The Kentucky Ranger

by Edward T. Curnick

George LeMonde decided to enter Velox for the race which was soon to take place, and many times did he ride his willing steed over the race course to prepare for the great event.

Horse racing then, as now, was one of the most popular diversions of multitudes in Kentucky, but the preparations then were quite primitive. The track was laid in a level piece of ground some miles from Judge LeMonde's farm. It was in the form of a circle, and was one mile in circumference. The inclosure was protected by a rough fence, hewn out of logs. Within the course, near the starting place, and on the inside of the track, was a stand upon which the judges of the races sat. Some rough seats were provided for a part of the spectators, but most of the people stood during the races.

Saturday dawned clear and beautiful. It was a perfect day to bring out the speed of the racers. The time selected was near the last of August, and a crispness in the air gave a faint indication of coming autumn. People from far and wide had come to enjoy the sport. They made the occasion a holiday. Many came on horseback and by team, and families brought well-filled baskets of fried chicken, corn pone, blackberry pie, and other good things to refresh the inner man.

A number of minor races were run by horses in harness and under the saddle, which only increased the people's appetite for the grand event of the day. At four in the afternoon the three horses were called for the two-mile race. Their riders soon brought them from their stalls to a position in front of the grand stand and judges. The steeds were all in perfect condition, their glossy coats shining with bright luster in the afternoon sun. The horses seemed to feel the meaning of the occasion. They champed their bits and moved about restlessly as though impatient to be off. Their riders, however, had them under good control, and now the judges tossed the coin for choice of position on the track. Zibe Turner secured the inside place, George LeMonde came next, and Hiram Ketcham, Farmer Ketcham's son of eighteen, was on the outer rim of the circle, next to the fence.

The grand stand, composed of rough boards, was filled with the best dressed citizens of the county: while far down the track, and separated from it by a frail line of fence, stood a great company of tall Kentucky pioneers with their wives and children. Many negroes were also in the crowd, interested spectators, and the small boy was much in evidence.

A silence fell upon the waiting throng as the three horses, bearing their riders, proceeded up the track a few rods to make a dash for the line. The signal was given, and they came like three thunderbolts to the starting place; but reaching this they were not abreast, and another start must be made. They tried four times before they got away in line, when some one shouted: "Now they are off!" For a few paces they were neck and neck; but then Hiram Ketcham's sorrel, though on the outer circle forged ahead. When the half-mile point was reached, the sorrel was several lengths in the lead, and Zibe Turner's black was leading George LeMonde's bay by a dozen feet. They came in this position down the home stretch, and as they crossed the line a great cheering rose from the crowd. Turner's friends from the hills were there in large numbers, and were the loudest in their shouts. "Go it, Zibe; you'll beat, old boy!" "Hurrah for de black! push him along!" "I'll bet my money on de Lexington hoss!" were some of the words that were shouted at Turner as he dashed past the starting point for the second mile. Hiram Ketcham did not lack for admirers, who encouraged him with cheers and waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Many of the farmers living in the rich river bottom seemed to be partial to the sorrel horse. George LeMonde's friends were plentiful in the grand stand and, in fact, throughout the crowd. They were somewhat disappointed to behold him the last in the race; but they saw that Velox was going well, and they had hopes for his winning during the next mile.

As for young LeMonde, he saw nothing and gave heed to nothing except the business in hand. Only once did he raise his eyes from looking straight ahead between the ears of his noble horse, and that was when he was passing the grandstand. Then he gave a swift look in that direction, and was repaid by seeing a young girl of some sixteen years of age, Stella Nebeker by name, dressed in a pure white muslin gown with short sleeves, waving a delicate handkerchief toward him. For an instant their eyes met, then he looked along the race course as before.

LeMonde had a method in his racing which he was now working. He knew the reserved powers which were in his horse, and he purposely held him back from putting forth his greatest speed at the beginning. Turner, the monster dwarf, was also using all his skill in horse racing. His monkeyish face was lighted up with a look of more intelligence than usual, which made his ugly features more forbidding and repulsive. His eyes shone with excitement, determination, and reckless courage. His teeth were clenched, and the muscles of his lips drawn over them gave him an expression half laughing, half demoniac. On the first round his cap had fallen off, and the shaggy hair of his head and face streamed in the wind, adding greatly to the fierceness of his looks. He had perfect control of himself and horse, and rode like a centaur, ready to take any advantage which circumstances or guile threw in his way. He also had held in his horse with bit and bridle, reserving his best efforts for the closing part of the race.

During the first half of the second mile Turner knew that it was necessary for him to lessen the distance between himself and Hiram Ketcham, and LeMonde realized that he must soon close the gap separating Turner and himself. Almost at the same time they gave their horses more rein, and they sprang to their work with increased speed. Ketcham had taken advantage of his lead by crossing the track and taking the narrow arc of the circle. The three horses were trotting in a line, all hugging the inside track. Very soon the distance between the sorrel and the black was diminished, and before the half mile point was reached the monster dwarf turned his horse toward the center of the track to pass Ketcham. Just beyond the half-mile point Turner's black passed Ketcham's sorrel, and LeMonde's bay was neck and neck with the black. A few rods more, and it was plain to be seen that the bay was forging ahead of the black.

The monster dwarf saw at once the advantage of his rival, and hissing through his teeth in a low voice the words: "Dat's my holt," brought his short cowhide whip down with force upon the withers of Velox. It was the act of a jockey utterly without principle, an act execrated by every true Kentucky sportsman.