He turned her and started back toward Henry. Black Minx pranced and snorted constantly as if to let Alec know she had had her way for a short while anyway. He smiled and patted her sweaty neck. It was good that she seemed to feel this way.
Henry hurried up to them. “Keep her moving, Alec,” he said. “I don’t want her to catch cold.”
“Couldn’t keep her still if I tried.”
Henry took hold of the filly’s bridle and started off for the barns at a fast walk. “We’ll rub her down real good,” he said.
“She did it, all right,” Alec said.
“Sure. I told you we had a Derby horse. Like I said, you just can’t train this filly by the book. She’ll run for us any time we let her think she’s got full control of the situation. It’s as simple as that.”
“It’s simple now that you’ve thought of it,” Alec said. He pushed the heavy black mane away to pat her neck. Her head was set beautifully, almost delicately, on her long, high-crested neck. She looked like the Black and there was no doubt now that she had inherited his speed. Henry had found a way to get it out of her. Still, it was a great pity that she had to be tricked into running and didn’t have the will to race and win as did her sire. Speed alone wasn’t enough to make her a champion. Or was it, since she possessed so much of it? Only in the Kentucky Derby would they learn the answer.
THE YARDSTICK
7
Black Minx wasn’t given a fast work again. For the rest of January and into February, Alec continued galloping her almost every day. Henry was happy that the weather remained cold and dry, despite occasional snow, and that he was able to get his filly onto the track to gallop and develop in body and wind. She was hard and never blew after her long sessions on the track.
Not once did Alec use the key Henry had given him to get more speed from Black Minx. Her training was in Henry’s hands, and speed wasn’t ordered. Alec knew it would be March before her fast works would begin in preparation for the spring races.
During February his responsibility at the farm became heavier. Outside mares began arriving, to be bred to the Black and Satan. He relinquished many of his chores to the three hired men from the nearby village, who had assisted him the year before during the foaling and breeding season. But he assumed other duties. He did more paper work, more field work, in order to learn everything possible about each mare’s breeding history before mating her to his stallions.
Except for an hour each day he seldom saw Black Minx. Yet the filly was always entering his thoughts even though he tried to keep her out of them because of his other work.
Tonight was a good example. It was ten o’clock and Alec sat behind the huge desk in the stallion barn office. He still had a good hour’s work left on the breeding chart before him. His father had taken all bookings of outside mares to the Black and Satan. Eight mares had already arrived at the farm, and there were sixteen more to come. Seventeen mares were in foal. Five of them would foal later this month, six during March, three during April, and three in May.
Alec began listing the mares’ names and their breeding records on the chart, which from now until late May would be his daily bible.
While writing, he caught himself thinking of Black Minx from time to time. For a long while he successfully pushed her out of his mind. Finally he relaxed in his chair to think only of her. He didn’t like the black filly to interfere with his farm work. Yet if he had something on his mind it was far better to face it than to allow his thoughts to stray while he was trying to concentrate on the field chart.
Well, what is it this time? he asked himself. Haven’t I decided that her training and racing are Henry’s jobs? Haven’t I decided to let well enough alone and to be content with just managing the farm? Henry’s the head of the racing stable. He has all the answers. He’s satisfied with her. Why shouldn’t I be?
But how will Henry ever get anyone to ride her shrewdly in a race? A jockey has only split seconds in which to make decisions. His mount must respond when asked to try for an opening or to wait. Black Minx won’t go along with such practices. She’ll run only when she thinks she has full control. Therefore, what good will it do for her jockey to be a good judge of pace, to know when to make his bid and when to lay back? The filly will have none of that. She’ll run herself out, for what horse can go the limit of his speed from starting post to finish?
Alec thought about this problem for a long while before going back to work on his chart. He arrived at no answer. He didn’t think there was any. But having had it out with himself made it easier to concentrate on his work. Besides, it was Henry’s problem.
Later, when he left the stallion barn, it was snowing again. He zipped up his jacket as he walked toward the house. After going a short way he stopped to look at the startling whiteness of the paddocks and fields, all so beautiful in the falling snow. He turned to the darkened house. He didn’t feel like going to bed right away. Just then he noticed the light in Henry’s apartment, and started for it.
Climbing the stairs, he heard low music coming from Henry’s radio. He knocked on the door, and then went inside. “Busy?” he asked.
Without leaving his chair, Henry turned off the radio and put down the magazine he had been reading. “Well, believe it or not, I’ve been working.”
Alec sat down next to him. “Reading horse magazines is a swell way of making a living,” he said.
“Sure. What have you been doing?”
“Working on my field chart.”
“I’ve been working on a chart too,” Henry said, tossing the magazine into Alec’s lap.
Alec looked down at the page opened before him. The heading read, “Names and Weights for the Experimental Free Handicaps.” What followed was a rating of that year’s three-year-olds. It took into consideration their racing records of the year before, when they had been two-year-olds, and their prospects for racing over the longer distances as three-year-olds. There were one hundred and five horses listed, and each was assigned the weight he must carry if he were to go to the post for the running of the Experimental Free Handicaps held in April. This list was worth studying, for the track handicapper who made it had a reputation for forecasting accurately the top three-year-olds each year.
