Do You Dare? The Last Horse Race Page 8

  ‘Get out of the way!’ he shouted.

  Had they heard him? He was about to cry out again when they jumped down. Their agile bodies weren’t the only things to fall away from the fence, either. As Eagle galloped closer, Toby saw the top rail was no longer in place. The lower rail was still there, but it was no higher than the boxes he’d practised on days before.

  The gelding cleared the remaining rail with barely a break in his stride and, as his clever friends cheered, Toby lowered himself into a jockey’s crouch once more.

  There were no hurdles now and after a hundred yards more, only two horses to beat because he’d shot past the squatter as though his tiring mount had stopped altogether. Better still he could see the others ahead and they were closer, definitely closer. It was only a matter of time before he caught them, too.

  That was when his heart sank. There wouldn’t be time. He could already see the Catholic church looming close. From there, it was only about one hundred yards to the finish line.

  Eagle didn’t know that, of course. They were going to lose after all, but it wouldn’t be the fault of the brave animal Toby had beneath him.

  They rounded the church at last, expecting to see Stan and the other rider only yards from the gaol. Then, for the second time in a minute, he sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Outside the new house where he’d spoken to Harry Kelso, a wagon blocked the path. With horses in harness at one end and timber stacked behind it, there was no room for competitors to charge by at a gallop.

  The race was over, then – without a winner. They would have to line up again tomorrow. Good, thought Toby. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes a second time. He might save his mother from Beckman, after all.

  He began to ease up in the saddle, as the others had already done ahead of him. Not that Eagle took any notice. He charged on frantically as though the road was clear all the way to the finish line.

  ‘Hold up, the race is over,’ he called to the horse.

  But it wasn’t. Perhaps the horse knew this all along. Stan had found a gap between the lumber and a pile of shingles for the roof. He was already walking his horse cautiously through and the second man was eager to follow.

  What a fool I’ve been, thought Toby. There were no rules to this kind of racing. The winner was the first horse over the line no matter what happened on the way.

  The race was still on and he had to win. Suddenly, Toby found himself only fifty yards behind.

  But the wagon lay between him and the other two. By the time he’d slowed his horse to walk through the gap, the distance would have opened up again – too far for any horse to make up.

  Which of them decided? Was it Toby, or was it the horse that continued to charge towards the wagon at full gallop? Toby wasn’t sure he knew. His thoughts were focussed on one thing alone: Eagle was going to try to leap over the wagon.

  How high was it? Toby guessed it was no higher than the fence. But thanks to Sprout and Robert, he hadn’t jumped the fence, had he? And the wagon was wider, which meant the horse would have to leap even higher.

  Toby was petrified. They were closing in quickly. Soon the horse would alter its stride, gathering itself for the jump. Toby must get himself ready, too, or else tug savagely at the reins and force the horse away from the wagon.

  Don’t take the risk, a voice told him. Slow down, go through the gap, there’s still time to catch the others. It was the voice of fear, of cowardice. Then, from the same place, another voice called to him, one he had heard before, in the butcher’s paddock when his shoulder ached from the fall and he wasn’t sure he could ride a horse over the simplest jump.

  Do you dare, Toby Thompson?

  If he slowed and took the safe route, he’d lose the race. His mother would go back to prison, or to live with Beckman on the Darling Downs. There was little difference between the two.

  Toby pushed his heels down in the stirrups as Sprout had taught him. He crouched low, ready to throw his weight upward at the right moment. He looked ahead at the wagon and cursed the devil at the top of his voice. The damned thing was so high . . .

  Then he was flying. The violent bound took them higher than Toby thought possible. Only birds saw the world from up here. Eagles. And this time there was no gentle water to break his fall, just hardwood and the iron fittings of the wagon.

  One of the gelding’s front hooves clipped the side of the wagon, but not enough to unbalance them. They reached the peak of the jump, with the horse’s rear legs pushing up powerfully, tipping his head and neck downwards. Any moment now . . .

