The Black Stallion's Courage

by Walter Farley

  The veteran rider shouted to his horse, not expecting by any means to catch the Black, who was already many lengths beyond and drawing ever farther away. Now all Mike wanted was to finish ahead of the others. He had tried hard to win this race but, after all, a jock couldn’t ride a winner every time out. Monday would be different. Monday was Memorial Day. Monday would be Casey’s Day.

  THE BIG APPLE

  12

  The Belmont Park management called its feature race on Memorial Day “America’s Greatest Handicap.” That year everyone else called it “Casey’s Suburban.”

  The day itself set a record for high temperature and humidity. Casey took care of the rest of the records. He beat the largest field ever to go to the post for the Suburban since 1884. He broke the track and race record for the distance of a mile and a quarter, a mark set in 1913, which no one had ever taken seriously because it had been made before electric timers were used. He carried 132 pounds on his back, giving up to 25 pounds to the lightest-weighted horses in the field. He earned a record purse of more than $70,000.

  If the crowd of 65,343 persons at the track had been polled, it is doubtful that any among them could have named the horses who finished second and third in the race, some fifteen lengths behind Casey. All eyes were on the winner even long after he had swept under the wire—and for racetrack fans that was some kind of a record in itself.

  Alec and Henry stood on the graveled apron before the stands and waited for Casey to return to the winner’s circle. The place was packed solid. They couldn’t have left the area if they’d wanted to.

  Henry grunted. “I don’t mind not bein’ able to wiggle but I would like to breathe.”

  Alec kept his eyes on the tall, easy-moving chestnut horse coming across the track. Casey wasn’t having any trouble breathing. He looked as if he could do it all over again. A red-coated outrider was alongside Casey, holding the bridle. Mike Costello was grinning as though the winner’s purse of $73,000 were all his. A part of it was—ten percent. Mike’s eyes were as bright as the lighted board in the center field. He had seen the record time posted there, the big numerals 1:59 4/5. That was why he was grinning. Who wouldn’t be, in his place? No horse was supposed to have been capable of going that fast on this strip of sandy loam. But Casey had done it. Casey and Costello. He was a very strange little old man, Alec decided.

  “ ’Tis a good turn I’m owin’ ye,” Mike had promised twice, Alec recalled. Once when he and Henry had picked him up at the bus stop. Again, when he, Alec, had picked him up off the track. But Mike hadn’t given an inch in return when he’d asked for it. According to Henry it was good race riding to keep a hole closed. But he would have opened up for Mike or for any other rider when he’d seen there was no stopping a horse from “bulling” his way through as the Black had done last Wednesday.

  Casey’s groom walked onto the track to take over from the outrider. He led the chestnut horse and its rider into the winner’s enclosure. Mike sat still, his black eyes twinkling while he patted Casey and cameras clicked away.

  “We could have made a real race of it,” Henry said. “Not just a breeze-in for him like it was.”

  “We could have beaten him,” Alec said.

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybes,” Alec insisted.

  “Later in the season maybe,” Henry said. “He’s pretty sharp right now.”

  “I wish we could have been in it,” Alec said quietly. “We’d have shown him. Seventy-three thousand dollars’ worth of showing it would’ve been. Just this one race and we’d have had a new barn.”

  Henry chuckled at the boy’s persistence. “We’d have been in it all right if you’d told me on March fifteenth, when nominations for this race closed, that our barn was goin’ to burn down early in May. We’d not only have been in it but we’d have had the Black ready for it.”

  “He’s ready anyway,” Alec said confidently. His eyes remained on Casey. A top horse, he reminded himself, make no mistake about that. Maybe even a great one after today. He traveled. He really did. Mike had said that Casey was a great horse. Mike knew great horses from on top. Mike had ridden Man o’ War.

  But Mike had never ridden the Black. So Mike didn’t know everything.

  “By the same token,” Alec said aloud, “I’ve never ridden Casey, so I don’t know everything, either.”

