Impatiently, the starter turned to one of the two red-coated outriders who had led the post parade before turning over the field to him and his crew. The nearer outrider was just beyond the gate, waiting to catch any runaway. The starter thought that he might just tell him to get that red horse down to the gate. However, he didn’t have very much confidence in these track employees. Oh, the outriders tried hard enough and he supposed they had courage. But he doubted that they had the true skill to help out if trouble really started. It took a good horseman with many years of experience to stop a horse that was superior in speed to his own. Now back in the States he wouldn’t have hesitated a moment to order an outrider after that red horse. He finally decided that if he was to get this race off at all, he’d better not hesitate here, either. Take a chance on the track’s outrider. It was better than waiting any longer. He signaled to the man to bring the red horse down.
The starter watched the outrider go past the gate, eager enough but taking his horse along much too fast. He barked through the amplifier for him to slow down, and then finally to stop altogether.
The starter’s bushy eyebrows had drawn together in dismay. He had seen something unexpected in the red horse, a wild, trembling eagerness to fight that hadn’t been there before. “Forget him,” he told the outrider, nervously. “Get your horse back and leave him alone.”
When the outrider was safely away, the starter turned to the red horse again. He called to the hunched figure on the horse’s back, “I’m sending them off! Bring your horse down, if you’re going with them!” He used his most authoritative tone.
The starter watched the horse take a few steps forward. It was amazing enough that such a fractious animal was here at all, and more incredulous that his rider seemed to have him under some kind of control. The starter decided that he might get the field off without trouble if he put the red horse in the far end stall with three cages between him and the others.
As the red horse neared the gate, the starter could make out the jagged scars on his body. He took hold of his amplifier, clenching it hard. It couldn’t be, of course! But where else would a horse get such scars but in battle with other stallions?
“Take that Number Nine horse to the stall at the very end!” he shouted to the rider. “Don’t get him near the others!” His hand moved to the button that would open the stall doors. All he wanted to do was to start this race and catch the next plane home.
As Steve let the wet lines slip another inch between his fingers, and Flame approached the gate, he tried to keep the stallion’s attention on the barrier, telling him that the narrow alleyway before them was no different from the passageways on Azul Island.
Flame suddenly stopped, fearful, Steve thought, of the wire-mesh door at the front of the stall. He pawed at the criss-crossed shadow it made on the track in back of the gate. Steve let him alone, glad that it was the mesh door that held Flame’s interest and not the other horses. If he could only get him into the starting gate and then come out running …
A heavy silence had descended upon the stands and the track.
“It’s only a shadow, Flame. See how that man walks right through it. But he won’t come close to you. He won’t lead you into the stall as he’s done with the others. Don’t look at him, Flame. Look only at the shadow, then at the stall. That’s it. Go ahead now.”
Flame chose to jump over the criss-crossed pattern rather than walk through it. His leap took him into the stall, and he stopped abruptly, startled by the wire-mesh door in front of him.
Steve comforted Flame as best he could, but actually he welcomed the close confines of the cage for, like the shadow, it alone now held the stallion’s attention. And that was better than Flame’s becoming aware of the horses in the stalls to his left.
He urged Flame a little closer to the wire door, and the stallion took a step forward, his head extended toward the screen, his nostrils flared and sniffing.
Suddenly from directly behind them came the heavy thump of the cage’s back door being closed. Flame panicked at the loud noise. He reared and flung himself sideways against the padded stall. As he came down his forelegs struck the front door which gave easily as it was supposed to do in such emergencies. Startled by his easily won freedom, Flame reared again just as the starting bell rang and the other stall doors sprang open. From their cages emerged the famed horses of the world! The International had begun!
THE INTERNATIONAL RACE
18
Steve’s every reflex was committed to keeping his seat as Flame twisted in midair, turning toward the sudden uproar on his left. When the stallion came down, Steve had urgent need for the bitless bridle. He pulled the reins hard, trying to straighten Flame’s head and divert his attention from the onrushing field.
The horses swept past in the shape of a flying wedge, those late in breaking from the gate to the rear and jamming against each other while their jockeys screamed for racing room.
For a fraction of a second Flame stood flat-footed, his startled eyes following the tumultuous scene. He was aware of the pressure of hands and legs upon his body asking him to turn away, but above everything else he felt a mounting eagerness to do battle with those of his kind. He bolted after them, his shrill clarion call rising above the pound of many hoofs.
He did not rush headlong down the track. Instead his strides, while swift, were light and cautious. He continued screaming while waiting for one of the horses beyond to turn and accept his challenge. But they drew farther and farther away from him and he had to lengthen his strides. This caused his fury to mount still more, for he would have preferred that the fight be brought to him.
Steve knew that Flame had singled out the trailing gray horse to run down. He exerted more pressure, seeking to control his horse again. But Flame’s ears remained flat against his head, and there was no change in the direction his long strides were taking him.
