The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt, Page 2

  Jimmy looked up at him. “He tried to talk me down, but I wouldn’t have any of it.”

  “Sure,” George returned, smiling. “Sure, Jimmy.”

  Their gazes met and held.

  “That’s the story,” Jimmy said.

  “That’s your story,” George replied. He motioned with his head in the direction of the shed. “Go in and tell Tom. He’ll be anxious to hear it.”

  Jimmy moved away. “Yes, I’d better,” he said, “because he’ll be taking care of the Queen this summer—”

  “And the foal,” George interrupted, laughing. “Don’t forget to tell him what to do when the foal comes.”

  George watched Jimmy until he had disappeared inside the shed; then he turned to the sun, shining brightly now in a cloudless sky. “Summer,” he said. “Good old summer. What it can do to a man! The sun and the kid. What a combination! Maybe it’s not the end of Jimmy Creech, professional reinsman, after all. Maybe not by a long shot.” And humming, George continued walking Symbol.

  THE FOAL TO COME

  2

  Ten days later Tom Messenger stood anxiously at a fork in the road, awaiting the Queen. He had been there for many hours, watching the heavy traffic come over the hill, most of it speeding by to his left on its way to Philadelphia. To his right was the blacktop road which led through rolling fields beyond to the sanctuary of his uncle’s farm, where the Queen would have quiet and peace to bring her foal into the world.

  Very often Tom would glance at the clock on the gas station behind him. It was well after three o’clock. If Jimmy had shipped the Queen at dawn, as he had planned to do, the truck should have arrived an hour ago. It would be an open truck, a two-and-a-half ton truck, Jimmy had said. He couldn’t miss it, for the Queen would be standing right there for him to see. She would have been on the road nine hours by now. Would it have hurt her any? In her condition, he meant. The Queen was due to foal sometime next week. Jimmy had said the trip wouldn’t hurt her. He’d said he had shipped many mares only a few days before they foaled, and it had never bothered them. Tom hoped Jimmy was right. He hoped desperately that Jimmy was right. He didn’t want anything to happen to the Queen—or the Queen’s foal to come.

  The boy’s eyes remained on the traffic coming over the hill. He wouldn’t look at the clock again, he decided. It didn’t make any difference how late the Queen got here, just so long as she got here. That it was late was so much the better. It meant that Jimmy had hired a good driver, one who was going slowly, taking it easy for the Queen’s sake. So there’s no rush, Tom thought. I’ve got all the time in the world. Just take it easy with the Queen, Mr. Driver, and I’ll be here whenever you come.

  While Tom waited patiently, he let himself think of what it would mean to care for the Queen all by himself. There would be just the Queen and himself this week, but maybe next week there would be three. He’d always dreamed of something like this happening to him. And Jimmy Creech had made it possible.

  “I know the Queen will be in good hands, Tom,” Jimmy had said. “I know how much you love her, and that’s more important than anything else at this point. Just take good care of her, as I know you will, and nature will do the rest.”

  Jimmy had made it sound so easy. But then Jimmy had seen a countless number of foals born, while this would be Tom’s first experience. As he thought about it, Tom felt a little queasy. What if something went wrong? Jimmy had said it wouldn’t be necessary to get a veterinary unless complications set in. Nine chances out of ten everything would be all right, Jimmy had said. But then, Tom figured, there was one chance in ten something would go wrong, and it was this lone possibility that caused the palms of his hands to sweat while he waited for the Queen.

  He saw the open truck as it came over the hill. He made out the Queen’s blanketed body as the truck drew closer. Her haunches faced the front of the truck. Jimmy had put her in backwards to keep the wind from her face.

  Tom moved quickly to the middle of the fork, one arm raised, his heart pounding. The truck pulled out of the long line of cars and headed for the blacktop road, slowing as it neared him.

  Tom’s eyes were upon the Queen. He saw that her hooded head was down low, her body slumped. “Is she all right?” he asked anxiously of the driver.

  “A long haul, but I took it easy,” the man said. “Where do we go from here? I’ve got to get back tonight,” he added impatiently.

