Black Stallion's Shadow (3 page)

A sick feeling knotted Alec's stomach. A flood of emotion welled up inside him, the blossoming of a fear that he hid from his family, from Henry, even from himself. The fear boiled down to one simple truth. Every time he raced the Black, he risked losing the stallion forever.

Two ambulances plowed through the torn-up track, stopping in front of the grandstand. Paramedics jumped out to lift the jockeys onto stretchers. Two special horse vans, the equine ambulances, drove out onto the track.
The veterinarians and their assistants gathered around the horses. They loaded Spin Doctor into one of the vans and drove away.

The other horse van pulled up beside Ruskin. While the assistants held the fallen horse still, a small group of men huddled together. Alec recognized one of them as Ruskin's trainer, Luke Larsen. A moment later a wide screen was propped up between Ruskin and the grandstand, shielding the red colt from view. Those who lived around the horse-racing game knew what this meant. When the screen went up, it signaled only one thing: a humane but certain death.

CHAPTER 3

A
t the sight of the screen, more cries of anguish and disbelief rose up from the crowd in the stands. Some people began weeping openly. Even hardened track regulars turned away and lowered their heads.

No matter how many times Alec had seen a horse put down, there was no getting used to it. Yet he understood very well that a horse with a broken leg was almost always doomed. The physiology of horses was very different from that of humans. Unable to stand while healing, the injured horse's organs would become misplaced during recovery. Giving Ruskin a fatal injection saved him the agony of a lingering death.

Alec rode back to the clubhouse and the gap in the fence that led to the winner's circle. Henry met him halfway there. The old trainer thrust a gnarled hand up to
the Black's bridle and clipped on the lead shank. News photographers pushed their way through the crowd. They jumped out onto the track to snap photos of the victorious Black. The Black reared slightly. He fanned his nostrils and snorted. Henry jostled the photographers out of the way.

Police opened up a path through the crowd and into the enclosure. At a nod from the official Alec jumped off, unbuckled the girth strap and took his saddle to weigh out.

Word came in over the PA system that Spin Doctor's jockey, Victor Velazquez, had survived his fall bruised but unhurt. Ruskin's Hector Morales had been taken to the hospital. Spin Doctor's condition remained in question. Ruskin, the undefeated champion of California racing, was dead.

The track officials briefly went through the motions of the presentation ceremony. The usual smiles and congratulations were absent. No one really seemed to care about the order of finish. It had to be the most solemn winner's circle anyone had ever seen. Today there could be no winners.

Alec politely accepted a silver trophy, the American Cup award. Though he felt uncomfortable, his face displayed little emotion. It was the mask of a hardened pro. Henry took the $250,000 check on behalf of Hopeful Farm.

As they left the winner's circle, a burly man in a dark suit pushed his way through the crowd and caught Henry by the elbow. The man showed Henry a badge, identifying
him as a United States marshal. He reminded the trainer that Hopeful Farm owed the federal government $226,372.59 in back taxes.

Henry barely flinched as the marshal served him with an attachment on the Black's winnings, taking nearly the entire purse. As
Blood Horse
magazine later reported it, Henry just smiled and said, “That's racing for you. Easy come, easy go.”

Alec headed to the lockers to shower and put on some clean clothes. A pack of reporters chased after him, shouting questions. “Hey, Ramsay. Any contact between the Black and Ruskin?” “Didn't Ruskin have a nose in front before he went down?” “Any comment at all?” “Come on, Ramsay. Give us a break.”

The young jockey held up a hand and waved them off. “Sorry, guys. No comment.”

Henry led the Black back to the barn, where the stallion underwent the routine postrace urine and saliva tests. When Alec returned to the stable area, the reporters were gone. Henry had already washed the Black. Steam rose from the stallion's glistening coat. Standing there, he looked like the essence of strength and vitality, anything but delicate. But a tragedy like today's was a reminder of how incredibly fragile a racehorse really was, Alec thought.

He reached up to rub the Black's forehead. The stallion cocked his ears as Alec spoke to him. The words made little sense. Only the sounds and rhythms were important. The Black whinnied in reply. Muscles quivered beneath his beautifully smooth skin.

Henry covered the Black with a light cooler and clipped a lead shank onto his bridle.

“You look shell-shocked, Alec,” Henry said.

“I wonder why,” Alec snapped back.

