The Black Stallion Challenged (16 page)

Then Flame sprang forward, drawing even with the Black. He was going all-out now. But the Black was going all-out, too! The two horses could not continue at such a speed much longer, Alec knew. He knew too that neither he nor Steve were any longer a part of this race. They were only witnesses to a savage battle that had been going on since the beginning of time. What would have been natural combat between two competing stallions had given way to the strongest instinct of all—
flight!
They would not stop until they had run themselves into the ground.

The reins cut deeply into Alec’s wrists but he felt no pain.

They rounded the far turn and came down the homestretch. Alec saw Henry standing in the middle of the track waving his hat. It was funny to think that Henry believed he could stop them by waving his hat! They swept past him and under the finish wire, both horses continuing to race around the track until their strides began to falter and their heads began to droop. The rhythm of their hoofs became uneven, then picked up again only to become irregular once more.

At long last, their run was reduced to a gallop, then to a lope and finally to a trot. They came to a stop at the far end of the backstretch, breathing hard, their sides heaving and trembling and with their heads hung low. They had run themselves into the ground, as Alec had feared. Both were beaten.

The reporter was the first to speak. “We have just shared a spectacular adventure,” he said.

The other men remained silent. Stunned, they watched the two horses on the far side of the track. Then their gazes shifted to Henry, who was picking himself up from the middle of the track where he had fallen.

“In all my years I never saw anything like it,” one onlooker said solemnly.

“I’m not even capable of saying what I saw,” another said. “I even forgot to stop my watch. That ain’t never happened to me before.”

“You’re not alone,” a third said. “None of us caught the fractions.”

“You’re some clockers,” the reporter said half-jokingly, half-seriously. “You’re so overwhelmed by two working horses you forget to push the stems of your watches.”

“You just don’t see horses work like that,” one man said. “It was the way they went at each other!”

The reporter made a penciled note, then asked, “Do you think this … ah, island invader … that’s a good name, I think I’ll use it … worked exceptionally well, or was the Black below his best form this morning?”

One of the clockers said, “He was in his best form, all right. Alec couldn’t hold him.”

“You can’t blame Alec,” another explained. “When the Black wants to run like that, nobody can hold him.”

“Tell Henry that and he won’t believe you. The old man’s worried to death.”

“I don’t blame him. He’s got the Black’s bad foot to worry about.”

The reporter made another note. “A champion and a
potential
champion went at it hammer and tongs this morning,” he read aloud. He paused to ask the man next to him, “Cliff, does that sound all right to you? I mean, referring to Flame as a potential champion? I’d like to say that knowledgeable horsemen like yourself are now inclined to take Flame very seriously.”

“No horse could have stayed with the Black the way he did without having quality and class,” Cliff answered solemnly.

The reporter turned back to his notebook. “Then Flame is no fizzle,” he said. “He is no product of Hialeah’s press agentry but the genuine article, having proved it this morning by storming alongside the Black with an irresistible drive that had the champion reeling.”

“You’d better make it that both horses were reeling,” Cliff corrected.

“Flame’s headlong style of running,” the reporter
went on, “may change the complexion of the Hialeah Turf Cup this coming Saturday. The swashbuckling island invader is destined …”

Another clocker interrupted. “Bill,” he said, “you’d better just hold onto your story awhile. From the looks of those two horses neither may be running in the Cup race. They both checked and bobbled toward the last.”

“They look all right now,” the reporter said, watching the two horses on their way back. “Sure, they’re blowing, but what do you expect after a workout like that?”

“If you can’t tell by the way they’re moving, take a look at Henry’s face. You can read it there.”

The reporter turned to Henry who was still standing motionless in the middle of the track, his face ashen-white.

“He looks pretty mad,” the reporter said.

“Not mad. Sad,” came the clocker’s reply. “If the Black is sore going back to the barn, Henry will keep him out of the Turf Cup.”

“Nothing is certain until both horses cool out,” another said.

“The Black looks sound enough to me,” the reporter said.

“He looks better than I expected,” another said. “I could have sworn they’d both broken down. They sprawled near the end.”

