The Black Stallion's Courage (19 page)

The Clerk of the Scales said, “Ramsay. Number thirteen. One hundred and forty. Check. Next.

“Watts. Number seven. One hundred and twenty. Check.

“Costello. Number three. One hundred and thirty-five. Check. Hurry it up, fellas. We're late now.

“Smith. Number sixteen. One hundred even. Check.”

Alec had his number 13 high on his arm when he saw Billy Watts looking at it. He didn't like what he saw in Billy's eyes so he said quickly, “Think of all the malteds
you'll be drinking after this one. No more scales. Lucky guy.”

The young jockey didn't answer and Alec left for the paddock where Henry and the Black were awaiting him.

Beneath the green-and-white striped roof he saw his horse in the number 13 stall and the crowd that stood nearby. Pushing his way through, he went to the Black. The stallion stopped pawing when Alec ran a hand over his shoulder blades, rubbing him gently. The Black was wet but not too wet, considering the kind of day it was and all the people milling around. There probably wasn't a dry horse in the shed, including Casey.

Henry said, “He's down to bedrock. A little jittery but full of run. The crowd gave 'im a hand when I brought 'im around the track. He was all set to go then. If it hadn't been for Napoleon—”

Alec rubbed the Black's muzzle and felt the breath hot on his hand. “He likes the crowd. I really think he's starting to play up to it,” Alec said.

“I hope not,” Henry growled. “The filly cured me of all that. I jus' want 'im to run like he can, crowd or no crowd.”

The call to the post came and Henry boosted Alec into the saddle.

“Any orders?” Alec asked.

“Just go about your business,” Henry said simply. Mounting Napoleon, he kept close beside the Black while the first few horses filed from the paddock and went up the dirt ramp leading to the track.

Billy Watts rode by, his face unusually white and set.

“What's the matter with him?” Henry asked.

“I offered him a job at the farm and he took it,” Alec answered quietly.

“Oh,” Henry said and nothing more. It wasn't necessary. There was only one reason for a jockey to quit when he could still make the weights and get mounts.

Mike Costello rode by on Casey and the Black snorted as if he knew that there was the horse to beat. Mike raised his whip and waved to them.

Henry nodded back but he told Alec, “Don't go expecting any favors from him like y'did the last time. He might love you like a father but he won't give you an inch of track.”

“He won't need to,” Alec said. “This race is between horses, not jockeys.”

“Yeah,” Henry agreed, “they'll do the running, all right. To hear some people talk you wouldn't know it, though. To them the race is strictly a contest between you and Mike.”

“And fourteen other jocks,” Alec added, smiling.

Henry grunted as the Black swerved hard against Napoleon, almost toppling the gray gelding.

“That was a close one,” the trainer said, regaining his balance with his mount. They pressed their combined weights against the Black while Alec rubbed his horse's shoulder blades, quieting him.

It was their turn to go.

“All seven furlongs calls for is speed,” Henry said, leading the Black up the ramp. “He set the record last time out. Eclipse broke it. Now go out and break it again.”

Alec took a snug hold on the reins as they stepped onto the track. From the clubhouse and the stands to their left came a thunderous ovation. The post parade had begun. People spilled out from beneath the stands where they'd gone to escape the hot sun and rushed to the rails.

“Are you still crying about the weights, Henry?” someone shouted to the trainer. “Whatya think about giving the
great
Casey five whole pounds?”

Henry called back, “They should be reversed. Casey oughta be givin' us five pounds!”

Alec loosened his hold slightly and the Black stepped ahead of Napoleon. But the stallion didn't pull away and Alec had no trouble keeping him to a walk while the long line of sixteen horses passed the stands. They turned around at the middle of the homestretch and came down again. This time they rounded the first turn at a lope and went toward the chute adjoining the backstretch where the race would begin.

Alec didn't watch the others. There were too many of them, both riders and horses. There was no strategy to be planned and executed in such a large field at so short a distance. As Henry had said, seven-eighths of a mile was no more than a long sprint, calling for sheer speed and little courage and stamina. Yet the purse was high. There were few richer sprints. That's why there was a field of this size.
Anything could happen
in such a race and the money was not going begging.

