Jimmy stopped talking until he was certain George was out of hearing distance. “I’ve decided to cut the season short this year if I can make enough money during the first couple of months to tide me over for the year. We should be back sometime in August. I don’t want George to know just yet. He might think I’m gettin’ soft or thinkin’ too much about my—” Jimmy pointed to his stomach. “And it isn’t that, Tom, I just want to get back to work with the colt. Not that I don’t think you’re capable of handling him, Tom,” he added hastily. “You know what I said about your hands when I first saw you drive Symbol. Well, I’m sure of it now. You got more in your hands than I ever hoped to have. I know I’m not goin’ to make you cocky by telling you this because you love horses and you’re sincere in your desire to make them your lifework—just like I have. There’s a lot more to learn, and I can teach you all that. But I never could have given you the hands you got; you were born with those.”
Tom said nothing when Jimmy had finished. It wasn’t necessary to tell Jimmy how he felt. Within a few days he’d be alone with his colt again. How well he remembered his anxiety and lack of confidence at Uncle Wilmer’s when the colt had come! There was no doubt in his mind now but that he could do exactly what Jimmy wanted him to do during the next few months. And it was a good and wonderful feeling. He and Bonfire had grown up.
TOM MESSENGER, TRAINER
12
Jimmy and George left for the fairs with high hopes for a successful season.
“If Jimmy only sticks to his diet,” George told Tom, “he’ll feel well; then maybe we’ll have the fun we used to have at the fairs.”
They put Symbol in the old van, Sadie, and left for Indiana, Pennsylvania.
For Tom, it was good having Bonfire all to himself again. He worked with him as though he alone was the trainer of this blood bay colt and was getting him ready to race the following season, to drive and share with him his first competition. Temporarily he forgot Jimmy Creech, professional trainer and driver.
Yet instinctively he followed Jimmy’s instructions, walking to the side of the two-wheeled cart while Bonfire pranced around the track, eager to go but responsive and obedient to the lines. Often Tom thought of the joy it would be just to sit behind him a few minutes, to have those supple hindquarters working so smoothly between his outstretched legs. But always he resisted the temptation, well remembering that Jimmy didn’t want him to do it. He let the colt get his exercise in the paddock and while working him on the longe. And for many hours each day, he stood beside him while Bonfire grazed in the infield of the track.
There were times, too, when Tom added his own training lessons to those Jimmy had given him. He walked Bonfire up and down the wooden loading ramp, getting him used to entering and leaving a van, which would be so much a part of his racing life. And he walked him in and out of other sheds, now empty except for those of Miss Elsie, because Bonfire must get used to strange stalls and barns. And the colt followed, having full confidence in the hands which led him. Tom took him too to Miss Elsie’s two-year-old colts, allowing Bonfire to nuzzle, neigh, and snort angrily occasionally at the other horses. Getting used to strange colts both in the stable and on the track was very necessary.
And whenever Tom brought the colt in from pulling the cart about the track, he would work over him the very same way as he would have done had Bonfire had a strenuous workout or race. Removing the harness and bridle, he would wipe him clean and rub him down, although there was no sweat or dirt on the colt’s smooth red coat. Then he would throw a cooling blanket over him and walk him. It would all be a part of Bonfire’s life, and it was important that he accept it now so that later Jimmy would only have to concentrate on bringing out the colt’s speed and building stamina.
Tom wrote Uncle Wilmer regularly, telling him of Bonfire’s progress and asking about the Queen. His uncle wrote back, telling him, “The mare never looked better, all right, and she’s the best there is. Too bad Jimmy didn’t have the money to breed her again. I’d sure like to see her have another colt. Maybe next year, huh? Maybe Jimmy will make some money this season. Where’s he at now? I seen in Hoof Beats that he took a third at the Indiana Fair, but nothing since then. Is he coming to the Reading Fair this year? Hope so. Sure like to see him, all right, so would your aunt. We miss you, Tom, but know how busy you must be with the colt and all. You send more pictures of him.…”
Tom took more pictures of the colt and then sat down to write Uncle Wilmer. “I don’t think Jimmy and George will make the Reading Fair this year. Jimmy’s figuring on cutting the season short so he can get back here by late August … that’s if things go well for him. He wants to work Bonfire. But next season I’m hoping we’ll all be at Reading, and you’ll see our wonderful colt go!”
