But Uncle Wilmer never again attempted to handle the colt the way he thought best. And while he watched Tom and the colt very often, he offered neither advice nor criticism. Instead, he would lean upon the pasture fence as he did now, following the boy and colt with his eyes as they played together in the field. And he would wonder and be a little bewildered by the sight before him.
Breathing heavily, Tom stood about fifty feet away from the colt. He had been running with him for the past half-hour and was tired. He was ready to stop playing but the colt wasn’t.
Long-legged and high-headed, the colt stood watching Tom and waiting. He waited for all of five minutes before moving, then he turned to look at the Queen, who was grazing, and back at the boy. Suddenly his ears swept back flat against his head, and he ran toward Tom. Five yards away, he swerved with the agility of a broken field runner and plunged past. Before coming to a stop, he flung his hind legs high in the air with reckless abandon.
Calling to him, Tom ran down the slight slope, passed the mare and, jumping the brook, set out across the fields. Behind him he heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs; then the colt sped by him swiftly, running a hundred yards or more ahead before coming to a stop and turning to face Tom.
But the boy was on his way again, running in another direction. With a snort, the colt went after him.
Uncle Wilmer watched until he saw Tom come to a halt and sit down upon the grass. The colt stopped too, but after a few moments he walked slowly over to the boy and shoved his nose into Tom’s chest.
Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer left the fence and walked toward the house. His face was twisted in thought. He was trying to understand Tom’s strange way of training this colt. No, he decided, it’s Jimmy Creech’s way. Jimmy Creech whoever he is. Tom’s doin’ what Jimmy tells him to do. And why shouldn’t he? It’s Jimmy Creech’s colt, ain’t it? What do I care what he does? But I wouldn’t do it that way.
Reaching the gate, Uncle Wilmer opened it and went across the lawn.
“But some of these racing fellers make good money at it,” he muttered. “You got to admit they ought to know what they’re doin’, all right.”
Entering the house, Uncle Wilmer decided to dismiss the subject from his mind altogether. It made no difference to him how Tom handled the colt. None at all.
But it was less than an hour later when Uncle Wilmer returned to the pasture fence. He had tried to stay away and had made every effort to convince himself that he wasn’t at all interested in what Tom was doing with the colt, but he hadn’t succeeded. Although he had buried his head in the poultry section of the latest issue of the Farm Journal, he couldn’t help hearing the occasional shouts by Tom and the high-pitched neighs of the colt. So finally he had put down his paper and left the house to return to the pasture.
He found Tom standing close to the fence, holding in his hand the new web halter he had bought a couple of days ago while in town.
“You goin’ to put it on him now?” Uncle Wilmer asked.
Nodding, Tom lifted one foot to a rail of the fence and tightened the laces of the light sneakers he wore.
“You ought to wear heavier shoes,” Uncle Wilmer said with concern. “He might step on your foot. He ain’t so small any more.” He glanced at the colt, who was grazing a short distance away from them.
“I can get around faster in these,” Tom said.
“Heh?” Uncle Wilmer asked, cupping an ear.
“Faster!” Tom shouted, pointing to his sneakers.
Uncle Wilmer shook his head in wonder, and it was only when the boy turned to the colt that he asked, “You want any help?”
Tom turned to him, surprised not by the offer of assistance from his uncle, but by the note of eagerness in his voice. He tried to meet Uncle Wilmer’s gaze, but the man would have none of it, for he had moved toward the chicken house.
“I can use your help a little later,” Tom called to him.
Without turning, Uncle Wilmer said, “You call me, then. I got work to do.”
Reaching the chicken house, Uncle Wilmer looked carefully over his shoulder until he could see Tom without being observed. He waited many minutes before turning completely around; then he sat down on the steps, well knowing that Tom would be too busy with the colt to notice him sitting there.
His eyes were grave with concern as he saw Tom go to the colt and kneel before him. After a while, he saw Tom raise the halter.
“He’s goin’ to have trouble,” Uncle Wilmer mumbled. “He shoulda let me hold him. I could still do it, all right.”
