The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  “Get the colt, Dad,” the boy said. “We’ve done all we can up there.” There was no fright in his voice, only defeat. “I’ll take the mare.” He picked up an empty feed sack.

  Mr. Ramsay nodded but his eyes were glazed and staring as if he didn’t understand at all. Yet he went to the colt and picked him up carefully, steadying him on his feet. Then he turned to Alec and the glassiness left his eyes. “You’d better be careful of her, son.”

  He watched Alec step inside the stall, talking to Miz Liz as if nothing at all were happening upstairs. His voice was so soft that Mr. Ramsay could catch a word only now and then, but by watching the frightened mare he knew she was listening to Alec. He moved along the corridor, the colt heavy in his arms.

  Alec snapped the lead shank onto Miz Liz’s halter and wrapped the sack about her head so she could not see. “Come,” he whispered, starting her toward the door. With the roar above and the heat in her flared nostrils, Miz Liz was no longer vicious, only terribly afraid. Neither he nor the colt had anything to fear from her now, thought Alec. But what a price to pay for their acceptance!

  Suddenly the ceiling directly above them exploded and slender bits of flame fell at Alec’s feet, igniting the straw. He and the mare leaped as one through the stall door and into the corridor.

  Now the very air was alive with tiny particles of heat that stung Alec’s face. He pulled down the mare’s head, shielding it as best he could with his own body. Only once did he look up, and he saw a raging canopy of fire directly above them. He hurried Miz Liz along the corridor faster, for in her new terror she was inclined to hang back. More and more falling tongues of flame were coming down now and Alec began twisting as he ran in an effort to avoid them. Miz Liz screamed and bolted forward in pain. Fortunately the exit was just ahead and they followed Mr. Ramsay and the colt through it and out into the coolness of the night air.

  They stayed at a run until Alec could no longer feel the heat upon his back, and then he slowed Miz Liz. He removed the blindfold and she stood trembling beside him for a few minutes; finally she whinnied. He rubbed her muzzle, knowing that her soft utterance wasn’t for him or for joy at the fresh, clean air in her nostrils. No, it was for her son, who had been placed on the grass beside the road and was now the center of her attention.

  Mr. Ramsay was looking back at the fire. “Oh, Alec,” he said in a forlorn wail.

  But Alec did not turn and look back. There was nothing anyone could do. Nobody could save a barn full of hay and straw once it started to go. The small water pump and hose which some of the hired men already had hooked up to the adjacent field pond were of little use. So was the fire engine which he could hear coming down the country road. All the pastured horses were safe, but the barn which he and Henry and his father had had built with such pride would be completely destroyed. He did not want to look upon the horror of its burning. Instead he watched the start of a new life.

  There were new trials to be watched, too, for the colt was attempting once again to make his forelegs behave. There, there, he had them in place. Eager and strong in his confidence he pulled up his hind legs until they too were where they should be. Then he stood in all his freshly won glory, his eyes bright and seeking, his sharp-ribbed body teetering on stilted legs.

  “He’s made it, Dad,” Alec said, “all by himself.”

  There was no comment from Mr. Ramsay.

  Miz Liz tugged on the lead shank and Alec let her go to her son, watching as she licked him with all the care and tenderness that he’d been missing. It didn’t matter that his red, furry coat was perfectly dry, even singed in spots. No, what was important was the reassurance that she was giving him. At last he knew that he was loved and wanted.

  Out of the darkness came the close scream of the fire engine. Alec heard his father say bitterly, “Even when I called them, I knew it was too late.”

  “They can keep it from spreading,” Alec said.

  “Nothing to spread to,” his father answered. “There’s no wind to carry the sparks. The other barns are far enough away.”

  “I was thinking of the trees,” Alec said while he steadied the colt, holding him close to the mare. “You’d better eat,” he told the colt. “You’ve waited a long time.”

  Only when the colt finally was nursing did Alec turn and look at the fire. His eyes became blurred as he gazed upon the blinding spectacle of white and golden fury. Too late even to save the bordering trees, he saw. But they hadn’t lost a single horse—not even Miz Liz’s colt.

