The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  When the trainer returned, Alec was kneeling in the straw feeling the Black’s legs. He looked up and said, “I don’t understand you, Henry. Here you are, more worried about his legs than you should be, and yet you come in here and cause a lot of excitement. We’re lucky that he didn’t hurt himself.”

  Henry said with concern, “I didn’t figure on his kicking. He isn’t lame, is he, Alec? I’d never forgive myself if he was. I really wouldn’t. I mean it.”

  Alec shook his head. “No, I’m sure he’s okay.” Then he looked again at his friend whose voice a few minutes ago had been like the bellow of an angry bull. Now it was soft and kind, even a little sheepish. “Why’d you stay inside, Henry?”

  “So they couldn’t get a good look at my face through the screen. If I’d been outside, they’d have seen I was just kidding.”

  “You mean you’re going to start the Black in the Carter?” Alec asked.

  “Sure. Actually I didn’t tell them I wasn’t going to.”

  Alec shook his head in bewilderment. Then, trying to reconcile what he’d heard before with what he was now being told, he said, “I guess you’re figuring he’s certain to be second anyway and that’s ten thousand dollars toward the barn. Is that it?”

  “No, that isn’t it,” Henry answered quietly. “I’m figuring on pickin’ up that first money of some forty-five thousand.”

  “Carrying one hundred and forty pounds against Casey?” Alec asked incredulously.

  “Sure. The weight won’t bother ’im at seven-eighths of a mile. He might have some trouble handling it over a mile but not at seven furlongs.”

  “Then why’d you make such a fuss?”

  “You wouldn’t want anyone to think I was satisfied with the weights, would you?” Henry asked impatiently. “Gosh, Alec, I’m surprised at you!”

  Alec laughed as he straightened the Black’s mane. “It’s just that I’ve never heard you beef so much about weights before,” he said. “You sound like a track lawyer. You really do.”

  “Sometimes you got to be one to get anywhere in this business,” Henry answered. “Anyway it’s goin’ to be a hot weekend.”

  “With plenty of fireworks,” Alec added, and Henry nodded in complete agreement.

  The following Saturday began the long Fourth of July weekend. It was hot, as Henry had forecast, and Eclipse started off the fireworks. The burly brown horse came onto the track for the running of the Dwyer, which was exclusively for three-year-olds. There were just two others who went to the starting gate with him, and they were there only to pick up the tempting second and third purses.

  “I wouldn’t do it for any kind of money,” Henry said, watching them. “It would be too humiliating for my colt. I couldn’t stand it.”

  The fact that no one wanted to make a race of the classic Dwyer Stakes was the final tribute to Eclipse’s greatness. He stood alone in his age division and the crowd of more than forty thousand holiday fans knew that this would be his easiest triumph.

  The big colt didn’t let them down. While they watched a race that was no contest he won it in such a dramatic way that he proved himself once more to be a champion of champions.

  Eclipse toyed with his two competitors until the homestretch of the mile-and-a-quarter race. He had let them stay with him most of the way around and his enormous strides made it seem that he was simply loping along. The two other horses began tiring before the end of a mile but even then Eclipse’s jockey did not take him to the front. Instead he let the big colt romp alongside while the others staggered wearily down the long homestretch.

  Henry muttered angrily at what to him was an ignoble victory by Eclipse. “Those two will never be the same after this,” he told Alec. “I’ve seen plenty of horses’ hearts broken by doin’ what he’s doin’ to them. Why doesn’t Seymour take him on, anyway? What’s he trying to prove, that he can win any time he pleases?”

  Alec, too, was furious with the way Eclipse was being ridden. “Seymour’s probably had orders not to let him go until he sees the white of the finish wire,” he said sarcastically, “against two outclassed colts.”

  A quarter of a mile from the judges’ stand Eclipse made his move. But Seymour did not bring him on immediately. Instead he dropped him behind the others and then took him to the middle of the track. There he let the big colt fly, and Eclipse came forward with the speed of a winged thunderbird in full and awesome flight.

