Man O'War (38 page)

Danny felt the tremendous pull of Man o' War at the end of the reins; his arms were already beginning to ache from holding him back. That Man o' War would respond to his rider's wishes did not mean that he wasn't constantly asking to be turned loose! It took strong and experienced hands and arms to keep the reins snug and to let Man o' War know what was wanted of him.

To relieve the strain on his arms, Danny finally had to loosen his hold. There was sudden movement beneath him as Man o' War immediately lengthened stride. The track rail became only a blur and Danny's eyes were dimmed by the rush of the wind. All he could see now was the heavy red mane sweeping against his face, stinging his flesh.

Going into the long backstretch, he took up rein again, wondering if his strength would last so he could continue to control this powerful horse. His snug hold became a tight one. Pain stabbed muscles that never had been used for such a task before. Then a growing numbness came to his arms and Danny knew this would be followed by a general weakening.

“Easy … easy, Red,” he said, his voice, too, weakening beneath the mounting strain.

Man o' War's ears flicked back just once, as if perhaps he was listening to him. But the reins slipped still more in Danny's hands and the big colt thundered on!

The iron bit was hard against the bars on his mouth, and Danny no longer had the strength to hold him back. The furlong poles whipped by, and Danny realized that Man o' War was now running as he had always wanted to run. His incredible speed mounted as he began digging into the track still more.

Danny kept the hold he had on him, but lowered his own head, pressing it close to Man o' War's neck. This was not the way he had wanted it to be, but there was nothing he could do. The mistake he had made was in taking Man o' War out on the track at all. All he could hope for now was that his colt was strong enough and sound enough to run all-out without injury.

Faster and faster went Man o' War, running for the sheer love of running. Danny couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but the pumping of giant muscles beneath him and the
thumping of his own heart. Whatever might come, he would never in his life forget this ride! He had no trouble keeping his balance. There were no other horses, no crowding, no slamming of riders and their mounts, as there would have been in a race. Just himself and Man o' War, and suddenly they were not even of this world!

His hold on the reins slackened still more. There was no rail, no stands, no track … nothing but a flying horse whose hoofs barely touched the ground before coming up again. He knew, by the leaning of Man o' War's body to the left, that they were going around the far turn, and he bent in the same direction with his mount.

Straightening out into the homestretch, Danny found his hands being pulled forward still more. He didn't know if they had lost their strength completely or if he had done it willingly. All he realized was that his hold on Man o' War wasn't strong enough to make the big colt shake his head. Man o' War was running free!

There was no roar from the stands to greet him as he came down the stretch like scorching flame. Only the emptiness of the stands and track welcomed the rapid beat of his hoofs. It made no difference to him or to the boy on his back. He streaked through the night, went past the finish pole, and swept toward the first turn again.

Only then did Danny slip back in his saddle and try to take hold of Man o' War. Ignoring the shooting pains in his arms, he pulled back and prayed that his strength would last until he stopped the colt. For a few seconds his only response was a vigorous shaking of Man o' War's head. But the colt, too, was tiring and Danny succeeded in shortening the reins still more. He eased him over closer to the rail to slow him down, and by the time they had completed the turn he had him in a gallop.

Somewhere in the backstretch he brought him to a stop and straightened in the saddle. He looked around. All was still except for his own heavy breathing. Quickly he slipped from the saddle to walk Man o' War and watch every step he made. There was no lameness, no misstep. It would take several hours before he could be certain there was no injury. But the outlook was good, and he had the rest of the night before him … and all his life to remember.

Together they walked around the track, lost in darkness.

The big man stirred on the couch, turning to look at the portrait of Man o' War hanging over the entrance to the racetrack restaurant. No, the colt hadn't hurt himself that night, some thirty-nine years ago. In fact, Man o' War had lived to a ripe old age for a horse, being thirty years old when he died. That was comparable to a spry old gentleman in his late eighties.

