Son of the Black Stallion

by Walter Farley

  Satan, more burly than his famed sire, showed tremendous speed once he got under way, and it is likely that the giant black colt, owned by William Augustus Ramsay, will be capable of matching strides with Peter Boldt’s unbeaten and highly regarded Comet when they meet in the Hopeful two weeks hence.

  Piloted by Alec Ramsay, son of the owner and the kid who rode the Black in the Chicago match race, Satan broke alertly, but dropped back suddenly to last place as Cue, Skytracer and Whang, in that order, shot to the fore and opened up daylight over the field. After a couple of furlongs, Ramsay brought his giant colt up fast on the outside. Satan came down to the wire with terrific speed. He pulled up when Hine and Lauritzen, riding Cue and Skytracer, began fanning their mounts with their sticks, but then came on to win by two lengths.

  When Henry had finished reading, he turned to Alec. “Like Volence said,” he muttered, “we can’t have any pulling up in the Hopeful.”

  Nodding, Alec walked into the barn. He made his way quickly to Satan’s stall and moved in beside his colt. Satan nuzzled him, and Alec rubbed the horse between the eyes. Finally he said, “No more pulling up, Satan. You have nothing to be afraid of.… No one is going to use a stick on you.” Reaching up on the side of the stall, Alec grabbed one of the whips which Henry had put there. “Look, boy,” he said, holding the whip up to Satan, “you don’t have to be afraid of this.”

  Satan drew back at sight of the whip in Alec’s hand, but the boy held him, talking all the while, and finally the fear left the colt’s eyes. Alec moved the stick up beside his muzzle and gently rubbed it against the soft skin. “You won’t be hit with it again, Satan.… I promise you that,” he said. “You’ll see a lot of this in the next two weeks, boy … more than you ever did before … and you’ll get used to it.… So, when you run the Hopeful, there’ll be no pulling up, Satan … no pulling up.…”

  And Alec meant what he told Satan. The days that passed were more exacting for the boy than ever before. He spent long hours with Satan, and the stick was always a part of him. Alec carried it when he rode; he held it in his hand whenever he entered Satan’s stall; and very often he would rub the stick gently across the giant body. “Easy, boy. Easy,” he would say, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  And while it was exacting work for Alec, it was nerve-racking business for Henry. With intent but sober eyes he watched Alec attempt to undo the harm for which he alone had been responsible. “I taught it to him,” he would growl constantly. “It’s my fault, Alec. It’ll take months.… You can’t do it.…”

  But Henry’s pessimistic outlook only served to drive Alec to working harder with his horse. He spent more time in the stable than he did at home. His mother became really alarmed as Alec grew quieter than ever before, his young face heavy with concern. His father told him, “It’s just a horse race, Alec. Don’t let it get you so.”

  But he was wrong, for it was more than just a horse race to Alec.

  No longer did Alec ride unseen in the field. Curious throngs gathered outside the high iron-barred fence, their faces pressed hard against the bars hoping to see the horse which had received so much publicity since winning the Sanford.

  Unmindful of them, Alec continued to work his horse, fanning the stick alongside as he rode, noting the slightest swerve on Satan’s part. Over a week passed in this manner, and as the day of the Hopeful drew near, Alec told Henry, “He’ll do it.… He’s not swerving or pulling up any more. He’s ready, Henry.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Henry replied slowly. “I hope you’re right, Alec,” he repeated. His keen eyes swept over the horse, then he added, “You know him better’n anyone else … but good behavior now doesn’t absolutely mean that it’ll be the same under silks.”

  “I know, Henry … but he’ll do it for me. I’m sure he will.”

  As they left Satan’s stall Henry said, “Only three days to go now.”

  “Yes … three days,” Alec repeated quietly.

  Outside they sat down on the bench and relaxed under the rays of a hot noonday sun. Finally Henry pulled a newspaper from his pocket and said, “You knew Volence’s Desert Storm copped the Grand Union Hotel Stakes yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I’d heard,” Alec returned.

