The Black Stallion Challenged (6 page)

Henry said, “It was the first time you ever did anything as bad as that to me, Alec.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Alec persisted.

“You just sat there,” the old man repeated.

“I never took him over a grass course before,” Alec said. “I didn’t know. He seemed to be moving so effortlessly.”

“He was,” Henry said. “But you still should have known how fast he was going. If you can’t rate him, no one can, and we might as well go home. I tell you again that no horse can win races running them
his
way. He needs guidance, and that means
rating
by his rider. Maybe you’re forgetting some of the things you had to learn the hard way. Maybe it’s time we started doing our homework again.”

“If you say so, Henry,” Alec said quietly, knowing now what was ahead of him. There would be lessons on riding tactics every night along with blackboard drills. There would be patrol movies to review and races to watch. It might turn out to be a long, hard winter after all.

The Associated Press sent the following story to its member newspapers throughout the United States:

The news story added fuel to Henry’s anger, and he lost no time in taking it out on Alec. “In my day, the trainer was the boss. A rider did what he said or he gave him a good boot and sent him on his way.”

“It’s not always that easy to follow orders,” Alec said.

“It is if you work at it,” Henry said. “Most of you fellows got it too easy today. That’s why riders like Manizales are winning so many races here. They’re willing to work hard at their profession.”

“That’s not all there is to it,” Alec said. “Manny was no Grade B rider in Puerto Rico but the best in his country. So were most of the South Americans who are riding here. Send our best riders down there and they’ll do as well.”

“Not if they don’t work hard,” Henry said adamantly.

“I work hard,” Alec said, losing his patience and becoming defiant for the first time. “Just because I didn’t rate him right this morning is no reason …”

“You slip up on one thing and you’ll start doing lots of other things wrong,” Henry interrupted. “I’m going to stop you right now. There are a lot of things I’m going to check you out on.”

Alec’s homework began that evening. While Henry threw questions at him, he answered as best he could. They covered a great deal in that first session—rating a horse and race strategy, as well as all the tricks Henry had ever taught him as to how to protect himself.
The sessions would go on indefinitely, Alec knew, whenever time was available. Henry would try his patience and never give him a free moment.

When he finally went to bed that night, Alec welcomed the sudden cloudburst that hammered the roof with staccato-like intensity. Perhaps the driving downpour would keep up all night and well into the next morning. If so, Henry would sleep late. Henry’s blood had thinned out, or so he said, and his bones were brittle. He couldn’t take dampness and rain anymore. He had tried to stand it once or twice during the past year but had finally given up. He had gone to bed and stayed there.

When the alarm clock sounded the next morning, Alec woke up to find that summer was over. The temperature was in the low fifties, and there was a cold dampness that seemed to penetrate his bones. When he went outside, he saw that low and ominous clouds hung overhead. Alec went about his work, knowing that Henry wouldn’t appear until late in the morning, if at all, and that he and the Black were in for a well-earned rest.

The heavy clouds delayed the approach of dawn and a high wind whipped about the stable area. Horses were being fed and cared for, but few, if any, would appear for exercise unless weather conditions improved. As the hours went by Alec, wearing long rubber pants and a heavy sweater, continued working by himself. This wasn’t exactly his kind of weather either, although he remained grateful for the rest it afforded him.

The rain was still falling steadily when Henry arrived close to noon. He was blue with cold, despite the
fact that he was wearing an overcoat. It had been borrowed and was much too large for him, but at least it provided some warmth. “I went back to bed,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to take him out in this.”

Alec nodded. He could have said that mud and cold had never been a problem to the Black, but he didn’t. He, too, was tired of getting mud in his face, and that was what would have happened on the track this morning, even at a slow gallop.

“This is enough to drive a guy back up north,” Henry complained.

The blustery wind whipped through the area with tornado-like force and overhead a long streak of lightning shattered the heavens.

“It can’t make up its mind whether to snow or become a tropical storm,” Alec said. “Either way it’s going to cut the attendance figures this afternoon.”

“We’ll be in the stands,” Henry said. “You and I got work to do.”

“I figured that,” Alec replied glumly. “Or you would have stayed in bed.”

There were other places he’d rather be than in Hialeah’s stands that afternoon. But as Henry had said many times last night,
he
was the boss. You did what
he
said or
he
gave you a boot. These were old, old times, all over again.

By post time for the first race Alec was sitting in the stands with Henry, shivering and uncomfortable along with some five thousand other die-hard fans. The spindly-legged flamingos in centerfield looked naked and very cold. If their wings had not been pinioned to
prevent long-distance flying, Alec was certain the whole flock of 400 birds would have taken off for their island homes to the south.

Rain continued to fall steadily and the long brown stretch past the half-filled stands was deep in slop. The track management was doing its best to brighten up the day. The band, well protected beneath the roof of the grandstand, was giving forth with loud groans and oompahs from its instruments for an afternoon of music. Its maestro must have been flogging the musicians to get them to play “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” on such a day.

The gondolier, poling his authentic Venetian gondola on the infield lake, was active too, despite the weather. He maneuvered his boat around the edges of the lagoon, apparently trying to arouse the half-frozen flamingos. Few if any fans watched him or cared what went on in centerfield. It was no day for a show or carnival. There were no tourists who needed to be entertained by birds, boats, or a band. Those in the stands had come only to watch the best horseflesh of the year.

“It’s surprising there are so many here on a day like this,” Alec commented.

