The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  Alec watched them through the cab window while Henry drove. He didn’t expect any trouble even though Black Minx had reared and bucked on her way to being loaded. Maybe she had just felt good. Or she might have figured she was leaving for the farm and didn’t want to go.

  “That’s more like it,” he said aloud. “She probably thought she was leaving Wintertime for good.”

  “What’s that?” Henry asked sleepily without taking his eyes from the road.

  “I was figuring that she buck-jumped back there because she didn’t want to leave her boy friend behind.”

  Henry snorted. “Didn’t you tell her that he was getting ready to leave for Belmont, too?” he asked sarcastically. “You’ve been talking pretty silly since yesterday, Alec. No sense stopping now.”

  Alec put the equine first-aid kit in the compartment behind his seat and then said, “You asked me what I thought and I told you. It’s as simple as that. I’m not saying I’m right. You asked me, that’s all.”

  “Don’t get sore,” Henry said. “Anyway it’s too early for that kind of heavy thinking. Why don’t you get some more sleep?”

  Alec didn’t answer and he didn’t close his eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Henry’s driving but they were carrying very valuable cargo and he wanted to be alert.

  The Baltimore streets were empty and the night air was very cool. It made for easy and pleasant going. Down Rogers Avenue they went and into Belvedere, then by the park to York Road before they turned north to Towson, Maryland. From there they went east until finally they sped along U.S. Route 1. Ahead were the lights of other horse vans and behind them rolled the rubber wheels of many more. The trek to Belmont Park was on!

  Alec broke the silence in the cab by saying, “After yesterday I guess even the more cautious among the horsemen will be calling Eclipse ‘great,’ won’t they?”

  “Does that include you, Alec?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t think I’m any judge. It’s necessary to have been around a long time to decide.”

  “Like me, y’mean?” Henry asked, grinning. “Old and tottering?”

  “Yes, like you,” Alec agreed seriously. “For instance, while I know Eclipse has broken a world’s record and a track record in his last two races I still don’t know if that makes him a ‘great’ horse.”

  “You’re right there,” Henry said. “Comparin’ Eclipse’s times with those we know as truly great horses doesn’t mean too much. In the old days the tracks weren’t as fast as they are now. Also, some of the most famous horses weren’t even extended in their races so we don’t know what their best times would have been. But if you’ve seen them in action you’re able to form some kind of opinion as to how Eclipse compares with ’em.”

  He stopped the van before a small town’s traffic light and waited for it to change before saying with sober deliberation, “I saw such ‘greats’ as Sysonby and Colin and Man o’ War. I believe that Eclipse, as far as he’s gone, is the equal of them and others.”

  For long moments Alec was silent. He weighed Henry’s words over and over again, realizing that the trainer believed whole-heartedly in Eclipse’s greatness. Finally he said, “I still think the filly can beat him.”

  Henry shook his head. “I don’t believe any three-year-old’s goin’ to beat him, Alec. Nor even the best of the older horses, if they happen to meet. Except, perhaps—” He stopped.

  “The Black?” Alec put in.

  “Well, frankly, I wasn’t thinkin’ of him,” Henry answered. “I hadn’t figured on their meetin’. But take Casey. He just might race Eclipse before the year’s over.”

  Alec nodded. Casey, a chestnut gelding by Bold Irishman out of Swat, was the darling of the New York tracks. He had shown no early speed and had done nothing of consequence as a two- or three-year-old. But at four he began picking up horses fast and had won several big handicap races. This year, at five, he had not lost a race although he’d campaigned heavily in Florida as well as New York.

  “Yes,” Alec said, “Casey’s a lot of horse. I hear they’re already calling him the year’s handicap champion.”

  “They better after the way he won yesterday in New York,” Henry said.

  “What race was it?” Alec wanted to know.

  “The Metropolitan Mile. He equaled the world’s record Eclipse set last week in the Withers.”

  “Carrying how much weight?” Alec asked incredulously.

  “One hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “Four pounds more than Eclipse had on his back,” Alec said thoughtfully.

  “And over the same track,” Henry reminded him. “Belmont.”

