Paxton and the Lone Star (4 page)

True waved a hand toward the man who had spoken, one among a group standing on a wagon. They mistook his confident smile for a sheepish grin. Long, gangly, and awkward-looking in the clothes that hid his hard, trim muscles, he tucked a sandy curl beneath his cap, and continued on his way.

The crowd closed in behind him. Through it, moving with a grace that belied his bulk, Joseph angled away from his brother and wove through the crush. Five years older than True, Joseph had learned little more in his twenty-seven years than the lust for a tidy profit and the value of having the odds in his favor no matter what the situation. “Well, then, Mr. Miles,” he announced, as he reached the farmer's wagon. “If you are indeed so confident of Mose Nolan's stock, perhaps you would care to join the wagering.” He tugged on the brim of his hat and stared up at them. “Or it is true what I hear,” he went on drily, “that you're all gut and bluster when it comes to the manly exercise of wagering and showing something more than an open mouth?”

Cameron Miles's friends, two other farmers cut from the same cloth, guffawed and slapped their companion on the back. “Joseph's got you there, Cameron,” one said.

Around the wagon, those who had laughed at True's expense now turned on the red-faced Miles. “That's right. He's called your number.”

“Show him, Cameron. Play your money—”

“If his wife will let him!” someone interjected, drawing good-natured laughter.

“—and make him pay. She won't mind that too much, will she?”

“All right!” Miles growled. The sight of his purse stilled them. “And who'll stand with me? Any of you? Who'll drink with me tonight on winnings from these high and mighty Paxtons?”

The farmers looked sullenly at one another, then grudgingly began to dig into their pockets. Good old bad-tempered Cameron Miles, Joseph thought to himself as he led the way to the speakers' stand near the starting line. Barley Hamilton, the mayor of Brandborough, was in the middle of a speech extolling the wonders of South Carolina, denouncing the policies of Andrew Jackson and the Congress that had passed the Force Act, coercing the states into paying revenues that all law-abiding, God-fearing South Carolinians knew were nothing more than taxation without representation. Joseph and the farmers edged around to the side of the platform where Judge Chaney was trying to stay awake. The judge did not hold with horse racing, much less gambling, but agreed to hold their bets anyway after a stern, whispered reproach.

Men had raced horses at the Brandborough Fair for years. Scheduled or scratch, there was never a lack of either contestants or spectators. The big race of the year, though, had been held for the last twenty-odd years at five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and woe betide the politician who delayed the proceedings by so much as a minute. Mayor Hamilton's face was as crimson as the side of his fist, with which he rhythmically beat the podium. At last, with but ten minutes to go before five, he heeded his wife's frantic gestures and swung in tone from vituperation to patriotic fervor and launched into a final, rousing exhortation for a return to the good old days. With the change, the audience began to come alive again because they knew he was winding down and it was nearly time for the race to begin.

This year's contest was even more special than usual. For the first time in over a decade, a locally owned horse was considered fast enough to go head-to-head with a Paxton animal and, furthermore, given a good chance to win. Nothing could have delighted the townsfolk more. Brandborough had been founded by Paxtons, and the proud, aloof clan that descended from those forbears still ran it. The Paxtons, so it was said, were as easy to dislike as to like, for although they were generous, no man could remember that generosity not being repaid in multiples. With interests in shipping, horse raising, tobacco, and cotton, not to speak of the more than thirty votes they controlled either directly or indirectly, the Paxton presence was impossible to ignore. Watching a Paxton horse being outrun in the big event of the year would be balm to many a sore soul, even more so if the exchange of hard currency were involved.

All three Paxton brothers were aware of the animosity, and each reacted differently. True, in a way he couldn't quite define, sympathized with the townfolk; Andrew didn't really care one way or the other; and Joseph responded with a vindictive desire for revenge. That he might lose everything he'd won in the past two and a half months didn't occur to him as he bulled his way through the crowd in order to join Andrew. The two brothers, half-brothers really, for Joseph's mother had died some years before True and Andrew were born, were a study in contrasts. At seventeen, ten years younger than Joseph, Andrew was a good half a foot shorter. Where Joseph was broad, Andrew was slim as a cable and just as tough and wiry. Where Joseph was fair of skin and dark of hair, Andrew was darker, bronzed like True, and boasted wavy blond hair. Where Joseph gave the impression of plodding stolidity, Andrew exuded energy and appeared, even at rest, to be in motion.

