The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (19 page)

“And maybe we'll even get him to Reading?” Tom asked eagerly. He was thinking of Uncle Wilmer's last letter, in which his uncle had told him how much he wanted to see the colt race next season.

Jimmy removed the bridle from Bonfire's tossing head before saying, “Depends on how much money we have by that time, Tom. Reading is pretty far east.”

George said quickly, “Money problems are my worry, Jimmy. You think only of the colt. Get him ready for us. That's all Tom and I ask.”

Jimmy smiled and turned to Tom again. “You're thinkin' of your Uncle Wilmer seeing him. Is that it, Tom?” And when the boy nodded, Jimmy added, “Then you write and tell him it looks like we'll be there.”

Happier than he'd been in a long, long time, Tom ran the wet sponge quickly over Bonfire's hard body, cleaning his nostrils well and squeezing the water from the sponge until it ran down the colt's face. Bonfire liked that. Things were looking up, Tom thought. Next season would be different, much different, for Jimmy Creech and for all of them.

* * *

Through September and October, life was everything Tom could have asked of it. He drove Bonfire regularly, sharing the colt's workouts with Jimmy. Bonfire was kept at his jogging, and as much as Tom and Jimmy, too, wanted to put the watch on him they resisted the temptation in the best interests of the colt and spent their time building up his stamina and staying power. Bonfire thrived on the work. His body became very strong and hard, his legs even more developed.

Occasionally, perhaps once a week, Jimmy let Tom sprint the colt for very short distances of no more than two hundred yards. Tom opened him up only a little, but each time the effect upon the boy was that he was being picked up and hurled forward by some unseen force from behind; yet he knew this power and fairly dizzy speed was directly ahead of him.

Jimmy said, “He's got more sprinting snap than any horse I've ever seen. If he can carry it through he'll be unbeatable.”

During these weeks Jimmy spent as much time schooling Tom on driving technique as he did with the colt.

“You got the hands. We know that, Tom,” he said. “An' you got strong arms and a good back. They're natural gifts and more important to you than you realize now.”

“He's got the head, too,” George interrupted, chawing thoughtfully on his tobacco while listening to Jimmy.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed, “as George says, you got the brains and understand horses. The colt, for example, senses how you feel about him. He has complete
confidence in you. He'll make any move you want him to—”

“Tom's got an even temper. Never gets excited,” George interrupted again. “That's important, too, for any driver to have. Jimmy knows that.”

Jimmy looked at George, but his friend's gaze was turned away. “Yes,” Jimmy said, “George is right. You got to keep cool in a race. That way your judgment is better and you think faster when you get in a tight spot. Knowing how to handle yourself and your horse in races is an art in itself, Tom. It only comes after years and years of racing experience. But I aim to tell you all I can just in case—” Jimmy stopped talking.

“Just in case what, Jimmy?” Tom asked with concern.

“Just in case nothing,” Jimmy said. “I only meant there's no sense takin' what I know to the grave with me.” He laughed. “We all have to die someday. And like George says, ‘We're old fogies.' So I just plan to start telling you what I know now. As I said, it'll take a long time anyway, Tom.”

And that's the way Jimmy Creech had left it. Tom thought from what Jimmy had said about dying that maybe he was feeling worse. But in the weeks that followed Jimmy looked better than ever and had only one bad attack. It happened early in November, after Jimmy read the story of the Yearling Fall Sales held at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

His face became livid with rage, and he threw the copy of
Hoof Beats
hard against the table of the tack room.

“Forty-eight thousand dollars for a yearling!” he
bellowed, walking up and down the room. “Where do they get that kind of money?”

George tried to quiet him, but Jimmy pushed him out of the way; then he picked up the magazine.

“Listen to this, Tom,” he shouted, his voice shaking in his fury. “ ‘An all-time record for the Harrisburg sales was set when the gray colt Silver Knight was sold at auction for forty-eight thousand dollars. Spirited bidding lasting more than two hours ended with the successful bid of Phillip Cox, wealthy Pittsburgh clothing manufacturer.' ”

Jimmy stopped reading and turned savagely to the boy. “You think Phillip Cox bought that colt, Tom? Well, he didn't! The Phillip Cox Clothing Company bought Silver Knight!”

