Black Stallion and Satan (2 page)

“Now, Satan!” Alec shouted into the wind.

He moved forward and the white rail went by with ever increasing speed. Alec bent low, lost in the colt’s heavy, flowing mane. Nothing could stop Satan now, for he was running free, and there was a savage wildness to his action.

For only a few yards did the gray match Satan’s tremendous strides. Then he fell back before the fresh onslaught of speed and power displayed by the black colt. And as Satan rounded the turn in all his fury and came down the homestretch, the eyes of the crowd were on him alone. He was all power, all beauty as he swept beneath the wire, winner by a dozen lengths and the first undefeated Triple Crown winner in turf history!

High on the roof above the stands, a man kept his camera on Satan until the black colt was brought to a stop far up the track; then, turning to another cameraman, he said, “Never in my life have I seen a horse run like that. Never.”

“I have,” the other returned. “But only once. He was the Black, the sire of this colt. Alec Ramsay was up on him, too. That kid’s life is like something out of a movie,” he concluded, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“You mean you don’t know his story? Where’ve you been?”

“In Peru, shooting Inca ruins for the last five years.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the story?”

“Alec Ramsay and the Black were the lone survivors of a shipwreck, and the kid brought him home. It turned out that Henry Dailey, the old trainer, whom everyone had just about forgotten, was a neighbor of Alec Ramsay. And when Henry saw the Black he knew what the kid had hold of. They kept the Black in what’s no more than a back lot over in Flushing; then they sprung him in that big match race that was arranged for Sun Raider and Cyclone a few years back, and he whipped them both. I saw him do it. It’s the only time he raced, but I’ll never forget him.” The cameraman turned toward the track and Satan. “They could have been one and the same horse today,” he added.

“But what happened to the Black?”

“As I heard it, an Arab chieftain by the name of
Abu Ishak turned up not long after the match race and proved the horse was his. So he took the Black back to Arabia.”

“And that’s the end of the Black?”

“It is, as far as I know.”

“But where does Satan come in? How did Alec Ramsay get hold of him?”

“The story goes that this Abu Ishak promised the kid he’d send him the first foal by the Black. He kept his promise. Satan is that foal.”

“What a break for the kid.”

“Yeah. He and Henry Dailey raised Satan in the same lot where they’d kept the Black. They brought him out in the Hopeful last fall. You know the rest … he hasn’t been beaten yet.”

“From back lot to undefeated Triple Crown champion,” the other cameraman mused as he turned to the winner’s circle, where Alec Ramsay sat on Satan amidst a crowd of photographers. “He’s riding high in the big time now. No more back lots for Alec Ramsay. Lucky kid!”

Alec Ramsay closed the door of the jockeys’ bungalow behind him, muffling the shrill voices which rose above the hiss of showers. Standing on the porch, he looked across the wet and empty courtyard to the hoof-furrowed ground of the paddock’s walking ring. And his gaze stayed there while he slipped his long arms into the sleeves of his raincoat and drew the belt about him. Then he went down the steps into the steady drizzle.

As he walked to the gate in the iron fence, his hatless head was tucked deep within his coat collar, so he did not see the tall, solitary figure that stood in the rain awaiting him.

“Alec,” the man called as the boy stepped outside.

“Dad! I thought you and Mother would be over at the barn with Henry.”

“Mother’s there,” his father said. “She sent me with this.” Casually he lifted an unopened umbrella.

Alec turned from it to the water dripping from the
rim of his father’s hat. “Why aren’t you using it, then?” he said with a smile. “You must have been waiting a long time.”

“Never did like them. Do you want it?”

Alec shook his head. “We can put it up before we get to the barn,” he said.

They walked past the empty stands, and only the litter strewn about gave evidence of the thousands who had occupied the seats an hour ago. The lights gleamed fuzzily in the rain.

“I don’t need to tell you that it was a great race, Alec,” Mr. Ramsay said. “A truly great one. He’s unbeatable.” He put his arm across the boy’s shoulders as he turned to him, smiling.

