The Black Stallion Challenged

by Walter Farley

  A moment later the screen showed the Black in the winner’s circle, wheeling and fractious, with people milling about him. The telecaster said, “As you can see, the Black saved his clowning until the race was over. He did not like the battery of flash bulbs popping around him in the overpopulated circle. You might say that the showmanship he’s displaying here is almost equal to his race performance.”

  The film ended and Henry, watching the program in his motel room, started to turn off the TV. Alec stopped him as the sportscaster continued. “In the Bahamas, however, there just might be a horse with which the Black must reckon. At Nassau the winner of the Cup race was the island-bred Flame. His time over a mile on the grass was also 1:34 2/5ths. It is doubtful, however, that his time will be recognized since Nassau racing is unsanctioned by parent organizations. There have been many ‘phantom’ race horses in the past from the islands but none ever credited, however dubiously, with such a mark. It may well be that Flame’s win, coming on the day of the Black’s victory over the same distance, might mean a match in the offing. At least, it offers an exciting prospect if Hialeah’s press agentry extends an invitation to the Bahamian Cup winner.

  “Tomorrow night we’ll be devoting this program to a round-table discussion with some of the leading jockeys now racing at Hialeah. We hope you’ll be with us. This is ‘Count’ Cornwell. Good night, all.”

  Henry turned off the set and said, “I still don’t think you should appear on that show tomorrow night. Cornwell can make an interview pretty rough.”

  Alec didn’t answer and Henry repeated his remark. Only then did the boy look up, his face thoughtful. “I’m sorry, Henry,” he apologized. “I was thinking of that horse Flame.”

  “What horse Flame?”

  “The one who won at Nassau today. The one Cornwell just talked about.”

  “Oh, that one. ‘Phantom’ horses are a dime a dozen in the islands.”

  “This one’s no ‘phantom.’ He belongs to Steve Duncan.”

  “Who’s Steve Duncan?”

  “The fellow who wrote me. The one who came to see me. I told you.”

  “What’s he doin’ in Nassau then?”

  “Racing.”

  “That’s obvious.” Henry studied Alec’s face. “You mean you had something to do with his being there?”

  Alec nodded. “In a way,” he said. “I mean his horse was already in Nassau. I told him it was better to race Flame there than at Hialeah.”

  “That was good advice,” Henry said. “Phantoms aren’t what you might call popular with race secretaries in the United States. They seldom live up to their press clippings.”

  “This one might. At least you just heard what Cornwell said of him on his show.”

  “That’s Cornwell for you,” Henry said, chuckling. “He’s that kind of a sportscaster, always looking for something spectacular, however fantastic it might be.”

  “But such a story isn’t something a track’s publicity department ignores either,” Alec said. “Including Hialeah Park.”

  Henry was silent a moment, then said, “You put Steve Duncan up to this, didn’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I didn’t know how it would work out,” Alec admitted. “He might not have won at Nassau.”

  “But he did. Why are you doing it, Alec?”

  “He needs the money.”

  “So do lots of people,” Henry said.

  “He’s got to buy an island,” Alec went on.

  “A what?”

  “An island,” Alec repeated, feeling a little foolish.

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Henry picked up his evening paper, then put it down again. “ ‘Phantom’ horses and islands are too much for my imagination, if not yours, Alec. It’s none of my business what you do off the track, so I guess I shouldn’t try to talk you into staying clear of this Steve Duncan and his horse Flame. I just don’t want to hear any more about them, understand? I have trouble enough sleeping these nights, let alone dreaming.”

  “Okay, Henry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

  “Then it’s finished?”

  “Sure,” Alec said. But he wondered if it might not be just the beginning.

  The night breeze blew softly off Biscayne Bay in Miami, slowly wafting over crowded streets and rustling the limp fronds of the palm trees. It stirred the papers and debris in gutters, spiraling them into small swirling heaps.

  Willy Walsh glanced skyward at the red light blinking on top of the television tower and told Alec, “I get all sick inside when I have to go on television.”

