The Black Stallion'

The Black Stallion's Legacy

By TheDancingBandit

(Note: The characters Alec Ramsay & The Black, as well as any other recognizable characters, are lovingly borrowed from Mr. Walter Farley's classic series The Black Stallion. Please see "Notes" chapter for explanations of racing terms. Enjoy!)

"Hello?"

"Hello? It this Mr. Ramsay?"

"Yes."

"Well Hi! This is Jennifer Pettigrew, and I was just calling to ask you a few---"

"Sorry, I'm not interested in changing my long distance carrier, goodbye."

Surprised but not discouraged, Jennifer Pettigrew jotted 'Call Alec Ramsay again 2-morrow' on a post-it note as she placed the phone back on the receiver. She piled her library of dusty Racing Forms and Thoroughbred News back into the flat cardboard box on the floor with a thud. Then she locked her drawers, flipped off the lamp, and headed out of her 2nd floor office at The Blood-Horse. A few seconds later she ran back from the stairwell to fetch her purse and brand-new copy of Seabiscuit - An American Legend . Giving the small office a backward glance, she once again headed for home. As she drove down Iron Works Pike she figured the late hour was to blame for Mr. Ramsay's shortness with her. Jennifer had high hopes for the next day.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Mr. Ramsay? This is Jennifer Pettigrew, I called yesterday? Remember? Well, I am calling to see if you'd like to---"

I'm sorry, Miss, but I've already donated to the Firefighter's Association this year, goodbye."

Jennifer had called shortly after noon. She hung up with a sigh, then re-dialed. This time there was no answer. As she sat listening to the phone ring, her secretary peeked in.

"I told you Alec Ramsay was hard to deal with. He won't talk to any of the press. Last time one of our boys wanted an interview with him, he had him arrested for breaking and entering, the old hellion."

"Barb, I will get this interview. I know how hard he can be, I'm living it. But I think if he hears what I have to say, he'll come around," Jennifer replied with a sly smile. Barb shrugged and went on with her business.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Is Mr. Ramsay there?"

"Why yes he is. May I ask who is speaking, please?"

"Sure, this is Jennifer Pettigrew, and I've been trying to get a hold of Mr. Ramsay the past few days. I want to ask him a few questions about his horse."

"Why, Miss Pettigrew, Mr. Ramsay loves talking about that horse! By the way, I'm Carmen Brown, his nurse."

"Thank, you, Mrs. Brown, I've been calling every day, but he hasn't been very eager to talk to me."

"Oh, don't I know it! He loves talking about his horse, but he hates talking on the phone; I think he's losing his hearing. Now just a minute and I'll put him on for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown."

"Hello?" came the familiar gruff voice.

"Mr. Ramsay? My name is Jennifer Pettigrew, remember me? I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your black horse...."

The track was shrouded in fog. Several thoroughbreds worked around the huge oval, some jogging, others readying for races with speedy breezes. Clockers strained to see them, their fingers poised to snap the stoppers of their watches at the first sight of a hard-pulling steed. It was a typical morning at Keeneland Race Course. Though the track's season didn't open for another month, many trainers had based their stables at the Lexington track, and still more were shipping in early to train. Among those who were based there was the three-horse stable of Jeremiah Reeves. Though his stable was small in number, it was infamously overflowing in talent.

As the morning wore on, the sun burned the fog from the track. Reeves looked over the track carefully from the back of his pinto pony, Wally. Most of the other horses were finishing their gallops, and the track was clearing.

"It's time to get to work," he thought as he nudged Wally forward. The two were very mismatched, for the tall, lanky trainer dwarfed his short, stout pony. They circled the track once more, then headed back to Reeves's barn on the backside. As he approached, he motioned for one of the grooms.

"Manuel, bring Striker out."

The groom nodded, and went to the first stall on the barn row. Taking a dark-oil leather halter from its peg outside the stall, Manuel carefully unlocked the stall door and slid it open.

The most tremendous horse Manuel had ever seen stood at the back of the stall. Though Manuel had been Striker's groom for two years, the horse still amazed him with his sheer size and power. The horse moved toward him quickly, his teeth bared. "Whoa," Manuel commanded, his voice soothing. The horse stopped in mid-stride and let Manuel approach him. He slid the halter on the horse's large head and fixed the buckle. On the side of the halter was a brass plate with Striker's real name engraved in block letters: Dark Strike.

Reeves jumped from the pony's back and strode over to the stall. Manuel already had the bridle on Striker, and was preparing to place the lightweight exercise saddle on the horse's strong, broad back.

