Preacher John The Road Goes On: Part V-B

Part V-B

      After the service, Lucinda joined them in the churchyard where Mack and Buster waited for them.  Lucinda went over to the dog that stood quietly as John introduced her.  The dog looked her in the eye and wagged his tail.  Lucinda reached down and rubbed between the dog’s ears.  Buster closed his eyes in obvious pleasure.

      “What a beautiful dog.  I’d love to see him run.”

      “Buster’s just a derby.  But he’s showing great promise.  John’s his handler.” Bobby said with the comfort that he always had when talking about dogs.  It was everything else that was outside his comfort zone.

      Lucinda looked at John and the old man smiled at her, “Buster’d be proud to show you what he’s made of.  You got your riding clothes with you?”

      She turned and looked at a white Mercedes SUV and nodded towards the vehicle, “They’re in the car.  I’ll follow you out and Bobby can ride with me to keep me company.”

      Bobby blushed again.  He wasn’t used to having an assertive woman around.  He’d had many girlfriends over the years and had even been married once for a few years but he couldn’t settle down, nor did he want to.  Lucinda hit the button on her keys and the Mercedes chirped, “I feel a little silly locking my car here, but it’s a necessary habit in Bismarck.”

      She headed for the car and Bobby followed like a dog in heel.  He got in the passenger side and Mack, John, and Buster hopped into the truck and led the way out of the parking lot.  Dr. Lucinda Ford made small talk as they drove along, telling Bobby whose ranches they were passing, where her school friends had lived, anecdotes of growing up in the country.  Bobby just nodded and added a few uh-uhs.  Lucinda was an attractive woman but looked rather imposing to a country boy like Bobby.  There was not a hair out of place, her make-up was subtle and understated, the dress she wore to church simple, but obviously well tailored to her trim body.

      At camp Lucinda pulled a bag, a pair of well worn cowboy boots, and a thoroughly battered straw hat out of the back of the Mercedes and followed Bobby into the house.  She paused as she stepped into the kitchen and looked around, “This is pretty much how I remember it from the day I sat at that table, drinking tea, and listening to Miss Etta Mae.”

      “I’ve replaced the stove and the refrigerator over the years, but other than that it’s the same as the first time I came north with Mr. John.”

      Bobby pointed to the bathroom, “I’ll go out and help with the horses.”

      Mack and John were already saddling up two horses.  Mack turned to Bobby as he finished with his horse, “Which horse you want for the doctor lady?”

      Bobby paused, “We’ll let her ride Charley.”

      Mack didn’t say a word but turned to John and raised an eyebrow.  Charley was the newest horse on their string.  Trey Sutton had bought him for Bobby after the first championship Rebel Yell had won with Trey as his owner.  Charley quickly became Bobby’s favorite horse.  He was smooth as silk in all his gaits and one of those unique horses that understands its job around dogs.  He was also a great horse to scout from.  Charley always knew where the dog was, and if you didn’t, you could just give him his head and he’d take you to the dog.  If that wasn’t enough of a tell, Bobby went in to the shed where the saddles were stored and brought out a saddle that he’d won a couple of years ago but had only used once.  The seat was a little small for him and it just didn’t feel right, and put it on Charley.  His regular saddle had been rebuilt and repaired so many times over the years that there was hardly anything left from the saddle John had given him on his first trip to the prairies.  It was his lucky saddle and he expected to be riding it through the gates of Hell or wherever he went in the next life.

      As Bobby tightened the cinch on Charley, he looked up and was smitten.  There stood the woman of his dreams — wearing worn snug jeans with the pointed toes of down in the heels cowboy boots sticking out below the frayed pant hems, with a big silver belt buckle that looked to have a girl rounding a barrel on a horse on it, and a t-shirt that proclaimed the wearer to be “Country Bred and Proud of It!”  This was topped by a battered straw cowboy hat that could only get that way from years of wear.  A blonde ponytail bounced below the hat brim as Lucinda walked across the dooryard to the three men and the horses. 

      John smiled at her, “Doctor, if you’d been dressed like this last night I would have recognized you immediately.”

      Lucinda smiled and laughed, and the world was a brighter place for it.  “I don’t get many days off, and the next one of you who reminds me of work by calling me doctor is going to be in trouble.  Most of my friends call me Luce or Lucy.  I’d like it if you three would as well.”

      Bobby handed the reins of Charley to Mack, “Help Doctor . . . er . . . Lucy, adjust the stirrups.”

      “That’s better.” She stepped close to Charley and rubbed his head.  The horse seemed to be just one more male who had fallen under Lucy’s power.  She stepped up into the saddle with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime riding. 

      Mack and John went and got Rebel Yell (Jack), the best dog on Bobby’s string, and Buster from the kennel, put them in harnesses, and then got another pair of dogs for a first brace.  Bobby and Mack handled the dogs in the first brace while John roaded Jack and Buster and talked with Lucy.  As the two horses ate up the ground in their running walk Lucy told John how she used to get frustrated jogging along on her quarter horse when she had ridden with them all those summers ago.  She had barrel raced through her teens and still had a barrel racing horse, but she had bought a walking horse after she got out of medical school that she rode whenever she could get out of the office.  They talked about the dogs and the birds they pointed.  She asked about field trials and how the whole thing worked.  John explained the arrangement of owners and professional trainers to her and she became quiet and thoughtful.

      After about 45 minutes, they stopped and switched dogs.  Mack took over the roading duty and John handled Buster while Bobby turned Jack loose.  Although still a derby, Buster was fast becoming the second best dog in camp and Bobby felt that with a few breaks he would become Jack’s equal or more.  He was glad that John had been able to find the dog within Buster, because he and Buster just could not get on the same wavelength.  It was something that happened, and he was excited that John had come north with him and again found the joy of working great dogs.  He in no way felt that his debt was paid in full, but at least he’d finally made a few payments.

