Rich Man Poor Man | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Rich Man Poor Man | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jeanette Morris
11/17/14
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Queenie stomped and snorted at the starting line. She loved to run, but fidgeted around other horses when we raced. She’d been limping a bit after the county fair semi-finals the day before. The loose dirt clods left in the thrown-together circular track had bruised her feet, so Dad had put shoes on her, and she wasn’t liking that much either. “Easy, girl,” I cooed.

Who was I kidding? I was nervous too. I wanted to win bad. Our sharecroppin’ family needed the prize money, and my pride was on the line. At barely thirteen, I was the youngest rider in the finals. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. But the rich ranchers had brought in their thoroughbred fillies and rodeo-ridin’ sons to compete. What the heck! This was Howard, Kansas—not Wichita. Our little country town wasn’t used to that kind of showboating. I’d noticed some wagering going on too, which was against the rules.

“Take your positions!” the starter shouted.

In the friendly, Sunday-afternoon races in our country neighborhood, I could hold Queenie behind the starting line to keep her from rearing up when the starter raised his gun. But I couldn’t do that here. So I leaned forward, covered her eyes with my hand, and edged her up to the chalk line.

“Bang!” The starting gun blasted and Queenie shot down the track like a wild boar was after her.

The crowd roared. “Give ’er her head, Eugene!” my dad yelled from somewhere. I always knew his voice. And his whistle. But that’s another story.

Dirt and dust clouded around us as Queenie bolted past the pack. I just hung on, bouncing in the saddle that was a little too big for me and grinning with glee. This looked like a sure win. I could taste victory and my chest swelled at the thought of handing the prize money over to Mom.

Up ahead, out by only two lengths, was the rodeo guy on his fancy thoroughbred. I knew I was out of my league. But Queenie didn’t. She only pushed harder. “Go it, girl!” I shouted over the cheering crowd, and kicked her in the sides with my boot heels.

It worked! Queenie and the thoroughbred were nose to nose. The roar from the stands was deafening. My breath came in huge heaves, matching Queenie’s effort. Passing the rodeo man on the inside rail was our best chance. Queenie had a full head of steam, but not enough time to get around him on the outside. The finish line was coming up fast. Hold on, I told myself, and booted her bulging belly again.

Barreling down the stretch, I spotted the nail kegs lining the inside of the unfinished track near the finish. The same time I realized my rookie mistake, the rodeo man signaled his well-trained horse to move in against us.

Queenie lurched to the left into a nail keg! Jump it or crash—what would Queenie do? Either way, she could really get hurt. Blast our bad luck! With all my strength, I pulled her up, swung sharp to the right behind the clever rodeo rider, and into a second place finish on the outside by a head.

The crowd screamed like crazy—hats flying in the air—feet stomping on the bleachers at the exciting finish … or so I thought. A pack of people surrounded the winner. Queenie and I stood by, trying to catch our breath. “Good job, girl. We did our best. That—”

Suddenly, a local guy I knew in the pack of people pulled the rodeo man off his fancy horse and slammed him to the ground. Only then I realized the crowd was noisy because they were angry as heck!

“You’d kill a kid for twenty bucks?” the local said. Sneering, he pulled some money out of his pocket, spit on it, and threw it at the rodeo rider cringing on the ground. Others standing by joined in heckling the dirt-covered winner. Most walked away, disgusted.

Queenie and I went home with a second-place ribbon, but no prize money. Before the day was over, however, most who had witnessed the big race came around, patted me on the back, and shook my hand. The rodeo man and his rich cronies sulked off in shame—learning the hard way that might doesn’t make right—and that folks who may look poor on the outside are rich in the things that matter.

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