The Black Stallion Revolts (27 page)

“There’ll be time enough later to talk about that,” Alec said.

Larom and Allen came out of the ranch house. When they neared the corral, Larom winked at Alec, and the boy knew that Hank had been successful in getting the Black’s mares
and
the foals to come.

Allen was grinning. “Just got through talking to Ralph Herbert on the phone,” he said. “He’s burned up because Range Boss won, but he’s going to ship me his quarter mares by the first of next week. I’m all set now. By next year I’ll have the best foals in the state.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Hank Larom said, but only Alec heard him.

“Oh,
Mac,
” Allen went on, “that reminds me. The phone was ringing when I got back. It was Slim Gordon in Leesburg. He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be reading some magazine called
Thoroughbred Record
regularly from now on, so he’ll be keeping posted on how you and Range Boss are doing at the races back east.”

Alec smiled. “Thanks, boss.” He rubbed the Black’s neck. Maybe Slim Gordon would be reading about them. Maybe they’d be racing again. Maybe so.

Walter Farley’s love for horses began when he was a small boy living in Syracuse, New York, and continued as he grew up in New York City, where his family moved. Unlike most city children, he was able to fulfill this love through an uncle who was a professional horseman. Young Walter spent much of his time with this uncle, learning about the different kinds of horse training and the people associated with them.

Walter Farley began to write his first book,
The Black Stallion
, while he was a student at Brooklyn’s Erasmus Hall High School and Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. It was published in 1941 while he was still an undergraduate at Columbia University.

The appearance of
The Black Stallion
brought such an enthusiastic response from young readers that Mr. Farley went on to create more stories about the Black, and about other horses as well. In his life he wrote a total of thirty-four books, including
Man o’ War
, the story of America’s greatest Thoroughbred, and two
photographic storybooks based on the Black Stallion movies. His books have been enormously popular in the United States and have been published in twenty-one foreign countries.

Mr. Farley and his wife, Rosemary, had four children, whom they raised on a farm in Pennsylvania and at a beach house in Florida. Horses, dogs and cats were always a part of the household.

In 1989 Mr. Farley was honored by his hometown library in Venice, Florida, which established the Walter Farley Literary Landmark in its children’s wing. Mr. Farley died in October 1989, shortly before publication of
The Young Black Stallion
, the twenty-first book in the Black Stallion series. Mr. Farley co-authored
The Young Black Stallion
with his son, Steven.

For Alec it was like old times having Henry around every day. That week, the last in November, they exercised Satan and the Black. Together they handled weanlings and broodmares, and performed routine farm chores. Henry was his former cheerful self because he had a coming three-year-old to get ready for the following spring and summer campaigns. Alec laughed more, too. He found that, after all, he had not divorced himself completely from the lure of the racetrack; he could still be excited by the schooling of a young racehorse.

He watched Henry with the black filly, taking a keen interest in each step of her progress. He marveled again at Henry’s unlimited patience that had done so much to win his reputation as one of the finest colt trainers in the country.

“Just give me a break in the weather and I’ll have her ready,” Henry said over and over. “An easy winter, so I can get her out on the track ’most every day, is all I ask.”

The weather was mild that week, but Black Minx didn’t set foot on the training track. Instead Henry kept her in the barn, and he got to know her ways pretty well.

Alec noticed that Henry was all business when he entered her stall, which was often. Never did he fondle her or play, as Alec might have been tempted to do. Henry went about his work with the unconcern of a man accustomed to handling horses—with the least amount of fuss or outward exertion. He was gentle but firm with the filly, and always on the alert for any bold move she might make toward him. Only his hand would reach out when it came; one sharp slap on muzzle or foreleg was his reprimand.

Alec had no idea how many times a day Henry groomed Black Minx that first week. Lots, anyway. Her body shone like glossy satin from soft sponges, soft brushes, soft cloths. But Henry wasn’t at all interested in bringing out the beautiful luster of her black coat. Rather it was his way of teaching her good manners.

“We’re just getting acquainted now,” he had told Alec the first day he spent with her. “No more hand-feeding, and for the present a lot of grooming. That may be all we’ll have to do to stop her nipping. I don’t know. But we’ll start there, anyway.”

The filly had stood tied very short with a soft cotton rope around her neck and through her halter.

“I watched the groom getting her ready at the sale,” Henry had continued. “He made the mistake most people make with a filly like this, and that probably goes for the trainer who took her to Florida. He gave her too much freedom of head, and when she turned on him he tried to straighten her out by a blow with his brush or
towel. The trouble was he usually missed. So it all became a game to her, like everything else. I keep her tied short. I want her to learn I mean business. But at the same time I want to make my grooming a pleasure for her, so I use nothing but soft cloths and the like. She’s thin-skinned and ticklish. Never should she be given a real hard going-over.”

It was the first of December when Henry took Black Minx out of the barn. She stood in the cool and brisk morning air with her highly polished body brilliantly reflecting the sun’s rays. Her first week of stall schooling was over. She was ready for a little freedom. But she wouldn’t be allowed to romp for hours on end as did the mares, weanlings, stallions and even old Napoleon. No, she would be given just a short time to frolic alone. Then Henry’s hand would be on her halter again. She was different from the others; her goal was the Kentucky Derby only five months away. Her days would be spent under saddle, jogging, galloping and breezing. Always she would feel the weight of a rider on her back, his hands on her mouth. She would know no other life for a long, long time to come.

