Free Longshot by Dick Francis

two in front, one behind. It wasn’t until they were almost upon us that I realized that the one at the rear had no rider.
    The three horses passed us and began to slow down and Tremayne said “Shit” with fervor.
    “Did the lad fall off?” I asked inanely.
    “No doubt he did,” Tremayne said forcefully, watching through his glasses, “but he’s not one of mine.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean,” Tremayne said, “that’s not my horse. Just look at him. That’s not my rug. That horse isn’t saddled and has no bridle. Can’t you see?”
    When I looked, when he’d told me what to look for, then I could see. Tremayne’s horses had fawn rugs with horizontal red and blue stripes, rugs which covered the ribs and hindquarters but left the legs free for full movement. The rug of the riderless horse was brownish-gray, much thicker, and fastened by straps running under the belly and around in front of the shoulders.
    “I suppose you’ll think me crazy,” I said to Tremayne, “but maybe that’s the horse that was loose in the lane last night when we crashed. I mean, I saw it for only a split second, really, but it looked like that. Dark, with that sort of rug.”
    “Almost every racehorse wears that sort of rug at night in the winter,” Tremayne said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, though. In a minute, I’ll find out.”
    He swung his binoculars back to where another couple of his string were putting on their show and calmly watched them before referring again to the stranger.
    “They’re the last,” he said as they sped past us. “Now let’s see what’s what.”
    He began to walk up beside the gallop in the direction of the horses and I followed, and we soon came over the brow to where his whole string was circling on snowy grass, steam swelling in clouds from their breath after their exertions. They were silhouetted against the eastern sun, their shapes now black, now gleaming. Brilliant, freezing, moving; unforgettable morning.
    Away to the left, apart from the string, the riderless horse made his own white sun-splashed plume, his nervousness apparent, his herding instincts propelling him towards his kin, his wild nature urging flight.
    Tremayne reached his horses and spoke to his lads.
    “Anyone know whose horse that is?”
    They shook their heads.
    “Walk on back to the yard then. Go back down the all-weather track. No one else is using it this morning. Take care crossing the road.”
    They nodded and began to form into a line as they had in the stables, walking off in self-generated mist towards the end of the gallop.
    Tremayne said to me, “Go back to the tractor, will you? Don’t make any sudden moves. Don’t alarm this fellow.” His eyes slid in the direction of the loose horse. “In the tractor’s cab you’ll find a rope. Bring it back here. Move slowly when you’re coming into sight.”
    “Right,” I said.
    He nodded briefly and as I turned to go on the errand he reached into a pocket and produced a few horse-feed cubes which he held out to the runaway, speaking to him directly.
    “Come on, now, fella. Nice and easy. Come along now, you must be hungry ...” His voice was calm and cajoling, absolutely without threat.
    I walked away without haste and retrieved the rope from the cab, and by the time I cautiously returned over the brow into Tremayne’s sight he was standing close to the horse, feeding him cubes with his left hand and holding a bunch of mane with his right.
    I stopped, then went forward again slowly. The horse quivered, his head turning my way, his alarm transmitting like electricity. With small movements I made a big loop in one end of the supple old rope and tied a running bowline, then went slowly forward holding the rope open, not in a small circle that might frighten the horse more but in a big loop drooping almost to my knees.
    Tremayne watched and continued to talk soothingly, feeding horse cubes one by one. I walked cautiously forwards, suppressing