The Black Stallion Challenged

  Steve Duncan’s dark eyes brightened. “I read a story in the paper the other day about an eleven-year-old kid riding his first race in England.”

  “I read something in the paper the other day, too,” Alec said. “I read that 4-H Clubs all over the country are developing riding and horsemanship as part of their activities. That’s good. Kids will learn to ride all the better for it, and be better off physically and mentally.…”

  “You’re being a wise guy,” Steve Duncan said angrily.

  “No, not at all. I’m only trying to say that you shouldn’t look forward to becoming a race-rider overnight. It takes time and patience. Two or three years, maybe, of hard work and long hours.”

  Steve laughed. “I don’t think there’s much difference in riders,” he said, “even race-riders. Get on the best horse and you’re the best rider. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It isn’t,” Alec said. “Even the best horse can lose races through bad riding. The only way to learn good riding is to start from the bottom. You learn first how a racing stable operates. You groom. You walk hots. You ride exercise ponies and learn the rules of racing. Then, if you’ve proven to be able, you gallop and breeze horses. You take blackboard drills. You study patrol movies. You learn the duties of the stewards, the placing judges, the patrol judges and last, but not least, the starters. You …”

  “You’re kidding,” Steve interrupted. “You don’t need all that, not if you’re on the right horse at the right time. You ought to know that. You of all people. You had nothing but him when you started. That’s why I’m here.”

  Alec held the other’s eyes. “Nothing but him,” Steve had said. Nothing but the Black and a mutual love and understanding for each other. Steve Duncan was right. He’d had no thick calluses on his hands in those days.

  “But I had Henry Dailey as a friend and trainer,” he said finally. “Without him, I doubt very much that I would have raced the Black.”

  “I know that,” Steve Duncan said surprisingly. “That’s why I came to you. I hoped you’d help me as you were helped.”

  Alec said nothing, but he knew he could no longer look upon Steve Duncan’s request as anything but the deadly serious matter it was. His visitor had struck home.

  Steve Duncan went on, confident that Alec was listening now to every word he had to say. “I know you meant what you said about learning all those things having to do with racing, and taking two or three years to do it. But I don’t want to be a professional rider, Alec. I just need money now, lots of it. The only way I can get it is to race my horse.”

  “How much money?” Alec asked, and he was surprised at the casualness of his voice. “And what for?” Steve Duncan would not want the money for anything foolish. Of that Alec was convinced now. There was no doubt Steve knew what he was after, and that he had a plan to get it.

  “I need sixty-five thousand dollars to buy an island,” Steve answered. It was said the same way most people would have talked about earning money for a home or food or any of the basic necessities of life.

  “An island,” Alec repeated, his voice as matter-of-fact as Steve’s. Two guys talking. It was the way it could go sometimes. “You going to live there?”

  “No, but my horse does.”

  “Oh,” Alec said, as if Steve had explained everything. “I thought you might have won your race horse in a contest or something. You know there’s a pipe tobacco company that gives away two race horses every year just for naming them.”

  “I didn’t get Flame that way,” Steve answered. “You know it’s funny about those contests,” he went on seriously. “For years I tried to win a horse that way. But it was always women who won those contests.”

  “Housewives,” Alec added, as serious as Steve. “I don’t understand it either.”

  The Black moved around them in a tight circle and their gazes turned to him.

  “Is your island nearby?” Alec asked Steve.

  “No, it’s ’way down in the Caribbean Sea.” Steve hesitated, his eyes wavering a moment, then meeting Alec’s again. “It’s in the Windward group of the Lower Antilles.”

  “We were down that way a few months ago,” Alec said. “Not by choice. We ran into Daisy.”

  “The hurricane. Yeah, I know. I read about your plane having to ditch. It’s a wonder …”

  “I know,” Alec said, cutting him off. “It is. But we’re here.” He didn’t want to discuss that episode in his life.

  “You wouldn’t have seen my island,” Steve said. “It’s not much.”