Henry’s hand moved against the filly’s head, shifting her balance so she was always in motion and couldn’t collect herself to rear or paw. He had led her about inside the barn many times during the past few days. She tried fewer tricks now than she had at first. Still he had to be very careful, never giving her a chance to think of anything but what he wanted her to do. He turned to Alec, standing a short distance from them.

“Did you put Satan in the barn?” he asked.

“Yes,” Alec replied, “and Napoleon is in his paddock, as you wanted.”

“How about the Black?”

“He’s in his field,” Alec said. “It’s a nice morning and I only put him out there a short while ago. He needs the exercise.”

“I guess it’ll be all right. He’s probably at the far end of the field, isn’t he?”

Alec nodded, but his eyes were on the filly. Henry had stopped moving her in those small circles. Alec waited to see what she’d do. Sure enough, her foreleg came up and she pawed the air. Henry brought the end of the lead shank smartly against her leg.

“Mind!” he said firmly. “Stand still.”

Alec knew that she had not struck out viciously. She had done it more in play. But it would not have been much fun for anyone to have been on the receiving end of such a blow.

Henry was moving her again. “One good lick at exactly the right moment is worth a dozen taps poorly timed and placed,” he said. “She’ll learn.”

They started up the road, the filly walking between them. Alec put a hand on her neck, rubbing it gently. She had a mind of her own, but she’d come around, all right.

After she had worked off some of her excess energy by running around the paddock, he would ride her for the first time. He wouldn’t have any trouble. He could stick with any kind of a rough colt, so he wasn’t worrying about that. And the moment he sat in the saddle he would know a lot more about her than he did now—perhaps even more than Henry. He wanted to be
pleased and happy with what he found. He wanted Black Minx to be the filly Henry thought she was.

Before Henry turned the filly loose in the paddock, he had Alec go up to the far end to flag her down if she built up too much speed. Leaning against the fence, Alec waited. He saw her go over to look at Napoleon in the next paddock. The old gelding pricked his ears, then drew back, a little startled, as Black Minx bolted up the field, kicking out her hind legs.

Alec watched her closely as she neared him and then cut across the paddock. She had gone smoothly into her gallop, so much like the Black and so unlike Satan, whose first movements were heavy and ponderous. Alec liked what he saw, and his gaze shifted to Henry at the other end of the paddock. He knew Henry was enjoying the filly’s action, too.

Black Minx stopped suddenly to rear high and paw the air. When she came down, she was off again with lightning swiftness. Alec knew then she’d never be left at the post, not with such getaway speed. But would she be able to maintain her speed over a distance? Some horses were built for sprints, some for distances. Her smallness made him think she might be a speed horse, a sprinter. But Henry maintained she would be able to go a classic distance, the full mile and a quarter at which the Kentucky Derby was run.
Well, why shouldn’t she be able to go the distance?
Alec asked himself.
Wasn’t her sire the greatest distance runner of them all?

Again the filly came up to Alec’s end of the paddock. But this time she brought herself to an abrupt stop a short way from him. She reared, pawing the air, and whinnied shrilly. She even took a few steps on her
hind legs, walking with the perfect balance and grace of a ballet dancer.

Alec didn’t move. It was a pretty trick to see, but just now it had no place in her training as a racehorse.

“None of that, girl,” he called to Black Minx.

Finally she came down and stood still, as though waiting for him to make a move, to run, so she could chase him. But he remained still and, after a few minutes, she snorted and bolted away. After going a short distance, she stopped, whirled and came back to stand before him again. Her eyes were bright in her eagerness to play.

Alec watched the filly closely, knowing that she was more apt to try her tricks with him than with Henry. He was more the age and size of the Chandler kids, who had played with her so long. But he would have none of it. He would do nothing to hinder Henry’s work in making her the racehorse he wanted her to be.

Black Minx’s large eyes never left Alec. She moved a step nearer to extend her head toward him, her muzzle quivering excitedly. Alec waited, talking to her in a low voice but never moving. His hands remained at his sides. He did nothing to encourage her to come closer, to search his pockets, to nip, to play.

Suddenly she snorted again, tossing her head up and down with mane and forelock flying. Alec still didn’t move, and finally she turned away from him, holding her head and docked tail high. Her manner was one of disdain and disappointment.

Her name suited her well, for certainly she was a little minx, Alec decided. Minx meant a pert girl, one
inclined to be forward, impudent, even intentionally mischievous. Well, that was this filly all over!

He saw Henry move toward her as she stood by the fence, watching Napoleon. Apparently the old trainer thought it was time to take control again. She had stretched her legs and worked off the edge of her abundant energy. Alec knew that Henry hadn’t enjoyed watching her tricks, her playfulness. From now on she wouldn’t get a chance to frolic alone. From now on she would leave the barn only under saddle.

Alec waited until Henry had skillfully maneuvered the filly into the corner of the paddock. When the trainer had her by the halter, Alec started down.

More than ever he was anxious to ride her. He had liked her easy way of going about the paddock. But only when they had her on the track would they be able to learn what kind of racehorse she would be. Her mischief and bad manners could be corrected. More important were her speed over a distance, a will to win and gameness. All three were necessary if she was to become a champion. Within a few minutes they’d start up the long road that would give them their answers during the months to come.

Henry was waving to Alec, urging him to quicken his steps. He broke into a trot, but continued thinking of the filly.