The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  Cornwell moved closer to the ramp, hoping to hear what Alec was saying to the Black. It would make a good column, this conversation between such a horse and his master. His only master, from all reports. No one else could do anything with the Black.

  The Black raised a foreleg, bringing it down repeatedly upon the wooden ramp with dull, heavy thuds. Alec spoke to his horse but Cornwell couldn’t catch the words. In fact he wasn’t quite sure anything had been said. But the Black stopped his pawing.

  Now the stallion was as quiet as the morning, standing proud and long limbed before the men gathered around the ramp. He did not move even when the camera shutters continued clicking incessantly and the photographers’ cries of “Just one more!” shattered the still air.

  Cornwell’s eyes did not leave the horse. He knew no camera would ever catch the arrogance and nobility that were stamped on the Black’s small, fine head. To be fully aware of these qualities in him one had to be here, standing close, watching the great eyes of the stallion as he looked down upon the people below. He might have been a king surveying his subjects. Suddenly the Black tossed his head and the silky foretop that crowned him dropped over his eyes. He half-reared and the arched crest of his neck became even more pronounced. It mounted high, then fell low, flowing powerfully into his shoulders.

  Cornwell heard Alec Ramsay speak to his horse again. He listened quietly, paper and pencil ready. But in the end he wrote nothing. It was a language neither he nor his readers would understand, he decided. It belonged to Alec and the Black. Only occasionally had he heard an intelligible word. Most of it had been murmurings and touches, soft and gentle, and quick movements of the eye. Yet the Black had understood everything. Cornwell was certain of that. The columnist accepted this as an undeniable fact, but would his readers? Maybe he didn’t have a column of “Horse Talk” after all.

  “That’s enough,” Alec told the photographers. “I’m bringing him down now.”

  The Black came down the ramp a little too fast, a startled look in his eyes. The crowd fell back quickly but stopped moving when the stallion halted. The Black was listening to the sound of Alec’s voice. He jerked his head high again and held it still, all his senses keyed to the bidding of the boy beside him.

  Henry Dailey said, “Come on, fellows. Open up now. Give us a break. The show’s over. You got your pictures.” Henry’s bowlegs spun like a wheel as he hurried Napoleon over to the Black’s side. “Horses comin’ through, fellows! Make way!” he shouted.

  Napoleon saw the crowd open up at their approach. He snorted and enjoyed to the utmost his sense of usefulness. It was good to be needed and wanted. He felt the Black’s weight as the stallion swerved sharply against him. Henry patted him sympathetically but it wasn’t necessary. He was used to such bumps from the Black. It was his job to remain patient and quiet while everything about him was a bedlam.

  One of the reporters touched Henry Dailey on the shoulder as the small procession neared the long green-and-white sheds. “How come you didn’t let the Black finish out the season at Hopeful Farm?” he asked.

  “It seems we need a good handicap horse more than we need another sire,” Henry answered. “Satan’s there.”

  “Then you think you can win again with the Black?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  The reporter laughed. “Well, I can think of a lot of reasons but I’d rather listen to you. As far as I can remember there was only one older horse that was ever able to come back after being retired and that was Citation.”

  “That’s your quote, not mine,” Henry said. “I’m not worryin’ about the Black bein’ able to make a comeback, so don’t you worry, either.”

  They turned down one of the long shed rows and found the Black’s stall open and waiting for him. As Alec led his horse inside, he heard another reporter say to Henry, “All this doesn’t sound as though you have much confidence in Black Minx winning the Preakness next Saturday.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t got much confidence in her?”

  “Well, your need for a handicap horse like the Black and a hundred thousand dollars for that new barn.”

  “Nothin’ to do with the Black,” Henry said. “The filly will win us all the money we’re going to need to build the barn.”

  Alec bent down to remove the Black’s shipping bandages. The lower half of the door was closed and Henry was in the next stall with Napoleon.

