Henry sat back in his seat, the wicker chair creaking beneath the weight of his heavy, stocky frame. He pulled down his hat a little more over his eyes. He wanted as few people as possible to recognize him. This would not be easy, for he knew most of the five hundred or more who packed the big room.

He’d been here often in the years past, long before he ever knew Alec and the Black and Satan. But it had been different then. As a trainer he’d come along with his various employers. He’d spent their money. Or rather he had told them when to bid and when not to bid, depending on how much he liked the looks of a horse and what he thought to be a fair price.

But this time he was bidding his money for his horse. Although he had trained hundreds of racehorses, he never had owned one in his life. Funny. Well, that was the way it went with some people. He had to admit he was pretty excited about buying his own horse. That was funny too after all these years.

The amount of money in his pocket was pitifully small, considering what everyone else had been paying for horses at this sale. Four colts had already been sold for more than fifty thousand dollars. So far he’d seen ten two-year-olds he’d have liked to own, and he’d bid his thousand dollars each time. But they had been sold for far above that figure. The colts he’d wanted were wanted by other people too, but those people had more money to spend. Well, he’d known this would happen. He had told Alec it would.

His thoughts returned to Black Minx. She’d be stepping into the ring in about an hour or so. Alec had told him to use some of the farm’s money if she went over what he could afford on his own. Maybe he would, if he saw a chance of getting her.

The room became unusually quiet. Henry glanced at his catalogue, and knew the reason for the almost reverent hush. What was supposed to be the top yearling of the sale would be the next to enter the sales ring.

With a flourish suggestive of unheard trumpets heralding his approach, a tall gray colt was led out. The auctioneer went to work over the public-address system.

“Now, folks, you all listen to me,” he told the crowd. “Heah we have what could be the finest colt in this sale. He’s by Mahmoud, out of Cry Baby, and that makes him, as you all know without mah tellin’ you, a full brother to Silver Jet!” He paused a moment to let the full impact of his words sink into the crowd. Then, “And you all know that Silver Jet stood in this very same ring last fall as a yearling … just like this colt is doin’ … and went away from heah the property of Tom Flint to win for that gentleman the grand and mighty sum of more than one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars this year as a two-year-old! There’s no better investment for your money than something like that. Am I right, Carl?”

The auctioneer turned to his assistant, who, taking the cue, said into the microphone, “You’re dead right, Jim. And, folks, I’ll let you in on a little secret which you all know.