Henry nodded in agreement and mumbled that perhaps most of them were owners, for in this jet age it was possible for a man to leave New York or Chicago in the morning and get to Hialeah in time to watch his horse race. He could even return home in time for dinner. While he was speaking, Henry’s teeth were chattering with cold.

An assistant starter walked across the track, lifting
his rubber-booted legs heavily out of the mud with each stride.

Alec said, “It won’t be long before they’ll be using a synthetic strip over a track like this. Remember the one they had under the starting gate at Saratoga last year? The only trouble was that it didn’t go all the way around to the finish.”

“It’s too expensive,” Henry muttered.

“But so are good horses,” Alec answered. “And many are badly hurt on a track like this.”

“To say nothing of their riders,” Henry added, looking at Alec.

“Sure,” the youth agreed. “I don’t see any reason why a synthetic track would be too expensive when you consider the benefits. The resin strip is only an inch thick and could be laid in sections. When it was not in use it could be rolled and put in centerfield.”

Henry nodded thoughtfully. “Sure, we might see it one of these days. It might not be any more expensive than some of the carnival acts they put on in centerfield.” He paused to listen to the imperative bugle call of “Boots and Saddles” as it came rattling out of the amplifiers, then added, “I’ve seen a lot of good horses fall … then they had to be destroyed … because of such going as this.”

The first race of the afternoon was for three-year-olds and up over a distance of one mile. Out of the tunnel which led from the paddock area to the track came a red-coated marshall, followed by the field of eight horses. Alec watched them emerge, thinking of other afternoons when he had seen young horses with great
speed and heart seek their place in the sun before the eyes of a clamoring crowd. Today there was no sun, nor was there a crowd or fanfare. The stands were quiet as the horses stepped onto the Hialeah track beneath the black, ominous sky.

“I want you to watch Manizales closely in this one,” Henry said. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

The horse Manizales was riding was the green and fractious filly he had blown out the day before. Watching her, Alec could sense that she was very scared.

“She doesn’t like the mud,” he said quietly. “She runs hard, really digs in. A firm track is better suited for her.”

“Nothing suits her, not yet,” Henry said. “That’s why I want you to watch how Manny handles her. She’s a rank outsider in this field. All the others are scared of her, including the trainers. I don’t mean they’re scared of her speed, just her shenanigans.”

“Today of all days,” Alec said.

“It depends on how you look at it,” Henry said. “In her last start as a two-year-old she shied at a shadow and bolted into the rail. She don’t need no shadow roll on a day like this. Maybe she’ll do just fine.”

“Maybe,” Alec repeated, “but I doubt it.”

“Anyhow, they can’t keep her from starting today. But if she gets out of control in this race, she might be barred hereafter.”

“That might be too late,” Alec said, watching the filly trying to unseat Manizales during the post parade.

“With all her nervousness, she’s slow at the break,” Henry said. “She hesitates and lets the others get away
from her. Watch Manny in the gate. He hasn’t been able to do much with her.”

Alec smiled. “You mean you want me to learn from his mistakes as well as my own,” he said flatly.

“It’s possible,” Henry shot back. “It’s one thing to profit from mistakes and something else again to profit from instruction. You can do both if you put your mind to it.”

“My mind’s put to it,” Alec said, his eyes on the sucking mass of mud that stretched from rail to rail. The rain started coming down harder and the wind rose almost to gale force. He wondered how the jockeys were able to stay in their saddles.

“Manny might be too aggressive,” Henry said, “but he never holds a grudge when he’s been set down for a few days by an official. He takes his punishment like a man and comes back smiling.” Henry glanced at Alec to see if the boy was listening to him.

Alec said, “You mean that I don’t.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you meant it,” Alec returned. “Okay, Henry, I’m taking it and smiling.”

Henry turned his gaze back to the horses. “I don’t want to act like any Dutch uncle.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just that maybe I see a lot of things that you miss. It’s only natural. It’s been my job for a long time. And I find an awful lot of sacks riding horses these days, jocks who should be anywhere but out there.”

“You’re not including Manizales?”

“No, all he needs to do is to master his fiery Latin
temper during the running of a race. Most of the rest he’s got. His reflexes are quick and he’s able to make split-second decisions so long as he doesn’t get mad. He knows how to save ground as well as his horse.”

“But he’s too free with his whip,” Alec said critically.

“Perhaps, but he’s a great hand rider, too. He’s strong and he’s able to use his strength in assisting a horse. I’ve seen him do it a hundred different ways. Horses respond to his urging.”

“He’s quick to take advantage of any situation,” Alec conceded, “that’s for sure.”

“Because he’s smart as well as a strong rider,” Henry said. “He knows when to hold the rail behind a horse and when to swing outside, trying to loop him.”

“Then you don’t think he’s going to have any trouble winning this one?” Alec asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Henry answered, his gaze still following the horses to the post. “Manny is the best rider in the race, but the filly is too green.”

The filly was slipping and sliding, giving Manizales a hard time. “But she’s game,” Henry added. “She can’t walk in this stuff, but maybe she’ll prove she can run in it. I don’t think they’d have her out there otherwise.”

“Even so,” Alec said, “she only sprinted last year. A mile will probably be too much for her.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Henry said. The chestnut filly along with the others was walking toward the starting gate.

Alec huddled deep within the protection of his warm raincoat. The rain was continuing without letup. Worse still, lightning streaked across the sky and the
wind picked up, driving the black clouds overhead. The filly reared in front of the starting gate.