The Black Stallion and the Girl (10 page)

The horse in front of Becky was tiring and she rushed for a narrow opening he left on the rail. The
tiring horse bore in sharply just as Becky neared the opening and she was squeezed against the rail. Alec knew her leg was hard against the fence and the horse was burning his hide on it. Yet Becky continued to urge her mount on, her whip rising and falling with no letup.

“She’s squeezing through!” Alec shouted incredulously.

“She’ll quit,” Henry said. “She’ll never make it.”

Mario Santos saw Becky getting through on the inside and went to his whip. His mount jumped at the belts of leather against his hide and raced quickly around the two tiring leaders. Becky had broken through on the rail and there was nothing in her mount’s path! She continued whipping with her right hand as her horse raced furiously for the wire. Mario, rocking in his saddle, caught Becky as her mount faltered under the staccato beat of her whip.

Becky moved up again, regaining the inches lost to Mario’s horse, and went to the front. The stands were in an uproar as the two horses and their apprentice riders scuffed and scrubbed with hands and feet, trying to get the last ounce of speed from their mounts.

Becky switched her whip to the left side without loss of stride. Mario was whipping with his right, and the horses were hide-scraping as they came down to the finish. Again, Becky’s horse faltered and lost a few inches to Mario’s horse. Heads bobbed together, noses stretched out, striving, reaching for the finish wire.

“She’s tiring! She’s lost it!” Henry said.

Alec didn’t answer. At a time like this, he didn’t think; he just watched. It would be over in a final jump.

Mario continued driving hard, his horse inching
away from Becky’s. But Becky wasn’t out of the race, not yet. She refused to give up
and miraculously her horse came on again!
In a single, mighty leap she ranged up boldly alongside Mario. Then another stride came as swiftly, and she went under the wire, winner by a head!

Henry was the first to turn away from the window. “Big deal,” he told a reporter. “She gets a horse that’s pounds the best and manages not to fall off.”

Few newsmen agreed with him; the consensus was that Becky had ridden the kind of race any man would have wanted for himself. She had beaten Mario Santos, New York’s leading apprentice, at his own kind of game, riding with head, hands and legs in a brilliant, driving finish. Becky had raced from the status of something on the order of a sideshow attraction to a mainring performer in one grueling duel.

“She’ll be getting more mounts from now on,” a reporter said. “She’s tough.”

“I’ll agree with you on that,” Henry said. “Sweet, little Becky surprised everybody, but it won’t happen again. There’ll be no more squiring her around, like Mike did today. The boys will know what to expect from now on.”

Alec followed Henry across the room. He was eager to call Pam and tell her that she could remain at Hopeful Farm.

As Alec went to a telephone, Henry said, “If you’re calling your girl friend, tell her you won’t be around for a while. I’ve got a new schedule worked out for us. We’re leaving for the West Coast tomorrow and racing at Hollywood Park on Saturday. It’ll be a month before we’re back.”

Alec didn’t answer. It was no time to reveal his great disappointment at not being able to see Pam next week as planned. But he knew she would be there when he got back. Despite her great love for freedom, she’d never leave the horses without seeing him. However, a month away was a long while—and he didn’t know how much time he had left to be with Pam.

The following day the Black was flown to California, and those who went with him—Alec, Henry and Deb—felt as only people who are in the entourage of a great champion can. When they arrived at the Los Angeles airport, a large crowd, including the press, was there to meet them. They had gathered to look at the horse many of them knew only from newspapers and magazines and television. They peered into the plane and watched as he was transferred to a waiting van which took him to Hollywood Park, four miles away.

The week that followed was unlike any other period Alec had ever spent. He found Californians different from the fans back east, where horsemen and the public alike accepted the Black as champion without question. This was a “show-me” crowd, one seemingly determined to topple him from his pedestal to prove the superiority of their horses over those from the East. Never before had Alec thought of the Black as belonging to any one particular section of the country.

The Black was ready, Alec knew, to prove his greatness to them. There was not a pound of surplus flesh on him anywhere, and his form on the track matched the heroic proportions of his great body. Soon after his arrival he worked six furlongs in the blazing time of 1:08. Then the morning before his first race he was blown-out three furlongs in :32, both under the strongest kind of pull by Alec.

Back at the stable, Henry said, “I hope those times aren’t going to scare the others off. He might be racing all by himself tomorrow.”

The next day a large field of twelve horses went postward against the Black in the Sunset Handicap, a mile-and-a-half race over the turf course. But the great champion might have been racing alone, as Henry had anticipated. Coming into the homestretch of the long race, he was racing only his shadow while the others plodded along some fifty lengths in the rear. At the end he was running with the breathtaking speed of a sprinter, with Alec sitting still in the saddle.

The Black came back to the winner’s circle with his tail in the air. His time on the electric board read 2:23, faster than any horse in the world had ever gone before, perhaps a record never to be equaled!

The spectators rose to their feet in a standing ovation, and Alec knew that his horse had proved to one and all that he was truly a great champion.

Henry picked up first money of some $66,000 and told Alec that, though they were well on their way, this was only the beginning. He meant that they would be winning more and more purse money, Alec knew, for there were several very rich races ahead of them. Once
more, Alec thought of Pam and her interest in horses simply for the love and enjoyment of them. Despite the fact that he knew it was his job as well as Henry’s to earn enough money to operate Hopeful Farm, he was sensitive to the trainer’s continued emphasis on purses rather than the electrifying beauty of the Black’s performance.

Californians’ attitudes toward the Black, backside as well as in the stands, changed overnight. His world-shattering record, made on their track, won their hearts. Now he belonged to them as well as to Easterners. They watched every move he made, and Alec could no longer call even the nights his own. He became resigned to people following him and his horse everywhere, around the barns and on the track, hanging over rails, watching the Black work and never quite believing their stopwatches. The Black took such giant strides when he ran alone in his workouts that one was never truly aware of his great speed without a watch on him.

