Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  I gave Junior a slow grin. “Mister Flood ought to be the one to ask if it’s all right.”

  Junior narrowed his eyes at me and clenched his little jaw, but didn’t say anything.

  Mister Sloan said, “Do you both understand the rules as were set forth in the agreement as signed by Mister Williams and Mister Flood?”

  I said, “Yes, sir,” and Junior nodded.

  Mister Sloan pointed toward my roan, where Wilson was walking him back and forth some twenty yards away, trying to calm him down. The damn fool had already remembered the racetrack and he wanted to run. He said, “Is that your entry, Mister Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  He said to Borden, “Junior, do you recognize that as Mister William’s entry?”

  Now it was Junior’s turn to give me a malicious smile. “Yeah, that’s his entry, but it ain’t the one he wanted.”

  “What?”

  “Nuthin’. It’s his running horse.”

  I was looking around for Flood’s horse, the fabled Bank Money. About then a horse came out of the shade where Flood’s buggy was and came trotting towards us. There was no doubt it was the horse I’d heard so much about. Even with what I had riding against him I had to admire the horse. He came prancing, his head held high, his ears pricked. As he came closer I could see his flowing lines, the powerful muscles in his hindquarters, and the chest that looked like a pickle barrel. He was nearly the match to the black except he was a bay. The hard-eyed, hard-faced ex-bronc-buster was up on his back.

  Mister Sloan said, “Mister Williams, do you recognize that as Mister Flood’s entry?”

  I smiled ruefully. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Junior laughed out loud. I didn’t even bother to look at him.

  Mister Sloan said, “Let us have the riders here.”

  I turned and waved to Wilson, and Borden did the same to his jockey. They both came cantering up. Mister Sloan said, “I want to make it clear to the riders that no interference will be allowed. You can’t interfere with the other rider either with your whip or your hand or anything else. Neither can you use your horse to impede the progress of the other animal. Such proceedings will render the offending rider subject to disqualification and the race will be forfeited.”

  The hard-faced jockey looked over at Wilson and then spit on the ground. He said, “Shit, he ain’t gonna get close enough to interfere with nuthin’ but my dust.”

  Wilson just looked over at him as if memorizing his face for future reference.

  Mister Sloan said, “The starter will be Mister Rodriquez here.” He indicated the Mexican gentleman. “He will take up his position on the start-finish line. When, in his opinion, he thinks you have your horses lined up in a fair manner he will fire his pistol. The race is at one mile, once around the track. The finish is the same as the start line. The winner will be decided by a majority of us three judges. All parties have agreed our decision is final and all bets will be paid off on that decision. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything. I was busy gazing out across the track toward the backstretch fence looking for Tom and his filly. There was no sign of anything, not even a stray dog. But it was still early and I had told him not to get there until just before the race.

  I was starting to get plenty nervous. There was a considerable amount riding on the race and not just the thirty-two thousand dollars. I would not be beat by a man like J.C. Flood, I couldn’t.

  Mister Sloan got out his watch and looked at it. “Gentlemen, it is now fourteen minutes to four. I suggest you take your horses on the track and begin getting them ready.”

  About then I noticed the number of people that were coming in the gate. There had been a few in the grandstands when I’d arrived, but now their number seemed to have risen to better than a hundred.

  Junior Borden had his nose in the air. He was the one standing the closest to the roan. He sniffed. “What’s that I smell?”

  I said quickly, “I got a cold. Do you mind?”

  He give me a mean look. “That’s about all you’re gonna have when this race is over.”

  Mister Sloan said to the other judges, “We better get up on the judges’ stand.”

  Looking toward the end of the grounds I saw Flood’s buggy come out from under the shade tree and start toward the track. I figured he’d park where he always did, on the right side of the judges’ stand.

  I turned then, and took the roan by the halter and started leading him to the gate that admitted onto the track. When I was out of everyone’s earshot I stopped and said, “Wilson, whatever you do, don’t get alongside Flood’s horse on the outside. Especially on the backstretch.”

  He said, “I don’t reckon to be that close to him on the backstretch.”

  “And hold him back, hold him back. Save everything you can for the last half of the race.”

  “Hell, he wants to run right now.”

  “Yeah, but he don’t know that this is a mile race and that he can’t run a mile all out. You’ve got to instruct him.”

  “Here,” Wilson said. He took off his hat and handed it to me. “Hold that and don’t roll up the brim like you done last time. And don’t sweat on it. I paid fifteen dollars for that hat.”

  “It was twelve the last time.” I took the hat with one hand, still holding the roan’s halter with the other. “Let the bay go. Just let him go.”

  Wilson gave me a look. “I don’t think I’ll have much trouble doing that.”

  “You just get to the inside rail and stay there.”

  “Ought to be unoccupied.”

  We were at the gate. I looked up in his face. “And don’t be surprised at anything that happens in the backstretch.”

  He gave me a look. “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Just don’t be surprised at anything that happens in the backstretch. Don’t pay any attention to Flood’s horse. Just ride your race.”

  He gave me the quizzical look again. “Is there something I ought to know?”

