Sylvie's Cowboy (8 page)

“There certainly should!” said Sylvie,
panting from the chase. “Maude, that was very naughty!”

Walt gathered the puppy in his arms, stood,
and handed her to Sylvie. “Y’see?” he said. “Some females find me
irresistible.”

“Maude’s a notoriously bad judge of men. She
hates Danny Stern, for instance.”

“Good dog!” said Walt.

Sylvie looked back to where Dan was now
leading the mahogany pony back into its trailer. “Speaking of Dan,
I’ve got to get back. ‘Bidniss,’ as you say. Wish me luck.”

“See ya after the match?”

“Absolutely. You can help me count my money
after I’ve sold this horse.”

“I’ll help you get him loaded to take back
home.”

Sylvie poked her tongue out at Walt and
hurried back to her horse and trailer.

...

Mid-afternoon found the two teams on the
field and the stands filled with spectators. A referee blew a
silver whistle and a veddy, veddy British announcer boomed over the
public address system as the players began leaving for the far
sidelines.

“That concludes the third chukker and the
first half of this afternoon’s match. Ladies and gentlemen, you are
invited onto the field for the traditional divot stomping. Children
under twelve are invited to visit the wooden pony being set up at
mid-field and try their hand at hitting the ball into the practice
goal for prizes. We hope you are enjoying this beautiful afternoon
at the Palm Beach Polo Club.”

Sylvie and Maude were among the spectators
who emptied the stands to move onto the field. Maude was only one
of dozens of expensive dogs participating.

While spectators stomped divots on the field,
weary players and horses recuperated on the far sidelines. Dan
Stern toweled off after dousing his head and face with cool water.
A groom held the water bucket and extra towels while watching the
children at mid-field lining up and taking turns on the wooden
pony.

When Leslye approached, wine glass in hand,
Dan tossed a towel at the groom, dismissing him with a gesture.
“Three to three at the half, Les. We’ll take them in the
second.”

Leslye raised her glass as if in salute to
the children at the wooden pony. “Someone should teach them there’s
more to the game than hitting a ball.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“Do you suppose the little tykes understand the profits to be made,
Danny?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Perhaps you could give a seminar on
Wednesdays after school. Some of these children probably don’t even
know what a bookie is, Danny.”

“Shut up, Les. I said we’ll win this match,
and we will. It’s a matter of personal honor.”

“It’s a matter of personal safety, if I may
say so. I no longer have the reserves to get you out of debt if you
lose.”

Among the crowd of divot stompers on the
field, a spot of yellow caught Leslye’s attention. Windbreaker Man
was stomping with the best of them. Leslye reacted. “It’s
impossible! It can’t be! Look, Daniel! Look, there! It’s him!”

Dan turned to scan the crowd where Leslye was
looking, but Windbreaker Man had already disappeared. “Where? Who
is it? I don’t see anybody.”

“He was there!” Leslye insisted. “He was
right there, and now he’s ... he’s gone. But I was so sure. It’s
impossible.”

“Who was there? What’s impossible?”

Leslye turned a pale face toward Dan. “I
swear I just saw Harry Pace,” she whispered.

“You are
really
drunk.” Dan
dismissed her and walked away.

...

By the end of the fifth chukker of the day’s
match, the two teams were tied at four to four according to the
scoreboard.

The sixth and final chukker began.

Dan Stern took the ball downfield, getting
set to score a goal that would clinch his team’s victory.

Walt McGurk came alongside to defend.

Dan was determined not to lose another time
to the cowboy. As their horses ran flank to flank, Dan pretended to
swing at the ball and instead jabbed his mallet between the
forelegs of Walt’s galloping pinto.

“Not this time, Dogpatch,” Dan growled
between gritted teeth.

Walt’s pinto crashed end-over-end, taking his
rider with him, churning the grassy turf into a furrow.

Dan yanked his horse away and feigned dismay
at the terrible accident.

The crowd moaned. Women shrieked. Officials
and wranglers rushed onto the field to assist. The players of both
teams backed off to the far end of the field and waited.

Walt lay motionless in the grass where he had
been thrown. A few yards away, his beloved horse thrashed about,
unable to rise from the ground.

