Clive shouted an outraged warning. Johnson’s mount lost its front feet and started to go down. Instantly, Mack saw that the falling pony would throw Johnson forward, then crash on top of him while Fairbanks galloped away unharmed. But Johnson leaned back and savagely reined the falling pony, literally pulling its head up by physical force, and he kept it up until the pony regained its footing. All of it happened in seconds, and Mack gasped and wondered if he’d really seen it.
Johnson’s furious face proved that he had. The Texan cursed at Fairbanks, while the umpire called a foul at last.
“Dastardly,” Clive said to Mack. Then he repeated it to Rodeen trotting by. “Dastardly—that’s the most dangerous kind of fall in the game, and you know it.”
White-haired Billy Rodeen grinned and said, “Fuck yourself, limey.” He trotted on.
The officials awarded Riverside a free shot at their goal from thirty yards out. Eric Portfield missed the shot and play resumed. Fairbanks hectored his teammates like a general in the field. This was no game, but a grudge match, with prestige, reputation, God knew what else, at stake.
The chukker ended with the score unchanged.
Third chukker.
The afternoon sun broiled the field and the dust swirled thick. Riverside rode hard, but somehow they couldn’t break through and score. Fairbanks’s sweaty face showed a faint smile at last. The game was flowing his way.
Clive forwarded the ball with a powerful shot, then Johnson hit it. Riding a rangy little sorrel named Soubrette, Mack came pounding back from the goal for a shot that could put the ball over. He rode with his legs sticking out and away from his mount. Fairbanks charged from the left, his pony shouldering into Mack in a hard rideoff. Mack reeled from the impact. Then the lawyer snapped his right leg out of the stirrup and hooked it under Mack’s left leg, giving him a hard elbow in the ribs. It broke his concentration and put him off balance.
Suddenly Fairbanks raised his right leg to tip Mack and throw him off his pony. The sky, the field, Fairbanks’s glittering eyes, tilted crazily, and Mack grabbed the saddle with his left hand to abort the fall. Shaking himself free of Fairbanks’s leg, he watched the ground speed by underneath; he was hanging off Soubrette at something like a forty-five-degree angle. Then he saw the ball. Furious at the foul, he struck downward and back, making hard, solid contact. The ball rose in the air and sailed between the posts.
In the largest pavilion, Carla jumped to her feet so precipitously that she upset her fifth glass of wine. She applauded wildly, perspiration bleeding through her heavy rouge. Behind her hand, Mavis Bunthorne wondered aloud to her intimates about Carla’s applause. Was it for her husband’s goal or for the foul by the handsome lawyer that had almost unhorsed him?
The chukker ended in another forty seconds, tied at one goal apiece.
They rested for ten minutes at the half. Riverside’s grooms offered the usual encouraging clichés, but none of the riders took them seriously. They had the full measure of Burlingame now; it was the kind of team Johnson had warned against earlier in the season, the kind that would do anything to win.
The whistle blew. Possession seesawed back and forth for two minutes, then Johnson fouled Eagle, who swung at him with his mallet before the umpire warned him back. Burlingame was awarded possession and the referee threw the ball in at midfield. Petticlerq hit an aggressive back shot to Rodeen, who forwarded it to Fairbanks. Mack intercepted it, leaned in, and drove it toward his goal with a sloppy off-side back shot.
The ball bounced ahead of him to the right. Fairbanks seemed to like attacking from the near side. He came in that way again, behind Mack, galloping close. Mack turned his head slightly and saw the bobbing head of Fairbanks’s pony.
The lawyer turned his pony into Mack’s at precisely the right angle, and the pony’s Pelham bit tore Mack’s shirt and raked his back. Fairbanks laughed and pulled away, easily avoiding a spill. Mack rode the rest of the chukker with the hot warm feel of blood on the small of his back. It ran under the waist of his riding pants and over his buttocks.
“God, man, you’re soaked with it,” Eric Portfield said at the end of the scoreless chukker. Mack leaned over, hands on his knees, hurting.
“We’ll put Jeremy in, old sport,” Clive said.
“I’ll finish the game,” Mack said. “Tear up a shirt, a rag, anything to bind it up.”
“But old fellow, no one will think the less of you if you quit. As it is, you’ll likely bear a scar for months.”
“Quit ragging him,” Johnson snarled. “If he says he’ll ride, he’ll ride.”
The others started to protest but something stopped them. Mack turned around. Against the sun’s glare, he saw Fairbanks striding up to them. Mack couldn’t believe the gall.
