Mary Daurio

Besting Big City: first Published in Harrowsmith’s Anthology: 2020/2021

Satin’s coming home! I’m at the end of our long, tree-lined lane, making daisy chains and waiting. I know they have a distance to travel from the city, but two hours late? Every cloud of dust has me hoping it’s the truck and trailer.  Oh boy, here they come! I run along behind, flying with anticipation, arriving at the barnyard puffing. Guess they didn’t see me trailing after, or maybe they couldn’t brake so easy in that new swanky rig. Never mind, I’m here now, and so is Satin. Elation!

One look at my poor horse and my mood falls flat.  Satin is a sorry sight, with her hair dull and matted, not to mention she’s lame. I stroke her neck and give her the sugar put in my pockets with such hope this morning. She nuzzles into me, like old times.

“Never mind girl, lots of brushing and sugar cubes here. You’re home now.”

I look back at the city fellows, all posh and fine-looking. They own a brush. Just look at those shiny shoes. Jerks!

Dad sold Satin to fellows from the big race tracks a few years back. Now that she’s all used up, they want to trade her for a horse of the same bloodlines. In Standardbreds, those lines mean everything. Champ, Satin’s full brother, fits the bill. Like the hare and the tortoise, Satin’s fast and Champ’s slow…shh… Big City doesn’t know.  Champ, unlike the tortoise, isn’t a winner.

I’m ambivalent about Champ going but want Satin home. Everything comes with a price, something you learn young on the farm. Dad raises colts and races them at the fairs around home. They do well.  People from the city tracks buy them, and the money helps keep the farm. I’m older and cry less now when a horse leaves home, but for Satin, I stormed.

Trucks hauling gravel thunder up our road.  We train the horses on our half-mile track accessed from that road. Until they quit using our road as a detour, the trip to the half-mile race track down that way is dangerous. Dad cut a third of a mile track in the knoll behind the barn to keep horse and driver safe until the trucks finish.  The trouble is you have to go around the track three times for a mile instead of twice like a standard half-mile track.

Ronnie, the young fellow who works for Dad, takes Champ out to that third-of-a-mile track. After warming him up, he turns the right way on the track to go a timed mile.  The big city boys have their stopwatch on him. Champ makes it around the track twice. Big City swings his arms, gesturing for Ronnie to bring the horse in.

Big City is frantic. “Stop him! That mile was quite enough at this speed.”

Big City turns to his cronies with a conspiratorial grin. “Bloody hicks don’t know what they’ve got!”

He says it low so no one else can hear, but standing right up close to him, I do. People like that don’t bother to notice a kid. I may be a young hick, but I can count. I’m going to say something, show how dumb they are, but I look down, see the shit on his shoe and turn away to laugh instead.

They think they have a two-minute horse, and all he has gone is two-thirds of a mile. Dad realizes their error and plans to capitalize. He calls Ronnie in.

“What’s up?” asks Ronnie.

“Just never you mind. Take Champ to the barn, and mum’s the word!”

Big city boys can’t get Champ out of the lane fast enough. They gladly leave a lame horse and a big stash of cash to seal the deal.

Mom’s upset. “Truman, that’s not like you. It’s deceitful.”

“Who am I, a little dirt farmer, to tell those big boys what’s what?  I never said a thing; they got it wrong all on their own.”

“Dad, aren’t you afraid they will treat Champ rough?” I said.

“Champ’s an angel. Now, Satin, she’s a dirty little devil needing kid-glove care. The announcers at the races used to call her Satan,” he said.

I said, “Surely those fellows could afford kid gloves.”

Dad smiled, but Mom explained what he meant. We concluded that Big City just wasn’t horseman enough to deal with a devil, but anyone can get along with an angel.

“Once they realize he is no world-beater, Champ will be some lady's fine riding horse. He let you and Ronnie ride him all around and liked it. He’ll be in his glory,” Dad said.

We turn Satin out with my pony, Dandy, and they act like the old friends they are, nickering muzzle to muzzle.

Ronnie asks, “Truman, are you going to let the vet take a look at Satin?”

“Nah. She’s knee-deep in lush green pasture.  We’ll let Doctor Green take care of her.”

Mom calls us in for supper that night.  As usual, our plates heap generously. Except for Dad’s. He has a plate about one-third full. Enough said.

                    ~*~