five Fingers, had sewn a bobbin on to the back of Buck's
nightshirt to keep him from lying on his back.

The only redeeming feature of that privy-bound first fortnight was Scan
Casey.  Each day Scan accompanied Buck out along the windswept fen land
roads on his two 'sweats', enlivening the four hours of walking with an
endless stream of anecdote and reminiscence.  Scan was in preparation
to fight Jem Smith, the Knareborough Bottlesmasher, in mid-March,
bare-knuckles, an illegal event, for two hundred guineas.  He had
already fought twice, once in Ireland in a bout which had begun as a
bar-room brawl with a lout who turned out to be the Champion of Kerry.
Scan despatched the Kerry Man with a right to the jaw after only ten
rounds.  He had then been taken in hand by Grimthorp and a Barnsley
bookmaker called John J. John and set against the Kent Man, Butcher,
whose jaw he had broken in the second round.  To Scan, who had earned
five shillings a week and his potatoes slaving twelve hours a day on a
Donegal farm, even Grim-thorp's training came as a pleasure.  Already
he had fifty guineas safely back with his mother in Kilkerry, and after
the fight with Smith, he declared, he would finish with scrapping and
return to Ireland to buy his own farm.

By contrast, for Buck, for the first time training was drudgery,
something which was being done to him rather than something he was
doing for himself.  He felt hollow inside, and although he lost five
pounds in body weight in his first week at the Fen Inn and four pounds
in the second he felt no strength flood back into his limbs.  He was
weak and flaccid, and Grimthorp could see it in his eyes.  On 22
February the trainer despatched a missive to New York:

My dear Moriarty,

Your man Miller has now been a fortnight with me.  On arrival he was in
as sorry a state as I have ever seen a professional man: a stone or
more overweight, pasty complexion, eyes dull all the signs of
over-indulgence of every manner.

Since his arrival he has lost close on a stone, but there is still no
heart in him, no mettle in his work.  Since he has begun to shed his
fat I can see beneath a fine, strapping physique, much evidence of good
exercise in early youth, so there is all to play for.  The special
exercises and the development of his running will now commence and I
would suggest that we progress to Plan II, as described in your letter
of 4 September, and would advise that you lay your money accordingly on
your arrival.  I look forward to renewing your acquaintance on 4 April.
Yours in sport, George Grimthorp.

To Buck, Grimthorp had at first appeared another Sergeant Routledge, a
martinet with a fixed and immutable programme for the training of
athletes, within which there was no flexibility and from which there
was to be no escape.  But later, even in his lovesick state, he could
see that there was something more to his tormentor.  For the Lancashire
man had a feel for athletes, a sensitivity which enabled him to know
when to push his man and when to leave him be.  That touch, that art,
had made George Grimthorp one of the world's best trainers, and
although it was as yet having little effect upon Buck it was showing
great returns with the more responsive Scan Casey.  The Irishman was
now rock-hard, one hundred and seventy-six pounds of bone and muscle,
capable of going fifty rounds with any man in England.  Buck could
almost see Scan change as he peaked towards 18 March.  Daily he stood
behind the heavy bag as the Irishman, wearing light leather gloves,
thudded hundreds of punches into it; or watched in the gloom of the
austere gymnasium in the upper rooms of the Fen Inn while sweat sprayed
from Scan as he performed his dumbbell exercises.  The Donegal man was
showing the same level of commitment as he himself had possessed on his
departure from New York in December and which now seemed as far from
him as that city itself.

Buck would have gained no confidence had he read an article signed "Old
Pedestrian' which appeared on 7 March in the sporting magazine Bell's
Life:

Our information is that George Grimthorp has the American 'cowboy
sprinter', Miller, in hard preparation for the Amateur Athletic Club
Championships at his secret training quarters somewhere in Norfolk, in
harness with the Irish pugilist Scan Casey.  Miller has been reported
to be close to evens for one hundred yards but my spies tell me that
the Yankee left his ship at least a stone heavier and ten yards slower
than when he embarked, and is as yet showing no vigour in his
preparations.  Other intelligences are that the Barnsley sportsman,
William Bunn, has laid heavy on the fast young Scotchman McDougall for
the 100 yards in the Amateur Athletic Club Championships at Stamford
Bridge come 28 April, so all eyes will be on the Scot and the Yankee.

The letter for Buck arrived on the morning of 17 March, just as their
party was leaving for Casey's match against Jem Smith.  In the
excitement of the moment Buck stuffed it into a top pocket as he
ascended the trap.  Having followed every aspect of Scan's preparation
since his arrival he was now immersed in the fight, and Grimthorp had
agreed that he could work the sponge in Scan's corner.

The party aboard the trap comprised Casey, Grimthorp and the bookmaker
John J. John, together with a couple of gnarled, flat-nosed bruisers
whose task it was to protect the Irishman on his way to the ring.  All
was secrecy, for the police had known for months the date of the
'mill', but not the venue, and it would go hard with them if the law
were to discover it.

They travelled a mazy, circuitous forty miles that first day, stopping
at the King's Head, Downham Market, for the night.  They were just a
few miles short of the border of Lincolnshire.  For all Buck knew, they
could have been in Lancashire or Timbuctoo.

When at last they stopped, he was deputed to share Scan's room, to
ensure that the Irishman got a good night's sleep: any sign of unrest
and he was to report immediately to Grimthorp, three rooms away down
the narrow corridor.  Too much was at stake for the smallest detail to
be ignored.

The group, unnaturally quiet, enjoyed the same frugal meal as Scan:
underdone lamb chops, bread and porter.  It was only when they were all
about to retire for the night that Buck remembered the letter.  As Scan
undressed behind him, Buck read by the light of a flickering lamp.  The
letter, two tiny scented pages, was throughout scarred by crossings-out
of half-written words or even whole phrases:

Palace Theatre,

Leeds,

Yorkshire

10 March 1877

My dearest Buck,

How can I describe to you the despair that I have felt since we parted,
my guilt, my shame?  But first let me be honest with you, and leave it
to you to take what action you may see fit.

My father was in debt to an English bookmaker named William Bunn before
he died last year, having borrowed the money to finance our American
tour.  The debt had, alas, not been fully paid on my father's death and
I expressed to Mr.  Bunn my feeling that I had a moral obligation to
pay the remaining sum.

A few days before I left New York for England, I was approached by an
American friend of Mr.  Bunn's, a certain Mr.  Flynn.  He told me of
you and of your mission to the English Athletic Championships in
London.  He and Mr.  Bunn had already placed considerable sums at long
odds on another runner, a Mr.  McDougall.  Mr.  Flynn put it to me that
if I were to effectively deflect you from your daily training on the
S.S. Harold then he would absolve me of my remaining debts, and meet
the costs of my passage as well.  This I foolishly agreed to do.

Here I must ask you, dearest, to accept the absolute truth of what I am
about to say.  All the intimate occurrences of our crossing (and I dare
not, from modesty, commit them to paper) came truly from my heart and
not as a result of my agreement with Mr.  Bunn.

Buck, dear heart, you are the last thing on my eyelids at night and the
first thing in the morning.  Thus, even if you never wish to see me
again I feel that I must place on paper, shunning all modesty, that
which I truly feel for you.

Your dear Hettie

Buck sat in the candlelight, face flushed, his heart thudding as his
eyes raced across the pages of the letter.  Their contents rushed into
him, filling him, and the tears flowed from his eyes, staining the pink
surface of the paper.  He felt that he must read the letter again, to
convince himself that it was real.  He laid the pages on the bed,
wiping his eyes with the tail of his nightshirt.  This time he read the
letter slowly, savouring each word.  Then he leapt to his feet, holding
the letter aloft, and danced a jig on the creaking floorboards of the
room.  Scan, at the wash-bowl, stopped lapping water against his face
and stood stupefied.

"Scan," Buck shouted.  "She loves me!"

But the young boxer's thoughts were elsewhere.  He forced a distant
smile.

"Aye, Buck," he said quietly.  "She loves you."

By the time George Grimthorp's party had completed their circuitous
route and arrived at their destination, at 7 a.m. on the morning of 18
March, there were at least two thousand members of the Fancy milling
about in semi-darkness on the broad, grassy Lincolnshire field.  They
had come from as far away as Glasgow, Paris and Dublin, a motley band
of gambling men, whores, pickpockets and prize-ring cognoscenti.  Since
before six that morning they had come by carriage, on horse or on foot,
and had laid their bets with bookmakers who had set themselves up with
their blackboards on a ridge above the roped-off square of cropped
grass in the centre of the field.

The bookmakers drank from hip-flasks, while the Fancy had to settle for
hot tea and chocolate from vendors who had disposed themselves in
makeshift canvas stalls on the fringes of the field.

The smart money was on Smith, who had taken only nineteen rounds to
reduce the Yorkshireman Ned Bolt to a helpless pulp in September 1876,
and only two rounds to lay senseless in deep snow a Frenchman by the
name of Lacoste who had foolishly ventured across the Channel in
January.  Betting ceased at 8 a.m. as the preliminaries for the contest
began in a ring wreathed by morning mist, with Smith now at six to four
on and the odds against Sean Casey varying from two to one to nine to
four against.  Buck laid fifty pounds on his training partner at two to
one.

The mob, held back from the ropes by a team of bruisers employed by
John J. John and Smith's backer, Albert Gunn, pressed in on the ring as
the referee, a flat-nosed Welsh pug called Dai Gabriel, called both men
to the scratch.

To Buck, Smith at fourteen stone three pounds looked overweight and out
of condition.  True, he had a sturdy, powerful trunk and massive arms,
but his waist was thick and puffy with no sign of abdominal definition.
By contrast, Sean Casey, though a good two inches smaller and two stone
lighter than his opponent and clearly outreached, had not an ounce of
spare flesh on his body.  The Donegal man glowed with fitness. As they
came to their marks, Buck laid another twenty pounds on Sean.

The three men stood, a tableau, swathed waist-high in mist as a raw red
winter sun rose on the grassy ridge behind them.  Sporadic shouts from
the crowd broke the silence.  Buck was glad that he was well clad in a
sealskin coat as he sat with Grimthorp in Sean's corner with the mob
straining around them.  He would always remember the two smells that
pervaded the fresh morning air: the stale smell of whisky and the
freshness of wet cut grass.  That and the goose pimples on Sean Casey's
white back as he stood at the scratch facing Jem Smith.

Neither man had been recognisable since the twentieth round.  Then,
half-way into the twenty-fifth, Jem Smith, his face already a bloody
gargoyle, had split Sean Casey's nose, causing the blood to spout and
mat on Sean's hairy, sweating chest.  Now, after one and a quarter
hours and in the forty-eighth round, it was hardly a question of who
would win: rather of which of the men would survive.

But it had been the sound of the first big hit that had shocked Buck.
It was in the fourth round and Casey had gone down at once, blood from
his split cheek staining the damp grass below him.  The noise was the
same one that Sean's own fists had made when he practised on the heavy
bag; it was the knowledge that this time contact was being made with
his friend's flesh that gave the sound an extra significance to Buck.

From the beginning the roped-off square of grass had been defined as
much by the noise around it as by the ropes themselves.  It was a
baying sound, of men watching something harsh, something at the same
time both fine and awful.  By contrast, the happenings within the ring
were relatively silent; the gasping of men whose lungs felt hedged by
thorns, the thud of hits and the groans as they were received, the
thump as the contestants were smashed or thrown to the wet ground.

To Buck there was nothing noble or manly about this, whatever the
courage of the contestants; the bout, for all its London Rules, was
simply ritualised butchery, as inhuman as any bullfight.  Scan, the
gentle, joking Scan, had become a beast, using hardened, whisky-soaked
fists as bludgeons to batter the blubbery Smith into submission.

Up till the fortieth round it had been going Scan's way.  Smith's mouth
was open, blood and sweat pouring down his face, and his breathing had
gone.  His corner were having trouble getting their man back to the
scratch at the prescribed time of thirty seconds.  Scan, though badly
cut about the face, kept away from Smith, peppering him with cutting
blows, while the giant Smith had tried desperately to get in close, to
use his superior wrestling skills.

Then, a round later, had come the rains, lashing down, cold and
relentless, from the grey March sky, and soon reducing the ring to a
quagmire.  It was clear that Scan could no longer be sure of his
footing on the slimy surface, and in the forty-second round Smith
caught up with him, cross-buttocking him into the mud.

After that, the Irishman had gone down time after time and started to
slow up.  Now the lumbering Smith began to make contact with his own
blows, reducing Scan's lips to a red blubber.

By the forty-eighth, both men were red, muddy nightmares, impervious to
the hissed advice of their trainers between rounds and the raving of
the crowd, remote to everything except the desire to survive and
conquer.  Each time Buck sponged Scan down he kept his eyes from the
pouting, jagged cuts spurting blood which Grimthorp now made no attempt
to staunch.

In the forty-ninth neither fighter made any real contact, swinging
wildly, then falling upon each other in the centre of the ring,
exchanging pathetic half-blows to the body before falling forward in a
single heap in the mud, their blood mingling with the black slime. Both
men were done, only animal instinct keeping them erect.

Then came the shriek of whistles.  It emanated from the grassy ridge
directly above the ring, as a row of black-uniformed policemen appeared
as silhouettes on the skyline.  The policemen, about fifty in number,
and all wearing distinctive top-hats, descended in a line with their
batons upon the mob, which dispersed, skidding and falling over in the
mud as they went.

"Get out!"  roared Grimthorp, throwing down his bucket and sponge.

Buck reflexly threw off his coat and sprinted blindly through crowds
that squelched and slipped and slithered in the wetness of the vast
field.  Behind him, Sean and Smith disengaged from their grappling and
moved with a speed that belied the forty-nine rounds they had just
endured.  In a flash, they were under the ropes and bullocking their
way like enraged animals through the panic-stricken mob now rushing
from the whistles and batons of the Lincolnshire Constabulary.  Back in
the ring two policemen were wrestling with a fat bookmaker.  Grimthorp,
who had been at Buck's side only a moment before, had vanished.  All
was shouting, whistling and cursing as two thousand men scattered
across plough and grass, through hedge and over fence.

Buck, fifty yards from the ring and in the middle of the field, looked
about him, the rain running in streams down his face.  Surprisingly, he
felt no fear.  The main body of the police had come from one direction,
the ridge above the ring, and were dispensing rough justice with their
batons as they dragged struggling miscreants back towards a row of
carriages that stood at the top of the ridge ready for their new
occupants.  Most of the mob had scattered sideways to left and right
through gaps in the surrounding hedgerows, but were being driven back
by policemen who had lain there in wait for them.  Thirty yards ahead
lay a water-filled fifteen-foot wide ditch and beyond that a
four-foot-high barred wooden fence.  Buck sprinted towards it, weaving
his way through the escaping crowd.  He cleared the ditch without
mishap, only just missing the head of a spectator below him who was
desperately wallowing his way through its muddy waters.  Buck took the
fence in a vault, slithering on to his face in the slimy mud on the
other side, then getting to his feet to splatter through a doughy,
ploughed field.  He had not moved so fast since the Run of the Arrow:
even the clogging clay of the field could not interrupt his rhythm.
Buck flowed over it, and in a few hundred yards was well clear of the
whistling and hallooing behind him.

It was only when he was aware that he could no longer hear the noise of
police-whistles that he realised that he had been running for at least
two miles.  He looked around him, but could hear nothing but the wind
and the screech of birds.

He was surprised to find that, despite the speed of his flight, he was
hardly out of breath.  He had run two miles across this cold
Godforsaken country and yet he was feeling good.  It was surely the
same as it had been in the Run of the Arrow .. . Not only did he have
pace, he had endurance, that rare ability to sustain speed.  Buck
smiled to himself as he squelched along the muddy lane, steam beginning
to rise from him as the rain stopped and he started to dry off.

For over an hour he wandered about in the mean winter sun, finding no
sign of man or dwelling, only endless fields divided by muddy ditches.
Then the rain started again, pouring down in steady streams.  It ran
down Buck's face, mixing with the mud and grit; he could even feel it
pouring in streams inside his shirt.  He looked around him, across the
sodden fields, more keenly aware of the cold and the fact that he had
not the slightest idea where he was.  There was no one to be seen, and
he had no idea how he would find his way back to Grimthorp and the Fen
Inn.  Where was Norfolk anyway north or south?  Buck took stock.  Then,
plodding along the side of a hedge, he caught sight of a farm-road on
the other side defined by deep, grey wheel-tracks.  He made his way
towards it, his feet slopping about inside his shoes, and scrambled
through the hedge, ripping his legs.

After he had gone about half a mile along the can-track the rain
stopped, again the clouds cleared and the weak March sun re-appeared.
In the distance Buck could see a thin spiral of smoke.  He squelched
along the grassy centre of the farm-road towards it, his clothes chill
upon his body, feeling the goose pimples rise on his back.  About a
hundred yards short of a grey-brick farmhouse was a large wooden barn
and Buck jogged towards it, his legs uncomfortably stiff and tight.

The door of the barn had been pulled to, but it was not locked.  Buck
cautiously pushed on it, closing it behind him as he made his way into
the smelly gloom.  He felt cold, sick and tired.  Then, as he peered
into the shadows of the barn, a shaft of sunlight pierced through a
crack in the wall, revealing a shadowy bundle in the hay in a corner.
The bundle moved.  Buck went closer.  The bundle snored.  Buck was now
above it.  He smiled and shook his head.  There, lying in the hay, arms
around each other and sound asleep, lay Scan Casey and Jem Smith.

CHAMPION OF THE WORLD

Billy Joe had been surprised at Moriarty's placid reception of the
damning cable from Grimthorp.  There had been no rage, no tantrums,
even though it was very clear that Buck had let everyone down.  Billy
Joe knew the cause could only have been a woman, for nothing else could
possibly have deflected his friend.  He hoped that she had been worth
it that the lady had done Buck over good and proper: it would serve him
right for all the advice about Mandy he had ladled out.  No, Moriarty
had taken it all in his stride, though Billy Joe also knew that it
would now need more than the rig ours of the English Method to hone
Buck into any sort of sprinting shape by April; especially if a lady
were involved, for it would not merely be a problem of fitness, but one
of conviction.

Moriarty, however, although quite unconcerned about Buck's poor
condition, clearly attached a great deal of importance to a meeting on
their arrival in England with the officials of the Amateur Athletic
Club, one at which he would have to present Buck's amateur bona fides.
To Billy Joe this seemed irrelevant.  They were going to England to
pick up a packet on Buck creaming all those lords and marquises; if
Buck were not in good shape it was surely better to forget about the
championships altogether and simply enjoy a vacation.  For once, Billy
Joe could not understand Moriarty; and nor it seemed could anyone
else.

With only a few weeks to go till their departure for England the Texan,
his injured hamstring still giving him trouble, was feeling generally
depressed.  Moriarty was absorbed in rehearsals, Buck was in dire
straits in distant England, and his own relationship with Mandy had
just reached a new low.

This last set-back followed immediately on her performance as Cordelia
to Booth's Lear at Niblo's Theatre, which had been occasioned by the
late withdrawal through illness of the famous actress Charlotte Hall.
Mandy, though delivering a brave performance, did not yet possess the
technical equipment to cope with the vastness of Niblo's or the
charisma of Edwin Booth.  Her voice had indeed been 'gentle and low',
but what had commended itself to Lear had made less impression on the
audience.

The play itself had been a success, the cast taking five curtain calls,
and Booth, though cognisant of Mandy's limitations, had been generous
in his praise.  Later, there had been a party at Booth's little Park
Avenue apartment.  The cast had poured into its brown, lamp-lit
interior, admiring its walls decorated with pictures of past successes
of Edwin and his father, Junius.

Mandy, still high from the magic of the performance, had been, like so
many actresses, hungry for the slightest morsel of praise.  Radiant in
a yellow silk dress, she stood sipping champagne and surrounded by the
bubble of the cast's excited chatter.

At her side, Moriarty and Eleanor were fulsome in their praise.  Then
Booth, looking at Billy Joe, who had sat down to rest his leg, asked
the Fast Man's opinion of Mandy's performance.

"Good leastways, as far as it went," responded Billy Joe thoughtlessly,
rising stiffly from his chair to make his way through the crowd of
actors and stage staff towards a waiter offering champagne, seemingly
unaware that Mandy was listening.

"Jesus," he said as he limped awkwardly back across the room.  This
hamstring, it's still not healed up, Moriarty -doctor or no doctor."

Moriarty did not reply, instead looking sideways at Mandy.  He knew
that she was struggling to control her distress.

Billy Joe sat down gingerly and, still oblivious of the coolness of the
atmosphere, sipped his drink.

"Have you any other advice?"  Mandy asked him at last.

"Just that it wasn't big enough," he said tersely.  This time Mandy did
not respond, but the tears began to well in her eyes.  Billy Joe went
blithely on.

"You got to fill the stage, Mandy, like Edwin here.  Grab the moment
that's what you always say, isn't it, Moriarty?"

Moriarty stood silent.  No question of it, Billy Joe had put his finger
on what had been missing.  But why had he chosen a time like this to be
so goddam honest?

It was Eleanor who tried to salvage the evening.  "When will the
reviews be in, Edwin?"  she asked.

But Mandy would not be deflected.

"I know I wasn't Charlotte Hall," she said, her voice kept deliberately
even.  "But it was the best I could do.  I'm not like you, Billy Joe.
I'm more like Buck I've got to work at it.  And that's something that
someone like you isn't even interested in trying to understand, so you
never will.  Never!"  Bitterly she repeated the final word.

Now Billy Joe's face flushed deep red.  He looked up to Eleanor and
Moriarty for support; but help there was un forthcoming  Muttering his
apologies, he rose and limped off across the room.  He opened the door
and made his way downstairs, out into the street.

As he trudged aimlessly through the dark midnight streets, he
acknowledged to himself how far away he must now be from becoming the
person that Mandy wanted.  If ever he had had a chance of getting
through to her, his thoughtlessness this evening had ruined it.  He
found himself wishing he were with Buck in England, enjoying the simple
pleasures of the Norfolk countryside.

27 March 1877, Cromer Sands, Norfolk Buck fell headlong over the top of
the sandy ridge onto his face.  He tried to vomit, but he did not have
the strength.  Instead he turned over onto his back, allowing the cool
east wind to fan his sweat-soaked body, and wiped the grit from his
lips.

He was dimly aware of Grimthorp above him, in black pin-stripe suit,
waistcoat and bowler, a massive egg-shaped 1/100-second stop-watch in
his hand.  "Fifty-one and three tenths, give or take a hundredth," said
the trainer.  "Three seconds to go."

They had visited the Sands twice a week since early March, Buck braving
their cutting winds to run endlessly up their steep sandhills.  But it
was the Windmill Run that from the beginning had forced Buck to dig
deep.  The run, most of it made on soft sand, involved a distance of
three hundred and thirty yards, first around a dilapidated old windmill
rotting on the seashore, then back along hard beach sand and up fifty
yards of soft, near-vertical sand hill to the finish.  The first time
Buck attempted it he was forced to crawl the final fifty yards, and
spewed all over Grimthorp's polished shoes at the top.  That had taken
a lung-bursting sixty point four seconds.

