Chapter Six: Prelude to a Race

They were all supposed to meet at Lucy's at 10:00 A.M. Chuck arrived a few minutes early to find a crowd of nearly fifty miners, ranch hands, sheepherders, and drunks lingering around a giant oak tree that marked what was supposed to be the starting line. He scanned the motley crowd, looking for familiar faces. Vera was sitting on the steps of Lucy's chomping on a licorice-colored cigar and making small talk with a group of miners probably down from the mountains above Silverton. Chuck guessed they were Jake's friends looking for some action.

Miguel Lopez and a few of his Mexican buddies from over in Alamosa gathered around a hastily constructed corral near the big oak. Chuck couldn't see the mare that would be his ticket to five hundred dollars but the manure and the saddle hanging from one of the aspen posts suggested she was nearby. He still couldn't believe Jake had made the bet. He had to have seen Miguel's mare win the match race with Judge Dugan's colt. It was an impressive beast if Chuck had ever seen one.

Off to the south along the road that led down to Pagosa, Chuck could see perhaps forty or fifty bright red flags hanging from every conceivable tree. He had to hand it to Jake; the man was a real piece of work. He wondered how much Jake and Henry were charging folks down in Pagosa to watch the finish. Knowing Jake and the judge it was probably twenty-five cents or more. With the finish line directly in front of the courthouse across from the hot springs, he imagined the whole town would be out.

Chuck again scanned the rapidly growing masses. He still couldn't see Hoot anywhere but his nemesis, Jake, emerged from Lucy's carrying a piping hot cup of coffee and a ridiculous smirk. Chuck couldn't quite decipher its meaning. Still he needed to touch base with Jake before everything began, so he trotted across the pine needles and the cottonwood twigs toward the saloon. As he arrived at the boardwalk, Chuck discovered the reason for Jake's smirk in the weasel-like figure of Soloman Diggle. The tiny bespectacled man's smug smile immediately rubbed Chuck the wrong way.

"Well, Jake, it looks like things are coming together on this little bet," began Chuck when he caught Jake's attention. "I would never have imagined all the flags and banners, though."

Jake laughed. "When you told me you got Hoot to be the runner, I guess I might have got a little carried away."

"A little?"

"The flags were all my idea, Chuck, but Diggle here came up with the banners and the music," replied Jake, pointing casually at the little promoter and then at a ragged group of musicians busily extracting intruments from dusty black cases.

"A touch of class, I call it," added Diggle, his voice scratchy and annoying.

Like an unrepentant child, Diggle extended his hand as if to greet the tall rancher, but Chuck only stared at it with disdain. "Don't want to soil my reputation," he sneered.

"Your courtesy knows no bounds," squealed Diggle with delight.

Chuck turned his back on the rat-faced promoter and again addressed Jake. "I take it the horse is here, but I don't see Cole or my boy. You seen 'em?"

"Still plenty of time, Chuck." Jake sipped his coffee slowly and confidently. "Hoot said yesterday when I talked to him that he was gonna sleep as long as he could 'fore the race. And Cole? I ain't seen him at all. Heard he's been takin' riding lessons from Cus though."

"Now that's an act I'd pay to see in my show," chimed in Diggle. "Two fat men on a mule."

It was a funny image, but Chuck wasn't going to give Diggle the satisfaction of an amused grin. He hated all that the man stood for, and the fact that he had even shown his face at this event spoke volumes about his integrity and character. He was a man who preyed on the gullibility of others. It irked Chuck that his son wanted so desperately to be his prey.

Jake probably sensed Chuck's downright hatred and couldn't help but pour salt in the wound. "Chuck, Diggle tells me Hoot is scheduled to go down the rapids on Independence Day. He says he's starting to sell tickets just as soon as Hoot wins the race here. Right, Sol?"

"He's destined for stardom, I tell ya. Stardom." Diggle beamed from ear to ear. He, too, enjoyed harassing Chuck.

"Stardom, huh?" Chuck winced. "Well, you're right about the dumb part."

"Speaking of dumb," cried Jake, "here comes the man of the hour."

Chuck turned to see his son, Hoot, striding toward the threesome, his blond locks bouncing with every step. Dressed in a warm sweatshirt and longjohns over what was certainly white gym shorts and a white undershirt, Hoot looked every bit the athlete he had been in high school. If Chuck hadn't been so determined to win the bet and keep Hoot on the ranch, he might have been impressed.

"Gentlemen," Hoot said, shaking Jake's hand and nodding to Diggle. He didn't turn to acknowledge his father, but rather scanned the crowd looking for someone.

"She's not here, Hoot," snapped Chuck, knowing that Sally hadn't shown.

"Wasn't even looking for her," Hoot lied, his face turning red. He hadn't seen her since that evening at the Hot Springs Inn and his patience was running thin.

"Course you were, Hoot," interjected Jake. "She's probably just over at Cole's keeping her options open."

Both Jake and Soloman exploded in laughter unaware of just how accurate their observation would prove to be. Hoot buried his fists deep into the folds of his sweatshirt and Chuck just steamed watching his son search for Sally Forester. With the race still a good thirty minutes off, the gamesmanship had just begun.