The Black Stallion Challenged (11 page)

Suddenly, the grilled doors clanged open. The starting bell rang. The red flag came down. All the riders yelled as one, “Yah! Yah! Yah!”

The Black and the white-faced chestnut broke together, their plunging bodies brushing together slightly in their eagerness to get away. Alec felt the impact, but it didn’t bother him for he knew that his own
weight was perfectly balanced over the Black’s withers where it wouldn’t hinder his mount’s action. He urged the Black on, determined to get in the clear and set a pace which would convince the other jockeys it was much too fast for them to follow.

The chestnut racing alongside jumped at a shadow on the track and lost a little ground to the Black, but he came on again with Willy Walsh rocking in the saddle and pumping his legs as if determined to stay with the Black. Just behind the two leaders, the large field of horses spread across the track.

Alec decided not to push the Black any more until he had found his stride. They were almost free and clear, almost out of trouble. The chestnut racing a stride behind couldn’t hold his speed, and the others had left the post raggedly and slow.

As they approached the first turn, the chestnut jumped at another mark in the track. This time he lost more ground and stumbled as he sought to regain his hold in the soft turf. He staggered sideways, brushing against the Black’s flanks.

Alec shortened rein quickly, pulling up the Black and steadying him as the two horses collided.

He glanced at Willy Walsh when the chestnut bounced off to one side and stumbled again. Willy’s face was taut with fear. He started to slip from the saddle and then managed to regain his balance. Alec loosened a wrap on the reins, wanting to draw clear of the wobbling chestnut and slip away. He was making his move when he saw Willy lose his balance again. Quickly, he reached over and helped steady the jockey.

It took no more than flashing seconds to help the
other rider but the field was thundering upon them when Alec turned the Black free and bent into the first turn. The Black drew out to a lead of a length over the bunched field. Alec let him maintain this lead until they came flying off the turn and entered the backstretch. There he took up another notch in the reins and rode his horse under a snug hold.

But the Black did not want a breather. He could hear the sound of hoofbeats behind him. He shook his head, demanding more rein. Alec did not let him have it. The pace being set was unusually fast for the mediocre field they were racing today, and even under a snug hold the Black was putting more and more distance between himself and the other horses.

Only when they were approaching the far turn did Alec relent and let loose a notch in the reins. The big stallion plunged forward, shifting into high speed with a smoothness that left Alec in awe, as it always did, no matter how often he rode him. He moved into the turn with giant strides, staying close to the inner hedge as if he knew from past experience that it was the shortest way home. Alec glanced back and it seemed to him that the other horses were traveling backwards! He found himself clucking to the Black without there being any need for it. He felt nothing but an overwhelming joy that made every racing risk seem worth-while. He gave the Black another wrap of rein.

From the stands came a mounting roar. The Black’s ears, which had been pinned back against his head, flicked forward at the sound and his strides came faster and longer.

Midway down the homestretch, Alec crossed the
reins again and shortened his hold. Henry would have his head if he won this race by more than a sixteenth of a mile! Henry didn’t believe in toying with opposition, good or bad though it might be. “Go fast enough to win without getting into any trouble,” had been his orders. “I don’t want you humiliating other people’s horses.”

Alec took up on the reins a little more. He’d have a fight on his hands if he shortened them any further. Even with his neck bowed by the tight hold, the stallion continued moving away from the field with ease. When they had left the finish line behind, Alec reined in his horse until he got him to stop. Then, turning him around, he jogged back toward the roaring stands. He had won by too much but had never been happier. It had been a long time since he had felt this way. It was good to be back.

The film of the feature race at Hialeah was run over Miami television stations that evening, and a popular sportscaster said, “The Black proved today that he is a horse for all seasons and for all courses. He toyed with a formidable, if outclassed, field and gave full notice to the cream of the handicap ranks that he is ready to defend his championship title at any time. The 35,000 people on hand to witness the Black’s return to the races were treated to a record-breaking mile on the grass. His time was 1:34 2/5ths, a new American record.