  Alec smiled. It was a miracle that Willy was there at all after his race of the day before. Nothing should scare him after that!

  “What gets me,” Willy went on, “is that these TV guys usually think we’ve got the best racket there is. I mean they think that ten percent of the winner’s purse is a good livin’. All I got to say is, if that’s so, it’s a hard way to make an easy livin’.”

  “Then tell Cornwell so,” Alec said.

  “I will, all right.” Willy gave his colorful checkered cap a hard tug as if to lend added emphasis to his remark. He shook the sweat from his forehead and mumbled something about the heat and lack of a good wind and the smell of the city.

  Looking up at the tall, white concrete building they were approaching, Alec said, “There’s nothing wrong in being determined about anything you want to say, Willy, just as long as it isn’t blind determination.”

  “I know,” Willy answered. “I’m not goin’ to argue with Cornwell none, no more than I’d punch bigger people than me in the nose. It ain’t smart. You end up with a broken head.”

  Like horses, too, Alec thought. You don’t argue with them either. They could get mad in a hurry and show a man how small he was.

  Willy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a package of peanut-butter crackers. “Want some?” he asked.

  Alec nodded and noted the other’s hands. They were strong, thick and calloused, yet they undid the small tightly-wrapped package with quick skill. Alec took one of the crackers Willy solemnly offered him, more to be agreeable than because he was hungry. Willy liked to munch. He was always nibbling on something, yet it never seemed to affect his weight. He could ride at 110 pounds and never have any trouble making it. That was because he was small.

  Alec said, “It’s a good thing neither of us has to worry about making weight, Willy.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as one professional to another.

  Willy laughed. “You’ll never have to worry making weight on the Black, that’s for sure. Most of the horses I ride get in a race light. I never had a big horse like him carrying top weight. Yet I’ve made a good livin’ at this game. I can’t complain. I’m happy, and maybe someday …”

  “That chestnut you rode yesterday looks like he might come along,” Alec said.

  “Puttin’ blinkers on him next time might do it,” Willy said thoughtfully. “I thought he’d really fly yesterday. But the only direction he flew was backwards!” He pushed up his checkered cap and added, “What really matters is that he came out of the race all right.” Then, as an afterthought, “Me, too.”

  “God was with you.”

  “So were you,” Willy said. “But you’re right; I did a lot of praying in a fraction of a second.” He paused, thinking of the race, then added, “If I’d gone down, not a hoof would’ve missed me. The whole field would’ve tossed me around like a rubber ball.”

  He peered at Alec from beneath his heavy brows and a little smile crossed his face. “Anyway,” he said, “it wasn’t much of a race for you and the Black. We were like a bunch of dogs chasing a bunny.”

  As they entered the building, Willy tipped his cap over one eye again, partially hiding his face. His voice came from beneath the peak. “I wish I could get out of this. Like I said, it makes me feel sick inside.”

  The television studio was air-conditioned, its large windows overlooking the gaudy pattern of Miami lights and the caus
eways stretching across the bay beach areas.

  “Count” Cornwell, whom Alec never had met before, put his cigar down in an ashtray on his desk and came forward to meet them. Smiling, he extended a big hand and said, “Hello, Alec Ramsay. And, of course, Willy Walsh. I’m glad you both could come.”

  Willy removed his cap self-consciously and Alec studied the tall, stooping man whose head was completely bald. Cornwell was one of the best sportscasters in the business, but you’d never know it to look at him. His expression, at the moment, was bored and vacant, even uninterested. All that would change when he went on the air. He worked hard for a living, and knew everything there was to know about racing.

  The telephone on his desk rang and he excused himself to answer it. He smoked as he talked, the smell of his cigar filling the room. When he had replaced the receiver, he leafed quickly through a script on his desk, made a few notes, then heaved himself up from his chair and crossed the room again.