From the outset, for no reason that Buck could understand, Grimthorp
had insisted on forty-eight seconds as the target time for the 330
yards.  Buck, carefully pacing himself, had cut it to fifty-six seconds
on his second attempt, and now, on his sixth, had brought it down
almost to fifty-one.

He sat up as Grimthorp draped a dressing-gown over his shoulders to
protect him from the cold March breeze.

That's it, Mr.  Grimthorp," he said.  "I don't have a yard left in me.
Not a goddam yard."

Grimthorp knelt down and sat on the sand beside Buck.  "We've got a
saying up Lancashire way," he said.  "Them that never gives up is them
that's never beat."

Buck wiped sweat from his face.  "And we've got a saying back in
Connecticut too," he said.  "You can't get blood from stones."

Every time they returned from Cromer Buck was left with an unspoken
question.  What in God's name had all this pounding up and down
sandhills got to do with speed, with sprinting?  True, he had come down
in weight and was only five pounds off competition-weight.  True, his
muscles were now hard and strong.  But Buck knew his body well enough
to realise that there was no snap left in his legs, no punch, nothing
to give power to the Kangaroo Start which he had at last mastered.  So
perhaps he had a heart as big as all outdoors; but that was going to do
him little good over a short dash in April.

He had resisted putting the question, partly out of respect for
Grimthorp and partly because of the guilt he still felt over the poor
condition in which he had arrived in England.  Maybe this was simply
Grimthorp's way of carving out the broad outlines of fitness, and
perhaps the honing and sharpening would take place later, in the next
three weeks before the Stamford Bridge race.  If so, Grimthorp was
cutting it fine.

But Buck was in good heart.  The letters from Hettie came in almost
daily, letters which put in words things it made him blush to read.
Grimthorp had a good idea of the source of the perfumed envelopes, but
he let it pass.  As long as his man was pursuing his preparation
diligently he could ask no more.  Grimthorp knew that Plan II was
working to perfection.  All that was needed now was Moriarty.

2 April 1877, Randolph Hotel, Oxford Moriarty could feel the coolness
in the atmosphere the moment he entered the hotel's committee room.
There they were, seated formally round the long shining table, the
worthies of English amateur athletics, the same class of stiff-necked,
arrogant bastards as those who had forced his father to leave
Glencalvie almost thirty years before.  Moriarty was beckoned to sit
down at the end of the table by the chairman, Sir Murray Clark, a bald
man in late middle-age with thick mutton-chop whiskers.

Clark, flanked by six committee members on each side, rustled through
some papers in front of him before withdrawing one and peering at it
through a monocle.

"Here we are, Mr.  Moriarty," he said.  "An entry form for the
Championship Sprints, from a Mr.  Buck Miller, for whom I believe you
act as a referee."

Moriarty nodded.

"Miller?"  said Clark.  "English?"

"No," said Moriarty.  "German."

There were grunts from both sides of the table.

"Just so," said Clark.  "Now, Mr.  Moriarty, let me make my position
and indeed the committee's position quite clear.  We are able to
establish the amateur credentials of our English athletes with no great
difficulty.  This is because most of them come from a class of
professional men rather than from the ranks of the artisans."

"Of course."

"Where there is doubt then the committee has a responsibility to the
sport to ensure that no one without bona fide amateur credentials is
allowed to compete."

"Indeed."

"Now, your entry for Mr.  Miller presents us with certain problems.
This is because, as yet, there is no amateur body in the United States
able to validate the status of American athletes."

Moriarty pondered for a moment.

"Might I ask the committee a question?"  he said.

Clark nodded.

"As I understand it, your English amateurs regularly lay wagers on the
outcome of their races."

"Indeed they do, Mr.  Moriarty," replied Clark.

"But this doesn't make them professionals?"

"No," said Clark, smiling.  "These are private wagers between
gentlemen, Mr.  Moriarty.  There is therefore no question of racing for
a money prize.  That is quite a different matter."

"I see," said Moriarty, his face impassive.  So it was really nothing
to do with money, but everything to do with the kind of person who was
wagering it.  Run up a mountain for a pound in the Lake District and
you were a 'pro', but wager a hundred guineas with Sir Murray Clark and
you were still a true-blue amateur.

Clark sighed and laid down the entry form.  "Now, as you can see, Mr.
Moriarty, Mr.  Miller's proposed participation places us in somewhat of
a quandary .. ."

"You mean you won't take my word?"  said Moriarty.

"I wouldn't exactly put it that way," said Clark.

"Then what way would you put it?"

"I mean that we require some further, and indeed some substantial proof
that Mr.  Miller has never on any occasion competed for a money
prize."

Moriarty looked round the room, at the assembly of frock-coats and
starched collars.  These men would on 28 April open the world's finest
stadium at Stamford Bridge and hope to draw to it a large crowd of
fee-paying customers.  The cowboy with the kangaroo start might put at
least fifteen thousand on the gate, close on three hundred pounds of
gate money into the struggling Amateur Athletic Club.  And here was
this august committee solemnly debating the status of possibly the one
person who could make their meet a success.

"So what do you want from me?"  he asked, his face expressionless.

Clark steepled his hands beneath his chin, his elbows on the table.
"Some further assurances of Mr.  Miller's status .. . With no
disrespect to you, Mr.  Moriarty, from someone of standing, someone of
whom we have heard."

"I see," said Moriarty.  He reached into his inside pocket and withdrew
a white envelope, which he laid on the table.  "Perhaps this would
do."

The envelope was passed up the table to Clark, who inspected it and
broke the seal.

"Could you read it out?"  asked Moriarty.

Clark cleared his throat.  "I hereby declare that Buck Miller is an
athlete of amateur status, having never competed for a money wager or
prize."

There was silence.  "It is signed and sealed," Clark added, laying down
his monocle, 'by the late General George A. Custer."

3 April 1877, Norfolk

It was perfect, just as Moriarty had imagined, though Eleanor and Mandy
thought it spooky.  The Fen Inn, stark and austere, jutting from
bright, windswept Norfolk fens now freckled with early spring flowers,
was the ideal spot for the training of a pedestrian.  Moriarty breathed
in deeply.  The air was like wine.  A month here, four weeks of
cleansing and purification, and even he himself might be able to take
on the miler Tulloch and all those other 'peds' he had read about in
the English sporting press.

But he would resist that temptation, for all his thoughts were on the
English Plan.  Grimthorp had done exactly what he had asked of him, for
Buck appeared in excellent condition, with that drawn, sucked-in look
and brightness of eye that betokened true fitness.

Buck, for his part, had been delighted to see Moriarty and his party,
Billy Joe in particular.  Now they were all together again, and they
would see what he, Buck Miller, could really do.

A day after their arrival, they went to Cromer for a final trial.
Grimthorp had brought with him a canvas windbreak and some chairs, and
Mandy and Eleanor took what refuge they could, cowering within the
windbreak as the cold east wind whipped around them in the bright
spring sun.

Soon Grimthorp, along with Moriarty, Buck and Billy Joe, was standing
at the top of the sandhills.  Grimthorp explained to them the windmill
course.  He asked Billy Joe if he would like to try it, but the Fast
Man declined, pleading injury: he could see that it was not a
sprinter's course.

Soon Buck was set upon his way and he bounded off, the second-hand on
Grimthorp's watch flicking round its big dial.  At the windmill,
roughly half-way, Grimthorp noted that Buck was a good second inside
his best time, at twenty-four seconds; but the return trip along the
beach was into a strong wind.

Buck, evenly pounding along into the wind on the hard beach sand, felt
as if he could run for ever.  Then came the final hill, the fifty yards
of sand-dune up to Grimthorp and the others, and it was at that point
that the pace of his previous running caught up with him.  Suddenly his
legs went soft and heavy and Buck had to drive hard with his arms as he
struggled up the silky yellow sand towards Billy Joe and Moriarty,
trying to give impulse to his flagging calf muscles.  He did not hear
Grimthorp's cry of "Fifty seconds dead!"  as he fell on his face in
front of him.

28 April 1877, Stamford Bridge, London The gates had had to be closed
at one o'clock, two hours before the first event, and the band of the
Scots Guards was prevailed upon, on the promise of four pints of beer
per man, to start its performance an hour early.

The main draw was undoubtedly the Yankee, Buck Miller, the cowboy with
the kangaroo start, the fellow who had run the Sioux off their feet and
who, so the papers said, had been the only man to survive the massacre
of Little Big Horn.

Forty-two thousand five hundred and seventy-one spectators poured into
London's newly-built stadium, all eager to set eyes upon the man
reputed to be the fastest fellow ever to don a spiked shoe.

Certainly the Yank seemed to be a fine, well-set young man, and the
ground was hushed as he got down to his mark in his heat,
kangaroo-style, just as the sporting papers had predicted.  The Yank
left his men early and cruised in, to the cheers of the crowd, in 10.8
seconds, clearly reserving himself for the later rounds.

The semi-final was closer, with the Yank finding another two yards to
win, by a yard, in 10.6, over the Oxford fellow Le Mesurier, with the
Scotsman, McDougall, running two yards faster to win the other
semi-final.

The rest of the day's sport was merely a prelude to the final of the
Dash.  True, some fellow from Oxford had gone close to six feet in the
high jump and Shepherd from Ulver-ston had managed ten feet in the
pole-vault, but that was your German gymnastics rather than your true
English athletics.  Athletics was running, and running was what
forty-two thousand English men (and a fair sprinkling of ladies) had
come to Stamford Bridge to see.

It was five o'clock when the starter got the finalists to their marks,
and the bookmakers had stopped taking bets on the Yank, who was now
three to one on, with McDougall at evens and the rest of the field at
three and four to one against.  It was clear that the American had not
shown the full power of his kangaroo start in the heats because he had
come out of his holes in line with the other runners, only going on to
win in the final forty yards; but the betting fraternity were not to be
fooled.  When the kangaroo start was given its full expression it was
reputedly worth, another two yards, possibly more.

The Yank had held up the start for several minutes while he used a
trowel to scoop out his starting-holes.  Then the starter got all the
runners to their marks, the Yank low down, right knee on the ground,
the others standing above him in stiff, frozen poses.  On 'get set' the
Yank raised his hips, while the others assumed their statuesque
standing-start positions, arms high.

Then the gun, and the runners were released.  But it was the Scotsman,
McDougall, who showed first at twenty yards, with Miller struggling two
yards back, in fourth position.  So much for the kangaroo start.  At
fifty the Yank had closed to third, only a yard and a half back, but it
was still McDougall.  Thirty yards on and the Yank had pulled in
another foot, still in third position, but as they hit the tape it was
McDougall by a long yard, in 10.2 seconds, with Miller second.  The
bookmakers cheered loud and long.

To the cognoscenti of pedestrianism, who had laid no money on Miller,
it was just as they had expected.  The Yankee, kangaroo start or no,
was simply not up to snuff, and all the tales about running away from
Redskins showed only that your Indian was even less of a match for an
Englishman than a Yankee.  No question, though, that it was a fair
race, for Miller had given all he had; as he walked, head down, towards
the tunnel leading under the stand it could be seen, clear as crystal,
that the Yank was a much saddened man.

Buck could taste the tears as they ran down his cheeks, and he paused
to wipe his eyes before continuing his slow walk towards the tunnel,
where waited Grimthorp, Moriarty and Billy Joe.  It had all been wrong
from the start, and not merely because of his debaucheries on the S.S.
Harold.  Simply, Grim-thorp's training had taken the snap out of his
legs.  He could have run forever at his finishing speed but was
incapable of generating any thrust in the first twenty yards: he had
been left with too much to do.  He had been strong, but he had not been
fast.

As he walked through a blizzard of boos and programmes which fluttered
down from the terracing the result was posted on blackboards and
carried to the corners of the ground by white-coated stewards.  Three
thousand miles, to be whipped good by a college boy, an amateur.  Yet,
for all his sense of shame, as he approached the others he saw that
Moriarty was smiling.

"Good run," he said.  "Under the circumstances."  "Good!"  exploded
Billy Joe.  "He ran like a toad."

"Of course he did," said Moriarty, enigmatically.  "What else could he
do?"

"I should've won," growled Buck.

"No," said Moriarty.  That wasn't the plan.  It never was."

"The plan?  What plan?"  said Billy Joe.

"For Buck to run against the fastest man in the world," replied
Moriarty.  "A pro."

"But he's just been beaten by an amateur," said Billy Joe.

"Yes.  But that was over a hundred yards.  And I told you that was
never my plan, or Grimthorp's.  Not from the beginning."

"What are you up to, Moriarty?"  said Buck, suddenly aware that there
was something in the wind.

"To race you over a quarter of a mile," came the reply.

5 May 1877, Barnsley, Yorkshire

"Ahim champion of t'world, that knows."  Josiah Headley's features were
barely visible through the coal-dust which covered them, but his eyes
were bright blue in the white skin of their sockets.  On his head he
wore a brown sack and his body was entirely covered in what appeared to
be a black leather smock, tied at the waist with thick rope.  He looked
down upon Moriarty, Buck and Billy Joe from a coal-cart, holding reins
which kept in check two emaciated black ponies.

It had begun to rain, and the water caused white stripes to form on
Headley's face.  As they stood on the slimy cobbled streets of Barnsley
looking up at him, Buck could not believe that this was truly Josiah
Headley, the man who had broken forty-nine seconds for a quarter of a
mile.

"Never been beat," said Headley, wiping his 'face with the back of his
hand and smearing the coal-dust in a grey paste across his mouth and
cheeks.

"So how do you wish it to be arranged?"  said Moriarty.

Headley put two fingers to his nose and cleared it.  "You'd best see my
manager," he said.  "Mr.  Bunn."

A week later the following statement appeared in the Sporting Life:

Mr.  William Bunn wishes it to be known that on 1 September 1877, at
the Victoria Running Grounds, Barnsley, Josiah Headley will contest
with the American Buck Miller, over the full quarter-mile distance, for
a purse of 200 per man, winner take all; and a World Championship belt;
and that Sir Edward Astley will put up a further 1,000 for any man who
goes inside Dick Buttery's world record of 48 4 seconds.  Articles have
already been signed at the King's Head, Barnsley, the gate to be split
evenly between the runners.

For it had been the biggest con of all, one spanning three thousand
miles, and one in which Buck himself had been well and truly taken in.
It had never been Moriarty's aim for Buck to win at Stamford Bridge.
Indeed, it had been quite the opposite.  Bunn's use of Hettie Carr to
lead Buck astray had been a bonus, for she had unwittingly guaranteed
the success of Moriarty's plan, which was for Buck to lose over the
short distance, thus building up big odds for the later challenge
against Headley over the long sprint.  Grimthorp's training in Norfolk
on the windswept Cromer Sands had been geared not only to blunt his
speed but to give Buck a base of endurance.  This training might have
taken the edge from his sprint-speed, but it was to be the platform for
later preparation to take on Josiah Headley, the fastest 'ped' in the
world, a man who had never been beaten in match competition at any
distance from a furlong to six hundred yards.

Buck's child-like belief in Grimthorp, unquestionably one of the
greatest trainers of foot racers in the world, and his guilt over his
shipboard excesses, had blinded him to the nature of the training to
which he had been subjected.  Grim-thorp's insistence on flat-out
effort over forty-eight seconds at Cromer had been part of the build-up
to the race with Headley.  All of this was now clear to Buck, and his
disappointment over Stamford Bridge was quickly put behind him.

Josiah Headley had won more money by his fleetness of foot than any man
since the famous Captain Barclay himself.  Bred in a mining community
where men would bet on anything from the speed of cockroaches to
fighting dogs, Headley had been carefully nurtured by William Bunn
since,

as an eighteen-year-old novice, he had won the great Sheffield Sprint
Handicap at long odds.  Bunn had made ten thousand pounds that day.
Headley's share had been two hundred pounds all of which had been lost
on a greyhound called Lucky Lou only a week later.

For Headley was a compulsive gambler, and the twenty thousand pounds
which he had won since the Sheffield of 1866 had all long since passed
into the hands of bookmakers.  Since 1866 he had taken on everything
England and the Empire had to offer, and no man would now face him on
scratch terms.  Burke, the deaf Australian, had come to England in 1870
and been whipped over three hundred yards, as had the Frenchman, Prost,
over a furlong in the same year.  From Canada had come the half-breed,
White Rock, in 1873, to be run into the ground over six hundred yards.
Then a year later Headley had buried the best Scottish 'ped',
Mauch-line, over a quarter mile, breaking fifty seconds on packed snow
in midwinter.

This time Headley intended to keep his money, for he had no intention
of spending the rest of his days bent over like a half-shut knife as a
coal-heaver.  At the age of twenty-eight he had only a couple of years'
good running left in him, perhaps four big-money matches, and he had to
make them count.  With a new wife and four children and another on the
way Josiah Headley was fighting for his life, and no Yankee Cowboy was
going to take his title from him.

For the bookmaker William Bunn it was not a matter of survival, for
with a 40,000 Gothic mansion in the best end of Barnsley and twice that
much snug in the bank, he had no worries on that score.  But, like most
self-made men, he had as much respect for a shilling now as when it had
represented a week's wages to him.  He had already dished the Yank at
Stamford Bridge and, although Miss Hettie Carr could no longer be used
to take a few yards from Miller's legs, there was no way Moriarty was
going to return to the States with much more than a shirt-stud.  For
Moriarty had laid ten thousand pounds on Buck Miller at four to one
against and, with the odds on Headley at three to one on, the man in
the street was not being tempted to lay his hard-earned shilling to
earn a miserable four pence.  So much,

indeed, of the working man's money was now coming in on the Yank that
Bunn was forced to drop his odds to two to one, and finally to evens.

Bunn had no doubts about the race itself.  The Barnsley man had never
let him down yet.  Headley would, as usual, be taken to Cumbria, to a
cottage just outside Whitehaven.  There, with his trainer, the
redoubtable Arthur Formby, he would in a mere twelve weeks be made into
a running machine.  Formby was a sprint specialist, a man who had
himself run the American sprint-wonder, George Seward, to a short yard
back in 1848, and who had since 1860 carved a dozen Sheffield sprint
winners out of unknowns.  The Lancashire trainer would reduce Josiah
Headley from one hundred and sixty pounds to one hundred and
forty-eight pounds of sprinting power, capable of running inside
forty-nine seconds from the front or of cruising behind a front runner
for three hundred yards before leaving him for dead with a devastating
turn of speed over the final stretch.

But William Bunn had not made his fortune by leaving anything to
chance.  He had checked with his American sources on Miller's
background, and, apart from a race in St.  Louis back in 1873 and some
minor races in the Boston area in the 1870 3 period, Miller, though
clearly no dilettante, appeared to have no record of performance at top
level.  Certainly, he had never gone as far as a furlong, let alone the
sapping quarter-mile.  And Miller had already shown himself to be weak
of will with Hettie Carr who, his music-hall informants told him, was
now again communicating with the American.  Perhaps she, albeit no
longer with the spur of her father's debts as motivation, would deplete
the bodily fluids of the Yankee even further.  But on this point Bunn
could not be sure, and spies were despatched to Norfolk to keep an eye
on Miller's romantic aspirations.

But the American and his entourage had gone, the landlord of the Fen
Inn knew not where.  Bunn discovered about the ladies easily enough;
they had been despatched to Cumbria, to the estate of Lord Grafton,
Eleanor's father.  The men, however, had vanished into thin air.  Spies
were sent to Cumbria, to keep watch on incoming and outgoing mail, and
also to Hackney Wick, Sheffield, Pontypridd, Newcastle,

Birmingham and Edinburgh, all the main training grounds; but of Miller
and his supporters there was no sign.  They had gone to ground.

9 July 1877, Glasgow

It was like a prison cell.  Buck and Billy Joe peered into the gloom
and smelled the odour of sweat, a salt, sickly perfume which drenched
the tiny tenement room.  Everywhere there were black, bulbous barbells
and dumbbells on the floor, on racks, on the walls.  And, standing in
the centre of the room, dressed in dungarees, heavy boots and black,
turtle-necked sweater, was a tiny white-haired man.

At first Buck thought the figure was a dwarf; but the little man, his
arms folded across his chest, his shock of white hair standing out from
his head, was perfectly proportioned.  Indeed, though he was clearly in
his sixties, he was superbly built, with narrow waist and powerful
barrel chest, sharp, clearly defined shoulder muscles and thick thighs
and calves.

"Jock Weir," said Moriarty, pressing them forward into the cramped
Gallowgate room.  It was what Glaswegians called a 'single end': a room
within which anything up to four people could live.  To one side there
was a bed let into the wall; to the other, an enamel basin and a
dripping tap.  In the middle of the wall facing them a coal fire
smouldered.

"The strongest man in the world," said Moriarty, as Buck and Billy Joe
stumbled in the gloom over the training apparatus towards the little
old man.

"At ma weight, Mr.  Moriarty," said the old man gruffly, taking Buck's
hand.  "At ma weight."

Buck felt as if his fingers had been gripped by a vice.  He winced and
withdrew his hand, shaking it, as Billy Joe got the same treatment.

"I'll leave Buck in your good charge then," said Moriarty.  Buck noted
that Moriarty had a Scots thread in his accent which he had not
previously noticed except in Macbeth and Rob Roy.

"Aye," said Weir.  "Just you come back in two hours, Mr.  Moriarty."

He looked up at Buck and Billy Joe.  "Noo, which wan of yiz goan tae
run against this English rascal, Headley?"

Billy Joe pointed to Buck.  "He is," he said.

Weir reached forward and grabbed Buck by the arm with his powerful
little hands, then tapped him on the stomach.  Finally, testingly, he
placed both hands on Buck's right thigh.

"Let's see it, man," he said.  "The engine room."

Buck tensed his muscles and Weir considered.  "No' bad," he said.
"Strip off."

Buck peeled off his jacket, shirt and trousers and stood in long-Johns
and shoes as the little man surveyed him.  Weir beckoned Buck to lie on
a low wooden bench, at right-angles to which there was a black, bulbous
barbell resting on a pair of iron stands, then moved round to the back
of the stands.  Standing directly above Buck's head, he lifted the
weight with both hands in an overarm grip.

"Ready?"  he rasped.  "Lift yer hands."

Buck lifted his arms straight above him to receive the barbell.  It was
all that he could do to support it, and he felt his arms quiver.

"Bend yer air ms ordered Weir.  "Slowly, now."

Buck bent his arms, feeling the weight accelerate down on to his body,
as his muscles failed to respond to his desperate urgings.  The barbell
now lay heavy, black and dead across his chest.

"Push!"  roared Weir, his voice filling the little room.  Buck pushed
but the barbell did not even twitch.  Weir snorted, lifted the weight
from Buck's chest as if it were a child's toy and replaced it on the
stands.

"A lassie," he said with no attempt to hide his scorn.  "A big
lassie."

He lifted the weight from the stands and replaced it with another,
smaller barbell.  Again he held the weight above Buck and again Buck
received it.  But the result was the same: the weight would not budge,
no matter how much Buck heaved and strained.

"Jesus Christ," said Weir, shaking his head.  "Ye could nae lift a wet
poke oot o' a puddle."

