The Island Stallion Races (19 page)

Steve remained with Flame for a long while, letting his horse look around to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. He gave Flame a little more line, so that the stallion might stretch his head a little higher and find out for himself just how far he could go. Soon Flame was content to keep his head lower than he usually carried it, and began sniffing the straw.

It was almost noon and Flame was back in his stall when Jay entered the shed, still in pajamas and bathrobe.

“Steve,” he said, “you should have awakened me. I had no idea it was so late. I thought surely I’d hear you in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t go to the kitchen,” Steve said.

“You mean you haven’t eaten?”

“I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Then you come with me, and fast, Steve. This is no day to go without food! You’ll need every bit of strength you possess. Come on, now.”

Steve watched the small man in the bright blue bathrobe scurry to the door in his fast, bouncing gait. There Jay stopped. “Come on, Steve,” he repeated. “We really haven’t much time for all we have to do.”

Steve followed him. That was just it … they didn’t have much time. And that was why he couldn’t eat at all.

As the truck left the village the sky cleared and the sun made its appearance.

Jay, dressed as immaculately as on the day before, with his silver-headed cane on the seat beside him, drove faster and faster down the road. Without glancing back at the open window of the cab he said, “The sun’s out, Steve!”

“Is it?” Steve couldn’t tell much about the weather from inside the truck. He stood beside Flame, holding the lines tight for fear the stallion would raise his head too high and strike the roof again. As it was, Flame didn’t like the semi-darkness of the truck nor the jostling they were taking over the bumpy road.

Jay called, “It’ll mean a great crowd there to see you go.”

The truck lurched and Steve had trouble keeping his feet. He touched Flame and found him sweaty from uneasiness, so he put the red cooler over him.

“Go slower,” he told Jay angrily, “or no one will see us go! You’re not driving a car.”

“But, Steve, everyone drives this way. I watched very closely yesterday.”

“Cubans aren’t the best drivers in the world.”

“They’re not? You mean there are
other
ways to drive a car?”

“Slower ways,” Steve said, still angry. “If you don’t take it easier, Jay …”

“Now don’t get mad, Steve. After all, I didn’t know.
You’re
the one who lives on this planet.”

“Please go slower then,” Steve repeated, “and miss the bumps. I’m having a hard enough time as it is keeping Flame still.”

“Sure, Steve.”

There was a slackening of speed and an end to the jostling. Steve stroked Flame’s neck.

“All right back there?” Jay asked later.

“Much better,” Steve answered.

“If there’s anything else, just tell me, Steve. You must remember that all this is very new to me. But I enjoy driving. I really do.”

Steve continued talking to Flame while listening to Jay. He didn’t mind the man’s incessant chatter. Anything was better than just waiting. It wouldn’t be long now … an hour at the most, Jay had said.

“Even with the sun out it’ll be a wet track,” Jay called. “But I guess Flame won’t mind, will he?”

“No, he won’t mind.”

Jay chuckled. “I don’t imagine Kingfisher will like it, though. Their feet are weak enough without having to cope with such footing.”

Kingfisher was the famed handicap champion from the United States, Steve recalled. Last night Jay had told him that this great horse would be in today’s race. Steve had heard of Kingfisher long before he’d ever known Jay. At home one didn’t read about racing without being aware of Kingfisher’s unchallenged crown.

“This is a horse, not a bird,” Steve reminded Jay.

“Oh, I know that, all right,” Jay answered. “But there must have been some reason for naming him after a bird. Perhaps it was because of his feet, Steve. I’ll know better when I see him.”

Steve rubbed Flame’s nose, and noticed that his hand was shaking a little. Sure, he was nervous. Wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world to wonder if every move he made in the race would come instinctively, without thought or plan? It was no time to try to recall all he’d read about racing a horse, of blind switches and holes. Yesterday he’d been able to think, to plan. Today every attempt was futile, and his only hope was that it would be different once he rode Flame onto the track. He realized too that in spite of all the other horses and the great crowd, it would be, for him, the loneliest place in the world.