“Many noted trainers and track personalities in the crowd had had their doubts that the Black was ready for a top effort. He dispelled that notion quickly and dramatically, taking the lead at the break and accelerating like a runaway express. He continued to draw out throughout the race and had the crowd gasping at his performance. There is no doubt that he is at the top of his form and that there are few horses in America, if any, who can stay with him.”

A moment later the screen showed the Black in the winner’s circle, wheeling and fractious, with people milling about him. The telecaster said, “As you can see, the Black saved his clowning until the race was over. He did not like the battery of flash bulbs popping around him in the overpopulated circle. You might say that the showmanship he’s displaying here is almost equal to his race performance.”

The film ended and Henry, watching the program in his motel room, started to turn off the TV. Alec stopped him as the sportscaster continued. “In the Bahamas, however, there just might be a horse with which the Black must reckon. At Nassau the winner of the Cup race was the island-bred Flame. His time over a mile on the grass was also 1:34 2/5ths. It is doubtful, however, that his time will be recognized since Nassau racing is unsanctioned by parent organizations. There have been many ‘phantom’ race horses in the past from the islands but none ever credited, however dubiously, with such a mark. It may well be that Flame’s win, coming on the day of the Black’s victory over the same distance, might mean a match in the offing. At least, it offers an exciting prospect if Hialeah’s press agentry extends an invitation to the Bahamian Cup winner.

“Tomorrow night we’ll be devoting this program to a round-table discussion with some of the leading jockeys now racing at Hialeah. We hope you’ll be with us. This is ‘Count’ Cornwell. Good night, all.”

Henry turned off the set and said, “I still don’t think you should appear on that show tomorrow night. Cornwell can make an interview pretty rough.”

Alec didn’t answer and Henry repeated his remark.
Only then did the boy look up, his face thoughtful. “I’m sorry, Henry,” he apologized. “I was thinking of that horse Flame.”

“What horse Flame?”

“The one who won at Nassau today. The one Cornwell just talked about.”

“Oh, that one. ‘Phantom’ horses are a dime a dozen in the islands.”

“This one’s no ‘phantom.’ He belongs to Steve Duncan.”

“Who’s Steve Duncan?”

“The fellow who wrote me. The one who came to see me. I told you.”

“What’s he doin’ in Nassau then?”

“Racing.”

“That’s obvious.” Henry studied Alec’s face. “You mean you had something to do with his being there?”

Alec nodded. “In a way,” he said. “I mean his horse was already in Nassau. I told him it was better to race Flame there than at Hialeah.”

“That was good advice,” Henry said. “Phantoms aren’t what you might call popular with race secretaries in the United States. They seldom live up to their press clippings.”

“This one might. At least you just heard what Cornwell said of him on his show.”

“That’s Cornwell for you,” Henry said, chuckling. “He’s that kind of a sportscaster, always looking for something spectacular, however fantastic it might be.”

“But such a story isn’t something a track’s publicity department ignores either,” Alec said. “Including Hialeah Park.”

Henry was silent a moment, then said, “You put Steve Duncan up to this, didn’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I didn’t know how it would work out,” Alec admitted. “He might not have won at Nassau.”

“But he did. Why are you doing it, Alec?”

“He needs the money.”

“So do lots of people,” Henry said.

“He’s got to buy an island,” Alec went on.

“A what?”

“An island,” Alec repeated, feeling a little foolish.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Henry picked up his evening paper, then put it down again. “ ‘Phantom’ horses and islands are too much for my imagination, if not yours, Alec. It’s none of my business what you do off the track, so I guess I shouldn’t try to talk you into staying clear of this Steve Duncan and his horse Flame. I just don’t want to hear any more about them, understand? I have trouble enough sleeping these nights, let alone dreaming.”

“Okay, Henry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“Then it’s finished?”

“Sure,” Alec said. But he wondered if it might not be just the beginning.

The night breeze blew softly off Biscayne Bay in Miami, slowly wafting over crowded streets and rustling the limp fronds of the palm trees. It stirred the papers and debris in gutters, spiraling them into small swirling heaps.

