Risky Chance

by Alison Hart

  Oscar sucked in his breath. I puffed out mine. “I ain’t too sure about this, Lanny,” Oscar said. “This colt’s full of fight, and he’s not so scrawny anymore.”

  “He is plenty rugged,” Lanny said in his calm way. “Give him a nudge with your heels. No kicks, now, or you’ll send him sky-high.”

  Oscar steered me toward the railing that circled the outside of the training track. As I walked, two colts trotted past me. Riders moved up and down on their backs. I pricked my ears to watch them. These colts were older than I was. Their necks were arched, and their haunches churned with power. “They’re ready to race,” I had heard Lanny say the other day. “Ready to go south to Santa Anita.”

  Tossing my head, I danced in place. My heart began beating faster. I didn’t know the words Santa Anita, but I was ready to race.

  Oscar chuckled. “Chance is eager to go, Lanny,” he called over his shoulder. “I can feel it.”

  “Bring him back, then!” Lanny hollered. “His knees aren’t ready. He’s got some more growing to do.”

  Oscar tugged on the left rein. I ignored him, my thoughts on galloping after those two horses, showing them that I was the fastest.

  “Not yet,” Oscar said. “Soon, though. Soon.”

  Reluctantly, I headed back to Lanny. He hooked the rope onto the bit ring. Oscar kicked his feet from the stirrups and jumped off. “Colt wants to race,” he said.

  “He does have what it takes to be a winner,” Lanny agreed as he stroked my neck. My winter hair had shed out, and my gray coat shone. Raising my head, I continued to watch the colts. They’d broken into a gallop on the other side of the track, which riders called the backstretch. I could feel the pound of their hooves on the track, and I began to tremble with excitement.

  All through that summer, Oscar and I worked on the track, until I, too, was cantering. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Red Colt by my side. One day, Oscar cantered me around the homestretch turn, which I had learned was the last turn before a pretend spot called the finish line. Lanny, Trainer, and Tall Man watched from the gate.

  “Let him out at the three-eighths pole,” Trainer called to Oscar.

  Leaning forward, Oscar loosened my reins. Confused, I flicked my ears, not sure what he wanted me to do. Then he bumped me with his heels. Startled, I burst forward, and when he didn’t rein me back, I sped up. Digging hard into the track, I leaped in long strides until I was galloping.

  Galloping!

  I hadn’t run this fast since last winter, when Dark Colt and I were turned out in the pasture to muscle up and grow. It felt exhilarating.

  “Got it,” Trainer yelled when I passed the imaginary finish line. Oscar sat deeper in the saddle and pulled on the reins. I shook my head, telling him let me run! But he steered me in a tight circle so the track no longer stretched in front of me, and trotted me back toward the waiting men.

  Lanny was grinning as we walked up. Trainer and Tall Man were grinning, too.

  “Three furlongs in thirty-three seconds,” Trainer said as he studied something in his hand. “Not bad for the first time.”

  Tall Man let out a noise that sounded like a horse snorting. “Not bad? That’s aces. Let’s truck him to Santa Anita tomorrow. If all goes well, he should be ready to race in three weeks.”

  Ready to race. I heard those words again—and this time I pranced in place, knowing they were meant for me.

  August 1936

  Santa Anita. I finally knew what it meant. It was a giant place with a track bigger than the mares’ field. It had rows and rows of barns filled with horses. Riders, grooms, and trainers darted everywhere like flies. And it had more noise, dust, and galloping than I’d ever known in my life.

  Fortunately, Lanny came with me, and his quiet ways kept me from rearing, bucking, and bolting. After many days and nights, I got used to the confusing sights and smells. I loved having so many horses to whinny to, and I loved cantering around the track. Plus I met Barn Cat, who kept away the mice and slept in my stall.

  Oscar didn’t come with us, but Lanny chose a rider named Hughie, who had light hands on the reins and liked to hum, too. Lanny was careful to give Hughie directions on how to ride me, and even Trainer and Tall Man, who pretended to be the boss, listened to Lanny.

  “Don’t ever use your whip on this colt,” Lanny warned Hughie. “If you do, he’ll stop running for you.”

