The Black Stallion Challenged

by Walter Farley

  A few minutes later Alec moved up the row. Steve was sitting alone on the tack trunk, his booted feet up on a chair, his face thoughtful.

  “Quite a party you had,” Alec said.

  Steve nodded and pulled up his legs so that Alec could sit down. “Some kind of promotion thing,” he said.

  “It looked like fun.”

  “It was, I guess … in a way.”

  “Sometimes things like that help relieve track boredom,” Alec said. “It’s good for horses as well as people.”

  “I’m not bored,” Steve said.

  “No reason you should be after yesterday.”

  “They made a lot of fuss about it, all right.”

  “But not about nothing,” Alec said. “It’s the hunting cry of the herd. You made good. What’s it going to be next, Steve? The Widener? Or are you going home?”

  Steve pushed his back against the wall. “I’m not making up my mind today,” he said. “I’m going to wait.”

  “You’re as bad as Henry,” Alec said, jokingly. “If neither the Black nor Flame race in the Widener, the press department can promote the ‘Big Nothing.’ ”

  Steve didn’t return Alec’s smile. “You think I should go home like I said, don’t you?”

  “That’s strictly up to you to decide,” Alec answered. “All I know is that you got the money you needed in one fell swoop, which is surprising, to say the least.”

  “But I could use still more,” Steve said.

  “I know what you mean,” Alec said quietly. “When anyone’s got a chance to pick up a piece of a race worth over $100,000 he’ll go for it. It’s only natural.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to race. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You will,” Alec said, certain of what he saw in Steve’s eyes. “But don’t hurt your horse. He might not be able to handle dirt the way he did grass.”

  “He can handle anything,” Steve said. “Any kind of track. Any kind of horse.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  Steve shrugged his shoulders. “If we don’t get first money, we’ll get second money. That should be over $25,000,” he said, becoming cautious and agreeable.

  “Then there’s about $13,000 for third place and $6,500 for fourth,” Alec added.

  Steve smiled. “Four good reasons for my going in the Widener.”

  “But the big reason is the first money,” Alec said. “Something around $90,000.”

  “It would be nice,” Steve admitted. “It’s there for the asking, especially if the Black doesn’t start.”

  Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps, but every race is different, Steve. You made a lot of mistakes yesterday. You were lucky to get a clear path at all. You might not be so lucky the next time out.”

  “Maybe I learned more than you think I did,” Steve said.

  “Maybe you did. I hope so.”

  “I won’t get caught inside next time.”

  “You made other mistakes, too,” Alec said.

  Steve’s face clouded a bit. “Flame ran his race. We won. What more do you want?”

  “You cut in too sharply on the first turn.”

  “I know, but somebody bumped me.”

  “You were too close. You almost went down.”

  “They clipped our heels.”

  “You should have taken more hold.”

  “Flame only runs faster when I take hold.”

  “You’ve got to do more than hang on.”

  Steve shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “I know you mean well, Alec, but you never rode a horse like Flame.”

  “I know the kind of horse you’re talking about,” Alec said quietly. “But let’s leave it your way.” He turned and walked away. “I’ll see you around,” he added.

  Alec knew that the Widener Handicap would be between the “Big Two,” just as the press and the public wanted. Steve had definitely made up his mind to go after more of the “big” money. And it was only a question of a day or so before Henry decided that no island horse was going to challenge the Black’s supremacy and get away with it … not without a fight, anyway.

  BUTTERFLIES

  15

  Monday morning came the track handicapper’s long-awaited announcement of the weights for Saturday’s $100,000 Widener Handicap, and immediately afterward the press was interviewing Henry Dailey.

  “You ought to feel pretty good, Henry,” one reporter said. “The Black was assigned only 136 pounds.”

  “Only?” Henry asked. “That’s top weight for the race, isn’t it? Has any other Widener horse ever carried more?”

  “No, of course not. But the Black’s not like any other Widener horse. Actually, 136 pounds is no more than he carried in his first race here, and he won that in a cakewalk. We expected him to pick up a few more pounds off that race, anyway.” He paused before asking, “There’s no doubt you’ll go with him now, is there?”

  “We’ll go with him if he stays sound this week,” Henry answered. “The weight assignment suits us fine.”

  The reporters glanced at their mimeographed sheets listing the track handicapper’s weights for the Widener. “How do you figure Flame’s package being only six pounds lighter than the Black’s?” one queried. “He’s been given 130 pounds.”

  “He won Saturday, didn’t he?” Henry asked. “And impressively. So he impressed the handicapper with his speed, too. It seems like a pretty good job of handicapping to me.”

  “With only 136 pounds on the Black you ought to feel that way,” the reporter said.

  “There you go using only again,” Henry said with a grin. He didn’t intend to try to hide his pleasure over the weight assignments.

  Another reporter said, “At these weights there aren’t going to be many starters Saturday.” He glanced at his mimeographed sheet. Fifty-three nominees were listed, with weight assignments ranging from the Black’s top weight of 136 pounds down to the lightest burdened horse of 108 pounds. “Trainers who had planned to run their horses will be scared off. I doubt more than four or five will be brave enough to go to the post with the Black at 136.”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That’s their problem,” he said. “They’re getting up to 28 pounds difference, scaling down to 108. Some of them should try to surprise us.”

