Son of the Black Stallion

by Walter Farley

  Satan crabstepped lightly down the track as Alec gave him his head a little. Alec knew that the horse was eager to run, but his hands on the reins remained firm. Henry wanted him to work Satan slowly tonight except for the short breeze of a furlong … an eighth of a mile to let Satan run! … And even then he was to hold him in. “No faster than fifteen seconds, Alec, mind you,” Henry had instructed him. “We’ll see how he takes to these short furlong breezes before we work him faster or longer. I know it’s not goin’ to be easy holdin’ him down, with him wantin’ to run like he does. But you do it, do it the best you can, and it’ll pay dividends later on. We’ve got time, Alec … we’ve got time. Remember that.”

  Satan shook his head continually and pulled at his bit as Alec took him slowly around the track at a jog. And when they had reached the gap again, Alec’s hands and arms were tired from the constant pull over every inch of the way they had traveled.

  “Take him up,” Henry called, “an’ breeze him the furlong, finishing here. Mind you, Alec, hold him in. Keep it fifteen seconds or over, but no faster.” Henry flourished a stop watch in his hand.

  Turning Satan around, Alec went back past the stands. Satan was getting hot, working himself up again, and Alec knew Henry wasn’t going to like it. Stroking his horse, he tried to quiet him.

  Finally they neared the furlong pole and Alec guided Satan over to the rail. “Keep him goin’ straight an’ on the rail,” Henry had told him.

  He took Satan a short distance past the pole and then turned him around. The colt’s body trembled with eagerness as Alec slackened the reins. He held him to a slow gallop until they hit the pole, then gave him more rein.

  Gathering himself, Satan bolted forward, gradually picking up speed. Alec held him in, but even so he knew in those few seconds that Satan would never have the fast break of the Black, and that it would take a short distance for the burly horse really to get going.

  Like a burr, Alec bent low over the black neck as Satan fought for his head. The white fence went by with ever increasing speed as Satan stretched out. The wind whipped Alec’s face scarlet and blurred his eyes so that he could not see. He pulled hard on the reins and repeatedly called upon Satan to slow down. This was to be no fifteen-second furlong breeze. He knew that! Satan was flying, the bit clenched between his teeth.

  Desperately Alec fought his horse, but he was no match for the running colt. They swept by the gap in the fence, their speed so great that the white blur seemingly was unbroken.

  And it wasn’t until they had rounded the first turn that Alec felt any response to the reins or his repeated calls to Satan. Gradually the black colt slowed down, but he still fought for his head. Alec talked to him while holding the reins back, and finally, after they had gone another quarter, brought him to a stop.

  When they returned, Alec said, “I couldn’t hold him, Henry. I tried.…”

  “I know you couldn’t,” the old trainer replied, as he ran his hands down Satan’s legs. Finally he straightened and watched Satan’s breathing for a minute. “Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he got it out of his system for a while. Sometimes a trainer has to realize that it’s time to throw all the rules overboard … an’ I guess this is it.”

  Napoleon neighed as Tony led him out onto the track. Satan turned toward him and snorted.

  “What’s next?” Alec asked.

  “I want you to jog Satan down the line with Napoleon on the outside. Keep the colt close to the rail. Then we’ll alternate by putting Satan on the outside. The idea is to teach Satan to run close to the rail and away from it, when necessary.”

  Alec sat astride Satan and waited on the track while Henry helped Tony climb up on old Napoleon’s back. Tony had no saddle or bridle, and as he settled low into the gray’s swayback, Alec smiled. For never, he was sure, had such a pair trod the famous Belmont track.

  Tony’s face was very serious as he held the rope fastened to Napoleon’s halter. The old gray trotted heavily, then broke into a lope of his own accord, his head held high, as he passed in front of the empty stands.

  Turning Satan around, Alec waited for them. As they approached, the colt snorted and pawed the ground. But Napoleon, surprisingly calm, never turned his head from the grandstand.

  Laboriously, Tony turned Napoleon around and brought him closer to Satan as he stood beside the rail.

  Alec felt Satan’s body tremble, and he knew his colt wanted to fight. “You’re silly, boy,” Alec said softly. “You can’t pick on an old guy like Napoleon.”

