Feustel turned to Loftus. “You’ve got yourself the hottest horse in the race,” he said. “They’ve made him the favorite.”
Loftus thought the trainer sounded a little uneasy. “That’s to be expected,” he said lightly. “None of the others have worked as fast as he has.”
“Still, all six are high-class youngsters. Don’t get overconfident.”
Loftus smiled. “I’m not,” he said. “I just happen to think he’ll make the others look like pretty cheap horses.”
“We can’t be sure of anything,” Feustel warned. “Most important, see that he doesn’t get hurt. Make certain he has plenty of racing room. Anything can happen in a race for two- year-olds. There’ll be a lot of swerving and bumping. Keep him clear of it. We know he’s not wanting in speed, but he may not have racing luck. And he’s had no experience. Don’t be too disappointed if things don’t go your way and you lose. Just get him back sound.”
Loftus nodded.
Louis Feustel ordered Man o’ War taken out of the paddock stall and turned around so he faced the ring. Now the big colt was all eyes and ears. He began sweating again.
“Danny,” Feustel ordered, “get Major Treat over here where he can see him. Clyde, you get up on the Major and ride to the post with him. Frank, get a better hold on his bridle. Johnny, you ready?”
All was in order. The other horses were already in the walking ring. The time had come.
“Riders mount, please,” the paddock judge called.
Johnny Loftus sat easily in the saddle, listening to Feustel’s final instructions and nodding as he should.
“I’m more afraid of an accident at the barrier than anywhere else,” the trainer was saying. “So don’t try to break him like he was a quarter horse. You understand?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Hurry back, then.”
Loftus took up the reins, wrapping them about his hands. Gordon and the old gelding would be with him a little longer, but soon they would be gone. He dropped Man o’ War into line behind the red-coated marshall taking them to the post. There were seven two-year-olds, all accompanied by old, well-mannered stable ponies to keep them out of trouble.
Man o’ War was on his toes, but he ignored the other youngsters as if they weren’t there at all. Loftus enjoyed the attention he was getting from the paddock crowd. There was no doubt that his colt was the one to watch. He touched Man o’ War’s neck. There was a tenseness about it that made him think of a tightly drawn bow.
Loftus glanced at the other colts. He decided that Gladiator was the only one they’d have to beat. The race itself was unimportant to the crowd, a program “filler” with a winner’s purse of only five hundred dollars. But to those directly connected with the colts, it would provide an inkling of what was to come during the hard campaign ahead. They had to start someplace, and this race made as good a beginning as any.
Man o’ War pranced uneasily as they moved toward the track. Loftus knew his mount was becoming more and more excited by the track sounds and the tightly packed crowd on either side of them as they made for the gap in the fence.
He was easily the biggest, the best-looking colt in the field. He held his head high, his large eyes protruding and bright. He was excited but unafraid and very, very eager. His body moved quickly, confidently. He was the picture of smoothness and grace, a big colt who could handle himself. Loftus felt very proud of his mount.
Just before they stepped onto the track, the jockey glanced back, nodding at Feustel and grinning. He also caught a glimpse of young Danny, who was holding the black-and-yellow cooler tightly to his chest. The kid looked scared to death.
The marshall turned up the track, leading the field past the stands. Every neck and flank was a little dark with sweat; every eye showed a bit of white. Man o’ War wanted to dance, but old Major Treat kept him steady by taking the bumps without fighting back. Although the big colt was the last in the post parade, almost everybody’s eyes were on him. Not only did his great, glistening body stand out among all the others, but his brilliant workouts had also made him the colt to watch.
It was five o’clock when Johnny Loftus took Man o’ War behind the barrier. The jockey waved Gordon and Major Treat away. Now it was the way he wanted it … just the two of them with a race to be run. Between the colt’s ears he could see the sun dropping behind the city skyscrapers to the west. “Easy, Red,” he said softly. “Easy.” His answer was a quick flicking of alert ears.
One of the starter’s assistants took hold of Man o’ War’s bridle, seeking to walk him up to the elastic barrier. The colt swept around in a fast circle, dragging the man with him.