  Of all the thousands who were in the stands only Alec and Henry turned away. “If that’s the only way I could make thirty-seven thousand bucks,” Henry said, “I wouldn’t have it.”

  Alec nodded and followed Henry down the aisle. “Well, we’ve got Monday’s forty-five thousand dollars waiting for us in the barn. Let’s go see him.”

  “Sure,” Henry answered. “But I guess Casey’s figuring on pickin’ up that same money.”

  “Let’s hope we get to it first.”

  “Of course,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t think of it any other way. One thing sure, it’s not goin’ to be a race like we saw today.”

  BOOM!

  16

  Monday was hotter and more humid than Saturday had been but more than thirty-five thousand persons filled Aqueduct’s stands. They had come to see their own special kind of Fourth of July fireworks, the explosive clash between Casey and the Black in the Carter Handicap.

  Alec went from the stable area to the jockeys’ room, tiny wisps of dust rising from beneath the soles of his leather moccasins as he walked. Despite the water sprinklers the track, too, would be dry—very sandy and very dry. This racing strip had to be a little wet to be fast. Rain would have helped it and made life a lot more comfortable for everybody.

  Alec felt the sweat drip down the back of his neck and decided that if he hurried he’d just have time enough for a shower. He went through the crowded jockey’s room and sat down on the bench in front of his locker. He talked to the men around him while he undressed and then he went into the showers. When he came out again a number of the jockeys had left to ride in the fourth race. Those who remained were reading or playing cards or just sitting. Alec passed Billy Watts, who was studying his red-and-green silks as if he’d never seen them before.

  Alec hesitated and then stopped. “Hi, Billy,” he said. He waited, drying himself all over again with his big towel. One never knew quite what to do when a jockey felt as Billy did. It was so easy to say the wrong thing or look the wrong way.

  “Hello, Alec.” Billy Watts glanced at Alec and then turned back to his locker. He seemed embarrassed as he quickly withdrew his white nylon pants and started getting into them. The back pocket had a small rip and he fingered it nervously while waiting for Alec to leave.

  “You ought to get your girl to mend that for you,” Alec said lightly.

  “After today I won’t be using them,” Billy said in sudden defiance. “No more worrying about making weights and following riding orders. No more of that stuff for me.”

  Alec went on to his own locker. No more fear of crowding and slamming with steel-shod hoofs all around you, he thought. No more fear of violent death. Feeling as you do, you’re well out of it, Billy. After today you can just worry about mares and colts.

  He had finished dressing when the riders came back from the fourth race and a few departed for the fifth. Some stripped off their wet silks and headed for the showers, through for the day. But the great majority hung around, resting and rerunning the fourth race, even accusing each other angrily of interference and dangerous riding.

  Alec listened but said nothing even though once in a while they asked him for his opinion on a hot point at issue. There was a day not so long ago, he recalled, when instead of turning to him as an experienced rider and arbitrator they’d made him the brunt of their violent verbal attacks.

  Their accusations of one another were all part of the game. There had been no fouls committed in the fourth race. There would be no hideous revenge, as was being threatened, the next time out. They all tal
ked a fiercer game than they played, for they knew that every stride of each race was being photographed by the film patrol. If there was a foul the cameras would show it and the guilty jockey would hear of it very, very soon afterward from the judges. But it always helped to be explosive between races even though it was a shock to the nervous system of the inexperienced rider. However, Alec reminded himself, it wouldn’t be long before he, too, would speak angry and bitter words in turn.

  A tall boy, too tall and heavy to be a jockey much longer, came over and sat down beside Alec.

  “Who’d Henry think he was kiddin’, anyway?” he asked.

  From the caked dust on the boy’s face Alec could tell he’d been pretty far back in the previous race. “What do you mean, Skip?” he asked.

  “This business of not startin’ the Black in the Carter. Everybody knew he was goin’ to drop his name in the entry box yesterday. Everybody did, so why’d he do it?”

  Alec smiled. “Why does Henry do anything? I don’t know. You’d better ask him.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t get near that guy with a fifty-foot pole. I wouldn’t even ride for him. Not even if he gave me the horse. That’s how much I wouldn’t get near him. He scares me. I mean it!”

