“I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” Padgett stuck the cigar in his mouth and clamped his teeth down on it. “This is the worst part,” he said around the cylinder of tobacco, “waiting for the race to start.”
A few minutes later, the horses were brought to the starting line. The crowd filling the grandstands rose to its feet. The colors of the jockeys’ silks were bright in the afternoon sun. Longarm had no trouble picking out the green shirt worn by Cy and the red shirt that Matador’s rider sported. Both horses were toward the middle of the line. Not the Most advantageous position, but not the worst either.
The stillness of anticipation, of hundreds of held breaths, fell over the track as the starter prepared to fire his pistol. When the sharp crack sounded, the horses surged forward in a mighty burst of muscle and sinew. A many- throated shout rose from the crowd.
Longarm had seen enough of these races by now to be aware of some of the patterns that developed. He saw the fast starter kick out to the front of the pack and build up a short lead that soon began to shrink as the horse faltered and the others in the race came on more strongly. He saw the horses that liked the turns and those that preferred the straight-aways assert themselves in those places. The lead changed hands several times, and each time Longarm knew that that particular horse wouldn’t be able to hold it. They each fell back in turn, and others took their places. Caesar and Matador continued to run just ahead of the middle of the pack. Both horses were strong finishers, Longarm knew, and they were both staying in position to make their move.
Once around the track, then twice, and now the horses were in the final circuit. As they approached the last turn, Padgett leaned forward, his face brick red, and bellowed, “Now, Cy! Bring him on now, damn you!”
Cy couldn’t have heard that shout over the thunderous pounding of hooves down there on the track, but as if Padgett’s words had reached his ears, he began working the quirt harder on Caesar and drove the big blood bay forward at renewed speed. As the horses swept through the final turn, Caesar lunged toward the leaders, knifed among them, then darted ahead, wresting control of the lead for himself. Matador was still six horses back entering the home stretch.
Longarm bit back a groan. It looked as if Caesar was going to win again. He had honestly hoped—had felt certain—it was Matador’s day at last.
That was when a streak of chestnut-brown lightning erupted down the track, passing horse after horse. Matador was coming on; his jockey had held one last spurt of speed in reserve. But would it be enough now, or had it come too late? Longarm found himself yelling, “Come on, Matador, come on!” as the chestnut drew closer and closer to the bay. He ignored the glower that Senator Padgett sent his way and kept cheering for Matador. The finish line was close, maybe too close for Matador to catch up. His head was even with Caesar’s rump. Caesar was losing something, though, Longarm saw suddenly. The big bay’s gait wasn’t quite as smooth as it had been a second earlier. Cy should have waited to make the move, Longarm realized. Caesar didn’t have enough left to hold off Matador’s charge.
Matador’s head passed Caesar’s shoulder, and then the two horses were running neck-and-neck as the finish line loomed right in front of them. With one final lunge, Matador extended himself, and although it was extremely close as the two horses flashed past the finish line, everyone in the stands knew who had won the race. It was Matador by a nose. Longarm whooped and thrust both clenched fists into the air. Padgett cursed loudly, fluently, and profanely. He snatched off his soft felt hat, threw it on the floor of the box, and stomped on it in sheer rage and frustration and disappointment. Longarm turned to him, ignoring the way Mercer was desperately shaking his head in warning, and clapped a hand on the senator’s shoulder. “Look at it this way, Senator,” Longarm said, “at least your horse came in second.”
“Second!” Padgett repeated in an injured tone at the top of his lungs. “What damned good is second place? I won last time. From here on out, if I don’t win I might as well come in last every time!”
Longarm just shook his head. He couldn’t understand that reasoning. Second place wasn’t bad—in anything except a gunfight.
“I’m going to congratulate the Cassidy sisters,” he said to Padgett. “Don’t you reckon you ought to come along?”
“I’m going to go fire Cy! He never should have made his move when he did. He should have waited and made Matador commit first.”
Longarm didn’t point out that Padgett had been yelling for Cy to bring Caesar on for several seconds before the jockey had actually done so. If Cy had not waited as long as he had, the race wouldn’t have even been close.
Padgett sighed heavily and reached down to pick up his trampled hat. He tried to push it back into some semblance of its normal shape, finally gave up in disgust, and jammed the hat into his pocket. “All right!” he said. “I suppose I have to be a gentleman about this. Let’s go down to the winner’s circle.”
Trailed by Mercer, Longarm and Padgett made their way through the crowd in front of the grandstand and reached the winner’s circle after several minutes. Janice and Julie were there, tears of joy streaming down their faces as they hugged Matador, their jockey, their trainer, and each other. All the other owners were on hand to congratulate the Cassidy sisters, and their good wishes and excitement seemed genuine. Everyone was glad to see the lovely young blondes win for a change. They all knew how hard Janice and Julie had worked for this.
Padgett leaned over and kissed each of the sisters on the cheek. “Congratulations, my dears,” he said over the hubbub surrounding them, “I’m glad Matador won.” The words didn’t sound like they choked him—too much.
Longarm threw his arms around Janice and Julie at the same time. “I told you it was Matador’s day,” he said. “And it’s your day too.”
“Thank you, Custis,” Julie said somewhat breathlessly, “I’m glad you’re here to share this with us.”
“So am I!” said Janice. She pulled Longarm’s mouth down to hers, and whoops and cheers went up from the crowd as she kissed him.
Grinning, Longarm stepped back to let the twins bask in their glory a little while longer. He hated to think about ruining this celebration for them, but he still had a job to do, and for his purposes, this was the best place to wrap it up.
He slid his left hand into the pocket of his coat while his right hovered near the center of his body, not far from the walnut grips of his .44. His coat was pushed back a little, giving him easy access to the cross-draw rig. With his left hand, he took a bundle of the counterfeit money from his pocket. He had slipped into the senator’s room earlier in the day while no one was around and removed it from the false bottom of Padgett’s valise.
“Senator,” he said loudly, “I think you lost something.”
Padgett turned toward him, a puzzled frown on his beefy face, and Longarm tossed the bundle of bills at him.
