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Also the fact that Indicator, looking like a solid $6500 animal, was now slumming in a $3500 claiming race served to heighten Mooney’s uneasiness. With a dropdown of $3000 something had to be wrong with the horse, for neither trainer, nor any other businessman, gives away $6500 merchandise for $3500.
    Still, the trainer and the running lines had just about swayed Mooney. And besides, the competition appeared weak. Carrerito was a turf horse. Dark Encounter was a sprinter with no guts much beyond the halfway. Zero Hour’s figure in his last 5’/ 2 -length victory was atrocious. And now the tote board beside Indicator’s name was blinking 23-1.
    Mooney rummaged deep within his jacket pocket and shredded the losing voucher tickets residing there. Four defeats had finally deprived him of his early-morning exhilaration.
    It was several minutes before post time. He glanced once again at the tote board, still flashing 23-1, a mystic beacon that seemed pointed directly at him. In the next moment he turned, walked directly to the $50 window and bet his last $200 to win.
    The gates opened with a roar. Indicator broke quickly and was running second when the field reached the first turn. Then he started dropping back. And back. And back. By the time the pack thundered past where Mooney stood stonyfaced, chewing the corner of his lip, the horse was in ignominy, running ninth. As they pounded past, Mooney felt the blast of heat from their exertions. As Indicator crossed before him he tried to peer directly into the gelding’s eye, and from there into its great throbbing heart, willing the creature to win.
    After three-quarters of a mile, Indicator was fourteen lengths out. Mooney watched the great clots of powder flung from the gelding’s hooves, splatter dismally onto the track. With resignation, he lowered his binoculars.
    But even as Mooney conceded defeat, Indicator had begun to gain ground on the final turn, running so wide that his jockey had to lean left in the saddle to keep him from going to the outside fence, Coming into the stretch he was still an impossible nine lengths behind the leader, Saddle Sore. The gelding continued to gather momentum through the stretch and suddenly he was in fifth position, coming up hard on fourth. If Mooney heard the wild roar of mankind gone mad in the stands behind him, he showed no outward sign. Encapsulated in a cold, cryptlike silence, he watched deadpan the blur of gray motion on the far track. He would permit nothing to break the line of communication between his own fierce will and that of the horse.
    With only a sixteenth of a mile to run and in third position, Indicator still did not appear to have much of a chance. In those final yards, however, Saddle Sore began to tire perceptibly, and suddenly the gelding had pounded up abreast of him. The finish was too close to call.
    During the agonizing moments while the photo was being developed, Mooney chewed his lower lip and consoled himself that even if the horse lost, he had not been disgraced. His own judgment was vindicated, even if it had cost him his last two hundred dollars.
    On the board above the track the number 6 flashed—Saddle Sore, the winner by a nose. But a second later a red sign that said OBJECTION went up. It was a steward’s inquiry against the winner. Moments later, the track announcer reported that Indicator’s jockey, Angel Guzman, had also claimed foul against the winner.
    Mooney sat numb beside the tote board where the numbers six and three, Indicator’s number, were flashing, while the stewards pondered their decision. A man beside him was holding a $2 ticket on Saddle Sore. He looked grim. “Forget it,” he said forlornly. “They’ll bust him.” And he was right. They did. Saddle Sore was disqualified for crowding Indicator on the first turn, forcing Guzman to check his horse sharply so he wouldn’t collide with Saddle Sore. The result was now official and the tote board flashed 3. Indicator was the