The Black Stallion Challenged (5 page)

Alec found himself thinking of Steve Duncan’s visit the day before. He had told Henry last evening that Steve had arrived but not about his need for so much money or the reason for it. Henry wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

“But I’ll say this for them,” Henry continued, his gaze following Manizales. “They’re out galloping
horses every morning. They work a lot harder than most of our more popular jockeys. That’s why a good many trainers are using them in the afternoons as well.”

They arrived at the gap in the fence, and many friends leaning on the rail turned to greet them.

“ ’Morning, boys,” one trainer called; his eyes were not on Alec and Henry but on the Black.

The morning sun made the infield grass look yellowish-green. Spindly-legged, pink-coated flamingos inhabited the centerfield lake and a few were flying above, their wings catching the sun’s rays as they soared over the pines that lined the backstretch. But most of the four hundred birds were still asleep, and one saw them only as shadowy shapes along the edges of the lake.

Henry held the Black steady, seemingly in no hurry to turn him loose and enjoying the attention they were getting. The tight little group along the rail broke up, the men coming toward them. There was friendly banter, some of it of a joking sort, most of it serious. Over it all was the muffled sound of steel-shod hoofs passing by on the track.

“He looks awfully good,” one friend said.

“He should,” Henry answered. “I got to keep training him or he’ll fill up on me.”

“What’s he weigh now, about 1,100?”

“I’d guess about that,” Henry said. “Actually, I’m taking it easy with him: I figure I could do more harm overworking him than anything else.”

“You ought to know.” The other laughed. “You’ve had him long enough. A nice way to make a living, Henry.”

“Yeah, it is easier to make a living with a horse you know an’ understand,” Henry admitted.

“At least it gets you south for the winter. Fourteen days below freezing up north. That ain’t for me anymore.” The man studied the Black. “He sure looks the part of a champion, Henry. I guess he’s enjoying all the publicity he’s been getting, heh?”

“Maybe so. Sometimes I think he can read.”

“I heard you been sneaking in some workouts at three o’clock in the morning.”

Henry chuckled. “Don’t you believe it. I quit doin’ that some years ago. I had a horse get lost in the darkness and fall in the centerfield lake.”

A veteran clocker turned from the rail after having clicked his stopwatch on a working horse. “You still got to show us he’s as great as he was last year, Henry,” he said. “We’re influenced only by this.” He lifted the watch.

“We’re not out to prove anything to you, George,” Henry said. “We’re just aimin’ to win races.”

“There are some tough ones coming up.”

“We’re not lookin’ for tough spots for him. We’re tryin’ to make it as fair for him as we can.”

“It looks to me,” someone said, “that he just eats an’ sleeps an’ maintains banker’s hours. You’re takin’ it awfully easy with him these mornings.”

Henry smiled. “Like I said, Tom. I don’t like to rush a big horse. But maybe we
will
go scouting around for a race any day now.”

“That’ll please the management,” a reporter said, smiling. “Any time the Black races new attendance
records are set. The more ‘name’ horses around here, the better Hialeah likes it.”

Henry said with attempted modesty, “It’s true they’ve been after me to start him. The Black’s got quite a public following.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” the reporter said. “You know as well as I do that he can set these turnstiles clicking like no other horse in the country. He has crowd-appeal, like Babe Ruth once had in baseball. He’s got all the glamour and appeal.…”

“Glamour and appeal nothin’,” a noted trainer interrupted. “He’s just a great big clown an’ that’s why they come to see him race. There’s no telling what he might do. He might stay in front or come from behind or even loaf at times. You never know, like I say, and that’s what makes him so popular.”

Alec smiled. Everybody thought they knew everything about his horse. Actually, nobody but himself was aware of what went on out there.

Henry said, “The last thing I’d do would be to ruin his great record for a little money or to please the track management. He won’t race before he’s ready to go.”

“You’re on a day-to-day basis with him then,” the reporter said, making a note in his book.

“You might call it that,” Henry answered. “His racing depends pretty much on his response to training.”

“Then he looks like he’s ready to go now,” the reporter said.

