The Black's Chaser 2

A/N - The bloodlines mentioned in this story are all real English lines, well known for breeding chasers although American readers may not know them.

Alec pursed his lips, a faint frown creasing his face as he looked at Henry and Sarah. Down at the other end of the yard, Thomas was strapping his chestnut Welsh pony, hopefully unable to hear the whispered discussion that was taking place.

'How the hell did the finances get in this state?' Alec growled, still looking at the bank statement that Henry had passed to him. 'I knew they were bad, but not like this.'

The old trainer shook his head mournfully; running one scarred hand down the arched neck of the colt who stood next to him. 'When we first came here Alec, we had two stallions and ten mares. The Black and Satan. A jet black Arabian who whipped America's finest on their own turf, and his son who came out of nowhere to win the Triple Crown. Eighty mares a year, ten of them ours and we were on easy street. Then we had Baby, and her foals helped, and old Red, with his Man O' War Stakes got the staying mares.'

'Now the Arabs have their own stock in training...Ship them in from Dubai or fly them from Kentucky for the big races. Goldophin, all the others. Their horses are closer to the desert strain than our are now so no-one will pay to use a colt from the Black who's forgotten that he ever smelt the desert wind and raced a sand storm. And we all thought that you could have figured that out. Only, you were too busy...'

Henry looked at Sarah, standing so close to the colt and Alec, who knew that over the past few years he had been getting too far away from he heart of things, riding whatever horses Henry entered, being a husband to Volence's daughter and a father to their son, coming to dislike the endless circuits of left-handed dirt tracks and the endless drumming of hooves, the flogging of tired horses because of the non-triers rule. 'Because Henry, I found out that there were better things. Maybe not for you, but for me.'

'And because you thought something else was better, you were prepared to do nothing, leaving me to run Hopeful Farm and hand a wreck over to your son? And you were prepared to sell a colt just because he doesn't look right, a colt I told you would be as good to the stud as Satan was, even though he can't go chasing here?'

Together, the three turned to look at Black's Gift, the stocky colt tossing his head in protest at the foal slip Henry had dropped over his ears while he was dozing. Alec assessed the colt quickly - nearly a month old, heavier than anything in Black's line had a right to be, with an almost roman nose and large ears, plenty of bone and a deep chest. A stayer, who was more relaxed and easy to do than any colt he'd ever met.

Henry rubbed the colt's nose. 'Don't worry, Alec, it's your yard, and although I think you should keep him, I'm not going to force you. Have him cut and send him over to Ireland, the Store Horse sales or one of the Lambourn markets. Or keep him entire for a while, see how he goes and put him in training over there. He's bred for it at any rate.'

Alec couldn't remember Jet's breeding on his dam's side; the sire's line went back to Satan, to the chestnut born under the eyes of an Arabic Lord in a desert storm, to the North Wind that Allah had taken and spoken to, giving it flight without wings, courage without enmity and changed into the first Arabian. 'How's he bred?'

It was Sarah who answered. 'The old girl's got a fancy name, but she was foaled down in Yorkshire. She's by Saddler's Wells, making her a half sister to Istabraq and One Man amongst others. Her dam was an Irish pointer by Green Desert, out of a half-bred mare who hunted most of her life and won the Foxhunter's at Cheltham. All the stamina in the world, more heart than you could ever find in a flat horse, added to Black's courage and speed.'

'And there's money in chasers at the moment, Alec. Take a dozen over to Ireland and you'll pay for the journey and knock a fair few bills on the head at the same time.'

Alec nodded, understanding that that was the most sympathy and help he'd get off of Henry and he looked over Hopeful Farm towards the headstone that was where Black lay, the paddock where Satan paced. So many dreams had started here, so many races won by foals that had staggered to their feet under his gaze. And now there was Jet, according to Henry, worthy focus of a new set of dreams even if they had to wait.

Henry smiled, looking at Tom, who had come to stand beside Jet. Adding a few more years to both of them, this could have been Alec and Black in Flushing so many years ago. And maybe for the last time in his life, he had a horse to dream about, one to make plans about even if he had to hitch hike to the courses and watch another jockey ride. Black had saved the farm once. Now his great-grandson was going to have to do it again.

Notes in case they're needed -

Istabraq won three Champion Hurdles and 4 Irish ones

One Man won the King George 5th Chase and the Queen Mum Champion Chase

Saddlers Wells was an unsuccessful racer but champion sire in England 27 times

Green Desert a middle rank sire of chasers/ stayers/hunters including Green Green Desert

Foxhunters is the biggest race for pointers/ hunter chasers in England.