Something good was happening during my singing, so I looked around for a guardian angel. And then I looked at Mrs. Glidewell whose hand was over her mouth and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Mrs. Glidewell leaned into Mr. Glidewell and he held her. Only a guardian angel would cry like that. Only a guardian angel could understand how much happiness I felt.
After the dinner Mrs. Glidewell came up to me and gave me a big hug and told me to call her Mary from now on. It feels a little strange, her being the lady of the house and all, but I’d like to think she’s a guardian angel. I can’t be sure, though.
It think it’s all right to call a guardian angel by the first name.
Bonne nuit, mon ami,
Maizie Sunday Freedman
Chapter 43
The Parade
August 8, 1931
The opening parade was scheduled to start around ten in the morning on Saturday. Ranch hands had been prepping the track since dawn. Jeb harnessed the draft horses and secured them to the empty water wagon. Two water towers standing tall behind the north paddock were his destination. When the wagon was full of gravity-fed water, he turned the wagon around and headed back to the track. He slowly drove the wagon around the eight-furlong track releasing the water, as a team of men with rakes walked behind the wheels of the wagon, leveling the dirt to insure a good track for the match races.
James, Mary, and Maizie walked down to the track around nine o’clock. Rex Goude, well-known in the area, had agreed to announce and call the races and was busy with a friend from KGBX radio station testing the loudspeakers. Corky polished his bugle, put on his cavalry coat and headed toward the track to see to his mount, Devil Doll. Stable hands and groomers were busy grooming the parade horses. Anticipation filled the air as everyone worked hard to guarantee an impressive event at the Glidewell Ranch.
Maizie was checking in with everyone, making sure all participants had all they needed. One horse rancher from Ava, Missouri, was unhappy sleeping in the bunkhouse. He complained bitterly about the snoring of his bunkmates and feared he would have to find another place to sleep or go home. Maizie ran it past Sugar.
“Wouldn’t you know it, we’d have a prince in the bunch. I’s sho’ don’t think he deserves special treatment.”
Maizie pointed out the man. Sugar approached him, smiling. “I understand you got some problem with the snoring.”
“Yep, couldn’t sleep a wink last night. We got some buzz saws in there,” he said as he brushed his roan quarter horse.
“Well now, ain’t that a problem, men snoring. You know I do believe you could find a place in the barn with the horses. That might be a bit quieter. Up to you,” suggested Sugar, adjusting her head wrap.
“The barn? I ain’t slept in a barn since I was a kid.”
“That’s all we got. Guess you’ll be heading home. I’ll tell Maizie to scratch you from the schedule.” Sugar turned and began to walk away.
“No, wait. I’ll give it another night. I came here to race, not sleep.”
“All right then, you’re staying. Anything else you want to let me know?”
“Yeah, one more thing. That maid over there. The one with the blond hair. What’s her name? She married?” Sugar followed the direction of the man’s pointing finger and saw Claire walking down from the ranch house.
“Now sir, you stay away from our help. It’s none of your business she married or not. Mr. Glidewell don’t like it. If you want to chase tail, you gonna have to go someplace else. We got rules here. No tobacco chewing either.”
“Just thought I’d ask. She was real nice to me earlier.”
“She’s nice to all the guests. Don’t you even think for one minute she’s got an eye on you.”
“All right, all right. Just thought I’d ask,” said the rancher, turning his attention from Sugar to the hat on his head, adjusting the brim to block out the morning sun.
The viewing knoll, now bathed in morning light, was filling with a few spectators. Many guests had spread blankets, while others had brought a few folding chairs. Some found the limited shade of a newly planted tree, while most sported sun umbrellas for later. By the time the races started, the sun high in the sky, the grassy knoll hopefully would be filled with eager spectators.
But now, at 9:30, horse-and-rider teams began to gather in the saddling paddock for the parade. It was a thrilling sight to see them all, sixteen teams in close proximity to each other. Last-minute adjustments to tack were in order. Miles Moser was the first to finish and walked over to Capp, who was preparing Running Wild.
“Hey, you gonna ride that horse there?” he said.
