by K. Rowe
“So why’d you start now?”
Evan shuffled through some papers. “When I was in Toronto the other week, I went to a couple of farms. One of them had numerous yearlings that interested me. They had some fine racing stock there. I was shown a crop of youngsters being primed for the Keeneland sale. War Monger was among them. There’s something about that horse—”
“Yeah, he’s nuts!”
Evan picked up a piece of paper and offered it to Tom. “Here’s his pedigree. He was born a champion.”
Tom studied the names. “Well, he’s got all the right members in his family…Yes, some of the best bloodlines in racing history…But you got one problem.”
“What?”
“He’s nuts!”
“Tom, we’ve taken on some difficult horses and made ’em winners. What’s to say we can’t do this with him?”
“I dunno. But as we speak, he’s taking apart your barn one board at a time.”
Evan rested his elbows on the desk, putting his face in his hands. “Oh, dear.”
“Tell me, how much did you pay for that thing?”
“One.”
“One thousand?”
He looked up, pulling his fingers through his hair. “Umm, no, one hundred thousand.”
“Evan! Are you out of your mind?! That money could’ve bought two or three yearlings at Keeneland.”
“There’s a champion in there, I know it.”
Tom folded his arms. “Then maybe you should train him.” He turned slightly. “Look, the bastard took a chunk out of my jacket.”
“Sorry.”
“How on earth do you plan on making a runner out of him?”
“There has to be some way. Running is in his genes.”
“We’ve known each other all our lives. But you have to understand there’s only so much I’ll do for that horse. If in the end, he’s untrainable, then you need to make a decision.”
“I understand.”
Tom turned to leave.
Evan stood. “Tom?”
He stopped. “What?”
“Well, as long as you’re already mad at me, I got one more surprise.”
“Now what?!”
“I found us a good jockey.”
“What is it with you? Your pappy was crazy with ideas and money; I don’t know how he didn’t manage to run this stable into the ground.”
“Yes, my pappy gambled and took chances. And your pappy was a great trainer. Together, they built this racing empire on chances… Look, I’ve been conservative for many years, and while we do well at the meets, there’s been a lack of great horses coming out of this barn.”
“Who’s the jock?”
“Her name is Ginger de Veoux.”
Tom threw his arms in the air. “You got a chick jockey?! Oh, you have gone nuts!”
“She’s good, I tell you. I saw her in a race that was pretty rough. She stood her ground.”
“Did she win?”
“Took third, but I liked the way she handled herself.”
“And when does she show up?”
“Next week. She’s just finishing up at Woodbine.”
Tito and Miguel stood several feet away from War Monger’s stall; neither wanted to venture any closer. The colt whirled around the stall, kicking and bashing. He’d been at it for over an hour and showed no signs of stopping. “Who’s gonna go in and give him water?” Tito asked.
“Maybe we should tell Mr. Stoddard to do it, being it’s his horse.”
“He’s nuts!”
Miguel scratched his head. “Who, amigo? The horse or the owner?”
“Both!”
“I’m not going in there; maybe we can get Bradley to do it.”
Tom walked down the aisle. “What’s the matter?”
“Crazy horse hasn’t stopped yet. We’d like to give him hay and water, but we’re afraid to get near him,” Tito said, waving his hand.
“Hmm, well…” Tom walked closer to the stall. The horse shot its head out and snapped at him.
He jumped out of the way. “I say we leave him in there until he settles down.”
“Without food and water?” Miguel asked.
“Right now, he doesn’t seem to want it.” Tom headed to the office. Going to a bookshelf, he took down a copy of the stallion registry from a few years ago. Sitting down, he flipped through pages until he found the horse he was looking for: War Monger’s sire. While the sire wasn’t impressive, his bloodlines traced back to some of the best race horses in American history. Mr. Prospector, Raise a Native, Native Dancer, Buckpasser, Ribot, Nasrullah, all stallions that proved themselves on the racetrack and in the stud shed. So what was up with this horse? The breeding was there, but the temperament wasn’t.
