The Fancy Dancer

“Last time I checked on them was up by Dog Creek. Will was half a mile behind the goddam Arab. The Arab looks pretty tired. But this is the first time we’ve raced the stud, so we don’t know what kind of a finish he’s got. I couldn’t stand to watch no more, so I came on in.”
    The packed grandstands waited, rustling, babbling. A lot of the rodeo contestants had come over to the finish line too. They didn’t give a hoot about thoroughbreds, but this was their kind of their horse. Larry’s bright blue eyes stayed fixed on the announcer’s tower, waiting for the next news.
    Then the announcer’s voice cracked over the waiting fairground.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, the first two finishers in the endurance race are entering the fairgrounds. They’re turning off the highway and through the outside gate there. Horse number one is about three lengths ahead of horse number two. It’s very close, ladies and gentlemen. And the first horse is now...”
    The entire grandstand had risen to its feet, people straining their eyes, talking, putting down their cups of beer, taking their cigarettes out of their mouths.
    Through the drop gate, a single lonely horse and rider came onto the track. They both looked sun-beaten and dusty. The horse was moving along at a curious quick sidewinding gait.
    “It’s Flint,” said Larry. His voice choked up. “It’s Will and Flint.” Vidal and I traded happy looks.
    The grandstand erupted with applause.
    Now a second horse came through the drop gate, at a regular trot. This was the Arab, a bay horse. But he was obviously not going to catch the little blue roan stud. With every stride, Flint was putting a yard more between himself and his rival.
    Larry and Vidal forgot themselves just a shade and hugged each other. They were both grinning like apes. Me, I had a huge lump in my throat. Of all the tens of thousands of people at the fairgrounds, the four of us were the only souls who knew the special significance of this victory. I dared to thank God for the results of a horse race.
    Right down the middle of the homestretch Flint came. He was pacing lightly and boldly like those legendary mustangs of old, who ran their pursuers into the ground and died free. He had lifted his tired neck a little, and pricked his ears toward the noisy grandstand, which must have been a strange thing to him. Will had his hat pulled far down over his eyes against the afternoon sun, and the eternal little cigar was clenched in his teeth as he sat the pace easily, rooted in the saddle.
    . . And the winner is Flint,” yelled the announcer. “A six-year-old stud owned by Will Mills and Larry Deisser of Drummond. Ridden by Will. A local horse, ladies and gentlemen. I think we can say on this proud day that Drummond is local, don’t you?”
    As Flint paced across the finish line, Will’s grin got just a bit wider, and he threw a little wave of his hand at the grandstand.
    “Something you ought to know about this horse,” said the announcer. “He’s a real son-of-a-gun mustang. Foaled right down in the Pryor Mountains. His mammy and pappy were wild. He’s the real thing, ladies and gentlemen. Take a good look at him, because you’re going to be seeing more of these horses. A few ranchers like Will and Larry are breeding them ..
    From the look on Larry’s face, he was as pleased with this unasked-for-advertising as if he’d been given a free ad in Time magazine. He and Vidal and I ran out on the track.
    Will pulled the horse up gently. The stud saw Larry
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    coming and whickered through his dusty wide-flared nostrils. He was streaked with sweat and dust, and looked as if he had dropped some weight during the hard race. A couple of minutes later, the bay Arab crossed the line too.
    Will dismounted, and he and Larry pounded each other on the back.
    “Howdy, partner,” said Larry.
    “Howdy partner yourself, you homy son-of-a-bitch,” said Will happily in a low hoarse voice.
    The grandstand was still applauding.
    The announcer said, “We now have the official time for Flint over the fifty-mile distance. It’s three hours, thirty-two minutes and five seconds. That’s a real good time—”
    The awards committee and photographers came out on the track now. One of the officials was carrying a big silver loving cup, and another was toting a pail of water and a sponge. They formed a little group, and solemnly shook hands with Will and Larry. Flashbulbs went off, and the stud shied a little. Hands