  Too late, Toby knew he’d leaned too far forward. He tried to straighten up in the saddle and he’d even managed to force his shoulders back a little way when the impact of landing threw him forward again. Now he was all the way out of the saddle with his chest pressed against the horse’s mane. If his feet hadn’t remained in the stirrups, he would have fallen.

  The horse didn’t seem to care that Toby’s arms now clung desperately around his neck. Within three bounds, Eagle was settling into stride again. After another ten, they had overtaken the black mare.

  Toby held on. If he released his grip on the beast’s neck, he would fall. He couldn’t even lift his head to judge the distance to the finish line. If they’d passed Stan, he’d have seen the dark shape out of the corner of his eye, though. He hadn’t, and that meant they were still behind. Only hard galloping would take them to the lead now.

  Yet he could sense the awkward stride of the horse beneath him. Toby’s position, so heavy on Eagle’s neck, was slowing them down. If he stayed like that, they wouldn’t make up the distance. Toby had to get back into the saddle and he had to do it now.

  He brought his hands up from under the horse’s neck. Only his weight sprawled across the horse’s shoulders kept him from falling. Then, with his hands together and his fingers threaded into the mane, he pushed himself backwards – and felt his bottom land in the seat of the saddle.

  That’s it! Toby kept his head low and let the horse have the reins. He dared look up now and saw the heels of Stan’s horse, kicking stones and flecks of dirt into his face. Moments later, they were drew level.

  White foam streaked across Trojan’s cheeks. He was breathing hard and straining to stay ahead – a determined horse, just like Eagle. But Toby was lighter than Stan and now that both horses were exhausted, this advantage helped him gain a little with each stride.

  The wall of the gaol was only thirty yards away, and in those thirty yards, Eagle’s courage won through. They weren’t just level now. When they crossed the line, Toby was a full length ahead.

  Toby turned Eagle around and let him trot back to where the spectators cheered and clapped. He was breathing as heavily as the horse, he noticed now. Only when he dismounted did he discover how exhausted he was. He had to be held up by members of the crowd until his legs regained their strength.

  He didn’t care how tired he was. All he felt was the relief that surged through his body. He had won. He hadn’t just beaten Stan and the other two riders – he had beaten Beckman.

  Once he could stand on his own, hands began to slap gently on his back. ‘Well done, boy,’ said one man. ‘That jump was astonishing.’

  ‘So brave,’ said another.

  ‘Brave! It was the best piece of horsemanship I have ever seen,’ a third voice responded.

  Toby didn’t see the faces. Even the praise didn’t mean a lot to him. He had won and that meant his mother wasn’t Beckman’s victim any longer.

  Then Harry Kelso arrived. ‘Toby, what the hell were you doing? You could have killed yourself. Didn’t you hear me calling to you? Jumping that wagon was a reckless thing to do.’

  Toby looked up into his face. Harry was angry, but it was a kind of anger he’d seen before. It came from the fear of someone who cared about him and didn’t want to see him hurt.

  ‘You’re not to ride in a race like this ever again, do you understand?’ said Harry. ‘It’s far too dangerous. Your mother won’
t allow it and neither will I.’

  Toby felt Harry’s scolding threaten his happiness. He’d loved the wild excitement of the race. He wanted to feel it again.

  Once, he would have said to Harry, ‘You can’t stop me. You have no right to tell me what to do.’ Instead he said, ‘I guess I should start calling you Father, then, instead of Harry.’ It came to him then, as the best prize of all. By winning the race, he had made sure that Harry would marry his mother and he would have a father after all.

  He smiled at the secret he would keep to himself. Harry would never know that the race he complained about so hotly had saved his own wedding plans.

  The other riders had all dismounted, the man from the bar cursing, the squatter full of unexpected smiles. Beckman was there, of course. Someone had made a sling for his arm out of a piece of cloth. Despite the pain, his grin ran from ear to ear. It was the first time Toby had seen him smile in joy rather than menace.

  ‘You won after all,’ was all Beckman said to him – no cry of well done, no praise for his courage at the end.

  Harry was still at Toby’s side. ‘How could you let a young lad ride in such a dangerous race?’ he asked hotly.

