Man o’ War now weighed more than five hundred pounds and stood over thirteen hands. He was eating eight to ten quarts of feed daily and looking for more. He no longer needed his mother’s milk. But despite this, he was almost certain not to take his weaning calmly. He was much too devoted to Mahubah. He never allowed the other colts to jostle her in pasture, flaying them with his long legs when they crowded too close.
“When will you separate them?” Danny asked the old man in charge.
“Soon’s Mrs. Kane tells me to go ahead.”
“He’s big enough to be weaned. What’s Mrs. Kane waiting for?”
“She weans when the time’s right, when it best suits our work schedule and when the colts are ready for it.”
“Isn’t that about now?”
“The time’s all right, boy. But you notice Red’s got the sniffles, don’t you?”
“Just a little,” Danny said. “It’s not much of a cold.”
“It’s enough to keep us from weaning him yet,” the old man said adamantly. “Weaning’s a shock on any colt, no matter how big an’ strong he is. He dries up a little, ’specially since he can’t run up to his ma and nurse like he’s bin used to. So that ain’t good when the colt’s got a cold to boot. You know as well as I do that you need a lot of liquids when you got a cold, an’ colts ain’t no different.”
“You going to wean all the colts at the same time?” Danny asked.
“Most of ’em. A few of the smaller colts I’ll save till later.” His aged eyes followed Man o’ War. “But you’re right, the sooner we wean that fellow the better,” he added. “He’s as big an’ pow’ful as they come.”
Danny watched and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “he’s sure ready. An’ he’s a big strain on Mahubah.”
“He sho is. He’s a handful, all right.”
Danny wondered if losing Mahubah would cause Man o’ War to become even more aware of his own presence. After all, he’d been close to the colt since birth, closer than anyone else. And with the weaning their relationship might grow stronger than ever.
His gaze followed Man o’ War as the big colt raced to the far end of the pasture, leading a group of youngsters. They played for a long time, ignoring the mares’ constant whinnies for them to return. No longer were any of the colts dependent upon their mothers.
Finally the day of weaning arrived and all available men were summoned to the side of the broodmares and colts.
“You take Red,” the old foreman told Danny. “Soon he’ll be a yearling, an’ he’s goin’ to act like one now. You hold him good. He thinks the world is his.”
Slowly the long line of mares and foals moved along. In the distance, more than a mile away, was the weanling barn. Along with the other youngsters, it would be Man o’ War’s new home. Danny kept him near a dark bay colt who had been his most constant companion in pasture. Pairing up now would make the weaning easier for each colt.
As they approached the weanling barn Man o’ War became more and more uneasy at the end of the lead rope. To Danny it meant that his colt knew what was to come. He talked to him softly, telling him that the separation would be hard to endure only for a short while and that there were big plans for him.
They entered the new barn, and as soon as Man o’ War set foot inside the box stall that was not his own he became frantic. He whinnied for his mother but she was not at his side. She stood outside the stall, frantic too, whinnying repeatedly as if she knew she had lost her chestnut colt for all time.
It was no different in the other stalls. The chorus of shrill, heartbreaking whinnies was the saddest sound Danny had ever heard. He kept repeating, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” But he didn’t believe his well-meant advice just then. Neither did Man o’ War nor Mahubah.
The mares were quickly led away but Danny stayed behind, listening to Mahubah’s shrill whinnies until they began to die in the distance. She’ll be out of earshot soon, he told himself. She won’t be able to see him or hear him. She’ll go back to her old familiar stall. She’ll settle down fast, for they’ll treat her like the expectant mother she is. They’ll keep her in a couple of days, then turn her out, but far enough away from the weanlings so she’ll never see him. Soon everything will be going smoothly for her again, like it did last year and the year before.
Danny’s thoughts turned back to the colt. Within twenty-four hours Man o’ War would have forgotten all about Mahubah, but now he was in frenzied agony over her absence. To be left alone in his stall seemed more than he could bear. He ran from one side to the other, stopping only to rear and throw his flint-thin forelegs hard against the door.