“Chance, I’m sorry the bit caught you that way. My horse turned into you by accident.”
Mack wiped the sweat in his eyes. “Of course, Fairbanks. By accident.”
“Get out of here, you jackleg,” Johnson said.
Fairbanks stepped back, feigning aggrieved surprise, and left without another word.
In the fifth chukker, with the score still 1-1, Mack and Fairbanks again came together side by side. Fairbanks attempted a back shot, missed, and let his mallet deliberately overswing. Mack saw it coming and ducked, and the mallet hit his canvas helmet. The pain jarred him but at least he hadn’t lost an eye.
Two minutes later, racing side by side, Mack and Eagle chased the ball toward the Burlingame goal. Both players raised their mallets high for the next shot. On Mack’s near side, Eagle drifted back quickly and reached across to hook Mack’s mallet with his.
Mack screamed a curse. Because of the wrist strap, he couldn’t let go of the mallet. Eagle snorted and reined his pony to the left, pulling Mack’s right arm and mallet over his head. Mack fell from the saddle and his pony, Royal, went down too.
Mack hit the ground in a cloud of dust and the impact sent fiery new pain up and down his bloodied back. Play halted. There were more oaths and recriminations, and another penalty against Burlingame. Mack no longer had any doubt about Fairbanks; there was one man, and only one, whom the lawyer wanted his teammates to foul.
Royal struggled to her feet lame, but it proved temporary. Mack swallowed dust, blistered out a few more profanities, and got up. The pain was excruciating.
Johnson trotted over. “Listen, you’d better stop before—”
“Umpire, I want a remount,” Mack yelled, hoarse by now. A wide-shouldered shadow came between him and the white-hot sun.
“Sorry—I don’t know how that happened,” Eagle grunted, and rode off.
Before the last chukker, Fairbanks brazenly walked close enough to inspect the ponies saved for Riverside’s final effort. Mack’s Jubilee drew his eye particularly. Checking her saddle, Mack gave the lawyer a hard stare. He’d changed to a borrowed shirt but blood had soaked it too. Quickly Fairbanks finished his count of the Riverside ponies. The team had no extras. He hurried back to his men.
Fairbanks was tired and not a little desperate; he’d expected Burlingame to obliterate the opponents. Now he decided on his strategy. If he could put Mack out of the game, well and good. But if he couldn’t, he’d remove that splendid pony from the field. Once Mack’s mount was down, he’d be forced to finish the game on that blown-out plug from the first chukker. The advantage should be enough to allow a Burlingame score.
He called the other three to his side. “Gentlemen, let’s be clear. Unless you pull this game out, you’ll be off the payroll.”
Petticlerq, swabbing his pocked face with his helmet, spat on the ground. “We’re doing what we’re paid to do, you high-assed son of a bitch.”
“We’re professionals,” Rodeen growled.
“Then prove it. Or you’re finished at Burlingame and everywhere else. I’ll see to it.”
The ball was tossed in for the last chukker. Fairbanks bided his time; he needed the perfect opportunity, nothing less. It didn’t come until there were only two minutes remaining.
Clive Henley hit the ball, and Billy Rodeen chased and retrieved it with an expert tail shot, Mack and Johnson racing in pursuit. Hanging back, Fairbanks set himself up for the crucial play.
Rodeen’s next shot angled the ball obliquely toward the goal. Fairbanks pursued it to the left of its line while Mack galloped in on his right to check the play. Fairbanks knew that aim was critical. Aim, and the appearance of an accident. He booted his pony pitilessly until the horse pulled slightly ahead of Mack’s, then counted down in the enormous rushing silence of his brain; instinct and experience told him when to strike.
Savagely, he pulled off the line and delivered a hurtling full swing. It missed the ball and struck Jubilee’s front tendon.
With a bellow, she went down, Mack tumbling again. Whistles blew, and the game clock was stopped. There was a sudden hush. Fairbanks reined in, then walked his horse toward Mack, who was running to Jubilee. The little Spanish horse was floundering on her side. Pleased, Fairbanks saw that he’d hit just right. Jubilee’s playing days were finished.
Tan dust clouds drifted over the field. Mack knelt beside Jubilee, stroking her. She kept trying to raise herself and uttered great bellowing neighs of pain.
Fairbanks said, “Chance.”
Hazel eyes seared his.
“It’s turning into a bad-luck match,” Fairbanks said. “I didn’t see you behind me—”
“The shit you didn’t. You destroyed this horse. Get away from me before I do the same to you.”
