The Black Stallion

Tom asked himself why he hadn't noticed the heavy mud on the inside. It was too late now! Sam Kossler had tricked him just as George said he might.
    Bonfire was furious too, and Tom felt his fury. The colt slipped constantly, but he never stopped trying for more speed in the bad footing; heavy clods of mud covered the sulky wheels, slowing the colt, pulling him down.
    And it was then Tom knew he was beaten. Bonfire had had more than enough of this kind of going. Nobody could ask any more of a colt. He touched the lines and Bonfire slowed down.
    But even at this slow speed, Sam Kossler didn't make any attempt to take his gelding past them until they came off the back turn into the homestretch. He moved up alongside Tom then, and grinned before going on past. He had known all along he'd had nothing to fear from the others in the race, and they followed in a line directly behind one another. There was no room between any of them for Tom to break through to the good footing; and as each driver and horse passed him, Tom realized that they had known all along what Sam Kossler was doing. They had bided their time with Sam, and only now made any attempt to catch up with and pass him. But Sam Kossler had the race well under control as he went for the finish wire.
    When the last horse had gone by, Tom guided his colt away from the rail. But he made no attempt to catch up with any of the others; it was too late for that, for Sam Kossler was already under the wire. Tom wiped the mud in gobs from his face and silks. Sam Kossler had beaten them this time, but there was still another heat to go—and the next heat would be a different story.
    George said, "Clean yourself up, Tom. I'll get the mud off the colt."
    "How long before the next heat? How long, George?" Tom's voice was clipped, eager.
    "More'n half an hour. Take it easy." George removed Bonfire's harness. "The colt needs a rest, if you don't."
    That sobered Tom. "You're right, George," he said quietly. "He worked hard and got nowhere in that slop." Removing his sulky cap, he ducked his head in a large tub of rain water. When his head emerged, he said, "I should've dropped back the moment I found myself in that stuff. Don't you think so, George?"
    "You shouldn't have gotten in there so close to the rail in the first place," George said. "But it's my fault as much as yours. I noticed it an' shoulda told you. Jimmy would've told you. We've both got a lot to learn."
    "I should've slowed Bonfire down right away," Tom insisted. "Let them all pass me and then come around them on the outside. They're not in the same class with Bonfire when it comes to speed. I lost the heat for him."
    Sponging the colt's legs free of the mud, George said, "Your slowin' him down early wouldn't have worked either, Tom. Sam Kossler would have slowed down, too… and so would've the others, even if you went down to a walk. They jus' figured on keepin' you right up against the rail and in the mud for the whole mile."
    "A dirty trick," Tom said angrily.
    "Not dirty, Tom. Jus' driving smart, that's all, because they knew you had all the speed in front of you. Maybe they taught you your first lesson… and you'll think a little more before doin' what you do after this."
    "They taught me, all right," Tom said.
    George looked up from Bonfire's hoofs to smile. "We car still make expenses by winning the next heat," he said.
    Almost an hour later Tom drove Bonfire onto the track for the second heat. Much to Sam Kossler's surprise, the boy nodded to him and smiled as he passed. They took their warm-up scores, then went back to start. Sam had the inside pole position again, for he was the heat winner; and Tom was on the outside, for he had finished last in the first heat.
    Grim-faced, the others turned their horses without so much as a look at Tom or his blood bay colt. It was as though they knew it would be difficult to outsmart the boy and colt again. Once more they came down to the start as one and were off.
    There was no sprint by Bonfire for the first turn, for Tom held him close and dropped him behind the others. He kept away from the inside, and the footing, though a little wet, was good. Bonfire liked the feel of the track. His body trembled with his anxiety to be let loose, and his ears cupped backwards frequently, awaiting Tom's words. But Tom spoke only through the lines, telling him to bide his time.
    While rounding the turn, Tom saw Sam Kossler glance back in his direction; every other driver did