the burning barn, while Collins unlatched the gate at the far end of the paddock and began moving the horses farther from the blaze.
By the time the manager reentered the stable, the entire building had filled with smoke. He pulled his shirttails up to cover his mouth and nose and worked his way back toward the tack room. The main sprinkler valve was located on the wall a few feet away from the room, but fortunately the fire had moved up rather than out and hadn’t yet reached the valve. The system was old and had been shut down only the prior week because of leakage over a few of the stalls—which had resulted in a work order but no actual repair as yet. By the time he reached the valve, he was choking and coughing uncontrollably. The smoke clogged his lungs, and his eyes felt as though they were burning up. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he reached for the round handle of the valve.
But the moment he got his hands on the metal ring, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head. In the split second that Orlando remained conscious and aware of his surroundings, he heard a pinging noise he couldn’t quite identify and assumed it was produced by whatever had slammed into the back of his head. Then his thoughts returned to the sprinkler valve, and he was able to twist it open even while his body began crumpling to the dirt floor where it remained, inert as a rag, as water cascaded from the ceiling.
After securing the horses in B paddock, Todd Collins hurried back to the lower stable. When he reached the east entrance, he found his trainer, Jack Curry, standing near the barn door, and noticeably out of breath. Jack was another large man, but only in his mid-forties and more solidly built than his boss. Curry loved to affect any posture and attitude that remotely resembled John Wayne. Stance, swagger, speech, laconic grin, penetrating scowl: Jack had each characteristic memorized, and his private impersonation brought results. People instinctively respected and trusted Jack Curry. In Todd’s opinion, the trainer was a class act; “the best damn horseman on the East Coast,” who also happened to have once been married to Todd’s eldest daughter, Fiona—the emphasis being on ex. In her father’s estimation “Jack was, and continues to be, the only man capable of steadying such a high-strung filly. And look at her now,” he’d add with a rueful shake of his white mane. “I swear, a brood mare has got more sense than that woman.”
“I ran up the moment I saw the flames, Mr. C,” Jack now told his boss in his typically easy drawl. He coughed, then spit emphatically into the dirt. “How’d this damn thing get started?”
“No telling.” Todd glanced into the barn. “Good . . . Orlando was able to get the sprinklers going. Have you seen him?”
“No, sir. I thought he was off today.”
“No, no, he’s around. He helped me get the horses out, then went back in to monkey with that blasted sprinkler system.” Todd peered into the steamy, belching murk. “He must still be inside.” Collins moved toward the stable entrance, but the trainer grabbed his arm.
“I wouldn’t go in there, Mr. C. There’s no guarantee those sprinklers are gonna do their job. They’re old as the hills. Those pipes fail, or break along the line, the place’ll go up like a haystack. Orlando probably scooted out the other end. He’s no hero.” The final comment held a note of cowboy disdain, as if the barn manager could never hope to compete with someone whose stock in trade was saving damsels in distress and rescuing wagon trains that were under savage attack.
Todd pulled his arm free. “I don’t like it. If Orlando were outside, he would have come down to check on the horses. I say he’s still in there. We’ve got to get him out.” With that, Todd’s tall frame limped decisively into the stable.
Jack watched his former father-in-law disappear in the smoke and shook his head. “Crazy old coot; gonna get us both killed over some lousy greaseball.” He pulled a handkerchief from his rear pocket, pushed it into a neighboring horse trough, rang it out, covered his nose, and ran inside.
Jack had no idea whether the sprinkler system was going to win its battle or not. The crackling and sighing of burning wood appeared to be getting louder with every step