  “Is that why you want to buy it?”

  “That’s why I can buy it,” Steve said. “It’s a British possession and uninhabited. Her Majesty’s government will sell it for sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “We checked and that’s what we learned.”

  “We?” Alec repeated. “Your parents?”

  “No, my friend Pitch. He’s old. I mean older than us. Maybe he’s like your friend Henry, except different.”

  “How different?”

  “He’s no trainer or even a horseman. He’s an amateur archaeologist and historian.”

  “Oh,” Alec said.

  “That’s why he’s interested in the island,” Steve explained further.

  “Is he there now with your horse?”

  “He’s with my horse, but not there.”

  Alec started to say “Oh” again but changed his mind and kept still. It was better if he didn’t give Steve the impression that he understood when he didn’t. One step at a time.

  “Then your horse and Pitch are here? I mean in Miami?”

  “No, they’re in Nassau over in the Bahamas.”

  “Oh” slipped out before Alec could check it. He went on, “They’re as good as here, then. Just a few hours away.”

  “I can bring Flame to Hialeah, if you’ll help me.”

  “How?” Alec heard himself ask quite seriously.

  “Speak to the racing secretary. Try to get me stall space. It would take just one big race for me to win all the money I need.”

  The Black started around them in another tight circle. Alec, who felt he couldn’t be made any dizzier than he was, stayed with him this time instead of giving him enough shank to go around alone. This Steve Duncan was fantastic in his requests. The Black kept circling.

  “That’s a big order,” Alec said finally. “I wouldn’t have a chance of doing what you ask. The secretary would never go for my story of a phantom horse that was so fast he could … well, go as fast as you say yours can go.”

  Steve’s black eyes flashed fire again. “He’s no phantom horse,” he said.

  “I’m sure he isn’t,” Alec said quietly. “Not to you, but he would be to the racing secretary. Occasionally,” he went on, “I’ve heard of some horse like yours being given permission to enter the United States for ‘racing purposes only.’ But always he’s won some race to make it worth-while for a racing secretary to want him at his track.”

  Alec studied Steve’s thin, drawn face, waiting for him to say his horse had won something to make him wanted at Hialeah. But his visitor remained silent, as if torn between conflicting emotions.

  Alec felt his sympathy for Steve Duncan getting out of hand, almost to the point of his having to do something for him. “Since you have Flame in Nassau, why not race him there?” he suggested. “If he’s as good as you say he is, he’ll win in such fast time people over here will certainly become aware of him. Then we’ll have something to work with.”

  “We?” Steve repeated. “You’ll help me, then?”

  “If you do as I say and race him in Nassau,” Alec promised. “We can go on from there, depending upon how you make out.”

  “I’ll do it!” Steve Duncan said. His voice was so shrill that it startled the Black, who took two jumps and came to a stop only when Alec had been pulled off his feet and lay on the ground.

  Reaching for Alec’s hand, Steve helped him up. “That’s all I
need. I’ll be back soon, Alec … you’ll see.” He turned and fled down the shed row, a skinny, running figure in a black suit.

  Alec watched him go. “You’ll need lots more than my help,” he thought. But whether or not Flame raced successfully in Nassau, Alec felt certain he had not seen the last of Steve Duncan. Strangely enough, he was glad. It was good to be shaken down once in a while, to be made to realize how it had been for him, too, at the beginning. And he’d been “shook,” plenty.

  MISTY MORNING

  3

  The next morning Alec’s alarm clock went off at five minutes to five, giving him the usual five minutes to convince himself it was time to get up. He had no set deadline to meet, for Henry seldom sent the Black out on the track before eight o’clock in the morning. There was a time when Henry had made a daybreak gallop a “must” but such was not the case in Florida. Henry was slowing up.

  With seven hours of sleep behind him, Alec got out of bed. There was a little chill to the morning air, just enough to be invigorating without any need for a warming fire. Such mornings made winter racing in Florida most attractive. Later on, he’d listen to the radio and find out how cold it was up north.