Alec’s head was down, his eyes on the wet pavement. “Satan never makes a wrong move and will do anything you ask of him,” he said in a low, even voice. “Henry has done a wonderful job training him, Dad. Satan will go for anyone now … anyone who will just sit there and tell him what to do. He’s come a long way since …” Alec stopped without finishing his sentence.

Mr. Ramsay’s face sobered. “You’ve done your part making him what he is today,” he said quickly. “Don’t you forget that, Alec—not for one moment. He was a pretty bad colt before you taught him to have confidence and trust in human beings. Henry’s gone on from where you left off. He’s made a superb racing machine of Satan, but always remember he couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“Sure, Dad,” Alec said. “I’ll remember.”

They had passed the stands, and their eyes now
turned to the long rows of barn sheds a short distance away. They could see the grooms walking their horses under vivid-colored cooling sheets.

“How’d Mother take the race?” Alec asked as they walked down the road.

“Fine. Just fine, except for Satan’s stumble at the break. But she came out of it as well as he did. And when the race was over I heard her telling the people sitting next to us that your hands kept Satan on his feet. She’s getting to be quite a racetracker, Alec,” he added proudly.

As they neared the sheds they saw the crowd gathered in front of Satan’s stall.

“The photographers are still here, I see,” Mr. Ramsay said. “And there’s Mother with …” He stopped and hastily put up the umbrella. “I almost forgot,” he said, winking at Alec.

The photographers left the shelter of the shed’s roof when they saw Alec Ramsay. They took pictures as he came toward them. They had him stop and asked Mr. Ramsay to put his arm around him, to put the umbrella back a bit, to smile. They took more pictures; then someone called Mrs. Ramsay.

She came through the crowd at the insistence of a photographer: a small, plump woman with a very round face. Her eyes were a little bewildered, but she smiled bravely at Alec and slipped over beside him, holding his arm close to her. She faced the camera, but the photographers told her to look at Alec instead.

“You, too, Mr. Ramsay. Look at Alec and smile. Make it real homey. You’re the proud parents. There,
that’s it. Just move the umbrella over a little more, Mr. Ramsay. Cover the missis. She’s getting wet.” And everyone laughed.

Then the photographers took pictures of Alec and Henry together. They were very much alike, these two. They made a good picture, and the photographers knew it. They were the same height. Each carried his weight in his shoulders, chest and arms. Henry was heavier through the waist than Alec and his legs were bowed and not so slender, but they could have been taken for father and son.

“Move closer to Alec, Henry,” a photographer called.

Henry grunted, pulling his soggy hat far down over his wrinkled brow. “You oughta get out of here,” he told Alec. “You’ve had more than enough for one day.”

“Smile as if you were glad to see him,” a photographer yelled to Henry. “And push your hat back so we can get a look at your face.”

Henry pulled his sober face into a grin, but he didn’t touch his hat. “Take your mother and father and get going. I’ll follow in a few minutes. I’ve got my car here.”

Alec turned to Satan’s stall, where he saw the colt being fondled by one of the grooms Henry had hired. Satan had his head raised above the door, and the perfectly shaped white diamond in the center of his forehead stood out prominently against his black face. Looking for a carrot, the colt shoved his muzzle into the groom’s shirt pocket; then more people moved in front of the stall, blocking Alec’s view of Satan.

“Don’t turn your head away from Henry,” someone shouted to him.

“I’d like to be with Satan a few minutes before I go, Henry,” he said.

“Hold it!”

“They’ll follow you in there with him,” Henry replied. “It won’t be no better for you. You’d better go. Satan’s all right. Don’t worry about him.”

Alec’s face clouded. “It’s not that I’m worried about him. It’s just that …”

“Grin, Alec, will you?” the photographers called to him.

Alec grinned and the clicks of shutters followed; then Henry had him by the arm and was taking him up the row to where his father’s car was parked. He saw that his parents were already inside.

He sat in the back seat and was quiet as his father drove out the barn gate and headed for home.

It was a little less than an hour later when they arrived in Flushing. The sky to the west was brightened by the glow of New York City lights, and the tall skyscrapers could be seen pushing their fiery towers into the night.

Mr. Ramsay drove down quiet suburban streets and finally came to a stop before a two-story brown house. “The rain is over,” he said, getting out of the car.