  “I’m told your filly didn’t have much left after the Derby,” Alec heard the same reporter remark.

  Henry snorted. “You ever know a Derby winner who had?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I only meant that a different winner could easily turn up in the Preakness.”

  “I suppose so,” Henry snapped, coming around to the Black’s stall door. “Why don’t you wait and find out?”

  Alec looked up from rolling the leg bandages.

  “Now get this and that’s all for today,” Henry told the press. “We got the Black here to give him a crack at comin’ back, and that’s all he’s here for. We’re taking him up and trying him. It’s as simple as that. If he doesn’t come along or takes a lame step he’s through and we ship him home fast. As you can see for yourselves we don’t have to take much weight off him. He’s been outside a lot and running. I got every confidence he’ll race for us. But if he doesn’t we haven’t lost anything because we’d be here anyway with the filly. And we’re not worryin’ about the Black hurting himself in training because he could do that at home running in the fields. That’s all I have to say. Now get on with you and let us get down to work.”

  Alec was rubbing the Black’s legs when Henry finally entered the stall and knelt down beside him in the straw.

  “Alec, why did you have to do it this way?” the trainer asked sadly. “He hasn’t got a chance in the world of doin’ us or himself any good!”

  AGAIN, THE DERBY

  4

  Alec stopped rubbing the Black’s legs. “Why do you say that, Henry?” he asked. “Haven’t you always wanted him to come back?”

  “But not like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “All the fanfare without a bit of preparation for his return,” Henry answered. “The track handicappers will pack enough weight on him to stop a freight train. They’ll mash him!”

  Alec couldn’t help smiling at Henry’s outburst. He turned to the giant stallion who was pulling at the special clover hay Henry had got for him. “Such a poor, weak little horse,” he kidded.

  “It’s no time to joke,” the trainer flared.

  “I’m sorry, Henry. I only meant that if we think he’s the greatest horse in the world we must expect others to think so as well, and that includes track handicappers. After all, it’s their job to equalize the field by weights, to give every horse in the race a chance to win.” Alec turned to the Black again. “I don’t think he’ll break down under what they assign him in his races.”

  “Maybe not,” Henry said gloomily, “but he won’t win any races, either.”

  “We don’t have to run him,” Alec reminded the trainer. “If we think he’s being given too much weight to carry, we’ll keep him in the barn.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean!” Henry said, stalking to the stall door. “What good will that do him or us? He might better be home.”

  Alec bit his lip in sudden anger. “How did you want it to be, Henry?” he asked.

  “What good does it do now? He’s here, isn’t he? We can’t send him back right away or it’d look like we were afraid.”

  “I’d still like to know,” Alec said.

  The trainer opened the stall door. “Sometimes in this business you can work a deal. He’s a big gate attraction and I thought maybe they’d put less weight on his back if I took him to the West Coast. They go for big-name horses out there.”

  “So does New York,” Alec said.

  “Sure, but not at the expense of the race itself. They got a handicapper there who’d like to see every r
ace end in a dead heat among the field. He’ll pack the heaviest weight a horse has ever carried on the Black!”

  Alec followed Henry out of the stall. He knew Henry could be right and it was one of the things he might have taken into consideration before announcing to the press that the Black was going back to the races. There was no avoiding New York, as their filly was due to run in the rich Belmont Stakes after the forthcoming Preakness.

  Henry said with feigned lightness, “Don’t look so glum, Alec. With the filly racing like she did in the Derby we’ve got a gold mine. She’ll put up that barn fast all by her little self!”

  Alec closed the screen on the upper half of the Black’s stall door. It would keep out stray flies. Then he turned to the trainer. “I’d still like to enter him in some of the big New York handicaps just in case—” He stopped before the apprehensive look in Henry’s eyes.

  “Just in case the filly quits on us?” Henry asked. “Is that what you mean, Alec?”