  “What’s that?” Henry asked, freeing a foot on which a man next to him had been stepping.

  “I was wondering if we’d race Casey at Aqueduct,” Alec said. The meeting at the nearby track would open in a couple of weeks and they had had time before the May 15 closing date to nominate the Black for some of its richest handicap races.

  “I don’t know,” Henry answered. “Could be.”

  Alec watched Mike Costello get permission from the presiding judge to dismount. No one was allowed near him as he slipped off Casey’s back and unsaddled his horse. Carrying his tack, which included the heavy lead pad, he stepped onto the scales in the enclosure, weighing in.

  The Clerk of the Scales nodded as the arrow swung to the same weight at which Costello had entered the race. “One hundred thirty-two, check,” the clerk said. The race was now officially over.

  Costello handed the tack to his valet and went back to Casey, taking him from the groom. He wouldn’t leave his horse long enough to be interviewed by the television and radio reporters and they wouldn’t approach Casey. The horse’s nostrils were flared, not from heavy breathing, but from excitement caused by the noisiness of the small enclosure. He let a hind leg go and the people behind him scattered. His trainer and owner laughed but Mike remained silently grim. The veteran jockey wanted to get his horse back to the barn, Alec knew. Mike would let scarcely anyone else touch Casey. He preferred to feed and take care of the horse himself. No one else rode Casey, even in the mornings.

  Who knows, thought Alec, maybe that’s why Casey’s shown such speed. It’s happened before that a horse takes to one particular person and does more for him than for anyone else.

  Wasn’t it so with the Black and himself?

  Casey was put together much the same as the Black. He was tall and light but very strong boned. He had an arched bow in his neck and his head was all thoroughbred. His shoulders were well sloped and he had a powerful set of hind muscles which ran down to low-set hocks. He was all power and beauty standing there in the circle—and judging from today’s record race he was all speed as well.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Henry said, “if we can.” He began pushing and Alec followed him. They had received permission to work Black Minx between the seventh and eighth races on the day’s program.

  “When do you think we’ll go against him?” Alec asked.

  “Casey, you mean?”

  Alec nodded and Henry said, “I dunno. A lot depends on the package they load on the Black. I’m not goin’ to have them break ’im down with lead, not after Wednesday’s exhibition. Why …”

  Henry didn’t finish. He didn’t need to, for Alec knew well what he meant.

  When a horse comes back as the Black had done and wins his first race by thirteen lengths in track record time, he is bound to be assigned a great deal more weight the next time out. It had been no secret that the Black had the bit hard against his teeth when he broke out of that pocket. Everyone had seen it, including the track handicapper.

  Alec and Henry managed to get away from the packed stands and passed the paddock. They went down the lane toward the barns. Alec didn’t take his eyes from the dirt path before them when he said, “I couldn’t hold him back like you wanted me to. It was as if he’d stored up all this energy and then let it go all at once. He moved right up on Costello and said, ‘One side, please!’ Bang! We went through.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Henry answered. “We’ll make out all right. Besides, you rode ’im good. I never saw better coordination between horse and rider. You were with him.”

  Alec smiled. “Where else could I have gone?”


  They stood to one side, watching the horses going to the paddock for the fifth race on the program.

  Henry said, “Anyway, it was somethin’ to see. I wasn’t surprised so much by the Black’s time as I was by the easy way he did it. Maybe he’s sharper than I think he is.”

  “He’s sharp, all right,” Alec said as they continued down the path. “Is there any truth to the talk I’ve been hearing about a match race between Casey and the Black at equal weights?”

  Henry nodded. “It’s been more than just talk. We had an offer from a Jersey track for a $100,000 special match, winner-take-all basis at a mile and a quarter. I accepted but Casey’s stable turned it down.”

  “Why?”

  “I can only guess,” Henry answered. “They probably figured there were enough big races ahead to keep them busy without goin’ out and looking for trouble. Besides, it’s easy enough for Casey and the Black to get together in a regular race. In fact they could meet in the Carter Handicap on July fourth.”

