Crown Prince

by Linda Snow McLoon

  Sarah’s father swung around to face her. “I don’t pretend to know much about horses, but I expect you’d like a horse that is good-looking and kind. How does that stack up?”

  Sarah nodded, as she looked to Jack for his reaction.

  “Looks are important,” he said, “and we all like a horse we can feast our eyes on. But remember, a horse needs more than just a lovely face to perform well. If you want to compete someday, you’ll be looking for an athlete with good conformation who’ll be able to do his job while staying sound. He’ll also need a good mind—character, I call it—to be brave but not too excitable. You don’t want the nervous type.”

  He paused for a minute to let his words sink in. “And you’ll not be wanting a horse with a vice, like weaving, cribbing, or stall walking. ’Tis hard to keep weight on a horse that has these bad habits. And why start out with a problem?”

  “That makes sense,” her father said. “But what about size? How big a horse do you recommend for a girl Sarah’s age?”

  “Sixteen hands would be a good size for you, Sarah, since you’ll be growing a wee bit more. ‘Tis important the horse is a good mover, with a long low stride that doesn’t waste his energy. You’d best not pick out a high stepper or one who’s lazy behind.”

  “What are the chances we’ll find a horse that meets all those criteria?” her father asked.

  “Well, we need to be realistic,” Jack replied, “and not expect to find a perfect horse waiting for us. God has yet to put the faultless horse on earth. As we look at them, remember you’ll always have to accept some things that are less than ideal.”

  Sarah sank back in her seat and thought about what Jack had said. She felt her excitement mounting. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be seeing the horses and making her choice. Somehow she didn’t envision it being a tough decision. Her horse was there waiting for her that very minute, and when she saw him, she’d know he was the one.

  “Thanks for coming today, Jack,” Mr. Wagner said. “This is a big step, not just for Sarah, but for our family. I know owning a horse is a big responsibility, and many things can happen. We’ll just have to cross our fingers this horse will stay healthy. At any rate, we’ll look to your judgment in helping Sarah make her choice.”

  “I guess you’ll be losing a good worker at Seaside Creamery,” Jack said.

  “Yes, but her sister Abby is itching to take her place.”

  They drove steadily along the interstate toward the city and Raceland Park. Gradually the rain let up, and traces of brightening skies in the West promised sunshine later in the day. As they got closer, Sarah reached into her pocket again for the unsealed envelope Mr. DeWitt had asked her to give to Hank Bolton’s trainer. She opened the letter to read it one more time:

  Dear Mr. Dominic:

  With the blessing of your employer, Henry Bolton, I have agreed to allow Sarah Wagner to choose one of the four horses offered to me. Following her selection, the purchase price of $1 shall be paid to you as agent for Henry Bolton, after which the horse shall be transported to my farm and be examined by a veterinarian for health and soundness. Should the horse pass the pre-purchase exam, the sale will be final, and his Jockey Club registration papers shall be transferred to his new owner, Sarah Wagner. Should the horse not be approved by the veterinarian of our choice, the sale will be voided and the horse will be returned in like condition to you at Raceland Park. It is understood said horse will not be used for racing purposes.

  Chandler DeWitt’s scrawled signature appeared at the bottom, along with the date. A second line was to be signed by the trainer, as agent for Henry Bolton, and there was a place for Sarah’s father to sign as a witness to the transaction.

  Traffic grew moderately heavy as they approached the city, with intermittent signs pointing the way to the racetrack. The truck started across a tall suspension bridge that gave them their first view in the distance of what looked to be a towering grandstand next to a vast parking lot. Beyond the grandstand, the white fencing of a circular track surrounded a grassy infield. Sarah carefully put the letter back in her pocket and gripped her bag more tightly. They were almost there!

  “We’ll be going to the backstretch where the horses are stabled,” Jack said. “‘Tis a little after nine, so we’re right on time. We don’t have ID cards, but Rudy will check us in. The security detail is pretty careful who they let into the stable area. Some of these horses are extremely valuable, and a lot of money is bet on races these days.

