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Daybreak in Seattle Part 4

Original article written by The Steward posted 13 years 0 weeks ago

Bill Outsilver couldn’t help but swell with pride as his handsome chestnut colt took to the track. Flame and Smoke, a white-faced son of Flames, stood just past the gap, watching the track. A lot of trainers made sure to “stand” their horses, which gave the Thoroughbreds a chance to simply relax and stare around. Bill was no different, but he had a secondary reason for wanting to stand Flame and Smoke: he wanted to show the colt off.

Flame and Smoke already had the makings of a future stallion. He had run a 90 speed figure while winning a Grade 2 prep race for the Steward’s Cup, and his Mr. Prospector dam appeared to be a goldmine in the shed. All he needed now was a “big” win.

There were only about ten opportunities to get a stallion-making win in a dirt router’s career. The first of those, the Steward’s Cup Juvenile, was four days away. The best breeders and bloodstock agents in the industry would be at Seattle Downs, and Bill wanted to make sure they all noticed his flashy colt.

The Juvenile appeared to be the toughest race on the Thursday card, and maybe even the toughest race of the week. As if on cue, Bill spotted the handsome bowed head of Philosophy, Jolene Danner’s undefeated star. The gray son of Buckingham would be looking to emulate his brother Literature in the Juvenile. Other stars, such as Ladonna King’s expensive colt Saharan Ace, would make the finish unpredictable and classic.

Just when Bill was feeling good about his handsome colt’s chances, he saw the real competition.

Walking off the track, hardly lathered and not blowing at all, was a plain chestnut colt with a nondescript star. Without knowing anything about him, one wouldn’t even guess he was entered in the Steward’s Cup, but the name on his towel gave him away: SHADOWLESS. Donnie Hidalgo’s undefeated miler would be attempting to stretch out his blinding speed an extra sixteenth of a mile. If he managed it, the rest of the horses would be running for second.

“Don’t let him rain on your parade,” Bill muttered under his breath in Flame and Smoke’s direction after Shadowless had passed. “He may be the fastest horse out there, but he won’t be headed for the Triple Crown next year. So take that.”

--

“How did you even manage that?” Ali LaDuke murmured aloud, staring in confusion at her horse Archangel. He was wearing his bridle like normal, but the shadow roll was somehow twisted to be near his eye, and the strap of the brow band went behind one ear. “I left you for maybe five minutes,” Ali grumbled. “And what happened to your halter!?”

The halter still dangled from the wall, tied up neatly where she’d left her horse. Archangel seemed to smirk as his trainer discovered a broken strap.

“How did you manage that!?” she repeated, staring at him incredulously. Archangel tossed his head and then went to work again on the bridle, sliding his head up and down along the slats of the stall.

She grasped his reins and jerked his head away from the wall. After fixing his bridle, she led him down the aisle and towards the sunlight streaming into the shedrow.

A sudden crash caused her to jump, but Archangel stood quite still. The whites of his eyes blazed and his ears were flat, but he didn’t dare move. It only took a nanosecond to see why: in the fifteen feet they had walked, he’d stepped straight into a bucket sitting against the wall and gotten his hoof stuck between the bucket and its metal handle.

“What is wrong with you!?” she gaped, unable able to find words to describe the colt’s antics. She held the reins with one hand and dislodged his hoof with the other, then jogged him a few steps to make sure he was still sound. “Come on, you big brat,” Ali grunted fondly. “Let’s get you onto the track before you break something.”

--

“’But if you’re thinking about my baby, it don’t matter if you’re black or white,’” Paul Sellers sang, jiggling the shank to get King of Pop’s attention. The black colt snapped at the lead, getting it in his teeth and working it furiously.

“Can you please stop that?” Nathan Sellers groaned, walking by and carrying entry forms to his desk. “Just because they stuck us in the same barn doesn’t mean you have to be obnoxious.”

“Just wait until I start up with Billie Jean,” Paul replied, stepping back as King of Pop’s groom flung the last of the water in the bathing bucket over the colt’s back.

“Do you even like Michael Jackson?” Nathan asked.

“It doesn’t matter if I do, he does!” Paul said, pointing at the colt. King of Pop stopped fussing and pricked his ears, as if to agree.

--

22 hours later, just after the break on Tuesday morning, the track was flooded with Steward’s Cup horses. All contenders had to be on the grounds, and everyone was vying for the freshest, smoothest dirt.

Alyse Schuver’s Woman King, the SIMMY Award Champion Three-Year-Old Filly of the prior year, glided under the wire effortlessly. Hot on her heels was Bill Oelrich’s bulky juvenile filly Clouds in the Sky.

In the grandstand, Bob Oliva eyed the track, stopwatch in hand, as his beast of a horse, Baracuda, galloped down the center of the strip. His breath came in great gasping snorts, more like a locomotive than a Thoroughbred.

Steve Martinelli and John Hannibal Smith stood on the apron. The taller Steve had no trouble seeing the track from the ground, while John stood on a bench to watch Catatonic galloping.

“Damn!” he shouted, as his view was mainly obstructed when Amanda Kessler jogged by on her burly Quarter Horse, ponying Nerine back to the barn.

“He looks fine,” Steve assured John. “What are you checking for anyway. At this point he’s entered, he’s here, you might as well run.”

John groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve gotta win myself one of these!”

The whirling of an engine made them both turn to the left. Mike Eaton drove up in a golf cart, beaming. “I got my invitation!” he said proudly, holding up the black and yellow postcard stating the time and place of the horsemen’s party.

“I didn’t know you could drive,” John mused.

“Not only can I drive,” Mike snapped, defensive, “but I can train horses. Look how good my filly looks!”

The three of them followed Mike’s finger towards a hulking black filly stepping onto the gap a hundred yards away. Even with the distance, she looked phenomenal.

“That’s the problem with the Steward’s Cup, Mike,” John sighed. “They all look that good.”


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