      Buster and Jack filled up the prairie as they made a swing through some of their best bird cover.  The two handlers lived in the moment, focused on their respective dogs, oblivious to Mack and Lucy riding behind them.  In the first half hour each dog had two finds with the other dog called in to back.  As they made the swing back towards the camp, Buster went wide to the left and stacked up by a small bluff that often held a brood of sharptails.  John squeezed his legs and his horse stepped up into an easy lope.  Mack and Lucy followed as Bobby tried to bring Jack around for another back.  Jack was soon on point in the opposite direction and Mack peeled off to help Bobby. 

      Just as John stepped down from his horse, Buster dove into the bluff with a low growl.  Birds blew out the other side, and Buster yelped in obvious pain.  John soon saw the problem as Buster jumped back with a face full of quills.  John had the collar of the dog and looked down at him, “For a smart dog, you sure do some dumb things.  I hope you learn your lesson from this.”

      People say dogs go one of two ways with porcupines; they either learn their lesson after one encounter or spend the rest of their lives trying to get even.  Some become such dedicated porkie hunters that they become useless as bird dogs.  John hoped Buster wouldn’t be one of the latter.

      Lucy was down off her horse, “What do we do?”

      John looked at her and smiled, “We pull them out.  Didn’t you learn that in medical school?”

      “No.  We had a dog when I was a kid that had so many quills in him that we had to take him to the vet.”

      John put a harness on Buster and tied him to the horse, then rummaged around in his saddlebags for a pair of needle nose pliers.  When he found them, he handed them to Lucy, “I’ll hold him, you pull.”

      “Just pull? Isn’t that going to hurt?”

      “They got to come out.”

      Lucy kneeled down next to the dog and went to work.  Buster stood stoically as Lucy worked with quick precision.  Soon Mack and Bobby were there and Bobby joined Lucy on the other side of Buster.  Even with two of them pulling quills it still took the better part of an hour to get them all.  Buster never flinched even when they pulled the ones inside his mouth.  Bobby finally stood up and then got a .22 pistol from his saddlebag that was there just for occasions like this, “That pig still in the bluff?”

      “I didn’t see him leave.”  John replied and then started to say something to Lucy.

      “You don’t have to say anything to me.  Remember I’m an only child and didn’t have any brothers to shoot the pests around the ranch.  Daddy taught me to shoot when I was little and then put me in charge of protecting the chickens.  Skunks, raccoons, weasels, fox, if they went after my chickens, I hunted them down and took care of them.  Do what you need to do and don’t worry about me being squeamish.  I cut people open for a living.”

      Bobby walked over to the bluff and shot the porcupine.  It probably put the total porcupines killed during the summer into double digits.  They were lucky that all the older dogs would point a porkie and not grab it.  This was only the third time this season that they had pulled quills from a dog. 

      “I’m sorry we had to interrupt your ride . . .”

      Lucy cut him off, “Don’t be silly, I haven’t thought about work since we left the church this morning.  I feel bad for Buster, but this has all been fun for me.  What do we do now?”

      Bobby didn’t know what to say, he just stared at this remarkable woman until John jolted him back to reality, “We turn Buster loose and run him back to camp.  And then I’d like some lunch.  Breakfast was a long time ago.”

      He took the harness off Buster and Mack held him while John got back in the saddle.  “I think I’ll keep Jack in the harness.”  He stepped up as did Lucy.  John blew his whistle and Buster tore off across the prairie as if he had just been turned loose from the kennel.  John sang to him as Buster worked his way from bluff to bluff.  John could hear Lucy talking behind him and every once in a while Bobby would get a few words of his own into the conversation.  Buster had two more finds before they got back to camp.  The four dogs were put in their kennels and John and Mack began the noisy task of feeding all the dogs. 

      Lucy and Bobby went into the house to make some lunch.  After a little while, Bobby came out and asked them to leave Charley and the horse he had been riding saddled as Lucy wanted to show him part of her family’s ranch that abutted their lease.  They soon came out with sandwiches and bottled water in a bag that Bobby hung from his saddle and rode out of the yard.

      The two older men watched them go.  Mack turned to John and said, “We’re supposed to be heading down the road in a couple of weeks.  Do you think this is going to change his plans?”

      John thought about it before he answered, “Someday maybe, but going down the road is a big part of the life he’s chosen.  You can’t just leave it.”

      “You did.”

      “Yeah, and look at me: a 75 year old widower who’s just thinking about Buster’s next trial.  The road goes on and we can’t help but follow it.”

Preacher John The Road Goes On: Part V-A

It was just over 2100 miles from the trial grounds in Canada to Trey Sutton’s farm in South Carolina.  Pulling the trailer with the two horses  really didn’t slow them down on the major highways as the dually ate up the miles and the diesel fuel.  The horses didn’t need to be let out, but they did need to be checked and watered on a regular basis and their hay nets refilled.  The crossing back into the U.S. was easy as there were other trialers ahead of them in line, and they had all their paperwork in order.  Trey and Bill Johnson thought about driving straight through but neither was on a tight schedule so they decided to spend a couple of nights on the road.

