The Black Stallion (15 page)

“Better walk ’em both down the track, son,” Henry said.

Alec led the horses away. Napoleon raised his head as high as he could, imitating the Black. Carefully he raised his trembling legs higher and tried desperately to rear in spite of Alec’s hand on his halter.

Henry and Jake were standing in front of the truck when Alec returned with the two horses. The two men looked at the stallion. “I’d give a lot to be able to spring
him in a big race,” Henry said. “Boy, what a sight that’d be!”

Alec looked at Henry. “We’re not going to give up hope yet, Henry, are we?”

Henry’s eyes swept up to the stallion and then back to Alec. “No, sir, kid, they’re going to see this horse run if I have to stage a race myself!”

Henry lit his pipe. In the glow of the lighted match, Alec saw determination written all over his face. His jowls rose and fell as he sucked on the pipe; the thick smoke rose in the air and then floated away on the warm, spring breeze. Henry lifted the pipe from his mouth and turned to Jake. “Got any suggestions on anything we could do, Jake?”

The old man thought a minute. Then he said, “No, Henry. Guess the best thing to do is to race him against time some way and get people talkin’ about him. But first I’d wait for the answer to your letter.”

The stallion’s ears pricked forward as a horse’s neigh reached them from one of the stalls in the distance. Alec looked at the Black wistfully. “That’s the way I feel about it, too, Henry,” he said. “We’ll wait, but he belongs up with the best, and some way we’ve got to show everyone that he does, thoroughbred or no thoroughbred!”

Weeks passed, and Alec and Henry conscientiously trained the Black. Eagerly they awaited an answer to Henry’s last letter. The days passed and gradually they began to lose hope. Then one day it came. Henry rushed into the barn with the long, unopened envelope in his hand. Alec was grooming the Black.

“Alec,” he yelled excitedly, waving the letter. “It’s here!” Furiously his hands tore it open and the envelope fell to the floor.

Alec saw his eyes fly over the letter and then disappointment appeared on his face. He handed the letter to Alec. It was short, only a few lines. Even then, Alec didn’t read all of it. The first sentence was enough. “There is no horse registered to fit the description you sent us. We made an extensive search …” Alec handed the letter back to Henry, who crumpled it up and threw it on the floor.

In the days that followed, Alec showed his disappointment plainly. His night rides on the stallion were still as exciting as ever, but he longed to race the Black against the great race horses of the day.

He read every word the newspapers printed about them. Out in front fighting for top honors were the two greatest horses, turf experts said, that ever set foot on any track—Sun Raider and Cyclone. Sun Raider, the champion of the West Coast, winner of the Santa Anita Handicap, the biggest, fastest horse in racing, the reports from the Coast said. Cyclone was the pride of the East, Kentucky born and bred, winner of the Derby, the Preakness, the Belmont—no horse had ever pushed him to see what he could actually do. When that time came, his followers said, Cyclone’s speed would astound the racing world.

Sports writers wrote long accounts of the two horses, prophesying what would happen if the two champions ever met. “If Sun Raider comes east, he’ll push Cyclone to a new world’s record,” eastern reporters wrote. And the western reporters retaliated—“If
Sun Raider ever goes east, he’ll make Cyclone look like a mild summer breeze!”

Race after race passed into turf history. Sun Raider and Cyclone were the names on every person’s lips. Men and women who had never seen a race argued over the merits of the two horses, and who would win, when and if they ever met. And all the time Henry and Alec looked at the Black and smiled grimly, for they knew they had a horse that could beat them both!

One Saturday morning a few weeks later, Alec rushed up to the barn with a newspaper in his hand. The Black at the far end of the field heard him and galloped past Henry. “Hello, fella!” Alec greeted him, as the stallion thundered to a stop and shoved his nose against him. Then Alec handed Henry the newspaper. “Read Jim Neville’s column,” he said.

Henry took the paper and turned to the famous sports reporter’s column. “It is needless to say,” he read, “that the greatest excitement in the sports world today is being caused by two of the fastest horses ever to set foot on any track, Cyclone and Sun Raider. Thousands of words have been written about these two champions during the last year, yes, and thousands of battles have been fought (off the track) as to just which one is the best. The irony of it all is that in most probability these horses will never meet. Mr. C. T. Volence, owner of Sun Raider, is not going to send his horse east this summer for any of the races here, and Mr. E. L. Hurst, owner of Cyclone, is not sending his horse west. It seems to me that both Mr. Volence and Mr. Hurst are failing in their duties as true American sportsmen. For
here is a race that the whole nation is clamoring for, and whatever personal reasons these two gentlemen have for not wanting to bring these two horses together should be cast aside for the good of American racing.

