by Kit Ehrman
* * *
By late Friday afternoon, new locks had been installed wherever possible. I flipped through a ridiculously large bunch of keys, thanks to Dave's brilliant idea that multiple keys would confuse the enemy, and tried to remember which color tape went with the new feed room lock. Pink? No, yellow. I unlocked the door and pulled the feed cart away from the wall. I had organized the supplements and medications and was turning the cart around when I heard Marty yell my name.
I ran outside and found him standing between the barns, his back toward me. "Marty. What's wrong?"
He spun around. "I'm surprised you didn't hear."
"Hear what?"
"Whitcombe was riding that gelding of his. The plain bay . . ."
"Rennie's Luck?"
"Yeah, that's the one. Well, Lucky wasn't so lucky."
"What do you mean?"
"You know how he's been stoppin' at the jumps lately?"
I waited for him to get on with it.
"Well, Whitcombe took a whip to him and cut 'im up pretty--"
"Where is he?"
"Whitcombe?"
"No," I said. "The horse."
"In his stall."
I turned and started toward Lucky's stall.
"You'll be needin' to medicate him," Marty said. "And guess what?"
"What?"
He jogged up alongside me. "Mrs. Hill fired him."
I paused. "She fired Whitcombe?"
"Who else?"
"Fucking shit."
"Wait a minute." He cupped his hands behind his ears. "Did I hear you right, or was I just imaginin' things?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, you really should watch your mouth, young man. Foxdale--"
"Geez." I turned and left him there.
"--has an image to uphold," he yelled at my back.
We stood outside Lucky's stall. The gelding was standing near the back wall, his eyes wide, muscles tensed.
"Goddamn it."
"You should of seen him, Steve. Whitcombe had ol' Lucky here so worked up, gallopin' full out, I thought he was gonna wipe out it in the turn . . . or crash through a fence."
I slid the door back and walked into the stall. Lucky was drenched with sweat, and the muscles along his flank trembled in spasms. I examined the cuts and was relieved to find they weren't as bad as I'd first thought--more gore than actual damage. I collected the supplies I would need, then we cross-tied him in the wash-rack.
"Damn Whitcombe," I muttered.
I stepped toward Lucky's shoulder, and he bobbed his head. The chains rattled hollowly against the wall.
"Marty, hold his head for me." I patted the gelding's neck and kept my hand on his body as I moved toward his flank.
"His ears are pinned, Steve."
"I'll be right back."
I grabbed a bag of carrots out of the feed room and fed him a couple.
"Poor guy." I broke another carrot in two. "Marty, what happened exactly?"
"Well, when Lucky here refused the Liverpool for the third time, Whitcombe just laid into him. I can't believe the shit was stupid enough to do it in front of everybody."
"What a fool."
"One of the boarders ran into the office and told Mrs. Hill what was goin' on. She saw the end of his little temper tantrum and fired his ass."
I grinned. "Good for her. It couldn't have happened to a better person." I glanced down the aisle. "Eh, where is Mr. Whitcombe, anyway?"
"He had a few words with Mrs. Hill, then drove off." Marty grinned. "Oh, and the little shit's got a new ride."
"What?"
"A fucking new Mustang convertible."
"Wonder where he got the money for that? He sure didn't earn it here."
Marty shrugged.
"Too bad I missed it. I would've liked to have said goodbye."
"I bet you would of."
"There's justice after all. Whitcombe loses his job, maybe now he won't be able to make his car payments." I ran my hand down Lucky's face and cupped my hand around his muzzle. His old, soft lips searched my palm for another piece of carrot. "Except ol' Lucky here'll be going with him."