But Tom didn’t raise the halter directly to the colt’s head. Instead, Uncle Wilmer saw him run the halter over the colt’s body as he handled him. After a long while, Tom moved the halter to the front of the colt, and Uncle Wilmer saw the colt reach for it, attempting to pull it from the boy’s hand.
For all of a half-hour, Tom made no attempt to put the halter over the colt’s head. Uncle Wilmer’s interest in the proceedings had given way to restlessness and several times he thought of leaving and would rise to his feet. But always he would sit down again.
“What’s he puttin’ it off fer?” he asked himself aloud. “It ain’t goin’ to be no different no matter how long he waits. He’s goin’ to need me to hold the colt in the end, all right.”
His attention was diverted by the chickens that were clucking in their mad scramble to get inside to roost. The sky was darkening. It was getting late. He should be collecting the eggs instead of sitting here. He looked back at the pasture, and saw that Tom had placed the halter on the colt’s ear. It dangled beside the small head until the colt shook it off. Uncle Wilmer shook his head sadly. What was Tom trying to do anyway? Why was he wasting all this time?
Finally Uncle Wilmer rose to his feet and started to enter the chicken house. Then he stopped and turned around. He’d better wait, for Tom would be needing him.
For many minutes he stood there. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he looked with new interest at what was going on in the pasture. Tom held the halter in both hands now; he had moved even closer to the colt. He was going to put on the halter!
Uncle Wilmer waited for what he knew must happen. The colt would pull back, rear and twist away from Tom before the boy could buckle the strap about his head. Uncle Wilmer moved from the doorway, ready to go to Tom’s assistance.
Tom had the colt’s nose through the nose band; he was going to place the strap behind the pricked ears. Uncle Wilmer knew the boy would have trouble now, so he moved quickly toward the pasture fence. But he came to an abrupt stop, his eyes widening.
The strap was not buckled yet, but the colt stood quietly. The boy held the halter strap over the small head. He used his other hand to lift the buckle to the strap. The colt snorted as Tom fastened the buckle, but the boy stroked the furry neck. The halter was on and there had been no fight, no resistance by the colt.
Tom tested the halter with his hand. The nose band was loose, so there would be no recurrence of what had happened before. And the head strap, while not tight, was snug enough to prevent the colt from getting it over his head.
Tom rose from his kneeling position, and saw his uncle standing by the fence. The man’s face was puzzled and Tom smiled as he walked toward him.
“Y’did it,” Uncle Wilmer said when the boy reached him. “An’ I didn’t think you could.”
“He knew it wouldn’t hurt him,” Tom said eagerly. “He just wants to know what you expect of him, that’s all … that and to know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.” Tom had reached for the lead rope hanging on the fence, and was holding it in his hands when he finished talking.
“You ain’t goin’ to try leading him yet, are you?” Uncle Wilmer asked.
Tom moved toward the colt. “No,” he said, “I won’t try leading him—not yet. He’ll be leading me now.”
The colt was beside the Queen, but moved away from her when he saw Tom approaching.
Tom waited for the colt to come to him, then ran h
is hands behind the small ears, finding spots he knew the colt enjoyed having rubbed. But at the same time he clipped the lead rope to the ring of the halter.
It was some time before the colt decided to return to his mother and moved away from Tom. But the boy walked with him, the rope swinging between them.
The colt’s walk changed into a trot, but the rope remained loose, for Tom’s pace too had quickened. Reaching the Queen, the colt walked around her, still followed by Tom. The colt encircled his mother several times, eying curiously the rope stretched between him and the boy. Finally he stopped, standing close beside the Queen, and Tom waited, talking to him.
After a while, the colt moved away from the Queen again and Tom followed, still holding the lead rope. There were sudden spurts of speed as the colt trotted about, but always Tom managed to stay near enough so the rope never became taut. He didn’t want to control the colt’s movements now, for Jimmy Creech had written, “When you first try to lead him, let him go his own way, if he has a mind to. Don’t fight him, just go along with him, until before long you’ll find that you’re guiding him and he’s going along with you. You got to have patience.”