  Alec stood up and shoved his goggles in his back pocket. Another boy joined them. He was much smaller than Alec and bowlegged. When he carried a saddle, the girth and stirrups dragged on the ground unless he put the whole thing on top of his head.

  “Yeah,” the little jockey remarked, “I agree with what Skip says about Henry always tryin’ to be a wise guy. And there’s something else he does that ain’t very smart, either.”

  Alec smiled at the sound of the boy’s high, droll voice that went so well with the rest of him. “What is it, Chub?” he asked. Tiny rivulets of sweat were running down the jockey’s dust-caked face. It was evident that he hadn’t been out in front any more than Skip in the fourth race.

  “I mean this business of everybody thinkin’ of the Carter as a special race just between Casey an’ the Black. What do they think the rest of us will be doin’ anyway? That’s what I’d like to know. What do they think anyway? Huh?”

  Alec shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “But I can’t see that’s Henry’s fault. It’s a horse race.”

  It was time to go. Most of the jockeys had already left the room. Michael Costello tossed the magazine he’d been reading to one side and glanced Alec’s way. He didn’t say anything to him before leaving. His black eyes were somber.

  “Let’s go,” Alec told the boys.

  “Yeah,” Skip said. “Why not?”

  “Sure.” Chub smiled. “Like Alec says, it’s a horse race.”

  The jockeys’ room, now almost empty, was quiet except for the drip of the showers. Sixteen men, not boys any longer, had gone to mount sixteen horses for a winner’s purse of forty-five thousand dollars. To them it was more than a special race between two famous stars. Handicap horses didn’t scare easily, and neither did their riders.

  Something can always happen to the big shots in a big field like this, they figured. Didn’t some wise guy once count a hundred and fifty ways in which a horse can lose a race? So how’re you going to protect Casey and the Black against odds like that? Give us an inch and we’ll take a mile. Give us a chance at a buck and we’ll take forty-five. Thousand, that is. Our cut is ten percent, that’s four thousand five hundred take-home pay. Come on, Jock, get off those scales and get movin’. We got a horse race on our hands.

  The Clerk of the Scales said, “Ramsay. Number thirteen. One hundred and forty. Check. Next.

  “Watts. Number seven. One hundred and twenty. Check.

  “Costello. Number three. One hundred and thirty-five. Check. Hurry it up, fellas. We’re late now.

  “Smith. Number sixteen. One hundred even. Check.”

  Alec had his number 13 high on his arm when he saw Billy Watts looking at it. He didn’t like what he saw in Billy’s eyes so he said quickly, “Think of all the malteds you’ll be drinking after this one. No more scales. Lucky guy.”

  The young jockey didn’t answer and Alec left for the paddock where Henry and the Black were awaiting him.

  Beneath the green-and-white striped roof he saw his horse in the number 13 stall and the crowd that stood nearby. Pushing his way through, he went to the Black. The stallion stopped pawing when Alec ran a hand over his shoulder blades, rubbing him gently. The Black was wet but not too wet, considering the kind of day it was and all the people milling around. There probably wasn’t a dry horse in the shed, including Casey.

  Henry said, “He’s down to bedrock. A little jittery but full of run. The crowd gave ’im a hand when I brought ’im around the track. He was all set to go then. If it hadn’t been for Napoleon—”

  Alec rubbed the Black’s muzzle and felt the breath hot on his hand. “He likes the crowd. I really think he’s starting to play up to it,” Alec said.

  “I hope not,” Henry growled. “The filly cured me of all that. I jus’ want ’im to run like he can, crowd or no crowd.”

  The call to the post came and Henry boosted Alec into the saddle.

  “Any orders?” Alec asked.

  “Just go about your business,” Henry said simply. Mounting Napoleon, he kept close beside the Black while the first few horses filed from the paddock and went up the dirt ramp leading to the track.

  Billy Watts rode by, his face unusually white and set.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Henry asked.

  “I offered him a job at the farm and he took it,” Alec answered quietly.