The next hour was a purgatory for Buck.  Weir took him round the little
room from one exercise to the next, from dumbbell curls to power
cleans, then on to the military press

II

and finally to squatting with a weight that would have crushed Atlas
himself.

The sweat spurted from Buck as Billy Joe sat watching, expressionless,
his back to the fire, while Weir, the very Torquemada of exercise,
drove Buck from agony to still deeper agony.  Pity did not seem part of
the little man's mental equipment.

"God," groaned Buck as he wilted under yet another ponderous barbell.

"Dinna ask Goad for help, laddie," growled Weir.  "Goad's nae guid.
Goad's a rascal."

This final touch of atheism was too much for Buck.  He sank helplessly
to the floor, the weight behind his neck, and Weir stepped in to take
it from him, shaking his head.

"Ah've seen you runners afore," he said.  "Just a pair o' legs wi' a
heid oan top."

He beckoned Buck to the fire, where he sat, sweat streaming down his
body, beside Billy Joe.  Weir reached up to a clay pot on a shelf above
the fire and took from it a clay pipe and a plug of tobacco.  He
shredded the tobacco and pressed it into his pipe, then reached again
to the shelf for a wooden taper and lit it from the fire.  Weir put
flame to his pipe and drew on it.

"Ye'll come here three times a week," he said.  "Ah'll make ye the
strongest runner ever wore a spiked shoe."

He puffed on his pipe.

"And if ye don't whip this fella Headley, dye know whit ah'll dae?" He
took the pipe from his mouth and spat a stream of brown spittle into
the fire.  "Ah'll gie ye tae the Catholics."

10 July 1877, Leadhills, Lanarkshire

The next day, Buck required Billy Joe's assistance simply to get
dressed, for his arms (and indeed his whole body) felt as if they had
been pumped full of lead, then hammered for days on end.  The four of
them Buck, Billy Joe, Moriarty and Grimthorp had moved to a cottage
outside Leadhills, a mining village in Lanarkshire a few miles south of
Glasgow.  There, at a disused pit, was a black, U-shaped strip 460
yards long which had previously held a railroad track serving the mine.
The surface was flat and hard; perfect for running.  But for the week
following his visit to Weir's Gallowgate gymnasium Buck did not even
put on a spike.  Indeed, he spent two days recovering from Weir's first
ministrations, then he had three more sessions in Glasgow with the
weights, with a day's rest between.

Despite the pain of that first session, Buck did not complain.  This
was his chance to make it big in England, the home of pedestrianism and
every day he could feel Grimthorp's eyes assessing him as he worked
away in Weir's gloomy little gymnasium.  The combined stimulus of
Grim-thorp's scrutiny and Weir's remorseless driving provided a
challenge to which Buck responded with enthusiasm.  By the end of a
week, barbells which had previously seemed to be nailed to the floor
were being cleared to shoulder level, and great, thick-handled
dumbbells were being punched overhead at speed.

Within ten days Buck could feel the change in himself, feel the
thickening of his arms and thighs, almost see the muscles of his
shoulders grow.

And he loved it, relished the muck-sweat, the throb of muscles gorged
with blood, and his joy as previously immovable weights began to move
fast and easily at his will.  Then, when the outdoor training began at
Leadhills, he could feel the power he had gained with the weights
transfer itself through his limbs to the firm hard cinders of the
running-path.

In the first painful days when he had started training under Weir, Buck
had questioned the need to work under two trainers, particularly when
the ministrations of Weir appeared to be destroying the earlier work of
Grimthorp.  But Moriarty had been firm.  Headley was the fastest man on
earth over the distance; it would take more than mere running-training
to deal with him.  And that was where the strength gained in Weir's
gloomy little dungeon would pay off.  "You can't fire a cannon from a
canoe' had been Mori-arty's final statement on the matter.

28 July 1877, Lord Grafton's Estate, Cumbria

For Eleanor, the days passed sweetly in the summer sun.

II

Little had changed at Grafton since that far-off day back in 1862 when
Moriarty had first come into her life.  Her father was still there,
simply older and shaggier, his eccentricities growing with the years,
and above them loomed Black Tor, the mountain on which Moriarty had run
for her, his lady, all those years ago.

Lord Grafton's enthusiasm for the drama had not dimmed, and the little
theatre in the grounds still echoed to his Shakespearean ravings as
bewildered rustics were dragged into productions as diverse as The Red
Barn and King Lear.

It had been Buck who had suggested that Hettie should join them while
he prepared for the match with Headley.  There had been a fleeting and
passionate meeting in London after the disaster of the Amateur Athletic
Club Championships.  "One night off," Moriarty had told him.  "You've
earned that."

The couple were desperately in love, so desperately that there was no
need for Buck to make any formal proposal of marriage.  For Hettie had
made it clear that she would wait for him wherever he went, and Buck
was therefore able to travel to Leadhills for his final preparations
stronger of heart than Moriarty had ever known him.  Moriarty also knew
that Buck would dig deep against Headley just as he himself had done on
Black Tor for Eleanor all those years before.

Moriarty, Eleanor and Billy Joe had immediately taken to Hettie Carr.
Although she was primarily a music-hall singer, she had a wealth of
experience of sketches and knock-about banter with her father, and
possessed a strong stage personality.  She had no experience of the
classics, but everyone felt she would be able to make an immediate
impact in farce and melodrama.  Moriarty's description of her as 'a
feisty little all-rounder' fitted Hettie perfectly, and she was
delighted to accept Eleanor's invitation to travel north with her to
Grafton Hall.

Mandy for her part had continued to worry away over her performance in
New York.  She knew in her heart that Billy Joe had been right, that in
Moriarty's athletic parlance she had not 'stripped big'.  Her technique
was still too thinly-based to handle a classic role in a major theatre,
particularly when opposite someone of the calibre of Booth.  In Lear,
she had been merely competent, and that for her was not enough.  On the
voyage from New York she had discussed the matter with Eleanor, and
they had both come to the conclusion that she now needed formal
training.  Eleanor had agreed to arrange a drama coach for Mandy while
they were at Grafton Hall.

Mandy had been told that her coach would arrive on the Monday morning,
the day after they arrived at Grafton.  She had not known what to
expect, but when the slim, reserved man who was introduced to her as
her 'coach' was announced as Henry Irving Mandy could not believe her
ears.  Moriarty and Edwin Booth had played with Irving fifteen years
before in Manchester when Booth had been the star and Irving merely a
supporting player.  Now Irving was England's greatest actor, and for
the next month he was, courtesy of Lord Grafton, to be at her
disposal.

Irving was the perfect teacher for Mandy.  Gentlemanly and diplomatic,
he teased performances from her, showing her the hidden balance in the
great lines of Shakespeare, a balance that gave them strength and
meaning.

Like all good teachers, he used all available materials as examples.
The most substantial of these was Hettie Carr, whose ability to project
her voice exceeded even that of Irving himself.  True, Hettie, with her
powerful diaphragm, was a natural rather than a trained performer, but
Irving was able to analyse the basis of her powerful projection and to
press Mandy towards the same levels through mimicry.  And although the
main focus of attention was on Mandy, all the women daily pursued the
drills and exercises that Irving was prescribing for his young charge,
for they were of value to each of them.

Mandy seemed to grow in confidence almost visibly.  She practised
Irving's drills eagerly, working long into the night at Grafton's tiny
theatre, until the actor had to beg her to rest.  He swore to her that
he had never met a lady with such a capacity for work.

Thus, while in Scotland, in the bleakness of Leadhills, the men
prepared Buck for the greatest challenge of his life, their women
worked equally rigorously for their future challenge, the Theatre of
the West.

THE REAL THING

1 August 1877, Leadhills

They said little, these miners of Leadhills, but they knew why Moriarty
and his men had come to the village, for they knew running, and
runners.  As Moriarty and his party sat at a table in the stark saloon
of the Leadhills Arms he felt a kinship with these grimy, coal-racked
men, men with backs pitted and veined like Stilton cheese.  For they
were what he might have been, had he and his father not set sail for
New York those thirty years ago.  In six days of burrowing like a rat
in a three-foot seam these men could earn less than a pound less than a
thousandth of what he could pick up on one single con.

Moriarty had early made contact with the men's leader, a man called
Alec Docherty, at thirty-eight about the same age as himself, but
looking ten years older.  A gaunt cadaver of a man, Alec Docherty had
led his miners through three unsuccessful strikes, while mining
families had eaten grass.  If Buck Miller won at Barnsley a thousand
pounds would go into Docherty's strike fund, Moriarty would make sure
of that.  And in the meantime the miners of Leadhills would make sure
that no word of Buck Miller's presence would reach the outside world.
The deal was struck.

25 August 1877, Leadhills

All around him, sitting on the black slag heaps were miners, at least
three thousand of them, drinking cold tea and eating sandwiches, as
below Buck prepared for his final trial, over the full quarter-mile
distance.  At his first attempt, a month before, he had taken fifty-one
seconds flat.  He had paced it badly, having run the first furlong in
an over-fast twenty-three seconds.  The last hundred yards had felt
like the sandy, 350-yard Windmill Run back in Cromer.  Then, in his
second attempt over the distance, a week later, he had been
overcautious, running the first furlong in twenty-five seconds, but he
had come back strongly in just over twenty-five, clocking 50.2. Now,
sharp and supple at one hundred and fifty-five pounds with the volume
of his training sharply reduced, he sought that fine, fragile pace
which would enable him to cruise at just the right effort-level to take
him close to forty-nine seconds.

Moriarty and Grimthorp had arranged that the track was sifted and
rolled for his final trial; Docherty's men had seen to it, spending a
whole working day bringing its surface to that perfect light hardness
essential for sprinting.  And now it was ready.

Moriarty, Billy Joe, Grimthorp and Weir stood at the start, fidgeting
from foot to foot.  They felt just as nervous as Buck, and even the
laconic Billy Joe was infected by the moment.  Moriarty pulled a
pristine white handkerchief from his top pocket and held it aloft in
the sun; it did not move.  It was an ideal day for quarter-mi ling

Next Moriarty took from an inside pocket a thick stopwatch, and looked
at Grimthorp at his side.

"Only one curve," he said.  "How much faster does that make it than the
Barnsley track?"

Grimthorp clicked shut the cylinder of his starting-pistol and sniffed.
"Two-fifths of a second," he said.  "No more."

The gun was fired.  Buck ate the ground, covering it with a fluency of
stride which he had previously experienced only in dreams.  Everything
was over in a rush.  As he hit the tape fatigue hit him suddenly and
his legs wobbled, but up till that point there had been no feelings of
tiredness, only the rhythmic flow of power from his legs to the sharp
cinder surface.

Billy Joe ran to him with his dressing-gown.  Above him on the slag
heaps, the miners shouted and whistled.

Grimthorp looked over.  Moriarty's shoulder as he consulted his watch.
"What did you get?"

II

Moriarty wrinkled his nose.  "Forty-nine and a fifth," he said.

"Good," said Grimthorp.

"Not good enough," said Moriarty, scowling.

As he looked around him in the bright sun Billy Joe thought he caught a
flash of light from the top of a slag heap about a quarter of a mile
away.  He looked again, but it was gone.  Billy Joe did not know it,
but more than one watch had been placed on Buck's run.  It had recorded
forty-nine seconds flat, and in six hours its owner and his news were
to be with William M. Bunn in Barnsley.

30 August 1877, Grafton Hall, Cumberland Moriarty was nothing if not a
good psychologist.  The hard training at Leadhills was now over, so
there was nothing more in the physical sense that could be done for
Buck.  What was needed was a little relaxation, a reculer pour mieux
sauter before the mental 'peaking' for the big race on 1 September.  He
had therefore decided to call in at Grafton Hall on the way south.
Grimthorp and Weir would travel ahead to Barnsley to their base at the
Albert Hotel to check on all the last-minute details.

When, on their arrival, Irving and the ladies had proposed a little
dramatic evening at Grafton's theatre, Moriarty had expected a night of
light entertainment.  Thus, after he, Buck and Billy Joe and an
audience of local worthies had watched the lights dim about them he was
surprised to find that Irving had chosen excerpts from Lear, playing
the main part himself with Mandy as Cordelia, Eleanor as Goneril and
Hettie as Regan.  Irving lifted each one of his players beyond
themselves.  Moriarty was impressed by the improvement in Eleanor, but
it was Mandy who was a revelation.  For the girl now had both vocal and
dramatic range.  True, Grafton's tiny theatre did not require great
strength of voice; but Moriarty could at last see in Mandy, as with a
great athlete, a high cruising speed.  She would be able to hit the
back of any theatre in the world but, more than that, she had dramatic
depth, the capacity to relate to other actors in a scene, and to
capture attention by the tiniest inflection of voice or movement of her
body.

Irving did not lack ambition for his protegee.  In an excerpt from A
Midsummer Night's Dream he had Mandy play Titania to his Oberon, then,
to end the evening, he put her alone on stage as Portia for the
'quality of mercy' speech.

Billy Joe, in the darkness of the audience, could feel the hair rise on
the back of his neck.  For this was it, the real thing.  No longer was
this Marshal Boone's stage-struck schoolteacher daughter reciting
chunks of Shakespeare to farmers in the boondocks.  Mandy was right up
there with Moriarty and Eleanor and Booth, able to hold her own.

Billy Joe had no intellectual understanding of acting.  He had,
however, excellent instincts, and he knew that Mandy had made as with
an athlete learning a new physical skill a sudden and important jump
from mere competence to something not far from excellence.  For now he
felt himself forced to look at her, drawn to her, and that was what
acting was about, not mere 'beautiful' recitation of lines.

When the performance was over, the whole audience applauded till their
hands were sore.

Billy Joe could feel tears well in his eyes.  As the gas lamps began to
bathe the little theatre in light, he reached into his jacket pocket
for a handkerchief and blew his nose.  Muttering his apologies to
Moriarty and Lord Grafton, who were making their way out into the
foyer, he strode off to his left, through the crowds now leaving the
rapidly emptying theatre, to a side door, leading beneath the stage to
the Green Room.  Billy Joe ducked under the low doorway and descended
rickety wooden steps, then made his way along a dark narrow passage
choked with painted flats, curtains and other remnants of long-past
performances.  The passage smelt of perfume, talcum and dust, a strange
mix as redolent of a theatre as horse-liniment of a stadium
dressing-room.

Tentatively, he knocked on the door of the first dressing room on his
left.  There was no reply.  He opened the door.  There a white,
half-naked Henry Irving stood surveying himself in the mirror.  Billy
Joe was surprised at the man's slight stature, for a few moments
earlier he had appeared to fill the stage.  Irving turned and
immediately recognised his visitor.  He smiled and jerked his thumb to
the left.

"Next room," he said.  "Good luck."

Billy Joe nodded and closed the door behind him.  He knocked lightly on
the next door.

"Come in!"  came Mandy's voice.

He cautiously stepped into the room.

He found himself in semi-darkness, with the gas-lamp low.  He could
barely see Mandy in the gloom, but even in the bad light he could see
that she was only partly clothed, and stood before him in stays and
white tights.  She seemed small, and for the first time vulnerable.

"Mandy', he said awkwardly, feeling himself flush.  "I take back all I
said.  I never in my life thought you could be so good."

Her face showed a grinning line of white teeth.  "You got to take some
of the credit, Billy Joe," she said.  "Back in New York, you didn't
pull any punches.  So Eleanor got me some coaching with Mr.  Irving.
It's just like being an athlete: you're right, you've got to grab the
moment."

He nodded.  "I never in my life did anything like I saw you do
tonight," he said, moving towards her.  His eyes were growing
accustomed to the light, and he could now see her clearly.

"Maybe one day you'll get your chance," she said, without, any trace of
bitterness.  He had never heard her voice so soft before.

"My chance?"

There was a long, almost palpable silence.  Above them they could hear
the buzz of conversation and thump of footsteps as the last members of
the audience made their way through the foyer back to the main house.

For a moment they stood as if suspended in time, the short distance
between them alive with feeling.  Billy Joe could sense the depth of
her passion.  For the first time in his life he felt clumsy indeed, he
stepped forward exactly the same moment as Mandy did, so that they
collided in the centre of the room.  Neither of them moved away.  They
stood, hands by their sides, each unable to take the initiative.

Then Billy Joe felt Mandy's hand, warm and tender, on his arm.  His
right hand slipped slowly up her arm to her shoulder, then to the shell
of her ear and finally to the nape of her neck.  His left hand was more
direct, making its way immediately to the same spot, and for a moment
Billy Joe looked down at Mandy, her head cupped in his hands.

"I'm sorry I wasn't what you wanted," he said.

"You are now," she said, reaching up to kiss him.

1 September 1877, the Victoria Running Grounds, Barnsley The grounds
had been full at noon, two hours before the appointed time of the
match.  Fifty-one thousand, two hundred and ninety-six people had
either paid sixpence to crowd shoulder to shoulder on the terracings or
a shilling to enjoy the relative comfort of a seat in the main stand.
Upwards of five thousand had paid nothing, but had escaped the
attentions of the constabulary by squeezing through spaces in the
railings or by risking more serious injury in scrambling over walls
crowned by broken glass.  Outside the grounds, some further ten
thousand devotees, unable to achieve entry, milled around, betting
freely with bookmakers based in the crowd.

The Barnsley police had provided an escort for the carriages containing
the two runners, both of whom had arrived just after noon, making their
bumpy way over the cobbled streets through the seething crowds.

Buck had ventured a glance through the carriage windows.  Barnsley,
even on this sunny day, was his idea of hell: greasy black
cobblestones, dingy, soot-crusted buildings, a sky always sullen with
the spewings of a forest of factory chimneys.  Yet .. . this was the
only place on earth where fifty thousand men would fill a stadium and
pay a day's wages just to see two 'peds' run in a match-race for less
than a minute.

Buck had already travelled to the track with Moriarty from their base
at the Albert Hotel the previous evening, to get the feel of the
stadium.  There was always something strange and frightening, he felt,
about an empty stadium, and Buck had known a sickness in his stomach as
he looked at the bare terracings, at the steel and wood advertisements
ringing the track: "Cadbury's Cocoa'; "The Two Infallible Powers The
Pope and BovriP; "Scotts Electric Comb'; "Harlene for the Hair'.  It
was odd how such ephemera gave him a sense of the place better than
more substantial structures.

|

He had lifted a few grains of the fine cinder track in his hand and
clenched them in it; when he loosened his fingers most of the cinders
had remained stuck to them.  That was good: it meant there was clay in
the surface, that the track would be both hard and springy.

But Headley had never been beaten at the Victoria Running Grounds in a
match-race, never in his life seen a man's heels at the tape .. . Again
Buck could feel the cold spot at the base of his stomach.  As twilight
gathered he looked at the track, and for a moment could hear the even,
rhythmic scrape of spikes on cinders.

His reverie had been broken by Moriarty, who knew that at such times
thought could be an enemy.  The rest of the evening at the Albert Hotel
was spent in silence; even the adroit Moriarty had not been able to
raise Buck's spirits.

Now, with half-an-hour to go, Buck lay half-naked in the dark
underworld of the stadium on the massage table in the austere bareness
of his dressing-room, as Grimthorp began what he called his special
'match-massage'.  It was a ritual handed down from somewhere in the dim
recesses of pedestrian history.

First, Grimthorp took a mouthful of cold water.  Then, cheeks bulging,
he stood over Buck and lightly sprayed the water onto one of Buck's
thighs and gently teased the thick, loose muscle.  It took him over
twenty minutes to complete the process over both limbs, but by the
finish Buck's legs felt warm and loose.

Moriarty's preparations had been less to his liking.  Just before noon,
William Bunn had asked to see him privately at the Bell Tavern just
outside the ground.  There he had made it clear to Moriarty that he had
gone beyond simply taking bets on Buck's defeat.  He had now taken on a
massive personal wager of 10,000 at three to one that Buck would lose
by a full second.  Bunn was prepared to be generous.  A discreet
muscle-pull for Buck or, even better, a gradual fade over the final
hundred yards would be enough to put 30,000 in Bunn's pocket, and ten
of those would go back in the S.S. Harold with Moriarty and his
party.

The alternative wasn't pleasant.  Certain of Bunn's pugilist friends
would ensure that Moriarty and his entourage left Barnsley very much
the worse for wear.

Moriarty had not refused outright.  It was clear that Buck had somehow
been 'clocked' by one of Bunn's men at his final trial and that
Headley's own trial had been faster, albeit not ten yards faster.  Bunn
wasn't scared about Headley not winning, but he wasn't at all sure that
he could win by a full second not fairly, at any rate.  Moriarty saw
that there was no point in ant agonising Bunn, thus risking
interference with Buck before the race.

It was common practice.  Someone in the crowd would 'accidentally' trip
your runner, water would be tampered with, or even food: Moriarty had
seen it all before.  And Barnsley was Bunn's patch, so it was wise to
keep a low profile.  So he had smiled, poured Bunn a double whisky and
said that as long as they could all come out of it a few bucks in
profit then where was the problem in helping each other out?  Buck,
Moriarty assured Bunn, shaking him warmly by the hand, would play his
part to the full.  The good people of Barnsley would see the kangaroo
start and a cracking race.  Buck would make it look good.  No one would
be able to complain that he had rigged it.

The quarter-mile tactics of Josiah Headley were as fixed as the war
dance of a Zulu.  They were to slow down the first part of the race by
getting to the front early, then to ease off, lulling his opponent into
a false sense of security.  When the opposing runner decided that the
pace was too slow and moved ahead, Headley would tuck in behind, then
strike over the last fifty yards with a devastating burst of speed. The
strike was so late and so powerful that no opponent had ever been able
to respond sufficiently, and Headley had won several matches by this
means, often in relatively slow times.  Occasionally an opponent had
made an early break before the end of the first furlong, but Headley
had always had the pace to cover the break and still hit hard in the
final straight.  Front runners suffered the same fate.  Headley would
shadow them into the final straight, then leave them wallowing with a
vicious sprint only fifty yards from the tape.  Nevertheless,
Moriarty's advice was that Buck should run even and fast all

the way, from the front, to take the sap out of Headley's.  legs.  Buck
should run at the pace he knew he could handle, rather than let Headley
dictate the tactics.  That was surely the way to victory.

He said nothing about Bunn's offer, for this was Buck's moment, and no
taint should be attached to it.  If Buck were whipped it would be
because he, Moriarty, had made a mistake when the coup had first been
planned back in the autumn of 1876 and because Buck was simply not of a
championship feather.

The stadium was silent, like a cathedral.  Buck ventured a glance at
Headley.  The man bore no resemblance to the grimy collier of four
months before.  White, lean and sinewy, with thick bulging thighs and
light calves that was Buck's immediate impression.  "A pair of legs
with a heid on top' would have been Weir's description.

He became aware that Headley was also scrutinising him.  And what would
he see?  Undoubtedly the same strength, the same symmetry of limb.  But
Headley would also see a big cavernous chest and thick, powerful
shoulders and arms.  And that would surprise him, perhaps even shock
him, for that was not how runners were normally built.

