The Black Stallion Challenged Read online

  When he finally went to bed that night, Alec welcomed the sudden cloudburst that hammered the roof with staccato-like intensity. Perhaps the driving downpour would keep up all night and well into the next morning. If so, Henry would sleep late. Henry’s blood had thinned out, or so he said, and his bones were brittle. He couldn’t take dampness and rain anymore. He had tried to stand it once or twice during the past year but had finally given up. He had gone to bed and stayed there.

  When the alarm clock sounded the next morning, Alec woke up to find that summer was over. The temperature was in the low fifties, and there was a cold dampness that seemed to penetrate his bones. When he went outside, he saw that low and ominous clouds hung overhead. Alec went about his work, knowing that Henry wouldn’t appear until late in the morning, if at all, and that he and the Black were in for a well-earned rest.

  The heavy clouds delayed the approach of dawn and a high wind whipped about the stable area. Horses were being fed and cared for, but few, if any, would appear for exercise unless weather conditions improved. As the hours went by Alec, wearing long rubber pants and a heavy sweater, continued working by himself. This wasn’t exactly his kind of weather either, although he remained grateful for the rest it afforded him.

  The rain was still falling steadily when Henry arrived close to noon. He was blue with cold, despite the fact that he was wearing an overcoat. It had been borrowed and was much too large for him, but at least it provided some warmth. “I went back to bed,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to take him out in this.”

  Alec nodded. He could have said that mud and cold had never been a problem to the Black, but he didn’t. He, too, was tired of getting mud in his face, and that was what would have happened on the track this morning, even at a slow gallop.

  “This is enough to drive a guy back up north,” Henry complained.

  The blustery wind whipped through the area with tornado-like force and overhead a long streak of lightning shattered the heavens.

  “It can’t make up its mind whether to snow or become a tropical storm,” Alec said. “Either way it’s going to cut the attendance figures this afternoon.”

  “We’ll be in the stands,” Henry said. “You and I got work to do.”

  “I figured that,” Alec replied glumly. “Or you would have stayed in bed.”

  There were other places he’d rather be than in Hialeah’s stands that afternoon. But as Henry had said many times last night, he was the boss. You did what he said or he gave you a boot. These were old, old times, all over again.

  By post time for the first race Alec was sitting in the stands with Henry, shivering and uncomfortable along with some five thousand other die-hard fans. The spindly-legged flamingos in centerfield looked naked and very cold. If their wings had not been pinioned to prevent long-distance flying, Alec was certain the whole flock of 400 birds would have taken off for their island homes to the south.

  Rain continued to fall steadily and the long brown stretch past the half-filled stands was deep in slop. The track management was doing its best to brighten up the day. The band, well protected beneath the roof of the grandstand, was giving forth with loud groans and oompahs from its instruments for an afternoon of music. Its maestro must have been flogging the musicians to get them to play “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” on such a day.

  The gondolier, poling his authentic Venetian gondola on the infield lake, was active too, despite the weather. He maneuvered his boat around the edges of the lagoon, apparently trying to arouse the half-frozen flamingos. Few if any fans watched him or cared what went on in centerfield. It was no day for a show or carnival. There were no tourists who needed to be entertained by birds, boats, or a band. Those in the stands had come only to watch the best horseflesh of the year.

  “It’s surprising there are so many here on a day like this,” Alec commented.

  Henry nodded in agreement and mumbled that perhaps most of them were owners, for in this jet age it was possible for a man to leave New York or Chicago in the morning and get to Hialeah in time to watch his horse race. He could even return home in time for dinner. While he was speaking, Henry’s teeth were chattering with cold.

  An assistant starter walked across the track, lifting his rubber-booted legs heavily out of the mud with each stride.

  Alec said, “It won’t be long before they’ll be using a synthetic strip over a track like this. Remember the one they had under the starting gate at Saratoga last year? The only trouble was that it didn’t go all the way around to the finish.”

