Black Stallion and Satan (7 page)

The stallion ran another quarter-mile before there was any noticeable shortening of stride. Alec drew back on the reins again, and gradually the Black slowed. He had the stallion almost under control when he saw a car coming down the road. The Black leveled out again at sight of it, and it wasn’t until they had passed the car and left it far behind that Alec managed to bring him down to a slow gallop.

Alec’s hand moved down the lathered neck. “Take it easy now,” he said softly. “It’s over.” He settled back in the saddle as the stallion responded to his commands and went into a long, loping canter.

It was only then that Alec’s gaze dropped to the watch he held in the palm of his hand. Had he any doubt that the Black had beaten Satan’s record of one minute fifty-eight seconds?

“No,” he answered himself. “Certainly Satan never could have run faster than the Black has just gone. I have proof of it right here in my hand.”

His fingers unclenched to disclose the face of the watch. Alec looked at it with incredulous eyes.

One minute fifty-nine seconds!
The Black’s time was one whole second behind the record Satan had set yesterday!

He drew the watch closer to his eyes. He couldn’t believe what the hands told him. Satan couldn’t have run faster! No horse could!

But Satan had. The proof of it was here … right here in his hand.

The Black slowed to an uneasy crabstep, his head moving to the left, then to the right. Alec’s hand went up and down his neck, but even as he stroked the stallion he frantically sought excuses for the Black’s failure to break Satan’s record.

Perhaps something was wrong with the watch.

No, it couldn’t be that, he decided. He’d had it at the jeweler’s for cleaning less than a month ago. It was accurate.

Then it was the bridle path. It was much too soft. It wasn’t meant for speed. Satan had had a lightning-fast track … good and firm, the way he liked it.

Yes, there was no doubt but that the Black could have made faster time on a track. But he had to remember that the Black had had no other horses with which to contend, while Satan had. Satan had been pocketed coming into the homestretch. The radio commentator had mentioned Lenny Sansone’s getting him out of it. Satan might have lowered the record still more except for that.

“Satan is in excellent condition,” Alec said aloud,
“while the Black hasn’t been near a track. He’s not in shape.”

But he knew that he had realized this all along. He had expected the Black to beat Satan’s record in spite of it. Now, he knew he had been wrong. In order to beat Satan, the Black would have to be properly conditioned. And, even then, it would be close … so very close.

But such a race would never take place. Hadn’t he decided not to race the Black again? He was going to take him away to the farm.

But would it be the same now, knowing that perhaps Satan could beat the Black?

The stallion’s shrill whistle aroused Alec from his thoughts. It was getting late, and he should be on his way back to the barn. Turning the Black, he saw the car coming toward them; it could be the same one they had passed a few minutes ago. Alec’s face tightened as he watched it come to a stop and made out the word
POLICE
lettered on its side.

The door of the car opened and a policeman got out, calling him. Alec slid down from his saddle and stepped in front of the Black. He saw the summons book in the officer’s hand and bit his lower lip. The stallion moved about uneasily and Alec took a few more steps in front of him as he awaited the policeman.

“And what jockey do you think you might be?” the police officer asked sarcastically when he had reached Alec.

The boy was silent.

The policeman turned back the cover of his summons book. “It’s against the law to gallop a horse in a public park,” he said. “You know that?”

“I didn’t know,” Alec said. “Really, officer, I …”

“You know now. Your name?”

Alec hesitated, then said, “Alexander Ramsay.”

“Alexander Ramsay,” the policeman repeated. “Sounds familiar. Did I ever book you before?”

“No … never before.”

The policeman turned back to his summons book. “Address?”

Alec gave it to him, then said, “But it’s so early, officer. No one is around. I couldn’t have hurt anyone.”

“Not the point,” the police officer said curtly. “No exceptions.” Handing Alec the summons, he turned to the Black. “This your horse?”

