The Black Stallion

  Henry lit his pipe. In the glow of the lighted match, Alec saw determination written all over his face. His jowls rose and fell as he sucked on the pipe; the thick smoke rose in the air and then floated away on the warm, spring breeze. Henry lifted the pipe from his mouth and turned to Jake. “Got any suggestions on anything we could do, Jake?”

  The old man thought a minute. Then he said, “No, Henry. Guess the best thing to do is to race him against time some way and get people talkin’ about him. But first I’d wait for the answer to your letter.”

  The stallion’s ears pricked forward as a horse’s neigh reached them from one of the stalls in the distance. Alec looked at the Black wistfully. “That’s the way I feel about it, too, Henry,” he said. “We’ll wait, but he belongs up with the best, and some way we’ve got to show everyone that he does, thoroughbred or no thoroughbred!”

  Weeks passed, and Alec and Henry conscientiously trained the Black. Eagerly they awaited an answer to Henry’s last letter. The days passed and gradually they began to lose hope. Then one day it came. Henry rushed into the barn with the long, unopened envelope in his hand. Alec was grooming the Black.

  “Alec,” he yelled excitedly, waving the letter. “It’s here!” Furiously his hands tore it open and the envelope fell to the floor.

  Alec saw his eyes fly over the letter and then disappointment appeared on his face. He handed the letter to Alec. It was short, only a few lines. Even then, Alec didn’t read all of it. The first sentence was enough. “There is no horse registered to fit the description you sent us. We made an extensive search …” Alec handed the letter back to Henry, who crumpled it up and threw it on the floor.

  In the days that followed, Alec showed his disappointment plainly. His night rides on the stallion were still as exciting as ever, but he longed to race the Black against the great race horses of the day.

  He read every word the newspapers printed about them. Out in front fighting for top honors were the two greatest horses, turf experts said, that ever set foot on any track—Sun Raider and Cyclone. Sun Raider, the champion of the West Coast, winner of the Santa Anita Handicap, the biggest, fastest horse in racing, the reports from the Coast said. Cyclone was the pride of the East, Kentucky born and bred, winner of the Derby, the Preakness, the Belmont—no horse had ever pushed him to see what he could actually do. When that time came, his followers said, Cyclone’s speed would astound the racing world.

  Sports writers wrote long accounts of the two horses, prophesying what would happen if the two champions ever met. “If Sun Raider comes east, he’ll push Cyclone to a new world’s record,” eastern reporters wrote. And the western reporters retaliated—“If Sun Raider ever goes east, he’ll make Cyclone look like a mild summer breeze!”

  Race after race passed into turf history. Sun Raider and Cyclone were the names on every person’s lips. Men and women who had never seen a race argued over the merits of the two horses, and who would win, when and if they ever met. And all the time Henry and Alec looked at the Black and smiled grimly, for they knew they had a horse that could beat them both!

  One Saturday morning a few weeks later, Alec rushed up to the barn with a newspaper in his hand. The Black at the far end of the field heard him and galloped past Henry. “Hello, fella!” Alec greeted him, as the stallion thundered to a stop and shoved his nose against him. Then Alec handed Henry the newspaper. “Read Jim Neville’s column,” he said.

  Henry took the paper and turned to the famous sports reporter’s column. “It is needless to say,” he read, “that the greatest excitement in the sports world today is being caused by two of the fastest horses ever to set foot on any track, Cyclone and Sun Raider. Thousands of words have been written about these two champions during the last year, yes, and thousands of battles have been fought (off the track) as to just which one is the best. The irony of it all is that in most probability these horses will never meet. Mr. C. T. Volence, owner of Sun Raider, is not going to send his horse east this summer for any of the races here, and Mr. E. L. Hurst, owner of Cyclone, is not sending his horse west. It seems to me that both Mr. Volence and Mr. Hurst are failing in their duties as true American sportsmen. For here is a race that the whole nation is clamoring for, and whatever personal reasons these two gentlemen have for not wanting to bring these two horses together should be cast aside for the good of American racing.