  ‘He survived, didn’t he? And he hasn’t done himself any harm, either.’ Beckman sneered at Harry, ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

  That was enough to bring Harry forward a step as though he might punch Beckman in the face.

  ‘Hey, steady,’ said a man who’d noticed. ‘The poor fellow has a broken arm.’

  Punches were avoided when the man who’d started the race called, ‘Time to pay up, gentlemen.’

  Throughout the crowd, winnings changed hands, with Beckman receiving the lion’s share. The last man to pay was Toby’s old friend, Stan. He handed over most of the wager, then stood looking down at three ten-shilling notes he hadn’t yet surrendered.

  ‘And the rest of it,’ said Beckman.

  By now, the spectators had seen Stan hesitate and fell silent, wondering why. They soon discovered the answer when Stan spoke to Beckman because he meant them all to hear.

  ‘These should go to the jockey, don’t you think? You’d be paying the rest of us if it wasn’t for Toby.’

  When everyone around him immediately agreed, Beckman didn’t dare complain about it. A cheer went up as Stan passed the notes to Toby, and as this seemed to mark the end of the fun, people began to turn away. Most headed towards Bow’s Hotel to relive the race, even the beaten competitors who were taking defeat in good spirits. With a wink towards Toby, Stan joined them and even Harry turned towards the building he’d been working on.

  ‘I have a roof to get up,’ he called to Toby. ‘I’ll speak to you again tonight.’

  As Harry walked away, he passed Sprout and Robert running in the opposite direction. Toby had seen them coming and now he could hear them.

  ‘Who won? Tell us, tell us! Was it you?’

  Toby tormented them for a moment by staying silent and keeping his face blank. Or at least he tried. After just a few moments, the truth burst out of him anyway in a noisy laugh. The boys hugged each other at the news.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Toby and he showed them the three ten-shilling notes. ‘Without you two, I’d have finished last,’ he said and he passed a note to both of his friends. None of them had ever held so much money. Then, before Toby knew what they were doing, first Robert and then Sprout pressed the note back into his hand.

  ‘We didn’t jump the wagon. Only you could do that, Toby,’ said Sprout.

  With most of the crowd gone, Toby thought no one was watching. But Beckman had lingered and Toby was soon to find out why. Leading the courageous horse he didn’t deserve to own, he came up behind Toby.

  ‘That money’s mine, boy. Give it here,’ he demanded.

  ‘You gave it to me yourself,’ Toby replied, as he quickly stuffed the notes into his pocket. With an injured arm and a horse to keep hold of, Beckman couldn’t make a grab for it.

  ‘Only because I had to. Now that clever cove is gone, I want my full winnings.’

  ‘But you’ve got more than twenty pounds,’ said Toby.

  ‘Without Toby you wouldn’t have a penny to your name,’ said Robert.

  The malice returned to Beckman’s face. ‘Toby knows that isn’t true. I’ll always have money, thanks to his mother.’

  ‘We made a deal,’ said Toby.

  Beckman laughed sourly. ‘You’re a fool if you think that meant anything. Did you think I’d give up the hold I have over your mother? I’ll be back in this town again and again unless she agrees to marry me. It’s that or the pounds she’ll find for me. Perhaps I’ll tell these boys the story right now.’

  ‘Go right ahead. They already know it,’ Toby said calmly.

  Beckman frowned. He’d expected Toby to beg, to fish the ten-shilling notes from his pocket and offer them up meekly.

  Despite the calm in his voice and the confidence he forced onto his face, Toby was worried. He saw that he had been a fool to trust their bargain. Beckman might still make Toby’s mother marry him. The threat would always be there. With his heart sinking into his battered, oversized shoes Toby feared Beckman would remain a torment in their lives forever.

  ‘Mr Beckman,’ said Robert, in a voice that was respectful, but not tentative.

  Beckman glared at him, using his eyes alone to ask, what do you want?

  Robert wasn’t put off by his surly eyes. In fact, there was no sign of the nervous lines that drew themselves across his brow whenever he spoke to a grown-up. ‘My father is a lawyer,’ he said to Beckman, in the same confident tone.

