The Black Stallion's Sulky Colt (2 page)

Alec studied the rest of Bonfire, noting the long legs, chest and hindquarters which, like the head, had been inherited from the Black. But there was no doubt that Bonfire had got his neck from his dam. It was shorter and more muscular than his sire's. Alec remembered Volo Queen well. He had taken care of her during the three months she had been at the farm.

Bonfire's rapidly moving eyes were on him. Alec raised a hand to pat the wet forehead but suddenly the groom's smooth, hairless skull was between him and the colt.

“What do you want?” The old man shifted a plug of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. “I asked you that before.”

“Sorry,” Alec said. “I didn't hear you. I was looking at your colt.”

“I know that. Step back now. I can't work with you in my way.”

Alec stepped out of the stall.

“What'd you say you wanted?” the old man asked again. Before Alec could answer, the man moved to the side of the colt and spoke to the boy wearing racing silks. “What do you think, Tom? Did he hit his knee going that last trip?”

The boy bent low beside Bonfire's left foreleg. “No, George, but I was worried he had,” he said in a husky voice. As he stood up, the loose red-and-white
racing jacket made his tall, gaunt body look heavier than it was. He turned to Alec questioningly.

“I'm Alec Ramsay. I own the Black,” Alec explained. “I wanted to meet you and see this colt.”

“Oh,” the boy said, “I've read a lot about you. George,” turning to the old man, “this fellow owns Bonfire's sire. He's a race-rider.”

“That ain't racin',” George said disinterestedly. “You got to sit behind 'em to race. Get the sheet on him now, Tom.”

Alec smiled and rubbed the colt's head. His name meant nothing to George. Neither did the Black, except as the sire of Bonfire. The old man was far removed from the world in which Alec and the Black lived and raced. “Jimmy Creech wrote to look you up,” he said.

George and Tom stopped working then.

“He did? Why?” Tom Messenger asked, concern in his eyes.

“Nothing special,” Alec assured him. “My partner at the farm, Henry Dailey, got a letter from him. Jimmy just mentioned that you were at Roosevelt Raceway and to look you up. I guess he figured we'd be interested in seeing Bonfire race.”

Seemingly relieved, George and Tom went on with their work.

Alec didn't mind their abruptness. After all, he had come only to see this colt by the Black. Yet he would have liked to have asked them why Bonfire had been worked so short a time before his race. Perhaps later they'd tell him. He turned away from Bonfire and looked over the other horses in the second race. They too were breathing heavily and were covered.

George came out of the stall. “Tom, where'd I put those wire cutters I brought over from the barn? I want to fix that wheel spoke.”

“In your pocket, George.”

“Oh, yeah.” George spat tobacco juice on the ground and took the wire cutters from his pocket.

Alec waited until George had fixed the sulky wheel. Then he said, “Don't you find that it hurts your horses to stand them in their stalls while they're hot?”

George entered the stall and pulled Bonfire's blanket up on his wet neck. “That's the way it's done,” he said abruptly.

Tom, who was again down beside the colt's right foreleg, looked up, studying Alec for a second; then he too turned back to Bonfire.

Alec said nothing more, although such a practice was contrary to everything Henry had taught him. The rule was that you could not
stand
hot horses without doing harm to their muscles. Yet here they were doing just that.

Alec talked to Bonfire and the colt's ears pricked forward, almost touching at the tips. Occasionally George and Tom stopped their work to listen to Alec.

The sky was now dark but the great lights made Roosevelt Raceway as bright as day. The mammoth stands had filled and the crowd was waiting. Suddenly a bell in the paddock sounded, calling the horses in the first race to the post. At the end of the row Alec saw eight horses, pulling light racing sulkies, file onto the track. The drivers slid into their seats, taking up the long lines as grooms stepped away from their charges.

Alec, who had never before seen a harness race at
a night track, would have liked to watch the race. But he was more interested in Bonfire, so he remained in the stall with George and Tom.

