The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (3 page)

The boy reread the letter several times before folding it and putting it away. There were an awful lot of things to remember, he thought. And they came so easily to Jimmy Creech.

Tom turned to the Queen. “But I'm going to watch you every minute, and I'm going to have a veterinary there when your foal comes. I'm not going to take any chance trying to get a veterinary
after
complications set in. Jimmy says to use my own judgment, and that's just what I'm going to do.”

The truck had reached the valley, and Tom directed the driver up a side road. They had gone only a short distance when Tom told the man to stop before a dirt lane entering the woods on the left.

“I'll lead her up from here,” the boy said. “It's a bad road and bumpy. It wouldn't do her any good to ride it.”

“Just as you say,” the driver returned. “Guess this is as good a spot as any we'll find.” Putting the truck in reverse, he backed up to the low embankment on the side of the road.

The Queen's ears pitched forward as the back gate of the truck was let down.

“Steady, girl,” Tom said, holding her by the halter.

The driver walked up the backdrop. “Steeper than I thought it would be,” he said. “You'd better take her down. I got her here. She's your responsibility from now on. If she breaks a leg, I want no part of it.”

Tom looked at him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “She's my responsibility now, all right.” Then he turned to the job ahead of him.

The Queen hesitated as Tom led her to the backdrop. Patiently Tom waited, talking to her all the time. It wasn't too steep or he wouldn't be taking her down. The Queen could get down all right. He brought her forward until her forefeet were on the board; then he stopped again, talking to her. His grip tightened about the halter, steadying her. “Now, Queen,” he said softly.

The mare followed him down, her haunches tucked beneath her. But as she neared the end of the backdrop she let herself go and jumped down to the embankment. Seeking the grass, she thrust her head down, pulling away from Tom. He let her alone, knowing she was all right now. But he took the lead rope from his pocket and snapped the clip to the mare's halter.

“I'll be getting along now,” the driver said.

“How about the blanket and the hood?” Tom asked.

“Jimmy said to keep them here with you. I'll be coming back for her in September. We can use them on the return trip.” The driver walked to the cab of the truck. “So long,” he said.

“So long.”

Tom allowed the Queen to graze until long after the truck had disappeared down the road. Finally, taking her by the halter, he said, “Let's go, girl.”

She walked quickly beside him as he led her up the lane, and Tom carefully avoided the sharp rocks for he knew the mare was shoeless. And when his eyes left the road ahead, they would turn always to the Queen. He was alone with her now. She was his responsibility, just as the driver had said. Jimmy Creech wasn't around; neither was George. It frightened him a little, having all this responsibility. Yet it was what he had wanted. He had wanted to take care of the Queen all by himself. He had wanted to help bring her foal into the world. And even though he was a little frightened just now, things would work out all right. He felt sure they would. Jimmy said he had good judgment, and Jimmy should know.

The Queen shied nervously around a branch lying in the lane. Tom held her, talking all the while. She was easy to handle. They didn't come any gentler than the Queen. Here he was, walking beside the Queen. All anyone had to do was to look in any book on harness racing and he'd find the Queen's name there. “Volo Queen,” that's the way the record books had it, “a dark
bay mare by Victor Volo established new track record for two-year-old fillies at the Reading Fair track.”

The Queen hadn't held the record very long before it was broken by a score of others. Jimmy said the Queen had showed potential greatness that day at Reading, and he had expected her to get better and better. But she hadn't. The Queen had never become the great racer Jimmy had thought she would. Close to it, but not quite.

Tom turned to the mare. “Maybe,” he said softly, “you left that for your colt. Maybe you decided that if only one of you were to be great, you wanted him to be the one.”

And he really could be great, Tom thought, he really could. For there just wasn't any mare with better bloodlines than the Queen. She had been bred to the Black, the fastest horse in the world. Yes, he knew the Black was a runner while this colt to come would race at a trot. But Jimmy Creech had said that this wasn't important, for the Black's pedigree showed a preponderance of Arabian blood and such blood was the source of all racing stock in the world today, trotters as well as runners. Jimmy believed that it was necessary to breed back to the Arabian horse whenever possible in order to renew and strengthen the strain. And he had done just this with the Queen. Jimmy's eyes had become two glowing balls of fire as he discussed the potentialities with Tom.

