The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (11 page)

At the gate, Uncle Wilmer came to an abrupt stop. “Look'ut the roan mare, Tom. Just look at her! And that dark bay mare comin' off the track. She could be the Queen!” Excitedly, Uncle Wilmer passed through the gate and made for the rail, where grooms and drivers stood watching the horses as they went through their workouts.

Tom watched while his uncle secured a place at the rail, then he turned toward the stables, where he'd find Jimmy Creech. But he stopped suddenly, looking back
once more at his uncle and then at the man standing next to him. That bald head, unprotected against the sun, and the blue coveralls could belong only to George Snedecker! And if it was George, Jimmy Creech was out on the track working Symbol!

Carefully, Tom made his way around the horses, loving their nearness, and wanting so much to be one of these hardened men who sat so casually and expertly close behind powerful hindquarters. Such men and horses were as much a part of a fair as the cows and steers and chickens—and Aunt Emma's mincemeat pie! It was a life Tom wanted very much to live.

Nearing the rail, he stopped a few feet behind the man he thought to be George Snedecker. Uncle Wilmer had turned to the man and Tom heard him say, “I got a good colt back at my farm, a darn good one. From the looks of him he'll go all right.”

The man turned toward Uncle Wilmer, and Tom saw his face, tanned heavily by the sun. One stride of Tom's long legs took him to the man's shoulder. “And don't you think he's kidding, George!” he said.

George Snedecker threw an arm around Tom, while Uncle Wilmer stood watching them sheepishly. Now George pushed Tom an arm's length away. Shifting his chaw of tobacco, he said, “You put on weight, Tom. You're not such a tall bag of bones any more.”

“My aunt's cooking did it,” Tom said, turning to Uncle Wilmer. “And this is my uncle. He was telling you about
his
colt.”

“Heh?” Uncle Wilmer asked, while George Snedecker clasped his hand.

“Looks like a good many people got an interest in
that colt.” George smiled. “He really looks good to you, Tom?”

“He does to me,” Tom replied. “Wait'll you see him.”

“We're lookin' forward to it,” George said; then he added, “Here's Jimmy comin' around now off the backstretch.”

Uncle Wilmer heard George, for he too turned to look at the track.

Jimmy Creech brought Symbol around the turn at a fast rate of speed.

“He's brushin' him this last quarter,” George said. “Got the watch on him.”

Off the turn came Symbol, his head stretched out, his legs working hard. Jimmy Creech held the reins high, urging Symbol to greater speed. They swept past the paddock rail, past the bleachers, and it wasn't until Symbol had gone by the judges' booth opposite the center of the grandstand that Jimmy moved back in his sulky seat. Tom's eyes had never left them.

“What do you think of Symbol?” George asked.

“Jimmy has done a lot with him, but he's too rough gaited. He works hard but doesn't stretch out. And he'll break when the going gets tough. It's a wonder Jimmy has done as well as he has with him.”

“You sure don't generalize, Tom,” George said. “You never did.” Pausing, he spat his tobacco juice on the ground. “All you say is true about Symbol.”

“Does Jimmy know it?”

“Sure. He knew that the first time he worked him last year. But Symbol takes him to the races and he's
certain of place money here and there. Call it old-age security, if you like.” George smiled.

“But now he has the colt,” Tom said.

“Yep,” George agreed, “and I'm hoping the colt will help Jimmy more than the medicine he's been taking.”

“I thought he was feeling better.”

“He was,” George returned, “up until a few weeks ago, then his stomach started acting up again. Maybe you could call it ‘end-of-the-season jitters.' I don't know. Jimmy calls it indigestion. I don't wonder he's got stomach trouble. Never eats a decent meal during the day; it's always a quick hamburger, hot dog and a bottle of soda pop at a stand. Good hot meals are what he needs as much as anything, I think.”

“I was hoping he'd be feeling well,” Tom said quietly. “Maybe seeing the colt will change things,” he added hopefully.