  “It’s too expensive,” Henry muttered.

  “But so are good horses,” Alec answered. “And many are badly hurt on a track like this.”

  “To say nothing of their riders,” Henry added, looking at Alec.

  “Sure,” the youth agreed. “I don’t see any reason why a synthetic track would be too expensive when you consider the benefits. The resin strip is only an inch thick and could be laid in sections. When it was not in use it could be rolled and put in centerfield.”

  Henry nodded thoughtfully. “Sure, we might see it one of these days. It might not be any more expensive than some of the carnival acts they put on in centerfield.” He paused to listen to the imperative bugle call of “Boots and Saddles” as it came rattling out of the amplifiers, then added, “I’ve seen a lot of good horses fall … then they had to be destroyed … because of such going as this.”

  The first race of the afternoon was for three-year-olds and up over a distance of one mile. Out of the tunnel which led from the paddock area to the track came a red-coated marshall, followed by the field of eight horses. Alec watched them emerge, thinking of other afternoons when he had seen young horses with great speed and heart seek their place in the sun before the eyes of a clamoring crowd. Today there was no sun, nor was there a crowd or fanfare. The stands were quiet as the horses stepped onto the Hialeah track beneath the black, ominous sky.

  “I want you to watch Manizales closely in this one,” Henry said. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  The horse Manizales was riding was the green and fractious filly he had blown out the day before. Watching her, Alec could sense that she was very scared.

  “She doesn’t like the mud,” he said quietly. “She runs hard, really digs in. A firm track is better suited for her.”

  “Nothing suits her, not yet,” Henry said. “That’s why I want you to watch how Manny handles her. She’s a rank outsider in this field. All the others are scared of her, including the trainers. I don’t mean they’re scared of her speed, just her shenanigans.”

  “Today of all days,” Alec said.

  “It depends on how you look at it,” Henry said. “In her last start as a two-year-old she shied at a shadow and bolted into the rail. She don’t need no shadow roll on a day like this. Maybe she’ll do just fine.”

  “Maybe,” Alec repeated, “but I doubt it.”

  “Anyhow, they can’t keep her from starting today. But if she gets out of control in this race, she might be barred hereafter.”

  “That might be too late,” Alec said, watching the filly trying to unseat Manizales during the post parade.

  “With all her nervousness, she’s slow at the break,” Henry said. “She hesitates and lets the others get away from her. Watch Manny in the gate. He hasn’t been able to do much with her.”

  Alec smiled. “You mean you want me to learn from his mistakes as well as my own,” he said flatly.

  “It’s possible,” Henry shot back. “It’s one thing to profit from mistakes and something else again to profit from instruction. You can do both if you put your mind to it.”

  “My mind’s put to it,” Alec said, his eyes on the sucking mass of mud that stretched from rail to rail. The rain started coming down harder and the wind rose almost to gale force. He wondered how the jockeys were able to stay in their saddles.

  “Manny might be too aggressive,” Henry said, “but he never holds a grudge when he’s been set down for a fe
w days by an official. He takes his punishment like a man and comes back smiling.” Henry glanced at Alec to see if the boy was listening to him.

  Alec said, “You mean that I don’t.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you meant it,” Alec returned. “Okay, Henry, I’m taking it and smiling.”

  Henry turned his gaze back to the horses. “I don’t want to act like any Dutch uncle.”

  “You’re not.”

  “It’s just that maybe I see a lot of things that you miss. It’s only natural. It’s been my job for a long time. And I find an awful lot of sacks riding horses these days, jocks who should be anywhere but out there.”

  “You’re not including Manizales?”

  “No, all he needs to do is to master his fiery Latin temper during the running of a race. Most of the rest he’s got. His reflexes are quick and he’s able to make split-second decisions so long as he doesn’t get mad. He knows how to save ground as well as his horse.”

  “But he’s too free with his whip,” Alec said critically.

