Free Kentucky Showdown by J. R. Roberts Page B

drink.”
    â€œYou will let me know if you find out something I should be aware of, eh?”
    â€œDefinitely.”
    As Clint turned to leave, Kingston said, “Tell me something.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œHow good is that little horse, Whirlwind?”
    â€œHe’ll give anybody a run for their money,” Clint said.
    â€œAh,” Kingston said, “good. Competition is very good.”
    â€œSo I hear,” Clint said.
    He turned and left.

TWENTY-SIX
    After Clint left, Shoemaker said, “What do you suppose that was about?”
    â€œHe’s fishing.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œAnswers.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œOllie,” Kingston said, “just train the horse, leave the rest of the thinking to me.”
    Shoemaker frowned.
    * * *
    Outside, Clint mounted up and started to ride out. As he passed the barn, a small black man stepped out, stopped short when he saw Eclipse.
    â€œWow,” he said, “now that’s a horse.”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œYou racing him?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not. Besides, he’s not three years old.”
    â€œI can see that.”
    â€œAre you riding Kingston’s horse?”
    â€œSunday Song,” the man said, “and I sure am.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œLorenzo Capp,” the man said.
    â€œI hear Sunday Song is a good-looking horse himself,” Clint said.
    â€œHe sure is. You wanna see him?”
    â€œCan I?”
    â€œSure thing,” Capp said. “Come on.”
    Clint dismounted and walked Eclipse into the barn.
    Capp led Clint to a large stall with a locked door. Inside was a handsome three-year-old black colt. Clint had to admit that on looks alone, Sunday Song would beat Whirlwind.
    â€œHe’s magnificent,” Clint said.
    â€œYeah, he is.”
    â€œIs he fast?”
    â€œThe fastest,” Lorenzo Capp said. “He’s gonna win the Derby.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’ve ridden a lot of horses, mister,” Capp said. “This one is a winner. He ain’t never been beat yet.”
    â€œI can’t argue with credentials like that, can I?” Clint asked.
    â€œNo, sir,” Capp said. “Are you friends with the boss?”
    â€œI just left him,” Clint said. “He’s got a lot of faith in you, and this horse.”
    â€œHe’s a good boss,” Capp said.
    â€œAnd an honest man?” Clint asked.
    â€œLike I said,” Capp said, “he’s a good boss.”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “I wish you luck, and I guess I’ll see you on Derby day.”
    â€œPut your money on Sunday Song,” Capp said. “He can’t lose.”
    â€œI’ll remember,” Clint said.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    Clint’s next stop was the training facility of Easy Going. It was a smaller ranch than Two Chimneys, with no name posted over a wooden arch. Clint rode through the arch and up to the house, where a few men were milling about. The training track was right there in front. The men stopped to watch him as he dismounted. None of them approached him, but continued to watch.
    He started up the steps to the house as the door opened and a man came out. He was sixty if he was a day, and the suit he wore led Clint to believe this was the owner of the horse, not the trainer. The man puffed on a pipe and watched as Clint ascended the steps.
    â€œYou don’t look like a drummer,” the man said, “and we’re not selling anything, so what can I do for you?”
    â€œAre you Mr. Farnsworth?” Clint asked.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œMy name is Clint Adams.”
    Farnsworth worked the stem of his pipe with his teeth as he thought a minute.
    â€œI’m from New York,” he said, “and this is my first time west, but that name means something to me.”
    â€œYou might have heard it once or twice.”
    â€œWait a