The Black Stallion Challenged (7 page)

“She’s liable to jump out from under Manny,” Alec told Henry.

“So might the others,” the old trainer commented. It was almost pitch-dark now and the driving rain was whipping across the infield with gale-like force.

Alec burrowed deeper into his raincoat. “Maybe the starter will hold them off a moment.”

“I doubt it,” Henry said. “He’s ready to pull the string.”

“I’m glad I’m not out there. That wind could sweep you right out of the saddle.”

“With no help from your horse,” Henry agreed. “I’m glad you’re not out there, too. I got a feeling we’re going to see some fantastic racing … a real ‘Perils of Pauline’ kind of thing.”

“What’s that?” Alec asked without taking his eyes off the starting gate.

“A movie serial I used to see as a kid. It was a real cliff-hanger, with one stirring climax after another.”

“Wow!” A bolt of lightning split the sky, and Alec was able to distinguish the silks of the riders as their mounts reared in the starting stalls. “I still think the starter ought to hold them off,” Alec said.

Henry agreed, saying, “Maybe he’ll have to now.” Several horses had already backed out of their stalls and were fighting their riders. Henry tried to ignore the storm by concentrating on the horses.

“It’s a big field for such a track,” he said. “First Command has every right to be the favorite. He likes the distance and can run his race on any sort of footing.
But he’s too straight in front for my taste. Moonshot is too long-striding for this muddy going, I think. He’ll be afraid to stride out. Hayloft won’t like the track for the same reason. But Novice moves up in slop like this. Look at him. He looks like a tall bird wading in the water. Nice hind legs, too.…”

Henry went on with his comments but Alec kept his eyes on Manizales’ chestnut filly, Bitter Sweet. She had a habit of getting into trouble, regardless of the footing, but he wanted her to win.

Another lightning bolt cracked the heavens, and Henry put his hand on Alec’s arm. “I want you to watch the way Manizales can whip smoothly with either hand, and the way he switches,” he said nervously.

“I don’t even carry a whip,” Alec said, annoyed at Henry’s constant prodding.

“You might someday. Every top rider should know how to switch smoothly. Watch Manizales.”

They cringed at the crackle of still another bolt of lightning. Nor were they alone in this. Most of the other huddled spectators were now looking fearfully up at the heavens rather than at the horses.

Alec turned his gaze back to the starting gate. With eight horses in a race there was always danger of a traffic jam under the best of conditions. Today it would be almost miraculous if some fantastic mishaps didn’t take place. It would be a difficult race to follow, too. Even under ideal circumstances, watching a race from the stands taxed the eyes of the most experienced among the professional spectators. Few could ever describe exactly what happened during the running of a race, for the pace was too swift. The starting bell would ring, the
gate doors would fly open and the stampede would be on. Many dramatic details that won or lost a race—a thrown shoe, a misstep, a bump, a slipped saddle, careless riding—could easily go unnoticed.

Today it would be more difficult than ever to watch everything.

Alec suddenly stiffened, for the horses were now at the gate. There was a great peal of thunder from above, silencing the sound of the starting bell as the gate doors flew open.

Alec watched the chestnut filly. She had only one horse on her right, being in the next-to-outside post position. While she had always been sluggish getting away, she seemed to want to overdo it this time. She left her stall almost at a walk, despite the beating she was taking from Manizales’ feet and whip. Then suddenly she wheeled and bolted for the outside rail before Manizales could get her aimed down the stretch.

Suddenly there was a loud shout from the crowd as a horse on the inner rail, also lagging at the break, went down in the slop. The jockey somersaulted over his mount’s head and slid like a writhing eel beneath the rail and into the infield.

The horse tried to get up almost instantly, but he had his right foreleg through the knotted reins. He began struggling, but an alert gate crewman dashed over to him and slashed the reins free with a sharp pocketknife. The next moment the horse was being led
quickly away while his rider, covered with mud, stomped the infield turf.

