The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (22 page)

“Will we be back for it?”

“Maybe we will … maybe we won't. Depends on how things go.”

“The purse money isn't very much,” Tom said, thinking of Jimmy's need for money. He opened the small blue race program and George leaned over to study it with him.

“Like I told you,” George said, “they never are. Jimmy never got rich racin' at the fairs. Three races today and the purse money we'll be after is the most—one hundred bucks.” His gnarled fingers pointed out the first race; there were four horses listed and the last was “Bonfire … Owner, Jimmy Creech … Driver, Tom Messenger.”

There it was for the first time, and Tom looked hard and long at it before asking, “What do they mean by calling it a classified race?”

“The fair's racin' committee picks horses at the track which they think are about the same speed at this time of year and able to compete on an equal basis,” George replied. “There are no races jus' for two-year-olds
at most of the places we'll be goin', Tom. They'll be classified races jus' like this one is.”

“Then most of the other horses Bonfire will be racing will be older than he is. Is that it, George?”

“That's it, Tom. They'll be older, all right, with most of 'em ‘has-beens' like Symbol was. Too old for real fast competition, so their drivers bring 'em to small fairs like this where they'll have a chance to make some money. Our colt should keep up with 'em, all right, and the racin' committee here knows it, so Bonfire goes in this race.”

George stopped talking to wave to some people coming down the stable row, then he rose to meet them. Tom stayed behind, reading the program.

Their race, he saw, was a two-in-three heat plan. That meant to win first place Bonfire would have to win two out of the three heats, and each heat was a mile long. Tom realized more than ever why Jimmy had insisted that they build up the colt's strength and endurance before going after speed.

His thoughts turned to Jimmy again when he read the way in which the one-hundred-dollar purse would be divided. Fifty dollars would go to the winner, twenty-five dollars would be given to the second horse; fifteen dollars to the third; and ten dollars to the fourth. It wasn't much money, as George had said, but they were certain to make something with only four horses in the race and four prizes. The colt's entry fee had been two percent of the purse—costing them only two dollars of their savings.

Tom knew it would be a long, long time before they could help Jimmy Creech financially if they raced
in small-purse races such as this one. But it was the way it had to be, and Jimmy knew what they were up against.
Anyway
, Tom thought,
today Bonfire and I will be out to take first place and make fifty dollars for Jimmy Creech
.

He looked up from the program to find hundreds of people, practically everyone at the fair, now milling around the stables. Many of them were pushing close to Bonfire's stall; very young children and old men and women were reaching to touch the blood bay colt. Tom rose from his chair.

A man lifted a little girl in his arms so she could pet Bonfire. “He won't bite, will he?” the man asked.

“No … not him,” Tom replied, holding the colt's head still while the little girl moved her small hand up and down Bonfire's face. Finally she touched the braided forelock. “He has a red ribbon just like yours,” Tom told her, “and for the same reason … to keep the hair out of his eyes.”

The little girl giggled and the man laughed as he put her down and lifted another child to Bonfire. The crowd pushed closer and Tom asked them to step back just a little to give the colt some air. They obliged willingly, as though they understood.

A short and very plump lady spoke. “A two-year-old, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Tom said.

“I've always liked blood bays,” she went on. “He's tall for his age. He must be close to sixteen hands.”

“A half-inch short.” Tom smiled. “He's fifteen, three and a half.”

“And he's still growing,” someone in the rear said. “What's his breeding?”

“By the Black and out of Volo Queen.”

There was a deep murmur from the crowd.

“He gets his size from the Black, then,” a lady said. “I saw his picture. He's a giant of a horse.”

“And that head's the Black's too,” a man said. “Broad forehead and long, thin nose. That's him, all right.”

The small, stout woman in front spoke again. “But don't you go forgettin' Volo Queen. That neck's hers, so are the eyes. The Queen could go, all right. I saw Jimmy Creech win with her.”

“That colt belong to Jimmy Creech?” another man asked.

Tom nodded.

“Where's he, then?”

“He's been sick,” Tom said.

“Old Jimmy Creech sick! Why, he ain't missed a fair here in …”

And that's the way it went until Tom sent Bonfire back into his stall for some quiet, and George returned.

“It's gettin' near post time,” George said. “Come on in with Bonfire a minute. I want to tell you something.”

The colt came to them when they entered the stall, and Tom put his hand beneath the white sheet to rub him.

“Far as I can figure it out from talkin' to the other guys, it's this,” George said while cleaning his bared head of sweat with his handkerchief. “Sam Kossler is the only one who should give us trouble. He's got an aged, dark chestnut gelding that's in pretty good shape. Jimmy beat Sam an' that same gelding last year an' the
year before with Symbol. So he shouldn't be much to beat with our colt. But Sam's tricky,” George added cautiously. “He won't pull no rough stuff, but he's smart. He's been drivin' as many years as Jimmy. So he knows what it's all about. You're drivin' against another Jimmy Creech, Tom, when you race against Sam Kossler. And that same thing goes pretty much for the others in the race an' maybe for all the rest of the season. We meet old-timers where we go. So be on your toes, today and every day you go out.”

Tom nodded; and at that moment they heard a loud clap of thunder. They looked out the stall to find that the sun had been blanketed by heavy clouds.

“I was afraid they'd move over this way,” George said.

Then the rain fell heavily; people hurriedly sought shelter beneath the eaves of the stable sheds and the roof of the grandstand.

“Will they call off the race, George?”

“They will if the rain keeps up.”

After a few minutes, the downpour stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Once again the lone group of clouds in a blue sky moved away and the sun shone brightly again. The people left their shelters and the fair was on.

