The Black Stallion's Filly (11 page)

The young man thrust his hands into the pockets of his checkered sports jacket. His thin, angular face bore a wide, good-natured smile. “Just wonderful,” he said, “especially since Golden Vanity is the only horse I've ever owned.”

“Your father-in-law, Mr. Frank Boyer, gave you the colt as a wedding present, didn't he?”

“Yes. At the time Golden Vanity was a yearling on Mr. Boyer's thoroughbred farm just north of Los Angeles. My father-in-law thought the colt was the best he'd ever bred. So he gave him to me as a present on the one condition that I'd have him trained and raced.”

“And you're not sorry he made such a stipulation now, are you?” the announcer asked, smiling.

“No. No, indeed.”

“And I suppose you'll be aiming for the Kentucky Derby next?”

“We certainly will. Golden Vanity earned his chance to start in that classic by winning today. But, of course, I'll leave all that up to my trainer, Ray Park.”

The announcer called, “Ray Park, won't you step over here a moment?”

The trainer moved into view. He looked as young as Golden Vanity's owner.

“How do you feel about the colt's chances in the Kentucky Derby?” the announcer asked.

“He's an excellent colt,” Park replied. “They'll have to break records to beat him.”

“Then you think he's another Morvich?”

“I think he's better than Morvich. I think he's the finest colt ever bred in California. Furthermore, I'd like to add that I see no reason why California can't produce thoroughbreds as fine as those produced in Kentucky. And Golden Vanity is going to back me up in this.” He smiled, and left.

The announcer next called, “Nino! Nino Nella. Will you please step over here a moment?”

The small jockey walked up to the announcer, his round full face turned to the camera. His bearing and attitude bespoke haughty arrogance, matching that of the golden chestnut colt he had ridden to victory.

“Nino, when did you feel you had the race won?”

“From the beginning,” the jockey returned cockily.

“Never any doubt?”

“No. I ride him good.”

The announcer smiled at the boy's brazen confidence. “We know that, Nino. You ride them all good.”

“Sure,” the jockey said.

“How about the Kentucky Derby, Nino? Will you be up on Golden Vanity?”

“That's up to Mr. Graham and Mr. Park,” the boy replied, turning to the owner of Golden Vanity.

“He'll ride the colt,” Mr. Graham said. “We wouldn't break up a winning combination at this stage of the game.”

A few moments later the program ended and Alec turned off the set. “Well,” he said, “that's one of them.” He thought again of the race, remembering the small,
fast Moonstruck so far ahead of the field until the mile post. Their black filly might run much the same kind of race. She could race herself out, then go down beneath Golden Vanity's stretch run just as Moonstruck had done.

Henry said, “Next Saturday we'll get a line on Silver Jet. He'll race in the Flamingo Stakes in Florida.”

The Kentucky Derby—
the Run for the Roses
—had already begun!

During the following week the worst weather of the winter descended upon Hopeful Farm. Every day a cold rain fell, and all horses were kept in the barns. During this week too, four mares gave birth to their foals in the early hours of the morning. One other mare was due to foal any day or night, and required constant watching. Although Alex had sufficient help, the care and handling of mares, foals, yearlings and stallions were under his supervision and occupied his every moment. He was too busy to give much thought to Black Minx and the Kentucky Derby.

Working along with him was Henry, who grumbled now and then about the inclement weather that forced him to keep his filly idle. He referred to the May classic only once. This was when he showed Alec a newspaper clipping which stated that more than one hundred three-year-olds had been nominated for the Kentucky Derby. It did not give the names of the eligibles whose owners had met the closing February deadline
for entries in the classic. The list would be published later, and Black Minx's name would be there.

A change in the weather came early Saturday morning. It turned warm, and a hot sun helped to dry the sodden earth. The fields and paddocks were soft and muddy when the horses were turned out to enjoy the sun and get the kinks out of their legs. The new foals were kept in a sheltered paddock, where they could get some winter sunshine and yet avoid the hazards of a slippery field.