  “So I would like to suggest a match between Cyclone and Sun Raider to be held in Chicago the middle of next month. I’m sending letters to each of the owners today. There are no big races at that time in which the horses are entered. Both horses will have the same distance to travel for the race, so neither will have any advantage over the other.

  “Once and for all the question of which horse is the faster will be settled.…”

  Henry looked up from the paper. “It will be a great race if they let ’em run,” he said.

  The stallion stood quietly beside Alec, his big teeth crunching on the sugar the boy had just given him.

  Two days later as Alec walked home from school, he passed a newsstand. The headline of a morning paper leaped up at him—CYCLONE AND SUN RAIDER TO RUN MATCH RACE JUNE 26! he read. Eagerly he bought a paper and turned to Jim Neville’s column.

  The owners of the two champions had accepted his proposal—the race was on! “Mr. Volence and Mr. Hurst even went me one better,” Jim Neville wrote. “They have offered to give over their share of the purse money to a worthwhile charity! I owe them both an apology, for they are true sportsmen in every sense of the word.…”

  Alec couldn’t get home and through lunch fast enough to hear what Henry thought about it. When he reached the barn, he saw Henry already had a paper and was reading it. He looked up as Alec approached. “Well, they’ve gone and done it!” he said.

  “Boy, and I’d give a lot to see it!” answered Alec.

  A car turned into the driveway. “Wonder who this is?” asked Henry.

  “It’s Joe Russo—haven’t seen him since he gave us that write-up the day we got home!” Alec exclaimed as the car neared them.

  Joe jumped out. “Hello, Alec. Hello, Mr. Dailey. I was over this way covering a story and thought I’d drop in and see how you were doin’ with that wild stallion of yours.”

  “He’s okay now.” Alec grinned proudly.

  “Still keeps us on our toes, though,” Henry said. “There he is out in the field now.” He pointed to the Black.

  Alec whistled. “I’ll give you a closeup of him, Joe,” he said.

  The stallion ran toward them. He reared when he saw Joe, and rushed down the field again. “Guess he’s forgotten me.” Joe laughed.

  Alec whistled again and the Black whirled and came back. Alec grabbed him by the halter.

  “Boy! I knew I wasn’t seeing things that night—he sure is the biggest horse I’ve ever seen!” Joe whistled admiringly.

  “Fastest horse you’ve ever seen, too,” said Alec proudly.

  “Faster than Sun Raider and Cyclone?” kidded Joe.

  “Beat both of ’em,” Henry said.

  Joe laughed. “Say, you guys sound serious! Here people all over the country are arguing about who’s the fastest horse in the country—Sun Raider or Cyclone, and you say your horse can beat them both. Better not let anyone hear you say it!”

  “It’s the truth, Joe,” Alec said. “We’ve been racing—” He stopped and looked at Henry.

  “It’s all right, Alec,” Henry said. “Guess it doesn’t make much difference now who we tell; we can’t race him anyway.”

  Joe looked from Alec to Henry. “You mean to tell me you’ve been racing him?”

  “In a way,” Alec answered. “We’ve been taking him over to Belmont at night and giving him some workouts.”

  “And let me tell you, sir,” Henry broke in, “no horse ever ran around that track like this fellow did. We clocked him; there wasn’t any guesswork.”

  “You see,” Alec said, “we had planned to run him in some big races. I
was going to ride—but we weren’t able to get his pedigree. We wrote to Arabia trying to get it, but it was impossible. We didn’t know much about him, only the port where he got on the boat. And you can’t run a horse in a race without his being registered.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” muttered Joe, “and while the Black looks like a thoroughbred, he is certainly too wild to have ever been brought up like one!”

  “I guess that just about washes us up as far as racing goes, but we still know he’s the fastest horse around!” Henry said.

  Joe scratched his head. “You’re sure he’s as fast as you say he is?” Joe asked.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” replied Henry. “Why?”

  “Well, I know of one race that he wouldn’t need to be registered for.”

  “Some county fair?” Henry laughed.

  “No—the match race between Sun Raider and Cyclone!”

  “But that’s impossible,” Henry said.