Henry had told him to go about his business, Alec recalled, and that's all he could do. Get out in front as soon as possible and stay there. No holding back today. Nothing but speed.

Alec continued rubbing the Black to quiet him. Henry kept them on the far outside of the banked turn, not wanting to look for trouble. Far up the line Casey was cantering.

“The great Casey,” the man back on the rail had called him, and he was surely a good-looking horse today. His coat was as wet as the Black's and shone golden in the sun, while his muscles slid gracefully beneath tightly drawn skin. He was turned out beautifully and there was no doubt that he was fit. He'd won five big races so far this season, all of them under high weight, and all in record time. Actually, Casey seemed to be getting stronger as the season's campaign wore on. This was the first race in which he wasn't carrying top weight.

Alec turned away from Casey and looked across at Aqueduct's infield, which had the greenest grass he'd ever seen. Unlike Belmont Park there was nothing planted here to obstruct the crowd's view of the racing strip itself. Only a small lake and a few low and well-kept hedges dotted the grassy plot. The far stands were painted green. All in all everything looked cool, affording some relief on this very hot day.

The horses turned up the chute at the head of the back-stretch and went to the seven-furlong pole where the starting gate awaited them. As Henry and Alec went behind it Henry said, “Well, here's where I get off.” He glanced at Alec and then at the number 13 on his arm. “It's a good thing we're not superstitious,” he added.

“Jet Pilot won the Kentucky Derby from the thirteenth box,” Alec reminded him.

“Your memory is better than mine,” Henry said.
“Luck to you, Alec.” He stayed there as if reluctant to leave until an assistant starter waved him off. It was the longest time Alec had known Henry to remain behind the gate and he wondered about it.

Most of the other horses were already in their stalls, and now one of the starter's crew was running toward the Black. Everything was being done in a hurry even though the official starter, high on his platform just off the track, had called, “Take it easy now, all of you. No hurry now. No hurry at all.”

Who was he trying to kid?
Alec wondered.

Alec waved the crewman back when the Black struck out in his mounting excitement. “I'll take him in,” he called. “Go ahead.” His voice sounded as shrill as everybody else's.

“Okay,” the crewman yelled back, reaching for the next horse's bridle instead of the Black's.

The assistant starters had the front and back cage doors of all the stalls shut with the exception of the last four. Then stalls 14, 15 and 16 were closed, leaving only the Black outside the gate.

“Ramsay,” the official starter called through his amplifier, “get your horse in but don't rush him. We don't want any trouble. We got plenty of time. Just watch him. Be careful. I know him.”

Alec was well aware that at the slightest touch of a button the starter could cut the electric current from the magnets holding the doors shut. It would happen the very second he got the Black inside his stall. The starter wouldn't wait.

“Easy, fellow, easy,” Alec said softly, taking his horse forward. He wondered if it was his heart or the
Black's that was making all the noise. He had his horse's forequarters inside the stall.

Alec caught a glimpse of Billy Watts's face in the number 7 stall as Gunfire rose high and then came down hard against the padded sides.

“No chance! No chance, sir!” Billy shouted at the top of his lungs.

Suddenly almost all the jockeys were yelling. Only Michael Costello was quiet, sitting on his tall, slick-muscled Casey. Far across the infield the crowd impatiently awaited the start of the Carter Handicap. Alec moved the Black all the way into his stall.

Then the big bell rang and the doors flew open! Sixteen horses burst from their boxes and overflowed the track, their glistening bodies jamming against one another while their riders screamed for racing room!

The Black broke from the wrong lead and took his first stride in the air as Alec brought him down. When he was straightened out again and running, Alec saw that the inside horses were in the shape of a flying wedge with the light-weighted number 6 horse in the lead and trying to “steal” the race from the very beginning. The horse had a good two lengths' start on those nearest to him and was increasing it with the sure, swift strides of a top sprinter. Only ninety-five pounds were on his back, and Alec wondered if the Black, carrying forty-five pounds more, could possibly catch him after so poor a start.

