“Briefly, the money will be sewn in a purse, which will be given to the winner immediately following the race. It’s the way they did it long ago, and that’s how the term ‘purse’ originated in racing terminology. You’ve no idea the amount of publicity we’ve received since the story went out.”
“I guess I haven’t,” Jay said quietly. And how convenient, he thought, for him and Steve. All they had to do was to collect the purse after the race and leave. Lovely, just lovely … and so convenient.
The Publicity Director continued, “Go along with me, Eduardo, on this one last request before tomorrow’s race. An unknown horse from the Islands is just what we need to stimulate further world interest in our race. I can have the news release sent out this afternoon. Every wire service, every radio and television station will carry it!” He waved his arms in the air, and Jay was reminded of the long, flopping wings of a heron in flight.
Resignedly the Race Secretary returned to his desk. “I must see this horse first,” he said in a very tired voice. “Where is he, Mr. Van Oss?”
Jay jumped to his feet. “Not far from here,” he said. “I have a taxi waiting. Come along.”
THE WAITING
15
Steve slid off the bale of straw on which he had been sitting, and went to the door again. Still no sign of Jay, and the sun was close to setting. For a moment he watched the wind chase the heavy ragged clouds across the sky. It could rain either tonight or tomorrow.
He closed the door, shutting out the dying brilliance of the sun, and returned to Flame. The stallion had his head over the stall door, eyes alert as he watched every move Steve made.
Steve said, “Wet footing wouldn’t make any difference to you. I wonder about the others?”
All day long he had thought of nothing but the race, preparing Flame and himself for it. Soon after Jay’s departure he had cast aside any doubts and uncertainties as to their racing in the International. A man who had taken them this far would not be stopped by the conditions of a race. It was only a matter of waiting, and soon—tomorrow—the waiting would end.
“It’ll be up to us alone then, Flame … just you and me. No Jay to help us once we’re on the track. But we’ll go just as we do in Blue Valley. Oh, it’ll be different, a lot different, for both of us. There’ll be noise and people … and other stallions too, Flame. But you’ll do what I ask, won’t you?”
Flame let go a couple of kicks against the wooden sides of his stall, and then reached over the half-door, taking hold of Steve’s shirt in play.
Steve patted him, at the same time thoughtfully eyeing the bitless bridle which hung from a peg beside the door. It would be of some help in guiding Flame once the stallion stepped onto the track. But he must not put too much confidence in the bridle. Only his voice and hands, his love for Flame and the stallion’s love for him would keep the great horse under control. Even then … yes, even then nothing was certain. He had no assurance that Flame would listen to him as he always had done before. The sight of other stallions, Flame’s natural instinct to fight, might well bring on insurmountable problems. But it was a risk he had to take, and he accepted the challenge willingly.
He rubbed the stallion’s muzzle and Flame released his shirt without drawing back. “I want the world to see how fast you are, Flame,” he said softly. “I don’t think you’ll mind at all once we get going. You’ll be as anxious to beat them as I am. Once we’re on our way you’ll know what it’s all about. You’ll race because it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to do.”
He believed everything he told Flame. He was impatient for Jay to return, for the night to pass, for the moment when he would ride Flame onto the track. It was the waiting that he hated.
As he looked at the hackamore again, he wished for a moment that it were an ordinary bridle that hung there. If it had been he could have undone all the fasteners, separating every movable part; then he could have spent a lot of time carefully cleaning each piece of leather with sponge and soap. It would have kept him busy. It would have helped a lot.
He took down the bitless bridle, his hands fingering the long tassels that were as fine as spun gold. He examined the breathing, living fibers as he turned the hackamore over, searching for any marks of sweat that might have stained it during the morning ride or any grains of sand that might cause Flame discomfort when he wore it again. But the bitless bridle was as unsoiled as on the day Jay had given it to him. His hands tightened about it, and a warmer, deeper red flooded the fibers. He was comforted by the warmth, but still he wished it were an ordinary bridle so he might have spent some time in cleaning it.
