Son of the Black Stallion

  “We’ll work on him, Henry.”

  “An’ I’ll get the blinkers and the whips when I go to New York this afternoon.”

  They were walking down the driveway when Mr. Ramsay came toward them carrying a long cardboard box.

  Alec greeted his father with curiosity in his eyes, for it was very seldom that he came home for lunch.

  “I wanted to give you this before I went into the house,” Mr. Ramsay explained, handing the box to Alec. “Keep it in the barn,” he said hastily, his gaze turning in the direction of the brown house across the street.

  Alec’s intent eyes traveled from the box in his hands to his father, then back again. “You want me to keep it for you?” he asked in bewilderment. He looked at Henry, and he saw that the old trainer was as amazed by his father’s strange actions as he was.

  “No … it’s yours, Alec,” Mr. Ramsay replied.

  “They’re your riding silks … black except for the white diamond on the sleeves. That’s the way you wanted it, wasn’t it?”

  Alec met his father’s eyes. “Dad,” he said, “… you really did it … you went out and ordered them yourself.…”

  “It was nothing, Alec. Nothing at all,” Mr. Ramsay said quickly. “I thought that since I registered the colors with the Jockey Club, the least I could do was to buy the silks for you.” Abruptly, Mr. Ramsay turned to Henry. “What’s the status regarding Alec’s jockey license, Henry? He must have one to ride, mustn’t he?”

  Henry smiled. For Mr. Ramsay’s precise manner couldn’t conceal his keen interest in the race which was so close at hand. Henry shook his head. “No, Mr. Ramsay,” he replied. “Alec doesn’t need a license.… In fact, he can’t get one until he has ridden in two races. What we’re goin’ to do is to get permission from the stewards the day before the race. We won’t have any trouble.… It’s a formality every new rider has to go through.”

  “You’re sure now, Henry?” Mr. Ramsay asked, concerned. “It wouldn’t do to have anything go wrong before the Hopeful.”

  “I’m sure,” Henry returned. Then he added, “Oh, yes … we’ve decided to enter Satan in a race at Belmont two weeks before the Hopeful.”

  “Good. Good,” Mr. Ramsay said. “Then he’ll have won a race before running in the Hopeful.”

  Henry didn’t say anything, but Alec said, “Yes … that’s right, Dad.”

  “We’ll send in his nomination for this race tonight, then, Henry,” Mr. Ramsay said. Turning to Alec, he added, “Don’t mention my buying these riding silks to your mother, Alec.” Pausing, he said confidingly, “She wouldn’t understand.”

  Nodding, Alec smiled. “Yes, Dad, I know … she wouldn’t understand.”

  Satan was nominated for the Sanford, and the month of July sped by with weeks of exacting, relentless work on the part of Henry and Alec. For a while the giant black colt was kept upon the lead rope; then, when they both saw that his leg had fully recovered, he was turned loose to spend long days in the field, grazing, dozing, and very often galloping thunderously about, his sharp whistle ringing in the air.

  Day and night they watched him, their eyes as keen and eager as Satan’s.

  “He’s galloping as free as he ever did,” Henry said.

  “He’s ready to go … and he wants to reach out,” Alec said. “It’s time, Henry … only about three weeks to go now before the Sanford.”

  During the days that followed, Henry had Alec ride Satan in the field, and the boy carried a whip in his hand, swinging it lightly alongside the colt. Satan swerved hard at the beginning, but as the days sped by it seemed to Alec that the colt’s fear of the stick became less intense and, more often than not, when he swung it alongside him, Satan would continue running without paying any attention to it.

  “He’s getting used to it,” Alec told the old trainer. “I know he is!”

  “Don’t be too sure, Alec,” Henry returned. “It might be different in a race when he gets a glimpse of those jocks actually hittin’ their horses with their sticks. But,” he added, “there’s no doubt he’s gettin’ used to seein’ those sticks hangin’ up in his stall and you carryin’ one without usin’ it on him. Maybe, Alec, maybe …”

  “And the blinkers should help in the race, too,” Alec said optimistically, as he tapped Satan between the eyes.