"Gentlemen?"  It was the starter, an angular, mustachioed man in a grey
single-breasted suit.  He stood at a wooden table on the infield, where
sat four similarly dressed middle-aged men,

"My name is Mr.  Garforth.  These are the officials, gentlemen, who are
all Sheffield-trained: Mr.  McAllister, Mr.  Gore, Mr.  Penrose and Mr.
Winterbottom."

Each of the officials nodded and Garforth turned to face the runners.
"In case of any dispute I shall be the final arbiter."

He reached into his right fob pocket, fumbled for a moment and withdrew
a gold sovereign.  He nodded to Buck.

"As the challenger and our guest, will you shout, sir?"

"Heads," said Buck.  His voice sounded to him as if it had come from
someone else.

Garforth flipped the coin and it dropped on the back of a thin left
hand.  He covered it with his right then withdrew it.

"Tails," he said.  "Your choice, Mr.  Headley."

"Ah'll tak' inside," growled Headley, scowling towards the track.

Garforth nodded.  Then please prepare yourselves, gentlemen."

He moved to the table, picked up his starting pistol and opened it.  He
spun the barrel, lifted the gun and let off a trial shot.

The report of the gun released a pent-up roar from the crowd.  It came
deep, from the gut, from men who had put a week's wages on a man's back
or from others who had simply come to see the Yank with the Kangaroo
Start take on the great Josiah Headley.  They had paid their sixpence
for this moment and by God they were going to get their
money's-worth.

Buck peeled off his dressing-gown and went to the side of the track
where stood Moriarty, Billy Joe, Grimthorp and Weir.  Up in the stands,
holding each other's hands grimly, eyes fixed on the track, sat Hettie,
Mandy and Eleanor.  Buck handed his dressing-gown to Weir.  The little
man looked him straight in the eye.

"He's only a man, he growled.  "Just use yer air ms  Ah'll let ye know
when."

Buck smiled, and trotted to the inside of the track as Garforth mounted
a set of steps on the infield at the starting-line.  When the starter
reached the top of the steps and stood, gun aloft, the roaring of the
crowd stopped as if on command.

Headley now no longer looked at Buck nor he at Headley.  The
Yorkshireman took his position on the inside lane, his front foot
almost on the line, ready for a standing start.  Buck, crouching beside
him only inches away, ventured a glance up the track.  The crowd at the
end of the straight was a grey blur: he could see only the hard, virgin
blackness of the cinder, the straight which would suck them into the
left-hand curve.

"Get to your marks .. ."

He could hear the flapping of the flags above the grandstand as he took
his place, his knee just behind the line, his fingers behind his
knee.

"Get set..  ."

He could no longer hear the flags.  Buck lifted his hips, his

weight now balanced on front foot and hands.  The momentary pause was
an agony to him.  It hung, denying him the release he required,
demanded.

The blank charge exploded like a cannon, releasing both the runners and
the roar of the crowd.  Headley leapt into an immediate lead, his
stride long and rangy.  Buck started fast, but the champion was a yard
up in twenty, Buck pinned on his right shoulder.

They were at the first curve in a rush of legs.  Buck felt easy,
cruising behind his man, pulled along by the power and pace of the
Yorkshire runner.  In the stands, Moriarty checked his watch and
swallowed hard.  It was not going as expected.  The first hundred yards
had been run in better than eleven seconds.  Headley was dragging Buck
to disaster.  He shook his head, looking sideways, but Billy Joe and
Grimthorp had their gaze riveted to the track.  Weir's eyes were tight
shut.

On the curve Buck stayed close, accepting the spurt of the cinders from
Headley's spikes on his chest, running not an inch further than
necessary.  He was running easily, the speed flowing from him without
effort.  The crunch of his spikes seemed in time with an inner rhythm
of what he instinctively knew was ideal quarter-mi ling sprinting on
that fine edge between power and fatigue.  And he was running on that
edge with perfect balance.

But so was Headley.  Moriarty, seeing him in action for the first time,
realised the enormity of the gamble he had taken back in December when
he had despatched Buck on the S.S. Harold.  For the man was beautiful,
his great white legs devouring the untouched cinders of the back
straight, dragging Buck with him on an invisible thread.  For fifty
yards the men ran in unison, strides perfectly synchronised, a sweet
and simple ballet of effort.

Moriarty checked his flickering stop-watch as the two men closed in on
the furlong mark.

Twenty-two seconds," intoned Grimthorp beside him.

"Jesus Christ," groaned Moriarty.  Buck was a dead man; he had run a
second slower over the first furlong at Leadhills and had still ended
up a wobbling wreck.

But Buck did not seem to think so.  As Headley crossed the furlong mark
Buck surged into the lead, his spikes throwing black cinders into
Headley's face.  From the crowd came an 'ooooh' sound as the two
runners pounded into the third quarter of the race, into the final
curve, Headley a full yard behind.

Buck was running tall.  He could taste the tape.  Behind him, Headley
had pulled in a couple of feet and he could hear him on his shoulder,
but he did not care, for his breathing still came easily and his legs
felt fresh and fluid.

But in the stands Moriarty and Grimthorp could see that Buck's
leg-cadence was dropping.

Then Headley struck.  Twenty yards before the end of the curve leading
into the final straight he moved out and cut past Buck, on the outside,
setting up a one-yard lead of his own, and adding a further half-yard
as Buck was forced to check as Headley cut in to the pole position.

For the first time, Buck felt his breathing, felt the hard i suck as he
dragged in more breath.

The two runners hit the straight with Buck almost two yards down.

Moriarty shook his head.  Headley was running high, holding form like
the champion he was.  Josiah Headley knew that he had his man.  All
that he had to do was to hold form and the money was his.

A hundred yards to go, and both men ran through an endless roar.  But
in spite of the roar Buck, his eyes glued to the back of Headley's
vest, remembered one thing.  It was the Windmill Run.  He had been here
before, in this land of pain, of muscles clogged with waste.  And he
had passed through and survived.  He took a deep breath.

He pulled back a foot in the first twenty yards, then another foot in
the next twenty.  But with fifty yards to go the gap was frozen at a
short yard, and Buck, his legs bowing, sensed that he was lost.

"Use yer air ms lad.  Use yer air ms

Moriarty looked down at his side.  Weir had his eyes open now and his
harsh voice cut through the roar of the crowd.

Buck heard Weir's shout and somehow through the haze of his fatigue the
Scotsman's words triggered off something deep in him.  He drove hard
with his arms, arms still fresh,

untouched by the tiredness which had engulfed the rest of his body.

The action brought new life to his legs, adding vital inches to each
stride.  In a matter of yards he was level with Headley, their
breathing rasping together in a terrible parody of the unison their
legs had enjoyed in the back straight.

Somehow, through his own pain, Buck could feel Headley's agony and in
that sharing there was respect.  But still he kept digging with his
arms, driving himself towards a tape that seemed to recede with every
stride.  And suddenly Headley was gone.  For a moment Buck enjoyed the
snap of the tape on his chest and then, as he staggered on to the grass
infield, Headley fell on top of him.

The men lay together on the grass, unable to rise, as their helpers
rushed towards them.

It was Headley who was the first to climb unsteadily to his feet,
dragging Buck with him.  The two men wobbled across the track in front
of the grandstand.  The Yorkshire-man pulled Buck's arms aloft as
Garforth shouted out the time of forty-seven point eight seconds, the
fastest a man had ever run, through a megaphone into the raging
crowd.

"You're champion of t'world, Yank," said Headley.

CRISIS

2 September 1877, S.S. Harold

It was a trouble-free departure from the Victoria Grounds through the
grimy streets of Barnsley towards the railway station.  A few quiet
words by Moriarty with the miner's leader, Alec Docherty before the
race had ensured that the four bruisers who had been sent by an irate
William M. Bunn to their dressing-room to dispense summary justice had
ended up minus several teeth and plus an assortment of cuts and bruises
in the slimy murk of the Barnsley canal.

For the miners of Leadhills dealing with Bunn's men had been a
pleasure, a welcome release from the pent-up emotions of the match.
Buck's victory would ensure a strong trade union for years to come and
guaranteed a warm, well-fed winter for their wives and children.
Docherty had also sent a small detachment of his men with Moriarty to
Liverpool to ensure that Bunn would not follow them to their ship, and
in due course Moriarty and his party walked gratefully through an
applauding line of miners up the gangway on to the S.S. Harold.  As
they cast off, Moriarty reflected that, after fifteen years, Deerfoot
had at last been avenged.  The Yanks had come back across the Pond and
given it to the English good and proper, and in the heart of
professional foot-racing itself.

As for Buck Miller, Moriarty knew, whatever he did for the rest of his
life, he would remember that moment when he had been the fastest man in
the world, when he had been beat all ends up but had come back in front
of fifty thousand people and showed what sort of stuff he was made
of.

For Eleanor, the race had also been a moment of understanding, for she
realised for the first time just what Moriarty had striven for in his
own running, what the second-rate match-races in cow-towns could never
give him, however much he won in bets.  She had seen two men at their
limits, athletes at their finest, competing at the very peak of their
powers.  And there was no denying it, it was something fine, something
marvelous.  Which only made what she intended to say to Moriarty all
the more difficult.

For Eleanor knew that their future must lie away from the cinder path,
in the theatre.  Moriarty and his men must think beyond their fleetness
of foot.  The basis of the Theatre of the West was there now in
Eleanor, Mandy and Hettie, and in a less willing Moriarty, Buck and
Billy Joe.  Moriarty had already shown flair as both director and
manager.  Given a permanent base, he could develop an acting talent as
yet still only partly realised.  They all could.

The matter had come to a head on the first evening out from Liverpool,
at the circular dinner-table in a corner of a slightly swaying,
half-empty dining-room, as Moriarty dispensed champagne all round. They
sat together in the flickering lamp-light, the glow of Buck's Barnsley
victory still warm within them.

"All out in the open from now on," he said, looking across the table at
Buck.  Moriarty was already slightly tipsy.  "No more English Method.
We don't need it.  Let 'em come, the best foot racers in the world.
You'll take 'em on, Buck, on level terms."

Buck grinned, unaware of Billy Joe's lack of response or of Eleanor's
serious countenance.  He in particular was still high from Barnsley. As
Moriarty came to fill Eleanor's glass she put her hand over it.

"No," she said, 'not for me."

Instead she poured herself some water and glanced at Mandy and Hettie,
both of whom returned her look, nodding.  Eleanor sipped her water,
then replaced her glass, holding its stem with both hands in front of
her on the table.

"We've all got something to say to you," she said.

Moriarty poured out Billy Joe's champagne, then stopped.

"Who's "we"?"  he asked, aware that something was in the wind.

Eleanor again glanced at Mandy and Hettie.  Both women were looking at
her expectantly.

"Mandy, Hettie and I," she said.  "You see, while you were getting Buck
prepared for the race at Barnsley we were doing our own preparations at
Grafton Hall."

Moriarty continued to pour out the champagne, taking Hettie's glass. "I
know," he said.  "And I saw the results.  We all did.  It was
marvelous, the best you've ever done.  We all thought so, didn't we
boys?"

Buck and Billy Joe raised their glasses in acknowledgement.

"But it wasn't just what we did at Grafton, the entertainment," said
Eleanor.  She drew in a deep breath.  "We all decided."  She paused.
"We're ready."

"Ready for what?"  said Moriarty.

"For settling down.  For San Francisco, Denver, a permanent base.  For
the Theatre of the West."

"But Eleanor," said Moriarty.  "Buck's a world champion, Billy Joe's
leg's healed up good, and me, I've still got some good runs in these
legs.  We've got all our lives to act.  But running, that's for now."

"So's the theatre."

It was Mandy's turn.

"Look, Moriarty," she said.  "I owe you a lot.  But working with Mr.
Irving at Grafton Hall I saw what I really could be, the same way Buck
and Billy Joe have done on the track."

"Mandy's right."  Hettie's soft Scots voice had hardened.  She faced
Moriarty directly across the table.  "You lads have got to grow up.
Booth and Irving, they're professionals, just like Headley's a
professional.  But your Theatre of the West, that's not professional,
at least not yet.  Being a pro's not just a matter of earning money,
it's a way of looking at things.  Your work's good but it's not good
enough.  And it won't be until we all start working at it."

Moriarty looked at Buck and Billy Joe but both, for once, appeared
speechless.

"We've got enough money."  It was Eleanor again, her voice gaining in
strength.  "All we have to do now is to lease the theatre and set up
our own company.  And if we don't make out in, say, three years, then
we can all go back on the road, with nothing lost.  Just give us the
chance, Moriarty.  You owe us that."

Moriarty gulped his champagne and tried to assemble his thoughts.

"What do you say, boys?"  he said, across the table to Buck and Billy
Joe.  There was no response.

Billy Joe looked at Mandy and she nodded.

"I got no beef," he said.  "I'll settle for San Francisco."

Moriarty looked at each one of his group in turn.

"Then it looks like it's all settled," said Moriarty, pouring himself
out another glass of champagne.  "Anyone got any other surprises for
me?"

Billy Joe again looked at Mandy for a moment and reddened.

"Mandy and me .. ."  he began.

"We're getting married," interrupted Mandy.

Hettie nudged Buck.  He coughed.

"Same with us," he said.  "Spring next year."

Eleanor beamed.  "Congratulations," she said, kissing each of the
girls.  "It can be a double wedding."

For a moment, Moriarty was nonplussed.  He had felt certain that both
Buck and Billy Joe would stand four-square behind him.  Then his good
nature prevailed and he ordered a magnum of champagne to celebrate the
two announcements.

Their glasses charged, Moriarty raised his in toast.

To Buck and Hettie, Billy Joe and Mandy," he said.

They sipped their champagne.

"And a second toast," said Eleanor, raising her glass.  "To the Theatre
of the West."

No resistance was to be offered either by Buck or Billy Joe, who had
spent the first three days out of Liverpool in their cabins with their
respective loved ones.

But there were soon ominous signs that the beast of pedestrianism was
not yet dead.  Three days after departure, Moriarty was again padding
the decks as the S. S. Harold glided west on blithe, blue seas.  Three
days later, he was joined by Billy Joe, a day after that by Buck. True,
rehearsals of Richelieu, Macbeth and Lear were pursued with diligence
every hour that was available; but each morning the sound of feet
endlessly pounding above reminded the women that there were contests
yet to be won.

It was a good winter for all of them.  In November, at the Astor Palace
Theatre, Mandy and Hettie received rapturous notices for their
performances as Cordelia and Goneril to Edwin Booth's Lear, with
Moriarty playing the Fool.  Buck and Billy Joe now took daily lessons
in voice-production, though Eleanor noted that, egged on by Moriarty,
they regularly seemed to manage to sneak in a couple of hours' training
at the German Gymnastics Institute.

In January, Hettie and Mandy played at Niblo's in the Irish farce Rory
O'More to packed houses, while Buck and Billy Joe made their debuts in
the New York theatre at the Park as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to
Booth's Hamlet, with Moriarty playing an over-young Polonius.

A month later, Moriarty took out a month's lease at the Palace in a new
farce by Ned Buntline, Paddy in the Bronx, one in which they all had
meaty parts.  Buntline's play was no masterpiece, but Moriarty's
troupe, aided by sets newly made by his father, squeezed it for every
laugh, and Paddy in the Bronx played for five weeks.

Wagstaffe had been contacted in early October.

There had been an immediate acknowledgement from their banker, then a
letter in mid-November saying that negotiations for the Coliseum,
Denver were proving unfruitful, and that Wagstaffe was actively
pursuing the owners of the Jenny Lind.  Then, in January, Wagstaffe
informed them that an entirely new theatre, the Grand, had been built
in Albuquerque, and might be secured on a long lease at exceptionally
favourable rates.  The banker soon sent detailed drawings of the
theatre, and Moriarty and his company spent many hours discussing the
merits of gambling on the new theatre in Albuquerque rather than taking
the established Jenny Lind, where they had already experienced some
success.  In February, they finally settled on the Jenny Lind, and a
letter was despatched to Wagstaffe enjoining him to end all discussions
on the Grand and to secure a deal with the management of the Jenny Lind
by the spring, the company to take up occupation in the first week of
September.

It was on 11 March that news came of the A.P. Wagstaffe Bank, San
Francisco.  The bank's doors had been closed and there had been riots
and violence as angry depositors had stormed them.  Other, more
adventurous souls had made the climb to Nob Hill to A.P. Wagstaffe's
Palladian mansion, but the banker was nowhere to be found.  Neither was
his priceless collection of French paintings and Ming vases: the house
had been stripped, gutted of everything of value.  All that remained
were some furnishings and a dozen bewildered Negro servants who knew
only that 'the massa' had left as usual on the morning of 8 March and
had not yet returned.  This was not unusual, because Wagstaffe had a
strong predilection for dusky Mexican 'waitresses', and had been known
to stay away for days in their pursuit.  The red light district was
scoured, but to no avail.  Yes, A.P. Wagstaffe was well-known in the
area and had spent many a night there with Mexican girls in the opium
dens and cribs; but he was not there now.

Back in New York, the news of Wagstaffe's defection hit Moriarty and
his group like a body-blow.  One hundred and twenty-five thousand
dollars had been in Wagstaffe's vaults, all that they had earned in
four years of running their guts out.  True, they had retained ten
thousand dollars of the stakes won at Barnsley, but that was just
living expenses.  The Theatre of the West was gone for ever, lost
somewhere in A.P. Wagstaffe's saddlebags.  They were back where they
started.

When the initial shock had.  dispersed, Moriarty's nimble mind swung
back into action.  On 14 March, in the Green Room at Niblo's Theatre, a
council of war was held with Buck and Billy Joe.  At first Moriarty
said nothing, staring ahead, chin cupped in his hands.

"Mexico," he said at last, abruptly.

"Why Mexico?"  asked Billy Joe.

"No mention in those reports of Wagstaffe going West by boat, China-way
anyhow, he hates the Chinese, and who wants to live in China?"  replied
Moriarty.  "If he comes East the Pinkerton boys will pick him up, sure
as eggs.  No,

A.P. Wagstaffe's always had one weakness.  Mexican girls, they're an
obsession with him."

"How do we know he's still got the money?"  asked Buck.

"We don't," replied Moriarty.  "The reports in the papers say he's
reckoned to have lost over a million on horses and cards.  The bank's
assets were over a million and a half.  Sure as hell he's kept some.
And Wagstaffe's high-tailing it south for Mexico right now.  I'll stake
my life on it."

Thus it was that later that day Buck and Billy Joe made their way west
by train.  In Albuquerque they would each pick up two horses and ride
south into Mexico.  Moriarty followed behind, a few days later, having
settled their affairs in New York.

Only two days after Moriarty's departure, during the bedroom scene with
Hamlet, Eleanor, playing Gertrude, swooned, falling on to the bed as
she normally did.  But on this occasion, she did not rise.  The curtain
was hurriedly dropped and a doctor summoned.  A day later the company
was informed that Hamlet's mother was two months' pregnant.

25 April 1878, Chihuahua, Mexico

Carlo Montes bit off the head of the cock and spat it on to the
bloodstained sawdust of the pit.  He hated a runner.  It was said that
Spanish cocks never ran, but this one had, and he had lost two thousand
pesetas on it.

Montes threw the twitching body of the bird into the ring and wiped his
mouth delicately with a white handkerchief, the blood staining its
smooth silk surface.  He ascended the creaky steps leading up into the
four rows of crowded wooden bleachers that encircled the pit and
squeezed his way into the front row, still dabbing his lips.

The Mexican, plump and avuncular, sat distracted as around him
finger-bets were being made on the next fight.  He watched as the two
cocks, a Grey and a Black, were 'billed', cradled by their handlers
about two feet apart, so that they could peck at each other.  The cocks
had never met before but they were already mortal enemies.

Montes looked around him.  Mostly sweating peons, scum of Chihuahua,
they stank like a farmyard, but among them were also gentry from as far
away as Mexico City itself.

Such was the lure of cock fighting probably the only true contest left
in modern sport, Montes reflected.

On the top tier were the two young US deputy sheriffs, who had just
arrived.  The gringos, Speed and Miller, had lost steadily since
morning, at least two hundred dollars apiece.  But their losses were a
trifle compared with the fat one who had arrived at the Olympia Hotel
just a fortnight before and who had divided his time between cock
fighting and whoring for twenty hours a day.  The Americanos would
never learn.  Cockfighting was more art than science, and the gringos
had no art, no culture.  Montes reached down between his legs for the
leather-covered flask of tequila beneath his bench.  He unscrewed the
top, uncorked the flask and poured a measure of the drink into the
flask-top.  The fluid roared against the back of his throat, then
burned slowly in his stomach.  He poured himself another measure and
put it down quickly.  Things were looking better.

In the ring, the first pitting had begun.  The Black had broken off the
Grey's bill and the Grey's handler was sucking blood from its broken
beak and spitting saliva down into its open mouth.  Montes smiled,
nudging spectators on both sides of him.  He was a sportsman, and this
was what he liked best.  Good, clean sport.

Carlo Montes was quite clear when the two deputies enquired of him
about gringos who had recently come to Chihuahua.  Yes, a portly,
middle-aged hombre had been in town for a fortnight, a prodigious man,
an athlete.  At this point they thought they might have the wrong man.
But Montes explained that he meant sexual athlete, a libertine of
prodigious lusts.  He had taken six ladies a day since his arrival, and
the hotel had been loud with the shrieks of even the most hardened of
the damsels of Chihuahua.  For the gringo's equipment was prodigious.
Indeed, many said that, had it been available to the Texans for the
defence of the Alamo, it would all have been up with Santa Anna and his
men.

The stout American seemed to have a particular penchant for young
girls, possessing the naive belief that Mexicans in their early teens
were virgins.  The young ladies of the town had indulged him in his
fantasy, and indeed that very morning Montes had seen a peasant girl
barely in her teens slip into the hallway of the Olympia.  So he now
directed the two young gringo lawmen to the said hotel.  The
blonde-haired deputy observed that it might be as well to wait until
their quarry had finished his business with the girl, but his colleague
was inflexible.  The two men therefore left the cockpit immediately,
apparently on their way to the Olympia and their fat rich compatriot.

Buck and Billy Joe tiptoed along the creaking surface of the landing on
the first floor of the Olympia Hotel, guns in hand.  They stopped at
room number seven.

"You think we should knock first?"  asked Buck uncertainly.

The hell we should," said Billy Joe.  He put his finger to his lips,
then his ear to the door.

"Can you hear anything?"  whispered Buck.

Billy Joe shook his head.  He found the silence ominous.

"Perhaps he's all done?"  Buck continued.

Buck made an impatient move to edge past his colleague, but Billy Joe
put his left hand on the door knob and barred his way, still shaking
his head.  Then he slowly opened the door and went in, closing it
behind him, leaving Buck in the hall.  Buck pressed his ear to the door
but there was no sound from the room.

Then the knob turned and Billy Joe slid out, once more closing the door
behind him.  He frowned.

"What the hell," hissed Buck.  He put his hand on the doorknob.  "Come
on.  We got money in there."

Billy Joe shook his head yet again.  "Wagstaffe," he said.  "He's
cashed in his chips."

"The hell he has," growled Buck, this time forcing his way past Billy
Joe into the room.

