The Black Stallion Revolts

by Walter Farley

  But what could he do here in the confines of this plane, thousands of feet above a mountainous wilderness? If cramp colic did come, what would he do?

  He felt his self-confidence ebbing. He stood there, watching the Black, hoping desperately that nothing was going to happen. Angrily, he shook off his feeling of helplessness. Going to the tack trunk, he took out a bottle of medicine he had used before on colicky horses while awaiting the arrival of a veterinarian. He removed another blanket and a bottle of liniment, placing them on top of the trunk, and then he went back to the stallion. The Black was quiet, even drowsing. Perhaps … He looked at his watch. Ten minutes had gone by. He left the Black to go quickly into the pilots’ compartment.

  They had their backs to him, the co-pilot wearing his radio headset. They did not know he was there until he said, “I might have a sick horse.”

  Surprised by his presence, they turned simultaneously. “Sick?” the captain asked, studying Alec’s face. “How sick?”

  “Bad, if it comes at all.”

  “Then he isn’t sick now?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know he will be?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But you’d better get to the nearest airport anyway.”

  The captain tried to smile. “You’re kidding. We’re over the roughest part of the trip.”

  “I’m not kidding,” Alec said. “It’s cramp colic, and if it comes I won’t be able to control him.”

  “You mean …” The captain stopped, his face turning white. “How long do we have?”

  “A matter of minutes now, longer only if I can keep control.” Alec’s eyes met the captain’s. “We’ve got to get down.”

  Turning away, the captain opened the throttle and kicked the plane hard to the right. Through the windshield Alec saw the spinning peaks below.

  “Give me an hour,” the captain said. “I’ll need an hour. There’s a small airport behind us.” He turned to his co-pilot. “Get them on the radio. Tell them we’ll be coming in, and why.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alec returned to the Black. The stallion had his small head raised. He whinnied as Alec came toward him. He put out his tongue. Alec pulled it, then let go.

  A few minutes went by with Alec praying that he was all wrong, that nothing was going to happen. He was conscious of the racing engines and in silent prayer urged them to still greater speed. Only when he and the Black were on the ground would his deathly fear leave him. With or without a veterinarian’s services he’d have a chance there. On the ground he might be able to work the pain out of the stallion. But not up here. Here, if it came, the results would be fatal to all of them.

  For another minute it was quiet except for the roaring engines, and then the Black stopped his tongue play to stamp his feet impatiently. He pulled on the tie ropes, trying to turn his head to look at his stomach.

  Alec’s face turned pale. Here were the first symptoms of cramp colic! “No, boy, no,” he said. Tears came to his eyes, and he roughly brushed them away. He rubbed the Black’s muzzle. The stallion stomped again, harder this time. The pains had begun; they’d get more severe with every successive minute now.

  Alec turned away, opened the compartment door, and shouted, “It’s started!” He closed the door, not knowing if they’d heard him, and realizing it didn’t matter. The pilots were doing all they could to get to an airport. The rest was solely up to him. He got the bottle of medicine from the trunk and returned to the Black’s head. The pain was beginning to show in the stallion’s eyes. They were large and bright, the pupils dilating more and more.

  Alec was careful with the medicine. Seldom had it been necessary to give the Black any drugs, and never had it been easy. Talking to the stallion, he moved to the side of his head, letting the fingers of one hand creep up to the Black’s mouth. In his other hand he had the bottle, holding it low to keep the stallion from seeing it while he opened his mouth. He was bringing it up when the Black tossed his head, striking Alec’s hand and sending the bottle crashing against the floor. It was the only colic medicine Alec had.

  The Black struggled as the spasms increased in their violence. He plunged, and the tie ropes strained but held. He pawed furiously, and then tried to get down to roll, straining the ropes again. Through the heavy blankets covering him came large and ever-widening splotches of sweat.

  Alec ran to get more dry blankets and the liniment. Returning to the Black, he threw the blankets over the heaving body to induce more perspiration; then, unmindful of his own safety, he went inside the close stall and began rubbing liniment on the stallion’s stomach.

  The Black was beside himself with pain. He knew no master, no love or tolerance, nothing but the terrible spasms that racked his stomach. He sought to rid himself of them by violent action. His thin, delicate head was wrought with veins that were bulging, almost bursting with his heated blood. He snorted, gathering himself back on his haunches as if for a mighty leap. His body quivered, and froth showered from gaping mouth and nostrils.

  “Black … oh, Black. I’m sorry, sorry.…” But Alec’s words, repeated over and over in his terrible misery, went unheard. Pain had closed the stallion’s eyes and ears, blinding him, deafening him to all he knew and loved.

  Suddenly the Black flung himself forward, and the stall door latch gave way beneath his great strength and weight. The tie ropes held, but his halter broke at the buckle, and the leather hung loosely upon his head. He stood still for a moment, not realizing he was free.

  Alec ran to the door of the pilots’ compartment and, opening it, shouted, “Get down, down! Now!”

  He shut the door again, and turned to find the Black bolting forward in a mighty leap. His loose blankets caught on the stall door but his momentum carried him on, rending straps, buckles and fabric. The plane suddenly lurched beneath his heavy movements. He careened against the opposite side, and came away to throw himself on the floor, his naked body sweating and squirming.