  After turning on the light, Alec dressed slowly. Outside the barn he heard the muffled snorts and neighs of horses and the mutterings of caretakers. Many horses had been fed as early as three-thirty and very shortly, with the rising of the sun, they would be on their way to the track.

  The Black was behind the closed doors of his stall, resting and undisturbed by the area’s pre-dawn activities. Alec knew that his horse adjusted well to any schedule set for him. Perhaps he even enjoyed these extra hours of luxury as much as Alec himself did.

  Henry was in his motel just a few blocks away, still asleep. It was his old friend’s right, Alec conceded, although there were times when he wished he could have changed places with him. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and had trouble finding his clothes.

  Henry wasn’t a true racetracker anymore, Alec decided as he dressed. These days he ate a big breakfast at his motel before going to the track. A year ago Henry would have had only a cup of coffee, saving his bacon and eggs and toast until about ten o’clock, when their morning work was finished.

  Alec left the tack room, still sleepy, and not bothering to identify any of the shadowy figures moving about the area. He was greeted by a loud snort as he opened the Black’s stall door and turned on the light. Once inside, his eyes moved quickly to the corner rack, noting that there was hay left from the night before. He emptied and washed the water bucket, then refilled it. He set in the morning feed and left the Black alone to eat.

  The stallion’s morning meal was the lightest of the day, consisting only of dry oats. Henry had special food and mineral additives which were included in all other meals. Alec didn’t know if they helped the Black or not. They certainly could do no harm. Of course they helped Henry, who was taking the same wheat-germ oil and blood-liver tonic, high in iron, that he was giving the Black. Henry was trying all kinds of tonics these days. Let anyone make a suggestion as to the ways and means to better health and he’d be the first to try it.

  Alec washed up and then went to the track kitchen for a cup of coffee. He didn’t linger over it or spend any time with the other men who were there, for he had a lot of work to do before Henry arrived.

  Night was gradually fading, giving way to shadowy dawn as he walked back to the barn. Figures in the area were becoming clearer and some of the boys were already riding toward the track. Alec mucked out the Black’s stall and rebedded, saving whatever straw he could. It was expensive in Florida, just as good hay was. He talked to the Black as he worked and noted that his feed tub was clean, always a wonderful sign. The Black would have time to digest his oats before going out on the track.

  After finishing his work in the stall Alec began grooming the Black. No one else could do this job, not even Henry. It made for a long day but there was no alternative. Henry insisted that a good groom was equal in value to a good horse. It was impossible to have one without the other.

  The Black stood still as Alec went over him with soft rub-rags and soft brushes. Finally, there were only the steel-shod feet to clean. When that was done Alec said, “I’m glad you’re not playing tricks anymore. See that you act this way on the track. My knee is still bruised from the kick you gave me yesterday.”

  When Alec left the stall and stepped outside he found that a light breeze was blowing. There was mist, too, but that would dissipate with the rising sun. It was a time of day that he especially liked. There was no other hour like it; he felt sorry for everybody who was still in bed and asleep.

  He went into the tack room and changed his sneakers for boots. Then, picking up his riding helmet, he fitted a freshly washed black and white silk cap over the tough fiber headpiece. He punched his fist into the soft and thick sponge-rubber lining. It made sense that such a protective hat was part of a jockey’s required equipment. Most people had no idea what riding into the first turn was like. Steel-shod hoofs made a pretty sound on a racetrack but not on a guy’s head. Making race horses go was a tough, hazardous business for men as well as boys. Their careers were relatively short and not many of them made over $6,000 a year.

  The sun was up when Henry arrived. He loitered outside where it shone brightly down on him, as if he needed warmth in his old bones. Alec glanced impatiently toward the track. The sun was shining there, too, and he was anxious to ride. The cool air acted as a tonic for him.

  “You’re late,” he told Henry. “Let’s get going.”

  Henry blinked in the bright sunlight but did not move. He seemed to be listening to the singing of the birds in the lush greenery nearby. Finally, his eyes focused on Alec.

