Paxton and the Lone Star Read Online Free PDF Page A

The only thing left to do was go out and win the race.
    Mose Nolan and his mare still hadn’t left the stable. True let one of the boys swing open the stall door for him, another hand him his hat. The hat was a touch of genius. An English racing hat, it drew ridicule from rustic onlookers and helped foster the illusion that True was as much an idiot as his horse was too ungainly to outrun even a Percheron. “There he is!” a voice shouted from the crowd.
    â€œThat’s him, right enough,” another chimed in gleefully. “Oo-oo! And look at that hat! Bet his daddy ain’t seen that.”
    â€œHey, Paxton! I seen that so-called stud of yours race. Barely nosed ahead of Gierson’s nag up Charleston way. He’ll not do as well against Nolan’s mare. Nolan whipped Gierson’s by better’n a length.”
    True waved a hand toward the man who had spoken, one among a group standing on a wagon. They mistook his confident smile for a sheepish grin. Long, gangly, and awkward-looking in the clothes that hid his hard, trim muscles, he tucked a sandy curl beneath his cap, and continued on his way.
    The crowd closed in behind him. Through it, moving with a grace that belied his bulk, Joseph angled away from his brother and wove through the crush. Five years older than True, Joseph had learned little more in his twenty-seven years than the lust for a tidy profit and the value of having the odds in his favor no matter what the situation. “Well, then, Mr. Miles,” he announced, as he reached the farmer’s wagon. “If you are indeed so confident of Mose Nolan’s stock, perhaps you would care to join the wagering.” He tugged on the brim of his hat and stared up at them. “Or it is true what I hear,” he went on drily, “that you’re all gut and bluster when it comes to the manly exercise of wagering and showing something more than an open mouth?”
    Cameron Miles’s friends, two other farmers cut from the same cloth, guffawed and slapped their companion on the back. “Joseph’s got you there, Cameron,” one said.
    Around the wagon, those who had laughed at True’s expense now turned on the red-faced Miles. “That’s right. He’s called your number.”
    â€œShow him, Cameron. Play your money—”
    â€œIf his wife will let him!” someone interjected, drawing good-natured laughter.
    â€œâ€”and make him pay. She won’t mind that too much, will she?”
    â€œAll right!” Miles growled. The sight of his purse stilled them. “And who’ll stand with me? Any of you? Who’ll drink with me tonight on winnings from these high and mighty Paxtons?”
    The farmers looked sullenly at one another, then grudgingly began to dig into their pockets. Good old bad-tempered Cameron Miles, Joseph thought to himself as he led the way to the speakers’ stand near the starting line. Barley Hamilton, the mayor of Brandborough, was in the middle of a speech extolling the wonders of South Carolina, denouncing the policies of Andrew Jackson and the Congress that had passed the Force Act, coercing the states into paying revenues that all law-abiding, God-fearing South Carolinians knew were nothing more than taxation without representation. Joseph and the farmers edged around to the side of the platform where Judge Chaney was trying to stay awake. The judge did not hold with horse racing, much less gambling, but agreed to hold their bets anyway after a stern, whispered reproach.
    Men had raced horses at the Brandborough Fair for years. Scheduled or scratch, there was never a lack of either contestants or spectators. The big race of the year, though, had been held for the last twenty-odd years at five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and woe betide the politician who delayed the proceedings by so much as a minute. Mayor Hamilton’s face was as crimson as the side of his fist, with which he