The Brit announcer spoke solemnly. “Ladies
and gentlemen, this is one of those unfortunate accidents that make
polo the world’s most dangerous sport. The doctor and officials are
quick to respond, however, and emergency medical technicians are
standing by at the end of the field should their assistance be
required. Let us maintain quiet for a moment until the doctor can
determine the gravity of the situation. Rules require that if a
player loses consciousness, he may not resume play in this
match.”

The doctor and two officials knelt beside
Walt, who was indeed unconscious. Momentarily, he revived, and they
helped him to sit up. The crowd cheered.

Three grooms surrounded the injured animal.
One of them left the horse, walked to Walt’s side, and said
something solemnly.

Walt nodded slowly. With help, he stood and
limped to where the pinto struggled, unable to stand. Walt gestured
to someone on the far sidelines. The doctor and officials left the
field, and the referee spoke into a field-side telephone. Walt
knelt beside the fallen horse, held its head, and stroked its neck
comfortingly. He seemed to be talking softly, trying to calm the
animal.

Sylvie was frozen in her seat, clutching
Maude as if life depended upon it. She didn’t even know she was
crying. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say whether her
tears were for the man or the animal. She only knew her stomach
cramped, her throat was congested, and her eyes were inexorably
fixed on the fallen horse and rider.

The announcer broke the stunned silence that
had settled over the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen, the player is,
fortunately, not seriously injured. However, the doctor has invoked
the loss-of-consciousness rule, and Walter McGurk will not play the
remainder of this match. The loss of a nine-goaler like McGurk is
critical in a match as close as this one, and it appears—”

He stopped abruptly as an official returned
from the far sidelines with a pistol. Walt took it from the
man.

The announcer continued, in hushed tones.
“Oh, how unfortunate, ladies and gentlemen. This valiant polo pony
has been seriously injured in the fall. Please maintain quiet a
moment longer while we wait for further word on his condition.”

Utter stillness covered the crowd. The flags
atop the grandstand seemed to thunder against the unnatural silence
as they flapped in the wind. The faces of all the players on the
field had turned to stone. Sylvie Pace had stopped breathing.

Walt gently placed the animal’s head down on
the grass and stood. He pointed the pistol, trembled, then steadied
himself. A gunshot resounded across the field. Echoes of the pistol
shot gradually died away until only the flapping of the windblown
flags atop the grandstand could be heard.

Walt, dejected and in physical pain, was
helped from the field by two men. Quickly, a team of grooms
maneuvered a truck with a lift gate onto the field and removed the
dead horse.

In short order, a substitute rider had taken
Walt’s place on the field, and the two teams faced off, prepared to
resume play. Daniel Stern could not keep a mild look of triumph off
his face.

In the stands, Sylvie began breathing again
with a sob. The crowd around her had taken their seats soon after
the initial shock of the accident. Sylvie realized she alone
remained standing. She sat down, clutching Maude and staring with
tear-blurred eyes at the player who limped toward the team locker
rooms without looking back.

Distantly, she heard the announcer say,
“Ladies and gentlemen, play is resumed.”

…

Inside the team locker room, a man was
waiting beside a massage table when Walt limped through the door,
supported by a groom. Walt clutched his left side as the groom
assisted him onto the padded table.

“That’s all right,” the waiting man told the
groom. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you.”

Walt didn’t even look up. He heard the groom
leave the room and the other man close the door. The man wore a
yellow windbreaker, and when he began removing Walt’s polo shirt,
Walt finally looked at his face. “What are you doing here?”

Harry Pace answered him without stopping his
ministrations. “Right now I’m counting your ribs, if you have any
left. How could you let Stern pull a stunt like that?”

Walt gasped in pain when the polo shirt was
wrenched over his head. “I’d have taught him a stunt or two of my
own if they had let me back in that match.”

Harry prodded at Walt’s ribcage, where
picturesque bruises were already blooming. “No dice, son. You were
colder than a mackerel for a minute there. You don’t get to finish
the match after you take a hit that puts your lights out like
that.”