  So Hughie and I got along. We’d breeze down the track some mornings along with other sets of colts and fillies. Red Colt and Dappled Filly weren’t at Santa Anita, but I was stabled between Stakes Horse and Claim Horse. Stakes Horse, also named Jed’s Dime, explained to me that he won lots of races for Tall Man, who praised him, fed him rich feed, and called him a champion.

  Claim Horse, on the other hand, explained that after each race, a new owner might lead him off to a brand-new barn. Sometimes the grooms and trainers at the new barn were nice. Other times they were not. He disappeared from the barn before I even learned his name, so I decided right away that I wanted to be a stakes horse like Jed.

  One morning, Lanny came early, even before I ate. “Chance, today you learn about the starting gate.”

  Lanny led me from the stall and over to a long gate that stretched almost across the track. Was this the starting gate? I’d seen horses walk into what looked like metal mouths in the gate and then charge out of the other side as if being chased. I wasn’t too keen on learning about those mouths.

  But Lanny had brought a bucket of grain. He hooked a long rope on my halter and led me close to a metal mouth. Then he walked through an opening carrying that bucket. I stopped short, my eyes buggy. He waited on the other side, humming.

  “Come on, colt,” he urged. “The chute ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

  I locked my legs. Minutes passed. Sweat rolled down Lanny’s cheeks. Gnats tickled my ears.

  “Mmm-mmm.” Lanny lifted a handful of grain and took a bite. “This sure is tasty.”

  My ears flicked. Was he eating my grain? I took one step, two steps—closer and closer toward the chute.

  “Tast-e-e-e!” Lanny exclaimed, taking another bite.

  Two more steps and I was right inside that mouth of a chute, metal rails on both sides of me. But my attention was on Lanny and that bucket.

  Bounding through, I landed on the other side and thrust my head into the bucket. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lanny asked.

  We practiced three more times, until I followed Lanny with no hesitation. The next day, we practiced with Hughie in the saddle.

  “You just sit there,” Lanny told him. “Let Chance walk through when he decides.”

  Well, no one had fed me breakfast that morning, so I decided right off not to wait—that grain needed to be eaten.

  After that when we practiced, Lanny would stand farther and farther down the track. I’d have to walk into the chute, wait until Hughie chirped, then trot to Lanny. One day, he stood across the finish line. Instead of a chirp, Hughie gave me a poke with his heels. I shot out of that gate and cantered down the track. I could see Lanny on the other side. Ears pricked, I raced toward him, my legs stretching from a canter to a gallop. Suddenly, I was flying around that track. Flying around the backstretch turn. Hughie was hunched on my neck, urging me with his body and hands.

  Faster, faster.

  I forgot all about that bucket of grain and Lanny. All I could think about was running. My spirits soared. I was free!

  September 1936

  Lanny led me into the barn aisle. I was tacked up, eager for my workout. Tall Man was there with Trainer. They looked serious. Hughie wasn’t there, ready to ride me. Instead a man smaller than Hughie stood with them, his arms crossed.

  “Meet Wolf,” Lanny said to me. Barn Cat wound between my legs, purring, as if wanting to meet Wolf, too. “Tomorrow’s your first race, Chance. Wolf’s gonna be your jockey.”

  Jockey. I knew it meant a rider who rode in the races. Throwing up my head, I stared at Wolf. Wolf stared back.
Finally he said, “I’ve heard good things about you, colt. Word around the track is you’re going to be the next Man o’ War.”

  Lanny chuckled. “Chance sure acts like he’s gonna be the next Triple Crown winner.”

  “Lanny picked you out, Wolf,” Trainer said. “He thinks you’re the rider to get the best out of this colt.”

  “You have one race to prove he’s right,” Tall Man added. “Chance is entered in the Santa Anita Chase. We expect results.”

  Wolf nodded. Lanny boosted him onto my back. Barn Cat scampered into my stall as I set off down the aisle.

  We wound through the shed rows down to the track. Lanny hummed as he walked by my side. Wolf sat quiet. I bucked a few times to test him. He didn’t yank the reins or squeeze with his legs. Instead he placed a hand on my withers and stayed balanced in the saddle.

