They Shoot Horses, Don't They? by Horace McCoy Read Free Book Online Page A

worked my leg up and down, beating the muscles with the heels of his fists.
    ‘That hurts,’ I said.
    ‘Take it easy, said the trainer who was holding my shoulders. ‘Didn’t you ever have one of those things before?’
    Then I felt something snap in my leg and the pain was suddenly gone.
    ‘Okay,’ the trainer said.
    I got up, feeling fine, and went back on the track, standing there waiting for Gloria. She was on the opposite side from me, trotting, her head bobbing up and down every time she took a step. I had to wait for her to come around. (The rules were you had to come out of the pit at the point where you went in.) As Gloria neared me I started walking and in a moment she had coupled on to the belt.
    ‘Two minutes to go,’ Rocky announced. ‘A little rally, ladies and gentlemen—’ They began clapping their hands and stamping their feet, much louder than before.
    Other couples began to sprint past us and I put on a little more steam. I was pretty sure Gloria and I weren’t in last place, but we had both been in the pit and I didn’t want to take a chance on being eliminated. When the pistol sounded for the finish half the teams collapsed on the floor. I turned around to Gloria and saw her eyes were glassy. I knew she was going to faint.
    ‘Hey …’ I yelled to one of the nurses, but just then Gloria sagged and I had to catch her myself. It was all I could do to carry her to the pit. ‘Hey!’ I yelled to one of the trainers. ‘Doctor!’
    Nobody paid any attention to me. They were too busy picking up the bodies. The customers were standing on their seats, screaming in excitement.
    I began rubbing Gloria’s face with a wet towel. Mrs Layden suddenly appeared beside me and took a bottle of smelling salts off the table by the cot.
    ‘You go to your dressing room,’ she said. ‘Gloria’ll be all right in a minute. She’s not used to the strain.’
    I was on a boat going to Port Said. I was on my way to the Sahara Desert to make that picture. I was famous and I had plenty of money. I was the most important picture director in the world. I was more important than Sergei Eisenstein. The critics of Vanity Fair and Esquire had agreed that I was a genius. I was walking around the deck, thinking of that marathon dance I once had been in, wondering what had become of all those girls and boys, when something hit me a terrific blow in the back of the head, knocking me unconscious. I had a feeling I was falling.
    When I struck the water I began lashing out with my arms and legs because I was afraid of sharks. Something brushed my body and I screamed in fright.
    I woke up swimming in water that was freezing cold. Instantly I knew where I was. ‘I’ve had a nightmare,’ I told myself. The thing that had brushed my body was a hundred-pound block of ice. I was in a small tank of water in the dressing room. I was still wearing my track suit. I climbed out, shivering, and one of the trainers handed me a towel.
    Two other trainers came in, carrying one of the contestants who was unconscious. It was Pedro Ortega. They carried him to the tank and dumped him in.
    ‘Is that what happened to me?’ I asked.
    ‘That’s right,’ the trainer said. ‘You passed out just as you left the dance floor—’ Pedro whimpered something in Spanish and splashed the water, fighting to get out. The trainer laughed. ‘I’ll say Socks knew what he was doing when he brought that tank in here,’ he said. ‘That ice water fixes ’em right up. Get off those wet pants and shoes.’

… by the
    Sheriff of
    Los Angeles
    County
    to the
    Warden of
    State Prison …

chapter nine
    HOURS ELAPSED: 752
    Couples Remaining: 26
    T HE DERBY RACES WERE killing them off. Fifty-odd couples had been eliminated in two weeks. Gloria and I had come close to the finish once or twice, but by the skin of our teeth we managed to hang on. After we changed our technique we had no more trouble: we had stopped trying to win, not caring where we finished so