The Black Stallion Challenged (18 page)

Steve recalled that Alec had told him a killing pace might well bring about the downfall of many of the horses, that he should be content to sit back and wait. He would have liked to rate Flame as Alec had suggested. It would have been nice to place Flame anywhere on the track he chose … but Flame wasn’t that kind of a horse.

Another racer moved alongside, keeping Flame pinned and trapped behind the wall of horses in front of him. Steve turned Flame over toward the hedge. He’d be in a pocket there, too, but at least he’d be saving ground going around the turn. From there he’d watch his rivals’ moves, conserving Flame’s speed for later. His horse was being rated after all—necessarily so, for there was no place for him to go. For a while, he was hopelessly out of the race.

On the far outside of the racing pack, Steve saw a horse charging down on the leaders from the Number 14 post position. He was angling across the track, trying to pass the field before it reached the turn. Running hard, he just made it and stole the lead from the small gray horse. Then, suddenly, he slowed up, almost causing a near-disastrous spill behind him as jockeys brought their mounts almost to a stand-still to avoid racing into him.

Things got tight for Steve, too. He took hold of Flame and, standing almost upright in his stirrups, backed up against a horse behind him. The jockey yelled, and Steve knew he couldn’t hold Flame there any longer. He swung Flame away from the hedge,
trying at the same time to avoid running up on the heels of the horse in front of him. He did all he could to stop Flame but his horse was full of run. Flame bolted and tripped against the horse in front. He almost went down, but recovered, missing the flashing hoofs only by inches.

Steve knew he couldn’t stay where he was a second longer. He took a tighter grip on the reins, yelled at the other jockeys, and moved out! He cleared the heels of another horse, but one racing on the outside blocked his way. Once more he took strong hold of Flame.

As the field swept around the first turn there was no chance for Steve to find racing room and get in the clear. He was now as frustrated as his horse. And he knew that the other riders were making it tough for him. He told himself that the long backstretch was made to order for Flame, that all he had to do was wait. For a while he had no place to go. He had to be patient, as Alec had said. He had to learn from his mistakes, and he’d made quite a few already.

Starting down the backstretch the pace continued incredibly fast and the lead was fiercely contested. Steve saw the lead change five times ahead of him, with only about six lengths separating all fifteen horses in the race. He and Flame were still trapped in the middle of the pack, and, it seemed, would never have a chance to move out.

He saw a horse whiz through along the rail and move up quickly to take the lead. Then the small gray horse racing on the outside lowered his head and dug in again, regaining the lead. He was a trim little horse, his strides as balanced as his body. The pace he was setting
might kill off most of the others, and Steve wished he could remember whether he was part of the Argentine entry that Alec had said were the horses to watch. One would go out in front and keep the others busy, while his entry mate would hang back in the pack and come on later to finish the job in the homestretch. Steve glanced at the horses racing beside him, wondering if the gray’s stable mate could be one of these. They were closing the gap gradually on the flying leaders, forcing the little horse to dig in more and more.

Flame had his ears pricked up, Steve noticed, and seemed to be taking things more easily than before. Perhaps they were both learning to bide their time. He must keep him in stride; that was most important. Steve decided he would have to make the right decision when the next chance came to move up. There was a big jam in front again. He must wait. He mustn’t move prematurely.

Now! A horse bore out in the middle of the backstretch and Steve moved Flame inside and up a length. Another horse gave up the ghost and Steve went around him, moving one length closer to the front of the pack. Slowly, he was taking Flame through the field like a football runner going through a line. Steve felt his confidence mounting; he gave Flame another notch in the reins.

He improved his position still more. He found the openings he was looking for, swinging around two horses racing abreast and knifing inside a third who was tiring and bearing out. Approaching the final turn, he came flying out of the pack directly behind the trailblazers!

The horse in third position was beginning to tire and his rider was having a bad time with him. He wanted to bear out, going wide around the turn. He took Flame with him and Steve knew he had no alternative but to go around the tiring horse and lose ground doing it. It was part of racing luck.