“This sun will dry the track out enough, Tom,” George said. “We'll be racin'.”

A man came toward their stall, and Tom recognized the fair's race secretary. Handing a letter to Tom, he said, “It's from Jimmy Creech, special delivery. Thought I'd better get it to you. Know how worried you and George are about him.”

While Bonfire nuzzled his neck, Tom opened the letter and held it to one side for George to read with him.

And Tom and George knew that Jimmy Creech meant every word he'd written. His horses always came before he did. They always had and always would.

“Let's hook Bonfire up, Tom,” George said quietly. We've got eight minutes before race time.”

There were more people all around the rail of the half-mile track and standing on the hill close behind it than there were in the wooden grandstand, where admission was charged. The public-address system wasn't working properly, and the announcer's voice would fade, then shrill loudly as he introduced the four horses in the post parade for the first race.

But when the announcer said, “Number four in the outside position is Bonfire, a two-year-old colt racing
for the first time on any track. Owned by Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania. Driven by Tom Messenger, who, like his colt, is racing for the first time,” Tom's face flushed and his heart pounded crazily. He was here behind Bonfire;
it was happening … he was here!
And while he talked to the blood bay colt through the lines, he saw the much-too-short sleeves of Jimmy's racing silks—the silks he wore for Jimmy Creech. Jimmy Creech was here … every move Tom made, even to the slightly bent shoulders, was Jimmy's.

He warmed Bonfire up before the grandstand, loosening the colt's strong body. Only once did his eyes leave his colt for the others; the three men were as old as Jimmy Creech and like Tom were unsmiling now that the race was at hand. He picked out Sam Kossler from the others only because he drove the dark chestnut gelding and was in the pole position. For a second Tom thought,
There are no Phillip Coxes here. There never have been and never will be. It'll always belong to men like these
.

Coming down the stretch for the last warm-up, Tom opened up the colt a bit. The footing was wet and muddy, but Bonfire seemed to hold to it without any trouble; his stride lengthened quickly and his fast sprint brought loud clapping from the grandstand and rail when Tom slowed him down and turned him back for the start of the race.

They walked past the judges' booth and the starter told them, “Take your horses down to that pole two hundred feet from here; turn them together and come down in your positions. I'll send you off if you're in position and together.”

There was no mobile starting gate here as at the
Reading Fair, this was the way Jimmy Creech liked it—the way it had been.

Tom turned Bonfire with the others, and they came down toward the starting line in position. The colt's eyes and ears were pointed straight ahead of him, and Tom felt his eagerness. This is what Bonfire had been bred, raised and trained to do. This was it!

Not too fast
, Tom told his colt through the lines.
Not yet, Bonfire … not yet. Stay with the others. We're coming to the start. Just a second now
.

The four horses gained speed in unison; as a team they made for the starting wire, their drivers silent and tense. Tom took a quick look at Sam Kossler; the man wasn't keeping the chestnut gelding very close to the pole. Quickly Tom decided upon his racing strategy. He'd let Bonfire all out at the start; he'd get around all the horses and get the pole position away from Sam Kossler going into the turn. He could count on the colt's blazing sprint to get him to the turn first; old Sam Kossler was leaving the pole wide open—just ripe for him and his colt to take! Once he got the pole he wouldn't let Bonfire go any faster than was necessary to win the heat. That would be following Jimmy's orders not to let the colt extend himself yet. And there would be another heat coming up; two miles were enough for Bonfire's first day of racing.

“GO!” the starter shouted to them.

As one the horses shot forward, their drivers shouting. But Tom just moved his hand and said nothing aloud to his colt. Bonfire burst away from the group, his black mane and tail whipping like lashes in his breathtaking spurt.

Tom let him go straight ahead until he was clear of the horses beside him, then he started moving over as they swept into the turn. Only Sam Kossler was there to challenge him, and Tom knew that in another few yards he too would be beaten. Nothing could stop his colt. Nothing!

But he did not need the few extra yards to get in front of Sam Kossler and close to the pole, for the old man suddenly slowed down his chestnut gelding, allowing Tom to move in quickly to the pole. Tom's surprise at Kossler's strategy was forgotten in his exhilaration at being out in front. It lasted only a second, though, for suddenly he found out why Sam Kossler had kept away from the rail. Bonfire's hoofs sank heavily in the deep mud that was there, for the rain had drained from the track to the inside of the rail! Tom was frantic. He could sense that the colt felt strange and uneasy. Bonfire pounded harder, but he only slipped all the more and the sulky wheels turned heavily in the mud.

Tom sought to get away from the pole, to get Bonfire's feet on the drier track just a yard away from the rail. But Sam Kossler was there, content to keep his aged gelding alongside Tom's sulky. And Bonfire couldn't get up enough speed in this mud to draw ahead of Kossler. Only the slowing down of the gelding would enable Tom to get Bonfire back on firm ground. Tom waited in vain for this break to come all the way down the backstretch, around the back turn and past the grandstand for the first time.

George yelled something as he passed, but Tom couldn't make out the words. They went around the
first turn again. Down the backstretch, Tom realized that Sam Kossler's gelding wasn't going to slow down; he plodded awkwardly, heavily, but he stayed beside Tom's sulky.

Furiously Tom asked himself why he hadn't noticed the heavy mud on the inside. It was too late now! Sam Kossler had tricked him just as George said he might.

Bonfire was furious too, and Tom felt his fury. The colt slipped constantly, but he never stopped trying for more speed in the bad footing; heavy clods of mud covered the sulky wheels, slowing the colt, pulling him down.