The Black Stallion Challenged (3 page)

At a grassy area near the outside fence, he let the Black graze. But his thoughts turned to Henry again, for it was the trainer who would decide if the Black was to race. To most people his old friend was the hardhearted horse trader of legend, but Alec knew that deep within Henry was still pretty much of a country boy, shy and warm, loving both horses and people. Henry had earned his reputation for toughness in his dealings with other horsemen, who were also tops in their business. You never fooled any of the old professionals twice. You never got the chance.

Henry had said a little while ago that they might race the Black sooner than he’d thought. That was good enough for the time being. Now there would be more meaning to their morning gallops.

Alec turned back to his horse. Something had disturbed him, for he had stopped grazing and his head was raised. His nostrils quivered, and there was a nervous twitching of his ears. A sudden gust of wind riffled his mane and tail.

Just looking at him gave Alec a queer feeling in his stomach. It had been that way from the very beginning. Like a lot of other things, there was no use trying to explain his feelings to anyone else. It just happened,
when you had a great horse. The power in the Black was unbelievable, but you had to be on his back really to appreciate it. He always seemed to be running beautifully. Then, suddenly, he would take off and stretch out until you were sure you were flying! Unless you rode him you couldn’t know the feeling, and that was why Alec couldn’t explain the way he felt about the Black to anyone.

“What is it?” Alec asked his horse.

The Black’s nostrils continued working, sniffing the upwind, inhaling and exhaling without snorting or whinnying. The stable area was silent but the moving air carried some sort of news to him.

“What is it?” Alec asked again.

The Black had been born free, so Alec knew better than to discount his natural instincts. He was all stallion—strong, arrogant and, at times, very savage and cunning. He continued searching the air for some kind of scent.

Alec turned with his horse, surveying the solitude of the stable area and finding nothing. He looked again at the Black, becoming a little uneasy, for it had been a long time since he had seen his horse act quite like this.

The stallion’s eyes, large and black and brilliant, were unmoving, and the air about him seemed to come alive with invisible fire.

Alec spoke to him softly.

The Black began to breathe harder, the sides of his chest moving in and out faster and deeper while Alec talked to him. He seemed to be listening to what Alec had to say, for one sharp ear was turned toward him
while the other remained pricked in the direction of the barns.

Alec, still talking to him, gave the lead shank another twist.

With head raised high, the Black continued to survey the area. Then, suddenly, his nostrils turned slightly red as he blew them out, snorting. His great eyes bulged from their sockets, all thunder and flame, and his lips were drawn back, disclosing raking teeth.

The quiet of the stable area was shattered as he screamed his high-pitched clarion call. It was a wild, shrill whistle, the savage challenge of one stallion to another!

When the sound of it died down, there was no answer to his sudden, unaccountable challenge. A few of the stabled horses snorted, but they did so more in fear than in acceptance of a battle, for their lives were completely domestic. None bore the scars of battle as did the Black. It had never been their lot to fight in a contest of strength or in anger or jealousy.

Alec waited for his horse to plunge forward as he was sure he must after uttering such a wild scream. He braced himself, snubbing the end of the long shank around his body. But the Black never moved. His gaze remained fixed on a distant row of stables.

Yet nothing happened. No one moved. No one came. The minutes passed, then finally the Black tossed his head and uttered a high, bugling snort. When there was still no answer, he seemed to lose interest entirely. Quickly, he lowered his head and began snipping the grass again with his sharp teeth.

“Never a dull moment with you,” Alec said, grinding his teeth. “Never.”

What had caused such a commotion? he wondered. For a few minutes the Black had become all stallion, a
herd
stallion, ready to defend his mares against another stallion.

Snorting, the Black raised his head again. This time there was somebody coming toward them. From a distance the youth appeared tall but as he got closer Alec saw that he was no taller than himself. It was his slimness—for he was almost all skin and bones—which gave the illusion of height. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie.

He came directly toward them, and the Black watched him all the while, his nostrils blown out and working again. When the youth stopped before them, he said, “You’re Alec Ramsay. I wrote you a letter. I’m Steve Duncan.”

