Faster Horses by Judith Clayton Van

Author:Judith Clayton Van [Van, Judith Clayton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atmosphere Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Then it was the end of April, and we were standing in the alley at the Multnomah Hunt Club show barn in Portland, and Mam was pinning number 121 on my back. Burt was holding Genie and slicking Vaseline around her mouth and Granddad was checking to make sure the tack was perfect and that her fake tailpiece was securely attached. I kept my back turned because I knew if I went near Burt, he would start in on me again not only about my form, but the nasty habits of the professional riders that I had to watch out for. As for my form, I had thoroughly memorized all the positions and most of the time my body did what I told it—my biggest problem was letting my hands creep up, but I almost had that cured. On the drive to the fairgrounds that morning, I had decided that if my form wasn’t correct by then it never would be, and that the other riders could hardly be as mean and low-down as Burt painted them. I was ready.

Still, as I reached to settle my new top hat, my stomach was full of darts and flashes because according to Mam my first big show, the Multnomah County Junior League Show, was real quality, where all the horses were more expensive and the riders classier than in Emerald City.

In the tack room earlier, after reading the list of entrants she had dropped the program in the show trunk and gestured to it. “With that crowd, if you could even place in the top six, you’d be doing something.”

Humph! Place? Why show unless you rode to win?

Grandad turned me around and looked me over too. “They’re lining up,” he said, adjusting the pink rose in my buttonhole. “Just do your best, punk.”

My eyes cast down, thoughts turning inward trying to remember what Burt had said about how to enter the ring, I did not look up as Granddad helped me mount. Then we were rushing into place as the announcer called our class, horses every which way in the alley, two horses snorting and jigging and everyone jumping out of the way.

A man in a powder blue suit, with tan hat and boots, riding a tall dappled gray stallion gestured to me as he maneuvered into line, “Dropped your crop,” he said.

When I looked down to see the crop securely attached to my wrist, the gray stallion swept past us and took our place in line. Burt touched my boot, I saw Mam wave, and then through a pair of erect, tight-clipped ears the long arena full of bright lights, pink and green bunting, and mellow organ music opened before us. It might have been the second-best show in the state but after Madison Square Garden, I didn’t think it amounted to all that much.

Out in the arena, Genie behaved perfectly. My form was correct. Genie negotiated the big ring and the other horses like the professional Mam had said she was.

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