Finally he put it back on the peg, and turned again to Flame. For a moment he thought of unbraiding the stallion’s long forelock and doing it over again. But he had already done that three times. Lightly he pushed Flame’s head a little to the side so he could look into the stall. The bedding was clean, so there was nothing to be done there, either.
Across the stallion’s back, just draping his barrel, was the folded red cooler Jay had brought along. Steve thought of pulling it up around Flame’s neck, then rejected the idea. The stallion hadn’t minded the blanket earlier and there was little likelihood of his objecting to it now.
For want of anything better to do, Steve went into the stall and, drawing the cooler high up, pinned it snugly around Flame’s neck. Flame nipped at the edges, then lost interest. A new idea had come to him. He wanted to leave the stall.
“Not now,” Steve said. “Not until tomorrow.”
Flame stepped around him, and the draped blanket billowed and changed color with his movements. Steve thought of the room again, and the great tapestries hanging on the walls. Uneasy, he removed the cooler from Flame’s back. The weather was too warm for it anyway, and there were no drafts in the shed.
He was turning away from the stall when the door of the shed opened and Jay stepped inside. Steve was about to run toward him when he noticed the two strangers standing in the doorway behind Jay.
With a gesture, Jay signaled to Steve to move away from the stall, and then he said graciously to the men, “Come in, gentlemen. Here he is.”
Steve did as he had been bid, seeking enlightenment in Jay’s eyes. But Jay avoided his gaze, and now spoke only in Spanish so Steve couldn’t understand a word that was said. He saw the men approach the stall with Jay to look at Flame. They didn’t go too close for Flame had his ears swept back. Yet they were anxious to see his body and legs, for they stepped to one side, peering into the stall.
Jay turned on the light so they could get a good look at Flame. The two men were pleased with what they saw, Steve could tell, for they nodded in agreement to almost everything Jay said. It was Jay who did all the talking, and not once did the visitors pay any attention to Steve. The gaunt, gangling man was especially impressed with Flame, for being taller he had a better view of the inside of the stall. His eyes were bright and he kept rubbing his long, bony hands together vigorously.
Steve wondered who they were and why Jay had brought them, but he knew better than to ask just then. He moved farther away from them, knowing it was what Jay wanted of him.
Finally the visit neared its close, and there was a brief discussion among the three as they turned from the stall and walked slowly to the door.
Steve waited until they were outside, then went to the door himself. From where he stood he saw the taxi, and the two men shaking hands with Jay. The smaller of the visitors wore a sober expression, but he seemed to be in full agreement with his friend. Steve wished he understood Spanish. Well, soon Jay would explain what it all meant.
The men stepped into the taxi, and the door closed behind them. Jay gave the driver a bill, and called, “Hasta la vista,” to the departing visitors.
As the driver looked at the bill Jay had given him, he exclaimed, “Mil gracias, Señor!… Mil gracias!”
Jay waved them off, then turned to Steve. For a moment he just looked at the boy, his face seeming to glow
from the unusual brightness of his eyes. There was no need for Steve to ask if the trip to Havana had been successful.
“We’re in, Steve!” Jay finally said.
“I know,” the boy answered. “All I have to do is look at you to know.”
“Of course, of course,” Jay agreed jubilantly.
Together they walked into the shed, and Jay flung his black hat onto the bale of straw. “They had to see Flame before they’d agree to his starting in the International. Think of it, Steve,” he went on, “they were afraid he might not look well in the post parade! That was their only worry, for they don’t consider an untried horse as a serious contender in such a race. Oh, what a surprise they’ll get, Steve … especially that Mr. Santos! He was the one who looked so much like a heron, you’ll recall. And in his mind the only reason our horse has been accepted is that it will give him a chance to write some good publicity stories tonight. But it’s just as well for us that Mr. Santos is thinking along those lines; otherwise we might not be racing tomorrow.”
