The Black Stallion and the Girl by Walter Farley
“I’ve never thought much about it,” he said. “I suppose it’s possible. The brain is still pretty much unknown space.”
She lay back in his arms again. “Anyway,” she said, “for some reason I can’t explain, time seems desperately short and precious to me, so I try to pack in a lot of things.”
“You’re being crazy again, like you were when you saw the falling star. The only reason you move on, Pam, is that’s the way you want it. It’s your thing. You like people. You like to be on the go.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing, suddenly her gay self once more. “I like people despite what I said about them before. There are always times when I hit it off with somebody, as I do with you. It makes up for a lot. You know, Alec, sometimes it’s harder to be free than not free. True love is giving up that which you love most, if need be, when the time comes.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Alec said sullenly. He didn’t like being included among those with whom she got along. He wanted to be very special. He wanted their being together to last. “I haven’t yet had to give up anything I love,” he added after a long pause.
“But you will,” she said. “It happens to everybody.”
Once more Alec found her strange blue eyes looking deep into him and he had the feeling that she saw past him and beyond. Fearful that he would lose her, he tightened his arms about her and she put her head in the hollow of his neck.
ONE X ONE
15
The next morning, soon after first light, Alec learned that Black Sand was ready to be raced. He watched Pam break the strapping, big-boned colt from the gate with astonishing smoothness for one who was still in the growing, awkward phase of his life. The workout was a test of speed and Pam rode him as if she were indeed in a race.
Alec knew the colt was listening to her because he had an ear cocked as he swept by, his every stride one of marvelous control and training. How had Pam accomplished so much with him in only a month? He watched her guide the colt easily from the middle of the track over to the rail and then into the first turn. Black Sand did not drift out as so many young horses did, but hung on to the rail as if it were a part of him.
Alec recalled only too well that of all the two-year-olds in the barn, Black Sand had been the most difficult to ride. He had trusted no one and, considering the mistreatment he’d suffered as a yearling in the hands of his previous owner, it was understandable. Still, despite all their patience and care, they had been able to do little with him until Pam had come along.
Alec kept his binoculars on Black Sand as he swept down the backstretch. There was no doubt the colt ran for the sheer love of racing, even against himself. Pam was only a tawny blur on his back, sitting very still as if hypnotized by her mount’s blinding speed. Black Sand was perfectly balanced, hardly aware of the light weight he carried, yet obviously responding to Pam’s hands. He drove relentlessly into the far turn and came around it to enter the homestretch, his strides never faltering in their smooth triple racing beat.
Alec did not have to look at his stopwatch to know how fast they were going. The quarter mile had been run just slightly under :25 and the half, faster still, in :48. Both were better than any trainer could have asked of a two-year-old at this stage of his development. Black Sand could begin his racing campaign immediately and next year, at three, if nothing happened to him, he would be strong enough to go on to the classic distances of the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont, for he was bred for stamina as well as speed.
When Pam returned with Black Sand, Alec said, “You were right. He’s ready. I’ll take him with me when I go.”
“I’ll miss him,” she said, her arms wrapped around the colt’s neck.
Alec recalled Henry’s warning, not to let Pam near Aqueduct. Yet he heard himself ask, “Why don’t you ride down with us? You haven’t had a day off since you got here.”
She hugged the colt again, and Alec saw the indecision in her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “What about Henry?”
“I’ll think of something,” Alec said, although he didn’t quite know what it would be or how he would handle it. “I’ve got three days before going back,” he added. “I’ll think of something.”
The three days went by quickly for Alec. He learned what Pam had meant the first night when she talked of their oneness. It was a closeness between two people he had never known before, the giving of one’s self rather than the thinking of one’s self. They rode together, worked together, and there were many hours when they just walked in the grass in their bare feet, something she couldn’t believe he’d never done before at the farm. And never before, too, had he been aware of each sound, each touch, everything he looked at, every passing minute, day and night.
“You know, Pam,” he told her the night before leaving for Aqueduct. “I know it sounds wild, but I’ve never been so happy.” He meant it with all his heart and, for some reason, he felt it necessary to tell her even though he was sure she knew. Was it that time suddenly seemed desperately short and precious to him, that he feared he might go to the barn one morning and find her gone?
“I called Henry and told him I was bringing Black Sand,” he said. “I didn’t mention anything about your coming.”
“I’m glad you didn’t because I’m not,” she answered. “I’ve decided it wouldn’t work, Alec. It would mean too much unpleasantness for all of us. Besides, it’s …”
“It would be a change of scene for you,” Alec interrupted deliberately, afraid that she’d been going to say it was time for her to move on. “You wouldn’t have to stay long. You might even like it. I race the Black on Saturday. I’d like you to see him, Pam. You never have except on television. He’s different in the flesh. It’s an important race, one of the toughest for him. Please …”
Her blue eyes searched his, squinting as she laughed. “It does sound like fun,” she said, “and I would like to see you race the Black. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Okay, I’ll be down Saturday, if just to watch.”
“But don’t go away afterward,” Alec warned. “I’ll expect you at the barn.”
“All right,” she promised. “I’ll be there.”
Alec put his arm around her waist and they walked through the night together.
