Saturday.

Saturday. The barn was in a state of controlled pandemonium. Horses and grooms went back and forth between races. Trainers barked orders every which way, tension reflected in their voices. Spray from the washracks drifted into the American barn, soaking Manuel as he sat outside of Striker's stall. Helen, fake smile plastered on her face, paced back and forth, tapping her crop on the top of her boot.

"Gosh, I'm so nervous!" she said, barely whispering.

"If you say you win, you won't be nervous," said Manuel.

Helen sighed; Manuel was never nervous or worried about anything. \

"I don't like you," she said, very seriously.

Manuel looked confused.

"Just kidding. You are just never worried, how do you do it?"\

"I always think I will win," he replied.

"I don't even know why I'm nervous, Baze is the one riding him!"

Jeremiah had asked Tyler Baze to ride Striker in the big race, though Helen had volunteered herself for the job. Jeremiah had chosen to go with the more experienced Baze, because of Helen's habit of overreacting before races. She was disappointed, but deep down she was glad she didn't have to deal with the pressure of bringing Striker home the winner.

The grandstand was packed with spectators. Gambling was prohibited in Dubai; nevertheless, oddsmakers mingled with the European contingent, collecting bets. The McBees had a box near the finish line, in the row reserved for owners. Georgie leaned over the box, trying to take everything in. Mrs. McBee pointed out celebrities and commented on the clothing the ladies in the next box were wearing. Mr. McBee got up several times to track down an oddsmaker who looked 'trustworthy'.\

Before the first race, Sheik Mohammed al Maktoum, founder of the World Cup, opened the day with a blessing. He asked that all the horses and riders return safely, and that they represent their countries well. Then the track cleared for the first race, the Dubai Derby.

Elliot Walden's Got Game won the Derby with style, scoring by two lengths.

The day went by in a flash for the World Cup competitors. Race after race was run, on into the evening. At dusk, Jeremiah told Manuel to bring Striker out.

The big, black horse was like a shadow as Manuel led him to the saddling area under the grandstand. Jeremiah followed, rolling his Racing Form nervously in his palms. People crowded along the path, snapping pictures. He stared at the ground, avoiding the eyes of the international TV cameras, deaf to the reporters' calls. All he could think about was his horse. Striker was following obediently beside Manuel, his eyes rimmed in white.

At the saddling area, Baze was waiting for them. Dressed in the McBees' shiny yellow and black striped silks, he looked quite distinguished. He listened expectantly for Jeremiah's instructions.

"Just do what you do," said the trainer, whose face looked incredibly weary.

Striker pushed against Manuel as Jeremiah saddled him. He threw up his head when the girth was tightened and stomped irritably. Slobber foamed at the corners of his mouth and ran down the groom's hands. Ears pinned, Striker swished his tail like a bullwhip.

The paddock judge gave the 'riders up' signal. Manuel led the prancing black horse out of the saddling stall and walked him to Baze, who bounded lithely onto the tiny racing saddle. The other entrants were flowing out of the paddock, and Manuel led Striker into line. Jeremiah watched as they passed under the grandstand. He joined the McBees and Helen in their box. Helen passed him his lucky binoculars, and he gazed through them, watching his horse. His job was done; it was up to Striker now. \par \tab On the track, the horses pranced and cantered slowly around the track. Georgie watched from her place in the stands as Dark Strike pulled against the jockey's firm grip. His ears were pricked forward, his neck was bowed. Under the spotlights, his black coat shone cobalt blue.

The post parade turned halfway up the backstretch and approached the starting gate. Dark Strike and Dubai Magic were the first to load. Striker went easily, though the Godolphin runner hesitated before going into the iron cage. Next were Searchlight and Monserrat, then Little Tokyo and Araztotle. Wellspring and Iron Giant filed in at their turns. The horses stood quietly, their jockeys poised for the break. Only a few horses remained behind the gate. Delta Bluesman and English Muffin went calmly; but the final two horses, apparently tired of waiting, had begun to resist the starting gate crew. Four O Clock, a grey mare, refused to go near the gate. She balked and reared until the gate manager intervened. Singed, the last starter, was coaxed in the final slot. The assistant starters finally pushed the grey mare in, too. Tension rippled down the row as horses bumped the sides of the gate.

Dark Strike rocked back on his hindquarters just as the gate sprang open. He leaped out and hustled to keep up with the early pacemakers, Araztotle and Wellspring. Halfway to the first turn Striker was fourth behind Singed. Four O Clock was running easy at the black horse's outside flank in fifth. Little Tokyo, Delta Bluesman, Dubai Magic, and Iron Giant made up the rest of the pack. Trailing the field were Monserrat, Searchlight, and English Muffin, who'd nearly fallen at the break.

The leaders dueled into the first turn, blazing through opening fractions of :22 and :23 and running four lengths ahead of the others. Singed eased back, and for a brief second, Striker was a head in front of the bay. Baze sat chilly, waiting for the time to turn the black horse loose. Striker's neck was bowed and bulged with power, ready for the signal. Wellspring dropped back from Araztotle, spent from the early effort. Singed surged past Striker, followed by Four O Clock, to take on the speedy chestnut leader.

Iron Giant ranged up beside Striker on the inside. The son of Giant's Causeway was sharp, running easily. Striker sensed the rival's charge, and pulled against Baze, who let out a tiny bit of rein. Dubai Magic rushed up on Striker's outside at the same instant. The three horses thundered into the backstretch together as a team. Dirt flew up from their hooves, coating the horses with a fine layer of turf.

