The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  Alec stepped out of the building and then stopped. Coming up the tree-lined lane which led from the stable area to the paddock was the Black accompanied by Henry astride Napoleon. Henry was wearing his new broad-brimmed hat but he might as well have had on his battered old one for all the attention he was getting. Everybody along the lane was looking at the Black. As the stallion approached the saddling shed a roar of applause came from the heavily banked crowd on the other side of the paddock’s iron fence.

  Mike stood behind Alec and said, “ ’Tis a lot of horse ye have there but he’s scarin’ nobody or ye wouldn’t be up against such a large field.”

  It was quiet within the confines of the paddock compared to the noise on the other side of the fence. Alec passed the open stalls until he had reached the Black. There were people gathered around the stall whom he didn’t know, but he recognized them as track officials and owners and friends of friends. They were standing as close to the stall as possible, their voices low, almost in whispers, while they talked to one another and to Henry. They had eyes only for the tall black stallion.

  Alec took the tack from Victor, who was standing nearby, and went into the stall. “Hello, Black,” Alec said softly, his hands finding his horse. Now everything was going to be all right, very much all right. His nervousness never lasted long once the tack went on.

  Henry took the leaded saddle pad from Alec. “It’s not light but it won’t stop him today. Nothing will, not in this field.”

  Alec nodded toward the adjacent stall. “How about Mike’s horse?”

  “No. But watch Mike for tricks. He’s clean but tough. He won’t give you an inch.” Turning to the people outside the stall, Henry asked them to move farther back. Then he turned back to Alec, grunting, “It’s a small army we have here.”

  Alec watched only the Black. The stallion’s coat had already broken out with little spots of perspiration and there was lather between his hind legs. Also, he’d started digging in the dirt with his right foreleg. Alec talked to him quietly while Henry put on the white saddle cloth with the large black 3.

  “Don’t let Mike high-ball it out of the gate and then gradually sneak back, makin’ you think he’s settin’ a blistering race when he isn’t,” the trainer warned. “That’s an old trick of his, an’ he’ll use anything to stay in front. Remember this is only seven furlongs. Don’t take hold of the Black enough to make him shake his head. Get out in front and keep goin’. He’s ready for this race, more ready than the handicapper thinks he is or he’d be carryin’ a lot more weight. That’s just between you and me,” he added hastily.

  Alec nodded in complete agreement. The Black was ready to go. No doubt about it. The flesh was drawn smooth and tight over his whole body and the muscles stood out hard and clean and strong. His long legs were unblemished. Most important of all was the look in his eyes. Excitement was there, of course, but eagerness as well—an eagerness to get on with this business; he was tired of waiting.

  Alec stroked the Black while Henry finished saddling. A bell sounded and the first horse left his stall for the walking ring a short distance from the saddling shed. Behind him came his entourage—his jockey, trainer and owner.

  Alec turned to Michael Costello’s mount, who was leaving his stall. A dark bay and not a very pretty horse. But racing machines didn’t need to be pretty to be fast and this was such a horse. Alec couldn’t find fault with his conformation and he had to admit he’d never seen more perfect shoulders.

  “Are you sure about him?” he asked Henry, nodding toward Earl of Sykes. “He looks awfully good to me.”

  “He won’t bother you,” Henry answered brusquely. “If you’re goin’ to worry, worry about the Black. Make sure you keep him in line. A lot of people don’t think you can. Come on.”

  Alec led the stallion from his stall. He wasn’t worrying about controlling the Black or anything else. The waiting had ended and so had his nervousness. “Let’s get to it,” he told Henry impatiently.

  There were people on either side of the path that led to the walking ring and Alec heard them repeat over and over again, “That’s the Black. That’s him. Right there. You can reach out and touch him!”

  To keep everything under control, Henry had once more mounted Napoleon and was using the old gelding’s big body to keep away people as well as other horses. No one got very close with Napoleon’s well-trained hindquarters moving as they did.