  “Just a few more miles,” the boy said. “Follow this road. I’ll ride in back.”

  Quickly Tom climbed over the rail of the truck. It lurched forward and Tom steadied the mare. She raised her hooded head, recognizing him; then her nose went to his pocket. Smiling, he produced a carrot and fed it to her.

  “Soon you’ll be home,” he said. “Just a little farther and then you’ll be able to take it nice and easy.”

  The road wound with the foothills, going ever upward in the direction of a low range of heavily wooded mountains. Tom looked toward them, for in the valley at their base was his uncle’s farm and a home for the Queen.

  The driver called back to him through the cab window, handing him a long envelope. Tom held the letter in front of him, shielding it from the wind. It was, of course, from Jimmy Creech.

  R.D.2

  Coronet, Pa.

  June 17

  Dear Tom,

  I’ve shipped the Queen the best I know how, and she should arrive okay. Feed her light on grain this week, about three quarts in three feedings. Add a little bran each time. Let her have all the grass she wants; it’s the best thing for her now. And don’t forget to exercise her daily, working her on the longe same as we did here. It’ll make it easier when her time comes to have the foal. This week I’d leave her in the pasture every night the weather is good; but next week you’d better bring her in nights. And you’d better watch her closely then. As I said, there won’t be much to do when her time comes, but it’s better to keep a close watch over her.

  George and I are starting off the season at the Carlisle Fair next week, but you can reach us by writing to me c/o the race secretary at the track. Write as soon as the Queen’s had her foal. I’m hoping it’s a colt, but George says he’s hoping for a filly (he always was partial to girls!). Either way it should be a good one. And Tom, I’ve got full confidence in you. Use your own judgment if anything comes up. You’ve got a good head and, most important, the right feeling for horses, and that always pays off in the end.

  There are just a few routine things I want to tell you to do when the foal comes. Be sure to wipe him dry if the mare doesn’t take care of that. Pay special attention to his nostrils, wiping them clean so he can breathe good. It’ll be important to a little fellow like him. And next thing you do is see to it that the foal nurses as soon as possible. The mare’s milk right after she’s given birth is the most beneficial of all, and it’s important he should get it right away. You help him, if he needs any help. After that you can pretty well relax. Feed the mare light the first two days, giving her a hot bran mash right after she’s foaled. That’s four quarts of bran and a handful of salt; pour enough boiling water over it to wet it good, then put a sack over the pail and let it steam until it’s cool enough for the mare to eat.

  Handle the little fellow from the moment he’s born. That way he’ll just accept your being around, and it’ll make things easier for me later, when I go to break and train him.

  I guess that’s about all for now. As soon as I hear from you that the foal has been born, I’ll write more on what you should do. The money I gave you should be enough to buy all the grain you’ll need in addition to paying your uncle whatever he may want for keeping the mare there, but if anything comes up and you need more, let me know.

  Your friend,

  Jimmy Creech

  P.S. It might be best to have a vet lined up just in case anything goes wrong. As I said, use your own judgment in anything like that.

  The boy reread the letter several times before folding it and putting it away.
There were an awful lot of things to remember, he thought. And they came so easily to Jimmy Creech.

  Tom turned to the Queen. “But I’m going to watch you every minute, and I’m going to have a veterinary there when your foal comes. I’m not going to take any chance trying to get a veterinary after complications set in. Jimmy says to use my own judgment, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  The truck had reached the valley, and Tom directed the driver up a side road. They had gone only a short distance when Tom told the man to stop before a dirt lane entering the woods on the left.

  “I’ll lead her up from here,” the boy said. “It’s a bad road and bumpy. It wouldn’t do her any good to ride it.”

  “Just as you say,” the driver returned. “Guess this is as good a spot as any we’ll find.” Putting the truck in reverse, he backed up to the low embankment on the side of the road.

  The Queen’s ears pitched forward as the back gate of the truck was let down.

  “Steady, girl,” Tom said, holding her by the halter.

