Black Stallion's Shadow

by Steven Farley

  Look out!

  Alec recalled yesterday’s race and the drive into the shadow. Somehow he sensed that the Black was remembering that moment, too. Alec felt the stallion’s muscles tightening. Usually the Black ran for the joy of running. Now it felt forced, as if he didn’t want to throw his legs down one in front of the other.

  Alec looked up at the Black. What was happening to his beloved horse? Overhead he heard the flapping of the flag. Whipped by the wind, it sounded like a taunting laugh…

  The BLACK

  STALLION

  SERIES

  BY WALTER FARLEY

  The Black Stallion

  The Black Stallion Returns

  Son of the Black Stallion

  The Island Stallion

  The Black Stallion and Satan

  The Black Stallion’s Blood Bay Colt

  The Island Stallion’s Fury

  The Black Stallion’s Filly

  The Black Stallion Revolts

  The Black Stallion’s Sulky Colt

  The Island Stallion Races

  The Black Stallion’s Courage

  The Black Stallion Mystery

  The Horse-Tamer

  The Black Stallion and Flame

  Man o’ War

  The Black Stallion Challenged!

  The Black Stallion’s Ghost

  The Black Stallion and the Girl

  The Black Stallion Legend

  The Young Black Stallion (with Steven Farley)

  Black Stallion books

  BY STEVEN FARLEY

  The Black Stallion’s Shadow

  The Black Stallion’s Steeplechaser

  A RANDOM HOUSE BOOK

  Copyright © 1996 by Steven Farley

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-41239

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80822-6

  RL: 5.9

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  v3.1

  For valuable advice and support, I’d like to thank my editor, Jenny Fanelli, and two of the film world’s most renowned horse trainers, Glen Randall Sr. and Corky Randall.

  To Val and Or

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgment

  Dedication

  Riders Up!

  The American Cup

  Replay

  Spooked

  Trust Me

  Rumors

  Tricks of the Trade

  Ellie

  Visitors

  Breakthrough

  Runaway

  Sabotage

  A Helping Hand

  Guessing Games

  More Surprises

  Risky Business

  Barrel Rider

  The PSA

  The Buzzer

  The Pieces Start to Fit Together

  Luck

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Riders Up!

  It was American Cup day at Santa Anna, the highlight of the winter racing season. Less than forty-five minutes remained before the race. Down in the windowless jockeys’ room, Alec Ramsay stood in front of his open locker. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The air tasted of saddle soap and sweat.

  Alec always felt a little uneasy before a big race, but today his stomach was doing flip-flops. He hoped the worry didn’t show. A mirror hung on the inside of the locker door. In the glass Alec could see his tanned face, high forehead and close-cropped red hair. Clear plastic riding goggles hung loosely from his neck. His expression gave away nothing despite the hollowness he felt inside.

  Aside from the banks of lockers lining the walls, the jockeys’ room looked and sounded like a subterranean recreation center. TV monitors hung from the ceiling. Game and card tables, installed to help the jockeys relax between races, were crowded. Small groups of tough, wiry men lounged about playing cards or Ping-Pong to pass the time. Like Alec, most wore long terry-cloth bathrobes. They bantered in Spanish and English.

  A replay of the sixth race flashed by on the closed-circuit TV monitors. Alec looked over to the nearest screen. His eyes followed the horses crossing the finish line, but his thoughts remained far away.

  The local papers were predicting an upset for his horse, the Black, in the American Cup race. Ordinarily Alec would think of such talk as a promotional gimmick to draw more fans to the track. But this time the sports gossip bothered him more than usual.

  No horse could keep winning races forever, Alec knew, not even the Black. The fact haunted him. Could he push his horse until the day some young giant-killer dealt the stallion a humiliating defeat? The current West Coast champion, an unbeaten colt named Ruskin, just might be the one to do it. Taking on Ruskin would have been tough even at Belmont or Aqueduct, Alec’s local New York tracks. Here on Ruskin’s home turf it could prove devastating.