Tom stopped writing at this point to look out the tack-room window. After a while he went on with his letter. “I don’t know where Jimmy is right now. He wrote me after the Indiana Fair, but I haven’t heard from him since. I’m not worried because I know how busy he and George must be. I figure they ought to be at the Clearfield Fair by now.…”
Tom finished his letter and sealed the envelope. But he was worried. Jimmy might be too busy to write, but it wasn’t like George not to keep him posted, knowing how concerned Tom was about Jimmy. And here it was well into July, with at least four fairs behind them, and still no word. He would feel a lot better if only there had been some mention of Jimmy Creech in Hoof Beats—just so he’d know Jimmy was all right and racing. But there was nothing.
A week more went by, and still there was no word from Jimmy or George. Two large vans pulled up to Miss Elsie’s shed and Tom saw her supervise the loading of her two-year-old colts. Miss Elsie hadn’t found what she was looking for in this group, just as she’d suspected she wouldn’t months ago. And this year, the same as last year and the year before, Tom watched the colts leave for the big summer sales in Kentucky. He liked Miss Elsie very much, but he couldn’t understand how she could breed, raise and train colts year after year, to get to know them so well, and then send them away to the sales. Maybe she just wouldn’t let herself fall in love with any colt—not until she had found the right one. Tom didn’t know or understand. Maybe the black filly with the white stockings would be the one for Miss Elsie.
For the next few days only Tom and Bonfire roamed about the empty sheds and worked on the track. Tom would have been lonely had it not been for his colt.
It was during this time that George’s letter came.
Bedford Fair
July 29
Dear Tom,
I know I should have written long before this, but I thought you’d worry even more if I told you what I got to tell you now. I’ve been waiting and hoping things would get better for Jimmy, but I don’t think so now. And they could get worse.
Jimmy has been sick quite a few times—the same trouble. Symbol ain’t been racing good at all, and Jimmy started worrying when he started using his savings, what they are, to make ends meet. It’s the first time I ever wished I had a lot of money, just so I could loan it to him. But then again, he most likely wouldn’t take it, anyway.
He got so mad at the trouble he was having that he had stomach pains one night. That made him madder, and he threw away the list of foods that he should eat and did everything the doc told him not to do. And now he’s worse than ever, hardly getting any sleep at all and looking almost like he’s dead.
I been trying to get him to go back home. The colt and rest would fix him up again, I know. But he won’t listen to me and is going to keep racing. I don’t think we’ll be back early like Jimmy planned. I only hope things don’t get worse. Jimmy is in no shape to race. He’s careless when driving, and I’m afraid for him and for the others in the race. And the dangerous part of it is that Jimmy don’t know how careless he is.
I’m hating myself for telling you all this about Jimmy. But you got to know sometime, and I couldn’t very well cover up what’s wrong. I’m real worried, Tom.
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Your letters have reached us, and I read them all to Jimmy, hoping they’ll help. Keep sending pictures of the colt and keep writing. The only time Jimmy perks up at all is when we hear from you.
Your friend,
George
George’s letter only made things worse for Tom, and he turned to Bonfire for comfort, spending every minute of the day with him and keeping busy. He tried hard not to think about Jimmy. He couldn’t do anything for him at the fairs, and it only made him more miserable to think about him. He had a job here, and the best he could do was to teach Bonfire his lessons so well that Jimmy would have less to do when he returned to Coronet.
A few days later, Miss Elsie moved her group of yearlings from her farm on the hill to the track. Their presence and the renewed activity made it a little easier for Tom, and he managed at times to forget Jimmy Creech. He saw the black filly and knew that she was everything Miss Elsie had said of her. Like his colt, she was clean-bodied and her legs were good-boned and shaped well, with four startling white stockings running up to the same height on all legs—to the hocks on the hind and to the knees on the fore.