Tom thought of Jimmy’s words over and over again while he followed the colt to the left and to the right, back to the mare and away from her. Fortunately the colt neither ran his fastest nor strayed too far away from the Queen, and Tom was able to stay with him. Jimmy Creech was right when he said, “You got to have patience,” but he should have said too, “You got to be fast.” And Tom was thankful he was wearing his light sneakers.
The colt had returned to the mare to nurse when Tom first became conscious of the darkening sky. It was time to take them in from the pasture. He turned to the gate hoping to find his uncle there, and he was not disappointed.
He waited until the colt had finished nursing, then unclipped the rope from the halter, and led the Queen to the gate.
“You could help me now, Uncle Wilmer,” he shouted. “I’d like you to lead the mare to the barn while I take the colt.”
Nodding, Uncle Wilmer opened the gate while Tom held the Queen. The boy released her when his uncle had hold of her halter, and then turned to the colt. He snapped the rope on to the ring of the colt’s halter.
Uncle Wilmer led the mare through the gate and walked toward the barn. The colt followed quickly in the shadow of his mother, while Tom walked beside him. On the way, Uncle Wilmer turned several times to look at them. And always there would be a wondering, almost incredulous light in his gray eyes when he saw the colt walking quietly beside Tom, and making no effort to break away.
THE FAIR
8
For a long while that night, Tom lay in bed reading a voluminous book entitled The American Trotter. He read again of the horses which had etched their names among the immortals of harness racing, the great sires and dams, and the stories of famous races. And he thought of the colt now sleeping beside the Queen, and wondered if some day he, too, would be recorded among the famed.
Finally he put the book to one side and reached for the copies of Hoof Beats, a racing magazine, which Jimmy Creech had been sending him. He found the June and July issues, but the copy for August was missing. He remembered having read it while in the kitchen the day before. He had probably left it there.
The radio was playing softly below and the kitchen lights were still on. Someone must be there, although he had heard no voices for some time.
Getting out of bed, Tom went down the stairs. His aunt wasn’t there, but Uncle Wilmer sat reading in the big leather chair. He hadn’t heard Tom.
Without moving, the boy stood in the doorway, his eyes on the August issue of Hoof Beats, which his uncle was reading so intently. Smiling, Tom was about to go back upstairs when his uncle raised his head. Seeing the boy, he quickly put Hoof Beats to one side and picked up his Farm Journal.
Tom was going up the stairs when his uncle called to him. “You can have it. It don’t interest me none. I was jus’ lookin’ at the pictures.” He buried his head in the Farm Journal and looked up again only as Tom’s footsteps began ascending the stairs. “Your aunt will be throwin’ it out, all right, if you leave, it here,” he shouted after the boy.
Tom continued up the stairs and climbed into bed once more. He put out his light and lay in the darkness. But it was a long time before he went to sleep, for the light from the kitchen came through the cracks in the floor of his room. Occasionally too, he heard his uncle turning pages, and the sound was not that of the light newsprint upon which the Farm Journal was printed, but the slick heavy-coated stock of Hoof Beats.
During the remaining weeks of August, Uncle Wilmer’s interest in harness racing grew and his knowledge of the sport along with it. For Tom never failed to leave an issue of Hoof Beats in the kitchen, and in time he kept his book, The American Trotter, on the kitchen shelf. And although his uncle never admitted reading them, he made remarks that could be attributed only to them. But he spoke with the casualness that implied he had always known that. “They’ll have to go some to beat Greyhound’s record for the mile of one fifty-five and a quarter. Greyhound is a big horse, Tom. You know that, don’t you? Big all right—he stands sixteen hands one and a quarter inches at the withers.”
Tom recalled his uncle’s saying, the day the Queen arrived at the farm, that “the best ones are small”; but he hadn’t reminded him. He didn’t want to do anything to discourage Uncle Wilmer’s new interest in harness racing. For not only did he enjoy talking to his uncle of records and bloodlines, but he needed his help while teaching the colt his first lessons.
