The Black Stallion: Chapters 14–18

Gradually the Black slowed down, and then without waiting for a signal from Alec, whirled and galloped back toward the plodding Napoleon.

Napoleon trotted ponderously, his eyes straight on the track ahead of him.

His jowls rose and fell as he sucked on the pipe; the thick smoke rose in the air and then floated away on the warm, spring breeze.

Alec looked at the Black wistfully.

Weeks passed, and Alec and Henry conscientiously trained the Black.

Sports writers wrote long accounts of the two horses, prophesying what would happen if the two champions ever met.

“Yeah, Joe, I’m sure,” he said, “but seeing that you’re kinda skeptical, why don’t you come over some night when we run him? Sure, and bring Jim Neville along, too; then he will have something to write about!”

After the introductions, Jim said, “Frankly,” and his eyes squinted quizzically, “it’s only the newspaper man in me that gets me out here tonight, because as much faith as I have in my pal Joe here, I can’t imagine any horse in racing—today anyway—that can match strides with Cyclone or Sun Raider!”

Jake came up and Henry introduced him to Joe and Jim. “Say,” Jake smiled, “this is growin’ into quite a shindig, isn’t it?”

Fleet hoofbeats made a clattering roar in Alec’s ears. The stallion’s speed became greater and greater.

Then he turned brusquely to Joe Russo. “And now, Joe, we both have a deadline to make, so let’s get going.”

Because Jim Neville’s column was carried in papers from coast to coast, and because he was one of the foremost sports authorities in the country, his articles on the mystery horse aroused more and more curiosity with every day that passed.

He suggested that since the match race to be held in Chicago next week is just for the good of racing and the proceeds are all going to charity, he saw no reason why my mystery horse should not run against his horse and Sun Raider.

Instead of feeling delirious with excitement as he had expected, he felt cool and composed.

Instead of feeling delirious with excitement as he had expected, he felt cool and composed.

Alec couldn’t keep his voice from faltering. “The mystery horse—the mystery horse,” he stammered, “is the Black.”

“Glad you’re here. You must be in on this, too. Now tell me what the devil’s been going on between you two and the Black? I had a hunch something was up but I never dreamed it was anything as stupendous as this!”

Henry led Napoleon up into the van and Alec followed with the Black. He was as docile now as he had been difficult before.

Fifteen minutes later, they had the Black in his new quarters. They put Napoleon in the empty stall next to him.

“He’s excitable and we want to keep him quiet.”
“Temperamental, heh?” a reporter sneered.

“He’s built for speed all the way.”
Alec nodded. “He sure is streamlined,” he said.

He received lusty cheers on his way to the paddock.

He was draped in a flaming red robe and wore red blinkers.

Cyclone and Sun Raider were already walking past the grandstand on their way to the post.

Old Napoleon neighed plaintively as Henry kept him from following the Black out on the track.

Over eighty thousand people here, and I can say without fear of contradiction, they’ve never seen anything like this before!

Cyclone’s jockey is deliberately pulling his horse up, so that Cyclone’s churning hindquarters are right in Sun Raider’s nose. That’s a shrewd move as it gives his mount a breather after that stretch sprint and forces Sun Raider to check his speed from running on Cyclone’s heels!

“He’s lost a lot of blood, but it’s only a superficial wound. Nothing to worry about. Give him a rest and he’ll be as good as new!”

The governor of the state had just given Alec the Gold Trophy emblematic of track supremacy when Alec saw both his father and his mother with Henry.

Answering the pleas of the hundreds grouped around them, Alec took a few roses from the huge bow of flowers draped around the Black’s neck, and then threw the rest of them into the throng.