  The driver walked up the backdrop. “Steeper than I thought it would be,” he said. “You’d better take her down. I got her here. She’s your responsibility from now on. If she breaks a leg, I want no part of it.”

  Tom looked at him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “She’s my responsibility now, all right.” Then he turned to the job ahead of him.

  The Queen hesitated as Tom led her to the backdrop. Patiently Tom waited, talking to her all the time. It wasn’t too steep or he wouldn’t be taking her down. The Queen could get down all right. He brought her forward until her forefeet were on the board; then he stopped again, talking to her. His grip tightened about the halter, steadying her. “Now, Queen,” he said softly.

  The mare followed him down, her haunches tucked beneath her. But as she neared the end of the backdrop she let herself go and jumped down to the embankment. Seeking the grass, she thrust her head down, pulling away from Tom. He let her alone, knowing she was all right now. But he took the lead rope from his pocket and snapped the clip to the mare’s halter.

  “I’ll be getting along now,” the driver said.

  “How about the blanket and the hood?” Tom asked.

  “Jimmy said to keep them here with you. I’ll be coming back for her in September. We can use them on the return trip.” The driver walked to the cab of the truck. “So long,” he said.

  “So long.”

  Tom allowed the Queen to graze until long after the truck had disappeared down the road. Finally, taking her by the halter, he said, “Let’s go, girl.”

  She walked quickly beside him as he led her up the lane, and Tom carefully avoided the sharp rocks for he knew the mare was shoeless. And when his eyes left the road ahead, they would turn always to the Queen. He was alone with her now. She was his responsibility, just as the driver had said. Jimmy Creech wasn’t around; neither was George. It frightened him a little, having all this responsibility. Yet it was what he had wanted. He had wanted to take care of the Queen all by himself. He had wanted to help bring her foal into the world. And even though he was a little frightened just now, things would work out all right. He felt sure they would. Jimmy said he had good judgment, and Jimmy should know.

  The Queen shied nervously around a branch lying in the lane. Tom held her, talking all the while. She was easy to handle. They didn’t come any gentler than the Queen. Here he was, walking beside the Queen. All anyone had to do was to look in any book on harness racing and he’d find the Queen’s name there. “Volo Queen,” that’s the way the record books had it, “a dark bay mare by Victor Volo established new track record for two-year-old fillies at the Reading Fair track.”

  The Queen hadn’t held the record very long before it was broken by a score of others. Jimmy said the Queen had showed potential greatness that day at Reading, and he had expected her to get better and better. But she hadn’t. The Queen had never become the great racer Jimmy had thought she would. Close to it, but not quite.

  Tom turned to the mare. “Maybe,” he said softly, “you left that for your colt. Maybe you decided that if only one of you were to be great, you wanted him to be the one.”

  And he really could be great, Tom thought, he really could. For there just wasn’t any mare with better bloodlines than the Queen. She had been bred to the Black, the fastest horse in the world. Yes, he knew the Black was a runner while this colt to come would race at a trot. But Jimmy Creech had said that this wasn’t important, for the Black’s pedigree showed a preponderance of Arabian blood and such blood was the source of all racing stock in the world today, trotters as well as runners. Jimmy believed that it was necessary to breed back to the Arabian horse whenever possible in order to renew and strengthen the strain. And he had done just this with the Queen. Jimmy’s eyes had become two glowing balls of fire as he discussed the potentialities with Tom.

  “I gave this mating of the Queen to the Black a lot of thought, Tom. I figured that in the Queen I had ’most everything that any breeder would want to have in a broodmare. She has a gentle disposition and is easy to handle as you know. She never gets upset about a thing, either on the track or in her stall. Her action is smooth and beautiful to watch. She has the speed …” and then Jimmy Creech had hesitated, “even though all of it never did come out of her. If the Queen lacks one thing, Tom, it’s gameness and the drive and will to win. She never extended herself and that’s why she never became a champion.” Jimmy Creech had paused before going on. “And that’s why I bred her to the Black. I’ve never seen any horse—runner, trotter or pacer—with the fire and the intense desire to win that he has. I’m hoping he’ll pass that on to the Queen’s foal. If he does, we’ll have a colt which’ll be hard to beat.”