  The boy didn’t answer fast enough and the trainer went on. “You’re a strange fellow, sometimes. After the ride she gave you in the Derby I’d think you’d be so sold on her you could take off an’ fly. Yet the last couple times you’ve worked her you’ve looked—”

  Alec interrupted. “If she races as she did in the Derby I believe she’ll be the first filly ever to win the Triple Crown.”

  “But you don’t think she will. Is that it, Alec? When you worked her last week she loafed good, didn’t she? An’ that’s what’s troublin’ you. You’re forgettin’ she loafed before the Derby too but I tricked her out of it. I can do the same thing again.” Henry turned away angrily. “If you don’t have confidence in her you oughta have it in me after all the years we’ve been together!”

  “But I do!” Alec called at the trainer’s back while Henry strode up the row.

  Finally Alec turned to the stall on the other side of Napoleon. It wasn’t really the filly’s loafing through her works that bothered him. And it had nothing to do with her legs, her speed or her stamina. It was her eyes. They told him, just as if she’d spoken, that she was bored with racing, that anything after her glorious win in the Kentucky Derby would be an anti-climax. But how in the world could he have explained that to Henry?

  He found Black Minx in a far corner of her stall, dozing. “Behave yourself now,” he said softly, going inside. “Be a lady.” She was quick with her hoofs, this one. It wouldn’t do ever to try to surprise her. He put a hand on her; she barely opened her eyelids and then let them fall again.

  Alec rubbed her smooth, short coat, which shone like glossy satin with the rays of the morning sun on it. Not a smudge of manure on her, not a bit of straw matted in her mane or tail, not a hair out of place. Just as slick, Alec decided, as when Henry had put her up last night. Here was gold that glistened as well as whinnied! Black Minx had the speed to go on to many other great victories if Henry could get it out of her. And the trainer believed he could do it.

  “Open those eyes,” Alec said, “so I’ll know if Henry’s right.” But the filly kept them closed as if enjoying his soft touches to the utmost.

  Black Minx looked small but she wasn’t, for her appearance was very misleading. She had a lot more muscle than was noticeable at first glance. She was a big little girl, built to go a distance as well as for speed. But people generally weren’t aware of that unless they looked her over very closely. That was why she had surprised so many of them with her performance in the Derby. Nobody had given her a second look until she’d been led into the winner’s circle. Fillies weren’t supposed to win the Kentucky Derby.

  From now on the colts and their riders would be out to “get” her. She wouldn’t have the advantage of taking them by surprise any longer.

  Alec ran a hand across the strong, level back and down the shoulders that were deep and well sloped. Then he stooped over to take a look at the foreleg that had been injured at the start of the Derby. Black Minx had gone on to win with it and that had taken plenty of courage and determination. She was a daughter worthy of her great sire when she wanted to be! Fortunately the foreleg had healed nicely.

  Then why didn’t he share wholeheartedly Henry’s confidence in her winning enough money for the new barn? Alec wondered. Was the look in her eyes all he had to offer by way of reply? Shouldn’t he have more confidence in Henry’s ability to get the filly to race? Henry had conquered all her earlier foolishness and she had gone on to win the Kentucky Derby.

  Alec lightly pushed Black Minx’s head away from him. “Keep them closed, then,” he said. “It’s better if I don’t see them. Besides, you’re only kidding yourself and me, too. Henry’s the boss. You haven’t got a chance of quitting on him.”

  When Alec left the filly’s stall he saw two men carrying the Black’s trunk from the railroad car into the tack room. Henry was just down the row talking to Don Conover, trainer of Wintertime. This horse had finished second to Black Minx in the Kentucky Derby. The two men were standing beside the colt’s stall and Wintertime had his head over the half-door.

  Alec looked in on the Black and found him still eating the clover hay. He went to the tack room and opened the trunk. The old saddle was in his hands when Henry entered the room.

  “Kinda battered, isn’t it?” the trainer asked, kneeling down beside the boy.

  “Battle-worn, you mean,” Alec answered, smiling.

