The Black Stallion Challenged (23 page)

“You won a real race,” Jay Pratt told Alec.

“I think Duncan got it,” Alec answered.

“Maybe so,” Pratt said. “And maybe Willy got home ahead of me. He came on again.”

Willy Walsh rode alongside. “I belted him just once at the sixteenth pole and he took off. You should have seen him!”

“I didn’t look back,” Pratt said. “I just kept going.”

Nick Marchione joined them. “I had a good shot at it,” he said. “You can’t ask for anything more than a good shot at something.”

“I thought I was going to make it,” Pete Edge said,
“but he choked up on me. He couldn’t breathe coming into the stretch. That’s the only excuse I got.”

They turned to Steve Duncan, who rode near them in silence.

“Your horse ran a million-dollar race, kid,” Nick Marchione called. “And you gave him a million dollar ride.”

Perhaps it was Nick’s reference to money that caused their gazes to turn to the big infield board. The stewards were studying the pictures and any minute the results would be known. A lot of money hung in the balance: for first place, $87,700; second, $27,000; third, $13,500; and fourth, $6,800. The jockeys saw the winning time on the board and realized why those in the stands had started to jump with excitement. It was 1:58, breaking the American and world record for a mile and a quarter.

“I told you we were in a real big horse race,” Nick Marchione said quietly, almost in awe.

The tremendous applause was for all of them as they jogged past the stands.

“Good ride, Nick!” someone on the rail screamed at the veteran jockey. “You rode like a starving apprentice!”

Nick Marchione grinned back. “Cheers today,” he told Alec, “and jeers tomorrow. One day a hero and the next a bum. It never changes, heh, Alec?”

Then the numbers went up on the lighted board and the results of the Widener Handicap were officially known. The noise from the stands increased to a great roar. The camera had separated the Black and Flame
and revealed the truth. The Black had won by the thinnest fraction of a nose! Following Flame’s Number 6 on the big board was Number 1, Mad Wizard, so Willy Walsh had succeeded in bringing his mount on again to beat out Apache and Jay Pratt in those last few strides!

Alec saw a jubilant Henry Dailey waiting for him. Within a few minutes the Black would be in the winner’s circle, wearing a wreath of flowers and not caring for it very much. He would be eager to get back to the barn and would kick out at those who pressed too closely to him. Then Henry would graciously, even modestly, accept the handsome Widener Cup. Alec knew how it would be, because it had all happened before.

The television cameras were on them, and the telecaster walked alongside as Alec rode the Black into the circle. The telecaster was telling his audience, “No racing fan with an ounce of blood in his veins could help but call this year’s Widener one of the greatest epics of all time. It was easily the greatest race this telecaster has ever seen or expects to see. It will, very probably, go down in the books as one of the greatest classics ever run on the American turf.”

Alec glanced at the other horses leaving the track. They and their riders had made it a great race. And he felt that the activities about to take place in the winner’s circle were not as important as his talking to Steve Duncan as soon as possible. For Steve, the apprentice rider, had been beaten to a greater extent than his horse.

Later, when the reporters had left the jockeys’ room and the fanfare had ended, Alec found Steve alone on the far side of the room. He had changed to his street clothes and, it seemed to Alec, had been waiting for him.

“You know how it is now,” Alec said. “One day they can’t do enough for you and the next they don’t even seem to know you’re around. Sometimes you win by only a couple inches but to reporters it makes all the difference in the world. Nick Marchione put it best: ‘One day you’re a hero, the next day a bum.’ ”

“I’m no bum,” Steve said a little belligerently.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” replied Alec. “Nick didn’t either. It’s just a way we have of putting it. Forget it.” He turned away, intending to leave. There was no sense in getting into any arguments with Steve. The Widener was already history.

“I got pushed around out there,” Steve called after him.

Alec stopped and turned back to the boy. “Sure you did, but not as bad as you might have been. You did real well. What did you expect?”

“I had the fastest horse.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” Alec said slowly. “Every jock in every race thinks so. And the fastest horse doesn’t always win. That’s been proven, too.”

“I was blocked six times. I counted them.”

“You forget it the moment you cross the line,” Alec said, “or you claim a foul. It’s as simple as that.” He paused before going on. “I’ll tell you something else, Steve. What you call being blocked was only
race-riding. No one’s ever going to give you a clear path home unless you make it yourself.”