“I guessed as much,” Alec said. The boy’s hair was coal-black and brushed, as slick as the rest of him.

A baffled expression came over the youth’s face. “How come?” he asked.

“I wasn’t expecting any other visitor,” Alec said. “And I’d just finished reading your letter. How’d you get through the barn gate?”

“I told the guard I was the son of an owner.”

“Yes,” Alec said, quietly. “You could be.”

Suddenly, Steve Duncan’s black eyes were flashing fire. “The next time,” he said, “it will be different. I won’t have to lie to get in here.” His tanned skin was stretched tight over the bones of his face.

“I’m sure you won’t,” Alec said, surprised by the other’s outburst. He found himself enjoying Steve Duncan’s intentness, his ingenuity, even his excitability. It was a nice change after dealing with Henry all morning.

“The next time I come,” the youth went on, “everybody will be glad to see me. I’ll bring Flame and …”

“Sure,” Alec said, interrupting. “But the first thing you’ve got to learn is not to get so excited.”

“I don’t get excited, not when I’m riding,” the other answered quickly.

“It’s nice to keep your mind on it all the time,” Alec said.

“I’ll do okay,” Steve returned. There was no cockiness in his voice, just self-assurance.

“It takes a long time to become a race-rider,” Alec said.

“Not in my case,” Steve answered.

Alec looked at him in surprise, but the youth had turned to the Black, who was still watching him.

“It’s almost as if he knows you,” Alec said. “He doesn’t usually act this way with strangers.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen him except on television,” Steve said.

“He has a keener sense of smell than most horses,” Alec said. “Maybe it’s something on you.”

Steve Duncan laughed, completely relaxed for the first time. “Maybe so. I got all spit-and-polished to come out here. It could be the hair tonic.”

“It could be,” Alec said, “but it isn’t. It’s something else.”

The Black was cool and collected, but there was no
doubt he had picked up the faintest whiff of a familiar scent from Steve Duncan. What it was, was anybody’s guess.

“Is your horse a stallion?” Alec asked.

“Very much so,” Steve answered.

The Black’s foretop fell in his eyes and he tossed his head to get rid of it. He pulled on the lead shank, balking a little when Alec tried to straighten him out.

“Is he sound?” Steve asked.

“He’s doing fine,” Alec said. “I give him fourteen to sixteen quarts of oats a day and his feed tub is as shiny as a new quarter when he’s finished.”

“I mean in the head?”

“He’s sound in the head, too,” Alec answered, smiling a little, and wondering what had prompted such a question.

“Do you ever trust him to anyone else?” Steve asked.

“Seldom. You can’t push him at all. He’ll strike back every time.”

“It must be rough working around him,” Steve said.

“No, we just have to be a little careful. Usually, it’s about little things, like a coarse brush. He hates it. Sometimes he shoots out when I’m even using a fine brush, but the good thing about it is that he doesn’t aim any more. He just lets you know he doesn’t like it.”

Alec rubbed his right knee and added, “He caught me this morning but not intentionally. He was just playing and, luckily, he didn’t hit me square or he would have broken the cap.”

Steve said, “He must have some disposition … like a bull.”

“He’s rugged and in good health, if that’s what you mean.”

“I guess you could race him anywhere,” Steve replied. “I mean
any
track in the country would make room for him.”

“We go where the racing suits him,” Alec admitted. “But you’re right. All we’ve got to do is pick up a phone and tell them we’re coming. We don’t have any trouble getting stall space, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s tough getting a stall here, isn’t it?”

“It’s not easy,” Alec said, studying the boy’s face, for he knew they were slowly getting around to the purpose of his visit. “Hialeah is the only major racetrack in the East operating during January and February. All the big stables that have stock to race are here. It makes for a very busy place.”

Steve Duncan met Alec’s close scrutiny without flinching. He tried to smile but it was not a success. Finally, he said, “My horse could win here, if I could get stall space. I’m sure of it.”