  “Nothing is impossible these days,” Joe said. “But whether we could get him in or not, it wouldn’t be his lack of registration papers that would keep him out. You see, that’s a special match race—it isn’t held at any race meeting. It’s just like me racing you to see which one of us can run faster. They rent the track, bring the horses and away they go! All you have to do is get the other owners to let you run the Black in the race!”

  “Yeah, that’s all,” Henry said, “and I still say it’s practically impossible!”

  “There’s a slim chance, though, Henry,” Alec said eagerly.

  “You said it, kid.” Joe grinned.

  “How do you think we could work it, Joe?” Henry asked.

  “I dunno—but you know I work on the same paper with Jim Neville, and he’s the guy that started all this; he might help us some way.”

  “Perhaps if you told him about the Black …” suggested Alec.

  “Maybe,” answered Joe. “He’s crazy about horses, and doesn’t think that there’s any horse in the world that can beat Cyclone, even Sun Raider. He’d probably think I was nuts if I told him I knew of a horse that could beat ’em both.” He paused. “You’re sure that the Black can?”

  Henry smiled. “Yeah, Joe, I’m sure,” he said, “but seeing that you’re kinda skeptical, why don’t you come over some night when we run him? Sure, and bring Jim Neville along, too; then he will have something to write about!”

  “Not a bad idea, Henry,” Joe answered. “I’ll get in touch with Jim this afternoon. When you going to run the Black again?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Alec answered.

  “If you can make it, you can meet us at the main gate at two o’clock,” Henry said.

  “Say, this is just like a mystery novel,” Joe said as he walked toward his car. “But I’ll be there, and I have a feelin’ Jim will too! So long!”

  “So long,” Alec and Henry called. The stallion raised his head and whinnied as the car rolled down toward the gate.

  THE MYSTERY HORSE

  15

  The following night when Alec and Henry drove up to Belmont’s main gate, they saw Joe’s car parked there. Two men were inside. “That fellow with him must be Jim Neville,” Alec said hopefully.

  Henry brought the truck to a stop and lightly touched the horn. “Leave your car here,” he called softly to Joe. “Jump on the truck—we’ve only a short way to go.”

  The two men climbed out of the car and leaped onto the truck’s running board. Henry put the truck in gear as he saw Jake swing the gates open. Joe pushed his head in the open window near Henry. “Made it,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Hold tight, my friend. You’ll find out,” Henry said.

  Five minutes later they came to a stop beside the track. Henry and Alec climbed out. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside Joe; his hat was shoved back off his forehead and Alec saw long streaks of gray running through his black hair. Somehow Jim Neville looked just as Alec had imagined he would. Joe introduced them.

  After the introductions, Jim said, “Frankly,” and his eyes squinted quizzically, “it’s only the newspaper man in me that gets me out here tonight, because as much faith as I have in my pal Joe here, I can’t imagine any horse in racing—today anyway—that can match strides with Cyclone or Sun Raider!”

  Henry smiled. “Sure,” he said, “I’d say the same thing if I hadn’t seen the Black run!”

  Jim Neville looked questioningly at Henry. “Say, you’re not by any chance the same Henry Dailey who rode Chang to victory in all those races about twenty years ago, are you?”

  “Sure he is!” Alec said proudly.

  Jim Neville pulled his hat down over his forehead. Alec could see that once again he was the reporter on the scent of a story. “And you believe,” Jim said seriously, “that you’ve got a horse here that can beat both Sun Raider and Cyclone?”

  “Yep,” Henry answered. “It’s Alec’s horse; I just help train him.”

  Joe Russo spoke up. “Why not show him the Black, Henry, and then we’ll let him draw his own conclusions?”

  “Good idea,” said Alec as he walked toward the back of the truck.

  He led the Black out on the ramp. “Say,” he heard Jim exclaim, “he is a giant of a horse!” The stallion shook his head. He was full of life tonight for he knew well that he was going to run. His small, savagely beautiful head turned toward the group of men below him. He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which Alec curbed, and then stood quivering while the boy talked soothingly and patted him.

  Jake came up and Henry introduced him to Joe and Jim. “Say,” Jake smiled, “this is growin’ into quite a shindig, isn’t it?”

  Jim walked carefully around the stallion.