  Alec said, “But Casey would get the benefit of the weights.”

  “He might,” Henry agreed. “I can’t read the handicapper’s mind. But there’s one sure thing. I’m not goin’ to take a chance of breakin’ down the Black with lead. He’s much too valuable.”

  Alec nodded in complete agreement and they passed through the stable area gate. Eclipse was in the nearest barn and they stopped to look at him.

  “How’s the big horse?” Henry asked the colt’s trainer who was sitting at the open barn door.

  “Oh, I think he’ll live until we get him in the Belmont, Henry. Hello, Alec. Good race you rode Wednesday. Never did get a chance to tell you. Meant to, though. I really did.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Dawson,” Alec said. Then with Henry he stepped just inside the barn. Both halves of Eclipse’s stall door were open. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll get away from you?” Alec asked.

  “No, we got well-trained horses ‘round here,” Dawson said quietly and unsmiling. “Not like most stables.”

  “You includin’ us?” Henry belligerently asked his old friend. “You inferrin’—”

  “I’m inferrin’ nothin’,” Dawson interrupted. “You’re the one who’s doin’ the inferrin’.”

  Henry snorted contemptuously. “If we had two big fans blowin’ up the air in each stall, maybe we could open our doors too and still keep the horses inside.”

  “Sure, they’re smart. Horses know when they got it good, all right. But maybe you can’t afford fans, Henry? Maybe you’d better hold on to that Derby money you won. It ’pears you won’t be winnin’ much more with that little old filly o’ yours.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that!” Henry answered. “Come on, Alec,” he added abruptly. “Let’s get out of here before we get so darn comfortable we can’t do a decent job.”

  Alec hesitated, for he was studying Eclipse. He never got tired of looking at a horse and he always seemed to find something new. This fellow had a bow in his neck like the Black’s, except that it was much thicker and shorter.

  Eclipse’s brown coat was so dark it was almost black. Yet in contrast he had lots of white on him, with a blaze running from forehead to nostrils, and long white stockings on all four legs. His body was larger and more muscular than either Casey’s or the Black’s. In fact, when he was standing in his stall with his head down and his eyes half-closed, he looked downright lazy and ponderous. But Alec knew that that impression of him changed fast when Eclipse started moving. In action the husky, towering colt was a picture of perfect physical coordination.

  Alec left the barn, thinking how rare it was to have such top horses racing this year. The public, trainers and press alike waited year after year for a great or even a near-great horse to come along. Now they had Eclipse, a three-year-old colt whom they proclaimed as “destined for greatness.” There was also Black Minx, who had proved how false was the horsemen’s proverb that “fillies don’t win the Kentucky Derby.” Then there was Casey. After today’s Suburban victory he was certain to be labeled “one of the greatest handicap stars of all time!” And, finally, the Black, a proven sire and a great racehorse coming back from retirement. It would be a year to be remembered by all who followed racing.

  Alec caught up with Henry. “Well,” he said, “Eclipse looks the way the Belmont winner is supposed to look.”

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed. “Distance isn’t going to stop that horse. He won’t have any trouble with a mile an’ a half.”

  “Then you were kidding Mr. Dawson?” Alec asked. “You don’t think we have a chance of beating Eclipse with our filly?”

  “Let’s see how she works today, Alec, then ask me again,” Henry answered.

  Between the seventh and eighth races Alec rode Black Minx onto the track. There was a spontaneous roar of applause when the crowd saw her, for the newspapers had carried the announcement of her public workout. She carried her head higher than usual passing the stands, and her graceful strides matched her regal bearing.

  Henry had instructed Alec to go a half-mile in a slow fifty-two seconds. He’d said he didn’t want to ask much speed of Black Minx just yet. The Belmont with its golden purse was still two weeks off. Alec wondered if Henry was delaying his request for speed because he was afraid she wouldn’t respond.

