The Black Stallion's Filly (3 page)

“No, I guess not. They'll probably all go too high for me. If I want 'em, so will somebody else with more money to spend. Still, there's one I just might …” Henry stopped. His gaze was on Satan too, but he was not following the horse's movements.

“Yes?”

“Remember our first few months here, long before we had any mares of our own?”

“Sure, Henry.”

“Do you remember a mare by the name of Elf, sent to us by a Doctor Chandler of Lexington, Kentucky? She was bred to the Black.”

“A dark-brown mare on the small side,” Alec answered. “She always came out of the barn on her toes. Yet she was level-headed; nothing upset her, not even the Black. She was a big little mare.”

“You remember good,” Henry said.

“It's our business to remember,” Alec replied.

“I liked her a lot.”

“I know. You wanted to buy her, but her owner wouldn't sell.” Alec turned to Henry. “You thought,” he continued, “that combining her quiet disposition with the Black's high spirit might produce a very fine horse.”

“Maybe it has,”
Henry said quietly.

Their gazes met.

“What did Elf have?” Alec asked.

“A filly that's two years old now.”

“Then she's the Black's first daughter,” Alec said
quietly. “All the others have been colts.” He turned away from Henry to look in the direction of the training track. He couldn't see the stallion in the field beyond. “I wonder what she's like?” he added, more to himself than to Henry.

“I don't know. I never saw her. But she's up for sale next week. I came across her name in the catalogue.”

“What's her name?”

“Black Minx. And I got a feeling I'll like what I see,” Henry said. “I sure liked her dam, and with the Black as her sire …”

Again their gazes met and held.

“I hope you get her, Henry,” Alec said. “I've got sort of a feeling about her too.”

Nothing more was said. Each understood the other so well. Each knew that something good might come of their mutual interest in a filly they had never seen, a filly named
Black Minx
.

For four days Henry had sat in the very seat he now occupied in the indoor sales pavilion near Lexington, Kentucky. He had watched the auctioneer's gavel fall 498 times as 256 yearlings, 51 broodmares, 68 weanlings and 123 older horses had been sold to the highest bidders. There were 33 more horses yet to enter the ring, including Black Minx, before the fall sales would be concluded.

There came a moment's respite from the sing-song chant of the auctioneer as another yearling was sold and led from the ring. Henry sat back in his seat, the wicker chair creaking beneath the weight of his heavy, stocky frame. He pulled down his hat a little more over his eyes. He wanted as few people as possible to recognize him. This would not be easy, for he knew most of the five hundred or more who packed the big room.

He'd been here often in the years past, long before he ever knew Alec and the Black and Satan. But it had been different then. As a trainer he'd come along with
his various employers. He'd spent their money. Or rather he had told them when to bid and when not to bid, depending on how much he liked the looks of a horse and what he thought to be a fair price.

But this time he was bidding
his
money for
his
horse. Although he had trained hundreds of racehorses, he never had owned one in his life. Funny. Well, that was the way it went with some people. He had to admit he was pretty excited about buying his own horse. That was funny too after all these years.

The amount of money in his pocket was pitifully small, considering what everyone else had been paying for horses at this sale. Four colts had already been sold for more than fifty thousand dollars. So far he'd seen ten two-year-olds he'd have liked to own, and he'd bid his thousand dollars each time. But they had been sold for far above that figure. The colts he'd wanted were wanted by other people too, but those people had more money to spend. Well, he'd known this would happen. He had told Alec it would.

His thoughts returned to Black Minx. She'd be stepping into the ring in about an hour or so. Alec had told him to use some of the farm's money if she went over what he could afford on his own. Maybe he would, if he saw a chance of getting her.

The room became unusually quiet. Henry glanced at his catalogue, and knew the reason for the almost reverent hush. What was supposed to be the top yearling of the sale would be the next to enter the sales ring.

With a flourish suggestive of unheard trumpets
heralding his approach, a tall gray colt was led out. The auctioneer went to work over the public-address system.