On the far outside of the track was another horse who had broken fast and now was being eased across the Black's path toward the flying wedge with its fast-sprinting leader. Alec noted that it was the number 16
horse, ridden by Smith and carrying just one hundred pounds.

Alec made no attempt to move any closer to the rail. He didn't want to save ground. All he wanted for the Black was plenty of racing room, and he had it there in the middle of the track with most of the backstretch still before them. It was a long run to the far turn, longer than at Belmont or any other track in the New York area, for Aqueduct's turns were short and sharp.

He waited patiently for the Black to settle into full racing stride but his eyes were anxious while he watched the jamming, yelling pack to his left. All fury had broken loose there and only the Black and the two light-weighted pace setters were clear of it. Where was Casey anyway?

Glancing back, Alec saw that Casey was caught in the back of the wedge with Mike Costello trying desperately to take him out of it. Alec clucked to his horse. By the time Casey got clear of that traffic jam he'd have the Black well up with the front runners and neither Casey nor any other horse was going to catch him from behind.

The Black's strides were coming longer and faster, and the sprinting light-weights ahead stopped pulling away. Soon they'd be dropping back to him, very soon now. Alec knew he'd have them by the time they swept into the sharp, high-banked turn. The Black must have known it too, for his ears suddenly pitched forward and stayed there while the ground gave way between him and the leaders. He was moving into full flight and going up!

“Here we come!” shouted Alec. He brought his left
hand down upon the Black's extended neck, easing him across the track. They were about to fly into the sharp turn and he didn't want their speed to carry them to the outer rim. As he reached the crown of the track he noticed that the two front-running leaders were going a bit wide as they swung into the sharp turn. The opening they'd left on the rail was very small but for a fleeting second Alec considered taking the Black through it.

There was a horse racing just to his left and Alec decided against making for the hole. It was too risky and he was in a good enough position now to pass the leaders when they came off the turn into the homestretch. The Black should win this race with ease, he thought, for unlike Casey they'd run into no trouble,
thanks to their outside post position
.

He sat still on his horse, taking up rein while rounding the turn. Behind him he could hear the pounding of the jammed field and the wordless yelling of the jockeys. He was very happy to be in front and well out of such a melee.

To his left raced the horse which had managed to escape the wedge as they'd gone into the turn. Alec glanced at him for the first time and saw that it was
Gunfire
! He couldn't see Billy Watts's face, for the boy was riding low on the opposite side and whipping his mount!

Alec wondered why Billy hadn't waited for the long stretch run before making his bid for the lead. Then he saw Gunfire's head pointed for the slight opening on the rail and knew that Billy had decided to try to slip through!

Out of the corner of his eye Alec watched Gunfire
charge for the hole. If Billy was successful in squeezing him through, he'd be the one to beat. If not, he'd be in a bucketful of trouble with no place to go.

Billy Watts had no time to stop Gunfire's move when the leaders, coming off the sharp turn, suddenly swept back to the rail. No longer was there an opening! Billy snatched at the reins and stood in his stirrups, his face deathly white. For a second there was danger that Gunfire would go down but he managed to stay erect and keep going.

Racing alongside, Alec saw Billy's saddle suddenly slip from beneath him! He realized that the leathers had broken under the strain of slowing the gelding. Now Gunfire was in full racing stride again and Billy was half off, his feet tangled in the loose stirrup irons! To their rear pounded the tons of steel-shod hoofs that Billy Watts had been going to leave behind forever after today.

Alec pulled the Black over to the free-running gelding and grabbed Billy's shoulders, holding him until the jockey had righted himself. Even then he couldn't take away his support, for the saddle had slipped underneath Gunfire and the stirrups were dangling dangerously close to his legs. If they tripped him, he'd go down and Billy's only chance of escape would be to hang on to Alec—if the Black didn't go down too.