“No, he’s just a hardy horse, that’s all,” Henry said. “Black horses usually are hardier than others for some reason.” He smiled. “They’re also harder to keep
clean. Sweat just seems to stick to them. You have no idea how hard Alec rubs him to get him to look like this.”

The clocker with the lined, intent face smiled for the first time. “I heard Alec uses only a silk handkerchief,” he said. “You know, to sort of pacify him.”

“Just another fable,” Henry said, smiling back.

The reporter asked, “Will you say for publication that he’s a better horse now than he was last year?”

Henry didn’t waver for an instant. “There are a lot of ‘ifs’ but I honestly think so,” he said.

A group of six horses went by in a run, their riders all wearing the red and blue jackets from the same stable. Everybody on the rail turned to watch the mock race until the set had flashed under the finish line.

“Nice thing about a big outfit is that they can stage a conditioning race any morning they please,” a trainer said. “It gives the horses the competition they need. It’s worth five mornings, working alone.”

A single horse came around the far turn and their gazes turned now to Manizales riding his fiery filly.

“She has a habit of galloping with her head low,” the veteran clocker said, “especially when Manny digs into her and arouses all her fighting spirit.”

“It makes her look smaller than she actually is,” Henry said. “But you’re right … she has a great heart.”

The filly swept by with Manizales rocking in his saddle, urging her on. She was being blown out for a race the next day, her first of the year.

Another horse rounded the far turn, coming down over the turf course on the other side of the inner rail.
He was a walloper in size, but his strides were short despite the urging of his rider.

“That’s Bolero, up from the Argentine,” the clocker said. “He’s turf champion of South America, but you’d never know it from his works. I’ve been watching him for two weeks now and he’s a complete bust in the morning. He’s either too lazy or too smart, or perhaps a little bit of both. In any case, they have to do everything short of pushing him around the track to get him to break out of a slow walk.”

Henry watched the big horse as he came closer, noting the wonderful leverage of his hind legs even at such a slow gait. It indicated enormous propulsion whenever Bolero
did
decide to run. The rest of him, too, gave the impression of power. He was not a showy horse, his head being too large and his nose Roman, curved and protruding. He looked very plain except for the massive, muscular neck and the heavy but well-laid shoulders. His limbs were sturdy and in proportion to his great size. Watching him go by, Henry knew that this horse would give trouble to others at Hialeah, including the Black, whenever he decided to race.

Turning to Alec, Henry said, “Take the Black over the grass course this morning. Go a mile in 1:46 or 1:47, that’s all I want. Ease up for another furlong and then bring him back.”

Alec nodded, knowing full well he had a difficult task before him. The Black was anxious to run a little. He wouldn’t like being held down to the slow time Henry had ordered. It didn’t matter that the workout would be over the turf course. The Black’s running action was high, which meant he would stride well over
the grass rather than through it. Horses with low action usually had more trouble on turf courses, being stopped to some extent by having to cut through the grass.

Henry released the Black, and Alec rode him onto the track, standing in his stirrups while going past the long stands. Two fast working horses swept by close to the inner rail. Directly behind them another horse followed, his face being whipped by flying sand. The trailing horse didn’t like it and was trying to pull to one side. His rider kept him directly behind the leaders and Alec knew he was being subjected to the stinging dirt on purpose. A lot of good horses would refuse to race under such conditions. The Black was not one of them. Alec had brought him back from winning races with his eyes almost completely closed by grit.

Reaching the infield gate, Alec rode onto the grass. The Black responded quickly to the soft cushion, his strides lengthening as he fought the restraining hold on his mouth.

“Easy,” Alec said, still standing in his irons.

The Black’s strides shortened. There had been a time when he resented rating but now he was settling down with maturity. Most of the time he would do as Alec wanted. Most of the time, but not always.

A number of flamingos rose from the other side of the hedge as Alec turned the Black loose. He saw their wings soar overhead but they were gone quickly. He leaned forward, close to the Black’s neck.