  “Oh,” Henry said and nothing more. It wasn’t necessary. There was only one reason for a jockey to quit when he could still make the weights and get mounts.

  Mike Costello rode by on Casey and the Black snorted as if he knew that there was the horse to beat. Mike raised his whip and waved to them.

  Henry nodded back but he told Alec, “Don’t go expecting any favors from him like y’did the last time. He might love you like a father but he won’t give you an inch of track.”

  “He won’t need to,” Alec said. “This race is between horses, not jockeys.”

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed, “they’ll do the running, all right. To hear some people talk you wouldn’t know it, though. To them the race is strictly a contest between you and Mike.”

  “And fourteen other jocks,” Alec added, smiling.

  Henry grunted as the Black swerved hard against Napoleon, almost toppling the gray gelding.

  “That was a close one,” the trainer said, regaining his balance with his mount. They pressed their combined weights against the Black while Alec rubbed his horse’s shoulder blades, quieting him.

  It was their turn to go.

  “All seven furlongs calls for is speed,” Henry said, leading the Black up the ramp. “He set the record last time out. Eclipse broke it. Now go out and break it again.”

  Alec took a snug hold on the reins as they stepped onto the track. From the clubhouse and the stands to their left came a thunderous ovation. The post parade had begun. People spilled out from beneath the stands where they’d gone to escape the hot sun and rushed to the rails.

  “Are you still crying about the weights, Henry?” someone shouted to the trainer. “Whatya think about giving the great Casey five whole pounds?”

  Henry called back, “They should be reversed. Casey oughta be givin’ us five pounds!”

  Alec loosened his hold slightly and the Black stepped ahead of Napoleon. But the stallion didn’t pull away and Alec had no trouble keeping him to a walk while the long line of sixteen horses passed the stands. They turned around at the middle of the homestretch and came down again. This time they rounded the first turn at a lope and went toward the chute adjoining the backstretch where the race would begin.

  Alec didn’t watch the others. There were too many of them, both riders and horses. There was no strategy to be planned and executed in such a large field at so sh
ort a distance. As Henry had said, seven-eighths of a mile was no more than a long sprint, calling for sheer speed and little courage and stamina. Yet the purse was high. There were few richer sprints. That’s why there was a field of this size. Anything could happen in such a race and the money was not going begging.

  Henry had told him to go about his business, Alec recalled, and that’s all he could do. Get out in front as soon as possible and stay there. No holding back today. Nothing but speed.

  Alec continued rubbing the Black to quiet him. Henry kept them on the far outside of the banked turn, not wanting to look for trouble. Far up the line Casey was cantering.

  “The great Casey,” the man back on the rail had called him, and he was surely a good-looking horse today. His coat was as wet as the Black’s and shone golden in the sun, while his muscles slid gracefully beneath tightly drawn skin. He was turned out beautifully and there was no doubt that he was fit. He’d won five big races so far this season, all of them under high weight, and all in record time. Actually, Casey seemed to be getting stronger as the season’s campaign wore on. This was the first race in which he wasn’t carrying top weight.

  Alec turned away from Casey and looked across at Aqueduct’s infield, which had the greenest grass he’d ever seen. Unlike Belmont Park there was nothing planted here to obstruct the crowd’s view of the racing strip itself. Only a small lake and a few low and well-kept hedges dotted the grassy plot. The far stands were painted green. All in all everything looked cool, affording some relief on this very hot day.

  The horses turned up the chute at the head of the back-stretch and went to the seven-furlong pole where the starting gate awaited them. As Henry and Alec went behind it Henry said, “Well, here’s where I get off.” He glanced at Alec and then at the number 13 on his arm. “It’s a good thing we’re not superstitious,” he added.

  “Jet Pilot won the Kentucky Derby from the thirteenth box,” Alec reminded him.

  “Your memory is better than mine,” Henry said. “Luck to you, Alec.” He stayed there as if reluctant to leave until an assistant starter waved him off. It was the longest time Alec had known Henry to remain behind the gate and he wondered about it.