Alec nodded, moving the stallion away as the policeman stepped closer.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Alec said. But his grip on the bridle tightened when he saw the brightness of the stallion’s eyes. “If that’s all, I’ll be going now,” he added quickly.

But the policeman had taken another stride closer, and his hand was outstretched toward the horse when the Black struck out savagely with his forefoot. The blow fell far short of its mark, but the policeman jumped back quickly, his face livid with anger.

“He tried to kick me,” he yelled, still retreating. “You get him out of this park, and keep him out. He’s a vicious animal and if I catch him around here again, I’ll do more than give you a summons to appear in court!” Turning, he walked away hurriedly.

After the police car had gone, Alec led the Black along the bridle path until the fire had left the stallion’s
eyes. He took another look at the summons before shoving it angrily in his pocket and remounting the Black. If he appeared in court the following day, there would most likely be reporters around, and they would be more familiar with his name than the cop had been. Using Alexander, instead of Alec, wouldn’t fool them, and the subsequent publicity could well lead to public knowledge that the Black was once again in the United States.

He had let Henry down, and he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing the Black could beat Satan. He was confused, worried and angry with himself. But he realized there was no backtracking now. He would have to do everything possible to keep the Black’s identity from the press.

Early the following afternoon, Alec walked from his home to the courthouse in downtown Flushing. He stopped before the building and his hand found the summons deep within his pocket. He didn’t have to look at it again to know where to go. His offense of galloping a horse in a public park was classified by the Police Department as a traffic violation, and he was ordered to appear before the Traffic Court at two o’clock. It was two now.

Without moving forward, he watched the people hurrying into the building, some of them already holding their summonses in hand. Alec felt for the wallet in his hind pocket. He had twenty-five dollars there, and he knew that it would be more than enough to pay the fine. He should be getting inside now; no use putting it off any longer. If Dad had been along, it would have made things easier. But he had decided not to tell his father what had happened. He had assumed full responsibility when he had taken the Black to the park,
and now he had to go through with it … alone. If he wasn’t recognized, he’d pay the fine and no one would be the wiser.

But what if he was recognized? What would he do? What could he do? Alec walked toward the steps. He didn’t know. There was no sense in thinking about it now. He would have to wait and see.

He followed the crowd inside the building. They were all going to the same room as he. They went up a flight of stairs, the well-worn wooden steps creaking beneath their combined weight. A policeman stood at the head of the stairs, directing them down the corridor. Alec followed the others into a large room where a dark-cloaked judge was presiding on the bench. The court was already in session, and Alec took a seat in the back of the room.

A police sergeant stood in front of the judge’s bench, calling off the names of traffic violators; one at a time they went forward, pleading guilty or not guilty to the court’s charge. If they admitted their guilt, they went to the cashier and paid their fine. If they believed themselves innocent, they pleaded not guilty and retired to one side of the courtroom, where later the judge would hear their defense.

While Alec waited for his name to be called, he looked around the crowded courtroom and wondered if among these people were any reporters from the newspapers. He knew that most editors assigned reporters to cover the city courts, hoping to pick up stories. One could be here now, but whether or not a court reporter would recognize his name was up to chance. Alec sat on a chair near the aisle; he was prepared to
go to the bench promptly to avoid having his name called more than once by the sergeant.

He waited fifteen more minutes, listening to people plead guilty to speeding, overtime parking and going through red lights; then, suddenly, the police sergeant called, “Alexander Ramsay!”

It seemed to Alec that the sergeant’s voice had risen to its highest pitch and that the room was much quieter than it had been since his arrival. He jumped up from his chair, tripped on a leg, caught himself, then hurried down the aisle. Reaching the sergeant, he looked up at him, his face white. Behind and above the sergeant he saw the judge.

“… charged with galloping a horse in a public park. Guilty or not guilty?” the sergeant asked.

“Guilty,” Alec said, but his voice was little more than a whisper.

“Guilty or not guilty?” the sergeant repeated.

“Guilty!”
Alec shouted, and his voice thundered throughout the room.

