The Black Stallion Challenged (10 page)

Alec was nearly at the starting gate. He slowed down the Black still more in order to stay clear of the horses coming down the track. When they swept by, the Black kicked his heels in the air.

“Okay,” Alec said, “your turn’s coming now.”

The track in front of the starting gate was a sea of slop. The crew had been schooling young horses all morning and, Alec figured, were pretty tired of all the activity in such deep going. The men were squishing through the mud, and one yelled, “Hiya, Alec. It’s been a long time.” The man’s black rubber rain pants were splattered with mud. He came forward to take the Black’s bridle.

“Better let me take him in alone, John,” Alec said. “I just want him to look around a minute. We’ll walk in and out once.”

“Okay, Alec. I’ll stand by.”

Alec patted the Black. He had him under control and didn’t expect any trouble. But one never could be sure. Going back of the gate, he moved him carefully toward the starting stall.

“Now, take it easy,” he said soothingly. The track crew were standing far enough away and carrying on a conversation among themselves.

“You goin’ fishin’ later this morning, John?” Alec heard one ask.

“If it clears up I will, and if I get away from here in time.”

“Maybe this is the last of the breakers.”

“Maybe it is. It’s been a long morning so far.”

“He’ll leave here in a hurry, and there’s no more business coming up.” The long chute was empty of other horses.

Alec rode the Black into the stall and John closed the door behind them. The Black looked through the grilled gate but made no attempt to break through it.

Alec continued patting and gentle-talking him. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “Just look around all you want; that’s all you have to do.” The stall quarters were confining but the Black didn’t seem to object. He was neither nervous nor curious. He was only eager to be turned free.

Alec saw John climbing the gate’s framework. “He’s okay,” he called. “Open up and let us out again.”

The rear door was opened and, reluctantly but steadily, the Black backed out. Alec patted him again and took him around in a large circle. “Okay, John,” he called. “We’re going this time.”

Once more the Black moved inside the gate and the door was closed behind him. He pitched his ears forward when Alec, crouching low in the saddle, placed more weight on his withers. The gate would open any second.

Alec took a shorter hold of the reins. He didn’t want the Black to come out too fast. There must be no sudden strain that might injure his horse and keep him from the race on the following day.

“Easy, Mister,” he kept repeating. He wanted him to come out slowly and find his stride; then he’d let him run for an eighth of a mile before pulling him up. He’d try to keep him at a slow gallop, as Henry wanted, until they reached the quarter pole. Then he’d let him go against the bit again.

The metal doors clanged open, and the starter’s bell rang. The Black leaped forward. Alec sat very still, waiting for his horse to settle in stride. He inched up the reins, yet the Black’s strides lengthened, eating up track
before him; he shook his head, seeking relief from the snug hold on his mouth.

Alec allowed the leather to slip a little through his hands. He wanted to restrain the Black without making him furious, just as he wanted a fast eighth of a mile but not a blistering one. After their last workout, he had to be extra careful not to let the Black get away from him.

They flashed by the eighth pole and the sprint was over. Alec drew back on the reins, asking for obedience rather than demanding it; his snug hold became a tight one. He talked to the Black, his head close to the stallion’s.

The Black slowed down, his ears flicking to the front and then to the back as he listened to Alec. He never stopped asking for more rein but he did slacken his speed as he rounded the far turn and moved into the homestretch.

The Black snorted at sight of the long, empty stands and dug his hoofs deep into the mud, sending it splaying behind him. When he passed the quarter pole, there was a sudden release of the metal against his mouth. He went up against the bit, his speed coming with electrifying swiftness in his newly found freedom!

Alec leaned forward, his head beside the Black’s, and let him go. His horse ran for the sheer love of running and Alec shared this love with him.

The finish pole swept by and the final quarter mile had ended. Alec sat back in the saddle when the stallion slowed down and the tempo of his hoofs was reduced to a flat, squishing sound in the mud.

An hour later Henry had entered the Black in the
turf race on the following day’s program. He wouldn’t know who the other entries were until the list came off the mimeographing machine later in the day. Nor would he know, until then, how much weight the Black would be assigned. Henry considered the race only a “prep” for the longer, more important stake races to come. The Black was fresh, his eighth of a mile from the gate in 11-2/5ths seconds had been done very handily, and his sizzling final quarter in 22 seconds was even more impressive. He would race well tomorrow, and the next time he would be better still. The race would do more to condition him than three or four morning workouts.

The evening newspapers carried the story of the Black’s surprise entry in the overnight race, and a sports columnist wrote:

Henry didn’t read the evening newspapers, only the mimeographed sheet he’d picked up from the racing secretary’s office. He went over the names of the entries, their weight assignments and post positions. He didn’t like the 136 pounds assigned to the Black, but the great stallion had proved often that he had the ability to carry weight over a distance; he had lugged as much as 146 pounds and still beaten top horses. Even so, it was a lot of weight to put on a horse the first time out.

Henry conceded to Alec that the Black didn’t have much to beat. With a couple of exceptions, tomorrow’s field was distinctly a second-rate bunch. Most of the horses couldn’t carry their speed much over three-quarters of a mile. What bothered him most of all was the post position they’d drawn. They were Number 1, the inside post position. It was not a good spot for a first start, especially against horses with a lot of early speed who would, most likely, break in front and try to take the lead. He didn’t want the Black jammed inside. For a few moments he considered scratching his horse from the race, then decided against it. He had procrastinated long enough. The Black would go to the post.