  Alec stopped watching the cars ahead and turned to Henry. “Only a few minutes ago you said comparative times were of little value in judging horses,” he challenged.

  “That’s when some fifty years or more separate the two,” Henry corrected. “No, Alec, Casey’s time deserves a lot of attention.”

  Alec’s gaze was once more on the road. “You’d better call him ‘great’ too if you’re pinning that label on Eclipse.”

  “Perhaps so,” Henry said cautiously. “I want to see him go first.”

  “Since we’ll all be at Belmont you’ll get your chance.”

  “Nice and cozy,” Henry replied, turning off the van’s headlights. It was now light enough to see without them.

  They rode for many minutes in thoughtful silence and then Henry muttered more to himself than to Alec, “If I could just tighten up on him …” He stopped and turned to Alec, finding the boy’s eyes searching his. “The Black, I mean. I want him ready. No one seems to be foolin’ around these days. Not the way the records are goin’.”

  “He galloped well all last week,” Alec pointed out.

  “I know,” Henry agreed, “but a race would do him more good than a month of gallops and works. The only trouble is they’ll pack so much weight on him he’ll hardly be able to move. I can’t see that kind of a race doin’ him any good.”

  “Why don’t you try him and see? They might not assign him as much weight as you think.”

  “I believe I will—since you’ve suggested it, that is.”

  “When?” Alec asked, knowing Henry had planned this race for the Black all along.

  “In the Speed Handicap. It’s only seven furlongs, not long enough to hurt him even if he’s carryin’ a lotta weight.”

  “This week?” Alec asked thoughtfully.

  “Wednesday,” Henry answered.

  Alec didn’t say any more. He couldn’t. His throat was tight as it was at the mere thought of going postward with the Black so soon!

  Four hours later Alec and Henry went through the Holland Tunnel and then moved slowly across lower New York to the East Side. It was there that Henry suggested using the Queensborough Bridge to reach Long Island so they’d pass through their old neighborhood in Flushing, where they’d first met.

  “I haven’t been back,” Henry said. “How about you?”

  “Just once,” Alec answered. “It’s changed a lot. I’d rather remember it the way it was.”

  “It won’t do any harm for me to see the changes,” Henry said with sudden bitterness. “I’ve seen plenty of ’em in my time. One more won’t hurt.”

  Alec looked at his friend and in the glare of the morning sun he noticed for the first time how tired Henry looked. Well, Alec decided, he probably didn’t look very fresh himself, having been up since three o’clock. He turned to the rear window of the cab and watched the Black play with the flat board they’d put in his water tub to keep it from splashing. Napoleon and Black Minx were dozing. They were good travelers.

  Alec thoughtfully studied Henry’s face again. Even allowing for their early rising, his friend’s expression was much too grim, his eyes too sad. Why? It was more than plain, ordinary tiredness. Was just the prospect of seeing his old home again responsible? In spite of his mockery of all the changes he’d seen during his life?

  An hour later they went down Flush
ing’s Main Street and past the Public Library. After a few blocks more they approached a small open field where the Black had first grazed. It was occupied now by parked cars, hundreds of them, it seemed.

  Henry stopped the van within the tall shadows of newly built apartment buildings and surveyed the breaks in the old stone fence through which the cars had been driven. “Since I still own this land all I gotta do is start chargin’ for auto storage and we could build the new barn,” he said harshly.

  “It’s close to the subway station,” was all Alec could think of to say. “And no one’s here to keep them out.”

  Henry threw the van into gear and drove up the driveway to the tightly shuttered two-story frame building. Here, too, were parked the cars of subway commuters to New York City.

  “Welcome home,” Henry said, getting out of the van.

  Alec got out too. Henry didn’t go into the house but looked at it for a long time. Then he walked around to the back, Alec following. Together they stood in front of the ivy-covered barn. Neither suggested going inside to look at the Black’s old stall. After a few minutes they went back to the van.

  “I could sell this place,” Henry suggested. “It’s pretty valuable with all the apartment buildin’ goin’ on.”

