The Black Stallion and the Girl by Walter Farley
Finally, with the help of extra handlers, they got Gallant Teddy straight in his stall and still. The starter got ready to push the button that would open the doors. He’d wait another few seconds, giving Gallant Teddy a chance to settle down a little more.
The break was coming and the horses knew it. Sun Dancer struck out a foreleg in eagerness. Challenger twisted slightly in his stall. The Black shifted uneasily, his feet dancing, pawing. The starter kept his eyes on him. He’d been expecting it all along. The Black was a “bitter” horse, one that got mean and tough at the ringing of the bell. He hoped the girl knew what to do once he turned them loose.
“Steady now,” the starter called to the riders. “I’m not sending you away until every single one of you is quiet. I don’t care how long it takes.” Yet his finger played with the button in his hand, touching it lightly, ready to push.
THE EMPIRE STATE HANDICAP
24
Having left Napoleon with Deb, Alec hurried through the throng in front of the grandstand. He wanted to be able to see the whole oval; he didn’t want to miss one stride the Black took today. Where should he go? He had to make up his mind in a hurry.
The stands and cement apron were black with people, black as the rain that was weeping from the sky. Only the track was clear, a wet sloppy road soon to be filled. Overhead he could hear seagulls flying and calling. The planes at Kennedy Airport were grounded but not the birds. Their sad cries drifted down to him, saddened by the mist. Listening to them, he felt isolated, preyed upon by his fears for Pam.
He saw Henry near the finish line, but he didn’t want to be with him today. Neither did he want to go upstairs to the crowded press section. He wanted to watch the race without listening to the emotional outbursts of others.
Anxiously, he turned back to the starting gate. Gallant Teddy was giving his rider and handlers a lot of trouble. The delay afforded him more time, but he must decide quickly where to go.
Over the loudspeakers came the clipped, cultured voice of racing’s most famous announcer, “It is now post time.”
Alec glanced up at the announcer’s lonely booth high on top of the grandstand. Yes, he decided, that is where he would go. He would be welcome there, providing he kept absolutely quiet during the calling of the race. There would be no dramatics or emotionalism in that soundproofed workshop, no editorializing or guessing, no partiality or faking—only precise, accurate, objective, split-second calling of the race from start to finish.
Alec hurried toward the grandstand, hunching his shoulders against the rain and the people who jostled him. Inside the lower lobby he ran across the vast, open area toward a special door. Reaching it, he nodded to a track policeman, showed his pass and stepped through. He raced down a long corridor and stopped before the private elevator that would take him quickly to the top tier of the grandstand. He pressed the button and impatiently waited for the elevator to arrive, knowing he had less than a minute to get there.
The door opened and he stepped inside, pushing the top button urgently and willing the door to close. Quietly, the elevator left the ground floor and began rising.
Alec leaned back against the side of the elevator, his whole body suddenly shaking, his legs throbbing and feeling like balloons. He had difficulty controlling the thoughts that flickered through his mind as the elevator rose, then stopped, and the door opened.
She had no right to be out there. He recognized it, accepted it now, when it was too late. She was independent, headstrong, destined for a tragic end. What was she doing in a race against professionals, hardened in mind and feelings, when she should be walking on grass in her bare feet? Yet he knew she would have had it no other way. She would ride this race as she did everything else—with an overwhelming zest to experience whatever life had to offer.
Reaching the door of the announcer’s booth, Alec knocked before going inside. The man standing alone in the glass-fronted room was short and chunky, not altogether befitting his heroic stature as the greatest racetrack caller of all time. His lively brown eyes under bushy eyebrows turned to Alec. He pointed toward an extra pair of binoculars lying on the table, then quickly turned back to the track.
For whatever reason the start had been delayed, Alec knew that the extra moments had enabled him to arrive in time to see the whole race. He picked up the binoculars and moved over to the large window. He could see the bank of rain that closed over the oval track like a gigantic tunnel. The backstretch was barely visible in the gloom. It would be a difficult race for the announcer to call.
The great man had the microphone holder around his neck with five mikes attached to it. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his balance on his toes, as if he were one with the horses and would break from the gate with them. A second later, in his high-pitched, precise voice, he said, “They’re off!”
Alec watched the horses break from the gate. Artless and Dark Legend broke first and went immediately to the front, clear of trouble. Sun Dancer was squeezed by Challenger, who swerved sharply and brushed the rail. Sword Master bore out, taking the Black with him. Royal Pharaoh slipped and lost his running action. Gallant Teddy was sluggish getting away, then came alive, bolting for the outside rail before his rider got him aimed down the stretch and running.
The Black was moving effortlessly, despite his being carried out by Sword Master. Alec knew his horse could handle the footing with ease. He urged Pam on, hoping she would break clear of the steel-shod traffic jam, a milling tangle of horses and riders. Gallant Teddy was floundering in the slop and bouncing up and down. Sword Master and Royal Pharaoh were also having trouble getting hold of the track, and slipping dangerously. Sword Master skittered and banged into the Black. Alec winced as he watched Pam steady him while keeping her own balance. Luckily, she and the Black had recovered but they had lost ground to Sun Dancer on the rail. Several lengths beyond, Artless had gone in front of Dark Legend.