  The truck went through an open gate designated as “Horsemen Only” and rolled to a stop in a paved lot next to a tall chain link fence. On the other side were the stables, off limits except to those who had official business. A uniformed guard manned a small admittance booth near a closed second gate.

  Sarah saw long rows of rectangular barns, each identified by a single letter. The barns had stalls facing out on both sides, with roofs extending far enough beyond the stalls to form a sheltered walking area. “Hot walkers” were leading horses around these shed rows, circling the barns as the horses cooled out after their morning exercise and baths. Between the barns, other horses could be seen on machines that led them in a circle until they were cool enough to go back to their stalls.

  After parking the truck and trailer, Jack approached the attendant in the booth. The guard looked up from reading The Daily Racing Form. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Could you please page Rudy Dominic?” Jack asked. “We’re picking up one of his horses.”

  “Sure thing,” replied the attendant. He spoke into a microphone, which boomed his voice into the backstretch area. A few minutes later, a slightly built young man wearing chaps appeared.

  “Rudy’s busy,” he told the guard. “He sent me to bring these folks in.”

  “Okay, Sam. Your word’s as good as Rudy’s. Just sign the slip.”

  Sam introduced himself quickly and motioned for them to follow him. He moved briskly, escorting them through the gate and toward barn M. At this hour, the backstretch hummed with activity, and Sarah could feel excitement in the air. Country music blared from an open tack room door and blended with the chatter of grooms, hot walkers, and exercise riders. Walking by one barn, they had to jump back quickly to avoid being side-swiped by a feed truck piled high with bales of hay and straw as it turned down a row. Golf carts ferried people back and forth to the track, where morning workouts were still taking place, and adding to the hubbub was the clanging of a blacksmith hammering horseshoes into shape. Several horses in a hurry to get back to their stalls pranced and jigged by them, chomping on their bits, their exercise riders keeping a tight rein.

  “What do you do here?” Mr. Wagner asked Sam.

  “I’m an exercise rider,” Sam replied. “I get on horses that are going to the track for workouts in the morning. Then I help out with whatever the boss says needs to be done, and there’s always plenty. Rudy checks with me about how the horses go. He likes to know if they pull and feel real strong, and if they don’t seem right, he wants to know about it. He’s got the stopwatch on them, too.”

  “It must take a long time to ride all of Rudy’s horses,” Sarah said.

  Sam laughed. “Oh, I’m not the only exercise rider, and sometimes a few horses are galloped together in a set. Not all the horses go to the track every day, either. Some just walk in the shed row, maybe because they had a race the day before. Or maybe they have a strain or injury and need time rehabbing or just walking.”

  It seemed as if horses were everywhere, and Sarah thought they were all so beautiful. How she’d love to be an exercise rider! A woman riding a Palomino in a Western saddle passed them, returning to the stable area leading a riderless Thoroughbred.

  “How come no one is riding that horse?” Sarah asked.

  “He’s being ponied. It’s just another way that horses go out in the morning. If a horse had an injury, sometimes it’s better not to put weight on his back for a while.”

  A small man with slicked-bac
k dark hair and wearing aviator sunglasses was standing just outside barn M, looking in their direction. As they drew closer, he walked forward, extending his hand to Sarah.

  “I’m Rudy Dominic,” he said to her. “You must be Sarah, and you’re getting a new horse today. I hope you’ll find one of ours to your liking.” Sarah smiled back, suddenly feeling shy.

  Rudy turned to the men. “Nice to see you again, Jack,” he said with a nod to Sarah’s instructor. Then he shook her father’s hand.

  “As riding horses go, these horses should all be fine. They just don’t want to be racehorses, and we’re tired of trying to get them to run well enough to compete. It costs a lot to have a horse in training, and these horses are just hay burners.” He turned back to Sarah. “I don’t mean to rush you, but let’s get right to it. Are you ready to take a look?”

  Sarah nodded her head vigorously. “Yes!” she said with her heart in her throat.

  The trainer pulled a notepad from his pocket and looked down the handwritten list. He paused at one point, frowning. “This is the list Hank Bolton sent me—I apologize for not taking a closer look at it before now. It looks to me like three out of the four should be good prospects. Just so you know, the horses you don’t choose will be sent to a dealer to sell with the condition that they go to good homes and not be raced.”

