Disclaimer: Me no owner the Black… … oh well:…
Chapter 11
I knew Galilean was coming back. One way or another, he was coming back.
Unless something drastically drastic happened to him, like he broke his leg (which was not likely to happen; if you tried to do it, he'd probably kick you over and crush your skull first; if he tripped himself…), or he broke his neck(considering the thickness of it…) or he got colic …or he somehow died… … if he died, that would be too much to ask for…
( I shouldn't really say that, considering I've got his best interests at heart…)
So, I waited. The snow melted away while winter turned into spring and I waited. I ran and won in races, and I waited.
And while I waited, I practiced.
At track workouts, I imagined that he was running beside me and that I had to beat him.
At races, I made fast starts and pretended that he was ahead and that I needed to catch up with him.
I wasn't worried about losing to Steele anymore; if I could beat Galilean, who was so much faster than Steele, then of course I would beat him too.
And since I assumed that Galilean was faster than Runaway, My Sweet Lucy(a mare who was also really fast), Bright Renaissance (a stallion from our very own beloved Oakwood Acres) and Conquistador (from a very wealthy Mexican owner), I concluded that all I really needed to do was to beat Galilean, and I would also beat the rest. Those were all the winner-hopefuls. Plus one or two unknowns, maybe, and that was the field. If I could beat Galilean.
If.
If was the big problem. If my theory worked. If I could do it. If none of the other horses were ahead (but with Galilean's fast start…and the other horses were sure to stay in a pack at first, not wanting to burn up too much speed…by the time they made their moves, it might be too late to catch up…)
And Steele, of course.
Steele's techniques were the same as mine; so were Bright Renaissance's; we were from the same stable, trained by the same trainer, though Renaissance was older by three years; yeah, he was six years old, even older than Runaway.
My Sweet Lucy was very small and very stubborn and also very very fast. Her strides were very short; her legs were very short; but they were very rapid. I'd been told that she moved so fast that even at a breeze, her legs were a blur, though that was to be expected; she had to take at least two strides while we bigger horses took one stride, to keep pace with us.
Conquistador, from the wealthy Mexican owner, was more suited to endurance races. He wasn't a real sprinter, but he probably had more stamina than all of us put together. We'd been run in the same races twice. I'd won in both, but he'd stayed right by my side to the end, and it was a neck-to-neck fight to the finish line. His strategy was a mutated version of ours; we would wait till the lead horses began to tire, then make our moves; he would also wait, but make his moves later, in the hopes of overtaking them when they dropped back. He would really be a problem in long distance races, like the Belmont with it's 1 ½ mile run, sticking to our sides like an annoying bug that wouldn't go away.
He also has a Hispanian accent.
No kidding. No, seriously, I'm not joking. The way he moves; the way he paws the ground, nickers, tosses his head, snorts, even the way he runs; everything he does has a Spanish flair to it.
I'd tried to speak Mexican to him and mimic him once; I'd whinnied and grinned at him, hoping he would respond.
He just stared.
I gave up.
I waited. February, March, April…
And on the last week of April, Sir Peppero came back from the racetrack exhausted(he'd ponied one of the younger, particularly feisty two-year-olds) but with news: Galilean was being shipped back tomorrow.
I heaved a sigh.
Oh well…at least, since I'd just finished a race, it wasn't likely we would meet before the Triple Crown itself.
Three more weeks to go. I began the countdown. At the home oval, workouts were increasingly tension-filled, with Sims barking orders everywhere(not that he didn't usually), Chaya growing more and more nervous every time she rode, afraid of being yelled at yet again, and us horses being let out to run our fastest times on a home oval yet.
As I said, Steele, Bright Renaissance, and I were being entered in the Triple Crown. We had to be the first at the oval every morning, because Sims wanted to watch us gallop one by one, before all the other horses, which meant being pried awake and dragged out of my stall yawning and protesting by Chaya before the sun was even up.
At least that meant that he wasn't likely to vent his anger on us.
Our feeds were being supplemented with extra vitamins now, and the vet (which I've learned is the someone-in-white who pricks us) came every few days to check that we were in top condition.