As the horses flashed by almost directly beneath the booth, the announcer made his first call, speaking in his precise, clipped voice, “It’s Artless by a head over Dark Legend. Sun Dancer is third. Sword Master is fourth. The Black is fifth, Challenger is sixth. Gallant Teddy is seventh and Royal Pharaoh is eighth and last.”
The announcer had separated the horses in the closely packed field by matching their names to silks and blinkers, never to the numbers on their saddlecloths. He would call each horse by name and position many times in a little over two flashing minutes. He worked in split seconds, accuracy his only goal. Yet as the horses swept by their silks were almost too mud-splattered to be identifiable.
Alec moved closer to the window. He knew the pace being set by Artless and Dark Legend was not as fast as it had been a few seconds ago. Did Pam realize that the two veteran riders were working as a team and skillfully shortening their mounts’ strides? It was an old trick and always good when executed with finesse, which was the case now. There was no noticeable slackening of speed by the leaders as they approached the clubhouse turn. But couldn’t Pam tell by the Black’s mounting fury at being held back?
Artless and Dark Legend could easily go the full distance if the race was run slowly enough. Sun Dancer in third position had the most to gain by the slow pace; Becky Moore had him well placed on the rail and he was a fresh, lightly weighted horse. Sun Dancer would be tough to beat if he was strong at the end when the Black’s heavy impost began to tell.
The field, still tightly packed except for the two leaders, swung wide going into the turn, some of them slipping dangerously under the hard drives now being waged by their riders. It was apparent to Alec that the other jockeys realized the pace was too slow, even if Pam didn’t, and were going after Artless and Dark Legend. Challenger, racing just inside the Black, skidded as Sam Dillon pushed him to greater speed. Sword Master, too, was under full steam with Mitch West laying on leather. Gallant Teddy was moving up, followed closely by Royal Pharaoh on the outside, their riders too using hands and feet.
Sweeping into the first turn, Alec watched the Black take more rein from Pam. He was dangerously close to Challenger’s heaving hindquarters.
The Black’s head came down, fighting Pam, but she was successful in shortening his strides so he did not run over the horse in front of him. He swerved abruptly to the inside, almost unseating her, and took off after Sun Dancer, who was now moving on the rail with blistering speed.
The Black’s head came down again, indicating his resentment of the hold Pam had on him. He wanted to run all out and was telling her so forcefully. Alec knew well the terrible pull she was experiencing in her arms.
Over the loudspeakers the announcer’s voice had become high-pitched even though it remained eloquent and precise, “That’s Artless still in front by a length. Dark Legend is second by a head over Sun Dancer coming fast on the rail. Challenger and Sword Master are neck and neck on the outside. The Black is sixth. Gallant Teddy is seventh. Royal Pharaoh is eighth.”
Alec listened to the call but his eyes remained on the Black and Pam. He realized that even if he were in the saddle he would be having a rough time with his horse. Like human beings, horses had their good days and bad days, and this was one of the Black’s worst. He wanted no waiting, no resting; neither could he be placed where Pam thought it would be safer for him to race. The Black was racing as he had in the early days, when he was strictly a come-from-behind horse, and it had taken a lot of racing luck as well as tremendous speed to break through large fields to win. For Alec, as it must now be for Pam, it had been the most dangerous time of all.
Alec knew she was trying to guide the Black away from where he wanted to go, right up on the heels of Sun Dancer! Pam had her hands full and, for a few seconds, the Black refused to respond. Then he relented, his strides turning to the outside and lengthening, his hoofs scarcely touching the ground. Alec watched him draw alongside Challenger, fearful of what he might do.
Somehow, Pam managed to hold him off Challenger. But the Black was taking out his anger and frustration on her arms. Alec wondered how she was able to stand the pull.
Now Dark Legend was directly in his path. Sun Dancer was to his left and a little to the front, behind Artless. None of the horses or riders on his right gave way. The Black took more rein and Alec knew Pam would not be able to control him much longer.
They reached the middle of the turn with the Black racing Challenger stride for stride. He was pinned and trapped with no place to go. He had no choice but to shorten his strides or go down when he ran over Dark Legend’s heels.
The announcer placed a moist hand on a paper towel and pressed it, drying his hand. He could no longer separate the horses to call their positions accurately.
They were a pounding line stretched across the track. Their silks were indistinguishable. He could only guess at their positions and he would do no faking. He remained silent.
Alec saw Pam try to avoid a collision with Dark Legend. But her pull on the reins only shattered whatever patience the stallion had left. Angered beyond all control, he twisted his head and body to free himself of rein and bit and hands. Pam swung with him, trying to stay in the saddle. The Black plunged forward again and the force of it sent her onto his neck, her hands seeking a hold in his mane. She lurched with him, going forward then backward in the saddle.
Watching her, Alec put his hands against the window sill to steady himself. He saw Pam regain her seat, but the Black was now completely out of control. There was no telling what he would do in the backstretch or, more important, what would happen to Pam because of it. Alec rubbed his eyes, his sight blurred.
