“Please go slower then,” Steve repeated, “and miss the bumps. I’m having a hard enough time as it is keeping Flame still.”
“Sure, Steve.”
There was a slackening of speed and an end to the jostling. Steve stroked Flame’s neck.
“All right back there?” Jay asked later.
“Much better,” Steve answered.
“If there’s anything else, just tell me, Steve. You must remember that all this is very new to me. But I enjoy driving. I really do.”
Steve continued talking to Flame while listening to Jay. He didn’t mind the man’s incessant chatter. Anything was better than just waiting. It wouldn’t be long now … an hour at the most, Jay had said.
“Even with the sun out it’ll be a wet track,” Jay called. “But I guess Flame won’t mind, will he?”
“No, he won’t mind.”
Jay chuckled. “I don’t imagine Kingfisher will like it, though. Their feet are weak enough without having to cope with such footing.”
Kingfisher was the famed handicap champion from the United States, Steve recalled. Last night Jay had told him that this great horse would be in today’s race. Steve had heard of Kingfisher long before he’d ever known Jay. At home one didn’t read about racing without being aware of Kingfisher’s unchallenged crown.
“This is a horse, not a bird,” Steve reminded Jay.
“Oh, I know that, all right,” Jay answered. “But there must have been some reason for naming him after a bird. Perhaps it was because of his feet, Steve. I’ll know better when I see him.”
Steve rubbed Flame’s nose, and noticed that his hand was shaking a little. Sure, he was nervous. Wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world to wonder if every move he made in the race would come instinctively, without thought or plan? It was no time to try to recall all he’d read about racing a horse, of blind switches and holes. Yesterday he’d been able to think, to plan. Today every attempt was futile, and his only hope was that it would be different once he rode Flame onto the track. He realized too that in spite of all the other horses and the great crowd, it would be, for him, the loneliest place in the world.
“Steve, Steve, what’s the matter back there?”
“Nothing, Jay.”
“You haven’t answered any of my questions. You haven’t said a word.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was wondering if we couldn’t go a little faster now. It’s getting so late, and we don’t have much time.”
Steve listened to the wheels turning on the pavement, and wondered how long they’d been off the dirt road. “Sure, go ahead,” he said. “But take it easy on the turns. And no sudden stops, Jay.”
The truck lurched forward but Steve and Flame kept their feet. Jay talked of the great thrill it would be for him to watch the International. It would give him something to remember for a long, long time.
Steve was no longer listening to him. He heard only the hum of rubber tires, turning faster now, taking him and his horse closer and closer to El Dorado Park and all that awaited them.
Later came the sound of traffic on either side of the truck, and Steve knew they were approaching the city of Havana. The truck stopped often, only to plunge forward again. Jay had no feeling for the release of the clutch pedal.
Steve didn’t go near the cab window. He did not want to see anything until it was time to leave the truck. It would be easier that way. He touched his face and wondered what he looked like. Jay had rubbed some kind of liquid over his skin and into his hair just before they had left. Steve turned his hands over, palms upward. These too Jay had treated, but only lightly. He hadn’t rubbed the liquid in as he had done on Steve’s face and scalp.
Steve noticed that while the color of his hands was the same as before, they had changed during the last hour. It seemed that they had grown, not in length but in breadth. He looked at them more closely and was sure of it. They were broad and flat with large knuckles, the hands of a man, not a boy … hands that had known many years of hard work.
Yet when Steve flexed his fingers they felt no different than before.
Again he touched his face, remembering Jay’s words, “Take my word for it that no one will ever recognize you, Steve. It’s important, of course, as they’ll be taking pictures.”
The truck swayed but Steve’s hands remained on his face. He touched his nose. It was big, and the opening of his nostrils was large and round. His cheekbones seemed lower than they had any right to be, and there were deep lines in his face.
For a moment he was startled by the thought of what Jay must have done to him! Then Flame pushed his soft muzzle forward, and Steve realized that nothing about him had really changed as long as his horse knew him.