Tom got up and walked around. He had no clue how to deal with a horse this angry. Stopping at a mirror that hung on the wall, he gazed into it and realized there were quite a few gray hairs showing up around his temples. He didn’t consider this a stressful job. Yes, there was the occasional drama, but for the most part, everything ran on a schedule.
War Monger, however, was threatening to give him lots more gray hair. And what about this female jockey? He couldn’t believe Evan would go off the deep end and not consult him on business deals and horse purchases; what was going on in his head?
Returning to the desk, Tom went back to his paperwork. He guessed maybe three hours passed; the noise from stall 24 finally lessened. War Monger must be tiring, he thought, getting up and stretching.
Around the barn, horses whinnied, indicating feeding time. Then there was the noise of buckets being filled and hung in stalls. Some horses were unsettled eaters, diving into their grain, getting a mouthful and bashing the bucket against the wall with their heads. All familiar mealtime sounds.
Wandering out of the office, he headed to stall 24. War Monger stood with his head out, a sour expression on his face, and bashing the door with his front legs. “Come on, fella, how about some peace and quiet?”
War Monger pinned his ears, and gnashed his teeth. Tom saw the hay net sitting a few feet from the stall door. Keeping his eyes on the beast, he bent down and picked it up. The horse stopped. He stood, waiting for food. War Monger was covered in dried, crusty sweat. Tom would have loved to have given the horse a nice warm bath and a thorough grooming, but for now, just getting close to the beast was enough of a danger.
“Oh, you want this?” Tom said, gingerly moving closer. Reaching out, he held the net filled with hay between himself and the horse. War Monger stretched his neck out and grabbed a mouthful.
“Good, eh? We got first-rate Kentucky hay here.” He held it so the horse could eat. Tom didn’t feel comfortable with the thought of having his back to the horse while he tied up the net.
Tito walked by. “Boss? You crazy?”
“No, he’s hungry…Trying to settle him down and make friends.”
“How are we gonna get him water?”
Tom rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Can you get me three more flakes of hay?”
“Sure.” Tito disappeared and came back with a large armload of hay.
“Okay…Now, can you pitch it over his head to the far back of the stall?”
He shifted the hay around. “I’ll try.” Edging a little closer, Tito lined up and hurled the hay through the door, over the top of the horse’s head. War Monger spooked, snorted, and ducked back into the stall.
Tom stepped away, letting the horse go to the hay in the stall. “Gimme the hose, will you?”
“Coming right up.” He went down the aisle and pulled the hose back. “Okay, boss, it’s on and ready to go.”
“Thanks. I’m gonna go in and try to fill the water buckets. I want you to grab a manure fork and stand guard.”
“Me?”
“You’re the only one out here right now.”
“Oh, lucky me!”
Tom watched the horse tearing at the hay, yes, he was hungry, very hungry. His hour upon hour of kicking an
d bashing probably wasn’t good for his legs, but right now, Tom wasn’t concerned with that.
Quietly loosening the catch on the door, he opened it. War Monger looked up from his meal, but didn’t charge.
“Come on, Tito,” he whispered as he slid carefully into the stall. Tito came in and positioned himself between the horse and his boss.
Keeping a watchful eye, Tom turned on the hose and started filling buckets. Occasionally the horse would look up from his meal, but never moved.
When both water buckets were full, the men made their escape. The door had no sooner been closed when War Monger hurried over and drank.
“Well, that went better than planned,” Tom said, coiling up the hose.
“Thank God! I really didn’t wanna die today.”
4
Tom stood outside the rail of the round pen. War Monger thundered around inside it like a steam engine. The horse had been at the farm nearly a week, and now it was time to start his training under saddle. Great care still needed to be taken with the colt, his volatile personality always evident in his interaction with humans.
His hooves pounded, tearing up the dirt as he went. In the middle were Bradley and Miguel. Both men stood roughly the same height, about 5’5”, and were fit and trim. Bradley had a mop of brown hair and blue eyes; Miguel displayed his Mexican background with black hair and dark brown eyes. Their job: to get a saddle, bridle, and a rider on the horse—all hopefully without getting killed.
