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Message-ID: <29411asstr$984820202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Bill Brink <extar@earthlink.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Audry Chapter 2
Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2001 04:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "Audry02.txt" begin>

			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 thecourse.
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.  Audrydoesn'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 ourbed.

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 eventsonly.

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.  <extar@hotmail.com> 

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