“Steve, Steve, what’s the matter back there?”

“Nothing, Jay.”

“You haven’t answered any of my questions. You haven’t said a word.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was wondering if we couldn’t go a little faster now. It’s getting so late, and we don’t have much time.”

Steve listened to the wheels turning on the pavement, and wondered how long they’d been off the dirt
road. “Sure, go ahead,” he said. “But take it easy on the turns. And no sudden stops, Jay.”

The truck lurched forward but Steve and Flame kept their feet. Jay talked of the great thrill it would be for him to watch the International. It would give him something to remember for a long, long time.

Steve was no longer listening to him. He heard only the hum of rubber tires, turning faster now, taking him and his horse closer and closer to El Dorado Park and all that awaited them.

Later came the sound of traffic on either side of the truck, and Steve knew they were approaching the city of Havana. The truck stopped often, only to plunge forward again. Jay had no feeling for the release of the clutch pedal.

Steve didn’t go near the cab window. He did not want to see anything until it was time to leave the truck. It would be easier that way. He touched his face and wondered what he looked like. Jay had rubbed some kind of liquid over his skin and into his hair just before they had left. Steve turned his hands over, palms upward. These too Jay had treated, but only lightly. He hadn’t rubbed the liquid in as he had done on Steve’s face and scalp.

Steve noticed that while the color of his hands was the same as before, they had changed during the last hour. It seemed that they had grown, not in length but in breadth. He looked at them more closely and was sure of it. They were broad and flat with large knuckles, the hands of a man, not a boy … hands that had known many years of hard work.

Yet when Steve flexed his fingers they felt no different than before.

Again he touched his face, remembering Jay’s words, “Take my word for it that no one will ever recognize you, Steve. It’s important, of course, as they’ll be taking pictures.”

The truck swayed but Steve’s hands remained on his face. He touched his nose. It was big, and the opening of his nostrils was large and round. His cheekbones seemed lower than they had any right to be, and there were deep lines in his face.

For a moment he was startled by the thought of what Jay must have done to him! Then Flame pushed his soft muzzle forward, and Steve realized that nothing about him had really changed as long as his horse knew him.

The truck stopped again, and while waiting for the traffic light to change Jay said, “We’re almost at the track, Steve. Is everything all right?” Turning around, he looked through the cab window and studied the boy’s eyes. Then he said, “Don’t be concerned about how you look, Steve. It’ll only last a few hours.”

Steve said, “There’s only one thing I’m concerned about, and it isn’t my face.”

Jay chuckled. “Don’t worry about the race, Steve. Just get him out in front and keep him there.”

“Sure,” Steve said, “just like that.”

The light changed and Jay was facing front again. “Just like that,” he agreed.

The next time the truck stopped they were within El Dorado Park. Steve heard the neighs and nickers of
horses and Flame became restless. The stallion’s nostrils were spread wide, and when he screamed the shrillness of his whistle within the close confines of the truck was deafening.

“Easy, Flame,” Steve said urgently.

But there was no quieting Flame now with the scent of other horses all around him. He tried to raise his head, and Steve had all he could do to keep him from striking the roof.

“Jay!” he called. “I must get him out of here soon.” He wondered if he really expected it to be any easier once they were out of the truck.

“We’re parked behind the barns, Steve. We must wait for Mr. Santos before unloading Flame. He wanted it that way.”

The stallion moved uneasily beneath Steve’s hands. “Don’t you see Mr. Santos anywhere, Jay?” Steve asked impatiently. “Maybe he’s forgotten all about us.”

“No, not Mr. Santos, Steve. Don’t worry so. We have five minutes before post time, and this is the way it was arranged. We’re to make a dramatic entrance, Steve, after the introduction of the other horses. We’re part of the show, and Mr. Santos won’t forget us. He thinks of himself as being a superb showman.”

Steve said bitterly, “Part of his show but not the race.”

“Yes,” Jay agreed, “that’s about the way he figures it. Flame is to provide a bit of last-minute interest and color before the great race itself. After that we’re not very necessary to Mr. Santos.”

