The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (28 page)

Another man left the room.

“Silver Knight,” the secretary said. Every face in the room turned quickly to Phillip Cox and Ray O'Neil, standing together, then all gazes shifted quickly to the ball on the desk. “Number two position,” the secretary added.

Phillip Cox uttered a sharp yell, then left the room with his arm across Ray O'Neil's shoulders. Silver Knight had one of the best positions in the race; Phillip Cox's luck was holding good.

Tom looked at Miss Elsie and saw that she was very worried. She was moving uneasily about the room now, and her glasses shifted up and down as she wiggled her large nose.

The race secretary was drawing faster now. “Volomite's Comet … number four position.”

Smiling, another man left the room.

“Princess Guy,” the secretary said next.

Miss Elsie stopped pacing, and her face was tight and drawn as she waited for the secretary to pick up the numbered ball.

“Number one … the pole position for Princess Guy.”

Miss Elsie's large teeth seemed to fill the room when she smiled, then she left quickly.

Tom started shifting uneasily while the secretary called off more positions with no mention of Bonfire. The number seven position went next, then numbers six and eight. There were only two more positions left to be drawn—number three and number ten!

George and Uncle Wilmer moved a little away from Tom in their uneasiness. Across the room stood the only other representatives of a horse in the race, the
driver and the owner of Chief Express, They too moved about nervously, then stood still as the race secretary reached for the hat.

“Please, please,” Tom mumbled to himself, “not ten. Give us a chance, give us
three
.”

“Chief Express,” the secretary said, then he reached for the moving ball.

All eyes watched it come to a stop. And they saw the number even before the secretary read it off.

Number three!

The men at the other end of the room yelled together and rushed for the door, leaving Tom, George and Uncle Wilmer alone with the secretary.

“Y'might as well pull it out of the hat anyway,” George grimly told the race secretary.

But already Tom had started for the door.

Before reaching it, he heard the secretary say, “Bonfire.”

Then came the sound of the rolling ball, the very last ball in the box, on the desk. “Number ten position.”

Opening the door, he heard the footsteps of George and Uncle Wilmer behind him.

“It's too bad,” the race secretary called after them. “But it's the luck of the draw.”

Bonfire had been in his paddock stall for more than an hour, waiting for the championship race to be called. He wore his light racing harness but not his bridle, and he was not yet hitched to his sulky. Behind him, standing upright against the wall, were the long shafts of the sulky, ready to be lowered and hooked to him.

He wore Jimmy's old white blanket with the red borders over his harness; for the September night was unusually cool and the sky overcast. There were no stars, and only the galaxy of floodlights shattered the darkness. Bonfire blinked in their brilliant glare and uneasily nuzzled Tom's hand.

The boy stayed with him every minute, turning only occasionally to glance up the line at the other two-year-olds stabled according to their positions in the race. In the number 1 paddock stall was Princess Guy, and Miss Elsie never moved from her filly's side. In the next stall was the gray colt, Silver Knight, and standing before him were Phillip Cox and his driver, Ray
O'Neil. They kept glancing at the black filly in the next stall, but never looked at any other colt in the race. Silver Knight was muzzled just now to prevent him from nipping anyone; his meanness was well known. He wore a brilliant red-and-white blanket across which was lettered, “Cox Clothing Company.”

George said, “You never said what you think of him.” And he nodded toward Silver Knight's stall.

Uncle Wilmer moved closer to hear what Tom had to say about the gray colt.

“He's too coarse for me,” the boy said, keeping his eyes on Silver Knight. “I've watched him work. But he's rugged and can go. He lacks the finish, though. I like to see them clean like Miss Elsie's filly and our colt. His legs are good boned and shaped well, but his feet will give him trouble one of these days. They're too large and flat.”

George and Uncle Wilmer nodded in agreement.

“That's jus' what I would have said about him,” Uncle Wilmer said impressively. “A horse is only as good as his feet … an' his are too large and flat, all right.”