  I broke into a bouncy trot as soon as I was on the track. A mounted attendant rode up. The attendant and his horse were there to help keep all the horses and riders safe on the track.

  I skittered away from them, but Wolf stayed with me. I rooted my head, trying to pull those reins from his grasp. Rather than jerking back, he pressed his heels in my sides, nudging me into a canter.

  We cantered down the track. I barely felt Wolf, yet I knew he was there. Somehow his hands and legs knew just what to say to me as we passed the other horses exercising on the track, too. He urged me with small chirps and words, and suddenly I knew what the word jockey meant: a rider to help me win.

  It was the day of my first race.

  Lanny led me round and round the saddling paddock with eight other horses and their grooms. Waves of humans surrounded the paddock, cawing and fluttering like crows. My nerves flared and I pranced sideways, but Lanny stroked my neck.

  “This is it,” he told me. “Your chance to do what you love. Your chance to show the world you’re the fastest colt at Santa Anita.”

  The fastest. Yes, sirree. I knew what that meant.

  Lanny halted me, and a man lifted my lip. Then Hughie put a saddle blanket the color of roses and dandelions on my back and, on top of that, a tiny saddle. Lanny tightened the girth. I spied Wolf striding toward me. He wore a roses-and-dandelions-colored shirt and cap. As he walked, he tipped his head to the humans who waved at him from the railing. Suddenly, a small person climbed over the barrier. She wore a straw hat with a rose tucked in the band. Shrieking, she launched herself at Wolf. He scooped her up in his arms, though she was almost as tall as he was.

  “You’re going to win today, Father,” she said when Wolf set her down. Turning, she stroked my nose. Her fingers felt as soft as Barn Cat’s fur. “May Chance have a carrot?”

  “After the race, Marie,” Wolf said. “Give me a good-luck kiss, and it’s back to your mother.”

  Marie kissed him soundly on the cheek. Then she hugged me around the neck. The crowd laughed as I tossed my head in confusion. No one had ever hugged me before.

  “You and Father will win, Chance,” she said, looking up at me with serious eyes. “I know it.”

  “Off you go, Marie.” Wolf pushed her in the direction of the crowd.

  Lanny hoisted Wolf into the saddle. “Ride clean, and no whip,” he told Wolf. “The colt will race to the front right off. Just sit chilly. This might be his first race, but I guarantee Chance knows what to do to win. After the post parade, warm up with a light canter.”

  Post parade. I’d never heard those words before, and my head swiveled from side to side as a mounted attendant led the horses and jockeys in a line to the track. A roar from the crowd went up, and I snorted and hopped. The roar didn’t frighten me. It excited me, and my body hummed with power.

  Thousands of eyes were on us as I cantered down the track toward the starting gate. A noise like thunder erupted as we passed the grandstand. Music played. It wasn’t soothing like Lanny’s humming but clangy like banging buckets. Then one voice seemed to echo above the thunder and music, and I heard my name in the jumble of words.

  When we were past the grandstand, I eyed the other horses. I recognized some of them from morning workouts. They were two-year-olds like me. Others were strangers. From all of them rose the smell of sweat and excitement.

  Wolf nudged me to a canter, but then almost immediately sat deep in the saddle, signaling for me to walk. I had been so focused on the other horses that I’d forgotten he was even there. But when we reached the starting gate, I was grateful for his calm voice as a horse reared, narrowly missing me.

  Then it was my turn to load. I pictured Lanny and his bucket of grain and walked right in. I stared down the length of the track. It stretched before me, smooth and empty. My feet danced in place, I was so eager to run.

  A golden horse on my right and a brown horse on my left were just as restless. Down the line, a horse whinnied as if hurt. I smelled fear.

  Wolf leaned forward. His fingers twined in my mane. I flicked my ears, feeling his energy.

  Then a bell rang, and that same loud voice burst out, “They’re off!”

  Wolf brought his hands forward on my neck and kicked with his heels. I leaped from the starting gate. My hooves dug into the earth, propelling me forward. The golden horse and the brown horse broke at the same time as I did. Together, we shot to the front.

