The Black Stallion's Courage (11 page)

He went on and began whistling in the cool morning air. He wasn't fooling anyone.

“That's Alec Ramsay,” he heard one stableboy say to another while they were walking hot horses clothed in bright coolers. “He and the Black are going today. The third race, I think it is.”

He passed between the long rows of barns and thought how big and neat and somehow formidable Belmont was. High wrought-iron fences and well-guarded gates separated it from the rest of the world.

Perhaps, he decided, it was all this elegance and bigness that caused Belmont Park to put itself above such matters as exploiting the Black's appearance in the day's feature handicap. Other than a single publicity release to the press announcing the names of the ten horses going to the post in the Speed Handicap,
nothing had been done. Belmont Park's treatment of the Black's return to the races was certainly devoid of any sensationalism.

“That's the way it should be,” Alec recalled telling Henry.

“Maybe so,” Henry had answered. “But I would have liked to hear the clash of cymbals, and you can bet we'd have heard 'em at any other track where he might have raced, especially on the West Coast. It would have been a production there, a real Hollywoodtype job! Still,” he added resignedly, “I guess this is what makes Belmont what it is. Maybe that's why it's home.”

Alec pushed through the crowd in the busy track kitchen. He ordered bacon and eggs, aware that many eyes were on him and wishing now that he hadn't come at all.

“I'm like a kid riding his first race,” he thought. “And for the life of me I can't stop myself. Just thinking about going to the post with the Black again has me all on edge, worse than ever before.”

A few minutes later he left the kitchen without finishing his breakfast.

That afternoon he arrived late in the jockeys' room. Those who were riding the first race had already dressed and gone. He went to his locker and sat down on the bench.

“Well, 'tis a worried face you're wearin', Alec,” a familiar voice said.

“Hello, Mike,” Alec answered, looking up. The man's twinkling black eyes made him smile too. “I'm not really worried. That's just my usual face.”

“Begone with ye.” Michael Costello chuckled. “ 'Tis the other I know better.”

The jockeys who had been listening laughed and one of them, mimicking an Irish brogue, shouted with mock excitement in his voice, “Alec's a nervous
mon
today, Mike. He's a-ridin' the Black!”

“Hold your tongue!” The wiry old man's command had an immediate effect, for the others became quiet and returned to their lockers. Then he winked at Alec and said, “ 'Tis ridin' ye like an apprentice they are today.”

“That's what I feel like, Mike,” Alec confessed.

“Faith, you'll not be around us long on the likes of him!”

Alec smiled. “I didn't know you were riding the third race,” he said.

“ 'Tis the truth ye speak. A plodder named Earl of Sykes, who has no more right to be in the race than he has to such a title. Now if 'twere Casey I was a-ridin' you'd never get free from us.”

“When's Casey going?” Alec asked.

“Monday's Suburban.”

The man began undressing at his locker and Alec noticed that, unlike Henry, Michael Costello had no trouble keeping his weight down. He was as thin as an iron rail and just as hard.

“What weight are you making today, Mike?” Alec asked.

“One hundred and ten,” the man answered. “ 'Tis twenty pounds ye're givin' us. That by me personal rule-of-thumb method makes you ridin' the better horse by five lengths.”

Alec smiled. “A pound a neck, you mean?”

The man turned his round, wrinkled face to Alec. “ 'Tis a long neck, me boy, as I figger it. A quarter of a length for each pound or four pounds for the length of his whole body. Ye won't find a better yardstick than that up to a mile and an eighth.”

“Then the twenty extra pounds we're carrying should bring us down to the wire together,” Alec said lightly, “so don't be sad.”

“ 'Tis what the track handicapper thinks, not I,” Michael Costello corrected, turning back to his locker. “ 'Tis the truth I speak when I say the Black is more than five lengths better than the best of us. But who am I to put meself above the good, hard-workin' mon in the office who's doin' his best to equalize the field?”

Some of the jockeys left the room for the second race and Alec said no more. He wouldn't have much longer to wait. By now Henry and Napoleon must be taking the Black to the paddock.