The tiny bedroom was gloomy, its curtains half-closed, but even in the
dim light Buck could see that it was a mess, with papers strewn all
over the floor, around an empty saddlebag.  He moved to the window and
wrenched the curtains open: the bright midday sun flooded in.

As he turned, his gaze immediately fell upon the bed.

Wagstaffe lay crouched in a foetal position, unmoving.  The pillows and
the white sheets around him were spattered with blood.

Buck took a deep breath.  He forced himself to take his eyes from the
ugly red slit running diagonally the length of Wagstaffe's throat and
looked once more around the little room.  It was a shambles, with
Wagstaffe's blood-spattered clothes mixed with documents, letters and
other papers on the brown wooden floor.

Buck moved quickly to the door.  He had seen enough.

An hour later, Buck and Billy Joe sat at the deserted bar of the
Olympia on their fifth drink.  Billy Joe reached into his inside pocket
and pulled out a clip of notes.

"How much did he have left?"  asked Buck, refilling their glasses.

Billy Joe thumbed through the notes.  "Exactly twenty-three dollars."
He paused, reached into a fob pocket for some coins and withdrew them.
"And twenty-five cents."

"Whoever rubbed him cleaned him out good."

"No knowing," said Billy Joe.  "I hear he'd been throwing money around
like a crazy man."

Buck sipped his drink meditatively.  At that moment Carlo Monies,
swatting flies with his sombrero, pushed his way through the swing
doors into the bar.

"Gentlemen."  Monies sat himself down without ceremony in the spare
chair at their table.  "You have found your Mr.  Wagstaffe?"

"Yup," said Billy Joe.  "Dead as mutton."

Montes mopped his brow with his white handkerchief.  "That is very
sad," he said.  "But your friend, he led a full life, no?"

"Very full," said Billy Joe.

"But no friend," said Buck.

Montes continued to mop.  "You know of two gentlemen, by name of Mr.
Hogg and Mr.  Taggart?"

Billy Joe shook his head, looking behind him to the barman for a glass
for Montes.  A moment later he had filled the Mexican's glass with
tequila and pushed the salt across the table to him.  Montes poured a
trickle of grains on the back of his hand, then licked them off and put
his tequila down in a single gulp.

"This Mr.  Hogg and Mr.  Taggart, I have been told they arrived in town
this morning, while you were still at the cockfights.  They are at the
cockpit now," said Montes, his voice low.  "They, too, were looking for
Mr.  Wagstaffe."  He paused, his fat face registering his unhappiness.
"I think, senors, that they found him before you."

"Then they've got our money!"  exploded Buck.

Montes shook his head.  "Your Mr.  Wagstaffe had already lost much, at
the tables, at the pit," he explained.  "I do not think there was much
left."  He paused again.  "This Mr.  Hogg and Mr.  Taggart, they think
that you, as deputies, may be pursuing them."

"We ain't no real deputies," muttered Buck, looking down at his
badge.

"Shut up," said Billy Joe sharply.  "Mr.  Montes, could I ask if you
would go to the cockpit to these .. . gentlemen, and tell them that we
are not deputies, and have therefore no interest in them.  You
understand?"

Montes nodded, as Billy Joe reached into his pocket, withdrew some
coins, and pressed them into the Mexican's hand.  Montes nodded once
more, rose and waddled towards the swing doors out into the afternoon
sun.

He returned a quarter of an hour later, to stand at the door, as if it
were unwise to venture further in.

"They do not want to talk," he said.

Billy Joe rose and walked to the window, slowly drawing apart the dingy
lace curtains.  "One of them in black and got a beard?"  he said,
looking through the parting in the curtains.

"Yes," said Montes.  "That will be Mr.  Taggart."

"And the other, kinda brown, looks as if he's got some Injun blood in
him?"

"That is the man," nodded Montes.  "Mr.  Hogg."

"Perhaps they just need a bit of reassurance," said Buck.

Billy Joe withdrew his Colt and opened it.  "I think not," he said.  He
loaded the gun from his belt, whirling the cylinder.

"Fill your hand," he said.  "These boys mean business."

Billy Joe sounded cold, somehow different.  Buck got to his feet and
drew his Colt as Billy Joe tightened the gunbelt on his thigh.

"Move that cylinder."  Billy Joe pointed to Buck's gun.  "Is it greased
good?"

"Perhaps we should try to talk to them first," Buck said,
abstractedly.

Billy Joe grabbed his friend by both shoulders, his face set and grim.
"Wipe them drippings from your mind," he said, spitting out the words.
He struggled to catch Buck's eyes.  "Buck," he said.  "Those boys Hogg
and Taggart are real.  And willing.  Never mind whether they've got
cause or not.  They think they have and that's enough, however crazy it
seems."

Billy Joe looked down and spun the cylinder of his Colt again.  "Make
sure your strapping is tight," he said.

He drew and re-drew his gun, pointing, legs flexed, as Buck at last
strapped his holster tight to his thigh.  Billy Joe pulled Buck with
him to the window-curtain.

"The guy on the left Hogg he's yours.  Taggart leave to me.  They
twitch, we draw."

He looked out through the curtains on to the deserted main street,
silent in the heat of midday.  There at the hitching-rail in front of
the Hotel Hacienda opposite stood the two men, looking intently towards
the doors of the Olympia.

"You ready?"  said Billy Joe.

"Ready," Buck whispered.

"The best of good luck, gentlemen."  It was Montes, behind them.

The two men hardly acknowledged Montes but slowly walked to the swing
doors and out of the hotel.  But the street was empty now, the sun
hitting its baked surface like a stone.

Billy Joe looked to his left, then to his right: no sign of either Hogg
or Taggart, despite their presence seconds before.

"Perhaps they don't want trouble," said Buck, likewise surveying the
deserted street.

"Perhaps," echoed Billy Joe.

Buck thought he sounded disappointed.  Billy Joe again looked to left
and right.  "Maybe they're just biding their time."  He detached the
deputy's badge from his shirt and placed it in his inside waistcoat
pocket.  Buck did the same, shaking his head.

"This idea of Moriarty's, being deputies .. ."  he said.

"Not a good idea," said Billy Joe.  "Come on, let's get out of here."

They walked cautiously across the street towards the livery stable, a
hundred yards to their left, just beyond a cantina.

They entered the shadowy building, finding its cool, dung-sweet
atmosphere a relief after the sun outside.  Billy Joe placed two
dollars on a wooden ledge just inside the door, to pay for the stabling
of their horses, and they walked to the far end of the stable towards
their mounts.

Though neither man spoke to the other, there was a silent sense of
urgency as they quickly saddled their animals.  Then there was a whinny
of horses behind them at the stable door.  They turned to see two men
framed in the bright light at the entrance.  They could not see their
faces.

"I think we're wanted," growled Billy Joe.

Together they walked slowly towards the open door.

"That's far enough," shouted the man on the left.

Billy Joe raised both hands well clear of his gun.

"You gentlemen names of Taggart and Hogg?"  he said.  There was about
fifteen feet separating them.

"You got it," said the smaller man, on the right.  "I'm Taggart."

"Then we have no quarrel with you," said Billy Joe.  "This man
Wagstaffe, he was nothing to us."

"That's not the way we see it," said Hogg, on the left.

There was a pause, a stillness that seemed to be without end.

Neither Buck nor Billy Joe looked directly at Hogg or Taggart, but they
had now fixed them standing in the light, exactly in the compass of
their awareness, to the inch.  The men's right hands were suspended by
their guns, their knees bent.

Taggart was the first to make a move, but he was down, hit in the
chest, before he had even cleared his holster, thrown yards back into
the street behind him as Billy Joe's Colt erupted like a cannon.  Hogg
too had only just cleared his holster when he faced Buck's drawn gun.
But, pistol cocked and pointing, Buck froze and Hogg lifted his gun and
fired wildly.  The bullet took the tip off Buck's left ear-lobe,
spattering his cheek with warm blood.  Reflexly he fired, taking a
chunk off the top of Hogg's head.  The man fell forward on to his face,
his blood spurting on to the soft surface of the livery stable.

It had all happened in a moment, but now it was over.  The two men lay,
grotesquely contorted, Hogg flat on his face, his feet splayed, Taggart
on his back, his right leg twisted crookedly underneath him, his white
shirt and black waistcoat drenched in blood as buzz-flies quickly
settled on his beard and moustache.  Only moments before these men had
been alive, menacing, capable of ending both the friends' lives; now
they were carrion.

Buck and Billy Joe stood together, sweat streaming down their faces,
their guns dangling limp and hot from their fingers, not daring to look
down at the two dead men.  Around them the horses in the stable neighed
in alarm.  Buck felt a bitter taste come up in his throat.

"I got to go," he said, putting his hand on his mouth.

"Me too," said Billy Joe.

Together they stumbled to the back of the Hacienda Hotel, to the water
pump.  Billy Joe pushed desperately on the handle, but the vomit came
up before the water did, splattering out on to the scrub grass.  Billy
Joe's sickness acted as a trigger on Buck, who spewed a moment later.
The two men vomited until they had nothing left to bring up but a thin,
green bile, and even intermittently after that.

They sat side by side at the pump, heads between their knees, saying
nothing for what seemed to be hours.  If only Hogg and Taggart had been
willing to talk, thought Buck.  They could have kept the money, for all
he cared.  Perhaps the couple had been legitimate creditors, just like
them, though God knows they should never have killed Wagstaffe.

"It should have been easy," said Billy Joe, sniffing noisily and
spitting on to the surface of the street.  He loosened his gunbelt,
withdrew his gun from its holster and emptied its contents into his
hand.  "They were both slow as molasses."

Buck felt the rage rise in him.  A hundred yards away lay Taggart and
Hogg, cold beneath a swarm of buzz-flies, dead for no reason.

So they now knew that they had fast draws, they had proved that: but
being a Fast Man with a gun was nothing like sprinting up Main Street
to con some greenhorns.  It was about taking half a man's head off, or
blasting away great red lumps of muscle and bone.  It was fast, it was
certainly skilful, but there was nothing romantic or noble about it.

Billy Joe spun the empty cylinder of his revolver, examined it, then
replaced it in his belt.  He stood up, stretched, re-fastened the belt
round his waist and rejoined his friend.  Finally he looked sideways at
Buck.

"You froze," he said.

"The hell I did," said Buck, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand, and fingering his left ear-lobe.  It was only a flesh wound, and
had already stopped bleeding.

Billy Joe looked at him.  "No question of it," he said.

Buck sat, head down, trying to control himself.

Of course he had frozen.  He had initially failed to fire because the
act of firing a gun at another human being had been beyond him.  He had
not, in Marshal Boone's terms, been 'willing'.  Buck felt a mixture of
shame at both what he had done and what he had failed to do and rising
anger that Billy Joe could treat the matter so casually.

"You froze," said Billy Joe again.  "Like a goddam rabbit."

There was no further discussion.  Buck dived at Billy Joe's knees, and
soon the two men were rolling about in the yard like a couple of
alley-cats.

They fought until they were exhausted and the shadows had lengthened
around them.  Few of their punches made contact, though Buck did hit
the back of Billy Joe's head, bruising his knuckles in the process, and
then Billy Joe, missing Buck completely, butted the water-pump and slit
his cheek.  Most of the time they wrestled clumsily, rolling and
grunting in the sand, the grit adhering to their glistening skin.
Neither man was quite certain what he was trying to do.  Certainly they
did not want to kill or even seriously to hurt the other.  Rather, the
fight was simply the culmination of years of envy and petty squabbles.
It had to be done, simply because when it was over, like a boil that
had been lanced, all would be well.

It lasted less than a quarter of an hour, and even then they were
forced to wrestle in spurts, sitting half-exhausted,

II

surveying each other for some time before launching themselves into
another ferocious bout of ineffectual grapples and swings.  The battle
had no aim, no purpose, save that of exhausting in one violent flurry
all the resentment of thousands of miles.  In the end, they lay on
their fronts, their sweating, bleeding faces only inches away from each
other.  Then Buck wobbled uncertainly to his feet and, stooping, pulled
Billy Joe up to join him.

"I think we've done all we had a mind to do," he said, moving to the
pump.

They sat in the twilight by the pump, gasping and bleeding, side by
side.  There was not an ounce of fight left in them.

Billy Joe gingerly explored the cut on his left cheek.

"How's my face?"  he said, flexing his jaw.  "Feels like you cut it
clean to the bone."

Buck peered at Billy Joe in the gloom.  "It's nothing," he said. "It'll
heal up good be sort of like a German duelling wound.  Mandy will love
it."

Billy Joe stood up and took hold of the pump handle.

"You really think so?"  he said, pushing on the pump.

Water gushed forth, splattering Buck, who was sitting directly below
it.  Undisturbed, he allowed the water to pour over his head and trunk,
wiping the blood and grit from his face as Billy Joe cupped his hands
and did the same.

"You got in some good ones," said Buck, fingering his jaw.

"No hard feelings," said Billy Joe, proffering his hand.

Buck smiled.  "No hard feelings," he replied.

____16

STADE, DIAULOS, DOLICHOS

"Stade, diaulos, dolichos," recited Moriarty, as they wended their way
back from the cockpit through the shadowy alleyways of Chihuahua.

Moriarty had, like Buck and Billy Joe, left the rail-head at
Albuquerque, but had not followed their route south-west into Mexico,
choosing instead a route to the south-east.  He had picked up
Wagstaffe's trail in Presidio Del Monte, where the banker had lost
twenty-five thousand dollars at the gambling tables of the El
Presidente Hotel.  Since leaving New York in March, Moriarty had been
out of touch with Eleanor, and knew nothing of his impending
fatherhood.

On his arrival in Chihuahua he had been told of the gunfight and had
located Buck and Billy Joe at the cockpit, both of them considerably
the worse for tequila.

"Stade, diaulos, dolichos," repeated Moriarty.  "That's how we're going
to make our way back into the money."

"Say that again," mumbled Billy Joe, kicking at an alley-cat and
missing.

"I've already said it twice," growled Moriarty.

"It would help," said Buck.

"You two, you never had the benefits of a Scottish education."

"Never felt the lack of it," said Billy Joe.

"Stade," said Moriarty, as they approached the El Grande Hotel.  "What
does that word suggest to you?"

Buck and Billy Joe remained silent as they walked together out of the
shadows into the pool of light cast by the torches burning on the adobe
walls of the hotel.

"Got it," said Buck.  "Stadt, German for town."

"Good guess," said Moriarty.  "But wrong."

"Anything to do with poker?"  said Billy Joe, screwing up his face.
"Stade poker."

Moriarty mock-grimaced.  "Jesus Christ.  All the time I thought I'd
been travelling with cultured people.  If you two had brains enough to
spit..  ."

"Come on, Moriarty.  We give up," said Buck.

"Stade, the length of the stadium," said Moriarty.

They mounted the steps of the hotel onto the balcony in front of the
crowded cantina, pausing as they came upon a noisy group of Mexicans.
There a smiling Montes sat, surrounded by friends.  The Mexican rose,
slightly unsteadily, brandishing a bottle of tequila.

"Your Mr.  Hogg and Mr.  Taggart," he said, "I have arranged a proper
Christian burial for these gentlemen, and for your Mr.  Wagstaffe."

He raised a fat hand as if they had asked a question, then shook his
head.

"No cost, senors.  Their horses and saddles are with the undertaker my
friend Mr.  Valdez here."  A scrawny, cadaverous Mexican at Monies'
table stood.  He smiled and bowed, revealing a row of black, rotten
teeth.  "The rest of their goods I have kept, for necessary expenses.
Part of the service.  You understand."

"What about the law?"  asked Billy Joe.

"The polidaT responded Montes.  "Their costs have been met."

Buck looked at Billy Joe.  His face was expressionless.  As one they
nodded and again, shook Montes' hand before passing on into the
cantina.

'..  . then there was diaulos and dolichos", continued Moriarty
impatiently.  "They were races back in ancient times at the old Olympic
Games."

"Where was all this, these Olympic Games?"  asked Billy Joe as they
made their way through the cantina to a corner table.  "Up Boston
way?"

"Olympia, Greece," said Moriarty, sitting down.  "Two thousand years
ago.  They held the games every four years, to honour the God Zeus."

"Sort of like the Highland Games," put in Billy Joe.

"Sort of," said Moriarty, looking around him for a waiter.  "The sprint
race was about a furlong, the length of the ground that was the
stade."

"So that's how we get the word stadium," said Buck.

"Top of the class, Buck," responded Moriarty, smiling.  "Stadium, the
stade area enclosed by the bleachers."

"Okay," said Billy Joe.  "So where's all this taking us?"

"Right back into the money," said Moriarty.

"I'm not with you," said Buck.  "What about the other two .. . ?"

"The diaulos and the dolicbos}'

"Yes."

Moriarty at last caught a waiter's eye and ordered a bottle of tequila.
"Diaulos, that was the quarter-mile: twice the length of the stade."

"Round a track?"

"Not exactly.  They all ran up the two hundred yards straight, round
the pillar at the end of the stadium then back to the finish."

"Left to right or right to left?"  asked Buck.

"There was no rule," said Moriarty.  "These Greeks just took it as it
came."

"No rules," said Billy Joe.  "Then all those runners must've made a lot
of friends there, at that pillar.  But that was the diaulos race, a
quarter-mile?"

Moriarty nodded.

"And what about the last one?"

"The dolicbos} That was about three miles," replied Moriarty.

"Round and round that same goddam pillar for three miles?"  exclaimed
Billy Joe.

"Two pillars, one at each end.  A four hundred yard lap."

The tequila arrived.  Buck poured out three measures.  "Not exactly my
idea of an afternoon's sport," he said.

Moriarty placed some salt from a plate in the centre of the table on
his hand, licked it, then put the tequila down in one, grimacing.  Buck
and Billy Joe did the same.

Billy Joe was the first to speak.  "This stade, dollos, dolleyecos what
the hell does it have to do with us?  You want us to go run against
Greeks in these Olympics?  Just count me out."

Moriarty was silent as he refilled his glass.

"Come on," said Buck.  "You've given us your history lesson.  This
Greek stuff, what's it got to do with us?"

Moriarty smiled.  He had teased them long enough.  "It means," he said,
speaking slowly, 'that we've got ourselves the biggest race of our
lives, the biggest foot-race in the history of the world.  That's what
it means."

"Where?"  said Buck.

"Yuta City, Arizona," replied Moriarty.  "Just come from there."

Judge Haynes was the perfect choice to resolve the Big Wet dispute.  He
had settled the Colson County Land War of 1870, acted as adviser to
government in the negotiations with the Sioux on the Black Hills (for
which he had been made blood-brother to Sitting Bull in the early
1870s), and had served as arbitrator in the chaotic Lima County Land
Rush of 1871.  But his biggest popular success had been in sport, back
in 1869, when he had refereed the heavyweight fist fight between Bill
Noonan and Tom King on a barge moored on the Mississippi, thirty miles
west of St.  Louis.

It was now common knowledge that Judge Haynes had been on to a certain
ten grand to give the fight to the challenger King (The Talahassee
Tiger), but the portly little judge had played it straight down the
line in refereeing a murderous battle lasting seventy-eight rounds, one
which had ended in a blinded King unable to totter back to scratch
within the prescribed time.  Everyone in attendance (saving King's
handler) had agreed that it had been as fair and manly a show of
fisticuffs as they had witnessed; and that this was as much to the
credit of Haynes as to the two men themselves.

But the good judge's role in the Noonan-King fracas had not ended
there.  After the fight King had been abandoned by his managers in St.
Louis, half-crippled and virtually sightless.  The judge had paid the
prizefighter's hospital bills and set him up in a hotel till he was
healed up good.  Then, when Tom King was fully recovered, Haynes had
made him swear to give up fist-fighting and abjure strong liquor, and
had secured him a post as barman in the Fighting Chance.

Haynes, now sixty-one, had been brought into the Big Wet dispute as a
result of taking up his retirement in Yuta City, Arizona, in late '75.
The Big Wet was a lush, wide watering place which divided the spreads
of "Buzz' Brennan, a fiery, red-haired Irishman whose grandfather had
fought at the Alamo, and an Australian, Pat Boyle.  Boyle, like many
Australians, was the son of an ex-convict who had settled in San
Francisco in the 1840s.  His father, a member of the murderous gang
known as the "Sydney Ducks', had narrowly escaped hanging when the
Vigilantes had cleaned up San Francisco in 1850, and had quickly made
his way to Arizona.  After cowboying for five years he eventually
bought himself a spread in Yuta County.  Originally the Brennans' and
the Boyles' spreads had been separated by the land of another rancher,
a Dutchman, Elf Kamerbeck, but Kamerbeck had been driven out by the
Apaches in 1865 and his land had been gradually taken up on each side
of the Big Wet, without dispute, by his two more powerful neighbours.

In the late 1860s the Irishman and the Australian had joined forces to
wipe out the Apaches and make the area safe for ranching, and by Buzz
Brennan's death, of smallpox, in 1874, the Indians were no longer the
menace they had been.  Then, in 1875, Pat Boyle had been accidentally
shot, caught in the cross-fire of a gunfight in Sonora, and it had been
left to their two sons to run the respective spreads.

If anything, the Brennan and Boyle boys had been even faster friends
than their fathers.  Indeed, young Pete Boyle had in early 1877 married
Sally Brennan, and there were already twins, a boy and a girl, as a
result of the union.  But in the hot summer of 1877 things turned sour.
As the result of a prolonged drought the water in both spreads had
dropped to a thin trickle, and on 23 June both parties had large herds
watering beside the shallow but still flowing Big Wet.

No one would ever be able to say with certainty how the fight over the
Big Wet began that torrid, baking afternoon.  Suffice it to say that
there was an argument between the two foremen, Roy Bass of the Brennan
spread and Jake Wood of the Boyle, and that Wood came back with a
bullet through a broken right arm that would never be the same again.

Then the following month there was a fist-fight in Yuta City between
members of the opposing factions; two days later a dozen Brennan beeves
were found shot dead.  But it was Roy Bass's death in November that
year that brought the feud to a head.  On the afternoon of 6 November
1877 Bass and a young cowboy, Danny Malloy, had been out rounding up
some mavericks near the Big Wet.  Malloy would never be certain where
the shot had come from, but Bass had gone down, shot through the head.
To his credit, young Malloy stood his ground, but the killer had clean
melted away.  Two weeks later, on 20 November, the Boyle cowboy, Jimmy
Clark, was shot in the back in Yuta City, and the Yuta County War had
started in earnest.

By the time Judge Haynes was brought in, in the spring of '78, there
were five dead and eight wounded between the spreads, and there was
even some talk of bringing in hired guns from up north.

It was Sally Brennan who had been the catalyst.  She and Pete Boyle had
been hitched by Judge Haynes in January 1877, and during the reception,
lubricated by liquor, the judge had regaled her with tales of his past
judgements.  Surely, reasoned the new Mrs.  Boyle as Christmas 1877
approached, this was the ideal man to arbitrate on the dispute over the
rights to the Big Wet?