Willy Walsh glanced skyward at the red light blinking
on top of the television tower and told Alec, “I get all sick inside when I have to go on television.”

Alec smiled. It was a miracle that Willy was there at all after his race of the day before. Nothing should scare him after that!

“What gets me,” Willy went on, “is that these TV guys usually think we’ve got the best racket there is. I mean they think that ten percent of the winner’s purse is a good livin’. All I got to say is, if that’s so, it’s a hard way to make an easy livin’.”

“Then tell Cornwell so,” Alec said.

“I will, all right.” Willy gave his colorful checkered cap a hard tug as if to lend added emphasis to his remark. He shook the sweat from his forehead and mumbled something about the heat and lack of a good wind and the smell of the city.

Looking up at the tall, white concrete building they were approaching, Alec said, “There’s nothing wrong in being determined about anything you want to say, Willy, just as long as it isn’t
blind
determination.”

“I know,” Willy answered. “I’m not goin’ to argue with Cornwell none, no more than I’d punch bigger people than me in the nose. It ain’t smart. You end up with a broken head.”

Like horses, too, Alec thought. You don’t argue with them either. They could get mad in a hurry and show a man how small he was.

Willy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a package of peanut-butter crackers. “Want some?” he asked.

Alec nodded and noted the other’s hands. They
were strong, thick and calloused, yet they undid the small tightly-wrapped package with quick skill. Alec took one of the crackers Willy solemnly offered him, more to be agreeable than because he was hungry. Willy liked to munch. He was always nibbling on something, yet it never seemed to affect his weight. He could ride at 110 pounds and never have any trouble making it. That was because he was small.

Alec said, “It’s a good thing neither of us has to worry about making weight, Willy.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as one professional to another.

Willy laughed. “You’ll never have to worry making weight on the Black, that’s for sure. Most of the horses I ride get in a race light. I never had a big horse like him carrying top weight. Yet I’ve made a good livin’ at this game. I can’t complain. I’m happy, and maybe someday …”

“That chestnut you rode yesterday looks like he might come along,” Alec said.

“Puttin’ blinkers on him next time might do it,” Willy said thoughtfully. “I thought he’d really fly yesterday. But the only direction he flew was backwards!” He pushed up his checkered cap and added, “What really matters is that he came out of the race all right.” Then, as an afterthought, “Me, too.”

“God was with you.”

“So were you,” Willy said. “But you’re right; I did a lot of praying in a fraction of a second.” He paused, thinking of the race, then added, “If I’d gone down, not a hoof would’ve missed me. The whole field would’ve tossed me around like a rubber ball.”

He peered at Alec from beneath his heavy brows
and a little smile crossed his face. “Anyway,” he said, “it wasn’t much of a race for you and the Black. We were like a bunch of dogs chasing a bunny.”

As they entered the building, Willy tipped his cap over one eye again, partially hiding his face. His voice came from beneath the peak. “I wish I could get out of this. Like I said, it makes me feel sick inside.”

The television studio was air-conditioned, its large windows overlooking the gaudy pattern of Miami lights and the causeways stretching across the bay beach areas.

“Count” Cornwell, whom Alec never had met before, put his cigar down in an ashtray on his desk and came forward to meet them. Smiling, he extended a big hand and said, “Hello, Alec Ramsay. And, of course, Willy Walsh. I’m glad you both could come.”

Willy removed his cap self-consciously and Alec studied the tall, stooping man whose head was completely bald. Cornwell was one of the best sportscasters in the business, but you’d never know it to look at him. His expression, at the moment, was bored and vacant, even uninterested. All that would change when he went on the air. He worked hard for a living, and knew everything there was to know about racing.

The telephone on his desk rang and he excused himself to answer it. He smoked as he talked, the smell of his cigar filling the room. When he had replaced the receiver, he leafed quickly through a script on his desk, made a few notes, then heaved himself up from his chair and crossed the room again.

“That’s all,” he said brusquely. “We’re set to go now.” He straightened the jacket of his dark suit,
adjusted his tie and added, “The others are in the next studio.”