“I gave this mating of the Queen to the Black a lot of thought, Tom. I figured that in the Queen I had 'most everything that any breeder would want to have
in a broodmare. She has a gentle disposition and is easy to handle as you know. She never gets upset about a thing, either on the track or in her stall. Her action is smooth and beautiful to watch. She has the speed …” and then Jimmy Creech had hesitated, “even though all of it never did come out of her. If the Queen lacks one thing, Tom, it's gameness and the drive and will to win. She never extended herself and that's why she never became a champion.” Jimmy Creech had paused before going on. “And that's why I bred her to the Black. I've never seen any horse—runner, trotter or pacer—with the fire and the intense desire to win that he has. I'm hoping he'll pass that on to the Queen's foal. If he does, we'll have a colt which'll be hard to beat.”

A short distance farther on, the woods gave way to cleared fields. To the right lay a long, rambling chicken house in front of which there was a brook that crossed the lane and went winding far into the rolling pasture land.

The boy stopped when they reached the brook. “Look, Queen,” he said, “your new home.” Directly ahead of them, and built on the gradual slope of a hill, was a stone barn with its red roof gleaming in the sun. Before it was a fenced barnyard and below a spacious green lawn leading to a stone house.

The short, stocky figure of an elderly man appeared at one of the stall doors of the barn. Closing the door behind him, he walked across the paddock, his left arm thrust behind him as he bent over slightly.

Tom Messenger waved to him. He knew it was useless to call to Uncle Wilmer, for one had to be very
close and almost shouting before his uncle could hear anything. He was almost stone deaf.

His uncle waited while Tom led the mare into the paddock. Tom saw Uncle Wilmer's narrow lids open slightly, disclosing more of his keen gray eyes.

“Wait'll I get her blanket off,” the boy shouted proudly. “Just wait until you see her.”

The man nodded but said nothing. He held the Queen while Tom removed the hood and blanket.

Finally the boy stepped back, his eyes shining. “How do you like her, Uncle Wilmer?”

But his uncle only said brusquely, “Give her some water, Tom. Give her some water. She's thirsty.”

The light left the boy's eyes as he led the Queen to the trough. “I was going to give her water,” he said, knowing his uncle couldn't hear him. “I only thought you might like to take a look at her.”

When the Queen had finished drinking, she turned to the grass. Tom unsnapped the lead rope and closed the paddock gate.

His uncle stood quietly beside the mare as she grazed, his battered hat sitting ridiculously high on the top of his egg-shaped head. Finally he said, “She's purty big for a fast one. The best ones are smaller. Like the ones Harvey Moorheart's got over at Amityville.”

The boy's face flushed. “She's only fifteen hands,” he shouted angrily. “That's not big.”

“She looks more like a workhorse. I'll bet she'd be good in front of a plow, all right.” The flickering specks of light in his eyes went unnoticed by the boy.

Tom started to say something but stopped.

“You oughta go over and see Harvey Moorheart's
horses,” his uncle was saying. “He's got one, a sorrel gelding, that raced once't at the Allentown Fair. Did purty well, Harvey says.”

“The Queen's got a record of two-o-seven for the mile. There are no horses like her around here,” Tom said proudly.

“What's that?” his uncle asked, cupping an ear.

“Nothing, Uncle Wilmer. Nothing.”

Tom heard his aunt Emma calling, and he turned to look at her as she stood in the doorway of the small house. She was tall and thin, and her gray hair was parted in the center and drawn back to a knot in the back.

“Tom!” she called. “Tell your uncle to bring some wood for the stove. I've been shouting to him for the past fifteen minutes. And come to supper yourself. Everything is ready.”

“But Aunt Emma, the Queen's here!” Tom shouted. “Come and look at her.” But his aunt had disappeared within the house.