Flame gathered himself to rear, and Steve moved quickly, keeping him down.

“I do wish you’d come to the window and look at the crowd in the stands, Steve. I’ve never seen anything like it! And I believe … yes, the horses are now coming onto the track. Oh, I do hope Mr. Santos has
not
forgotten all about us! Perhaps we’d better unload Flame, Steve.”

Steve heard the cab door open and then Jay called in relief, “Here comes Mr. Santos now. Are you all set, Steve?”

The tailgate was lowered and Steve led Flame toward it. He was set as he ever would be. The waiting was over.
Don’t look at anyone but Flame. He’s your only concern now
.

Flame followed him quickly off the truck, and Steve removed the red cooler, tossing it to Jay. He saw Mr. Santos step back hurriedly as Flame reared to his utmost height.

Steve knew that only then did the man realize what kind of a horse he had accepted for the International. The color of Flame’s eyes changed to red at sight of the horses in the adjacent barns. And when he screamed his high-pitched clarion call of challenge, it carried beyond the stable area to the stretch where eight world-famous horses paraded to the post.

When the scream died down, Steve heard Mr. Santos blabbering wildly to Jay. But whatever he was saying went unheeded. Steve raised his knee to Jay’s clasped hands and was boosted onto Flame’s back. He gave Flame his head, and the stallion went forward eagerly, his bright eyes fixed on the parading horses.

High above Flame’s craned head Steve saw the television cameras set up on the roof of the overflowing grandstand. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to look at anything but his horse and the track directly before them.

The footing was not as heavy as he had expected it to be after the long night of rain. The track had drained well, and that, together with a hot afternoon sun and the pounding hoofs of horses in preceding races, had made it a good track, almost fast.

He tried to pretend that he was back in Blue Valley. There was nothing ahead but a long run around the walled amphitheater of yellow, towering stone; they were alone except for the band of mares that would scatter at Flame’s swift approach. If he could make believe it was that way, it would help. At least until they were off and running. Then he could let himself think of the race itself, hoping to make the right moves. If he
could just get Flame out in front early, clear of all the other horses and running, then … yes, then there would be nothing to this race but a great red stallion.

Steve buried his head a little more in Flame’s heavy mane, and he kept repeating, “Easy, boy. Easy now. There’s no hurry. No hurry at all.”

The sodden sand and clay slipped by in endless waves beneath the red stallion’s ever lengthening strides. He snorted often but uttered no shrill call of angry defiance and challenge.

Steve took up more line, winding the reins about his fingers so they would not slip. Yet there was no slackening of Flame’s strides, and Steve sensed in his horse a mounting eagerness to do battle with other stallions.

Steve’s legs moved simultaneously with his hands and lips. “Around, Flame,” he called. “All the way around.”

He felt the tightening of Flame’s muscles against the pressure of his legs. Flame knew what he was being asked to do, and still he did not respond.

Steve exerted more pressure with his legs, knowing that he could do no more than ask and then ask again. There was no forcing a horse like Flame. No battle of strength or wills. He could only hope that Flame would want to do what he asked of him. Their love for each other had to be greater than the stallion’s wild instinct to fight. If not, the race would be over before it had begun, so far as they were concerned.

The first break in stride came with the sudden, metallic voice of the announcer over the public address system. The sound startled Flame, and Steve, taking
advantage of this, was able to turn the stallion’s head toward the outer rail.

The announcement was given first in Spanish, then in English. “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are now approaching the starting gate,” the announcer said. “Number One is Gusto from Italy. Number Two is Kingfisher from the United States. Number Three is Slow Burn, also from the United States. Number Four is Wellington from England….”

Steve managed to turn Flame a little more. There was no lessening of the pressure of his legs or the urgency in his voice as he said softly, “Keep going, Flame. I want you all the way around.”

The red stallion was in the center of the track, his strides slowing.

“… Number Five is Tout de Suite from France. Number Six is Bismarck from Germany. Number Seven is El Chico from Chile….”