  To make matters worse, Alec needed this race—and the $250,000 purse—badly. A win would pump up the prices for Hopeful Farm’s stock at the yearling sale next week back in New York. The Black was, in effect, representing all the other horses on the farm. If Alec’s family couldn’t get top dollar for their horses, it meant trouble for the financially strapped farm. Alec swallowed. His body felt tense and his throat was dry. Too much was at stake for this to be just another race.

  Picking up the light racing saddle and pads, Alec walked over to the scales to weigh out. The frail, white-faced clerk of the scales watched the needle swing to 110 pounds and steady. The clerk marked a piece of paper attached to his clipboard. “Okay, Ramsay, that’ll do,” he said, and motioned Alec to get down. “Next.”

  Some of the other riders in the seventh race were already making their way along the basement hallway. Alec passed the security guard posted at the door and followed after them. They climbed a worn staircase leading to ground level.

  As the jockeys filed into the paddock Alec caught sight of the Black. Never before was there such a magnificent horse, Alec thought. The Black was one of a kind.

  The Black’s trainer, Henry Dailey, walked the stallion back and forth in front of the dozen partitioned saddling stalls that ran the length of the paddock. Alec watched his horse move as if seeing him for the first time. The stallion held his small Arabian head high atop a long graceful neck joining a thoroughbred’s body. Sunlight glistened on the jet black of his coat. At seventeen hands the Black was a giant of a horse, a study in beauty and well-balanced muscles. Every part fit together perfectly. Henry put it simply: “The Black has what a horse is supposed to have and has it where a horse is supposed to have it.”

  The old trainer spotted Alec, and his impish blue eyes lit up. Alec smiled back. Aside from the difference in their ages, Alec and Henry were much alike. Between them was a bond as strong as blood—the love of horses, and of one horse in particular, the Black.

  Alec looked up at the tote board recording the wagering for the upcoming race. Despite the Black’s experience and near-flawless record, the odds makers favored Ruskin to win the American Cup today. Who could blame them? Earlier that season the colt had shattered track records at nearby Hollywood Park and Del Mar Racetrack outside of San Diego. One sportswriter said that Ruskin must have an Indy 500 car in his bloodlines.

  Ruskin was what every established champion feared most: a hard-charging up-and-comer hungry for victory. Alec saw him waiting patiently in his open-ende
d saddling stall. Ruskin’s copper-colored coat set off the curves and bulges of deep shoulders and a broad back. The coat seemed drawn too tight, as if he were outgrowing it. Thick layers of muscle filled out his tremendous neck and quarters. Ruskin’s jockey would be Hector Morales, a Santa Anna regular with a fine record of his own. Alec knew this was going to be a tight race, and he was getting more nervous by the second.

  “Take ahold there, Alec,” Henry said as he handed Alec the reins. Henry bent down to tighten the saddle’s girth strap. The Black raised a hind leg and stomped the ground. “Whoa,” Henry said firmly. The Black’s eyes were bright and alert. He dipped his head and restlessly chewed at the bit in his mouth. Alec faced his horse and gently rubbed the Black’s forehead.

  In and around the other saddling stalls owners and trainers smiled and talked together. Carrioca, the only filly in the field, was owned by Billy Mars, a famous rock-and-roll star. With his shoulder-length black hair and flashy white suit, Mars was attracting as much attention as his horse.

  “Riders up,” called the patrol judge. Henry gave Alec a boost, and the young jockey eased himself into his saddle. Morales was already atop Ruskin. The colt stepped out onto the walking ring to circle the paddock one last time before heading out to the track. Alec and Henry watched Morales ride by on the statuesque two-year-old. Ruskin moved gracefully and with deliberate strides, lifting and placing his hooves with perfect precision.

