The Black entered the backstretch and Alec kept him near the outside rail, leaving room for the working horses racing past. The Black snorted as they passed. He would have enjoyed going after them, Alec knew, but he obeyed his rider. He knew he was there only to gallop.
Alec leaned forward and pressed his cheek against the stallion’s neck. His horse was truly beautiful but what Alec appreciated even more was his great courage, never so manifest as when the breaks went against him in a race. It was then that the Black showed his true greatness.
There would be races they might lose, Alec knew. It all depended on the conditions of the races themselves and the conditions of the horses. And, like human beings, horses had their good days and their bad days.
Alec rode the Black around the far turn and went toward the grandstand where Henry awaited them. He wondered how he and Henry would feel if Steve Duncan’s horse did beat them. He didn’t think it possible unless the Black was really out of sorts on race day, but if it happened, at least it would have been in a good cause. The thought of Steve Duncan’s need for money to buy his island made Alec smile. No one else at Hialeah Park needed purse money for such a purpose … of that he was certain!
Breaking into the horse racing business took courage even for those who had been closely associated with it for a long time. To try to make large sums of money at it without any previous experience was reckless and foolhardy.
Alec tightened rein, slowing down the Black to a jog as he approached Henry and the group of men sitting in a box opposite the finish line.
One of the clockers nudged Henry and said, “You got nothing to worry about this year, old man. He looks and acts better than he ever did.”
Henry grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “If you say so, Charley. I’d like to think you’re right.”
Another clocker laughed and said, “What’s goin’ to stop him in his million dollar parade? The big purse races coming up are his for the asking.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Henry answered.
“Well, I would,” the other shot back. “He’s the acknowledged champion and nothing here can touch him. He’s had one race to tighten him. He’ll go on to win at a mile and a quarter and longer.”
“He’s crying to run, no doubt about that,” still another said. “He’s the one horse I’ve seen that lives up to his publicity build-up. His presence here has had an electrifying effect on everybody.”
“Especially Hialeah’s press department,” the clocker named Charley said, grinning. “Strangely enough they have a tender passion for gate receipts. I guess he’s the most publicized horse of our time.” He turned to Henry. “You’ve started working him pretty hard, Henry. How come?”
“He’s ready for all the steady work I can give him,” the old trainer said.
“Aren’t you afraid he might leave his race on the training track?”
“I don’t care how fast he goes, now that he’s ready to go.”
“Alec will have trouble holding him this morning. He’s full of beans.”
“He might at that,” Henry agreed, watching his horse.
“The press department’s been beating the drums about the galaxy of stars he’ll have to beat in the Hialeah Turf Cup,” another said. “But the truth is there’s none to equal him … the ‘Big One,’ as they say. He towers over all the others like the Colossus of Rhodes.”
“Certainly there’s nothing at Hialeah that comes close to him,” another agreed.
“You all may be talkin’ too early,” Henry said uncomfortably, worried by the outspoken optimism of his friends. “He ran a great race the other day but he runs best when he’s fresh. He might not do so well the next time out.”
A reporter smiled and said, “You know as well as we do, Henry, that your horse is only now coming up to his best form. His race the other day spoke for itself. He burst out between those other horses as if they weren’t in the race at all. After the race I spoke to Alec and he confirmed what I’d seen for myself. He could have placed the Black anywhere on the track and then sent him to the front any time he chose. Since Alec can rate the Black, when the horse wants to win so badly, it’s good enough for me. Sam’s right. Nothing here is going to beat him.”
“Alec can think faster than most other jockeys can ride,” a clocker said. “He knows when to make the right move at the right time. That’s what wins most races.”
“Talk don’t win races,” Henry said, “that’s for sure.”
“Quit worrying, Henry,” a close friend said, chuckling.
“I got plenty to worry about,” Henry answered. “You should know it as well as I, Cliff. Winning handicap races is no easy job no matter how it might seem on paper. Handicappers try to weight horses so nobody can win and they usually do a good job of it. I don’t like to see a whole lot of weight packed on my horse but I usually get what I deserve. My big worry is that my horse comes back all right. If I get beat, I get beat, that’s all.”
“That’s more than I’ve heard from most trainers,” the reporter said, making a note. “Few trainers think a track handicapper treats them fair.”
“I’m not saying I don’t gripe like other trainers,” Henry explained. “But I feel most of us are inclined to pamper our horses too much these days. The only way to breed and develop good, tough horses able to go a distance and stay is to train them steadily.”
“But I heard you’ve been handling the Black so carefully you’ve been practically spoon-feeding him,” the reporter said.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Henry returned, “but you’re right. I’ve been a little careful with him this season because of his foot. He’s tight now, though, and a rough horse to work around. Alec forks most of the straw in his stall. I stay clear except to grab a sponge once in a while.”
They watched Alec bring the Black to a stop in front of them.
The reporter said, “It must be a little difficult working him alone, Henry. That’s the beauty of having a large stable … being able to try horses against each other, I mean. The competition helps.”