The Black and Flame neared the gap in the fence. They walked slowly but, it appeared, soundly. There was no fury in their eyes, only an overwhelming tiredness. Their ribs rose and fell with their rapid breathing, their eyes were red-rimmed, and lather covered their
coats. No longer were their strides those of lofty, imperial monarchs. Only quiet dignity remained beneath the sweat and dirt. Perhaps the invisible fires still burned. None who watched could be sure.

The two stallions staggered as they approached the tunnel beneath the stands, and rocked on the springs of their legs, one tired foot following another. The interplay of muscle was there for all to see but so was the immense fatigue. Every movement appeared torturous. The cool morning breeze played with their manes and tails and this, perhaps to some extent, soothed them.

“They’ll be all right,” one man said.

“Maybe,” another answered. “I hope so. I sure do. A few hours from now and we’ll know.”

It was noon when Alec left the Black and walked to the most distant of the barns where Flame was stabled. The area was quiet except for an occasional message to a trainer through the loudspeaker system. Alec found he jumped every time it crackled. There was no doubt his nerves were on edge. A few late-working horses were being cooled out and walked monotonously around the plots of grass in front of their barns. He found that he was studying each of their steps to see if they walked soundly, a consequence of the past few hours he’d spent with the Black and Henry.

The Black had stopped blowing soon after being washed down; his wind had presented them with no problem. It was only after a full hour of walking that Henry had said, “Well, we might as well get him ready to go home.”

“You’re kidding!” Alec had exclaimed.

“No, not at all. His foot is bothering him again, and I’m not going to take any chances racing him.”

“Get Doc Palmer. You can’t be sure otherwise.”

“I’ve already sent for him,” Henry had answered. He was not angry with Alec for what had happened, nor at himself or Flame or Steve Duncan. He was just very tired.

The veterinarian had arrived and the X-ray pictures had been taken. They showed no broken bones, but the slight swelling indicated the old injury had been aggravated. It was probably nothing serious, Dr. Palmer had said. He’d know more within three days’ time. Meanwhile, the Black should be kept as quiet as possible.

The press and photographers had been there, and Henry had told them that the Black would not run in the Hialeah Turf Cup. “We can’t take a chance,” he had said. “There’s too much ahead of us to risk a race that soon. We’ll see what the Doc says next week before making any further plans.”

Alec knew that the evening newspaper headlines would read something like
BAD FOOT PUTS CHAMPION ON SHELF
, and that thousands of racing fans would be disappointed.

Now that he was through work for the morning, Alec wanted to see Steve Duncan. He continued through the barn area, stopping occasionally to talk to grooms and trainers. He tried to conceal his anxiety but failed miserably.

“I hear you had some tough luck, Alec,” a trainer said.

“Not too bad. He’ll be all right.” But Alec never
had been any good at whistling in the dark. His track friends could read him like a book.

“Sure, he’s fine, just fine. He’ll be back soon,” Alec said repeatedly. “A little trouble, that’s all.”

He stopped at one barn to talk to a red-haired groom who visited the Black most every day. “Don,” he said, “you look awful. What’s the matter?”

“Nothin’ but a bad night to get over,” the man said lightly. But his voice, like his eyes, were sympathetic and understanding.

“It’s just a slight hoof injury,” Alec said. “There’s really nothing to worry about. A few days and he’ll be as good as ever. Doc Palmer said so.”

“Sure, Doc would know, if anybody would. But it’s the same foot, isn’t it? It could be lots longer.”

“Yeah.” The unbearable tension hung over them. “Well, I got to go now,” Alec said.

“I heard that other horse cooled out okay,” Don said.

“That’s good. I was hoping he would.”

“That’s racing,” the other returned dismally.

Alec took another path around the barns, knowing he’d meet fewer friends along that route. It wasn’t easy trying to put up a front when everybody knew the Black’s injury could be serious enough to put him out of racing altogether. As the veterinarian had said they’d know for sure in three days’ time. Until then all he could do was hope for the best and try to look less concerned than he actually was. He had a tough horse. If they had to go home, he would try to be as tough as the Black and go without bitterness toward Steve Duncan.

