Sam Bass Read Online Free Page B

incompetent and all the spectators and many of the riders were drinking, there were many cries of foul and many accusations, threats and fights resulting from them. It was as unholy a way to observe the sabbath as the devil has devised, and I had as little to do with it as possible. Any attempt of mine to break up a fight out there likely would have led to another fight, so I left the sportsmen to settle their own disputes. I rarely even went to the track except when a stranger would ride into town leading a thoroughbred behind him. I knew that he was a professional, and that he was going to taunt the locals into laying outlandish bets on some hometown favorite, and I knew he was going to win the race. On those occasions I would go to the track and do what I could to see that the race was run fairly, that the professional got his money, and that he got out of town quickly and safely.
    The track was a thorn in my side, and I’m sorry that my brother was so devoted to it. But nobody can be his brother’s keeper in all things. Nor could anyone foresee what terrible consequences would result when Sam caught the contagion in earnest.
    That happened the day he returned from a freighting trip to Sherman and walked into my office at the courthouse and stood trembling before me. “Dad!” he said. “The horse in my dream is tied outside!”

    The beast that had galloped through Sam’s sleep was a little sorrel mare, about two years old and fifteen hands high. She had only one marking, a white stocking leg, the left hind one. She was a fine animal, but I saw nothing about her that should inspire such ecstasy in a man. I’ve never seen an expression on another face to compare with what I saw on Sam’s. Moses must have looked like that when he beheld the burning bush, and the Emmaus pilgrims when the risen Christ revealed himself to them. It’s blasphemous, I suppose, to compare the effect of a mere horse on a man to revelations of God, but no other comparison will do. Sam trembled as he stood there staring at that animal, and his face shone with a light that I can only call holy. Finally he stepped to the mare as if in a trance and extended his hand, and the mare nuzzled his palm.
    â€œHow do you know it’s the one in your dream?” I asked.
    â€œI just know.”
    â€œThat mare belongs to Mose Taylor. I’ve seen her many times.”
    â€œI never seen her but in my dream,” he said. “I know she’s the one. I must have her.”
    â€œI doubt Mose will sell.”
    â€œHe’ll sell. God wants me to have her.”
    That’s the only time I ever heard Sam speak the Lord’s name outside our evening Bible readings, except in curses. His admission that God lives and works in our lives surprised me, and I was moved by it. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll help you find him.”
    Mose Taylor was a farmer. He lived in the eastern part of the county, off the McKinney road, and didn’t come to Denton often. But I knew him and, as I said, I had seen the mare before. Mose was standing at the bar in the Wheeler Saloon when I introduced him to Sam.
    Sam said, “I want to buy your mare.”
    Mose laughed. “So do a lot of people.”
    â€œI don’t want to haggle. How much will you take for her?”
    Mose regarded Sam with some surprise. “Six hundred dollars,” he said. His eyes roved over Sam, over his shaggy black hair, his unshaven face, his patched pantaloons and scuffed boots. “Not a penny less.”
    He might as well have demanded a million. I knew that, and I knew that Mose knew that. It was a ridiculous price for any horse in Denton County. But Sam didn’t bat an eye. “Give me time to raise the money, and you’ve got a deal,” he said. “Will you shake on that?”
    Mose didn’t want to sell the mare. He glanced at me, but I just gave a slight shrug. Then Mose extended his hand.