Black Gold

by Marguerite Henry

  Jaydee blushed and studied very seriously the toe of his boot. When he raised his head his eyes went past the group of people to a row of barns. “Is Black Toney’s stall over there, sir?”

  “Yes, son. Come along with us.”

  As the handful of people started off, Jaydee lagged behind. He wanted his look alone. But the little group swallowed him up. They wanted to show both the Colonel and this young jockey that they knew horseflesh. Their comments were good, Jaydee had to admit to himself. They ranged from head to tail and back again as Black Toney was led to the fence, his coat rippling and shining in the sun.

  “Nice smooth top line,” one said.

  “Good depth to his girth; I favor that,” another said.

  “Straight-legged with good bone,” a very old man pointed out.

  “You bet, and he’s sturdy all over!”

  Yes, the comments were good.

  But what Jaydee liked about Black Toney was something beneath the sinew and muscle, something within. Grandma Mooney would have called it “the power to lepp the moon.”

  He heard Colonel Bradley saying to the group, “Over the fence, yonder at the Horace Davis place, are some mighty fine broodmares in foal to Black Toney. Matter of fact,” he added, “one of them came all the way from Oklahoma. Her name’s U-see-it.”

  “I know about her!” Jaydee spoke up eagerly, forgetting how young he was amongst all these older horsemen. “I saw her run at Fair Grounds Park. We always called her the Indian horse. She’s a sprinter.”

  “You’re dead right!” the Colonel agreed, smiling. “She’s a sprinter and Black Toney’s a stayer. So we’re waiting for their colt with considerable interest.”

  Jaydee shaded his eyes against the sunset. He watched a smallish mare amble up to a group of larger mares. “U-see-it!” he chuckled. “Now you do. And now you don’t.”

  12. A Foal Is Born

  THE SEVENTEENTH of February, 1921. A skittish day in Kentucky. Clouds chasing across the sky. Warm winds cuffing at the tree branches. The sun playing shadow-tag with every moving thing.

  Common sense said it was too early for spring, but the hillsides warmed to the sun and the broodmares rolled and slept on the sheltered downslopes.

  Today U-see-it felt strangely excited by the tonic in the air. She snuffed it deep into her lungs, then sneezed it out of her. She changed gaits from a lumbering walk to a gay trot, more clumsy than graceful. The wind teased and tickled her, tumbling her mane, stirring the whiskers in her ears, whipping her tail out behind her.

  Time teased her. Time of spring. Time of early afternoon. Race time! She changed gaits again from a trot to a lope. She sailed slowly up and down the little hills and valleys, then pulled up snorting. Her breath came short, and suddenly there was a stab of pain in her side. She humped her back to get rid of it, and soon she felt all right again. But for a long time she remained quite still as if fearful it might return. She dozed standing a while, first one leg limp and then another. Oh, how good it felt to sleep, and to let the warm flood of wind wash over her!

  As she slept, another broodmare brushed against her, and U-see-it reacted as if she were at the barrier and the horse on her right crowding her, shoving her into the rail. Fully awake now, she leaped forward, trying to gallop across the field. But all at once the pain came on again—sharper, longer this time, and her body broke into a sweat.

  Struggling on, trying her best to run, she managed to reach the far end of the pasture. She wanted to be alone. She had to be alone. This pain inside her—it was a living thing, a stabbing, churning thing. It came on again. And yet again. Now it quieted like a thing asleep, but only long enough for her to catch her breath. Then it jolted her whole body.

  Buckling her knees, she sank down onto the earth, rolling ever so gently. She must not hurt this unknown thing that was hurting her. She rolled from side to side, then lay very quietly, seeing the movement of the clouds, seeing them tattered and torn by the wind, hearing above her own labored breathing a cardinal chirping, “Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!”

  Common sense said it was too early for spring, but the cardinal and U-see-it knew better.

  With a quick catch of breath, the little mare suddenly stiffened. The spasm of pain was sharp and rending. Something tremendous was happening to her. Something vital, overpowering.