"Looks good this morning, eh?" Reeves said, not really as a question, but more as if in wonder. The colt's large eyes were fixed on him in a piercing stare as Manuel applied the exercise wraps.

A better example of thoroughbred perfection didn't exist on the backside of Keeneland. Dark Strike was one of the biggest horses at the track, officially measuring at 17.2 hands. Though he was large, he was a study in proportion. His legs were not overly long, his back not too short. His long neck tied in beautifully to his prominent wither; his shoulders were the perfect angle and build for the races he ran. His well-sprung ribs required a specially-made girth to hold the tiny saddle in place. The colt's face was unusually formed: he had a noticeably concave head, and large, liquid eyes that softened the hard, chiseled look of a normal thoroughbred. His most striking feature, however, was his coal-black coat.

Dark Strike had no white markings. No socks covered his legs, no blaze decorated his face. But he was far from plain. His dark coat shone like ebony in the sun, showing off every rippling muscle as he walked. Watching him was like watching a panther; each movement fluid, his large eyes fixed on something unseen by those around him.

Jeremiah Reeves was always pinching himself when he saw the horse in his barn. He knew that it was pure luck that the horse's owners had shown up at his barn that hot afternoon in July. The giddy McBee family had just shelled out $1.7 million for the black colt by Fusaichi Pegasus at the Keeneland July Select Yearling Sale; he was the highest-priced colt sold that day. They knew no trainers, so the first friendly face they saw when they went to see their prized purchase got the job. Reeves knew they were lucky, too, that he was the friendly face they met. An unscrupulous conditioner would have taken them for all they had, and possibly injured the precious colt.

Manuel gave Striker a final pat on the rump and led the horse out into the morning sunshine. His coat shone like new patent leather. Jeremiah nodded at his exercise rider, Helen, as she strode over whistling.

"Helen, we're going to breeze him a mile today," instructed Jeremiah as he gave her a leg-up.

"Oh? What ya got planned for him?" she asked in her always-cheerful voice. A mile breeze meant a race was coming soon.

"Oh, something good," Jeremiah replied carelessly. He didn't like revealing his plans for his runners before talking with their owners. It was especially important for him to get approval this time, for what Jeremiah was planning would be the biggest undertaking he'd ever dreamed up.

Manuel handed the lead to Jeremiah, and he led the huge black horse to the track entrance. One horse remained on-track, with two outriders. Both Helen and Jeremiah searched the track for any tractors or trucks, and finding none, she sent Striker out at a canter the wrong way of the track.

Striker was a complete professional. He went along easily, his strides even and measured. When the other horse passed, he gave a playful buck. When they reached the grandstand, Helen turned Striker back the right-way of the track, and asked him to go.

In a flash, Striker leaped forward, pulling against Helen's tight hold. She leaned far over his withers, measuring the time in her head. At the quarter pole she turned him loose. It was as if Striker had been shot from a cannon. He surged forward in a mighty lunge. Helen pressed against his neck, urging him with her hands. Meanwhile, from his vantage point in the clocker's stand, Jeremiah had clicked the stopwatch.

Dark Strike tore around the first turn, grabbing at the bit between his teeth as he pulled ahead. His nostrils flared; he drew in deep, quick breaths with each stride. Helen needed all the strength she could muster to keep Striker under control. They blew down the backstretch, past the outriders, each stride gobbling up nearly 20 feet of the track.

Jeremiah watched silently in the clocker's stand. Striker was quite a sight out on the track with his black coat and huge size. From the raised stand, all horses looked like dogs; from the same stand, Striker still looked like a horse.

It seemed to Helen that they were going at a quite comfortable pace, almost too easy for a breeze. As they entered the final turn she tapped Striker with the whip, and he went all-out to the finish line. She scrubbed his neck vigorously to urge him faster. Jeremiah clicked the stopwatch as Striker finished the mile. The hands had stopped at 1:00 flat.

Helen pulled the dark horse up; he fought her by tossing his head. He sailed past the grandstand once more at a gallop. The railbirds watched with awe.

Jeremiah met Helen and Striker at the track entrance. The black horse was sweating, but not too badly. Manuel, equipped with a knit cooler and rub rags, was ready to take him to the wash rack. Helen leaped from Striker's back.

"He went in one minute flat," Jeremiah answered Helen's questioning look. The jockey beamed proudly.

"I knew it! He's the best horse I've ever ridden!" she exclaimed, her green eyes flashing.

"Save that sentiment for when you've been around for more than a year," Jeremiah said sarcastically.

Helen cowered mockingly. "Oh, Mr. Rain-On-My-Parade!"

The two went back and forth insulting each other, all the way back to the barn.