The blacksmith(formerly called the 'Iron Man' before we were 'educated') came too, and replaced our shoes.
We weren't staying out in the paddocks anymore, in case anything happened to us. The stable was nearly full every night.
Two more weeks…
Chaya, who had won her 35th race weeks ago and gotten her jockey's license, started jogging me even longer distances in afternoon trailrides. We went up hills, down hills, around and around the back meadow and woods, and over the hills again, all at a trot or a canter.
This was where I got frustrated and Chaya got headaches. Every time we were out, I tried to bolt, knowing that if I didn't, I would spend the whole afternoon trotting, cantering, trotting, cantering, ….boring stuff… boring enough to make you fall asleep…
Then, she began ponying me on Sir Peppero, and I didn't dare do it anymore.
The final week…
Two days after that, we were loaded on a van and sent to the race track.
And I still hadn't been able to think of a back-up plan.
We spent the rest of that final week at the racetrack, where we were clocked every morning at the track with loads of humans and horses looking on. The humans stayed outside our stalls day. And night.
The barn we were in was full to the nearly overflowing. All the other Triple Crown Hopefuls except for Galilean were there. Then, you have the regular boarders, and the horses for the other races…
And if I say that the noise is sometimes deafening, I'm not exaggerating.
Three days…
Galilean arrived. The stable was in an uproar, especially when he got scared by the people at the track oval and reared straight up. His rider didn't fall off.
Then, to my horror and outrage, instead of Chaya riding me today, Sims tossed his stopwatch to Ken and jumped up on my back, I don't know why. I pulled, bucked, tried to roll, snorted, planted my feet and refused to move. No good. His hands were like iron, drawing up the reins so tight the corners of my mouth hurt again. I finally stopped when he kicked me in the ribs. Hard. And muttered under his breath, "Disobedient little devil."
Coming out of the track, I tried one last time: I reared. And Sims fell off. He never rode me again.
Two days…
At least seven different horses tried to bolt during morning workouts. I counted them while standing in line, waiting.
Strange. I wasn't feeling any of my usual pre-race nerves.
One day left…
I wasn't worked that morning. Good thing. I could spend the whole day snoozing away.
Which was the reason I was still wide awake by nightfall. While the heads of other horses drooped ands eyelids closed, mine was still wide open, my ears perked up.
The barn was emptying, grooms and jockeys and trainers scurrying for the door, blankets or tack slung over their shoulders. Pretty soon, no one was left. I stuck my head out of my stall door as far as it would go and looked to the right. Head after head hung over the half doors or else almost touched their owners' chests. A few were unseen; the occupants must have been lying down on the straw. Eyes were either shut or half-closed.
"So you were hired by Carter last year…"
We weren't alone after all…
Sims' voice was coming up from the other stalls, and he was talking to another trainer. They were discussing something. And coming steadily closer.
The humans passed by the other Oakwood horses' stalls, and I could hear the humans discussing them one by one.
"Ah yes…uh huh…son of Ironfisted and Molten Fire…Steele, yes…"
"Massive he is…"
"Yep. Damaged his foot just over four months ago…"
Sims' conversations are sometimes interesting and sometimes not. This one was…strange. Sims almost never showed us to anyone, trainers or jockeys or grooms, unless they were prospective buyers. He also never discussed us the way he was doing it now…parents, pedigree, name…and he never, never ever asked anyone's opinion. Even back at the farm, it was he who would make suggestions to our owner. It was like he was trying to …impress…this human…who, I very much doubted, was interested to buy us.
I mean, yeah sure, you could look at us if you passed by in the stable…ask how we were doing…and that was all. He wouldn't have allowed you to go inside and look us over one by one…
"This one. What do you think of her?"
Their voices were muffled. They must be going inside the stalls one by one and looking over the occupants.
"She's a beauty… unusual color though…but still very beautiful…and quite fast too… I think my boss would want to breed her to one of his stallions when she's retired…what was her name again?"
"Moon Dancer."
"Ah, the one with Native Dancer's bloodlines?"
"Yes yes…"
They passed over the next few horses.