When the paddock judge came down the row, Alec stepped closer to Bonfire. He knew he would be told to leave if he was asked for his paddock pass and couldn't produce one. Suddenly a cloth was placed in his hand.

George said, “Start workin' if you want to stay here. Get his legs.”

Alec bent quickly and ran the cloth down Bonfire's forelegs. The official stopped outside the stall for a moment and then walked on.

“Thanks,” Alec said. He couldn't see George, who was on the other side of the colt. “I
did
want to stay.”

“Get his hind legs too,” George ordered.

Tom Messenger watched but said nothing.

Alec felt a lot easier about being there. He'd been surprised by the unexpected assistance from George. Perhaps his mentioning Jimmy Creech was responsible for the old man's acceptance of his interest in Bonfire.

Alec heard the sound of a car's engine and the beat of many hoofs. The mobile starting gate was in motion and the horses were coming down the stretch for the beginning of the first race. The stands were still. Slowly the car's engine mounted to a high-pitched roar, silencing the hoofs behind it. Suddenly the noise of the engine died and only the rapid beat of hoofs and the cries of the drivers could be heard from the track. The stands came to life, a swelling sea of clamor, but above all else rose the voice of the announcer as he called the positions of the horses rounding the first turn.

Tom went to the front of the stall and looked out in the direction of the stands and the track. His long, thin face was very grave for one so young, Alec noticed. And his eyes held a troubled brightness.

George went up and stood beside Tom. “Whyn't you take an aspirin?” he asked kindly.

“It wouldn't help me any now,” Tom answered, turning away and going back to work on Bonfire.

George said, “Then stop thinking of this as more than what it is, just another race.”

Alec couldn't see Tom but he heard him say almost in a whisper, “You know what Jimmy expects from us.”

“I know what he expects all right,” the old man answered. “But you and the colt can't do more'n your best. Like you been doin' at the fairs. This ain't no different except that it's night instead of day. Look at it that way an' you'll be all right.”

“I just don't want to let Jimmy down, not now,” the boy said in the same low voice.

“You won't, and the colt won't either,” George answered.

Alec looked at the old man standing beside him. George's expression belied the confidence of his words. He was worried too.

The paddock judge moved down their row. “Hook 'em up, boys,” he called. “You're next. Be ready to go in three minutes.”

George led Bonfire from the stall and backed him between the shafts of the waiting sulky. He glanced at Alec in surprise as though he'd forgotten that he was
there. Then he said, “You'd better look busy if you're stickin' around.”

Working in silence, they drew the harness leather tight around the shafts. Tom took up the long lines. Finally George led Bonfire down the row while Tom and Alec walked beside the sulky.

Alec noticed that the strange brightness in Tom's eyes was greater than before. And his big hands were trembling, telegraphing his nervousness down the lines to his colt. This was the reason for Bonfire's tossing head and the wetness that was showing on his red body.

Alec understood Tom's nervousness, for often he had felt the same way before a race. Tom would be all right once he got into the sulky and the colt stepped onto the track. He'd calm down then and so would Bonfire.

The bugle call to the post came over the public-address system and the paddock gate was opened. The first horse stepped onto the track.

Tom slid into his seat behind the blood bay colt. “Okay, George,” he said. “Let him go.”

The old man stepped away from Bonfire's head. “Luck, Tom,” he said.

“Thanks, George.” Tom nodded as Alec too wished him good luck. He tried to grin but it didn't come off.

Alec followed George to the wooden bench just inside the track rail where other caretakers were sitting. From here he would be very close to Bonfire.

Alec said, “Don't worry about Tom. I'm sure he's okay now.”

“I'm not so sure at all,” the old man answered. “He's overanxious. He's been that way all week. It's taken a lot out of him. He's apt to do 'most anything in this race.”

Alec said nothing more for over the public-address system came the introductions.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “parading up the track now are the horses in the second race on your program. This is a stake race for three-year-olds who are eligible for the world-famed Hambletonian to be raced at Goshen, New York, on August seventh. This is an important preparatory race for that great classic, ladies and gentlemen, and from this field of fine colts may come the one who is destined to go down in harness-racing history as this year's winner of the Hambletonian. So watch them well.