  “I wouldn’t let you do it,” Alec said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “You know why. It means a lot to us. It’s where it all began. Someday we’ll have the money to fix it up and keep it that way.”

  “There’s no reason to,” Henry said despondently. “All that you’re talking about is done. Gone like Clara—”

  Henry stopped after mentioning his dead wife’s name and Alec let him alone. The van pulled out into the heavy traffic again.

  After a long while Alec said, “Just the same, someday we’ll know the right thing to do with it.”

  Henry wiped his nose. “Hangin’ on to old places and memories only weighs a guy down,” he said. “I’m slowin’ up enough as it is.”

  “Don’t be silly, Henry.”

  “Don’t silly me,” the trainer returned in sudden anger. “I know what I’m talkin’ about. Men my age aren’t worth anything. We just like to think we’re necessary. We like to kid ourselves along.”

  Alec didn’t say anything in the face of Henry’s fury. He kept watching the traffic while Henry maneuvered the van with steady and skillful hands. He knew, of course, that revisiting the old home was responsible for his friend’s depression. He realized, too, that the mood wouldn’t last long. No longer than his angry tirades did when he was getting a horse ready to race. The only thing to do was to keep quiet and agree with him if he asked for an opinion. Later on it could all be straightened out.

  “Old men have got no place in this business,” Henry went on tiredly. “We look back too much instead of ahead. Always talkin’ about the way it was. What’s the past worth anyway? Nothin’!” he bellowed. “It’s the future that’s important. Keep your eyes always ahead of you. That’s what you’ve got to do!” He turned abruptly to Alec, his keen gaze seeking the boy’s reaction to his theory.

  “Sure. Sure,” Alec answered agreeably.

  “You’re darn right I’m right!” Henry said, his gaze returning quickly to the road. “That’s why I’ve thought all along that a better name for our place would be Futurity Farm! It’s you and the young stock that’s goin’ to make us or break us. Old-timers like me are just along for the ride!”

  “Sure,” Alec said again. Anything to keep Henry happy.

  “Y’mean you don’t mind?”

  “Don’t mind what?” Alec asked.

  “Changin’ our name to Futurity Farm! Haven’t you been listening to me?”

  “Yes, I’ve been listening. Futurity Farm it is then, if that’s the way you want it,” Alec answered hurriedly. But inwardly he was asking, What about the other old-timer in the back, Henry? Aren’t you forgetting that if it wasn’t for him and you there’d be no farm to name, no present or future? But call us Futurity Farm if you like. Or anything else for that matter. It’s what’s behind the name that’s important—just as important as what’s ahead. But I’m not going to say that, not now.

  Henry was silent for the next fifteen minutes, but there was no softening of the grim outline of his face. Alec began to wonder if this was more than just one of Henry’s temporary moods. He was about to break the silence when suddenly Henry’s face lit up.

  “Say, there’s a friend of mine!” he shouted. “Mike! Michael Costello!” Henry brought the van to a halt at a corner bus stop. “Mike,” he called again through the open window on Alec’s side. “It’s me, Henry Dailey!”

  There was a large group waiting for the bus and Alec had no idea which of the men was Henry’s friend until a small, wiry man emerged from the throng and, hopping onto the running board, opened the door. Alec moved over, making room for him on the seat.

  “Is it offerin’ me a ride ye are, Henry Dailey?” the man asked in a soft Irish brogue.

  Henry slapped the man on the shoulder before starting the van. “ ’Tis the truth ye speak,” he said, mimicking the other’s accent. “Ye didn’t fool me, old boy, with that yellow-bowled pipe in your mouth and that gay-lookin’ cap on your head.” Henry swept off the man’s cap, exposing a shiny, hairless skull.

  “Cover me head!” cried the man sharply, grabbing for his cap.

  Henry chuckled and returned the cap. “Now I’m sure it’s you, Mike,” he said in his normal voice. “Alec, meet the man who back in my ridin’ days was the best Irishman in the business. Meet Michael Costello, ex-jock!”

  The man extended a large hand to Alec. “Belmont be a long way off and the bus late,” he said wearily. “ ’Tis a good turn I’m owin’ ye both.”