Without warning, Harry pounded Walt on the
back in a congratulatory manner, nearly knocking him off the table.
“Nothing serious, kiddo. You’ll bruise up some. Better see Clarice
on the way home, let her tape you up.”

After that unexpected clout, Walt didn’t stop
seeing stars until Harry was gone. “Thanks a million,” Walt said to
the empty room.

...

The two-hour drive from Palm Beach to
Clewiston nearly killed Walt. Every dip in the road nauseated him
with pain. The upside was that the bruised ribs kept him awake
enough to drive when all he wanted to do was slump into oblivion
and sleep for weeks.

He took Harry’s advice and, instead of
driving directly to the ranch, stopped outside the doublewide
mobile home that belonged to Clarice.

Through the window, he could see that she was
watching Wheel of Fortune on her kitchen portable while shelling
peas into a bowl. On her kitchen counter he saw jars of preserves
and vegetables exactly like the ones in his own refrigerator. He
knocked on her front door.

“Come on in, it’s open!” Clarice called from
the kitchen. She heard the door open and close. She heard footsteps
approach through the living room. When he got to the kitchen door,
she looked up. “Oh, lordy, he’s back.”

Walt slumped into the nearest kitchen chair.
“I sincerely hope you got somethin’ stronger than aspirin in the
house.”

“You look like an ugly old tomcat I had once.
Always huntin’ a fight and comin’ home chewed up. Stupid cat.” She
turned her eyes from him back to her peas and television. “Go take
a shower. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

Walt hauled himself out of the chair and off
to the bathroom. He didn’t have to ask directions.

…

Walt came out of the bathroom wearing jeans
and no shirt. Clarice was waiting for him and motioned for him to
sit on the edge of the bed. Since she was fully dressed, and he
would have to improve in order to die, there was no question of
hanky panky in that bedroom this night.

Walt settled himself on the edge of the bed,
and Clarice began applying tape around his injured ribs. Walt
explained what had happened on the polo field that day, leaving out
his desire to murder Dan Stern if the opportunity presented
itself.

“Dang!” he said, partly because she had
jostled a painful rib and partly on general principles. “It’s a
crying shame to kill a smart, sweet pony like that one. Breaks my
heart. But at least—Ah! Careful!—at least I guess I made Sylvie
happy. I paid for the horse I shot.”

Clarice looked at him in disbelief. “You paid
her for a dead horse. And did anybody remind you that,
incidentally, you owned that horse.”

“Technically, I only owned half of it.”

“Uh-huh. Do I have to tell you which end was
yours?”

“How about a little sym—Ouch! —sympathy,
Clarice? I’ve been injured in the line of duty, after all.”

“I thought you had better sense. Why don’t
you let Harry Pace do his own dirty work? Why do you have to get
yourself killed keeping an eye on her?”

Walt kept his face blank and his voice
neutral. “Haven’t you heard? Harry Pace is dead.”

Clarice finished her taping and stood back to
give him a look. “As we say in Spain, toro poopoo.”

Walt stood and eased into a clean shirt she
handed him from a nearby laundry basket. He took a stab at tucking
the shirttail in, but quickly gave up the idea and left it hanging
out. Maybe tomorrow. He limped to the front door.

Clarice stopped him at the door and handed
him a bottle of pills. “Here. These’ll take away the pain some, so
you can get some sleep. I take ‘em, for my headaches ... can’t seem
to get a good neck rub around here any more. You could call me
sometime, y’know?”

“I’m sorry. Really. I been yanked six ways
from Sunday, lately. My life’s gone to ... manure. You know how it
is.”

“Honey, I know
who
it is. Worst part
of it is, I like her. Makes it hard for me to stay mad at you.”

Walt opened the door and started out, but he
had an afterthought. “It’s crazy, ain’t it, Clarice? I mean, how
people’s tastes can run so different. You don’t like slick talking
city fellas like Dan Stern, and Sylvie don’t like cowboys like
me.”

“Who told you that?” Clarice pushed him out
and closed the door.

…

The rutted dirt road to the ranch house was
sheer agony, and Walt wondered how much worse if would have been if
Clarice hadn’t taped his ribs. Between the pain and exhaustion, he
could barely see straight as he limped from the truck barn to the
house.