  Then Henry was on the track, signaling them to come down.

  “Okay, Tony, let’s go,” Alec said.

  Nodding, but saying nothing, Tony urged Napoleon into a trot with Satan running close beside him. They went down the stretch with Alec more concerned about keeping Satan from savaging Napoleon than holding his horse to the rail. But the old gray was completely oblivious of any danger to himself as he loped heavily along, his head held higher than Alec had ever seen it.

  They passed Henry and trotted around the track, alternating their positions every furlong, as the old trainer had instructed them to do. And as they went along Tony’s face lightened, and occasionally he would grin at Alec and shout something in Italian.

  But as they entered the homestretch again, Alec’s face was grave, for it was becoming more and more difficult to keep Satan away from the plodding Napoleon. Alec worked on his horse, talked to him, patted him. Satan had to get used to having other horses near him or his speed would be of no use to them whatsoever.

  They were nearing Henry once more, when Satan, with a fierce cry, turned upon Napoleon. Alec was ready for the lunge, and struck his horse upon the muzzle as Satan went for old Napoleon’s neck. Tony, too, had seen the colt swerve toward them, and with a shout he pulled Napoleon’s head away from Satan.

  It was over in a minute. Satan bolted at Alec’s blow upon his muzzle and he swept hard against the rail; then Henry was there and had him by the bridle. Satan, fearing Henry, stood still, but his eyes were wild and furious. Tony was off Napoleon, and his hands passed gently over the old gray’s neck.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Henry said.

  Dismounting, Alec took Satan’s bridle from Henry. “I’ll take him to the van. You’d better calm Tony down.… He’s plenty excited.”

  After Henry had left, Alec walked Satan slowly down the track, talking to him. By the time Alec led him into the van, the fire had left Satan’s eyes. A few minutes later, Henry brought Napoleon inside.

  “He didn’t bite him, did he?” Alec asked anxiously.

  “No.”

  “How’s Tony taking it?”

  “Better’n I thought he would,” Henry replied. “He mumbled something about the colt being excited. Strange, coming from him.”

  “Yes … sure is,” agreed Alec.

  “We’ve got a job bringing this colt around. You know that, Alec.”

  “I know.”

  “You still want to enter him in the Hopeful? Entries close next month.”

  Nodding, Alec said, “He’ll be ready, Henry.”

  “I hope so, ’cause it’s your money, Alec, an’ I’d hate to see you lose it,” Henry said as he left the van.

  Alec turned to Satan to find him gazing at old Napoleon with curious eyes. “You’ll have to learn to get along with him, Satan … with him and other horses,” he said. “You’ve just got to do it, if you’re going to race.”

  Satan snorted as the van’s engine caught, and they moved slowly away in the night.

  FANNING STICKS

  15

  Autumn fell before winter, and winter slid into spring, while Satan’s training went on. He was a two-year-old now, larger and burlier than any horse Henry had ever seen in his long career. “But he’s got the speed in spite of his bulk,” he told Alec.

  Yes, after many months of work on the track, Alec knew his horse could run. But neither he nor Henry knew how fast Satan could really run, for the old trainer had insisted up
on Alec’s holding him in as well as he could, never letting the giant black colt have his head. And Satan wanted to run. Every time Alec took the colt out on the track, he had a fight on his hands. But for some reason which even Alec couldn’t explain, the colt never gave way completely to the eagerness which swept his massive body when Alec called upon him to check his speed.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Henry told him. “Satan is the most obstinate, ugliest-tempered horse I’ve ever seen, yet he’s been givin’ in to you more times than not.”

  They had continued to work Satan at night, knowing full well that the colt could not yet be trusted with other horses. But, much to their surprise, Satan’s attitude toward Napoleon became more casual, and never again did he attempt to savage the old gray when he worked with him. Tony’s attitude, too, surprised both Henry and Alec, for the little huckster, after first vigorously objecting to their using Napoleon again, finally relented; and when one workout followed another and the black colt still ignored Napoleon, Tony relaxed and seemed to enjoy the night sessions as much as his old gray horse did.