Meanwhile, Alec noticed that Manizales had the chestnut filly running strongly after the pack. His feet were not in his irons, a clear sign that the filly must almost have thrown him.

“He’s riding without stirrups,” Alec said.

“I see it. I told you this race would be something,” Henry answered without removing the binoculars from his eyes.

Through the beating rain and semi-darkness, the horses pounded into the first turn. The favorite, First Command, looked quite at home in the slop, as Henry had figured, and was in the lead. Behind him were the others, packed much too closely together and too mud-spattered to be identifiable. The field swung wide, some of the horses having trouble getting hold of the track and slipping dangerously going around the turn. One jockey, finding no place on the outside to go, rushed for a narrow opening on the rail. He was squeezed still more by a tiring horse, who bore in sharply, slamming against him and causing him to hit the fence.

Alec saw what was coming even before he heard Henry’s gasp of alarm. The squeezed jockey found out suddenly that he had no place to go at all. His leg was being pressed hard against the rail and his horse was burning his hide on it. The horse lost his running action and bobbled like an undecided jumper approaching a barrier too high for him; then, as if making up his mind, he swerved in, jumped the rail and took his rider into the infield lake.

Henry put down his glasses and said, “Now I’ve seen everything. You take them.”

Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Alec ignored the horse in the lake and focused on the race. Moonshot passed First Command coming off the first turn and took the lead. But neither horse could get far ahead of the hard-running bunch directly behind. Moving up the backstretch, the two leaders were joined by two more horses who were now running abreast of them.

The chestnut filly was no longer dead-last but picking up horses and moving into fifth place. She might not be able to
walk
in the mud but she was proving she could run! Manizales was keeping her on the rail and saving ground. He started moving her faster as they approached the far turn. Soon, Alec knew, she would be in an all-out drive for the lead.

“Keep your eye on her, Henry!” he said, without offering his friend the binoculars.

“She’ll quit,” Henry said. “She’s too unseasoned.” But the excited tone of his voice belied his pessimism.

First Command moved to the front again, trying to steal the race as he went into the far turn. But suddenly he began bearing out, taking the three other leaders part way with him. It was then that Manizales made his move along the rail; there wasn’t a thing in the filly’s path now that the leaders were veering outside!

She slipped and skidded under Manizales’ urging, but made for the gap in the jam ahead. Manizales rocked and pushed her, bending into the turn. He was whipping with his right hand, keeping the filly close to the rail. She was under full steam when First Command
caught up and began racing alongside her, his rider, too, scuffing and scrubbing with hands and feet.

The chestnut filly began to inch ahead, getting out of the jam and surging ahead! Alec let out a yell.

“She’s not home yet,” Henry cautioned.

First Command moved up again, regaining the inches lost to the filly. As soon as she saw him alongside she dug in still more. Manizales was now whipping with his left hand and the other jockey with his right, so that the two horses were hide-scraping as they came off the turn and began their furious contest down the stretch.

Alec watched the filly lose the lead to First Command, then regain it again after a few strides. All in all, the lead changed five times before the two horses reached the final quarter pole.

“Manny hasn’t put his whip away since the race started,” Alec said.

“He’s laying on the leather, all right,” Henry agreed. “I counted six belts just coming around the turn.”

Through the glasses Alec watched every move of the two horses as they splashed toward the finish line, their riders’ silks as black as the rain clouds piled up overhead. For a second his gaze shifted to the jam-packed field directly behind the leaders.

Moonshot and Novice were tucked in along the rail and not out of the race yet. Their riders were rating them lightly and seemed to be waiting for the two leaders to tire.

Approaching the eighth pole, with the finish wire only two hundred and twenty yards away, the chestnut
filly faltered and seemed to stumble in the slop. Manizales picked her up quickly with the loss of only a few inches to First Command. Once again he urged her on and she fought back bitterly to regain the lead.

“She’s tiring,” Alec said.

“Watch Moonshot,” Henry said. “His jock is thinking of taking him out and around the filly.”

“At a time like this,” Alec said, “you don’t think. You just ride.”