  “That’s all,” he said brusquely. “We’re set to go now.” He straightened the jacket of his dark suit, adjusted his tie and added, “The others are in the next studio.”

  Alec followed Cornwell but Willy hung back. “C’mon, Willy,” Alec said. “This show is his responsibility, not ours. Let him do the worrying. We’re just guests.”

  “It’s too much to ask of anybody,” Willy answered, but he followed Alec into the adjoining studio. Four other jockeys were there, sitting in chairs placed in a semi-circle around a desk. A battery of lights were winking in the control booth beyond and several men sat before the large board. One man held up three fingers to Cornwell, who glanced at the large clock over the glass-walled booth and nodded in reply.

  “Three minutes to air time,” he told Alec. “You and Willy take the empty chairs.” He went to the desk and sat down, picking up the script and studying it. Then he looked at the group of small men sitting on either side of him. They all seemed to be uncomfortable under the glare of the lights.

  “We’re checking the line-up of the cameras,” Cornwell told them. He glanced at the sweep hand on the large clock again, then at the monitors below the control booth. He studied his own image as it appeared on the monitor, then his guests’. They all looked like what they were, horsebackers. It should be a good show. His mouth widened into a large, friendly smile as the program director’s hand swept down and the light on Camera One blinked red. He was on the air.

  “Good evening, fellow Miamians, this is ‘Count’ Cornwell.…”

  Alec scarcely listened. He was not much interested in the brief account of the day’s sports activities which Cornwell was giving prior to his interview with the riders. Anyway, except for Cornwell they were all off camera and had several minutes to themselves before going on the air. Alec stole a look at the other jockeys to see how they were taking it.

  Willy Walsh was still scared by it all but he seemed to have got hold of himself. Jay Pratt, shorter than Willy, was in the next chair; he was wearing a buff-colored turtleneck sweater under a sports jacket. He looked clean and natty, giving evidence of the money he made racing. Jay never worked horses in the mornings any more. He got up just in time to go to the track for the afternoon program. One could do that when owners and trainers started running after you with the big-stake mounts.

  Pete Edge sat alongside Jay, his short legs crossed. He was built square and was strong enough to drag the carcass of a dead horse out of his stall, which Alec had seen him do. His left eyelid drooped slightly and a long scar ran directly beneath it, the result of a bad fall and steel-shod hoofs. It made him look tough, which he was, and unhappy, which he also was. He hadn’t been winning many races lately.

  Gustavo Carballido, one of the very successful South American riders at the present Hialeah meeting, sat in the next chair. As usual, Gus needed a haircut. His dark skin was stretched drum-tight across his cheekbones, making his eyes seem all the more sunken and piercing. He looked ravaged and hungry despite his current success on the track. There was no doubt that the lean, poverty-stricken years he had known on his way to the top had left their mark.

  Next to him was Nick Marchione, the oldest rider at Hialeah, who listed his age at “39 going on 60.” He was one of the great jockeys of all time and would probably never retire so long as he continued winning races. He squinted through glasses, which he never wore when riding, and watched Cornwell do his sportscast, and kept running his fingertips through his thinning hair.

  Alec’s gaze shifted back to Willy Walsh, who was young and inexperienced compared to the others. Willy was rubbing a large gold ring on his left hand. It was, Alec knew, supposed to bring him good luck. Most horsemen were superstitious, Alec reflected. They believed in all manner of charms and taboos for good and bad luck, and every kind of cure-all. Willy had his ring. Jay Pratt wore a medallion with the figure of a bird in flight around his neck. Henry carried horse chestnuts in his pocket. And, Alec admitted, he himself had a silver dollar he’d never be without.

  Cornwell was coming to the end of his résumé of the day’s sports news. Putting down his script, he fingered his immaculate tie and ran his hand softly over the top of his bald head. Through Camera One he beamed at the riders who sat around the desk. At the same time, his eyes were very probing.

  Alec prepared himself for what was to come. He felt his muscles tense, almost as if he were in the starting gate, waiting for the doors to open. And he knew it was no different for the other riders.

