Four weeks later, on April 19, Alec Ramsay rode the Black postward at Aqueduct Race Course in New York City. It was the Toboggan Handicap at a distance of six furlongs for a purse of twenty-five thousand dollars.
They were last in the parade of five horses, a field kept small by the Black’s entry in the race. He was the heavy favorite and carried high weight of 130 pounds, enough weight to give the others a fighting chance to beat him in his opening defense of the Handicap Championship.
Alec felt the first drops of rain from the ominous sky overhead. The heavy clouds let go quickly and the rain came down harder until he could barely make out the starting gate and the horses approaching it. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by loud thunderclaps.
It would be a long time, he thought, before thunder and lightning did not take him back to a stable in the Everglades. It didn’t matter that no one, not even Henry, would believe what he’d told them of that night. They had accepted only what they wanted to believe, all based on the medical testimony of Dr. Palmer that delusions were common to people under stress. He was glad he had not thrown away the gold figurine that night. They would accept that he’d found it in the swamp, but no more. And since he’d been unable to offer any rational explanation of the captain’s death and his own horrible experiences, he had pretended to accept their version, if only to bring peace to his mind as well as theirs.
For several days afterward, he had been kept quiet by drugs. He held no bitterness toward Joe Early and the others, knowing it had been for the best. His dread of that which defied all common sense would not have enabled him to think clearly. Finally the weight had lifted from his mind and he had looked upon the Everglades again.
As far as his eyes could see, there was nothing but smoldering ashes. The immense swamp to the south and west had been gutted by the raging fire. At his insistence, they had gone to the humpbacked hammock, more to appease him than to give any credence to his story. They’d found nothing, for no remains of the captain’s body could have withstood the cremating blast of the holocaust. Still, he was glad that he had returned, if only to prove to himself that he had been there.
He had welcomed the hard routine of work that followed. It was only occasionally now, always at night, that the odor of the swamp came to his nostrils and he dreamed a dream of a lost world, of images forgotten and yet not forgotten, all dwelling in dark places. He had no doubt that the dream would long haunt him, yet for reasons he could not explain he held no fear of it.
The Black suddenly bolted beneath him and his thoughts returned quickly to the job at hand. He peered through the half-light to see the milling horses behind the gate. The crewmen were trying to lead them into the starting stalls but the blinding rain only added to their burden.
Alec’s strong, calloused hands were gentle on the big horse as he took him toward the gate. He knew the Black was ready, possibly stronger than ever. He’d be able to handle the footing with ease. Six furlongs was a short race for him but he needed the speed drill in preparation for the longer races to come.
Henry’s instructions had been simply, “Just keep him out of trouble.”
It wasn’t always easy to follow orders, especially with the way the race was shaping up, with no letup in the rain and the track already deep in mud. He saw one horse skitter nervously across the track and bang into another. A race could be lost behind the gate as well as during the running of it, and the high weight on the Black made it doubly important that he remain quiet.
The minutes ticked away as the others entered the gate, then it was the Black’s turn and Alec sent him forward. He walked very deliberately into the stall as if he knew the time had come for him to race.
The door slammed shut behind them and Alec awaited the starting bell. The Black was on edge, his high-strung nerves near the breaking point from his fierce spirit of competition. Alec made instant adjustments to suit the Black’s quick movements in the narrow stall. Like his mount he was ready to go, legs raised at a sharp angle of knee to thigh, his back slanted, shoulders hunched, his muscles tense—everything required to send off the Black at the precise opening of the grilled doors. The long backstretch was before them with only one turn to round.
The starting bell clanged in Alec’s ears and the race was on! The Black gained full stride almost instantly and Alec leaned forward above the plunging forequarters.
“Yah! Yah!” he shouted, his voice but one of five riders urging their horses to move still faster and break free of the most dangerous of all traffic jams, one of pounding, steel-shod hoofs!
Alec’s arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets as the Black raced through the beating rain and semi-darkness. Alec attempted to keep him on the outside and clear of the others who were packed much too closely together in a milling tangle of horses and riders. Some were having trouble getting hold of the track and were slipping dangerously. He saw one go down in the slop, his jockey somersaulting over his head. Then the Black was slammed hard by a big chestnut horse.
The Black bobbled and Alec helped him regain his balance; he steadied him and went on, clear of the tangle of horses. Two were still in front but Alec was not worried about catching up to them. The Black’s feet were holding in the slop, and if he made no mistakes guiding him, they would win.
Alec watched the rider on the second horse try to grab the lead by squeezing through a narrow opening on the rail. The opening closed just as the jockey started through it and he was forced to drop back or be slammed against the rail. He checked his mount, knowing his gamble had not paid off.
Alec drove the Black alongside him, keeping him hard on the rail. The Black was eager to go on but did not fight Alec’s hands. The pace was fast but he ran so smoothly that he seemed to be loafing.
Alec listened to the thunderous hoofs all around him and tasted the rain and mud flying in his face. He wanted no other kind of life but this, riding a fully extended horse against other jockeys who were trying as hard as himself to win! He let out the Black another notch as they approached the far turn and drew alongside the leader.
Alec changed the Black’s lead to the left leg going into the turn, and then let his horse run as he’d wanted to all along. For a few fleeting seconds, the other jockey did his best to stay alongside. He rocked, pushed and whipped, did everything he knew how to do to keep his mount going. The Black swept by, his long legs a blur in the rapidity with which they moved. He went around the turn with ever-increasing speed and entered the homestretch alone.
The crowd knew there was nothing more to the race but the electrifying stretch run of the champion. More than seventy thousand fans rose to their feet and gave the Black a tumultuous ovation as his hoofs beat thunderously in the slop, sending the mud flying behind him all the way to the wire. He had returned to New York victoriously and was once more on his way to racing glory!
An hour later, with the Black cooled out and in his stall, Henry Dailey joined Alec in the tack room. Henry handed him a folded newspaper and said, “I didn’t want you to see this until after the race.”
Henry had the same rider’s build as Alec, most of his weight being in his arms and chest. He was portly but not fat, and as he moved about the room his gait had the smoothness and certainty of a much younger man.
“It looks like you were right about The Ghost,” he added quietly, “that much of your story, anyway.”
Alec read the large advertisement for the opening of the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus that day at Madison Square Garden. There was a long list of acts but only one had been circled in pencil by Henry.
THE GHOST
An ethereal horse act that will chill you, thrill you, leave you breathless with excitement and anticipation! Never before seen in America!
“Or maybe it isn’t the same mare,” Henry suggested.
“It’s The Ghost, all right,” Alec said. “Odin sold her, just like I figured.”
Their gazes held until Henry turned away to get his floppy hat from a peg on the wall and clamp it down over his head. “Well, let’s find out,” he said briskly. “I thought you’d want to make sure. There’s a matinée. I’ve already called the Garden and the act goes on about four o’clock. We can just make it.”
Henry waited while Alec put on his raincoat. He’d never understand what had happened to Alec in the swamp, not completely, anyway. In some vague way Alec had changed in appearance. He looked quite different but Henry didn’t know exactly how. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just different. Maybe it was his eyes; they seemed to brood at times. Getting lost in the swamp at night must have been a horrible experience, but Alec should be over it by now. He wasn’t exactly sick but he wasn’t himself either, not by any means. Alec had made no mistakes in the race today because his instincts, not his mind, governed his riding. But matters couldn’t remain as they were. Perhaps seeing The Ghost—if it was the same mare—might help. Henry didn’t know how, but he was hopeful. He left the tack room, followed closely by Alec.