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AUDRY02 mom called Can you guys come

Audry

Chapter 2 - Beating the System

A tale of Romance, by The Star*



Audry was really pissed off. I could tell by the way things were flying

around the room. As soon as she came through the door, her helmet hit the

far wall. Her boots followed, then her jacket and riding crop.

"Bad practice, honey?" I asked, hoping to cheer her up.

Normally, Audry is one of the sweetest, most even-tempered girls I know.

But once in a while... I guess this was one of those times.

"Didn't practice. They sold my horse!" She fumed and muttered. "How am

I supposed to practice for Nationals, when my horse just got sold to

another rider?"

That did sound serious. At the national and international level,

dressage and show jumping contests are won as much by the horse as by the

rider. And even the best of both need time to become a team. Audry had

been renting Blitzen for the past year, and had done very well with him.

But now, offered really serious money by a rider from Chicago, his owners

had sold him. We had a problem.

My first reaction was to gather Audry in my arms, for some serious

hugging and comfort. Good instinct. She melted against me and cried out

her frustration. Then I took her to bed. That's always a good idea, since

she's one fantastic lay--besides being my mate, my wife and my ideal woman.

Audry has her mother's blonde hair, and her dad's gray eyes. Small and

elegantly slender, her narrow, heart-shaped face and slightly pointed ears

give her a decidedly elfin look. The slight slant to her eyes and the

faint smudges beneath them just enhance that.

Her shape is pleasantly womanly, with plenty to lick, caress, suck and

play with--and BIG boobs for her small frame. But, if she follows her

mother's pattern, she'll always remain trim and shapely.

This superior package houses an intellect sharper than mine, and a

fun-loving spirit that is sweet and mellow most of the time.

Her mother, a 'flower child' of the 60s, taught Audry everything she

knows about sex, men, and how to have a good time in bed. Audry and I pass

up the recreational drugs, but sure do get off on the rest of it.

The next morning was Saturday and I needed to exercise my horse,

Shannon. I'd raised him from a colt and trained him myself, under my mom's

watchful eye. Shannon and I were going to try to win the three-day event

at the equestrian nationals in the fall. Like any athlete, a horse needs

to keep in shape, and it was my responsibility to see to it.

Audry went with me. The stable-hand, Deke spotted us. "Too bad about

Blitzen, Audry," he commiserated. "What ya gonna do now?"

"I haven't a clue, Deke," she answered. "I'll have to find another

horse, but I just don't know where I'll find one I can afford."

"Tough one," he agreed, moving off on his rounds of feeding horses and

mucking out their stalls.

Audry took one of the stable hacks and accompanied me out to the

cross-country course, cantering along easily on the path, while I galloped

between the jumps. Shannon was full of himself that morning and gave me

quite a handful--and an exhilarating ride--though he was pretty much used

up by the end of the course. Audry cantered up, just as I was rubbing him

down after our workout. Her hair was free in the early spring

sunshine--somewhat rare that early in the season, for Oregon. At least,

for the valley. At home, on the ranch, we had only a third as much

rainfall--and lots more sunshine. In Corvallis, where we were attending

Oregon State, the Willamette Valley winters are just plain wet.

I watched her pull up and jump from the horse. My heart pounding--she

was one magnificent woman--I grabbed her and kissed her soundly on the

spot.

"Mmm. That was nice. What's the occasion?"

"You're so damn beautiful, I just had to kiss you."

Audry waved that off. But she was pleased.

That afternoon, it occurred to me that I had the best source for

information about horses right at home. I called dad.

mom answered. "Hi, Robby. What's up with you guys? How's things in

Corvallis?"

"The usual, mom. School, Audry, beer and pizza, Audry, study, Audry...

You know."

She giggled at that. She knows how much I'm in love. And she fully

approves of Audry, knowing that we're very good for each other. "So why'd

you call when you could be talking to Audry?"

"Need some advice, mom."

"Elin is good for that. I'm straight missionary style, myself." That

set me roaring with laughter, echoed by mom's silvery giggle.

"No. horse advice, mom... Blitzen was sold to the Olsens in Chicago.

Audry needs another horse."

"Oh. That's too bad, Rob. Hold the line while I get your father." mom
knows all there is to know about training horse and rider. And about

picking the right horse for the rider. But she's just not tuned right to

follow the business side of the show horse business.

Dad picked up the phone. "That's really bad news, son. We should have

bought that horse, ourselves."

