Clint’s options were to ride back to town, or back to Canby’s house. If he rode to town, he’d miss out on Elena’s cooking that night, but Louisville was actually closer, and on the way, so he decided to stop there.
Clint wanted to hear the word around town on the Derby. As he rode in, he noticed that the town had become more crowded, with only two days left before the big race. He tried a couple of saloons, but they were packed to the rafters. If he’d needed a hotel, he doubted that he’d be able to find a room. Lucky he was staying out at Canby’s place. The restaurants—both the large ones and the small cafés—were also full. He hoped Elena would leave some food out for him to eat when he got back.
The talk around Louisville was mostly about the two horses coming in from out of town, Easy Going and Sunday Song. He heard about Whirlwind only among talk of other local horses, as well. Canby would be happy that his horse was being lumped in with the others, and was not anyone’s standout.
Clint came out of a saloon where he’d been unable to find a space at the bar, when surprisingly he ran into Sheriff Hackett.
“Well,” Clint said, “you do leave your office.”
“On occasion,” Hackett said. “This town is busting with people now, so I’ve got to keep an eye out. I can’t really trust my young deputies when things are this volatile.”
“I don’t blame you,” Clint said. “I’ve seen a few fistfights already, having to do with the Derby.”
“Everybody’s got an opinion and is willing to fight for it.”
“Does that include you?”
“I may have an opinion,” the sheriff said, “but I’ll keep it to myself, thanks. What are you up to?”
“I just came back from seeing those two out-of-town trainers,” Clint said. “They’re both pretty confident about their horses.”
“Well, the early odds have them very close, almost co-favorites, in fact.”
“Where are the odds posted?”
“Just outside the track. Have you been over there yet?”
“No, I haven’t seen it.”
“I think you’ll be impressed with Churchill Downs.”
“Who runs the track? And the Derby?”
“The Louisville Jockey Club.”
“Do they have an office somewhere?”
“Yes, in an office near the track. You thinking of talkin’ to them?”
“I am,” Clint said, “but who do I talk to?”
“I would think the stewards.”
“What are the stewards?”
“They’re the ones who make the rules,” Hackett said. “Decide who wins if the finish is close. What to do if somebody’s cheating.”
“Maybe they’d know something about Fontaine.”
“I don’t see why they would, unless he owns a horse.”
That was something Clint had never considered, but now . . .
“What if he does?”
“What if who does what?” Hackett said. He was distracted by an altercation that was taking place across the street. Three cowboys seemed about to come to blows.
“Fontaine. What if he owns a horse and nobody knows it? Wouldn’t this Jockey Club know?”
“You’d think,” Hackett said. “I gotta go to work, Adams.”
“Sure.”
Hackett crossed the street to intervene before the three cowboys started fighting in the street.
Clint went in search of the Louisville Jockey Club.