Man O'War (10 page)

But one man shook his head vigorously and said, “His feet are too narrow. They'll tend to go sore, spreading at the quarters. Might even result in a broken bone.”

Danny had a hard time keeping still. Man o' War's feet weren't narrow at all!

“Watch out,” he said as the man put down the colt's hind leg. “You're going to get kicked.” He was glad when they went on to the next horse.

For a long while those who examined Man o' War kept their opinion of the colt to themselves. Then an old woman, who looked more like someone's grandmother than a buyer of yearlings, whispered to her male companion. “He has wide hips, which appeals to me. They're like a strong man with wide shoulders. They give a horse more power.”

She glanced up to find Danny listening to her. “Move him, son,” she said quietly. “On the dirt, not the grass.”

Danny walked Man o' War down the row and back. He found the old lady examining the colt's hoofprints in the soft dirt.

“He overstrides a little,” she whispered. “His hind feet extend beyond his front feet. I like to see a colt that reaches out with a good stride in his hind legs. And he has a swinging walk. He might be the one, Fred.”

“I wouldn't know,” the man said. “You're the expert.”

Danny noted that when the old lady had finished her inspection of Man o' War, she was shaking her head in disapproval, just as almost everybody else had done. He wondered if she thought she was fooling anyone.

It went on like that for the rest of the morning.

“His neck is a little too short for me. He'll tire when he tries to go a distance,” one man said.

“The neck doesn't affect a horse's running ability,” another disagreed. “No more than a Roman nose does or even a sway-back. And I don't like to see them any more than you do. Now the throat and jaw are something else again. There's got to be ample room for the windpipe or a horse chokes up while racing. The same goes for his nostrils. They must be large enough so he can inhale and exhale easily while running.”

The other shrugged his shoulders. “You're not going to find the perfect horse anywhere, and some of the
almost
perfect ones can't run much.”

“That's right. You have to give and take a little here and there.”

They moved on to the next colt.

It was near noontime, and the sales area was thinning out, when a trainer Danny had seen at Nursery Stud came to inspect the stable's yearlings. It was Louis Feustel, and with him were a big elderly man and a woman. They approached Man o' War, Feustel nodding as he recognized Danny but giving all his attention to the colt.

The young trainer glanced around as if to make sure no one was within hearing distance and then said, “This is a good colt, Mr. Riddle.”

The big man towering above him shrugged his shoulders. “I rather like the looks of him, too, Louis. He's big-boned, big-framed, everything necessary to make a good hunter, which I know something about. But a racehorse?”

Feustel nodded. “I think so, sir.”

“But he's so tall and gangling, Louis,” the lady said. “A little on the ungainly side.”

“His condition isn't as fine as some of the others in the Belmont consignment,” Feustel admitted. “But he's in much better shape than when I saw him at the farm.”

“You rejected him then,” Mr. Riddle recalled.

“Not actually,” the trainer said. “It's true I liked some of the others better, and I certainly didn't recommend buying the whole lot, as I told you. But I'd still like to see you buy a Fair Play colt, and this one may be a good one.”

“He's bred right,” Mr. Riddle said. “No doubt about that. I suppose we could use him for a hunter if he didn't work out on the racecourse. As I said, he has the bone and frame for it.”

“He's so thin I almost feel sorry for him,” Mrs. Riddle said, fondly touching the big colt.

Louis Feustel smiled. “He's not hog-fat like most of these other yearlings, ma'am,” he said. “But he's in sound physical shape and in medium flesh, the way I like them.”

Mrs. Riddle nodded and turned to her husband. “I would go by Louis's decision,” she said. “If he recommends that you buy him, do it. If he doesn't, don't. It's as simple as that, since he's the one who will be doing the training.”

Mr. Riddle didn't take his eyes off Man o' War. “I still don't want to go too high just for a hunter prospect. What do you think he'll sell for, Louis?”

The trainer shrugged his thin shoulders. “It's hard to say, Mr. Riddle. No amount of experience makes anything certain in judging what a yearling will amount to
or
what he'll bring in the sales ring. But my guess is that this one won't go too high. He's pretty thin for most buyers, as Mrs. Riddle has pointed out, and he's got a full sister named Masda who's a fast racer but hard to handle. It's the Hastings coming out. That might scare off the buyers.”

