Hearin’ some of the sports discussin’ the recent collision up at Fleetwood between the horses driven by Johnny Murphy and Charley Green, reminds me that there is a deal more risk in trottin’, risks of all kinds to the horse and driver, than most people imagine.
The hurdle races and steeplechases on the runnin’ turf (like that of last Thursday at Monmouth Park, at which a jockey was nearly killed) are more sensational, as it were, and more showy in their danger. Anybody can see the risk of a broken neck there, but, after all, there is a constant stain, a steady demand for watchfulness and nerve, a constant liability to serious accident, which renders a place in a trottin’ race anythin’ but a post of safety.
Sometimes the danger in a trottin’ race has come from evil passions of parties interested in the race.
Cases have transpired in which murder, foul, cowardly murder, has been done. Take the case of poor Billy McKeever, of New York, for instance.
Billy was the driver of General Butler, the black gelding, who was a famous trotter in his day, and who I believe is still alive, in good health, though over thirty years of age. Billy himself was a good fellow, kind-hearted, sociable, square as a die, and ought never to have had an enemy. Probably he didn’t have any on his own account, but when he undertook to put General Butler to his speed and drive him for all he was worth, as he always did when he drove a horse, why then he was doomed.
It was at the Dexter Park, the Jerome Park of Chicago. There was a tremendous crowd, and bettin’ was somethin’ fearful. The race had been prolonged to almost dark, and then it had to be pushed through. Just before the last heat, Billy McKeever, confident that his horse would win, which there was just then a good show for his doin’, although the odds had been laid against him, went to the saloon alongside of the track and got a stiff horn of brandy, shoutin’ significantly as he swallowed it, “Here’s to General Butler!”
“He means his horse to win sure,” somebody remarked, lookin’ at McKeever.
‘’Bet your bottom dollar on it,” said McKeever, finishing his brandy and goin’ out smilin’.
As he went out he sung out to the barkeeper, “I’ll pay for it when Butler wins the race; that is, when this next heat is over.”
And he laughed, nodded to the barkeeper and bystanders, and got into his trottin’ sulky, laughin’.
It was now quite dark, but just as McKeever got into his wagon he thought he saw the figure of a man vanishin’ along the track ahead of him. It was only for an instant, though, and McKeever had no time to think of it or anythin’ else but the race.
The horses started and General Butler gained from the start. Billy was in ecstasy as he took the lead.
Just then the driver just behind McKeever heard a crack and a smothered groan, and then, in the darkness, he saw the black geldin’ dashin’ along with an empty sulky.
There was General Butler runnin’ away, but where was Billy McKeever? They answered that question after the race.
For there they found poor McKeever lyin’ on the track, with the side of his head all crushed in, bleedin’ and senseless. In less than an hour he was dead.
Dead and murdered! Murdered by that shadowy figure which he had caught a glimpse of from his sulky that last heat.
The figure of some scoundrel who had run a plank out from the fence, the edge of which had struck McKeever’s head and killed him.
It was as villainous and cowardly a murder as any in the whole history of crime, but it was never avenged, hardly even investigated, although there is no doubt that many were privy to the damnable job.
Of course this hurt horse racin’ a great deal–gave trottin’ a black eye for a while, but it was soon forgotten, and to this date the killin’ of poor Billy McKeever remains a mystery as to who killed him, though not as to why he was killed.
Sometimes the danger to a driver in a trottin’ race comes in a more ordinary way–from accidents to wagon or harness. Some years ago, for instance, Barney Demarest was drivin’ in a hotly-contested race, when just at the moment before victory his horse’s bit parted and his mare set off in a wild run. Barney would have gladly given a year of his life just then had the accident not happened, but there was no help for it; he must do somethin’, and do it that very minute. So he leaped from the wagon to the mare’s back quicker than any circus rider could have done it, reached out and got his hands on the mare’s nose. This nose-holdin’ shut the mare’s wind off effectually and the animal came to a dead stop. Demarest lost the race, but saved his horse and wagon and perhaps his life.
The papers made a great stir over this feat of Barney’s, and it showed a good deal of nerve and ingenuity of idea. But it had been done two or three times before his time. So at least it wasn’t original with Barney.
One of the most curious escapes occurred some years ago. There was a race between a very large horse and a very small one, the bettin’ generally bein’ on the large horse.
At startin’ the little horse gained at first, makin’ a spurt, but the large, long-legged horse went along at a steady gait and soon was trottin’ close behind the little horse and gainin’ on him.
This, of course, was what the driver of the big horse wanted, and he accordingly attempted to pull out so as to pass the little one. But by this time the big horse had his blood up and was gettin’ ugly, he was goin’ strong and had the bit in his teeth, and instead of swingin’ out of the line at the will of his driver he kept right on, gettin’ nearer and nearer every minute to the wagon drawn by the little horse. At their present rate of motion it wouldn’t be over a minute before the pole and horse of the hind wagon would be crushin’ into the wagon and man ahead.
Makin’ one last and vain attempt to pull his animal out, the driver of the big horse yelled out to the driver of the little one to look out for himself. The driver of the little horse heard the yell and understood the situation exactly, but what could he do? He was drivin’ close to the rail, as close as he could ,and couldn’t get out of the way unless givin’ the other party the race, which he wasn’t prepared to do just yet. So he kept on goin’ as he was, only quicker, if possible.
