Chapter X: Rattlesnake

All of Shin Bone’s victims were sitting in the grandstand when Shin rode on the track that afternoon to exhibit his newly purchased horse.

“Hello, Shinny!” Hitch Diamond yelled. “Whar you git dat plug?”

“Marse Tom sold him to me fer fawty dollars,” Shin grinned. “You all he’ped me to pay fer him when you bit like suckers at dat fishin’ worm!”

“Is you gwine race him?” Pap whooped.

“Suttinly. He goes in de las’ race.”

“Is you gwine bet on him?” Prince Total squealed.

“I bets eve’y cent I’m got,” Shin grinned. “Dis hoss’s name is Rattlesnake, an’ he’s pure p’ison.”

Shin trotted his horse down the track, and the negroes watched the stiff hind leg of the animal and noticed that the horse never raised it far enough above the ground to prevent it making a long mark upon the turf. Shin galloped back in front of his friends, and the crippled horse awkwardly dragged his stiff leg, making a longer and deeper mark upon the track.

“I wonder ef dat nigger really means whut he say?” Pap remarked as he sat back in his seat.

“Whut race is you in, Pap?” Hitch Diamond asked.

“I starts Nigger Blackie in de las’ race,” Pap told him. “I bet Doodlebug yistiddy an’ lost him, but I speck he’s gwine in dat race, too. Of co’se Nigger Blackie kin beat Doodlebug--he done it yistiddy.”

“I thought Nigger Blackie b’longed to Skeeter Butts,” Hitch said.

“Naw, suh. I winned Nigger offen Skeeter yistiddy.”

“How many hosses in dat las’ race?” Prince Total asked.

“Gawd knows,” Pap sighed. “It’s de las’ race of de fair. It’s a free-fer-all scramble, an’ eve’y nigger in dis parish kin git in wid a race-hoss ef he wants to.”

“I tells you whut, niggers,” Hitch Diamond suggested. “Shin Bone is done robbed us of a heap of money; now less go down an’ bet agin him an’ his hoss an’ rob him of all de chink he’s got. Dat stiff-leg Rattlesnake cain’t run--any hoss kin beat him as fur as you kin shoot a gun.”

“I favors dat!” Pap exclaimed. “Dis is de las’ race of de las’ day of de fair. I favors makin’ it de las’ of Shin Bone. I’s done got plum’ nauseated wid dat nigger anyhow.”

They waited on Shin in a body and proposed to take all his money away from him.

“I bets dollar fer dollar, niggers,” Shin replied smilingly. “I is got one hunderd an’ sixty dollars, an’ I lets it go easy.”

“Who holds de stakes?” Pap Curtain asked.

“I dunno,” Shin answered. “I ain’t figgered on dat.”

“How will Whiffle Boone suit?” Pap inquired:

“She suits,” Shin said indifferently. “Less hunt her up.”

They found Whiffle in the grandstand and explained what they wanted her to do. She gladly consented and accepted their money, keeping a record of the amount of their bets.

When the men left her Whiffle sat for a long time in deep meditation, then she started on a search for Shin Bone.

Shin was busy at the stable plaiting Rattlesnake’s mane and tail into long, hard braids, a half dozen on the mane and as many on the tail. He was working eagerly, confidently, with the manner of a man who knew what he was doing.

“Shinny,” Whiffle asked, “who is gwine ride yo’ hoss?”

“I’m is.”

“Is you shore you is gwine win, Shin?”

“Suttinly.”

“I don’t see how dat cripple hoss kin run,” Whiffle remarked in troubled tones.

“It do ’pear like dat stiff leg hinders him some,” Shin grinned. “But I done found out somepin ’bout dis hoss: he ain’t skeart of nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”

“Dat discover don’t make him run no faster,” Whiffle replied.

“No’m. But ef I was to tie a rattlesnake to his tail I ’speck he would run some.”

“Huh!” Whiffle snorted disgustedly. “You ain’t gwine tie no snake to dat hoss’s tail.”

“Dat’s a fack,” Shin snickered. “I’s skeart of snakes. But I tells you dis honest, Whiffle: ef you got any money to bet, you bet it on Rattlesnake. I wouldn’t tell you dis ef I didn’t love you more’n anybody!”

“I owns one hunderd dollars, Shin. Me an’ Pap winned in de race whut busted you up yistiddy. I’s gwine bet on Rattlesnake fer yo’ sake, because I loves you.”

It seemed a long time to Shin Bone before the last race. A good hour before that contest of speed Shin had Rattlesnake saddled and waiting.

When at last the bell rang for the final racing event of the fair Shin mounted his stiff-legged steed and rode slowly out upon the track. He counted and found that fifteen other horses were entered, the only formidable rivals to Rattlesnake being Doodlebug and Nigger Blackie.

