Dorgan grinned. "I said she was wise. Maybe my work was a little raw, but she took me by surprise, and I was just doin' the best I could off-hand."
"You can't keep the horse cached forever."
"That's all right. There's no use tellin' what you know most times. This Flambeau from what I hear will carry a whole bunch of money for them Frenches. They're givin' as good as five to three against the field. That means they got the field sized up, or fixed. But they ain't got a line on Chief, nor they ain't got me fixed, so their calculations has been clean upset. Somebody's been watchin' me exercise, the last day or two, but whoever it is ain't had a chance to clock nothin', because they don't know the distances, and anyway I didn't let him out. They ain't wise to him, but they're wise to me. They dope it out I wouldn't be wastin' time on a horse that hadn't a chance. See what I'm gettin' at? A pill or the needle would put Chief out of the money."
"Nobody around here would do that," Angus told him.
"They wouldn't hey?" said Dorgan with sarcasm. "Let me tell you that right in the bushes is the place they put over stuff they couldn't get by with nowheres else. The things I've seen pulled at these little, local races would chill your blood. There's a bunch of murderers follows 'em up that'd hamstring a horse or sandbag an owner for a ten-case note."
"But—" Angus began.
"But—nothing," Dorgan interrupted with contempt. "Don't you s'pose I've been in the game long enough to know it? There'll be a bunch of tinhorns and a wreckin' crew of crooked racin' men with a couple of outlaw horses, all workin' together to skin the suckers. All them Frenches have to do is to say it's worth fifty to fix any horse. You can maybe tell me things about raisin' alfalfa, but not about racin'. When a woman gets into the game, it's serious. After this I'm goin' to sleep right here."