CHAPTER FIVE
Isuba Lusa
October 13, 1811
It was late afternoon when Zeb mounted Suba. He could feel her gather herself, coiling tighter, ready to spring. Zeb pulled her up. She cantered in place, dancing sideways to the slightest pressure of either of his legs. “Easy girl! Easy!” he soothed her. “You’ll have plenty of chances to run.”
Nothing could calm her, so he let her trot briskly all the way to the river. When they got to the top of the bluff, high above the river, she was wet with sweat and so was Zeb, but she was now willing to walk. “I sure hope you didn’t wear yourself out, Suba. You’re gonna need all you’ve got for what I have in mind.”
The Mississippi River was much wider than he had expected. Even though he was seated on Suba at the top of the bluff, Zeb could barely make out the other side.
A cluster of people stood quietly at the edge of the bluff, peering at the western sky.
“C’mon, Suba, let’s see what they’re lookin’ at.”
At the horizon, Zeb could see what looked like a shooting star, but much larger. It was like a ball of fire with two tails glowing behind it, and it didn’t seem to be moving.
Zeb gulped. “Is that the comet?” he whispered to the people near him.
A man looked up at him and then back across the river. “Yep. Been up there, off and on, for a long time. You haven’t seen it before this?”
“Nope. We live in a valley, and I’ve been travelin’ down the Natchez Road for the last month or so. There’s no place on the highway where you can see the horizon. But my friend Nashoba thinks it’s a bad omen. He says somethin’ terrible’s gonna happen.”
A woman nearby nodded her head in agreement. “I’ve heard talk of that, too.” She shivered.
After a while, Zeb drifted away from the river’s edge.
Lights began to come on in the buildings along the riverfront a hundred feet or more below him. Even at this hour, flatboats moved from upriver into the docks. So that’s the place they call Natchez Under-The-Hill.
Zeb headed south until he found Silver Street, a steep cobblestone road that led to the docks. Suba slipped on the wet cobblestones. Zeb halted her and dismounted, leading the horse slowly down the hill.
Someone shouted, “Hey! You there! I’m talkin’ to you, boy!”
Zeb recognized the four men who had been so interested in Suba up at the Texada Inn. They were just coming out of a tavern. One of the men walked over and patted Suba’s wet neck. “Been runnin’, has she? Thought you said you ain’t gonna race this horse.”
“Hadn’t planned to. Changed my mind. I need the money.”
“She fast?”
“She’s fast all right, but—”
“What are you hidin’, boy? You playin’ some kinda game?”
Zeb shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “I just don’t know if she’s got the stamina. Never raced in competition. She’s fast, though, and wants to run. Fought me all the way down here.”
The man squinted at Zeb, his eyes locking on to Zeb’s the way Zeb’s grampa’s eyes would look at a horse trader he didn’t know. “You tellin’ me the truth, boy? This horse never raced before?”
“That’s right.”
“You signed up yet?”
“No,” Zeb replied. “I don’t know where the track is.”
“Listen, boy,” he said. “You wait until the last minute to sign up. We may be able to give a little surprise to some folks I know.”
“Tell me what the track is like.”
“This race isn’t on the official track. That track’s a straight quarter mile from bluff to river or river to bluff. This race is rough-and-ready. They rope off some of the dirt streets. You ride up a block, shorter than the ones you find in Natchez, across one, down a block, and across another one. You do that twice. The whole race is just under a mile. And one other thing. On the first lap it’s a good idea to stay in the outside lane ‘cause of the sharp turns.”
“Who’ll I be racin’ against?”
“There’ll be four or five nags ridden by the local boys. There’ll be one or two fools from the plantations who think they have a chance, and there’ll be a real racehorse from the racetrack up in Natchez, down here to scoop up all the money.”
Suba lifted her head. “Hear that trumpet, boy?” the man said, pointing to an area downriver from Silver Street. “Race starts in ten minutes. You go on over and enter your horse.” He winked at the other men. “We’ll be right behind you.”