“Yeah, but still …” Steve began, only to be interrupted angrily by Alec.

“You’ve got nothing to gripe about. You got second money and that, together with what you won in the Turf Cup, is more than you ever said you were after. But stick around, if more purse money is your goal now. You’ve got a real race horse in Flame; everybody knows it. And today you learned a lot more about race-riding than most jocks learn in a year. You have every opportunity to make all the money you want in this business. Just stick around.”

For a moment Steve’s eyes seemed troubled, even undecided, then he met Alec’s gaze. “No,” he said. “I’m not sticking around. I’m not interested in winning any more money. It’s just that I think I could have beaten the Black …”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Some other day, maybe. We’ll be around, if you change your mind …”

“No, there’s not going to be another race day for me or Flame,” Steve answered. “You’ve got one world, Alec. I have another.”

“So go buy your island,” Alec said with attempted lightness. He wanted to be friends with Steve, not a bitter competitor. “As you say, we live in two different worlds.”

“They’re different, all right,” Steve said. “Don’t you like islands, Alec?”

“I was brought up on one,” replied Alec, smiling. “Long Island. I don’t believe, though, that it’s much like yours.”

Steve said, “You’ve never been surprised at my needing money to buy an island, Alec. Why?”

“Why should I be?” Alec asked in puzzlement. “I’ve got friends who bought an island in the St. Lawrence River, and others who bought them in the Bahamas.” He paused, smiling. “Some paid even less than you’re paying, Steve. So maybe you’re not getting a bargain after all.”

“I’m getting a bargain, all right,” Steve answered quickly, the faraway look coming to his eyes. “Maybe you’d like to see it sometime,” he added cautiously.

“Maybe,” Alec answered.

Steve rose from his seat on the bench, extending a hand awkwardly. “Lots of luck, Alec. I’ll keep track of what you do through the papers.”

Alec shook the boy’s hand. “But I won’t know what you’re up to, will I?” he asked.

“Not through the newspapers, anyway,” Steve answered. “But I’ll write.”

“And I’ll answer.”

“Maybe someday I’ll write you the whole story,” Steve said. “There’s a lot to tell you about Flame and my island. It’ll read like a book.”

“Then I’ve got a title for you,” Alec said. “Make it
The Island Stallion
.”

“Yes,” Steve said, “that’s a good title. Maybe I’ll use it someday.”

Steve turned and walked away. Alec called, “Lots of luck, Steve.”

The door to the jockeys’ room closed behind Steve Duncan and Alec wondered if the boy ever would write a book about his horse and his island. He just might. He
was that kind of guy. Hadn’t he started all this with just a letter that no one would have believed?

Alec put away his racing silks for another day, anxious to get back to the Black Stallion and his own world of horses.

Walter Farley’s love for horses began when he was a small boy living in Syracuse, New York, and continued as he grew up in New York City, where his family moved. Unlike most city children, he was able to fulfill this love through an uncle who was a professional horseman. Young Walter spent much of his time with this uncle, learning about the different kinds of horse training and the people associated with them.

Walter Farley began to write his first book,
The Black Stallion
, while he was a student at Brooklyn’s Erasmus Hall High School and Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. He eventually finished it, and it was published in 1941 while he was still an undergraduate at Columbia University.

The appearance of
The Black Stallion
brought such an enthusiastic response from young readers that Mr. Farley went on to create more stories about the Black, and about other horses as well. In his life he wrote a total of thirty-four books, including
Man o’ War
, the
story of America’s greatest thoroughbred, and two photographic storybooks based on the two Black Stallion movies. His books have been enormously popular in the United States and have been published in twenty-one foreign countries.

Mr. Farley and his wife, Rosemary, had four children, whom they raised on a farm in Pennsylvania and at a beach house in Florida. Horses, dogs and cats were always a part of the household.

In 1989 Mr. Farley was honored by his hometown library in Venice, Florida, which established the Walter Farley Literary Landmark in its children’s wing. Mr. Farley died in October 1989, shortly before the publication of
The Young Black Stallion
, the twenty-first book in the Black Stallion series. Mr. Farley co-authored
The Young Black Stallion
with his son, Steven.