Alec made his rounds, carefully watching the mares—those who were barren, as well as those in foal. He handled the yearlings, grooming them and noticing that they were beginning to shed out their winter coats. He accepted this as an indication of an early spring. At eleven o'clock he brought in Satan and the Black from their paddocks. His next two hours were spent in the breeding shed.

After lunch he joined Henry and the black filly. Henry had her outside the barn and already saddled. She moved her feet restlessly in the mud, enjoying her first outing in a week.

“What'll it be today?” Alec asked as Henry boosted him up.

“Gallop two miles, easy.”

Alec smiled, taking up the reins. “How else would she go but
easy
?”

Today was the third of March. Soon, Alec knew, Henry would be asking faster works from Black Minx.
Asking?
No, rather they'd trick the speed out of her, just as they had done a month ago.

With Henry leading the filly, they approached the
stallion barn. Alec saw Napoleon tied to the paddock fence and under saddle. “Are you riding with us, Henry?”

The trainer nodded without turning his head. “I thought I could use some exercise,” he said.

Alec leaned forward to stroke the filly's neck. “That's hard to believe,” he said. “You don't enjoy riding that much any more.”

They reached Napoleon, and Henry, letting go of the filly, swung himself ponderously onto the old gray's back. Horse and rider grunted together until Henry got settled in his seat. He patted Napoleon. “Nothing better than a good stable pony,” he said. “Nothin' worse than a bad one. C'mon, Nap. Let's go.”

They started for the track, Black Minx stepping lightly over the soft ground and occasionally sending the mud flying from under her dancing feet. The gray gelding plodded beside her, making no pretense of enjoying himself but knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

Alec kept the filly in line and as quiet as possible. Turning in his saddle, he asked once more, “Why the ride, Henry?”

“I got a couple things in mind,” the trainer finally answered. “First I want to go along with you to see how she acts on a muddy track. Then I thought that maybe a little company would get her to step up the pace on her own.”

“You mean you think competition from other horses might cure her loafing? Then we wouldn't have to resort to any tricks?”

Henry shrugged his big shoulders. “Maybe so,
Alec. I've seen a lot of horses who were lazy when worked alone, but showed up well when they had company.” He paused. “Then again I've seen those who were real ‘morning glories'—the kind who work sensationally alone but fall to pieces when they have company in the afternoon races. But I'm not certain about anything with this filly. She teaches me something new 'most every day.”

Alec was silent during the rest of the ride to the track. Yet he turned in his saddle many times to study Henry's face. His friend never noticed Alec's glances, for Henry's head and eyes were downcast and he seemed to be in deep concentration. Alec watched him, wondering if Henry knew how much he valued his friendship. He must, of course. But it was one of those things in life which are seldom mentioned and all too often taken for granted.

Henry wasn't young any more, Alec knew. Many years ago Henry had given up the world of the thoroughbred. But the Black and Satan and now this filly had flung him back into the heat of it again. Yet Alec was certain that Henry was happy, for he had never really wanted to quit this life. So Henry was hanging on, his hair a little thinner and whiter each year, his eyes too often sad, his expression too grim. Sometimes, when Henry was most depressed, Alec knew his friend thought of retiring again, of never preparing another horse for another campaign … of just sitting back and relaxing. But this mood never lasted long. Henry would never quit, not as long as there was a horse for him to race. And now he had Black Minx,
his very own filly
, to get ready. There should be no holding him.

Reaching the track, Henry said, “I guess we'll be able to keep up with you. This old boy can still step along pretty good.”

“I guess so,” Alec returned. But he knew Henry was hoping that Napoleon's presence would urge the filly to extend herself of her own accord, so that Napoleon wouldn't be able to keep up with them.

They jogged to the post, Napoleon staying close to Black Minx and ignoring the sharp swerving of her body against him. The old horse had spent too many hours with the Black and Satan to be bothered unduly by this youngster. Henry patted him fondly as they turned around.

