Gordon had him right up at the barrier, his nose against it. For a few seconds he was quiet and ready. No more waiting was necessary. The elastic sprang up and the track was clear!
Danny watched the two other colts break ahead of Man o’ War. He had expected them to get away first. It didn’t matter, for his colt was now off and running!
Clyde Gordon sat low and forward, waiting for Man o’ War to settle in stride and not urging him to catch the fast-breaking colts in front. Longer and longer came Man o’ War’s strides, and Danny could imagine the wind beginning to sing in Gordon’s ears!
“Come on, Red!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Major Treat, surprised by the shrillness of his call, almost jumped from beneath him.
This was no race, Danny reminded himself. There was no reason to get excited. His colt was simply learning to break from the barrier. He would go a short distance and be pulled up, perhaps to come back and break again if Feustel ordered it. But Danny’s heart kept pounding as he watched Man o’ War begin to catch up with the others.
The big colt had his legs untangled now, his strides no longer awkward. Suddenly, as though in one mighty leap, he had overtaken the others. He became nothing but a red, whirling blur in Danny’s eyes. If he had been running before, he was flying now! Faster and faster he swept down the track, fighting for his head and pulling Gordon clear of the saddle. Never had Danny seen Man o’ War run so fast before. Neither had anyone else! Only when Man o’ War neared the first turn did he give in to Gordon’s hold on his mouth. Slowly, ever so slowly, his strides shortened until in the far-distant backstretch he came to a stop.
As Danny rode Major Treat toward him, he knew that Feustel could no longer keep Man o’ War’s electrifying speed to himself. This morning everyone at Havre de Grace had been exposed to it, if only for a few blinding seconds. The word would pass from track to track until the whole turf world knew that the Riddle stable had a youngster to watch in the races to come.
Later, Danny walked Man o’ War under his cooler. He stopped every once in a while to let the colt take a swallow of water. Only when Man o’ War was thoroughly dry under the light sheet and ignored the water bucket did Danny take him to his stall. There he rubbed him down with a mild liniment.
Louis Feustel came into the stall and carefully inspected the colt’s legs and feet. “He got away from Clyde this morning but, luckily, he didn’t hurt himself,” he said quietly.
“You’ve got him hardened, that’s why,” Danny said. He went back to work, Feustel watching every move he made. He cleaned Man o’ War’s feet carefully, picking out all the dirt and washing them inside and out.
“Golden Broom’s got trouble,” Feustel said.
Danny looked up. “Did he hurt himself this morning?”
“He’s developed a quarter crack in his hoof,” the trainer answered. “It might bother him all his running days. You can never tell about an injury like that.”
Putting down the colt’s leg, Danny began stirring a bucket of mud with a small wooden paddle. A horse’s feet had to be able to take hard training and racing. No feet, no horse, it was said. And that might be true of the highly regarded Golden Broom.
He added a little more water to the mud until he had a smooth, doughy consistency. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to Man o’ War’s feet if he could help it. This mud clay from Kentucky was playing an important part in his care. When packed right, it kept the foot moist and soft enough to withstand the hard, crushing impacts of the racetrack.
He spread the mud into the middle of the big colt’s foot, pressing downward toward the heel until the pack covered the whole foot. Over it he put a small piece of paper that would prevent the pack from coming out until it dried. He put down the foot. Man o’ War’s weight would press the mud tightly into the foot and frog. Then he went through the same procedure with the next foot.
Louis Feustel said, “You’ve learned your trade well, Danny.”
“I’ve had good teachers,” Danny said, not without pride. “Frank, George, a lot of others.” He noted the anxiety for Man o’ War in Feustel’s eyes and understood. It took more than the skill of a fine trainer to get a horse to the races.
Danny began wrapping Man o’ War’s legs with soft cotton and gauze. He was almost done before Louis Feustel spoke again.
“You’re sure that this is his water pail?” the trainer asked. He had the empty bucket in his hands and was examining it. “It doesn’t look like ours,” he added.
