“Well, when we get to the ranch, I’ll show you the proofs. If there is a picture of you and Doll, you can order one,” said the photographer.
“Might do just that. Yep, I would like a photo of me and Doll hangin’ up in the mess hall.”
Upon returning to the ranch, Corky escorted Rye to a guest room, helping him with his suitcase, camera bag, and valise.
The photographer approached a window overlooking the cattle in the field. “I remember this view. Takes my breath away.”
“Yeah. The architect claims there is a picture through every window. Guess you would know. Being a photographer and all.”
“I’d say he is right about this one. Hey, I was wondering, is that pretty girl still here? The one who sings with the piano player?”
“You mean Maizie?”
“Maybe.”
“Why you interested?”
“Just thought she was pretty, kind of different looking. I admit, I’m mesmerized by a photo I took of her.”
“I see. Well keep it to yourself. Mrs. Glidewell wouldn’t like a man your age asking about Maizie and thinkin’ the girl is pretty.”
“Why is that?”
“’Cause she wouldn’t think it proper. She protects the girl.”
Chapter 63
Claim Races at Churchill Downs
May 2, 1932
After a few days of viewing what Bob called unqualified horses, James was losing interest in claiming a good thoroughbred for racing or breeding. Bob Hench suggested they give it one more day. Claiming a horse comes with a lot of unanswered questions, and this made James uncomfortable. An owner could only view the horse from common areas of the racetrack before the race. Claimers were not allowed to visit the horse or have a vet perform an exam. James thought it a strange way to buy a horse.
Bob Hench knew all the trainers and had watched virtually every horse on the grounds during morning workouts. His knowledge of the trainers and his insights from watching the horses were the keys to spotting a good claim horse. If a trainer was less skilled or his horses performed poorly because of lack of training, that horse may have potential that wasn’t properly developed. Given good training, proper workouts, excellent feed, and a well-trained jockey, the horse’s quality could improve considerably. So Bob looked for sound horses from poor trainers, and he was happy to share this knowledge. On this final day of attempting to claim a horse, there were four such horses competing in the afternoon’s races that, in Bob’s considered opinion, were good ones.
Forty-five minutes before the races, Bob, Wil, and Capp were making close observations as the horses walked from the barns to the saddling stalls. Bob was looking for signs of poor horse behavior, or a limp, or unusual sweating. Any horse that presented with questionable characteristics was downgraded and not considered for claiming. In Bob’s mind, owners of one of these horses might be intending to dump a bad horse and gain a little money. He was not naïve to that possibility.
James ran to deposit the requisite cash with the track master, picked up the program for the day’s races, and rejoined the others at the saddling stalls. It was here they could catch a closer look at the racehorses.
“See that chestnut stallion there?” Bob asked. All three men nodded. “That horse has good conformation, seems excited to race, but look at his head. See how he keeps pulling up. He is only two years old, may only need to mature and get some good training. He might have untapped potential. Good trainers and jockeys can take a good horse and make him a great racehorse and competitor.”
Capp asked, “Should we claim him?”
“I would. Your call, but my instincts are pretty good. I’ve been watching him work out,” Bob stated. “Don’t point or look excited, we don’t want anyone else puttin’ in a claim.” Bob demonstrably shook his head hoping anyone watching him would think he was no longer interested in the chestnut. He turned to walk toward another stall.
“Why don’t you claim him, Bob?” asked James.
“Trainers can’t claim, only owners,” explained Bob. “Your claim has to be placed fifteen minutes before post time. Want to try to get that big boy?” James remained undecided until Wil weighed in. “James, let’s do it. Break the ice. Might be the right move. If not a racehorse, he might make a good stud. He’s a beauty; and spirited. I know it’s a crap shoot, but…”
“Let’s do it!” exclaimed Capp.
“Shhhh, kid, we don’t want anyone to know we are interested in that horse. It’s kinda like poker. Got to keep your cards close to your vest,” advised Bob.
The four men, all wearing varying styles of hats—James a fedora, Wil and Capp each a Stetson, and Bob a Chicago Cubs baseball hat—walked abreast to the racing office, filled out a three-by-five-inch card and placed it in the claiming box.
James could feel the adrenaline running through his veins. “All right men, let’s join the crowd on the rail, and see if our boy, Cherokee Sunrise, can take it,” he said. “But wait, what if he gets injured or dies during this race?”
“As soon as the race starts, he’s your horse. If an injury happens during the race, the horse is still yours. I’ve seen that happen. One guy claimed a horse that broke its leg. The horse had to be destroyed, but the horse was his, like it or not.”
“Well, that’s not goin’ to happen. What are the chances?” asked Capp.
“Capp, you know better. Horses always gettin’ injured in races,” said Wil.
“Well, it ain’t gonna happen today, ’cause I feel lucky.” The three men laughed at Capp’s youthful optimism and walked to the track rail near the finish line.
Watching the horses line up behind the starting-rope barrier was stressful for James. The idea that he had a thousand dollars on a claim ticket in the race office was beginning to sink in. This was his horse, if no one else placed a claim. Cherokee Sunrise was flicking his head