“Number one is Lively Man, a roan colt by Titan Hanover out of Blue Maid. He is owned by Mr. Richard Frecon of New York City and is being driven by Fred Ringo. Number two is Silver Knight, a gray colt by Volomite out of Gray Dream. He is owned by Mr. Peter Conover of Venice, Florida, and is being driven by Ray O'Neil. Number three is Victory Boy, a brown colt …”

Alec watched the line of horses in parade, their glossy coats shining under the bright lights. All this was a far cry from the harness races he had seen at fairs. Here were no crowded midways with spinning Ferris wheels, no prize poultry and livestock to compete with the racehorse for the attention of the crowd. Here the racehorse alone was the attraction. A yellow crescent moon hung low in the night sky, while beneath it was
the red glow of city lights. It was a beautiful setting for a race.

Alec turned around and looked back at the stands. Most of the people there had come from New York and adjacent suburban towns and cities. Probably few of them ever had the opportunity to see harness racing at the fairs. So it was at this raceway that they had become familiar with the sport and had learned to love it, making it what it was tonight.

The announcer had come to the last horse in the post parade. “Number eight is Bonfire, a blood bay colt by the Black out of Volo Queen. He is owned by Mr. Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and is being driven by Tom Messenger. Bonfire is making his first start at Roosevelt Raceway since winning the Two-Year-Old Championship at this track last September.”

Alec turned to George. “It's a short stretch to the turn. Does Bonfire get away fast?”

The old man kept his eyes on Bonfire and Tom. He didn't answer Alec.

The horses came down the track, taking their two warm-up scores before the start of the race. Bonfire's strides were low, even and effortless, his muscles standing out prominently beneath his wet, glossy coat. He paid no attention to the other colts. He was eager to be turned loose, his every movement disclosed it. Alec knew that Bonfire was a son worthy of the Black, and he watched him with great pride.

“What does he have to beat in this race?” he asked.

“All of 'em,” George muttered.

Alec smiled. “I know, but any
one
in particular?”

“All of 'em,” George repeated, his eyes never
leaving the colts who were now going behind the long, open limousine at the far turn.

The announcer said, “The horses have reached the mobile gate and are now in the hands of the starter.”

The barrier wings of the limousine stretched across the track. Alec could see the starter standing in the back of the car, talking through a microphone to the drivers and getting them into their post positions. Bonfire was on the far outside and had his head close to the barrier. The car increased its speed coming down the stretch and the horses came along behind it. They neared the start. Suddenly the lights in the great stands dimmed. The car pulled away quickly to the outside of the track, its barrier wings folded. The brilliantly lighted track was the stage. The race was on!

Alec jumped to his feet as the horses came toward the first turn. George pulled him roughly down again so he could see. Bonfire was moving fast in an all-out drive. Alec heard Tom Messenger's voice raised above those of the other drivers, and he knew that Tom intended to get Bonfire out in front by the turn.

The moving line of surging horses and sulkies held; then there was a sudden merging of colored silks as the drivers bunched going into the turn. Tom had Bonfire out in front but not far enough to cut in safely in front of the others. Gleaming, silvery-spoked wheels spun crazily taking the heavy strain of the turn. Tom kept Bonfire on the outside as though determined to get far enough ahead to move safely over to the rail.

George's head was shaking miserably and he mumbled, “I knew it. I knew it. He's trying too hard. He'll knock the colt out.”

Alec heard him but said nothing. All around the turn Tom kept Bonfire on the far outside, fighting for the lead. But for every two strides Bonfire took, the colts near the rail took only one without losing ground to him. Alec knew what racing on the outside meant to any horse, especially a young colt. Tom was sacrificing Bonfire's stamina in his determination to get out in front so early. The horses in this race were much too fast to be given such an advantage. They were holding their positions, and making Bonfire go the race of his life to get ahead of them from the outside.