  Dominic waved an arm toward his barn. “Follow me. Let’s start with Code of Honor. He cooled out a little while ago after doing a mile jog followed by an easy mile gallop.” They walked along the shed row to the backside of Barn M. Grooms were sponging a number of horses from tall sudsy buckets while others rinsed them with a hose. Horses that had cooled out earlier were back in their stalls, most eating hay from nets hung by their doorways.

  Sarah looked down the row of stalls, searching for a face to turn to her in recognition. Would she find the one here? Rudy led them to a good-looking chestnut whose only white marking on his face was a snip of white on his muzzle. He was nonchalantly eating his breakfast while keeping a watchful eye on everything going on around him.

  “Sam, let’s bring Code of Honor out for the folks to see.”

  Sam asked the horse to step out to the open area between the barns. Code of Honor balked at leaving his hay, but at Sam’s insistence he came with him.

  “This horse is pretty well bred, and Mr. Bolton had high hopes for him,” Rudy said. “He’s by Senior Diplomat, an excellent sire. But he prefers to gallop along behind other horses and let the rest of the pack compete for first place. There’s nothing wrong with him, other than having a bad case of the slows. He’s a nice medium-sized horse, as you can see, and for a Thoroughbred, he’s pretty laid back. I guess that’s part of his problem. He has only one bad habit, if you can call it that. He gets impatient when his oats are being dished up and he starts pawing up a storm by his stall door. It’s a good thing we can use stall guards. If he had a solid door, he’d bang his knees.”

  Sarah had been inching forward while the trainer was talking, and now she was close enough to reach up to stroke the horse’s neck. She felt his smooth chestnut coat, noticing how his pulled mane fell neatly on his right side. He immediately thrust his head toward the carrot in her hand, and Sarah let him bite off sections until it was gone. He looked for more, but she stepped back. “You can’t have them all, boy.”

  “We call him Cody around the barn,” Rudy continued. “He doesn’t give anyone any trouble. I think he’d be a great kid’s horse.”

  “Could we have him walk away from us in the open area and jog back?” Jack asked. “I’d like to see how he moves.” Jack had carefully positioned himself so he could observe the horse moving straight away and coming back. Cody calmly walked and jogged, showing he didn’t interfere or even travel close. Jack observed the horse’s attractive topline and commented to Sarah that his shoulders and pasterns followed the same pleasing sloping angle. Bending over, he ran his hands expertly down the horse’s front legs, feeling his knees, tendons, and ankles. They were tight and cold.

  “Cody is a Kentucky-bred, four years old,” Rudy volunteered. “Mr. Bolton bought him at the Keeneland Yearling Sale and expected a lot from him. It’s always a big disappointment to have a horse not show any ability after you’ve put so much time and money into him. But this horse is clearly better suited for the show ring or a hack in the woods.”

  “He seems quiet enough,” Jack commented, “and looks like a good prospect. If the others are as nice as this horse, it will be a hard choice, Sarah.”

  “Let’s go see Sun Worship,” Rudy said. “He’s also a chestnut, and while not as classically bred as Code of Honor, his sire, Sun Venture, has sired a lot of useful runners.”

  They walked down the shed row to where a smaller chestnut gelding stood at the stall door but showed no interest in his hay. He had a pretty head with a blaze running down the length of his face. Jack immediately noticed telltale teeth marks on the wooden lip of the horse’s feed tub in the corner of the stall. Rudy saw him looking at it and commented, “He cribs once in awhile, so most of the time he wears a cribbing strap around his neck to discourage it.” Jack gave Sarah a knowing look as she stepped forward to offer a carrot to Sun Worship.

  “In case you don’t know what cribbing is,” Rudy continued, “it’s when a horse grabs a hard surface with his teeth and pulls back while he swallows air. Unless a strap around his throat stops him from cribbing, he gets air in his stomach and doesn’t digest his food well. This horse is also a little on the nervous side, which hasn’t helped. Between that and his cribbing, he’s not an easy keeper. I think he’ll do better away from the racetrack, where he can be turned out regularly and may be more inclined to relax.”

