The Black Stallion's Filly (4 page)

“Too high. You shoulda known better, Tom.” He sincerely liked this big, robust man. Flint was wealthy, but unlike most owners he trained his own horses. He didn't hire someone else to do all the work and then sit on the sidelines until it was time to collect the trophies. He was at the track morning after morning, doing the real work, the dirty work. When a good prospect went lame or sour, Flint wept with his swipes and exercise boys. And when he had something, like his Silver Jet this year, he had the satisfaction of knowing he'd done his share of work in developing the colt. No, there weren't many owners left like Tom Flint.

“I couldn't let that yearling brother get away from me, Henry. Not with Silver Jet racing like he is.”

“Most often full brothers let you down,” Henry said quietly. “We expect too much from 'em.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But I'm out to win the Kentucky Derby, Henry. If Silver Jet doesn't win it next May, maybe this colt will do it for me the following year.”

Henry was silent until Flint asked, “How are things at Hopeful Farm?”

“Fine. Just fine.” He wanted Flint to go. The auctioneer was selling the remaining horses fast because of the weather and the few people left in the pavilion. Soon Black Minx would enter the ring. Henry didn't want any competition from Tom Flint.

“It's too bad, Henry, that you didn't buy a farm in this area rather than in New York State. Even with your having stallions like the Black and Satan, an owner of broodmares thinks twice before sending them that distance from here. You should have settled in
Kentucky and made it easy for everybody to get to your stallions.”

“Alec picked out the farm,” Henry said. “They're his horses. We'll make out all right.”

“I never see Alec at the races any more.”

“No, he takes care of things at the farm. He prefers it to the track.”

“Yet how that guy can ride,” Tom Flint said heartily. “I remember the ride he gave the Black years ago in Chicago. Nothing I've seen since has equaled it.”

“I know,” Henry said, his eyes remaining on the auctioneer. A three-year-old colt was being sold. The next one in the ring would be Black Minx and Tom Flint was still here. Henry tried not to betray his nervousness. He pulled his hat down farther over his eyes.

“Well, I guess I'll be going,” Flint said.

Go ahead then! Go!
Henry heard the shifting of Flint's frame in the wicker chair; then the man was on his feet.

“You're sure I can't give you a lift to town? It's nasty out.”

“No, thanks. I'll get a lift later.” He didn't want Flint to know that he was driving the farm's small van, hoping to take home Black Minx. “So long, Tom,” he said.

But Flint didn't go. He remained there beside him. The auctioneer's gavel was ready to fall, ending the sale of the three-year-old colt. It would be only a matter of a few minutes now before the filly would enter the sales ring.

“So long, Henry.” Flint took a step away; then
he stopped again. “This two-year-old filly by the Black …” he began.

Henry didn't lift his eyes. He didn't move. He just waited.

“I saw her first start in Florida last February,” Flint added. “She was pretty bad.”

That was all he said. But Henry realized that Flint hadn't been fooled, that Flint had known all along why he was waiting. Henry looked up then and saw the big man leaving the pavilion; he just wasn't interested in the filly.

Black Minx came into the ring held firmly by the white-coated attendant who handled all horses up for sale. She was coal black and small. She had a quick, competent walk as she was led about the ring, and it was apparent to Henry that her limited size was misleading, for she had more muscle than was noticeable at first glance. Her head was light and beautiful with great breadth between sharp eyes, a slightly dished nose, a narrow muzzle, and sensitive nostrils. Her only disfigurement was a short tail, so short that it was barely more than a stump.

It was not the first Henry had seen of Black Minx. He had visited her in the sales barns behind the pavilion, but his visits had been few. He was afraid that his interest in this black filly would get around. Disclosing only mild interest in her, he'd talked to her groom and others who had been close to her.

“She's erratic and temperamental,” they had said.

That's the Black in her
, he'd decided for himself, for he had liked the filly at first sight.

“She's apt to fly into tantrums at the drop of a hat, either in play or in anger,” Henry had been told. “She bites.”

That's the result of poor handling, poor training. She's been spoiled
.