  Alec and Henry had made a point of not letting Black Minx see Wintertime either on the track or off. Neither he nor Henry had ever discussed their own particular reasons for handling the situation in such a way. They kept quiet about it, knowing neither would understand the other anyway.

  Alec had watched Wintertime go more off his feed and wondered if his own convictions were so ridiculous as they seemed. Don Conover was becoming seriously worried about his colt’s lack of appetite and had stopped working him altogether. Alec might have told the trainer what he thought the trouble was but he didn’t.

  “Come, Baby,” he said, sitting down in his saddle. “We can move faster now.”

  They were on the backstretch with the huge stands a half-mile away. Somewhere in that great holiday crowd was Henry, unmindful of the day’s heat and discomfort and with his eyes narrowed, watching them.

  “She’s well seasoned with gallops,” Henry had said in giving his instructions, “so don’t snug her up too slow. Break her off sharp and let her go against the bit. On the other hand don’t let her go faster than fifty-two. I don’t want to ask too much of her today. I just want to see how she goes. Don’t pull her up too sharp when you’re done. Ease her off easy, nice and easy.”

  “Come, Baby,” Alec repeated, clucking. To himself he said, Sure, Henry, it’s a cinch doing exactly what you ask. I can turn her off and on just like I was driving a car. Sure, Henry, sure. You know better. So do I. We talk just to hear ourselves talk sometimes.

  She was almost falling asleep on him. Couldn’t she hear the noises of the crowd across the infield? They were yelling for her—or at least she ought to think so.

  Slipping a heel across her girth, Alec said, “Come on, get on with you! If we’re not careful we’ll hold up the next race. The judges won’t like that.”

  But Black Minx moved no faster for him, although her head was up and her ears were pricked. Alec wondered if her lack of interest and response was due to his not wearing silks. He had on boots and breeches but not his silk blouse or cap. It was too hot to wear those. Besides, both he and Henry had decided they weren’t fooling Black Minx. She knew the difference between a workout and a race. She just liked the crowd, any crowd.

  “So get along with you,” Alec pleaded more sharply. “What’s ailing you today? They’re all watching from the stands. So is Henry. It’s not going to be nice when we get back if you don’t show a little more go than this.”

  They were approaching the eight-furlong pole. Here he was supposed to “Break her off sharp and let her go against the bit” for the rest of the distance. All the way home, a half-mile in fifty-two seconds. Even old Napoleon could make it in that time.

  “Come o
n, Baby. Come on.”

  But she wouldn’t even take the bit, much less go against it as Henry had ordered. Alec swung his whip, slapping it hard against his riding boot. It made a lot of noise but it didn’t wake the filly up. And that was the only reason he’d carried the whip. She would have stopped completely if it had accidentally touched her.

  Actually she was wide awake. The trouble with her today, Alec concluded, was that she didn’t care. Even the crowd, this record-breaking, shattering, tremendous holiday crowd held no interest for her. It was embarrassing, rounding the far turn and coming down the homestretch in such a slow and easy gallop—especially when the newspapers had announced, “Black Minx will work a half-mile between races, showing Suburban Day patrons some of the speed that won her the Kentucky Derby!”

  The spectators didn’t exactly boo when the filly galloped past the stands but they didn’t applaud either. They were pretty quiet except for a ripple of laughter near the end. Alec thought he heard someone shout, “Get a horse, Ramsay!” But he wasn’t sure.

  He didn’t have any trouble complying with Henry’s final order, “Don’t pull her up too sharp.… Ease her off easy, nice and easy.”

  The big job was to keep her going until they’d reached the barn gate. She hadn’t gone faster than the fifty-two seconds Henry had stipulated either. Her time was probably closer to one hundred and two. Well, Henry hadn’t set any limit on how slow they could go, had he?

  At the barn gate Alec slipped off the filly and looked at her for many long seconds before taking her down the dirt lane. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a horse go “track sour” but never had he seen one sour as completely as this. She was so disinterested in everything about her that she actually looked bored. They’d better send her home to get over it.