Alec turned to Henry. “I see he’s got Silver Jet at the top of the list.”
“Yeah, he figures that the colt will be able to go the distance and win some classics this year.”
“He should,” Alec said. “He’s a good colt.”
“Tom Flint thinks so, too,” Henry said. “I saw him at the Kentucky sales. He thinks so much of his Silver Jet that he paid sixty-six thousand dollars for a full-brother yearling.”
“Don’t you like him?” Alec asked.
“Sure. Silver Jet is a fine colt, plenty fine. He should be right up front come Derby Day, if nothing happens to him before then.”
Alec turned back to the magazine. He noticed Henry’s penciled check marks alongside the names of a few horses. “Why the checks, Henry?” he asked without taking his eyes off the list.
Moving closer, Henry placed a heavy, square-tipped finger on the page. “I figure,” he said, “that of all these three-year-olds there are five who in my opinion stand the best chance of copping the Derby. The two at the top, Silver Jet and Eclipse, certainly should be strong contenders. Further down the list here I’ve marked one I like too. He’s a California-bred colt named Golden Vanity. He wasn’t raced heavily last year at two, but what he did was most impressive. To me, anyway,” he added hastily.
His finger moved again. “And here’s a Virginia colt called Wintertime, who was improving fast toward the end of last season. I think he’ll continue moving up this year, and work his way right up with the others by Derby time.”
Henry’s finger dropped almost to the bottom of the list. “And the last I’ve marked is Lady Lee, who will bear watch—”
“A filly?” Alec interrupted.
“Yeah, and I think a good one. She likes distance and ju
st might go a mile and a quarter.”
Henry sat back in his chair, and Alec put down the magazine.
“Pretty soon now,” Henry said, “we’ll be able to tell a little more about these horses.”
“You mean in the Santa Anita Derby?”
Henry nodded. “Golden Vanity will be in that race.”
“When is it run?”
“February twenty-fourth. That’s next Saturday.”
Alec picked up the magazine again and thumbed its pages but he was not really looking for anything in particular. In the midst of all his farm work he seldom had a chance to remember that the Kentucky Derby was more than just one big race in May for any number of three-year-olds. Many of them even now were at the racetrack, ready to begin the long trek that might lead to the winner’s circle of the Kentucky Derby.
From next Saturday until the first Saturday in May, there would be races such as the Santa Anita Derby, the Flamingo, the Experimental Handicaps, and the Wood Memorial—to name only a few. They were all important races in themselves, but they were also considered preparatory races to the greatest American classic of them all, the Kentucky Derby. Actually, some were good tests for Derby candidates and some weren’t. Alec believed that the races to be run this month and next came much too early in the year to rank as truly significant tests. And not one of all these preparatory races was over the Derby distance of a full mile and a quarter. Yet they bore watching, for from these races usually emerged the Derby winner.
But not always. A few three-year-olds had arrived unheralded, even untried, at the Kentucky Derby post and had gone on to win. Might not Black Minx be one of these?
Alec looked up from the magazine. “I’d forgotten it was all starting so soon,” he said. “I thought we could wait until May before getting excited about the big one.”
Henry smiled. “Plenty of people are becoming excited right now, hoping their colts and fillies will show something in the prep races to prove themselves worthy of taking up space at the Derby post. But we don’t need to get excited—not yet. We got lots of time.”
“Then you think our filly is worthy of a post position without racing in any of the preps?”
“I think so, Alec. We’ll just sit back for the time bein’ and watch the show. It all starts next Saturday, and since the Santa Anita race will be on television, all we have to do is watch what happens.”
“And, meanwhile, continue galloping Black Minx,” Alec said quietly.
“Oh, sure,” Henry said. “Sure.”
“Good night, Henry.”
“ ’Night, Alec.”
THE SANTA ANITA DERBY
8
On Saturday evening, the twenty-fourth of February, Alec and Henry sat before the television screen ready to watch the running of the Santa Anita Derby in California. They were in the small but comfortably furnished attic to which Mrs. Ramsay had relegated the television set after having had it in her living room for one week. She had decided that television certainly had a place in their new house, but she wasn’t going to let it play havoc with her home life—her sewing, her reading, and her conversations with her family. Therefore it should have a room all its own, where they could go to watch any favorite program.
Henry slouched in a deep armchair. Impatiently he glanced at the variety show now on the screen; then he looked at his wrist watch. “They’d better get off soon,” he grumbled.
Alec said, “Five minutes more. The telecast of the race isn’t scheduled until then.”
Henry grunted.
Alec turned to the window. Outside it had been dark for hours. But within minutes they’d be taken to California and it would be late afternoon on race day. He pulled his chair a little closer to the set. He didn’t want to miss a thing.
Henry’s eyes were now on the screen. The variety show ended, then came the station break. Another thirty seconds and they were at Santa Anita Park, Arcadia, California.
