The Black Stallion Mystery (2 page)

Alec turned to the visitor, studying him quietly before saying, “He’d been a killer of horses. It was instinct that made him fight that day. He’s come a long way since then.”

“You got him to go on,” the visitor said, admiration in his eyes and voice. “You made him race.”

“I
asked
him,” Alec corrected, turning back to his horse. “One doesn’t
make
him do anything.”

“I’d like to know more,” the visitor said, almost impatient now. “What’s he like personally? The little things, I mean, those that don’t get in the papers.”

Henry laughed. “That’s a big order when you’re talking about the most publicized race horse in the whole wide world.”

Alec Ramsay got to his feet. “Not so big, Henry. I think I know what the man means.”

Henry saw the strong blue light in Alec’s eyes. It
was the look that was always there when he talked of his horse.

“He snores,” Alec said, smiling at their visitor. “Sometimes so loud we can’t sleep at all, not if we’re near him and we usually are, here at the track. At the farm it’s a lot better, because the stallion barn is a good distance from the house and we have solid oak barn doors.”

Alec turned to the Black, his hand tracing the multitude of veins that stood out beneath the velvet-soft neck.

“Yes,” the visitor said gratefully, “that’s what I meant.”

Alec went on, “He dreams, too. He’ll move his legs and sometimes even his tail while he’s sleeping. Often, too, he’ll snort. I believe he thinks he’s racing or at least running, for he dreams most of all the night following a race.”

“Last night it was awful,” Henry interrupted. “I went runnin’ into his stall thinkin’ he was dyin’ or tearin’ the place apart. Instead I found Alec tryin’ to tell him the Brooklyn was already over an’ he’d won it.”

“So that’s the way it goes with us,” Alec said. “Nothing ever dull or very quiet for long.”

“It sounds that way,” the visitor offered. “Please go on.”

Henry spoke before Alec could continue. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short, Mister. It’s four-thirty and time for our horse to be fed.”

“He’s a terrific eater,” Alec added. “Three meals a day he takes. Six quarts of oats, four whole and two crushed. Maybe thirty pounds of hay, too, special from
the farm—timothy and a little clover thrown in for dessert. And sometimes I give him a salad for good measure—lettuce with a little endive, romaine and leaves of the chicory plant. He likes it a lot.”

The visitor nodded eagerly, hoping Alec would go on, but Henry was already on his feet and bringing the session to a close.

“Here’s what you want to remember even if you forget all the rest he’s told you,” the trainer said quietly. “Him and his horse have woven a spell around each other that no one in this business can understand, much less break. Just as wonderful as Alec’s love for the Black is his love for Alec. It’s as simple as that and it’s the only reason we’re here talkin’ about a great race horse. If it wasn’t for Alec the Black would be unraceable. Now he gets mad only when Alec leaves without him.

“On the other hand,” Henry went on, even more seriously than before, “Alec wouldn’t be the rider he is without the Black. On other horses I can fault him. But not on the Black. Alec grows there an’ he knows it. So does his horse. They’re for each other and each other alone. You’re not goin’ to see the likes of it again, Mister. Mark my words. Neither you nor me nor anyone else.”

“Just one more thing, please,” the visitor called after Henry. “What do you think was their best race?”

Henry stopped and turned. “I always like the last one best, and yesterday’s was a thumper.”

“It was reported in the newspapers,” the visitor went on, doggedly following Alec and Henry into the barn, “that you’re planning to ship the Black to Europe for racing there. Is that true?”

“It depends on what paper you read,” and Henry chuckled. “Some say we’re goin’, others say not. Actually what I told the reporters was that we’re interested. It’s a possibility but that’s all. There are many good reasons why it would be wise to go and just as many good ones for stayin’ home.”

They had reached the Black’s stall and Henry said, “We have work to do now, Mister, but we want to thank you for comin’ around. Always glad to see old friends of the Black.”

“Thank
you,
” the visitor said, “and I do hope you decide to take him to Europe. It would make exciting reading,
very
exciting.”

“It could at that,” Henry agreed, going into the stall. He stood in the corner, ankle-deep in the straw bedding, watching Alec wipe the Black with a soft cloth. “It’s nice havin’ such people come around,” he told the boy. “I mean people who think more of a horse than just what they see on the track.”

