The Black Stallion's Filly (7 page)

The reins were slack against her neck. He kept talking to her, urging her, as they once more entered the backstretch. But she did not respond. Suddenly Alec heard the Black's shrill whistle. The filly bolted, her strides finally coming faster.

Alec caught a glimpse of the stallion moving over the hilltop in his field. Then the Black was plunging toward the high, wooden-barred fence which ran parallel with the track for the length of the backstretch.

His sudden appearance had frightened the filly, for she galloped hard. She bore down upon the back turn. She ran low, her strides coming long and fast. Alec pressed his head hard against her neck and let her go.

Coming off the turn, she slowed as suddenly as her terrified flight had begun. She settled back into her easy gallop, turning her head to look across the track's infield where the Black raced up and down the fence.

Alec took her past Henry again, then into the turn for the last quarter of a mile which had been ordered. As they neared the Black, she watched him but she was no longer frightened. She didn't break stride even when the stallion settled down to run along the pasture fence beside her.

Finishing the full distance, Alec drew back on the reins. She fought him furiously, but he got her down to a jog. “You're a contrary filly,” he said bitterly. “I don't know what Henry's going to do with you.”

When he took her the rest of the way around the track, he was afraid to look at Henry. He was certain that his eyes would tell the story of his disappointment in the filly.

Taking Black Minx's bridle, Henry said severely, “I didn't tell you to breeze her, Alec. You took her too fast that one furlong. She's not ready for it.” Then he added more softly, “But I guess it didn't hurt her any.”

“She made that fast move only because the Black frightened her,” Alec said. “I didn't have anything to do with it. She loafed all the rest of the time. I couldn't even make her gallop faster as you wanted me to do.”

For a moment Henry's face sobered, then lightened. “She's got the speed in her. I'll find a way to get it out when we're ready for her breezes and fast works.” He raised a hand to stroke Black Minx's head. When she tried to nip him he had no alternative but to slap
her on the muzzle. “I guess I got a Derby horse, all right, Alec. I guess I have.”

Alec sat back in the saddle. At the moment he didn't think Black Minx ever would be ready to race, much less start in the Kentucky Derby. But all that was best unsaid.

The month of December brought no change in Henry's optimistic belief that he would have Black Minx all set to race by the following spring. He discussed with Alec's father, who had charge of the farm and racing stable budgets, the nomination payments which would be due the middle of February. These sums of money had to be paid in order to make the filly eligible for the Kentucky Oaks at a mile and a sixteenth, and, more important, for the Kentucky Derby at a mile and a quarter. Both races were to be held at Churchill Downs, Louisville, Kentucky, during the first week in May.

Henry told Alec that although Black Minx was owned by him he wanted her to race in the black-and-white colors of Hopeful Farm. He also insisted that any money she won would be invested in their farm operation and in the training of their horses.

Alec saw no reason for Henry's high hopes of racing Black Minx successfully. He continued riding her daily, galloping from a mile and a quarter to sometimes
two or three miles, according to Henry's instructions, and never once did she make the slightest attempt to move faster. Henry didn't offer to explain why he thought he could overcome the filly's loafing, nor did he tell what he was going to do to accomplish this feat. And Alec did not ask him. He rode Black Minx only as he was ordered, and let it go at that.

She was easier under saddle now, seldom making any attempt to unseat him. She had learned that his reflexes were as fast as her own, that he was alert and ready for her every move. But she wouldn't run for him, and there was nothing he could do about it without resorting to a whip, the use of which neither he nor Henry approved.

“Besides, it still wouldn't get any speed out of her,” Henry told him one day. “Use a whip on her and she'd take you through the rail, same as she did Nino Nella in Florida last year.”

“She was a two-year-old then. Don't they have a rule at Hialeah Park that jockeys can't carry or use whips in two-year-old races?” Alec had asked.

“Sure. But Nella used his hand, spanking her, when she didn't move for him. That's against the rule, too. He was fined by the judges.”