Loftus wasn’t disturbed by his mount’s antics, which he had expected. All the other two-year-olds were acting up, too. They were giving the assistant starters and their riders a hard time. It would take a little while to get the field standing straight and balanced behind the barrier.
He remembered Feustel’s instructions. There must be no accident or interference at the start. He must not prod Man o’ War today. The fast breaks would have to wait until later races, when they would be more needed and there was less chance of an accident. The colts in this field were too inexperienced for him to take any chances.
Loftus continued speaking softly to Man o’ War but yelled and showed his whip to all the other horses and their riders. He tried every trick he knew to keep them away from Man o’ War.
The keen eyes of the newsmen high up in the press box were on Johnny Loftus and his mount. Through their binoculars they watched America’s leading jockey use all his skill to keep the big colt from throwing him. Man o’ War wouldn’t stand straight or still. He fought to get to the barrier before the others and yanked one of the assistant starters off his feet.
They followed every movement he made, for he was the reason they had not left the press box. Usually they paid little attention to the last race on the day’s program. It was a time to relax, to take it easy and get ready to get out before the big crowd. But today they stayed in their seats, as did most of the people in the stands. Everybody, it seemed, had been drawn by the appearance of the Riddle colt in the post parade. They sensed something unusual in the way he handled himself. And to the newsmen it was something that might mean a story for their papers.
They checked their programs again. His name was Man o’ War, a chestnut son of Fair Play out of Mahubah by Rock Sand. He was bred to be a racehorse, all right. They checked his morning workouts. His time was brilliant—forty-seven seconds for a half mile—and this race was just one furlong farther. No wonder he had been made the favorite. But could he live up to his sensational morning works? Afternoons were often different for a fast-working colt. Now the chips were down.
They continued watching him through their glasses and felt the electricity he generated. He was something to see. There was nothing sluggish about him even behind the barrier. Johnny Loftus had his hands full.
The jockey was tired, dead tired. His arms and shoulders ached from trying to hold Man o’ War back from the barrier. All the other two-year-olds were standing straight and still. Lady Brighton was on the rail, American Boy alongside, and then Devildog, Gladiator, Neddam, and Retrieve, in that order. For a few seconds Loftus thought Man o’ War might have used up too much energy fighting the barrier. He recalled that the kid Danny had worried about just that point. Maybe he had overdone the schooling lessons a bit. But it was too late now.
Again the assistant starter reached for the colt’s bridle. “Easy, Red. Easy,” Loftus coaxed. “Let’s go this time.”
Man o’ War began moving toward the barrier and the jockey got ready to go. He took up another wrap in his reins, glancing at the other horses and riders waiting quietly. He’d let them get away first, just as Feustel had ordered. He knew how much horse he had under him. He’d catch them even at so short a distance as five furlongs. The most important thing was that nothing should happen to this chestnut son of Fair Play in his first start.
The elastic barrier swept up, and no longer were there any strands of webbing between the colts and the track beyond. The yellow flag fell. The race was on!
Johnny Loftus leaned forward but unlike the other riders he sat still, not using heels or whip. Instead he took a tight hold on his colt’s mouth, holding him back, watching the traffic jam in front as the youngsters bumped into each other and swerved from one path to another. He heard the cries of their riders shouting for more racing room. He was content to wait until the track was clear before making his move.
For almost an eighth of a mile Johnny Loftus held his tight hold on Man o’ War’s mouth. Then, seeing the way becoming clear, he let him out a notch. He felt the great muscles heave with a power and suddenness that took him—even after all his morning rides—by surprise. He felt as if he had been released from a catapult! But the catapult was still under him and its surging power became ever greater!
With tremendous ground-eating strides the big colt caught the pack as if they had ceased running. Only the leader, Retrieve, was beside him at the furlong pole, giving every ounce of speed he had. Then he too fell back, done in. Johnny Loftus turned Man o’ War loose another notch and there was nothing more to this race than a running sheet of red flame!
Loftus knew then that he and all the others concerned with Man o’ War’s training had, with all their enthusiasm, underestimated this colt. Here was greatness. Here was something that only the whipping wind could have foretold. And Man o’ War continued fighting for his head, fighting to be turned loose completely so he could run still faster!