  “He beat a good field.… Only Boldt’s Comet was missing. He broke the track record, too,” Henry continued thoughtfully. Then, picking up the newspaper, he added, “Here’s what Jim Neville writes: ‘A six-furlong track record which had stood the test of twelve long years and the efforts of tons of high-class horseflesh was exploded at Belmont Park yesterday when Charles T. Volence’s Desert Storm made his debut to win the Grand Union Hotel Stakes in 1:104/5.’ ”

  His eyes looking toward the ground, Alec listened while Henry continued to read. Then when the old trainer neared the end of the column, Alec looked up as Henry said, “Get this, Alec.… Neville says here, ‘This great exhibition turned in by Volence’s small chestnut colt definitely established him as a top threat to Peter Boldt’s Comet in next Saturday’s running of the Hopeful. The Comet will have to be at his peak to win over Desert Storm, if yesterday’s race is any indication of the way Volence’s colt will run for the pot of gold on Saturday. Boldt’s gray favorite was a ball of fire during last winter’s racing in Florida, copping the four races he ran there and setting two track records. The Comet has been away from the races since then, but from all reports Boldt has him at his peak in anticipation of winning the Hopeful. Recognized also as a threat to both the Comet and Desert Storm is William Ramsay’s giant black colt, Satan, who won the Sanford two weeks ago.’ ”

  Alec said nothing until Henry had folded the newspaper and placed it in his pocket. Then, rising to his feet, Alec said, “Sounds like a good race, Henry.”

  “Yeah, mighty good,” the old trainer agreed, getting up from the bench.

  They were walking down the graveled driveway when Alec saw his father’s black sedan coming down the street. It stopped in front of the gate and Mr. Ramsay got out.

  “Something’s up,” Alec said. “He’s home in the middle of the day again.”

  “Couldn’t be another set of silks, could it?” Henry smiled.

  Mr. Ramsay called to them from the car, and as they approached, Alec saw that his father’s face was grave.

  “I’ve been summoned to appear before the stewards over at Belmont,” he told Alec. “You’re to go along, too.”

  “Y’mean they’ve called you up?” Henry asked, his brow furrowing. “What do they want?”

  “I was called at the office. The person on the telephone simply said that it was important that Alec and I appear at a two o’clock meeting,” Mr. Ramsay explained. “You know as much about it as I do,” he concluded.

  “Are we going now?” Alec asked, concerned.

  “Yes, get in the car, Alec.”

  “I’d better be going along, too,” Henry grunted. “If there’s any trouble, I want to be in on it.”

  As they climbed into the car, Alec turned to Henry. “You said trouble, Henry. What trouble could there be?”

  “I dunno,” the old trainer replied, as the car moved down the street. “But there has to be some trouble or you and your father wouldn’t be goin’ before the stewards.”

  Henry was right. Alec knew that as soon as they walked into the stewards’ office at the track. Three men sat behind a long rectangular table, awaiting them. And seated in a deep red-leather chair to one side of the stewards was Peter Boldt, his thin lips drawn back in a sickly smile.

  It was then that Boldt’s parting words of a few weeks before came sharply to Alec’s mind. “There’ll be no Hopeful for your horse,” he had said. “You won’t even race him again.”

  Henry, his face white with anger at sight of Boldt, had come to a stop a few feet in front of Alec. Mr. Ramsay hesitantly walked forward toward the stewards’ table. Alec saw that his father was groping for words. He didn’t belong here; his every movement disclosed it.

  One of
the stewards stood up. “Mr. William Augustus Ramsay?” he asked.

  Peter Boldt smirked when he became aware of Mr. Ramsay’s feeling of strangeness and discomfort. Obviously Mr. Ramsay didn’t like being called on the carpet. Then Boldt’s gaze caught Henry’s movement as his old employee moved toward him. The smirk left Boldt’s lips and he slid his chair closer to the stewards’ table.

  Alec was listening attentively to the gray-haired man behind the table who was speaking to his father. “Mr. Ramsay,” the man said slowly, “we regret to tell you that a charge has been made against you by Mr. Boldt.”

  Alec saw his father look quickly at Boldt, then back again at the man behind the table. He noticed, too, that his father was regaining his composure. There was a sharp ring to his voice as he asked, “What is the charge?”

