“Good riding, Susan,” her mother said in a medium-loud voice. “Majority will crowd his fences when he’s excited. And that god-awful brush jump. However, a third for your first adult competition is ver-ree good. Very good.”
Damnation. It was awful to be under any obligation, but she was so damned likable, teeth, bangles, freckles, and all. And whatever was I going to do about another girth, I wondered as I led Phi Bete away. The money for the blue ribbon would just about buy grain and grazing privileges until the next show… if I could find a bargain on peanut butter and learned to fish better.
“Could only have been ‘vandalism.’“ Hmmm. Orfeo had to win, because that meant entrance money for the Taunton Do. And I ought not really to count on it until he’d won, only I was so sure he had to win…
“Hi there, Miss Dunn.” And when I turned, who was catching up with me but Rafe Clery, a whole girth dangling from his arm. “Sorry to miss the class, but it was a cinch you’d win. Ooops, sorry about that.”
I couldn’t help but giggle, which seemed to delight him for some reason. I thought men hated girls who giggled.
“Sorry about the word choice. Happens all the time to me. Anyway, here’s the damned girth. Pete ran it up on the machine at the harness shop. He’s buddies with the owner.”
“But I don’t have any mon-”
“Pete chaws Red Devil. He did the work.” And Rafe Clery dared me to protest as he handed me the mended girth. “A piece of chamois or sheepskin, and that’ll prevent rubbing until you can get the kind of replacement you prefer.”
First Mrs. Flashy-Black Tomlinson, and now him. I turned away, ostensibly to remove the blue ribbon for his approval.
“That calls for celebration. I’ll pick you up at seven. I know a place that serves the best steaks this side of the Hudson.” And he was off, calling to some acquaintance in the crowd before I could open my mouth.
I couldn’t stand there gawping, girth in my hand, my horse in need of walking. And he had said “steak.”
I reached the barn before I realized that he wouldn’t know where to pick me up, unless he automatically assumed the motel where most of the exhibitors from out of town stayed.
“No,” I told Phi Bete, “that one will know to meet me at G-Barn. Just as he knew I didn’t have a spare girth, or money enough for a replacement or anything. How does it happen he knows so much about me, and I don’t know a damn thing about him?” Phi Bete butted me sympathetically, and we walked on.
When we reached the cross-aisle, there was a tiny breeze feeling its way in the back door. Dice spoke from Orfeo’s stall, jumping neatly to the black’s rump to continue his report. He yawned halfway through, but his tone was casual, so nothing had happened.
The heat of the stable was suddenly oppressive. I let myself out of the box, stripping off the heavy jacket as I did. My toes felt baked in the boots, and I reeked of horse and human sweat. And he asked me to dinner! For a steak! Maybe there’d be enough for a doggy bag, and Dice could join the feast? I’d go for Dice’s sake.
I couldn’t stand my clothes, but I took time to gather up all the gear. Maybe it had been vandalism. I’d been out of the barn. There’d been opportunity for malicious mischief. God knows, the papers reported enough bizarre incidents. So, I’d lock the small tack box in the trailer, and at least prevent the saddle and bridles from being sabotaged.
It was while I was bathing from a horse bucket in the cramped quarters of a John stall in the ladies’ that I realized I’d have to forgo that steak. Whoever had slit the girth had done it too expertly-just enough to hold through mounting, but not enough to endure the strain of jumping. My horses might be next. I couldn’t leave them with just Dice on guard.
A woman came stomping into the “comfort” station. There were only the two booths, and the other’ toilet was overflowing.
“Can you hurry up in there?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I said in a week voice, and dunked my face cloth suggestively in the pail.
“Oh, dear.” And the woman started out, then hesitated. “D’you want me to call the first-aid people?”
“No.” I felt awfully guilty. People are always being nice when you don’t need it. “The sun, I think. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” was the polite rejoinder, and the outer door banged to.
I hurried through my sponging then, and although the atmosphere in the ladies’ was only slightly cooler than G-Barn, I knew I was clean. My one luxury was the remnants of a bottle of good cologne, and I used it, for its morale-building value, so that, clean, sweet-smelling, in a cool shift and sandals, I could even face the loss of that evening’s steak. I’d do my errands and then have my own “dinner.”
This being a farm community, chewing tobacco was obtainable, though I got a quick stare when I asked for it at the cigarette counter. I could also afford it. Then I had to find Pete. I looked first among the groups of handlers awaiting the end of the class that had followed the jumpers. Great Percherons and Clydesdales were cavorting, causing the earth to vibrate with their thunder-hoofed maneuvers. I paused to watch respectfully, for their magnificence is part of the passing scene.
“That’s what I said,” repeated a man to my right, a little in front of me. “Juggernaut’s here, and the girl who took the blue in Hunter Hacks is going to ride him for the trophy.”
His companion cursed. “Thought he went to the knackers when he savaged a man a year or so back.”
“Go down to G-Barn. He’s there, large, as life.”
“No use spending entrance money in the Trophy Class, then.” The second man was plainly disgruntled.
“He’s changed. Colonel Kingsley said Clery walked him to water like he was leading a lamb.”
“Clery? That bastard here? Looking for stock?”
“Going to sell him that tendon-sprung gray of yours?”
“Hah!”
The gray was evidently a source of much amusement to the first man and some irritation to the second.
“If he’s looking, he’s usually selling. And he trains a good jumper. He inherited his old man’s eyes for horseflesh, even if he didn’t get much else.”
“Got a good eye for mares, too.” There was a poke in the ribs and a leer.
“Oh?” The other man perked up. “Who’s he after now? Thought he’d covered about anything that’d stand still for it.”
“That sorrel hunter’s rider. Saw him feeding her in the snack tent. He’s after a two-legged ride, if I know Clery.”
“She looked like a nice kid, too. Heard her girth was cut clean through.”
I ducked away for fear they might turn. I refused to credit the conversation.
I finally had to ask in the barns for Pete.
“Look in D-Barn, miss,” I was told by the spokesmen for the loungers in A.
“Does he work for one of the showers?”
“Only long enough to get a chow stake. But he’s good with horses. Reliable, too, miss. Doesn’t drink. Just chews.”
Hat brims were fingered, a courtesy that gave me a needed lift. But did they think I was looking for a handler? Or a guard?
“Gossip doesn’t fly among circuit riders, Nialla,” Dad had told me four years ago when I first started riding shows in California. “It oozes through the ground like electricity, and suddenly everyone at a show knows what’s happened. Watch your step and you’ll be all right. Don’t slight anyone. The guy in the patched pants may own the whole string. Pay your debts on time, and don’t ever neglect your horses. Gives you a bad name that you’ll never shake.”
The two men hadn’t implied that Clery’s name was bad. On the contrary, they’d said he knew horses so well they were willing to buy his rejects. A two-legged ride, huh? And I looked like a nice girl? If they but knew!