They approached the hushed and strangely quiet stands, for the spectators too seemed to know what Johnny Loftus was riding. They saw him turn in his saddle to look back as if he still couldn’t believe Man o’ War had left the others so far behind. Then he straightened again, his strong arms trying to hold back a whirlwind with a flowing tail. The crowd came to life. Thousands of voices exploded in an ever-mounting roar as people jumped to their feet, watching the blazing spectacle of this running colt.
Loftus knew his mount was responding to the crowd’s applause, for Man o’ War pulled harder, dragging him forward in his saddle until he was standing in the stirrups. The jockey used all his muscle power to hold him back, and finally Man o’ War responded to the choking pull, slowing almost to a canter as he passed beneath the finish wire.
Danny Ryan watched Man o’ War turn and come back. The black-and-yellow cooler he had been holding was at his feet. Stooping, he bent down and picked it up, brushing it unashamedly across eyes that were moist. His colt was everything he’d known he would be. He had heart and a will to win, both as important as great speed.
There was too big a crowd for Danny to get near Man o’ War in the winner’s circle. Everybody seemed to be on the track, all cramming to get close to touch Man o’ War. The roar from the stands was still rolling down to the track, where the colt stood in all his glory. To Danny it looked as if his colt knew what the pandemonium was all about. He stood there quivering and magnificent, his wet satin coat gleaming like bright copper. There was a flicking of his ears, too, as if he wanted to catch the sweet music of the swelling applause and the voices of the admirers on all sides of him.
The Riddles were there, standing beside Feustel, who held Man o’ War’s head. Loftus was still in the saddle, trying to keep the colt in position and at the proper angle for a good picture. Never was there a more beautiful colt. The eyes of all who looked upon him glowed. They were reluctant to let him go, to bring this moment to an end. They seemed to sense they were watching the beginning of something that happened just once in a lifetime.
But soon, Danny thought, the ceremony would be over. Then he would be able to put the black-and-yellow cooler on Man o’ War and take him back to the barn. Soon the colt would be his alone again. Or would he, now that he was on his way to greatness?
Rising Star
17
Danny found that he didn’t have Man o’ War to himself back at the barn. Louis Feustel hovered around the colt like a mother hen, keeping outsiders away from Man o’ War and telling all the stableboys what to do in short, terse commands.
“We’ve got ourselves a champ,” he said. “See that you take care of him right. Where’s the warm water? Danny, get a move on. Don’t just stand there gawking. And Frank, you got the water too hot. Cool it down some. Mike, get his halter. Quick.”
Feustel removed the colt’s bridle and slipped on the halter. “There … that’s better. Give him a sip of water now, Danny. Just a swallow. Whoa, that’s enough. Careful now. Here … hold him, Danny. I’ll do the washing myself. Set that warm water down, Frank. Step back, Mike, take off that cover first. Strip him down, that’s it. Now give me the sponge.”
Feustel filled the sponge with water, held it between the colt’s ears, and squeezed gently. The water ran down over the head and face, carrying much of the sweat with it. Man o’ War tried to catch the water with his tongue, then he shook his head and reared.
They all stepped back until he came down. “Better put the chain through his mouth, Danny,” the trainer said. “He’s still full of beans.”
Feustel continued his washing, sweeping the sponge carefully over the colt’s face, eyes, muzzle, and nostrils. He squeezed some of the water into the colt’s mouth to carry out the saliva. Then, carrying the pail of water, he began moving faster, dipping the sponge often and sweeping the glistening body in long strokes along the neck, back, sides, and rump.
Everybody else stood clear, not caring if the water was splashing over them or not. Danny’s gaze left Man o’ War a moment to take in Mr. Riddle and a group of friends who were standing a short distance away. He heard one of the men say to Mr. Riddle, “You rung in a four-year-old on us, Sam. No two-year-old could be as big as he is. And not as fast!”