  • • •

  Afterward, she forgot all about the pain. She raised up, sodden with sweat, but eased as of a great burden. The burden itself was a tiny, whimpering, all-black creature, and the smell of him had a oneness for her. It was her own smell. He was hers! In a surge of motherliness she scrubbed the little fellow with her long wiper of a tongue. Then she got to her knees, stood up, and bunted him so that he stood too, weaving and wobbling on his rubbery legs. She almost upset him, she was so eager. Finally, with great gentleness, she nosed him around so he could nurse.

  A great sigh of relief escaped U-see-it as the colty whiskers and then the baby lips nuzzled close, finding the source of milk. Now she stretched out for her own comfort and to make the nursing easier for her little one.

  The sun was throwing long shadows in the grass and the wind had died down when a groom came to take her in for the night.

  He stopped in mid-stride, letting fall the lead rope in his hand. “Land sakes alive!” he breathed. Then he shouted to another groom, even though the boy was out of earshot. “U-see-it’s foaled. Out in the meadow! All by herself!”

  13. The Letter “B”

  HE WAS black. All black. Fuzzy black. Except for a few flecks of white on his forehead. But these were invisible unless a whirl of wind picked up his forelock. Then you saw them, and they were in the shape of a heart.

  “That little heart,” Colonel Bradley observed, “I wonder if it’s some kind of Indian sign.”

  He squinted from under his hat, studying the newborn son of Black Toney. It was the next morning. He and Mr. Davis, along with several grooms, were out in the pasture, gathered about U-see-it and her foal. For some time he walked around the colt, deliberating as if he were weighing something in his mind. Then he turned to one of the grooms.

  “Couldn’t expect her to have a big foal. But he’s a lot of colt for his inches. A lot of colt!” he repeated with emphasis. “And I like that heart on his forehead. Could mean many things. Could mean triumph, and could mean tragedy, too. But we won’t look too far ahead.”

  The Colonel himself tried a soft web halter over the foal’s nose for size and laughed when the youngster did a kick turn to get back to his mother. “Knows what he wants, eh?”

  With a pleased expression he moved off to his car, drove down the lane, out through the gate, and up the lane between the rows of pin oaks to his own farm. Still looking pleased, he slammed the car door shut and went over to the stall where Black Toney was busy at his hayrack.

  “Good boy!” he said, marking up the chart beside the door:

  The stallion tossed his head and frightened away a sparrow perched impertinently on his grain box. A deep tremolo of sound fluttered out of his nostrils.

  “Ho!” the Colonel chuckled. “So you’re proud, too.” He unbolted the stall door and watched the stallion move out into the paddock. With a sigh of satisfaction he walked up to the big house on the hill and went into the library. He unwrapped one of his big flat cigars, slowly lighted it, took a few puffs, and sat thinking at his desk. At last he pulled out a piece of stationery from the top drawer and placed it before him. With a purposeful nod of his head, he reached for his pen and wrote:

  Dear Mrs. Hoots:

  Your mare, U-see-it, foaled a horse colt yesterday. He is all black except for a faint marking on the forehead. The colt is but half the good news. Just today we had word from the Jockey Club of N.Y., after many letters back and forth, that the cloud over U-see-it has been lifted. They have agreed to restore her name in the Thoroughbred Registry. Now her colt can race on any track.

  Your man Webb has told me that Mr. Hoots dreamed of winning the Kentucky Derby wi
th this colt. But as you know, the shaping of his career depends on many things, including health, trainer, jockey, etc.

  Naturally, for the present his mother is in command.

  Now I am going to lay my cards on the table. Because the breeding of this colt is of the finest, I would like to buy him and am prepared to offer whatever sum you deem fair. Meanwhile, whether he becomes mine or remains yours, I should like to have you name him. Please send me three choices in the order of your preference. If your first choice has never before been selected, then it will be his, and his alone, in the Register.

  May I suggest that if you are willing to sell, you might select a name beginning with the letter “B” as all of my horses have names beginning with “B.”

  Congratulations. Let me know your wishes.