There are various methods in use among horsemen to extract speed from their race-horses.

Sometimes a jockey carries an electric battery in one of his riding boots, and the battery is connected with copper wire to his spurs; sometimes the battery is hidden in the saddle and the saddle is stitched and lined with copper wire; sometimes the battery is concealed in the butt end of the riding whip. These methods often lead to the detection of dishonesty. A better way is to carry a hand buzzer and apply the juice until the race is won; then the jockey can toss the hand buzzer over the fence and defy the inspection of the judges. Sometimes a groom or rubber pours a bottle of liquid called “High Life” over the horse’s back, or administers a dose of dope; in that case the jockey has the struggle of his life to prevent his horse from climbing into the judges’ stand before he can get a start.

But Shin Bone pulled the most unique stunt ever attempted on a race-track.

The best speed extractor in the world for white flesh, colored flesh, or horse flesh is Fright. Fear will make a lame man walk, a crippled horse run, and a paralyzed negro sprout wings and fly.

Shin rode Rattlesnake without spurs, or whip, or dope, or high life, or electricity. All in the world that he had to induce his horse to run was a handful of toy baby rattles which he had swiped from the nursery of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s grandchild. Woven in Rattlesnake’s plaited mane were half a dozen celluloid balls, containing two or three buckshot each and marks outside of a baby’s tiny teeth.

As Rattlesnake stumped about on his stiff leg they made no disturbing sound; but Shin had learned by experiment that a little burst of speed started the rattling, and the big horse did the rest!

The fifteen horses trotted down toward the starter’s stand in a pretty fair alignment. Vinegar Atts, the starter, was tired of his week’s work and easy to please.

“Go!” he whooped.

Rattlesnake broke into an awkward gallop. Then Shin Bone reached back and pulled a string in the rear of his saddle.

Four noisy celluloid baby rattles, each suspended from a strong string, dropped down around the legs of Rattlesnake.

The horse heard that deadly, venomous rattle, and felt something touch his flanks and drop further and tap him on the legs; right behind his ears he heard a dreadful whirring sound, as if a snake were entwined in his mane!

He uttered a scream so shrill, so horrible, that every negro in the grandstand shuddered.

Then he leaped forward, and the pop-eyed negroes had never seen such running in their lives!

Rattlesnake’s body lay out in a level line, nose, shoulder, back, and his flying legs were a yellow blur beneath his straining body. But not all the thunder of his going could deaden the sound of that fearful rattle, which whirred like the wind in his ears, stirring the remembrance of suffering and sickness and the agony of the cauterizing iron!

Faster, faster, faster Rattlesnake ran, his feet spurning the brown carpet of turf beneath him, his crippled hind leg limbering up for the last time in his life and shooting his body forward like the piston rod of an engine.

The race was won in an incredible time.

As the terrified horse shot under the wire Shin reached behind his saddle and tore loose the cords which held the rattles flapping around the animal’s flanks; then he ran his hands through the plaited mane and pulled off the rattles which whirred behind Rattlesnake’s ears, and the horse slowly slackened his speed and stopped, his sides heaving, his breath coming and going like a giant bellows.

When the other horses came in Shin rode slowly back and held up his hand.

“Judges?” he called.

Vinegar Atts nodded his head and waved his hand toward the stable.

When Shin Bone dismounted at the stall Whiffle Boone ran forward with the tears running down her laughing face.

She jerked Shin’s hat from his head, turned it upside down on the ground and filled it with money. Then she threw her arms around the graceful, throbbing, sweating neck of the big sorrel horse.

“We win!” she sobbed. “Bless Gawd! We win!”

* * * * *

All this happened three years ago, and there has never been another race at any Tickfall Negro Fair.

For three years Shin Bone’s wife has been in charge of the restaurant which she bought with her winnings in the last great race. For three years Shin Bone has met every train with a light wagon drawn by a pie-faced, stiff-legged sorrel horse. His owner “wrastles trunks an’ gripsacks fer de white folks.” His horse is as fat as butter, but he runs away every time he hears a rattling sound.

Last fall Shin and Whiffle drove Rattlesnake out to the fairground and entered a two-year-old negro boy in the Better Babies’ contest. Colonel Tom Gaitskill had offered handsome prizes in this contest and was in charge.

“This is your son, Shin?” Gaitskill smiled as he entered the piccaninny’s name and age in a large book.

“Yes, suh.”

“I presume it is a eugenic, hygienic baby?” Gaitskill laughed.

“Yes, suh,” Shin replied, wondering at the same time what Gaitskill meant. “Yes, suh. He gits de you-jeans from his maw an’ de high-jeans from his paw. He’s a shore winner!”

Hoodoo Face.