“Sure am.”
“He don’t look like no winner to me. Looks like he’s ready for the farm. You ever run him against a real horse?” Capp said nothing and adjusted a stirrup.
“I said, looks like you got yourself a nag. You take care of him? Looks sickly to me.” Capp again remained silent and walked to the other side of his horse, his anger brewing.
“You can’t talk?” asked Moser, a bully’s smirk on his less-than-handsome face.
“Best you go back to your horse before my dander gets up. I rather beat you in a race than in a fistfight.”
“I see we are in the same quarter of the draw. Maybe see you in the second race. But I doubt you’ll get that nag to win his first race.” Capp stayed where he was, clenching his fists, thinking how he’d like to throw a good punch at the jerk’s head, but Moser sauntered back to his horse and the opportunity was lost.
Rex, the announcer, busy preparing for the parade, went over his script. A reporter from the Springfield Republican was sprinting to the saddling area. A photographer along the rail was taking pictures, some on one knee, others leaning over the rail. James ran to invite both the reporter and photographer to dinner that evening; both accepted. A small brass band was setting up at the base of the viewing knoll and were soon playing their repertoire of songs.
At precisely ten o’clock, with the knoll now packed with eager spectators, a bell sounded and Rex Goude could be heard over the loudspeaker. “Good Morning. Welcome to Glidewell and a weekend of match races.” The crowd on the knoll and those near the rail ceased their conversations and listened. “Match races are one of the most exciting formats in horse racing. Just two horses giving their all, head-to-head. You are going to see eight matchups this morning. The winners will go into a winner’s bracket. The losers will be put in a consolation bracket. Every horse you see this morning will race again this afternoon. At the end of the day there will be four horses left in the winner’s bracket and four horses in the consolation bracket. Tomorrow morning those eight remaining horses will race again in their perspective brackets. At the end of the day tomorrow, we will have one winner from the winner’s bracket and one from the consolation bracket. But first let’s settle in and watch the opening parade.”
At the saddling paddock, all participants were getting ready for the parade. Capp was working on Mary’s horse. “Mrs. Glidewell, come on. Let me help you up in the saddle.” Capp carefully assisted Mary, then adjusted the stirrups. “You are going to do fine. Keep the reins in the left hand and hold tight to the American flag with your right,” Capp instructed. Suddenly the horse moved to the right, adjusting his stance. Mary lurched and nearly lost her balance. Hanging on to the flagpole for dear life, she called out for Capp, who quickly righted her, smiling.
“What are you smiling at?” Mary asked, clearly terrified.
“This mare is calm as still water.”
“You can drown in still water, you know,” Mary said nervously. “This flag is heavy. The wind makes it difficult.”
“You’re gonna do fine. Just trust the flag ain’t goin’ nowhere. That flag sleeve buckled to your saddle holds it firm.”
All the rest of the riders were climbing into their saddles. James mounted Lightning, patted the horse’s n
eck, and moved him slowly around to a less-crowded area of the paddock. The Glidewell horses were groomed and ready. Each horse with rider sported an orange blanket emblazoned with a large cobalt-blue G. Mary and James moved to the parade’s front. James sported a flag of Glidewell’s colors, orange and blue.
Some stable hands and groomers began lining up the parade, and when all were ready, riders and horses waited impatiently for the word to get started. Some of the horses, sensing they were going to race, were demonstrably anxious, neighing, snorting, shifting on their hooves. This made waiting very difficult for a few of the riders, especially Capp. Running Wild was throwing his head and stepping continuously as he waited.
The band began to play an upbeat march and Corky came out of the paddock on his ride, Devil Doll. That filly was a show horse and loved the crowd. Picking up her front legs high, she pranced onto the track seeming to keep time to the music. When the band stopped, Corky raised his bugle and began to blow. He ran his horse with great pageantry to the front of the parade. Corky maneuvered his horse into position and then had her rear up for a grand effect; the parade had begun. Maizie stood on the rail near the finish line. She and other observers yelled in support of Corky, his filly, and his shiny bugle.