      During the long hours as they rolled down the road in the intimacy of the front seat of the truck from the border across North Dakota, through Minnesota and Wisconsin, into the traffic jam of Chicago, down to Indianapolis, Louisville and Knoxville, and finally over the Appalachians to the low country of South Carolina, Trey and Bill got to know each other’s stories.  Bill had made a small fortune developing high-end housing and commercial property in and around Atlanta, but the housing bust had just about put him out of business.  His personal exposure was fairly well protected, but his multiple layers of corporate protection had rapidly peeled away, causing him to lay off hundreds of people and default on a variety of loans and lines of credit.  He barely had enough people left to keep a couple of large house projects going. 

      As they got to know each other, Trey could see that Bill understood the housing market and he brought up the project that his brother-in-law wanted to develop.  There were many old farms and plantations that had been or were in the process of being developed as high-end retirement/second home communities.  Bill was familiar with that specific market and had been involved with one of the first ones in Georgia.  The buyers were mostly Northerners, many of whom had first moved to Florida and then wanted something a little more rural but with plenty of amenities.  Stables, riding trails, fishing ponds, a clubhouse with tennis courts, a gym, a pool, and a restaurant were all niceties that needed to be included.  Many featured high end shooting preserves with plenty of quail and bird dogs.  The developments where corners were cut to keep prices down didn’t seem to do as well as the places that offered more amenities and charged big association fees.  Bill explained that the beauty of this type of development was that it continued to generate substantial revenue even after it was built and sold out. 

      Trey made a number of calls to his brother-in-law as they traveled south getting details and answering Bill’s questions.  Trey’s biggest concern was the economy.  He was worried that this type of development might have lost its allure in light of the current economic situation.  Bill made the point that the real estate market has always been volatile.  The most important key to success was to be in position to catch the upward swings.  Even if they closed on the property tomorrow, which wasn’t going to happen, there would be three to five years of pre-development work before they could consider selling their first lot. By that time, even Trey was pretty confident that the economy would be in much better shape.  As they rolled into Trey’s farm a tentative plan had been struck where the three of them would meet and look over the property and come up with a possible development plan.  The fact that they would stress the sporting aspects of any property and could use it themselves for working dogs and raising quail in the interim was probably what sold Trey.  The fact that Bill was involved and had the expertise to temper his brother-in-law’s enthusiasm made it seem doable.

      In North Dakota, Bobby Pickett, Mack, and Preacher John fell back into the routine of working dogs on the prairies.  Although astronomically fall was still a few weeks away, the nights were getting colder and they rarely needed to stop working dogs in the middle of the day to escape the heat and avoid hurting the dogs.  The young broods of chickens and pheasants were also changing.  The birds on the lease had become more wary.  It became harder for the young dogs to work the birds – especially the pheasants.  They tried to stay in the parts of the lease where they were more likely to find sharptails but even those birds were more skittish.  It was as if they knew that in not too many days the dog trainers would be gone with their blank guns and the hunters would arrive with live ammo.  This was probably more credit than a creature with a real “bird brain” deserved, but Preacher John loved these birds and endowed them with more sense than they warranted.

      He still thought about Etta Mae and her death the previous March and the many years of his life he had devoted to and cared for her.  But the memory was changing.  The pain had subsided.  She had lived a long and full life and if he believed in her faith, she was in a better place watching over her family in Georgia and her husband as he followed dogs over the prairies they both had loved.

      The women of the church in town had wanted to do something in Etta Mae’s memory.  She had spent many summers among them and they thought of her as one of their own.   John had reluctantly agreed to attend a Saturday supper in the church basement where there would be a chance to share memories and honor Etta Mae.  He said he would be there.  He figured Bobby and Mack would use the time to do the week’s shopping and maybe spend some time in their favorite bar, really the only bar in town where often five or six dog trainers could be found on a Saturday night.  But no, they had both said they would come with John.

      They quit early that Saturday so they could get cleaned up.  They were surprised by the number of cars in the churchyard – more than were usually there on a Sunday when John regularly attended services.  It was an old fashioned church supper – casseroles, potato salad, coleslaw, Jello molds of various shapes and colors, a red punch spiked with nothing stronger than ginger ale, and a table loaded with everyone’s special desert.  After all had eaten their fill and then some, the young minister moved to the front of the room, “I didn’t have the privilege of knowing Etta Mae Smith but I’ve spoken to many of you who did, and one thing has stood out in every conversation I’ve had – and that is that Etta Mae was a true Christian lady in every sense of the word.”

      He went on to define his terms to knowing nods from many of the older parishioners.  Throughout the minister’s short talk, John kept watching a young woman, maybe in her late 30s or early 40s, it was hard to tell, who kept looking at him.  She seemed vaguely familiar but would have been just a child if he knew her from before.  When the minister finished his speech he turned to her and said, “We thought long and hard and said many prayers trying to decide how we would honor Etta Mae’s memory.  And then Lucinda was home for a weekend and made the suggestion that we all agreed upon.  I’ve asked her to tell us about it tonight.  Lucinda.”

      The woman John had been watching smiled at him and then stood up.  “You all know me, but I don’t think Mr. Smith probably remembers me.” And then he did.  She was the daughter of the rancher next door to the lease who had come over to play with John Jr. and the other kids.  She had often ridden her horse over and would come with them when they were working dogs.  “The summer I was 12, I hung around with his kids and loved to watch the dogs run the prairies.  I still do.  I was 12 and thought my parents didn’t know anything.  I am an only child and I think my dad expected me to stay and marry some nice boy that would run his ranch.  I told Miss Etta Mae about it and said I didn’t want to stay here in Hicksville.  She sat me down in the kitchen and poured me a glass of sweet tea.  She told me I was a smart girl and I could make of my life what I wanted to.  She told me that running a ranch was hard and noble work.  But it wasn’t for everyone.  I told her I wanted to be a veterinarian and care for horses and dogs.  She encouraged me.  And then she never came to prairies again.  When I was in high school I heard she had a stroke and decided that day that I didn’t want to be a vet anymore.  I wanted to be a doctor.  I didn’t know how hard that was going to be and there were many times when I wanted to quit.  Every time, I thought of Etta Mae, and kept going.  She was right, as you all know I’m a vascular specialist and work with stroke victims almost every day.  So, when I heard that the church was planning to do something in Etta Mae’s memory, I wanted to be a part of it.  My partners in Bismarck and I have made a donation to the church to be used to create the Etta Mae Smith Scholarship fund to help young people from the community attend college.”