“She'll never make a racer.”

With her blood she'll run, if I can get it out of her
.

Henry clenched his hands. Let the others remember only her faults. Let the others discard her as Flint had done. He would have a good chance then of taking her home. The money in his pocket burned his leg. Now, as he watched the filly, he wanted her more than ever.

The assistant auctioneer was giving Black Minx's pedigree. “This two-year-old filly is by the Black, folks, and I don't need to remind you that he's the sire of Satan, champion at two, three, and four years of age. And her dam is Elf, an unraced mare because of an early leg injury. Now you all know that this heah filly is the property of Mrs. David Chandler and that her husband, Doctor Chandler, had one of the finest stock farms in this section up until his death two years ago. Mrs. Chandler sold all racing stock at that time except for this heah filly. You won't find a better-looking two-year-old, folks. She's ready to be raced. She might be the one! Don't you think so, Jim?”

“I do, Carl. I most certainly do,” the auctioneer said into the microphone. “And heah we go! Heah we go! Who'll start the bidding off for this real fine filly?” His anxious eyes went quickly over the small number of people remaining in the pavilion. “She might be the three-year-old we'll all heah about next season! Yes,
sireee! Heah we go! Who'll say a thousand dollars for her?”

Henry's eyes stayed on the auctioneer, yet his ears were alert for any bid. If they started at a thousand dollars, he wouldn't stand a chance of getting her. He waited, a little afraid even to breathe. A bid came, but it wasn't the thousand dollars asked.

The auctioneer accepted it. “I got five hundred, five, five. Make it a thousand. I'm asking one, one …”

Henry relaxed a little. The low bid as a starter made it plain to him that the people left weren't going up very high to get this filly. They were afraid of her. Maybe they thought they knew too much about her. Well, he knew all they did and, in addition, he saw something more. He'd use all his money and, if necessary, some of Alec's to get her.

His eyes shifted from the auctioneer to the filly, who pawed often and pulled the attendant about the ring. Not once did Henry look at the other people in the pavilion. But he knew their number was small, and he gave thanks again to the heavy snow.

Within the next ten minutes two more bids were made for Black Minx. But they were raises of only a hundred dollars each time. Henry knew the auctioneer was becoming vexed and impatient with the low and slow bidding.

Suddenly the sing-song chant stopped and the room was quiet until the auctioneer said angrily, “Folks, seven hundred dollars isn't a fair price for this heah filly! You're all wrong, dead wrong. She's worth ten times what you've bid on bloodlines alone, even if
you never race her. She's a good filly, a fine filly. You're all making a mistake heah, a
big
mistake. Now let's open up our wallets. Heah we go!”

But before he could begin his chant, a man sitting almost directly below him said quietly but loudly enough to be heard throughout the pavilion, “Jim, you're wastin' our time as well as yours. Most of us heah know this filly as well as you do since she was foaled and raised only a couple of miles away. And we know there's a lot more to tell about her than what you've been shoutin' at us from up theah. So you'd better just sell her for what you got now and get on with the other horses. I for one want to get home before we're all snowed in.”

The auctioneer was silent for a moment, and his face showed that he was furious at the interruption. “All right, Bill,” he said at last, “if that's the way you want it. But you all listen to me for one more second about this heah filly. Those of us left are mostly homefolks, born and raised right around these parts. We were all good friends of Doc Chandler. We all know what kind of horses he bred. This heah filly is one of them. And I maintain, in spite of what you all think you know, that someone is going to make monkeys out of all you with this heah filly.” He paused. “Now, boys, for the last time do I heah any bids higher than seven hundred dollars?”

Henry pushed back his hat. The time had come for him to get the auctioneer's attention. He nodded and raised one finger and his lips moved to say one thousand. He hoped a boost of three hundred dollars over
the last bid for the filly would discourage anyone else from bidding and would close the sale of Black Minx.

It did just that. The gavel fell on the board as the auctioneer said, “Sold to Henry Dailey for one thousand dollars. In my opinion he just got the best buy of this heah sale.”

Henry slumped in his seat. It had been a hard, nerve-wracking four days. Now to get his filly home to Alec—
his filly!

Alec's alarm sounded at five o'clock, as it did on every morning of the year. Turning it off, he rolled quickly off his back and sat on the side of the bed, his hands supporting his head. Not that he enjoyed rising so quickly at the first burst of the alarm. No, not at all; but he knew it was the only way. To lie in bed, even for a moment, was to fall asleep again, and too many horses were waiting to be fed.

He seemed sleepier than usual this morning, as he looked out the window into the darkness. He would be glad to see the long days of summer again, and awaken once more to the light. It always seemed easier then.

Alec had on his sweatshirt and overalls, and was putting on his boots when he remembered. No wonder he was so sleepy! Henry and the filly had arrived shortly after midnight. He had heard the van and gone to help unload. He had been too drowsy to notice much, and now he was too sleepy to remember anything at all about the new filly. It would take him a little
time. The ammoniated smells of the barns would clear everything up; they always did.

Leaving his room, Alec stumbled down the narrow, winding stairs of the old stone house, and entered the living room with its hand-hewn beams stretched across the ceiling. He passed through a door into the kitchen of the modern one-story addition his family had built. Because his mother and father were asleep in their bedroom at the end of the hall, Alec moved quietly. In the dining room he pushed the thermostat higher. A large picture window was directly opposite him, and during the day he could look out upon the paddocks and pastures. But in this early-morning darkness he couldn't see a thing. He couldn't tell if it was snowing again or not.

Going to a closet, Alec put on his jacket and got a flashlight. Then he went out the door. It wasn't very cold; a breeze swept his face, promising rain rather than snow. The ground was soft beneath his feet and his boots made deep sucking noises in the mud as he walked toward the stallion barn. The snow of a few days ago had completely disappeared. He would turn the horses out later in the morning if it didn't rain. Mud wouldn't hurt them any. But a cold rain falling on their backs at the same time would invite any number of illnesses.

The Black, Satan and Napoleon greeted Alec in unison when he entered the stallion barn and switched on the lights. He stopped to take three great breaths. Sure enough, his head cleared with the smells of the barn, and he felt more wide awake. He threw down a few bales of hay from the loft above. Then he went
down the line, first to Satan, then to Napoleon, and then to the Black in the end stall. As he pitched the hay on the floor for each horse, he thought again of Henry, who had insisted on tearing out the overhead hay racks.

“Feed the hay on the stall floor,” Henry had said. “It's natural for a horse to graze with his head down. That way you keep any dust from gettin' into his eyes and nose. Sure we'll waste some hay. But it'll be worth it.”

Alec freshened the water in each stall trough, and then fed the grain. He had learned so much from Henry. Everything they had here was the result of Henry's guidance and help. Without him Hopeful Farm never would have existed.

Alec stood beside the Black, watching him blow into his feedbox while he ate. “Did you know you have a daughter?” he asked. “She's here. She came last night.” The stallion didn't raise his head from the box; he was much too busy eating.

A moment later Alec left the stallion barn. The broodmares, the weanlings and the new filly were waiting for him. His flashlight bobbed along as he cut across the field to the weanling barn. The filly had been put in the broodmare barn. He'd get to her, along with the mares, after feeding the weanlings.

Alec grinned as he thought of Henry and his filly. Two nights ago, right after Henry had bought her, he'd phoned from Kentucky. He'd sounded like a kid who had bought his first horse. Well, wasn't that just about it? And the next day Henry had started for home, driving steadily for more than twenty-four hours before he
and the filly had arrived last night. He'd been worn out and looked it. His eyes had been terribly bloodshot; his white hair had seemed even whiter. But his enthusiasm for the filly hadn't been dampened by the long, arduous drive from Kentucky. He would have spent hours talking about her if Alec hadn't made him go to bed in his apartment over the broodmare barn.

All Alec could remember about the filly was that she was small and didn't seem to have any tail. But he could be mistaken. Soon he would know everything about her.