  Morales carried a whip tucked under his arm. “Take a good look, Ramsay,” he teased Alec. “ ’Cause all you gonna see in this race is my colt’s tail flappin’ in you face.”

  Henry scowled. “Wise guy,” the old-timer grunted. Alec pretended to laugh off the cocky comment. Morales had a reputation for being a joker. But whatever else people said about him, no one could deny that he was all pro, as was Ruskin’s trainer, Luke Larsen. Only one thing mattered to Larsen. Winning. For the Cup race, Larsen had coupled Ruskin’s entry with another colt, the sprinter Cielo Grande. To the bettors this was like getting two horses for the price of one.

  Both Henry and Alec noted the coupling of Cielo and Ruskin and guessed that Larsen planned to use Cielo as a pacesetter, a “rabbit.” When the front runners grew tired from chasing Cielo, Ruskin could make a come-from-behind charge down the homestretch. The strategy was as old as racing itself and perfectly legal. The apprentice jockey Tommy Canter had been chosen to ride the lanky gray Cielo. As an apprentice, Canter was entitled to carry less weight than the veteran riders, a valuable asset when riding a rabbit.

  Alec turned to Henry for any final instructions. Not that he needed them; it was more of a ceremonial gesture at this point in their careers. But today Henry knew something was bothering his jockey.

  “What’s the matter, kid? You okay?” Henry whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “I guess so,” Alec replied uneasily.

  “You guess?”

  “I’m okay,” Alec said.

  “Listen, Alec. Forget those stories in the paper. Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. Just ride the race the way she comes up. You know what to do.”

  Despite Henry’s confident words Alec could see the furrows deepen in the old trainer’s wrinkled brow. So the stories in the paper had gotten to him too. Henry looked as though he knew very well what was at risk here today.

  Cameras clicked as horses, jockeys and outriders filed onto the track for the post parade. By sheer size alone the Black and Ruskin stood out from the rest. The spectators oohed and aahed at the sight of the horses.

  The Black warmed up nicely in front of the grandstand, and some of Alec’s confidence began to return. The stallion was ready to race. Alec tested the spring in his stirrups, crouching forward above the Black’s neck. The Black eagerly responded to the shifting weight on his back until Alec pulled him up again.

  Earlier in the day the smog had lifted to reveal in the distance the rugged San Gabriel Mountains outside Los Angeles. They were a stunning backdrop, and Santa Anna was widely regarded as one of the most beautiful tracks in the country. Thousands of noisy spectators jammed the towering grandstands. At the end of the homestretch stood the ornately decorated clubhouse, surrounded by landscaped gardens and also packed with racing fans.

  As the warm afternoon sun moved behind the stands, it cast a long shadow down across the track and into the infield, where still more spectators thronged. Radios blared rock music in homage to Billy Mars and his filly. Beyond the spreading shadow some of the fans had stripped down to their bare backs to enjoy the warm sunshine. Here and there low-hanging clouds dotted the sky.

  The starting gate, a jangling network of slats, bars and doors, was pulled by a tractor to the beginning of the homestretch. Alec looked up and down the straightaway. The first part of the mile-and-a-half course would be a flat-out sprint down the homestretch in front of the stands. Then they would ride all the way around the racecourse and pass the stands a second time for the finish. To loosen up, Alec rode the Black beyond the start to the backstretch before returning to the gate.

  Alec eased the Black to the outside of the track and waited. Soon the metallic voice of the track announcer drifted his way on the breeze. “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are now entering the starting gate. One minute until post time.”

  The horses who had drawn the inside starting positions were loaded first. One by one the assistant starters led the nine horses to their stalls. Quickly the doors clanged shut behind them. In a moment the Black’s stall was before him and a starter waved him in. The stallion loaded easily into post position seven.

  Alec pulled his riding goggles over his eyes and found a spot to focus on at the far end of the straightaway. Carrioca banged impatiently against the walls of her padded stall. “Settle that filly down, Gill,” the starter ordered the filly’s jockey. The assistants climbed in and out of the gate like monkeys, trying to keep the horses still.