Alec finished dressing and once more turned to Michael Costello. He watched the man pull on his skin-tight white nylon pants. Still hanging in the locker were the rich blue-and-gold silks of the famous Milkyway Stable, owner of Casey as well as Earl of Sykes. Alec knew that such a large and popular stable wouldn't be represented in the Speed Handicap unless it felt it had a good chance of winning, regardless of Mike's criticism of his
plodding
mount.

For a moment Alec watched the little man who had made the waiting period in the jockey room a lot easier than it might have been. He was anxious, too, to ride
against Michael Costello after all he'd been told about him.

“There never was a headier rider than Mike,” Henry had said, “but few people except trainers were ever actually aware of it. Mike never did anything during a race that labeled him as a spectacular rider. Instead, he made his moves so quietly and without fanfare that he'd suddenly appear in front and people in the stands would wonder how they'd missed seein' him get up there! So would the other jocks.

“And another thing,” Henry went on. “Mike never did anything mean. He was clean and fair to those ridin' against him, and he followed orders better than any rider I've ever known. He never tried to prove that he was smarter than the trainer who'd given him a fit horse to ride. All in all Mike was a well-liked guy by everybody—owners, trainers and jockeys. I'm sure he still is. But if he ever races against you, be on your toes or you'll find yourself out on a limb and wonderin' how you ever got there! Just remember he's got a bag of tricks that's taken a lifetime to learn. He's in good physical shape, too, so in many ways he's more dangerous now than ever before. I wish I could be ridin' against him. It's no easy job.”

Alec turned back to his locker. “I'll be on my toes,” he said aloud, without thinking.

“What's that ye say?” the wiry man asked.

“Nothing,” Alec answered, standing up to retuck his black silks into the top of his pants. Then he took his goggles and fitted them over his white cap before putting it on his head. “Just talking to myself,” he explained.

Michael Costello shrugged his narrow shoulders. But his twinkling black eyes belied his apparent disinterest in either Alec Ramsay or the race to come.

Alec closed his locker and followed most of the other jockeys in the third race out of the room. He knew Michael Costello wouldn't be far behind him.

One pound was one neck
.

Thirty minutes before post time Alec walked into the scale room to join the line of jockeys who were weighing out for the third race. There were eight riders ahead of him, which meant that only Michael Costello was missing. Soon he, too, came into the room and stood behind Alec.

The line of riders moved faster toward the official scale. A valet named Victor Hasluck was waiting for Alec. He and the other jockey valets were supplied by the track, for a fee of two dollars each, to assist the riders with their tack. Victor held Henry's battle-scarred saddle in his arms.

Alec stepped forward, taking his tack from Victor. Beneath the old saddle was the special pad whose empty pockets would now be filled with heavy strips of lead.

“Ramsay,” the valet told the Clerk of the Scales. “Number three.”

Alec stepped onto the scale. From his original
weight of 110 pounds the arrow ascended as the lead was added to the saddle pad. Finally the arrow came to a stop.

“Thirty,” the clerk said. “Ramsay. Number three. One hundred and thirty. Check.”

Alec stepped off the scale, handing his tack back to Victor. As he went to the number rack to pick up his 3 he heard the only other valet left in the room say, “Costello. Number four.”

Alec put his number high on his arm and then looked around at the scale. He noted the martingale that Mike was holding. It too must be weighed as a part of Earl of Sykes's “clothing.”

Alec went on to the door while the clerk said, “Ten. Costello. Number four. One hundred and ten.”

Twenty pounds of “dead” weight is the difference between us
, Alec thought.
But it will take more than that to beat the Black!

Michael Costello caught up to Alec just outside the room.

“Is it ridin' in Henry's old saddle ye are?” he asked, his black eyes looking hard at the boy.

Alec nodded but didn't stop, for he was anxious to reach the paddock. In his haste he left the man behind.

“I am a-promisin',” Mike called after him, “that with such a saddle yer good fortune will come with mine.”