The organizer of the race sat on a bench on a wooden stand built high enough so that he was eye-to-eye with the jockeys. “That’ll cost you two dollars,” the organizer said to Zeb. “First place wins twenty-five dollars and second place wins five dollars.” He handed Zeb two straight pins and a sheet of paper with the number eight on it. “That’ll be your number, boy. Pin it to the front of your shirt.”
He looked at Zeb without paying much attention to Suba. “You haven’t raced here before, have you? Two laps around, a little less than a mile. This is the judges’ stand.” He motioned toward it. “And this line,” he said, pointing to a white line chalked across the road, “is the start and finish line. If it’s a close race, judges decide. When the gun goes off, just race your horse. Don’t pay any attention to what anyone says or does. False start is another shot of the gun. Got that?”
Zeb nodded and rode away. He realized that the big money changed hands through the bets made by the spectators. Too bad, Zeb thought, that I don’t have a little more money with me and I don’t have Christmas to race.
He circled Suba behind the start line. Five other horses were already there. The boys who were riding them were cussing at each other and shoving, trying to get the position nearest the inside lane. Zeb moved Suba to the outside. He figured she was fast enough to move in once she got the lead. Two horses moved up from behind him, one on either side.
Someone from the judges’ stand shouted, “Move back, you boys, or you’ll be disqualified! Back behind that white line! All right now … riders ready?”
The gun went off. In a single movement, all the riders kicked their mounts, and the horses burst into a gallop. Zeb suddenly found himself sandwiched between two horses. He felt a yank on his belt. Someone was trying to pull him off! He was out of the saddle! One more pull and he would be on the ground.
He lashed out with his arm and felt the hand let go of his belt. Suba was running at a full gallop. Zeb grabbed hold of the pommel, pulling himself back onto the saddle. He couldn’t get his feet back into the stirrups, so he rode Suba without them, his legs clamped around her body and the stirrups banging against his ankles.
A racing whip slashed across his mouth. He licked his lip and tasted blood. The two horses had him sandwiched again. One of the boys slammed his fist against Zeb’s ribs. Zeb held on.
Luckily, Suba took to racing the way Christmas did. She broke away from the two horses and was soon just behind the leader. When Zeb squeezed his legs, Suba edged slightly ahead of the leading horse. As they neared the end of the first lap, it seemed to be a race just between Suba and the leader. The others were lengths behind.
Suba inched past the other horse. As soon as there was room, Zeb moved her toward the inside, keeping the other horse from passing. When Zeb passed the judges’ stand, he was in the lead for the second lap.
He grabbed a fistful of mane to steady himself and peered under his outstretched arm to see how close the other horses were. A horse he hadn’t seen before was coming up behind him. Must be the racehorse they told me about.
The racehorse was gaining on his right. Zeb squeezed his legs, leaned forward, and shouted against the wind and fine dust biting into his face. “Come on, girl! You can do it. Don’t let that pretty boy beat you.”
Suba sensed the urgency. She lengthened her stride and moved faster than Zeb had known even Christmas to run. They passed the marker in front of the judges’ stand a length in front of the racehorse. Zeb let her take another turn of the track to slow down. Then he sat back, slipping his feet into the stirrups, his body relaxed. He smiled and clapped the horse’s neck. He wished Hannah had been here with him, so she could have seen her horse win. Suba didn’t even seem to be very tired.
He heard the announcement from the judge’s stand. “The winner is number eight. Second place goes to number six.”
At first it was strangely quiet. Then, as he rode past a cluster of men standing near the finish line, a man called out to him. “Better not come back here, boy.”
The four men from outside the Texada Inn were laughing and pounding each other on the back. He grinned at them as he rode by, wincing a bit at the pain in his swollen lip.
When Zeb approached the judges’ stand, the race organizer reached out and grabbed hold of Zeb’s shirt, pulling Zeb toward him. Zeb halted Suba to keep from being yanked out of the saddle, but Suba sidled away from the man, not yet ready to stand still.
“I’ll give you a thousand for that horse,” the man said in a low voice. “No questions asked.”