  “Some of them will, I suppose,” the reporter said.

  “Weight can stop a train,” Henry said. “You know that as well as I do.”

  “One hundred and thirty-six pounds won’t stop the Black. I know that, too,” the reporter answered.

  “What are you guys driving at?” Henry asked. “You think our horse should be carrying more?”

  “Or Flame less,” the reporter said cagily.

  “He won at a mile and a half, didn’t he?” Henry asked.

  “It was his first start and it was on grass,” the reporter reminded Henry. “I think he should have gotten in the Widener at lighter weight since the Black’s impost wasn’t raised off his last race.”

  Henry turned away. “Leave the handicapping to the handicapper,” he said. “You stick to news writing.” Ignoring the reporters, he watched a stable dog lapping coffee from a saucer in Alec’s hand. “If you think Flame’s getting a bad deal, see the handicapper about it,” he added. “Or go see Steve Duncan and get his views on the subject. You got mine. I’m not sayin’ any more.”

  After leaving Henry Dailey, the reporters approached Steve Duncan and the boy told them, “Sure, 130 pounds is more than I expected, but we’re going to take a shot at it anyway. I still think we’ve got a good chance of beating the Black.”

  Then they went to the track handicapper for a public statement regarding his weight assignments for the Widener Handicap. He said, brusquely, “I don’t need to give any explanation.”

  “It’s only that if we’re surprised by your weights, the public will be, too,” a reporter announced diplomatically. “We expected the Black to carry more than 136 pounds.”

  “I can’t see penalizi
ng a good horse out of competition,” the handicapper said. “At 136 pounds he’s carrying more than any other horse in the history of the Widener. If I put more weight on him, he might break down …”

  “Or Henry Dailey might decide not to race him,” one newsman interjected.

  “That’s true, too,” the handicapper admitted, grudgingly. “The Black’s an exceptional horse but there’s a limit to what he should be asked to carry.”

  “Besides,” another reporter commented, “the people want to see him run, and you don’t want to do anything to keep him from starting. Is that it?”

  “Yes, and as far as the rest of the Widener nominees are concerned, I won’t put a premium on mediocrity. If they’re in with a champion, they’ve got to expect to race with at least 108 pounds on their backs.”

  “You gave most of the field less weight than usual, but you went up on Flame. I guess that’s what surprises us most. How come?”

  “He ran a sensational race last Saturday,” the handicapper replied. “Any horse that can shatter the turf record at a mile and a half should be able to carry 130 pounds over a mile and a quarter.”

  “But this one’s on the dirt.”

  “I watched him closely. His action convinced me he can handle dirt as well as grass.”

  “If he does, the Black’s in for a race,” the reporter said.

  “So is the public,” the handicapper said. “With just six pounds difference between the ‘Big Two,’ they should come down to the wire together.”

  “ ‘The Big Two,’ ” the reporter repeated. “Is your job track publicity or handicapping horses?”

  “In this case, both,” the handicapper answered quietly.

  Race tension continued to mount during the rest of the week. Alec didn’t go near Steve Duncan’s barn and Henry scheduled their workouts so that the Black was never on the track the same time as Flame.

  The Black worked easily for Alec, and gave no indication that he was favoring his injured foot. Sharp and eager to go, he was tremendously impressive as he sizzled around the track. He drew rave notices from all the professional horsemen and early morning devotees who watched him. Never had he run better or looked better, they agreed. He well deserved everything said of him during his illustrious career.

  The Black completed his week’s work by making the fastest run of his training period, and a sports columnist wrote, “The Black is the People’s Horse and, I believe, will prove himself worthy of their confidence this coming Saturday in the Widener. To tangle with him is to be turned loose with a tiger. Only Alec Ramsay could handle him, and he does a masterly job of it. Alec rides with the poise and dignity of a true championship rider. He remains cool and self-possessed at all times, which is especially essential in this business of race riding. Surely he belongs with the great jockeys of all time.

  “The Black is running fire these days and he stirs admiration, fear or respect, depending upon whose corner you’re in. Those who are looking for the challenger Flame to dethrone him were frightened to death this morning when the Black finished a brilliant work. There is no doubt the coming Widener will be a dramatic race. Already the drama is unfolding. It has color and tradition. It has a champion and a worthy challenger. It has captured the interest and imagination of racing fans throughout the world. Saturday is the day!”

  The following afternoon between races Flame appeared on the track for a public workout, his last before the big race. He went a mile and an eighth carrying 130 pounds, the same burden he’d tote on Saturday. He had the crowd gasping at his speed. He was clocked in the sensational time of 1:50 on a muddy, holding track without being urged by his rider.

