The runoff brace began after lunch. Three hundred were riding. Soon it was apparent conditions were ideal, the dogs closely matched, and the derbies were in a duel.
First Bud, then Melissa, scored on the limb. At thirty minutes down each had scored three finds, not a bobble. Then a twenty minute dry spell, followed by two rapid finds by each dog.
The judges had set no time limit for the brace, instead announcing the dogs would be down until ordered up. When will they order them up? every gallery rider wondered. Then it happened. Bud had point called by his scout; John Pace arrived, dismounted and flushed. A tight bundled covey flew in Bud’s face, and he jumped—with glee. He did not chase. He came down where he had stood when he jumped. John fired. The judges ordered them up.
A half hour later the secretary announced the judges’ decision: Melissa Champion, The Finalist, Runner-Up. Everyone present agreed it had been the most exciting Derby brace they had ever seen. Many changed that to brace, Derby or All-Age.
John Pace’s phone rang every half hour, the callers all wanting to buy The Finalist, for themselves or for an owner if the caller was a handler. To each John Pace answered, not now, maybe later.
John entered every Derby stake he saw advertised, Bud won them one after another. Still no sign of illness for John. He had vowed he would not return to a doctor for treatment. Finally he could stand the suspense no longer, and he went back to the doctor who had given him the fatal diagnosis. He was given a battery of tests. Then three days later the doctor called him in to hear the results.
The look on the doctor’s face at first terrorized him; then he realized the doctor was overjoyed. “I cannot explain it, but your disease is no longer in evidence. I cannot say it may not return, but there is simply no evidence of it now in your body.”
John was confused, then overjoyed. What must I do? He went home to his doublewide to think. Bud no longer stayed in a kennel run, he stayed at John’s side, slept at the foot of John’s bed.
John fixed himself scrambled eggs and opened a can of succotash which he warmed in the microwave, one of his handful of regular evening meals. He drank ice water, as always since the diagnosis. He reflected on how he had lived since then, and how he had simplified things with a steady routine. The four other dogs in his string had scored no major victories, but had each scored at least one placement.
The findings he’d been told today removed no uncertainties, the doctor emphasized the illness could return. But somehow that did not worry him. What do I want to do with the rest of my life, short or long, he asked himself. Suddenly he knew, and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and found the number he wanted to call.
It was the number of a quail plantation owner who also occasionally sponsored a trial dog. He’d taken wagon dog prospects North for him a few times over the years, and their dealings had always been satisfactory. When he’d called John about buying Bud he’d said, “ If you want to get off the circuit, I’d like to have you as my dog man here on Crooked Pine. You could still have a few trial dogs, run them in trials close by, still go north to work both your wagon string and a few trial prospects. We hunt three days a week, two day-and-a-half hunts, it’s casual and the guns are friends not customers to be impressed. You know the folks who work here.”
The people who worked on Crooked Pine were indeed good folks, he’d known them for years. The plantation culture was transparent, despite the desires of many owners that it not be. Secrets spread by the gossip grape vine, made up of locals, white Crackers and Blacks, as it had for more than a century and a quarter. There were few secrets about anything. The jerks were known to be jerks, be they blue bloods or hired hands or independent contractors like farriers and vets and caterers.
In five minutes The Finalist had a new owner, and John Pace had a new career path.
Awesome !!!
Perfect!