The Black Stallion's Filly, Page 2

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “Now come up and take Napoleon down.”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  Moving up the ramp, Alec took the gray horse by the halter and rubbed his muzzle. “Hi, boy,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  Henry stood on the other side of Napoleon. He wore his battered hat and his brow was wet with sweat. “You take him to the second paddock, then come back an’ help me with Satan.”

  Alec smiled. “You take it easy now, Henry. You’re home. Everything is all right.”

  Henry’s gray eyes, still so very worried, met his young friend’s for the first time. “I just don’t want him to hurt himself getting down.”

  “He won’t and you know it. You never saw a horse so easy to load and unload as Satan.”

  Henry’s gaze dropped. “Yeah,” he said. “But get along with you now.”

  Fat and well groomed, but his back sagging with old age, Napoleon whinnied as Alec led him through the van’s door. His hoofs came down on the matting calmly and deliberately, his step like that of an old gentleman leaving his favorite club. He whinnied again when he saw the familiar paddocks and barns, and moved a little faster.

  When Alec returned to the van, Henry had Satan in the doorway.

  “Alec, you check that mat again. Napoleon might have loosened it some.”

  Resignedly the two men stepped away from the ramp while Alec went over it again. “It’s fast, Henry,” he said finally.

  Satan stood quietly at Henry’s side with only his large eyes showing any evidence of his excitement at being home. His fiery gaze followed Napoleon as the gray horse moved ponderously about the second paddock.

  Henry was talking to Satan, moving him onto the ramp. The horse never hesitated. He walked as carefully, as deliberately, as had Napoleon.

  Henry wiped his wrinkled brow when he had Satan safely on the ground, then he turned to the two men. “Slim,” he said, “you an’ Harry stick around a few more minutes before you go. I want you two up at the far end of the paddock when I set him loose. I want you to wave him down if he works up too much speed. Don’t let him run into the fence an’ hurt himself.”

  “Sure, Henry,” one driver said, shrugging his shoulders. “We got time since you’re payin’ for it.”

  When the men had left for the far end of the paddock, Henry turned to Alec. “You and I will stay at this end. We can’t be too careful, y’know.”

  “No, we can’t,” Alec agreed. He knew Satan was well able to take care of himself in the paddock but he couldn’t smile—not with Henry’s eyes, full of concern, boring into his own.

  A few minutes later, Henry led the great champion through the paddock gate and set him free.

  “You get down the fence a piece,” Henry told Alec. “Don’t let him hurt himself.”

  Alec moved along the fence, watching Satan as he galloped up the field. The horse was stretching out but had full control of himself. Satan was smart enough not to run into any fence even though it was his first outdoor frolic in a long while. It would take only a few minutes for him to become accustomed to freedom again. Alec saw the two men at the far end of the pasture raise their hands, waving down Satan as he neared the fence. The horse turned and came back, snorting joyously at Napoleon in the next paddock.

  Alec watched Satan in full gallop. As the horse neared, the boy raised his hand a little, more to pacify Henry than to keep the horse from running into the fence. Satan went past, galloped across to Henry, then went up the paddock again.

  Alec’s eyes continued to follow him, but now he was comparing Satan with his sire.

  His head is much heavier and larger than the Black’s. He pushes it out when he’s galloping, while the Black ’most always runs with a high head. Satan’s neck is shorter and more muscular. And his body is so heavy that it gives you the feeling of grossness. But when he stretches out, as he’s doing now, you forget his great bulk and see only the beauty of his coordination. He’s like the Black in many ways, but very different in others.

  A short while later, when Satan had settled down and was moving quietly about the paddock, Henry let the drivers go. Now he stood beside Alec at the fence, just watching his horse.

  “It’s not Satan I’m worried about,” Alec said after a while. “I know he’s glad to be back. But what are you going to be like—without a horse to get ready for next season’s races?”

  “You don’t need to worry about me none.”

  Alec tried to catch his friend’s eye. But Henry kept following Satan’s every movement.

  “Are you going to be happy helping me around here?” Alec asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Alec said. “You’re not much of a stock-farm man.”

