“What’d he do last year?” Alec asked.
“No stake wins—but I think he needed a longer race. He’ll have it today. He could win with no trouble at all.”
All the colts were in the gate now. Alec and Henry sat awaiting the break, as tense as though they had saddled a colt for this race. The announcer’s voice had stilled. He was waiting too. The heads of the horses could be seen within the wire-mesh doors of their individual gate stalls. There was no movement among them. The break would come any second.
Suddenly there was the sharp clang of the starting bell; the stall doors sprung open and a line of surging, bursting horse-flesh broke forward. For more than a hundred feet there could be seen only the straining heads of colts and jockeys. Then the picture shifted to a side view of the stretch run as the colts pounded past the grandstand for the first time.
The small eastern colt Moonstruck showed his nose in front as they swept by the judges’ stand with a mile to go. The other colts were bunched, with little distance between any of them. Moonstruck increased his lead to a length, his short strides coming with amazing swiftness.
Without looking away from the picture, Alec said, “I told you he’d get away in front. He’s low set for it. But watch him fold early.”
“Not early,” Henry said, “if he folds at all.”
The colts were approaching the first turn. Moonstruck’s lead was lengthening. He had three full lengths on the field now. His body was very low. He was stretched out all the way. He was flying!
Only when the field reached the turn did the line of colts behind Moonstruck break at all. Some of the jockeys pulled up, taking their horses behind others to save distance going around the turn.
Golden Vanity raced alongside Sadhu, who was on the rail. The favorite’s chestnut body was stretched out, his strides coming fast and long. Nino Nella moved with him, his hands and feet going constantly, moving in rhythm with the big colt’s strides. But Alec could see he wasn’t pushing his mount. Not yet.
Henry said, “See what I meant when I said some time ago that Nino Nella was a ‘huffle-scuffle’ rider? He doesn’t sit still a minute. Black Minx wouldn’t take that kind of treatment from him.”
Close behind Golden Vanity came the big eastern colt My Time. His dark face was just to the right of the chestnut’s hindquarters. The rest of the field was close up. It was a mad surging pack with no colt yet out of the race, none giving way.
Moonstruck’s short, fast strides were made for the turns. He stayed close to the rail, never lessening his speed. And when he came off the first turn he had put another length between him and the field. Into the backstretch they went.
Alec said, “They’ll catch him now.”
“No they won’t.”
Not another word was said. Neither knew which colt the other was rooting for. It didn’t matter. The race was too exciting.
Moonstruck’s strides didn’t falter. He kept his four-length lead. But now the colts behind him were changing positions. My Time drew alongside Golden Vanity. Sadhu, on the rail, didn’t fall back. The three colts were fighting a bitter duel without gaining on the small bay colt ahead of them. And from behind came another colt, a light gray, making his bid. He drew alongside My Time, stayed for a furlong, then dropped back again.
Halfway down the backstretch, Sadhu began losing ground. There was no way of telling if he had tired or if the pace of Golden Vanity and My Time had been stepped up. The jockeys moved with their mounts, straining with them. But neither of the two big colts shortened Moonstruck’s lead.
Henry was on his feet now, his arms waving excitedly as he tried to root Moonstruck home. “Keep up there!” he shouted.
Alec, too, was on his feet, watching the small bay colt race for the back turn. He had thought Moonstruck a sprinter, but the colt now looked like a classic horse. He might go the distance. He might upset the favored Golden Vanity!
Moonstruck went into the far turn, still four lengths ahead. Behind him Golden Vanity moved ahead of My Time by inches. But Moonstruck maintained his long lead over both.
Once more the small bay colt took the turn with never a shortening stride. Now Golden Vanity was a length in front of My Time. His long strides took him away from the rail, seemingly losing more ground to Moonstruck. The flying leader came off the turn and entered the homestretch.
Alec’s eyes followed him. With less than a quarter mile to go, Moonstruck’s short strides were coming faster than ever. His jockey was asking for more speed and the colt was really turning it on.
