The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (24 page)

“He's ready, all right,” Tom agreed. “And I'll take him faster than two fifteen if necessary. Even Jimmy would say it's all right now.” He put on Bonfire's bridle and adjusted the head number on top. It was of light plastic and stood up straight; there was a white figure 3 on a black background. “Pretty fancy today.” Tom smiled. “Head numbers and everything.”

“We got a mobile starting gate today, too,” George said. “It's Bonfire's first time with one of those. Hope he don't give you trouble.”

“I don't think he will,” Tom answered.

The horses in the post parade passed the grandstand and bleachers. Tom felt a little nervous before so many people, and his nervousness communicated itself to the colt. Bonfire tossed his head, and the head number flashed in the sun.

Then Tom calmed down. “It's just another race,” he told himself, “the same as at any of the fairs. More people here, that's all.” And he told the colt. Bonfire relaxed with him.

“The number three horse is the only two-year-old colt in the race,” the announcer said to the packed throng over the public-address system. “Bonfire, a blood bay colt, sired by the Black and out of Volo Queen. Owned by Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pennsylvania, and driven by Tom Messenger.”

The announcer's voice droned on until he had introduced all seven horses in the race. They went down to the first turn and came back. “The horses will take one warm-up score, then go into their respective positions behind the mobile starting gate awaiting them at the head of the stretch.”

Tom warmed up Bonfire faster and farther down the track than he did usually. The colt sensed the change, for he snorted while going along; that was unusual for him, too.

The horses went around the track, jogging into position as they neared the mobile starting gate. Tom was glad he had drawn the number three spot, for with seven horses in the race the track was crowded and the going would be difficult at the start. But in his position he would be able to get to the turn first without having to go around any of the others. He had been lucky in the draw for position. He hoped his luck held with $325 at stake.

Coming off the back turn, they spread out into position behind the wings of the mobile gate. The car began moving and the starter, dressed all in white, stood in the back of the open convertible, talking to them through his small microphone.

“Slowly now,” he cautioned them. “Don't rush your horses. Come together. That's it. Stay together. Not too close, Mr. Wilson. Keep your horse back from the gate, Mr. Wilson! That's it. Mr. Read, come up a little with the others. You too, Mr. Messenger. Bring your horse up with the others.”

The car was halfway to the starting line now and moving faster; the horses went along with it, pushing their noses close to the barrier.

“You're coming up too fast, Mr. Messenger. Keep that colt back from the gate!”

Tom was having more trouble than he'd expected. Bonfire wasn't sure about that pole extending across the track in front of him. He didn't know what it was
going to do. And the strange voice blaring in front of him didn't help; neither did the speeding car's wheels that sent the track dust into his nostrils. Tom kept him close to the fast moving gate, for he wanted to get away with the others; he didn't want to lose his good position before reaching the turn.

Like an onrushing wave the horses came to the starting line, and the starter yelled, “GO!”

But just before the starter's cry sent them off, Bonfire touched the metal barrier with his nose. The gate's vibrations swept back through the colt's body; Bonfire threw back his head, breaking the check rein, and then stopped short.

Tom was thrown against Bonfire's hindquarters, but he regained his seat and sought to calm the colt. Bonfire responded when he heard Tom's voice, and the boy let him go again. But Tom made no attempt to catch up with the field, for by this time they were halfway around the track, and it would be better to save the colt's energy for the next heat.

He jogged Bonfire around the outside of the track, then took him back to the stables.

“I was afraid of this,” George said, leading the colt. “Just as Jimmy says,” he added angrily, “these newfangled contraptions!”

“I shouldn't have kept him so close to the gate,” Tom said, rubbing Bonfire's neck while he walked beside him. “Not his first time before it. I should've known better. I was just so busy thinking about getting away fast.”

“We'll get them next heat,” George said. “Take that one and the third an' the race is ours.”

“I hope so,” Tom returned. “I hope our luck doesn't change. It's been good so far.”

“Not with that colt it won't,” George said. “Not with him.”

But while they awaited the racing of the second heat, it seemed to George as well as to Tom that their luck had changed—for the worse. The bad news came in a letter from Dr. Morton which the race secretary handed to them. Tom and George read it together.

They finished reading the letter together, and Tom said, “I guess I did it.”

“Maybe I sent it,” George returned gravely. “I don't know. I'm worried about him, Tom.”

“Do you think we should go back, George?”

“No, I don't, Tom. We can do more good for him here. He'll worry more than ever now with hospital bills to pay.”

“Jimmy should've realized we were disappointed in Miss Elsie's going to the raceways, too,” Tom said.

“He probably did,” George said, rising from his chair. “But that didn't help any. Let's get Bonfire ready. You and him have got work to do.” Then he stopped and turned to Tom. “Jimmy oughta quit knockin' himself out worrying about other people. It's Miss Elsie's life an' she can go an' race nights if she wants to.” Shaking his bald head, George walked into Bonfire's stall.

Tom followed George into the stall and pulled off the colt's blanket. “I just got to thinking about that clipping of our winning the race at the Port Royal Fair. The one you're going to send Jimmy.”

George removed his hands from Bonfire to take out his wallet. The clipping was there; a complete page of race summaries. He unfolded it and turned it over to read the back.