Fairbanks started to reply, thought better, and shook his head in what he hoped was a sorrowful way. He swung his pony around and got a nasty shock. All of his men were staring at him with expressions that stunned him. Roscoe Eagle’s was the worst; his brown eyes brimmed with loathing.
“I love horses. Any man who’d ruin one to win a game is scum.”
“Shut up,” Fairbanks whispered. “Shut up and earn your money or you’ll be mucking stalls the rest of your life.”
“I’d rather,” Petticlerq said.
Billy Rodeen said, “So would I.”
One by one they turned their mounts and walked them away.
Play stopped for ten minutes, as grooms rigged a canvas sling around Jubilee and dragged her off. The competitive joy had gone out of the game, and the spectators. Very little noise came from the canvas pavilions.
Mack trotted back on the field on Fireball. The three hired riders seemed to play more slowly now, even clumsily. Fairbanks shouted and hectored, but it did no good. With perhaps a minute left, a foul by Rodeen awarded the toss-in to Riverside. Eric Portfield took it but the ball was soon driven back into Riverside territory. Mack took it out of the pack. They needed 250 yards for a goal.
Mack shot it forward to Johnson, and the Texan slammed a beautiful shot of 150 yards. Fairbanks bent over his pony in wild pursuit, snapping a look over his shoulder. Petticlerq, Eagle, and Rodeen were all behind him, their refusal to help all too apparent.
Hell with them
, Fairbanks thought, concentrating on the key shot on which everything depended—a back shot toward the sideline that would allow regrouping for an overtime.
He galloped up beside Hellburner Johnson, who gave him the most murderous look he’d ever seen from a human being. A lemon-colored bandanna streamed behind the sweaty Texan. Both of them jockeyed to hit but Johnson had lulled and fooled his opponent; instead of taking the shot, he leaned his horse into Fairbanks and bumped him out of play.
Fairbanks let out a raspy cry, unable to control his mount for a moment. Mack came up at full gallop and hit the ball resoundingly through the goal.
Before Fairbanks could rein in, the whistle blew.
Riverside 2, Burlingame 1.
Johnson trotted to Fairbanks, mopping his face with the soiled bandanna. “You’re lucky you lost nothin’ but the game, mister. I wouldn’t stay in town after it gets dark.”
In the canvas pavilions, the celebration was restrained, even somber. Champagne foamed, and there were expressions of pleasure at the victory, but they were half-hearted. The couples from Burlingame invented excuses for leaving immediately.
Walter Fairbanks didn’t want to set foot in the crowd. But he reasoned that his best defense was a pretense that every serious foul and fall had been accidental. So he marched in and stared down all those who stared at him.
Tiny strain lines showed in the sunburn at the corners of his eyes. He felt a headache starting in his forehead, like an iron nail pounded there. Tomorrow morning he’d be too sick to eat. Defeat of any kind undid him; a major defeat rocked his life off the rails. He blamed Chance this time.
At least Carla didn’t shun him. She was so flushed, and spoke so fast as she drew him aside, Fairbanks decided she was drunk, sexually aroused, or both. He remained rigid as a soldier, sipping champagne with one hand, plucking his sodden shirt from his skin with the other
“You played splendidly, Walter.”
“It got a little out of hand.”
“Not your fault. Accidents happen. I’m very impressed.”
She stepped closer, and he noticed the fresh stains of spilled champagne on her bodice. Her eyes had a hot bleary look.
“Please,” she whispered, a gloved hand caressing his wrist. “When you have business in Los Angeles again, let me hear from you.” Her eyes darted past him. “We’ll visit somewhere that’s more private.”
The overture astonished him. Then, suddenly, it lifted the burden of defeat. Here was a way to win a more important game. He smiled, some of his charm and confidence restored, then he toasted her.
“Thank you for the invitation. I shall certainly try to accept.”
She squeezed his wrist, then let go when she noticed Mavis Bunthorne watching.
The champagne refreshed Fairbanks. What did he care about these provincial parvenus, or their opinion of him? “Where is your husband, by the way?”
“He said he wouldn’t be coming over. Jubilee’s badly injured. I’m afraid Mack cares more about his damn polo ponies than he does about his wife—”
The pistol shot hit like a thunderclap. Conversation stopped, and a woman’s gasp rolled through the tent while the echo rolled over the field. Long shadows of the pavilion stretched out on the parched and broken grass. Before dark, Fairbanks left Riverside on the Los Angeles local. He’d given the grooms pay envelopes for his men, who were nowhere to be seen.