“There’s no doubt that it helps,” Henry said. “But he works well enough alone.” He glanced at the tunnel leading from the paddock to the track, and added, “However, we’re not figuring on working him alone this morning. I promised Alec …”
He didn’t finish for just then he saw Flame emerging from the tunnel and the sight so startled him that he forgot everything else.
When Flame saw the Black through the gap in the track fence he raised his head still higher in order to get a good look at the other stallion.
“In the name of heaven, Henry, who is he?” the reporter asked, following the trainer’s gaze.
Henry didn’t answer. He just looked at the horse he knew had to be Flame.
The red stallion was arrogant and confident, perfectly proportioned, and right now all his senses were keyed to the utmost. He remained alert but he did not challenge the black stallion. He had learned patience long ago. He was cool and steady in the face of danger, a born leader showing no sign of fear.
The reporter said, “Look at the scars. That horse is a mass of cuts and tooth marks.”
The men in the box had all turned to examine the new arrival. They saw a magnificent blood-red horse, motionless now except for the occasional pricking up of his ears and the twitching of his nostrils.
Flame was aware of the words and touches of his rider but he kept his eyes on the other stallion. He was waiting for him to move, to attack. He had full confidence in his own courage and cunning but he was very wary.
“I don’t like the looks of this at all,” a clocker said nervously. “They’re going to fight.”
“Just like a TV movie,” the reporter remarked with feigned humor, but no one smiled.
They had noticed that the Black had not made a move but that he was breathing hard and trembling. Was that due to his gallop, or to his quickened heartbeat and mounting anger? They shifted their gaze to the red stallion again. Was this ra
cetrack to become an arena for two fighting stallions?
Suddenly, the red stallion moved toward the track, where he saw a set of running horses. He reared skyward, wanting to take off in pursuit, but Steve held him back and rode down the track at a slow jog.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” a clocker said.
“Henry, who is he?” the reporter asked again.
“Ask him,” Henry answered, nodding to a track official who was entering their box.
The new arrival found himself the center of attention. “Tell us, Tim, who’s the horse?” Henry’s friend Cliff asked.
“It’s Flame,” the official said, “winner of the Nassau Cup.”
“You’re letting him race here?”
“If he can run the way he looks.”
“You mean if the boy can control him.”
“That’s part of it. He assured me he could. After all, he’s raced him before.”
“Who’s the boy?”
“Steve Duncan.”
“An islander, too?”
“It appears so. Don’t fret, Cliff. I’m just here to see what they can do. Because they’re strangers doesn’t mean they should be thrown out. After all, we’ve had others here less heralded than these two.”
“You’re not kidding,” Cliff said. “The word’s out to all the youngsters in the tropics to take a chance and ride in the U.S. It doesn’t seem to matter if they’re full-fledged jockeys or apprentices.”
“And with good reason,” the official pointed out. “A number of them have been quite successful.”
“Only one out of every hundred makes it,” Cliff answered.
Henry said, “You don’t have to worry about this kid’s riding.” His eyes had never left Steve Duncan and Flame. “And he’s got a running horse.”
“You think so, Henry?” the official asked. “I must report my recommendations to the front office. There are a lot of problems involved in the racing of foreign horses.”
“I know, but permits to race can always be granted,” Henry said. “The Russian horses got them for the Laurel International and they’re not recognized by the International stud books.”
The reporter said, “All that’s necessary is an outstanding racing record.”
“Scientists may have harnessed the atom but horse breeders haven’t as yet harnessed the gene,” another commented. “Fast horses can come from anywhere, even from the outer islands.”
Henry rose from his seat and went to the rail. “Go seven furlongs with him, Alec,” he called, “over the main track. Go handily but don’t sizzle.”
“What about him?” Alec asked, nodding in the direction of Flame.
“Stay clear of him. You wanted them to work together. You decide best how to do it.”
The Black sensed the challenge that was coming and broke into a run the moment Alec turned him away from the outside rail. He cut down the distance between himself and Flame, then tried moving closer. He felt Alec’s hands guiding him away from where he wanted to go. For a few seconds he refused to respond, then relented and continued down the middle of the track. His strides lengthening, his hoofs scarcely seeming to touch the ground, he drew alongside the red stallion.
Flame matched strides with him, his hoofs, too, barely touching the earth. He snorted in anger and attempted to move closer to the other horse. When Steve held him in, Flame continued snorting but took out his anger and frustration in ever-lengthening leaps. His mane and tail streamed in the wind like wind-swept fire.
As he approached the first turn Alec knew that the pace was much faster than Henry had wanted for the Black. He took another wrap in the reins and glanced over at Steve Duncan.
Steve caught his eyes. “Come on, Alec!” he yelled. “I’ll race you to the wire. The last guy in buys dinner.”
Alec shook his head, but the Black took more rein from him going into the turn. He knew by his horse’s unyielding demands that somehow he found racing alongside the red stallion different from anything he had done before and that he felt hostility toward Flame. An awareness of possible danger made Alec uneasy as their speed increased.
