Henry said, “We’ll just keep giving him long, slow works for the time being. If he continues to go well, as we hope he will, and his condition is as good as it should be, he’ll race. Otherwise, he’ll stay in the barn and we’ll have spent a nice quiet winter in sunny Florida. As you said before, that’s not too bad.”
The old man put his arm around Alec’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, hoping to cheer up his young friend. “You’ll get your race yet. I know how you feel.”
Alec turned away, trying to conceal his disappointment.
Watching him, Henry wondered if he really did understand Alec’s mounting impatience to race the Black. Alec lived in a different world, one that he himself had not known in a long time and one he would have completely forgotten had it not been for their close friendship.
“Alec,” he said, peering at the youth from beneath his heavy brows, “maybe we can race the Black sooner than I thought. And why don’t you read the rest of that letter you got? What else does that young fellow have to say, anyway?”
Alec said nothing for a moment. He just watched as his old friend stood there, fretting and massaging his cheeks with one hand. Then, “You mean you really want to know?” he asked.
“Sure,” Henry said, a slight, patient smile crossing his face. “Maybe we, I mean you, can give him a hand at that. Maybe it’ll even do you some good to have a young fellow around … one with a problem, I mean.”
When Alec’s hand went to his pocket for the letter, the Black Stallion bent his long, graceful neck, his nostrils quivering and sniffing.
Alec told him, “I have no carrots, not now.”
The Black remained still, his long tail swishing contentedly but not a muscle moving beneath his velvet-soft coat. His gaze had turned to the open doorway and, with his ears cocked, he was listening to low-pitched sounds from the stable area.
Alec’s eyes remained on him. Never was there a more magnificent horse than his own. He was a perfect specimen, perfectly balanced, perfectly muscled. And he was as intelligent as he was well-made.
Alec returned to the letter and read to Henry, “.… I must convince you that this letter is different from the others. The only way I know how is to tell you what I’ve never told anyone else, not my mother or father or closest friends. Even if I did I don’t think they’d believe me. Neither will you, perhaps—yet I hope it will surprise you enough to see me.”
Henry said, “Pretty dramatic, isn’t he?”
Alec glanced up. “He sounds pretty serious to me.”
“Yeah, I know,” Henry said. “Go on.”
“I have a horse …”
“That’s a relief,” Henry interrupted again. “At least he doesn’t need our help in getting a horse. That’s different from most of the others for sure.”
Alec’s eyes didn’t leave the letter.
“His name is Flame,” he read. “I think he is the fastest runner in the world!”
“That’s good,” Henry said. “Everybody’s horse should be the fastest in the world.”
“Faster than the Black.”
“That’s new,” Henry said. “Your fans usually don’t go so far as to say that.”
“Not long ago I clocked him a mile in 1:34.”
“He almost broke the world’s record,” Henry said, smiling. “He must have been carrying an alarm clock.”
“Over a turf course,” Alec went on.
“That makes it real wild,” Henry said, grinning broadly now. “What an imagination this fellow’s got!” He started for the stall door. “You’ve got an imagination to match his, Alec. You better finish reading it yourself. My mind’s too lazy to keep up with stories like that.”
“I want to race my horse at Hialeah,” Alec read quickly before Henry could leave. “Will you help me?”
Henry had reached the doorway, but now he turned around. He said nothing. He just laughed, and his laughter could be heard long after he’d left the stall and was on his way down the shed row.
Alone, Alec re-read the letter. A fellow by the name of Steve Duncan owned a horse named Flame, a horse he claimed could run a mile in world record time. He wanted help in getting him to Hialeah to race.
It sounded pretty fantastic, except that Alec well recalled his own beginning with the Black. That, too, had been hard to believe. Such a story as Steve Duncan’s demanded an imaginative effort which Henry did not care to extend. It was different with Alec. His mind was not lazy. He looked forward to meeting Steve Duncan and his horse Flame.
THE VISITOR
2
Alec snapped the lead shank to the Black’s halter. He never liked to keep his horse in a stall too long. The Black was a lover of freedom. He thrived best on the blowing wind and green grass.
“Easy,” Alec said. The Black was already on his toes, knowing where he was being taken. As he left the stall, the sun brought out the highlights of his finely brushed coat. There was no fat on him. Nor did he look drawn, creased, or worn-out. There was a sharpness and spring to every movement that matched the alertness in his eyes. Alec knew he was in perfect racing condition regardless of what Henry had told him.
They walked through the quiet area, many of the stabled horses snorting and whinnying as they went by. Alec would have liked to walk every horse there. If all of them had the opportunity to pick grass in the open air, they’d be less likely to turn sour and sulk. As it was, most of the horses were kept in their stalls except when they were on the track and, as a result, were either too nervous or bad-natured.
Alec would have preferred turning the Black loose in an open paddock as he and Henry had done at Belmont Park in New York. But letting him graze on a lead shank was the best that could be done in Hialeah’s cramped stable area.
