Path of the Tiger, стр. 421

Both men nodded, the tension in the air between them palpable.

‘Then gentlemen, take your places! When I fire this gun, you may race!’

The Indian man pulled an ornate revolver from his suit pocket and pointed it skywards as both of the horsemen prepared to race.

Up on the veranda, Earl Cavanaugh raised his brandy glass to his thick crimson lips and swigged greedily on the fiery liquid as he watched the horsemen ready themselves. He even allowed himself a brief smile and a chuckle as he perused Kelly’s competitor through his field glasses.

‘You’ll not be the first man I’ve fed to my tigers, Kelly,’ he rumbled. ‘They’ve feasted on plenty of wogs before, but this is the first time they’ll taste Yankee meat.’

‘Confederate meat, Cavanaugh. Confederate meat,’ Kelly said with a smirk.

‘If you say so, Kelly. Personally, I don’t think the tigers will care much about the distinction.’

‘I think they’ll have to keep eating wog meat.’

A puff of smoke emerged from the barrel of the pistol, and a second later the sound of the shot reached the ears of the spectators. Kelly jumped out of his seat, his eyes wild and his pulse racing at the sight of the two horsemen spurring their mounts into a furious gallop as they steamed along the course, neck and neck.

‘That’s it, boy!’ he shouted hoarsely, thumping an eager fist on the white-painted rail of the veranda. ‘Show that frog just how damned well you can ride, show him damn you!’

The two riders were fast approaching their first sets of targets. The Frenchman hoisted his lance up in his right hand, adopting an unconventional overhand grip, while his woolly-haired, grubby competitor held his lance with the standard underhand grip. The Frenchman speared his first target dead centre, and with fluid grace he spun the lance about above his head and brought it suddenly down in a vicious stab, perfectly transfixing the next target as he sped past it.

The rider next to him, however, missed his first target with a very poorly timed and inaccurate thrust, and then, distracted by the Frenchman’s flair, he missed the second as well, and started to fall behind the pace.

Kelly howled with rage and disgust as he saw his rider miss the first two targets, and in a fit of anger he flung his brandy glass onto the chequered black and white tiles, upon which it shattered.

‘I’ll add the cost of that tumbler to the hundred pounds you’ll owe me by the end of this race,’ Cavanaugh remarked with a smug grin. ‘Although, seeing as you’re unable to pay that, I suppose that just means I’ll throw your rider into the tiger pit along with you. Or perhaps I should throw you both to the crocodiles instead…’

‘Shut up Cavanaugh!’ Kelly snapped, his tenuous grasp on his violent temper slipping. ‘The goddamned race isn’t over yet!’

‘If he misses the next marker, it is over,’ Cavanaugh said in a tone of quiet danger.

It was then, however, that Kelly’s rider made his move. He crouched low and leaned out of his saddle to the right as he approached his next target – and this time he speared it with perfect accuracy. Then with rapid precision he swung his whole body over so that he was now hanging off the left of the horse, and he impaled the next target as well, while still managing to gain on the Frenchman, who was a few horse-lengths ahead.

Kelly, watching intently, whooped and punched a white-knuckled fist into the air.

‘That’s it boy! That’s it, damn you!’

The rider had now almost caught up to the Frenchman, and he was spearing targets dead-centre, and not losing an ounce of momentum as he did this. Just after he stabbed the last of his targets, he found himself neck and neck with his adversary, who glanced over his shoulder with sudden alarm at the ragged vagabond, who looked as if he was about to overtake him. With a sneer that was equal parts disgust and aggression, the Frenchman cast his lance aside and drew his sabre, preparing to cut at the first of the head-sized melons. Swinging agilely out of his saddle, he aimed his sabre with careful precision, and with a deft flick of his wrist he sliced the melon in half as he raced past it. With a loud and self-satisfied laugh, he raised his sabre to make the next cut, and glanced to his left, only to see that his opponent had already cut three of the melons and was surging ahead, leading him by a number of horse-lengths.

‘Sacre bleau! Merde!’ he shouted harshly, kicking and whipping his mount with the flat of his blade in a flurry of competitive rage.

With his rider making impressive progress, Kelly was dancing a jig and grinning like a madman. Cavanaugh watched the unfolding spectacle through his field glasses, his face darkening further with every horse-length that Kelly’s man put between himself and the now-trailing Frenchman.

Kelly’s rider hacked the top off the final melon, and without even shooting a glance over his shoulder at his opponent he directed his mount into the slalom course. Horse and man were as one as they snaked and sprang and twisted and turned, slipping through, past and over obstacles with the fluidity of eels between river rocks. The rider cleared the final jump, and then readied his sabre in his hand as he galloped hard at the dummy by the finish line. As he reached the dummy he leaned to the side, and with a smooth thrust he stabbed the sabre straight through the painted-on heart. He released the weapon from his grasp the instant it transfixed the dummy, and then he steamed across the finish line, leaving the embedded sword quivering in the human-shaped sack of straw.

After he had finished, he reined his froth-sweating horse in and slowed down, wearing a satisfied smile on his haggard, grubby face, and then he turned around to watch his flustered opponent come charging in.

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