The Black Stallion's Courage (3 page)

“We will if I can raise the money to rebuild it,” Alec said quietly.

His father turned to him, bewildered. “You don't have to worry about that, Alec,” he said. “Our insurance covers the barn for the full amount. It's for a hundred thousand dollars, I think. I'll check the policy right away, and put in our claim for payment.”

“There's no insurance, Dad. The policy lapsed three days ago.”

“I-it what? … You mean? … How do you know, Alec?”

“I just put the premium notice on your desk tonight. I've had it for the past two weeks.”

“You mean you forgot to give it to me?” Mr. Ramsay asked.

Alec nodded miserably. “I left it in my suit pocket.”

Mr. Ramsay turned and looked at the gutted building. Finally he said, “It's as much my fault as yours. I should have made note of the renewal date. No notice from the company should have been necessary.”

Alec watched the group of mares and colts grazing near the fence. “How much money do we have left of Black Minx's Kentucky Derby purse?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Enough to get a bulldozer to clear the debris away,” Mr. Ramsay answered. “Most of the money went to pay off the contractor for the training track. We're not rich at the present time, Alec.”

Alec's eyes were drawn to two colts who rose
squealing on their hind legs in rough play. “All our money whinnies,” he answered quietly.

“You're not thinking of selling any of them?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“We might borrow on them,” Mr. Ramsay suggested tentatively.

“I'd rather not do that either. We're enough in debt as it is.”

“Then what's the alternative?”

“To race.”

“Of course, Black Minx,” Mr. Ramsay said quickly and simply. “I should have thought of her immediately. But then you and Henry have told me so little of her chances in the coming Preakness. I suppose what she did in the Kentucky Derby she can do again. Beating all those three-year-old colts, I mean. She ought to win the Preakness and the Belmont without too much trouble.”

For the first time that night Alec smiled. “That's the most unhorsemanlike statement I've ever heard.”

“I've never claimed to be a horseman but I'd like to know what's wrong with my suggesting that she'll win all three big races?” his father asked.

“Only eight horses since 1875 have done it,” Alec explained. “And never a filly.”

“Well, fillies weren't supposed to win the Kentucky Derby either,” Mr. Ramsay said, “
but she did
.”

“I know, but it's going to be different from now on.”

“You mean you've lost confidence in her, Alec? After all, you should know her better than anyone else, since you ride her. And you flew down to Pimlico to work her this past week.”

“She's got the speed and stamina to do it,” Alec said. “But I don't know, it's—”

“I don't see what you're worrying about,” his father interrupted. “What you need to do is to join Henry at once and make
sure
Black Minx gets a part of those big purses even if she doesn't win. Meanwhile, I'll start getting bids from building contractors on the new barn. There's no sense moaning over our loss. We'll get busy and make up for it, that's what we'll do.”

“I'll have to do more than that,” Alec said quietly.

“More? You needn't worry about us here. There's plenty of help and Miz Liz was the last mare to foal.”

“I know,” Alec said. “I meant that I have to make doubly sure we come back with enough money for the barn.”

His father nodded. “If you feel that way, I don't see how you and Black Minx can miss,” he said confidently.

“I think it's going to take more than her to do it,” Alec answered. “So the Black's going along with me.”

A hush came over the early dawn. Even the mares and foals stopped their grazing and play to watch the boy walk up the road toward the tall black stallion who awaited him.

The following Saturday a widely syndicated sports-writer had an interesting column for his readers. It ran as follows:

Henry Dailey was the first to enter the railroad car at Pimlico and shortly thereafter he came down the ramp leading Hopeful Farm's stable pony, Napoleon. The Black seldom traveled anywhere without the old gelding and the photographers lifted their cameras to take pictures of him.

“Hold him still a minute, Henry,” one called.

Napoleon stepped from the ramp with all the care
and pride of a wealthy old gentleman being helped from his limousine by his chauffeur. He tugged a bit upon the lead shank, seeking more line so that he might raise his head still higher. He turned toward the cameras, his heavy ears pricked and very still. His round, butter-fat body was relaxed; his wise old eyes disclosed that he was well aware of what was going on and that he knew just how important he was as the Black's stable companion.

“Straighten up, Henry,” another photographer called. “You're more sway-backed than he is.”

“Naturally,” the trainer answered. “I've been around a lot longer.” Henry's bared head was whiter than Napoleon's coat and a lot thinner. He didn't smile at the remark that he'd made jokingly and he
did
make an effort to straighten up. It was getting more and more difficult to do that these days.

He was old, of course, but he didn't like to be reminded of it, Henry decided. The trouble with most people his age was that they kept thinking about how old they were and they never got anything done. His large, rugged hands gave a soft jerk to the lead shank. “Stop posing, you conceited old plug,” he told Napoleon. “None of this is for you. In fact, just havin' your homely old face around again isn't going to help my morale any.”