  “Just think,” he said. “It’s near zero in New York again today.”

  Alec started up the shed row, hoping Henry would follow. He went into the Black’s stall but came right out again when Henry didn’t join him. The old trainer was across the way, visiting a litter of stable kittens that had been born a few days before. Shrugging his shoulders, Alec thought resignedly, what was his big rush anyway? They had all morning, and patience was the secret to success in this business, as perhaps in any business.

  He returned to the Black. Perhaps they should have brought old Napoleon along. The gray gelding was the Black’s mascot. Almost every good horse had a mascot or pet of some kind, like the kittens across the way. Elsewhere in the area were ponies, donkeys, goats, monkeys, and dogs. Most stable mascots were useful, for they soothed temperamental horses or acted as watchdogs; others were only decorative or thought to bring good luck. A billy goat, not a nanny goat, was supposed to ward off disease in a barn. Birds, except for chickens and ducks, were supposed to be bad luck and avoided. Monkeys and roosters usually thought they were jockeys, for they were forever perched on the backs of their protégés.

  Alec slipped on the Black’s bridle, then the light saddle, his strong, calloused hands gentle on the big horse. Outside, he remarked, “He’s on his toes this morning, Henry.”

  “Ain’t he always?” the old trainer said, his eyes on the Black. They had a big and handsome hunk of horseflesh. He had put on weight during the past year but had not lost his racing trim. “He’ll look good on TV again this year,” he added seriously. There was no doubt that television had done much to endow the Black with more appeal and grandeur than any horse since Pegasus. It was one of those things that had changed with the times. In the old days one had to see a great horse in the flesh to appreciate him. Not anymore.

  The Black shifted quickly when Henry boosted Alec into the saddle, but the old trainer held the lead shank tightly while Alec took up his reins and got set. Then they started down the row, the gazes of all the men in the area following them.

  Alec glanced at the tall Australian pines just beyond. The rays of the morning sun were filtering their way through; it was still a little misty but beginning to clear.

  A filly went along th
e path at a slow jog, her rider standing in his stirrup irons and talking to her. The Black jumped after them, and Alec said, “Easy, Mister. Easy.”

  “There goes a nervous, fidgety filly,” Henry pointed out. “I wouldn’t have her in my stable.”

  “She’s young,” Alec said. “She’ll settle down.” He knotted the reins, keeping his mind on his own horse. The Black was getting stronger as he got older.

  “Perhaps so,” Henry answered, his eyes still on the filly. “But it’s always better to be surprised than disappointed. It takes a lot of time with the good ones.”

  “Sure, Henry,” Alec said. He knew what his friend meant. Take all the time in the world so nothing would ever come to an end. Henry would rust away if he found himself without a horse to train, and the Black was the biggest one he’d had.

  The filly up ahead went into a spin, rearing and almost spilling her rider.

  “She’s green and hard to handle,” Henry said. “She raced only twice last year. That’s Manizales up on her.”

  “I know,” Alec said, having recognized the little Puerto Rican from the dark turtleneck sweater and scarlet headpiece he always wore. “She won’t get rid of Manny.”

  “No, she won’t. He’s one jock who didn’t come here to go fishing or get away from cold weather.”

  “I’ve been watching him race,” Alec said. “He’s a go-for-broke rider every time.”

  “He’s hungry,” Henry said, “and that makes him a whizz bomb. It also makes him unpopular with other jockeys as well as the stewards.”

  “It should,” Alec said. “He almost put Charley Hancox in the infield yesterday. I don’t know how he got away with not being suspended.”

  “He’s a smart rider as well as a rough one,” Henry said. “He makes it difficult for anyone to claim a foul.”

  Alec shrugged his shoulders. “He sure does everything at a quick pace. I guess he wants to succeed in the United States in a hurry.”

  “He’s not alone,” Henry said. “There are plenty of others from the islands who think they can get rich quick at Hialeah.”