It had taken three months to bring the Brennans and the Boyles together
with Haynes on neutral ground in the courthouse of Yuta City.  The
judge found that the opposite claims were evenly balanced.  Both sides
had used the Big Wet intermittently for years without argument, and
there had always been plenty of water.  Only the drought of 1877 and a
now-forgotten argument between two dead men had brought the matter into
serious question in the first place.  However, there was no doubt that
the dispute had to be settled one way or another, if more death and
disability were not to result.

The judge was both a sportsman and a classical scholar.  In his youth
he had been a fancy rassler, Cumberland style, and a better than
average foot racer  He was steeped in Plato, Sophocles and Ovid and
other classical writings, the works of thinkers who had been the
bedrock of Western philosophy.  Haynes knew that the Romans and Greeks,
and particularly the latter, had also been the first societies to
pursue organised sports competitions.  Indeed, the Greek Crown Games,
headed by the Olympics, had been a much more fully-developed sports
culture than existed in the sand-lot baseball leagues, street-races and
impromptu fist-fights that had up till now constituted sport in the
United States.

So, thought Haynes, how better to settle the Brennan-Boyle dispute than
to mix ancient and modern, bringing the foot racing of the Olympics
together with a little horse-riding -and settle the matter of the Big
Wet once and for all?

Albert Haynes knew that if Yuta County was ever going to develop beyond
a dusty, Godforsaken backwater its leaders would have to think beyond
their guns.  True, the Brennan-Boyle dispute would eventually end all
feuds did but it was essential that it do so with the minimum of
bitterness, and in a civilised fashion.

When Pete Boyle and Bill Brennan, dour and glowering, met Judge Haynes
in the adobe courthouse in Yuta on the afternoon of 20 April 1878, they
were both convinced that the judge would attempt an immediate and
summary arbitration.  And, although neither said so, each felt that
this would only be acceptable if the decision went his way.

Haynes, the perspiration running down his ruddy face, had poured out
ample glasses of the best redeye, as outside the heat hit the white
adobe walls like a hammer.

"Ain't nothing new under the sun, gentlemen," he had begun.  "Way back
in olden times when them kings had some dispute over women, over land,
you name it they had their own ways of settling it, all without
blood."

He again drew on his redeye, took out a white handkerchief and mopped
his sweat-pear led brow.  "Blood is a big expense.  Is now, always was.
So them kings, they said to themselves, why kill good men?  Let's find
some other way to sort this out."

Boyle and Brennan continued their glowering, but let Haynes have his
say.

"Them kings, they said let the gods decide, in ritual combat."

"Ritual what?"  said Pete Boyle.

"Ritual combat, Pete.  Competition," replied Haynes.  "Sometimes they
used rasslers, most often they used runners."

"You mean foot racers  said Brennan.

Haynes nodded and poured them all out another long bit.  "They reckoned
to have their chosen representatives run ga inst each other.  Whoever
won, they got the land or the woman or whatever."

"Is that what you're suggesting now for the Big Wet?"  said Brennan.

Haynes nodded.  "Here's the way I see it," he said.  "Each team has
three men and one horse.  The team is composed of a furlong runner, a
quarter-miler and a distance man, just like the Greeks.  It's a sort of
man and horse relay race, three laps in all.  Each lap starts here at
Yuta City out across the Big Wet, over El Diablo Mountain, across the
Big Wet again at the bridge, then back to town, for one lap.  The
distance-runners are the only ones to cover the full three laps, either
on foot or on horseback."

"So how does it start off?"  asked Boyle.

"With two men from each team, the distance-runner and the sprinter,
each team with a horse," replied Haynes.  "Each team can cover that
first stage any way they like at least until the final furlong into
town to end the first lap."

"What happens then?"  said Brennan.

"We have a flag a furlong out from town.  That final furlong has to be
run by the sprinters.  Then they're finished, and it's either one-up to
Boyle or one-up to Brennan."

Brennan nodded.  Then it's the distance man and the quarter-miler
setting off for the second lap?"

Haynes nodded, pouring each man out another large measure.  "Same thing
on the second lap," he said.  "We have a flag a quarter-mile out from
the finish.  The quarter-milers must dismount and run that final
section.  Then it's either two-nothing, in which case we don't run the
final leg, or it's one-all and everything to play for."

"And say it's one-all, the final lap that's just the two distance boys
and their horses?"  asked Boyle, sipping his whiskey.  Both he and
Brennan were now totally absorbed.

"Yes," nodded Haynes.  "But they got to come off their horses one
English mile from the finish and fight it out running, so we got a
distance race for the final part."

"Let's get this clear," said Brennan.  "We both got three men running
and riding.  Say my distance man beats his man .. . and my quarter-man
loses but my sprinter wins?"

"Then you win two to one," said the Judge.

"What happens if a horse goes lame or something?"  asked Boyle.

"Too bad," replied Haynes.  "The will of the gods."

"What would be the length of the course?"  asked Brennan.

"Mutual agreement," replied Haynes.  "My guess is that a good test
would be three laps of five miles round the Big Wet, just like I said.
Plenty of variety scrub, desert, hills.  But it's up to you."

"And the runners could run or ride, except for the final part of each
lap?"  asked Boyle.

"Tactics," said Haynes, nodding.  "If someone's hurting bad then he may
have to take a rest on horseback for a whiles.  That means that his
team-mate has to go on foot.  It's brain as well as brawn."

"And these foot racers where would we find them?"

"You would have five, maybe six months to get your teams together,"
replied Haynes.  "St.  Louis, New York, San Francisco there's plenty of
fancy foot racers up in them parts.  Even all the way from England.
You've both got the time."

There was silence.

"Just think of it, boys.  A way to end it all, clean and fair, and have
one heck of a time into the bargain.  Hell, they'll come from all over
just to get a peek the richest footrace in the history of man."

Thus it was that, on 20 April 1878, the articles of the Yuta County
Foot Race were signed.

Articles of Agreement

1. The competition to take place over three five-mile laps starting at
noon on 20 October 1878, a circular course encompassing the Big Wet, El
Diablo Mountain and the town of Yuta City itself, the start to be the
Buena Vista Hotel.

2. Each team will consist of three men and one horse.

3. The competition will be a relay over three separate laps, two men
from each team and a horse competing over each lap, with only the
distance-runners completing the full fifteen-mile course, the other
runners completing one lap only.  Thus, the sprinter and
distance-runner from each team will cover the first lap, the
quarter-milers and distance-runners the second, with the final lap
covered by the distance-runners alone.

4. The two-man teams will be allowed to run or ride at their discretion
on each lap, the only proviso being that' on the first lap the
sprinters must run the final furlong to the finish, on the second lap
the quarter-milers must run the final quarter-mile and on the last lap
the distance-runners the final mile, these distances being marked by
Union flags and being scrutinised by officials appointed by Judge
Haynes.  The distance-runners are required to cover all three laps, the
other two runners competing against each other only on one lap.

5. The winner of the competition is the team which has won the most lap
victories, i.e. 2 0 2 1, the final arbiter on all competitions being
Judge Haynes.  Should the first two runs result in victory for any one
team, then the final lap by the distance-runners will not be run.

6. The two horses are to be selected by Judge Haynes, and the parties
in dispute (Peter Boyle and William Brennan) will throw dice for choice
of mounts.

7. The ownership and watering rights of the area known as The Big Wet
will be assigned to the sponsor of the victorious team.

Bill Brennan had signed up Moriarty, Buck and Billy Joe in Yuta on
their return from Mexico in early May.  He offered hundred thousand
dollars between them for a win,

one nothing if they lost, but with all training expenses paid till the
day of the race.  Moriarty reckoned that they could pick up at least
another twenty-five thousand dollars or more in bets (so long as
Eleanor and the girls were willing to pawn their jewels), and a victory
would then make the Theatre of the West a going concern again.

After telling Bill Brennan he had a team, they decided to set up
training quarters in San Rafael, New Mexico, as the town had a good
hotel, baths and sweat-box, and terrain similar to that which they
would later face in Yuta County.

But first, they would stay till June in the seclusion of Brennan's
ranch, checking out the country and in particular the problems involved
in the mountain stretch across El Diablo.  At Brennan's they would take
time for gentle purges and sweats, the latter from a sweat-box which
the rancher had brought in from San Francisco.

This time there would be no short, brutal month of the English Method;
they would condition themselves slowly and gradually till the end of
September, then taper off into the last three weeks of the race.

It was not long before they knew their rivals.

Moriarty had known for months that William M. Bunn was in the United
States.  The Englishman had arrived with two top athletes, Josiah
Headley and the Scottish miler, Alec Tulloch, in mid-March, and just
three weeks later, on 7 April, Headley had shocked the world of
American pedestrianism by moving up a distance to run a half-mile in an
amazing one minute and fifty-five seconds, the fastest ever run.  Two
days later Tulloch was to grab the headlines, becoming the first man on
American soil to beat four minutes twenty seconds for the mile, running
a second inside that time at Hoboken Racetrack.  A week after that, at
Saratoga Racecourse, he failed by a mere two seconds to break fourteen
and a half minutes for three miles.

It was thus entirely predictable that in early May Pete Boyle had
travelled east to sign up both Tulloch and Headley, who were on thirty
thousand dollars a man to win, with Bunn as their manager on
twenty-five thousand dollars.  It took only a further week for Boyle's
team to be completed, when he signed contracts with the Indian, who had
four days before become the first American to run a genuine sub-ten
second hundred yards, in St.  Paul's, Missouri.

For two of Boyle's men the Yuta County race would have a special
significance.  The Indian had never forgotten that he had been defeated
by Billy Joe in Virginia City, even if the judges had handed the race
to him.  He had been beaten then, but now he was by general judgement
at least two yards faster, and, as he told an early eager reporter,
with no kangaroo start to help him Billy Joe Speed was going to have to
run out of his skin to take him.  He felt no malice for the Texan; but
he was out to put the record straight.

Josiah Headley's motives were altogether different.  The financial
consequences of his defeat at the hands of Buck Miller had forced
Headley to accept his mentor, William Bunn's suggestion to tour
America, where he would find easy pickings.  At first he demurred.
Headley hated travel; but to his surprise he soon found the United
States greatly to his taste.  The Americans liked winners, even Limeys
who whipped their own boys, and in his first races on the eastern
seaboard Headley had thrashed the best men the Yanks had put to him,
his opening series of races culminating with his world record over the
half-mile.  After just two months campaigning he was a star of American
pedestrianism.

So too was his colleague, the Scot, Tulloch.  He had been kept under
wraps by Bunn since 1873, when he had appeared as a sprinter off a long
handicap at Sheffield, over three hundred yards, winning his backer
five thousand pounds in a finish in which only a yard had separated the
six runners.  Bunn had raced him only once in 1874, moving him up to
half a mile to defeat the Australian, Clowrey, at Newcastle.  Then, the
following year, in an attempt to break 4 minutes 30 seconds for the
mile, the Scot, finishing apparently exhausted, had timed it perfectly,
running half a second inside the old record.  A series of planned races
against the Kent runner, Jackson, early the following spring had come
to nothing because of Jackson's illness; Bunn had therefore been able
to get long odds on Tulloch when his man made his debut over three
miles in December of 1876, against the unbeaten Powe of Hereford.  The
race was held on the frosty flint-hard surface of the Victoria Grounds,
Wigan, before 30,000 spectators.  Tulloch, running from the front, had
roasted Powe, clocking nine and a half minutes for the first two miles,
a record for the distance, the Hereford man retiring from the race half
a mile later.  In Tulloch Moriarty was facing a runner at the peak of
his powers and one who had been raced sparingly.  Most important of
all, Tulloch was a man who had never seen another runner's back.

28 June 1878, San Rafael, New Mexico Training for the Brennan trio was
going well.  Their bowels had been thoroughly purged, the sweats taken
regularly, and Moriarty had been pleased to see that all their stools
were now floating, always a good sign.  Then on 28 June he had come
down with a mild bout of 'flu and had gone to San Rafael's only medic,
the redoubtable Doc Halliwell.  The Doc like everyone in the area was
well aware of the Yuta County challenge and, in the half-light of his
gloomy little surgery, had given Moriarty a thorough examination as
well as a good dose of physic.

When he had finished he had sat his patient down in a chair in front of
him.

"Moriarty," he said.  "I've got to give it to you straight.  You ever
had any trouble with your heart?"

The Scot felt his throat go dry.  "Back as a boy," he said, and he told
his questioner of the race in the snow against Latour in New York back
in 1859.

"Well," said Halliwell.  "You've got yourself a murmur."

"What does that mean?"

Halliwell poured himself a short whiskey and offered Moriarty a glass.
The Scotsman shook his head.

"We medical men don't know much, Moriarty, no matter what we say or
what most folks think.  Sometimes I think we're kinda like plumbers
trying to fix fancy Swiss watches."  Halliwell paused and sipped his
drink.  "But a murmur is a murmur.  You want to hear what I reckon
you've got?"

Moriarty nodded, his pulse racing.

"A colleague of mine, up Boston way, had to perform an autopsy, must be
six years back.  It was on a man of thirty-five.  This man, I can't
recall his name, he had been a great athlete all his life, had been a
match-racer in rowing in his youth, had rowed every day God gave him,
rain, sun or snow."

Halliwell took another sip of his drink.

"Then, one day, he just keeled over in the boat, stone dead.

This feller, he had left his body to science in his will, so my
colleague performed the autopsy.  Know what he found?"

He paused.

"What we in the profession call "athlete's heart".  A heart as big as a
pumpkin.  All loose and weak and stretched."

He shook his head.

"The way I see it, the human body can only take so much, you see.  My
friend, he reckoned the oP heart's like a piece of elastic.  Stretch it
too far, it's gone, can't pump no more.  Know what I mean?  Gone,
overstretched, no power left."

"Now Pm not saying that's happened to you.  Not yet, leastways.  What I
am saying is this Yuta County race, this could be the last straw that
breaks the camel's back.  You got to face it, you're no spring chicken.
You're thirty-nine years of age.  Just how long is the race?"

"You know, Doc."

"Fifteen miles for you, most of it on foot.  Okay, so some of it will
be on horseback, but most of it won't be, 'cos you'll have to keep your
sprinters fresh.  Then there's the heat, and those goddam hills.
Moriarty, that kind of race would cripple most young men, men in the
full bloom of youth.  You, you're well into middle-age."

Moriarty scowled and shook his head.

"Doc," he said, 'twenty years ago, a doctor just like you told me I had
Athlete's Heart.  Since then I must have run a thousand races and never
had a day's trouble."

Halliwell shook his head, folded his stethescope and put it in his
pocket.

"You know what my advice would be?"  he said.

Moriarty did not reply, his face sullen.

Halliwell drew in a deep breath.  "Pull out.  Buy yourself a younger
man, someone hungry, someone with some sap in his legs.  It's the money
you want, ain't it, not the glory?"

Moriarty nodded, but he knew in his heart that he was lying.  He stood
up and shook Halliwell's hand.  For the first time in his life he felt
middle-aged.  Of course he wanted the money, for the cash took him to
his only future.  But as he walked from the gloom of Doc Halliwell's
office out into the harsh New Mexico sunshine, Moriarty knew that he
would run.  For he had felt from the moment that he had first met

Bill Brennan that this was his race, one which, whatever the outcome,
would complete his years of Western wanderings.  This would be the one
great final contest, the race that would place his name forever in the
annals of foot racing  In his dreams he had seen himself charging up
Main Street, Tulloch nowhere in sight, all the years of running fused
into one marvelous moment of victory.  But Doc Halliwell might be
right.  Perhaps the Big Wet race would stretch the heart's elastic to
its limits, to the point where there would be no recoil.

Moriarty returned to his lodgings and penned a letter.  It was not a
long letter, but it took him some time to compose.  It was written in a
more formal style than Moriarty was accustomed to use, and four drafts
were angrily launched towards the waste-paper basket before the final
version was despatched to Edwin Booth at Niblo's Theatre, New York:

San Rafael, New Mexico 28 June 1878 Dear Edwin,

It now appears that your 'training regime' of two bottles of wine a day
may have as much to commend it as my daily programme of running and
Jahn callisthenics.  I say this because, ironically, a recent medical
examination raises the possibility that I may have the condition known
as 'athlete's heart', probably the result of that race in the snow
against Latour all those long years ago.  If memory serves me well, it
was your shout to me of the words "The moment!"  at a critical point in
the match that was the difference between victory and defeat.  The Yuta
City race is my moment, Edwin, more important to me than all the
contests of the past twenty years put together, as important as your
Richelieu was to you back in England in 1862 when all seemed lost.

Everything rests upon the outcome, but I confess to you that for each
of us it goes beyond mere dollars and cents, for in Headley, Tulloch
and the Indian we meet the best runners of our era in a contest which
will stretch all of us to our limits.

It is in this knowledge, that reaching to my limits may bring me close
to death, that I ask from you a favour.  It is that you take out for me
an insurance policy on my life for a maximum of fifty thousand dollars,
a sum which should provide Eleanor with the necessary comforts in the
event of my demise.  I would ask too that you should mention nothing of
this to anyone.

Look forward to seeing you in Yuta City on the day of the race.  Yours,
Moriarty

News of the Big Wet race had now gone far beyond the borders of
Arizona, and had appeared in newspapers in New York and Los Angeles as
early as mid-June.  The first odds had been laid only a fortnight later
in both cities, and in London only days later in the leading sporting
paper, Bell's Life.  The finest of Europe's sporting fraternity had set
out from Liverpool in late July, a motley mix of English nobility,
hard-headed Scots, northern bookmakers, and French and Italian
gamblers.

It had taken till early August for the first spies to locate the
Brennan group in San Rafael, for Moriarty and his men could have sought
training quarters almost anywhere in Arizona or New Mexico.  They had
therefore pursued the bulk of their preparation free from prying eyes.
The Boyle group had been located by Brennan a week earlier, three
hundred miles west, in Bitter Springs, just north of Yuta.  The first
news from Bitter Springs was that Headley, who had ridden as a youth in
Yorkshire as a groom to the Marquis of Leeds, was a fine horseman, so
there would be little gap in riding skills between Headley and Buck.

There was little that observers in San Rafael could report back to
their masters, for Moriarty and his team took care to vary their
training times.  In any case, any spies could be easily seen in the
vastness of the prairie separating the cluster of shops and bars that
was San Rafael from the Puentes, a barren, five-thousand-foot range of
hills where Moriarty's group pursued their daily training.

At first the odds fluctuated, with most of the big money going on the
Boyle team.  After all, these were three of the fastest men in the
world at their distances.  Then in May, when the terms of agreement
became public knowledge, disputes arose on the quality of the
horsemanship of the Boyle team relative to Brennan's group.  It was
known that Billy Joe was a fine rider and that Moriarty had done some
trick riding in his youth.  Buck Miller was an unknown quantity, but
nevertheless the odds against Moriarty's group dropped to three to one,
for horsemanship rather than running might well decide the contest.

Next it was discovered that Tulloch had, as a young man, been a jockey
in the employ of the Duke of Buccleuch.  The odds against Moriarty and
the Brennan team rose again to four to one.

The afficionados of foot-racing were faced with a problem.  True, there
had been man and horse races before, but never between top-class
athletes.  It was clear that over the first two laps the fast men would
be kept on horseback till the last possible moment to keep their legs
fresh.  The big questions related to the ability of these sprinters and
the quarter-milers to negotiate the steep incline of El Diablo and
their condition at the end of the climb and descent, which was less
than a mile from the point of their final sprints.

From all this speculation Moriarty and his men remained aloof, varying
their venues from one day to the next to deter the dockers.

For speculation Moriarty substituted strategy.  The Big Wet was easily
fordable by horse, being mostly two feet deep though a couple of feet
deeper in the middle; but the difficulty on each stage would be on the
one-mile climb up El Diablo.  There was no way of riding up the
mountain for any appreciable distance it was too steep and rocky for
that so the animal would have to be led up.  After that the way down
would be no problem, particularly for expert horsemen like Billy Joe
and Moriarty, and would indeed be a useful point at which to gain
further advantage.  From then on it was across the bridge and a mile of
flat, fast road to the finish, with flags at the various points at
which obligatory running had to begin.

Moriarty therefore arranged to have water-bags placed on the course,
one just before the Big Wet, another at the base of El Diablo and a
third two miles later at its foot, just a mile short of Yuta City.  He
had broken down the distance as follows: from Yuta City to the Big Wet
1 and a half miles of cart-track, then half a mile scrub to the base of
El Diablo followed by one mile up the mountain and the same down.
Finally, one mile on good road into Yuta City.

Central to their preparation were the hill sessions.  Their daily
repetitions up in the Puente Hills were agony for Buck and Billy Joe
particularly for the latter, for Buck had at least the memory of
Norfolk's Cromer Sands to remind him of the pain, and how it could be
contained and conquered.  For Billy Joe, however, the Puentes held
nothing but unconscionable agony.  On the first day, after only a
furlong on their steep, rocky slopes, he was gasping for breath in the
thin air, and although he and Buck soon began to adapt to the specific
requirements of the hills, in Billy Joe's case adaptation was only
marginal.  The Texan was a sprinting animal, and no amount of endurance
training could make him into much else.  Moriarty knew that the moment
of truth for Billy Joe would be on that one mile uphill stretch on El
Diablo.  If the Indian gained too much there it would take all of Billy
Joe's riding skills on the downhill stretch to close the gap before the
final furlong of sprinting into Yuta City.

The ladies had been told to stay in New York, if not upon pain of death
then on something close enough to deter them from disobeying.  For
Eleanor there was the general worry over how Moriarty would stand up to
the training, as well as the risk of the whole venture.  But it was the
work of a zealous young reporter called Martin Sykes which brought her
most alarm.  Sykes had burrowed back into the Police Gazette files of
the 1850s to locate details of Moriarty's early matches and had
unearthed the accounts of his 1859 race in the snow against Latour and
the subsequent report that Moriarty had been banned, on doctor's
orders, from further competition.  Dr.  Sutherland, now 75, was duly
located in retirement in Hartford, Connecticut, and confirmed that
Moriarty had indeed been advised not to run again competitively.  He
confirmed, too, that in middle age and with a record of athlete's heart
Moriarty should long ago have exchanged running spikes for soft
slippers, and that the proposed fifteen-mile Yuta City run might indeed
prove to be a fatal one.

Eleanor, seven months pregnant, could have done without such
speculation and recorded her feelings in her normal style:

26 July 1878

The Big Wet race has now become, because of Dr.  Sutherland, in the
pages of the popular press, "The Death Race'.  A new set of odds has
been created, albeit not openly.  These are on Moriarty's expiring, and
lie at four to one against, having been as high as eight to one clear
evidence that some 'sportsmen' have been willing to lay good sums on
such a melancholy outcome.

29 July 1878

Hettie and Mandy have been immensely supportive since certain knowledge
of my pregnancy in March.  Buck and Billy Joe are fortunate to have
found women of such worth.  Both Hettie and Mandy feel that Moriarty
should know nothing of my situation until I arrive in Yuta City (when
my condition will be all too obvious to him), as such knowledge could
only distract him.  Edwin feels the same, but I have observed that he
himself has been of late moody and depressed.  This surprises me, for
the reviews of Hamlet have been excellent from the start.