“Maybe so, Tom. But don't expect too much from him. It takes a long time to understand Jimmy Creech. Took me the fifty years I've known him.” George spat on the ground again. “Looks like it was a mistake comin' to this fair, too. There are too many young fellers like that guy”—George nodded his head toward a man driving a dark chestnut stallion with light mane and tail—“and Jimmy doesn't like those young fellers. He says they take too many chances. That's a laugh, when I think of some of the races Jimmy drove years ago.” He turned to Tom. “But he's sick, Tom, so let's just you and me go along with him and be patient. He'll come out of it.”

Uncle Wilmer touched Tom's arm. “Here comes
Jimmy,” he said and there was a definite note of eagerness in his voice.

Jimmy neared the track gate and as Tom studied the thin, frail body he could tell that Jimmy hadn't gained a pound during the summer. His face was tanned, but there was a strange brightness in his eyes that Tom didn't like. From all appearances it looked as though George was right. He walked to the gate behind George, while Uncle Wilmer followed.

George unhooked the check rein that kept Symbol's head up and shouted to Jimmy, “Here's someone to see you!”

Holding the lines, Jimmy slid from the sulky seat and gripped Tom's outstretched hand warmly. “Good seeing you, Tom,” he said. “Let's get over to the stable where we'll have some quiet.”

Jimmy walked beside Symbol while George led the horse out the paddock gate. And as Tom walked with him he noticed that Jimmy ignored the greetings of many who called to him. That, he knew, wasn't like Jimmy.

Uncle Wilmer was with them and Jimmy had greeted him cordially. On the way to the stables Uncle Wilmer did most of the talking, telling Jimmy of some of the races he had seen at this fair twenty to thirty years ago. Jimmy pushed his soiled red-and-white sulky cap back on his head and listened to Uncle Wilmer while they walked along. Uncle Wilmer needed no more encouragement than that to continue his stories.

Tom's gaze moved over all three of them. They had much in common, he thought, being of the same generation. Physically they were much alike too, except that
Jimmy was small-boned and very thin compared to stocky George and Uncle Wilmer. Temperamentally, though, they were very different. He couldn't imagine anything disturbing George or Uncle Wilmer from their placid, regular way of life. But Jimmy was as highly strung as any colt and his emotions would vary from day to day and from hour to hour.

“Is the colt as good as his picture, Tom?” Jimmy asked suddenly, turning to him.

“Better.” Tom smiled. “And you'll probably see even more in him than I do.”

“I hope so,” Jimmy said, and eager anticipation came to his hazel eyes with the speed of a camera shutter. “I sure hope so. I'd like to have a great one before—” He stopped abruptly and the enthusiasm left his eyes. “If only it didn't take so long.”

“It's not so long, Jimmy,” Tom said earnestly. “A little more than a year from now and we'll be getting him ready to go.”

Jimmy Creech smiled grimly, saying, “Sure, Tom, I know. Maybe we can do it.”

Reaching the stables, they went down the long shed row until they came to Symbol's stall. With all four men working on Symbol, they had his harness off, the sulky put away, and the horse washed in a matter of a few minutes. After Symbol had been walked by George and Tom, they put him in his stall; then they all sat in the chairs and talked.

For a long while Jimmy was cheerful, telling of the fairs where he and George had raced; then Tom noticed that his gaze turned more and more often to the brightly colored awnings set up in front of some of the
other stables, and to the neatly arranged piles of fine blankets, the well-oiled and expensive harness, the water heaters and tack trunks and sulkies and training carts and spare wheels—all freshly painted and expensive. Then Jimmy's gaze would sweep back to their seats in the sun, to his one sulky and little tack; and once he removed his racing cap and looked at it. Tom noticed for the first time how soiled it was.

“Sure getting to be a fancy business,” Jimmy said finally, and there was much bitterness in his voice. Tom and Uncle Wilmer turned to him, but George kept his gaze focused on the ground and chewed his tobacco.

“Look at that van. How'd you like to travel in that, George?” Jimmy indicated a large green-and-white-painted van that had the picture of a horse's head drawn on its side. Beneath it was lettered:
Ray O'Neil's Stables—
ROOSEVELT RACEWAY—
Westbury, Long Island
.

“It wouldn't be much different from riding in Sadie.” George grinned, pointing to the dilapidated Ford horse van that was parked in front of them. “Sadie gets us there. That's all we want.”

