The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page B

farm needs close to half a million worth of repairs and upgrades, and who the hell knows what the house needs? I think the missus has been after him to leave the Blue Grass and go back to civilization in some high-rise for a couple of years now.” He paused and sighed deeply. “Still, there was a time, and not so long ago, when this place was one of the crown jewels.” He shrugged. “I guess everything changes. Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”
    â€œDoes Mr. Bigelow know the hired help?” I asked. “I mean personally?”
    â€œHe knows the long-timers, of course. As for the grooms and the groundskeepers, he knows most of ’em by sight, and knows a few of their names,” answered Standish. “But he’s been in town all week, with his lawyers and his bankers and whoever the hell else he has to see during sales week. He won’t be able to tell you anything.”
    â€œI believe you,” I said. “But I might as well speak to him as long as I’m here, just to please my clients.”
    â€œTony’s parents?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI never met them, but he seemed to think well of them. I hope you run the kid down before he gets in any serious trouble.”
    â€œHell, I just hope he’s not in any yet,” I said.
    â€œI’m with you on that. Nice kid. Had a way with horses.” He began walking to the barn door. “Come on. I’ll take you up to the big house and introduce you. Watch your step near the door. Got a busted pipe there. Jury-rigged a patch on it until we can get a plumber out here.”
    I walked around the pipe and followed him outside. A big earth-moving machine was parked about forty feet from the entrance.
    â€œThe place needs a lot of repairs,” confided Standish. “We think there’s also a leak in the main line leading from the street.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of ground to dig up,” I said, turning and looking toward the street.
    â€œTrue,” he agreed. “On the other hand,” he added with a smile, “we have a lot of horses who like to drink.”
    As we walked by one of the barns I saw a quartet of monuments, statues of horses with inscriptions on them.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œThe cemetery,” he replied.
    â€œYou’ve only had four horses die in all the years this place has been here?” I asked with a smile.
    He returned the smile. “Most are disposed of by the vet. But these four deserved to be remembered. All the farms do it. Go by Claiborne and you can pay your respects to Secretariat, Bold Ruler, and Danzig. Stop by Calumet and you can do the same to Citation and Alydar and some others.” He paused. “What we have here are Vanguard, Gunslinger, Midnight Run, and Silk Scarf.”
    â€œSilk Scarf?” I repeated. “Wasn’t that a filly?”
    He nodded. “A mare. They’re colts and fillies until they turn five; then they’re horses and mares. She just died this spring.”
    â€œIsn’t it odd for a mare to be buried here? Every horse you named here and at the other farms were males.”
    â€œShe produced eight stakes winners,” said Standish. “That’s more than some males produce with fifty times the offspring.” Another pause. “Hell, Ruffian is buried at Belmont Park, and when Zenyatta goes she’ll have a marker that dwarfs all of these.”
    â€œI wonder what kind of grave is in store for Tyrone, if any,” I mused as we continued walking.
    â€œFirst let’s see if he can beat you at even weights,” said Standish with a smile. “Then we’ll worry about ranking him with racing’s immortals.”
    â€œDon’t you have some idea by now?” I asked.
    â€œSome,” he replied. “But I just got here myself a few months ago. I haven’t really watched him develop from the start. He seems like a well-balanced colt,