"Nah. They wanted almost twice what he was worth. Let the Olsens waste

their money. I don't think we need to."

"Son, as it stands now, the Olsens have a horse. Audry doesn't."

"True," I admitted. "But we have integrity. And I have a dad who knows

all the horses in the country, and can work a miracle and find just the

right one for Audry."

Dad laughed. "Don't you wish? Give me a day or two to think on

it--make a couple of calls--talk to your mom. Tell Audry we'll find

something for her."

"Thanks dad. And thank mom, too. Even if she didn't have any advice

for me."

"Huh?" dad said.

"Ask her. It might be fun." I hung up.

"Well?" Audry demanded. "Do I have a horse?"

"Not just yet. But dad said he'll find you one. He'll get back to us

in a day or two. He'll want mom's opinion on any horse he considers, too,

you know."

"Sure. I just hate to waste the time."

"It'll be OK, honey."



Tuesday, mom called. "Can you guys come out to the ranch for a couple

of days? We have an idea."

"I guess, Mom. How about we leave right after class on Thursday? We

can be there Thursday night."

"That will work fine... Oh, yes. Rob, I want you to bring Shannon,

too."

"OK, I guess. But, why?"

"Easier to show you. See you Thursday night."

Audry's only Thursday class was a 9 o'clock, so right afterwards she

drove to the stables and loaded Shannon in the trailer we pull behind my

pickup. (We're ranch kids. We drive pickups. How would we pull a horse
trailer with a sedan?) On a hunch, she threw all our tack in, too.

By one, we were on the highway. We tooled right along, being careful on

the curves, so Shannon wouldn't get tossed around. It wasn't quite dusk

when we arrived at home. I turned Shannon into the corral. He seemed

happy, frolicking in the familiar place. This was his home, too.

Audry and I first stopped at the big house, to tell grandma we were home

for the weekend. We lived there, when we were home. Then we went to my

parents' house. (We'd see Audry's folks in the morning. Grandma said

she'd have everybody to breakfast.)

mom and dad had funny looks on their faces. They said they had the

solution to our problem--maybe. But it was a big maybe and they needed to

test a couple things first, to make sure. We'd all know more tomorrow.

That was all they'd say. So Audry and I said our goodnights and walked

back to the big house and our bed.

Something about the clean mountain air at the ranch-we always make

spectacular love our first couple of nights at home. Not that making love

with Audry isn't spectacular all the time... That night, after a

sixty-nine that left us both quivering, Audry pulled me on top of

her--somehow I was ready again--and into her. Then we just talked, and

kissed, and loved. When we were almost asleep, I would have moved my

weight off of her, but she whimpered, and whispered that she liked to feel

me on her. And in her. We'd gone to sleep plugged in before, spoon

fashion, and loved it. This was new. Audry's curves are an interesting

mattress, indeed.



~~ * * * * * ~~

When the approaching sunrise lightened the window in our room, we woke,

still joined, and declared our love in the best way possible. Waking up to

Audry is marvelous. Waking up making love to Audry is indescribable.

At 7, the family gathered around grandma's table for breakfast. Audry

greeted her parents with kisses--and a special hug for her mother, Elin.

(Elin had told her about sleeping under her man. It was fun to try.)

When we'd scarfed down grandma's hearty breakfast, we adjourned to the

corral. "Rob, put Audry's saddle on Shannon, would you?" mom asked.

Confused, I just said, "Sure," and did as she asked.

When Audry was mounted, mom said, "Audry, try a little dressage." She

did, and the horse responded perfectly. Of course he did. I'd trained

him.

"OK, Audry. Now try the jumps."

Again, Shannon was flawless. He responded to Audry perfectly--with a

bit less of himself than with me.

Dad led out a huge horse. "Rob, this is 'Samarkand'. We call him

'Sam'. He has a bit of Mongol pony in his bloodline, way back, and more

than a bit of Arab. Throw a saddle on him. I'd like to see what you

think."

The horse was so big I had to let out the cinch straps, adjusted for

Shannon, a lot. And dad had to help me get a leg up, to mount him, with my

stirrups at jumping length.

Once aboard, he gave me a bit of a tussle--just finding out if I was

competent. Nothing like the workout a cow pony will give a rider first

thing in the morning. With firm but gentle hand on the reins and pressure

of knee and leg, I got him in hand.