Looking through the fine mesh screen at the top, Danny said, “Easy, Red. Easy. Don’t hurt yourself now. You’ve got company. Lots of it. Just look around you.”
There was no lessening of the barn’s bedlam. None of the colts and fillies took the parting from their mothers calmly. If some cared less than others, they did not show it, being caught in the wailing uproar that swept the barn.
A few of the men stayed in the barn with Danny, walking up and down the corridors and making sure none of the youngsters hurt themselves. The stalls were free of feed buckets and water pails, which the colts might have run into in their frenzy. The stall windows were shut, for weanlings had been known to try to go through them.
One old man stopped beside Danny and said, “Don’t let your colt get out of hand, Danny.”
“Maybe we should put the bay colt in with him,” Danny suggested, nodding to Man o’ War’s pasture companion who was in the adjacent stall. “He’s not nearly as upset.”
“If we have to, we will,” the old man said. “But then we’ll have to watch ’em to make sure they don’t fight.”
“I’ll watch them,” Danny offered eagerly.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to put them together,” the old man said. “When the time comes for separating the two of ’em, it’ll jus’ be weaning all over again. Besides, Red’s big enough to stand on his own feet. The quicker he gets used to it the better.”
Danny’s eyes passed over the big, muscular body of his colt. “Nothing’s going to stop him ever,” he said.
Several hours later Man o’ War was the last colt to quiet down. All the others had become interested in each other, and memories of their mothers were growing short. What was most important to them was that their playmates were close by, and they spent most of their time looking at each other. Man o’ War, too, finally moved to the side of his stall nearest his pasture friend. He lifted his head high, peering over the partition and pressing his muzzle hard against the screen the better to see the bay colt.
Danny remained in the corridor, watching but not bothering his colt. A long, hard night was ahead of Man o’ War. The night would bring back memories of standing close to Mahubah’s side, safe in the protection of her big body. He would not feel so arrogant then. He would take his first big step toward full maturity. And Danny would be there to watch him take it.
Darkness fell and the barn lights were turned on. They burned all night but the brightness did not trick the colts. Soon the heartbreaking whinnies began all over again, and hour after hour they continued as the colts called their mothers. Finally, sometime during the middle of the night, the barn grew quiet except for a lone call, Man o’ War’s whinny for Mahubah. His eyes alone were open. He alone remained on his feet. He wanted no part of the thick, comfortable straw bedding. He had no time for sleep.
“Easy, Red, easy,” Danny repeated drowsily. He was determined not to sleep until his colt slept. And only when it was near morning did deep and total quiet settle over the weanling barn.
Flying Legs
6
The following day was easier for Man o’ War and the other weanlings. When Danny reached the farm after school, he found them all quiet except for a few infrequent whinnies.
The old caretaker said, “They’re fine now, Danny, an’ it won’t be long before every single one of ’em will pass ri
ght by his mother without so much as a glance. Their thoughts are of each other now and getting out to play.”
“When will you turn them loose?” the boy asked.
“In another day or so. Don’t want them so excited that they play too hard. They’re big, strong animals now an’ their play can be rough. A cut or bump could become a permanent injury. We got to be mighty careful.”
“But their rough play gets them used to each other and not flinching in close quarters,” Danny said. “That’s important on a racetrack.”
“It’s still pretty hard to watch ’em go at it now. Their heels move pow’ful fast. No tellin’ what they might do to each other. No tellin’ at all.”
Danny looked at Man o’ War. He’d sure hate to see his colt put out of commission before he even grew up.
“You separating the colts and fillies?” he asked.
“We sure are. We don’t want the girls getting mixed up with this bunch of roughnecks. That’s what these colts are, Danny, each ’n every one of ’em.”