Mr. Riddle laughed with his friend. His eyes didn’t leave his colt as he said, “Yes, he’s going to be hard to beat, if he doesn’t go wrong.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Louis Feustel said, stopping his work. “He won’t go wrong, sir, not this colt. He’ll thrive on all the work we give him. He’s big through and through.”
“He’s got the will to win and that’s certainly one of the greatest attributes a horse can have,” Mr. Riddle answered.
“He’s got class, this colt has,” Feustel agreed. “You know, they say that a horse with real class sometimes does have a heart that’s larger than normal for his body. I’ll bet his is big, real big. When he caught those other colts, they just pulled themselves up like a man putting brakes on his car. Yes, sir, he’s got as much class as any horse I ever saw.”
Danny held the lead shank tight as Feustel moved to the front again and began washing the colt’s chest. Then the swift, sure strokes of the trainer’s hand swept the forelegs and belly clean. He changed water often, barking orders when the pails weren’t ready fast enough for him. He cleaned the hind legs. He was thorough but careful to avoid getting kicked or stepped on, for Man o’ War was fussing in his excitement. He washed the long tail, also under it, putting the tail into the bucket and sloshing it around in the water. Then he lifted the tail and whisked out most of the water. He stepped back to observe his work, then started again on the lower legs.
As Danny’s eyes swept over the crowd, he knew that his days alone with Man o’ War were a thing of the past. Major Treat was in his stall, waiting for his evening feed. The stable dogs were barking and the smell of mash being cooked was in the air. But the men from the other stables weren’t going to dinner as usual. They were all here, just standing around Man o’ War, gawking as if they had never seen a racehorse before.
“Yep, we’ve got ourselves a champ,” he heard Feustel mutter to himself again as he picked up the curved scraper and began removing most of the water from Man o’ War’s dripping body. Danny watched the sure, sweeping swipes of the scraper. Even the head trainer wanted to take care of this horse. Man o’ War belonged to everybody.
&nbs
p; Having finished with the scraper, Feustel used a clean sponge, squeezing it as dry as he could. Then he went all over the big colt again, squeezing water out of the sponge as it collected. When he had the colt as dry as possible, he called for a heavy cooler and covered Man o’ War carefully.
“There,” he said finally, satisfied that the blanket was even all around and snug enough not to slip back. His keen eyes turned to Danny, and for the first time that afternoon his face seemed to lose its grimness. He even smiled as he said, “You walk him, Danny. Cool him out carefully, now. Just a few swallows of water slowly, and warm it up some … don’t want it cold. Off with him, now.”
Danny, too, was grinning as the crowd opened up for him and his colt. He held Man o’ War close. He hadn’t lost him yet. “Come on, Red,” he said. “We’re going for a nice long walk, just you and me.”
For the next two days Man o’ War rested and loafed. Louis Feustel had him walked each day and held to a jog on the track. The big colt’s racing campaign was off to a flying start and everybody wanted to keep it that way. They all knew what they had in the burly colt, as did everyone who read the newspapers.
The headlines proclaimed: “Man o’ War a Whirlwind.” And sportswriters reported in detail the impression left in the minds of all those who had seen him easily win his first race. They prophesied great things for him among the juveniles, for he had made “six high-class youngsters look like $200 horses.” They were all certain he would be a hard colt to beat in the rich stakes to come.
“He’ll be hard to beat, all right,” Danny said, reading the lengthy accounts about his colt. “Nothing will even come close enough to touch him.”
And on the third day after his first start, Man o’ War was bridled and taken again to the paddock at Belmont Park. The event was the Keene Memorial, his first stakes race for a winner’s purse of $4,200. His opposition consisted of five colts, all more highly regarded than those he had beaten in his first race. Three were being especially watched: On Watch, Ralco, and Hoodwink. Most of the crowd’s interest was on the meeting of Man o’ War and On Watch because they were sons of Fair Play and Colin, and those sires had been intense rivals in their racing days. Colin had emerged the champion. Would Man o’ War avenge his father’s defeat? Both colts were carrying the same weight of 115 pounds. Both were highly regarded. The spectators made up their minds as the horses went to the post. They recalled Man o’ War’s impressive victory three days earlier. Again they made him the favorite to win.