  With the coming of spring, Satan’s workouts were stepped up until he was doing a fast half mile and then galloping out another half under wraps. And as the weeks of fast workouts swept by, Henry watched Satan with keen, eager eyes to make sure he was not asking too much of the black colt. What he saw pleased him, for he knew the two-year-old was fining down well and would be at his best by the end of August, when the Hopeful was run. Yes, physically the colt would be ready. But whether Alec would be able to control him when he lined up with strange horses was another story.

  It was early June when Henry called an end to Satan’s night workouts. “He’s ready, Alec,” the old trainer said one day as they sat outside the barn, watching Satan in the field. “No sense workin’ him any more at night. What we’ve got to do now is to get him used to havin’ other horses around. There’s no sense puttin’ it off any longer.… Only about two months now before Hopeful time.”

  “I know, Henry,” Alec said quietly. Then he added, “He feels less nervous to me, and seems to be doing what I ask of him. Maybe he’ll get along.”

  “He’s got to,” muttered Henry, “… or there’s no sense in your puttin’ out your good money to keep him eligible.… It’s cost you a hundred bucks already.”

  “Another hundred is due the fifteenth of this month, too,” Alec reminded him.

  “You got it?” And when Alec nodded, Henry asked, “An’ how about the five hundred needed to start him in the race.… Y’got that, too?”

  “Just about, Henry … but I wouldn’t have if you weren’t paying the feed bills.”

  “That’s nothin’,” Henry grunted. Then he said, “Y’oughta let me help you pay these entry fees.… It ain’t right for you to be shoulderin’ the whole works.”

  “No, Henry, I want it that way,” Alec said decisively. “When Dad sent in Satan’s nomination for the Hopeful he wanted to pay, but I wouldn’t let him.… I wouldn’t feel right. I’ve figured on it for a long time, you know.”

  Henry was silent for a few minutes, then he said, “All the more reason for us to find out how Satan acts with other horses soon. If he won’t run with ’em, we’d better pull out of the Hopeful now before you shell out any more money.”

  “He’ll run,” was all Alec said.

  They both settled back on the bench, alone with their thoughts. After a few minutes, Alec dug into his watch pocket, withdrawing a folded newspaper clipping. He was reading it when Henry said, “I was talkin’ to some of the boys over at Belmont the other afternoon. They’d seen Boldt’s Comet cop those two-year-old races down in Florida last winter. He broke the track record first time out, y’know. These friends of mine say he’s well-lined an’ fast as any sprinter they ever saw, an’ they didn’t make no exceptions. Boldt’s got the best horse he’s ever had, they tell me.”

  “It says so here, too,” Alec said, his gaze turning back to the newspaper clipping. “I’ve been carrying it around for months, thinking it would cool me down when I got too excited over Satan winning the Hopeful. It’s Jim Neville’s column, and he knows his horses, Henry.”

  “Yeah, he knows ’em, all right. He oughta be trainin’ horses instead of writin’ about ’em.”

  Alec read for a moment and then said, “He says here that the Comet was loafing when he broke the record, too.” Alec read slowly: “The Comet, a beautiful gray colt which Peter Boldt bred out of his English mare, Lady, and sired by his famed champion, Shooting Star, made his long-awaited debut in the six-furlong fifth dash for two-year-olds at Hialeah Park this afternoon, and broke the race record as he won, eased up, by a half-dozen lengths. Observers immediately proclaimed the flying son of Shooting Star and Lady as a sharp prospect to win the much prized Hopeful next August.…” Alec stopped reading and looked up at Henry.

  “Then he won his next two races in Florida just as easily,” Henry reminded Alec.

  “But he hasn’t run since, has he, Henry?”

  The old trainer shook his head. “No. Boldt knows what he can do now, an’ he’ll sit back and wait for the Hopeful.”

  “How about Volence?” Alec asked. “Have you heard anything about his two-year-olds?”

  “Yeah. There was some talk about one of his, a chestnut that he’s callin’ Desert Storm, that he’s bringin’ along. Volence takes his time, though. He doesn’t run ’em early like Boldt does. I heard from one guy that Volence has entered Desert Storm in the Hopeful, too.… He also told me that Volence is goin’ to run him in an early race durin’ the meetin’. I think it was the Union Hotel Stakes.… It comes off about a week before the Hopeful.”