Napoleon lowered his big head and his ears wobbled and then fell forward as if from their own weight. Henry rubbed the gray's muzzle. “Forget it,” he said apologetically. “I was just kiddin'. Besides, no one's payin' attention to us any more. They're lookin' at
him
.”

The Black stood in the car's doorway, his great
eyes brightening at the sound of repeated clicks of camera shutters and the calls from the crowd.

“Hold him up there a minute, Alec! Just a couple more.”

“He ain't filled up in front at all,” a horseman said, his voice raised so that all in his group could hear him.

“I told you he wouldn't be,” another replied. “Didn't you hear Henry say that he's been out every day, running so much that they always worried about his being too
light
in flesh?”

“They sure don't have to take much off to have him ready to race,” a jockey offered. “I heard Henry say that's the way he looked but I wouldn't believe it.”

“If you ask me,” a groom said, “he looks better than when I saw him in that Chicago race. Not so pretty maybe, but harder. Where'd he get those scars anyway? What kind of a place do they run up there at Hopeful Farm?”

“He didn't get them there,” an exercise boy answered. “This horse gets around. He jus' don't stand up there at Hopeful Farm all the time.”

“Yeah? What's he done besides bein' a sire?” the groom asked.

“You think all I got to do, Mac, is to tell you about the things this horse has done?
Don't you ever read?
Anyway, ain't it enough that you're
here
, watching the Black start his comeback in the big time again?”

“Sure,” another groom agreed. “And what's the difference if he does look a little more ragged than he did before? Wind and speed is what y'need on the racetrack, not looks! Besides, for my money that's the way a horse should look! Turn 'em out, let 'em run, get 'em
thin and hard! Let the fancy stock farms coddle their stallions and get those big filled-up fronts and weighted quarters. I'd sure like to be rubbin' this one, that's all I got to say!”

The black stallion, more than seventeen hands tall without looking it because his parts fitted together so well, moved to the top of the ramp. His great body, wet from his nervousness, caught the rays of the morning sun and reflected them. His small batlike ears flicked sideways, forward, then back while he listened to the boy beside him and the voices below.

Reporters noted the Black's mounting tension and watched him more closely, for in order to race, this great stallion must also be manageable. Speed without track manners was not good, and in earlier years the Black's natural instinct had been not to race but to do battle with those of his kind.

“Count” Cornwell watched and wrote the title “Horse Talk” on his scratch paper, knowing that it would be the subject of his column for the next day. He wasn't surprised by the Black's display of temperament. Long ago he had decided that there was a close relationship between the ability to win races and a high-strung disposition. A racehorse that needed constant reminding that man was master was one with a tremendous
will
to win as well as the physical capacity to win. If pressed, the columnist would admit that maybe his theory didn't always hold true, but he was certain it applied in this case.

Cornwell moved closer to the ramp, hoping to hear what Alec was saying to the Black. It would make a good column, this conversation between such a horse
and his master. His
only
master, from all reports. No one else could do anything with the Black.

The Black raised a foreleg, bringing it down repeatedly upon the wooden ramp with dull, heavy thuds. Alec spoke to his horse but Cornwell couldn't catch the words. In fact he wasn't quite sure anything had been said. But the Black stopped his pawing.

Now the stallion was as quiet as the morning, standing proud and long limbed before the men gathered around the ramp. He did not move even when the camera shutters continued clicking incessantly and the photographers' cries of “
Just one more!
” shattered the still air.

Cornwell's eyes did not leave the horse. He knew no camera would ever catch the arrogance and nobility that were stamped on the Black's small, fine head. To be fully aware of these qualities in him one had to be here, standing close, watching the great eyes of the stallion as he looked down upon the people below. He might have been a king surveying his subjects. Suddenly the Black tossed his head and the silky foretop that crowned him dropped over his eyes. He half-reared and the arched crest of his neck became even more pronounced. It mounted high, then fell low, flowing powerfully into his shoulders.

Cornwell heard Alec Ramsay speak to his horse again. He listened quietly, paper and pencil ready. But in the end he wrote nothing. It was a language neither he nor his readers would understand, he decided. It belonged to Alec and the Black. Only occasionally had he heard an intelligible word. Most of it had been murmurings
and touches, soft and gentle, and quick movements of the eye. Yet the Black had understood everything. Cornwell was certain of that. The columnist accepted this as an undeniable fact, but would his readers? Maybe he didn't have a column of “Horse Talk” after all.

“That's enough,” Alec told the photographers. “I'm bringing him down now.”

The Black came down the ramp a little too fast, a startled look in his eyes. The crowd fell back quickly but stopped moving when the stallion halted. The Black was listening to the sound of Alec's voice. He jerked his head high again and held it still, all his senses keyed to the bidding of the boy beside him.