  “Mr. Boldt has charged you with false registry of the black colt, Satan. He claims that your son Alec is the owner, and that you falsely registered the horse in your name so your son could ride him.” Pausing, the man riffled through some papers before him. “We have your original application for registry of the black colt sired by Shêtân out of Jôhar and bred by Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak of Arabia. We also have the colt’s pedigree as recorded in the Stud Book of Arabia. However, Mr. Boldt charges that the colt was sold to Alec Ramsay, your son, by Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak.” The gray-haired man glanced at Peter Boldt before continuing. “Mr. Boldt, as a licensed owner, has the right under the rules to raise an objection to any horse racing at this meeting. We, in turn, have the power to call for proof that a horse is neither itself disqualified in any respect, nor nominated by, nor the property, wholly or in part, of a disqualified person. In default of such proof being given to our satisfaction we can declare a horse disqualified.”

  As the man paused, Alec’s gaze turned to Peter Boldt. There was nothing to fear now, Alec thought. They had proof that he had sold Satan to his father, and Satan would run in the Hopeful! Henry’s eyes met Alec’s and he nodded his head approvingly.

  The gray-haired man was talking again. “Mr. Boldt has provided us with true copies of the transfer of ownership of the black colt referred to from Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak to Alec Ramsay. Mr. Ramsay, we would like to see evidence that the colt Satan was your property at date of registry, and proof that he does not belong to your son Alec as Mr. Boldt charges.”

  Alec saw his father’s unwavering eyes leave the man behind the desk and come to rest upon Boldt. Slowly he said, “The evidence is at my home. I have a bill of sale to prove that the colt rightfully belongs to me and that I did not falsify the registration.” Mr. Ramsay turned back to the steward. “When shall I bring the evidence?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock,” the man said. “If you can produce proof of ownership at that time the charges will be dismissed. If not, I’m afraid that we must bar the colt from racing again at this meeting.”

  “I’ll have the evidence here at eleven,” Mr. Ramsay promised.

  After they had left the room Henry said, “I’d like to stay here and wait for Boldt.”

  “You’d better come along with us, Henry,” Alec returned. “It won’t do any good to beat him up.”

  “It would do me a lot of good,” Henry grunted. “He picked up all this nonsense about you not owning Satan when he walked into your house that day and tried to buy Satan from your father, who told him he wouldn’t sell before talkin’ to you ’cause Satan was your horse.”

  “Let Satan lick his horse in the Hopeful … that’ll be worse than anything you can do with your hands, Henry,” Alec said.

  They were at the head of the stairs, with Henry still insistent upon waiting for Boldt, when Mr. Ramsay said soberly, “I’d rather have you come along and help me look for the bill of sale, Henry.”

  As one, they turned to him with anxious eyes.

  “Dad,” Alec said quickly. “You mean you don’t know exactly where it is?”

  Mr. Ramsay avoided their eyes. “I had it in the safe deposit box until a few weeks ago, when Satan won the Sanford,” he explained slowly. “Then I took it out to show it to some of the boys at the office. They didn’t think I owned him, you see,” he added with attempted lightness. “I remember putting it in my pocket afterward and going home, so I must have it somewhere in the house. I can’t remember just where, though.… I was looking for it last evening.”

  “And you didn’t find it.…” Henry said.

  “Dad,” Alec asked pleadingly, “did you ask Mom?… She always knows where things are.”

  Mr. Ramsay shook his head. “No,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to yet.” Pausing, he added, “Yes, Alec, I’m sure you’re right.… She’ll know where it is.”

  “Somebody better know where it is,” Henry said, as he led the way down the stairs. “Somebody’s got to know where it is by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  It was after three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived home. Alec and Henry were out of the car before Mr. Ramsay had brought it completely to a stop. As they reached the porch Alec stopped and, turning in his tracks, yelled to his father, “Which suit were you wearing, Dad?”

  “The blue one,” Mr. Ramsay shouted back as he stepped from the car. “The blue serge … but it isn’t there, Alec. I’ve looked. It must be somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere else.” Henry grunted as he ran up the porch steps behind Alec. “A house with six rooms an’ an attic, an’ it’s somewhere else.”

  Alec and Henry had gone through the blue serge suit and were cleaning out the pockets of Mr. Ramsay’s other suits, when Alec’s mother entered the bedroom.

  “Alec! What on earth are you doing?” she asked anxiously.

  “The paper, Mom. Dad’s lost it.” Then, as Alec saw the bewilderment in her eyes, he explained, “The bill of sale I gave Dad, when I sold him the colt.”