They had sped by three furlong poles and Alec tried to slow down the pace but got no response. His horse was determined not to be left behind by Flame, and he would have been had he slackened stride an inch. The Black had his neck stretched out but his ears were still pricked forward, a sign to Alec that he was not yet going all-out.
Racing down the long backstretch, Alec glanced over at Steve Duncan, who was sitting low and forward in his saddle but with his feet withdrawn from the stirrup irons. Only a person used to riding bareback could sit a running horse that way.
The red stallion ran as if he were being eaten up with his own power. He snorted as the Black moved a half-stride ahead, and Alec saw the dangerous glint in his eyes.
Then Flame sprang forward, drawing even with the Black. He was going all-out now. But the Black was going all-out, too! The two horses could not continue at such a speed much longer, Alec knew. He knew too that neither he nor Steve were any longer a part of this race. They were only witnesses to a savage battle that had been going on since the beginning of time. What would have been natural combat between two competing stallions had given way to the strongest instinct of all—flight! They would not stop until they had run themselves into the ground.
The reins cut deeply into Alec’s wrists but he felt no pain.
They rounded the far turn and came down the homestretch. Alec saw Henry standing in the middle of the track waving his hat. It was funny to think that Henry believed he could stop them by waving his hat! They swept past him and under the finish wire, both horses continuing to race around the track until their strides began to falter and their heads began to droop. The rhythm of their hoofs became uneven, then picked up again only to become irregular once more.
At long last, their run was reduced to a gallop, then to a lope and finally to a trot. They came to a stop at the far end of the backstretch, breathing hard, their sides heaving and trembling and with their heads hung low. They had run themselves into the ground, as Alec had feared. Both were beaten.
NEWS AND SYMPATHY
12
The reporter was the first to speak. “We have just shared a spectacular adventure,” he said.
The other men remained silent. Stunned, they watched the two horses on the far side of the track. Then their gazes shifted to Henry, who was picking himself up from the middle of the track where he had fallen.
“In all my years I never saw anything like it,” one onlooker said solemnly.
“I’m not even capable of saying what I saw,” another said. “I even forgot to stop my watch. That ain’t never happened to me before.”
“You’re not alone,” a third said. “None of us caught the fractions.”
“You’re some clockers,” the reporter said half-jokingly, half-seriously. “You’re so overwhelmed by two working horses you forget to push the stems of your watches.”
“You just don’t see horses work like that,” one man said. “It was the way they went at each other!”
The reporter made a penciled note, then asked, “Do you think this … ah, island invader … that’s a good name, I think I’ll use it … worked exceptionally well, or was the Black below his best form this morning?”
One of the clockers said, “He was in his best form, all right. Alec couldn’t hold him.”
“You can’t blame Alec,” another explained. “When the Black wants to run like that, nobody can hold him.”
“Tell Henry that and he won’t believe you. The old man’s worried to death.”
“I don’t blame him. He’s got the Black’s bad foot to worry about.”
The reporter made another note. “A champion and a potential champion went at it hammer and tongs this morning,” he read aloud. He paused to ask the man next to him, “Cliff, does that sound all right to you? I mean, referring to Flame as a potential champion? I’d like to say that knowledgeable horsem
en like yourself are now inclined to take Flame very seriously.”
“No horse could have stayed with the Black the way he did without having quality and class,” Cliff answered solemnly.
The reporter turned back to his notebook. “Then Flame is no fizzle,” he said. “He is no product of Hialeah’s press agentry but the genuine article, having proved it this morning by storming alongside the Black with an irresistible drive that had the champion reeling.”
“You’d better make it that both horses were reeling,” Cliff corrected.
“Flame’s headlong style of running,” the reporter went on, “may change the complexion of the Hialeah Turf Cup this coming Saturday. The swashbuckling island invader is destined …”
Another clocker interrupted. “Bill,” he said, “you’d better just hold onto your story awhile. From the looks of those two horses neither may be running in the Cup race. They both checked and bobbled toward the last.”
“They look all right now,” the reporter said, watching the two horses on their way back. “Sure, they’re blowing, but what do you expect after a workout like that?”
“If you can’t tell by the way they’re moving, take a look at Henry’s face. You can read it there.”
The reporter turned to Henry who was still standing motionless in the middle of the track, his face ashen-white.
“He looks pretty mad,” the reporter said.
“Not mad. Sad,” came the clocker’s reply. “If the Black is sore going back to the barn, Henry will keep him out of the Turf Cup.”
“Nothing is certain until both horses cool out,” another said.
“The Black looks sound enough to me,” the reporter said.
“He looks better than I expected,” another said. “I could have sworn they’d both broken down. They sprawled near the end.”
The Black and Flame neared the gap in the fence. They walked slowly but, it appeared, soundly. There was no fury in their eyes, only an overwhelming tiredness. Their ribs rose and fell with their rapid breathing, their eyes were red-rimmed, and lather covered their coats. No longer were their strides those of lofty, imperial monarchs. Only quiet dignity remained beneath the sweat and dirt. Perhaps the invisible fires still burned. None who watched could be sure.