“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.
Dan Headley screamed, with pain and terror. And his scream echoed into the yard. Rick Hunter was on his way down the walkway toward the main house when he heard it. No one else did. A thousand dreads about the true nature of the grandson of Red God flew through his mind.
Back in the barn, Danny screamed again. He was facing death. He knew that, and he kicked out at the stallion, but it was like kicking a pickup truck.
Rick Hunter was by now pounding across the grass quadrangle toward the boxes as he heard his friend’s second scream. He dashed straight to the first box where Red Rajah lived. When he got there he searched instantly for a weapon, and saw the trusty Louisville Slugger against the wall. Grabbing it with his right hand, he whipped open the door and faced with horror the scene before him — Danny, blood pouring from his smashed right arm, trying to protect himself against the onslaught of the stallion looming over him, preparing to kneel.
Rick never hesitated, wound back the bat and slammed it into Red Rajah’s ribs with a blow that would surely have killed a man. It did not, however, kill Red Rajah. The great white horse swung his head around, as if deciding which of the two boys to attack first. So Ricky hit him again, with all his force, crashing the bat into the ribs of the stallion, simultaneously yelling, “GET OUT, DANNY! FOR CHRIST’S SAKE GET OUT…SHUT THE DOOR BUT DON’T LOCK IT….”
Dan Headley, half in shock, maddened by the pain, rolled and crawled out of the box. Still flat on the ground, he kicked the door shut. And 16-year-old Rick Hunter turned to face the raging horse again.
By now he was in the corner 15 feet from the door, watching the Rajah backing off a stride or two. Rick held the bat in both hands, not daring to swing in case he missed the head, and the horse came at his throat, or, much more likely, his testicles.
In a split second he got his answer. Red Rajah came straight at his face, mouth open. Rick shoved the bat straight out in front of him, still holding the handle with both hands. And the Rajah’s teeth smashed down onto it, splintering it like matchwood.
Ouside Dan Headley had passed out from the pain.
And now Rick was on his own. Again the Rajah moved away a stride, his ears flat back, his white-rimmed eye still flicking back and forth. Rick’s mind raced, back to a conversation he had once had with an old local hardboot, who had told him, There’s only one way I know to stop a stallion who’s bent on killing you.
Rick Hunter dropped down onto all fours, knowing that if this ploy failed he might be as dead as Danny would have been if he hadn’t arrived in time.
Rick flattened himself into the pose of the horse’s most ancient and feared enemy, the lion. He tried to assume the crouched, threatening stance of a big cat preparing to pounce, trying to reawaken thousands of years of unconscious phobia in the psyche of the horse. He burrowed his boot into the straw, made a scratching noise on the concrete beneath, snarled deeply, staring hard into the horse’s eyes.