The truck stopped again, and while waiting for the traffic light to change Jay said, “We’re almost at the track, Steve. Is everything all right?” Turning around, he looked through the cab window and studied the boy’s eyes. Then he said, “Don’t be concerned about how you look, Steve. It’ll only last a few hours.”
Steve said, “There’s only one thing I’m concerned about, and it isn’t my face.”
Jay chuckled. “Don’t worry about the race, Steve. Just get him out in front and keep him there.”
“Sure,” Steve said, “just like that.”
The light changed and Jay was facing front again. “Just like that,” he agreed.
The next time the truck stopped they were within El Dorado Park. Steve heard the neighs and nickers of horses and Flame became restless. The stallion’s nostrils were spread wide, and when he screamed the shrillness of his whistle within the close confines of the truck was deafening.
“Easy, Flame,” Steve said urgently.
But there was no quieting Flame now with the scent of other horses all around him. He tried to raise his head, and Steve had all he could do to keep him from striking the roof.
“Jay!” he called. “I must get him out of here soon.” He wondered if he really expected it to be any easier once they were out of the truck.
“We’re parked behind the barns, Steve. We must wait for Mr. Santos before unloading Flame. He wanted it that way.”
The stallion moved uneasily beneath Steve’s hands. “Don’t you see Mr. Santos anywhere, Jay?” Steve asked impatiently. “Maybe he’s forgotten all about us.”
“No, not Mr. Santos, Steve. Don’t worry so. We have five minutes before post time, and this is the way it was arranged. We’re to make a dramatic entrance, Steve, after the introduction of the other horses. We’re part of the show, and Mr. Santos won’t forget us. He thinks of himself as being a superb showman.”
Steve said bitterly, “Part of his show but not the race.”
“Yes,” Jay agreed, “that’s about the way he figures it. Flame is to provide a bit of last-minute interest and color before the great race itself. After that we’re not very necessary to Mr. Santos.”
Flame gathered himself to rear, and Steve moved quickly, keeping him down.
“I do wish you’d come to the window and look at the crowd in the stands, Steve. I’ve never seen anything like it! And I believe … yes, the horses are now coming onto the track. Oh, I do hope Mr. Santos has not forgotten all about us! Perhaps we’d better unload Flame, Steve.”
Steve heard the cab door open and then Jay called in relief, “Here comes Mr. Santos now. Are you all set, Steve?”
The tailgate was lowered and Steve led Flame toward it. He was set as he ever would be. The waiting was over. Don’t look at anyone but Flame. He’s your only concern now.
Flame followed him quickly off the truck, and Steve removed the red cooler, tossing it to Jay. He saw Mr. Santos step back hurriedly as Flame reared to his utmost height.
Steve knew that only then did the man realize what kind of a horse he had accepted for the International. The color of Flame’s eyes changed to red at sight of the horses in the adjacent barns. And when he screamed his high-pitched clarion call of challenge, it carried bey
ond the stable area to the stretch where eight world-famous horses paraded to the post.
When the scream died down, Steve heard Mr. Santos blabbering wildly to Jay. But whatever he was saying went unheeded. Steve raised his knee to Jay’s clasped hands and was boosted onto Flame’s back. He gave Flame his head, and the stallion went forward eagerly, his bright eyes fixed on the parading horses.
POST PARADE
17
High above Flame’s craned head Steve saw the television cameras set up on the roof of the overflowing grandstand. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to look at anything but his horse and the track directly before them.
The footing was not as heavy as he had expected it to be after the long night of rain. The track had drained well, and that, together with a hot afternoon sun and the pounding hoofs of horses in preceding races, had made it a good track, almost fast.