At four-fifteen the afternoon of the following day Alec rode the Black into the starting gate. The atmosphere
was entirely different from that during the morning hours, but the presence of other horses and crewmen scrambling busily about the gate’s framework didn’t bother the Black.

He had been the first horse to enter the gate, and he stood quietly in post position Number 1 while Alec talked to him and waited. There were eleven horses in the race, a surprisingly large field considering the Black’s presence. Alec supposed they were there because every owner and trainer knew that it was possible for
any
horse to beat a champion if the circumstances were right; and this was the Black’s first start of the year when anything might happen.

Displaying his first sign of impatience, the tall stallion tossed his head and shifted his feet nervously within the close confines of the starting stall. Alec patted him soothingly. The longer he had to stand in the narrow stall, the more nervous he was likely to become.

Suddenly, the white-faced chestnut in the second stall reared. His rider, Willy Walsh, used all his strength to bring the horse down, but it was of no use. Finally the jockey grabbed the sides of the stall and got clear of the rearing horse while a crewman grabbed hold of his head and, after a brief struggle, succeeded in getting him down. Slowly and carefully the jockey eased himself back into the saddle.

“You okay, Willy?” the starter called from his high perch beside the gate.

“Yeah,” the jockey answered. “I’m all right.” His high treble voice rose above the shouting of the other riders.

The Black was affected by the mounting excitement
and shifted his feet more nervously than ever. Alec continued patting him while watching the chestnut in the next stall; that horse might try to do another back flip which would only make things worse. Willy Walsh was having a rough time, for his mount was running his race in the gate; he wouldn’t have much stamina left if he kept it up. The chestnut was a sprinter and should not be a factor in a mile race. On the other hand, Alec knew that
any
horse could go
any
distance if the race was run slowly enough. Again, the outcome of the race depended upon the circumstances under which it was run.

Alec readjusted his goggles and glanced down the line. Most of the other horses were filing into the gate as if they were being led to the feed tub. No trouble at all now. The big bay in the fourth stall had his head down and looked as if he might be falling asleep. His rider was trying to shake him out of it by yanking his head and kicking him in the belly. Alec knew the horse to be one who might well be left at the post but who could go a distance and ran best from behind.

The white-faced chestnut in the second stall reared again and a crewman scrambled over the framework to grab his head. Once more Willy Walsh was lucky to get out of the saddle in time, and Alec caught the other’s gaze as he clung to the side of the stall, the twelve-hundred-pound chestnut rearing and plunging alongside.

Luck’s All
, Alec thought.
How well it applies to most of us here. If Willy had been a little slower sliding off, he’d be under those hoofs instead of where he is. And if the chestnut comes out at the break and slams into us, we might end up in
the infield lake. If we’d been lucky and drawn any other position but Number 1, we’d have fewer horses to run through and around in this big field. Now we’ve got to try and get away fast enough to go inside in the dash to the first bend. No wonder most jocks say they’d rather be lucky than good. Anyway, if I have to make mistakes I hope they’re the right ones. I don’t want to lose this race by leaving the gate too slowly. I’ve got to get racing room somewhere and I’ve got to be slippery. I’m riding a champion but I can still get into plenty of trouble. So can Willy Walsh and every rider in this race. You need luck to keep going. It takes more than skill to stay alive
.

Alec waited for the crew to load the last few horses into the gate, meanwhile fighting off any thought of what might possibly happen to him during the running of the race. He knew it was the same with the others, even though they never talked about it. Each rider had his own secret way of fighting off fear. It was perfectly normal and natural, considering what they faced, for any horse could be a rider’s last. Such knowledge was part and parcel of their trade. They accepted it with their first assignment on a race horse. They knew that of all those connected with racing, they were the only ones who were expected to go for their lives as well as for money. Whatever amount they received during the course of a day’s racing was not enough … not in money, anyway.

Alec decided he’d better think about something else. The weather was right for the races. Some 35,000 persons were assembled in the tiered stands and mezzanines and galleries. The well-manicured hedge was directly to his left, and beyond it could be seen a man in a silver and black gondola, sculling his way over the
waters of the infield lake. Flamingos waded nearby undisturbed by the gondolier’s presence. It was a peaceful, quiet scene in contrast to what was going on in the starting gate and the clamoring grandstand.

All but the heads of the Number 10 and 11 horses were lined up now, Alec noted.
Only a few more tense seconds to wait
. He patted the Black. He talked to him. He heard the high-pitched cries of the jockeys and the instructions from the starter. Across his mind flitted an image of the gondolier, wearing a large straw hat with a red band, and a white sailor’s shirt with a bright red handkerchief about his neck.

Alec’s gaze was on the official starter. Any second now he’d press the button which would open the doors. Just beyond, an assistant starter held a red flag high in the air, ready to drop it at the sound of the starting bell. Alec forgot about the colorful gondolier, the watching multitude, everything but the race itself.

The Black was on his toes and ready. He had to get out of there fast, Alec decided, for if the others outran him to the first turn he’d surely be in trouble.

“No chance, sir! Not yet,” Willy Walsh’s high-pitched cry came from the next stall. The white-faced chestnut was turned sideways, and a crewman hurriedly straightened him out.