He was pure joy to ride. The horse felt just right, on the dressage

movements I tried. He took the jumps eagerly, clearing them all with ease.

I asked dad, who was nearest, to open the corral gate so I could ride him

out.

In the open, I let him have his head. He started with a fast canter.

Then, rolling his head, he seemed to ask. I gave him a gentle heel and he

took off! We ran about a mile, then cantered a mile back. By the time we

got back to the corral, I was in love. Not like with Audry, but this big

horse and I had formed a bond.

I guess I was grinning ear to ear when I pulled him up.

mom grinned too. "I see we've solved your problems," she said.

"Well, Sam is a hell of a horse," I agreed. "But the problem was

Audry's."

"Oh, no. That one was easy. She'll ride Shannon."

That brought me up short. I'd raised him. I'd trained him myself. He

was bred to be my horse!

Then I looked at mom, and dad, and Audry. And Sam blew in my ear,

slobbering on my jacket.

I knew they were right. Sam was a better horse for me, and Shannon

would be perfect for Audry. And, though I had been reluctant to admit it,

Shannon's endurance was a source of worry. I just wasn't sure he'd be able

to retain his form and stamina for the 3-day event. That wasn't a

consideration with Sam. It was hard to accept that I'd put that much

effort into Shannon and he wasn't what I'd been trying to create with him.

mom knew what was going through my head. "You're still young, Robbie.

Now, while you will still love horses, you'll be able to see them as they

are. Don't feel badly. Shannon was the best of that crop of colts, and

you did an outstanding job with him. It isn't your fault that he isn't

really suited for the 3-day."

Ruefully, I agreed with her. Shannon and I would have done well in the

3-day. But we'd never have been outstanding. Sam and I could be.

But, with Audry on him, Shannon could be outstanding in the other

equestrian events. So I had nothing to be ashamed of except youth--and my

parents had made sure I wouldn't be ashamed of that.

Samarkand was bred on the ranch. I didn't remember him, especially, but

vaguely recalled him among the other foals a couple years back. mom and

dad had been working with him for about a year--either for me or to sell.

Besides having a superior horse, I didn't have to buy him! That was good,

because this animal would easily bring $150,000 to $250,000. That's a lot

for a ranch kid financing college.

That night, the bedroom pyrotechnics wiped memory of the evening before

from my mind. Audry wasn't just happy about getting Shannon--with mom's

assurance that this was the right horse for her--she was ecstatic! She was

every bit as happy that I had the right horse, too.

A week after we returned, with both horses, to Corvallis, we sent in our

entry forms for nationals.

~~ * * * * * ~~

That spring, I graduated, with a B.S. in animal Husbandry, from Oregon

State ("Silo Tech", according to the students at Oregon, just down the road

in Eugene.) We'd be working at the ranch all summer. In the fall, we'd go

to nationals, then return to Corvallis, so Audry could continue college and

I could work toward an M.S.

We didn't pull our weight on the work of the ranch that summer. Both of

us worked our horses for hours daily and attended some competitions, too.

Sam thrived on the work and the attention. And I had to admit that Audry

got more out of Shannon than I ever had.

Pretty soon it was late August and time to load up for the trip to

Richmond, and the national equestrian championships.

When we arrived (Flying with horses is interesting. They didn't enjoy

the journey at all.) we discovered a major problem. The national

organization didn't have Audry's entry form, and mine was messed up. A

lady at the registration table, who looked like she sucked lemons for fun,

told us that Audry couldn't compete and that I was entered, riding Shannon,

in the arena events only.

Of course, she couldn't show us any paper entering me that way--it was

all in the computer. And computers are machines, so they don't lie, do

they?

Since we were in mom's home territory--the Virginia hunt country--we let

her go stomping off to find an official and get things straightened out.

She returned looking really down.

"He says that there's nothing he can do. The national board adopted new

rules, and all competitors have to be properly entered or they can't

compete."

"But mom, we were properly entered. We even got the letter to

competitors about boarding for the horses, and all."

"I know honey. But they say they don't have it and refuse to change."

Dad, no dummy, and very much up on what goes on in the world even though

we live on a remote ranch, said, "I think we have a problem. Someone

doesn't want the kids competing and is trying to keep them out. I'm on the

state board. I'll demand a meeting with the national people. We'll get to

the bottom of this."

The next morning, dad got his meeting, but not much satisfaction from

it. That we had enemies became clear. Dad was repeatedly interrupted and

summarily cut off when he would try to make an argument.

