The Island Stallion Races (21 page)

When he was merely a stride’s length behind the gray horse, Flame screamed again. Fury took hold of him when the gray did not even flick an ear in his direction. He stretched his head closer but his eyes were alert for any sudden move that might put him on the defensive. He drew alongside, wary now of the gray’s hind legs. He hesitated a second, wondering why the other stallion did not turn upon him so they could rise together in deadly combat.

A pinpoint of hope glowed within Steve at Flame’s hesitation. He felt Flame’s bewilderment at the gray stallion’s ignoring him so completely. He suddenly realized that Flame would find no
willing
opponent on this track, for the first and foremost instinct of these horses was to race, just as Flame’s was to fight.

“Flame!” Steve called repeatedly into the flattened ears while his hands and legs worked harder than ever. If he could just get Flame’s attention! But his horse plunged forward, seeking with bared teeth to tear and ravage the gray.

Steve saw the flaying whip of the gray horse’s rider just before Flame was struck by it. Flame was so enraged
he had eyes only for the horse. He wasn’t even aware of the man who rocked on the gray’s back, his leather whip moving rhythmically along his mount’s side without touching him.

Flame thrust his head into this pendulum of hard leather. He felt the searing pain on his muzzle and drew back, more startled than hurt. Associating the unexpected blow with his opponent, he swerved abruptly away as he had done in countless battles, seeking time before attacking again.

His sharp turn took him across the track, bringing him face to face with an adversary so overwhelming that he forgot everything else in his sudden alarm. Tier upon tier before him rose a screaming mass of humanity!

Steve, too, seeking to regain his balance, saw the sea of faces in the grandstand. Their voices drowned out the plop of Flame’s hoofs in the soft, moist dirt as the stallion plunged on in full flight. Then suddenly Steve was aware of the change that had come over Flame. He felt his horse’s fear of the great crowd, and at the same time he saw the outer rail rushing to meet them.

He pulled hard on the left rein while his right hand slipped quickly across Flame’s moving shoulder. He twisted his body, and for the first time since the race began Flame responded to his commands.

Without breaking stride Flame curved away from the stands and his speed blurred the faces of the spectators. Steve knew that Flame’s fear had enabled him to break through the barrier that had kept them apart. Yet the streaming white rail came ever closer, matching the speed of Flame’s swift turn. Steve bent more urgently to
the left, seeking to narrow Flame’s running arc and to avoid crashing into the rail.

When he was only inches away from it Flame straightened out, but like a magnet the rail held horse and rider close for another long stride. Then Steve saw the rail slip beneath his raised right knee, moving as though alive upon his horse’s barrel. He felt the point of contact as soon as Flame did, the rail bending beneath the stallion’s weight but not breaking. It seared the length of Flame’s body before the stallion flung himself clear and bolted crazily toward the center of the track.

Steve made no attempt to stop him, knowing that his horse had not been injured, only burned by the friction of his running body against the wood. He tried to straighten Flame’s zigzag flight down the track. Finally the stallion’s head came up and there was a flick of the small ears when Steve called to him.

They approached the first of the long banked turns and Steve kept Flame high up on the graded dirt. He completely ignored the inner rail and the short inside way around the track, just as he ignored the racing horses far beyond. For flashing seconds he was aware only that Flame was listening to him again. It was as if they were back in Blue Valley, running for the sheer joy of running and being together. Steve rubbed Flame between the shoulder blades, then slipped forward and began asking him for more and more speed.

Back where the race had begun, the starter watched a tractor pull the gate from the track, leaving it clear for the horses when they came around again. That was the end of his job and he had little interest in the race itself.
He barely listened to the call of the announcer when the horses came off the first turn.