George said quietly, “But maybe this Phillip Cox likes horses.”

Jimmy paid no attention to him. “This guy Cox knows nothing about horses, Tom,” he went on shouting, “and maybe he likes 'em less. Silver Knight will be expected to publicize the Cox Clothing Company. I can just see the company name on his blanket every time he sets a hoof near where people are watching. He'll just be another name on the company payroll—publicity, advertising, that's all it amounts to! Just like last year the Cox Clothing Company had a group of midget auto racers and the year before racing motor boats. I read about all of them! I know! And now this year it's horses. But we won't see 'em at the fairs, Tom. Don't worry about that! The Cox Clothing Company will race its horses at the night raceways where there are lots more people to see its name … and where
they'll get a lot more publicity. Big business, that's harness racing today, Tom. Everybody, just
everybody
, is climbing aboard!” Only then did Jimmy's voice soften as he sat down wearily in his chair. “And it might be the end of a grand, wonderful sport, Tom; it might, if we can't some day get it back to the fairs, where harness racing belongs.”

That night Jimmy had his bad attack, and he stayed at home resting the remainder of the week while Tom worked the blood bay colt.

While Jimmy was home in bed, George told Tom, “I know Jimmy must sound awfully bitter to you. He's sick, but y'got to remember he's sincere about 'most everything he says. He's sick to his stomach with that ulcer an' sick to his head when he realizes what's happening to his sport—
our
sport,” George added quietly.

It was early morning and they were cleaning Bonfire after a long workout. “Wipe his nostrils clean, Tom,” George said. Going to the colt's tail and lifting it, he sponged the sweated hindlegs.

Tom was working on Bonfire's small head and couldn't see George. But the man's voice came easily to him.

“You got to remember, too, Tom,” George went on, “that Jimmy and I were brought up in the old days. To sit behind a fast horse and to set out for town in a buggy was like some guy today ridin' around in a blue convertible. On the way to town, we'd never let anyone pass us—not if we could help it. That's how harness
racin' started, just tryin' to get to town with your horse before another guy. We lived for our horses and we still do, Jimmy 'specially. I don't do anything but help him. But I understand all right how Jimmy feels.”

Tom ran his sponge down Bonfire's neck, and now he could see George. The colt's tail was hanging over the man's bald, bared head while he went on cleaning the horse.

“I guess I'm jus' more adaptable than Jimmy is,” George continued thoughtfully. “Maybe you can call it that. Anyway, what I mean is I seem to be able to accept a lot of things that Jimmy can't. He's too mad to accept any change in harness racing. Lots of what Jimmy Creech says about night racing, the raceways an' even the Philip Cox Clothing Company may be true. Don't you forget that,” he added emphatically.

“But there are other things Jimmy should remember, an' he won't. The way I see it, harness racin' has to have its progress jus' like everything else in this world today. It's getting big because a lot of new folks are learning what a grand sport it is. You wouldn't have raceways if a lot of people didn't want to see our horses go. Our sport don't belong only to the farmer and country folks—not no more, it don't. City people who never saw a fair now can watch our horses go at a raceway track … and that's good in many ways. But Jimmy can't see it. Not for the life of him, he can't.”

George came around to the other side of the colt and looked over Bonfire's back at Tom. He took a chew of tobacco before continuing.

“It's good because it means that a lot more people all over the country are becoming interested in our
sport. It means bigger purses than you'll ever get at most fairs. Jimmy in his best years at the fairs never made much more than enough to pay his feed bills and have a little left over. An' that's not right, Tom. Jimmy says it's all sport with him and that's the only way it should be. But I say it's his lifework too, an' he should have more to show for it after fifty years of it than he does.” George's voice rose so high that he swallowed a little tobacco juice. He coughed and then was quiet for a moment while Tom threw the white cooling blanket over Bonfire.

George followed when the boy led Bonfire outside into the cool November morning. While they walked the colt, George continued.

