"I can't see him."
"Stick around that door 'n' you'll see him all right!" Blister assured
me. Scarcely had he finished when the straw rustled and a huge head
shot forward into the planes of moonlight that slanted between the bars
into the black mystery of the stall.
Never had I seen anything so malevolent as this head. Its eyes were
green flame, holding the hate of hell in their depths. The mouth was
open, and the great white teeth closed with a snap on one of the bars
and shook it in its socket.
So this was the noted man-killer, nicknamed because of his size and his
astonishing ability to carry weight--The Big Train! His fame had been
borne by leaded column beyond the racing, and to the more general
public; for on several occasions he had succeeded in furnishing the
yellow newspapers with gory copy.
He had begun his career as a man-killer in his three-year-old form. An
unscrupulous owner had directed the jockey to carry an electric battery
during an important race. Under the current The Big Train had run like
a wild thing, and despite a staggering load placed on him by the
handicapper, had won by many lengths.
After the race the stallion had reached back, and getting the jockey's
leg between his teeth, had torn him from the saddle. Then before a
screaming, horror-stricken grand-stand he had stamped the boy into a
red waste.
This was his first and last public atrocity. He had killed men since,
but always when they were alone with him.
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