“Did he just say ‘Indian Really Race’?” Cady caught my arm as Ken Thorpe shut the gate behind us.
“Just sounds that way with his accent.” I kept walking.
“Can we stay for the last go-round, Daddy?”
“Why?”
She made a face. “Don’t you want to see if Tommy wins?”
We watched as the other teams rode into the area in front of the grandstand, leading their remudas, but Team New Grass was suspiciously absent. Cady glanced around and then toward the infield and Tommy’s tent. “Do you think he couldn’t catch the horse?”
The Cheyenne Nation’s voice rumbled as he continued up the ramp. “Possibly.”
Cady paused, her hand remaining on the top rail. “He’ll miss the race.”
The announcer called for Team New Grass to make themselves present at the grandstand or face elimination through forfeiture. I waited a moment more at the gate and then pointed toward the team’s muggers and two horses approaching from the infield-followed by Tommy, a blonde woman, and a frisky two-year-old the color of store-bought whiskey.
I looked past the track and the infield, toward the dilapidated stalls on the far end of the fairground. “I guess he just figured out what he really wanted.” I held four fingers on one hand and four on the other against my back as I followed the Cheyenne Nation up the ramp.