Danny nodded in full agreement. There was no doubt about the colts being lots stronger than the fillies. You needn’t be a horseman to see it, either. The fillies were far more slender, and when they moved it was with deerlike grace compared to the colts’ powerful strides. And their eyes, too, were gentle and timid at times. They were shaping up.
Danny turned to the old man beside him. “But how come Fair Play’s daughters are doing better than his sons? Isn’t that what I heard Mrs. Kane say last week?”
The old man nodded. “ ’Pears there’s one racin’ lots faster than the colts. That’s Masda, a full sister to your colt, boy.” His gaze swept to Man o’ War. “That’s what’s causin’ all the interest in Red. Masda’s only a two-year-old an’ she’s got herself two wins, two seconds, and a third this summer. I heard tell she’s got whistlin’ speed.”
“No wonder they’re interested in him then,” Danny said thoughtfully. “I mean more than just the way he looks and goes in the pasture.”
“Sure, they’re more than ever interested in crossin’ Mahubah to Fair Play now.” The old man paused to scratch his unshaven face. “Still, I heard Mrs. Kane say that Masda is pretty rough to handle. She don’t take kindly to training any more than her grandpappy Hastings did. She turns all the fire burning inside her into a tantrum, so she don’t have too much left to use in a race most times. So maybe the cross ain’t what they think it is at all,” he concluded soberly. “Might be that Mahubah’s blood ain’t strong enough to dominate all that hustlin’, bustlin’ blood of Fair Play and Hastings.”
The following day the weanlings were turned out for the first time. But before the barn doors were opened, Danny and the other men walked around the large paddock picking up dead branches that had blown down from the trees and old sticks that had been forgotten. Anything that might cause injury to an excited youngster in an unfamiliar field was picked up. These men were taking no chances with their highly prized animals. During their long lives they had seen weanlings hurt themselves in very strange ways.
“I saw a colt run a little stick, just about so big,” one said, spreading his hands no more than a foot apart, “smack into his stomach. How he ever did it no one knows. But he did. An’ he died the same day despite everything we did for him. Can you imagine, a little stick costin’ us a fine colt?”
So when the weanlings were turned loose, Danny was in the paddock to greet them. His station was at one of the corners, to prevent any piling up of excitable colts. He watched them come down the paddock in great leaps and bounds, overjoyed by their first taste of freedom in two days. A few were still looking for their mothers. Shrill whinnies pierced the air and there was a constant crash of bodies and legs.
Danny was tempted to close his eyes. A racehorse’s whole career could end during these few minutes of exuberant play. He saw Man o’ War’s forelegs reach for the sky in the middle of a small, packed group of colts. Behind him a gray colt crashed against his hindquarters. Then the group broke up, scattering in all directions.
Man o’ War came flying toward Danny and the boy raised his arms, trying to wave him down. “Easy, Red! Easy!” he called.
The big colt turned away, his long body leaning into the wind. He moved along the fence and then swept back up the field to join the others again.
As Danny watched him go, he knew Man o’ War had forgotten Mahubah. The colt’s only interest now was in playing with his companions. But soon the hard play quieted down and there was little running. The colts began to graze and then lay in the warm sun. Maybe they sensed that with fall at hand winter was not far off, Danny decided. Maybe they wanted to make the most of the sun and grass.
The following days passed quickly for Danny. He watched the colts’ sunburned coats start to change. Baby hair was shed, revealing some colts to be of a different color from the one that had first appeared. Some brown colts became more black than brown. Some that had been black were now more brown. Others with a few gray hairs in their tails were becoming gray all over. But many colts stayed the same color, their long, matted coats unchanging. Man o’ War was one of these. He was going to remain a chestnut red except for the star and irregular strip running down his nose. If anything, he would become more red with the coming months.