“Now, folks, you all listen to me,” he told the crowd. “Heah we have what could be the finest colt in this sale. He's by Mahmoud, out of Cry Baby, and that makes him, as you all know without mah tellin' you, a full brother to Silver Jet!” He paused a moment to let the full impact of his words sink into the crowd. Then, “And you all know that Silver Jet stood in this very same ring last fall as a yearling … just like this colt is doin' … and went away from heah the property of Tom Flint to win for that gentleman the grand and mighty sum of more than one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars this year as a two-year-old! There's no better investment for your money than something like that. Am I right, Carl?”

The auctioneer turned to his assistant, who, taking the cue, said into the microphone, “You're dead right, Jim. And, folks, I'll let you in on a little secret which you all know. Tom Flint bought Silver Jet in this ring last year for only ten thousand dollars! But you're not going to get this heah full brother for no ten thousand dollars. No, sir! Too many folks right heah know Silver Jet won more money than any other two-year-old colt this year. Too many folks right heah know Silver Jet is the colt to beat in the Kentucky Derby next May! And you all know that this colt is his full brother. And you all want him. But in order to get him, folks, you're going to open up your wallets. Yes, sir,
this colt may be the one
! And I see Tom Flint in that back row, just sittin'
on the edge of his chair and waitin'. He's got Silver Jet and now he's out to get this heah fine-looking full brother. All right, Jim. Heah we go! Sell him!”

The auctioneer took over the microphone and the pavilion resounded to his musical sing-song chant as he got his first bid of fifteen thousand dollars.

“I'm bid fifteen, fifteen, fifteen. Who'll go twenty, twenty? I got twenty, twenty, twenty. Make it thirty, thirty.
Yeah!
I got thirty, thirty, thirty. Make it forty, forty. I got five, five, five, thirty-five. Make it forty, forty, forty.
Yeah!
I got forty, forty, forty. I want fifty, fifty, fifty. I got fifty, fifty. I want sixty, sixty, sixty. I got five, five, fifty-five. I want sixty, sixty, sixty. I got eight, eight, fifty-eight. Make it sixty, sixty, sixty. I got nine, nine, nine, fifty-nine. Make it sixty, sixty, sixty. I want sixty, sixty, sixty.
Yeah!
I got sixty, sixty. Make it five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five. I got two, two, sixty-two. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. Make it five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five.” Suddenly he stopped.

For a moment the pavilion was quiet. Then the auctioneer said, “Now listen heah, folks. You all know that sixty-two thousand dollars isn't much to bid for this heah colt.” Although he spoke to more than five hundred people, his words were meant for the two bidders who alone remained in competition for the gray colt.

Now he singled out one of them—a man sitting near the sales ring—when he said, “Mr. Ashwood, you're not going to let Mr. Flint get this heah colt, are
you? You went up to sixty thousand dollars. Will you make it sixty-three thousand? That's not too much money for this colt. Silver Jet came home with more than one hundred eighty-five thousand dollars this year for Mr. Flint. You're not going to let him take his full brother too, are you?”

The man near the ring shifted uneasily in his seat but didn't offer a bid over Flint's sixty-two thousand dollars. Yet the auctioneer didn't think he'd lost him so he decided to wait a few more moments. He knew Tom Flint would go still higher to get this colt. All he had to do was to get another rise in bid from Ashwood. So he would wait a few minutes before closing the sale in order to give Ashwood a chance to think it over and to realize that he wanted this colt enough to pay sixty-three thousand dollars for him.

The auctioneer's gaze moved to the right of Tom Flint. In a corner chair he saw the short, bulky figure of a man whose hat was pulled down almost completely over his eyes. The auctioneer didn't recognize him but watched as the man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. The harsh sound of it broke the strained stillness of the pavilion.

Smiling, the auctioneer said, “The gentleman back theah. Did you just make a bid for this colt?”

Henry pushed back his hat. “No,” he grunted. “I just blew my nose.”

Only then did the auctioneer and the crowd recognize Henry Dailey, and the room rocked with laughter.

