Epilogophilia: Whistler's Pride

When Hardcastle inherits a "midget racehorse", he immediately registers it for the California Stakes. His jockey is thereupon attacked and left unable to ride and Whistler's Pride is horse-napped. The criminals are traced to Alcott Farms and horse breeder Lenore Alcott. After an exciting chase on horseback, the judge's steed is recovered, the bad guys are arrested, and Hardcastle finds himself in debt even after winning the purse for the race.

Epilogue – Owlcroft

"So when did you learn to ride a horse?" McCormick asked. The Alcott arraignment had gone quickly and there was still plenty of time to get back to Gull's Way for lunch. He pressed just a little harder on the Coyote's accelerator and saw the needle hover just a hair over sixty miles an hour.

The judge leaned over ostentatiously and peered at the speedometer. He cleared his throat meaningfully and only leaned back when McCormick sighed and eased up on the pedal.

"Horse," Mark repeated. "I bet you learned to ride on the old family farm back in Arkansas, right?"

"Yeah, that's where I started riding, but we didn't have horses. Just mules." Hardcastle settled more comfortably in the passenger seat and shaded his face with his hand. "We had a tractor when I was a kid, but my dad had to sell that. That's a long story. We got another one eventually, but we always had a couple of mules for the plow and hauling logs and we rode them all the time." He squinted in recollection. "Blackjack and Molly. They were the biggest mules I ever saw . . . at least sixteen hands."

McCormick glanced over at him. "I meant to ask you when you showed me that. Weren't yardsticks invented by the time people starting measuring horses?"

Hardcastle snorted and his eyes slitted in amusement. "Nah. And it turned out horses are scared by tape measures, so hands were the only things left." He grinned at Mark's chuckle and tilted his head back. "We called him Blackjack because he was black and a john – that's what male mules are called."

"And Molly?" Mark carefully edged the needle back up to sixty.

"That's just what female mules are called. Probably as close as you can get to just plain 'Mule'. My dad didn't believe in fancy names for critters. One of our dogs was named Mutt and another was –"

"Don't tell me, let me guess. Jeff?" The needle went creeping slowly up to sixty-five.

The judge snorted again. "Hah. Nope, Pup."

"Oh, very clever. So how come you got saddled with Milton? Why weren't you named Kid or Boy or something?"

"Well, I had a cousin named Jay-boy. 'Course his real name was Jason, but nobody ever called him that." Hardcastle looked ruminative for a moment. "Haven't seen ol' Jay-boy in . . . oh, gotta be thirty years now."

McCormick took a look in the rear-view mirror and edged up to sixty-seven. "I don't believe it. There really are people named Jay-boy and John-boy and Arthur-boy and Henry-boy?"

"Sure there are. Okay, maybe not Henry-boy." The judge scratched his cheek idly, thinking back. "I knew a Sam-boy, too. See, it's to distinguish a kid from his father when they got the same name. You go calling John out the back and you might get three different guys yelling 'what?'" He took another look over at the speedometer and suggested, "You might wanta slow that down a bit with the haw turn coming up."

Mark looked at him curiously as he took his foot off the accelerator. "The what?"

"It's a mule driving term. Gee and haw." Hardcastle shook his head self-righteously. "Don't they teach kids anything these days? You yell 'gee' at a mule to get him to turn right, and 'haw' to go left."

Mark flipped the turn signal and pulled on the 'reins' of the Coyote to turn into the estate driveway. He winced slightly at the sound of grating from the undercarriage and said, "Okay, now tell me the difference between a mule and a donkey."

The judge grinned at him. "How about, one's driving the car too fast and the other's along for the ride?"

McCormick grinned back. "Gee, no kidding?"

"Haw, haw, haw," said Hardcastle.