“She’s not home yet,” Henry cautioned.
First Command moved up again, regaining the inches lost to the filly. As soon as she saw him alongside she dug in still more. Manizales was now whipping with his left hand and the other jockey with his right, so that the two horses were hide-scraping as they came off the turn and began their furious contest down the stretch.
Alec watched the filly lose the lead to First Command, then regain it again after a few strides. All in all, the lead changed five times before the two horses reached the final quarter pole.
“Manny hasn’t put his whip away since the race started,” Alec said.
“He’s laying on the leather, all right,” Henry agreed. “I counted six belts just coming around the turn.”
Through the glasses Alec watched every move of the two horses as they splashed toward the finish line, their riders’ silks as black as the rain clouds piled up overhead. For a second his gaze shifted to the jam-packed field directly behind the leaders.
Moonshot and Novice were tucked in along the rail and not out of the race yet. Their riders were rating them lightly and seemed to be waiting for the two leaders to tire.
Approaching the eighth pole, with the finish wire only two hundred and twenty yards away, the chestnut filly faltered and seemed to stumble in the slop. Manizales picked her up quickly with the loss of only a few inches to First Command. Once again he urged her on and she fought back bitterly to regain the lead.
“She’s tiring,” Alec said.
“Watch Moonshot,” Henry said. “His jock is thinking of taking him out and around the filly.”
“At a time like this,” Alec said, “you don’t think. You just ride.”
The filly slipped and Alec saw her slide again in the mud. But Manizales didn’t touch her with his whip. First Command surged to the front, followed closely by Moonshot, who was coming out and around the filly. There was now only a sixteenth of a mile to go. Alec knew Moonshot had little chance of catching First Command, who was driving harder than ever and drawing away.
At the same time, the game chestnut filly still wasn’t out of the race. Moonshot had ranged up boldly alongside her but couldn’t draw clear. She refused to give way.
But her legs could not match her game spirit, for suddenly her strides faltered again. Gallantly, but with mounting fright, she sought to take hold in the deep slop. She slipped, ducked out and collided with Moonshot. Then, bouncing back, she lost her balance and with sickening swiftness went down in a sprawling heap.
“Bitter Sweet is down!” came the cry from the stands.
Alec felt a tautness in his stomach muscles that he recognized only too well—a sensation of surprise, concern, doubt, and yet cold-blooded expectancy.
Horses fall and jockeys are thrown on the racetrack. It’s part of the game. It’s a chance every rider takes, every day, under conditions far better than these.
Even as the cry arose from the stands, Alec saw Novice, who was racing directly behind the filly, plow into her and go down, too, throwing his rider clear. He tumbled through the murk, sliding beyond the two prostrate horses, and came to a slithering stop near the rail. Quickly, he put his hands around the back of his neck as if to protect himself from the horses that might run over him. Near him was Manizales—a crumpled form on the track, his face deep in the mud.
The plunging field behind veered sharply to avoid the two horses and their riders, some barely clearing the prone bodies. It was a chilling thing to see, and the attention of the now silent crowd remained on the two stricken horses and men rather than on the finish of the race.
In a minute or two the sprawled figures began to move. Moonshot climbed to his feet unsteadily; his rider raised himself to an elbow, then quickly slithered under the rail and got to his feet.
“Those two are all right,” Henry said.
The crowd waited for some movement of Manizales’ scarlet headpiece to give an indication that the jockey was conscious. Track officials had reached him now and were bending over the pitifully small figure. The filly was trying to get to her feet and some of the gate crewmen were at her head.
“I think Manny is conscious,” Alec said, looking through the binoculars. “He’s just being very careful.”
“If it’s his neck or back, he should be,” Henry said. “He’s had enough falls to know.”
The ambulance was now on its way down the track, and Alec said, “Manny has turned his head. He’s talking to them.”
The filly was up and moving. She wasn’t putting much weight on her right foreleg, but that she was using it at all was a good sign. “It’s no compound fracture anyway,” Henry said. “Maybe they can save her.”
The ambulance came to a stop. Moonshot’s jockey walked into it, but Manizales was lifted inside on a stretcher. Only when the track was clear again did the crowd relax. They looked at the infield board. First Command had been the winner of the race.
Alec said, “Let’s go home. I’ve had enough for today.” He felt sick to his stomach.
Henry studied the boy’s face. “We ought to watch a few more, Alec.” He didn’t like the frightened look he thought he saw in Alec’s eyes; one of the best ways to get rid of it was to stick around for a while and watch some races in which there weren’t any accidents.
“At least no horses had to be destroyed on the track,” Henry added quietly. “That’s something. I wouldn’t worry much about Manny, either. He’s had more than a dozen spills since he’s been here, and he always comes up for more.”
“I know,” Alec said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
Henry decided to change the subject and talk about the race itself. “Manny might have brought her on,” he said. “I think she just might have had enough gameness to come on again and win it.”
Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Possibly,” he said.
“Well,” the old trainer said, picking up his program to consider the horses in the second race, “at least it proved once more that to win a race it’s not always enough just to have the best horse.”