The man roused himself as a cumbersome bear might have done after a long winter's rest. At fifty-seven he didn't feel exactly young himself these days. Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to recall those years so long ago. He leaned back, his giant frame slumped in the luxurious couch like a bulging sack of grain. Usually he wasn't one to go back, reliving the memories of his youth. It never worked. A man had to look ahead always, regardless of his age, and he wasn't yet ready to be turned out to pasture.

He leaned forward, preparing to get up. His hands dwarfed the arm of the couch, his long fingers, blunt and square at the tips, curled over the edge. Pulling himself upright, he stood still a moment, his gaze on the portrait on the wall.

He had never set the world on fire as Man o' War had done. But Man o' War had had a great influence on him. He had given him a goal and taught him the value of courage and heart. To learn that in one's youth was pretty important.

Music from the track band reached him through the open doors, and for a moment he listened to the medley of Irish airs being played. When the music came to an end, he realized that the applause from the crowd was not as hearty as it should have been. That meant the day's races were well under way, for the fans' enthusiasm for band music always diminished as the afternoon wore on. He must have been sitting here a long, long time.

Turning on his heels, he looked back into the luxurious restaurant. It was jammed with diners, so he decided there was still a while before the feature race. That was good, because he didn't like to hurry at his age.

From far across the restaurant a man sitting alone at a table beckoned to him. He waved back and strode toward the velvet rope that “protected” the diners of the exclusive Man o' War Room.

The headwaiter quickly unfastened the rope. “Would you like a table, Mr. Ryan?”

“No thanks, George,” he answered. “There's an old friend over there I want to see.” He paused. “What race is it, anyway? I seem to have lost track.”

“The fifth is coming up,” the headwaiter replied, smiling. “Then comes the Man o' War Handicap.” His eyes searched the other's. “You saw
him
race, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Danny Ryan said, moving on.

The waiters, splendid in new uniforms that matched the brilliant decor of the Man o' War Room, nodded to him as he made his way around the tables and came to a stop before one by the window.

Louis Feustel was very gray now and carried a lot more weight than he had in the old days. But his eyes were as keen and alert as ever.

“Sit down, Danny,” Feustel said. “It's good seeing you again. It's been a couple of years now. Santa Anita was the last time, wasn't it?”

Danny Ryan nodded, easing his heavy frame into the fragile dining chair. “You still in California, Louis?”

“Yes. Just came east for the race. Aqueduct is picking up the tab. Sort of a promotion deal for the first Man o' War Handicap. Ex-trainer stuff. You know how it goes.”

Danny said, “Yeah, I know.” His eyes were on the other's full plate. “You're eating well,” he added, smiling.

“Why not? There's nothing like broiled shrimp in wine for an appetizer. I could eat it every day. And this Dover sole amandine is great for the waistline.” Feustel hit his stomach with the flat of his hand. “I think I'll even have fresh strawberries for dessert.”

“Fine,” Danny said. “You've earned all of it.”

The other's eyes sobered. “So have you, Danny,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, I've got it pretty good at that, Louis. I can't complain.”

“You're a big man, Danny.”

“
Big
is right.” Danny Ryan laughed loudly, and other diners turned in his direction. “I never would have made a race rider even as a kid. You know that, Louis.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” Feustel agreed. “But you used what you knew about him in your career, and that's what is important now.”

“I guess so,” Danny said softly. “I wouldn't be here otherwise, that's for sure.”

“Nor me,” Feustel said. “That's for sure, too.” He paused
to glance at the television sets around the room. It was possible to watch the day's races without ever leaving the restaurant, if one liked. “Things have changed a lot since the old days. Right, Danny?”

“Right,” Danny repeated, his eyes too on a television screen that showed the field going to the post for the fifth race of the afternoon.

“Can you imagine what it would have been like if we'd had television in
his
day?” Feustel asked. “Can't you just see Man o' War moving into living rooms across the nation?”