  Yours truly,

  February 18, 1921

  E. R. Bradley

  It was late afternoon on the twentieth of February that Rosa threw a shawl over her shoulders and walked out to the mailbox. Her heart quickened as she caught sight of a letter with a Lexington postmark among the newspapers and circulars. Instinctively she wanted to run into the house to call Al Hoots. Then she smiled ruefully. Maybe he already knows, she thought.

  The day was raw and puddles of last night’s rain had soaked her house slippers, but she stood there at the mailbox, feeling neither the cold nor the wetness. With trembling hand she crossed herself, then opened the letter. She read it once, and again, feeling choked inside as if now she had become a grandmother, a grandmother to U-see-it’s baby.

  There was no one with whom to share the news. Hanley Webb had gone to town, and when he came home he brought along some of his hunting friends, all strangers to her. She could not tell them, at least not yet. Not until the right name came to her.

  Locking the news within her, she went about setting the table and preparing enough supper for the hungry men. She was glad of company, even though it was not hers. It was like the old days when her husband was alive. It seemed good just to go from stove to table and to heap plates and to listen.

  After supper she went out in the yard and watched Hanley Webb nail the bottom of a tin can over a bole in the cottonwood tree. By now the moon was up, making a shining target of the tin. She stood at a little distance from the men as they practiced shooting. But her ears were deaf to the crack of the guns and the whine of bullets.

  Her mind was treading slowly. The colt should have something of the name of his sire, she said to herself. The “Black” is right and good. But Black what?

  She looked out across the immensity of land and sky. There were scarcely any trees, except down along Hominy Creek. All was flat land, relieved only by the oil derricks, reaching like great ladders to the sky.

  Oil derricks! Her breath suddenly came light and quick. What had made it possible for U-see-it to go to Black Toney? Why, oil! Oil! The roaring black oil. The Osages called it Black Gold.

  That was it! Black Gold!

  Her mind was on fire now, and her tongue was tasting the words: Black Gold . . . Black Gold! Then, softly, her lips said them.

  She hurried into the house, lit the kerosene lamp, and wrote them on a piece of paper, printed them big and important.

  BLACK GOLD

  There! It was right! Just so! Above them she wrote, I want no other name. And after them, It must be. She addressed the letter to Colonel E. R. Bradley, sealed it, and then suddenly ripped it open.

  P. S. (she wrote in clear bold letters). As to the matter of selling the colt, I thank you for your offer. But he is not for sale. Not ever. I promised my husband.

  R.M.H.

  As Rosa addressed a fresh envelope, she hummed a little hymn tune, then found herself unconsciously stroking the smooth wood of the plank table. She could not remember when she had been so happy. She turned the lamp down and blew it out. For a long time she sat dreaming in the dark. Through the open window she heard the men leaving, heard hoofbeats grow faint. And in the moonlight she could see bow-legged Hanley Webb plodding down to the barn where he slept. She would tell him in the morning.

  She went out on the porch and stood facing the oil derricks and the moon-drenched land. Her eyes swept the wide, distant horizon. “I know no other name,” she whispered. “Black Gold it must be.”

  14. First Lessons

  AS SOON as Rosa’s letter arrived at Lexington, the newborn colt was no longer just the son of Black Toney or of U-see-it. He was himself—Black Gold! He was little. His mane stood up like a crew cut. His tail was a flat, paddly brush, not much good for anything; yet he flapped it constantly up and down while he nursed, as if it were a pump handle.

  But for all his littleness, no one ever gave him a nickname. He had an air of innate dignity about him. Grooms, visitors, horse owners—everyone spoke of him and to him as Black Gold, and the tone of their voice had something in it amounting almost to respect.

  Only one thing bothered the horsemen as they watched U-see-it give Black Gold his first running lessons. He ran upheaded. “A horse that travels with his head in the air may travel fast, but not far,” Horace Davis remarked. And Colonel Bradley, to whom he said it, nodded against his will as if his own thought had been spoken.

  But Black Gold paid no heed to man-talk. He was furiously busy, trying to keep pace with his mother. He scampered across the pasture, galloping behind her. As he struggled to keep up, the wind came at him, seeming to push him back. He blew and snorted to the wind, and he hollered to his mother to wait for him. “Wait! Wait!” he squealed. But U-see-it went right on pacing him, teaching him to trot, to canter, to gallop. Then she wheeled around the fence corners, staying as close to the rails as if she were at a track.