  MEN WITHOUT HORSES

  9

  “And now,” Cornwell told his television audience, “I want you to meet some of America’s greatest jockeys.” He introduced them with Camera Two singling out each rider as he spoke. He thought how unlike other athletes they were, these men of the saddle. They sat uncomfortably in their chairs, looking very drawn and stringy despite their well-cut clothes. A couple of them might even be taken for emaciated children. Yet their muscle-banded shoulders and forearms could guide and control a thousand pounds of tough horse running some forty miles an hour. Marchione and Carballido looked harder and more used than the others, as if their lean bodies had endured so much that physical resilience was wearing thin.

  He concluded his introductions with Willy Walsh and Alec Ramsay. How young-looking they were! How many more rides before they looked like the others? How many more spills, when all of a sudden a horse went out from under them like a tree limb breaking, and they were down among the sharp hoofs? Thinking of it made Cornwell realize how glad he was not to be one of them. They weren’t paid too much even if they made a thousand dollars a day, he decided.

  “And now,” he told his audience, “we’ll talk to these crack jockeys one at a time, starting with the oldest and the country’s best-known veteran campaigner, Nick Marchione. Nick,” he said pointedly, “you’ve been riding race horses for over thirty years now. Don’t you think it’s time you packed your trunk and left the jockey room?”

  Nick Marchione did not appear to be taken aback by Cornwell’s directness or sharpness of tongue. His image alone was on the screen of the monitor. He seemed delighted to be there. His lined face was excited, even impatient, as if he was overflowing with new ideas which he wanted to divulge to the vast television audience.

  “I’ll quit only when I can’t give my best … that’s the only way I ride,” he said cockily. “How else would you want me to put it?”

  “Then you feel you can still do full justice to your mounts?” Cornwell asked.

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I have a responsibility to the people I ride for and the racing public.”

  “You find that your eyes don’t bother you? I’d heard you had some trouble with them.”

  Marchione shrugged his shoulders and, at the same time, squinted through his glasses. “I wouldn’t say they don’t bother me none, but not enough to affect my riding. I’m near-sighted, so all I been doin’ for the last few years is to stay closer to the pace whenever possible.”

  “And when you can’t? Or
say there’s a heavy fog or storm?” Cornwell persisted cagily.

  “I use my ears. I’m not deaf. I can tell where I am, all right,” Marchione answered, grinning into the camera.

  “Is competition tougher these days … I mean than it was, say, ten or fifteen years ago?” Cornwell asked.

  “No, it’s always been tough, like any competitive sport. Jockeys love to beat one another, regardless of the importance of the race. I mean the size of the purse isn’t as important to me as you probably think it is. I get as much kick out of bringing home a winner as I ever did.”

  “The daily grind doesn’t bother you?”

  “What daily grind?” Marchione asked. “For me there is no daily grind. I love horses and racing. I like to ride. I don’t want to do anything else.”

  “Then you’ll only hang up your silks when you feel you can no longer give your best?”

  “That’s right. As long as I’m physically able to ride, I’ll ride.”

  “You’ve had plenty of spills?”

  “Plenty. I was even pronounced dead after a race on a Midwest half-miler about fifteen years ago.”

  “Fortunately for you, the diagnosis proved incorrect,” Cornwell said, smiling.

  “Yeah, fortunately,” Marchione repeated solemnly. “And I won the race as well. I crossed the finish wire with my feet in the air and my head beneath the horse before I hit the dirt.”

  “You sound as if you’d pay to ride if you had to,” Cornwell said.

  “I might at that,” Marchione answered.

  “What advice, if any, do you have for young riders on their way up?”

  Marchione said hesitantly, “When you’re green you can make a million mistakes. Lots of situations come up that kids can’t handle. What I tell them is try not to get discouraged. As you get older you learn never to give up hope or quit trying. Among the biggest thrills I’ve had was winning races where I never thought I had a chance.”