  Henry drove the van out into the traffic again. “Don’t be so formal, Mike. What’re you doin’ here anyway? The last time I saw you you were trainin’ a stable on the Coast.”

  “ ’Tis the truth ye speak, Henry. But I near bored meself to death with it.”

  “Bored?” Henry asked incredulously, taking his eyes for a second off the busy thoroughfare.

  “So I took to ridin’ again,” the wiry man went on. “Sure, an’ why not? What ails ye, Henry? Why do ye look at me with such grand surprise in your eyes? Why should I quit ridin’ for good? I get just as much of a kick out of it as I iver did, ye know. And if I do say so meself ’tis not the touch I’ve lost with the reins. Yesterday I rode the great Casey in the best race of me life. ’Tis not forgettin’ it I’ll be!”

  Henry pulled the van over to the side of the street and stopped. Then he turned slowly to Michael Costello. “C-Casey … you rode Casey in the Metropolitan?”

  The wiry man shut his eyes, then opened them. “Henry, what ails ye? Why do ye stop while Belmont still be a long way off?”

  “But you rode Casey …” Henry repeated.

  “Sure, and a great horse he’s makin’ of himself,” the man said while filling his pipe. His round, wrinkled face with its very black eyes turned to Alec. “ ’Tis the truth I speak about Casey, for Henry will bear me out that once I rode Man o’ War. There never was a horse like him until yesterday. I’m expectin’ great things from Casey.”

  When Alec said nothing the man turned back to Henry and added, “From Casey and me. ’Tis likin’ the ride I gave him they are and no one else will sit on him but me. Now ’tis later in the mornin’ than I like to be gettin’ to work even for a Sunday. So please get on with you.”

  Henry started the van but remained silent a long time while Alec and Michael Costello talked to each other. Finally the trainer said without taking his gaze from the road, “Alec—”

  “Yes, Henry?”

  “Forget what I said about changin’ the name of the farm, will you? It seems there’s a lot of run left in some of the old boys. That had better include me if I’m goin’ to look Mike in the eye from now on.”

  Joy swept over Alec and he grabbed Michael Costello’s thick arm in gratitude.
/>   “ ’Tis too tight ye are holdin’ me arm,” the wiry man shouted.

  Henry looked at his old friend and chuckled. Just ahead loomed the great grandstand of Belmont Park.

  1 POUND = 1 NECK

  10

  The first light of morning seeped between the slats of the Venetian blinds as Alec reached for the ringing alarm clock beside his bed and snapped it off. He lay in bed for another minute, resenting these early-morning risings and yet fully aware that it wouldn’t be the same wonderful life without them.

  He turned and looked at Henry, who was in the other bed, asleep and snoring. Alec knew how much his friend appreciated clean-smelling sheets and a comfortable bed after many nights of sleeping in the van. Henry had good accommodations at Belmont and that was one reason the trainer was glad to be back.

  They had a good deal at Belmont was more like it, Alec thought.

  He heard someone stirring in the kitchen downstairs. Don or Mrs. Conover must be getting breakfast. He’d better be up and out, too. But he remained in bed, still half-asleep and wondering why he’d had such an awful night. It wasn’t like him to toss nervously about for so many hours before finally going to sleep.

  Wednesday. This was Wednesday, wasn’t it? They’d arrived Sunday and had settled in. Monday he’d walked the filly and galloped the Black. Tuesday he’d breezed him a slow four furlongs and the Black had fought his snug hold every inch of the way. The filly wasn’t going to be breezed until the latter part of the week. Henry had decided to give her a short rest after the Preakness, maybe in the hope that she’d forget Wintertime if she didn’t join him on the track.

  Alec rolled over to the edge of the bed and sat up. He was still a little groggy from the last hour’s deep sleep. So this had to be Wednesday, he decided.

  Then it was race day for the Black!

  The cold, bare facts woke him up as nothing else would have done. The Speed Handicap at seven-eighths of a mile. There would be ten starters, with the Black having been assigned top weight of 130 pounds. Henry hadn’t liked giving as much as 20 pounds to the nearest weighted horse but he’d kept the Black in the race.