“What's eating you, kid? We'll survive. At least there's enough prize money left over to cover our feed and travel expenses. And the Black ran like a champ today. You can't blame yourself for what happened to the colt.”

“Am I allowed to have feelings, Henry? Is that okay?”

“Settle down now,” Henry said. “I don't know who could have seen what happened out there and not been affected. But you and I both know the racetrack is no place for sentimentality.”

Even if Henry was right, it still didn't change the way Alec felt. Without saying anything, he led the Black to the walking path. The old trainer shrugged. He found a seat on a tack trunk and began thumbing through a
Racing Form
.

Alec took his time walking and grooming the Black. Then Henry carefully inspected the stallion's legs and feet one more time. The Black seemed sound enough, the trainer concluded. He wasn't so sure about Alec.

Henry said he had some errands to do, so Alec went back to the motel alone. The Railbird Motel, where he and Henry had been staying for the past week, was situated right next to Santa Anna. Its proximity to the track made it a favorite with visiting horsemen. Alec stretched out on his bed and dozed restlessly.

The evening news declared that day to be “the darkest racing day of the year.” The reporter replayed a videotape
of the Cup race. For the first time Alec saw what had actually happened.

The tape ran in slow motion and picked up the race at the neck-and-neck charge down the homestretch. As Ruskin reached the shadow of the grandstand he tried to jump the outer edge. He must have mistaken the sharp contrast between light and dark for something at his feet. The jump was a fatal misstep. Extended to the maximum, he couldn't gather his legs beneath him again. He went off stride, crashing to the ground less than fifty yards from the finish. Again Alec heard the horrible gasping sound from the crowd in the stands. It was a sound he would never forget.

Spin Doctor, running a few lengths behind the leaders, tripped over the fallen Ruskin and his jockey went flying. The rest of the field managed to avoid a pileup and followed the Black under the wire. Ruskin struggled to his feet before the track attendants could reach him. The colt hobbled toward the finish line on his three good legs before collapsing tragically.

The videotape ended. Alec blinked. Seeing the accident in slow motion made it all the more gruesome. The TV announcer continued, “In one fateful moment the lives of two of California's finest Thoroughbreds came crashing to an end. Ruskin, an unbeaten young champion, the rising star of the racing world, had to be put down as he lay only yards from the finish line. Spin Doctor, another promising young colt, stumbled over Ruskin. When a postrace examination revealed irreversible spinal damage, he also had to be put down.” Alec groaned. Not
Spin Doctor too! He'd half expected it, but somehow the news came as a shock. His heart sank a little deeper.

“Today's American Cup has already sent shock waves through the entire racing community,” the commentator continued. “Here in California and all over the country racing will suffer from today's tragic events for years to come.”

“Yeah. Sure it will,” Alec said sarcastically. He switched off the TV. More likely, in a month or so the nation's horseplayers would forget all about both Spin Doctor and Ruskin. The fans would turn the page of their
Racing Form
, as they'd always done, to see another horse, another jockey and another race. In the racing game that's just the way it was.

CHAPTER 4

A
lec decided to take a walk. He needed to clear his head. A bag of carrots lay on the table by the door. On his way out Alec picked one up, broke it in half and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

The young jockey let his feet carry him where they would. He tried not to think about what had happened that day. But like a scratched record, his thoughts kept returning to the race … the dead horses … the jockey lying in the hospital. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. The Black won the race. You should be happy.

The familiar route he took led toward the Santa Anna stable area, only a few minutes' walk from the motel. The security guard recognized him and waved him through the gate. Alec walked down the well-lit shed rows and smelled the odors he loved … hay, ammonia and grain. His wandering ended at barn forty-one and the Black's
stall, a roomy fifteen-by-twenty-foot cubicle.

Alec leaned through the opening and called softly to the Black. The stallion moved toward the half-doors. Alec took a piece of carrot from his pocket and held it out to his horse.

Watching the Black, Alec wondered what might have been the outcome of the Cup race if Ruskin hadn't fallen. Would the Black have been able to hold off the colt's spectacular stretch run? He'd never know now.

A few minutes later Alec stepped out into the night again. He walked to what had been Ruskin's barn. On a bench beside Ruskin's stall were a handful of oats and a neat stack of sugar cubes—gifts left in memory of the fallen colt by friends and admirers. Alec placed a piece of carrot with the other offerings.