Andrew was perched on the top of a pile of boulders at the water's edge. “Well, little brother,” Joseph said, noting that the full course could be seen from their vantage point. “Looks like you've found the best view at the fair.”

“The truth is, I had to pay half a dozen kids a dollar for it,” Andrew admitted. “Thought it was worth it, though. Have a seat.”

Using Andrew's shoulder for support, Joseph eased himself down, then jumped to his feet with a sharp yelp as the sun-heated rock blistered the seat of his pants.

“Takes getting used to,” Andrew snickered.

“Like seeing your new bride take out her glass eye,” Joseph growled, trying to figure out how Andrew could endure sitting on what felt like a red-hot blacksmith's forge. “Aha!” A triangle of dark leather poked out from underneath Andrew. Joseph reached down, grabbed Andrew by one arm and a leg, and lifted him into the air. “What have we here?” he asked, using his foot to pull the leather saddlebag Andrew had been sitting on out from under him.

“Put me down, you dumb ox.”

“Not so dumb I haven't found something to sit on.” He set Andrew down and quickly expropriated the saddlebag for himself. “Not very generous of you, little brother.”

Andrew almost fell off the boulder, caught his balance at the last second, and burned his hand on the rock in the process. “Hey!” he yelled. “That was my idea.”

“And a good one.” Joseph wriggled around until he was comfortable. “Should have thought of it myself.”

“Damn it, Joseph!”

“Wish me no ill will, Andrew. Tell you what,” he went on expansively, “I am in a mood to be generous. Suppose you accompany me to Maggie Hansa's after the race. I'll see to it that she gives you something more important to worry about.”

“Unfold that saddle bag so two can sit, and we have a deal,” Andrew agreed.

Joseph produced a flask, uncorked it and drank before offering it to Andrew. “You do drive a bargain, little brother.”

The bourbon took away Andrew's breath and brought tears to his eyes. He reached up to tuck his hair behind his ears and carefully fit his hat more firmly into place, and in the process wiped his eyes. “Had a pretty good teacher,” he wheezed, returning the flask.

“That's what big brothers are for,” Joseph said. He stuffed the flask into his hip pocket, and failed to make room for Andrew on the saddlebag. A smattering of applause reached them from the crowd surrounding the speakers' platform. “'Bout five, don't you think? He look ready to go?”

Resigned to contenting himself with a minor victory, of sorts, Andrew sighed and looked out over the crowd.

True was easy to spot with his white shirt and silly hat, not to speak of the great strawberry roan. Next to him, Firetail looked bored as the applause died down and the mayor accepted his plaudits.
The calm before the storm,
True thought, stroking the animal's muzzle.
It's time to get on with it.

The sun, still high in the sky, hung like a glob of white-hot steel. To the east, the Atlantic spilled creamy froth on the white sand. Beyond, the limitless blue of the ocean merged with the darker hues of the eastern sky. Farther down the beach, a hundred or so yards inland, the Christian Ladies Auxiliary was busy setting up tables, unloading platters of cakes and pies from a flatbed wagon, and tending the fires burning under the huge cauldrons and grills where, later, crabs would be boiled and fish and oysters fried.

True breathed deeply, letting the sea breeze fill his lungs. His earlier nervousness had dissipated, and with the ensuing calm he was able to view, as from a distance, the course, the horses, and himself. As for the course, he'd seldom seen better. Staked out on hard-packed sand, it ran along the edge of the Atlantic where the shore road nipped at the beach, bent inland around a shallow cove, circled the massive live oak at the edge of the swamp, and returned to the starting line.

