Free Cut Throat by Lyndon Stacey

hotly contested speed class, and then had a fence down in a Qualifier. Ginger, to Ross’ surprise and relief, behaved impeccably and came away with fourth in the same class.
    At the end of the evening, as the less experienced horses and riders were loading up and driving away, Ross changed back wearily on to Butterworth to pull off a marvellous win in the Open class, the biggest of the show.
    He felt that the gods were smiling on him at last and his satisfaction was unaffected by the look of intense dislike angled at him by Douglas as they lined up to receive their prizes. If the guy wanted to be petty, then let him. Ross felt he had made the offer of friendship.
    Back at the lorry, Leo had the other horses loaded and soon Butterworth was untacked and decked in the multitude of protective pads and boots necessary for the journey.
    While Leo loaded the horse, Ross eased his tired feet out of his close-fitting boots and hung his jacket in the purpose-built cupboard in the forward compartment. He looked forward to the day when success would buy him a fully equipped horsebox with living quarters, and he could stretch out after a show on a soft couch and let someone else wrestle the heavy lorry through England’s maze of narrow streets and lanes.
    Sighing deeply with weary content, he transferred himself to the cab and began the homeward journey.
    Ross’ contentment was unhappily short-lived, for as Butterworth left his stable the next morning, bound for the fields and a day’s rest, it was clear that something was very wrong. The big gelding walked stiffly into the yard with his back hunched and head held low.
    Sarah looked round at him doubtfully and then across at Ross with a question in her eyes. With a cold, sinking feeling, he signalled to her to stop and walked over to inspect his most promising partner more closely.
    Soothing the horse with a stream of low-voiced, nonsensical words, Ross ran his hands along Butterworth’s spine and down his hind legs. He repeated the action, pressing more firmly, and was rewarded by a distinct flinch and a flattening of chestnut ears.
    Bill came up behind the American.
    â€˜Back?’ he asked, in a voice that suggested he already knew the answer.
    â€˜Yeah. He’s in a fair amount of pain.’
    â€˜I’ll call Roger,’ Bill said, turning away. ‘I was meaning to ring him about that Sailor business anyway.’
    Ross sighed, motioning Sarah to put Butterworth back in the box. Back problems were often depressingly slow to improve and had a tendency to be recurrent.
    The vet came just as Ross was sponging Bishop down after a hard schooling session. He bounced out of his dust-covered Range Rover, wearing baggy corduroy trousers and engaging, boyish grin.
    â€˜Hello again,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Right, where’s the patient?’
    In spite of the occasion, Ross felt his spirits rise a notch. A smiling face had become a distant memory.
    Roger West’s examination was swift but efficient.
    â€˜There is definitely some tightness there. Just about here.’ He indicated an area midway along the horse’s spine. ‘It may be a strained muscle or he may have put it right out. It could have been done rolling in his box.’
    â€˜Can you do anything?’ Bill asked, at Butterworth’s head. ‘Or shall we call Annie?’
    â€˜She’d be your best bet,’ Roger agreed, nodding his mop of tousled brown hair. ‘If she can’t do anything we’ll have to make arrangements to get the old fellow X-rayed. And that’ll cost you.’
    â€˜Who’s Annie?’ Ross wanted to know.
    â€˜A kind of equine chiropractor,’ the vet told him. ‘She’s quite amazing. Sometimes you can see a ninety-nine per cent improvement straight away. I wish I could get such immediate results.’
    â€˜Sort of “Take up thy bed and walk”?’ Ross observed.
    Roger laughed. ‘Well,