The town hummed all around her as the corral men lead her up to the starting line. Her prodigious bulk tensed as she sensed the equal amounts of panic and hope in the air. The menfolk patted her up and down, thumping their paws on her neck with such glitzy nerves that she swore they were bound tighter than coils.
Backing out was impossible now, on all sides, she was boxed in by lathering, apprehensive horses, some tensing and twisting, jolting her aside. She was not too chagrined by their unapologetic raucousness because she was the largest in the line-up, it was more like they were bouncing off her rather than pushing her aside. She was the only draft horse there by the looks of the rows, full of crossed thoroughbreds and tamed mustangs.
It was like all the horses across the frontier had been brought to Johnsons Hall in John's Town. People were packed together in torrential crowds on the verandas of the manor; some young, sprightly ones had climbed onto the roofs of the buildings in the rural square to have the best view when the race started.
Children were darting around and squeaking in shrill glee for all the sugar treats that were being sold and all the legs to hide from mothers behind. The apples trees danced on the tossing wind above everyone's heads.
Mothers were darting around and hissing for their runaway children to get back to their side, for they may get caught under the horses when the starting bell sounded. When the best beasts from Massachusetts to New Jersey all leap for the sky and beyond.
A race from John's town to Valley Forge, something that normally took a good horse a day.
The record was six hours, the corral men were sure she was going to halve it. They had double the prize money for the race on her.
No pressure.
They checked her girt for the hundredth time that hour and fiddled with her bridle. All at once people were mounting the horses on either side, and she felt her new rider do the same.
Most of the riders were children and skinny men, light people that would not weigh the horses down. The corral men were not light or small in any definition of the world; they were all brawn and heavy with horrible riding styles. Styles that keep one in his seat when charging down a vertical slope after a mustang stallion, indeed, but not one that enabled their horse for a speedy and easy riding.
They had contracted someone else for the job. The lady's tan hands soothed along her mane and muttered words that she was sure were not really meant for her. The men had found her trying to steal from the corrals, and her scrawny frame had saved her from being handed over to the military like many caught savages were, or worse. She swivelled her ear back to listen to the native woman as she continued her mutters, the girl knew as much herself, how lucky she was that the men had a need that required a bond of trust on each end of the deal.
For the men didn't want the woman to ride their promising horse for the overgrown banks in the Diamond Basin instead of finishing the race for them. And she didn't want to be betrayed to the slave masters in the cities.
Quickly everyone but the riders peeled out of the area and pushed the crowd behind where the hay bales had been stacked to serve as pop up barriers. A horrible sound clanked throughout the air and all the other horses' leapt forward and streamed ahead. She stayed, working her hooves into the dirt, not knowing what was going on and spinning around to look for the source of the alarming sound. Her rider was equally bemused, having just been flung into the settler world scarce weeks ago. From the way people were laughing and the carrel men were screaming, they both figured it out and leapt forward after the unbroken wave of meat if only to escape the humiliation of the ebullient crowd.
The stupid savage riding the fat, big horse. It had been humours when you saw them waiting at the line beside all the others, the sleek racers and stayers. Oh, but the topping on the cake, the rider being a native, well rumoured to not know what horse are, never having come into contact with the animal which they were reported to have labelled 'sacred dogs' until white man arrived and started his colonies.
And it was a woman! With feathers dancing from in her hair even when she wore some oversized cotton clothes loaned to her.
And so the sight of them standing startled while the field raced away, it was enough to make even the most sympathetic and pleasing man chuckle under his breathe.
She did not care for them, she knew that they would be proven wrong in the end, making the victory only sweeter, but her rider did not. She could feel the heat of shame radiating from the native woman, the girl did not know of the potential of her ride yet. She had had no other horse to compare her to, so did not know of the remarkable strength she was crouched upon.
Already they had past five other racers. In a long distance race, passing someone has a very different feeling to it. You can just hear the judgement.
"They will burn out and I will pass them again in half an hours' time,"
"They aren't pacing themselves, they will soon tire"
"What arrogance"
She thinks it all one big joke; there is a wicked smile on her snout as she faces a few others that have started to drop back from the meat ball. Soon the races will start to spread out; soon her chance will come for her to weave through and bound ahead without a care. She is more driven then before to win this now, and the sensation of tears dropping down on her shoulders affirm her decision.
Half the record. Consider it done.
She's not racing the horses anymore; she can't judge how well she is running by them because right now she is racing a phantom that must be at least half a mile in front of her if the time is to be believed.
She cracks past a pack of racing horses, reaching her top speed but then finding another gear. She is the first horse by a comfortable length, but that does not make her pause. The phantom horse is still in front.
Turning a bend, she sees that there is a group of people that start to cheer when they see the first horse. They are there for the very practical reason to make sure that no one is taking short cuts, but also to send word in Morse code to the other packs of people like their's that dot all along the race course, huddled in their hunting cabins and trading posts. So is the festive spirit of the annual race season.
She enjoys watching how their faces flattened when they finally get a good look at the outlandish combination of her and her rider. Chuckling as she passes, she knew they must be quietening even more while they wait patiently for the next horse to come around the bend…they were waiting for quite a while for the favourite to finally appear, neck and neck with almost every horse else.
(Shire horse. Favourite. Benny's Buckskin. Old Hill. Monmouth's grey. Jayden's.)
She needed to cover a third of the race every hour, time was scare and the weakness that was starting to split up and down her sides was not to be listened to. So instead she listened to her rider mumble and kneed her sweaty shoulders and neck with her palms.
The woman was not upset with confusion and humiliation anymore, instead she was upset about the laboured breathing for her horse and for the speed she had taken which seemed unreasonable.
She would not listen, she was doing this, and no one could stop her, no matter how kind and Satan looking they were.
Perhaps they were from the same tribe. They must know each other then. Why was she stealing supplies from the corrals, on the sub-wild edge of the frontier instead of in her tribal valley?
Many questions, no answers, she just kept on running.
An hour.
Another.
A river, twenty three more posts of shocked upon shocked people.
(Shire horse. Hour gap. Benny's Buckskin. Monmouth's grey. Two minutes. Jayden's. Five minutes. Old Hill. Favourite.)
Right on the birth of the third hour, she thundered into Valley Forge.
This was where she had to be careful now as she stumbled over the line, she has seen many die, one midstride. He was galloping one moment, and the next, dead before he even touched the ground as he crumpled and crashed like no collision you've ever seen.
But most of the time it is after the run that they die. They are heaving like her now, trying to catch their breath, struggling to, not being able to, why can't I catch my breath? Why can't I breathe?
I'm not breathing…
She's not breathing…
The woman jumped down, she has noticed, with nimble fingers the woman all but throws the saddle and bridle off, trying to push her and get her to lie down in the dirt.
Collapsing, she focuses on keeping her throat open and chest moving. The woman is chucking buckets of water over her steaming sides.
People give them a wide birth, a strange combination, one they do not know how to approach, one that is convulsing in the dirt and one that is running with a bucket from the river back to the fallen beast's side.
The telegram is sent that the winner has arrived, a Shire horse and native rider, three hours and seven minutes after the commencing of the race.
She can almost hear the corral men whooping in their joy from here, back where they are in John's Town. But she does not care, the one she did it for is beside her, quiet and deathly with concern, scowling and frowning at her like she had just done something terrible against her.
She closes her eyes and just focuses on breathing.