Alec nodded and, oddly enough, found himself thinking of Steve Duncan. What Henry had just said reminded him that he himself had used almost those very words when Steve had said the best horse made the best rider. Too bad Steve hadn’t been here to see this race for himself. It might have convinced him to stay home with his horse Flame, and not go out fanning windmills like a young, reckless Don Quixote.
BITTER SWEET
6
The rain stopped during the night but the following morning the wind was blowing stiffly out of the north and the temperature was down in the forties. Henry arrived late again, wearing his borrowed topcoat and still complaining of the “unseasonable” weather.
“At least,” Alec said, “the track will dry out fast with this wind.”
“Nothing could be as bad as yesterday,” Henry grunted. “Never have I seen weather like it.”
Alec nodded. For him there was more than weather to remember from the day before. A filly with great speed and promise might never race again, and Manizales was in the hospital with a fractured jaw, broken teeth, a concussion and a neck injury. Fortunately, none of the others who had gone down during the running of the first race had been seriously injured.
Henry searched Alec’s eyes for any sign of fear. “Did you hear anything new about Manny?” he asked finally.
“Only that they’re having a hard time convincing him that he has to stay in the hospital,” Alec answered. “With all his injuries he still wants to get back to work.”
“Like I said, he’s hungry. He’ll be back riding before you know it.” The trainer paused. “And the filly?”
“She’s out for the rest of the year, anyway. Doc’s operating on her this morning. She has a slight fracture of the right foreleg. Maybe she’ll be able to race again.”
“Maybe,” Henry repeated doubtfully. “She comes equipped with fragile legs. Gets it from her sire Polynesian, just as she does his speed. If it
didn’t happen now, it would’ve later.”
Alec said, “Perhaps so. But you don’t get a series of spills like yesterday’s very often. She might have splashed home in front if she hadn’t collided with Moonshot.”
“She ran a game race, all right,” Henry agreed. “She was blocked and forced to check sharply several times, but she still came on and tried to bore a hole through the leaders. Yeah, she might have won at that.
“Manny made a lot of trouble for himself and her,” Henry went on. “I don’t think he needed to ride such a rudderless course. He could have kept her back going into the far turn, then he would have had more left for the stretch run.”
“That’s hard to say,” Alec argued in the other rider’s behalf. “Sometimes you get a horse into trouble because you don’t know where a traffic tie-up is going to happen. Then when you get in tight quarters and come close to running up on the heels of a horse in front it means you have to check fast. A lot of times your horse won’t run again after being stopped.”
“You don’t get into that kind of a jam if you have enough experience and sense,” Henry said. “You know a jam is coming and you stay clear of it … or if you stay inside you know you got enough horse under you to take you through a hole before it closes. Manny didn’t have that kind of horse under him, so he should’ve stayed back and waited for the stretch to put her in a drive. That’s why I say he asked for what he got.”
“What she got, too?” Alec asked, his eyes troubled.
“She was in Manny’s hands,” Henry muttered. “She was just beginning to learn what it was all about. She had enough speed to get a good position and stay out of trouble. That was enough to have going for Manny, more than most riders can figure on. He let her down.”
“And he almost got killed doing it,” Alec said. “If he hadn’t been wearing a skull cap, he’d never be riding again.”
“I’m sure of that, too,” Henry said quietly. He paused, studied Alec, then added, “That don’t need to scare you none.”
“I’m always scared,” Alec said. “You know me, I never feel confident.”
Alec was smiling, so Henry didn’t know whether or not to take him seriously. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Alec. You settle a horse nice, even a sensitive one like the Black. Everyone knows it.”
“That’s become a kind of fable now,” Alec answered. “You’ve said it so often people are starting to believe you. I make plenty of mistakes and you know it.”
“Maybe so,” Henry answered. “But you mostly always rise to the occasion and that’s what wins races.”
“Horses win races,” Alec said quietly. “You trainers make the horses. If we win, you should get the credit. The riders are made by the horses.”
Henry studied Alec’s face, puzzled by the youth’s attitude. “It’s funny to hear you talkin’ that way, Alec. You’ve seen plenty of horses that wouldn’t put out unless they were forced to turn on speed by their riders. There are plenty of cases where a horse and his trainer would be nothing without the right boy on his back.”
“I’ve heard you say otherwise,” Alec reminded his old friend. “You’ve said often that there really wasn’t much difference in top riders.”
“No, I only said there was less difference now than when I was riding,” Henry said. “A jock could get away with a lot more at the old barrier than in today’s starting gate. We had no film patrol in those days, either. Sometimes, in fact most times, it got pretty rough out there. Take a look at some of the old pictures and you’ll find most jocks riding with sharp spurs and carryin’ big whips which we used plenty any way we could to win a race. Yeah, horses and riders really went through a drilling in those days.”
“We’re not exactly being coddled today,” Alec said quietly, and that ended the subject.
Later in the morning, Alec opened the tackroom trunk and removed a white envelope. Inside were several small wads of cotton, adhered to which were tiny granular bits of dirt and dried blood. This was what Doc Palmer had cut out of the Black’s injured hoof several months ago. It had been the source of all the horse’s trouble; once it was out and the cut healed everything had been fine.