The stands began to slip by on their far right, but Steve was not aware of the roaring crowd. Only the trailing gray horse held his attention as he sought to prevent Flame’s terrible onslaught of hoofs and teeth. His hands moved along the lines, constantly asking Flame to turn away. But the red stallion only leveled out still more.
The gray horse did not drop back as quickly as Steve had thought he would. In Blue Valley there was no horse to equal Flame’s swiftness, but here it was different. For generations these horses had been bred for speed alone.
Steve sat back, not wanting to help Flame in his chase to run down the gray. They swept beneath the finish wire for the first time, with a mile of the race to go. Steve’s hands and legs exerted more pressure on Flame, demanding now rather than asking. He had to get Flame to the middle of the track. Perhaps with no horse directly before him he would race!
But Flame knew no command but the one that came most inherently to him … to fight with teeth and hoofs, to kill or be killed! His strides came swifter and now he could almost reach his chosen opponent.
Steve mentally urged the gray on, at the same time trying desperately, with hands and legs, to break down the barrier of savagery that kept him from reaching Flame with his commands. He felt that if he were given just one slight opening he’d be able to control his horse again. He was certain that the bedlam at the start had so alarmed Flame that his horse wasn’t even aware that he, Steve, was on his back!
When he was merely a stride’s length behind the gray horse, Flame screamed again. Fury took hold of him when the gray did not even flick an ear in his direction. He stretched his head closer but his eyes were alert for any sudden move that might put him on the defensive. He drew alongside, wary now of the gray’s hind legs. He hesitated a second, wondering why the other stallion did not turn upon him so they could rise together in deadly combat.
A pinpoint of hope glowed within Steve at Flame’s hesitation. He felt Flame’s bewilderment at the gray stallion’s ignoring him so completely. He suddenly realized that Flame would find no willing opponent on this track, for the first and
foremost instinct of these horses was to race, just as Flame’s was to fight.
“Flame!” Steve called repeatedly into the flattened ears while his hands and legs worked harder than ever. If he could just get Flame’s attention! But his horse plunged forward, seeking with bared teeth to tear and ravage the gray.
Steve saw the flaying whip of the gray horse’s rider just before Flame was struck by it. Flame was so enraged he had eyes only for the horse. He wasn’t even aware of the man who rocked on the gray’s back, his leather whip moving rhythmically along his mount’s side without touching him.
Flame thrust his head into this pendulum of hard leather. He felt the searing pain on his muzzle and drew back, more startled than hurt. Associating the unexpected blow with his opponent, he swerved abruptly away as he had done in countless battles, seeking time before attacking again.
His sharp turn took him across the track, bringing him face to face with an adversary so overwhelming that he forgot everything else in his sudden alarm. Tier upon tier before him rose a screaming mass of humanity!
Steve, too, seeking to regain his balance, saw the sea of faces in the grandstand. Their voices drowned out the plop of Flame’s hoofs in the soft, moist dirt as the stallion plunged on in full flight. Then suddenly Steve was aware of the change that had come over Flame. He felt his horse’s fear of the great crowd, and at the same time he saw the outer rail rushing to meet them.
He pulled hard on the left rein while his right hand slipped quickly across Flame’s moving shoulder. He twisted his body, and for the first time since the race began Flame responded to his commands.
Without breaking stride Flame curved away from the stands and his speed blurred the faces of the spectators. Steve knew that Flame’s fear had enabled him to break through the barrier that had kept them apart. Yet the streaming white rail came ever closer, matching the speed of Flame’s swift turn. Steve bent more urgently to the left, seeking to narrow Flame’s running arc and to avoid crashing into the rail.
When he was only inches away from it Flame straightened out, but like a magnet the rail held horse and rider close for another long stride. Then Steve saw the rail slip beneath his raised right knee, moving as though alive upon his horse’s barrel. He felt the point of contact as soon as Flame did, the rail bending beneath the stallion’s weight but not breaking. It seared the length of Flame’s body before the stallion flung himself clear and bolted crazily toward the center of the track.
Steve made no attempt to stop him, knowing that his horse had not been injured, only burned by the friction of his running body against the wood. He tried to straighten Flame’s zigzag flight down the track. Finally the stallion’s head came up and there was a flick of the small ears when Steve called to him.
They approached the first of the long banked turns and Steve kept Flame high up on the graded dirt. He completely ignored the inner rail and the short inside way around the track, just as he ignored the racing horses far beyond. For flashing seconds he was aware only that Flame was listening to him again. It was as if they were back in Blue Valley, running for the sheer joy of running and being together. Steve rubbed Flame between the shoulder blades, then slipped forward and began asking him for more and more speed.
Back where the race had begun, the starter watched a tractor pull the gate from the track, leaving it clear for the horses when they came around again. That was the end of his job and he had little interest in the race itself. He barely listened to the call of the announcer when the horses came off the first turn.