“Yes,” Alec answered, without a pause in his work, “it is. But did you notice his eyes, Henry? They were clear as crystal. Sometimes I thought I could even see myself in them.”

“No,” Henry replied, “I didn’t notice. I guess I got eyes only for horses.”

The famous trainer and rider stood quietly together in the stall, the Black snorting and pushing his soft nose against Alec’s neck.

“Henry,” Alec asked his friend, “how serious were you … are you … about taking him to Europe?”

“So-so,” the trainer answered.

“How serious is that?”

“He couldn’t go without you,” Henry said quietly.

“No.”

“And you want to get back to the farm.”

They said nothing more but each knew what the other was thinking.

He’s at his best. It’s a pity to take him home now
.

Henry said, “Whether we go to Europe or not isn’t important. What we got to decide is, do we keep him like he is or do we let him down?”

“He loves to race,” Alec said, “even yesterday with all that weight on his back.”

“After yesterday,” Henry said glumly, “the handicappers
will put more lead on him than ever. One of these Saturdays they might break him down.”

“Even in Europe?”

“I imagine so. It might be a little better for us over there but not enough to warrant the trip unless we got some other good reason for goin’.”

They left the stall and went into the tack room.

“Then I guess the answer is to go home,” Alec said, throwing a brush into the trunk. “I’ll feed him.”

Henry picked up a horse magazine and thumbed through it. “Here’s a funny one, Alec. Listen to this:
Three yearlings arrived at New York International Airport from Spain on Wednesday. They are owned by Angel Rafael González and are the first consignment of horses from abroad to be received by John Hudson, agent. They are to be sold at the Saratoga (N.Y.) Sales.
”

Henry glanced at Alec to see if the boy was listening and then read the concluding sentence:
“The yearlings will be at John Hudson’s farm on Long Island until shortly before the Sales.”

Alec kept on with his packing. “What’s so funny about that, Henry? More yearlings from abroad are being sent over here every year.”

“I know,” Henry said patiently. “Foreign breeders are after the same money we are. They’re providin’ a lot of competition, too, because many American farms need new bloodlines and buyers have found a good source in England and France. But you didn’t get my point. These three yearlings are from
Spain
.”

“What’s so special about that?” Alec wanted to know.

“Just that I never thought of it as horse racin’ country,”
Henry answered. “I don’t think I’m alone, either. That’s the land of the pure-bred fighting bull, not the pure-bred race horse. Wonder how John Hudson ever got mixed up with that consignment?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Alec quipped. “The magazine says they’re at his farm and that’s just over in Westbury. It’s Sunday and he’ll be home. So will the yearlings. Maybe they’re a better lot than you think they are. Why don’t you find out?”

“Got better things to do than that,” Henry grumbled.

“Such as griping about weights and handicappers, or going home?” Alec asked, smiling. “It’d do you good to get away for a little while. Also, our business is selling horses as well as racing them. Go see what our competition is like.”

“Hummph,” Henry grunted. “Horses from Spain aren’t goin’ to worry the Black’s colts none. Still, I can’t understand why John Hudson of all good agents should—”

“Get goin’, Henry. You know you’d like to see them,” Alec prodded.

“Not unless you come along too. You need a breather same as I do. You haven’t left this barn since yesterday.”

“Sure I’d go, but what about
him
?” Alec asked, nodding in the direction of the Black’s stall.

“We’ll feed him an’ lock up. Slim will keep an eye on him. Another horse won’t bother Slim none.”

Alec nodded thoughtfully. “It won’t take long to get over there and back. Okay, Henry.”

A short while later Hopeful Farm’s small van, driven by Henry, rocked wildly down a dirt lane.

“I’m sure glad you don’t drive this way with horses in the back,” Alec commented.

“Of course not,” Henry growled. “What do you take me for—a hack?” He stepped harder on the accelerator.

The low barns of John Hudson’s farm suddenly appeared around a bend in the lane and Henry slowed down. “Got to be careful now,” he said. “Don’t want to scare any young horses.”

“There are three out in that paddock just beyond,” Alec said, squinting in the bright glare of the setting sun. “Can’t be sure, but they look like yearlings from here.”

