Alec Ramsay was up on him, too. That kid’s life is like something out of a movie,” he concluded, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“You mean you don’t know his story? Where’ve you been?”

“In Peru, shooting Inca ruins for the last five years.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the story?”

“Alec Ramsay and the Black were the lone survivors of a shipwreck, and the kid brought him home. It turned out that Henry Dailey, the old trainer, whom everyone had just about forgotten, was a neighbor of Alec Ramsay. And when Henry saw the Black he knew what the kid had hold of. They kept the Black in what’s no more than a back lot over in Flushing; then they sprung him in that big match race that was arranged for Sun Raider and Cyclone a few years back, and he whipped them both. I saw him do it. It’s the only time he raced, but I’ll never forget him.” The cameraman turned toward the track and Satan. “They could have been one and the same horse today,” he added.

“But what happened to the Black?”

“As I heard it, an Arab chieftain by the name of Abu Ishak turned up not long after the match race and proved the horse was his. So he took the Black back to Arabia.”

“And that’s the end of the Black?”

“It is, as far as I know.”

“But where does Satan come in? How did Alec Ramsay get hold of him?”

“The story goes that this Abu Ishak promised the kid he’d send him the first foal by the Black. He kept his promise. Satan is that foal.”

“What a break for the kid.”

“Yeah. He and Henry Dailey raised Satan in the same lot where they’d kept the Black. They brought him out in the Hopeful last fall. You know the rest … he hasn’t been beaten yet.”

“From back lot to undefeated Triple Crown champion,” the other cameraman mused as he turned to the winner’s circle, where Alec Ramsay sat on Satan amidst a crowd of photographers. “He’s riding high in the big time now. No more back lots for Alec Ramsay. Lucky kid!”

LUCKY ALEC RAMSAY?
2

Alec Ramsay closed the door of the jockeys’ bungalow behind him, muffling the shrill voices which rose above the hiss of showers. Standing on the porch, he looked across the wet and empty courtyard to the hoof-furrowed ground of the paddock’s walking ring. And his gaze stayed there while he slipped his long arms into the sleeves of his raincoat and drew the belt about him. Then he went down the steps into the steady drizzle.

As he walked to the gate in the iron fence, his hatless head was tucked deep within his coat collar, so he did not see the tall, solitary figure that stood in the rain awaiting him.

“Alec,” the man called as the boy stepped outside.

“Dad! I thought you and Mother would be over at the barn with Henry.”

“Mother’s there,” his father said. “She sent me with this.” Casually he lifted an unopened umbrella.

Alec turned from it to the water dripping from the rim of his father’s hat. “Why aren’t you using it, then?” he said with a smile. “You must have been waiting a long time.”

“Never did like them. Do you want it?”

Alec shook his head. “We can put it up before we get to the barn,” he said.

They walked past the empty stands, and only the litter strewn about gave evidence of the thousands who had occupied the seats an hour ago. The lights gleamed fuzzily in the rain.

“I don’t need to tell you that it was a great race, Alec,” Mr. Ramsay said. “A truly great one. He’s unbeatable.” He put his arm across the boy’s shoulders as he turned to him, smiling.

Alec’s head was down, his eyes on the wet pavement. “Satan never makes a wrong move and will do anything you ask of him,” he said in a low, even voice.