“And perhaps us, too,” Mr. Riddle said, consulting his catalog. “Major Belmont is one of the best breeders in the country and I aim to get one of his colts anyway. There are a couple I like better than this one.”

“I do, too,” Feustel admitted. “And so do a lot of other people. They'll sell high.”

“I like Fair Gain,” Mr. Riddle said.

“And Richelieu and Rouleau,” Feustel added. “All of them by foreign sires, and that's what buyers seem to like right now. You won't get any of them cheap, Mr. Riddle, even with a war going on.”

They all stepped away from Man o' War, and Danny thought they were going on. Then Mr. Riddle turned back to the colt, his eyes moving over him again. Finally the big man
said, “Let's watch for this one, anyway. He's well worth considering on bloodlines alone, and I'll go a thousand or two for him.”

Louis Feustel patted the colt's neck. “I think we should go higher than that, if we have to,” he said quietly.

Mr. Riddle shrugged his shoulders, and it was his wife who had the last word. “If Louis says buy, when the time comes, I'd buy,” she repeated her advice quietly.

Danny watched them as they went on to the next barn, shaking their heads in disapproval of Man o' War. But he had a gnawing feeling in his stomach that he had just seen the new owners of his colt. He wouldn't have felt that way if it hadn't been for Mrs. Riddle; when a woman entered a battle for anything, she usually didn't let go. And it seemed to him that Mrs. Riddle wanted Man o' War. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for him! That would be a laugh, a real laugh … on himself.

Danny led the big colt back to his stall, and there he gently ran a hand over the rough, sunburned coat. “Maybe I should have spent more time rubbing you,” he said, “and had you all sleek and polished. But how was I to know she was coming along?”

Saturday, August 17, found the Nursery Stud yearlings ready to step into the sales ring. Danny watched the crowd gather beneath the ancient trees of the paddock, noting that the women, dressed in flowing silks and wide-brimmed hats, seemed as numerous as the men. He shook his head in dismay. There was no telling where their colts might end up, with so many women taking part in the bidding!

Danny stood at Man o' War's head, waiting for the Nursery Stud yearlings to be called into the ring. He held his colt close, scared but excited, too.

The people seemed nervous despite their gay chatter and laughter. They were out to buy colts that might win the great classic races to come. Famous trainers as well as famous jockeys were here, all enjoying their popularity, and ready to give new owners the benefit of their vast experience and knowledge of young horses.

The sale had already started, with the first consignment of yearlings entering the ring one at a time. Danny listened to the
chant of the auctioneer for a while and then turned to Fair Gain's caretaker standing close by. “It won't be long,” he said quietly.

The old groom nodded his gray, cropped head. “Sure 'nough, Danny. That man's got rhythm, boy, real rhythm. He'll sell our colts good.”

Once more Danny listened to the musical singsong chant of the auctioneer as he got a bid of nine thousand dollars on a sleek bay colt.

“
Yeah!
I got nine, nine, nine. Who'll go ten, ten, ten? I want ten, ten, ten. Give me ten, ten, ten.”

Danny said, “They're bidding high prices after all, war or no war.”

“There's keen comp'tition out there, Danny-boy,” the old man said, his eyes never leaving the ring. “No one's goin' to get colts cheap like maybe they thought.”

The bay colt was bouncing around the ring on his toes. He was a handsome, well-grown individual who wasn't going to take anything quietly. He kicked out with his hind legs, almost knocking the gavel out of the auctioneer's hand. Everyone laughed, and the bidding jumped quickly to nine thousand five hundred dollars.

“They sho like a colt with spunk,” the old groom told Danny, “an' this one's got plenty.”

Danny watched the auctioneer as the man sought still higher bids for the bay colt. It was no easy job selling yearlings, he knew. The auctioneer had to please both the buyer and the seller. He had to be nice to everybody, keep everything above-board, and try to be fair. Such a job required the skill of a horseman, the acumen of a businessman, the tact of a diplomat, and the zeal of an evangelist. And this auctioneer, Danny decided, was one of the best.