A full-page advertisement met their eyes, an advertisement showing a man wearing a white shirt. The headline read: “
ANNOUNCING THE SILVER KNIGHT SHIRT.
” The advertising copy beneath it went on to say: “The Phillip Cox Company takes great pleasure in naming its newest shirt creation after
SILVER KNIGHT
, the top two-year-old colt of the year. And like
SILVER KNIGHT
our new shirt is outstanding in every way! It has the same racy lines … the same smoothness and
beauty! And don't forget it's designed by amateur sportsman Phillip Cox, who knows what makes a champion! He's done it with the great colt,
SILVER KNIGHT
 … and he's done it with this new, startling, racy
SILVER KNIGHT SHIRT
! You'll find them at all good clothing shops. See them today! Wear them to the races tomorrow!”

George's fist closed about the advertisement. “Things would have been just swell if I'd sent him that,” he said bitterly.

Just as bitterly, Tom added, “Amateur sportsman, they call him. Some amateur!”

Fifteen minutes later Tom had to forget Jimmy Creech and Phillip Cox and raceways and shirts, for he drove Bonfire onto the track for the second heat of the race. The horses took their warm-up scores and then approached the mobile starting gate. Having failed to finish the first heat, Tom was now on the outside of the field. He decided to trail the others during the race until he was ready to make his bid.

The car began moving away and the starter said, “Now, Mr. Messenger, don't come too close this time or the same thing might happen to you.”

But Tom had no intention of taking Bonfire too close to the gate this time. Going down toward the starting line, the starter called to him repeatedly to bring his colt up with the others. But Tom kept Bonfire back a little and liked what he felt through the lines. The colt was going well; he didn't fear the gate; he just didn't want to touch it again. There was less dust from the car's tires in his outside position, and that helped a lot, too.

“GO!”

The cries of the drivers rose with the sweep of the gate from their path; whips cracked hard against sulky shafts, and all fought to reach the turn first. All but Tom; he let them go and dropped Bonfire behind them.

The pace the leaders were setting was very fast, and Bonfire snorted eagerly when Tom let him out a little more to keep up with the field. All the horses kept their positions going around the track and entering the homestretch for the first time; they came down toward the grandstand in a closely packed group.

“Here they come, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called to the crowd. “It's a beautiful race! Did you ever see anything like it? They're all tucked in, waiting to make their moves. It's Tim S. on top, followed by Sun Chief, then Hollydale …”

Tom had Bonfire close but a little to the right of the last horse. The colt was fresh and eager to be let out; he knew the signal would come soon now. As they passed the announcer's booth, Tom heard him call out, “They went the half in one o five, very good time!”

He had figured the time to be about that; he had never taken Bonfire so fast a first half-mile before. Yet the colt wasn't even breathing hard; the gradual work they'd done building stamina and endurance along with speed was now paying off. With the sprint to come, Bonfire would do 2:10 or better with no trouble at all.

Rounding the first turn again, Tom touched the lines and Bonfire moved away from the rail. Tom took him a little wide coming off the turn, for this was where he'd make his bid. Yet as he gave Bonfire the signal the
colt had been waiting for, Tom saw that the other drivers were going to make their bids going down the backstretch, too. They all started driving hard and fanning out across the track in their efforts to get ahead of one another going down the long stretch.

But Tom let Bonfire go, knowing that there would be holes between the drivers and he'd get through someway. He felt the quick surge of Bonfire's amazing sprint; his seat was almost pulled from beneath him with the colt's drive; and the lines, as always, were jerked forward when Bonfire leaned into them with every ounce of power in his body.

Tom leaned forward with the lines to lessen their pull on his shoulders. He looked to Bonfire's side to see if the way ahead was clear. But there was no hole, for the horses ahead were racing abreast and the line extended across the track. Tom drew back a little on the lines to check Bonfire's speed.

Suddenly the lines broke and Tom's head and shoulders snapped back with the power of an unleashed spring. He went back over the sulky seat and only his desperate hands finding the edges of the seat saved him from falling off. He pulled himself up and threw the broken lines in his hands clear of the sulky wheels.

Bonfire was racing at full speed, the last signal Tom had given him. With all his blazing swiftness he was bearing down on the horses ahead, and there was no opening! Tom called to him, but Bonfire's ears were pitched forward and he heard nothing but the racing hoofs ahead of him.

Nothing would stop Bonfire. He would run the
others down in his attempt to get by! The danger to all was only too evident to Tom. There was only one thing he could do to stop the racing colt.

Quickly he removed his feet from the stirrups and placed them on the shafts of the sulky on either side of Bonfire. Leaning forward, he grabbed the colt's tail and drew himself up until his hands were on the sweated, moving hindquarters. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, then he saw the horses ahead and knew Bonfire would be on top of them in a second—or at the most two!

His hands moved farther across Bonfire's back as his feet went up the shafts. He straddled the colt, then flung himself forward to reach Bonfire's head and bridle.

It took only a touch from Tom for the colt to lessen his speed. Yet it wasn't any too soon, for when Tom had him under control Bonfire's head was above the rear wheels of two racing sulkies. To have gone any farther would have meant a bad accident. He brought the colt to a stop while the field drew rapidly away from them.

Back at the stables, George said, “Your luck's still good, Tom, or you never coulda done what you did.” Then he added confidently, “We'll make up for losin' this race at Reading.”

Tom hoped so, for Jimmy Creech needed money desperately now. And racing the colt was the only way to get it. He pulled Bonfire's head down close to him.