“In horse racing, James, you got to keep your eye on the prize. I figure we still got three horses in the running. Don’t give up yet.”
James walked over to his hat, brushed off the dirt, placed it on his head and went looking for Capp.
Capp’s losing in the first round was a shock. Around the track fence, backside employees were sorely disappointed. The knoll crowd, however was cheering. Many had placed bets on the smaller horseman, Stel. To the spectators it made sense that Stel, being much lighter than Capp, would be a safer bet. But Capp hadn’t lost because of his size; it was the start. Just like he’d feared.
Capp, still cooling down Running Wild, settled the horse into a trot before returning to the saddling paddock. Maizie ran to greet him with his Stetson in her hand. “Good race, Capp, you almost had it,” she said as Capp dismounted and shook his head. Maizie handed him his hat.
“Almost doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Well, you did. I saw it.”
“Look Maizie, I’m busy. Please leave me be. I’m upset right now.”
“I’ll leave but I still think you did good.” Maizie turned to go. Capp sighed and looked toward the starting mechanism, as Miles Moser was readying to take on his opponent, Curt Pacho, on Ping-a-Ding.
Capp placed his hat back on his head, attending to the race at hand. Riders readied. When the barrier was sprung, off they went. Capp watched as Miles and his mount, Scout’s Honor, employed a perfect start, the horse pulling hard at the beginning, muscles bulging and head low. Moser flawlessly steered the animal to the inside. Around the bend, his horse gained the lead by a half-length. Scout’s Honor crossed the finish line a full length ahead, to the roars of the crowd. The official time was posted at forty-three seconds. An amazing time.
“Looks like the asshole just clocked an unbeatable time,” Capp said to himself. Kicking a stone near his foot, he pulled on Wild’s reins and led him into the paddock.
Before Capp began removing tack from Wild, he saw James talking to the Chief near the small barn. Leaving Wild in the saddling paddock, he walked slowly toward James, knowing the owner would have plenty to say to him. The Chief gestured, pointing in Capp’s direction. James took a few steps to intercept Capp.
“Capp, what the hell happened?”
“Bad start. Told you Running Wild gets jittery.”
“Damn it, Capp, that other horse was no competition.”
“Sorry. If the race had been just a few yards longer, I would have won.”
“How is that supposed to make your poor performance palatable?”
“It’s true. All I needed was a good start or more distance, and I would have taken it.”
“Would have, could have, should have. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. Who took the second heat in your group?”
“Miles Moser. He’s an S.O.B. Boy, would I like to take that guy down.”
“I would like that too,” James spat. “Seems you lost your chance, Capp.”
“If you’d bought that starting mechanism sooner, Wild would have been ready. I’m disappointed too. Wild and me, we wanted the win.”
“Not enough, I guess.”
Capp watched as James walked back to continue his conversation with the chief. Capp could see the anger in James’s walk and the defeat weighing on his shoulders.
The rest of the morning’s match races to determine the winner and consolation brackets went better for Glidewell. James ended up with three contenders in the winners’ bracket. This was a salve for James’s initial humiliation. Belle Brodie, Whoopee’s Child, and Devil Doll all won their heats.
When the morning’s races were completed, people found shade and spread their picnics or bought food at the mess hall. Sun reflected on the small silver flasks that were being passed around the viewing knoll. The noise from the crowd took on a lighter tone as laughter filled the air. Children played games of tag and found sport in rolling down the green knoll, grass stains evident on their clothes.
The afternoon races earned two Glidewell horses a qualifying position for Sunday’s winners’ draw. Devil Doll and Belle Brodie would compete against each other on Sunday for a place in the final, which meant Glidewell Ranch was assured representation in the final. On the other side of the draw, Mitt-Me-Kid, ridden by Neil Favor, would take on the now favorite, Scout’s Honor, and his rider, Miles Moser.
The consolation bracket was left with four good horses: Red Sundown, Cinder Dick, Filly Flame, and Running Wild. By the end of the races on Saturday there was a great deal of interest in the outcome of Sunday’s winners’ bracket but little talk about the losers. Many gentlemen’s bets were being placed on Scout’s Honor. This bothered Capp. His dislike for Moser was breeding thoughts of retribution.
While the spectators packed up their blankets, umbrellas, and chairs and headed for their cars, the ranch house was putting the final touches on the preparations for another party. This party was to be more elegant than the previous night. Tables were set up in the grand hall with fine linens, glassware, and silverware, and service for summer cocktails on the back veranda.
As Capp walked to the Wembley cabin to get cleaned up for the night’s dinner, he heard the pounding of running boots behind him.
“Capp! Capp!” cried a young groom. Capp waited for the kid to catch up.
“What you want?” asked Capp.
“This lady asked me to give this to you. Said she knows you.” The blond, freckled kid handed Capp a piece of Wrigley’s gum.
“She said she saw both your races and will be back here tomorrow to see you. She says she knows you,” the boy explained.
“That so?”
“Yep, she said that just as sure as I’m standing here.”
Capp took the gum from the young teenager’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. Unwrapping it he put the gum in his mouth. He was about to wad up the wrapper when he noticed a brief note written in tiny script. It