The two horses could not be assessed so easily. That Firetail was eager to run, there was no doubt. But Tory was too, and although True had not seen her in action, she did look fast. As much as Firetail liked to win, he could be in a losing race. One never knew. Nolan was no fool. He certainly couldn't be totally ignorant of Firetail's prowess, and perhaps he knew something that True didn't. More to the point, a horse could slip, lose its footing, pull a muscle or tear a tendon. Both animals were subject to the same vagaries, though, so there was no sense worrying about that. The third and final factor was himself. He and Joseph and Andrew had been traveling for two and a half months, and he was tired of it. The ordeal of travel and racing that had brought them back to where they had begun had engendered a listlessness that True couldn't seem to shake. The truth was that, aside from all the money involved, he didn't really care any more. He'd feel differently once away from the starting line and in the heat of the race, but the feeling would be temporary at best. Outside of those few minutes with the wind in his face and the sound of Firetail's hooves drumming in his ears, True was indifferent. Although the attitude bothered him deeply, for a man ought to care, it was all the same to True Paxton whether he won or lost.

“Ugliest creature I've ever seen,” Mose Nolan sniffed, breaking into True's thoughts. He led his lithe mare, brown as sandy loam in a just plowed field, to the starting line, and turned to grin at True. “You sure his daddy wasn't one of them damn gators back in the swamp? That head alone ought to weigh him down.”

It was true that Firetail had an unusually large head, that his legs were knobby and thick as tree limbs. His chest was too heavy, he stood too tall, and carried too much weight in his withers. But there was one other thing about the stallion that did not show. Pure, sweet, and simple, he liked to run fast.

What True had seen in the gangly colt three years earlier he never was able to say, but when his dam had died in the swampland around Solitary, True had taken him as his own, named him Firetail, and raised him. He had fed him, trained him, nursed him though sickness, and seen him grow strong and healthy, if not exactly picturesque. Like his sire, Firetail could be mean and irascible, and had a temper so unpredictable that only True might approach him without being wary of a nip or sudden kick. As he grew, though, it became evident that Firetail's liabilities were also his advantages. The too-wide chest housed huge lungs. His height let him cover a distance in incredible, yard-eating strides. His legs, so heavily muscled as to look misshapen, were more than capable of sustaining his bulk and giving him great speed. Only his oversized and overweight head remained a detriment, and that he overcame with pure pride and the will to win. All in all, as Joseph had been first to note, Firetail was one hopelessly homely animal that no one in his right mind would breed, but he could be made to show a tidy profit. At Mose Nolan's expense, True thought, hiding his anger with a good-natured smile.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” the mayor called. “If you'll take your places, please.”

Amusement rippled through the crowd as True mounted and guided Firetail to the starting line. “Maybe young Paxton ought to be allowed a few extry minutes to show that loghead which leg to start off on,” someone called.

“Or just to figure out which end is fore and which is aft,” another yelled, adding to the merriment.

Tory pranced to the starting line and took her place next to Firetail beneath the brightly colored banner that had been stretched between two posts. “You sure you have him pointed in the right direction?” Nolan asked, smirking.

“You going to race or talk?” True snapped, dropping all pretense of affability.

Nolan colored. “Ain't no call—”

“Get ready, gentlemen!” the mayor called, interrupting. Nolan shut up. Tory seemed to tense. True leaned forward in the saddle, felt Firetail's muscles bunch beneath him. The mayor lifted a flintlock pistol, checked the pan, then pointed the weapon up and out to sea. The crowd hushed.

“Get set …”

The mayor squeezed the trigger. Released, the flint snapped forward and struck the frizzen. Sparks ignited the powder in the pan and flashed down into the charge in the barrel. The pistol shot flame and a cloud of black powder smoke into the air. At the sound, both horses leaped forward.

Tory took a quick lead. Lighter than Firetail, she shot from the line and showed him her heels. Behind her, his eyes wild, Firetail thundered in her wake. “Go!” True shouted, the adrenaline surging through him as he leaned forward to become one with the horse. “Go!”

What they had was a by God first class horse race! The crowd spread along the course roared its approval. The Paxton horse was coming on strong, but Tory was holding her own. No one doubted she would win, and oh, the thought of pockets crammed full of Paxton money was as sweet as the smell of victory

At least for the first half mile.