kept howling with laughter as his best buddy swung and missed yet again.
“You gotta concentrate, Danny.”
“On what?”
“The baseball, stupid.”
“How can I, when I can’t even see it? Nobody could see it.”
“Pete Rose coulda seen it,” said Rick solemnly, referring to the former Cincinnati Reds legend.
“Pete Rose coulda seen a howitzer shell.”
“Okay, one more?”
“Nah. I’m all done. Let’s go back and get some lemonade. I’m sweating like a bull.”
Rick Hunter pulled off his glove, stuck the ball into the pocket of his jeans, and tied the sleeves of his warm- up jacket around his waist. He jumped over the post-and-rail fence into a wide paddock containing a half dozen mares and foals. Dan Headley followed him, swinging the Louisville Slugger bat, looking over at the foals, at the Kentucky-bred baby racehorses, the best of whom may one day hear the thunder of the crowds at Belmont Park, Royal Ascot, Saratoga and Longchamp. Perhaps even Churchill Downs.
“Still beats the hell outta me why you don’t just stay here and get rich,” said Dan. “Raisin’ the ye’rlings, sellin’ ’em for fortunes, just like yer daddy…. Jeez, Rick. You got it all made for you, right here.”
“Danny, we been havin’ this particular conversation for the biggest part of three years. And my answer ain’t varied none. I just ain’t interested. ’Sides, in my judgment, this bull market for thoroughbreds ain’t here forever.”
“Well, it’s been here for more’n ten years. Ain’t showing no sign of flagging.”
“It’ll collapse, ole buddy. Bull markets always do in the end. And right then there’s gonna be a whole lot of penniless ole hardboots around here…guys who thought their good luck was some kinda birthright.”
“Yeah, but that ain’t why you plan to leave. You’re leavin’ because it bores you…even with all that money swilling around. But why the hell you want to be an officer in the U.S. Navy instead of riding around here like some goddamned czar…master of the Hunter Valley, right here in the thoroughbred breeding capital of the world…well, like I said. Sure beats the hell outta me.”
“Well, you’re planning to leave with me, right?”
“Sure I am, Ricky. But, Christ, my daddy’s just the stud groom here. Your ole man owns the whole place. And you don’t even have any brothers and sisters. It’s all gonna be yours. All two thousand acres of it. And all them goddamned blue-chip broodmares.”
“Come on, Danny. You understand the horse-breeding business better’n I do. You could make a real go of it yourself, if you wanted. Your daddy’s got a coupla mares of his own. Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“Ricky, I couldn’t save enough money for a place like this in a thousand years. I’d just end up another stud groom. Anyone could see why I’d rather be Captain Dan Headley, commanding officer of a U.S. Navy battle cruiser, than Danny Headley, stallion man at the Hunter Valley.”
“Raisin’ horses bores you too, don’t it?” said Rick, grinning, in the sure knowledge that he had a soul mate.
“Some. But I just don’t have the advantages.”
“Wouldn’t change nothin’ in my opinion. You just want adventure…I guess like me. Fast horses take too long to raise. We just ain’t got the time, right?”
Dan grinned. He was much shorter than the towering Rick Hunter, and he had to walk about half a stride faster to lay up with his lifelong friend. They moved steadily across the magnificent grassland, walking on a slight uphill gradient, watching the foals edging toward them, eager, curious, the mares moving at a much slower pace behind.
“Who’s that chestnut filly by?…”
“Which one, Danny? The one in front with the white star?”
“Yeah. She’s gonna have a backside like a barmaid when she grows up.”
“Guess she could have a motor. She’s by Secretariat, out of a halfway decent daughter of Nashua.”
“That’s real local, right? Nashua next door, and the Big Horse is just up the road.”
Kentucky horsemen always referred to the 1973 Triple Crown winner as the Big Horse, despite his unspectacular performance in the stud.
“Dad owns the mare, swears to God Secretariat’s gonna be a great sire of broodmares. We’ll be keeping that filly for sure.”
“How about that little bay colt over there, the one who keeps pushing the others around?…”
“He’s by Northern Dancer. Typical, kinda boisterous and small. He’ll go to the sales, probably end up in Ireland with Mr. O’Brien. Unless the Arabs outbid everyone. Then he’ll end up in Newmarket, which ain’t quite so good.”
“Guess the dark gray is by the Rajah, right?”
“That’s him. He’s by our own Red Rajah. Bart Hunter’s pride and joy. That stallion is one mean sonofabitch. But my daddy loves him, and your daddy copes with him. Bobby Headley, best stallion man in the bluegrass. That’s my old man’s verdict.”
“Well, I been around the Rajah for five years, and I ain’t seen nothin’ mean about him.”
“I have. Trust me. He just don’t like strangers, Dan. But he acts like an old dog when your daddy’s with him.”
They walked on, to the fence, climbed it and came around into the main yard, walked right into Bobby Headley, hurrying down to the feed house. He was a slim, hard-eyed Kentucky horseman of medium height, not as handsome as his dark-haired 16-year-old son, and he had a deep resonant voice that seemed out of place in a man so lacking in bulk.
“Hey, boys, how you doin’?” he said, looking at the baseball bat. “Still gettin’ that fastball past ’im, eh, Ricky?”
“Yessir. But it ain’t easy. Lose your concentration, and that Danny can really hurt you.”
Bobby Headley chuckled. “Hey, Dan, do me a favor, willya? Run along to Rajah’s box and pick up my brushes. I left ’em right inside the door.”
“Sure. Rick, will I see you back at the house?”
“In five, right?”
Dan Headley jogged along to the three big stallion boxes at the far end of the yard, unclipped the lock on the eight-year-old Red Rajah’s door, and slipped inside, muttering softly, “Hey, Rajah, ole boy…how you bin? They still treatin’ you good?”
The big stallion, just a tad under 17 hands, and almost milk white now with the advancing years, did not have a head collar on and he was not tethered on a long shank to the sturdy iron ring on the wall. This was a bit unusual for a stallion of his hot-blooded breeding. The powerful ex-California Stakes winner was a grandson of the fiery Red God, out of a fast daughter of the notorious English sire Supreme Sovereign.
To a professional horseman this was an example of breeding made in hell, a recipe for a truly dangerous stallion. Supreme Sovereign was so unpredictable, so lethal to any human being, they kept a high-powered fire hose in his box, in case of an emergency.
Red Rajah himself had several times attacked people, but he’d been a high-class miler in his time, a good tough battler in a finish, and he was a highly commercial sire, standing for $40,000. In the last couple of years, Bobby Headley seemed to have him under control.
The Rajah gazed at young Dan Headley moving softly behind him. He betrayed no anger, but those who knew him would have noticed his ears set slightly back, and his eye flicking first forward, then back; far back, looking at Dan without moving his head.
The boy bent down to pick up the brushes, and as he straightened up, the stallion moved, imperceptibly. Dan, sensing a shift in the horse’s mood, reacted like the lifelong horseman he was, lifted up his right arm like a traffic cop, and murmured, “Whoa there, Rajah…good boy…easy, ole buddy.”
Right then Red Rajah attacked, quite suddenly, with not a semblance of warning. He whipped his head around and slammed his teeth over Danny’s biceps, biting like a crocodile, right through the muscle and splintering the big bone in the upper arm. And he didn’t let go. He dragged the boy down, pulling him onto the straw, preparing for the killer-stallion’s favorite trick, to kneel on his prey, like a camel or an elephant, crushing the rib cage. The thoroughbred breeding industry is apt to keep this kind of savagery very quiet.