“So I would like to suggest a match between Cyclone and Sun Raider to be held in Chicago the middle of next month. I’m sending letters to each of the owners today. There are no big races at that time in which the horses are entered. Both horses will have the same distance to travel for the race, so neither will have any advantage over the other.

“Once and for all the question of which horse is the faster will be settled.…”

Henry looked up from the paper. “It will be a great race if they let ’em run,” he said.

The stallion stood quietly beside Alec, his big teeth crunching on the sugar the boy had just given him.

Two days later as Alec walked home from school, he passed a newsstand. The headline of a morning paper leaped up at him—
CYCLONE AND SUN RAIDER TO RUN MATCH RACE JUNE 26
! he read. Eagerly he bought a paper and turned to Jim Neville’s column.

The owners of the two champions had accepted his proposal—the race was on! “Mr. Volence and Mr. Hurst even went me one better,” Jim Neville wrote. “They have offered to give over their share of the purse money to a worthwhile charity! I owe them both an apology, for they are true sportsmen in every sense of the word.…”

Alec couldn’t get home and through lunch fast enough to hear what Henry thought about it. When he
reached the barn, he saw Henry already had a paper and was reading it. He looked up as Alec approached. “Well, they’ve gone and done it!” he said.

“Boy, and I’d give a lot to see it!” answered Alec.

A car turned into the driveway. “Wonder who this is?” asked Henry.

“It’s Joe Russo—haven’t seen him since he gave us that write-up the day we got home!” Alec exclaimed as the car neared them.

Joe jumped out. “Hello, Alec. Hello, Mr. Dailey. I was over this way covering a story and thought I’d drop in and see how you were doin’ with that wild stallion of yours.”

“He’s okay now.” Alec grinned proudly.

“Still keeps us on our toes, though,” Henry said. “There he is out in the field now.” He pointed to the Black.

Alec whistled. “I’ll give you a closeup of him, Joe,” he said.

The stallion ran toward them. He reared when he saw Joe, and rushed down the field again. “Guess he’s forgotten me.” Joe laughed.

Alec whistled again and the Black whirled and came back. Alec grabbed him by the halter.

“Boy! I knew I wasn’t seeing things that night—he sure is the biggest horse I’ve ever seen!” Joe whistled admiringly.

“Fastest horse you’ve ever seen, too,” said Alec proudly.

“Faster than Sun Raider and Cyclone?” kidded Joe.

“Beat both of ’em,” Henry said.

Joe laughed. “Say, you guys sound serious! Here people all over the country are arguing about who’s the fastest horse in the country—Sun Raider or Cyclone, and you say your horse can beat them both. Better not let anyone hear you say it!”

“It’s the truth, Joe,” Alec said. “We’ve been racing—” He stopped and looked at Henry.

“It’s all right, Alec,” Henry said. “Guess it doesn’t make much difference now who we tell; we can’t race him anyway.”

Joe looked from Alec to Henry. “You mean to tell me you’ve been racing him?”

“In a way,” Alec answered. “We’ve been taking him over to Belmont at night and giving him some workouts.”

“And let me tell you, sir,” Henry broke in, “no horse ever ran around that track like this fellow did. We clocked him; there wasn’t any guesswork.”

“You see,” Alec said, “we had planned to run him in some big races. I was going to ride—but we weren’t able to get his pedigree. We wrote to Arabia trying to get it, but it was impossible. We didn’t know much about him, only the port where he got on the boat. And you can’t run a horse in a race without his being registered.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” muttered Joe, “and while the Black looks like a thoroughbred, he is certainly too wild to have ever been brought up like one!”

“I guess that just about washes us up as far as racing goes, but we still know he’s the fastest horse around!” Henry said.

Joe scratched his head. “You’re sure he’s as fast as you say he is?” Joe asked.

“Sure, I’m sure,” replied Henry. “Why?”

“Well, I know of one race that he wouldn’t need to be registered for.”

