Free The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page A

pavilion than with the horses. I believe only two men are in charge of all the barns, and of course they won’t enter one without a reason, because they don’t want to upset the horses or wake those grooms who are staying here.”
    â€œOkay,” I said with a sigh. “I’m just trying to cover all the angles.”
    â€œAre you working for his parents?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMaybe you’d be willing to take something to them.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œEven if he turns up, he’s not going to be back in the barns here,” answered the guard. “He left a couple dozen racing magazines here. If they’re still here in a couple of days I’ll just throw them out, so I thought you might take them in case you luck out and find him.” He paused and shook his head again. “Even if you do, I don’t think anyone’ll hire him, certainly not until they all forget about this.”
    â€œWhat the hell,” I said. “I might as well take them.”
    â€œFollow me,” said the guard. He led me to Barn 9, and then to one of the tack rooms—not the one I’d slept in—and there, on a beat-up wood table, were maybe twenty magazines, the same ones I’d seen Tony reading during the past few days.
    â€œThanks,” I said, lifting them up and starting to head out the door toward the parking lot.
    â€œI hope you find him,” said the guard. “He was a nice kid, one of the better ones.”
    â€œI liked him too.”
    â€œCan I ask you a question?” he said.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œDo you think he’s run off, like so many other kids?”
    â€œSeriously?” I said. “No. I can’t forget how worried he was.”
    â€œIf he didn’t run away, what do you suppose happened to him?”
    I shrugged. “Let’s hope nothing did.”
    â€œHave you talked to the cops?”
    I nodded. “Yeah. But it’s really too early for them to have any reports on runaways who have been spotted.”
    â€œI didn’t mean that.”
    I stared at him for a moment and finally understood. “If his body turns up, I’ll know as soon as they identify him. And if they can’t identify him, then they’ll call me and his parents in, and we’ll do it.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell,” he said as we reached the end of the row of barns and I headed for the parking lot, “good luck, Mr. Paxton.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
    I got to the car, loaded the magazines into the trunk, and tried to figure out where to go next. Then I figured, what the hell, the track kitchen was right here, and maybe they’d think my meals were still being picked up by the Striker Agency.
    I walked in the door, nodded to the guy behind the counter, sat down, picked up a discarded newspaper, and tried to find out how the Reds were doing. I finally got a score, buried beneath a dozen articles about the sale.
    â€œWhat can I get for you—Eli, is it?” asked the counterman.
    â€œA cheeseburger and a cup of coffee,” I said.
    â€œComing right up.”
    â€œGot a minute?” I asked.
    He looked around at the near-empty place and smiled. “Yeah, no one’ll starve in the next sixty seconds.”
    â€œDid you know Tony Sanders?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Should I?”
    â€œHe was a groom.”
    â€œFor one of the sales yearlings?” he said. “Hell, none of them were on the grounds for as much as a week.”
    â€œWell, it was worth a try.”
    â€œWho did he work for?”
    â€œMill Creek.”
    â€œThat Bigelow guy?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œHow’s Frank Standish doing?” he asked. “Now, that was a trainer. Why the hell did he quit?”
    â€œHe decided his family was more important,” I said.
    â€œFamilies are