  The plane bucked violently, lunging crazily to one side, then up and down. It stopped with a sudden jar, leveled off, then quickly slanted down.

  Alec knew fear, all-engulfing fear at the abrupt descent. His chest was tight, his mouth slack and gaping. If he didn’t do something, if he didn’t go to his horse now, he’d never go. He took a step, then another toward the Black.

  The stallion got to his feet and reared, striking his head against the top of the plane. He whirled as he came down, and threw himself on the floor again, his legs thrashing above him.

  Alec was flung hard against the side of the plane as it lurched once more with the Black’s ponderous rolling. The engines shrilled a new sound, an ever-expanding, protesting roar in the night, and the floor slanted downward more steeply. Alec picked himself up. He realized that the pilots, blinded by fear themselves, were going down for any kind of a landing while they still had control of the plane. But not on a runway, not at an airport. They were still too far away. There was only a mountain wilderness beneath them!

  He staggered toward the Black and found himself looking into eyes that were dull and heavy. The stallion’s breathing grew louder and louder until it could be heard even above the roar of the engines. Alec reached for him.

  Suddenly the stallion’s eyes came open with a snap, and once more they were wild in their brightness. He struggled to his feet, his nostrils swelling and widening. A spasm wracked his great body. He bolted, plunging the whole length of the compartment before losing his balance and falling again.

  The plane bounced in the sky, its engines rising and dwindling in horrible protest. Alec was hurled against the compartment door. For a moment he lay there, knowing there was nothing he could do. The door moved against his back, and then a voice shouted, “We’re crash-landing. Get some blankets around you!”

  Alec picked himself up, only to be thrown off his feet again as the plane slewed to the left, and then down, ever down. Now he crawled past the rolling body of the stallion. He pulled himself to the do
or and unlocked it. They were riding a comet toward a blackened earth. The only thing he could do now was to provide an escape for them, if they landed safely. He glanced out the window and a saw a knife-edged ridge below them. Were they to cut a swath through the trees or was there a clearing beyond?

  The Black was on his feet and moving about again. Alec pressed himself hard against the side of the plane to avoid the flaying, frenzied hoofs of his horse. The plane grazed the treetops. “Get her up!” he tried to shout. But why? What chance did the pilots have to find a safe place to land? There was nothing to do but wait, wait for the staggering plane to find its way into the earth so close below them.

  It seemed to come with the crash of the Black’s body against the floor. The plane leaped and jolted, trying to free itself from the trees that sought to clutch and gather it to them. Knowing the crash was coming, Alec pushed against the door to provide an escape for them. It went hard at first, then suddenly burst wide open with a roar of wind. He glimpsed the tops of trees just below, then something snatched him from his feet, tearing him forever from the heaving floor of the plane. He was outside and falling. His last conscious thought was a realization that the plane had lifted again, clearing the trees as if in final, angry repulsion of them. Its engines thundered, rising and dwindling, as its dark bulk went on without him.

  Then came the tearing and crashing of his body into the trees. He screamed and his arms flayed wildly. An explosion came, and he knew nothing more but blackness.

  THE UNKNOWN

  4

  It was hard … hard … so hard. Yet, finally, he was able to open his eyes. There was nothing for him to see, only darkness. He didn’t care, and closed his eyes again. Slowly, ever so slowly, he was able to raise a hand to his head. He knew it had to be his head, not from touch, but because of the terrible pain that began there and descended and racked his body. He located the great swelling on the crown of his head, but resting his hand there afforded him no relief from the intensity of his pain. He kept his eyes closed, seeking sleep to soothe him and provide solace.

  Sleep did not come, could not overcome his great barrier of pain. He tried opening his eyes again—slowly, because even that slight movement served to increase his suffering. He made a great effort, fighting the painful spasms that shook him. When he was able to see again he kept his eyes open, knowing he could not sleep, and tried to think.

  Where was he?

  His fingers found the bark of the tree beside him. Yes, it was a tree. But why was it so wet, so moist and clammy beneath his touch? He drew back his hand, putting it to his mouth, and tasted his own raw and bleeding flesh. Something had happened, something horrible. But what? Fiery currents tortured him while he tried to think, to remember. Quickly he forced these thoughts from his mind to ease the pain. He used his ears then, hoping they would furnish him with all he wanted to know, needed to know, if he was to get assistance.

  He squinted his eyes to shut out some of the pain. He listened, and heard wind roaring through treetops. Yes, there were trees all around him. He was certain of that now. And it was night … that, too, he knew. He heard the scream of an animal, and to him, just then, it was all the more wild and terrible because it rent the night air of an unknown wilderness. Yet when the scream trailed away, he thought no more of it, so wretched was his pain. Instead he listened to another sound, something that moved beneath the cry of wind and trees, something that rushed like the wind, but at a lower and more gentle pitch. It came to him suddenly that the sound could be made by a stream. He opened his eyes a little more.