The Black walked on long, springy pasterns, his legs set well beneath him. Suddenly, he bolted forward as if wanting to be free. Alec spoke to him and he stopped, cocking his small ears and listening. Then he whinnied in reply, his long nostrils distended, his eyes bold. The Black was well loved by Alec and he knew it.
Alec thought he had the sharpest horse in the world, and he was anxious to take on all those who would challenge his championship crown. As the veterinarian had said, “I don’t mean the Black is just racing sound, Alec. He’s completely sound.”
Henry had been almost convinced by those words. Almost, but not quite. Henry was a worrier. Henry never had intended to race the Black this winter, Alec was certain. But their horse had gotten so tight at Hialeah that the wisest thing to do was to race him. Otherwise, they might get into real trouble. Like a drum or a bow, a horse would break if drawn too tight. There had to be some release.
The Black had been away from the races a long time now. But Alec had only to look at him to know he had not forgotten how it had been. There was no doubt in Alec’s mind that a noticeable change had come over his horse once he had achieved success on the racetrack. Perhaps it was the roar of the crowd, or the rush of other horses alongside. Whatever had accounted for it, it had happened. And if Alec had anything to say about it, not only the public but he, too, would thrill again to the Black’s closing rushes down the home-stretch. It was time his horse went after championship honors once more. Hialeah, early in the new year, was a good place to start.
At a grassy area near the outside fence, he let the Black graze. But his thoughts turned to Henry again, for it was the trainer who would decide if the Black was to race. To most people his old friend was the hardhearted horse trader of legend, but Alec knew that deep within Henry was still pretty much of a country boy, shy and warm, loving both horses and people. Henry had earned his reputation for toughness in his dealings with other horsemen, who were also tops in their business. You never fooled any of the old professionals twice. You never got the chance.
Henry had said a little while ago that they might race the Black sooner than he’d thought. That was good enough for the time being. Now there would be more meaning to their morning gallops.
; Alec turned back to his horse. Something had disturbed him, for he had stopped grazing and his head was raised. His nostrils quivered, and there was a nervous twitching of his ears. A sudden gust of wind riffled his mane and tail.
Just looking at him gave Alec a queer feeling in his stomach. It had been that way from the very beginning. Like a lot of other things, there was no use trying to explain his feelings to anyone else. It just happened, when you had a great horse. The power in the Black was unbelievable, but you had to be on his back really to appreciate it. He always seemed to be running beautifully. Then, suddenly, he would take off and stretch out until you were sure you were flying! Unless you rode him you couldn’t know the feeling, and that was why Alec couldn’t explain the way he felt about the Black to anyone.
“What is it?” Alec asked his horse.
The Black’s nostrils continued working, sniffing the upwind, inhaling and exhaling without snorting or whinnying. The stable area was silent but the moving air carried some sort of news to him.
“What is it?” Alec asked again.
The Black had been born free, so Alec knew better than to discount his natural instincts. He was all stallion—strong, arrogant and, at times, very savage and cunning. He continued searching the air for some kind of scent.
Alec turned with his horse, surveying the solitude of the stable area and finding nothing. He looked again at the Black, becoming a little uneasy, for it had been a long time since he had seen his horse act quite like this.
The stallion’s eyes, large and black and brilliant, were unmoving, and the air about him seemed to come alive with invisible fire.
Alec spoke to him softly.
The Black began to breathe harder, the sides of his chest moving in and out faster and deeper while Alec talked to him. He seemed to be listening to what Alec had to say, for one sharp ear was turned toward him while the other remained pricked in the direction of the barns.
Alec, still talking to him, gave the lead shank another twist.
With head raised high, the Black continued to survey the area. Then, suddenly, his nostrils turned slightly red as he blew them out, snorting. His great eyes bulged from their sockets, all thunder and flame, and his lips were drawn back, disclosing raking teeth.
The quiet of the stable area was shattered as he screamed his high-pitched clarion call. It was a wild, shrill whistle, the savage challenge of one stallion to another!
When the sound of it died down, there was no answer to his sudden, unaccountable challenge. A few of the stabled horses snorted, but they did so more in fear than in acceptance of a battle, for their lives were completely domestic. None bore the scars of battle as did the Black. It had never been their lot to fight in a contest of strength or in anger or jealousy.
Alec waited for his horse to plunge forward as he was sure he must after uttering such a wild scream. He braced himself, snubbing the end of the long shank around his body. But the Black never moved. His gaze remained fixed on a distant row of stables.
Yet nothing happened. No one moved. No one came. The minutes passed, then finally the Black tossed his head and uttered a high, bugling snort. When there was still no answer, he seemed to lose interest entirely. Quickly, he lowered his head and began snipping the grass again with his sharp teeth.
“Never a dull moment with you,” Alec said, grinding his teeth. “Never.”
What had caused such a commotion? he wondered. For a few minutes the Black had become all stallion, a herd stallion, ready to defend his mares against another stallion.
Snorting, the Black raised his head again. This time there was somebody coming toward them. From a distance the youth appeared tall but as he got closer Alec saw that he was no taller than himself. It was his slimness—for he was almost all skin and bones—which gave the illusion of height. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie.