Alec put the wads back in the envelope. He couldn’t have said exactly why he was saving them, except, perhaps, as a reminder to himself and particularly to Henry that everything was in good shape and they could race the Black. As he left the room he ran into Henry. “Come on,” he said. “We ought to watch the operation on Bitter Sweet.”
“Why?” the trainer asked uneasily.
“It’s something we should know about,” Alec said. “Part of our job, like you’re always telling me.”
“I don’t like to watch operations, even on a horse.”
“I didn’t know you were sensitive about them,” Alec said. He tried not to smile. “What about the tough old days you were telling me about, when a horse with a fractured leg was destroyed right on the track? Was that easier to watch?”
“That was different. Some people just don’t like to watch operations. I happen to be one of ’em.”
“It’s not as bad as you make it sound. I think you ought to come along with me. You’re never too old to learn something new. That’s what you’ve always said.”
Henry fidgeted, and there was a strained, uneasy silence between them. Finally, the old man said, “Okay, I’ll go if that’s the way you want it.”
They left Hialeah Park through the Barn Gate, waited for the traffic light to change, then hurriedly crossed the street. Walking beside Alec, Henry straightened his blocklike figure and made a gallant attempt to look unconcerned about the whole thing. He would have preferred turning down Alec’s invitation to witness the operation on Bitter Sweet. It was one thing to know that veterinary surgery had progressed to the point where a horse’s broken bones could be mended, and quite another thing to watch it being done. Still, as Alec had said, whatever he witnessed should be easier to take than watching a horse destroyed on the track.
“Race horses were lots tougher in the old days,” he said suddenly in an attempt to regain his position of authority. “Their legs held up even though they raced much more often. I’ve seen ’em race twice in one day with only a half-hour rest in between. They don’t come like that any more. They’re too coddled.”
Alec smiled, thinking of the tender way in which Henry had been treating the Black during the past few months. He believed, too, that today’s race horses were much improved over the old-time runners Henry was always talking about. They were better trained, faster, and more efficient, just as the sport itself was better. There were automatic starting gates to get the horses away in a line and without delay, film patrols to prevent rough, unscrupulous riding tactics, and safety helmets, to say nothing of modern veterinary surgery, which they were about to witness.
They came to a stop before a one-story concrete block building which was the veterinary hospital. Henry led the way inside but, Alec noted, his face couldn’t have been paler if he’d been going to his own operation.
The outer office was heated and a young woman was the only occupant. She glanced up from her typewriter, smiled at Alec and said, “You’re a little late. They’ve already put her up on the operating table. You’d better hurry.”
“Thanks, Miss Clay. I tried to get here sooner, but …” He paused, glancing at Henry. “This is Henry Dailey,” he added. “Henry, Miss Clay, Dr. Palmer’s secretary.”
“I know,” she said. “The trainer of the Black couldn’t possibly be a stranger to anyone. You’ve got yourself a wonderful horse, Mr. Dailey.” Her pale blue eyes studied the old man.
“He’s made up for a lot of disappointments during my life,” Henry returned quietly. He didn’t like the way she seemed to be sizing him up. She was too composed while he was squirming inwardly. He was certain she knew how he felt about being there.
She smiled, trying to make it easier for him. “Racing is a great game. I meet so many interesting people, each so different in his own way.?
??
“I’m sure you do,” Henry said, following Alec toward another door. He tried to return her smile and to appear as casual as she seemed to be about this business of operating on horses. “Having a great horse like the Black makes me really appreciate racing,” he added. “And believe me, Miss, I’m going to do all I can to keep him out of this place.”
“I hope so,” Miss Clay said quickly. “I do hope you will, Mr. Dailey.”
The next room was a laboratory, at the moment unoccupied, filled with cases of shining instruments. Alec strode through toward a door leading to a room beyond but Henry held back, his eyes on the instrument cases.
“Come on,” Alec said impatiently. “Miss Clay said we’re late already.”
“It must be like operating on a human being,” the old man said uneasily, his face ashen-white. “Maybe we ought not, Alec … I mean, I never did like surgery.”
Henry tried to meet Alec’s gaze and failed miserably. How could he explain to him that he was plain scared? To him surgery meant these gleaming, sharp instruments and an amphitheater tense with the drama of life and death. It meant a hushed, ominous silence and rubber gloves on a surgeon’s skilled hands. It meant a shining scalpel and spurting blood. He was scared because it was all too easy, at his age, to see himself on an operating table.
Alec said quietly, “There’s nothing to be frightened about. You’ve been watching too many TV medic shows.”
“It’s not that,” the old man said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ill at ease. “It’s just that I don’t like the atmosphere,” he added a little defiantly.
“I don’t either, not especially,” Alec said.
“I’m not so sure about that. You’ve been over here before.” Henry tried to grin and almost succeeded. “You know,” he continued, bidding for more time, “you’re something like another rider I once knew. He’d been in and out of hospitals so often with race injuries that he got to liking the atmosphere and he began going there on his days off. He enjoyed watching the surgeons at work. Finally, they let him put on a white robe and he did everything but operate.”