  He heard the Black’s blasting, repeated whistles but he did not turn toward the far paddock. His eyes were fastened on the sweeping, golden brightness that reached ever higher into the sky. All they’d lost was a barn—their biggest and best barn, but only a barn. Cost? About one hundred thousand dollars and uninsured. A total loss. That was all they’d lost, he concluded grimly.

  After a while Ed Henne, the fire chief, stood beside him. “I’m awfully sorry, Alec,” he said. “We’re hooking up our pump to the pond but we won’t save much.”

  “I know, Ed. Thanks, anyway.”

  The fire burned brightly until dawn while neighbors came and went, some only to watch the fiery spectacle and others to offer their sympathy as well. During one of those long hours his mother stood beside Alec, sharing his loss. She said, “It could have been so much worse, Alec. What if Henry had been at home and asleep? Think how horrible that would have been! Remember, too, that you’ve lost none of your horses and there’s the insurance to cover the barn.”

  He hadn’t told his mother how wrong she was. If Henry had been at home there’d have been no fire. And there was no insurance. He hadn’t wanted to worry her about the lapsed policy then, with the fire so bright in her face.

  The roar of lashing, leaping flames died with the gray light of day. The last of the spectators left and then finally the fire truck. There was nothing more to be seen or done. The barn lay black and gutted with only the two stone end walls standing.

  “What are you going to do, Alec?” Mr. Ramsay asked, searching the eyes of his son. They hadn’t been a youth’s eyes for several years, he realized. Too much had happened to Alec. Too many quick decisions had been made in his young life. Too many fast horses had been ridden.

  Turning from the water-sodden debris that was all that was left of their broodmare barn, Alec said, “It’s not as if it was winter and we couldn’t get along without it for a while. The mares and colts can use the field sheds for shelter. We’ll keep Miz Liz and her colt in the yearling barn for a few days and then turn them out with the others.”

  His father nodded. “We’ll have the new barn up long before cold weather sets in.”

  “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 RACETRACK

  3

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

  SPORTS

  By “Count” Cornwell

  DEADLY DUO

  BALTIMORE, MD., May 22—One of the country’s most popular young riders will arrive at old Pimlico racetrack this morning but the folks here won’t be paying much attention to him. They’ll be too busy looking at his horse.

  This statement is based on reports received from the special railroad car which is returning the Black to the races. Everywhere the train has stopped, crowds have gathered to look into the car, their eyes so bug-eyed at the sight of the famous stallion that they have completely ignored the boy at his side, Alec Ramsay. No animal has ever enjoyed such a triumphant journey to or from a racetrack. The Black’s ride will end this morning on a railroad siding at Pimlico, where he’ll get down to work.

  There will be fanfare here too, of course, but of a drastically different kind. The eyes of professional horsemen will be scrutinizing the Black, looking for signs of his having filled up in front, as retired stallions usually do, and for heavy quarters that would weight him down—both of which would handicap him in his comeback. They know that the older a horse gets the harder it is to bring him back to winning form, and most of them say they wouldn’t want the job even with the Black!

  But Hopeful Farm’s trainer, Henry Dailey, isn’t listening to anyone but himself. He’s convinced that the Black can be brought back and will be ready for several of the country’s richest handicap races, probably in New York. Our reference to the heavy gold hanging from the finish wire is not unintentional, for the need of it is what brings back the Black for another try. As you know, Hopeful Farm lost its most valuable barn in a fire this week. It was not insured, and $100,000 is needed to replace the structure by next fall.

  This kind of folding money may not seem very hard to get when Hopeful Farm has such a deadly racing duo as the Black and his three-year-old daughter, Black Minx, who is fresh from her great triumph in the Kentucky Derby. With the filly taking steady aim at the Preakness to be raced here next Saturday she may not need any financial assistance from her famous old man. But it looks as though the two magicians, Henry Dailey and Alec Ramsay, aren’t taking any chances of their broodmares staying out in the cold this winter. They’re brewing up another pot of that old black magic. We’re glad to have been invited to dinner. Won’t you join us?

  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 pla
ce 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.