FIVE IN A ROW
16
At four-fifteen the following Saturday afternoon, Alec rode the Black into the starting gate at Aqueduct. The band had stopped playing and the post parade was over. The horses were at the post for the running of the Manhattan Handicap—a mile and five-eighths—worth $37,180 to the winner.
The Black stood quietly in the Number 3 stall while the remaining horses entered the gate and crewmen scrambled busily about the framework.
Alec noted that the flags on the infield pole were barely moving, so the brisk wind that had accompanied the earlier rain had died and would be no factor in the race. The track, however, was deep and cuppy. In the great stands, some eighty thousand people, all wrought to a high pitch of excitement, awaited the starting bell.
Adjusting his goggles, Alec looked down the long homestretch, for they were starting the race on the final bend of the far turn. It would look a lot longer the next time around, when the Black would feel most his heavy impost of 141 pounds. In many respects, this might well be their toughest race of the year, against a field of four top handicap horses, all lightly weighted. With Pam watching, Alec hoped he could stay out of trouble. He wanted to race his best for her.
Alec glanced at the golden chestnut in the Number 2 stall on his left. Sun Dancer was the second favorite and startlingly big, over seventeen hands, as tall as the Black. Every part of him was in proper proportion: neck, body and legs all finely balanced, head held high, arrogant and handsome. He was eager to go; his foreleg struck the grilled door and it opened as it was designed to do, being a safety precaution. A crewman quickly closed it again.
Astride Sun Dancer was young Mario Santos, whose popularity with New York fans was greater than
On Sun Dancer’s left, in the Number 1 stall, was his stablemate, Brush Fire. Both horses had been entered by Aqueduct’s leading trainer, Mel Miller. Like Mario Santos, Miller was a favorite son of New York fans for he seldom raced his horses elsewhere. Also, he had skill, energy and youth, and was using them all to his advantage. He was willing to gamble on new, young riders and he had put Becky Moore up on Brush Fire.
Brush Fire, a blood bay with long black mane and tail, was going very light. Few male riders could have ridden at 101 pounds and, while Brush Fire was considered only a sprinter, he would be a serious threat at that weight. He was a small horse, his body short and close coupled, his every movement one of marvelous control. He made Sun Dancer, next to him, appear even bigger than he actually was.
Alec looked at Becky’s face, so young and inexperienced compared with the men’s. How many more races before she looked like them? How much resilience was there in her lean, feminine body? Again, Becky was meeting Mario face to face, but this time they were riding for the same stable.
Displaying his first signs of impatience, the Black tossed his head and shifted his feet nervously within the close confines of the stall. Alec spoke to him, aware that the other horses, too, were moving about, all impatient for the race to begin. There was a shimmering of colored silks in the sun.
On his right, in the Number 4 stall, was Grey Mist—a tall, leggy horse, awkward when getting away but capable of great speed and going a long distance, two miles if necessary, when his strides smoothed out. But now he was a hot, nervous and anxious horse, throwing himself from one side of his stall to the other, and holding up the start.
Carrying only 115 pounds, Grey Mist had the aged veteran, Mike Costello, on his back. Alec recalled that it was Mike who had befriended Becky in the last race he’d seen at Aqueduct. That would not be necessary today.
Grey Mist reared and Mike used all his strength to bring him down. But it was of no use, and there was the danger of Grey Mist’s taking a back flip. Mike grabbed the sides of the stall and got clear of him while a crewman scrambled over the gate’s framework to grab the horse’s head. After a brief struggle, he brought him down. Slowly, carefully, Mike eased himself back into the saddle, but his round, wrinkled face was drained of all color.
Alec knew that Mike, as a young man, had ridden against Henry, and they were close friends. Although Mike had become one of the great jockeys of all time, and still loved to race, it was time that he quit for good, Alec decided. Mike had retired in the past, only to come back. Now he looked unhappy as well as scared. He’d had very few winners this year, and this race didn’t seem promising for him.
The official starter in his high perch beside the gate called, “Mike, you okay?”
“ ’Tis grateful I am to you for askin’,” the jockey answered in his Irish brogue. “If I do say so meself, a horse the likes of him is not easy on an old mon.”
Alec smiled grimly at Mike’s determined good humor. The old jockey’s body was thin as an iron rail, but it was also just as hard. Only his many years of experience had enabled him to get clear of 1,200 pounds of rearing, plunging horse a moment ago. If he had been a little slower sliding off, Mike would have been under those hoofs instead of where he was sitting now. Mike sounded cocky but he wasn’t, no more than the rest of them. Racing was a hard way to make what a lot of people considered an easy living.
The Black snorted at all the commotion and then he, too, went up in the air. Alec brought him down, but it was no less work for him than it had been for Mike.
In the outside stall, Sailor, a rangy bay horse, carrying 115 pounds, fussed a bit and then became quiet. Sailor had a good record, always being a contender in any race over a mile. But Alec was more fearful of Sailor’s jockey, Pete Edge, than he was of the horse. Pete could rate a horse better than any other jockey in the country.
