Kentucky Showdown by J. R. Roberts

right.”
    John Sun Horse looked Eclipse over.
    â€œStill think your Sheba can keep up?”
    â€œYou just watch.”
    They both mounted their horses, Clint sitting considerably higher than Sun Horse.
    â€œYou lead the way,” Sun Horse said.
    â€œDon’t you know where the Canby place is?”
    â€œI do,” Sun Horse said, “but I do not know where this man who was watching you was standing.”
    â€œGood point. But maybe I should take you to the place where I lost his trail.”
    â€œI want to see where he was when he was watching you,” Sun Horse said. “I want to see his tracks, and his horse’s tracks. Then I will be able to recognize them when I see them.”
    â€œAll right, that makes sense. I’ll take the lead.”
    They rode out of town.
    * * *
    â€œHe was right here,” Clint said when they reached the hillside.
    John Sun Horse nodded and dismounted. He handed the reins of his horse to Clint, who had to admit that the ten-year-old mare had, indeed, kept up with Eclipse.
    Sun Horse walked the area, always looking down, crouching from time to time. Clint thought this was a good way to judge the man’s abilities. If he tracked the man to the same point Clint had lost him, then he surely knew what he was doing.
    â€œAll right,” Sun Horse said, reclaiming his reins and mounting up.
    â€œWant me to take you to the place where I lost him?” Clint asked.
    â€œNo,” Sun Horse said. “I will track him that far myself.”
    â€œOkay,” Clint said. “You’re the expert.”
    â€œThat’s right,” John Sun Horse said with no hint of humor on his stolid face. “I am.”

NINETEEN
    While John Sun Horse did his work, Clint tried to engage him in conversation, but the Cherokee did not seem to be the talkative type. Clint finally fell silent and remained that way.
    Eventually, they came to the place where Clint had lost the trail.
    â€œHere,” Sun Horse said. “This is where he tried to cover his trail.”
    â€œThis is where I lost him, all right.”
    Sun Horse nodded and slipped from his horse’s back. He walked the area, looking at the ground intensely, careful of where he set his moccasin-covered feet.
    Finally, he knelt for a long time, swiping lightly at the ground with one hand, then stood and walked back to Clint.
    â€œYour man knows what he is doing,” Sun Horse said.
    â€œBut you found the trail?”
    â€œOf course,” Sun Horse said, mounting up. “That is what you are paying me to do, is it not?”
    â€œIt is.”
    Clint wished the Cherokee would exhibit more expression when he spoke. Part of the time—almost half the time, in fact—he felt the man was pulling his leg.
    * * *
    By late afternoon they were sitting outside the gate of a ranch. There was no fence, just an arch built as an entry to the property. There was no name anywhere.
    â€œHere,” John Sun Horse said. “This is where your man went.”
    â€œDo you know whose place this is?” Clint asked.
    â€œYes I do,” the Cherokee said.
    Clint waited, but when he realized nothing further was forthcoming, he said, “Who?”
    â€œPeter Fontaine.”
    â€œAnd who is Peter Fontaine?”
    â€œA rich man.”
    â€œWhat does he do?”
    â€œHe gambles.”
    â€œBets on the horses?”
    â€œBets on anything,” Sun Horse said.
    Well, it made sense that such a man would be looking for an edge when it came to betting on the Derby.
    â€œWhat do you do now?” Sun Horse asked.
    â€œDo you know this Fontaine?”
    â€œI know of him,” Sun Horse said. “I do not know him.”
    So, no introduction there.
    â€œLet’s go back to Louisville,” Clint said. “I want to talk to the sheriff again.”
    Sun Horse nodded and turned his horse around.
    * * *
    As they rode into Louisville, Sun Horse asked,