“Okay, Brad, ease up on him,” Tom said. “Let’s see if he’s ready to join our little party.”
“Yes, Sir,” Bradley replied, as he lowered the lunge whip. The colt slowed and finally stopped. After all his running, he didn’t seem the slightest bit out of breath.
Dropping the whip, Bradley carefully approached the horse. “Easy, big fella, easy.” He stopped at the horse’s neck and gently stroked the coppery hide. War Monger sniffed and snorted, but made no move to escape.
Normally, young horses were introduced to saddle and bridle in their stall, but War Monger’s hot-blooded attitude made it too risky to be in a small, confined space with him. The 60-foot-diameter round pen almost seemed too small for the colt.
After several minutes of stroking and reassuring, Bradley held his hand back. “Bridle,” he said softly. Miguel crept up, placed it in his hand, and quickly returned to the center.
He watched as the head groom brought it around, letting the horse inspect it. War Monger sniffed it curiously. Bradley took the bridle and slowly rubbed it on the horse’s neck moving it toward its head. The colt stood still, his muscles occasionally twitching with fear.
“It’s okay, big fella, see, it’s not gonna hurt you.” He took the reins and carefully slid them over the horse’s head. Next, he moved his hand up and held the top part of the bridle, the crown piece, between the horse’s ears. War Monger threw his head in the air. “Easy, easy.”
Bradley waited until the horse settled, and then slowly repeated the movements. It took a few tries, but Bradley was finally able to guide the bit into the horse’s mouth and get the rest of the bridle on him.
“Good job, Brad,” Tom said. War Monger chomped and chewed loudly on the bit. “Now, just lead him around for a while until he gets bored.”
“Yes, Sir.” He took the reins in his right hand and began to walk. War Monger resisted at first, then followed.
Bradley walked the horse in circles for a half-hour before deciding to try the saddle. He stopped in the middle. Miguel brought forth a saddlecloth. With Bradley holding the reins, Miguel brought the cloth over and let the horse smell it. He then rubbed the cloth all over the horse. War Monger snorted and pranced. Bradley held fast on the reins, giving him reassuring pats. “Easy, easy, it’s fine, you big sissy.”
Miguel continued on his journey of desensitizing the horse. When satisfied the horse showed no more fear, he gently laid the cloth over its back. Next, he picked up a lightweight exercise saddle and let the horse smell it. Then he placed it on War Monger’s back.
The colt made no move to run away. Miguel took a girth and buckled it to the billet straps on the right side. Going to the left side of the horse, he slowly reached under and grabbed the girth. Bringing it up, he let it touch the horse’s belly and sides before he buckled it.
War Monger felt the girth constricting his chest. He tensed his muscles and prepared to take flight. Bradley turned the horse’s head and gave him a few reassuring strokes. “It’s okay, big fella, it’s just a saddle. No big deal. Easy, easy.”
He waited until the colt settled, then proceeded to walk him for another half-hour. Bradley knew taking time when breaking a horse to saddle would be worth it later. It made a safer, more trustworthy mount; one less likely to cause problems if thrown into a stressful situation. War Monger would need every ounce of trust, and his humans needed to know he was trustworthy.
An extremely ill-mannered horse was not tolerated on the race course. There was to a certain degree an amount of disobedience allowed on the race course and then a horse would be scratched.
Tom kept watch on the training session. When he felt War Monger was comfortable, he waved at the grooms. “Okay, Brad, how about trying a lay-over?”
“Think he’s ready, boss?” He stopped in the middle of the ring.
“He looks calm enough.”
“Okay.” He handed the reins to Miguel. Grabbing his helmet, he put it on, and made sure the harness straps were tight. Going to the left side of the horse, he stroked and caressed the big colt.