Sailor was the third choice in the race, and Pete, more than the horse, was responsible for it. Pete was a fighter on and off the track, and everybody stayed clear of him. He was built square and very strong. His left eyelid drooped slightly and a long scar ran directly beneath it, the result of a bad spill under steel-shod hoofs. It made him look extra tough, which he was. Pete had won more races in which he was thought to have had no chance than any other jockey in the country.
Alec saw him shake up his horse by kicking him in the belly. Sailor was too still for the break to come and Pete, obviously, didn’t want him to fall asleep. They might be slow getting away, Alec decided, but he’d find them close by when they passed this spot again.
Brush Fire broke through the door of his Number 1 stall, and the red-coated outrider headed him off and caught him before he’d gone very far from the gate. Alec watched them come back, with Becky looking very sheepish at the catcalls coming from the stands. Wearing protective helmet and goggles, she would never have been taken for a girl. There was nothing feminine about her now.
The waiting horses shifted their feet nervously, some of them already running their races in the gate.
“Don’t move,” Alec told the Black. “Let the others fuss, but you settle down like the good campaigner you are.” He felt the heavy strips of lead beneath his knees. They were forward on the withers where they were supposed to be. The pad was buckled down tight. It would not slip forward or backward or from side to side. It would stay there while the Black was in full flight.
The starter was having a difficult time getting them off, for now Sun Dancer had twisted in his stall and Mario Santos was kicking him, trying to straighten him out, but he only made matters worse.
“You don’t punch horses around,” Alec thought. “They can get mad in a hurry and show a jock how small he is.”
Mario’s dark skin was stretched drum-tight across his high cheekbones, making his eyes seem all the more sunken and piercing. He looked furious and ravaged and hungry. The lean, poverty-stricken years in Puerto Rico had left their mark on him. Racing success meant a great deal to Mario, and Sun Dancer was the best horse he had been engaged to ride. He didn’t mean to let such an opportunity slip by.
Sun Dancer flayed the sides of his padded stall and a crewman scrambled across the framework to assist Mario.
Alec knew that Mel Miller’s strategy was to use both Brush Fire and Sun Dancer to defeat the Black. It was common knowledge that Miller had entered Brush Fire with his brilliant early speed as a “rabbit” to set a furious pace for the Black to follow; then Sun Dancer with his great staying power would come on in the homestretch, trying to finish the job of beating the champion.
Two against one. Alec was not fearful of such race strategy. He would decide what to do when he saw what kind of a pace Brush Fire set.
Alec took one final glance at Brush Fire, who didn’t seem to be bothered by the wild antics of his stablemate. He was quiet but up against the bit, looking fresh and full of run. He wore red blinkers and his head sat well on a short, muscular neck.
Alec believed Becky would try to win with him, despite the fact that he was being used as a sacrificial “rabbit” to Sun Dancer. This was her big opportunity as well as Mario’s. She’d hang on as long as she could.
Sun Dancer had been straightened out in his stall. They were all ready to go now and waiting. High-pitched cries of the jockeys to the starter continued to shatter the air, but they meant nothing. The starter was about to push the button that opened the electrically operated doors. Just beyond, an assistant starter held a red flag in the air, ready to drop it at the sound of the starting bell.
The Black was full of fire and Alec could hardly hold him. He hoped it would be a clean start, a truly run race; that was all he asked.
The grilled doors clanged open, the starting bell rang, and the red flag came down. The Manhattan Handicap was on!
THE MA
17
The Black and Grey Mist broke together, with Mike Costello using his whip in an attempt to get the lead. The plunging bodies of the two horses brushed slightly but it was of no consequence. Alec urged the Black on, determined to get in the clear.
Sun Dancer, surprisingly, had been first off at the break and was a length in front, followed closely by Brush Fire, who had his red-hooded head stretched out while Becky Moore rocked in the saddle as if determined to achieve her rightful place as pace-setter.
The crowd, watching the start, roared its approval of this unpredicted early sprinting duel between stablemates.
Alec decided quickly not to push the Black until they had straightened out from the turn and begun the run down the homestretch for the first time. There was plenty of distance to go, plenty of time. He allowed Mike Costello to take Grey Mist past him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sailor on the far outside and behind, a good two lengths late in getting out of the gate, as expected.
Sun Dancer maintained his jump on Brush Fire. Mario Santos seemed determined to stay in front regardless of what the pre-race strategy might have been. Becky continued to ride Brush Fire in an all-out drive, attempting to take the lead from Mario.
Alec wondered if the race had turned out to be a face-to-face duel between the two riders despite their trainer’s instructions. Some young riders were stubborn and rode races as they saw them, rather than as planned. He’d done it many times himself, doing things Henry had told him not to do. Lots of unforeseen things happened in a race that couldn’t be explained by anybody.
As they raced past the stands, the eyes of the crowd were on the blinding speed duel in progress between Sun Dancer and Brush Fire. Grey Mist raced a length behind, followed by the Black and Sailor.
The Black had settled into stride and Alec was content to wait until the right time to make his move. Meanwhile, he was saving ground, just off the rail and directly behind Sun Dancer. Grey Mist was racing on his right, a half-length ahead, a little too close, with his hindquarters only four or five inches away, not bothering the Black but vital if anything happened.