“Well, Henry,” the auctioneer said, “you'd better be careful how you blow your nose or you'll own this
heah colt.” But then his attention and that of the crowd was diverted to the man seated near the ring. Mr. Ashwood was holding up three fingers.

Once again the auctioneer's chant claimed the pavilion. “I got three, three, sixty-three. I want five, five, sixty-five.” He was looking at Tom Flint now, and after a few seconds Flint held up four fingers.

“I got four, four, sixty-four.” He turned to Mr. Ashwood. “I want five, five, sixty-five.”

The bidder nodded without taking his eyes from the gray colt in the ring.

“
Yeah!
I got five, five, sixty-five. I want six, six, sixty-six.” Back to Tom Flint in the last row. “… six, six, sixty-six.” Flint nodded. “
Yeah!
I got six, six, sixty-six.”

Once more the auctioneer's gaze swept to Mr. Ashwood. “Give me seven, seven, sixty-seven.”

This time the man near the ring turned to his right and spoke to his trainer. A moment later, Ashwood swept his hand across his chest and shook his head. He was finished and would bid no higher.

The auctioneer's eyes traveled once more over the crowd, looking for a bidder who might keep this colt in the ring to bring a still higher price. “All done?” he asked. “Are you all done at sixty-six?” His intent gaze became fixed on Henry Dailey. “How about you, Henry? Here's a colt to take Satan's place in your stable.”

Henry shook his head, not bothering to raise his hat from his eyes. Never would he pay sixty-six thousand dollars for this gray colt, even if he'd been spending
someone else's money. No unbroken, untried yearling was worth that much, regardless of pedigree. Tom Flint should have known better than to go so high for this colt.

Henry heard the fall of the auctioneer's gavel and the words, “Sold to Tom Flint for sixty-six thousand dollars.”

Raising his hat, Henry saw the gray colt leave the ring. Well, that's that, he thought. As far back as he could remember, it was the highest price paid for a yearling at a public sale. He noticed the sudden restlessness of the crowd. Many of the men were on their feet and moving toward the exits. Good, he thought, let 'em go. The fewer people here the better. He had known the sale of the gray colt would be the highlight of this session. He had counted on some of the crowd leaving afterward. It was part of his plan to get Black Minx at a price he could afford to pay.

Henry turned to the windows. The weather was lending him a helping hand, too. It had turned cold yesterday, and this morning it had rained. During the afternoon the rain had turned to snow that was now falling heavily. The pavilion was five miles from the hotels in downtown Lexington. Driving conditions wouldn't be good, and those who remained in the pavilion were starting to worry about getting back at all. They thumbed the pages of their catalogues, trying to decide whether or not it was worth their while to stay until the end of the session.

“Get along, folks,” Henry muttered. “Get along with you.” More people left within the next few
minutes, and the empty chairs in the pavilion were more than he had dared hope to find.

A broodmare, heavy with foal, was in the ring. The assistant auctioneer was giving her pedigree hurriedly in an attempt to arouse the interest of the prospective buyers who had started to leave. “Here's a grand mare for any stock farm,” he said. “She's by Count Fleet. She's the dam of the stakes winner, Bewildered. And the foal she's carrying is by Bull Lea. You couldn't possibly go wrong in …”

The snow came down more heavily, taking more people from the room within the next fifteen minutes.

Henry was smiling beneath the cover of his hat when he felt a large hand on his knee and heard the creaking of the wicker chair beside him as someone sat down. Looking up, he saw Tom Flint's large, beefy frame; then his gaze went higher to the man's jovial face and wide-brimmed hat.

“Can I give you a lift into town, Henry?” Flint asked.

“No, Tom. But thanks. I think I'll stick around a little longer.”

Tom Flint consulted his catalogue. “Interested in something coming up?”

“Guess not. Just don't have anything else much to do.” He kept his gaze on his folded hands. He felt that to meet the Texan's gaze would be to shout to him that he was going to get Black Minx if he could. His way of buying was to look only at the auctioneer, never at a competitor, and this he practiced now.

“They made me go pretty high for that gray colt,” Flint said.