“And don't forget, Tom, that with more people interested in our sport it means more and better horses, too, because the competition is a lot keener than it was, and that always means improvement. But it doesn't mean,” he added quickly, “that the little guy like Jimmy Creech is bein' shoved out of the picture. With Jimmy's horse sense he's got just as much chance of breeding a champion as any guy with money to burn. Look at Bonfire—there's your answer to that. An' look at Miss Elsie, with all her money, just waitin' and waitin' year after year for the good colt she wants.”

They turned Bonfire around at the end of the row and walked him back again.

“Maybe this Phillip Cox won't do anything with that forty-eight-thousand-dollar yearling, either,” George said. “An' then again maybe he will. It's a gamble for him jus' like it is for the rest of us—Miss Elsie, Jimmy and hundreds of others—whether we're gettin' ready for the
raceways or the fairs. You jus' never know when the good colt will come along.”

George seemed to have finished, so Tom spoke for the first time. “But do you think Jimmy is right about what he said of this Phillip Cox, that he'll only use Silver Knight to publicize his clothing company?”

“Maybe so, maybe not, Tom. Maybe Jimmy's only half right. Phillip Cox may like horses all right an' just figures that if Silver Knight comes along and races well he'll get a little extra publicity for his company. I don't know. After all, Silver Knight might not even get to the races. A lot of high-priced yearlings don't.”

“I know, George,” Tom said thoughtfully. “But I certainly agree with Jimmy that a person should be in this sport because he loves it and not because his company might get some free advertising out of it.”

“I do, too, Tom, and I'm hopin' with Jimmy Creech that folks don't lose track of the fairs with all this new popularity of the night raceways.” George paused, then said with deep sincerity, “I only wish more people would come to our fairs. They'd get the feel of the horses then just as we do. You can't get that feelin' at any night raceway.”

“How do you know, George? Have you ever been to a night raceway?”

“No, but I know it's not the same as watching 'em go at a fair. I just know it.”

When Jimmy returned to the track the following week, he looked a little pale but was in better spirits than Tom thought he'd be. That was Jimmy, all right, just as George said—up one moment, down the next. Jimmy
never mentioned Phillip Cox and his high-priced gray yearling; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten all about them. Besides, there were other yearlings to think about now. He watched Miss Elsie work her black filly faster and harder.

“She's it for Miss Elsie, all right,” he told Tom. “Miss Elsie can turn that filly off an' on just like you do with the colt. But they're different. That filly don't even seem to be trying, but she's flyin', Tom. While with our colt—”

“He just makes you dizzy watching him,” Tom finished for Jimmy. “You know something is happening when he sprints.”

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, that's what I mean. Two different kinds of yearlings to watch, but each havin' a world of speed.” He stopped, then added, “But Miss Elsie is bringing her filly along fast—too fast for me. I like to give them more time to grow than Miss Elsie does.”

During the rest of November, Jimmy redoubled his efforts to teach Tom everything he could about driving in a race. Tom listened long and hard to Jimmy's instructions, and when he was alone with Bonfire, either in the stable or on the track, he went over and over all the lessons Jimmy was teaching him. There was a lot to learn, too much to absorb even in a few months or a few years. As Jimmy said, “It takes long years of practice and experience, Tom. Even I'm still learning. Something new is always coming up when you're in a tight spot.”

But there were fundamental lessons, and these Tom concentrated upon and learned quickly, for they
were based on natural instinct and knowing your horse. His skill in handling the lines behind Bonfire increased under Jimmy's careful eye. His hands, wrists, arms and back developed and were strong. He learned to rate the colt's speed, taking him a quarter of a mile in the time Jimmy wanted; and never did he carry a stopwatch. He listened long to Jimmy's talks on track strategy during a race, and when he was alone with Bonfire on the track he pictured other horses racing against them. With the colt only jogging, he visualized all kinds of tight racing situations and then tried to get out of them. He took his colt up behind the imaginary lead horse, yet kept his eye warily on those coming up behind. And when he knew he might be pocketed by them, he pulled Bonfire out and made his drive for the wire. There were times when he let the colt set the pace and other times when he came up from behind and around. In his mind, he tried everything Jimmy told him he might expect in a race; and he repeated them over and over again until he was racing Bonfire even while he slept.