Another large field of ten horses went against him in his second start a week later. He carried a heavy impost of 140 pounds and again made a shambles of a good field by winning the Los Angeles Handicap in track-record time.

Henry pocketed winner’s money of $54,000 and told Alec, “I knew the weight wouldn’t bother him none over seven-eighths of a mile. He might have had some trouble with them at a mile and over, but not at seven furlongs.”

“Then why’d you make so much fuss when he was assigned that weight?” Alec asked.

Henry grinned. “You wouldn’t want them to think I was
happy
about it, would you?”

“No, I guess not,” Alec answered. It was Henry’s strategy never to let anyone think he was satisfied with the imposts put on the Black. He was as sensitive as an apothecary’s scale to weights. In the past he had withdrawn the Black when he believed the weight assignment was excessive. He wouldn’t do that in California, Alec decided. Henry was out to bank all the purse money he could get his hands on, and in as short a time as possible.

During the weeks that followed, the Black went postward three more times and had the track almost to himself. The trainers at Hollywood Park had acknowledged his invincibility—not in words, but in an even stronger way. They kept their horses in the barns. Only a few were willing even to race for second money; they did not want to embarrass their owners or themselves by suffering humiliating defeats.

The Black carried 140 pounds in each race, giving up to thirty-five pounds to the few horses who ventured forth to race him. These contests were more exhibitions than races, and the fans watched them as such, their applause swelling as the Black came back, their eyes leaving him only to check the times posted on the electric board. They realized that, even under the strongest kind of restraint, he had been very close to lowering more records.

The hero worship given the Black was completely out of control, Alec knew, but neither he nor Henry could do anything about it.

“Don’t let all this go to your head,” he told the
Black in the privacy of his stall, the only place he could ever find to be alone with him, and then only with both halves of the door closed. He doubted that all the clamor had any effect on his horse; the danger of over-confidence rested with those who took care of him.

The Black belonged to everybody in the stable, and this was their hour of triumph as well as the champion’s. The Black was a super horse, and they stood proudly beside him, sharing his fame.

Yet it was not easy for them to have such a horse in their stable. It took more endurance, more stamina than most people realized. Every casual remark made by any of them was repeated and published for the world to read. Each person was the subject of intense criticism as well as envy. Few people seemed to know that even a great horse could be beaten by a misstep on the track, a stable accident, bad racing luck, even a slight cold or an off day. A loving but severe public would tolerate no excuse, even the thousand or more trivial ones that could defeat the Black.

Henry was too old to hope that he would ever have another champion like the Black and Alec doubted that the trainer would want one. Henry was more irritable than ever. He had taken just about all he could from the public, from newsmen, even from his fellow horsemen at the track.

Alec glanced at the two huge wads of cotton Henry had placed in the Black’s ears so the loud music in the adjoining stable would be muted and not disturb him. The stable kept a radio tuned to a station specializing in loud, popular music. It blared away all day long. Fighting mad, Henry had asked the trainer to
tone it down or put an end to it. The man had shaken his head and replied that everyone in the area liked the music, including his horses; it helped them get used to the commotion and the band music on race days. It was good for them.

The trainer was one of the many promising young horsemen racing in California, and when Henry angrily told him it would drive his animals crazy, citing his own age-old experience with horses, the young trainer had answered, “Times have changed, Pops. You’re just not with it any more, even if you do have the big horse in your stable.”

Alec pulled the Black’s head down to him. He didn’t think the loud music bothered the stallion, but he’d left the cotton in anyway. The Black might be sensitive to noise, but he was intelligent as well, and it should not upset him. Maybe he even liked it, as Alec did. Some of the records were those Alec had heard Pam play, and they brought her very close to him.

Soon they would return to Aqueduct, where life—even with a champion—was easier than in Hollywood Park. He would go to the farm immediately to see Pam. He was beginning to realize how much she meant to him. Somehow, he must convince her to stay on.

The following week—with another triumphant race behind him and an additional $43,000 added to his winnings—the Black and his entourage returned to Aqueduct.

It was late evening, the day of his return to Aqueduct, when Alec drove down the country road leading to Hopeful Farm. Reaching the main gate, he stopped the car and climbed the board fence. He paused on the top rail.

The fields and lower woods lay in ghostly silence before him, draped in a lightly veiled mist. Sounds carried easily across the silence. He heard the sharp neighs of mares, followed almost instantly by the nickerings of foals and the clatter of hoofs.

He had called Pam from New York, and had told her he’d be up right away. She had said that, if it was after dark, he would find her with Black Sand at a spring-fed pool they both knew well.

Alec jumped to the ground and walked across the pasture, his arms swinging loosely against his thin but hard frame. Like a smooth-gaited animal he moved quickly through the night mist, his nostrils sniffing the scents of pasture grasses and the warm bodies of
horses. He could see the dark figures of broodmares and their suckling foals. The joy and excitement of being home and seeing Pam again grew with every stride.

His gaze followed the cleanliness of the white fences and well-cared-for fields. Unfortunately, Henry was right, he decided; they needed to win big purses to keep the farm going. It was not something on which they could lose money and charge off the loss on their tax returns, as did wealthy sportsmen who bred and raced horses for the fun of it. While such people were important, they were not the backbone of racing, as many thought. No, it was horsemen like Henry who carried most of the burden, and they waged war against each other to make a profitable living for themselves and the thousands they employed at farms and tracks.

Alec wondered if Pam would ever accept such materialistic goals and remain with him. She was still trying to make this the best of all possible worlds, while he was willing to accept it as the only world he had and make the best of it. Maybe they could reach a compromise.