  Alec stepped lightly on the tanbark of the walking ring. It was more crowded there, for every runner had his little group of well-wishers. They stood in the shade of old maple trees while jockeys received last-minute instructions. Outside the confines of the ring the spectators pushed hard against one another and called to horses and trainers and jockeys alike. But it was the Black they watched most of all and they wondered if he would provide a race worthy of the loud ovation they’d given him. Within a few minutes they would know. Already the Black was looking over their heads in the direction of the great stands.

  “Riders up!” the paddock judge called.

  Henry boosted Alec onto the Black and then remounted Napoleon. “Let’s go get the money, son,” he said quietly.

  As they were leaving the walking ring Alec turned to the huge statue of Man o’ War that was there. Someday, perhaps, the Black too would be immortalized in such a way. But not now. There was still too much racing to be done!

  The crowd was lined up along the ropes all the way to the edge of the track. When the horses stepped onto the cocoa-colored oval a wave of applause swept the reserved section nearest them and then it flowed the length of the clubhouse and grandstand until it became one sustained roar.

  “Do you think that’s for him?” Alec asked Henry. The Black shifted, almost slipping out from under him.

  The trainer grunted while moving Napoleon closer to the Black. “Who else?” he finally said. “They don’t need a public-address announcement to recognize him. But he’d better be good after all this build-up.”

  “He’ll be good,” Alec promised confidently.

  “If he is, maybe you’d better not win by too much. Once you know you’ve got the race sewed up take back on him some. If we win by too many lengths he’ll be carryin’ that much more lead the next time out. Let’s keep the handicapper guessin’. We’re doin’ better than I expected.”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “But watch Mike every second,” the trainer warned. “If his horse has just one punch in him he’ll use it at the right time. Ridin’ is an art with him, not just talent.”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “What else can I tell you? Y’know more about it than I do. He’s your horse.”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  Alec was listening only to the soft plops of the Black’s hoofs in the deep, plushy going. Not that the track was slow by any means. It hadn’t rained all week and the top soil was thoroughly dry. The deep cushion was soft and easy on a horse’s feet. Some liked it, some didn’t. The Black was one of those who did, Alec knew. He’d run as well here as he would over a hard, fast strip.

  The marshal led the parade going up the homestretch. Belmont Park provided no music, no color, no fuss. Here were simply ten entries going to the post for the running of the day’s feature handicap. The only noticeable difference between this race and others on the program was that the applause continued, moving along with the parade and erupting loudly when the Black passed.

  Belmont Park made it easier for the spectators to see the horses going to the post than was possible at most other tracks. Henry wasn’t the only stable rider who was leading from the right side today. There were seven other ponies accompanying the racers and all were on the off side so they wouldn’t hide the runners. This was done at the insistence of the track management.

  Alec watched the horse in front of him go into a slow gallop past the stands, showing the crowd his movements in action. This, too, the management insisted upon. Alec waited until the horse had slowed to a walk again and then nodded
to Henry. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The trainer clucked to Napoleon. “Come on, old bones,” he said. “Show ’em you can still beat it out.”

  Napoleon went forward and the Black slid easily along beside him. Alec kept a tight hold but the stallion didn’t pull or shake his head and his great eyes were on the crowd. He was curious but not alarmed. Alec brought him to a stop with Napoleon.

  They walked a short distance and then behind them Alec heard the heavy thud of hoofs. Another horse was being galloped. The hoofs rang hard and were coming a little too close, he thought. He was about to turn to see who it was when Napoleon suddenly lashed out with his hind legs, throwing Henry forward in his saddle.

  The Black bolted at the sudden activity on his right. Alec went with him and the lead shank between the Black and Henry was almost pulled from the man’s hands. But Henry held on to it, swinging the Black around Napoleon. Then Alec saw what had happened.

  The Milkyway stable pony had galloped too close to them and Napoleon had kicked out, sending him against Earl of Sykes, who had gone down and was now sprawled on the track! Even as Alec saw the entangled horse and rider he was off the Black and rushing to Michael Costello’s aid.

