He prefers it to the track.”

“Yet how that guy can ride,” Tom Flint said heartily. “I remember the ride he gave the Black years ago in Chicago. Nothing I’ve seen since has equaled it.”

“I know,” Henry said, his eyes remaining on the auctioneer. A three-year-old colt was being sold. The next one in the ring would be Black Minx and Tom Flint was still here. Henry tried not to betray his nervousness. He pulled his hat down farther over his eyes.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going,” Flint said.

Go ahead then! Go! Henry heard the shifting of Flint’s frame in the wicker chair; then the man was on his feet.

“You’re sure I can’t give you a lift to town? It’s nasty out.”

“No, thanks. I’ll get a lift later.” He didn’t want Flint to know that he was driving the farm’s small van, hoping to take home Black Minx. “So long, Tom,” he said.

But Flint didn’t go. He remained there beside him. The auctioneer’s gavel was ready to fall, ending the sale of the three-year-old colt. It would be only a matter of a few minutes now before the filly would enter the sales ring.

“So long, Henry.” Flint took a step away; then he stopped again. “This two-year-old filly by the Black …” he began.

Henry didn’t lift his eyes. He didn’t move. He just waited.

“I saw her first start in Florida last February,” Flint added. “She was pretty bad.”

That was all he said. But Henry realized that Flint hadn’t been fooled, that Flint had known all along why he was waiting. Henry looked up then and saw the big man leaving the pavilion; he just wasn’t interested in the filly.

Black Minx came into the ring held firmly by the white-coated attendant who handled all horses up for sale. She was coal black and small. She had a quick, competent walk as she was led about the ring, and it was apparent to Henry that her limited size was misleading, for she had more muscle than was noticeable at first glance. Her head was light and beautiful with great breadth between sharp eyes, a slightly dished nose, a narrow muzzle, and sensitive nostrils. Her only disfigurement was a short tail, so short that it was barely more than a stump.

It was not the first Henry had seen of Black Minx. He had visited her in the sales barns behind the pavilion, but his visits had been few. He was afraid that his interest in this black filly would get around. Disclosing only mild interest in her, he’d talked to her groom and others who had been close to her.

“She’s erratic and temperamental,” they had said.

That’s the Black in her, he’d decided for himself, for he had liked the filly at first sight.

“She’s apt to fly into tantrums at the drop of a hat, either in play or in anger,” Henry had been told. “She bites.”

That’s the result of poor handling, poor training. She’s been spoiled.

“She’ll never make a racer.”

With her blood she’ll run, if I can get it out of her.

Henry clenched his hands. Let the others remember only her faults. Let the others discard her as Flint had done. He would have a good chance then of taking her home.