by Alison Hart
HORSE DIARIES
#1: Elska
#2: Bell’s Star
#3: Koda
#4: Maestoso Petra
#5: Golden Sun
#6: Yatimah
#7: Risky Chance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Alison Hart
Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2011 by Ruth Sanderson Photo credits: © Bob Langrish (this page); Library of Congress (this page).
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hart, Alison.
Risky Chance / Alison Hart ; illustrated by Ruth Sanderson. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Horse diaries; [7])
Summary: In the mid- to late-1930s, Risky Chance grows from a spirited colt to a winning racehorse, but an injury and the Great Depression bring hardship that only a special little girl can help him overcome.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89883-9
[1. Thoroughbred horse—Fiction. 2. Race horses—Fiction. 3. Horses—Fiction.
4. Depressions—1929—Fiction. 5. California—History—20th century—Fiction.]
I. Sanderson, Ruth, ill. II. Title.
PZ10.3.H247Ris 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010027318
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
To courageous racehorses and their brave jockeys
—A.H.
For Rob, the best horse trainer I know
—R.S.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
1
March 1935
2
Gray Devil
3
Training
4
September 1936
5
February 1937
6
Finish Line
7
Done For
8
A New Owner
9
April 1939
10
April 1939, Race Day
Appendix
About the Author
About the Illustrator
“Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is …”
—from Black Beauty, by Anna Sewell
March 1935
Run. Run. Faster. Faster. My hooves dug into the grass. My legs reached as I raced across the pasture. My ears flattened against my head, the wind blowing my black mane. I tossed a glance behind me. The other colts, my pasture mates, were far behind.
I neighed triumphantly as I wheeled in front of the white board fence. The winner! My friend Red Colt caught up. His eyes glittered, and he aimed a kick at my ribs.
I bucked with joy, almost knocking into Dark Colt and Bay Colt. They spun, and in a bunched herd, we thundered back to the gate.
Two men were leaning on the top fence board, watching us. I lengthened my stride, showing off, and inched past Red Colt, who snapped his teeth at me.
But his anger, his teeth, didn’t faze me. Running, winning, were all I could think about.
Dark Colt and Bay Colt trotted over to the two men and earned a scratch behind the ears. I swerved, charging into the shed for a bite of hay. Curious, I peeked around the side. Now even Red Colt was standing quietly for a scratch.
Not me. No, sirree. I’d rather gallop to the other side of the field and see who’s up for more fun.
In the next pasture, the fillies grazed peacefully. I bellowed at them, challenging them to race along the fence line. They nudged each other, but went back to their sweet grass. All except for Dappled Filly, who cantered toward me, accepting the challenge.
We sped down the fence line, neck and neck, neither of us gaining nor losing. When we reached the corners of our pastures, she swerved right and I swerved left. Every day we raced. Every day we were even.
Snorting, I cantered to the other side of the pasture. The mares, new spring foals by their sides, snoozed under the shade of an oak. Their field stretched from hill to green hill. Lifting my head, I called to my mother, a white silhouette against the blue sky. Last winter, she used to answer me. Now she ignored me, content with her spindly-legged black-haired foal.
When I was born, my coat was black, too. Now they called me Gray Colt.
Bored, I trotted back to my pasture mates. Maybe after the men left, I could goad them into another race. Sliding to a stop, I reared, snatching the air with my forelegs. Red Colt and Dark Colt skittered out of the way.
“That gray one’s fast, but he’s going to be trouble to break,” one of the men said. I recognized him as the human called Trainer.
The other man was as tall as a pine tree. “His sire’s Risk Taker,” he said. “His dam’s Mary’s Chance. Both were tough to train.”
My ears pricked when I heard Mary’s Chance. That was my mother’s name!
“As I recall, neither did well on the racetrack,” Trainer said.
Race! I knew that word, too. I pranced a little, bumping the other colts out of my way. I wanted to remind everyone that I was the fastest in the field.
“This colt seems to have the will to win,” Tall Man said. “Some Thoroughbreds have it. Some don’t.”
Thoroughbred. I knew that word, too, because it meant the horses at the farm. We were Thoroughbreds, bred to race, with large nostrils to suck in air and long legs for speed.
“The red colt’s fast, too,” Trainer said. “Man o’ War’s on his dam’s side. And he’ll be easier to break.”
Break. There was that word again. I knew that branches could break and fence boards could break. I’d cracked one in half just a week ago, trying to jump out of my pasture to join the fillies. But how could horses break?
Not liking the idea of being broken, I ducked my head and hopped in place. Tall Man chuckled. “I like that gray colt’s spirit,” he said. “We’ll see what happens now that he’s a yearling. Tomorrow we’ll start training.”
Training. Ugh. I knew about training from the two-year-olds. It meant staying cooped up in the barn instead of being free in the field. No, sirree. Not for me.
And the next day, when the humans called grooms walked from the barn carrying ropes and halters, I took off across the field. I watched from as far away as I could. They put the halters over the heads of Red Colt, Bay Colt, and Dark Colt. Soon my friends disappeared into the barn. Cantering back toward the gate, I whinnied frantically.