  Two weeks before the running of the Sanford, they again worked the giant black colt in the early mornings at Belmont. And as Alec breezed Satan down the track, the new black hood covering his small head, even Henry grew optimistic as the colt ran without swerving when Alec swung his whip alongside.

  “You get him out in front, and we’ve got it,” he told Alec.

  “It’s the start I’m still worried about,” Alec returned. “With all those jocks using their sticks, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  “Yeah,” Henry muttered. “We’ve got to wait for that.”

  The day of the Sanford broke cool and gray, the August sun hidden behind heavy clouds. It was a little after dawn when Alec arrived at the barn to find Henry already there, the old trainer’s lips as tightly drawn as his own.

  Alec said, “Hope it doesn’t rain.”

  “It won’t,” Henry reassured him. “It’ll be a dry, fast track.” Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “Makes no difference, though … he can plow through mud as well as anything.”

  Napoleon neighed as they walked past, but they had eyes only for the black colt this morning.

  He stood up to his fetlocks in the straw bedding, watching their approach. He shook himself as Alec entered the stall, and shoved his head against him.

  “Today’s the day,” Alec whispered, rubbing the heavy ears.

  Henry entered the stall, carrying a pail of oats. Satan moved restlessly as Henry poured the oats into his feed box.

  Alec pulled the colt’s head down toward him and said, “Just oats today, Satan … no hay.… It’s race day.” Satan shook his head as though he sensed what was ahead of him. His head came up and his eyes were bright and burning. Alec led him over to the feed box and then left the stall with Henry.

  As Satan crunched his feed, Henry scrutinized the giant muscles rippling beneath the glistening black body. “He’s right, Alec,” he muttered. “As ready to go as he ever will be.”

  Alec didn’t say anything.

  After a few minutes Henry spoke again. “Soon as he’s finished eating, we’ll take him over to the track.… We’ll blow him out this morning to get the kinks outa his legs an’ then sit back an’ wait for the race.”

  “You got a stall over there?” Alec asked.

  “Everything is set,” Henry replied slowly. “It’s up to him now.”

  Clad in his new black silks, Alec sat still and tense on Satan’s back as he followed the line of thoroughbreds onto the track for the running of the Sanford. The colt crabstepped restlessly, and Alec loosened the reins a little.

  “This is it, boy,” he whispered. “Easy now … I’m with you.”

  They were alone, on their own. Behind them, back in the paddock, was Henry. He hadn’t said much when he had boosted Alec up. He didn’t have to. Alec knew what he was expected to do. “Luck, Alec,” was all Henry had said.

  The large grandstand was packed with a milling crowd awaiting the running of the Sanford; and people were decked deeply along the rail as well, waiting. Their shouts reached a mighty crescendo as the horses appeared on the track.

  Satan’s eyes blazed and he half reared. Pulling him down, Alec forgot everything but his horse. “Easy, Satan,” he said. “Easy does it. Take this one in your stride, fella.… The big one is coming up in a couple of weeks. This is just a prep, boy.… You’ve no competition here, none at all.”

  Alec followed the other horses with his eyes as they paraded past the grandstand. He talked soothingly to Satan, but his gaze swept over the other thoroughbreds in the race. They were all good two-year-olds, as Henry had said, but they weren’t in the same class with Boldt’s Comet, who had whipped most
of them soundly during the winter racing in Florida.

  Satan shook his black-hooded head and whistled shrilly as they neared the end of the stands. The other thoroughbreds moved nervously at Satan’s challenge, but none of them showed fight. The voices of the crowd were stilled for a few seconds, and Alec knew that thousands of eyes were upon him and his horse. Somewhere in that packed throng were a few who would watch Satan run with more than casual eyes.… Alec knew his father was up there, and Henry would be at the rail by now. Nine chances out of ten Boldt was there, too, and Volence as well. They alone knew the breeding of his black colt. They alone knew that he was the son of the mighty Black!

  Fortunately, Alec had drawn an outside position, which he had wanted for this race. As Satan loped around the track toward the starting stalls near the backstretch, Alec kept him close to the far rail.

  When he arrived at the starting gate, he saw that the other horses were already walking into their stalls. The starter was ready, waiting for him. Talking to his horse, Alec moved Satan up.