For a few minutes Alec said nothing. He’d met lots of other fellows who wanted to become race-riders. But this was the first time one had ever come to him with a horse to race. He couldn’t laugh it off as Henry had done. Certainly not now, with Steve Duncan’s thin, sharp, and very determined face only inches away from his.

“It’s best not to get too high on
any
horse,” Alec said. “I tell myself that all the time, even with the Black. There’s always a terrific sense of disappointment when you go overboard and the horse doesn’t pan out.”

“I feel pretty good about my horse,” Steve said.

“I’m sure you do,” Alec answered, “but winning a race at Hialeah is something else again.”

“He can beat anything here, even yours.”

Alec turned away. The whole thing was becoming ridiculous. Perhaps Henry had been right. He’d have done better to keep away from this wild-eyed Steve Duncan.

“Okay,” he said finally. “So you’ve got a fast horse. What makes you think you can ride him in a race? It takes years of experience.”

Steve Duncan’s dark eyes brightened. “I read a story in the paper the other day about an eleven-year-old kid riding his first race in England.”

“I read something in the paper the other day, too,” Alec said. “I read that 4-H Clubs all over the country are developing riding and horsemanship as part of their activities. That’s good. Kids will learn to ride all the better for it, and be better off physically and mentally.…”

“You’re being a wise guy,” Steve Duncan said angrily.

“No, not at all. I’m only trying to say that you shouldn’t look forward to becoming a race-rider overnight. It takes time and patience. Two or three years, maybe, of hard work and long hours.”

Steve laughed. “I don’t think there’s much difference in riders,” he said, “even race-riders. Get on the best horse and you’re the best rider. It’s as simple as that.”

“It isn’t,” Alec said. “Even the best horse can lose races through bad riding. The only way to learn good riding is to start from the bottom. You learn first how a racing stable operates. You groom. You walk hots. You
ride exercise ponies and learn the rules of racing. Then, if you’ve proven to be able, you gallop and breeze horses. You take blackboard drills. You study patrol movies. You learn the duties of the stewards, the placing judges, the patrol judges and last, but not least, the starters. You …”

“You’re kidding,” Steve interrupted. “You don’t need all that, not if you’re on the right horse at the right time. You ought to know that. You of all people. You had nothing but
him
when you started. That’s why I’m here.”

Alec held the other’s eyes.
“Nothing but him,”
Steve had said. Nothing but the Black and a mutual love and understanding for each other. Steve Duncan was right. He’d had no thick calluses on his hands in those days.

“But I had Henry Dailey as a friend and trainer,” he said finally. “Without him, I doubt very much that I would have raced the Black.”

“I know that,” Steve Duncan said surprisingly. “That’s why I came to you. I hoped you’d help me as you were helped.”

Alec said nothing, but he knew he could no longer look upon Steve Duncan’s request as anything but the deadly serious matter it was. His visitor had struck home.

Steve Duncan went on, confident that Alec was listening now to every word he had to say. “I know you meant what you said about learning all those things having to do with racing, and taking two or three years to do it. But I don’t want to be a professional rider, Alec. I just need money now, lots of it. The only way I can get it is to race my horse.”

“How much money?” Alec asked, and he was surprised at the casualness of his voice. “And what for?” Steve Duncan would not want the money for anything foolish. Of that Alec was convinced now. There was no doubt Steve knew what he was after, and that he had a plan to get it.

“I need sixty-five thousand dollars to buy an island,” Steve answered. It was said the same way most people would have talked about earning money for a home or food or any of the basic necessities of life.

“An island,” Alec repeated, his voice as matter-of-fact as Steve’s. Two guys talking. It was the way it could go sometimes. “You going to live there?”

“No, but my horse does.”

“Oh,” Alec said, as if Steve had explained everything. “I thought you might have won your race horse in a contest or something. You know there’s a pipe tobacco company that gives away two race horses every year just for naming them.”

“I didn’t get Flame that way,” Steve answered. “You know it’s funny about those contests,” he went on seriously. “For years I tried to win a horse that way. But it was always women who won those contests.”

“Housewives,” Alec added, as serious as Steve. “I don’t understand it either.”

The Black moved around them in a tight circle and their gazes turned to him.