“Okay. Let's go head on head. I'll keep on the outside.”

As soon as Alec gave her rein, Black Minx moved into a gallop. Napoleon plunged alongside, having no trouble at all in keeping up with her. They made the first turn and entered the backstretch.

Henry watched the filly. “Let her go ahead, if she wants to,” he said.

“She doesn't want to,” Alec returned, clucking to her, urging her.

He was right. The only effect Napoleon's presence had on her was that she constantly turned her small head toward him, not to nip but seemingly to carry on a conversation with him. She actually neighed, snorted, and whinnied while they circled the track.

Alec said glumly, “She's a great one, she is. I can just see her trying to start a conversation with Golden Vanity as he booms past her in the Derby.”

Henry glanced angrily at Alec. He hadn't thought
the remark funny at all. His face grim, he rode Napoleon alongside the filly for another mile. Then, going around the track for the last time, he clucked to the old gray horse and began moving ahead.

Alec watched Napoleon go out a length, then started urging the filly to step up her gallop. There was no response. Napoleon could have lapped her for all the interest she showed. Perhaps she didn't care. Or perhaps she sensed what they were trying to do. At any rate, she never once moved out of her slow, effortless gallop.

Coming down the homestretch for the last time, Henry slowed Napoleon, allowing Black Minx to catch up again. His face was grimmer, more disappointed, than Alec had ever seen it. Henry had sincerely expected the filly to extend herself a little with Napoleon running beside her.

The trainer didn't meet Alec's gaze. Instead he concentrated on Black Minx's feet, watching her strides carry her over the heavy mud. No doubt about it, she could handle herself well on a muddy track.

They slowed their mounts at the end of the two-mile gallop. When Alec had Black Minx in a jog, he said, “She seems to take to the mud, all right. But you know, Henry, her feet barely touch it before she has them up again. She acts as though she doesn't want to get them dirty. It's just about what we should expect of her, I guess.”

“She won't be able to keep so clean if she lets a field of horses get in front of her,” Henry said, anger and disappointment in his voice.

Never before had Alec heard him talk that way
about the filly. Alec was disturbed but he kept quiet, knowing there was nothing he could say that would help.

They were almost at the barns when Henry said, “Well, we know we can get the speed out of her another way.” He sounded more like himself again, but Alec recognized the feigned lightness of his voice.

“Sure we can, Henry. It doesn't matter how we get it out of her just as long as we get it.” He wasn't kidding himself any more than Henry. It did matter. He
wanted
the filly to respond in the face of competition, to have her sire's will to win. But he knew this was foolish optimism. Reaching down to Black Minx's chest, he removed a piece of mud that had already caked in the hot sun.

Henry said, “It's all right to trick her into running as long as she doesn't
run herself out
in the race. I got to figure a way of conserving some of her energy.”

There it was out in the open—the problem of rating the filly during the running of a race. It was the same problem Alec himself had considered some nights ago while working on his field chart. He hadn't come up with any answers. Would Henry?

Black Minx swerved but he brought her back in line. He turned to Henry. He wanted to help. “Do you think it would be possible to take the bit away from her when she needs rest, and then give it back to her when we want her to move on again?”

Henry shook his head. “That might work when we start breezing her and have all the time in the world. But it wouldn't work in a race, when every second counts. She'd fight before the bit could be taken from
her, and besides getting no rest would lose plenty of ground. Also, she might get wise to what's being done. No, once she takes the bit it's best to leave her alone.”

Upon reaching the filly's barn, they unsaddled her. Alec put a blanket over her warm body. A light breeze blew and he thought he detected the scent of new grass from the fields. It was only early March, so he must be mistaken. Yet he could feel something in the air—perhaps it was the languid stir of an early spring.

They were walking Black Minx and Napoleon, cooling them off, when Alec said, “Henry, I wonder if we could keep her right behind the front runners? If she couldn't get past them, she couldn't run herself out.”