Mad clear through, mom and dad called mom's family lawyer, who headed a

large practice right there in Richmond. A day later, we had a preliminary

injunction allowing Audry and me to ride our proper horses in the events

we'd entered. At the hearing, we introduced the carbon copies of the entry

forms we'd sent and the letters to competitors with the information about

where to take horses, costs and so on. We also pointed out that they had

me registered, but in Audry's events and on Audry's horse. Obviously--to

us--someone had entered the data incorrectly in the sponsors' computer.

The judge agreed that we had done our part and the organizational

weaknesses of the sponsors of the event should not penalize us. He ordered

us entered in accordance with the registration forms we'd submitted.

Of course, his decree couldn't control the marks the show judges gave

us.

Audry was marked so low it was laughable. There were boos and angry

whistles in the audience when her marks were shown. She and Shannon had

performed flawlessly in dressage. And they were clean over the jumps, in

elegant style, in very good time on both trials. Still, they finished

below everybody else who was clean over the jumps.

On the second day of the 3-day, I checked Sam over before I saddled him,

as I always do. His off hind hoof was cut. He couldn't compete! It

wasn't a split, or tear. The hoof had been cut deliberately. Not enough

for permanent injury, but enough that he either would not be able to run

and jump today or, if he did, he'd really injure himself.

Sick at heart and nauseated, I called dad into his stall.

Furious, dad demanded another meeting. He accused the national

organization of gross negligence and favoritism, and said that he was

filing a criminal complaint, as well as a civil lawsuit.

Some of those in the room knew him well--they all knew mom, of

course--and took him seriously. But three men, eastern 'big money',

laughed out loud.

In the hall, on the way out, one of them said to dad, "Try it, asshole,

and your punk kids will never ride again."

Dad did file a criminal complaint about the damage to Sam. The police

investigated and said they had no suspects. Too many people who didn't

know each other moving around the stalls. No way to tell even who it might

have been.

Our civil case didn't do much better. We received a small damage award

for the vet bill for Sam. But the court threw out the part about willfully

denying us our right to compete freely in the event we'd qualified for.

After all, we had competed. Our performance was our problem.

~~ * * * * * ~~

A couple of weeks later, Uncle Rick found one of the horses

dead--apparently shot by a deer hunter. Of course, the entire ranch was

posted, but we still had the occasional hunter who didn't believe in common

courtesy, much less the law.

The next week, we heard a shot over in the hills. Investigating, we

found one of our better bulls, shot through the lungs. On the hill above

him, we found a 30-06 brass, and a cigarette butt--and footprints of

somebody wearing city shoes. In the gully below, we found jeep tracks.

Whoever shot the bull must have known it wasn't a deer--it was pure

black--and didn't even walk down to it after taking the shot.

It looked like the guy from the meeting was making good on his threat.

mom flew back to Richmond, to confer with her family. We didn't even

know those three guys, except that they were newly-rich easterners who were

interested in horses. mom soon found that they were a clique in financial

circles, too.

And one of them had a son who fancied himself quite a rider.

The family used their connections.

They are a close-knit family, the Parmentiers of Virginia, considering

the 'unholy three', as we named them, to be johnnies-come-lately. They

tended to think mom had married beneath her, but had come to like us and,

after all, we were family...

It was one of the unholy three who had suggested to the Olsens, also in

the group, that they buy Blitzen. And one of the others had been the

person behind the new computer system the national organization used--and,

the family discovered, leaving a nice little 'wormhole' into it so that

data could be manipulated after it was entered.

They had also gotten to a number of the judges and arranged for their

boy's scores to be better than he deserved--and ours as low as they could

possibly be.

Their only problem with us was that both Audry and I were likely to beat

their kid.

While we couldn't prove very much of this, we could prove the damage to

Sam, and the killing of our stock. And we could demonstrate the ability to

manipulate the data in the computer.

Dad went to the board of the state equestrian committee. They were all

Oregonians, and didn't take much crap from the eastern establishment. He

laid it all out to them, and got a unanimous, though secret, resolution

that they would do whatever was needed to clean up their sport.

Then both dad and mom, with the state president, went to the boards of

the group in Washington, California, Idaho and Nevada, with the same

results. Soon, all the western states were solidly behind us, with the

south and midwest joining up, one by one, as they heard what had happened.