“Some county fair?” Henry laughed.

“No—the match race between Sun Raider and Cyclone!”

“But that’s impossible,” Henry said.

“Nothing is impossible these days,” Joe said. “But whether we could get him in or not, it wouldn’t be his lack of registration papers that would keep him out. You see, that’s a special match race—it isn’t held at any race meeting. It’s just like me racing you to see which one of us can run faster. They rent the track, bring the horses and away they go! All you have to do is get the other owners to let you run the Black in the race!”

“Yeah, that’s all,” Henry said, “and I still say it’s practically impossible!”

“There’s a slim chance, though, Henry,” Alec said eagerly.

“You said it, kid.” Joe grinned.

“How do you think we could work it, Joe?” Henry asked.

“I dunno—but you know I work on the same paper with Jim Neville, and he’s the guy that started all this; he might help us some way.”

“Perhaps if you told him about the Black …” suggested Alec.

“Maybe,” answered Joe. “He’s crazy about horses, and doesn’t think that there’s any horse in the world
that can beat Cyclone, even Sun Raider. He’d probably think I was nuts if I told him I knew of a horse that could beat ’em both.” He paused. “You’re
sure
that the Black can?”

Henry smiled. “Yeah, Joe, I’m sure,” he said, “but seeing that you’re kinda skeptical, why don’t you come over some night when we run him? Sure, and bring Jim Neville along, too; then he
will
have something to write about!”

“Not a bad idea, Henry,” Joe answered. “I’ll get in touch with Jim this afternoon. When you going to run the Black again?”

“Tomorrow night,” Alec answered.

“If you can make it, you can meet us at the main gate at two o’clock,” Henry said.

“Say, this is just like a mystery novel,” Joe said as he walked toward his car. “But I’ll be there, and I have a feelin’ Jim will too! So long!”

“So long,” Alec and Henry called. The stallion raised his head and whinnied as the car rolled down toward the gate.

The following night when Alec and Henry drove up to Belmont’s main gate, they saw Joe’s car parked there. Two men were inside. “That fellow with him must be Jim Neville,” Alec said hopefully.

Henry brought the truck to a stop and lightly touched the horn. “Leave your car here,” he called softly to Joe. “Jump on the truck—we’ve only a short way to go.”

The two men climbed out of the car and leaped onto the truck’s running board. Henry put the truck in gear as he saw Jake swing the gates open. Joe pushed his head in the open window near Henry. “Made it,” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

“Hold tight, my friend. You’ll find out,” Henry said.

Five minutes later they came to a stop beside the track. Henry and Alec climbed out. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside Joe; his hat was shoved back off his forehead and Alec saw long streaks of gray
running through his black hair. Somehow Jim Neville looked just as Alec had imagined he would. Joe introduced them.

After the introductions, Jim said, “Frankly,” and his eyes squinted quizzically, “it’s only the newspaper man in me that gets me out here tonight, because as much faith as I have in my pal Joe here, I can’t imagine any horse in racing—today anyway—that can match strides with Cyclone or Sun Raider!”

Henry smiled. “Sure,” he said, “I’d say the same thing if I hadn’t seen the Black run!”

Jim Neville looked questioningly at Henry. “Say, you’re not by any chance the same Henry Dailey who rode Chang to victory in all those races about twenty years ago, are you?”

“Sure he is!” Alec said proudly.

Jim Neville pulled his hat down over his forehead. Alec could see that once again he was the reporter on the scent of a story. “And you believe,” Jim said seriously, “that you’ve got a horse here that can beat both Sun Raider and Cyclone?”

“Yep,” Henry answered. “It’s Alec’s horse; I just help train him.”

Joe Russo spoke up. “Why not show him the Black, Henry, and then we’ll let him draw his own conclusions?”

“Good idea,” said Alec as he walked toward the back of the truck.

He led the Black out on the ramp. “Say,” he heard Jim exclaim, “he is a giant of a horse!” The stallion shook his head. He was full of life tonight for he knew well that he was going to run. His small, savagely beautiful
head turned toward the group of men below him. He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which Alec curbed, and then stood quivering while the boy talked soothingly and patted him.

Jake came up and Henry introduced him to Joe and Jim. “Say,” Jake smiled, “this is growin’ into quite a shindig, isn’t it?”