Following behind Corky, as the band played on, were the Glidewells. Mary and James waved to the crowd and smiled broadly from their horses. The band quieted and Rex Goude announced Mary and James and then Chief Jack. “Following next is Chief Jack, riding his mustang, War Paint, without a saddle, just a blanket and a rope bridle. Wave to the crowd, Chief.” The Chief raised an arm and let out a whoop. Kicking his mustang on the flank, off he went in an impressive display of horsemanship. Building speed, the Indian leaned forward over the mustang’s neck. As he gripped the long hair on the horse’s mane in his left hand, his right arm helped him remain balanced. The two went around the bend and onto the backstretch, the chief confident, not bouncing but graceful. He seemed as comfortable as any man in a saddle. Horse and rider were one. Letting go of the mane and raising both arms in the air, he rode on: no saddle, no bridle, and no hands. When Chief finally neared the rail where his fellow horsemen waited, he pulled on the mane and the mustang came to a skidding stop. The show drew resounding cheers and a few war cries from the crowd.
Maizie turned to Sugar, who was standing next to her at the rail. “Did you see that, Sugar? Could you believe that ride?”
“That was a show. Why, I ain’t seen nothin’ like it befo’.”
“Oh look, there’s Capp and Wil.”
Capp tipped his Stetson hat and Wil simply nodded to the spectators as the announcer called their names. The backside supporters had difficulty containing their enthusiasm. “Capp, you better take it. My money’s on you,” one yelled. Another added, “Me too. Big bucks. Found a fool betting against you.”
Rex Goude continued: “Wil Wembley is on Bright Penny, and from what I understand, that little pony has been his ride for ten years. Came with him from Kentucky years ago. And next to him is his son Capp, a good horseman himself.” Capp pulled tightly on the reins, keeping Wild from bursting down the track.
As Rex Goude introduced participants one by one, each horse and rider presented themselves with a tip of the hat, a nod, and a wave. But one participant, Miles Moser, took it upon himself to do a show for the crowd. Removing his hat and raising it in the air, he had Scout’s Honor, his mount, rear up and make a 360-degree turn while on his hind legs. Miraculously, Miles Moser stayed in the saddle. The crowd was impressed, cheering loudly. Then Moser yelled, “This horse is gonna win! Ain’t no other horse can beat us!” His confident antics won Miles Moser fans, and they roared their approval.
It was a grand parade, and as the participants rode on in front of the viewing knoll and proceeded to the backstretch, anticipation and excitement grew. Mary, still on horseback, turned and looked up to James. “Folks are already having fun. It’s a great event.”
“Just hope we win it.”
Chapter 44
Match Races at the
Glidewell Ranch
August 8, 1931
As the parade participants reached the saddling paddock, the first four horses to compete, which included Capp on Running Wild and Miles Moser on Scout’s Honor, warmed up on the backstretch. A chalk line was rolled across the track by track officials to assure a fair start. Two draft horses pulled the starting apparatus into position. And as Wil had predicted, gentlemen’s bets were happening all over the grounds.
The first group of four horses finished their warm-up and returned to the saddling paddock to make last-minute adjustments to their tack. Spectators, some with cool drinks from their picnic baskets, went to their folding chairs and blankets. Since Prohibition of alcoholic beverages was still the law of the land, any alcohol was concealed in back pocket flasks. There were large glass water-coolers and Dixie cups conveniently located around the track for the thirsty.
Miles Moser was the first to finish and walked with a confident swagger over to where Capp was preparing Running Wild. “Good luck, kid,” said Moser as he chewed on a toothpick. “My money is on the other guy to beat you. Hope you can handle losing.”
“Excuse me,” said Capp as he moved past Moser. “I got a race to run.” Capp grabbed Wild’s lead. Moser laughed and then, using his teeth, bit the toothpick in two and spit the pieces on the ground. Capp pulled on Wild’s reins, creating a greater distance between himself and the cowpoke that was becoming his nemesis.
Corky, on Devil Doll, brought his bugle to his mouth. As “Boots and Saddles” rang through the air, spectators cheered. Two riders in the paddock mounted their horses. First match race was Capp Wembley on Running Wild against Stel Clemons on Punchin’ Pip, from Burnside Farms, in Strafford.
