The Black Stallion Challenged by Walter Farley Page A

ahead?”
    “You’d better wait a couple more minutes,” the big man answered. He adjusted the line to increase the flow of oxygen, then watched the rubber bag. The filly was breathing regularly but he wanted to make certain no complications developed. He had lost one horse this season at Hialeah but he attributed that death to surgical shock rather than respiratory failure. However, he wasn’t taking any chances with this one. She was a good filly with years ahead of her as a fine broodmare, even if she didn’t make the races again.
    Alec turned his gaze to the elderly, gnomelike man standing closest to the table of any of the spectators. He was the filly’s groom and, Alec knew, was taking this harder than anyone else. He had twisted his cap in his hands; his bared head was completely bald except for a fringe of shaggy, white hair. He was breathing in vast gulps of air as if this would help his filly in her own breathing. Now he wiped his big nose with the cap, an attempt, Alec knew, to hide the concern and fear he felt.
    Most caretakers were like this man, Alec reflected. They went from track to track, from youth to old age, caring only for their beloved charges and the day’s eating money. On the whole they were a happy lot. But they were quick to adjust to whatever tomorrow would bring, for that was their way, too.
    The surgeon looked over at the groom and said,“Dick, you have nothing to worry about. She’ll be back in a year.”
    “I sure hope so, Doc. They’ll send her to the farm, don’t you think?”
    “It’ll be the best place for her. She won’t be able to move out of her stall for three months, anyway.”
    “Just fix her up so she’ll be back sometime, Doc.” The powerful overhead light disclosed the purple veins in the little man’s nose. He rubbed it again. “That’s all I want. I’ll be waitin’ for her. You jus’ fix her up.”
    “We’ll fix her up all right,” the surgeon said. Then, with glances, he invited the others to listen to what he had to say next while waiting for word from the anesthetist to proceed. “What helps us in this case is that because she fell she couldn’t continue the race. We have real trouble when a horse fractures a leg and keeps running on it. Their bones are brittle compared to ours and when one is fractured in a race it can break into splintered fragments, especially when they try to keep running.”
    The anesthetist interrupted. “You can go ahead now, Bill,” he said. “Pulse and respiration are back to normal.”
    The surgeon continued with his work. When he had finished drilling, the two screws were securely and correctly imbedded in the bone. He had done everything he could. All that was left now was to close the wound and put on a plaster of Paris cast to give the screws added support and immobilize the injured leg as much as possible. Unfortunately, it was almost impossible for a horse to keep its weight off a fractured leg forany length of time, and this made successful treatment more difficult than in the case of a human being.
    The surgeon’s assistant handed him the needle with suture attached and, stitching neatly, he closed the wound. Then he gave the filly another antibiotic injection to combat infection and, removing the operating sheet, applied sulfanilamide powder thickly to the hair around the wound, rubbing it into the skin also to prevent superficial bacterial infections. Next, his assistant helped him put an orthopedic stockinet over the leg. He made certain it was absolutely smooth before applying the wet plaster of Paris bandage. He wound it quickly but efficiently about the leg until he was satisfied the cast would provide maximum support and an even pressure.
    At last he straightened up. “Okay, John. We’re done,” he said to his assistant. Then he called to his anesthetist. “Turn her off, Max.”
    Alec stepped back as the big man turned off his machine and removed the mask from the filly’s mouth. All the other