Into the Fire

Grady Hutchinson sat in the kitchen sipping a large Styrofoam cup of hot black coffee as he perused the local sports page. Occasionally he looked up to see if there was someone he might possibly recognize in spite of the great odds against it. He’d heard Robert Sanders came out here last season and made a killing, but he didn’t know if he was back. It would be nice to see Robert again—he was a class act.
He looked out the window of the racetrack kitchen viewing someone’s rig parked on the side of the nearest barn to the south out of the way of the hotwalking machines. It had to belong to another horseshoer. Staring out the window, he saw a squatty built man with farrier chaps come out and open a compartment on the silver Chevy custom pickup. Hutch watched him grab a couple sets of shoes before disappearing back into the shedrow.
Not the first time Hutch had come to a new track. It usually didn’t take him long to fit in and find work. He liked people as a rule, and they invariably liked him—grateful for that because when it came time to collect money, he discovered people had a tendency to pay him before they’d pay others. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact he was just plain good at what he did. He kept up with every new shoe or experimental method used in his field, so confident in his work he’d use anything to try and help a horse—no matter who “pooh-poohed” it or criticized a new idea. If it worked, he wanted to use it. Who cared what people thought? All he cared about was being an expert. At times he knew he cared too much about it. And it had cost him everything. Everything except his work.
At least it’s not raining this morning, still staring blankly out the window.
Glancing at his watch, he decided to head to the commission office to get his farrier’s license. After that he’d cruise the barn area, start up some conversations, see if he could introduce himself to the other guys in his field and endure the inevitable sizing up and competitive nature of the other horseshoers. He’d been through it before many times. It was just part of the process.
Boy, I’m a long way from home.

“Man, it’s muddy out there,” John Eisley complained as he got off his last one.
“Yeah, no kiddin’. I could barely sleep last night listenin’ to it bang against my tack room window. Dreaded gettin’ up this morning,” Tim Soures agreed as he bathed the filly John had just untacked. “A lot different than last spring, huh?”
“Yeah. A lot different.” A smile crossed John’s face. “And a lot better.”
“Sure, for you. You’re an old married man now,” Tim laughed.
“Hey, I ain’t old yet,” he laughed as he took the tack to clean it up.
“John, how’d that filly go?” Sev asked.
“Well, boss, I can tell you this: she don’t like the mud. It’s hard out there today. So, a little rough, I guess.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought her in yet. If it doesn’t clear up around here, I’ve a mind to take her back out to the farm for another month. She gets fit in a hurry. She doesn’t need to be in here yet. Darn Phillips. Always bugging me to get ‘em goin’. You know what? If he wants her in here, she’ll just stay in the barn till the track gets decent,” and he walked off muttering and cussing under his breath.
John shook his head and started in on the tack.
When he was almost done, Jenny poked her head in the tack room.
“You up for a nap?” she asked her husband.
“With you—anytime,” he answered smiling.
“You know I hate the mud.”
“You and me both, but we’re kinda at the wrong track not to get any.”
“I know. I love this track. I just don’t like the mud.”

(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory)