When the gun was fired, the grey and I made a slow start. Three other horses were in front of us. According to what Eddie Hawks had said, that was good. The grey’s start was all its own, but now as we shot out on the course, I held him back. Eddie Hawks had told me the grey needed a challenge and not to come up too quick on the lead. Now, this was hard for me. I was used to riding horses that came out not only wanting to win, but to lead. I was used to the thoroughbreds that made that run from the start, and all I had to do was just let them rip, right from the gun. After that, all I did was steer the course and hold on. But I respected what Eddie Hawks had said. He knew this grey a whole lot better than I did.
While riding any course I always had markers in my mind to help me keep pace. The first marker was an old shack setting off the side of the road. It was about there that one of the horses trailing us began to pass, and I was surprised to find the grey not willing for that to happen. I could feel the strength of the grey pulling from my grasp, trying to keep that horse at bay, from passing us. And despite Eddie Hawks’s warning, I figured it best to let that grey have his way right then. I figured the grey had to know something about winning, and it seemed foolish to me to fall any farther behind. But when the grey neared the third lead horse at the next marker, a huge double-trunked oak by the side of the road, I pulled up hard on the reins trying to keep him in check. I could tell he didn’t like that, but I held him. It wasn’t time yet to make the run.
The third marker was a fork in the road, with one road leading to the stagecoach station and the other to I don’t know where. I made that curve, rounded the stagecoach station, and headed back toward the spur. It was then I let up some on the grey’s reins. The grey seemed to be waiting for that. We easily passed the horse directly ahead of us. Passing the next horse, though, took more time than I wanted, but that ole grey kept on pounding dirt and all I did was nudge him on. This part of the course was winding, and it was not my intention to pass the horse coming up on a curve. But the grey’s intention was to pass it, curve or no curve, and when the two horses came neck and neck on the curve, I almost fell off. When I gained control again, that ole grey had slipped into second place.
The last stretch of the course toward the train spur was up a steep hill, then a smooth slope down to the spur. Now, uphill on a last stretch is tough on any horse, but this was where the mule in the grey was at its best. All we could see, that grey and I, on that last stretch was the rider ahead and that other horse’s rump; we couldn’t see anything beyond on the other side. Yet I knew, just like Ole Grey knew, that the spur was there, and the finish line. I loosened up some more on the reins and let the grey have his way. The grey then took charge: climbed that hill, and, with all stops pulled out, passed that last stallion and sizzled like lightning down the hill, toward the spur, and across the finish line.
It was tumultuous, the win. The grey and I slid across that finish line, and Mitchell himself pulled me off in congratulations and gave me a bear hug. As for me, I felt as if I were outside myself, having done the impossible. I hugged that ole grey first, right up around the neck, and he let me, but then folks took him from me and I had no time to talk to him. People crowded near, praising the grey and congratulating Ray Sutcliffe. Ray Sutcliffe, cigar in hand and a big grin across his face, bragged loudly about the win, but made no mention of me. No one else mentioned me either. I stayed by the spur, ignored.
“Well, ’spect that says somethin’,” observed Mitchell as we moved away.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Jus’ look. When do you ’spect to get yours?”
I did look. Several of the men standing with Ray Sutcliffe were now paying him money. They were, of course, all white men, and I knew we had to wait until Ray Sutcliffe was alone before asking for my pay. I tried to wait patiently, though Mitchell was restless as we kept a lookout for my daddy and his too. After more than an hour, though, when Ray Sutcliffe was still wallowing in his win, Mitchell said, “I can’t take no more of this. We got t’ get your money and go.”
I glanced over at the group of white men. Now, one thing I had learned growing up amidst my white brothers and my white daddy was knowing when and when not to intrude upon a white person’s so-called good time, and I knew definitely now was not the time to intrude.
“Come on,” said Mitchell.
“No,” I said.
“Well, what you gonna do then, Paul? Stand here all day? Wait ’til your daddy come t’ whip ya?”
Mention of my daddy made me look around nervously, but I said, “I can wait.”