Alec was watching Moonstruck so intently that he could think of nothing else until Henry said, “The chestnut, Alec!”
Golden Vanity came off the turn wide, his giant strides taking him almost to the center of the track. Now Nino Nella really was using his hands and heels to get more speed from the chestnut! Golden Vanity’s strides came ever faster, then he was bearing down on Moonstruck with terrifying suddenness. The small bay colt was tiring, and Golden Vanity was coming down the stretch with a swiftness that was breathtaking.
He caught Moonstruck at the mile post, with a furlong to go. He passed the bay colt and opened daylight between them—one length, two, three, four, five, six, seven lengths. More than fifty yards from the finish wire, Nino Nella stopped using his hands and feet. He settled back in the saddle and came near standing in his stirrup irons as he slowed the chestnut colt. Yet Golden Vanity swept under the wire still a good five lengths ahead of Moonstruck.
Henry turned to Alec before sitting down again in his chair. “That chestnut really turned it on,” he said.
Alec nodded. “He did that, all right. Golden Vanity looks like a great colt, Henry.”
“But why did Nino Nella stand up before the finish?” Henry wondered.
“Maybe to save the colt,” Alec said. “He knew he was going to win without any trouble.”
Henry grunted. “And maybe because it made him and the colt look better.”
The television cameras stayed on the colts as their jockeys slowed them going around the turn, and then singled out Golden Vanity as he made his way back toward the winner’s circle.
“Who took third?” Henry asked.
“My Time. Sadhu was fourth,” Alec said.
For a minute they listened to the announcer as he reviewed the race. Golden Vanity’s time had equaled the track record despite his being pulled up by his jockey before the finish wire.
Alec was impressed. Turning away from the screen, he said, “That’s amazing time for a three-year-old.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, but don’t put too much emphasis on it. In California they make track surfaces especially fast. I’ve seen too many horses who made good records out there come east and be beaten in races that were many seconds slower than their California times.”
Alec studied Henry’s face. “You’re not underestimating Golden Vanity, are you?”
“No, of course not. He was by far the best in the race today. But I’m not going to come out and say he’s an unbeatable whirlwind because of his fast time out there. He may be a Kentucky Derby winner and he may not. First I want to get a look at the other top three-year-olds; then I’ll decide. Also, I’m not so sure right now that Golden Vanity can go a mile and a quarter.”
“He went a mile and a furlong today,” Alec said. “That means he had just another furlong to go for the Derby distance.”
Henry smiled. “You know as well as I do it’s that last eighth of a mile that counts in the Derby, Alec. I’ve seen lots of good colts stumble all over themselves trying to navigate it.”
“But Golden Vanity’s jock was pulling him up. He looked as though he had plenty of stamina left.”
“That’s exactly what I mean, Alec. It looked as if he had it, and maybe that’s what they wanted us to think. I saw one or two things that make me think he might not be able to go a mile and a quarter.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Alec said. “But he looked awfully good to me.”
“And maybe you’re right,” Henry relented. “Maybe he is another Morvich. Anyway, that’s what the Californians will be shouting from the housetops now that he’s won this race in record time. All I want to know is this—is he good enough to beat Silver Jet, Wintertime and a few of the other top three-year-olds he’ll have to contend with this year?” The trainer grinned. “Who knows? Maybe even Morvich couldn’t have beaten ’em.”
They watched Golden Vanity standing in the winner’s circle, his great body sleek with sweat. He tossed his head and moved restlessly before the thousands of people gathered about the ring. The picture shifted to a tall young man who was about to be interviewed by the announcer.
“Congratulations, Mr. Graham,” the announcer said. “How does it feel to own the winner of the Santa Anita Derby?”
The young man thrust his hands into the pockets of his checkered sports jacket. His thin, angular face bore a wide, good-natured smile. “Just wonderful,” he said, “especially since Golden Vanity is the only horse I’ve ever owned.”
“Your father-in-law, Mr. Frank Boyer, gave you the colt as a wedding present, didn’t he?”