  That evening “Count” Cornwell told his television audience, “Saturday’s Widener will not be just another purseproud winter race. That was made even more apparent this afternoon by Flame’s public workout under the 130-pound package he must carry in the Widener. This horse can make a watch run backward, and despite the Black’s star quality there were many in the stands today who thought Flame could and would beat him on Saturday. Each year, tracks throughout the country post fortunes in the high hope of arranging such spontaneous ‘box office’ as the Widener will have on Saturday. More often than not it doesn’t materialize. But this Saturday the Widener has it. This will be a really ‘big race.’ One is well aware of it as the day approaches.”

  Hialeah’s public relations department did its best, too, to assure the public that the coming Widener would be a smashing horse race between the champion, the Black, and the challenger, Flame. A large supply of buttons were made available early in the week reading, “I like the Black” and “I like Flame.” They were distributed to the weekday crowds and everybody was wearing one or the other. Everybody was taking sides. No one asked about the other horses who might be going to the post. It was a foregone conclusion that the Widener Handicap would be a smasher of a race between the “Big Two.” It was the talk of Miami, and Hialeah Park looked forward to one of its largest crowds in history.

  The press box itself added more fuel to the fire by taking a poll among the nation’s newspaper representatives. The results were 12 votes for the Black and 12 votes for Flame.

  “Those two horses are just as close together in speed as the vote was,” a New York City newsman said. “I have to stick to the Black until he’s beaten, but I know, too, that the Widener is going to be a real epic in the annals of racing.”

  “I voted for Flame,” another from Chicago said. “This is the magic city of Miami and as the magic hour approaches, I look for some fast sleight-of-hand work on the part of Steve Duncan. Duncan is a hot apprentice rider and it looks to me as if he’ll continue to sizzle along with his horse, barring the unforeseen. He has a natural talent for race riding despite his lack of experience. He has a way with this horse and he uses his head to get the most out of him. Flame is not a normal type racing machine. He defies explanation. He runs like the wind and yet Duncan is able to guide him. He’s getting in the Widener six pounds lighter than the Black. That difference in weight, although slight, could mean victory for Flame.”

  The track publicity director read all the news stories and told a colleague, “The plot thickens, just like in the pulps. We’ve got the biggest race we ever had on our hands.”

  On Friday, as almost everyone had expected, the names of only six horses of fifty-three nominees were dropped in the entry box for the Widener Handicap. In addition to the Black and Flame, the lightly weighted Mad Wizard at 108 pounds was entered, along with Apache and Sail Along at 110 pounds, and Bronze Prince at 112 pounds.

  “It’s not that we’re so brave,” the trainer of Apache told the press. “We’re just hungry for that third and fourth place money. None of us have much hope of getting more than that.”

  “It’s never safe to underplay the lightweights,” one reporter commented. “Apache has a world of natural speed to go to the front, and a big concession of twenty-seven pounds to maybe stay there.”

  “Both the Black and Flame run their best races from off the pace,” Apache’s trainer answered. “They could give us twenty pounds more and still come on to beat us. Like I said, we’re racing for third and fourth place money, nothing more. You won’t get me to say we got our hopes aimed at anything higher.”

  The newsmen proceeded through the stable area, wondering how Henry Dailey was standing up under pre-race pressure. They found him watering petunia beds in front of the barn while Alec sat nearby.

  “How do I feel about tomorrow?” Henry repeated, when asked. “I guess I feel pretty good.”

  “Then Flame doesn’t worry you too much?”

  “I leave most of my worrying to the younger fellows,” Henry answered. “If the Black isn’t ready to run his race tomorrow, it’s too late to do much about it now.”

  The newsmen turned to Alec. “And you, Alec? You got any stomach butterflies?”

  “Sure,” Alec said. “I got ’em, always just before a big race. As Henry says, he leaves the stomac
h jumpups to us younger fellows.”

  They turned back to Henry, and one said, “You’re used to saddling horses for big folding money. Isn’t that right, Henry? That’s why you get no butterflies.”

  “Guess so,” Henry said, still watering his petunias.

  “You’ll have no excuses if Flame beats you, then,” the reporter persisted. “The Black is all set to go.”

  “No excuses at all,” Henry admitted. “He’s pretty tight, and a race last week would have helped him a lot. But he’s ready to go tomorrow; that’s all I can ask of him.”

  “The race looks like a toss-up to a lot of people.”

  “That’s what horse racing is all about,” Henry said. He looked up from his petunias. “What kind of lastminute comment did you get from Steve Duncan? Did he tell you his horse was going to whip us tomorrow?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “What did he say then?”

  “He said, ‘No comment.’ ”

  “That’s the smartest talk I’ve heard all day,” Henry said, smiling. “He’s learning fast.”

  “No, we think he was just pretty sick to his stomach,” a reporter answered. “He was green in the face.”

  “Oh,” Henry said, turning back to his petunias.

  It was early evening when Alec and Henry walked around the empty track, their feet sinking deep in the sandy loam. It was part of their regular pre-race routine. Alec stayed near the rail, his eyes on the track furrows. He knew the surface would be all cut up again the next morning by working horses; then it would be harrowed and manicured before the races in the afternoon. However, there was no way in the world he could have gotten out of this walk, needless though it might be. Psychologically, it did something for Henry—and perhaps for himself, too.

  “There’s a hole, Alec,” the old man said. “Stomp on it good.”