Delta Bluesman began his run. English Muffin had recovered from her bad break and was following the Baffert trainee. Four wide, English Muffin charged past the battling colts and gained ground on Araztotle, who'd dropped back since giving up the lead to Singed. Finally, as if shaking off an annoying fly, Dark Strike burst from the pack after the mare.

Baze guided Striker around the fading Araztotle, who tried in vain to keep up. The beaten colt slowed, blocking Delta Bluesman and Iron Giant. The lead changed again; English Muffin overtook Singed and Four O Clock as they approached the final turn. Dark Strike was running hard, stretching and reaching to cover more ground. Into the final turn the horses rumbled; jostling, bumping, galloping for the lead.

The jockey saw that the time had come; he tapped Dark Strike ever-so-slightly with his whip as he let out more rein. The black horse took off like a bullet. He swung around Four O Clock and Singed into second place. English Muffin pounded the track forcefully; Striker rushed up beside her. The black bore down on the mare, his eyes rolling, his ears flat against his skull. Then Dark Strike edged away from English Muffin. She fought to stay beside the black, but faltered.

Meanwhile, Monserrat had made his move. The big-boned colt swept up to join Striker on the lead. The horses spilled into the stretch, the finish line only a hundred yards away. Striker gripped the bit fiercely between his teeth and plunged onward. Monserrat was gaining, coming up on the inside. The black horse could hear the crowd now; thousands of voices raised to a crescendo as the two horses, one dark as night, the other the color of a peppered moth, prepared for battle.

In the stands, the McBees were on their feet. Georgie leaned out over the side of the box and yelled at the top of her lungs. Mr. McBee waved his fist at the horses and hollered profanity while Mrs. McBee clapped and shrieked. Jeremiah's hands shook so that he couldn't hold his binoculars steady. Helen jumped up and down, chanting encouragement, her hands moving in time with Baze's. Then she gasped, for coming strong behind the leaders was Searchlight.

Dark Strike couldn't see the mare, but he sensed her. Pinning back his ears, he charged again, opening up a length on Monserrat. But the grey came again; he quickly closed the gap and drew alongside the black once more. The two matched strides in the deep stretch, neither letting the other get even a nostril in front. Then it happened: the grey caught Dark Strike's liquid eye. He stared back, trying to stay focused. His jockey worked his neck furiously, then resorted to strong whipping. But it was no use; he simply couldn't pass the black horse. His competitive fire turned to anger. In a last, desperate effort to stay ahead, Monserrat reached over to Dark Strike, his teeth bared, and savaged the black. Then, spent, he fell back. Dark Strike drew away. Searchlight caught up with Monserrat and ran at his flank. The wire loomed just ahead.

Dark Strike lunged under the finish line, a half-length in front. Searchlight followed on his heels, and Monserrat staggered after her. Delta Bluesman got past the traffic jam for fourth. The stands erupted with cheers. Jeremiah threw his arms over his head and shouted, not even noticing the shattered binoculars on the ground. Helen danced around the box, giving high-fives to everyone she saw.

"We did it!"

Georgie, hoarse from screaming, her face flushed with tears, flung her arms around Jeremiah's neck. He hugged her back, and hugged Mrs. McBee, too, as Mr. McBee slapped his back.

"Let's go! Let's go!" Helen chanted, and the group, dazed with happiness, shuffled out of their box, past the thousands of spectators who reached out to shake hands with them, the winners.

Jennifer unfolded the copy of the Racing Form on her lap and passed it to Alec. He held it in his withered hands, studying the headline and the full-page photo on the front page.

"This is as it should be," he said. "It is perfect."

"Dark Strike is a great, great grandson of The Black," Jennifer said.

He nodded. "The eye told me; that horse has The Black's eye. He looks deep inside of you, looks through to your soul."

The winner's circle held a flurry of activity as Manuel led in Dark Strike, blowing and dripping with sweat. He pranced under the lights, his head held high, eyes wide, ears forward. Baze patted the horse's neck, careful to avoid the bloody gash just under the rein. Sheik Mohammed cleared the way through the crowd of reporters and well-wishers for the jubilant owners. Georgie rushed up to the horse and planted a kiss right on his nose. Mr. McBee shook Baze's hand as Mrs. McBee patted the horse's rump. Helen couldn't stop jumping around and waving.

Jeremiah simply stood at the winner's circle entrance, staring in amazement. The sheik tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to join the McBees, who had already gathered beside Striker, next to the horse-shaped trophy. Jeremiah sighed and wiped his face with his sleeve; his eyes had begun to water.

"It is a great accomplishment for a horse to win a race at a place with which he is unfamiliar," the sheik began. "The win is especially impressive when the track is half a globe away from his home. It is with great pleasure that I present this trophy to Mr. Robert and Mrs. Caroline McBee of the United States, for the courageous effort of their horse Dark Strike."

Mr. McBee took the heavy trophy from the sheik.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Maktoum," he said, "But this trophy really belongs to Jeremiah Reeves; he trained this horse and turned him into a winner."

Georgie took the trophy from her father and gave it to Jeremiah. He studied the bronze horse for a moment, then looked over at Striker.

"Thank you, Robert," he started, "but Dark Strike didn't really need me at all. He is a talented horse. Winning is in his blood. So, I dedicate this win to The Black, a horse who lived long ago, but whose spirit lives on in Dark Strike."

The black horse stood proudly as flashbulbs popped around him. He raised his regal head and whinnied. The sound carried over the crowds, past the backside, to the barren desert. The Black Stallion lived once more in Dark Strike, his incredible legacy.