“Yes. At the time Golden Vanity was a yearling on Mr. Boyer’s thoroughbred farm just north of Los Angeles. My father-in-law thought the colt was the best he’d ever bred. So he gave him to me as a present on the one condition that I’d have him trained and raced.”
“And you’re not sorry he made such a stipulation now, are you?” the announcer asked, smiling.
“No. No, indeed.”
“And I suppose you’ll be aiming for the Kentucky Derby next?”
“We certainly will. Golden Vanity earned his chance to start in that classic by winning today. But, of course, I’ll leave all that up to my trainer, Ray Park.”
The announcer called, “Ray Park, won’t you step over here a moment?”
The trainer moved into view. He looked as young as Golden Vanity’s owner.
“How do you feel about the colt’s chances in the Kentucky Derby?” the announcer asked.
“He’s an excellent colt,” Park replied. “They’ll have to break records to beat him.”
“Then you think he’s another Morvich?”
“I think he’s better than Morvich. I think he’s the finest colt ever bred in California. Furthermore, I’d like to add that I see no reason why California can’t produce thoroughbreds as fine as those produced in Kentucky. And Golden Vanity is going to back me up in this.” He smiled, and left.
The announcer next called, “Nino! Nino Nella. Will you please step over here a moment?”
The small jockey walked up to the announcer, his round full face turned to the camera. His bearing and attitude bespoke haughty arrogance, matching that of the golden chestnut colt he had ridden to victory.
“Nino, when did you feel you had the race won?”
“From the beginning,” the jockey returned cockily.
“Never any doubt?”
“No. I ride him good.”
The announcer smiled at the boy’s brazen confidence. “We know that, Nino. You ride them all good.”
“Sure,” the jockey said.
“How about the Kentucky Derby, Nino? Will you be up on Golden Vanity?”
“That’s up to Mr. Graham and Mr. Park,” the boy replied, turning to the owner of Golden Vanity.
“He’ll ride the colt,” Mr. Graham said. “We wouldn’t break up a winning combination at this stage of the game.”
A few moments later the program ended and Alec turned off the set. “Well,” he said, “that’s one of them.” He thought again of the race, remembering the small, fast Moonstruck so far ahead of the field until the mile post. Their black filly might run much the same kind of race. She could race herself out, then go down beneath Golden Vanity’s stretch run just as Moonstruck had done.
Henry said, “Next Saturday we’ll get a line on Silver Jet. He’ll race in the Flamingo Stakes in Florida.”
The Kentucky Derby—the Run for the Roses—had already begun!
DERBY HOPEFULS
9
During the following week the worst weather of the winter descended upon Hopeful Farm. Every day a cold rain fell, and all horses were kept in the barns. During this week too, four mares gave birth to their foals in the early hours of the morning. One other mare was due to foal any day or night, and required constant watching. Although Alex had sufficient help, the care and handling of mares, foals, yearlings and stallions were under his supervision and occupied his every moment. He was too busy to give much thought to Black Minx and the Kentucky Derby.
Working along with him was Henry, who grumbled now and then about the inclement weather that forced him to keep his filly idle. He referred to the May classic only once. This was when he showed Alec a newspaper clipping which stated that more than one hundred three-year-olds had been nominated for the Kentucky Derby. It did not give the names of the eligibles whose owners had met the closing February deadline for entries in the classic. The list would be published later, and Black Minx’s name would be there.
A change in the weather came early Saturday morning. It turned warm, and a hot sun helped to dry the sodden earth. The fields and paddocks were soft and muddy when the horses were turned out to enjoy the sun and get the kinks out of their legs. The new foals were kept in a sheltered paddock, where they could get some winter sunshine and yet avoid the hazards of a slippery field.
Alec made his rounds, carefully watching the mares—those who were barren, as well as those in foal. He handled the yearlings, grooming them and noticing that they were beginning to shed out their winter coats. He accepted this as an indication of an early spring. At eleven o’clock he brought in Satan and the Black from their paddocks. His next two hours were spent in the breeding shed.