  A short distance farther on, the woods gave way to cleared fields. To the right lay a long, rambling chicken house in front of which there was a brook that crossed the lane and went winding far into the rolling pasture land.

  The boy stopped when they reached the brook. “Look, Queen,” he said, “your new home.” Directly ahead of them, and built on the gradual slope of a hill, was a stone barn with its red roof gleaming in the sun. Before it was a fenced barnyard and below a spacious green lawn leading to a stone house.

  The short, stocky figure of an elderly man appeared at one of the stall doors of the barn. Closing the door behind him, he walked across the paddock, his left arm thrust behind him as he bent over slightly.

  Tom Messenger waved to him. He knew it was useless to call to Uncle Wilmer, for one had to be very close and almost shouting before his uncle could hear anything. He was almost stone deaf.

  His uncle waited while Tom led the mare into the paddock. Tom saw Uncle Wilmer’s narrow lids open slightly, disclosing more of his keen gray eyes.

  “Wait’ll I get her blanket off,” the boy shouted proudly. “Just wait until you see her.”

  The man nodded but said nothing. He held the Queen while Tom removed the hood and blanket.

  Finally the boy stepped back, his eyes shining. “How do you like her, Uncle Wilmer?”

  But his uncle only said brusquely, “Give her some water, Tom. Give her some water. She’s thirsty.”

  The light left the boy’s eyes as he led the Queen to the trough. “I was going to give her water,” he said, knowing his uncle couldn’t hear him. “I only thought you might like to take a look at her.”

  When the Queen had finished drinking, she turned to the grass. Tom unsnapped the lead rope and closed the paddock gate.

  His uncle stood quietly beside the mare as she grazed, his battered hat sitting ridiculously high on the top of his egg-shaped head. Finally he said, “She’s purty big for a fast one. The best ones are smaller. Like the ones Harvey Moorheart’s got over at Amityville.”

  The boy’s face flushed. “She’s only fifteen hands,” he shouted angrily. “That’s not big.”

  “She looks more like a workhorse. I’ll bet she’d be good in front of a plow, all right.” The flicke
ring specks of light in his eyes went unnoticed by the boy.

  Tom started to say something but stopped.

  “You oughta go over and see Harvey Moorheart’s horses,” his uncle was saying. “He’s got one, a sorrel gelding, that raced once’t at the Allentown Fair. Did purty well, Harvey says.”

  “The Queen’s got a record of two-o-seven for the mile. There are no horses like her around here,” Tom said proudly.

  “What’s that?” his uncle asked, cupping an ear.

  “Nothing, Uncle Wilmer. Nothing.”

  Tom heard his aunt Emma calling, and he turned to look at her as she stood in the doorway of the small house. She was tall and thin, and her gray hair was parted in the center and drawn back to a knot in the back.

  “Tom!” she called. “Tell your uncle to bring some wood for the stove. I’ve been shouting to him for the past fifteen minutes. And come to supper yourself. Everything is ready.”

  “But Aunt Emma, the Queen’s here!” Tom shouted. “Come and look at her.” But his aunt had disappeared within the house.

  I guess I can’t expect them to understand, he thought. Living on a farm, as they do, they’ve always taken animals for granted. Neither of them can get excited about having a horse around. Even one like the Queen. They’d never understand if I tried to tell them how valuable she is—or how I feel about her.

  “She’s not going to foal for more’n a month,” his uncle said.

  “She’s going to have it sometime next week or soon after,” Tom said as loudly as he could.

  His uncle walked around the mare. “I had mares around here for fifty years up until last summer,” he said. “I know when a mare is goin’ to foal, all right.”

  The boy bit his lower lip. “She’s going to have it—” He stopped, then shouted, “We’ve got to get some wood. Supper is ready.”

  His uncle heard him, for he followed Tom to the woodshed. They picked up some wood and went across the recently cut lawn to the house. Entering the large kitchen, they placed the wood in the bin beside the stove. Aunt Emma was setting the table when Tom walked up to her.