  The jockey’s left leg hung in a stirrup and every time his horse moved, attempting to get up, the leg was twisted.

  Alec straddled the horse, keeping his head turned sideways and down on the track so he wouldn’t try to get up again. He soothed the frightened animal as best he could, then spoke to Mike. “Can you pull your leg out now?” he asked.

  “I can if ye get a bit more of his weight on your side or if my pony boy just shows the same kind of speed.…” Looking for his stable rider and finding him watching, he shouted, “Come on with you! ’Tis a far cry from bein’ a competent pony boy ye are! Help young Alec!”

  By that time the track’s outriders were there and Alec had all the assistance he needed to get Mike free. The old jockey got to his feet, brushing the others’ hands away. “Let me be,” he said self-consciously. “I’m all right, I tell ye.” His horse was up and unhurt.

  “Thank ye, Alec,” Mike said. “ ’Tis another good turn I’m owin’ ye.” To the outrider he added, “Now leg me up if ye will and we’ll get on with the race. ’Tis enough time we’ve wasted.”

  A few minutes later the field approached the starting gate on the far side of the track.

  Henry said, “Go to it, Alec. I’ll be waiting at the other end.”

  It wasn’t necessary for the starter’s ground crew to assist Alec in getting the Black into the gate. The stallion went eagerly into the number 3 stall, jumping the shadow cast by the closed wire-mesh flaps in front.

  The others went quickly inside too. After the accident and the resultant delay in getting to the post, the starter wanted to get the horses off fast. Alec straightened the Black’s head. “Now, boy,” he said. “We won’t be long. Steady now.”

  There was plenty of racing room, for the track was wide and big. A mile and a half of it all around. The seven-furlong race would start directly across the track from the finish line. They were a half-mile away from the spectators, with high trees, hedges, steeplechase barriers and even a lake between them. The fans low in the stands might have complaints about not being able to see the complete race, but Alec had none. It was the best track in the country for the Black.

  “Horses for courses,” was the old rhyme, and this even, deep-cushioned track suited the stallion’s strides to perfection.

  In the stall on Alec’s right, Michael Costello was flung against the padded sides by his uneasy mount. He got him strightened out and shouted, “ ’Tis a poor excuse for a horse ye are. Ye can’t stay on your own four feet!”

  Alec laughed at Mike’s angry outburst and the old jockey, hearing him, said without taking his eyes off the track, “ ’Tis the truth I speak, Alec. I have ye to thank for …”

  He never finished, for the bell clanged and the stall doors flew open.

  The Black came out of the gate as eagerly as he’d gone into it. He was bubbling over with desire to run and seemingly unaware of the presence of other horses.

  Alec let the reins slide through his hands. It had been at the farm where he’d last allowed the great stallion to go all out with him. Alec’s hands suddenly tightened on the reins again. He squeezed rather than pulled as a horse swerved dangerously in front of them and stayed there.

  From across the infield came the distant roar of the crowd, but Alec listened only to the steady plop-plop of the Black’s hoofs passing lightly over the soft, dry dirt. He looked only in front of him, waiting for the track to clear. Three furlongs to the long, sweeping quarter-of-a-mile curve! His grip on the reins tightened still more and then he began pulling back to avoid the horse directly in his path. The Black didn’t like the snug hold at all.

  “Don’t take hold enough to make him shake his head,” Henry had ordered. “Get out in front and keep going.”

  Alec swung the Black around the horse ahead and set him free! Before them was the empty track he’d wanted. Now there would be nothing to this race but a great black stallion! Alec sat down to ride and the resounding drum of other horses’ hoofs slipped rapidly behind him.

  If the Black kept going all out, how many additional pounds would he be assigned in the richer, more important handicaps to come? Alec asked himself. Wouldn’t it be far wiser to win by just a length or two? Hadn’t Henry so instructed me during those last few minutes before the race?

  Under Alec now was twenty pounds of lead. Enough of it could stop a freight train, much less the Black. Alec had seen a few extra pounds mean the difference between winning and losing a rich race, especially over the longer distances when the “dead” weight became heavier and heavier with each stride. Alec took up on the reins and the Black, shaking his head vigorously, shortened his strides.