  I shook my head and let loose of the halter. The roan started out onto the track. I said, “Good luck.”

  I turned and started for the judges’ stand. There were horses and buggies all over the place. It appeared half the town had turned out. But I doubted that there were many bets down, not unless someone was giving staggering odds.

  I climbed the little steps to the top of the platform and joined the three judges and Junior Borden. Junior said, “Well, Mister Williams, care to make a side wager? I’ll give you eight to one against your horse.”

  I didn’t even bother to answer him. Mister Sloan said, “It’s eight of four, gentlemen.”

  Down below I could see Wilson riding the roan slowly back and forth, trying to get him to calm down. But the colt didn’t want to calm down; he wanted to race. He kept shaking his head against the constricting reins and prancing sideways. Bank Money was going about his business of getting ready like the old veteran he was. He knew when it would be time to run.

  Down and to the right I could see Flood’s buggy pulled up to the railing just beside the end of the grandstand. I figured he was already counting my money.

  Of course I didn’t have my watch so I couldn’t check the time, but I kept an anxious eye toward the fairgrounds and the road from town and the pasture beyond. It was time Tom was showing up. It was more than time for Tom to be showing up. My heart was starting to beat in quick time.

  Now both Wilson and the other rider were walking their horses back up the track and away from the starting line. I knew they would walk them until the beginning of the homestretch turn, and then walk them back to the finish line and the race would be on. Mister Sloan said, “Four minutes, four minutes until the race.”

  I could hear the crowd in the grandstands buzzing.

  Then, staring hard, I saw a faint dot coming across the pasture towards the fairgrounds. I stared as hard as I could until it turned into a horse and rider.

  The roan and Flood’s bay had reached the top
of the homestretch and were turning back toward the start line. The roan was still acting up in contrast to the placid way the bay was going about his business. The two horses started toward where Mister Rodriquez was waiting, revolver in hand.

  The dot that had become a horse and rider was nearing the gate that led into the west side of the fairgrounds. But he was still a good half mile from the backstretch railing, even once he got inside the fairgrounds.

  The two race horses were walking slowly, only about two hundred yards from the start line.

  I saw the rider reach the gate that led into the fairgrounds, saw him dismount to open the gate, saw him lead his horse through and then shut the gate before he mounted his horse.

  All the bad things I’d imagined had been running through my head. Tom would not show up, Tom would be late, Tom’s filly could dry up overnight, Bank Money would not be bothered, the wind would be blowing wrong.

  But all that didn’t matter because it looked obvious that the rider, and now I could see that it was Tom, would never reach the backstretch railing in time. Already the two horses were coming to the line with Tom still a good quarter of a mile away, even though I could see he was galloping the filly.

  The roan, for some unaccountable reason, had calmed down and was walking up to the starter’s line as cool as you please. So was Bank Money. It was going to be a fast start. As soon as Mister Rodriquez felt they were lined up he’d fire the gun.

  And Bank Money would be by the backstretch before Tom got within fifty yards of it.

  And then the roan decided to cut up. He neighed and tossed his head and suddenly turned back on himself and went trotting back up the track. It took Wilson fifty yards to fight him to a halt and get him turned and headed back.

  I let out a little bit of a breath, though there was still a considerable amount of events that had to fall in place. I put up a wet finger. The wind was blowing from my left, straight up the backstretch. It would be in the horses’ faces as they came off the turn.

  I watched Tom coming on, looking down and checking his progress with that of the colt’s as he came back to the starting line. For once one of the colt’s harebrained antics had worked out for the best.

  I saw that Tom had stopped about fifteen or twenty yards from the railing just as I had instructed. There were no other horses there. All the spectators were on my side of the track.

  Mister Rodriquez was not going to give the colt another chance to have a fit of nerves. As he got to the start line and Wilson pulled him up I heard Mister Rodriquez say, “Ready!”

  And then he fired his pistol.

  For the first hundred yards Wilson didn’t even try to hold the colt. He had the inside rail position and he just let the roan run. It was almost like the race Wilson and I had had with the black. And just like that race, the colt even managed to nudge his nose out front. But that was the only taste he was going to get, because Wilson began pulling him in just as the bay horse got into gait and began to move out.

  Across the track I could see Tom watching the racehorses and starting to walk his filly toward the backstretch railing.

  As they went into the turn Bank Money was leading by two lengths and pulling away. I saw the jockey glance back toward Wilson to see if he was clear to go for the inside rail, but the bay was running so fast his momentum was keeping him out in the middle of the track.

  By the top of the turn the bay had pulled out to a four-length lead, and began to stretch it as he rounded the last part of the curve and headed into the backstretch.

  Tom had now brought the filly up next to the railing.

  They came down the backstretch, the bay leading by seven or eight lengths. I could see that Wilson had the colt under good control. The roan was running easy, going along relaxed, hugging the inside railing.