" Bright Renaissance…you've already seen him…Sheer Willpower…not ours…Willow Queen…not ours either…Ahh…"
They had come to my stall.
"Was this the one you wanted to show me?"
"Yes. Come inside, he's quite gentle."
Quite gentle! I narrowed my eyes and swung a hoof. It hit the stall door with a thud.
The humans paused outside, the stranger with his hand on the stall door. "Not quite so gentle now, is he?"
They were still coming inside. I drew back in my stall, hugging the walls and eyeing them with mistrust.
"Dun…deep, burnt, golden dun…this one's different…where did you get him?" That was the stranger.
" I first saw him at an auction. His previous owner was a middleman. He trained horses in the west and shipped them back here to sell. Didn't want this little devil here…" Sims. "Cost him a little fortune…said that he was so ferocious he injured a trainer permanently in a training session…but he was fast…too fast, in fact…nearly got away a number of times…and that was a good stable…trained fine horses…hunters…a few jumpers…good facilities…"
Good stable. I snorted. Dirty stalls, an abusive trainer…you call that a good stable? And he didn't first see me at the auction; he was one of the humans who had caught me.
"He's not so little."
"He's only three years old."
"Where did the middleman get him?"
"I don't know. He's a middleman, wasn't he?"
"Are you sure he's a pureblood Thoroughbred? His feet are pretty big…and you know mustangs have big feet…and they live out west…"
"Are you saying that a mustang has been winning all these races here, beating the fastest Thoroughbreds in the country? And are you saying that a part-blood horse has been registered in the Jockey Club? You know that isn't allowed, and the horse can't race if he's not registered." Sims was indignant.
Oh, goody. Keep it up that way, Old Sims-y, and maybe you'll get a heart attack. Then we'd all be better off…
"Not really…but are his sire and dam purebloods?"
"Of course they are…middleman gave me the papers himself…Free Wind, by Westbound out of Bella…"
Liar.
He well knew that my father didn't have any papers, wasn't a pureblooded Thoroughbred, and certainly wasn't called 'Westbound'.
Trust Sims to think up a great big story.
If it had been me who did it, at least the story would have been believable…
"Bella? The one who ran away all those years ago! But if she ran away, how could she have–"
"Look at the time! And with a big race tomorrow. I've gotta run." Sims interrupted. He waved and disappeared back down the stable, leaving the other trainer still standing in my stall with his mouth open.
Of course Sims avoided answering that question. If he'd tried, it would have gone awkward…
The trainer started pacing He turned from ignorant and clueless to thoughtful as he began going around me, lifting each hoof in turn, making me walk a few steps right, left, and right again, all the while talking to himself.
"The fool…nice of him to show you to me, though…" He lifted my lip to check my registration number. "Yes yes…though I suppose all he wanted to do was to impress me…doubt he would have shown any other trainer his horses….and all I had to say was that Carter hired me…" He made me open my mouth to check my teeth. " Carter hired me…me…" He snorted.
I recognized Carter's name. He was rich, had a huge stable (even bigger than ours),and was, in fact, Galilean's owner.
The human was still talking to himself. " Tonight would be a good time to do it…but no…better wait until after the Triple Crown…drives your price up higher, you see…" He slapped my neck and let himself out the stall.
"Of course, I'd be sure to dope Galilean; he's your only real rival…I've seen you run and you can beat them all except for him…paves the way for you…he loses…leaves you to win…and the higher the price they will pay to get you back …" The latch clicked into place. The human turned and spoke directly to me.
"You've had a good life up to now…but that's going to change soon…very soon…" One last scratch and he was striding up the aisle out of sight.
Leaving me wondering what he meant.
The stable door slammed shut.
I was alone once more.
The only sensible conclusion that I could come up with that I was going to be sold…soon.
But even that didn't make sense: if Oakwood Acres needed money, and if I was winning big, why would they want to sell me? Wouldn't my winnings be a lot, lot more than whatever anyone else paid for me? And after I retired, wouldn't I be put to stud? Owners would want their mares bred to me…and that would cause money…but what if Oakwood Acres needed the money now?
I was still wondering about it when I drifted off.