Casey's Shadow Page #2

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without no goddamn plates?

Randy put them in the bathtub.

Randy, you dumb ass!

I'm gonna kill you, boy!

- Come here, coonass!

- Kick his ass!

Come on, Buddy!

Come on, Buddy!

- You'll get it now, coonass!

- Get him, Buddy!

- Come on, Buddy. Get him!

- Goddamn it!

No!

Come on, Buddy!

Come on, Buddy!

Kick his ass!

Dunk him, Buddy!

Dunk him, Buddy.

All right!

Well, home free.

Almost.

Dad, her gums are white.

Call the vet.

Call him!

She's bleeding inside.

I don't know.

She may not make it.

He's at another call.

He can't come.

Four white socks.

Isn't that my luck?

- Well, is the mare gonna die?

- No!

It probably is.

No!

Is the colt gonna live?

"One, you buy him.

Two, you try him.

Three, you pass him.

Four white socks

and a sniveling nose...

cut off his hide,

feed him to the crows."

Why?

White socks mean white hooves.

White hooves are softer than

black hooves.

Split sooner running.

You mean we're just gonna

let him die?

Collard's got a mare with a colt

ready to be weaned.

I don't know how much milk

she's got left.

Be better than nothing.

I've seen colts kicked to death

by foster mamas.

Maybe a draft mare.

Maybe the colt's got a chance

to survive with a draft mare.

But we need a mare now.

Colt ought to be on its feet and nursing

within an hour of being birthed.

And that little guy's been

lying there, what, five hours.

We could use Gypsy.

You can't raise a racehorse

off a pony, squirrel.

Remember Manly Choice?

He was raised off a draft mare.

Had so much milk...

he used to walk around

with his belly out to here.

Had to rest for an hour after eating

just to be able to walk.

Never amounted to much, though.

Often, colts never do.

Gypsy will make enough milk.

And she won't kick him to death.

She'll love him, and that's important.

Why can't you raise a racehorse

off a pony?

Okay, keep her steady, kid.

Gypsy, you gotta.

He's gonna die.

Thattaboy.

Easy now.

Come on!

Let's go see mama.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on. Let's go.

Let's go see mama. Come on.

Thattaboy.

Come on.

Thattaboy. Easy, Gyp!

Thattaboy.

There you go.

Real good.

Good girl, Gypsy.

Good girl.

All right.

What's his problem?

He wants his mother.

He's working real good.

Watch this.

Casey taught him this yesterday.

How old...?

Are you watching this?

I'm watching this.

Hey, how old are you, kid?

Dig it. Dig.

Thattaboy!

You see that?

Okay, take a bow. Take a bow.

Thattaboy.

You're gonna have to sell him

as a overgrown dog, you know.

What do you mean?

Well, you guys are playing with him

all the time.

Gotta be tough to run.

He's never gonna run.

You gotta be hard.

You can't be a pussycat.

Are you good for nothing

but glue and dog food, kid?

No.

Buddy says he won't run

if we keep teaching him tricks.

Might be right.

Take him back to the barn.

He's not right. I know he's not.

- What the hell is he doing?

- Go! Go! Go! Go!

What the hell? Casey, don't.

Casey, slow him down!

Casey, slow him down! Hold him up!

- I'm gonna kill that... Goddamn it.

- Good boy.

Casey, damn it.

Don't you know better than that?

Most likely you just broke him down.

Sure showed some speed, though.

Didn't he?

His bones ain't finished, ain't

knitted. His knees ain't closed.

- He ain't ready for running like that.

- But he can, is what I'm saying.

What's the good of that if his legs

are splinters? Damn fool. Stupid kid!

Hey, ease up.

Ease up? Hasn't he been here enough

to know better than to blow out a baby?

What am I running here?

A home for morons?

- I'm sorry.

- You're sorry? That's not good enough.

Here, you take him. You wash him

down, wrap his legs, walk him around.

You clean out the barn.

If he's lame tomorrow, you come up

with a fitting punishment for yourself.

Like maybe we ought to carve

you up for dinner.

Yes, sir.

- You awake?

- No, sir.

Well, wake up a minute.

We're not gonna carve you up.

We're gonna hang you and smoke you.

- Then the meat'll taste better then.

- Was that supposed to be funny?

- Yes.

- Well, it wasn't.

Well, what'll I say instead?

That it won't matter all that much

if he's lame tomorrow.

I'll go one better. if he's lame

tomorrow, I'll make him sound.

You can't.

Usually with a colt this young,

you can.

The muscles heal quickly and

the bones knit in no time at all.

Now go to sleep.

And if you ever

blow him out again, ever...

I will hang you and smoke you

and eat you for breakfast.

- You asleep now?

- Yes, sir.

I been filling out his

registration papers.

We're gonna call him Casey's

Shadow, if it's all right with you.

- Sound as a drum.

- Lucked out this time. Didn't you?

Yes, sir.

Who's that in that hat?

- Good morning, Mrs. Blue.

- Morning.

- Morning.

- Good morning.

Little man, half mile.

Hey, coonass. Whoa, boy.

Well, well. I thought it was

the Rhinestone Cowboy.

- Howdy, Buddy.

- Mr. Marsh.

What brings you back

to Cajun Country?

We'd heard you were top honcho

for Tom Patterson this year.

Just down for the Lafayette

Futurity. That's all.

- What's that?

- Remember?

Two years ago. That's the 200 I owe

you. I pay my debts... eventually.

- Give me 5O cents, Dad.

- What for?

I'm starving.

If you play Mike Marsh's

daughter, she'll cream you.

She will not. I'm just gonna get me

something to eat, for God's sake.

How come you never believe me?

He sure wants to run.

The track's real soft.

- What do you say, Buddy?

- Wouldn't hurt.

Track's got a good cushion.

All right. Start him easy.

All right. Go get him, Shadow.

Come on, Shadow. Come on!

Go get him, Shadow. Come on!

Jesus H. Christ!

All right! All right! All right!

Jesus H. Christ.

- Whose colt is that your boy's on?

- Sure moves. Don't he?

- What price you got on him?

- Raised him myself.

Mr. Patterson will give you maybe

$30,000 for that horse, maybe more.

- He's not for sale.

- Think about it, Lloyd.

- He's not for sale.

- Coonass.

What's your name?

- Randy Bourdelle.

- I like the way you ride.

- Thank you, ma'am.

- Do you ride this colt all the time?

Yes, ma'am. Him and four others.

My dad's a trainer.

The colt's not even blowing.

Your dad's brought him along nice.

- Yes, ma'am.

- He looks like Sure Hit.

- Sure Hit's his daddy.

- Yeah? Well, he moves like Sure Hit.

He's got that solid shoulder line,

the heavy hindquarters.

I don't like these quarter horses

looking like string beans.

- I like me a typed quarter horse.

- I like anything with speed.

Well, you're sitting on that.

- Why don't you put a price on him?

- You see that stride?

- Yeah, straight as an arrow, but did...?

- He broke hard and fast.

- I know, but Mike Marsh is...

- I never had a horse as good.

I never been near a horse as good

as this. Hey, Norm, what'd he do?

- Eighteen-thirty, Lloyd.

- Hear that? Eighteen-thirty.

Might be the best there is,

this horse.

True, but, Dad, Mike Marsh is talking

real money, not some dream.

I'm gonna bring him along slow

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