A strange friend, Alec decided. But he must remember what Henry had said. “
Watch him. Be on your toes every second.
”

Alec stepped out of the building and then stopped. Coming up the tree-lined lane which led from the stable
area to the paddock was the Black accompanied by Henry astride Napoleon. Henry was wearing his new broad-brimmed hat but he might as well have had on his battered old one for all the attention he was getting. Everybody along the lane was looking at the Black. As the stallion approached the saddling shed a roar of applause came from the heavily banked crowd on the other side of the paddock's iron fence.

Mike stood behind Alec and said, “ 'Tis a lot of horse ye have there but he's scarin' nobody or ye wouldn't be up against such a large field.”

It was quiet within the confines of the paddock compared to the noise on the other side of the fence. Alec passed the open stalls until he had reached the Black. There were people gathered around the stall whom he didn't know, but he recognized them as track officials and owners and friends of friends. They were standing as close to the stall as possible, their voices low, almost in whispers, while they talked to one another and to Henry. They had eyes only for the tall black stallion.

Alec took the tack from Victor, who was standing nearby, and went into the stall. “Hello, Black,” Alec said softly, his hands finding his horse. Now everything was going to be all right, very much all right. His nervousness never lasted long once the tack went on.

Henry took the leaded saddle pad from Alec. “It's not light but it won't stop him today. Nothing will, not in this field.”

Alec nodded toward the adjacent stall. “How about Mike's horse?”

“No. But watch Mike for tricks. He's clean but
tough. He won't give you an inch.” Turning to the people outside the stall, Henry asked them to move farther back. Then he turned back to Alec, grunting, “It's a small army we have here.”

Alec watched only the Black. The stallion's coat had already broken out with little spots of perspiration and there was lather between his hind legs. Also, he'd started digging in the dirt with his right foreleg. Alec talked to him quietly while Henry put on the white saddle cloth with the large black 3.

“Don't let Mike high-ball it out of the gate and then gradually sneak back, makin' you think he's settin' a blistering race when he isn't,” the trainer warned. “That's an old trick of his, an' he'll use anything to stay in front. Remember this is only seven furlongs. Don't take hold of the Black enough to make him shake his head. Get out in front and keep goin'. He's ready for this race, more ready than the handicapper thinks he is or he'd be carryin' a lot more weight. That's just between you and me,” he added hastily.

Alec nodded in complete agreement. The Black was ready to go. No doubt about it. The flesh was drawn smooth and tight over his whole body and the muscles stood out hard and clean and strong. His long legs were unblemished. Most important of all was the look in his eyes. Excitement was there, of course, but eagerness as well—an eagerness to get on with this business; he was tired of waiting.

Alec stroked the Black while Henry finished saddling. A bell sounded and the first horse left his stall for the walking ring a short distance from the saddling
shed. Behind him came his entourage—his jockey, trainer and owner.

Alec turned to Michael Costello's mount, who was leaving his stall. A dark bay and not a very pretty horse. But racing machines didn't need to be pretty to be fast and this was such a horse. Alec couldn't find fault with his conformation and he had to admit he'd never seen more perfect shoulders.

“Are you sure about him?” he asked Henry, nodding toward Earl of Sykes. “He looks awfully good to me.”

“He won't bother you,” Henry answered brusquely. “If you're goin' to worry, worry about the Black. Make sure you keep him in line. A lot of people don't think you can. Come on.”

Alec led the stallion from his stall. He wasn't worrying about controlling the Black or anything else. The waiting had ended and so had his nervousness. “Let's get to it,” he told Henry impatiently.

There were people on either side of the path that led to the walking ring and Alec heard them repeat over and over again, “That's the Black. That's him. Right there. You can reach out and touch him!”

To keep everything under control, Henry had once more mounted Napoleon and was using the old gelding's big body to keep away people as well as other horses. No one got very close with Napoleon's well-trained hindquarters moving as they did.

Alec stepped lightly on the tanbark of the walking ring. It was more crowded there, for every runner had his little group of well-wishers. They stood in the shade
of old maple trees while jockeys received last-minute instructions. Outside the confines of the ring the spectators pushed hard against one another and called to horses and trainers and jockeys alike. But it was the Black they watched most of all and they wondered if he would provide a race worthy of the loud ovation they'd given him. Within a few minutes they would know. Already the Black was looking over their heads in the direction of the great stands.