  Automatically Alec steadied the Black before he too began fidgeting. He rubbed the Black’s neck and whispered to his horse, “Wait for me.”

  The last stall door clicked shut. The outside horse was finally in place. Alec grabbed a fistful of mane. It would help him keep his balance in the early going. He pulled himself forward and braced for the break onto the track.

  A cloud passed over the sun and the shadows on the track disappeared. A brief moment of calm settled on the waiting horses. The starter hit the switch and the gates flew open. The American Cup was on!

  CHAPTER 2

  The American Cup

  The horses broke from the gate like a cavalry charge. Driving hooves scrambled for traction and tore up the racetrack. Hoofbeats exploded like gunfire. “Ya, ya, ya!” shouted the jockeys. Their horses surged ahead, blowing deep lungfuls of air through distended nostrils. Alec bounced to a crouch. The Black took two strides, dropped his head and stumbled! Dirt splattered onto Alec’s goggles. He sat tight and gave his horse time to collect himself.

  The Black fell to last place before finding solid footing and digging in. Alec moved his arms low to his horse’s neck and tucked himself into the streaming mane. His legs became shock absorbers locked into the stirrups. Hunching over, he felt the familiar surge beneath him like a surfer being picked up by a powerful ocean swell.

  As expected, the early lead belonged to Cielo, the “rabbit.” The apprentice jockey Tommy Canter was struggling to keep his balance astride the front runner. Morales eased off on Ruskin and dropped back to fourth place.

  Fractions flashed by on the tote board’s electronic teletimer. Alec counted the time in his head. He didn’t need to look at a clock to know how fast they were going. The pace was much too quick for a race this long. Any horses trying to keep up with Cielo would be exhausted by the time they reached the homestretch.

  The crowd of spectators had been on its feet since before the start of the race. The tumultuous roar from the stands, the wall of noise, sounded like a great wave about to crash down on the track. The Black moved up into the center of the horse
s as they crowded into the clubhouse turn. He wanted to keep going, but Alec checked him. The stallion shook his head, angered at being restrained.

  “Easy, Black, easy. Plenty of time,” Alec coaxed. He was rating his horse, saving the stallion’s best effort for last. The trick would be knowing when and where to move.

  Down the backstretch the furious pace began to take its toll. The gap narrowed between Cielo and the rest of the field. Alec slowly began to thread his way through the pack. Above the Black’s pitched ears he saw Ruskin, cruising along smooth and steady. He was a length ahead, in third-place position.

  Alec inched alongside Morales. The sculpted heads of Ruskin and the Black rose and dipped together as the horses rounded the far turn. On Alec’s cue the Black switched to a left lead and went for the bit. Alec let him have it. The message was telegraphed and received. Go!

  Alec and the Black blended together into one animal. In stride they became an unstoppable racing machine. Almost too easily the Black pulled past Ruskin and bore down on the tiring front runners, Major Martin and Cielo. The rushing wind fanned the bonfire burning in his heart. His hooves hammered the dirt. With one more surge of power the stallion moved past the others and into the lead unchallenged.

  Swift and easy came the Black’s strides. It was a perfect melding together of strength and unwasted motion. Alec adjusted his weight subtly. His black boots pressed tightly against the stallion’s upper back. He rocked in his seat to match the pumping motion of the Black’s shoulders and neck. The stallion’s mane whipped across his face as they dashed down the homestretch.

  Suddenly the sound of rushing hooves exploded from behind. Alec didn’t have to guess who the challenger would be. “Rus-kin! Rus-kin! Rus-kin!” came the chant from the stands.

  “Go get him, Hector!” Tommy Canter yelled to Morales.

  Ruskin closed in on the Black and pulled along the inside. The colt’s hooves skipped over the dirt and seemed to barely touch the track before taking off again. He was practically flying.