Bond was mystified. ‘But why don’t you just turn them over to the Stewards? Who are your principals in all this? Who pays the bills?’
‘Retained by the leading owners,’ said Leiter. ‘They pay us a retainer and extra by results. And I wouldn’t get far with the Stewards. Wouldn’t be fair to put the stable-boy in the box. Be the death sentence for him. The veterinary has passed the horse, and the real “Shy Smile” was shot and burned months ago. No. I’ve got my own ideas, and they’re going to hurt the Spangled boys far more than a disbarment from the tracks. You’ll see. Anyway, five o’clock, and I’ll come and hammer on the door just in case.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Bond. ‘I’ll be on the doorstep with my boots and my saddle while the coyotes are still baying the moon.’
Bond woke on time and there was a wonderful freshness in the air as he followed the limping figure of Leiter through the half light that filtered through the elms among the waking stables. In the east, the sky was pearly grey and iridescent, like a toy balloon filled with cigarette smoke, and among the shrubs the mocking birds were beginning their first song. Blue smoke rose straight up in the air from the fires in the camps behind the stables and there was a smell of coffee and wood-smoke and dew. There was the clank of pails and the other small noises of men and horses in the early morning and as they moved out from under the trees to the white wooden rail that bordered the track, a file of blanketed horses came by with a boy at each head, holding the leading rein right up close to the bit and talking with soft roughness to their charges. ‘Hey, lazybones, pick yo feet up. Giddap. You sho ain’t no Man-O-War dis mornin’.’
‘They’ll be getting ready for the morning works,’ said Leiter. ‘The gallops. This is the time the trainers hate most. When the owners come.’
They leant against the rail, thinking about the early morning, and about breakfast, and the sun suddenly caught the trees half a mile away on the other side of the track and brushed the topmost branches with pale gold, and in minutes the last shadows had gone and it was day.
As if they had been waiting for the sign, three men appeared from among the trees away to the left, and one of them was leading a big chestnut with a blaze face and four white stockings.
‘Don’t look at them,’ said Leiter softly. ‘Turn your back on the track and watch that file of horses coming up. That old bent man with them is “Sunny Jim” Fitzsimmons, greatest trainer in America. And those are the Woodward horses. Most of them will be winners this meeting. Just look casual and I’ll keep an eye on our friends. Wouldn’t do to seem too interested. Now let’s see, there’s a stable-boy leading “Shy Smile” and that’s Budd all right and my old friend “Lame-brain” in a beautiful lavender shirt. Always a dresser. Nice-looking horse. Powerful shoulders. They’ve taken the blanket off him and he doesn’t like the cold. Bucking around like mad with the stable-boy hanging on. Sure hope he doesn’t kick Mr Pissaro in the face. Now Budd’s got him and he’s quietened down. Budd’s given the boy a leg up. Leading him on to the track. Now he’s cantering slowly up the far side of the track to one of the furlong posts. The hoodlums have got their watches out, they’re looking round. They’ve spotted us. Just look casual, James. Once the horse gets going they won’t be interested in us. Yeah. You can turn round now. “Shy Smile’s” on the far side of the track and they’ve got their glasses on him to be ready for the off. And it will be four furlongs. Pissaro’s just by the fifth post.’
Bond turned and looked along the rail to his left at the two stocky intent figures with the sun glinting on their glasses and on the watches in their hands and, although he didn’t believe in these people, the dusk seemed to seep out around them from under the golden elms.
‘He’s off.’ Far away Bond could see a flying brown horse rounding the top end of the track and turning into the long stretch towards them. At that distance, not a sound came to them, but quickly there was a soft drumming on the tan track that grew until, with a swift thunder of hooves, the horse rounded the bend in front of them, right up against the far rails, and hurtled on the last furlong towards the watching men.
A tingle of excitement ran down Bond’s spine as the chestnut flashed by, its teeth bared and its eyes wild with the effort, its gleaming quarters pounding and the breath snorting out of its wide nostrils, the boy on its back arched like a cat in the stirrups, his face low down and almost touching the horse’s neck. And then they had gone in a spray of sound and upflung earth and Bond’s eyes moved to the two watching men, now crouching, and he saw the two arms jerk downwards as they jammed down the stops on their watches.
Leiter touched him on the arm and they moved casually away and back under the trees towards the car.