Danny Ryan nodded. “It would have been something,” he said, looking out the windows to the west. The sun was trying to come out from behind the clouds, so maybe it would be a golden autumn day after all. He could see the panorama of the New York skyline twelve miles away. He noted, too, that the huge parking area near the entrance to the track was jammed and closed. It was a big day, a very big day.

His gaze moved on. Just below, almost in the center of the colorful gardens and landscaped grounds, was a tall green and white pole with a round ball on top. On its sides was painted the figure ⅛.

“Some of the old Aqueduct is still here,” he said quietly. “They call it
his
pole now, the Man o' War Pole, for all to see and few to remember.”

“That's where he caught John P. Grier in the Dwyer,” Feustel said thoughtfully, “an eighth of a mile from the finish. Right at that pole he broke Grier's heart. Maybe it was his greatest race, Danny. Maybe it was.”

Both men continued looking at the pole, both remembering. Finally Danny Ryan said, “I've got work to do.”

Feustel nodded. “Yeah, it won't be long now before the feature. I'll be there, Danny. I'm not watching it on any TV screen.” His eyes turned back to his plate with the Dover sole
amandine still on it. “But it won't be the same,” he added quietly, pushing the food away. “It could never be the same again.”

Danny Ryan didn't hurry across the large room. There were other diners who greeted him, and he stopped often to shake hands agreeably. He found himself enjoying this day even more than he had expected. Somehow, the very breathtaking vastness of this new track provided an air of unreality that seemed to go with Man o' War. He cautioned himself that he must not let his imagination soar with his high spirits. He must remember Man o' War as he really was. His record needed no embellishment.

He saw two women beckoning to him as he was about to leave the room. Reluctantly he moved toward their table. Their faces were familiar but he could not remember their names.

“Was Man o' War
really
a super horse,” the younger of the two asked immediately, “or is it just that, as the years go on, he's become … well, you know, sort of a legend?”

She awaited his answer in open-mouthed wonder, and Danny quickly decided that she was the daughter of one of the track directors. “Man o' War was truly the kind from which dreams are made, miss,” he answered.

“Oh,
that
kind!” she exclaimed.

He looked at her puzzledly until the elderly woman with her said, “And, Cynthia, here's something else you may not know. It was a
woman
, a Miss Daingerfield, I believe”—her eyes shifted to Danny Ryan for confirmation, and he nodded—“who managed Man o' War when he was retired,” she went on glowingly. “And
she
made him as famous a sire as he had been as a racehorse. It took a woman, one of
us
, didn't it, Mr. Ryan?”

He studied her without answering right away. Maybe she
was the wife of one of the other directors. Her clothes were as smart and fashionable as the room's decor; her face as smooth and cared for as the rest of her; and her hair as delicately tinted as any shade of pastel at colorful New Aqueduct. She was far different from the woman he had known at Hinata Stock Farm … the one who had spent her life with horses, who had known Domino, Spendthrift, Kingston, Sysonby, and Colin, to name only a few, before handling Man o' War. A woman who had grown up with great horses and knew how to breed them as well as train them, and whose management of them had been her life. No tinted hair, no smart clothes, but familiar with the most fashionable bloodlines the world had ever known.

Finally he said, “Yes, it took a woman, ma'am. Miss Daingerfield handled Man o' War for ten years, first at her place, Hinata Stock Farm, then at Mr. Riddle's Faraway Farm close by.”

The younger woman had been watching him closely. “Were you with Man o' War then? I mean, when he left the racetrack?”

“Yes, I was.” He turned to her, wondering how much she saw.

“Did you cry? You must have been very young.”

He was caught unprepared by her question, and his gaze shifted uneasily back to the older woman. At his age, he didn't like to talk about crying … that was for kids.

“Did you?” the young woman persisted.

“I … I guess everybody did, a little. We'd shared his triumphs on the track. It was only natural to feel bad that it had come to an end.” He shifted his feet. What was he doing here anyway? He'd better get along.