The long strides came fast. The thing about his horse, Alec thought, was that he could get started so quickly you had to be ready immediately or he’d leave you behind. His strides were at least five feet longer
than any other horse’s, which meant he’d cover more ground without taking more strides than another horse running alongside.

Alec loosened his hold on the reins. There must be no strain on the Black’s mouth while the horse settled into his far-reaching, level run. He wanted the Black’s head
out
, not up and fighting him. He sat there quietly, doing nothing more than steering, if that. The Black kept close to the inner hedge and it was hard for Alec to tell how fast he was going over the grass once he hit full stride. Also, there was little bouncing around on his back, for the Black remained almost in a horizontal position when he went after speed, floating along without any jar to his rider whatsoever.

Entering the backstretch, Alec felt they were going at just about the fractions Henry had ordered. But he couldn’t be sure, with the Black running so easily. When the half-mile pole whipped by, Alec decided he had better take hold a little more.

But the Black was full of run and wouldn’t ease up for Alec. He went into the far turn, his speed unchecked and changing leads perfectly. Alec had hoped for a bit of clumsiness during the change, a momentary loss of action which would have given him a chance to ease up the Black. That didn’t happen. His horse leaned into the final bend and entered the upper stretch still in high gear.

Alec couldn’t be sure what speed they were making, but he was afraid it wasn’t what Henry had ordered. Again he tried to slow down the Black. They whipped by the group watching them. He thought he
saw Henry swinging his straw hat at him, but he couldn’t be sure of that, either.

Sometimes, he told himself, it just wasn’t possible to work a horse as a trainer had ordered. Sometimes everything went wrong from the very beginning. This seemed to be one of those mornings. The Black had turned on a lot of speed before he had been fully aware of it.

Alec glanced at the mile pole that seemed to be coming rapidly toward them. For all he knew they were going the distance in the time Henry had ordered. Maybe they’d be just a tick off the 1:46 or 1:47 Henry had wanted.

The Black finished the mile still floating along with his ears pricked. He responded to Alec’s hands soon after crossing the finish line, as if he knew he had completed the course.

Alec let him go another furlong before turning him around. He saw Henry walking toward them, brushing off his clothes as if he had fallen in the dirt. The straw hat was in his hand, and Alec recalled the glimpse he’d had of Henry waving it as they had swept past.

Henry took hold of the Black’s bridle without a word and led the horse off the track, past the men huddled together who were watching them. “You didn’t have to do it,” he said angrily to Alec when they were on their way back to the barn.

“Do what?”

“Do 1:37 for the mile, a whole ten seconds faster than I told you to go.”

“I had no idea.”

“You should!” Henry bellowed. “You’re supposed to be a top jockey. You’re supposed to be able to do more than just sit there.”

“I’m sorry.”

The old man grunted fiercely. He hadn’t looked at Alec since he had taken hold of the Black’s bridle. Nor did he do so now. Back at the barn he removed his straw hat and began to wash down the Black in angry silence.

Alec tried again. “I know it was my fault.”

“It was,” Henry said.

“I really kept a hold on him all the time.”

“Just enough to let him know you were up there, that’s all,” the old man said. “You just let him set his own pace, figuring he’d get the job done all by himself, I suppose.”

“He likes to go his own way,” Alec said sheepishly. “He doesn’t like to have me take too much hold.”

“That’s always a good excuse for poor riding and judgment,” Henry said. “I don’t go for it. Never did. No horse should be allowed to run a race as
he
sees it.”

“But I worked at it,” Alec said in his own defense. “He had me puffing.”

Henry snorted. “It was just a gallop for you. I watched you every second with the glasses.”

“Maybe it was the grass that made it seem he was going slower than he was,” Alec suggested lamely. “He liked it better than I thought he would.”

Henry picked up the left forefoot, examining it closely.

“At least,” Alec went on hurriedly, “this work ought to prove to you that he’s sound enough to race.”

Henry put down the foot and continued washing down the muscular black horse.

“You were worried about his foot, Henry,” Alec tried again. “So now you ought to feel lots better than you did.”

The Black was nippy and full of life. The fast workout had done him a world of good.