  They were at the head of the Widener Course, a long straightaway leading diagonally across the infield. Far down the stretch, opposite the packed stands, was the finish line. Six furlongs, Alec thought … three-quarters of a mile. It was a short race, even shorter than the Hopeful. As Henry had said, Satan couldn’t afford to lose too much ground at the start. He would have to be brought out fast. Alec’s gaze shifted to the other jockeys. They had their whips in their hands, and apparently were going to use them hard at the break. He didn’t like it.

  Alec saw to it that Satan was facing straight ahead as he moved into the starting stall. The boy’s face was tense; the gate doors would open any second. There was only one horse on his right. It was as he had wanted it. He’d bring Satan straight down as far away from the other horses as possible.

  A horse backed out of his stall. The starter waited for him to be brought in again. Satan was working himself up, and he tried to turn his hooded head toward the other horses. Already the reins had beat the perspiration on his neck into a white lather. Alec was as tense as his colt, waiting … waiting.

  The gate doors flew open, and a mighty shout from the stands swept across the infield: “They’re off!” Then the roar of the crowd died beneath the rolling thunder of pounding hoofs.

  They broke fast and with a mighty surge swept away from the gate like a giant wave hurtling itself shoreward with ever increasing momentum.

  “Move, Satan! Move!” Alec shouted as his colt bolted forward with the others.

  For a few seconds there was just a blur of pounding hoofs and flashing silks. Then out of the melee several horses on the rail burst forward, their jockeys cutting away with their sticks.

  Alec felt Satan hesitate as he saw the swinging whips on his left; then the colt swerved hard to the right. Alec let him move over, his voice alone urging him on. The horse on the outside came up fast as Satan fell back and Alec’s face went white when he saw the jockey using his whip. Satan checked his speed again when the horse came up on his right, and swerved back toward the inside rail only to see more thrashing sticks.

  Calling to Satan, Alec pulled him to the outside of the horse which had swept forward on their right. Then, with a clear track ahead of him, he sat down to ride.

  With thunderous strides, Satan bore down upon the other horses as they pounded down the straightaway. Alec gave him his head, and as he called repeatedly to him Satan extended himself, his feet barely touching the ground.

  Far on the outside of the track, Satan passed the lagging horses in the race and moved up to the leaders. Through wind-blurred eyes, Alec saw the hindquarters of the horses in front rise and fall.

  Satan was closing in upon them fast, but Alec wondered if his horse would be able to overtake them before reaching the wire.… He had lost much ground at the break.

  Satan pounded the dirt with great strides. Alec saw that there were only three horses in front of them. The leaders were running hard, but Alec knew that their jockeys were saving something for the final drive that would come in the last few seconds. Then they’d go for their sticks again.

  Alec’s hand fell to his horse’s wet neck, and he called to him. As Satan responded, one of the horses in front was driven a little to the right by his jockey. Alec kept Satan going straight ahead, knowing that he couldn’t afford to lose ground again by turning Satan away from the hard-running horse in front. He had to take a chance. He had to drive Satan straight through to the wire.

  Alec felt Satan surge forward with blinding speed as he called upon him. The giant black colt hurtled past the third-place horse before the jockey had gone for his stick. The ground swept by in waves beneath Satan’s flying hoofs, and he drew up quickly alongside the second-place horse, running a half-length behind the leader. The white rail flashed by; the mass of humanity in the stands rose to its feet, screaming; and just ahead loomed the wire.

  Alec saw the jockey in front go for his stick. He felt Satan hesitate and swerve slightly toward the outside again. Alec’s hands fell upon the black neck and he shouted to Satan as the hard-running horse in front surged forward. With a hundred yards to go, Satan’s ears swept back when Alec called to him; then he leveled out again.

  The giant colt came down to the wire like a black thunderbolt. There was no stopping him now. Never had he run so fast. Alec’s breath came short at Satan’s speed. With blinding fury, Satan passed the horse in front and swept under the wire, winner by two lengths!

  It was more than an hour later when the track security police got the curious spectators away from Satan’s stall and Alec was alone with the men closest to him … his father, Henry, and Mr. Volence. Tired and worn, he listened to them.