Twelve horses paraded to the post while the announcer welcomed his television audience to one of the top-ranking winter classics for three-year-olds, the Santa Anita Derby.
Heavy banks of clouds hung low over the track, but they did not detract from the beauty of the colts now moving gracefully past packed stands.
“Unfortunately, for the first day of this race meeting we have no sun,” the announcer said. “It has been overcast all day long with no wind to blow the clouds away. However, the lack of our usual good weather has not kept many people from witnessing this great Winter Derby. We have a record crowd of sixty-eight thousand people here, some of whom arrived at six o’clock this morning to line up before the grandstand gates.”
The picture left the horses to sweep over the throng that jammed the grandstand, the clubhouse, and the track’s infield, where thousands were gathered along the rail.
“Get back to the horses, Mister,” Henry growled.
The picture shifted to the post parade again as the announcer went on: “We have only one minute before post time. The race is a mile and an eighth in length, with a purse of eighty-nine thousand dollars waiting for the winner. Twelve three-year-olds are on their way to the post. All are colts, no fillies having been entered. The favorite is the California-bred colt Golden Vanity in number four post position. Naturally, the crowd here is eager to see him win. Sectional rivalry in this classic has always been keen and exciting, and today is no exception. Top eastern three-year-olds Moonstruck, High Up, Sadhu and My Time are here and rated to give Golden Vanity a race all the way to the wire. But Californians sincerely believe they have another Morvich in Golden Vanity. Morvich, you know, was the only California-bred horse to win the Kentucky Derby, taking that classic in 1922. There are many here today who think Golden Vanity is the first horse foaled in California that is his equal.”
The picture showed a close-up of Golden Vanity as he passed the starting gate and went up the track at a slow gallop, his jockey standing high in his stirrup irons.
It was easy for Alec and Henry to see why the colt had been given his name. He was a light chestnut and startlingly big for his age, about seventeen hands. His neck, body and legs were long and so finely balanced that anyone would pause to look twice at him. His stride was long and elastic, and he moved with an air of arrogant pride. He tossed his handsome head continually and his body shifted nervously from one side to the other.
Watching him, Henry said, “He’s beautiful but he looks overeager to me. He could use up most of his energy early in the race. If he does, the others will get to him at the end.”
“We’ll know in a minute,” Alec said. “Isn’t that Nino Nella up on him, Henry?”
“That’s Nino Nella riding Golden Vanity,” the announcer answered for Henry. “Don’t let the colt’s big size fool you into thinking Nino isn’t just as small as he looks up there. This eighteen-year-old kid from Brooklyn, New York, weighs only eighty-two pounds. His riding has been sensational in this—his very first—season in California. Two years ago Nino was a plumber’s helper in Brooklyn. Today he’s the hottest jockey here at Santa Anita, with the most wins and money won during the season. They’re saying around the track that horses like to run for Nino. And it certainly appears so. He’s ridden Golden Vanity to his previous two victories this month, and if he wins with the chestnut colt today it’s certain they’ll be together at the Kentucky Derby early in May.”
Alec turned from the screen to Henry, but his friend was watching Golden Vanity too intently to meet his gaze. Nino Nella was the rider whom Black Minx had taken through the rail last year in her first and only start in Florida as a two-year-old. Alec knew that a bad accident caused many a jockey to lose courage. That Nino Nella had come out of the hospital to ride so many winners, as the announcer had just pointed out, indicated that he had lost none of his nerve.
The picture had left Golden Vanity to pick up the other colts. All twelve were behind the post; some were already turned and coming into their starting-gate stalls. Others were being taken by their jockeys far
up to the back turn. The television cameras followed them, trying to bring into view the majestic Sierra Madre Mountains beyond the backstretch. But only the lower slopes were visible because of the blanketing clouds.
“It’s post time,” the announcer said. “The track is fast. All colts carry the same weight of one hundred and eighteen pounds. They’re starting one furlong—that’s an eighth of a mile—behind the finish line of this mile track. That’s Moonstruck now, going into his number three post position.”
They watched the eastern colt and Henry grunted his approval. Moonstruck was a bay of moderate build but well balanced, strong to the fore and very muscular behind.
“Looks a little like our filly,” Henry said.
Alec shook his head in disagreement. “He’s lower set. I think he’s definitely a sprinter. He’ll get away fast with that driving equipment behind. But I don’t think he’ll be able to go the distance.”
“He won some beautiful races last year at two,” Henry said.
“But this is a mile and an eighth,” Alec reminded him.
“Yeah, but still—” Henry paused, watching the number 6 colt approaching his stall.
The announcer was saying, “The number six horse going into the gate is another easterner, My Time. He’s the second favorite. Last year My Time won …”
My Time was a big, dark colt, and his size would have impressed them more if they had not first seen Golden Vanity. He was a good sixteen hands, and as strong in line and body as the chestnut colt. My Time walked into his starting stall with a long reach, quick and racy. He looked as if he possessed a lot of speed.
The Black Stallion's Filly Page 7