By the following Easter, the state organizations demanded and got an

emergency session of the national board. At that meeting, the computer

system was officially made a backup only. The paper registration forms

would be the determining records. And competitors who qualified for

nationals were allowed to change their registration, in person, at any

time. Also, provisions were made for changing mounts, if the horse named in

the application was incapacitated. (The sport, of necessity, made a big

thing out of being sure the animals were not endangered.)

The judging irregularities were also addressed and a new system of

judging, with random selection of judges just prior to an event, was put in

place.

It wasn't foolproof, but it was better.

The next week, Uncle Rick and one of the hands heard a shot out in the

brush again. They galloped towards the sound they'd heard. (We habitually

carried rifles when we were out away from the headquarters.)

Topping a rise, they saw a jeep, stuck in a dry wash. Apparently, the

driver had thought it was truly dry, but didn't know about the wet mud

below the layer of dry sand. They didn't see anybody and assumed the

driver had started walking toward the road, a couple of miles away.

The hand started at a quick trot down the hill toward the jeep, when he

was suddenly shot out of the saddle. Uncle Rick shucked his rifle from its

scabbard and hit the ground. Keeping to cover, he scanned the wash and

decided that the shooter could only be in one place--a bit of scrub at the

near bank. There just wasn't enough cover anywhere else. Especially for a

city man.

That's what the guy had to be, to get stuck like that.

"Gerry, you OK?" Rick called, softly.

"Hurt pretty bad, Rick. But I'll make it. Just don't waste around with

the critter."

Grinning like an old wolf, Rick said, "Count on it."

Working around behind the spot he'd picked, Rick saw the guy, crouching

behind the stream bank, frantically searching the hillside.

Loudly working the bolt in his rifle, Rick said, "Looking for me?"

The guy started to turn, rifle in hand.

Rick growled, "Use it or lose it. I really don't care."

The guy paused, then dropped his rifle--a brand new 30-06, but a cheap

one. "OK, buster. Flat on the ground. Everything spread like a

starfish!" When the guy was how he wanted him, Rick moved up and quickly

had him tied securely with the rawhide thongs we all carried. Searching

him, he found a wallet, with $2,000 in fresh bills, a Connecticut driver's

license, a few credit cards, and a couple of membership cards. One of

these was in a Connecticut equestrian club.

"You got an Oregon hunting license?" Rick asked.

"Uh. No."

"Good! You are under arrest for hunting without a license. We make

citizens' arrests for that all the time, out here. I suspect the State

Police will also want you for attempted murder; that's if Gerry makes

it..."

Rick quickly gathered up the horses and pulled the jeep free. Then he

loaded Gerry into the back of it and his prisoner into the front--tied

securely to the frame of his seat. Then he drove straight to the county

jail.

In moments the sheriff himself was taking charge, detailing a deputy to

get Gerry to the hospital and another to book Rick's prisoner. And two

more to take horses, and a camera, and get good pictures of the crime

scene--including details of all the tracks, where they started and ended

and so on. It would be evident to a western jury that the prisoner had

entered clearly posted land with intent to shoot something. And that he

had deliberately shot Gerry.

The prisoner was named Fred Marston. A city man, he had served three

years in the army, in the infantry. He'd been a PFC when he got out. He

also worked for one of the 'unholy three', Olsen, as a broker in a trading

company.

Marston demanded and got the use of a phone. He called his employer and

said he was in jail and needed a lawyer. His boss told him he'd take care

of it and to keep his mouth shut.

The District Attorney sent his chief trial deputy over, but Marston

refused to talk until he had a lawyer. "OK with us," the prosecutor said.

Later that afternoon, Marston was brought before a judge for

arraignment. He refused to plead until he had a lawyer. The judge entered

a plea of 'not guilty' and ordered him held without bail on the attempted

murder charge. The next morning a lawyer appeared and interviewed him.

Then he said, "I will defend you, if you intend to plead 'guilty'. I'll

make sure your rights are protected, and so on. If you expect someone to

get you off, get a different lawyer. I'm not a magician."

Marston said he wanted a different lawyer and asked the man to contact

his boss again.

The same lawyer was back the next day. "I'm the best you're going to

get, unless you know some other people. Let me give you the facts. The DA

has you cold on the attempted murder. They can even prove malice

aforethought. And they can prove that you have been systematically killing

stock on the ranch for several weeks."

"How can they possibly do that?"