  The bay was still pulling away, going with that long, ground-eating graceful stride. Then, about fifty yards from where the filly was standing, the bay suddenly raised his head from that beautiful stretching, straining position a horse carries his head in when he’s running full out and began breaking stride. I could see his jockey caught off guard trying just to hang on. At that instant the bay sheered off from the path he’d been running and headed straight for where the filly was standing. I could see the jockey fighting the reins, trying to keep his own seat and trying to jerk the bay’s head back up track and get him to running again.

  As he’d been told to do, Tom had turned his filly before the bay ever got within twenty yards of him and started riding away at a gallop.

  But the scent was still in the air and Bank Money was going crazy. He even reared, trying to get his forelegs over the fence. But he didn’t know any more about jumping fences than a mule.

  Wilson swept by. I could see his head turned as he stared. The roan never took any notice, just kept running at a good pace along that inside rail, saving ground.

  A young stud, like the roan, that has not been used to breed before knows the scent has something to do with him and it gets him confused. He knows he’s supposed to do something because everything in his body is telling him so. He just doesn’t know what. It generally takes at least a couple of exposures for a young colt to get on to the idea. But knowing or not knowing what to do would not at all have prevented the colt from going and investigating that strange and exciting scent coming from that filly. And Wilson would have had the same problem that Bank Money’s jockey was having if the colt could have got a whiff of that filly. But that wintergreen salve was just a little bit stronger than what the filly was putting off, so he’d just gone on about his business of running a race. It had been the salve I’d remembered Ben putting up the noses of stallions we had working around mares that were in heat. That way he could get a day’s work out of all of them.

  But of course, Bank Money didn’t have any salve up his nose, and he was an old, experienced stud who knew what that smell meant and what he was supposed to do about it. The instant that scent hit his nostrils, all thought of running a race went straight out of his head. There was just one thing he wanted to get tended to, and that wasn’t racing.

  To his credit Bank Money’s jockey finally got him away from the fence and his mind back on the race. Jerking on the reins and working him over with the whip, the little hard-faced man got the horse back on to the track and running. But by now, Wilson was a good hundred yards ahead and starting to enter the final turn. He looked back, once, as he rounded the top of the curve to see where Bank Money was, and then just let the colt go ahead and sail along at a good running pace.

  Bank Money tried. He made up a lot of ground on the colt, but he’d lost just too much to the filly to make it all up. The colt came across the finish line a good ten lengths in front of the straining bay.

  Mister Sloan looked at the other two judges. He said, “Roan colt wins?”

  They nodded.

  And then Junior Borden went to jumping up and down and screaming, “Foul,” and, “Interference,” and everything else he could think of.

  The stands were buzzing like a thousand hives of bees.

  Mister Sloan said to Junior, “I didn’t see any interference. The bay horse just cut over to the rail and quit running.” He looked at the other judges. “You see any interference?”

  They shook their heads. One said, “I didn’t. Wasn’t either one of them horses close to the other.”

  Junior said, “But that horse at the rail! Outside the track! That was a mare! Bank Money went for her. She must have been in heat!”

  Mister Sloan said gently, “Junior, both of those racehorses were studs. If that had been a mare in heat along that fence railing they’d of both gone for her.” He looked around at the other judges. “Right?”

  “They ain’t no doubt about that,” one of them said. The other said, “Raight.”

  Mister Sloan picked up a speaking trumpet. He announced to the crowd: “Roan horse wins. Horse owned by Mister Justa Williams wins. Decision is final.”

  I could see Mister
Flood’s buggy pulling away from the fence. It circled and came back around and stopped next to the judges’ stand. An arm waved, and Junior edged by me and went down to the buggy.

  Mister Sloan was speaking to me. “The money in the bank is yours, Mister Williams. How will you have it?”

  I was watching Junior at the buggy. “Just wire it back to the bank in Blessing, Mister Sloan. My banker will know what to do with it.”

  “Don’t want to leave it with me, eh?” He laughed.

  “Not right now,” I said.

  He put out his hand. “Well, congratulations. Hope we can do some business sometime.”

  We shook and then I shook hands with the other judges. As I started down the stairs I saw the buggy leaving the race grounds. Junior was waiting at the foot of the steps. He said grimly, “You can pick up Bank Money tomorrow at Mister Flood’s ranch at one o’clock.”

  I looked at him hard, wondering what they were up to. “Why not now?”

  Junior said, “Because Mister Flood has promised a neighbor to breed his mare in the morning. He said to tell you it was an appointment of long standing. Tomorrow at one o’clock. His ranch.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I walked over to where Wilson was sitting the roan. The colt was sweaty and his flanks were heaving. Wilson’s horse was there and I untied the reins and mounted. We still hadn’t said a word. With the colt leading we walked the horses through the crowd and out the gate and onto the road.

  After about a half a mile Wilson said, “That was the stable boy on that filly by the fence, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “And that filly was in heat and you had him put her there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s why you put that concoction up the colt’s nose, so he couldn’t smell her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you knowed all along that Bank Money was going to have a fit, didn’t you?”

  “If everything worked right.”

  He said, raising his voice, “Then why in hell didn’t you tell me! Junior was giving five-to-one odds! I could have bet a thousand dollars and won five thousand!”