But the big horse kept gainin’ on the little one. He darted on with a rush and finally lapped the little one. But just as the two drivers expected to hear a crash and see the spokes splintered and wagons ruined, lo and behold, an utterly unexpected thing occurred. The wheel of the sulky attached to the large horse passed between the wheel and the seat of the other and and smaller sulky, mountin’ the axle of the latter, and then descendin’ with a jerk struck the ground ahead and passed on safely.
This was an actual fact, but I believe it is the only case of the kind ever known to have really happened. The chances were a million to one against it.
Here was a collision averted by almost a miracle. And now I will tell the story of a race that was won by almost a miracle, or the utterly uncalculated on and unexpected appearance of a bulldog on the track.
One of the new entries at one of the New Jersey meetin’s some Summers since was a stylish mare, whose appearance soon gained her plenty of backers. She was really speedy–any horseman could see that. But she was unfortunately cranky, addicted to breakin’, and in the stall to kickin’ and bitin’ and actin’ mean generally.
The only creature who had any kind of influence over the mare in her mean fits was a big bulldog, who was her stable companion, and for whom she conceived an intense attachment.
On one of the race days when it was intensely hot, and everybody felt irritable, the mare was down for a race, and her driver was “down in the mouth,” for he made up his mind from the way the mare was actin’ that there was no chance for her winnin’ that day. She was uglier and meaner than ever before; it seemed as if the very deuce was in her.
Now it so happened that the mare’s stable was very near the track, and that during the race the bulldog was chained in her stall. In one of her evil moments the mare whinnied wildly, and the bulldog, hearin’ her, barked terrifically, tugged fiercely at his chain, burst it and rushed out through the window at the head of the mare’s stall to join the mare.
And he did join her on the track and ran around the track with her, and from the moment the bulldog joined her that mare was another creature. She was quiet, obedient, put her whole soul into her legs, and won the race–or speakin’ more plainly the bulldog won it for her.
Sometimes he escapes from serious accidents which have occurred in trottin’ races have a funny side to ‘em. Some ten years ago or so I happened to be at a country fair in the upper part of New York State, and durin’ a heat there was a collision between two of the trottin’ wagons. One of the drivers was hurled into the air, and everybody thought that he would be seriously injured if not crushed or trampled to death by the horses and wagons.
But he wasn’t injured a bit, didn’t even get a scratch, and for a very simple reason. He never fell to the ground at all–never as much as touched it, but falling down, lit on one of the race horses’ backs. Not his own horse of course, but one of the horses in the race opposed to him.
This was “handicappin’” the opposition horse with a vengeance, and the owner of the horse that thus handicapped, nolens volens, didn’t like it for a cent. He cut with his whip furiously at the new load and made the unfortunate (or fortunate?) driver’s leg sore for a week afterwards, but he held on like grim death till the heat was over. The best (or worst) part of the joke was that the horse that was supposed to be driven by the man on top of the other fellow’s horse rushed on and really won the race, so far as comin’ in first was concerned, while the “other fellow’s” horse, bein’ overloaded, not only drawin’, but carryin’, came in third or fourth, instead of first.
Sometimes in these trottin’ track accidents it is the horse that suffers.
Not many years ago a New York driver, a friend of mine, was travelin’ with the once celebrated thoroughbred horse McWhistler. This was a fine animal and somethin’ about him made a great favorite with the ladies. He was a thoroughly horse-lookin’ horse for one thing, so I suppose the women liked him for that, just as they like a man for lookin’ like a man. Havin’ to be anything but genuine ‘emselves, I suppose the women like anythin’ or anybody that really is what it or he seems, just for bein’ directly opposed to ‘em.
At any rate, the women liked the horse, and out in old Kentuck they bet their pin money and their gloves on him. But right in the midst of his last race somehow he stumbled and fell, breakin’ his legs, and he had to be shot to put him out of his misery.
They shot him right on the race track. It was a pathetic scene. The poor horse seemed to know what they were goin’ to do to him, and seemed to be reconciled, for he looked right at his executioners, but made no fuss–just lay and waited for the death shot.
The ladies gathered around their sufferin’ favorite with tears in their eyes. A few begged hard to spare his life; but in vain. And even these ladies were at last convinced that a quick and painless death was the very best boon they are ruined favorite could receive. So they let the shootin’ proceed. It didn’t take long. A volley, a flash, and all was over–the thoroughbred was dead. But his death was followed by a flood of tears–tears from bright eyes which any man on earth might be proud to be wept over by; and the race meetin’ broke up forthwith. The ladies had no more heart just then for racin’.
On another occasion a celebrated trottin’ horse took his defeat so much to heart that in tryin’ to atone for it and to save a victory he dropped dead of the heart disease. This was the once famous trotter Lew Scott.
He was a nervous, sensitive animal, terribly high strung, and never did anythin’ by halves. Findin’ he was gettin’ worsted in the race, he determined to win it at last or die in the attempt. He died–died of a broken heart, just like a human bein’.
When his driver saw him fall he leaped out of the wagon, and throwin’ himself beside the dead horse, wept bitter tears over the high-souled animal–tears which did no discredit to his manhood.
[Editor’s notes: McKeever’s death, rider Barney Demarest, and horse Lew Scott were all real, and McKeever’s death is accurately related (though how would anyone know whether he saw a figure of a man just as the race started?). The other anecdotes are not sourced; and a horse named “McWhistler” isn’t documented in any newspapers.]