One groom stayed behind. He walked toward me, his arm outstretched, and I saw a carrot. I also saw the halter and rope he held behind his back. No treat was going to lure me close enough to get that rope slung around my neck. And since I was the fastest in the field, the groom would never catch me.
As he drew closer, I trotted away. We played this game until the sun started to sink behind the trees. By then, all the fillies had been led into the barn, too.
“Let him stay outside,” Trainer finally called from the barn doorway. The groom left, carrying his halter, rope, and carrot. Then I was alone. Even the mares and foals were high on the hill and couldn’t hear me neighing to them.
Night fell. Clouds
gathered. The rain began in drips and drops. Then it burst from the sky in waves until my gray coat was slick.
Shivering, I slunk into the shed. As I pulled hunks of hay from the rack, I wished my friends were in the pasture with me. I wondered, How will I be the fastest if there is no one to race?
Through three storms, I stayed in the pasture. I raced from end to end, shooting mud in the air. Quickly I got bored with no one to beat. I hung by the gate, rain dribbling from my forelock onto my muzzle, listening to the sounds coming from the barn. When I whinnied, my voice sounded shrill and lonely.
Finally one day the sky turned blue, and the groom was again waiting by the gate. This time he held a bucket in his hand. Cautiously I stepped toward him, my hooves sinking into the soggy earth. I sniffed the air, smelling something sweet. Not sweet like mare’s milk, spring grass, or fresh hay. This was different.
The groom began to whistle to himself. He glanced up into the clear sky and then toward the mares and foals—looking everywhere but at me. I inched closer to the bucket. Lowering my head, I scooped up a few kernels before darting backward. As I crunched, the taste made my lips wiggle in delight.
“Like that grain, huh?” the groom said.
Dipping my head deeper into the bucket, I greedily grabbed a second bite. The rope slithered around my neck and tightened. The groom had caught me, but I didn’t care. I loved grain—and I was tired of galloping across the pasture alone.
Gray Devil
May 1935
I hung my head in the back corner of the stall. Being locked up was worse than I’d heard. No sun on my face. No juicy grass to crop. No showing off for the fillies.
I still loved sweet grain, but it only came twice a day. A groom dumped it in my bucket and then slammed the stall door shut. I couldn’t even hang my head out and visit with the other horses.
Even worse was training. Different grooms led me around the barn. They shouted commands: walk, whoa, back, pick up your hoof, quit kicking, stop biting. There was no playing and bucking in the pasture. No racing until my lungs burned.
I wanted out.
Day after day, I patiently waited for my chance.
I heard the stall door open. A groom stepped in with a rope that had a chain at the end. This groom smelled like sweat. He was the one who barked like a farm dog when I balked and punched my muzzle when I tried to bite.
Cocking one back leg, I eyed him without turning my head. He saw my raised hoof. “So you want to kick me, Gray Devil? Ain’t going to happen.” Leaving the door open, he avoided my hind end and made his way along the wall toward my head. He reached out with one hand to clip the chain to my halter ring.
I spun so fast, I knocked him into the corner before bursting from the stall. I charged down the aisle, darting around Red Colt, who was being brushed.
The groom rushed from the stall, shouting angry words. I headed for the open barn door, neighing to the other colts and fillies. Run away with me! Escape! I heard their excited whickers and the raps of their hooves on their doors.
“Whoa, whoa!” other grooms hollered as they got into the chase. Trainer poked his head from a doorway as I sped past. Full of daring, I raced from the barn into the sunlight.
Tall Man was stepping out of his car. A look of astonishment spread over his face as I galloped by him. With the wind in my mane, I flew down the roadside.
I’ll never stop running until I’m far away.
The road wound between the fenced fields. As I slowed to a canter, I spied Mother. All the mares raised their heads to stare curiously at me. Several trotted over to find out what was going on, their foals hugging their sides. Mother only shook the flies from her face and continued to graze.
I halted and snuffled noses over the top board, making several mares squeal. They kept their babies away from me, shielding them with their bodies. Lead Mother turned her haunches and kicked in my direction, signaling go away.
Then I heard a roaring sound by the barn. I cantered off, but the roaring sound grew louder as two trucks came after me.
I sped up, racing the trucks as they pulled alongside me. Ahead, the white board fences ended and a green field high with grass beckoned. If I could reach that field, I could run forever.
Trainer poked his head out of an open window in one of the trucks. “He’s goin’ thirty-five miles an hour!” he hollered. The truck shot forward, followed by the second one.
No! They can’t win! I pushed myself, my legs moving so fast they must have been a blur. My heart was bursting, but I had to beat them and reach the field beyond.
In front of me, the trucks slowed. They swung around and parked between the two fencerows, blocking the way. Grooms jumped from the trucks, placing themselves so I could no longer see the green fields of freedom.
I slid to a halt. Trainer, a rope and bucket in his hands, got out of the truck along with Tall Man. They stood before me in the road.