His training, along with that of the others, had already started. His hoofs were being inspected and trimmed once a month. He was taught to walk up and down ramps and in and out of strange stalls. Much of his racing life would be spent traveling, and all these things were better learned while he was still young. The aged, experienced men never used force in teaching him anything new. Patience and kindness was their method, luring him on when necessary with a container of oats or carrots, guiding him gradually until finally he went where they wanted him to go. Never once did Man o’ War break out in open rebellion, and they had high hopes for him as he grew in weight and strength and became a yearling the first of January 1918.
“Maybe we got control of all that Hastings fire,” one groom told Danny. “Maybe so.”
Danny answered, “I hope so, but he’s burning up inside. It could be a lot different when somebody gets up on his back.”
“Mebbe so, but that ain’t our problem, Danny-boy.”
“We grow him big, that’s all we got to do,” another said.
“You sho talk like you were gettin’ him ready for the sales ring,” criticized the groom who had spoken first. “You sho do. Big and fat. Maybe you want to force him to grow fast? Maybe pour some skimmed cow milk into him?”
The other man grinned broadly. “Nope, Sam. Don’t mean that at all. No sales ring for this here colt … never was for a Belmont yearling. Mr. Belmont ain’t no market breeder. Nor his pappy before him. What’s bred for us races for us.”
“But times change,” still another old man interjected quietly. “A war’s goin’ on. No tellin’ what might happen. No tellin’ at all.”
“Not here … times don’t change here,” the first said angrily. “This farm ain’t ever goin’ to change. Nope, not ever.”
All through the winter, with snow on the ground much of the time, Man o’ War continued to grow as a colt should, evenly and naturally from proper feed and exercise. Nothing was done to force growth upon him and yet he was a hand taller than any of the other colts his age. He was growing up fast and he stood proudly in a stall that was sweet-smelling and newly clayed. It seemed to Danny that the colt knew he was destined for greatness.
The winter months gave way to spring and when the yearlings were turned loose to roam the soft fields, their exuberance knew no bounds. They ran hard, testing their speed against one another as if they knew that racing was their destiny. And Man o’ War, even though he was always the slowest at the start, was always far ahead at the end of the pasture.
Danny watched him more closely than anybody else and was convinced that his colt would be one to reckon with on the racetrack. But would Man o’ War, in spite of his great speed, turn out to be as temp
eramental as his full sister Masda, who raced only when she felt like it? Worse still, would he turn out to be uncontrollable like his grandsire, Hastings? Speed was useless without manners and the will to win. All three were necessary to make a champion.
Danny did all he could to pave the way to a successful career for his colt. Man o’ War was close to a thousand pounds of hard flesh and muscle. He could explode any minute, and often did, rearing in the air to his full height with flying hoofs.
Danny spent hours with him in the pasture, leading him around to get him over his natural nervousness and excitement at being restricted in his movements. Seldom did Man o’ War become fearful or disclose any violent action, for Danny went slowly and carefully. He did not want to introduce too many new things to his colt at the same time. He wanted no strain put on muscles and ligaments that were not yet fully toughened despite the colt’s great size. He stopped often to adjust the halter so that the colt would become accustomed to having his head handled and would not balk when the time came to put on the bridle. But the bit? What would the big colt do when he felt the iron in his mouth for the first time? How much of Hastings would explode in him then?
And how would Man o’ War take to a saddle on his broad back? Danny rested a little of his weight on him each day, just enough so that the weight of the saddle might not seem so strange to him. But the girth strap? What would happen when that tightened about the belly of this strapping colt with the hot blood of Hastings in him? Would he reach for the sky? And when he felt a man on his back, would a thousand pounds of living dynamite explode and rock the very earth?
“You’re doin’ real good, Danny,” the head caretaker told Danny one day after watching them together.
“He’s the best there is,” the boy said proudly.
“Good for you to think so, Danny. Real good. A good groom’s got to love his horse or he ain’t a good groom. Maybe he can’t rub speed into him but he can do plenty else. He even fights for his horse if he has to.”