  “I got Satan to look after.”

  “But it won’t be the same for you. You won’t be getting him ready for any races.”

  “No, I won’t,” Henry said glumly. He glanced quickly toward the far pasture where the weanlings played, then back to Satan. “By this time next year I’ll start getting those fellows ready.”

  “But in the meantime?” Alec asked.

  Henry shifted his weight against the fence, then pushed himself upright with a thrust of his shoulder. “Would you think I was nuts if I told you I wanted to buy a horse to race next spring?”

  Alec smiled. “No, I wouldn’t. It’s more what I expected you to say.” He paused, running his hand around the collar of his tight turtleneck sweater. “We’ve got the farm paid off, and all the bills for the new barns, the fencing, and the training track have been paid. Dad showed me the books the other night. We don’t owe anybody, and there’s enough money left over for running expenses and for buying another horse if you know of a good one, Henry.”

  The trainer pushed back his hat. “No, I wasn’t figuring it that way, Alec. I don’t want to use the farm’s money. We’ll need every cent of it to pay expenses for the next couple of years. If Satan was racing, we wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. But since he isn’t we got to be careful about every penny we spend.”

  “Then what are you driving at, Henry?”

  “I got a little money saved. I thought I’d go to the Kentucky fall sales next week and maybe find a horse I like at a price I can afford to pay. Maybe I’ll be lucky and get a good one. But I don’t want to take a chance with the farm’s money—not with all the broodmares we still need to buy before we get a good band together. I’ll do this on my own or not at all.”

  “Go ahead then, Henry, if that’s what you want to do.” Alec was watching Satan stretch his head across the fence. “Do you have any particular horse in mind?”

  “No, I guess not. They’ll probably all go too high for me. If I want ’em, so will somebody else with more money to spend. Still, there’s one I just might …” Henry stopped. His gaze was on Satan too, but he was not following the horse’s movements.

  “Yes?”

  “Remember our first few months here, long before we had any mares of our own?”

  “Sure, Henry.”

  “Do you remember a mare by the name of Elf, sent to us by a Doctor Chandler of Lexington, Kentucky? She was bred to the Black.”

  “A dark-brown mare on the small side,” Alec answered. “She always came out of the barn on her toes. Yet she was level-headed; nothing upset her, not even the Black. She was a big little mare.”

  “You remember good,” Henry said.

  “It’s our business to remember,” Alec replied.

  “I liked her a lot.”

  “I know. You wanted to buy her, but her owner wouldn’t sell.” Alec turned to Henry. “You thought,” he continued, “that combining her quiet disposition with the Black’s high spirit might produce a very fine horse.”

  “Maybe it has,” Henry said quietly.

  Their gazes met.

  “What did Elf have?” Alec asked.

  “A filly that’s two years old now.”

  “Then she’s the Black’s first dau
ghter,” Alec said quietly. “All the others have been colts.” He turned away from Henry to look in the direction of the training track. He couldn’t see the stallion in the field beyond. “I wonder what she’s like?” he added, more to himself than to Henry.

  “I don’t know. I never saw her. But she’s up for sale next week. I came across her name in the catalogue.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Black Minx. And I got a feeling I’ll like what I see,” Henry said. “I sure liked her dam, and with the Black as her sire …”

  Again their gazes met and held.

  “I hope you get her, Henry,” Alec said. “I’ve got sort of a feeling about her too.”

  Nothing more was said. Each understood the other so well. Each knew that something good might come of their mutual interest in a filly they had never seen, a filly named Black Minx.

  THE NOVEMBER SALES

  2

  For four days Henry had sat in the very seat he now occupied in the indoor sales pavilion near Lexington, Kentucky. He had watched the auctioneer’s gavel fall 498 times as 256 yearlings, 51 broodmares, 68 weanlings and 123 older horses had been sold to the highest bidders. There were 33 more horses yet to enter the ring, including Black Minx, before the fall sales would be concluded.

