Black Stallion and Satan (9 page)

“I don’t get you, Jim.”

“Which is the faster?”

“I couldn’t tell you that,” Alec said, rising. “I don’t know.” The Black was coming up the field and Alec started toward the gate, followed closely by Jim Neville.

“The Black could have been at his peak as a three-year-old,” Jim suggested cagily.

“I don’t think so,” Alec replied, going to the fence, where the Black stood awaiting him. He placed his hand on the stallion’s nose and stroked him until the Black snorted at Jim Neville and moved away.

The newspaperman leaned on the wooden rails with Alec. “I don’t suppose you’ve even considered racing him again?” he asked. “Before you retire him, I mean.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” Jim suggested. The boy turned to him, but Jim Neville kept his gaze on the stallion and continued, “You’ll be getting a lot of pressure to race him, you know. Once the stories break tomorrow, there won’t be anyone in the country who won’t remember what the Black did in his one and only race here. They’ll want to see him run again. You’ll not have much peace, Alec.”

“I’m not racing him, Jim,” Alec said determinedly. “And I’ll take him away from here as soon as I can.”

For a few minutes Jim Neville was quiet, and his large frame leaned heavily against the rails. “You know,” he said, changing the subject, “I thought I’d never see a horse run as fast as the Black. But I have,” he added.

“You mean Satan?” Alec asked.

Nodding, Jim Neville said, “His one fifty-eight at Chicago was something to see. When he opened away in the upper stretch, I knew that this was the horse of all time.”

“You don’t think the Black could do better than one fifty-eight?”

“No, do you?” Jim Neville turned from the stallion to look at Alec.

“Yes, I do think so.”

“Why don’t you race him then, Alec?” Jim’s words
came fast; he was taking advantage of Alec’s pride in the speed of the Black. “I’d like to see it.… So would everyone else.” He paused. “Don’t you think you owe it to racing?”

Alec didn’t reply.

“I remember the time you wanted nothing more than to race the Black. It wasn’t so long ago,” Jim reminded Alec.

“It was different then.”

“Why?” Jim Neville asked insistently. “Is it because you now have Satan racing?”

“No, Jim,” Alec said quickly. “It’s rather because I
have
raced Satan. I know what it means to lose your horse to the public. I’m not going to lose the Black to anyone. He’s mine and I intend to keep it that way.”

“But you haven’t lost Satan,” Jim said.

“It’s hard to explain what I mean, Jim. I want to have my horse for myself. I want to take care of him. I want him to be mine and no one else’s. Perhaps you’ll call it selfishness, and I guess it is. But that’s the way I feel. You can’t make a pet of a champion racer, as Henry has often told me … and as I’ve found out for myself. You’re bound to lose him to the public, no matter how hard you try. I don’t want to lose the Black as I did Satan.”

“So that’s why you’re retiring him to stud?”

Alec nodded. “That and because I want to have a lot of colts around, Jim … 
his
colts. I want that kind of a life.”

“Sure, I know,” Jim said in a softer tone. “But can’t you see your way clear to race him just once more
before his retirement? I really think you should consider it for a number of reasons … and I say this as a friend and not a newspaperman looking for a story.”

Alec turned to look searchingly at Jim Neville’s large, ruddy face. “But what good would it do to race him just once more, Jim?”

“A lot of good, Alec. First of all, it would satisfy the craving of a lot of people who would like to see him race again … and others, too, who have just heard of the Black and never quite believed there was anything like him. You make it plain to all that this is his last race before retirement and everyone will be resigned to it and be grateful for their last chance to see the Black run. Human nature works that way, Alec. Whether the Black won or lost, you’d be the winner. They’d leave you alone.”

“You still think Satan could beat him, Jim?”

“I do, Alec.”

The boy turned to the field while Jim Neville went on, “You should also consider the fact that if you’re going to make breeding horses your livelihood, you’ll probably be breeding mares other than your own to the Black. Racing him once more will give all racehorse owners a chance to see him in action, and when the time comes that you want to breed outside mares to the Black, you’ll be able to command a good price for his services. You have to think of things like that, Alec, if it means your bread and butter and staying in the business you love. Whether you like to think of it or not,” he added quietly.