The black filly was as feminine in appearance as his colt was masculine. She was slim, lithe and delicate of line, and her every movement was graceful and beautiful to watch. Her head was small and set finely on a long, slender neck. And running from her forehead down to her nostrils was a white, narrow blaze, the only other mark besides her stockings.
Tom watched her effortless, birdlike action while Miss Elsie worked her on the longe; then he went to Bonfire. And because it was his nature, he looked at his colt a long while, pointing out to himself the different physical characteristics between colt and filly.
In many respects they’re alike, he thought. Each has the same fineness of line, but the filly is so graceful she gives you the impression that her feet are scarcely touching the ground. My colt is graceful, too, but not as graceful as the filly. Bonfire gives you more the impression of power. He’s taller and more muscular—maybe that’s why. The filly glides and you get the feeling she might take off and fly. Maybe she will when Miss Elsie starts working her. On the other hand, my colt’s stride is smooth and regular, and there’s a feeling of power you get when you watch him that overshadows anything else—even his control of action.
“My colt’s neck is more muscled and more arched at the crest than the filly’s,” Tom said aloud. “And his head is smaller, too. He probably gets both those characteristics from his sire, the Black. From what Jimmy has told me about the Black, I’d guess that.”
Bonfire came to the door of his stall and shoved his muzzle into Tom’s armpit. “There’s a girl your age down the row,” Tom said. “You’ll be seeing a lot of her pretty soon now. She looks good—maybe the best Miss Elsie ever had. Only time will tell that.”
And Tom knew, too, that only in time would they know what speed his colt possessed. A lot of colts and fillies looked good as yearlings, but failed utterly later on when their trainers asked for speed.
The days passed and Tom enjoyed Miss Elsie’s company, especially when they went around the track together. For Miss Elsie had broken all her yearlings to bridle, harness and cart at the farm, and now at the track she followed very closely Tom’s methods with Bonfire. But the woman worked longer and harder than Tom, for she had eleven yearlings in her sheds and she wouldn’t let anyone else, even Tom, help her school and exercise her colts and fillies. Only she knew the kind of horse she wanted to take Mr. Guy’s place.
It was two weeks since Tom had received George’s letter, and there had been no further word. While Tom walked to the side of the cart as Bonfire pulled it around the track, he was thinking about Jimmy and wondering what was happening at Bedford.
So concerned was Tom with his thoughts that he didn’t see Miss Elsie leave her shed, walking behind the Princess. Neither did he hear the filly’s hoofs as she drew close. But he felt the light touch of Bonfire’s mouth on the bit, and knew immediately that Miss Elsie was behind him. His colt always acted this way when another horse was on the track; he threw his head up a little, so eager was he to move out of his nimble walk. But the signal for which he waited so patiently didn’t come.
Tom turned to find the filly’s head, her white blaze shattering the blackness of her face, directly behind him.
Laughing, Miss Elsie turned the filly away and let her draw up alongside Bonfire. The colt didn’t turn to the filly nor did the filly take any notice of Bonfire. Yet two pairs of ears pricked forward and strides lengthened until filly and colt felt the unspoken commands of their drivers through the lines. They slowed to a walk again.
“They’re all business out here,” Miss Elsie told Tom.
The boy nodded. “When I take Bonfire into your shed, he’ll play and nuzzle the filly. But not here. He’s serious about this,” he added, smiling.
“And so is the Princess,” Miss Elsie said, removing one hand from the lines to adjust her glasses. “I’ve named her Princess Guy, Tom,” she added quietly.
Tom said nothing, but he knew full well that never before had she named any of her yearlings after Mr. Guy.
“You think she’s it, then, Miss Elsie?”
“I think so, Tom. I know it’s too early,” she added quickly, “what with all the work ahead. But there’s a feeling here.” She raised the lines in her hands. “It’s different somehow with Princess Guy than with any colt I’ve ever had. She looks good, but it’s more than that. I feel this filly—for some reason I do. And she could be the one.”