  “Oh, I know where it is,” she said, smiling.

  Alec and Henry turned toward her, their faces brightening.

  Then she said, “He keeps it in his safe deposit vault, Alec. He told me it was very valuable and he didn’t want to lose it. You know how he misplaces everything,” she concluded.

  Heaviness enshrouded their faces again. “Yes, Mom, I know,” Alec said slowly. “That’s just it.… He’s lost it. He took it out of the box.”

  There was a short bark and a pattering of feet. Sebastian entered the room and went to Alec. The boy rubbed the dog’s head, but his eyes were still upon his mother.

  Henry said, “Now, Mrs. Ramsay, if he brought it home and put it down, where do you think he’d put it?”

  Mrs. Ramsay shook her head as she answered, “Henry, if you’d ever lived with him, you wouldn’t ask that. He’d be apt to put it down anywhere in the house.”

  “ ‘Anywhere in the house,’ ” Henry repeated, grimacing. “Well, let’s go, because we’ve got to find it.”

  As Henry went back to the job of searching the closet, Alec told his mother, “We’ve got to find it, Mom, or Satan won’t be able to run in the Hopeful.”

  “You mean,” his mother said slowly, “that you won’t be able to race if you don’t find the paper?”

  Alec nodded, then turned to help Henry.

  The afternoon passed as they meticulously searched every room without finding any trace of the paper. Tony had been called in as he was passing by, and the huckster had eagerly joined in the search.

  “We need every pair of eyes we can get,” Henry told Tony. “Good or bad.”

  “I’ma good man with the eyes,” Tony returned seriously.

  “Take the attic then,” Henry said. “We ain’t looked up there yet.”

  “I never go in the attic,” Mr. Ramsay interrupted soberly.

  “Better look anyway,” Henry told Tony. “C’mon, Alec, let’s go through the bureaus again. It’s after seven now.”

  “I’ll pull up the chair seats again,” Mr. Ramsay said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “It just may have slid out of my pocket.”
/>   As Alec and Henry climbed the stairs, Mrs. Ramsay called to them. “Don’t you want dinner? You must be hungry.”

  “I couldn’t eat, Mom,” Alec replied.

  Henry said, “You might do me a favor, Mrs. Ramsay, by callin’ the missis and tellin’ her I won’t be home until late.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Henry,” Mrs. Ramsay answered. “How late shall I tell her you’ll be?”

  “Not until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, if we don’t find that paper,” Henry said, following Alec up the stairs.

  The search went on as the hands in the hall clock climbed to midnight and then began descending. Mr. Ramsay insisted upon his wife’s going to bed at two o’clock; then, an hour later, he and Tony fell asleep sitting on the living-room couch.

  It was after four o’clock and the sky was tinged with the gray light of dawn when Alec and Henry walked heavily out onto the porch and sat down on the steps.

  “Just a few minutes’ rest … then we’ll go at it again,” Henry said.

  “Do you think it’s any use?” Alec asked. “We’ve been over the house at least fifty times.”

  “What else is there to do?” Henry asked.

  “He might never have brought it home. He might have lost it.”

  “We could try the newspapers,” Henry suggested.

  “No,” Alec said. “It’s too late to make the morning papers.” He looked at his wrist watch. “We have only six hours to go, Henry.”

  Henry was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, “We might ask him about the boys in his office … the ones he showed it to. Maybe they’ve got it, not knowin’ how important it is.”

  “He said he’s sure he had it with him when he left the office,” Alec returned.

  “I wish he was sure he knew what he did with it,” Henry mumbled, discouragement in his voice.

  Alec allowed his head to fall back against the porch post. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, then struggled to open them again. Slowly he turned toward Henry. His friend’s head was resting heavily upon his knees. Alec closed his eyes again. Just a few minutes’ sleep was all he wanted … just a few minutes.… Then they’d have to look for the paper again.… They had to find it before eleven.… That paper … that silly little paper couldn’t keep Satan out of the Hopeful … a paper that had only cost his father a dollar … just one dollar … and ahead of them, two days off, was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar race.… But the money wasn’t important … ahead of them was Boldt’s Comet.… Satan had to pass him, had to beat the gray.