  He lay in a gully, and the ground sloped away from him. The low, rushing sound came from beyond. The way to it must be downgrade with nothing to climb. Yet he hesitated, not wanting to move, dreading the pain he knew any movement would bring.

  Reaching for the trunk of the tree behind him, he dug his nails into its bark, and began pulling himself to his feet. He screamed in his agony, stopped and held fast to the tree, not wanting to lose the few feet he had already gained. He pulled again until, staggering and weak, he stood on trembling legs. For a few minutes he rested, then he pushed himself away from the tree.

  He fell forward more often than he walked. Yet he never stopped in his search for the stream, for he knew he’d never go on again if he did. With every step, the agonizing pain mounted until he thought his head would burst. Yet he went on, sometimes on hands and knees, always moving a little closer to the sound of running water. He tried to think of the comfort the water would bring to his head. He tried to concentrate on this and nothing more.

  Finally he came to it, a thread of a stream rushing down the mountainside. He crawled into it, heedless of the sharp rocks that tore his hands and knees, opening fresh wounds, causing him to shed more blood.

  He let his face fall into the cold water. The stream was shallow, and the stones at the bottom scraped his nose and mouth. He turned his head sideways, facing downstream. He lay there, letting the cold water run over his head. And for the first time his pain lessened. He had found his solace.

  For a long, long while he lay there without moving, without thinking. Then, suddenly, down the mountainside he saw the moving lights! With great effort he raised his head from the water. Help was coming. Somebody knew. Somebody was coming for him!

  He staggered to his feet, and the pain beat his head again. It was severe but he was able to stand it now. It wasn’t as bad as before. He would be able to move. He took a few steps, then stopped, his eyes on the lights below. They were no longer coming toward him, but turning away! They were not lights held in the hands of people coming to his aid, but the headlights of a car, a car that was moving along a mountain road, not looking for him and even now leaving him behind.

  He screamed at the top of his voice, and this great effort caused him to drop to his knees and clutch his head. He didn’t watch the car disappear down the road. His only thought was to get back to the stream, to let the cold, cold water ease his pain.

  In time the pain lessened again, and while lying in the water he thought of the lights and the road below. He must reach it. Where one car had gone another could go. He needed help, needed it desperately. Not only to relieve him of his pain. No, not only that. There was something else, something he felt rather than knew. He felt that there was a barrier in his brain … a barrier that was shutting out the past. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew nothing at all of who he was, or where he was, or what had happened. He couldn’t remember.

  After a long while, he raised his head from the water, and sat up. The pain returned, but he took hope from the fact that he could stand it better than before. He would be able to reach the road below. But before getting to his feet, he searched his clothes seeking some clue to his identity, and what had happened to him. He found a large amount of money in his pants pocket but no wallet, no papers, nothing that was of any help to him. Yet he had all this money, wet and soaked with blood.

  He fingered the great tears in his shirt and pants. No, not really tears, but shreds of clothing scarcely covering his ravaged body. He must have been running, fighting his way through these woods for a long, long time. Crawling, too, by the sight of his raw hands and knees. But why? Why?

  He sat there for some time, trying to think, trying to remember. But the insurmountable barrier in his brain kept its hold, and his mental searching was futile.

  He was wearing only one shoe, and, leaning forward, he removed it to look inside for the name of a store, a city. There was nothing. He tore the collar from his shirt, looking for a label. He found one, and the name “McGregor.” Was it just the brand name of the shirt or was it his name? He repeated the name over and over again, hoping it would break down the terrible mental barrier. But nothing came of it, only greater despair, and more pain.

  Once again he put his head in the cold water, seeking relief. Eventually he got to his feet and, stumbling, moved down the mountainside. He must reach the road below. Get help. Someone would know who he was, and what had hap
pened to him.

  He followed the rushing stream for a long while, turning when it turned, afraid to leave the solace it afforded him. Finally he had to abandon it in order to reach the road below. Heavier woods were before him, solid and alive, and he plunged into their vastness, alternately staggering and crawling. Brush wrapped its arms about him, pulling him down only to let him go again as he rolled with the steep grade, refusing to stop, knowing the road beyond was his only salvation.

  How long it had been since he had left the stream he didn’t know. It seemed an eternity. His pain was intense, and there was no stream now to comfort him. He had to go on. His squinting eyes looked for the lights that would tell him he was near his goal. But none came for a long while. Then he saw them far away, winding their way with the contour of the mountain. He screamed, and tried to run. A black bulk rose in front of him, and he went down hard, his hands finding the base of a tree. He pulled himself to his knees and, still screaming, began to crawl. Now the lights were close to him. A hundred yards away? He got to his feet, screaming again at the top of his voice. But with the lights came a roar, the thunderous roar of a heavy truck that made his cries seem pitifully soft in comparison. Forgetful of his pain he ran again, faster than before, and when he crashed into another tree he stayed down for a long while.

  When he opened his eyes again he knew that the truck has passed. He crawled toward the road. Soon he would reach it. He would lie there, waiting for other headlights to find him, to stop, to give him peace. He reached the road on will alone, and stretched the full length of his agonized body upon it. There was nothing more to do but wait. If only he could sleep while he waited!