      By the end of the story there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.  The minister had moved over beside John and motioned for him to stand and follow him to the front of the room where Dr. Lucinda Ford handed him a check to give to the church for a very substantial amount of money.  John wiped his eyes and gave Lucinda a hug, “I do remember you. And I know Etta Mae would be proud of what you’ve accomplished.  Thank you . . .”

      The minister handed him another check.  “We could not match the amount that Lucinda and her partners gave but the members of the church have all contributed in your wife’s memory.”

      “Thank you.  Thank you all.”

      Everyone in the room wanted to shake John’s hand or give him a hug.  Many shared memories they had of Etta Mae so many years ago.  By the end, John was emotionally drained and once again overcome by the sense of loss he felt about his wife.  At the same time, he felt a release.  The thought that Etta Mae had been held in the hearts of all these people so far away from her Georgia home made him proud that he had been her husband.  He had no regrets, but, at the same time, he was happy, yes he had to admit, happy to be once again riding the prairies following bold running dogs.

      At the end of the evening, John introduced Lucinda to Bobby and Mack.  To John’s surprise Bobby invited the woman out to the lease to ride any time she wanted.  Lucinda looked him up and down as she thought about it.  John was pretty sure that Bobby was starting to blush under the deep tan of his face acquired during a lifetime spent outdoors.  Lucinda came to a decision, “How about tomorrow after church?”

      Bobby practically stuttered, “I don’t usually go to . . . I do the shopping Sundays . . .” Lucinda just stood and waited.  John and Mack tried to hide their amusement at Bobby’s discomfort. He paused and then gave in, “After church. We’d be happy to have you join us.”

      Bobby didn’t mention that the last time he had been to Sunday service he had been around 12.  Nor did he mention that they didn’t run dogs on Sundays when they were at camp.  It was a day to take care of all the chores that never got done during the week when they were up before sunrise and often watched the sunset from the back of a horse as they rode in with the last brace of the day. 

      “Great. I’ll bring a change of clothes and just follow you out after the service.”

      Sunday morning Mack and Buster dropped John and Bobby at church and headed for Walmart with Bobby’s list for the week’s groceries.  Lucinda was at the front of the church with her parents and saw John and Bobby as they slipped into a pew near the back.  It was a typical service – the choir sang – the minister preached – the deacon read – everyone stood and sang – it ended.  No lightning bolts from heaven smote Bobby and he sighed in relief when it was over.  If truly pressed, he would probably admit to believing in a higher power.  There seemed to be just too many wonders in the world for random chance to be responsible.  But he was a loner, really living on the periphery of modern society – on the road more than not.  His life had the illusion of freedom that many seemed to envy.  To Bobby, it was just what he did.

Preacher John Amateur Hour: Part IV-B

Part IV-B       

After a fitful night of sleep, Trey was the first one up.  He had two horses and he picked the younger one who had a better lope.  Good handlers move forward at a fast walk while their scouts gallop wherever they are needed to help keep track of the dogs.  Sal pulled hard as Trey led her to the line for the first brace in the chill of the prairie morning.  The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon and begun its climb into another cloudless sky as the prairies stretched seemingly forever in all directions.  With a nod from the judges, Trey and the other scout turned the dogs loose, mounted up, and rode out on either side of the main party.  The dogs separated after a couple of minutes forcing the scouts to switch sides as Trey’s charge went to the left and the other dog headed to the right side of the course.

      Trey could see Sal clearly as she crossed mowed ground and wove in and out of the round bales scattered around the half section field.  He loped his horse farther to the left without getting in front of the judges as the dog seemed to shrink as she opened the distance between herself and the field trial party.  As she reached the edge of the field he saw her turn and stop.  Trey looked to her handler who continued to sing to the dog.  He apparently couldn’t see her from where he was.  Trey yelled to get his attention and then raised his hat in the time honored tradition of signaling a dog on point.  The banker, one of the judges, and most of the gallery turned and headed for Trey at a gallop.  He pointed forward, and walked his horse towards the dog.  They all arrived at the same time.  Trey got down and took the reins from the banker’s horse as the handler walked in to flush the birds.  A big covey of Huns blew out and flew far before setting their wings and gliding over a slight rise in the ground.

      They watered the dog and Trey held her until the banker was back in the saddle. He called the dog into heel and took off to regain the front.  The judge, Trey, and the gallery that had come to see the find followed.  Once they caught up the banker slowed his horse to match the other handler and his dog shot out to the front this time going to the right side.  Trey followed and almost rode ahead of everyone before he realized the course was following the dog.  He slowed a bit and swung out a little more to the right.   So did Sal; she was on a mission, going forward on the right side of the course lifting her head slightly but not slowing down as she passed each objective.  Every time Trey would lose sight of her behind a bluff, he would get a twinge of fear in his gut and push his horse a little harder.  He checked the progress of the handlers who seemed to be riding on with no concern.  When he turned back to look for the dog, she went behind a bluff and did not show on the other side.  He wanted to call point but he wasn’t sure if she had stopped or gone on and he’d missed her.