The tiring horse brushed against Flame, and racing quarters got tight, but Steve held his position and burst ahead when the tiring horse labored still more. Once clear, Steve moved Flame over to the hedge again, bending with him as they swept around the turn. Just ahead, the little gray horse was faltering and giving up the lead to a hard-running bay who, Steve decided, must be his stable mate. The two horses and riders were exchanging places like two members of a relay team.

Steve gave Flame another notch in the reins and concentrated on the two leaders as he came off the turn and entered the homestretch. The gray horse began bearing out at the top of the stretch and his rider tried to hold him in line. The horse was responding to his jockey’s urging even though no whip was being used; what achieved this result were the man’s hands and his remarkable coordination with his mount.

Now, Steve knew, the chips were down, and the final test was at hand. He saw the hole on the inside left for him by the jockey in front. He knew better than to go in there and be trapped again, which is what the rider on the small horse probably wanted. His mount was dying fast under him but he might be able to hold him together if Steve took Flame into the pocket.

Steve steadied Flame, trying to decide whether to go around the tiring horse or wait for him to fall back.
He had a fresh horse under him. To save time, if not ground, he would take a chance and challenge from the outside.

When he made his move, his rival excitedly used his whip, surging forward dramatically. Steve was unprepared for the burst in speed, having thought he’d have no trouble disposing of the rapidly tiring horse in his challenge to the leader. The small gray began bearing out under the pressure of his rider’s whip, taking Flame to the middle of the track with him.

Steve saw the jockey switch his whip from one hand to the other in an effort to straighten out his horse. He made the change with the dexterity of a baton twirler and the swiftness of a magician, never losing control of his reins or his horse. He hit hard and often, his strokes matching his mount’s strides in rhythm. The gray was frightened into giving extra effort but the horse continued to bear out, blocking Flame.

Steve saw the big bay leader racing in isolated splendor along the hedge, only an eighth of a mile away from the finish line! Quickly, he decided to change course again and go inside. As he was about to check Flame, the small horse in front of him buckled and quit, leaving the track clear!

Taking advantage of the first break he’d had in the race, Steve gave Flame his head. Luck was with him now just as it had been against him earlier. Flame moved past the gray horse as if jet-propelled. The tunnel of noise which was the homestretch erupted in new frenzy as Flame was turned loose. It was as if he had been dawdling throughout the race and only now was running! He slammed through the stretch in his drive
for victory. He carried the fight to a grimly struggling leader whose rider was using his whip strenuously, as if knowing from the noise of the crowd that a disaster was about to overtake him. Flame’s ears were pinned back against his head as he raced all-out, closing with a rush that would not be denied. He passed the leader and went on, opening up daylight between them, and thus ending the Hialeah Turf Cup.

Flame and Steve had proved their mettle.

That night the newspapers and television sportscasters were comparing Flame to the Black. The “Big One” had now become the “Big Two” at Hialeah Park. Flame’s splendor and brilliance in his triumph had convinced everybody that no horse but the Black could stay with him. There were those who believed, too, that Flame the challenger could turn back the champion as easily as he had the distinguished field in the Hialeah Turf Cup.

The sports commentators and writers beat their news drums in anticipation of the race between the “Big Two.” It was hoped that the Black would recover from his foot injury and be sound enough to race in the Widener Handicap the following Saturday. Flame, having won the Turf Cup, was automatically made eligible for the Widener. It would be Hialeah’s outstanding race of the year. It would attract people from all over the world, this race between the United States
champion and an outstanding challenger from the United Kingdom.

No longer was Flame referred to as an outsider, an islander, or a phantom horse. All the questions that had been obscure about his racing ability before the Hialeah Turf Cup had been answered. Now he towered over all the foreign horses racing at Hialeah. He was a worthy challenger from the United Kingdom. Some sports commentators went so far as to say that if the Black was not in his very best form, the Widener Handicap was sure to go to the invader.