  Alec gently eased him over to the rail. The long banked curve was just beyond and soon they’d be in front of the grandstand. Alec couldn’t have asked for anything better. The race was going as he wanted it to go. They were winning but not by so many lengths as to impress anybody, especially the handicapper.

  They swept into the turn, tipping to the left of the banked track that rose high and wide on the outside. It was strangely quiet. Alec could hear the steady beat of hoofs, the Black’s and those of the other horses behind him, but not the roar from the stands. He saw the spectators on their feet. He knew they were yelling as they always did when a field of horses approached the stretch run. Yet he could not hear them—only the hoofs.

  Suddenly there came an urgent, faster beat and then far on his right, high on the banked turn, sped a dark bay horse. Riding him for all he was worth, using hands, legs and whip, was Michael Costello!

  Before Alec could touch the Black, Mike came winging down the graded dirt road and slipped in front of them! Within the whip of an eyelash the lead had changed hands!

  “Watch Mike every second,” Henry had said. “If that ‘plodder’ of his has just one punch in him he’ll use it at the right time. Ridin’ is an art with him, not just talent.”

  The veteran jockey was hustling Earl of Sykes along, all right, just as Henry had warned. Alec wasn’t worried. In one easy jump he could take the Black past Mike’s mount again. He waited until they were nearing the end of the turn and the track was beginning to straighten out, then he reached for the Black’s right shoulder.

  Now Alec could hear the roar of the crowd. He also heard the race announcer call out through the public-address system, “That’s Earl of Sykes in front. The Black is second and starting his move. Iron Man and Hell’s Fury are coming up fast on the outside.…”

  Alec heard nothing more, for suddenly Mike Costello was no longer rocking in his saddle or urging his horse on. Instead he slowed Earl of Sykes and Alec had to shove his feet hard against the stirrup irons, almost standing in them to keep the Black from running over the bay leader. At that second, too, he realized he couldn’t pull out and g
o around, for now on his right were Iron Man and Hell’s Fury, who had come up. The track had straightened out. Alec knew what a world of speed he had under him but there was no place to go!

  He decided he must take up on the Black and go around all three horses while he still had time. Suddenly Mike began moving in his saddle again and Earl of Sykes surged in front of the other two horses. The Black snorted in rage and frustration and went after him. Alec felt him grab the bit. Now there was no chance of pulling him up and going around the two horses on his right. In one magnificent leap the Black set out after the hard-running bay leader directly in his path!

  But Michael Costello, Alec found, was not finished with his bag of tricks. No sooner did the veteran jockey have Earl of Sykes a length in front of the two horses on his right than he quit hustling and steered a course that left no room for the Black to get through between them.

  “Be on your toes every second,” Henry had warned Alec. Instead Mike had caught him flat-footed!

  They had reached the beginning of the long stands. Alec figured he still might have time to take up and go all the way around. It would be awfully close but they could do it.

  “Come on, Black!”

  But instead of doing as Alec’s hands and voice had directed, the tall stallion, his teeth hard on the bit, made a direct line for the small gap between the bay leader’s haunches and the two racing horses on his right.

  Alec knew there was not enough room to go through. Yet the stallion’s strides increased in tempo and scope. He seemed unmindful of the bay’s flaying hind legs. There was no hole but the Black was going to try to make one!

  Alec shouted repeatedly, “Go on, Mike! Give us room!”

  The old jockey glanced back. He saw the Black’s head just off his mount’s hindquarters and sudden surprise showed in his eyes. He glanced at the two other horses. But he made no attempt to move his mount faster. He was going to stay where he was, certain that the pocket would hold and that the race would be his.

  Suddenly the earth erupted about Michael Costello and his horse! Instead of an empty track on his right, he saw a giant black horse. Mike went for his whip, knowing that the pocket was no longer there and that somehow the Black had broken through, making a hole where there had been none at all.