Gamblers Don't Win by W. T. Ballard

the two leaders had him by twenty lengths. He hadn’t a chance, and barely got up to beat a staggering horse for third.
    Lennox’s mouth was a thin line as he stared at the numbers. What had happened? Had there been a change of plans? This was the day the horse was supposed to win. Then he looked towards Custis. The gambler was also staring at the track, his face dead white, his long fingers nervously twitching at the strap which held his glasses. He turned and passed within three feet of Lennox without seeing him, and went towards the betting shed.
    Lennox turned and followed. It was evident from Custis’s face that whatever had happened had not been part of the original plan. Lennox tried to think it out as he threaded his way through the crowd. That the horse could have won with a better ride was obvious. He had had much more speed at the finish than the leaders. They had both been ridden out with just enough left to come down under the wire. The black colt had lost plenty of ground by that swerve in the back stretch, and more by coming wide at the turn. It might have been an accident, of course, but it looked deliberate to Lennox.
    He followed Custis across the betting shed, saw the man grab a hurrying stable boy by the arm, and pressed close in an effort to hear what the gambler said. Custis’s voice was low, contained, yet with a strident note which reached Lennox’s ears.
    â€œHave you seen Miss Donovan?”
    The boy grinned. He was freckle-faced, fifteen or sixteen; then, as he saw the gambler’s face, his smile vanished. “She was out at the barn a little while ago.”
    Custis nodded and turned away. He went across the shed with Lennox following, and walked rapidly towards the distant barns. Lennox saw a plain-clothesman in the crowd and ducked behind a post. The man might not recognize him, but with every cop in town looking for him, there was a chance; and he did not want to be stopped now. He waited until the man moved on, then hurried after Custis.
    The gambler had disappeared when Bill reached the barns and he stopped a hurrying swipe. “Where’s the Donovan barn?”
    The man turned and pointed, white teeth flashing in his dark face.
    Lennox slid a quarter into the man’s palm and went on. He reached the corner of the barn, got close to an open door, when he heard voices, Custis’s, level, cold with suppressed anger. “Did you see the race?”
    Then the girl’s answer. It held a flat note, a note of finality which Lennox had not heard there before. “I saw it.”
    â€œWait until I get my hands on Gentry. I thought that kid knew how to ride. He let the colt go out in the back stretch and then took him wide. If I thought he’d done it on purpose—”
    â€œHe did.” The girl’s words seemed to hang in the silence like some suspended thing.
    â€œWhat?”

    â€œI said,” her voice was measured now, slow, “that Gentry did it on purpose. He rode to orders, to my orders. I told him to lose the race.”
    â€œYou told him?” It seemed that Custis’s collar was suddenlv too tight. “You told him. Why?”
    She said: “Because you had money bet on that horse, Custis. Because I knew you had flooded every handbook in the country, that you had swamped the bookie clearing-houses in Syracuse and Akron. Because I knew all your friends had bet on him, bet on him at your say-so. They’ll be looking for you, Custis, the boys you play with, the wise boys, the gamblers. They’ll think you crossed them, lied to them, that you didn’t bet your own money. You know what that means, don’t you?”
    Custis knew what it meant. Lennox could tell by his very silence that he knew. The man sounded strangled when he said, “You did that? You ruined me, took every nickel I had, put me on the spot? Why?”
    â€œBecause,” her voice was very clear, very steady, “you killed my