Only one telecaster, “Count” Cornwell, after referring to the Turf Cup race as Flame’s “lawn party,” cast some doubt on the challenger’s effectiveness against the Black. “It remains to be seen,” he told his audience that night, “what the challenger can do on the dirt. Because a horse can run a winning race on the grass doesn’t mean that he can win on the main track. Those who are hailing Flame as the new champion after his smashing, record-shattering race today are a little premature. There’s a chance the dirt may be to Flame’s disadvantage, especially if the going happens to be heavy. It is well to remember that the Black has proved his ability to carry weight over a distance and still win time after time, under all manner of track conditions.…”

The next morning Alec wanted to find out if Steve intended to race Flame in the Widener Handicap. He’d won all the money he needed to buy his island. Yet, races worth over $100,000 were tempting to anyone who had a chance of getting some of the prize money. Flame had demonstrated very impressively that the
Widener Cup, filled to the brim with dollars, was within Steve’s grasp. Only the Black might keep him from taking it home.

When Alec reached the distant barns he found that this day too belonged to Flame. A party was going on and Flame was the guest of honor. He had his handsome head over his stall’s half-door and tubs of goodies were placed in white pails in front of it. There were carrots, celery and lettuce—none of which he was eating—all arranged for the photographers who were taking pictures. Hialeah’s press agentry was there, directing the photographers, and Steve was standing beside his horse.

Alec remained in the background, watching Steve. The boy seemed relaxed, even agreeable, and eager to talk about Flame’s triumph to the newsmen. It was only natural that Steve should be happy over the festivities, Alec mused. The tense hours of last week were a thing of the past for him. He and his horse had made good in a most impressive way.

Alec remained at the far end of the row, waiting for the photographers to leave. He sat on a tack trunk and watched some blanketed horses being cooled out after their morning workouts. A small radio blared in his ear but he didn’t bother to move away from it.

A groom walked his charge close by. “Alec,” he said, “you going with the Black on Saturday?”

“It looks like we might, but Henry wants to wait a few more days before making up his mind.”

“No sense rushing the old warrior,” the groom said.

“You mean the Black or Henry?” Alec asked, smiling.

The groom spewed a stream of tobacco juice and said, “I mean Henry. Guys his age never make up their minds until the last minute anyway. No matter what. You can’t rush ’em, ever.”

“He’s just being cautious,” Alec said. “But Doc Palmer told him that the Black’s foot is okay again.”

“Over-cautious about everything, that’s Henry,” the groom went on sagely. “I worked for lots of guys his age. The Black’s fit, all right. I seen you slow-galloping him this morning. He didn’t miss a beat.”

Alec nodded. “But Henry’s the boss,” he said.

“One-hundred-thousand-dollar races don’t come up every weekend,” the groom said. “You might remind Henry of that.” He looked up the row to where the party for Flame was breaking up. “I wouldn’t worry none about that horse, either. He’s just added a little spice to the handicap division. Let them have their fun, Alec. You and the Black will take ’em over next Saturday.”

A few minutes later Alec moved up the row. Steve was sitting alone on the tack trunk, his booted feet up on a chair, his face thoughtful.

“Quite a party you had,” Alec said.

Steve nodded and pulled up his legs so that Alec could sit down. “Some kind of promotion thing,” he said.

“It looked like fun.”

“It was, I guess … in a way.”

“Sometimes things like that help relieve track boredom,” Alec said. “It’s good for horses as well as people.”

“I’m not bored,” Steve said.

“No reason you should be after yesterday.”

“They made a lot of fuss about it, all right.”

“But not about nothing,” Alec said. “It’s the hunting cry of the herd. You made good. What’s it going to be next, Steve? The Widener? Or are you going home?”

Steve pushed his back against the wall. “I’m not making up my mind today,” he said. “I’m going to wait.”

“You’re as bad as Henry,” Alec said, jokingly. “If neither the Black nor Flame race in the Widener, the press department can promote the ‘Big Nothing.’ ”

Steve didn’t return Alec’s smile. “You think I should go home like I said, don’t you?”