Man O'War (22 page)

They went into the stall and went over Man o' War with a damp sponge for the last time. Neither said a word as they cleaned head and nostrils, then went over the turn of the
mane, back to the tail, to the root and under, and finally down the long, sleek legs. A few swallows of fresh water and they were done.

The short walk to the paddock was made quickly, quietly. Man o' War tugged on his lead shank as if he knew his time had come. And now he wore a cooler that was all black with yellow around the edges, the racing colors of the Riddle stable. He looked very beautiful, very worthy of these colors.

Feustel was waiting for them just within the fenced paddock. The trainer glanced at Major Treat and was glad that he had decided to have the old gelding come along, for he was definitely having a quieting effect on Man o' War. Just the same, Feustel decided to take no chances of the colt's acting up in the strange surroundings. As they approached the saddling shed he said, “Have him face the back of it until we get him saddled. We'll have less trouble if he's looking at the partition.”

There were few people in the paddock compared to earlier in the afternoon. The shadows cast by the wide-spreading chestnut and oak trees were long and empty. The late air was cool. A small crowd hung over the paddock fence, watching last-minute preparations for the last race of the day.

Mr. Riddle stood with some of the other owners a short distance away from Man o' War. He saw Johnny Loftus come into the paddock, carrying his light racing saddle. For a moment the owner's eyes studied Johnny's slight figure, the white breeches, and especially the black-and-yellow silk blouse.

All was as it should be, Mr. Riddle decided. He had the best jockey in America and Man o' War was ready to run.

Louis Feustel took the saddle from Loftus and placed it carefully on the colt's back. Man o' War half reared, taking the
boys at his head off their feet. They managed to hang on and brought him down, their mutterings filling the stall.

When Feustel tightened the girth strap, the colt half reared again, banging his handlers against the sides of the stall. They were more afraid Man o' War would hurt himself than of any injury to themselves. But the saddle was on and the big colt quieted down as if he knew it was of no use to protest any longer. Feustel noticed the dark spots of sweat beginning to show on the red coat. Man o' War was becoming very impatient. He had been waiting a long, long time.

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.