The stallion came up the field toward them, and Alec slipped through the rails to go to meet him. He
ran his hands down the long neck, lifting the heavy mane to scratch beneath it. He stayed there for many minutes before finally going back to Jim Neville.

“I don’t believe Satan or any horse in the world could match strides with him,” he said.

Jim smiled. “You mean you’ll race him, Alec?”

Alec shook his head. “No, Jim. I’m going to take him away, just as I’d planned.”

Shrugging his broad shoulders, Jim said, “He’s your horse, Alec, to do with as you like.” He paused before adding, “But there’s something else you should know about before I leave. It might make things a little more difficult for you, so it’s only right that you should be prepared for it.” The columnist removed a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “I have here a list of the horses entered in the International Cup race. I managed to get the list before any other sports-writer … but they’ll all have it tomorrow.”

Jim Neville unfolded the paper before continuing. “You know, Alec, there won’t be another race to equal this one. It’s been more than a year in the making. The Association sent invitations to the owners of the world’s fastest racers many months ago. This is a list of those horses whose owners accepted the invitations, and they’ll all be in the United States next month.”

“I know about the race,” Alec said impatiently. “Satan was invited to run in it. Henry sent in his entry right after the Belmont.”

“Yes,” Jim Neville said without taking his eyes from the list, “his name is here all right. Like to know what his competition will be?”

“Sure.”

“Well, there’s Phar Fly, the Australian wonder horse; and Cavaliere, who won the Italian Derby in May; from India they’re sending Kashmir, who won the Epsom Derby in England last year; and this year’s Epsom Derby winner is coming here, too—that’s Sea King, a British-bred colt, who is as highly thought of in England as Satan is here; then from France comes Avenger, who has won both the Irish and French Derbies this year; and from Argentina we’ll have El Dorado, who has whipped just about everything in South America; then there’s …”

“But what has this race to do with the Black, Jim?” Alec interrupted.

“A lot,” Jim Neville said, lifting his eyes from the paper to meet those of the boy. “His name is here, too. He was entered by his owner, Abu Ishak of Arabia, six months ago.”

The blood drained from Alec’s face, and he stood before Jim Neville, dazed and silent.

“Abu Ishak had planned to race the Black in the International, Alec. In all probability he was going to ask you to ride him.”

Alec said nothing, and after a long while he turned to the field.

“If you remember,” Jim Neville went on, “Abu Ishak promised to bring the Black over here to race. It looks as if he had intended to keep his promise.” The columnist paused before adding, “When this list is released tomorrow simultaneously with your story, the public will just expect you to keep the Black in the International. They’ll figure you owe it to them.”

Alec found his voice. “Not to them,” he said
quietly, “but to Abu.” Meeting Jim Neville’s gaze, he asked, “Abu wanted it that way, didn’t he? He wanted to race the Black in the International Cup. He was going to keep his promise to race the Black here. I should have known he would.”

“Since Abu Ishak had entered the Black in the race,” Jim Neville said, “I’m sure that the Association will consider the Black as his entry and allow you to ride him even though he belongs to you now.”

“Yes,” Alec said slowly, “I suppose they would.”

“Then you’ll race him?”

“What else can I do, Jim? Abu wanted him to race in the International … so that’s the way it’s going to be regardless of how I feel about it. It’s the least I can do … for him.”

Early in the afternoon of the following day Alec sat in his bedroom before an open window. Outside, the scene was far different from the tranquil one that had met his gaze until this day. For along the fence and far across the sidewalk and into the street were gathered hundreds of people waiting to see the Black.

Since early morning they had come, and Alec had been escorting two persons at a time into the barn. Now, while he took a rest, his father stood beside the locked gate, explaining to the crowd that the Black was too excited to be put in the field for all to see and that they would have to wait for Alec to take them into the barn.

The newspapers which were responsible for it all were strewn about the room, and the sports page headlines read: “T
HE
B
LACK FOUND IN
F
LUSHING
—Famous Sire of Satan Owned by Alec Ramsay” … “T
HE
B
LACK RETURNS TO
U.S.—Abu Ishak Bequeaths Stallion to
Alec Ramsay.” And there were others, all telling the world that he now owned the Black.