My feeling is that Moriarty should know that he is to be a father, and
so be allowed the choice of whether to risk running or not, in the full
knowledge of the circumstances.  I have therefore decided to write to
him in San Rafael, giving him a full two months to find and train a
substitute, should he choose to withdraw from the race.

1 August 1878

The letter written, I walked with it in my handbag to the Post Office
and was within yards of its despatch when, on impulse, I tore it to
shreds.  Why did I do this?

Most of our life together, I surmise, has been a gamble.  Edwin gambled
when he came with Moriarty to England to try his luck in 1862, and it
was as a result of this gamble that I first came to meet Moriarty.  We
both gambled in coming west, and every day since in this freezing,
blistering, disease-ridden country has trembled on the razor-edge of
chance.

And, whatever else it has been, our life has always contained an
element of excitement, a note of drama, independent of our theatrical
productions.  The Big Wet race is simply the biggest gamble we have
taken.  If we lose, we will be little the worse off, for we have each
other, with the sweet prospect of a child to cheer us.

And if there is such a condition as 'athlete's heart' (and there is
little evidence that there is) Moriarty seems to have survived it well
enough for over twenty years.  My guess is that he is now in the finest
condition of his life, and that to put any pressure on him at this
fragile moment would be a betrayal.  Let things run their course.

18 October 1878, Yuta City

Eleanor and the girls had arrived two days before the race, with Edwin
Booth and Barnum.  From England had come such notables as Lord Astley,
Sir Philip Boothroyd, Lord Hardcastle and Ashley Blythe, the editor of
Bell's Life; from France Count Philippe de la Salle and Baron Prost;
from Canada a former Governor General, Sir Augustus Mackay, and from
Mexico Generals de Montoya and de Christobal.  From the world of
acting, supplementing Booth and the ladies, had come Gregor McGregor
and Eammon Grogarty, plus Edwin Forrest and Mrs.  Charlotte Cushman and
a host of minor thespians.  Leland Stanford had travelled all the way
from San Francisco and was encamped in the style of an Indian rajah in
marquees three miles north of town, dispensing largesse on an Olympian
scale.  From Canyon City had come Mayor Halsey and Judge Perry, and
down from Oregon Billy Joe Speed's old trail-boss Cal Frenn.  Much of
Moriarty's team's past and most of their present were now in Yuta City;
and all of their future.

It seemed to the natives of the city itself that the whole world was
pouring into their home town, and three hotels were hastily built to
accommodate two hundred guests at a hundred dollars a night.  These new
hospices covered their construction costs in the first week, as guests
slept in baths, on billiard-tables, in the livery stables, even on the
floor and on the bar itself.

But the three extra hotels could not contain the thousands threatening
to engulf the little town, and two other townships began to take shape
on the outskirts of Yuta.  One, to the north, was called Boyle City,
and consisted of Boyle team devotees and their fans; the other to the
south was called Brennanville, suitably patronised by Brennan team
supporters.  Both were crazy, haphazard collections of tents and
lean-tos, but were microcosms of Yuta City, containing bars, beds,
brothels and the equally essential privies.

The Boyle group were lodging at the Yuta Hotel.  Moriarty and his team,
at the Excelsior, studiously avoided meeting them.  Instead, they
confined themselves to their course-inspections and to the dark
confines of their rooms, playing endless games of poker, dominoes and
black-jack for imaginary bets.

But Moriarty was fast running out of ploys to keep his men amused.  The
physical time was over; the race now lay in.  their minds, for that was
where it would be won or lost.  Moriarty, usually voluble, seemed
reduced to only one phrase: Them that don't give up are never beat." He
kept saying it again and again until it became a litany, almost a hymn
to the three men.

As Moriarty, Buck and Billy Joe saw it, their tactics would be simple
and flexible.  On the first lap the aim would be to have Billy Joe ride
against the Indian for almost the whole five miles, across the Big Wet,
over El Diablo and back to the sprint-marker, set at a furlong from the
finish.  There he would dismount and make his final dash.

Behind Billy Joe and the Indian, Moriarty and Tulloch would slog it out
on foot, only picking up their mounts for short rests at the
sprint-markers.

Then, when Moriarty arrived back in town on horseback, ideally with a
few yards' lead-on Tulloch, Buck would take to the saddle and ride
against Headley, again for most of the course, up to the quarter-mile
marker.  There he would dismount and run all the way to the finish, to
complete his lap.

With any luck, there would then be no need for Moriarty and Tulloch to
battle it out over the final lap, for they would by then have
established a 2 0 lead.  If, however, the contest was level, then
Moriarty and Tulloch would in the final lap ride four miles to the mile
marker, where they would dismount and fight it out on foot.

But that was to paint a simple and optimistic scenario.  For if things
were going badly with Moriarty it might be necessary for Buck or Billy
Joe, if they had established a decent lead on horseback, to dismount
early to allow Moriarty more time on horseback to catch an opponent on
foot.  Buck and Billy Joe would therefore carry binoculars with them,
to check on the progress of the race behind them and to make any
necessary tactical adjustments.

19 October, Yuta City

Judge Haynes cleared his throat and looked at Pete Boyle and Bill
Brennan sitting across the table.

"You two boys seen the horses?"

The men nodded.

"Now, we got ourselves one black, one grey.  Both big in the haunch.
They'll last the course, no question."

He reached into a fob pocket and withdrew a dice.  "The contract states
that you throw for choice of horses.  You gentlemen ready?"

The men nodded once more.

Bill Brennan threw a five and smiled.  Then Pete Boyle threw a six.

"I'll take the grey," he said.

"Don't matter much," said Brennan, scowling.  "I reckon it's the men
that counts."

"Then that's settled," said Haynes, his hands flat on the table.  "Now
we got what in law we would call a more contentious question.  And I
freely admit that the fact that it ain't in the contract is my
responsibility and mine alone."

He pulled on his nose.  "Let's say, gentlemen let's just say for the
sake of argument that we get three dead heats, or one win each and a
dead heat.  Let's just say that, for argument's sake, tho' it's an
unlikely possibility."

Neither of the other two men responded.  Haynes looked at each in turn,
took a spotless white handkerchief from an inside pocket, withdrew his
glasses and started to polish them.

"Now that would mean that we had a tie."

"What are you suggesting, Judge?"  said Brennan.

"I respectfully suggest that you throw now, here, for the Big Wet in
the event of such a tie.  That means we get rid of all arguments, all
debate, should such an unlikely situation occur."

"All right with me," said Brennan.

"Me too," said Boyle, shrugging.

"Okay," said Haynes.  "Throw."

This time Boyle rolled a two and could not suppress a groan.  But Bill
Brennan rolled a one.  The advantage was with Boyle.

THE BIG RACE

11.20 a.m."  the day of the big race.  Main Street was no more than a
tunnel a tunnel of four thousand shouting, gesticulating men, women and
children, extending through the town then thinning all the way out into
the country, past Brennanville towards the Big Wet and back through
Boyle City for a mile towards the base of El Diablo.  Judge Haynes'
officials were already posted at quarter-mile intervals all the way
along the course.

It was a hard, cloudless seventy-eight degrees, perfect for sprinting
but bad for distance-running.  Moriarty's water-bags would be worth
their weight in gold.

All that morning both teams had stayed in the cool of their hotel
rooms, behind shuttered blinds, while below them on the hot streets a
turmoil of dog-fights, freak-shows, cockfights, wrestling and medicine
shows competed for public attention.  For once the Theatre of the West'
was not on offer.

At 11.30 a.m. Moriarty stood up, stretched, went to the window and
pulled up the blinds.  The harsh glare of morning hit Buck and Billy
Joe, lying eyes closed, but not asleep, on their beds.

The two younger men stretched like contented cats and sat up, yawning.
Moriarty looked at them, half-naked in their long-Johns.  Not a pound
of spare flesh between them: old Judge Haynes' Greeks would have
recognised Buck and Billy Joe for what they were runners, Fast Men. For
a moment he wondered what the Greeks would have made of him.

And yet he knew that he was in the best condition he had been for a
long time, in some ways the best shape of his life.  As he slipped on
his brown moccasins he felt a cold spot at the pit of his stomach.  He
had not felt it for years, not since his last big races in St.  Louis
four years back, and he was glad.

11.45 a.m: there was a sustained roar as the two teams walked through
the crowds to the start, a white banner proclaiming "Big Wet Challenge
Race'.  Boyle's team was led by Pete Boyle himself.  They were all
dressed English style, in white long-sleeved silk vests.  The Indian
and Josiah Headley were clad in white long-Johns over their
undershorts, with leather on the inner thigh because of the chafing
involved in the riding, but Tulloch wore tartan knee-length shorts,
with similar thigh-protection.  All wore brown moccasins.

Moriarty's team, headed by Bill Brennan, had also gone for white silk
vests, but with two differences.  First, they bore across their chests
a thick blue band; second, the surface of the silk had been perforated
with holes Moriarty's idea in order to let cooling air to the skin.
Buck and Billy Joe had greased the insides of their thighs underneath
their riding long-Johns, while their brown moccasins had also been
greased inside, to reduce friction.  Finally, each man wore a sweat
band, something Moriarty had noted in his past races with Mexican
distance runners.

For himself, he wore white silk shorts, wide at the thigh.  Like
Tulloch, he would not be riding for long stretches, but unlike the Scot
he had decided against thigh-leathers.  He had instead like Buck and
Billy Joe greased his inner thighs with lard in preparation for the
final lap, when there would be four miles of riding before the final
one-mile run to the finish.

On the balcony of the Excelsior Hotel, directly above the start,
Eleanor, Hettie and Mandy stood with Edwin Booth and Phineas T. Barnum
and a white-haired Alan Cameron, Moriarty's father.  Edwin Booth was
troubled.  All the New York insurance companies, mindful of Dr.
Sutherland's words in the local press, had refused to cover Moriarty.
If he died, there would be nothing for his dependants.  He had not told
Moriarty.

Eleanor's demure, smiling exterior belied her feelings.  She had seen
Moriarty only for a few moments the day before, when they had arrived
in Yuta City.  She had still not told him of her pregnancy, and the
combination of a judicious wardrobe on her part and Moriarty's intense
preoccupation with minute details had avoided any questions from him.
It had been an easy pregnancy, and by all calculations there was a good
fortnight to go before the birth, by which time they would all be
safely back in New York.

But her plans had gone astray.  Only an hour before, she had felt the
first contractions, and now they were coming at ten-minute intervals.

She scanned the crowd below and the balconies on each side for Doctor
Halliwell.  She had met Halliwell, who had travelled up from San Rafael
for the race the day before, and had confided in him about her
condition.  He had agreed to position himself nearby throughout the
race, in case he was required.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  He
couldn't have forgotten?

Judge Haynes, standing on a dais at the start, rang a bell for silence.
The crowd of six thousand was soon hushed and for a moment all that
could be heard was the light flapping of the banners above the
starting-line.

"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen," Haynes shouted.  "Today we see what
may be the beginning of a new era.  All of us, we've seen bad things in
our time.  Injun massacres, back-shootings, we've seen it all here in
Yuta County.  Now we have a dispute between two leading citizens, Bill
Brennan and Pete Boyle, over a stretch of water, the Big Wet.  They
could've seen it settled in violent fashion, guns brought in from
outside, good men killed, good women widowed long before their time.
But they didn't.  They decided to settle it not with guns but with a
foot-race.  Only what we're about to see here ain't just a foot-race
no, I truly believe it's the start of modern times.  And that's because
Bill Brennan and Pete Boyle here' he gestured to the men on either side
of him 'have agreed to have it settled in civilised fashion like the
ancient Greeks did back in olden times, by a race man against man, on
equal terms."

He pointed down to Moriarty and Tulloch with Billy Joe and the Indian,
already mounted, and paused.

"Now," he said.  "So that the rules are the same for both teams, each
team is allowed to carry a set of glasses with its horse so that they
can see how the runner behind is faring.  And each group of contestants
can carry as much water as they want and pick up extra water-bottles
from my officials at the base of El Diablo."

Judge Haynes paused again.

"Gentlemen, it is a minute to midday on 20 October, 1878.  Are you
ready?"

Below him Moriarty, Tulloch, Billy Joe and the Indian nodded.

Three laps of five miles, horse and man, two men from each team in the
first two laps, only one in the final lap.  The final furlong of the
first lap must be run by the sprinters, as must the final quarter of
the second by the quarter-milers, and the last mile of the third lap by
the last two runners."

He picked up a pistol from a small table at his side, cocked the gun
and raised it above his head.

"Gentlemen, take your marks."

Moriarty looked at Tulloch for the first time: lean and brown, with
mutton-chop whiskers the fastest miler.  on earth.  Billy Joe and the
Indian, poised on their mounts, looked sideways at each other without
smiling.

"Get set..  ."

Again, only the flapping of flags could be heard.

The gun and the roar of the crowd were simultaneous.  Standing
alongside the Indian and Billy Joe, Headley and Buck slapped the rumps
of their colleagues' mounts.  The race was on.

Billy Joe went into an immediate lead, pushing his black mount through
the corridor of noise along the street out towards Brennanville on the
edge of town.  Behind them, Moriarty and Tulloch ran easily side by
side as if in another world.  There was a long way to go.  By the edge
of the tent camp of Brennanville Billy Joe was all of fifty yards
ahead, cutting through yelling supporters, while a furlong behind them
Moriarty and Tulloch still plodded side by side.

Judge Haynes had been nothing if not thorough.  All along the route he
had posted Apaches equipped with mirrors; they would flash back
mirror-messages to each other and so on to find the Apache chief, Grey
Horse, standing on the roof of the Buena Vista, and from there to the
street by megaphone.  Thus the waiting crowd in Yuta City would never
be out of touch with the progress of the race.  Grey Horse's first
report as the riders approached the Big Wet, with a mile completed, was
that Billy Joe was a hundred yards ahead of the Indian, with the
runners still trotting side by side about half a mile behind.  The
implications were clear: if he could retain that lead to the other side
of El Diablo, then the final furlong of running into Yuta City would be
irrelevant, for he would be too far ahead for the Indian to catch
him.

Billy Joe's steed plunged into the waters of the Big Wet, now lying
about two feet deep, and the black took the water clean, hardly
interrupting its stride.  Man and horse charged across the gap,
churning up mud and pebbles, and Billy Joe grinned widely as the
cooling spray thrown up by his mount fell over him.  As they reached
half-way he ventured a glance over his shoulder.

The Indian was just entering the water, over a hundred yards behind.
When Billy Joe made the bank on the other side and galloped up across
the shingle the Apache on duty was able to signal that the Texan was a
clear one hundred and fifty yards up.

Half a mile back, Moriarty and Tulloch were hardly breathing, padding,
flat-footed, side by side at six-minute mile pace along the grass
centre of the cart-track.  Their time had not yet come.

Billy Joe forced the black along the curving desert path, parallel to
the river, seeing up ahead of him, in the heat-haze, the brown
steepness of El Diablo.  He needed to put as many yards as he could
between himself and the Indian before the mile-long ascent, for he
feared the climb.

Back at Yuta City, the mirrors told Brennan and Boyle, now standing
together on the balcony of the Buena Vista, that Billy Joe had reached
the base of El Diablo, with two miles covered, with a lead of close on
400 yards and was beginning to climb.  The contest between Billy Joe
and the Indian looked a foregone conclusion.  There would be no sprint
battle over the final furlong because of Billy Joe's superior
horsemanship.  A mile behind, Moriarty and Tulloch still stolidly
plodded, locked together.

At the base of the mountain, Billy Joe made his only mistake.  For
instead of pacing himself up the rocky incline he immediately began to
sprint up it, dragging behind him the lightly sweating black.

After three hundred yards his legs had gone, his thighs heavy and weak.
He looked behind him down the mountain, gasping.  The Indian was
running up the slope at an easy, steady pace.  Billy Joe resumed his
running but each stride was an agony.  Two hundred yards later his
breathing went completely and he was reduced to a lurching stagger.
There was over three-quarters of a mile of steep, uneven mountainside
still to cover.  The only hope was if his horse could cover more
ground.  He hauled himself up on to the black and dug in his heels,
forcing the beast up the mountain.  Two hundred yards later the horse,
faced with so steep an incline, could move no further.  Billy Joe,
cursing, dismounted and resumed his painful struggle towards the peak,
holding on to the black's tail.  Behind him, the Indian was gaining
foot by foot, his resolve strengthening as he viewed his opponent's
faltering progress.

Billy Joe's body screamed for release as he staggered and stumbled up
the final furlong of mountain path, to the summit.

He hardly dared venture to look back, but at the peak he did.  The
Indian was only a.couple of hundred yards behind, perhaps less,
advancing remorselessly towards him.  Billy Joe remounted, took a swig
from his water-bottle, unwound his binoculars from the pommel and
looked down the mountain on to the plain.  Moriarty and Tulloch were
now across the Big Wet.  And Tulloch was leading by about a hundred
yards.  So Billy Joe knew that he might have to leave the horse early,
forty or fifty yards before the furlong marker, to give Moriarty an
opportunity to catch up.  He took another swig from the water-bottle on
his saddle, took the reins and re-mounted, before zigzagging down the
mountain.

Moriarty knew that he had met his match in Alec Tulloch.  The Scot was
a perfect example of an animal made for distance-running; he covered
the ground easily, lightly, as if its rough, uneven contours had been
made for his feet and his alone.  Even so, Moriarty was feeling good;
at this point a hundred-yard lead was nothing.

Billy Joe hit the bottom of El Diablo fast, galloping past the judges
and a tiny knot of whooping spectators assembled there.

He slapped the black's rump: just over a mile to the furlong flag where
he was obliged to dismount.

He re-crossed the Big Wet at a shaky wooden bridge, walking the black
across it.  Then he re-mounted and made towards the mile flag, only a
hundred yards beyond the bridge.  He looked back as he passed the flag;
the Indian was over three hundred yards behind.  He would take the
chance and dismount early, to give Moriarty more time on horseback.  In
any case, the extra few yards of running would help loosen his legs.

A hundred yards beyond the quarter-mile flag he forced his mount to a
halt, dismounted and tied the black to a yucca tree.  He pulled off his
long-Johns and trotted in his undershorts towards the furlong flag, now
only about a hundred yards away, trying to loosen the riding stiffness
from his legs.  He could hear the Indian thundering behind him on the
grey.

Billy Joe and the Indian came abreast of each other for the first time
twenty yards short of the furlong marker.  The Indian dismounted ahead
of Billy Joe but did not tether his mount.  He pulled off his
long-Johns as Billy Joe caught up with him, ten yards short of the
furlong flag.

"Okay, Fast Man," he said.  "Hit it!"

Fifty yards short of the tents of Boyle City, the Indian ran as if
pursued by demons.  Billy Joe fixed himself on his right shoulder, a
yard behind, as they raced through the tented corridor, with the Boyle
followers screaming their support.  The young Texan glued himself to
his man.  He had never run at such speed, his legs moving underneath
him in a flowing blur.  But the yard between them would not shorten.

Behind them, Moriarty was still lagging Tulloch by a hundred yards as
he approached the top of El Diablo.  He was breathing hard from the
climb, but was still feeling good.  He hoped that Billy Joe had noted
his position and left the black early to give him more riding time into
Yuta City.  Even a hundred yards of riding would suffice.  Soon he was
zigzagging down the mountain, his feet finding a natural rhythm: below
him lay Tulloch, the mile flag and a little knot of officials and
supporters.

Billy Joe and the Indian now ran through a sea of noise, for them a
corridor of effort, the disciplined reflexes of their years of running
focused into the few square feet between the raging, desperate crowds
on each side of the street.  With fifty yards to go Billy Joe had
closed to within a foot of the Indian: he had him, he could taste it!

But the Indian was no talented amateur, running for saloon money.  He
was class; he held form and drilled on remorselessly, with not the
slightest flicker of tension in his tawny frame.  Billy Joe had pulled
back another six inches at thirty yards to go; at twenty-five yards he
was level.  And still the Indian held.  He held, and the two men were
fused, their strides in perfect balance and rhythm.

As they hit the tape together, Billy Joe was certain he had got it. But
beside him the Indian, too, thought that he had taken his man.

Moriarty, eighty yards behind Tulloch, found the horse where he had
hoped it would be, tethered between the quarter-mile and furlong
markers.  The black was sweating heavily.  Moriarty patted its muzzle,
withdrew a cube of sugar from a pocket in the saddle and pressed it
into the black's mouth.  He mounted quickly and had ridden past Tulloch
by the furlong marker, just as the Scot was about to mount.  By the
time he had reached the chaotic start at the Buena Vista, where Buck
and Headley stood poised, Moriarty was into a sixty-yard lead.

"Billy Joe and the Indian, how'd it go?"  he gasped as Buck began to
mount.  Buck shook his head as he straddled the sweating black.

"No one knows," he shouted.  "The judge is sorting it out now."  He
pointed above him to the dais where Billy Joe and the Indian stood with
Haynes and his officials.

Moriarty looked up at Buck and nodded, then slapped the black's withers
and Buck galloped off.  As he did so Tulloch rode in behind him to a
waiting Josiah Headley, through crowds that were threatening to engulf
the central corridor.  Buck rode out towards the tents of Brennanville,
sixty yards in the lead, as above them sudden, dark storm clouds
blotted out the sun, casting Main Street into shadow.

Somehow Eleanor, on the balcony of the Excelsior, had managed to stay
erect at the start of the race, but when Moriarty had set off the pains
became more frequent and she had to ask Edwin Booth to fetch her a
chair, and Mandy to locate Halliwell.  Then, as Moriarty set off on the
second lap, she knew that it was no false alarm.  Her waters broke.
Eleanor stood stiffly and, beckoning to Hettie, made her way painfully
back into the Excelsior to the bedroom behind her.

The rains came fast and sudden, just as they always did, lashing down
in thick warm streams, turning to a pulp the thin grass of the
cart-track, streaming across Moriarty's body, making his vest and
shorts cling to his skin.  Behind him he heard the steady inexorable
slap of Tulloch's feet, the Scot now only thirty yards behind as they
came within a quarter of a mile of the Big Wet.

The rainwater poured into his mouth and eyes, but somehow, reflexly, he
kept the necessary breathing rhythm, slogging flat-footed, his feet
splattering on the slippery grass.  He was not tired, because the pace
was slow.  The real pain was still to come: both he and the man
plodding behind him knew that.

Ahead, Buck galloped through the torrents of rain and by the Big Wet
had added close on three hundred yards to the lead.  But the Big Wet
was no longer the tranquil stream Billy Joe and the Indian had faced;
swollen by the rains, it was a foaming, swirling rush of water which at
its centre was over five feet deep.  And still the rain poured down,
while above there was a rumble of thunder, and lightning gashed the
grey clouds.  Buck pressed the black into the Big Wet and soon they had
lost contact with the gravel base of the river and were swimming, borne
downriver by the force of the current.  Half-way across Buck felt the
animal weaken, and its head twisted and turned as it swallowed water.
He slithered off, still holding the reins, and swimming with one arm
and using a side-stroke leg-kick, painfully half-swam, half-drifted
through the choppy foam as they were pulled downstream.  Then,
suddenly, Buck's feet touched gravel.  He wallowed through the final
twenty yards on to the gravel bank, dragging the black behind him, and
sat, gasping, on the bank.