“Getting a fine on top of a broken collarbone couldn't have made him very happy with this filly.”

“No, I wouldn't think so. Nella's out in California now. He sure wasn't right for Black Minx. He's a ‘huffle-scuffle' rider, using his hands and feet every second to get the most out of his mounts. This filly has too much of the Black in her for that kind of riding. Try to
force the speed out of her with hands or feet and she'll balk good. I guess we understand that, all right.”

Alec understood, but it didn't help any in riding her on her daily workouts. She had become part of his day, and his days were full, although Henry continued to help with the farm chores. Fortunately the weather, for the most part, remained good and they were able to turn out the horses every day.

In the early afternoon of the first Saturday in January, Alec left the stallion barn. A cold rain was falling and he knew he wouldn't be riding Black Minx. Nevertheless he made his way toward her barn. The next hour belonged to the filly, and Alec seldom veered from his schedule.

The freezing rain pelted his face, so he pulled the hood of his jacket over his cap and hunched his shoulders. Henry wouldn't be in a happy mood with this kind of weather. Still, there had been few days like it, many less than Henry had dared hope for. Alec wondered if any candidate for the Kentucky Derby had ever been trained so far north. Most of this season's top three-year-olds were wintering in Florida, California, and the Carolinas. But the weather here had been good to them so far. He hoped it would continue to be.

Even so, could he believe that Black Minx would one day be ready for the Derby? Sliding open the barn door, he went inside, angrily casting off his misgivings.
If Henry said she would be ready, she would be
. Henry knew what he was doing.

Going to the filly's stall, he found Henry grooming her. She tried to turn her head at his approach but the
short rope held her too close. She whinnied, pawing at the straw until she found the clay floor beneath.

Henry stopped her pawing, then turned to Alec. “Awful day,” he said.

“Awful.”

“Too bad,” Henry said, running his cloth down the filly's legs. “She needed the work.”

Alec stepped inside the stall. Black Minx turned her head toward him. He saw the restlessness in her eyes. She wanted to get out. “Not today,” he told her.

She tossed her head but stood surprisingly still beneath Henry's hand. Once more Alec marveled at the change Henry had brought about in her stable manners. Very seldom did she rear or paw. Her only fault was nipping. She was still inclined to do that in spite of Henry's careful and patient handling.

Henry swept the cloth over the filly's level back. Alec noticed how fine she looked. The long and frequent gallops had done her a world of good. Her body glistened with supple muscle, in all the right places. That she could look so much like the Black, that she could possess so much of his speed and still not want to run, were the reasons for Alec's great disappointment in her. Courage and the will to respond and win a race were the qualities he most respected in her great sire. The Black had given these to Satan, but not to this filly.
Why?

Alec heard himself say, “It's such a pity.” He stopped suddenly in a futile effort to choke back his words, to keep them from Henry.

The trainer turned. “A pity, Alec?” He studied the
boy's face. “You mean y'still don't think I'm going to get her to run the way I know she can?”

Alec shook his head. “I know you can do it, Henry.” He tried to sound sincere.

Henry smiled. “Sure I can, Alec. I'll get the best out of her the wisest way. I know the key that'll turn it all loose. You'll see.” He became excited, his eyes shining brightly. “This is just what makes the handling of a colt or filly by the Black the most exciting thing in the world, Alec. You don't train 'em by the book. No, you think and probe, and feel your way along to find the right key that sets the works off. Then you have a real racehorse!”

“You're right. I know—” Alec stopped suddenly, his gaze shifting to the filly. Henry had moved closer to her head during their conversation, and now she was reaching for his arm, her teeth bared. “Watch out, Henry!”

His warning came too late. The filly bit Henry high on his left arm. Then she drew back, tossing her head. Henry's lips were clenched tight in pain and his right hand gripped the injured arm.

Outside the stall Alec reached for the torn sweater but Henry brushed his hand aside. “It's all right,” he said.