      He aimed his horse at the bluff and pushed up from a lope to a gallop.  He had bought the horse in South Carolina last winter from a field trial trainer who leased land near his farm.  He thought he had probably paid too much for the horse at the time, but now felt he had gotten a bargain as the horse seemed to know exactly what his job was as he raced to find the dog.  Trey had always loved to ride but this full speed dash across the prairies had the adrenalin rushing to his brain.  The horse saw the dog first and almost unseated Trey when he came to an abrupt stop.

      Trey turned to the field trial party and raised his hat.  They weren’t there.  They had apparently ridden into a small dip in the prairie and were out of sight.  There was only one thing to do.  He spurred his horse and galloped off in the direction he had last seen them.  When he got to the high ground they were still well away from him and he once again yelled and raised his hat.  Again the cavalry charge came at his signal.  He turned his horse towards Sal, whom he could see from his vantage point.  She never moved.  When the banker got to him, Trey pointed to Sal and followed him and the judge to the dog.  This time, a brood of sharptails blew out of the bluff when the banker went in to flush.  Sal raised her head and watched them sail over the prairie.

      Once again they watered her, and then heeled her to the front.  Trey figured the hour had to be just about over.  He looked down at his watch and couldn’t believe that they were only at the halfway point.  He knew the watch had to be right; it ran on solar power and was regularly updated by the national atomic clock in Fort Collins, Colorado.  For the next 15 minutes, Sal just laid out to the front for all to see as she continued to scorch a path across the prairie.  Trey was able to stay close to the gallery but rode far enough out to the side to have an unobstructed view of Sal.  With 10 minutes to go she broke to the right down an old fence line that had small clumps of brush growing along it.  They watched as Sal seemed to shrink into the distance.  When she was just a tiny white speck near the end of the line, she stopped for the third time.  Trey was relieved that he wouldn’t have to find her this time.  It took them almost five minutes to reach her, but the birds were still there – more sharptails.  The entire gallery buzzed when Sal was sent on from there and just flew forward with her feet hardly touching the ground.

      When the judge called time, Sal was once again just a speck on the horizon.  Trey and the banker took off at a full gallop and headed for Sal.  She heard and then saw them coming and knew the time was up for the day.  She thought about finding more birds and her desire almost overwhelmed her need to do as she’d been trained.  Caught in the dilemma she neither went on nor came to her owner.  She waited for them to come to her.  They watered her, put her in the harness, and she pulled hard as they rode to the dog truck and the start of the next brace.  As they put her in the truck, the other participants came and slapped the banker on the back or shook his hand.  Everyone there wanted to win the trial, but they knew the hour they’d just seen Sal put down was something special and would be hard to beat.  There were even a few who thought the Day Dog from yesterday should still be on top, but they were a distinct minority and speaking more from a personal bias for the other dog than from an objective analysis of the two performances.

      The lawyer was up next with the banker scouting.  The dog did well, had a single find, and was capable of winning, but not on this day.  Field trial dogs are like baseball hitters – the very best of them will place 3 out of 10 times.  Many hit 200 or less and are still top competitors.  A dog that approaches Ted Williams’s magical 400 average is as likely to come along as is another Ted Williams.  That afternoon Bobby’s customer from Atlanta ran his dog and he put down a credible performance that all were happy with but it did not change any opinions in the gallery.  At the end of the day, Sal was named Day Dog which everyone agreed with.

      At dinner, Bobby, Mack, John, and the four owners sat at a picnic table eating hamburgers from the grill and talked about Sal’s performance.  They all laughed as Trey got all wound up telling about his scouting and his headlong dash across the prairie to find the dog on her second find.  They all knew the feeling, that rush of adrenalin in the heat of competition when for that hour nothing else exists except the horse between your legs and the dog punching holes in the horizon.  The bank transactions, the bust in the housing market, the thoughts of the jury all disappeared as they concentrated on their dog and its performance.  For the three other owners whom Trey now considered his friends, the thousands of dollars they spent each year on their dogs would be worth it if all they got out of it was this one day on the Canadian prairies where their cellphones didn’t work and they felt a connection with all the thrills and traditions of the sport. 

      As a boy, Trey had loved field trials because he got to spend time with his grandfather all to himself.  But after today he had come to understand why his grandfather had loved it.  He silently thanked the old man, long gone, for the gift he had given him.  He hoped he would still feel the same way after he ran Jack.  His stomach began to turn as he thought about the morning.  His greatest fear was that he would do something to mess up the dog.

      He was quiet in the truck as they rode back to the motel and once they were in the room, Preacher John turned to him knowing what he was thinking, “The dog knows his job.  He’s done this many times.  You just got to relax and let him do it.”

      “Just relax.  That’s easy to say.”

      “What’s the worst that could happen?”

      Trey thought about that for a moment, “There’s all sorts of things.  I could lose him.  I could flush the birds wrong. I could . . .”

      “You’ve been doing just fine in workouts, just think of it as another workout.”

      “But it’s not.”

      “You played ball in college, did you go into a game thinking about all the things that could go wrong?”

      “No, sir, but . . .”

      “No but to it.  Think about the course – where the dog’s likely to find birds.  Trust your scout and act like you’ve got all the confidence in the world.”

      Trey reached up and shut of the light, “I’ll try.”

      “That’s all any of us can do.”