“… I got five, five, five, ninety-five,” the singsong chant went on. “Make it ten, ten. I want ten, ten, ten. Make it ten, ten, ten.” Suddenly he stopped.

For a moment the area was quiet. Then the auctioneer said, “Now listen heah, folks. You all know that nine thousand five hundred dollars isn't much to bid for this heah colt.” Although he spoke to more than five hundred people, his words were meant for the two lone bidders who remained in competition for the bay colt.

He singled out one of them, a man sitting in the back, and said, “Mr. Riddle, you're not going to let Mr. McClelland get this heah colt, are you? You went up to ninety-four. Will you make it an even ten thousand? That's not much money for this heah colt. You just look at him now.”

Danny was standing a short distance away from the Riddle party. He saw Mr. Riddle, seated between Louis Feustel and Mrs. Riddle, shift uneasily in his seat. Then Mr. Riddle glanced at his trainer, faced front again, and raised six fingers.

Once again the auctioneer's chant claimed the area. “I got six, six, ninety-six. I want ten, ten …” He was looking at Mr. McClelland now. “… give me ten.”

Mr. McClelland nodded.

“
Yeah!
I got ten thousand dollars. Make it five, ten-five. I want five, ten-five. Make it five, five, five …”

Once more the auctioneer's gaze swept to Mr. Riddle, who shook his head. He would go no higher.

The auctioneer's eyes traveled over the crowd, seeking a bidder who might keep this colt in the ring long enough to bring a still higher price. “All done?” he asked finally. “Are you all done at ten thousand?” He waited a moment more and then his gavel came down hard on the wooden platform.

“Sold to Mr. McClelland for ten thousand dollars.”

Danny, along with everyone else, relaxed. But he kept his eyes on the bay colt, who was now refusing to leave the ring. He wouldn't be led out. He wouldn't back out. One of the ring attendants picked up a broom and whacked him over the rump. This unexpected tactic worked and the colt left the ring quickly.

Another yearling was being led into the ring, but for the moment Danny wasn't interested. So he moved Man o' War to a shady spot beneath the elm and maple trees, stopping just in back of the Riddle party. He didn't mean to listen to their conversation but snatches of it reached him.

“I'm sorry we lost that colt,” Mr. Riddle said.

“Ten thousand was too much to pay for him,” Louis Feustel replied.

“I think so, too. But I would like to buy about twelve colts here, and he was a good one.”

“Better wait and see how they go,” his trainer cautioned. “There will be other sales or we can buy privately.”

Danny watched Mr. Riddle glance uneasily at his wife. There was no doubt that he was nervous, this being his first experience at the auction ring.

Louis Feustel said, “Remember to keep your eyes on the auctioneer and your face closed. Don't ever look at those bidding against you. Don't even look at me or Mrs. Riddle.”

“I won't,” Mr. Riddle promised.

The bidding began again with a black colt in the ring.

“I like this one,” Feustel said without turning his head.

The bidding reached nine thousand dollars quickly, then seemed to stall for keeps. Danny watched Mr. Riddle try to conceal his anxiety, for he had made the last bid. But the auctioneer had no intention of letting the black colt go yet. He got busy and tugged the bidding, one hundred dollars at a time, to
fourteen thousand five hundred dollars. Mr. Riddle had long since dropped out when the auctioneer's gavel fell.

“Sold to Commander Ross for fourteen thousand five hundred dollars!”

“Too high,” Feustel said again and Mr. Riddle nodded in agreement.

The bidding on the next five yearlings was slow and low, none selling for over three thousand dollars. Mr. Riddle didn't bid on any of them.

Danny was about to move away when he heard Louis Feustel say, “This next colt will get a good play from the buyers, but get him if you can. He's probably the best in the sale.”

One of the handsomest colts Danny had ever seen entered the ring. He was a golden chestnut with brilliant white markings. His body was small compared to Man o' War's, but very compact and fully made.

There was a hushed silence over the area as the colt strode around the ring, every stride under marvelous control. There was no doubt that the buyers were very impressed with him.