The Black came off the turn and the backstretch rail slipped by faster and faster. There were no hands to slow him down. He was free, his neck stretched out and ears flat against his head. He raced after the others with Pam only a passenger on his back.
Artless, laboring in front, began slowing and his jockey went for his whip. It came hissing down with brutal suddenness, but the blow acted as a brake instead of achieving more speed. He stopped so short that his hoofs might have plunged right down into the earth. Becky Moore avoided his heels by inches and sent Sun Dancer into the lead.
The Black caught the field, and Alec was fearful of what might happen when he plunged into the tangled mass of horses in his path. He saw Pam trying to guide him, if not stop him, but it was futile. Her arms would be torn from their sockets by the force of the stallion’s charge!
The Black tipped Dark Legend’s heels, and almost went down. He recovered quickly to hurl himself into a narrow gap between Challenger and Sword Master.
Alec remained deathly still, knowing that just one false step and the Black and Pam would go down beneath the hoofs of the field. But suddenly the Black had cut his way through, bursting out of the pack, stretched low over the ground, still in a shattering charge. And only Sun Dancer was ahead of him!
The announcer made his call, filling his lungs and projecting his voice to its greatest volume. “Going into the far turn it’s Sun Dancer in front by a length over the Black. Sword Master is third. Gallant Teddy is fourth. Challenger is fifth. Royal Pharaoh is sixth. Dark Legend is seventh. Artless is last.”
Alec moved his binoculars to Sun Dancer, and he saw Becky glance back at Pam, then go for her whip. Sun Dancer was not a spent horse and his sustained drive under Becky’s whip continued around the turn. The Black’s speed took him too wide and he lost ground to Sun Dancer, racing hard on the rail.
They entered the homestretch, the great stands looming on their right, the crowd on its feet. Pam was sitting still in her saddle but Becky Moore was riding as if her life depended upon it, using hands and feet and whip.
Watching closely, Alec rode with Pam every step of the way. He knew the Black’s heavy impost was beginning to tell. The dead leaden weights and his rebellious fury had taken their toll. Much of his speed and stamina had been wrung out of him.
Alec saw too that Sun Dancer, driven beyond his natural powers by Becky’s violent riding, was surpassing himself, taking almost impossible strides that matched the Black’s. All Becky needed to do was to hold him there to win. Her determination to beat the champion was carrying Sun Dancer along, raising him, working a miracle upon him so he was capable of astonishing effort. An effort that, in the end, Alec knew, would leave him a broken and empty horse. But it was victory now that Becky wanted. Tomorrow didn’t matter.
The cries from the crowd rose to shattering heights as the challenger fought back the champion and kept his lead. Becky Moore’s whip rose and fell on Sun Dancer’s haunches. He responded to her beating by quickening his strides with less than a furlong to go.
Alec clenched his fists and pounded them against the window sill. His throat was constricted, his jaws glued together. His eyes never left the bobbing heads coming toward him. Sun Dancer was hanging on doggedly under Becky’s grueling, punishing drive. He was being asked for more than he had to give. He had to crack under the pace. He couldn’t last. Or could he?
In the final strides of the race, Alec recalled Pam’s most important stake in it—the memory of a colt who would still be alive had it not been for the same kind of ruthless riding. And now Pam was out to beat Becky not through violence but on her own terms and in her own way, the only way she knew, by being one with her horse and asking for everything he had to give without unnecessary punishment.
The Black’s breathing was coming hard, Alec knew; air as well as ground was running out on him. Pam continued to sit very still, never touching him with her hands or legs, and Alec loved her all the more for knowing his horse was giving all he had.
Watching them come down to the finish wire, Alec saw Pam shift her weight on the stallion’s back as if she hoped to carry him forward by her own light body and strength. Incredible as it seemed, the Black responded to her shift in balance, and Alec yelled at the top of his voice. His cry came ove
The Black had forged alongside Sun Dancer in one magnificent stride and the leader suddenly gave way, his strides faltering under the Black’s challenge and the flogging whip of his rider.
The fans watched the Black go under the wire, their applause stilled by his flying image. Even in the day’s semi-darkness his brilliance as champion was brighter than ever before. He had proved his greatness again, this time with a stranger on his back.
THE WIND HER FINGERS
25
They left Aqueduct for the farm soon after the race, with Alec driving Pam’s car, resplendent in its painted flowers.
“Henry’s changed,” Alec told Pam. “He wants you to stay very much. He won’t hire Mike Costello or anyone else.”
“I’m glad he’s changed his mind about having girls around,” she said.
“It’s not just that,” Alec explained. “I think Henry’s found that he’s not too old to change his mind about a lot of things. I think he’s going to be more understanding of others even if their standards are different from his own.”
“That’s great,” she said, “really great.” Pam paused, thoughtful, and then added, “But he was right about one thing. I learned what human frailty is today. I was scared out there.”
“But you rode as if you weren’t,” Alec said. “That’s what’s important.” His eyes left the traffic ahead to glance her way. “No one in this world could have ridden the Black as you did today.”
“No one else would have had the chance,” she said, turning to him. “I know that as well as you do, Alec. I knew it when I asked you to let me ride him. Letting me have the Black was the greatest thing you could have done for anyone.”