Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: So what finally happened to the vertically-challenged thoroughbred that was bequeathed to Hardcastle in the episode "Whistler's Pride"?

Selling Short

by L.M. Lewis

Mark was pretty sure it hadn't been in his job description, though if it had been, it might have wound up between getting shot at, and being the tambourine understudy for 'When the Saints Come Marching In'. But he was almost certain he wouldn't have agreed to become the Lone Ranger's sidekick if he'd known it would involve mucking out a former temporary stable.

"You almost done with that?" The judge was striding over as he spoke, with only a quick glance down and a sudden jog to the side to avoid stepping in something regrettable.

Mark looked up sourly as he dumped the last shovelful onto the compost heap behind the garden shed.

"What I wanna know is how come you got your picture taken in the winner's circle and I got the short end of the shovel in this operation, Kemosabe?"

Hardcastle seemed to be giving that a moment's consideration, his head cocked and his hands on his hips. Then he said, "Must have somethin' to do with Willie owing me the debt of gratitude—and you just being a limited partner in the operation."

"Well, this 'limited partner' thinks he's getting out of the horse-racing business." Mark frowned down at the pile of straw and manure. "It's a little too rich for my blood."

"Funny you should mention that." The judge smiled broadly and tapped the side of his nose. "We just got an offer on the Whistler."

Mark straightened up, suddenly more attentive. "An offer?" His expression brightened, then just as swiftly became shadowed. "What kind of 'offer'? We're going to end up paying taxes and license and transfer fees, huh?"

"Nah . . . that's car stuff," the judge assured him.

"This is going to cost me something," Mark's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "I just know it. What's the hitch?"

"No hitch. The Whistler's got a winning record."

"One race."

"A perfect winning record." Hardcastle spread his hands expansively. "Never been beat."

"It was a fluke," Mark pointed out. "All the other jockeys except Alcott's had been warned off, and her operation was up for grabs on account of the arrests."

"Yeah, well, you might be right about that," Hardcastle conceded with a shrug "but we'll never find out. The racing commission called me up a little while ago. They said they won't institute an investigation into the 'timing irregularities'—I think that's how they put it—during last Friday's practice runs, if I agree to retire the Whistler."

"Retire?" Mark looked disbelieving. "You mean they're kicking him out." He shook his head, looking disgusted. "Figures. A horse is just a little different and they give him the boot. Besides, he didn't jigger that clock—"

"No, you did, and since we don't want you getting called as a witness at a racing commission hearing, the Whistler is taking early retirement. Besides, like you said, that win was a fluke."

Mark's brow was furrowed. "So who'd you find who was willing to buy a short horse who can't even hang out at the track anymore?"

Hardcastle grinned. "A young lady who's very fond of him. And she just came into some money, too. The jockey's share of the Oak Royal purse—it came to nine thousand. She offered us two thousand."

"'Us'?"

"You're still a limited partner, aren't ya?"

"Ten percent," Mark muttered, then he brightened again. "Two hundred. Yes." He grinned right back at the judge, then looked suddenly abashed. "I mean, it's really a good idea. She's crazy about him."

"And it turns out her folks have a ranch up by Wheatland. They'll be glad to have the horse that launched their daughter's career."

"A happy ending," Mark said contentedly, "not to mention a profit. Two hundred dollars." He looked down at the pile of manure with something approaching affection. "I say go for it."

"Figured you would. I'll even advance you your share, if you want." Hardcastle felt for his hip pocket and extracted his wallet. "Let's see. We were $1800 in the hole and your share was ten percent. Now we're two hundred up so, there you go." He extracted a worn twenty with a grand flourish and handed it over. "Don't spend it all in one place."