“That’s Bismarck in front, followed closely by Slow Burn and Wellington. El Chico and Kingfisher are going wide. Mister Tim and Gusto are in a drive, coming up on the inside. Tout de Suite is …”

The sounds from the public address horn continued to crackle in the starter’s ears but he didn’t turn to the bunched field starting down the backstretch. Instead he walked across the track. Halfway to the outer rail he glanced toward the turn where the red horse which had caused all the trouble was being straightened out by his rider. Funny, that he should be watching him. Of course the horse wasn’t going to get even a call. He was well out of the race already. That was the way the track officials had meant it to be, he supposed. The red horse had been asked here to put on a show, and he surely had obliged!

The starter’s gaze followed the red horse, noting the way he stretched out going into the turn. No wasted effort there. He was really a very handsome horse, more beautiful by far than anything else on the track. But the starter remembered the scars on the stallion’s red body and was glad that he had been successful in getting the race off without an accident. He could go home any time now.

His disinterested eyes turned to the racing field beyond. To him it was just another horse race, regardless of what they called it or had tried to make of it with all the dramatics beforehand. Oh, there was plenty of speed out there, a world of it, one might say, he
decided. But after forty years in the business he’d seen the fastest horses there were. He recalled especially the match race in Chicago when the Black had beaten Sun Raider and Cyclone. After seeing that one he doubted that he’d ever be thrilled by another race.

He cast another look at the red horse, which was seemingly under control now and being taken high on the turn by his rider. Come to think of it, the horse reminded him a little of the Black. Same kind of wildness to his action that a domesticated horse never had. He was lengthening out yet holding his head high in pretty much the same way, too. But there was no comparison in speed. The Black would have been running the others to the ground by now while the red horse wasn’t closing up any distance. Yet he wasn’t falling back either, and that was surprising since he was only supposed to be part of the pre-race show.

The starter shrugged his heavy shoulders and continued across the track. Before reaching the outer rail he turned to watch the red horse once more. It was very unusual that he should be thinking of that Chicago match race here in Cuba years later.

Steve took Flame around the turn, his eyes sweeping over the field moving down the backstretch. No longer could he hear the roar of the crowd or anything else but Flame’s hoofs lightly beating out a rhythm on the soft track. Suddenly the quiet was shattered by the call of the race announcer.

“Bismarck has increased his lead over Slow Burn, but on the far outside Kingfisher is moving up!”

Steve leaned more to the left, swaying with Flame into the graded turn. He took his horse over to the inner
rail to save ground. He had never ridden Flame so fast
yet they were not overtaking the field!
Had he overestimated his horse’s speed? Could a wild stallion compete with horses which had been bred through generations for racing speed alone?

“Run, Flame! Run!”

Steve listened to the stallion’s snorts in response to his calls for more speed. He began pumping Flame with his legs, which he had never done before, and the snorts became louder. Only when they were on the straightaway did Flame quicken his strides. Steve felt the change that swept over the great red body when Flame saw the other horses far down the backstretch. He realized then what he had to do to make his horse run as he never had before.

“Go, Flame!” he screamed, kindling the fire of Flame’s natural hatred for those of his kind, encouraging him to run the others down! Only by taking advantage of the generations of breeding behind Flame could he hope to make a race of it. He felt the growing heat of the reins while his own blood surged crazily, making him unmindful of the possible consequences of his act. His body and hands were never still, his voice never quiet. He had but one goal and that was to bring out every bit of speed the stallion possessed.

Flame listened to the never-ending calls urging him to catch up with those ahead. He felt the quickening beat of the hands upon his neck and the burning lines that kept his head straight. He lengthened his strides to keep time with the maddening rhythm on his back.

His eyes never left the horses which were now dropping back as he ran faster and faster. He selected an
opponent. Just as he made his move to run him down there was a sudden twisting on his back. Then the lines seared his neck and he turned his head to relieve the pressure. Immediately his reddened eyes saw another horse still farther beyond. Again came the calls in his ear and the rhythmical beat of the hands against his body. He leveled out still more, needing greater speed to reach his newly selected opponent.

Steve waited until Flame neared the next horse, then once more he twisted on the stallion’s back, throwing his weight heavily to the outside. The reins in his hands were like throbbing arteries through which coursed his blood as well as Flame’s.