I guess I can't expect them to understand
, he thought.
Living on a farm, as they do, they've always taken animals for granted. Neither of them can get excited about having a horse around. Even one like the Queen. They'd never understand if I tried to tell them how valuable she is—or how I feel about her
.

“She's not going to foal for more'n a month,” his uncle said.

“She's going to have it sometime next week or soon after,” Tom said as loudly as he could.

His uncle walked around the mare. “I had mares
around here for fifty years up until last summer,” he said. “I know when a mare is goin' to foal, all right.”

The boy bit his lower lip. “She's going to have it—” He stopped, then shouted, “We've got to get some wood. Supper is ready.”

His uncle heard him, for he followed Tom to the woodshed. They picked up some wood and went across the recently cut lawn to the house. Entering the large kitchen, they placed the wood in the bin beside the stove. Aunt Emma was setting the table when Tom walked up to her.

“Aunt Emma,” he inquired anxiously, “is there a veterinary in town? A good one, I mean.”

Her blue eyes looked as cold as the steel about the rim of her glasses as she said, “A veterinary, Tom? What do you want with a veterinary?”

The boy shifted uneasily upon his feet. “I want him for the Queen.”

“She sick?”

“No, but her foal comes next week.”

“Glory, Tom! You don't need a veterinary. Why, we never had a veterinary for any of the animals when their young 'uns were born. We'd 'a' been in the poor-house long before this if we had. Save your money, Tom. There's no need for you to be callin' a veterinary unless something goes wrong.”

Tom's gaze was steady. “That's just it, Aunt Emma. I don't want to wait until something goes wrong. I want to make sure everything goes right.”

“There's nothing to having a foal, Tom.” His aunt went over to the stove. “Now you go wash up. I'm
putting the food on the table this minute.” She turned around, looking for her husband, and not finding him went to the door, “Wilmer!” she shouted. “WILMER! Tom, please go find that man for me.” Her eyes were on the boy again. “And stop worrying about your mare, Tom. You'd think she was the first mare in the world to have a foal. There's nothing to it, I tell you, nothing.”

Tom left the kitchen. “And nothing's going to stop me from getting a veterinary,” he mumbled. “Nothing. I've got to be sure everything goes right for the Queen's sake.”

Early Monday afternoon of the following week Tom Messenger stood quietly in the veterinarian's office and listened to Doctor Pendergast explain why it was impossible for him to be at the Queen's side when she gave birth to her foal.

The doctor's low-pitched voice droned on while Tom held his gaze, hoping for some hesitancy that would mean a chance the doctor might change his mind. He saw the sympathy and the kindness in the man's earnest eyes, but what he was saying was the same as what the two other veterinarians in town had said.

“Mares, more so than any other of our domestic animals, are very irregular in the length of time they carry their young. The average time for a mare is around eleven months, but I've known some to go as long as twelve months before having their foals. You understand, then, why it would be impossible for me to stand by, waiting.” The doctor smiled kindly before
continuing. “But of course you should keep your mare under close observation all the time, as I'm certain you're doing.”

“I know she'll have it this week,” Tom said, his words coming hard.

The doctor smiled again. “Perhaps you're right. Perhaps she will have her foal this week,” he said softly. “But it's just as impossible for me to stay close beside your mare for a week as it would be to stay there a month.” He patted Tom on the shoulder. “There's really not much to worry about, young man. Why, I've known mares to have their foals while at work in the field. And I've known some of them to go back to work immediately afterward!”

“But this isn't a workhorse,” Tom said, a little angry. “She's a very valuable horse, Doctor. I can't take a chance on something going wrong.”

The veterinarian walked back to his desk. “I'm sorry,” he said, handing his card to Tom, “but the best I can do is to come as soon as possible after the birth, if you need me. And the chances are that you won't.”

“If I paid you for the whole week would you come now?” Tom asked hesitantly.

Picking up some papers from his desk, the doctor replied brusquely. “It's not the money. It wouldn't be fair to all the farmers who really need me. If you want me after the foal is born, call and I'll get there as soon as I can. If I happen to be out, just leave the message with my wife.”