“You can’t talk?” asked Moser, a bully’s smirk on his less-than-handsome face.
“Best you go back to your horse before my dander gets up. I rather beat you in a race than in a fistfight.”
“I see we are in the same quarter of the draw. Maybe see you in the second race. But I doubt you’ll get that nag to win his first race.” Capp stayed where he was, clenching his fists, thinking how he’d like to throw a good punch at the jerk’s head, but Moser sauntered back to his horse and the opportunity was lost.
Rex, the announcer, busy preparing for the parade, went over his script. A reporter from the Springfield Republican was sprinting to the saddling area. A photographer along the rail was taking pictures, some on one knee, others leaning over the rail. James ran to invite both the reporter and photographer to dinner that evening; both accepted. A small brass band was setting up at the base of the viewing knoll and were soon playing their repertoire of songs.
At precisely ten o’clock, with the knoll now packed with eager spectators, a bell sounded and Rex Goude could be heard over the loudspeaker. “Good Morning. Welcome to Glidewell and a weekend of match races.” The crowd on the knoll and those near the rail ceased their conversations and listened. “Match races are one of the most exciting formats in horse racing. Just two horses giving their all, head-to-head. You are going to see eight matchups this morning. The winners will go into a winner’s bracket. The losers will be put in a consolation bracket. Every horse you see this morning will race again this afternoon. At the end of the day there will be four horses left in the winner’s bracket and four horses in the consolation bracket. Tomorrow morning those eight remaining horses will race again in their perspective brackets. At the end of the day tomorrow, we will have one winner from the winner’s bracket and one from the consolation bracket. But first let’s settle in and watch the opening parade.”
At the saddling paddock, all participants were getting ready for the parade. Capp was working on Mary’s horse. “Mrs. Glidewell, come on. Let me help you up in the saddle.” Capp carefully assisted Mary, then adjusted the stirrups. “You are going to do fine. Keep the reins in the left hand and hold tight to the American flag with your right,” Capp instructed. Suddenly the horse moved to the right, adjusting his stance. Mary lurched and nearly lost her balance. Hanging on to the flagpole for dear life, she called out for Capp, who quickly righted her, smiling.
“What are you smiling at?” Mary asked, clearly terrified.
“This mare is calm as still water.”
“You can drown in still water, you know,” Mary said nervously. “This flag is heavy. The wind makes it difficult.”
“You’re gonna do fine. Just trust the flag ain’t goin’ nowhere. That flag sleeve buckled to your saddle holds it firm.”
All the rest of the riders were climbing into their saddles. James mounted Lightning, patted the horse’s neck, and moved him slowly around to a less-crowded area of the paddock. The Glidewell horses were groomed and ready. Each horse with rider sported an orange blanket emblazoned with a large cobalt-blue G. Mary and James moved to the parade’s front. James sported a flag of Glidewell’s colors, orange and blue.
Some stable hands and groomers began lining up the parade, and when all were ready, riders and horses waited impatiently for the word to get started. Some of the horses, sensing they were going to race, were demonstrably anxious, neighing, snorting, shifting on their hooves. This made waiting very difficult for a few of the riders, especially Capp. Running Wild was throwing his head and stepping continuously as he waited.
The band began to play an upbeat march and Corky came out of the paddock on his ride, Devil Doll. That filly was a show horse and loved the crowd. Picking up her front legs high, she pranced onto the track seeming to keep time to the music. When the band stopped, Corky raised his bugle and began to blow. He ran his horse with great pageantry to the front of the parade. Corky maneuvered his horse into position and then had her rear up for a grand effect; the parade had begun. Maizie stood on the rail near the finish line. She and other observers yelled in support of Corky, his filly, and his shiny bugle.
Following behind Corky, as the band played on, were the Glidewells. Mary and James waved to the crowd and smiled broadly from their horses. The band quieted and Rex Goude announced Mary and James and then Chief Jack. “Following next is Chief Jack, riding his mustang, War Paint, without a saddle, just a blanket and a rope bridle. Wave to the crowd, Chief.” The Chief raised an arm and let out a whoop. Kicking his mustang on the flank, off he went in an impressive display of horsemanship. Building speed, the Indian leaned forward over the mustang’s neck. As he gripped the long hair on the horse’s mane in his left hand, his right arm helped him remain balanced. The two went around the bend and onto the backstretch, the chief confident, not bouncing but graceful. He seemed as comfortable as any man in a saddle. Horse and rider were one. Letting go of the mane and raising both arms in the air, he rode on: no saddle, no bridle, and no hands. When Chief finally neared the rail where his fellow horsemen waited, he pulled on the mane and the mustang came to a skidding stop. The show drew resounding cheers and a few war cries from the crowd.
Maizie turned to Sugar, who was standing next to her at the rail. “Did you see that, Sugar? Could you believe that ride?”
“That was a show. Why, I