      John was soon snoring lightly while Trey tossed and turned.  Buster finally gave up on the bed and curled up on the carpeting between them.  Trey must have finally fallen asleep at some point because he woke suddenly thinking he had slept through the alarm.  When he looked at the clock he realized it would not go off for another half hour.  He laid there for a few minutes than gave up and slipped into the bathroom for his shower and shave.  Dressed, he hooked a lead to Buster and took him out for a walk.  The cold morning air helped settle him a little and by the time he got back to the truck John, Bobby, and Mack were ready to go.  Bobby looked at Trey with a smile on his face, “We thought maybe you skipped out on us.”

      Trey started to answer but John cut him off, “Leave him alone or I’ll tell some of the stories from when you first started running some dogs for me.”

      “Did he get nervous?” Trey wanted to know.

      “He ran to the outhouse more than once before he ran in his first championship and I suspect the nerves had his stomach and his bowels reacting kinda adversely, to put it delicately.”

      “How’d he do?”

      John looked at his former protégé and waited.  Finally, Bobby spoke, “Let’s see, I fell off my horse, I almost shot the judge with the wad from the blank in my shotgun, and, at about the 40 minute mark with three finds already in the book, I lost the dog.”

      “Well, if that’s the standard I have to shoot for I might be able to do this.”

      They all laughed and got in the truck.  Bobby fired up the diesel and drove them back out to the grounds where in the predawn glow they tended the dogs and horses.  The other owners arrived and they all began saddling up.  Trey was going to ride his other horse to handle from.  He was a quiet horse with a really smooth walk.  The banker was going to scout for Jack and had asked to ride the horse Trey had been on when Sal ran 24 hours ago.

      Mack brought Rebel Yell over in a roading harness and hitched him to Trey’s horse.  Trey turned to Bobby, “So, all I have to do is stay on my horse, not shoot anyone, and finish with the dog.”

      Bobby smiled at him, “That’s about it.”

      Bobby, Mack, and John would be passive observers at the back of the gallery.  It would be up to Trey, his scout, and the dog for the next hour.  Trey was braced with one of the older gentlemen at the trial who had known his grandfather and had had dogs with John back in the day.  The scouts got down and hitched a lead to their respective dogs then handed them back the roading harnesses and ropes.  Once those were stowed on the saddles, they walked the dogs to the starting line and waited for the judges.  Trey was already feeling overdressed and peeled off his jacket despite the fact that the temperature was still around 50 degrees. 

      With a nod from the judges the scouts let go of the dogs.  Rebel Yell turned and looked up at Trey as if he was checking to see who was behind him this time and then turned to the front and was gone.  The other dog had a couple of stride head start but Jack soon passed him and headed off to the left as though Sal had told him there were birds way over there at the edge of the hay field – and there were.  The banker raised his hat and Trey followed by one of the judges and some of the gallery loped over.  The Huns flew just like they had the previous morning and they were soon rushing to catch the front.  When they caught up, Jack was on a mission and blew by everyone like they weren’t even there.  Trey was so excited that he went forward with him keeping his horse at a lope, as he passed the other judge and the rest of the gallery.  He went by the other handler the same way and was soon a couple hundred feet in front of him before he realized he needed to slow down.  He brought his horse down to a flat walk and had to fight him a little to keep him there until the other handler showed up.  The old man smiled at him, “Take some deep breaths, we still have more than 50 minutes.”

      Trey looked down at his watch just as the stopwatch function reached 10 minutes.  He still had plenty of time to shoot someone, fall off his horse, or lose the dog.  When they reached the section of the course where Sal had her second find, the banker swung wide trying to keep Jack in sight.  When Trey reached the point where the course began to turn away from where the dog had gone, he wasn’t sure what to do.  He stopped and his bracemate whose dog was in plain sight continued to ride to the front.  Trey continued to call on the dog.  The judge who was watching Jack rode up beside him, “You can either ride on and hope he shows to the front or we can head over that way and take a look ourselves.”

      “I’d like to go look, if that’s ok?”

      “No problem.”

      Trey and the judge, along with the two others, who had begun referring to the four of them as Team Bobby, began to ride off where they had last seen the dog.  When they got to the high ground where Trey had signaled to them the morning before, they could see the banker headed their way with the dog running along beside him.  When Jack saw Trey and the others he shifted up into high gear and soon was streaking away from them to the front.  They continued on without incident catching sight of the two dogs from time to time as they hit all the objectives to the front.  When they reached the fence line where Sal had her third find, Jack took the line – took it all the way to a corner which was almost three quarters of a mile away.  He paused briefly just to get his bearings, causing Trey to start to reach for his hat, and then broke to the front at an angle that would have him cross in front of Trey about the time the hour ended. 

      The judges called time and Trey rode off to round up Jack.  He and the banker were soon back at the truck.  Trey was disappointed and excited at the same time.  He knew that with only one find and a race they wasn’t up to his sister’s, Jack was not going to hit a home run today.  But Trey hadn’t fallen off his horse or shot anyone, and he had the dog in the harness.  He gave Jack a big hug and then lifted him up into an empty box in the dog truck.  His heart was still beating faster than normal but he was coming down from the adrenalin that had come and gone during the hour.  John brought him a bottle of water and a donut and they all congratulated him on living through his first hour as a field trialer.

      John clasped his arm and leaned in close, “Your grandfather would be some proud of you today.”

      Trey turned away, knowing the truth to it, and wiped a tear from his eye.

      The seven of them, Team Bobby, rode the last three braces together at the back of the gallery.  The banker hardly said a word as he watched the other dogs and handlers give it their best shot as they tried to beat Sal who most assumed was winning the championship.  But each came up short in one way or another.  They didn’t run as hard or as big or find as many birds.  When they got back to camp, the AFTCA secretary blew her whistle and they all gathered in front of the porch steps.  This was a lot less imposing a setting than the steps of the “Big House” on the Ames Plantation where the National is run but the air was still full of anticipation.  She unfolded the slip of paper and then looked at those gathered around her, first she thanked them all and mentioned all the sponsors, then looked back at the slip of paper, “The judges want to give an honorable mention to Trey Sutton and Rebel Yell.”