“What is he going to do?” Steve asked.
“Mr. Santos is going to tell the world that an unknown, unproven horse will face the champions in tomorrow’s great International.”
“Oh, Jay …” Steve began, the color leaving his face.
“Don’t worry,” Jay said quickly. “I told him nothing about Flame or you. Furthermore, Steve, he didn’t want to know anything. That’s part of it. The mystery, I mean. That’s the angle Mr. Santos is depending upon to gain publicity in the newspapers, radio and on television. An unknown horse from the Windward Islands will race against the world’s fastest horses! A late entry! An Island Stallion! Oh, that Mr. Santos knows his job, all right. Why, he’s even arranged to hang the purse money from the finish wire. This race has been tailor-made for us, Steve … and so has Mr. Santos!”
Too many facts in too short a time. Steve walked to the back of the shed. He didn’t want to hear any more. That he and Flame were to race the next day was enough.
Jay’s voice became louder, but Steve tried not to listen.
“I’m sorry that it was necessary to be discourteous and ignore you when I arrived, Steve. But you see, I didn’t want them to take a good look at you. No one must be able to recognize you later as the person who rode Flame in the big race. Tomorrow morning I’ll fix you up so your own mother wouldn’t know you.”
Details, important details, all of which Jay enjoyed doing so much. But to Steve, just then, nothing mattered except the actual running of the race.
“I must go to the village now,” Jay continued excitedly, “and rent a truck for tomorrow. I hope you won’t mind being left alone again, Steve.”
“No, I don’t mind … not at all.”
Jay had not been gone very long when the sky darkened and a peal of thunder came rolling in from the sea. Steve listened to it, wondering if the storm would break before Jay reached the village. Jay would hate to get his fine clothes wet. And would he have enough foresight to get a closed truck in case it continued to rain the next day?
The shed was illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, and then swift angry pellets of rain began falling on the tin roof. Steve’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he made out Flame’s head over the stall door. He went to him as the lightning came again and the storm in all its fury burst upon them.
The rain didn’t stop until shortly after Steve awakened the next morning. He watered Flame, then went to the shed door, opening it to look at the gray, sweeping clouds. There was little chance of the sun’s breaking through such an overcast. Parked near the shed was the small closed van which Jay had driven home the night before during the storm. They had bedded it down well with straw. It was ready for Flame.
He returned to his horse, offering him a bale of hay through which the stallion sniffed, searching for the particular grasses that pleased him most. As he pulled them forth, chewing slowly, his eyes remained on Steve.
The boy said, “I know you’d rather go outside and graze, so let’s do it.”
A few minutes later he led Flame from the shed. He took him over to the truck, and with flared nostrils and bright eyes Flame walked around it, sniffing the sides.
Then Steve mounted his horse, his hands light on the reins as he took him down the driveway.
“Easy, Flame. No running this morning.”
Turning into the road, he let Flame go into a slow, easy gallop and his bare hoofs made soft, sucking sounds in the mud. The stallion asked for more rein but didn’t demand it. The wind had freshened and Flame held his head high, enjoying his early morning exercise. His strides gradually lengthened and he chose the side of the road that was fetlock-deep in mud. Not once did he falter or slip.
Steve needed no reassurance of Flame’s ability to handle himself in such footing. He had only to think of Blue Valley and the many times he had ridden his horse through the slimy, dangerous marsh to know there were few animals in the world more sure-footed than Flame.
He wondered about the other horses in the race. Would they take to this kind of going?
“Easy, Flame,” he said again.
The stallion listened to Steve and there was no further lengthening of his strides. Steve stroked him, and turned him off the road, guiding him to the place where Flame had found the grass most to his liking the day before. Dismounting, Steve walked alongside his horse. He was glad to be away from the shed, for it helped in the matter of waiting. He wondered how long Jay would sleep this morning, and what time they would leave for Havana. Probably not until shortly after noon, for Jay had said last night that they shouldn’t get there much before the race.