“You'd better get to a doctor.”

“Why? I've been bitten before and I'm still around.”

“It's bleeding,” Alec said.

“I know it is. I'll treat it myself.”

“I still think you should see a doctor,” Alec repeated,
although he knew his advice wouldn't be taken. “She wasn't playing this time,” he added.

“No.” Henry turned away from the filly and from Alec too. He started down the barn.

Alec caught up with him at the foot of the stairs that led to Henry's apartment. “What are you going to do?”

“Fix my arm
first
.” Henry's footsteps were hard on the stairs.

“And then?” Alec asked anxiously.

Henry was in his bathroom before he answered, “I'm going to tighten the grip on her. I tried being nice but it didn't do much good. Now she's got to learn once and for all. If I let her go, she'll be taking my hand off one of these days. Even if she's playin' I won't like it none.”

He removed his torn sweater and shirt, disclosing the two clean cuts from the filly's upper and lower teeth. The wound was still bleeding. “Get me that bottle of antiseptic in the medicine chest there,” he said. “And the cotton and gauze.”

“You'd better let me do it,” Alec said impatiently. “There are some things you can't do all by yourself, especially with only one hand.”

“I can use both hands,” Henry said, moving his injured arm.

“Keep it still. You're making it bleed all the more.” Alec poured the antiseptic on a swab of cotton and cleaned the wound. The bleeding was beginning to stop. “You won't see a doctor. You've got a mind of your own just like the filly. You're a good pair.”

“Now the bandage,” Henry said, ignoring Alec's criticism.

When the bandage was on, Henry again moved his arm in spite of Alec's protests. He put on a clean shirt and another sweater, then went to the kitchen.

Alec heard the sharp clang of a cooking pot against the stove. He arrived in the kitchen to see Henry drop a large potato in the pot. “What are you doing?”

“Boiling myself a potato.” And with that Henry sat down in a chair, offering nothing more by way of explanation.

Alec sat down, too. He waited until the steam began to raise the lid of the pot. Then he said, “You're not going to eat that potato?”

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do with it?” Alec's forehead became wrinkled with concern.

“It's a little trick I use only when I have to,” Henry said finally.

“Maybe you ought to wait until tomorrow, Henry. Maybe you're sore at her now. You might do something you wouldn't ordinarily do.”

Henry smiled. “I'm not sore at her, Alec. I got too close without paying attention to her. It's just that I've got to stop her now or she might do
real
injury to one of us next time.”

“Will it hurt her?”

“She won't like it,” Henry said. “But she won't forget it, either. It's worked before; it'll work now. I've tried bein' nice, and it didn't pay off.”

Alec asked no further questions.

Henry went to the closet just off the kitchen and began rummaging around the upper shelf. Alec knew
he kept a lot of patent bits and gadgets there which they very seldom had any occasion to use. Finally Henry returned, carrying only a slender, round stick about two feet long; it narrowed to a sharp point at one end. It was this end which he thrust into the potato. Then he carried it to the sink and ran cold water over the potato just long enough to kill the steamy odor.

“Henry, you're not going to stick that in her mouth!”

“No, I won't make the move. She'll be the one to do it—that is, if she tries to bite me again.”

Henry went to the closet once more, this time to get a sponge which he placed carefully beneath his sweater near the shoulder of his good arm. Then he returned to Alec. “Slide the stick down the sleeve now,” he said. “Keep the potato against the sponge there. I don't want it touching my shirt. It's hot.”

“I know it.”

When Alec had finished, the trainer buttoned his sweater again and, taking a heavy rubber band, ran it around his wrist to keep the stick steady and the potato in position.

By this time Alec knew what Henry was going to do. He would groom the filly, getting close enough to her head so that she could bite him if she wanted to. But this time instead of tearing Henry's flesh, she would sink her teeth into the boiled potato, burning her mouth.

“She might hate you forever for it,” Alec said. “This trick might undo all the good your gentling has done for her.”