After lunch he joined Henry and the black filly. Henry had her outside the barn and already saddled. She moved her feet restlessly in the mud, enjoying her first outing in a week.
“What’ll it be today?” Alec asked as Henry boosted him up.
“Gallop two miles, easy.”
Alec smiled, taking up the reins. “How else would she go but easy?”
Today was the third of March. Soon, Alec knew, Henry would be asking faster works from Black Minx. Asking? No, rather they’d trick the speed out of her, just as they had done a month ago.
With Henry leading the filly, they approached the stallion barn. Alec saw Napoleon tied to the paddock fence and under saddle. “Are you riding with us, Henry?”
The trainer nodded without turning his head. “I thought I could use some exercise,” he said.
Alec leaned forward to stroke the filly’s neck. “That’s hard to believe,” he said. “You don’t enjoy riding that much any more.”
They reached Napoleon, and Henry, letting go of the filly, swung himself ponderously onto the old gray’s back. Horse and rider grunted together until Henry got settled in his seat. He patted Napoleon. “Nothing better than a good stable pony,” he said. “Nothin’ worse than a bad one. C’mon, Nap. Let’s go.”
They started for the track, Black Minx stepping lightly over the soft ground and occasionally sending the mud flying from under her dancing feet. The gray gelding plodded beside her, making no pretense of enjoying himself but knowing there was nothing he could do about it.
Alec kept the filly in line and as quiet as possible. Turning in his saddle, he asked once more, “Why the ride, Henry?”
“I got a couple things in mind,” the trainer finally answered. “First I want to go along with you to see how she acts on a muddy track. Then I thought that maybe a little company would get her to step up the pace on her own.”
“You mean you think competition from other horses might cure her loafing? Then we wouldn’t have to resort to any tricks?”
Henry shrugged his big shoulders. “Maybe so, Alec. I’ve seen a lot of horses who were lazy when worked alone, but showed up well when they had company.” He paused. “Then again I’ve see
n those who were real ‘morning glories’—the kind who work sensationally alone but fall to pieces when they have company in the afternoon races. But I’m not certain about anything with this filly. She teaches me something new ’most every day.”
Alec was silent during the rest of the ride to the track. Yet he turned in his saddle many times to study Henry’s face. His friend never noticed Alec’s glances, for Henry’s head and eyes were downcast and he seemed to be in deep concentration. Alec watched him, wondering if Henry knew how much he valued his friendship. He must, of course. But it was one of those things in life which are seldom mentioned and all too often taken for granted.
Henry wasn’t young any more, Alec knew. Many years ago Henry had given up the world of the thoroughbred. But the Black and Satan and now this filly had flung him back into the heat of it again. Yet Alec was certain that Henry was happy, for he had never really wanted to quit this life. So Henry was hanging on, his hair a little thinner and whiter each year, his eyes too often sad, his expression too grim. Sometimes, when Henry was most depressed, Alec knew his friend thought of retiring again, of never preparing another horse for another campaign … of just sitting back and relaxing. But this mood never lasted long. Henry would never quit, not as long as there was a horse for him to race. And now he had Black Minx, his very own filly, to get ready. There should be no holding him.
Reaching the track, Henry said, “I guess we’ll be able to keep up with you. This old boy can still step along pretty good.”
“I guess so,” Alec returned. But he knew Henry was hoping that Napoleon’s presence would urge the filly to extend herself of her own accord, so that Napoleon wouldn’t be able to keep up with them.
They jogged to the post, Napoleon staying close to Black Minx and ignoring the sharp swerving of her body against him. The old horse had spent too many hours with the Black and Satan to be bothered unduly by this youngster. Henry patted him fondly as they turned around.
“Okay. Let’s go head on head. I’ll keep on the outside.”
As soon as Alec gave her rein, Black Minx moved into a gallop. Napoleon plunged alongside, having no trouble at all in keeping up with her. They made the first turn and entered the backstretch.
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