Post time was at three o’clock. Soon the waiting would come to an end.
Steve took his time returning to the shed, walking Flame all the way back. There was no sign of Jay when he arrived. The house was quiet and the shades were drawn. If Jay was waiting for the sun to awaken him this morning he would sleep a long time. The sky hadn’t changed from its earlier leaden gray, although the force of the wind had abated.
As Steve lowered the tailgate of the van, he let it fall with a loud bang, hoping the noise would wake Jay.
“Come, boy,” he said, leading Flame to the tailgate. It was a steeper ascent than Steve would have liked for his horse but an easy climb compared to some of the trails over which he had ridden Flame. He was confident the stallion would follow him.
Flame hesitated at the foot of the tailgate, his eyes searching the dark interior of the van. It was this that bothered him, Steve knew. He made his way up into the van and then stood inside, slowly moving the lines. “Come, Flame,” he repeated.
The stallion’s forelegs moved onto the wood, and then he stopped again, looking past Steve. Again the boy called him, and after a short pause there was a quick lurching of his body as he gathered himself for the ascent. He raised his head a little too high when he reached the top, and bumped into the roof. For a second he was alarmed by the sudden blow and the close confines of the truck. He sought to rear but Steve held his head down, talking to him all the while.
Finally Steve led him farther into the truck, carefully holding Flame’s head so that it could not be raised as high as the stallion would have liked. The truck wasn’t meant for hauling horses as tall as Flame. But there was no exchanging it now, and perhaps there was none other in the village that was more suitable anyway.
Steve remained with Flame for a long while, letting his horse look around to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. He gave Flame a little more line, so that the stallion might stretch his head a little higher and find out for himself just how far he could go. Soon Flame was content to keep his head lower than he usually carried it, and began sniffing the straw.
It was almost noon and Flame was back in his stall when Jay entered the shed, still in pajamas and bathrobe.
“Steve,” he said, “you should have awakened me. I had no idea it was so late. I thought surely I’d hear you in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t go to the kitchen,” Steve said.
“You mean you haven’t eaten?”
“I haven’t even thought about it.”
“Then you come with me, and fast, Steve. This is no day to go without food! You’ll need every bit of strength you possess. Come on, now.”
Steve watched the small man in the bright blue bathrobe scurry to the door in his fast, bouncing gait. There Jay stopped. “Come on, Steve,” he repeated. “We really haven’t much time for all we have to do.”
Steve followed him. That was just it … they didn’t have much time. And that was why he couldn’t eat at all.
OFF TO THE RACES
16
As the truck left the village the sky cleared and the sun made its appearance.
Jay, dressed as immaculately as on the day before, with his silver-headed cane on the seat beside him, drove faster and faster down the road. Without glancing back at the open window of the cab he said, “The sun’s out, Steve!”
“Is it?” Steve couldn’t tell much about the weather from inside the truck. He stood beside Flame, holding the lines tight for fear the stallion would raise his head too high and strike the roof again. As it was, Flame didn’t like the semi-darkness of the truck nor the jostling they were taking over the bumpy road.
Jay called, “It’ll mean a great crowd there to see you go.”
The truck lurched and Steve had trouble keeping his feet. He touched Flame and found him sweaty from uneasiness, so he put the red cooler over him.
“Go slower,” he told Jay angrily, “or no one will see us go! You’re not driving a car.”
“But, Steve, everyone drives this way. I watched very closely yesterday.”
“Cubans aren’t the best drivers in the world.”
“They’re not? You mean there are other ways to drive a car?”
“Slower ways,” Steve said, still angry. “If you don’t take it easier, Jay …”
“Now don’t get mad, Steve. After all, I didn’t know. You’re the one who lives on this planet.”
The Island Stallion Races Page 14