The lawyer just looked at him with pity. "You really are a city boy,

aren't you? You always wore the same shoes. Your tracks are distinctive.

And the cartridge casings you left on the ground were all fired from your

cheap rifle. They got you dead to rights. I can make them prove it to a

jury, but you're dead meat. And if you go to trial, I'll need a lot bigger

fee than I'll need to do a plea bargain for you... So. How deep are your

pockets?"

Marston took some time to digest that. "How good a deal can you get

me?"

"If you just plead guilty, I can probably get you five to ten-two to

three years inside if you're a good boy."

"Can you get me off with community service or a fine?"

"Not unless you give them something worthwhile. I don't know that you

have anything for them."

"Am I paying your fee?"

"If you want."

"Are you working for me, or for Olsen?"

"The guy that pays the bills gets the service."

"OK. I'm the client. I pay the bills. What's the tab for negotiating

a deal where I walk--maybe probation--in exchange for the guys behind

this?"

"I'll take you that far for $5,000--including the time I've already put

in for you. If you need representation beyond that--before a grand jury,

for example--that's extra, at $2,000 per day."

"You're on. Get that DA in here. I wanna walk, but I'll give him the

whole scam."

In a half-hour, Marston and his lawyer were meeting with the deputy DA.

"My client will enter a plea of 'guilty' to aggravated assault, trespass

and killing livestock--in return for a couple of years of probation, that

he can serve in his home state."

"And why would I agree to that?"

"Because Mr. Marston will give you a deposition detailing just what is

going on here, and the names of the people behind it all. He will give you

names and dates."

"Are these people under Oregon jurisdiction?"

"No. They live in Chicago, New York, and Virginia."

"Then any bargain we make would have to include the U.S. Attorney's

office. Is your client willing to make an offer of proof to the U.S.

Attorney?"

"He is, as soon as we have an agreement."

"OK. If the U.S. Attorney buys it, I will, too."

Marston's lawyer smiled and held out his hand, "Done." In a small

western county seat, both lawyers had to keep their word, or they couldn't

make any deals in the future. The system worked well. On the other hand,

the court system wasn't so clogged that plea bargains were the norm, like

in big cities...

The U.S. Attorney wasn't interested in prosecuting Marston--Oregon

could handle him, just fine. But he was very interested in an interstate

conspiracy that involved shooting people.

After interviewing Marston, a clearer picture emerged.

The 'unholy three' were self-made millionaires, who had an interest in

horses. Or their wives did. The three were of a kind--take no prisoners;

take what you want; and if the guy who has it isn't strong enough to

protect it, that's his problem.

One of them was the head of the Olsen clan, from Chicago. Another was

George Schwartz, from Long Island--originally Brooklyn. The third, from

Richmond, was a Claude Valkenberg. When they became wealthy, they'd become

interested in the equestrian sports, as a way to respectability and

acceptance among the old money that looked down their patrician noses at

the upstarts.

But Schwartz and Valkenberg's wives found that, though they could get

membership in the hunt club, they still weren't accepted. They were

invited to the parties at the club, but never to the exclusive

entertainments of the aristocracy.

The three discovered each other as kindred spirits, with similar

complaints.

Schwartz's son was a good rider. If he were to become the national

champion, or represent the country in a major international competition,

like the Olympics, 'they' would have to accept the newcomers--wouldn't

they?

The three didn't realize that neither they nor their wives had any

class, and the people they wanted to associate with were embarrassed to be

around them. Their vulgar jokes and lack of taste were only a part of the

problem...

They put in a lot of volunteer time and managed to gain seats on the

governing board of the national organization. Then they began a campaign

to insure that Schwartz won the nationals.

Who was the competition?

Why, in dressage and show jumping, that would be Audry.

In the three-day, Rob--and he's real good at the arena events, too!

The next step was to rig the rules and fudge the entries, so that Audry

and I weren't able to compete--or, if we did, we couldn't win.

Then, when dad started making waves, they saw their little house

tumbling down. Marston worked for Olsen's New York office and was a fringe

member of the cabal. His instructions had been to do anything necessary to

get dad to back off. Marston emphasized that they literally didn't care of

he killed somebody or not. They just wanted us out of the picture and not

creating more problems. These men weren't gangsters in the normal sense.

They were just very rich, powerful, amoral men who considered us merely an

obstacle in their path--to be brushed aside.

They hadn't read their history very well. When they picked on a western

family, they found themselves in a small room with a pack of cougars.