Mrs. Ramsay followed him up the walk to the house. She had reached the porch when she turned to find Alec crossing the street. She was about to call him when her husband took her by the arm.

“He probably wants to go to the barn for a few minutes, Belle. I’d leave him alone.”

“But nothing’s there … just Tony’s old horse.”

“He knows that,” Mr. Ramsay said, moving her across the porch. “He knows it very well.”

When they opened the door, a small dog with shaggy brown hair leaped outside and rose, clinging to their legs with his forepaws. Mr. Ramsay reached down to pull gently on the long ears. “You’d better go with Alec, Sebastian,” he said. “I think he’d like to have you around.”

The dog stood still before the closed door, whimpering and with his head cocked; then he turned and saw Alec. With a short bark he ran down the steps and across the pavement until he came to a sliding stop before the boy.

Alec bent down to him, holding the soft body in his arms, but after a few minutes he straightened and went to the high, iron-barred fence. Opening the gate, he went inside, followed closely by Sebastian.

The graveled driveway led to Henry’s house and one of the few open fields left in a fast-growing area; it stretched before him, coming to an end at an old barn a hundred yards away. Alec walked toward it, his eyes leaving the darkened barn only for the wooden fence to the left of the barn and to the field beyond … the field where the Black—and, later, Satan—had grazed.

Reaching the barn door, he opened it and went inside. Even before he switched on the light there was the soft whinny of a horse. Sebastian’s feet pattered over the wood floor as he made his way toward one of the two box stalls in the small barn.

Blinking his eyes in the sudden light, a horse pushed his gray, almost white, head over his stall’s half-door.
Alec went to him, placing his hand upon the soft muzzle. For a moment he stood there, his eyes running over the well-groomed coat.

“Tony takes good care of you all right, doesn’t he, Napoleon?” Alec’s gaze turned to the cloth hanging on the peg beside the door. “But I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to go over you once more.” Taking the cloth, Alec went inside and ran it across Napoleon’s swayed back. But the horse turned to him, seeking the boy’s face.

“Stand still, Napoleon,” he said, taking the old head and pressing it close to him.

Sebastian entered the stall, running between the horse’s legs and beneath the heavy hanging girth. Napoleon lowered his head, inquisitively watching the dog.

When Alec had finished grooming Napoleon, he went to the water pail and found it full. But he emptied and refilled it; then he got some clean straw and spread it over the floor.

It was only when there was nothing else to do that he turned to the other box stall. He looked at it for many minutes before going to the tack room at the far end of the barn, and there he sat down on a low, flat chest and buried his head in his hands.

“You’ve got to grow up,” he told himself angrily.

When he raised his head again, it was to look at three pictures hanging on the wall before him. They were of Satan. One had been taken when he was a weanling and stood on long spindled legs; another when he was a yearling and already bigger-boned and more burly than his sire; and the last picture was one of him as a two-year-old, standing in the winner’s circle
after he had won the Hopeful last fall. That had been the beginning of his meteoric career on the track and the end, Alec knew, of having Satan for his own.

There was another picture, larger than the others, on the wall to Alec’s left. Without turning to it, he saw every detail in his mind. It was a photograph of the Black’s head. Alec had taken it one day long ago, and his father had had it enlarged and framed for him. The background was nothing but sky, and the Black stood out against it so vividly that it seemed you could reach out and touch the finely drawn muzzle, to feel it soft and quivering beneath your hand.

It was a small head, noble and arrogant, with eyes large and lustrous, burning with fiery energy; his silky foretop and heavy black mane were swept back, for there had been a strong breeze that day; his small ears were pricked forward, almost touching at the tips; and his delicate nostrils were dilated, for he had been suspicious and wary of the camera.

Alec closed his eyes, shutting out the Black’s picture from his mind. But he opened them almost immediately, startled by the sound of his own voice as he said loudly, “Today I rode Satan to the Triple Crown championship. No one could ask for more than that. No one should. I’m the luckiest and happiest kid in the world.”

He repeated his words to himself, then rose to his feet, knowing well that he was only kidding himself. He wasn’t happy at all.