The filly slipped and Alec saw her slide again in the mud. But Manizales didn’t touch her with his whip. First Command surged to the front, followed closely by Moonshot, who was coming out and around the filly. There was now only a sixteenth of a mile to go. Alec knew Moonshot had little chance of catching First Command, who was driving harder than ever and drawing away.

At the same time, the game chestnut filly still wasn’t out of the race. Moonshot had ranged up boldly alongside her but couldn’t draw clear. She refused to give way.

But her legs could not match her game spirit, for suddenly her strides faltered again. Gallantly, but with mounting fright, she sought to take hold in the deep slop. She slipped, ducked out and collided with Moonshot. Then, bouncing back, she lost her balance and with sickening swiftness went down in a sprawling heap.

“Bitter Sweet is down!”
came the cry from the stands.

Alec felt a tautness in his stomach muscles that he recognized only too well—a sensation of surprise, concern, doubt, and yet cold-blooded expectancy.

Horses fall and jockeys are thrown on the racetrack. It’s
part of the game. It’s a chance every rider takes, every day, under conditions far better than these
.

Even as the cry arose from the stands, Alec saw Novice, who was racing directly behind the filly, plow into her and go down, too, throwing his rider clear. He tumbled through the murk, sliding beyond the two prostrate horses, and came to a slithering stop near the rail. Quickly, he put his hands around the back of his neck as if to protect himself from the horses that might run over him. Near him was Manizales—a crumpled form on the track, his face deep in the mud.

The plunging field behind veered sharply to avoid the two horses and their riders, some barely clearing the prone bodies. It was a chilling thing to see, and the attention of the now silent crowd remained on the two stricken horses and men rather than on the finish of the race.

In a minute or two the sprawled figures began to move. Moonshot climbed to his feet unsteadily; his rider raised himself to an elbow, then quickly slithered under the rail and got to his feet.

“Those two are all right,” Henry said.

The crowd waited for some movement of Manizales’ scarlet headpiece to give an indication that the jockey was conscious. Track officials had reached him now and were bending over the pitifully small figure. The filly was trying to get to her feet and some of the gate crewmen were at her head.

“I think Manny is conscious,” Alec said, looking through the binoculars. “He’s just being very careful.”

“If it’s his neck or back, he should be,” Henry said. “He’s had enough falls to know.”

The ambulance was now on its way down the track, and Alec said, “Manny has turned his head. He’s talking to them.”

The filly was up and moving. She wasn’t putting much weight on her right foreleg, but that she was using it at all was a good sign. “It’s no compound fracture anyway,” Henry said. “Maybe they can save her.”

The ambulance came to a stop. Moonshot’s jockey walked into it, but Manizales was lifted inside on a stretcher. Only when the track was clear again did the crowd relax. They looked at the infield board. First Command had been the winner of the race.

Alec said, “Let’s go home. I’ve had enough for today.” He felt sick to his stomach.

Henry studied the boy’s face. “We ought to watch a few more, Alec.” He didn’t like the frightened look he thought he saw in Alec’s eyes; one of the best ways to get rid of it was to stick around for a while and watch some races in which there weren’t any accidents.

“At least no horses had to be destroyed on the track,” Henry added quietly. “That’s something. I wouldn’t worry much about Manny, either. He’s had more than a dozen spills since he’s been here, and he always comes up for more.”

“I know,” Alec said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

Henry decided to change the subject and talk about the race itself. “Manny might have brought her on,” he said. “I think she just might have had enough gameness to come on again and win it.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Possibly,” he said.

“Well,” the old trainer said, picking up his program to consider the horses in the second race, “at least it
proved once more that to win a race it’s not always enough just to have the best horse.”

Alec nodded and, oddly enough, found himself thinking of Steve Duncan. What Henry had just said reminded him that he himself had used almost those very words when Steve had said the best horse made the best rider. Too bad Steve hadn’t been here to see this race for himself. It might have convinced him to stay home with his horse Flame, and not go out fanning windmills like a young, reckless Don Quixote.