Capp and Wild trotted to the start line and halted at a three-foot distance from the barrier. Running Wild seemed comfortable at this distance. Capp urged him forward. The horse danced and pulled his head around. Capp turned him sharply to the right and tried to get him in place again. Stel, a well-known horseman, brought Punchin’ Pip, a red quarter horse, expertly up to within a foot of the barrier. Punchin’ Pip appeared calm, while Running Wild continued to move around. Capp backed him up slightly, urged him forward a few steps, and then, finally, both riders were in position. The flag dropped and the barrier was sprung. “And they’re off,” yelled Rex from the announcer’s mic.
Frightened by the ropes vaulting over his head, Running Wild balked and then reared. Capp quickly regained control and urged his horse into a sprint. “Coming to the inside now, it’s Punchin’ Pip in the lead.” Stel and Punchin’ Pip were a half a length ahead on the inside rail. Capp, balanced and strong in the saddle, let his reins loosen, which was Running Wild’s signal to go as fast as he could. It’s a horse’s instinct to be in front, so Running Wild was happy to comply. Stretching long now and gaining on the outside, Wild ran clean. Punchin’ Pip, feeling the pressure of another horse in hot pursuit, kept his head down. “This is a match race, folks. Look at those cow ponies run.” Stel and Punchin’ Pip kept up their speed maintaining a narrow lead. As the finish line was quickly approaching, Capp, losing his Stetson in the process, had Running Wild give it all he had, but to no avail. When the match race of 47 seconds and four furlongs was complete, it was Stel, not Capp, who’d won. “And it’s Punchin’ Pip across the finish line. Burnside Farms has taken it and moves on in the winner’s category. Running Wild fans will have to look for him in the consolation bracket.”
The disappointment of Capp’s poor race was felt hardest by James. Realizing the outcome, he threw his hat on the ground and kicked it in the air. “Damn!” he shouted. “What happened, Wil? Capp’s supposed to win the whole damn thing and he loses in the first race?”
Wil gathered himself. “It’s the rope barrier. Horse is afraid of it. Happens.”
“For God’s sake, he should have worked that horse harder on the start!�
�
“I think Capp did well to have as good as race as he did. Takes time to get a horse used to that type of barrier. Some never do.”
“Shit. We’re done. This is not what I needed to have happen.”
“In horse racing, James, you got to keep your eye on the prize. I figure we still got three horses in the running. Don’t give up yet.”
James walked over to his hat, brushed off the dirt, placed it on his head and went looking for Capp.
Capp’s losing in the first round was a shock. Around the track fence, backside employees were sorely disappointed. The knoll crowd, however was cheering. Many had placed bets on the smaller horseman, Stel. To the spectators it made sense that Stel, being much lighter than Capp, would be a safer bet. But Capp hadn’t lost because of his size; it was the start. Just like he’d feared.
Capp, still cooling down Running Wild, settled the horse into a trot before returning to the saddling paddock. Maizie ran to greet him with his Stetson in her hand. “Good race, Capp, you almost had it,” she said as Capp dismounted and shook his head. Maizie handed him his hat.
“Almost doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Well, you did. I saw it.”
“Look Maizie, I’m busy. Please leave me be. I’m upset right now.”
“I’ll leave but I still think you did good.” Maizie turned to go. Capp sighed and looked toward the starting mechanism, as Miles Moser was readying to take on his opponent, Curt Pacho, on Ping-a-Ding.
Capp placed his hat back on his head, attending to the race at hand. Riders readied. When the barrier was sprung, off they went. Capp watched as Miles and his mount, Scout’s Honor, employed a perfect start, the horse pulling hard at the beginning, muscles bulging and head low. Moser flawlessly steered the animal to the inside. Around the bend, his horse gained the lead by a half-length. Scout’s Honor crossed the finish line a full length ahead, to the roars of the crowd. The official time was posted at forty-three seconds. An amazing time.
Through Tender Thorns Page 14