  “Perhaps, but he’s a great hand rider, too. He’s strong and he’s able to use his strength in assisting a horse. I’ve seen him do it a hundred different ways. Horses respond to his urging.”

  “He’s quick to take advantage of any situation,” Alec conceded, “that’s for sure.”

  “Because he’s smart as well as a strong rider,” Henry said. “He knows when to hold the rail behind a horse and when to swing outside, trying to loop him.”

  “Then you don’t think he’s going to have any trouble winning this one?” Alec asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Henry answered, his gaze still following the horses to the post. “Manny is the best rider in the race, but the filly is too green.”

  The filly was slipping and sliding, giving Manizales a hard time. “But she’s game,” Henry added. “She can’t walk in this stuff, but maybe she’ll prove she can run in it. I don’t think they’d have her out there otherwise.”

  “Even so,” Alec said, “she only sprinted last year. A mile will probably be too much for her.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Henry said. The chestnut filly along with the others was walking toward the starting gate.

  Alec huddled deep within the protection of his warm raincoat. The rain was continuing without letup. Worse still, lightning streaked across the sky and the wind picked up, driving the black clouds overhead. The filly reared in front of the starting gate.

  “She’s liable to jump out from under Manny,” Alec told Henry.

  “So might the others,” the old trainer commented. It was almost pitch-dark now and the driving rain was whipping across the infield with gale-like force.

  Alec burrowed deeper into his raincoat. “Maybe the starter will hold them off a moment.”

  “I doubt it,” Henry said. “He’s ready to pull the string.”

  “I’m glad I’m not out there. That wind could sweep you right out of the saddle.”

  “With no help from your horse,” Henry agreed. “I’m glad you’re not out there, too. I got a feeling we’re going to see some fantastic racing … a real ‘Perils of Pauline’ kind of thing.”

  “What’s that?” Alec asked without taking his eyes off the starting gate.

  “A movie serial I used to see as a kid. It was a real cliff-hanger, with one stirring climax after another.”

  “Wow!” A bolt of lightning split the sky, and Alec was able to distinguish the silks of the riders as their mounts reared in the starting stalls. “I still think the starter ought to hold them off,” Alec said.

  Henry agreed, saying, “Maybe he’ll have to now.” Several horses had already backed out of their stalls and were fighting their riders. Henry tried to ignore the storm by concentrating on the horses.

  “It’s a big field for such a track,” he said. “First Command has every right to be the favorite. He likes the distance and can run his race on any sort of footing. But he’s too straight in front for my taste. Moonshot is too long-striding for this muddy going, I think. He’ll be afraid to stride out. Hayloft won’t like the track for the same reason. But Novice moves up in slop like this. Look at him. He looks like a tall bird wading in the water. Nice hind legs, too.…”

  Henry went on with his comments but Alec kept his eyes on Manizales’ chestnut filly, Bitter Sweet. She had a habit of getting into trouble, regardless of the footing, but he wanted her to win.

  Another lightning bolt cracked the heavens, and Henry put his hand on Alec’s arm. “I want you to watch the way Manizales can whip smoothly with either hand, and the way he switches,” he said nervously.

  “I don’t even carry a whip,” Alec said, annoyed at Henry’s constant prodding.

  “You might someday. Every top rider should know how to switch smoothly. Watch Manizales.”

  They cringed at the crackle of still another bolt of lightning. Nor were they alone in this. Most of the other huddled spectators were now looking fearfully up at the heavens rather than at the horses.

  Alec turned his gaze back to the starting gate. With eight horses in a race there was always danger of a traffic jam under the best of conditions. Today it would be almost miraculous if some fantastic mishaps didn’t take place. It would be a difficult race to follow, too. Even under ideal circumstances, watching a race from the stands taxed the eyes of the most experienced among the professional spectators. Few could ever describe exactly what happened during the running of a race, for the pace was too swift. The starting bell would ring, the gate doors would fly open and the stampede would be on. Many dramatic details that won or lost a race—a thrown shoe, a misstep, a bump, a slipped saddle, careless riding—could easily go unnoticed.

