It ain’t much fun being famous. We can’t even eat our supper without people coming up to the fire and asking can they see the lightning-fast filly that got mauled by a cougar, and the boy who rides her. The first couple of times, Mr. Jessup explains everything real polite, and introduces me around, but after a while I just go and stay inside the tent because the whole thing makes me a lot more nervous than being in a race.
Rick sticks his head in the tent flap one time and goes, “Can I have your autograph?” and I have to throw a chicken wing at him to make him stop.
That guy Mullins comes by after the sun is all the way down. He just gives me a look like he’s got something stuck in his throat, then he takes Mr. Jessup aside. They’re standing over where Lady is staked out, munching on a bit of green hay we put down, and Mullins keeps pointing at Lady. Jabbing his finger at her.
Mr. Jessup, he’s standing there listening but his face is real quiet and he’s not saying much. Finally Mullins pokes his finger at Mr. Jessup’s chest and the next thing you know Mr. Jessup has grabbed hold of that finger and Mullins’s face is all scrunched up like he wants to scream but he don’t dare.
Soon as Mr. Jessup lets go of that finger, Mullins takes off like a scalded cat.
“I see you and Moldy Mullins are making friends,” Rick says when Mr. Jessup comes back to the fire.
Mr. Jessup turns to me and goes, “Did that man try to interfere with you today?”
I shrug. “Not exactly,” I say.
It turns out Mr. Molton T. Mullins owns a big ranch that borders the Bar None, and Mr. Jessup says he’s a troublemaker. One of his best quarter horses won a heat, and he’ll be riding it in the final race tomorrow.
“He figures his horse’ll be worth a whole lot more if he wins. My impression is, he’s worried about getting beat by Lady,” says Mr. Jessup. “Wants her out of the race on a technicality.”
“And what kind of technicality would that be?” Rick asks.
“That she’s a pony, not a legal-sized horse at all.”
Rick makes a snorting noise and stirs a stick in the fire like he’s looking for something hidden in the ash. “He’s talking through his hat. This particular race is open to all comers. Always has been. That’s the beauty of it.”
“Mullins doesn’t see it that way.”
“Uh-huh,” says Rick. “I noticed you give him a little advice on what to do with that finger of his.”
“My mother always said it was rude to point at folks,” says Mr. Jessup.
A while later, this group of ranchers comes by and they talk real soft with Mr. Jessup. One of ’em writes stuff down in a little notebook. Before they go, everybody shakes hands and when Mr. Jessup comes back to the fire he’s grinning like a kid.
“The race just get more interesting?” Rick asks him.
“You might say that.”
“Let me guess. You’re betting against Mullins’s horse.”
But Mr. Jessup don’t want to talk about it. He says I better turn in and try to get some shut-eye.
Soon as I fall asleep, I have this dream that Joe comes into the tent. He’s standing there in the dark with his hat in his hands, watching me sleep. He never says a word, but I can feel him making sure I’m okay.