  “That makes sense,” Jack said. “But I think Sarah and I agree she’d best avoid a horse that has a vice from the get-go.” When she nodded her approval, Jack added, “Let’s move on and take a look at the gray.”

  “He’s on the other side,” Rudy said, as he led the way. Sarah looked at each horse as they passed, thinking how magnificent each was. As they rounded the corner, they saw a big-bodied steel-gray horse being led into his stall. His groom circled him to face the stall door and his hay net. The horse wasted no time diving into the hay.

  “This is Cut Glass, and I have to be honest—he can’t outrun a fat man,” said the trainer. “He’s a full brother to a stakes winner, but you’d never know it. He just doesn’t have class. It goes to show you that sometimes well-bred horses can be pretty common. He’s definitely one that Mr. Bolton needs to weed out. But he should be a great riding horse for you, young lady,” he said, smiling at Sarah.

  Jack, Sarah, and her father sized up this third horse in their lineup. Jack’s knowledgeable eyes saw that the horse toed in with his left front leg, and his narrow chest placed his front legs close together. Sarah stroked the gray while he quickly devoured the carrot she offered him.

  Just then Rudy’s cell phone rang and he excused himself. “I’m expecting an important call,” he explained.

  Jack slipped into the stall and continued to evaluate the gray horse, noticing his rather long back and that his rump was higher than his withers. When Jack emerged from the stall, he looked at Sarah and her father, shaking his head. “This horse will be unsound sooner rather than later,” he predicted. “His poor conformation puts a lot of stress on his body. I don’t think you want to take this horse, Sarah.”

  Sarah nodded. It certainly made sense. The gray was not going to be the one.

  “The first horse we saw seems like an exceptional prospect,” continued Jack. “What do you think, Sarah? Will Code of Honor be the horse for you?”

  “I like him a lot. He’s beautiful. But isn’t there a fourth horse for us to see?”

  Her father looked to the end of the shed row where Rudy was talking on his cell phone. “Let’s ask Rudy,” he said.

  When the trainer rejoined them, Jack posed the question. “What about the fourth horse that Hank Bolton had on your list?”


  Rudy hesitated before answering. “Yes, there is another horse Mr. Bolton has decided to cull, but honestly, I was surprised to see him on the list for you folks. It’s a four-year-old that has never started in a race because of training problems.”

  Rudy leaned back against the shed wall and went on to tell them about a homebred out of Mr. Bolton’s champion, Northern Princess, a well-bred mare from a brilliant family who had won several Grade I stakes races. Before Mr. Bolton owned her, the mare had produced a horse that won the Preakness several years before, and he was able to afford her only because she was getting along in years. “As an older mare, it was questionable she could carry a foal to term, or even get in foal, but Mr. Bolton took a chance on her,” explained Rudy. “After being bred to a stallion that had won the Kentucky Derby—Emperor’s Gold—Northern Princess foaled a colt my boss had great hopes for. The colt was named Crown Prince.”

  Sam came around the corner and stopped to listen.

  “That colt was a beauty from the start,” Rudy continued. “He was big, too, and very correct. I understand he dominated the other colts on the farm and won every spontaneous dash across the fields. He was broken to saddle late in his yearling year, as is customary, and as a two-year-old came to me to begin serious training.”

  “How well I remember.” Sam said. “Crown Prince was a real eye-catcher as a two-year-old. He turned a lot of heads every time I took him to the track. He was quite a mover, too. Very well balanced. People around here thought he was a prospect for the Breeders Cup Juvenile, so of course Mr. Bolton was high on him.”

  Jack, Sarah, and Martin Wagner listened, spellbound, as Rudy continued the story. “All went well for a while. We did slow gallops at first, taking our time, not rushing him. One day Sam told me he thought the colt didn’t feel quite right. We had Doc Greene go over him, taking X-rays and checking his blood. Doc determined that being a big growthy colt, the bones in his knees hadn’t closed completely. He hadn’t finished growing. Doc said he should be turned out for at least six months, so he was shipped back to the farm in Florida.”