      Everyone clapped politely and those closest to him shook Trey’s hand.  Trey knew they did it in part because this was his first time at a trial but he still appreciated the gesture.  The dog from the first brace was called as runner-up and then the secretary paused while the owner was congratulated and received his plaque and ribbon.  Then she looked down at the slip of paper again and read, “This year’s champion is Rebel Girl.”

      Team Bobby was truly excited and most at the trial offered sincere congratulations to her owner, scout, and trainer.  That afternoon the open stakes started and Bobby and Mack went back to work.  The developer from Georgia had offered to help Trey with the driving and they pulled out shortly after the breakaway of the first afternoon brace.  The lawyer and the banker rode that afternoon and flew out in the morning.  Bobby, Mack, and John stayed and ran their dogs.  Bobby got runner-up in the open with the lawyer’s dog and John and Buster placed first in the derby.  John had grown found of Trey and wished he’d been able to see Buster’s performance but he called him as they headed south and gave him a full account.  When John closed the cellphone, Bobby hit the play button on the CD player and Robert Earl Keen sang, “The road goes on forever and the party never ends . . .”

Preacher John Amateur Hour: Part IV-A

William F. Sutton III had sold the family beer distributorship to get away from the day-to-day grind that had contributed to his father’s massive heart attack at his desk before his seventieth birthday.  Although it had been his to sell, his mother, two sisters, his father’s sister, and a few cousins all had a piece of the business and now had a claim on the family trust that had been set up, with “Trey” Sutton as trustee.  Trey had done well on his own before joining the family business, but the others hadn’t, and they were constantly calling him about money.  They wanted to invest in a wide variety of schemes, some of which were extremely dubious while others were possibly viable.  Under the terms of the trust, the proceeds were disbursed in regular payments according to each family member’s share.  There were provisions for access to the capital behind each share but required the approval of the trustee.  Trey received daily calls from his mother, sisters, aunt, and cousins who always needed money for something.

      The only relief was when he either shut off his cellphone or was in a spot where there was no reception which was unlikely to happen as more towers sprouted on the horizons daily.  When he wasn’t on the phone he was on his laptop e-mailing and reading the various prospectuses that he had to consider.  His older sister’s husband who had worked in sales at the beer distributorship had found a plantation that would make a great place to break up as a private retirement community for well heeled snowbirds who dreamed of living some Nash Buckinghamesque Southern sportsman’s life that hadn’t existed for more than half a century.  His other sister wanted to open an art gallery that Trey assumed would feature the artwork of her current boyfriend whose art looked like a revival of 1960s drugged-out-hippie-psychedelic posters — probably with good reason.

      He had come west to visit a few prairie field trials and try to recapture some of the joy he had felt as a boy when his grandfather took him to trials or hunting on the farm in South Carolina.  Now, he felt their hold on him slipping away.  It wasn’t that he was shirking his responsibilities; he was just keeping them in perspective.  Riding hardworking horses following big running dogs on Bobby Phillip’s lease with Bobby, his scout Mack, and especially John was more relaxing than anything he had done in a long time.  There was a rhythm to the days that started before sunrise and ended after dark.  He had come to know the dogs in Bobby’s string – their strengths and their weaknesses.  Although at the level Bobby competed at there wasn’t room for much in the way of weakness in the dogs.  The best of the all age dogs have to search to the far reaches of the country but still show to the front.  They have to be responsive enough to their handlers to fill up the prairies but still handle the tighter grounds in the South.  And they have to be broke.  When a dog disappears on point far to the front it may have to stand for a long, long time.

      Most of all, Trey had come to feel a bond with the two dogs on Bobby’s string that he had bought since coming West.  The all age champion Rebel Yell would give him a chance to do something his grandfather had always dreamed of – win the National Championship at Grand Junction, Tennessee in February.  Jack, as they called him, had already sewed up the prairie award and would have a shot at dog of the year honors if he could make the adjustment to the tighter grounds of the South.  Buster, the derby, slept on his bed each night and had the potential to compete at the upper echelons of the all age world.

      The next trial that Bobby planned to take the dogs to was in Saskatchewan and would be preceded by an amateur championship.  He was encouraging Trey to enter Jack in the amateur as some of his other owners would also be there.  Every other time they put Jack on the ground for a workout, Bobby had Trey work him.  Trey had not worked dogs since his teens when he had still hunted with his grandfather, and, before this trip to the prairies, he had not been to a field trial since he had visited his grandfather’s old trainer in Georgia more than 25 years ago. 

      That same trainer, John Jones, was snoring lightly in the next bed as Trey waited for the day to begin.  He thought about running Jack in the upcoming trial and made his decision.  Bobby had assured him that he could do nothing to hurt the dog’s potential to compete in the open championship.  Just thinking about being in the heat of competition was appealing and the tightness he felt in his stomach when he ran Jack in a workout was lessening each time he did it. 

      John’s snoring had stopped and he was getting up for the day.  John liked to get the coffee started and make breakfast for the four of them.  Trey knew he would have to head home after the amateur trial and would not be able to join them again until they were back in the South in the late fall.

      When he could smell the coffee and sausage in the kitchen, he slipped on his jeans and he and Buster joined John in the kitchen.  He let Buster out into the yard and poured himself a cup of coffee, “John, did my grandfather ever run his dogs in trials?”