  There came a moment’s respite from the sing-song chant of the auctioneer as another yearling was sold and led from the ring. Henry sat back in his seat, the wicker chair creaking beneath the weight of his heavy, stocky frame. He pulled down his hat a little more over his eyes. He wanted as few people as possible to recognize him. This would not be easy, for he knew most of the five hundred or more who packed the big room.

  He’d been here often in the years past, long before he ever knew Alec and the Black and Satan. But it had been different then. As a trainer he’d come along with his various employers. He’d spent their money. Or rather he had told them when to bid and when not to bid, depending on how much he liked the looks of a horse and what he thought to be a fair price.

  But this time he was bidding his money for his horse. Although he had trained hundreds of racehorses, he never had owned one in his life. Funny. Well, that was the way it went with some people. He had to admit he was pretty excited about buying his own horse. That was funny too after all these years.

  The amount of money in his pocket was pitifully small, considering what everyone else had been paying for horses at this sale. Four colts had already been sold for more than fifty thousand dollars. So far he’d seen ten two-year-olds he’d have liked to own, and he’d bid his thousand dollars each time. But they had been sold for far above that figure. The colts he’d wanted were wanted by other people too, but those people had more money to spend. Well, he’d known this would happen. He had told Alec it would.

  His thoughts returned to Black Minx. She’d be stepping into the ring in about an hour or so. Alec had told him to use some of the farm’s money if she went over what he could afford on his own. Maybe he would, if he saw a chance of getting her.

  The room became unusually quiet. Henry glanced at his catalogue, and knew the reason for the almost reverent hush. What was supposed to be the top yearling of the sale would be the next to enter the sales ring.

  With a flourish suggestive of unheard trumpets heralding his approach, a tall gray colt was led out. The auctioneer went to work over the public-address system.

  “Now, folks, you all listen to me,” he told the crowd. “Heah we have what could be the finest colt in this sale. He’s by Mahmoud, out of Cry Baby, and that makes him, as you all know without mah tellin’ you, a full brother to Silver Jet!” He paused a moment to let the full impact of his words sink into the crowd. Then, “And you all know that Silver Jet stood in this very same ring last fall as a yearling … just like this colt is doin’ … and went away from heah the property of Tom Flint to win for that gentleman the grand and mighty sum of more than one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars this year as a two-year-old! There’s no better investment for your money than something like that. Am I right, Carl?”

  The auctioneer turned to his assistant, who, taking the cue, said into the microphone, “You’re dead right, Jim. And, folks, I’ll let you in on a little secret which you all know. Tom Flint bought Silver Jet in this ring last year for only ten thousand dollars! But you’re not going to get this heah full brother for no ten thousand dollars. No, sir! Too many folks right heah know Silver Jet won more money than any other two-year-old colt this year. Too many folks right heah know Silver Jet is the colt to beat in the Kentucky Derby next May! And you all know that this colt is his full brother. And you all want him. But in order to get him, folks, you’re going to open up your wallets. Yes, sir, this colt may be the one! And I see Tom Flint in that back row, just sittin’ on the edge of his chair and waitin’. He’s got Silver Jet and now he’s out to get this heah fine-looking full brother. All right, Jim. Heah we go! Sell him!”

  The auctioneer took over the microphone and the pavilion resounded to his musical sing-song chant as he got his first bid of fifteen thousand dollars.

  “I’m bid fifteen, fifteen, fifteen. Who’ll go twenty, twenty? I got twenty, twenty, twenty. Make it thirty, thirty. Yeah! I got thirty, thirty, thirty. Make it forty, forty. I got five, five, five, thirty-five. Make it forty, forty, forty. Yeah! I got forty, forty, forty. I want fifty, fifty, fifty. I got fifty, fifty. I want sixty, sixty, sixty. I got five, five, fifty-five. I want sixty, sixty, sixty. I got eight, eight, fifty-eight. Make it sixty, sixty, sixty. I got nine, nine, nine, fifty-nine. Make it sixty, sixty, sixty. I want sixty, sixty, sixty. Yeah! I got sixty, sixty. Make it five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five. I got two, two, sixty-two. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. Make it five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five.” Suddenly he stopped.