  “Watch out. He might kick, if you get too close,” warned Alec. “He doesn’t know you.”

  “Don’t worry! I won’t get too close to this fellow,” Jim said. “I’m beginning to see what you fellows mean,” he added. “If he can run as well as he looks—”

  Henry disappeared into the truck and came out leading Napoleon.

  “Hey, what’ve you got here—another champion?” Jim threw back his head and howled.

  “This is Napoleon.” Henry grinned.

  “He has sort of a quieting effect on the Black, so we always bring him along,” Alec explained.

  Jim Neville watched as Napoleon reached his nose up toward the stallion’s. “Maybe not such a bad idea, after all,” he said.

  A few minutes later they boosted Alec into the saddle. The Black pawed the ground. Jim Neville got too close and the Black’s teeth snapped as he tried to reach him. Henry held him back. It was plain to see he wasn’t used to seeing so many people around at one time. He tossed his head up and down, his heavy mane falling over his forehead. Suddenly he rose on his hind legs, tearing the bridle out of Henry’s grasp; his legs struck out, hitting Henry in the arm.

  Alec pulled hard on the reins and jerked him to the side. “Black!” he said. “Down!” The men retreated quickly to a safe distance. Jake was rolling up Henry’s sleeve, which was wet with blood.

  “Did he get you bad, Henry?” Alec asked.

  Jake and Henry were inspecting the wound. “Nothing broke,” answered Jake. “Just a bad cut; we’ll go up to the First Aid Room and fix it!”

  “No, we won’t,” Henry said. “I came down here to watch this workout and I’m going to see it. I’ll take care of this later—you gotta take more’n a cut in this business.”

  “He sure is a devil!” Jim Neville yelled from the other side of the Black.

  “We got him excited, that’s all,” answered Henry. “First time he’s done that to me.”

  Again the stallion reared and Alec brought him down. “Get him out on the track, kid,” Jake yelled.

  The Black pranced nervously as they went through the gate. Once again Alec felt his body grow warm with excitement. He patted the crest on the stallion’s neck. “We’re off, fella,” he said. Alec looked back at the small group of men behind hi
m. They were all leaning on the fence, watching eagerly.

  Joe Russo’s voice drifted toward him. “That kid’s not going on any picnic,” he said.

  Alec grasped the reins still tighter and leaned over until his head touched the stallion’s. He knew full well the danger that was his every time he rode the Black, especially when he let him loose on the track. The stallion would never hurt him knowingly, but once he got his head he was no longer the Black that Alec knew—but once again a wild stallion that had never been clearly broken, and never would be!

  Suddenly the Black bolted. His action shifted marvelously as his powerful legs swept over the ground. Fleet hoofbeats made a clattering roar in Alec’s ears. The stallion’s speed became greater and greater. Alec’s body grew numb, the terrific speed made it hard for him to breathe. Once again the track became a blur, and he was conscious only of the endless white fence slipping by. His fingers grasped the stallion’s mane and his head hung low beside his neck. His only thought was to remain on the Black’s back and to stay alert. His breath came in short gasps, the white fence faded from his vision; desperately he tried to open his eyes, but his lids seemed held down by weights. Bells began to ring in his ears. Alec’s fingers tightened on the Black’s mane. He lost all track of time—then the world started turning upside down.

  It seemed hours later that he felt arms reach around his waist. Then the next thing he knew, he found himself lying flat on his back beside the truck. He looked up at the men grouped around him. Henry knelt beside him, his white handkerchief stained with large dark spots bulging around his arm. Alec’s eyes fell to his own hands. Strands of long, black hair were clenched between doubled fists. Questioningly he looked up at Henry.

  “How—” he began.

  “It’s all right, kid. You wouldn’t let go of him. Feel all right?”

  “Kinda dizzy,” answered Alec. “Where’s the Black?”

  “He’s okay—we put him in the truck with Napoleon.”

  “Did I fall off, Henry?” Alec asked.

  Jake’s high-pitched voice reached Alec’s ears. “Fall off?” he said. “Boy, if that hoss was still running, you’d still be on him. Took all of us to get you off his back when he did stop, and then Henry was the only one of us who could get near him.”