Gabriel's Horses Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Then fetch two buckets of water. I want one simmering on the fire. I’m taking him down to the creek.”
    â€œYes sir.” I hurry to the stall with basket and pitchfork. All across the grounds, horses whinny and men cuss. Several folks come by Tenpenny’s stall asking for the colt. This is Tenpenny’s first race, and all the trainers and owners want to get a good look at Woodville Farm’s latest entry.
    I don’t tell them where Tenpenny is. I know that Pa has taken Tenpenny down to the creek not only to let the cold water firm the colt’s legs, but also to keep him away from the crowd. Pa doesn’t want some greedy owner poisoning Tenpenny’s bucket of water or pricking him in the hock with a needle—sure ways to keep a horse from winning.
    The sun’s overhead when Master Giles stops by. I’ve finished cleaning the stall and fetching water, and I’m sitting on a bucket, wiping down Tenpenny’s bridle so it’s soft and supple.
    â€œMorning, Gabriel.” He’s dressed like a gentleman in derby and frock coat, and he’s carrying an ivory-handled cane.
    I drop the bridle and jump to my feet. “Morning, sir.”
    â€œHow’s the colt?”
    â€œRip-roaring, but he listened to my legs and hands. Jackson will be able to ride him to victory.”
    Master points at me with his cane. “You’ve got the mind of a horseman like your pa, Gabriel.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œGet on with your work now.” He heads into the crowd. By now, the grounds are filling with gentlefolk: men sporting top hats and ladies wearing hoop skirts. They climb into the grandstands. Their slaves wait by the carriages with picnic baskets, lawn chairs, and blankets. Working folks, black and white, crowd the rails, and everyone carries on like it’s a party. Seems like Lexington doesn’t know there’s a war going on.
    I miss all of the first race ’cause I’m too busy walking Tenpenny, who’s wound as tight as Pa’s pocket watch. The colt throws his head, bumps me with his nose, and drags me hither and yon. I don’t scold ’cause I know he’s just scared.
    I lead him toward the grandstand, which erupts with cheering, and I gather the first race is over. Minutes later, a gray mare limps from the track, her head hanging. A roan walks behind her, shaking with fatigue. The winner stands in the middle of the track. His heaving sides are dotted with spur marks, and his flared nostrils are red rimmed. His colored jockey tries to smile, but his lips are cracked and swollen. The owner stands beside them, fat-bellied and smug as he accepts the trophy and $1,500 purse. Some of the crowd cheers, while others boo. Along the rail, money exchanges hands, and several men get in fistfights.
    My heart tightens. I stroke Tenpenny’s neck, hoping he’ll reach the finish line with ears and head high. We’ve conditioned the colt for weeks, and Pa doesn’t believe in spurs or whips, but hard running takes its toll on any horse.
    Pa comes over, carrying the saddle and sheepskin pad he’s made special so Tenpenny’s back doesn’t get sore. Jackson strides beside him looking smart in his silks. He wears black boots, doeskin breeches, and a blue shirt and gold cap, Woodville’s colors.
    I lead the colt into the circle of onlookers, joining the five other entries. Master Giles watches with the owners. They’re talking among themselves, downplaying their horse’s abilities, hoping to raise the betting odds.
    Pa says a man could win a year’s wages if he placed the right bet. I sigh, wishing Pa was a betting man. Then I could buy a hoop skirt for Ma, and Pa could buy our freedom.
    The bugle announces the parade to the track. Pa gives Jackson a leg up into the saddle. Jackson rides with short stirrups so he can stay off the horse’s back. Most other jockeys ride English style: They sit