We filed a lawsuit in civil court, for trespass, menacing, wrongful

killing of livestock, and anything else we could think of, against Marston.

When our local DA told us the story, and the deal he'd negotiated, we

quickly worked a deal of our own. If Marston actively assisted us, we'd

cancel our claims. Otherwise, we'd nail his worthless hide to the barn
door.

He couldn't go back to work for Olsen, anyway. He caved in quickly.

Our attack was multi-pronged.

Pointing out that this was an interstate conspiracy and that the judges

in our sport, at the national level, had clearly been suborned, we raised

the issue of possible gambling on the outcome of the last national

championships. After all, they were televised... and the sports books in

Las Vegas will take bets on anything.

The U.S. Attorney bought the argument. He wanted all he could get on

this bunch--there was a high probability of other criminal violations too.

So the FBI was asked to interview all the judges from the last national

competition. We gave the names of knowledgeable, impartial people who were

there, who could testify that the judging was blatantly stacked against

Audry and me. Then mom went for an extended visit home. She saw all her

relatives and friends in the Richmond area--and told them all she knew.

The 'unholy three' would never be accepted in the top levels of Virginia

society--or Washington, D.C., either. And through the family connections

all over the eastern seaboard, the word would go out.

Through some friends among the top level of cattle breeders, Uncle Rick

passed the same information. Since Chicago was still a major center of the

cattle industry, the rumors about the Olsens quickly made the rounds. They

found themselves cut off from society--and from a lot of high level

business contacts, among men who prided themselves on their integrity and

whose word was worth more than a contract.

A couple of the equestrian judges admitted to the FBI that they were,

indeed, pressured to make sure Audry and I were not among the top places...

It didn't take much to get them to confess the details.

As soon as we knew, and could verify it, we went to _Sports Illustrated_

with the entire story. We named those names we knew. We gave them leads

to follow up. We identified what we knew and couldn't prove, and what we

could prove.

They did a very good job. Two weeks later, a picture we didn't know

existed, of Audry, frustrated and disgusted when her scores in dressage

were announced at nationals, adorned the cover.

(For the rest of our lives, I asked why she couldn't have been on the

cover of the swimsuit issue. It usually earned me a hard fist in the

ribs.)

The article that went along with it was fantastic. The magazine's staff

unearthed information about the three we had no idea about. There was no

doubt in our minds that they were 'busted'. _Time_ even ran article about

the scandal.

Within weeks, the three were under federal indictment for a number of

conspiracy crimes--of which we were very small potatoes, indeed.

They were forced to resign from the national board of the equestrian

body. Audry and I received formal letters of apology, including that we

were welcome to compete in the next national competition without having to

qualify--on any horse we'd care to ride.

The past year's results were declared void. Schwartz's medal was

rescinded. He was placed on probation and disqualified from national or

international competition for two years.

All three families were ruined socially and, eventually, financially.

~~ * * * * * ~~

That summer, Audry and I had just come over the last rise, on our way to

our favorite meadow in the high country, when my horse suddenly went down.

A split-second later, I heard the shot. Screaming to Audry to get off her

horse and down, I scrambled to free my rifle from under my horse.

When I looked up, Audry was out of sight, though her horse was walking

toward the meadow on his own. I heard her say, quietly, "I'm OK, Rob. I

think he's on that knob over to our right."

"Stay here. Shoot if you see him--to keep him pinned down. I'm going

around." I worked my way back across the skyline, keeping under cover all

the way. Soon after I'd gotten just below the crest, on the back side of

the ridge, I heard a shot, from the direction of the knob Audry had

targeted. I hoped she wasn't trying to draw his fire!

It was hard to move silently in boots. I did the best I could, being

careful not to step on a rock that might move under me, or on a twig that

could break, giving me away. Though I wanted, more than anything, to run,

I had to take it one slow step at a time. I'd get there when I got there.

Damn, that was hard to do!

Soon, I was underneath the knob, on the back side. Easing my way up,

through the scrub yellow pine and juniper of that altitude, I was able to

make out a man, in a military jacket and blue jeans, intently scanning the

slope where my horse had gone down. Looking down behind me, I saw a horse
tied to a bush in the gully below.

I rocked the bolt in my rifle and told the guy, "Drop it. Right now!"