He stood for a moment and checked his mount.  The waters of the Big Wet
actually seemed to have done the horse good, for it had been sweating
heavily.

He took the field glasses which had been tied to the pommel and looked
back across the Big Wet.  Headley was over a hundred yards short of the
river, riding strongly.  Buck decided to give the black a breather, for
he had a big lead, and a rested horse would serve Moriarty well on the
final lap.  He unwound his water-bottle, took a swig, then seized the
reins and ran up on to a mound beyond the bank.  As he did so the
thunder cracked above, and soon it was impossible to see Moriarty and
his opponent, the rain and mist blurring the lenses of his glasses.
Buck decided to check again from the top of El Diablo, then make a
decision on when to leave his horse.  Certainly, as things stood, he
could afford to give Moriarty a fair amount of leeway.

He slipped back on to his mount and galloped back upstream to pick up
the path to El Diablo.  It was looking good, but all now depended on
how the decision had gone with Billy Joe.

Doc Halliwell had finally been located by Mandy in the El Dorado
saloon, blind drunk.  She had explained the emergency to Sweeney, the
barman, and six cups of black coffee later Mandy and Sweeney had
dragged a semi-conscious Halliwell to Eleanor's bedroom.

Halliwell sat propped in a 'chair in a corner of the room.  He peered
blearily around him.

Hettie looked desperately across the room at him from the bed, where
Eleanor lay, the sweat beading her forehead.

"Tell us what to do," she said.  "For God's sake, just tell us what to
do."

Judge Haynes looked at the result slips.

All around him was anarchy, as the Mexicans in the crowd made
finger-bets on the results while others simply hollered back and forth
across the street.  In all this chaos Haynes felt himself an oasis of
justice and reason.  At least the rain had stopped ceasing as suddenly
and dramatically as it had begun.

Finally, he was ready.  He stepped forward to the front of the dais,
but even before he had placed his hand on his bell to summon silence a
hush moved like a wave up Main Street, all the way to Boyle City in the
north and Brennanville in the south.

The Judge cleared his throat, then spoke into his megaphone.  "Final
decision on the first stage," he said.  The judges score it one for
Billy Joe Speed, one for the Indian, one for a dead heat."

He paused, and only the dripping of rain from the roofs could now be
heard.

"I rule it, and this is a final and irrevocable decision ... a dead
heat."

Bill Brennan looked at Pete Boyle.  Both his men would now have to win
if the Big Wet was to be his.

Moriarty and Tulloch hit the Big Wet together, immediately drifting
downstream, carried by the force of the current.  The rain might have
stopped, but the Big Wet, still swollen with water, ran heavy and fast.
The men swam side by side, occasionally touching bottom on the uneven
surface of the river bed.  Moriarty used a slow, strong breast-stroke,
while Tulloch swam on his back, using a short, sculling stroke.  To the
Apache White Fox, viewing the runners from the top of El Diablo, the
two men looked like insects drifting down river.  The Indian flashed
his message back to Yuta City.  The runners were level.

Buck was approaching to the base of El Diablo, taking it easy on the
horse and over a quarter of a mile up.  He dismounted and started to
run gently from the base of the mountain up its rapidly-drying clay and
grit surface.  He took the mountain as if it had been made for him, his
stride and his breathing in perfect unison.  It was hurting, true
enough, but somehow he preserved that fine balance that enabled him to
tolerate the pain, and somehow too this feeling transferred itself to
the black, which trotted easily behind him up the mile of winding rocky
incline.

As soon as he had reached the top Buck turned back and again took the
glasses from the pommel.  He looked down towards the Big Wet, and was
immediately able to pick out Moriarty and Tulloch making their way
across the river.  But what he saw amazed him for Moriarty appeared to
be pulling Tulloch through the water.  Buck shook his head and
refocused the glasses.  No, it was true: Moriarty was dragging Tulloch
out of the river and up the bank.

Eleanor, sweat pouring down her face in streams, lay in her bedroom
with Mandy and Hettie on either side of her.  The contractions were
coming ever faster.  Doc Halliwell now stood above her, reeling, held
up by Sweeney.

"Not long now," said Hettie.  "Take it easy."

Eleanor's breathing came in deep gulps.  "How's it going?"  she
gasped.

Mandy and Hettie, uncertain, looked at each other.

"The race," groaned Eleanor.

Mandy swiftly picked up the field-glasses from the bedside table,
walked to the verandah and pushed open the curtains.

She peered up the crowded street.  There was no sign of the runners.
She looked down at the crowd below, just as Billy Joe prepared to mount
his horse and ride out towards El Diablo.  He glanced up.

"Buck's ahead of his man," he shouted.  "Moriarty twenty yards back."

Mandy turned and re-entered the bedroom, closing the curtains behind
her.  She looked at Eleanor, lying on the bed.

The room was in disorder.  Halliwell had again collapsed and was being
dragged by Sweeney back to the chair in the corner.  Hettie, holding
back her tears, was desperately struggling with Eleanor's underclothes,
while behind her a maid had entered, carrying towels and a bowl of hot
water.  "Buck and Moriarty, they're both ahead," Mandy lied.

Buck checked below him on Headley's position.  The English runner was
only a hundred yards or so away and coming up the mountain like an
antelope.  Buck quickly remounted and rode hard down the slope towards
the foot of the mountain, where an Apache was relaying messages from
another Indian above him on the mountain top.

As Buck approached the base of the mountain he saw that Billy Joe was
there, mounted on a pinto, talking with an Apache.

Billy Joe saw him and waved.  "I got a dead heat," he shouted, riding
beside him.  "Me and the Indian."

"What about Moriarty?"  asked Buck.

"This Apache here says he's fifty yards or more down, so give him some
time.  Come off early."

Buck nodded and the two men rode together towards the quarter-mile
flag.  Buck took a glance back.  Headley was now at the base of the
mountain, only a hundred and fifty yards' away and coming fast.  Buck
slapped the black's rump and sped for the bridge across the Big Wet,
Billy Joe alongside him.  He was still uncertain how much time he
needed to give Moriarty.

Billy Joe pointed ahead to a flashing mirror, as they approached to
within a furlong of the quarter-mile marker, where an Apache was
relaying a signal on into town.  The Indian shouted something to him as
they passed.  The Texan's response was immediate.

"Now," he bellowed.  "They say Moriarty's a hundred yards or more back.
Come off now!"

Buck dismounted, and started to run towards the quarter-mile marker
where an official and some mounted supporters from both camps stood. He
resisted the temptation to push hard; if he did, Headley would take him
with ease.  Behind him, the Yorkshireman saw what had happened and
sucked in the yards between them, his grey foaming at the mouth.

Headley dismounted some fifty yards before the quarter mile mark, ten
yards behind Buck, who had jogged a furlong.  The Yank had clearly made
his first mistake, because the extra running must have sapped his legs,
taken his breath.  Barnsley would be avenged and on the cowboy's own
cabbage-patch, to boot.  Josiah Headley tucked in behind Buck on the
centre of the cart-track as on each side of the quarter-mile marker
supporters shouted them on.  This time he would have his man.

Moriarty did not regret what he had done, for Tulloch would have
drowned if he had not pulled him through the Big Wet.  It had been no
great decision to take, for no race was that important, and every life
undoubtedly was.  They had said nothing when they had regained the
opposite bank, but Tulloch had gravely shaken his hand.  Then they had
started up and begun to race again.  By the base of the mountain
Tulloch was a hundred yards ahead and running up the slope like a
stag.

From the balcony, Hettie Carr, using her glasses, peered down the
crowded tunnel of Main Street.  She knew by the roar of the crowd that
Buck and Headley were closing in on the finish.  Then she saw them just
beyond the tents of Boyle City Buck leading, but with Headley poised
menacingly on his shoulder.

Josiah Headley made his hit with a furlong to go, taking an immediate
two-yard lead.  But Buck let him get away, keeping his steady, relaxed
rhythm, holding his flow.  Then, with a hundred yards to run, came that
strange sound in his head telling him that it was now time.  The only
time.

"Boorap," it said in his head, and Buck smiled.

"Boomp," he said aloud, to Headley's back.

Buck went past Josiah Headley in a rush of legs, wiping out his lead
and going into a five-yard advantage with fifty yards still to cover.
But Headley had nothing in him left to offer.  Buck did not simply take
the tape, he smashed through it, and above him Bill Brennan danced a
jig of joy, while Hettie Carr wept and wept again.  She ran in to
Eleanor with the news.

But Eleanor was well beyond listening.  Halliwell had gained sufficient
coherence to mumble advice to the girls, and Mandy now stood above
Eleanor, who lay on the bed, legs spread, knees bent, groaning.  Mandy
dabbed the older woman's forehead with a wet towel, murmuring to her as
she did so, "Push, push."  As Hettie reached her the baby's head had
begun to show.

A mile from the line, the horses were at best only trotting.  Tulloch's
grey was foaming at the mouth and Moriarty's black was also beginning
to show signs of strain.  The riders heard the roars ahead of them, but
it was only at the end of the rapidly-narrowing corridor, almost
blocked by hysterical crowds, that Moriarty was told by an hysterical
Billy Joe that Buck had won that there was all to play for.

As they passed the finish almost in line Judge Haynes fired the shotgun
that signalled the final lap.  There was little left in the horses.
Their necks sweat-lashed and foam-specked, they slowly pushed
themselves past the start line.  Moriarty leaned forward, slipped
another cube of sugar into the black's mouth and whispered into the
animal's ear.  It would now be down to running rather than
horsemanship.  Behind Moriarty and Tulloch, Buck and Billy Joe made
their way back to the base of El Diablo, then started to walk up
towards the summit.  Moriarty was going to need all the moral support
they could provide.

Judge Haynes was in his element.  His marshals cleared a passage in the
street as the Apache on the hotel roof told him that Moriarty and
Tulloch had reached the Big Wet for the last time, Moriarty in a clear
hundred-yard lead.  He was pleased that there had been no questioning
of his decision on the first stage by Brennan and Boyle; indeed, the
two men had evinced no hostility to each other throughout.  Somehow the
foot-racing seemed to have totally dissipated the tension between
them.

Billy Joe took the glasses from Buck.

"You saw 'em?"  he said.

"Yup," said Buck.  "Just crossed the Big Wet.  Did I tell you what I
saw Moriarty do last time round?"

"Yup," said Billy Joe, peering through the glasses.  "It must be three
times you've told me."

He continued to look down into the scorched plain below the mountain.

"Moriarty's got it in the bag.  A two-hundred-yard lead and going away.
His horse is in much better shape too.  If he picks up another couple
of hundred yards on horseback between now and the mile flag, there's no
way that Scotchman's ever going to catch him over the final mile, no
matter how fast he runs."

Billy Joe handed back the glasses, just as Moriarty reached the base of
the mountain.  Billy Joe put his hands to his mouth and shouted down
the hill.

"Come on, Moriarty," he roared.  "You ole has-been!  Eyeballs out."

"He can't hear you," said Buck.

"I know," said Billy Joe.

The baby came easily, as if it were desperate to get into the world. It
slipped out in a rush, grey and slimy.  It had been only moments before
a fully conscious Halliwell had cut the cord and Eleanor had her baby
in her arms.

She kissed the baby's cheek, then looked up.

"How's he doing?"  she asked.

Hettie rushed to the window and out on to the verandah.

She knew that the worst had happened when she saw Bill Brennan's face.
Below them there was a hubbub in the crowd as the information also
reached them.  Brennan looked at her, his face a mask of disappointment
and concern.

"The base of El Diablo, at the bridge," he said.  "News is Moriarty's
stopped.  I'm sorry, ma'am.  He must be clean run out."

But at El Diablo Moriarty was far from finished.

He dismounted and inspected the black.  Above him on El Diablo, just
over a quarter of a mile away, Tulloch rode slowly down on the grey.
Moriarty knew that his own horse was spent.  It had been limping for
the past half mile, and its sweat-lashed neck was white with foam.
Moriarty slipped one last sugar-cube into the black's mouth as, at his
side, an

Apache flashed messages back to Yuta City.  But Moriarty was
unconcerned about either the Indian or the small knot of spectators
crowded at the base of the mountain.

The black would undoubtedly make it to the mile post, just over half a
mile away, for there was not an ounce of give-up in the beast.  But
enough was enough: the animal had given all he could ask of it, and
more.  Moriarty decided that he would run the rest of the route.

He patted the black's neck, and beckoned to the spectators to tend to
the animal.  Then he padded off, across the shaky wooden bridge
bestriding the river, towards the mile post which he could already see,
its vertical form distorted by the heat-haze.

He resisted the temptation to run hard.  It would take over two minutes
for Tulloch, on a tired horse, to catch up, and it would be foolish to
panic.  And the trot to the mile post would loosen him up, he reasoned,
and would be the perfect platform for the final mile of hard running
into Yuta City.

As he approached to within a furlong of the mile post, Moriarty could
hear the hoofbeats behind him.  He did not need to look back.  The
cadence of the hoofbeats told him that Tulloch's grey was not moving
much faster than he was himself.  The beast was done.  All that was now
left was the two men, as he had always hoped it would be.

Within fifty yards of the mile flag, at which stood two sombreroed
officials, Moriarty could feel Tulloch almost on top of him, hear the
wheezing and snorting of the exhausted grey.  Tulloch dismounted twenty
yards short of the flag, in line with Moriarty.  Behind him, the grey
collapsed in the brown dust, whinnying plaintively.

Tulloch said nothing as he took up his position on Mori-arty's right,
running with a fluid, springy stride.  There was no perceptible
increase in pace as they passed the mile marker to the whoops of the
two officials.  Rather, there was a steady increase in tempo, as if the
two men were running as one.

It took a quarter of a mile before Moriarty and Tulloch had run the
stiffness engendered by the ride out of their limbs.  Then they began
to move free and fast, at the relaxed, loping pace of the miler,
Tulloch, on Moriarty's right, ran with the spring and range of youth.
He had been bewildered by Moriarty's decision not to stay on his horse
at the base of the hill, almost as surprised as he had been when
Moriarty had dragged him through the Big Wet on the second stage.  But
Tulloch came from the hard school of Scottish pedestrianism.  He
believed that Moriarty had blundered in running rather than riding, and
with $30,000 at stake there was no way that the older man was going to
be allowed to win.

Moriarty knew that he was gambling not only with his own future but
with everyone's future.  But at the centre of his soul was a feeling
that they had come to Yuta City to run, not to ride in a damn
horse-race.  This was a footrace, and it was on the running-path that
it should be settled.  He knew that there was little logic in his
argument, but felt in his gut that he was right.

Moriarty had thought about it for months.  There was only one way to
beat Tulloch, and that was to lead from the start, pushing the pace,
taking the finishing sting from the younger man's legs, for he knew
that he could never match him in a sprint finish.

Beside him, on his left, he felt Buck and Billy Joe riding in a light
canter, pacing him as he had required.  He looked to Billy Joe and
nodded.  This was it: time to go.

Billy Joe and Buck broke their mounts into a trot and Moriarty upped
the pace slowly, drawing away from Tulloch.  At the half-mile stage he
was five yards up, running through a thin corridor of spectators into
the heat-haze towards the quarter-mile flag, his breathing now deep and
harsh.  A furlong from the quarter flag, at the fringe of Boyle City,
they hit the first big crowds, with Moriarty still in a six-yard
lead.

Eleanor had known that it was a boy even before she heard the baby's
first cries.  She had felt it as she gave the final, painful, immensely
satisfying push that brought young Alan Cameron into the world.  The
words of Hettie and Mandy had merely been confirmation of what she
already knew.  She held the slippery little bundle in her arms; its
tiny cries somehow blocked out the noises from outside.

Tulloch had been disconcerted by the strength of the older man's
commitment to run from the front.  Moriarty was pushing hard, not
perhaps at record pace, but well inside five minutes for a mile, fancy
running after ten miles on foot and four on horseback.

Then, just before the quarter-mile marker, Tulloch made his hit.  It
was not a sudden, conclusive hit his legs did not have the snap for
that.  Rather, it was a gradual opening of the stride, as both runners
entered the human tunnel that led to Yuta City.  With three hundred and
fifty yards to go Tulloch passed Moriarty, and there was an "Ole!" from
the crowd.

Moriarty hung in.  Tulloch was some two yards up and Moriarty's eyes
bored into a sweat-stain on the Scot's back.  That was all he could
see, as his breath raged in his throat, and he felt his hips begin to
drop.  Moriarty sensed that he was losing his man, sensed the umbilical
cord which linked them start to stretch as fatigue reached ever deeper
into him.  The sweat-stain on Tulloch's back had become a grey-white
blur, and for the first time he felt old and weary, and his legs began
to buckle as the accumulated hurt of fifteen miles of running and
riding bit deep into his core.  His breathing came in deep, rasping
gulps as he struggled to find the reflexes that would enable him, not
to win, but simply to finish with pride.

He glued his eyes to Tulloch's vest, straining to retain that thread of
contact essential if there were to be the faintest hope of victory,
desperately trying to prevent Tulloch's lead moving from the possible
to the impossible.  Through his fatigue something told him that he had
never run so well, never dug so deep; but Tulloch remained there, now
eight yards ahead, his lead appearing to grow longer with every
stride.

But Alec Tulloch was also feeling the pace.  It was not the running but
the riding and the hills that had taken their toll.  It was strange:
his breathing was still strong and solid, but he could feel himself
sink, his legs slowly bow as if he were bearing some massive weight.
Tulloch was where he had never been before, and was struggling to find
his bearings.

Eight yards behind, with less than a furlong to go, Moriarty was
holding firm, but there was nothing more left, only the reflexes of
quarter of a century of foot racing  He ran flat-footed and bow-legged,
his stride a parody of the fluent movement of a few minutes before.

Tulloch went suddenly.  With one hundred and twenty yards to go and ten
yards up he fell, his right foot reaching for a surface that was no
longer there, landing flat on his face in the soft brown dirt of Main
Street.  He lay spreadeagled, his diaphragm working desperately against
the ground in its efforts to maintain his breathing.  Tulloch was not
fatigued: it went beyond that, into a world where fatigue was merely a
stepping-stone to a great, dark, endless pain.

Moriarty did not see the fall.  Tulloch, a white blur in front of him,
simply vanished from his sight.  Then he himself was on the ground, the
brown gravel of the street mixed with blood from broken lips.  He had
fallen over the prostrate Tulloch and the two men lay side by side.

Immediately, William Bunn was above Tulloch.  Careful not to lay hands
upon his man, he bellowed, begged and pleaded with him.  Tulloch slowly
turned on to his front and, as in a dream, got up on to one knee, then
the other, facing in the direction of the finish, his eyes unfocused,
sweat streaming in channels over his dust-covered face.

Alongside Moriarty, Buck and Billy Joe dismounted.  Buck bent down and
hissed his name into his ear.  Moriarty did not respond, his breath
throwing up little puffs of dust on the surface of the street.

"Them that don't give up is never beat," said Buck.  Moriarty looked
sideways at him, a tear trickling down his right cheek.

Billy Joe did not bend down but stood above Moriarty.  He too was in
tears.  For he could see, as could Buck, Moriarty's condition arms and
legs raw and bloody, ripped by yucca and cactus, a body out of which
sweat streamed from every pore.  Perhaps, for the first time, Moriarty
was no longer a foot racer no longer even an athlete.

Billy Joe did not notice, as he stood above Moriarty, the silence that
now fell on Main Street, did not see that the three of them were
somehow suspended in time, as in some faded daguerreotype.

"Them that don't give up is never beat," he roared, pointing up the
street.

Moriarty lifted his head, his face a mask of dust.  Slowly he levered
himself to his knees.  He looked sideways at Tulloch, who rested on
hands and knees, impervious to the ravings of Bunn above him.

Moriarty staggered to his feet, advanced a few steps then fell on all
fours.  He shook his head, as if trying to free it of all losing
thoughts, then again got to his feet, speaking to himself.

"Never beat," he mumbled, wobbling towards the tape in a pathetic
parody of a running action.

He looked towards the finish, only a hundred yards away.  Surprisingly,
all was now clear, the tape thick and white, the way it had always
been.  Somehow, burrowing into a memory of running, the reflexes of a
quarter of a century of competition, Moriarty started to sprint,
talking to himself all the while.  True, it was not the sprint of a
Fast Man, but somehow it was running, class running, the running of a
master of his craft.

Moriarty pushed on through and beyond his pain, ignoring it as if it
were happening to someone else.  He ran with legs that he had no right
to expect to run, against the dictates of a body chemistry which no
longer made sense, against everything in him which told him to stop.
Moriarty ran the final hundred yards of his athletic career up the
narrow corridor of Yuta City, above and beyond himself.  As he hit the
tape, Buck and Billy Joe were there to catch him as he fell.

The Theatre of the West, boys," he mumbled through split lips.  "You
just saw it."

EPILOGUE

Bill Brennan ignored the result of the race.  He agreed with Boyle that
the water rights of the Big Wet would always be shared, both by them
and their heirs, and signed a document to that effect, witnessed and
notarised by Judge Haynes, on the morning of 21 October, 1878.

Moriarty showed no ill-effects from his great run and lived to the age
of 82, though he never again raced in competition.  With Eleanor
Cameron he duly set up the Theatre of the West in January 1879 at the
Jenny Lind Theatre, San Francisco.  Buck Miller and Billy Joe Speed,
prompted by Mandy and Hettie, resisted attempts by P. T. Barnum to hold
a world-wide series of match-races against Headley and the Indian and
instead joined Moriarty and Eleanor in their professional venture.

In 1892, Billy Joe Speed set up his own theatre, the Olympic, in
Denver, and the following year Buck Miller the Coliseum in Albuquerque.
In 1908 their Olympia Productions was one of the first modern movie
production companies.

In 1893, Moriarty met a visiting Frenchman, the Baron Pierre de
Coubertin, in New York, and advised him on the creation of a new sports
festival, the Olympic Games.  Four years later, in 1896, Moriarty and
Eleanor and their son Ian, Buck and Billy Joe and their wives, attended
the first modern Olympic Games in Athens.

Tom McNab, national athletics coach, TV commentator and consultant to
the Oscar award-winning film Chariots of Fire, published his first
novel, Flanagan's Run'm 1978.  It was an immediate success, climbing to
No.  1 in the Sunday Times bestseller list, becoming a Literary Guild

Main Choice in America, being awarded a Scottish Arts Council award and
going on to be translated into thirteen languages.

Drawing the material for his novels from a lifelong involvement in
athletics and its history, Tom McNab was the Scottish National Triple
Jump holder from 1952 to 1963, National Athletics Coach from 1963 to
1977 and created the Five Star Award in 1966, the world's most
successful athletics award scheme.

He covered the Moscow Olympics for Independent Television and, in 1982,
became TV-am's first Sports Editor.  In 1985 he contributed five
programmes to the BBC Radio 3 series, Words.

Tom McNab lives in St.  Albans with his wife, Pat, herself an
international athlete, and their three children.

Cover illustration by Christopher Brown Author photograph by Tiff
Hunter