Puss 'N Cahoots

keep their concentration with thousands of excited humans so close to them that those on the rail could reach out and touch the horses. Of course, if anyone ever did anything so foolish, they’d be thrown out of the Saddlebred world forever. Still, the proximity of the spectators to the competitors was extraordinary and not duplicated in other sports. Football, baseball, hockey, and even basketball kept the fan at a distance from the athlete. Golf and cycling were two of the few sports where a person could get close to the real action. Even in hunter–jumper classes, humans had been moved farther away from the show ring, except for local shows, where the feeling of closeness, conviviality, and personally knowing the riders and horses still prevailed.
    Money changed sports. While it improved spectacle and competition, the fan began to be regarded as a necessary evil. There was money enough in the Saddlebred world if you were good, but the fans were part of the extended family. No matter how big the shows, they kept their hometown feel.
    These things flitted through Harry’s mind as she studied the big black horse, drowsing in his stall.
    “Ah.” Jorge smiled. “Big career ahead.”
    Harry found it difficult to speculate on how quickly the value of a horse could change after even one show, one big show. “Well, if he wins at Louisville, it goes through the roof.”
    “Not this year. Frederick the Great and Callaway’s Senator.” He said no more, for those two horses, fully mature and show hardened, would go head to head Saturday night, the last class, the showstopper class. Charly and Booty rode the two stallions, respectively.
    “So if he comes in third, young as he is, that’s a huge victory.”
    “Sí.”
He nodded.
“Sí.”
    The rumble of a large diesel engine alerted Harry. She stepped out of Barn Five. The motor cut off. Harry couldn’t see the truck parked down beside the practice ring. She stepped back into the barn and looked at Jorge.
    “Feed,” Jorge shrugged.
    Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, after ascertaining that no mice or other vermin could be assaulted, also listened as the motor cut off.
    “Let’s go,”
Tucker called to Mrs. Murphy as Jorge walked back into the barn, Harry following.
    Tucker, low to the ground, was fast and agile. Mrs. Murphy loved running with the corgi. Both animals possessed curiosity and stamina. Pewter usually spewed an endless stream of complaints. They were glad she was snoring back at the Best Western.
    The dewy grass kept the impression of their pawprints. They stopped at the bleacher bench on the eastern side of the practice arena. For many, watching the horses work gave them clues as to how they might fare in their classes.
    “Who are those men hopping out of the back of the van?”
Tucker, eyes good in the dark, watched the back of a white horse van with green trim.
    Mrs. Murphy walked closer. Tucker followed.
“They’re young.”
She strained to hear, ears forward, but the only sound was their boots tiptoeing into the oldest barn.
“They’re Mexican.”
    “What are they doing? Maybe they’re going to steal horses.”
Tucker knew humans to be a noisy lot, so if the human animal, especially in numbers, was silent, no good would come of it.
    “You don’t need that many people to steal a horse.”
Mrs. Murphy wondered what was going on, too.
“Come on.”
She sprinted toward the barn.
    Tucker, bigger than the cat, worried that she’d attract attention. She followed but looked for places to duck away.
    Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the barn as though she lived there. She checked out the stalls, and as all were wood she could climb up to get out of the way. Just in case.
    However, there were barn cats, who immediately tore after her. She ran, because four cats against one is not a pleasing prospect.
    “Scram!”
the biggest ginger cat screeched.
    Mrs. Murphy shot past Tucker, and the corgi turned to keep up with her friend as the barn cats puffed up, stopped running, and whooped their victory.
    “See anything?”
    “The men are lined up along the wall. Charly Trackwell gave a roll of cash to Ward Findley. Booty Pollard, with Miss Nasty, is there, too.”
    “Guess it doesn’t concern Kalarama or us,”
Tucker said.
    “Guess not. Odd, though.”
    “Twenty men in the back of a horse van?”
Tucker was surprised.
    “They looked tired and hungry.”
Mrs. Murphy wished those barn cats hadn’t appeared. She could have listened to what the men were