“But George, they have sleeping quarters in that one,” Jimmy said sarcastically. “And maybe a kitchen, too.”

“Nothin' wrong with sleepin' in a spare stall,” George replied. “Been good enough for me for a long time now.”

“Yes, but things have changed, George,” Jimmy said even more bitterly. “Harness racing is big-time now. They got night raceways just outside of about every big city. They don't need the fairs no more—or people like us,” he added slowly.

“Cut it, Jimmy,” George said a little angrily.

But Jimmy Creech only turned to Uncle Wilmer and continued, “You wanta know why this guy Ray O'Neil who owns that fancy van came out to Reading Fair this week instead of staying at Roosevelt night raceway?”

Uncle Wilmer pulled his chair closer to Jimmy Creech, his eyes never leaving the man's lips.

“Wanted to get some sun, that's all,” Jimmy said. “That's why he's here.” He laughed loudly. “Take a day off and get some sun at a fair for him and his horses.”

“You're not being square, Jimmy,” George interrupted. “They live one life at night raceways and we live another at the fairs. But it's all harness racing. This Ray O'Neil is a good driver from all I heard. He topped 'em all at the raceways last year.”

“Young squirt,” Jimmy said. “He can't drive. Why, I—” Jimmy's hand went suddenly to his stomach and his face was white beneath the dark tan. It lasted only a few seconds, and when the pain had gone. Jimmy spat the chewing gum out of his mouth and opened another stick of gum. “Indigestion,” he said casually, conscious of the anxious eyes upon him.

“Stop getting yourself all excited about the raceways and guys like Ray O'Neil an' you'll be all right,” George said.

But Uncle Wilmer didn't let the subject drop. “No young feller ever could hold the lines as well as us old-timers,” he told Jimmy. “You're sure right about that. It takes age, and that's what young fellers ain't got. You'll show this Ray O'Neil this afternoon, Jimmy. You'll show him, all right.”

“He'll have his chance,” George said. “O'Neil is in the first race, and that's our race, too.”

“Jimmy'll show him, all right,” Uncle Wilmer said again. “He sure will.”

And it was only then that Tom was able to change the subject. But he was worried about Jimmy, more worried than ever before. Jimmy wasn't in any condition to race.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said over the public-address system. “Welcome to the races at Reading Fair.” Pausing, he waited a moment while the huge throng in the grandstand and bleachers turned its attention to him. “It's another beautiful day and as usual your fair committee has arranged another fine day of racing. We've had some stirring races every day this week and I'm certain today will be no exception. It's two o'clock and the horses are now leaving the paddock for the post parade of the first race on your program.”

While the eyes of the crowd turned to the horses and the drivers dressed in their colorful silks, the announcer continued, “For your information, this race is restricted to horses having won one thousand dollars or more but less than twelve hundred dollars during their racing careers. And now here they come down for the post parade, ladies and gentlemen. Your attention, please, while I introduce horses and drivers according
to post position, reading from the top of your program down. Number one, who will race in the pole position, is Sandy Hanover, a gray horse by Spencer out of Jean Hanover; owned by Mr. Leo Hofeller of Butler, Pennsylvania, and being driven by professional reinsman Roy Moyer. Number two is Princess Holly, a dark bay mare by His Excellency out of …”

The people stopped reading their programs to take a quick look at each horse and driver as he was introduced while filing past the judges' stand. Beyond the stand, the track infield lay green and beautiful in the sun. Across the backstretch of the half-mile track were the red carnival cars of the fair's midway, while high above them circled a Ferris wheel, its silver paint glistening as it caught the sun's rays.

“And in number six position,” the announcer was saying, “is Crusader, a dark chestnut horse by the very famous stallion, Volomite, and out of Lady Luck; owned by Mr. C. H. West of New York City, and driven by the leading driver of the night raceways, Ray O'Neil.

“Number seven, racing on the outside position, is Symbol, a black gelding by Direct Hollyrood and out of Mary K; owned and driven by Mr. Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania.” He paused, while Jimmy Creech, the last in the parade to pass the booth, tipped his red-and-white cap to the crowd. “The horses will take two warm-up scores in front of the grandstand and then face the starter.”