  Wolf tugged lightly on the reins, signaling take it easy. But I didn’t want to take it easy. I was back in the pasture galloping with Red Colt and Dark Colt. I knew then that I could beat both of my friends just as I knew today that I could beat these horses.

  I raced around the first turn and down the backstretch. Slowly, I pulled away from the golden and brown horses. Easily, I galloped beside the rail. My lungs and nostrils filled with air: puff, puff. Blood fed my muscles, which were strong and lean.

  Furlong after furlong ticked past as I sailed down the backstretch. Wolf turned slightly to glance over his shoulder. I could have told him not to bother. I was far ahead of the other horses. I could no longer hear the pound of their hooves. I could no longer hear the smack of whips.

  The only sound was my own breathing.

  Faster. Faster. No horse was going to catch me today. As I flew around the homestretch turn, I wasn’t running to beat the other horses. I wasn’t running for the cheering people or for Trainer, Tall Man, or Wolf.

  I was running because this was what I was born to do.

  February 1937

  Lights popped. Black boxes clicked. Humans wearing hats called to Hughie and Lanny, who sat on chairs on either side of my stall door. “When’s he gonna work out this morning?” “Is Wolf riding him?” “Have they decided his next race?” “Is Mr. Davidson entering him in the Santa Anita Handicap next week?”

  Snorting, I pawed my straw as the lights on the boxes popped, popped until I couldn’t see. Barn Cat cowered in the corner of my stall as the shouting grew louder. Lanny and Hughie stayed silent.

  Finally Tall Man entered the barn with Trainer. The Hats ran to meet them like mice scampering after my spilled grain.

  Hughie grunted. “Wish they’d leave us alone. Why doesn’t Boss hire a guard? We can’t spend all our time babysitting just ’cause Chance is some big-shot horse that won eight races.”

  “You go on and get ready,” Lanny said. I reached over to lip his cap, and he playfully swatted me away. “I’ll tack up Chance. You’re working him today.”

  “Where’s Wolf?” Hughie asked.

  “He’s exercising a horse for Harrison.”

  Trainer and Tall Man walked down the aisle toward us, the Hats tagging behind.

  “Chance has beaten the best colts and fillies in California,” Tall Man was telling them. “We’re definitely entering him in the Santa Anita Handicap.”

  “Chance might be fast, but he’s no match for Seabiscuit,” one of the men with hats said.

  “And Rosemont is entered, too,” another said. “The hundred-thousand-dollar purse is the largest in the world. Even the fast-talking owners back East can’t resist it.”

  “We
don’t care about Seabiscuit or Rosemont,” Tall Man said. He tried to pat me, but I ducked away. Tall Man’s pats were hard thumps on my nose, and I didn’t like them. “My money’s on Chance. He’s as sound as a Roosevelt dollar and ready to beat all entries in the hundred-grander.”

  When the people left, Lanny stood up. “Don’t listen to those reporters,” he told me as he put on my bridle. “For once Mr. Davidson is right: you are the best horse on the track.”

  “Chance!” someone squealed.

  I pricked my ears toward the door. Marie ducked under the stall webbing. Her eyes were fierce. Red curls bobbled from under the brim of her fancy hat. “Those reporters are know-nothings. Seabiscuit and Rosemont might be fast,” she said, “but they aren’t as fast as you.”

  She held out her hand. I carefully plucked a slice of carrot from her fingers. “Father says that you have more heart than any horse he’s ever ridden.”

  “You got that right, Miss Marie,” Lanny said as he saddled me. “And he has something else special the other horses don’t have.”

  “What?” Her eyes grew wide.

  Lanny chuckled as he led me from the stall. “You and your hugs.”

  Hughie was waiting in the aisle, boots on, and Lanny boosted him into the saddle. Marie gave me one last hug.

  Soon we were on the track for an easy workout. Rain had soaked the ground, but I didn’t mind mud squishing under my hooves.

  As I trotted along the rail, I spotted Marie. She waved at me from her perch on the outside railing where she watched. Then I spotted her father. Wolf was in front of us, trotting a filly. I could tell the horse was new to the track because she bounced from side to side, and her tail switched anxiously.