      “Before he gave me his dogs, he often ran them himself in local trials.  But I can’t remember him ever running one of the dogs I carried for him.  What are you going to do about Jack?  We’re going to be there with the other dogs anyway.”

      “I think I’ll do it.”

      “Good.” Bobby said as he came into the kitchen at the tail end of the conversation, “You’ll have fun and we can ask one of my other customers to scout for you.”

      So it was decided.  At the end of the week, they loaded the dogs and horses into the two trucks and trailers and headed north across the border.  When they pulled into the headquarters for the trial there were already a number of rigs arrayed in the dooryard of the old farmhouse that served as a clubhouse for the trials that would run over the next 10 days to 2 weeks.  As soon as the dogs were staked out and the horses put in the corrals, Bobby began introducing Trey to his other customers.  They were all older than Trey.  One was a banker from Boston who also owned a place in Georgia.  Another was a developer from Atlanta who was barely holding on in the current recession.  The third was an attorney from Chicago.  All three had flown in and rented a car together.  They would ride Bobby’s horses when they ran their dogs, scouted for each other, and followed along in the gallery.  Other amateurs had hauled their own horses and dogs to Canada.  Some of the more serious amateurs had their own training grounds in the Dakotas.  Others came in from the far West with trailer plates from California, Idaho, and Washington as well as many others from the Midwest and South.

      That evening, the secretary of the Amateur Field Trial Clubs of America (AFTCA) put the names of 40 dogs into the bowl and drew them for the running order.  It would take two and a half days to run the event and then the open championship would begin.  Jack and Trey were drawn in the 17th brace which would put them in the first brace of the third and last day of the trial.  It was a good course, especially in the morning, but as the trials progressed the birds tended to get jumpier.

      The first brace of dogs broke away at 7:00 am on Thursday morning and everyone was wearing a jacket or a fleece which they would be soon shedding as the sun climbed higher into the sky and began baking the harvested grain and hay fields interspersed with grass pastures.  Running early in the day was an advantage as the afternoon temperature would climb to 80 or more, but some of the greatest prairie performances ever had seen dogs overcome the heat as well as the competition to find birds and win.  Trey and Bobby’s other owners rode as a group close up behind the judges as they headed out for the first morning.  Bobby and his scout Mack, along with John, and a few other pros trailed along well behind the main gallery as they were not allowed to assist the dogs or their owners in any way during the running of the trial.  But they were all anxious to see how many birds were on the grounds this year and where they were found during the running on the 20 miles of continuous course that they would travel before they ended up back at camp for lunch. 

      The two dogs in the first brace were both owned by AFTCA trustees who were very serious amateurs who breed their own dogs.  One of them also did most of his own training.  The other had turned the training of the dogs over to his son who had become one of the top pros on the circuit.  There were definitely plenty of birds as one dog had two finds on sharptails and a back while the other had three finds – two on sharptails and one on Huns.  Both dogs put down strong ground efforts and the bar had been set.  The dog with three finds was named Day Dog and most who had seen all the dogs go assumed his bracemate was being carried in the runner-up slot. 

      After lunch Trey swapped horses and rode the afternoon braces.  Some of the older handlers had known his grandfather and a couple claimed to have met Trey when he had traveled to Georgia with his grandfather as a boy.  Everyone was cordial as they talked about the state of trials and the various controversies that plague any sport.  Some were still arguing over the implementation of the DNA testing rules that caused a number of dogs to lose their registration status.  Others worried about the use of GPS tracking devices to recover lost dogs although many still used their telemetry collars and receivers at trials.  It seemed that most had adopted GPS as a training aid and were generally pleased with it.  They also talked about the politics of the sport.  Trey took it all in and kept his opinions to himself.  The politics really didn’t bother him.  He accepted politics as a part of the human condition and realized as soon as three people got together in any venture the politics begin.  One of the three is always trying to sway one or both of the others.  He had experienced it in his investment banking career, in the family business, and now as he managed the family trust.  The only difference with the trust was that there was no democratic process involved.  His aunt had found that out when she had tried to get his mother and sisters to agree to change the trust.  They had formed their majority to no avail; Trey did not give in to the pressure to give everybody their shares of the capital he was overseeing for them.

      After the first day’s running, when all the dogs and horses had been fed, everyone gathered around the Hasty Bake in front of the house where two of the participants from Alabama had been slow cooking a number of pork butts since early in the morning.  In the evening twilight they were pulling the pork as others brought coleslaw and potato salad from the crude kitchen in the back of the house.  Cold Canadian beer was iced down in a couple of coolers and Trey smiled to himself about the ubiquitous nature of this ancient beverage simply made from barley, hops, yeast, and water.  Most likely no one in his family would ever need to work again thanks to people’s unending thirst for beer.  It was late when they rolled into the motel where he and John were sharing a room with Mack and Bobby next door.  A few of the participants seemed determined to stay up and drink a little bourbon but most were soon sleeping – honestly tired from the day in the sun on horseback and around camp.

      The next morning they were up in the dark and back at the camp.  Volunteers had breakfast going when they arrived.  All three of Bobby’s other customers had dogs to run on the second day.  The dogs all had championship placements and two of them had already qualified for the National the previous spring.

      Trey was asked to scout for the banker’s dog, a littermate sister to Jack called Sal in the first brace and he had reluctantly agreed.  Last night and this morning as they rode back and forth from the motel in Bobby’s Dually, Trey quizzed the three veteran handlers about scouting and they mostly told stories of some of the less than savory scouting practices that were in part “urban” legend, in part reality.  The bottom line was to try and stay out on the side the dog goes to and if she doesn’t show to the front to look for her around the bluffs.