The stable area on the far side was deserted. It was as Alec had wanted it, and he sat down to think.

Should he help Steve Duncan or not? If so, he would have to get over his anger toward Steve for prompting the kind of a workout that never should have taken place. It was intentional on Steve’s part, of course. He had wanted to impress those who were watching, and he had done that only too well. He would have gotten his permit to race at half the speed Flame had worked.

But, Alec told himself, Steve had not been able to control Flame any more than he himself had been able to manage the Black. Once the pace had increased to its fevered pitch, they had been riders, nothing more. They had witnessed, more than participated in, the workout. It had not been racing but an uncontrolled, dangerous battle. If others had not been aware of it, he was.

Also, Alec reminded himself, he had agreed to letting the two horses work together, even urging Henry to allow it. He had wanted to help Steve Duncan. Did he still want to, now that the Black was sidelined? Could he possibly forget his bitterness and give Steve some advice that might help him when he raced? Flame had all the speed in the world, but he would not have a clear track on race day as he’d had this morning. There were things Steve had to learn.

There was a small group of men, including a photographer, standing outside Flame’s stall when Alec arrived.

“Hey, Alec,” a sports columnist called, “the
rumor’s going around that the Black really broke down. That’s tragic, real tragic.”

“Just a rumor,” Alec said. “It’s nothing serious.” He studied the man, who didn’t seem to be too unhappy over another fellow’s misfortune. Some reporters were like that. They thought that bad news made good copy. It sold more newspapers.

“That’s a terrible thing to happen so late in the day,” the columnist went on, “… after his being trained and aimed for the Turf Cup race, that is.”

“He’s not the first horse to be scratched from a race,” Alec said, a little annoyed. “We’ll point him for another race now.”

“Is he lame?”

“No. Henry just doesn’t want to risk any chance of further injury by racing on Saturday.”

The columnist prodded. “It wouldn’t be that he doesn’t want to risk being beaten by an outsider, would it?”

Alec didn’t answer. He brushed by the man and went over to Steve. “Can I see you alone for a few minutes?” he asked.

“Sure, Alec. But I don’t want to leave Flame just yet.”

There was a screen over the top half of the stall door and Alec could make out Flame’s small head behind it. Steve’s friend Phil Pitcher was standing guard, still wearing his sun helmet and knee-length shorts and still looking very worried.

“This horse is a ham, Alec,” the photographer said. “You should have seen him. He posed every time I held up the camera.”

“If he was a little less tired, he would’ve kicked it out of your hand,” the sports columnist commented. Then, turning to Steve Duncan, he said, “I got a few more questions. I’m not so good I can interview horses, and you haven’t given me much copy yet.”

“I’ve told you just about everything that happened,” Steve said uncomfortably. It was obvious that he was unused to handling newsmen. He didn’t like being the official host.

“Do you think your horse can beat the Black in a race?” the columnist asked.

“It’s a matter of luck,” Steve answered, looking at Alec.

“Come on, now. You can do better than that.”

“We won’t be racing the Black anyway.”

“Not in the Turf Cup race,” the columnist admitted. “But if you do any good in that race you’ll go in the Widener Handicap the following week, won’t you? The Black should be in it, too, if he’s not broken down altogether.”

“One race was all we figured on,” Steve said uneasily.

“You mean you’d pass up the hundred-thousand dollar Widener if you had a chance to get some of the money?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought,” Steve said.

The columnist smiled. “That’s better. One race at a time. Is that the way you want me to put it in my column?”

“Something like that,” Steve replied defensively.

“Good. I’ll make it that upon interviewing Steve Duncan after his electrifying workout on Flame this
morning, I found him to be a real veteran despite his riding apprenticeship. He was calm, collected, and convinced that Flame deserved a chance in both the Hialeah Turf Cup and the Widener Handicap.”

Steve said nothing.

“Your horse cooled out completely sound, didn’t he?” the columnist asked Steve.