It was only Jim Neville who had the exclusive story of what lay ahead of them, and Alec turned to his column.

“Those of us,” Jim wrote, “who saw the Black defeat Sun Raider and Cyclone four years ago at Chicago will never forget the tremendous speed of this giant stallion. With the years that have passed since that day, his spectacular victory has become to some a myth. So it is well that we shall all have the opportunity to see him race again. The Black is to start in the International Cup race to be held at the new racing plant just outside of Saratoga, New York, on the twenty-eighth of August.

“The Black will run as an entry from the Abu Ishak stable, for the Arab chieftain had entered him in the race. Alec Ramsay will, of course, ride him. It will be the Black’s only race, for Alec Ramsay will retire him to stud immediately afterward. Whether or not the great stallion still retains the speed he had as a three-year-old remains to be seen. His competition will be the world’s fastest horses, including his colt, Satan; Phar Fly, Australia; Avenger, France; Cavaliere, Italy; Sea King, England; El Dorado, Argentina; Kashmir, India …”

There was more, but Alec put the paper down to pick up the telegram that he had received earlier from Henry.

“Am at airport,” Henry had wired from Chicago. “Don’t do anything until I get there.”

But he had done something. He had agreed to race
the Black in the International. He wondered if Henry had read Jim Neville’s column before sending the telegram. He doubted it but knew Henry would have read it before he arrived at the barn.

Certainly Henry would understand! He was doing it for Abu Ishak. It was what Abu had wanted, and the Black would be in the International had the Sheikh lived. It was the least he could do for Abu, as he had told himself over and over again.

Alec went downstairs to find his mother in the living room. She was reading a newspaper but let it fall to her lap when Alec appeared.

“Jim Neville says here that you’re going to race the Black, Alec,” she said, and her voice and face were heavy with concern although she tried hard to conceal her emotions.

“Just once more, Mom.”

“But do you think that …” She stopped, well knowing that Alec understood what she meant to say.

He went to her and, bending, kissed her. “That it’ll be all right?” he asked for her. “Sure it will.”

“But the farm? You were going there with your father in a few days.”

“We’ll go right after the race,” he said. “I’ve got to go through with it, Mom. You understand, don’t you … as Dad does?”

“For Abu Ishak, you mean, Alec.” She paused, smiling a little. “Yes, I guess I do.” She turned to her paper again, and Alec left the room, not knowing she put the paper down again to watch him as he crossed the street.

The people pressed close to Alec as he went to his father at the gate.

“Just two at a time,” Mr. Ramsay was saying. “Sorry, but we can’t do any better than that.” Opening the gate for Alec, he said, “These two ladies are next, Alec.”

Two women pushed through the gate with Alec, and he escorted them up the driveway. They were middle-aged, tall and lean.

“We live on the next block,” one of them said, “so we’re neighbors, Alec.”

“It’s perfectly thrilling to have a famous horse practically in our own back yard,” said the other. “You must be so proud to have all these people here just to look at your horse,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am,” Alec replied. As he opened the barn door, he added, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay in the doorway. He’s not used to visitors.”

“All we want is a little peek,” one said.

“Just to say we saw him,” the other added.

The Black pushed his head over the stall door, whinnying at sight of Alec. Going to him, the boy rubbed him between the eyes and fed him a carrot.

“My, but he has a small head,” one of the ladies called. “You’d never think it belonged to the rest of him.”

A few minutes later Alec took the women back to the gate, where his father was waiting with the next two visitors. He knew that this would go on as long as the Black remained in Flushing.

It was several hours later when Alec saw Henry
pushing his way through the crowd. His father had gone to the house for a rest, and the gate was locked and unattended. Reaching the gate, Henry put his hands on the bar and peered through.

“Alec!” he shouted. “Let me in!”

Alec moved his two visitors faster along the driveway until they reached the gate, which he opened for Henry. Henry slipped inside and shut and locked the gate behind him.