He tried to pretend that he was back in Blue Valley. There was nothing ahead but a long run around the walled amphitheater of yellow, towering stone; they were alone except for the band of mares that would scatter at Flame’s swift approach. If he could make believe it was that way, it would help. At least until they were off and running. Then he could let himself think of the race itself, hoping to make the right moves. If he could just get Flame out in front early, clear of all the other horses and running, then … yes, then there would be nothing to this race but a great red stallion.
Steve buried his head a little more in Flame’s heavy mane, and he kept repeating, “Easy, boy. Easy now. There’s no hurry. No hurry at all.”
The sodden sand and clay slipped by in endless waves beneath the red stallion’s ever lengthening strides. He snorted often but uttered no shrill call of angry defiance and challenge.
Steve took up more line, winding the reins about his fingers so they would not slip. Yet there was no slackening of Flame’s strides, and Steve sensed in his horse a mounting eagerness to do battle with other stallions.
Steve’s legs moved simultaneously with his hands and lips. “Around, Flame,” he called. “All the way around.”
He felt the tightening of Flame’s muscles against the pressure of his legs. Flame knew what he was being asked to do, and still he did not respond.
Steve exerted more pressure with his legs, knowing that he could do no more than ask and then ask again. There was no forcing a horse like Flame. No battle of strength or wills. He could only hope that Flame would want to do what he asked of him. Their love for each other had to be greater than the stallion’s wild instinct to fight. If not, the race would be over before it had begun, so far as they were concerned.
The first break in stride came with the sudden, metallic voice of the announcer over the public address system. The sound startled Flame, and Steve, taking advantage of this, was able to turn the stallion’s head toward the outer rail.
The announcement was given first in Spanish, then in English. “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are now approaching the starting gate,” the announcer said. “Number One is Gusto from Italy. Number Two is Kingfisher from the United States. Number Three is Slow Burn, also from the United States. Number Four is Wellington from England….”
Steve managed to turn Flame a little more. There was no lessening of the pressure of his legs or the urgency in his voice as he said softly, “Keep going, Flame. I want you all the way around.”
The red stallion was in the center of the track, his strides slowing.
“… Number Five is Tout de Suite from France. Number Six is Bismarck from Germany. Number Seven is El Chico from Chile….”
Steve had Flame all the way around now, facing the backstretch again. “Good boy,” he said. “Slow and easy now. We have lots and lots of time.” He wanted to wait until the other horses were in their starting stalls, out of the way, making it easier for him to take Flame down to the gate.
“Number Eight,” the announcer continued, “is Mister Tim from Ireland. Number Nine is …”
There was a pause and for an instant Steve stopped talking to his horse. Here it comes, he thought. For the first time on any track. If they only knew … if they only knew!
“Number Nine,” the announcer repeated, “is Flame from the Windward Islands. He’s been excused from the post parade and can be seen on the far turn. The horses are now in the hands of the starter, ladies and gentlemen, with one minute before post time.”
Only the distant rumble of the tremendous crowd could be heard then. Suddenly above the roar Steve heard Jay’s high-pitched voice calling him and then he saw the little man running across the track’s infield. He had never seen Jay’s legs move so fast before.
Nearing the rail, Jay shouted, “Go back and race, Steve. Hurry!” He waved his cane at them, and Flame, seeing it, shied across the track.
“Put your cane down,” Steve called angrily. “I want to wait until the others are in the gate. It’s the only …”
“I don’t care what you’ve planned,” Jay interrupted. “Don’t keep them waiting a minute. Every second counts now. It’s terribly important. Hurry, Steve, hurry!”
Steve got Flame over to the rail, and only then was he near enough to take a good look at Jay’s face. First he was aware of nothing but a deep reddish color that distorted every feature. Then before his eyes Jay’s face became nothing but a nebulous fiery swirl which spoke to him, the voice matching the terror that was in the blurred image. “You must hurry or I’ll be left behind….”
Steve was already turning Flame, and as he rode him away Jay’s thought message reached him, as clear and distinct as his spoken words had been.