“It’s his, all right,” Danny said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Influenza is catching up with a lot of horses on the grounds,” Feustel said. “We’ve got to be careful it doesn’t hit us.”
“I’m watching him like a baby,” Danny said. “I’m even scalding his feed box. He’s not going to catch anything.”
“I hope not.”
“He’s strong enough to throw off any flu germ,” Danny went on. “He did it as a yearling. He could do it again, if he had to.”
Feustel went to the stall door. “I hope he won’t have to.”
When Danny was finished with his work, he removed the colt’s halter. “Everybody’s happy with you,” he whispered. “Just stay well and sound.” He was not at all certain that his colt could withstand an influenza epidemic if it swept Havre de Grace. He was worried but thought it best not to brood about it.
During the days that followed, he continued to overlook nothing in the care and well-being of Man o’ War. He tended to every minor and major chore, never getting out of seeing distance of the big colt’s stall and making sure that his charge had plenty of rest during the afternoons, when the races were being run. He went so far as to close the stall door, making sure no noise from the stands would disturb the colt’s nap. And when he took him out to graze and walk late in the day, he went where no other horses had eaten. Influenza germs could be left even on blades of grass.
He was really greatly relieved when the time came for the stable to move to Pimlico racetrack, a short distance from Havre de Grace. At that track the two-year-olds would continue their extensive training and some of them would make the first start of their young careers.
“But not Man o’ War,” Feustel told Danny as they were getting the colt settled in his new stall. “I think I’m going to wait until we reach Belmont Park before we start him. He’ll be ready by then.”
Danny wasn’t worried about Man o’ War’s not being ready when Feustel sent him to the post. His only concern was that they might not have left the flu bug behind. Many of the older horses at Pimlico were sick and there was still a great danger of contamination.
“He didn’t clean his feed tub this morning,” he told the trainer, his eyes betraying his concern.
“Did you take his temperature?”
Danny nodded. “Normal,” he said, “just 100.”
“Keep taking it,” the trainer ordered. “If it goes over 101 let me know.”
During the week that followed, Man o’ War resumed his workouts on the track, and every time he returned to his stall Danny took his temperature. After exercise it was always about 101 degrees but went no higher before dropping; there was no need for concern. By the second week at Pimlico several young horses in the Riddle stable had come down with the dreaded disease.
Danny watched Louis Feustel and the veterinarian go from one stall to another, attending the sick horses.
“You’re strong enough to throw off any flu bugs,” he kept telling Man o’ War as the days passed and the disease swept the stable. But he knocked on wood for good luck each time he said it.
Late one evening Danny went into the stall and found Man o’ War down in the straw. Dropping down beside him, he knew that the worst had happened. His colt was sick!
“Go get Feustel!” he shouted to a groom outside. “Red’s down.”
When the trainer arrived, Danny showed him the thermometer he held in his trembling hands. It had skyrocketed to 106 degrees.
Feustel s
aid, “He can’t have a fever like that very long without fatal results.”
“Is the vet on his way?”
“I couldn’t get hold of him. He’s out on other calls.”
Man o’ War was burning up, his flesh hot beneath Danny’s hands. “Can’t we get another?”
“The only other veterinarians are in Baltimore. I’ve called them but they’re out, too.” Feustel said. “And now is the critical period.” His eyes were as concerned as Danny’s but there was no panic in his voice. He had seen too many sick colts that week. Turning to the other stableboys who had crowded close, he added quietly, “Get back.”
“Give him some ‘Dr. Green,’ Boss,” an old groom said. “I got some left.”
“Dr. Green” was a piece of Kentucky sod. Many of the old grooms felt it could cure any sickness. Danny doubted its healing powers but eagerly awaited Feustel’s reply.
The trainer said, “It wouldn’t do him any good now, Tom.” His eyes remained on the big colt. “Without the vet’s help all we can do is wait. It’s up to him to lick it by himself.”
Danny watched helplessly. There was nothing anyone could do. Man o’ War lay still, fighting the germs within him. Would the fire of Hastings and Fair Play outburn the disease?