The judge and sergeant were smiling as Alec walked to the cashier’s desk.

He stood in line, very conscious of the many eyes upon him.

“You sure made no bones about it,” the man in front of him said.

“About what?” Alec asked, moistening his lips.

“About your being guilty,” the man replied, grinning. “You rocked the room like you meant it.”

“I did?”

“You sure did.” The man moved forward to pay his fine.

His hands trembling, Alec reached for his wallet. If only he could get out of here now. If he could just pay his fine and run. It seemed an hour before the man in front paid his fine and was gone. Now the cashier, too, was smiling as Alec faced him.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” the cashier said.

Alec gave the money to the man and turned away hurriedly. With downcast eyes he moved toward the door. He slipped outside into the corridor, walking faster. He had reached the stairway and his hand was on the rail when a voice behind said, “Just a second, son.”

He didn’t stop or look around until he felt a hand grasp his arm. A slight man in a gray suit stood there.

“I’m from the
News
,” he said. “You’re Alec Ramsay, the jockey, aren’t you?”

Alec jerked his arm from the man’s grasp and continued down the stairs. But the man was beside him.

“Take it easy, Alec,” he said. “All I want to know is why you’ve given up the track for riding hacks in a public park.”

Alec reached the bottom of the stairs with the reporter still beside him. “Why weren’t you up on Satan in Chicago? Henry Dailey told the press you weren’t feeling well. How does that account for your galloping a horse in a public park at dawn?”

When Alec reached the door he burst into a run, and as he went outside and down the front steps of the building he heard the man shout, “I’ll be seeing you, Alec.”

Still running, Alec went down Flushing’s Main Street. He weaved in and out among the people on the
crowded sidewalk, unaware of their startled calls as he swept by, narrowly missing them.

He knew what the reporter would do. He’d call his city desk and acquaint his editor with what had happened in the Flushing courthouse. His editor would in all probability send his sports reporter to follow up on the story. And, somehow, editors of other newspapers and press services would hear of it. They’d all come to Flushing … to the barn. They’d pin him down, and he’d have to answer their questions. He wouldn’t be able to run away as he’d done from the police reporter.

He’d tell them he’d given up the track … that he wouldn’t be riding Satan anymore. That was the story they’d be after. But he wouldn’t tell them it was the Black he had ridden in the park. They had no idea as to the identity of the horse he had ridden, and he wasn’t going to help them find out!

Twenty minutes later Alec turned down his block, and his running strides lengthened as the barn came into view. He passed his house, going directly to the iron gate. As he pulled it open, he knew what he was going to do, and he didn’t have any time to lose. The reporters would be here within an hour, maybe less.

The Black neighed shrilly as he opened the barn door, but for once Alec passed him by. He ran to the end of the barn, stopping before the bales of straw piled high against the wall. Taking one bale, he carried it to the door of the tack room and set it down on the floor. He went inside the room, removing the old chest and the chairs. When he had the room clear, he carried the bale of straw inside and with a pitchfork spread it about the floor. He went back for another bale and spread
this, too, until the bedding was high. Then he got a bale of hay and placed it in a far corner of the room.

It was only then that he went to the Black’s stall. The stallion came to him. “I’m going to move you for a while,” Alec said, “… just for a little while.”

Taking the Black by the halter, he led him from the stall. They went down the barn toward the tack room, the stallion’s eyes shifting curiously. The Black stopped before the door, refusing to go inside. Patiently Alec waited, talking to him all the while.

“I know you’d like to go out in the field,” Alec said anxiously. “But you’ll have to wait until later … maybe tonight.”

The stallion snorted, his eyes large and wondering.

Alec moved in front of him and stood inside the room. “Come on, fellow,” he said. “You’ll like it in here … there’s plenty of room, much more than in your old stall.”

Abruptly the stallion moved, following Alec inside the tack room. The boy let go of his halter and stood in the doorway while the Black moved curiously about the room, the heavy straw silencing the sound of his restless hoofs.