  For a moment the pavilion was quiet. Then the auctioneer said, “Now listen heah, folks. You all know that sixty-two thousand dollars isn’t much to bid for this heah colt.” Although he spoke to more than five hundred people, his words were meant for the two bidders who alone remained in competition for the gray colt.

  Now he singled out one of them—a man sitting near the sales ring—when he said, “Mr. Ashwood, you’re not going to let Mr. Flint get this heah colt, are you? You went up to sixty thousand dollars. Will you make it sixty-three thousand? That’s not too much money for this colt. Silver Jet came home with more than one hundred eighty-five thousand dollars this year for Mr. Flint. You’re not going to let him take his full brother too, are you?”

  The man near the ring shifted uneasily in his seat but didn’t offer a bid over Flint’s sixty-two thousand dollars. Yet the auctioneer didn’t think he’d lost him so he decided to wait a few more moments. He knew Tom Flint would go still higher to get this colt. All he had to do was to get another rise in bid from Ashwood. So he would wait a few minutes before closing the sale in order to give Ashwood a chance to think it over and to realize that he wanted this colt enough to pay sixty-three thousand dollars for him.

  The auctioneer’s gaze moved to the right of Tom Flint. In a corner chair he saw the short, bulky figure of a man whose hat was pulled down almost completely over his eyes. The auctioneer didn’t recognize him but watched as the man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. The harsh sound of it broke the strained stillness of the pavilion.

  Smiling, the auctioneer said, “The gentleman back theah. Did you just make a bid for this colt?”

  Henry pushed back his hat. “No,” he grunted. “I just blew my nose.”

  Only then did the auctioneer and the crowd recognize Henry Dailey, and the room rocked with laughter.

  “Well, Henry,” the auctioneer said, “you’d better be careful how you blow your nose or you’ll own this heah colt.” But then his attention and that of the crowd was diverted to the man seated near the r
ing. Mr. Ashwood was holding up three fingers.

  Once again the auctioneer’s chant claimed the pavilion. “I got three, three, sixty-three. I want five, five, sixty-five.” He was looking at Tom Flint now, and after a few seconds Flint held up four fingers.

  “I got four, four, sixty-four.” He turned to Mr. Ashwood. “I want five, five, sixty-five.”

  The bidder nodded without taking his eyes from the gray colt in the ring.

  “Yeah! I got five, five, sixty-five. I want six, six, sixty-six.” Back to Tom Flint in the last row. “… six, six, sixty-six.” Flint nodded. “Yeah! I got six, six, sixty-six.”

  Once more the auctioneer’s gaze swept to Mr. Ashwood. “Give me seven, seven, sixty-seven.”

  This time the man near the ring turned to his right and spoke to his trainer. A moment later, Ashwood swept his hand across his chest and shook his head. He was finished and would bid no higher.

  The auctioneer’s eyes traveled once more over the crowd, looking for a bidder who might keep this colt in the ring to bring a still higher price. “All done?” he asked. “Are you all done at sixty-six?” His intent gaze became fixed on Henry Dailey. “How about you, Henry? Here’s a colt to take Satan’s place in your stable.”

  Henry shook his head, not bothering to raise his hat from his eyes. Never would he pay sixty-six thousand dollars for this gray colt, even if he’d been spending someone else’s money. No unbroken, untried yearling was worth that much, regardless of pedigree. Tom Flint should have known better than to go so high for this colt.

  Henry heard the fall of the auctioneer’s gavel and the words, “Sold to Tom Flint for sixty-six thousand dollars.”

  Raising his hat, Henry saw the gray colt leave the ring. Well, that’s that, he thought. As far back as he could remember, it was the highest price paid for a yearling at a public sale. He noticed the sudden restlessness of the crowd. Many of the men were on their feet and moving toward the exits. Good, he thought, let ’em go. The fewer people here the better. He had known the sale of the gray colt would be the highlight of this session. He had counted on some of the crowd leaving afterward. It was part of his plan to get Black Minx at a price he could afford to pay.