Feustel broke the stillness of the stall. “The fever is only a symptom of the disease, and we have no medicine to kill the germs,” He looked at the thermometer again. “It’s up to 107 now,” he said solemnly. “It can’t go any higher.”
Danny struggled to keep back the tears. He was too old to cry. The night dragged on with Feustel and others coming and going, kneeling beside Man o’ War and waiting for the fever to break. When it did, Danny was still beside him. He listened to the chattering of the colt’s teeth as a chill followed the long period of fever. He drew a light blanket over Man o’ War, keeping him warm and saying comfortingly, “You’re going to get well. I know you will.” But he knew his words were more to reassure himself than Man o’ War. His colt was fighting for his life all alone. No one could help him now, not even those who loved him very much.
Hour after hour went by with Man o’ War’s breathing becoming fast and irregular. This could be the most dangerous time of all, for pneumonia might quickly develop. Toward dawn the rasping breaths slowed down, and Danny took hope. Slower and more regular became the big colt’s breathing. Finally Man o’ War seemed to be in a sound sleep, and Danny closed his eyes, too.
He was awakened by the voices of Feustel and the veterinarian. They were kneeling beside Man o’ War, and the stall was gray in the early light of morning.
The veterinarian was taking the colt’s temperature. When he looked at it, he said, “It’s normal. He’s shaken off the bug himself. Let him sleep.”
Once again Danny lay his head down beside that of his colt. This time he slept as soundly as Man o’ War.
The Stirring Up
15
By midmorning Man o’ War was up on his feet and demanding breakfast as loudly as on any other day. Danny, listening to his impatient whinnies, thought nothing had ever sounded so wonderful. The high fever had weakened Man o’ War; so Danny, following Feustel’s orders, kept him in his stall for a full twenty-four hours after his temperature had become normal. The trainer wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t flare up again and that the disease was actually licked.
When the danger was past, Danny was allowed to walk the colt. He took him far from the barns to limber up his muscles and let him graze on the fresh young grass of early May. Man o’ War loved the long walks as much as Danny did; he pulled hard on the shank, seeking his freedom. Danny held him tight. There would be time enough to run.
During the days that followed, Man o’ War regained his strength fast. Nothing was too trivial for Danny to overlook in his care. He brushed and rubbed him until his coat had a burnished sheen to it, and there was never a night that Man o’ War did not sleep on the freshest of straw in the stables.
“He’s eating good,” Danny told Feustel at the end of the week. “He’s not leaving anything in his box.”
“He looks like he’s ready, all right,” Feustel agreed. “We can go on now. Some light exercise will be good for him.”
Once again Danny relinquished Man o’ War to Clyde Gordon’s hands every morning. Sometimes he rode Major Treat alongside and, since Gordon was riding under orders to keep a tight hold on the big colt, Major Treat was never left behind. Danny gloried in the thrill of riding beside Man o’ War, and there were mornings when he even allowed himself to dream of being up on his colt. But never in his wildest imagination did he actually believe such a day would ever come.
Danny was content watching Man o’ War regain his full strength, moving up against the bit Gordon held firmly in his mouth. There was no doubt the big colt was more than willing to work faster than they were going. If Gordon hadn’t been so careful, Man o’ War would have slipped away from him.
Then the morning came when Feustel decided the colt was tight enough for faster works. Man o’ War was sent trackward with other colts his own age. He broke from the barrier, slow as always, but caught up with the others quickly, his tremendous strides making a mockery of the workout.
Danny watched his colt surge down the backstretch, drawing farther and farther away from the others. He glanced at Feustel, standing beside him. The trainer had stopped his watch and his eyes were very bright when he said to no one in particular, “We’ve got a ‘flyer.’ ”
Back in the stall, Danny rubbed Man o’ War with the flat of his hand until the fine skin glistened more brilliantly than ever. He whispered softly, “I almost wish you wouldn’t become too big a horse. If you do, I’ll lose you for sure.”
Man o’ War whinnied as if he understood. It was a secret, Danny thought, that just the two of them would share.