“I’ve heard from Flick. Something has happened, and the others are returning to the ship today. We’re leaving, and if I shouldn’t get back in time …”
The message faded, and Steve heard only the increased pounding of Flame’s hoofs as he urged him faster and faster toward the starting gate. Then suddenly Jay’s thought message came again, fainter this time. “I won’t leave you here alone, Steve, but you must hurry, hurry, hurry….”
Steve leaned forward as his horse went into the turn. “Run, Flame, run!” he called, his own words echoing the urgency of Jay’s message. He didn’t want to be left behind, either!
Alongside the starting gate and just off the track, the official starter stood on a high platform watching the red horse come around the far turn. The man’s heavy eyebrows swept upward in astonishment and then he shook his head. His voice was awesome and threatening as he called to a member of his ground crew, “Bert, go meet that fool rider! Slow him down!”
The starter turned back to the gate and to his immediate problem of quieting the horses which were already inside the stalls. The padded doors were being closed behind Gusto but the big brown gelding was trying to back out.
“Straighten his head, Cellini. Keep him in there,” he barked through his amplifier to Gusto’s rider.
The Italian jockey shouted back at him but the starter couldn’t understand a word since Cellini spoke his native tongue. The starter turned his attention to the Number Five horse, the gray from France who was backjumping in back of the gate, refusing to go into the narrow alleyway that was his stall.
“Get that Tout de Suite horse inside, Joe,” he rasped at another of his ground crew, “but don’t upset him. Easy, now.”
The French jockey was screaming something too, but as with Cellini the starter couldn’t understand a word. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness, and wished that he had never taken this job of starting such a race. Back in the States he could keep jockeys in line, but not these jibbering riders who were supposed to understand and speak English, and didn’t!
The jockey on El Chico was making as much noise as the rest of them and, of course, was speaking his language. The fellow up on Bismarck, the German horse, was the only quiet one in the bunch, and that included the two jocks from the States. But at least he could understand those two.
Braddish up on Kingfisher was screaming, “No chance! No c
hance!”
Of course there was no chance of his opening the gate yet. He had no intention of sending them off without that Number Nine horse. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “I’ll do the talking!”
Anxiously the starter turned to see what was holding up Number Nine. The red horse had been brought to a stop by his rider a short distance away, and was now rearing high on his hind legs. The sight sickened the starter. No wonder Bert wasn’t going any closer! The crewman, his arms raised high, stood in the middle of the track a good twenty feet away from the horse.
As if he didn’t have enough trouble without this! the starter thought. He fingered the button that would cut the current from the magnets holding the front doors of the gate shut. All he had to do was to touch it and the race would be on without Number Nine.
He realized that the great stands were suddenly quiet, so he was not alone in his amazement that the red horse should be here at all. Of course, that animal couldn’t be what he looked like … a wild, unbroken stallion. Not here in such a race. He must be just part of the show, and a very spectacular show it had been with the field parading in the flag colors of their respective countries. But the starter was very tired of all these preliminaries. He wanted to send the horses off, as he’d been paid to do, and then go home.
“Bring that Number Nine horse down, Bert,” the starter barked through the amplifier. “Don’t be afraid of him.” He had decided not to send the field off without the red horse. After all, difficult as the job might be, he had his reputation to maintain.
The more the starter looked at the red horse the more convinced he became that the animal was part of the show. A very beautiful horse, with fine classic features … too fine to be a race horse, really. He wore nothing but a rope hackamore with two long golden tassels hanging from it. His rider was sitting bareback and wore no silks, just T-shirt and jeans. Strange, very strange indeed. But the starter was not one to question what went on so long as there was no trouble at the gate. There was no doubt that this horse was being brought under control by his rider. However, he would like to have seen a bit in the stallion’s mouth. He wished, too, that the jock would bring him down to the gate. Bert, apparently, wasn’t going any closer in spite of his orders. He’d settle with Bert later.
The Island Stallion Races Page 15