My sides heaved. My breath blew. I wasn’t going to be caught.
We stood there, not moving. Finally Tall Man took off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Did you see that colt run?” he exclaimed. “Did you clock his speed?”
“He does have grit,” Trainer agreed. “Except none of my men will work with him anymore. He’s kicked, bit, or knocked down every one of them. Sure, he can run, but if we can’t get a bridle or saddle on him, we’ll never get him in a race.”
“Let’s geld him and then turn him out with a couple of feisty mares,” Tall Man said. “In a month, we’ll start over and see what we’ve got. This time I want one man to work with him. Your best person, got it?”
Trainer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve registered him with the Jockey Club,” Tall Man said. “My first pick for his name is Risky Chance.”
“Risky Chance,” Trainer repeated. “I believe that name fits him. He’s going to be risky to train.”
“But if we take a chance on him, we’re going to see him in the winner’s circle.”
I had no idea what Trainer and Tall Man were talking about. But that day, as I reluctantly trotted away from the green field and back toward the barn, the trucks following behind me, I vowed never to let anyone beat me in a race again.
July 1935
The grooms called them Mabel, Sweetie, and Angel. I called them Grumpy Mares. For many nights and days I had been living in their pasture. Too old to have foals any longer, they ruled their field with swift kicks and sharp teeth. They hogged the best grass, the buckets of grain, and the shadiest spots. I tried my best to avoid them, but they delighted in pinning me in a corner and “putting me in my place.” Soon my neck and flanks were slashed with cuts and scars.
A groom came once a day to check water and bring grain. But since the field was tucked behind the barn, no one else came around. There were no fillies to race, no colts to play with, no grooms to tease. This, I realized, was worse than training.
Finally, one hot day, a man opened the gate and walked into the field. A red apple shone in his palm. The mares were resting in the shed away from the flies, so they didn’t see him. I was near the gate, frantically stomping a pesky bug. Eyeing him, I blew in his direction. This groom had dark skin and a gentle smile, and I was so delighted to see a friendly face that I hurried over to greet him.
“Hey, boy, you ready to join the other colts and fillies?” he asked as I crunched the apple. He rubbed under my forelock. It felt so much nicer than the pinch of teeth that I stepped closer.
“Name’s Lanny. I hear they call you Gray Devil,” he said as he continued to scratch. Stepping back, he inspected my scars. “Looking at your sorry hide, I think the mares may have knocked some of that devil right out of you.”
I nudged him in the shoulder, wanting more rubbing.
He chuckled. “You agree, huh? From now on, I’ll call you by your given name, Risky Chance. Chance for short. That okay?”
The scratching and the kind sound of his voice were more than okay. Still, when he snapped the ro
pe to my halter, I skittered sideways. Memories of training filled my head. Then Grumpiest Mare came ambling in our direction, and I almost ran Lanny over trying to get through the gate.
He led me into the barn, which was dark and cool, with no flies. I spotted Red Colt in his stall and greeted him with eager snuffles through the bars in the door. Then I moved to the next stall, where Dappled Filly whickered excitedly. Instead of yanking me away, Lanny let me talk. We hadn’t forgotten each other, and I realized how much I had missed our races.
Lanny put me in a stall between Dappled Filly and Bay Colt. I walked round and round, touching my nose to my own water and grain buckets and pile of hay. While I ate, Lanny groomed me, running the brush lightly over my rough coat before applying something soothing to my cuts, scars, and bug bites. While he worked, he hummed, which sounded as pleasant as the bees around the flowers.
A few of the other grooms stopped to look inside. I pinned my ears at the one who smelled of sweat. “Gray Devil looks like a scarecrow now,” he said.
“Let them call you scarecrow,” Lanny said when the man left. “I been watchin’ you. You’ve got balance and speed. We’ve just got to make sure your training goes right this time.”
Flipping one ear back to listen, I grabbed another mouthful of hay. For some reason, when Lanny said training it didn’t sound like yanking, slapping, or yelling. It sounded more like an adventure.
“Then you’ll find out what you were bred to do,” he added, giving me a pat. “And that, Risky Chance, is running like the wind.”
Training
March 1936
Lanny stroked my face. “It’ll be all right, Chance,” he told me. “Oscar’s a pro at this.”
Suspiciously, I rolled my eyes toward Oscar, a runt of a man who sat on my back in the saddle. One hand grasped my mane; the other held the reins.
I had been in training through the hot days of summer and the cool days of fall before again being turned out to run in the winter fields. By now, I knew how to load in a trailer, pick up my feet for the farrier who trimmed my hooves, and stand quietly for the veterinarian, even when he pricked me with a needle. I now knew the bit, the saddlecloth, the saddle, and the girth. Lastly, I knew about riders. Oscar had ridden me round and round the area called the training track while Lanny led me. As long as Lanny was there, humming his songs, I didn’t mind Oscar, even if he squeezed my sides with his legs or pulled right and left on the reins. But now I heard a click, and Lanny stepped away from me.