  Taking the saddle, Henry said, “It’s seen plenty of battles, all right. I guess they’ll let you ride with it.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything else on the Black.”

  “It’s been on a lot of famous horses, Alec. But it’s a relic like me. It was my first saddle and when I started winning I was afraid to buy another, even though I could have afforded it.”

  “That’s why I brought it along,” Alec said. “We can use all the luck it’ll bring.”

  Henry went to the door. “Let’s put it on the filly and see how she works with it.”

  “What about walking the Black?”

  “We’ll do it later in the morning, when things quiet down around here.” Henry paused, turning back. “And, Alec, get your silks. I want you to wear them.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yeah, put ’em on. I’ll get the filly ready.”

  Alec stared at the empty doorway for several minutes before removing the all-black silks from the trunk. It wasn’t his job to question orders and at the track Henry was a strict taskmaster, more trainer than friend. He’d find out soon enough what the old man was up to.

  Pulling off his sweater, he wondered if Henry meant him to wear his jockey pants too. He decided he’d better do so, rather than take any chances of getting Henry started on one of his long tirades. He’d go all the way.

  He put on his skin-tight white nylon pants and the long white cotton stockings, then he pulled on his high black boots. Standing up, he slipped on the black silk blouse and tucked the rich fabric into the top of his pants. He put on his black cap but left his goggles in the trunk; certainly there wouldn’t be any need for them during his ride on the black filly.

  He went to the door, stopped, and then retraced his steps to get something else from the trunk. When he left the tack room there were rubber bands around the wrists of his silks and he wore goggles over his black cap. He would have been dressed no differently on a race day.

  Outside he stopped a moment, startled to see Wintertime over by the backstretch rail. Don Conover was at the colt’s bridled head, waiting for the boy who came running across the track toward them. Alec recognized Billy Watts, and Billy too was wearing silks!

  “What are you up to anyway?” Alec asked of Henry, who was adjusting the old saddle on Black Minx.

  “I’m goin’ to show you how I can get this lady to work,” Henry answered.

  “Is Wintertime part of it?”

  Henry grunted in reply and then, taking Black Minx, he led her over to the occupied benches before the stables. Alec saw him remove his battered hat and give Jean Par
shall, owner of Wintertime, his special smile for young ladies, particularly pretty ones. Alec didn’t go any closer but he did listen to their conversation.

  “I sure appreciate your letting Wintertime go along with us on this work, Miss Parshall,” Henry said.

  She laughed. “If it’s all right with Don, it’s all right with me, Henry. Although I honestly don’t see why he wants to help you train the horse we’re out to beat.”

  Henry chuckled. “Don wants a run for his money, I guess. We can’t give it to him unless I can keep her in condition. She can’t win on class alone, not over the Preakness distance.”

  Jean Parshall rose from the bench. “You had her ready for the Derby all right.”

  “I was lucky,” Henry said, “and I had a good rider.”

  “And a good filly,” Miss Parshall added.

  “The best, when she wants to run or I can make her run.”

  “Temperamental?”

  “Unpredictable, anyway.” Henry smiled.

  “Wouldn’t you know it would be a filly?” she asked.

  “I’ve known colts as bad,” Henry answered.

  “Horses are like humans. You must treat them no differently.”

  Henry straightened the filly’s mane. “That’s just what I’m about,” he replied quietly.

  Alec walked over to Billy Watts, who was about Alec’s age and size. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Are we racing the Derby all over again?”

  “Could be.” Billy smiled, pulling up the sleeves of his red silks. “Nobody’s told me anything but I seem to be dressed for a race.”

  “So is Wintertime,” Alec remarked.

  Together they turned and looked at the colt’s red-hooded head. The cup over his right eye was almost completely closed. Wintertime had had a tendency to run out, swerving to the right, before Don Conover had used the hood on him. Usually he wore it only on race days. He had learned that the hood meant business, so now he was moving sideways and on his toes.