He came directly toward them, and the Black watched him all the while, his nostrils blown out and working again. When the youth stopped before them, he said, “You’re Alec Ramsay. I wrote you a letter. I’m Steve Duncan.”
“I guessed as much,” Alec said. The boy’s hair was coal-black and brushed, as slick as the rest of him.
A baffled expression came over the youth’s face. “How come?” he asked.
“I wasn’t expecting any other visitor,” Alec said. “And I’d just finished reading your letter. How’d you get through the barn gate?”
“I told the guard I was the son of an owner.”
“Yes,” Alec said, quietly. “You could be.”
Suddenly, Steve Duncan’s black eyes were flashing fire. “The next time,” he said, “it will be different. I won’t have to lie to get in here.” His tanned skin was stretched tight over the bones of his face.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Alec said, surprised by the other’s outburst. He found himself enjoying Steve Duncan’s intentness, his ingenuity, even his excitability. It was a nice change after dealing with Henry all morning.
“The next time I come,” the youth went on, “everybody will be glad to see me. I’ll bring Flame and …”
“Sure,” Alec said, interrupting. “But the first thing you’ve got to learn is not to get so excited.”
“I don’t get excited, not when I’m riding,” the other answered quickly.
“It’s nice to keep your mind on it all the time,” Alec said.
“I’ll do okay,” Steve returned. There was no cockiness in his voice, just self-assurance.
“It takes a long time to become a race-rider,” Alec said.
“Not in my case,” Steve answered.
Alec looked at him in surprise, but the youth had turned to the Black, who was still watching him.
“It’s almost as if he knows you,” Alec said. “He doesn’t usually act this way with strangers.”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen him except on television,” Steve said.
“He has a keener sense of smell than most horses,” Alec said. “Maybe it’s something on you.”
Steve Duncan laughed, completely relaxed for the first time. “Maybe so. I got all spit-and-polished to come out here. It could be the hair tonic.”
“It could be,” Alec said, “but it isn’t. It’s something else.”
The Black was cool and collected, but there was no doubt he had picked up the faintest whiff of a familiar scent from Steve Duncan. What it was, was anybody’s guess.
“Is your horse a stallion?” Alec asked.
“Very much so,” Steve answered.
The Black’s foretop fell in his eyes and he tossed his head to get rid of it. He pulled on the lead shank, balking a little when Alec tried to straighten him out.
“Is he sound?” Steve asked.
“He’s doing fine,” Alec said. “I give him fourteen to sixteen quarts of oats a day and his feed tub is as shiny as a new quarter when he’s finished.”
“I mean in the head?”
“He’s sound in the head, too,” Alec answered, smiling a little, and wondering what had prompted such a question.
“Do you ever trust him to anyone else?” Steve asked.
“Seldom. You can’t push him at all. He’ll strike back every time.”
“It must be rough working around him,” Steve said.
“No, we just have to be a little careful. Usually, it’s about little things, like a coarse brush. He hates it. Sometimes he shoots out when I’m even using a fine brush, but the good thing about it is that he doesn’t aim any more. He just lets you know he doesn’t like it.”
Alec rubbed his right knee and added, “He caught me this morning but not intentionally. He was just playing and, luckily, he didn’t hit me square or he would have broken the cap.”
Steve said, “He must have some disposition … like a bull.”
“He’s rugged and in good health, if that’s what you mean.”
“I guess you could race him anywhere,” Steve replied. “I mean any track in the country would make room for hi
m.”
“We go where the racing suits him,” Alec admitted. “But you’re right. All we’ve got to do is pick up a phone and tell them we’re coming. We don’t have any trouble getting stall space, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s tough getting a stall here, isn’t it?”
“It’s not easy,” Alec said, studying the boy’s face, for he knew they were slowly getting around to the purpose of his visit. “Hialeah is the only major racetrack in the East operating during January and February. All the big stables that have stock to race are here. It makes for a very busy place.”
Steve Duncan met Alec’s close scrutiny without flinching. He tried to smile but it was not a success. Finally, he said, “My horse could win here, if I could get stall space. I’m sure of it.”
For a few minutes Alec said nothing. He’d met lots of other fellows who wanted to become race-riders. But this was the first time one had ever come to him with a horse to race. He couldn’t laugh it off as Henry had done. Certainly not now, with Steve Duncan’s thin, sharp, and very determined face only inches away from his.
“It’s best not to get too high on any horse,” Alec said. “I tell myself that all the time, even with the Black. There’s always a terrific sense of disappointment when you go overboard and the horse doesn’t pan out.”
“I feel pretty good about my horse,” Steve said.
“I’m sure you do,” Alec answered, “but winning a race at Hialeah is something else again.”
“He can beat anything here, even yours.”
Alec turned away. The whole thing was becoming ridiculous. Perhaps Henry had been right. He’d have done better to keep away from this wild-eyed Steve Duncan.
“Okay,” he said finally. “So you’ve got a fast horse. What makes you think you can ride him in a race? It takes years of experience.”
The Black Stallion Challenged Page 2