The mornings that followed remained much the same, and only the afternoons changed. Not that it wasn’t still very peaceful and quiet. But the day was fast approaching when Man o’ War would go to the post, and the tension mounted. Everybody in the stable believed they had a prize package in Man o’ War.
“We’ll start him the first week in June, if all goes well,” Feustel said.
Danny felt the undertone of expectancy rising within him as it must for Man o’ War. He fought it, seeking to close his ears to the roar from the stands and the rush of hoofs every afternoon. He wanted these hours to pass peacefully, a little drowsily, as they had in the earlier weeks of training.
“It won’t be here at Pimlico that you’ll start, anyway,” he told Man o’ War. “We’ll be in New York when you race. We’ve still got time to take it easy in the afternoons.”
But his eyes, like those of his colt, were turned in the direction of the track. He could not deaden his ears to its sounds. How great would Man o’ War become? he wondered. How far would he go? If he did everything expected of him, he would become a champion. A champion belonged to a lot of people and every move he made would be watched. Maybe, Danny thought, these were the best days he would ever have with his colt … right now, standing alone with him in the big stall, unnoticed.
The next morning Louis Feustel showed up earlier than usual. He nodded to Danny and the other grooms, then said edgily, “Tack him up right this morning. No carelessness.”
One of the older men had the stall door open but Feustel stopped him. “Not you, Frank. Let Danny do the saddling.”
Danny went quickly into the stall, well aware that for a reason that Feustel chose to keep to himself, the morning would be different.
All eyes watched him as he slipped off the halter and buckled it around the colt’s neck. That done, he had something to hold on to if Man o’ War acted up.
“Easy, fellow,” Danny said softly. But he knew that saddling Man o’ War would never be an easy job no matter how often it was done. The moment the tack went on, Man o’ War knew that the track was only minutes away.
Danny picked up the bridle from the straw at his feet and swung it carefu
lly to the front, keeping his right hand on the colt’s forehead to control and soothe him. He pressed the bit against the teeth but Man o’ War wouldn’t open his mouth until Danny slipped his left thumb into his mouth. No sooner was the bit in than he tried to spit it out. Danny kept tension on it, using both hands to get the headstall over the near ear.
“If I didn’t know you, I’d think you didn’t want to go out,” he said, grunting. “Every day you have to put on this kind of an act.” Man o’ War jerked his head back, pulling the boy with him.
“Get it over the other ear,” Feustel said gruffly. “You’ve got lots of room.”
Danny nodded without pausing in his work. For the moment he was glad that he was tall, otherwise he never could have reached the top of the colt’s head. He tilted the off ear forward and slipped the bridle over it. Now he had Man o’ War under better control.
“Tacking up is no simple matter,” Feustel was saying irritably, “even though there’s little enough to put on. Maybe that’s the trouble with some of you guys. It looks so simple that you figure anyone could do it. So maybe you forget to pay attention to little details.”
Danny kept his mind on his work. He straightened out the colt’s forelock and mane, which were caught under the headstall. He moved the reins back on the muscled neck and then fastened the throatlatch. He made certain that it was not too tight, for if so, it would bind the colt’s throttle when he bowed his neck and pulled hard, as he was inclined to do. At the same time Danny didn’t want it so loose that it swung in a loop below the jaw.
“That’s good,” Feustel said approvingly. “Now get the saddle on him.”
Danny said, “Yes, sir,” but he knew full well that saddling didn’t begin with putting on the saddle. He picked up the saddlecloth and spread it across the colt’s broad back. He pulled the front end well over the withers and made sure that the cloth hung evenly on both sides. He wanted it flat and unwrinkled. Satisfied, he placed the thick felt saddle pad across the back, making sure that the front part was well up on the withers but just a little to the rear of the forward edge of the cloth. He folded the cloth back over the pad, keeping it even on both sides. Then he took still another thick pad, oblong in shape, and centered it lengthwise on the saddle pad. Only then was he ready for the saddle. The big colt’s back was well protected from chafing or rubbing.