  “Then we’ll have a good chance of finding out what he’s got,” Alec said.

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed. After a long pause, he said, “We know the Comet has speed … that he’s a sprinter, Alec. An’ remember the Hopeful is only a six-furlong-and-a-half race.…”

  “A little over three-quarters of a mile,” muttered Alec.

  “Yeah … and Satan hasn’t the fastest break I’ve ever seen.”

  “But he gathers fast, Henry, once he’s going,” Alec said.

  “Sure, I know … an’ he oughta be able to catch any horse runnin’. Even at six furlongs,” Henry concluded.

  They had sat back in their seats and were quiet again when Henry mumbled, “Well, that’s not our immediate problem, anyway. What we got to do is to see if Satan is goin’ to run or fight.”

  “When are we going over, Henry?”

  The old trainer rose to his feet, and he turned to look out over the field before replying. “An old pal of mine got in at Belmont a few days ago with a horse he’s gettin’ ready for the Hopeful. Mike said it would be all right if I worked our horse with his, so I told him maybe tomorrow mornin’. Guess we might as well get right to it, Alec.… No sense puttin’ it off any longer.”

  “Yes, Henry,” Alec returned quietly. “No sense in doing that.”

  It was still dark the following morning when Alec met Henry at the barn. The old trainer had the van and was waiting for him.

  “Hurry it up, Alec,” Henry said. “It’ll be light in another half hour, and they’ll be working at Belmont.”

  Running into the barn, Alec reached Satan’s stall. The giant black colt neighed when he saw him and shook his tousled head. A few minutes later, Alec had him out of his stall and was leading him toward the barn door. Satan turned his head toward Napoleon as the old gray watched them go by.

  “Not this morning, Nap,” Alec muttered. “Satan goes without you today.”

  The sun was up, warming the cool gray of early morning, when they arrived at the track. Alec found Belmont a far cry from the place they had visited nightly for so many months. There was much activity now as the shouts of men shattered the still air, and already the rhythmic hoofbeats of galloping horses were heard upon the track.

  They could smell the fragrant wood smoke burning in the iron stoves as the van neared th
e long rows of racing stables.

  “We’ve got to go all the way to the end,” Henry muttered, turning the van down a graveled road running behind the stables.

  They were going slowly now, and Alec’s eyes were upon the sleek thoroughbreds as their grooms led them about. Some of them had already finished their morning workouts and were being cooled off beneath colorful blankets, while still others danced nervously as they were being saddled to go out, their exercise boys standing quietly beside them, waiting to be boosted upon their backs. A strong scent of liniment pervaded the air.

  Alec looked at Satan through the back window. The colt’s ears were pricked and his eyes wide and staring as the strange sounds and the neighing of horses reached him. “He’s getting excited,” Alec told Henry.

  Henry only nodded, slowing the van down as they neared the last row of sheds. He turned the corner and they passed the stalls, most of which were empty. Finally, at the end of the row, Henry brought the van to a stop a few yards away from two grooms who were saddling a good-looking bay colt.

  “That’s Mike’s horse,” Henry said. “Mike oughta be around somewhere.” Shutting off the engine, he glanced in the direction of the stalls.

  Alec listened to the grooms humming to the flighty two-year-old as they saddled him. The bay colt had good lines and looked as though he had speed as well. A stocky little man with a wizened face came around the corner. “Is that Mike?” Alec asked Henry.

  The old trainer shook his head. “No,” he replied, “that’s Mike’s jock, Lenny Sansone. He’s been ridin’ for Mike for years. Len worked in a chemical plant over in Brooklyn when Mike picked him up after Lenny had been spending all his early mornings around the track. He’s a great guy, an’ you’ll like him,” Henry added. “There aren’t many jocks who can exercise horses as well as race ’em, but Lenny is one of them. He follows Mike’s instructions to the letter, an’ tells him exactly how his horse reacts to his works. Lots of other jocks, who are good in the afternoon silks, are no good in the morning works, because they want to win races then, too. An’ lots of times it’s no good for the horses or the trainer’s nerves.”