Horses in their stalls neighed and whinnied as horse and rider went by, and although I recognized Kenneth Sparkes in his English saddle, I had never seen him in dirty denim and boots. Marino coughed and squinted because red dust was thick in the air, kicked up by the cantering of a chestnut Morgan mare. Marino was not particularly interested in the surviving horse, and as we entered the indoor ring, we were greeted by the sound of hooves and the clucking of bantam roosters and guinea hens that wandered about freely. 'Did you ever see anyone when you went to work with his horses?' 'Did you know anything about a lady maybe staying with him in Warrenton?' I asked as we headed back outside again. 'It may be that one horse survived the fire,' I told her. 'A lovely old guy with a very bad heart,' she said. 'What about a star-strip-snip?' she asked, referring to the white stripe on the horse's forehead. 'Well, Windsong may have gotten out somehow,' I said again. 'I hope he's not still out there running around.' Since then Kenny has been doing most of the work himself. 'Is there someplace we can talk to him?' I asked Foster. And I also went up there to his farm, sometimes two or three times a week. ![]() Or he'd breed racehorses and sell them when they were old enough to be trained for the track. Sometimes it was yearlings he would buy from me and just leave them here to be trained for two years. She didn't comment at first, and we drew nearer to a big red barn and a Beware of Dog sign on a fence post. ![]() 'Unless you're right about Windsong, the horse Kenny's on now is the only one he has left. 'But Lord knows, Kenny's had girlfriends before, and I don't always know about them,' Foster said, turning around in her chair to look back inside the ring. Sparkes picked up speed and thundered toward us, and the guinea hens lifted up their feathery skirts to hurry out of the way.
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