George said, “I hear Cox was offered seventy-five thousand dollars for him just tonight, an' he turned it down.”

“He's not for me.” Tom said, turning back and running his hands beneath Bonfire's blanket. “Even if I had that kind of money.”

They had nothing to do but wait for the call, so they stood restlessly and a little sheepishly amidst the strange surroundings. The paddock was empty of men except for owners, drivers and track officials. They
could see the milling mass of humanity on the other side of the high wire fence which separated the paddock from the grandstand. Track guards filed up and down alongside the fence, an extra precaution to keep spectators away from the horses. No, it wasn't at all the same as at the fairs. And in the grandstand, and standing in front of it right up to the rail, were more people than any of them ever had seen in one group before. The great number of people was overwhelming, even a little frightening.

Tom turned away from them to think of Jimmy, to wonder again why they still had heard no word from Dr. Morton. He knew George was worried, too, but neither of them had mentioned it to the other. Tom knew that he shouldn't be thinking about Jimmy just now—not with so much ahead of him and Bonfire.

Ever since the drawing for positions, Tom had discussed with George and Uncle Wilmer the only race strategy he could use from his number ten position. Yet now he turned to them again and spoke of it. He wanted to make certain of what he had to do.

“I'll keep him close behind Miss Elsie,” he said. “Right from the start I'll go along with her and her filly …”

“She'll get you out in front of the others, if you keep Bonfire breathin' down her neck,” George said. “Her filly's got the speed to get her out in front. You jus' follow close behind an' go out with her.”

“An' once you're clear of the others,” Uncle Wilmer added, “you can pull out from the rail an' go around her and that black filly. Bonfire can do it, all
right” he said confidently, turning to the colt to run his hand down the red-braided forelock.

It was then they heard the paddock marshal shout, “Hook 'em up, boys. We're going out in a few minutes.”

Tom swallowed hard. The
show
was about to begin! And now each stall was the scene of much activity.

George and Uncle Wilmer went quickly to either side of the colt and, reaching the sulky, pulled down the shafts. Without removing Bonfire's blanket, they hitched the sulky to the harness.

Tom talked softly to his colt while he put on the light racing bridle and adjusted the head number 10. He was still a little nervous and his uneasiness communicated itself to Bonfire, for the colt began tossing his head. Tom ran his hand beneath the heavy black mane, rubbing the silken coat. “We're on, Bonfire,” he said. “We're going out.”

The clear call of the bugle sounded above the noise of the crowd, silencing the stands. Blankets were whipped off the two-year-olds and they stood naked and eager beneath the bright lights. The black filly with the four white stockings left her stall with Miss Elsie holding the lines and walking behind the sulky; the gray colt came next with Ray O'Neil holding the lines and Phillip Cox leading Silver Knight to the paddock gate. Then the other colts followed, until it was Bonfire's turn to go.

George took him by the bridle, while Tom and Uncle Wilmer walked behind.

“You ain't got a thing to worry about,” Uncle Wilmer told the boy. “You got all the colt there is, all right.”

Tom said nothing.

“And you remember you're wearin' Jimmy's silks,” Uncle Wilmer went on. “They seen more races than all these other silks put together. They'll give you all the luck you need, all right.”

The red-coated marshal sat astride his horse, awaiting all racers to reach the track for the post parade. Impatiently he beckoned George to hurry up his colt. But George didn't take Bonfire out of his slow walk.

At the gate, a paddock guard stopped George and told Tom to get into the sulky seat.

“You an' Bonfire do all you can, Tom,” George said. “We don't expect any more.”

Tom drove Bonfire onto the track, and joined the post parade.

Ahead, all along the line, silks shrieked their colors beneath the brazen lights. To Tom's left was a black mass of people. He turned from them to watch the red hindquarters working smoothly between his outstretched legs, and to talk to his colt—to quiet him and himself.

