But the chestnut is now at least twelve lengths ahead and we're in the backstretch.
"Catch him, Sheik!" I shrieks. "Catch him!" The leader is so far ahead I despair of closing the distance, but I urge the Sheik on anyway, bouncing up and down in the saddle, tears of pain and desolation runnin' out the sides of my eyes—how could I have been so stupid—and the Sheik pounds on ever faster and I can feel his hatred for the horse ahead of him and I start to babble, "Oh come on Sheik come on boy he's gonna beat you he's gonna shame you he's gonna take your mares he's gonna beat you boy," and the horse pumps faster and we've gained a length or two but that horse up there ain't no scrub, neither. He's fast and he's strong and he's at the end of the far stretch and he leans into the last turn and clods of dirt are flying up at us from his hooves what are diggin' out to the side as he leans. But we don't care, we just pound on and the white rail posts and the screaming people standing and waving their arms flicker by in the corner of my eye like they ain't even real, just pieces of a crazy dream—come on boy come on boy—and we're in the last turn, too, and we go right up to the rail 'cause there ain't nobody to box us in now and we gain another length in the turn, and when we come out of it, we're only four lengths behind!
The roar of the crowd in the grandstand hits us like a wall when we turn onto the homestretch and the race for the line. We're only four lengths behind but that'll be enough to doom us if the chestnut don't weaken, and he ain't showin' no signs of that, no he ain't, so I keep babblin'. "Beating you Sheik he's beating you," and the sun is in our eyes now and "He's gonna beat you boy he's gonna beat you to the bright shinin' sun he's gonna beat you," and I know I ain't makin' no sense but it don't matter. What matters is that the Sheik would rather die than lose and he finds the strength somewhere down in him and now we're up to two lengths and now one. The other jock is flailing away with his whip but it ain't doin' him no good 'cause we're gainin', and now the Sheik's nose is up level with the chestnut's flank and now up to the jockey's knee and now the horse's shoulder and the crowd is howling. There's the white line up ahead and now we're neck and neck and now we push forward by a nose and then by a head and then are goin' away, and then the line flashes by underfoot and...
We win!
I pull the Sheik back and slow him down and turn him so I can get back to the clubhouse, but he don't want to quit just yet, no he don't—he rears up and screams out all the rage and defiance that's in his bloody, glorious heart. No, he ain't done yet at all—he wants to get at the other horse and fight him and beat him into a bloody mess. He squeals in anger as if to say, "I didn't catch him just to let him go. Let me go!" and it's all I can do to hold him till George and his grooms come runnin' up to take his reins and calm him down.
Uh-oh.
The grandstand is emptying and people are pouring onto the track. I slide off the dear Sheik's back, give a few coughs, and wipe the tears from my eyes with an end of the scarf and wave off the grinnin' George's "Well done," and head for the clubhouse. I take three steps and then fall down in the dust, and this time I ain't faking. It's the pain in me leg, but I get right up and start a runnin', limpin' lope for Petey's room 'cause I see the Colonel bearing down on us but I can't let him catch me and fold me in his manly embrace, which is what the big, burly, grinnin' fool seems intent on doin'.
There's Amy and she throws her arm around me and helps me the last several yards. She gives the signal rap on the door and we fall into the room. Randall puts his back to the door again and looks at us with a big question in his eyes—and I don't think he really wants to hear the answer 'cause he's lookin' at me with the tears runnin' down through the dust on my face and he fears the worst.
"We won," says Amy, and Randall lets out a huge breath and sinks down a ways on the door. I whip off the scarf and go to the washstand and splash water on my face. Stop crying, I tell myself, don't mess it up now. It's just the excitement. Stop it. And I do, and I dry my face and straighten up and go to Petey's bedside.
"Pull back his covers," I orders. Amy furrows her brow in question. "Just do it!" I say, and she does it.
Poor Petey's skinny legs lie there helpless, the black hair on them standin' out sharp against the dead white of his skin. I swing the riding crop back over my shoulder and bring it down as hard as I can on Pete's right thigh. Amy gasps at the sound of the whip hitting flesh.
Petey's eyes pop open—I didn't think he'd wake, but he does. I kneel down by him. "Sorry, Petey, but you got that on the near turn. Muir give it to you. You won, Pete, you got that? You won and Muir give you that welt on the near turn."
"That son of a bitch, I'll get him for that," says he, all weak. A small smile comes to his lips. "Nice tattoo, Jack-o."
"You rogue," says I, putting my hand to his forehead. He is covered in sweat now, but his head is cooler. The fever has broken. "Worse luck. You'll prolly get better." His eyes close again.
The pounding on the door is loud and insistent.
"We can't keep them out forever," says Randall, his back to the shaking door. "You'd better hurry and change." His arrogant smile is back.
I cuts him a narrow-eyed glare. Right, Randall. I reflects that the I-know-Jacky's-got-a-tattoo-and-I-know-where's-she's-got-it club has just added two new members. Only one show for you today, Mr. Trevelyne.
I turn away so that my bare back is all that's for him to look at as I take off the silk top and flip it to Amy. "See if you can slip that over Mr. Jarvis, if you would, Amy."
She goes to do it, and since there's a little more time for a bit more modesty now, I take my dress and pull it on over me and then reach up under and pull off the pants and stockings. Carefully pull off the pants—the welt looks all purple and wicked, but there ain't no blood and that's good. I fling the silks to the floor as if Petey had just thrown them there on his way back to bed. I bundle up the rest of my clothes and tuck 'em under my arm. The cap goes on the bedpost and, "Button me up, Amy!"
"All right, done! Let 'em in, Randall!"
Randall steps back from the door and people pour into the little room, showering the half-conscious Pete with praise and congratulations. The Colonel was first in and he rushes over to Petey and shakes his senseless hand, and Amy speaks up with, "He will need salve for his leg, Father," and the Colonel nods and says that all saw the blow and that damned Muir shall never ride a horse at Dovecote again. A groom hustles over with a jar and the covers are pulled back and all around the room there are gasps at the soreness of the slash. Well, maybe I didn't have to hit him that hard...
A man who has to be Mr. Thayer bursts in and shouts, "Your horse bit mine! That's a foul!"
"Your nag had his fat, slow ass in my horse's face, and that's even more of a foul!" retorts the Colonel, puffing up. "And if you'd like to continue this discussion with pistols on the field of honor, then say one more word, Sir! One more word!" But Mr. Thayer don't say that word but instead turns red and storms out. Needless to say, he and his lady will not be joining us this evening. And how much sure money did you lose today, Mr. Thayer, hmmm?