  Today it would be more difficult than ever to watch everything.

  Alec suddenly stiffened, for the horses were now at the gate. There was a great peal of thunder from above, silencing the sound of the starting bell as the gate doors flew open.

  … AND HOOFS

  5

  Alec watched the chestnut filly. She had only one horse on her right, being in the next-to-outside post position. While she had always been sluggish getting away, she seemed to want to overdo it this time. She left her stall almost at a walk, despite the beating she was taking from Manizales’ feet and whip. Then suddenly she wheeled and bolted for the outside rail before Manizales could get her aimed down the stretch.

  Suddenly there was a loud shout from the crowd as a horse on the inner rail, also lagging at the break, went down in the slop. The jockey somersaulted over his mount’s head and slid like a writhing eel beneath the rail and into the infield.

  The horse tried to get up almost instantly, but he had his right foreleg through the knotted reins. He began struggling, but an alert gate crewman dashed over to him and slashed the reins free with a sharp pocketknife. The next moment the horse was being led quickly away while his rider, covered with mud, stomped the infield turf.

  Meanwhile, Alec noticed that Manizales had the chestnut filly running strongly after the pack. His feet were not in his irons, a clear sign that the filly must almost have thrown him.

  “He’s riding without stirrups,” Alec said.

  “I see it. I told you this race would be something,” Henry answered without removing the binoculars from his eyes.

  Through the beating rain and semi-darkness, the horses pounded into the first turn. The favorite, First Command, looked quite at home in the slop, as Henry had figured, and was in the lead. Behind him were the others, packed much too closely together and too mud-spattered to be identifiable. The field swung wide, some of the horses having trouble getting hold of the track and slipping dangerously going around the turn. One jockey, finding no place on the outside to go, rushed for a narrow opening on the rail. He was squeezed still more by a tiring horse, who bore in sharply, slamming against him and causing him to hit the fence.

  Alec saw what was coming even before he heard Henry’s gasp of alarm. The sq
ueezed jockey found out suddenly that he had no place to go at all. His leg was being pressed hard against the rail and his horse was burning his hide on it. The horse lost his running action and bobbled like an undecided jumper approaching a barrier too high for him; then, as if making up his mind, he swerved in, jumped the rail and took his rider into the infield lake.

  Henry put down his glasses and said, “Now I’ve seen everything. You take them.”

  Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Alec ignored the horse in the lake and focused on the race. Moonshot passed First Command coming off the first turn and took the lead. But neither horse could get far ahead of the hard-running bunch directly behind. Moving up the backstretch, the two leaders were joined by two more horses who were now running abreast of them.

  The chestnut filly was no longer dead-last but picking up horses and moving into fifth place. She might not be able to walk in the mud but she was proving she could run! Manizales was keeping her on the rail and saving ground. He started moving her faster as they approached the far turn. Soon, Alec knew, she would be in an all-out drive for the lead.

  “Keep your eye on her, Henry!” he said, without offering his friend the binoculars.

  “She’ll quit,” Henry said. “She’s too unseasoned.” But the excited tone of his voice belied his pessimism.

  First Command moved to the front again, trying to steal the race as he went into the far turn. But suddenly he began bearing out, taking the three other leaders part way with him. It was then that Manizales made his move along the rail; there wasn’t a thing in the filly’s path now that the leaders were veering outside!

  She slipped and skidded under Manizales’ urging, but made for the gap in the jam ahead. Manizales rocked and pushed her, bending into the turn. He was whipping with his right hand, keeping the filly close to the rail. She was under full steam when First Command caught up and began racing alongside her, his rider, too, scuffing and scrubbing with hands and feet.

  The chestnut filly began to inch ahead, getting out of the jam and surging ahead! Alec let out a yell.