“I’m sure they are,” Henry said. “John’s cleared his barns, gettin’ ready for the young stock he’ll take to the Sales. Those yearlings must be the ones from Spain. A couple minutes now and we’ll get a good look at them.”

Slower and slower turned the wheels of the van. The road was empty and there was a peaceful late-Sunday quietness to John Hudson’s farm. Even the yearlings in the big paddock were still. They stood together not far from the fence, their heads up and eyes sharp.

Inside the cab Henry’s body suddenly stiffened against the back of his seat as if for support after a staggering blow. His hands shook and he sought to steady them by gripping the wheel even harder. Beside him Alec’s face was as pale as his own.

“It couldn’t be,” Henry said hoarsely. “It’s not possible.”

“But it is,” Alec said. “Except for color and size they’re models of him.
They’re the Black all over again!
”

When Alec and Henry climbed the paddock fence the yearlings moved toward them rather than away from them. There was no doubt that the colts had been well handled, but the two horsemen weren’t interested in the yearlings’ stable manners. Only the glistening bodies held their attention and the two men missed nothing. Two of the yearlings were dark brown, almost black, and the third was a golden-yellow chestnut.

Henry said, “Tell me what I’m seein’ and I won’t believe you.”

Alec answered, “In conformation they’re everything we’ve tried to breed … and haven’t.”

Like begets like
was the adage but never had the Black sired such models of himself as these three colts from Spain. They made a picture worthy of the work of a great painter or sculptor. Even then it is doubtful if a master could have caught their fineness of features and form.

The yearlings raised their heads high, eyes alert. There was a slight movement of a bird directly to their rear and they seemed aware of it without moving their heads.

Henry said, “Like
him
they don’t miss much.”

Alec said nothing. Nor did he follow Henry as the trainer walked around the yearlings. In all the breeding they’d done at Hopeful Farm no colt or filly had yet inherited the absolute refinement of the Black’s head. Alec had taken it for granted, as many horsemen did, that when there is a mixture of blood the head of the newborn colt or filly is almost always the same as that of the less beautiful type. Where then could these colts
have come from in Spain? Who owned them and, of even more importance, what was their breeding?

Alec studied again their dish-faced profiles, with the wide foreheads bulging like shields between their eyes and ears and running part way down the nasal bone. Here could be seen the same concave hollowness as in the Black. Their nostrils, too, were his—long and delicate. Their muzzles were so small Alec could have cupped each one in his hand. The ears were tiny and delicate, pointing inwards and, now that they were pricked up, almost touching at the tips.

Henry said, “Look over here, Alec, an’ get away from their heads. You don’t ride
heads
.”

Alec obeyed the trainer and Henry continued, “The lines of the shoulder and quarters are his. So are the hocks.”

“And the fetlocks and pasterns,” Alec added.

“No,” Henry disagreed, “not quite. They’re almost too delicate an’ not to my liking. But they’re goin’ to be big horses and nobody’ll know it until they stand beside ’em. It’s amazing that …” Henry’s eyes left the horses for the house beyond.

“John could tell us who bred them,” Alec suggested.

“More important is who
sired
them,” Henry answered. “A stallion that can stamp his get to look almost like our horse could be mighty valuable. In fact it’s almost like … well, what I mean is …” He stopped and their eyes met.

Alec said, “It couldn’t be the Black’s sire, Henry. You know that as well as I do. He’s dead.”

“A lot of people are goin’ to wonder about that when they see these colts in the ring at Saratoga,” said Henry. “And whoever the sire is they’ll be after him fast.” The trainer shifted uneasily on his big feet. “Where’s John, anyway?” he growled. “Anyone could walk off with these colts right under his nose. John!” he shouted. “Hey, John! You home?”

A few minutes later a man as short and bowlegged as Henry came out of the house. When he had reached them, Henry said with feigned lightness, “Hello, John. We were hopin’ you’d be at home. Nothin’ important, though. Just lookin’ at your stock for Saratoga. Got anything else we can look at?”

John Hudson had an enormous nose and he brushed it as if to hide a wide smile. Henry had walked behind the colts and was shaking his head in disapproval.