Perhaps a short story? Yes, I wrote it.
Homer ran the place for the Captain. He was the foreman, only 23. I was 16, his assistant. Not in any official way. Just did what Homer told me to. Everyone on the place called me his boy, but not in a fairy sort of way. That day, the Captain called Homer into his office and told Homer he’d wanted the old stud horse out of the paddock and into the barn right away—an unusual request. It’s why Homer didn’t look right. He had a sixth sense none of the others did.
Homer told me he’d seen the revolver tucked into the Captain’s waistband when he’d left him. “I didn’t like the looks of that, Joe,” Homer said. “Only time he wears it in plain view is to hand it to me at the barn to put something down.”
Homer never liked the killing, like some of the boys did—you could see it in their expressions as they inhaled and exhaled quickly and in the ways their eyes flickered when Homer pulled the trigger. It never did seem right when we’d have to shoot the cripples and the old mares and crooked foals that wouldn’t be able to race. We killed them in the back forty. That was a stretch of wooded land no one went to ordinarily, unless one or two of the smooth-talking boys got lucky at night. Then we’d find a panty or a brassiere and the bottle nearby. The Graveyard is what the old hands called it, though you’d never know it. No headstones or markers. Just holes we’d dig and cover up and be on our way.