  Onlookers held their sides, laughing. It appeared such fun for U-see-it to school her colt. And her actions spoke more plainly than any words. “Learn to use your tail!” she said, giving a fine example. “See? Let it balance you around the curves; it’s really more than a fly switch, you know!”

  All these things U-see-it said, and more. “Run low, my son, with your legs and belly close to the ground. Like this! Now try it! Follow me!”

  And when they were both tired, Black Gold went to her side to blow until his breathing came quiet and steady again.

  One day was like another and they were all good. All frolic and food and sun and wind and starshine and sleep. Besides his mother’s milk, he began to enjoy sampling from her oats bin. He liked the way he could grind the kernels with his teeth until they became mush. Then they had a good, sweet flavor.

  Each season had its own routine. In summer when the bluebottle flies were pesky beyond endurance, mother and son spent daytimes in the stall and nighttimes grazing out of doors. Being out in the dark was fun—rolling in the dewy wetness, cropping the grass close to the roots, spooking the timid shiny-eyed rabbits that came out in the moonlight.

  The days and nights fell away. And the weeks. When fall came and the air grew cool and bracing, the routine was changed back again. Now as in the spring they grazed by day and slept in the stable by night. Always U-see-it was there to protect and mother her colt. Often she arched her neck over his shoulder to keep him warm, or just for nearness’ sake.

  But one late afternoon when the groom came to lead them to the stable, Black Gold’s world suddenly shattered. Instead of letting him follow along behind U-see-it, the groom fastened a shank rope to his halter and led him into a strange stall. And there was no one else in it. No one at all. Only the big empty bed of straw.

  As the door closed in on him, he became terrified. Quaking with fear he pointed his nose to the lone high window, whinnying shrilly, then plaintively. No answer came. He began running in circles, around and around his stall until he was breathless. He rushed at the door, striking it with his forefeet, flailing at it. He tried to climb over it. Whinnying, he tried again and again. Once he thought he heard his mother calling. But it was only the high wind blowing. Mouth open, seeking, seeking, he flung his head forward and up, trying somehow to reac
h his mother’s milk bag for comfort. Late into the night he still whimpered, still beat upon the door with his tiny hoofs. There was a morning grayness in the sky when he finally stopped calling her. Then in utter exhaustion he sank to his knees, fell in a little heap, and slept.

  Old Hanley Webb came for Black Gold the next day. He looked long into the box stall, long and lovingly, as though he saw things that only he or Al Hoots might see—the sensitive ears, so eager and curious, the fineness of bone; but mostly something inside. Al, he thought, would have called it heart. He put out his hand and the colt reached over the half-door and suckled all three fingers hungrily. The old man’s breath cut short as a great protective instinct welled up in him. He laughed a self-conscious laugh, then tried to hide his joy.

  “’Tain’t no good to coddle him,” he said gruffly to Mr. Davis. “It’s got to be all business atween him and me.”

  He took the colt away to his new home—a fair-sized paddock behind the blacksmith shop of the old track at Lexington. There Black Gold’s career began in earnest.

  He never saw his mother again.

  15. Hanley Webb Takes Over

  OLD MAN Webb, they called him. He was squatty-built, like an apple tree, his neck thick and solid with rootlike cords spreading out toward his shoulders. He had only a fringe of hair and no teeth whatever. Of course he owned store teeth, but those he kept in his pocket.

  The contrast between the finely made colt and the gnarled old man was so sharp that Webb himself was conscious of it. At first sight he had fallen in love with Black Gold, as if in the colt’s beauty his own homeliness were redeemed.

  With a fierce joy he began to take care of his charge. So that U-see-it would not be missed too greatly, he bought an old secondhand cot and set up his living quarters in a stall alongside Black Gold’s. He even tore out two boards in the partition between them so that he could look in on the colt to see that he was comfortable and happy. Rough, calloused hands, warm with understanding, kept the black coat clean, the manger full, and the bedding fresh and dry.