Up in his second-story window, Tracy Chavis had a good view of most of the events of that explosive Fourth of July morning.
It started out innocuously enough. He grinned and said, “Pretty soft, bundled up here on down pillows and being waited on hand-and-foot by the two most beautiful women in the Territory.”
Connie gave Clarissa Vane an amused look, glanced down through the window and said, “Oh, look. There’s John now. They must be getting ready to start the race.” Chavis turned and settled himself down to watch the doings at the starting line. He heard Clarissa ask about little Peggy, heard Connie’s laugh and heard her explain that Peggy’s runny-nose and head cold had kept the littlest Chavis at home with Señora Gutierrez. Chavis thought he detected a note of faraway regret in Clarissa’s voice when she asked about the child.
Down below, John Paradise was walking the big palomino up to the starting-line. Chavis said, “You know, we ought to give that horse a name.”
Connie said, “Maybe we’d better wait until we see how he does in the race.”
“He’ll win it,” Chavis said. “He’s got to.” He felt the pressure of her hand on his shoulder.
Chandler and Macquarie rode up beside Paradise; the others came in, straggling gradually forward and easing into a line ten-abreast across the street. Hal Craycroft stood with a blank-cartridge revolver in his fist, talking to the mayor, who was also one of the judges of the race. The three judges stood at the finish-line marker, looking stuffy and self-important; but, Chavis knew, they were all good men and would render honest judgments if the race proved a close one.
It was a line of handsome animals, all of them groomed and brushed to a sheen. Every conceivable coloring of horse was in evidence, from Morley’s spunky little spotted appaloosa to Chandler’s big coal-black stallion, Rose’s tall sorrel and Chavis’ own deep-chested palomino. He thought: It may be prejudice but I do believe that palomino’s the best-looking one of the lot.
But then, he thought drily, looks don’t win races. Still, maybe it was a good sign. It had better be. Lose this race and I’m back to cowboying for dollar wages. He wouldn’t have minded for himself, but it was hard to raise a family on thirty-a-month and-found.
Down on the starting line, Craycroft consulted his watch, spoke to the mayor, and lifted his starting-gun. He raised his voice and called out to the ten riders, and Chavis watched them bring their handsome prancing animals into line.
Jeremy Six was down there, talking with the mayor and Craycroft. Astride the palomino, John Paradise put the reins in his teeth and lifted his hat toward Chavis’ window. Chavis grinned. Paradise jammed his hat down and adjusted the reins in his fingers. Paradise was wearing his gun, Chavis noted. Right beside Paradise, little Jay Macquarie said something that made Paradise smile.
The jockey from the East was wearing racing silks—a metallic green blouse over tight brown trousers; a billed green cap shaded his eyes. He was a strange sight amid the row of cowboy-hatted riders. All the saddles had been stripped down to basics. Still, Macquarie’s was by far the lightest saddle of the lot, and Macquarie was the lightest rider. But, as Paradise had pointed out to Chavis, Macquarie didn’t have more than a ten pound advantage over him. Chavis thought, I did the right thing, letting him ride for me.
He saw Paradise say something to Jeremy Six, in response to which Six frowned and snapped off a thin-lipped comment. That was something Chavis regretted. He had known Paradise a long time and knew that there was a lot of good in the man. Both Paradise and Six were his friends, and he wished they could have liked each other.
He thought, suddenly, Where’s Harry Rose? Rose owned the big sorrel that Macquarie was riding. You’d have thought the fat man would have been right down there at the starting line, but no, he was nowhere in sight. That was strange, but it passed quickly through Chavis’ mind. There was no time to worry about things like that.
Hal Craycroft’s finger grew visibly white on the trigger. His eyes were fixed on his watch. Unconsciously, Chavis leaned forward in his chair.
The pressure of Connie’s hand eased him back. He started to grumble a complaint, but it was cut off by the roar of the starter’s pistol.
Smoke puffed from Craycroft’s gun. Eyes pinned on the street, Chavis watched the race start.
The sorrel, bred all its life to racing, responded instantly to the gun: it broke from a dead stop into a full-gaited gallop, leaving the entire field behind.
The other horses milled around in disorganized confusion. Chavis heard lusty curses; there was a roar of encouragement from the crowded sidelines. Moreley’s appaloosa darted out of the melee, four lengths behind Macquarie, and right behind the appaloosa came Chandler’s black. Then the others broke across the line in a bunch.
Horrified, Chavis saw that the palomino was the last in line. My God, he thought. The damned horse is gun shy. Never had a shot fired in his ear before.
He felt the vise-grip of Connie’s hand on his shoulder. He saw the palomino wheel around in a nervous circle, saw Paradise grimly fight it down, sink heels into its flanks, urge it forward with earnest fervor. When the palomino finally broke into a gallop, the rest of the field was twenty yards into the open, and Macquarie on the big sorrel had a fifteen-length lead or more.
Macquarie’s green silk colors flashed by the open window, directly below the hotel. The field thundered past, like hounds baying after the thoroughbred; and, finally, the big palomino came drumming along. Chavis watched with his heart in his throat. Why in hell don’t you whip him up? He cried aloud: “Give him the spurs, for God’s sake!”
Connie said, “Take it easy, darling.”
“But he’s not even trying to get speed out of that horse!”
“John knows what he’s doing. We’ve got to trust him.” Clarissa said, “He’s got six miles to go, Tracy. He can’t wear the horse out in the first hundred yards.”
He said gloomily, “I guess you’re right.” He leaned forward in the chair to look through the window at an angle, and watched the horses disappear to the north. The palomino was still bringing up the rear.
And then they were gone from sight. The crowd settled down to a nervous, fidgety wait. Chavis sank back in his chair, feeling dark and sour. He said bitterly, “We should have trained that horse to gunfire.”
“You didn’t have time for everything,” Connie said.
Clarissa came forward and touched his other arm. “It will be all right, Tracy. It’s still a long way to the finish.” Down below, he saw Jeremy Six walking up the street from the starting line. Six was not making a spectacle of himself, but it was evident that he was in a considerable hurry to reach the corner. Not fathoming that, Chavis glanced idly to his left down Center Street toward the Wells Fargo office—and sat bolt upright in the chair.
What he said was, “Get me my gun, Connie. Quick!”