“That’s Bismarck in front, followed closely by Slow Burn and Wellington. El Chico and Kingfisher are going wide. Mister Tim and Gusto are in a drive, coming up on the inside. Tout de Suite is …”
The sounds from the public address horn continued to crackle in the starter’s ears but he didn’t turn to the bunched field starting down the backstretch. Instead he walked across the track. Halfway to the outer rail he glanced toward the turn where the red horse which had caused all the trouble was being straightened out by his rider. Funny, that he should be watching him. Of course the horse wasn’t going to get even a call. He was well out of the race already. That was the way the track officials had meant it to be, he supposed. The red horse had been asked here to put on a show, and he surely had obliged!
The starter’s gaze followed the red horse, noting the way he stretched out going into the turn. No wasted effort there. He was really a very handsome horse, more beautiful by far than anything else on the track. But the starter remembered the scars on the stallion’s red body and was glad that he had been successful in getting the race off without an accident. He could go home any time now.
His disinterested eyes turned to the racing field beyond. To him it was just another horse race, regardless of what they called it or had tried to make of it with all the dramatics beforehand. Oh, there was plenty of speed out there, a world of it, one might say, he decided. But after forty years in the business he’d seen the fastest horses there were. He recalled especially the match race in Chicago when the Black had beaten Sun Raider and Cyclone. After seeing that one he doubted that he’d ever be thrilled by another race.
He cast another look at the red horse, which was seemingly under control now and being taken high on the turn by his rider. Come to think of it, the horse reminded him a little of the Black. Same kind of wildness to his action that a domesticated horse never had. He was lengthening out yet holding his head high in pretty much the same way, too. But there was no comparison in speed. The Black would have been running the others to the ground by now while the red horse wasn’t closing up any distance. Yet he wasn’t falling back either, and that was surprising since he was only supposed to be part of the pre-race show.
The starter shrugged his heavy shoulders and continued across the track. Before reaching the outer rail he turned to watch the red horse once more. It was very unusual that he should be thinking of that Chicago match race here in Cuba years later.
Steve took Flame around the turn, his eyes sweeping over the field moving down the backstretch. No longer could he hear the roar of the crowd or anything else but Flame’s hoofs lightly beating out a rhythm on the soft track. Suddenly the quiet was shattered by the call of the race announcer.
“Bismarck has increased his lead over Slow Burn, but on the far outside Kingfisher is moving up!”
Steve leaned more to the left, swaying with Flame into the graded turn. He took his horse over to the inner rail to save ground. He had never ridden Flame so fast yet they were not overtaking the field! Had he overestimated his horse’s speed? Could a wild stallion compete with horses which had been bred through generations for racing speed alone?
“Run, Flame! Run!”
Steve listened to the stallion’s snorts in response to his calls for more speed. He began pumping Flame with his legs, which he had never done before, and the snorts became louder. Only when they were on the straightaway did Flame quicken his strides. Steve felt the change that swept over the great red body when Flame saw the other horses far down the backstretch. He realized then what he had to do to make his horse run as he never had before.
“Go, Flame!” he screamed, kindling the fire of Flame’s natural hatred for those of his kind, encouraging him to run the others down! Only by taking advantage of the generations of breeding behind Flame could he hope to make a race of it. He felt the growing heat of the reins while his own blood surged crazily, making him unmindful of the possible consequences of his act. His body and hands were never still, his voice never quiet. He had but one goal and that was to bring out every bit of speed the stallion possessed.
Flame listened to the never-ending calls urging him to catch up with those ahead. He felt the quickening beat of the hands upon his neck and the burning lines that kept his head straight. He lengthened his strides to keep time with the maddening rhythm on his back.
His eyes never left the horses which were now dropping back as he ran faster and faster. He selected an opponent
. Just as he made his move to run him down there was a sudden twisting on his back. Then the lines seared his neck and he turned his head to relieve the pressure. Immediately his reddened eyes saw another horse still farther beyond. Again came the calls in his ear and the rhythmical beat of the hands against his body. He leveled out still more, needing greater speed to reach his newly selected opponent.
Steve waited until Flame neared the next horse, then once more he twisted on the stallion’s back, throwing his weight heavily to the outside. The reins in his hands were like throbbing arteries through which coursed his blood as well as Flame’s.
Steve straightened Flame’s head so his horse could see the brown stallion running in the middle of the track. Every move was planned. He was encouraging Flame to attack and attack again while they went ever closer to the front.
The announcer said, “Going into the far turn it’s still Bismarck by three lengths. Kingfisher is on the far outside, passing Slow Burn and Wellington. Flame is now going up with Kingfisher….”
The official starter had not left the track as he had intended doing. As though hypnotized, he had watched the beginning of Flame’s mad rush down the backstretch. He had seen the huddled figure on the horse’s back suddenly begin to rock wildly. Then the horse had exerted more speed, the rhythm of his strides finally matching that of his rider’s movements. After that the rider had sat still, so still he seemed barely conscious of what was happening … except at times. One of the times was when he had twisted his body as the red stallion overtook Mister Tim, another when the horse had sought to ravage Gusto and now when he had pulled him wide around the others and the red stallion was going after Kingfisher!
The Island Stallion Races Page 16