Steve straightened Flame’s head so his horse could see the brown stallion running in the middle of the track. Every move was planned. He was encouraging Flame to attack and attack again while they went ever closer to the front.

The announcer said,
“Going into the far turn it’s still Bismarck by three lengths. Kingfisher is on the far outside, passing Slow Burn and Wellington. Flame is now going up with Kingfisher….”

The official starter had not left the track as he had intended doing. As though hypnotized, he had watched the beginning of Flame’s mad rush down the backstretch. He had seen the huddled figure on the horse’s back suddenly begin to rock wildly. Then the horse had exerted more speed, the rhythm of his strides finally matching that of his rider’s movements. After that the rider had sat still, so still he seemed barely conscious of what was happening … except at times. One of the times was when he had twisted his body as the red stallion
overtook Mister Tim, another when the horse had sought to ravage Gusto and now when he had pulled him wide around the others and the red stallion was going after Kingfisher!

Steve watched the brown stallion drop back as those before him had done. He knew what he had to do again to get his horse away. He sat balanced, awaiting the precise second when by his weight and hands he could move Flame on to the last horse in front of them.

He saw Kingfisher begin to wobble and then bear out as they swept into the turn. Flame tried to swerve with him, but Steve had seen the opening left on the rail … and just beyond, three lengths away, was the leader, Bismarck! Steve moved quickly, tipping his weight to the inside and pulling hard on the left rein. Flame’s head came around, and then the red stallion saw the running bay leader beyond!

Steve was taking Flame over to the rail when Kingfisher swerved back, closing the opening that had been there! Steve felt Flame gather himself to attack the horse before him. Desperately he threw his weight to the outside, and as his body and hands moved, Kingfisher suddenly stumbled and went down in a sprawling heap.

With the agility of one who has faced such emergencies in many battles, Flame avoided the fallen horse. He swerved, then jumped, twisting in the air. When he came down he sought to check his great speed in order to turn upon his beaten opponent. He felt the ground rise beneath his running feet, and then he saw the streaming outer rail which had caused him pain once before. In fear of it he quickly responded to the pressure upon his back to go on. He swept along the high banked
turn and when the ground leveled out again he saw a lone horse running just beyond. His ears flattened in still another charge of relentless fury.

“In the homestretch,”
the announcer called,
“it’s still Bismarck by four lengths. Flame is second….”

Steve heard the announcement but not the screams from the stands to their right. With each closing stride between the two stallions, he tried to decide what to do in this final run. His horse would catch up with Bismarck before the finish. But between the leader and the wire there was an empty track. What would happen when Flame saw no other horse beyond Bismarck? How could he get him to go on? If Flame hesitated or swerved to do battle with Bismarck the race would be lost.

Flame stretched his head, baring his teeth in his fury and reaching for Bismarck as he had done with the others. Steve slipped back in his seat, ready now to shift his balance and turn Flame away from Bismarck regardless of the outcome of the race. He gripped the reins tighter, and the heat coming from them seared his hands. He waited until Flame was close to the bay stallion’s sweaty hindquarters and then he swayed far to the right.

Flame jumped away in quick response. His eyes were bright with anger and frustration as he sought still another horse upon which to vent his fury. But there was no horse beyond and to his right he heard the bedlam from the stands. He drew back before the frightening, ever mounting roar, seeking again the horse to his left.

Steve knew that what he had feared was happening. His horse was not going on! He took a fraction of a second to straighten Flame’s head, keeping the stallion’s eyes focused on the track. Suddenly there was a flash of red beyond the wire.
The crimson-coated outrider and his pinto horse had moved onto the track awaiting the finish of the race
.

Flame saw the outrider’s mount and he swept forward eagerly, leaving Bismarck behind in great leaps. There was no slackening of his speed when he passed beneath the finish wire, for here at last was an opponent coming forward to meet him in combat!