“Sorry, sir,” Zeb said. “The horse is not for sale.”
Dancey Moore was sitting just behind the organizer. “I’ll give you a thousand,” he said to Zeb, “and throw in a good saddle horse to boot.” When Moore spoke, he looked away. Zeb had seen horse traders that wouldn’t look you in the eye. Grampa didn’t trust them.
Zeb shook his head. “The horse is not for sale at any price,” he said.
Moore smiled at him. “Everything has its price, kid, as you’ll find out sooner or later.”
Moore seemed to be making an effort to be friendly. “By the way,” he added, “there’ll be bareback racing in about an hour. One turn around the track. Most of the same boys’ll be ridin’. That race shows who the real riders are. You could make a lot of money. Bet your horse against my one thousand dollars. Course, if you can’t ride bareback….”
A thousand dollars! Suba could beat any horse here. Zeb wondered why Moore was trying to goad him into racing bareback. He must know that Zeb would have no trouble. A thousand dollars!
He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. A thousand dollars! With that much money, I could buy a small farm! Or five good saddle horses. I’d have enough to offer a reward to help find Grampa.
He shook his head. The very thought reminded him of what his grampa often said whenever he found out that Zeb was racing Christmas. “One day,” the old man would say, “you’ll bet your horse, and you’ll lose it.”
No point in thinking about it. He couldn’t bet Suba anyway. Wasn’t his horse. Besides, with all that pushing and shoving, it might be hard to stay on riding bareback. And if he got hurt, who would find Grampa?
He looked once again at Moore. Maybe that is what this is all about, he thought. Maybe Moore is trying to keep me from finding Grampa!
Zeb shook his head. “Don’t think I’ll do it,” he said. “Not much good at bareback ridin’. Besides, Suba needs to rest.”
Dancey Moore glared at him. “Got a lot of your grampa in you, don’t you? We’ll see what good it’ll do you.”
Zeb shrugged. He pulled his wet shirt away from his chest and unpinned the paper, surprised that it was still in one piece. He wove the two pins back into the paper, handing it to the judge. The judge counted four golden half-eagles into his hand, holding on to the last five-dollar coin until he had Zeb’s attention. “You change your mind,” he said, “you can always find me up at the Natchez racetrack.”
Zeb checked carefully to be sure that the coins were U.S. money, not Spanish or French. He lifted his head. “I’m not gonna change my mind,” he said.
Zeb decided to leave the horse at King’s Tavern for the night. He didn’t like all the interest in Suba. If they’re willing to pay a thousand dollars for the horse, what else would they be willing to do? He rode Suba back through the dock area and up Silver Street to Natchez.
He headed north along the river bluff until he saw the big white house on the hill. Turning right on Jefferson, he suddenly stopped Suba and turned her back to a building on one of the corners. The sign on the window said Natchez Weekly Chronicle. Zeb noted where he was and then let Suba continue on to King’s Tavern.
At the stable, Zeb pulled the sweat-stained yellow card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to one of the stablemen. “I’d appreciate it,” he said, “if you’d water her and give her some feed in about an hour. She’s been runnin’ hard.”
The man looked up at him, holding on to the bridle. “She’s a lot calmer than when ya left here. Expected to see ya walkin’ back on yer own two feet.”
Zeb slipped off Suba. When he started to take off her saddle, the stableman stopped him. “We’ll do all that.” He ran his hand down Suba’s long wet neck. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she? We’ll be sure to wash ‘er down and give ‘er a good brushin’.”
Zeb marveled at life in Natchez. He had never had anyone brush and comb his horse for him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
He went on foot back to the river and down the cobblestone road to Natchez Under-the-Hill to spend the evening. He had heard a lot about this place. Letters published in his uncle’s newspaper in Franklin made it sound like the worst place in the Mississippi territory, maybe the worst place in the whole United States. One person, returning to Franklin, had written that there was “Natchez Proper” and “Natchez Improper.” And Mr. King had just warned him about the dangers that afternoon.
Zeb, of course, was intrigued.