Free The Black Stallion Challenged by Walter Farley

races.”
    “Horses win races,” Alec said quietly. “You trainersmake the horses. If we win, you should get the credit. The riders are made by the horses.”
    Henry studied Alec’s face, puzzled by the youth’s attitude. “It’s funny to hear you talkin’ that way, Alec. You’ve seen plenty of horses that wouldn’t put out unless they were forced to turn on speed by their riders. There are plenty of cases where a horse and his trainer would be nothing without the right boy on his back.”
    “I’ve heard you say otherwise,” Alec reminded his old friend. “You’ve said often that there really wasn’t much difference in top riders.”
    “No, I only said there was less difference now than when I was riding,” Henry said. “A jock could get away with a lot more at the old barrier than in today’s starting gate. We had no film patrol in those days, either. Sometimes, in fact most times, it got pretty rough out there. Take a look at some of the old pictures and you’ll find most jocks riding with sharp spurs and carryin’ big whips which we used plenty any way we could to win a race. Yeah, horses and riders really went through a drilling in those days.”
    “We’re not exactly being coddled today,” Alec said quietly, and that ended the subject.
    Later in the morning, Alec opened the tackroom trunk and removed a white envelope. Inside were several small wads of cotton, adhered to which were tiny granular bits of dirt and dried blood. This was what Doc Palmer had cut out of the Black’s injured hoof several months ago. It had been the source of all the horse’s trouble; once it was out and the cut healed everything had been fine.
    Alec put the wads back in the envelope. Hecouldn’t have said exactly why he was saving them, except, perhaps, as a reminder to himself and particularly to Henry that everything was in good shape and they could race the Black. As he left the room he ran into Henry. “Come on,” he said. “We ought to watch the operation on Bitter Sweet.”
    “Why?” the trainer asked uneasily.
    “It’s something we should know about,” Alec said. “Part of our job, like you’re always telling me.”
    “I don’t like to watch operations, even on a horse.”
    “I didn’t know you were sensitive about them,” Alec said. He tried not to smile. “What about the tough old days you were telling me about, when a horse with a fractured leg was destroyed right on the track? Was that easier to watch?”
    “That was different. Some people just don’t like to watch operations. I happen to be one of ’em.”
    “It’s not as bad as you make it sound. I think you ought to come along with me. You’re never too old to learn something new. That’s what you’ve always said.”
    Henry fidgeted, and there was a strained, uneasy silence between them. Finally, the old man said, “Okay, I’ll go if that’s the way you want it.”
    They left Hialeah Park through the Barn Gate, waited for the traffic light to change, then hurriedly crossed the street. Walking beside Alec, Henry straightened his blocklike figure and made a gallant attempt to look unconcerned about the whole thing. He would have preferred turning down Alec’s invitation to witness the operation on Bitter Sweet. It was one thing to know that veterinary surgery had progressed to thepoint where a horse’s broken bones could be mended, and quite another thing to watch it being done. Still, as Alec had said, whatever he witnessed should be easier to take than watching a horse destroyed on the track.
    “Race horses were lots tougher in the old days,” he said suddenly in an attempt to regain his position of authority. “Their legs held up even though they raced much more often. I’ve seen ’em race twice in one day with only a half-hour rest in between. They don’t come like that any more. They’re too coddled.”
    Alec smiled, thinking of the tender way in which Henry had been treating the Black during the past few months. He