  His father said, a little cautiously, “I just don’t think, Alec, that you should have held him back quite so long. Why, you gave them such a lead that I was really worried.”

  Alec smiled wanly, while Henry said, “It couldn’t be helped, Mr. Ramsay.”

  “It was good riding, Alec,” Mr. Volence said quietly, as he stood in the background. “Henry told me what you’re up against. You’ll have to work on him some more, though.”

  “Yes, we have to, if we’re to do anything in the Hopeful,” Henry said.

  “We can do it in two weeks,” Alec said confidently. “He gave me trouble at the start, but he came through coming down.”

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed, “he did that all right. And the seventy-five hundred dollars he won can buy a lot of hay.”

  Mr. Volence said, “He has blinding speed, Alec. He’s a worthy son of his sire.” After pausing, he added, “But remember, the Hopeful is only six furlongs and a half. Satan can’t possibly give Boldt’s Comet or my Desert Storm much of a lead and still win. I say that as a friend and not as the owner of a horse who is out to beat yours.”

  A few minutes later Mr. Volence left, accompanied by Alec’s father. When they had gone, Henry turned to the boy. “He’s right, you know, Alec.”

  “Yes,” Alec returned, “I know.”

  Alec was ready to leave when Peter Boldt suddenly appeared at the barn. Henry, who had been in Satan’s stall, came out, closing the door behind him. “What do you want?” he asked Boldt.

  Boldt’s thin lips drew back in a smile; then, ignoring Henry, he turned to Alec. “Will you take fifty thousand dollars for him now?” he asked.

  Alec shook his head without speaking.

  Boldt moved over to the stall door, but Henry blocked his way.

  “I’m asking you nicely to get out of here,” Henry said. “Nicely … for the last time.”

  “You’re growing out of your breeches, aren’t you, Dailey?” Boldt asked sarcastically.

  Alec saw Henry clench his fists. “You’d better go,” the boy said. “I’m not selling Satan for any price.”

  Turning to him again, Boldt said, “You can’t win with him in a fast race. I saw what happened today.”

  “I’m not selling,” Alec said firmly.

  Th
e color rose in Boldt’s cheeks as Henry moved toward him. Slowly he backed away to the door, his face bitter. “You won’t even race him again,” he rasped. “I’ll see to that. There’ll be no Hopeful for your horse.” Then, turning, he moved hastily away from the stall without a backward glance.

  “Wonder what he meant by that last crack?” asked Alec, concerned. “ ‘There’ll be no Hopeful for your horse,’ ” he said, repeating Boldt’s words.

  “No good, you can bet your last penny on that,” Henry grunted.

  Alec was silent for a few minutes, then he said, “It’s one thing on top of another.”

  “Yeah.”

  Alec went over to Satan and rubbed his head. “But you did it today, boy.… You came through, just as I knew you would,” he whispered. “And you’ll be running in the Hopeful … and winning it, too.”

  ACCUSED!

  17

  After the running of the Sanford, it could no longer be kept a secret that there existed a son of the Black. Jim Neville probed into the breeding of Satan, winner of the Sanford. The noted sportswriter talked to Boldt, Volence, Henry and Alec, and when he had finished he sat down and wrote his story. The news traveled fast. Neville’s column was picked up by the wire services and carried throughout the world.

  “It’s out now, all right,” grunted Henry the next day, as he read the newspaper with Alec standing close beside him.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” the boy replied quietly. “We couldn’t have kept it to ourselves much longer.” Bending over Henry’s shoulder, Alec read with him:

  Henry Dailey, that old Montana magician of the trainers, pulled another trick out of his bag yesterday when he uncovered Satan, the strapping son of the Black, who won the six-furlong Sanford with a bristling drive to the wire.

  It will be recalled that the Black is the horse which won fame overnight three years ago, when he astounded the track world and carved a large niche for himself in turf history by administering a sound licking to the two turf giants of that year, Cyclone and Sun Raider, in the unforgettable match race in Chicago. Soon after that race the Black was returned to Arabia, where he is owned by the Sheikh Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak.