Puss 'N Cahoots

gone.”
    “Tell you what. Let’s meet him for breakfast tomorrow. The Nook just outside of town. If he doesn’t have time to go, we’ll go to him. I expect he’ll be more settled tomorrow. I’ll call him. Call you in the morning.”
    “Let you know. Where’s Miss Nasty?”
    “Changing her clothes.” Booty smiled. “Gotta go.”
    As Ward and Benny walked the two horses to the van down in the lot, Ward asked, “What do you think?”
    “I don’t trust either one.”
    “Don’t like ’em or don’t trust ’em?”
    “Both.”
    Ward kept quiet, because Booty’s comment about Queen Esther meant Booty didn’t trust him any more than he trusted Booty. He took the lead shank from the gelding Benny was leading, while Benny dropped the heavy ramp to the back of the van, walked up the rubber-coated ramp, and flipped up the heavy door bolts. He swung open the door to behold fifteen illegal workers. Wordlessly, he motioned for them to flatten against the side of the van.
    He walked down, took the gelding. “Boss, we got precious cargo.”
    “Inchworm.” Ward named one of the men he knew as highly intelligent.
    Inchworm had probably led those he could through the bushes, waited until they could slither into the lot, and jammed up into the van using the small side gangplank to get in, as it would be much easier to pull up from inside.
    Benny led the gelding right by the men. The horse planted his hooves for a second, but Benny sweetly coaxed him to his spot and tied him by the feed net.
    Inchworm, who humped up his back when he worked a horse, silently pointed for some of the men to get behind the gelding and flatten themselves at the bulkhead.
    Om Setty walked on, looked around, and reached for her feed bag.
    The men stood or sat around the horses.
    Benny and Ward slid into the cab of the old van and fired her up. She sputtered and stopped.
    “Not now, baby, not now.” Ward sweated.
    “Gotta rebuild this engine.” Benny crossed his fingers.
    “If I win a couple more classes, I can.” He pulled the choke, pushed it in a bit, cranked her. She belched black oily smoke from her exhaust, coughed again, rumbled a little, then started to hum. “Sweet Jesus, I adore Thee.” Ward then eased off the brake, pushed in the choke completely, and rolled out of the lot.
    They just had to get past the fellow at the gate. He waved at them as he unlocked it. What he saw were two immaculately groomed horses reaching up for their feed bags, their windows open to let in the night air.
    They turned left onto Route 60, Ward thinking it better to avoid I-64, the corridor from Virginia to where the Mississippi River creates a border between Illinois and Missouri.
    “What if INS comes to the farm?”
    “Won’t. Just you and me. We’re golden.”
    “Where you gonna put these guys?”
    “They’ll sleep in the outbuildings. Can’t risk them in the barns, just in case. Guess they’re hungry.” He thought. “Gonna be cereal tonight. Nothing in the fridge.”
    “I’ll make a food run in the morning,” Benny said. “Then we can call folks to come pick up their grooms.” He exhaled. “Whooeee. Gonna be busy.” He paused a second. “You’re smart not to have Mexican grooms in your barn. ’Course with me, I do the work of two men.” Benny cackled.
    “Right, Laurel and Hardy.” Ward smiled, then asked, “You think Renata called INS?”
    Benny shrugged. “Booty’s right about publicity.”
    “Wouldn’t she want the publicity about her?” Ward concentrated on the road.
    “Still, brings the reporters around and keeps them around. They’ll be there for her class.”
    “See, that’s what I mean. She’s got it all set up with Queen Esther so when she rides tomorrow night it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses, she wins.”
    “Yeah. She should win the three-gaited open stake. Helluva mare.”
    “She doesn’t come out ahead by what happened tonight. Can’t see it.” Ward frowned.
    “You falling for her?”
    “No.” A long, long pause followed. “Wouldn’t mind taking her to bed, though.”
    “That’s when your troubles really begin,” said the man with three ex-wives and children to boot.

H orse people tend to be tough. They work hard physically, keep long hours during shows, sleep little. The compelling passion, obsession perhaps, for horses drives them ever onward, to the astonishment of those who like differing pastimes such as golf or tennis. It’s not that those sports lack committed