He thought he'd try his luck, and tried to roll over, rifle in hand. Luck

had deserted him. My shot took him in the right side, ranging up. At that

close range, the hunting bullet made a puree of his lungs and heart.

Closing on him carefully, I kicked his rifle away, then confirmed that

he was dead. I called to Audry, so she wouldn't shoot me, and stood

carefully, to survey the country for any others that might be around. No

sign of any, so I called Audry to me.

"Recognize him?" I asked, when she joined me, looking at our would-be

killer.

"Yeah. He's Schwartz. The one who stole my title."

"Sure looks like him. OK. What do we do, now?"

"Huh? We take him back to the ranch and call the sheriff."

"Well, just let's think about it for a minute. What happens if we just

leave him?"

"What? Rob? You mean... just leave him lay?"

"Yeah. Exactly. We can dump his tack. I can ride his horse back to

the ranch. I'll have to get a better look, but I think it's our horse,

anyway. He probably stole it from the south pasture."

"But, won't people be looking for him?"

"Maybe. But, who knows he's here?"

"It's just not right..."

"Why not? What would he have done with us?"

"Well... Maybe," she said, coming to see my point. "Let's do as you

say, but tell the family as soon as we get home. We'd better get on with

it. We'll be riding after dark, as it is."

"Damn! I was counting on screwing your socks off down in that meadow."

Giggling, Audry said I could do that next week. She wanted to try that

high meadow by the little lake again, too.

Arriving home, we tumbled into the big house after we'd put up the

horses. Grandma took one look at us, and started scrambling eggs and

heating some sausage--that being what she could whip up fastest.

"Gran, I think we need the folks over here."

She just nodded, and pointed to the phone. So Audry asked first hers

and then my parents to join us.

When we were all seated around the table--Audry and I were still

eating--we told them what had happened.

"So, where is the critter?" Uncle Rick asked.

"On the knob. I left him where he fell," I answered.

He grinned. It was not a nice grin.

Dad nodded, too. They saw the same implications I did. If Schwartz

just disappeared, that was fine with us. If someone came looking for him,

maybe they'd find him, maybe not. If we found a searcher--or even tracks

of a searcher, that would tell us something.

If the body was found, the scene would show that the man fired some

shots and was shot himself. Or at least, that someone was shooting and he

was killed by gunshot. The dead horse was also there, killed by a gunshot.

And his tack was on it. But the coyotes would be at the bodies--probably

tonight; no later than tomorrow. And buzzards, too. If those sent to hunt

for him were as poor as Schwartz and Marston at tracking and hunting, they

wouldn't be able to read any of the sign, anyway.

We debated trying to find his car, and doing something about it. Uncle

Rick made a ride around the south pasture and the adjacent area, without

finding it. So we forgot about it. (Later, our local deputy sheriff told

me that they'd found a rented blazer up in the national forest. It had

obviously been there a couple weeks. The rental company said the guy who

rented it had used fake ID--the credit card he used was stolen and his

driver's license matched the credit card. So nobody got too excited about

it.)

The only thing we did beyond that was we went armed all the time. If we

were practicing arena events, a rifle was just inside the barn door by the

big practice ring. If I was out working Sam on the cross-country part of

3-day training, I'd pack a pistol and Audry or dad would be somewhere

nearby, with a rifle in the saddle scabbard. I got to ride western saddles

more, to carry the rifle when I went here and there. Sam liked the long

rides and could really cover a lot of country. He wasn't worth a damn

working cows, though.

Audry and I did get back up to the meadow in about a week. No one had

been around--and we made sure we didn't leave any sign off the normal trail

and our campsite.

Up in the alpine meadow, we slept in the tent. I know the stars are

spectacular at altitude. But so is the cold, at night. Audry and I were

too busy to spend much time looking at stars, anyway. Dunno what it is

about the mountains, but she's really remarkable when we get up there.

That fall, at nationals--in California this time--Audry and Shannon were

first in both the dressage and arena jumping events. I was second in

jumping and third in dressage. Then Sam and I took first in the 3-day. I

have to give mom credit. She sure does know when a horse and rider are

compatible. We were a pretty excited family, by the end of the week of

competition.

Next year, the Olympics!



* Beating the System is the second of the Audry stories. (c) 1997,

2001, Extar International, Ltd. All rights reserved. Single copies for

personal, non-commercial use may be downloaded or printed. Any other uses,

including reposting, or posting on an archive site, must have prior

permission from Extar International. Comments always welcome.

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