The announcer's voice came over the public-address system.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He waited until the crowd hushed. “The horses are now parading for the Two-Year-Old American Championship Race. Number one is the world's record holder, Princess Guy … a black filly by Mr. Guy out of Little Mary.… ”

Tom looked in the direction of the announcer's booth, surprised that the raceway officials were taking
a few extra minutes to give the background of each horse.

“… Princess Guy set her record of two o three at the Reading Fair this week; she is being driven by her owner, Miss Elsie Topper of Coronet, Pennsylvania, the foremost woman driver in the country.

“Number two is Silver Knight, holder of this raceway's track record for two-year-olds of two o four. He is a gray colt, owned by the Phillip Cox Clothing Company of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and is being driven by the leading driver of all night raceways, Ray O'Neil. Silver Knight is sired by Volomite and out of …”

But whatever the announcer had left to say about Silver Knight was drowned out by the cheering supporters of the gray colt.

Tom turned to them, and saw Phillip Cox rise to his feet from his box near the finish line. He waved his hand to those behind, accepting their cheers for his colt, then he sat down again.

Finally Bonfire passed the announcer's booth.

“Number ten, who will trail the field at the start, is Bonfire, a blood bay colt, sired by the Black and out of Volo Queen. Bonfire is owned by Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and is being driven by Tom Messenger.”

That was all the announcer had to say, but it was enough to cause Phillip Cox to stand again, this time looking directly at Bonfire and Tom Messenger as they passed opposite his box. There was recognition in his eyes; now he well remembered Coronet and Jimmy Creech.

Ray O'Neil turned in his sulky seat, as did Frank Lunceford, to look behind at Bonfire and Tom. They too now remembered Jimmy Creech.

“The field will take two warm-up scores, then go behind the mobile starting gate,” the announcer said.

Nervously, Tom turned Bonfire to go down the stretch for their first score. The colt snorted; then bolted. Quickly Tom's hands moved down the lines; there was a shortening of stride as Bonfire obeyed Tom's hands. Angry with himself, Tom settled back in his seat and never looked at the crowd again. This was no more than another fair race, despite the people, lights and glitter. What won at the fairs would win here. But he must give Bonfire his chance. He must make no mistake.

All the way down the stretch. Tom saw and heard only his colt. And when he stopped to turn him back again, he knew that he and Bonfire were ready together.

He was taking the colt past the paddock gate when he saw the commotion there. The guard was struggling with someone, who finally evaded his arms. It was George, and he was halfway to Tom when the guard caught up with him again. But George waved the yellow paper he held in his hand and shouted to Tom,
“Jimmy is all right! He's okay, Tom!”

Tom only had time to wave his hand to indicate he had heard before the guard pulled George away from the track.

All the way back past the grandstand, Tom thought of Jimmy Creech. He'd be a well man now! He'd be himself again!

But the moment Tom turned Bonfire down the track for his second warm-up he forgot Jimmy Creech, forgot everything but the muscles sliding beneath the red coat in front of him.

Back at the mobile starting gate awaiting them at the head of the homestretch, Tom brought Bonfire alongside Princess Guy. He turned to Miss Elsie to smile at her, but the woman never looked at him. She continued her low humming to the black filly. Miss Elsie had word for no one now but Princess Guy. Neither did the gazes of the other drivers waver from their colts. They were ready for the race.

The white limousine was drawn up at the far side of the track and the wings of its gate were closed, allowing the field to go by. When all had passed, the starter motioned his driver to pull out to the center of the track and to open the wings of the gate.

Tom took Bonfire a little farther back than the others, for he was to follow them. Turning the colt around, he saw that the others were all in position and going toward the mobile gate. Nine horses stretched far across the track as they moved down to the barrier. Tom took Bonfire over to the rail, close behind Miss Elsie.

Slowly the limousine started moving and the horses followed the gate.

“Easy! Easy!” the starter called to the field. “Slow down! You're all coming too fast!”

And they were, Tom saw. All the horses in the line ahead were pushing their noses close to the gate. Each driver was anxious to get away. They were going to fight for the lead—all of them!