  Beckman snorted. ‘So what?’

  ‘You learn a lot when you are the son of a lawyer, just by listening.’

  Beckman’s face showed he didn’t have a clue what the boy was trying to say. Neither did Toby!

  ‘You learn about the law, I mean,’ Robert went on slowly.

  Toby saw now why he was speaking so slowly. He wanted Beckman to understand every word, especially the one he used next.

  ‘Blackmail is a crime,’ said Robert Poole, as though he was a judge speaking to a hushed courtroom. ‘It’s an especially bad crime if it forces other people to break the law, like when a woman has to steal things because someone is threatening her. I’ve heard my father say so. So you know, don’t you, if the constables ever come for Toby’s mother, they’ll come for you, too, Mr Beckman, because Sprout and I are witnesses.’ Robert turned towards Sprout. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, witnesses,’ said Sprout, who was as amazed by this new Robert as Toby was. He took a moment to respond, but said just the right thing when he spoke. ‘Sure sounded like blackmail to me. We’d go to the police for sure.’

  Robert delivered his final blow. ‘I might go to my father right now. He’ll make sure you get a long spell in prison, too.’ He nodded his head towards the wall nearby. Clearly visible beyond was the old female factory, now the town’s gaol.

  Beckman didn’t look defeated, but he couldn’t hide his dismay at the boy’s threat. Then, before he could call their bluff, Sprout spoke up.

  ‘That horse certainly is fast,’ he said, as though they’d been talking about the race instead of blackmail. ‘My father has always wondered how a shepherd like you came to have such a beauty. It might be time the constables checked your ownership papers.’

  ‘Ownership papers!’ said Beckman, before he could stop himself.

  ‘I hope you’ve got them handy, Mr Beckman, because you’ll have a lot of explaining to do if you don’t,’ said Sprout.

  Beckman was furious, but he was scared, too. ‘It’s time I had a doctor look at my arm,’ he growled, before stomping away towards the main street with Eagle trailing behind.

  Toby Thompson was more tired than he had ever felt. Sprout wanted to buy him more toffee from the general store to celebrate, but Toby went home instead.

  His mother was alone, in the kitchen. One glance at her eyes told Toby she’d been crying.


  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ he said.

  She stopped kneading dough and turned, inquisitive despite her puffy eyes.

  Toby took the crumpled ten-shilling notes from his pocket and placed them on the table.

  ‘Toby, where did you get these?’ she gasped and, leaving them untouched, she hurried to close the door. Back at the table, she whispered urgently, ‘Did you steal them? Did you do it to pay off Beckman?’

  ‘I don’t think Beckman is going to bother us anymore,’ he answered, drawing a startled stare from his mother. And then he told her how Robert and Sprout had frightened Beckman off with threats of their own. He had to mention the race, of course, to explain the thirty shillings, but he left out a few things – like the fences and the fall and the final leap over the wagon.

  ‘You told them our secret!’ said Mrs Thompson. ‘Toby, what if they tell other people?’

  ‘They’re my gang. We can trust them.’

  ‘Sounds like we don’t have any choice,’ said Toby’s mother, only half convinced. ‘Not that I can be too angry at you, since I’ve done much the same – I told Harry I don’t have a Ticket of Leave.’

  Toby was stunned. ‘Then he won’t marry you!’

  ‘That was the risk I had to take, Toby. It wouldn’t have been fair on him otherwise.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Harry said it makes no difference,’ Toby’s mother said with a loving smile. ‘We’ll still marry as soon as we can. Now then, tell me, are you sure Beckman won’t come asking for money?’

  ‘I’m certain. We told him straight to his face. If you go back to prison, so will he.’

  Mrs Thompson rose energetically from her chair. She paced the kitchen, making two rounds of the table before she even realised. ‘Those are two fine friends you’ve made, Toby. If what you say is true, if I dare believe you . . .’

  Toby stayed quiet. Nothing more he could say would make her accept they were safe. He just had to be patient.

  His mother went back to kneading the dough, but in less than a minute, she couldn’t stand still at the bench any longer. ‘What time do you think it is?’ she asked.