“I hope so, Miss Elsie,” Tom said, his gaze on the red coat and moving black tail and mane of his colt. And he thought, if she’s really it, she’ll have Bonfire to reckon with.
They were halfway down the backstretch when Tom asked, “If Princess Guy is the one you’ve been waiting for, what’ll you do now that you’ve found her?”
“I’ll go to the races with her, Tom,” she returned quickly. “I always said I’d go out if I found another Mr. Guy.”
“You’ll drive her?”
“Of course, Tom. I drove Mr. Guy, didn’t I?”
Miss Elsie didn’t say anything more, becoming absorbed with every movement of the black filly for which she had waited ten long years. Finally she gave Princess Guy more line and left Tom behind.
The boy saw his colt gather himself and felt the burning desire of Bonfire to catch and pass the black filly. Tom’s fingers moved on the lines, comforting Bonfire and letting him know that it wasn’t time—not yet.
When he led Bonfire into the barn, he saw the rolled newspaper lying on the tack-room table. It was a daily Pittsburgh paper to which Jimmy subscribed and which Tom forwarded to him every day.
He didn’t pick up the newspaper until after he had rubbed and walked Bonfire and put him in the paddock. Then, taking a pencil, he crossed out Jimmy’s Coronet address and wrote, “c/o Race Secretary, Bedford Fair, Pa.” He tossed it to one side, planning to take it to the Coronet post office on his way home. The paper rolled until it came to a stop against the wall of the room. And it was then that Tom saw the black headline of a story at the bottom of page one.
Quickly, frantically, he reached for the paper and tore the brown wrapper from about it. Then he read the story.
CORONET REINSMAN NARROWLY ESCAPES DEATH IN BAD SPILL AT BEDFORD FAIR
Jimmy Creech, Veteran Driver, Hospitalized After Race Collision
Bedford, Pa.—Jimmy Creech of Coronet, Pa., veteran of more than forty years of harness racing, collided with twenty-nine-year-old Frank Lunceford, of New York City, well-known night raceway driver, in the third race of today’s program at the Bedford Fair.
Lunceford escaped injury when sulkies hooked wheels, but Creech was thrown, striking his head heavily against the ground. He was removed to the Bedford Hospital while still unconscious.
X-rays taken later showed that miraculously there was no brain concussion or skull fracture. Creech regained consciousness two hours after the accident. He w
ill remain in the hospital a few days under close observation, doctors said, and should have complete rest when he’s discharged.
Track officials stated that had Creech worn the new protective helmet liner beneath his sulky cap—worn by all other drivers in the race—he would have suffered less injury or might not have lost consciousness at all. He had been asked to wear the liner before the race by officials, but had refused.
Anguish for Jimmy was very evident in Tom’s pale face when he finished reading. Yet he couldn’t help thinking, That’s just like Jimmy. He wouldn’t wear a good protective liner because they didn’t wear them in the old days. And Jimmy won’t stand for any changes—not Jimmy.
But he’d be coming back to Coronet now, early in August, just as he’d planned. Yet for a different reason. Jimmy Creech couldn’t go on racing this season, even if he wanted to, not after a spill like that. Tom wondered where it would all lead, and what Jimmy would do about the blood bay colt. Not so long ago, when Jimmy was in bad health and in need of money, he almost sold the Queen before her foal came. Tom didn’t want to think of what Jimmy might possibly do now. Jimmy wouldn’t, couldn’t sell Bonfire! Or could he?
Tom wasn’t certain of anything that Jimmy Creech might—or might not—do.
DIZZY SPEED AHEAD!
13
Two weeks later Jimmy returned to Coronet, his head swathed high with bandages, his face very pale. George helped him from the van, but Jimmy pushed his hands away. “No need for that,” he said brusquely; then he greeted Tom as though nothing at all had happened.
The boy tried to smile but couldn’t, not while looking into Jimmy’s thin, drawn face and the eyes that burned hot within black, sunken pits.