It wasn’t much that Uncle Wilmer had to do, but it was important. His job was to lead the mare about the paddock while Tom followed with the colt. The first few days, Uncle Wilmer had consented only grudgingly to help Tom, claiming he had “more important things to do than lead an old mare around in circles.” But when Tom guided the colt first to the left of the Queen, then to the right of her, Uncle Wilmer stopped complaining and watched the boy with puzzled but interested eyes.
They spent several hours each day in the paddock while Tom taught the colt to respond obediently to the pressure of the halter against his head. He would bring him to a stop and let Uncle Wilmer lead the mare away from him. Then, talking to the colt, Tom would keep him where he was until he was ready to take him to his mother. At first the colt would want to run to her, but Tom carefully held him down to a walk.
It was tedious and trying work teaching the colt to obey Tom’s every command. And during the long hours, Uncle Wilmer talked more and more of the racing records of such horses as Billy Direct, Spencer Scott, Titan Hanover and others, for he had memorized much of what he had read in The American Trotter. And he discussed bloodlines with Tom while they walked endlessly about the paddock with the mare and colt. He liked the Queen’s breeding. She had Guy Axworthy’s blood in her. He didn’t think you could ask for more than that. “And it was a good idea breeding the mare to the Black, too,” he told Tom. “The outcross to his Arabian blood might really do something for this colt.”
That had been Jimmy Creech’s idea, Tom could have told him. But he didn’t, for he had learned that the less he mentioned Jimmy’s name to his uncle, the easier it was to get along with him.
Letters came frequently from Jimmy and George Snedecker. After leaving the Bedford Fair, they had gone on to Butler, Ebensburg, back to Carlisle, and then on to the Lebanon, Youngstown and Mercer fairs. Jimmy finished in the money at most of the fairs, but he never brought Symbol home to win. There were several pictures of him in the latest issue of Hoof Beats, and Uncle Wilmer studied them critically.
“He’s gettin’ on,” Uncle Wilmer said in a surprised tone. “Must be my age, all right.”
“So are a good many of the others,” Tom said. “Some of the best drivers are old men.”
“Not old men,” Uncle Wilmer answered a little fiercely. “Just gettin’ on. We can keep up with any of the young’uns, all right.”
F
rom that day, it seemed to Tom that Uncle Wilmer’s attitude toward Jimmy Creech changed considerably. Once he even went so far as to claim that Jimmy Creech was “responsible for the good looks of the colt. It was him who bred the mare to the Black. He knew what he was doin’, all right.”
The first week of September approached and with it came the fair at Reading, just fourteen miles from the farm. Tom listened to his uncle and aunt discuss the many reasons why they couldn’t afford to go this year; yet he knew that nothing would keep them from attending it. They hadn’t missed one in the past forty-three years; Uncle Wilmer had told him that much. And Tom knew too of Aunt Emma’s crock of mincemeat that had been standing for three months in the cellar. Aunt Emma was famous for her mincemeat pies, and certainly she would have one in the pie-judging contest this year as in previous years. The entry applications had arrived a week ago, and they had been signed and returned by Aunt Emma. Tom knew that, even if Uncle Wilmer didn’t. And Aunt Emma’s pie wouldn’t be at the fair without Aunt Emma.
Monday was the first day of the fair and Aunt Emma and Uncle Wilmer were very definite about not going this year. “We always spend too much money,” Aunt Emma said. “And when you’ve seen one fair you’ve seen them all.”
Uncle Wilmer nodded his egg-shaped head in agreement.
On Tuesday, Aunt Emma went down to the cellar to taste her mincemeat. Returning to the kitchen, she looked for the program of activities at the fair which had come in the mail. She found it on the porch in her husband’s hand. He was telling Tom, “Looks like they’ll have some good races on Wednesday and Thursday, all right.”
Aunt Emma took the program from him, read it quickly, then said quietly, “Thursday is pie-judging day.”
“Heh?” Uncle Wilmer cupped his ear.
“Thursday,” Tom shouted for his aunt. “It’s the day they judge pies.”