“Easy, fella, we’re gonna do somethin’ different now.” He glanced at Miguel and nodded. Bradley kicked his left leg out behind, Miguel grabbed him by the ankle and hefted him up. Bradley did his best to carefully flop over the colt’s back.
War Monger didn’t take kindly to the actions. He squealed, threw his head down, and bucked with all his might. Bradley managed to stay on for one lofty buck, but the next one sent him sailing through the air and headfirst into a support post of the ring, knocking him out cold.
Tom dove into the ring, trying to help Miguel get the colt away from Bradley. The beast bucked wildly out of control. War Monger had managed to rip the reins out of Miguel’s hand and bolted around, hooves flying. Tom got to Bradley, grabbed him, and dragged him out of the ring. Miguel finally stopped War Monger and tried to calm him down.
“Brad? Brad? Are you okay?” Tom said.
“Oh, my arm,” he groaned and pointed to his right arm.
“How’s your head?”
“That hurts too.”
“Can you make it to the truck? I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
He struggled and got to his feet. “Yeah, I can make it.”
Five hours later, they returned from the hospital. X-rays showed Bradley’s arm was fractured in two places, and he now had a cast to worry about. He was going to be out of the saddle for quite some time.
Tom went to the main house. Checking his watch, he saw it was close to three o’clock. Knocking, he stepped inside, going to the office.
Evan looked up from his work. “How is he?”
“Got his bell rung pretty good. They did a CAT scan, and actually found out the boy has a brain after all…His arm’s broke in two places, but the doctors said he shouldn’t need surgery.”
“I’m glad he’s okay for the most part.”
“Well, it’s a hazard of the job, we all know that.”
“Yes, but I hate to have people or animals hurt.”
Tom sat down in a chair by the desk. “On a good note, we got a saddle and bridle on that demon.”
“Do you think taking more time would be better?” Evan rubbed his face.
“I dunno. That colt has so many issues. I wish I knew what they were and why he’s so angry.”
“Well, Monsieur Mércod, the stud manager at the farm, said the colt was highly opinionated about what goes on with his life.”
Tom shook his head. “I’d say.”
“Is there anyt
hing we can do?”
“I’ll give him a couple more tries, after that, I’m coming to you.”
“I understand. Thanks, Tom.”
“If we can get that colt broke and on the track, I tell you, he’s a freight train that can’t be stopped…We just need to figure out his anger and harness it toward winning.”
“Do you think we’d have a stakes winner?”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure. He’ll either run, or he won’t.”
“We just need to find the way to tame the beast.”
Tom wagged a finger at him. “Therein lies the problem!”
Evan closed a ledger, stood, and went around the desk. “I think I’ll have a look at my horses.”
“Oh? I can fill you in on their training if you like.”
“No, no, do that tomorrow. I just wanna see them.”
“All right.” Tom got up. “I’m gonna head to the house, clean up, and see what the boys are cooking for dinner…If you need anything, holler.”
“Thanks.”
They walked out; Tom went to the grooms’ house, Evan to the stables. He started at the first stall and slowly walked along. Most of the horses stuck their heads out; he gave them kind words and gentle caresses. A few were napping and he didn’t want to disturb them.
Making his way to the last stallion the row, he saw Rusty poking his head out. “Hey, old fella; how are you?” The gelding pushed his nose out farther, wanting Evan to pet him. “You know, one of these days you’re gonna have to retire…You’re getting pretty old to be running after the youngsters…But as long as you’re on this earth, you have a stall in my barn, food in your tummy, and lots of love.” He rubbed the gelding’s forehead.
Going around the corner, Evan stopped at stall 13. The big gray gelding, Lost Wanderer, had his head out. Evan ran his hand down the horse’s forehead. He hoped with time the horse could return to the track. If not, he had such a gentle soul that perhaps he’d be a good horse for Cindy.
“Hey, big boy…Are you gonna be good and heal up? I know you miss the roar of the crowd, and I miss cheering for you.” He leaned close and pressed his forehead between the horse’s eyes. “You get better, all right?”