The pilot thought of the wild animals who stalked these ranges, the mountain lions and bears, the wolf packs and coyotes. Any of these could have attacked and killed the horse during the night. And if the horse had gone down what chance had the boy?
These thoughts drove him down to the treetops again, and he brushed his wings against them until the sunlight disappeared behind the highest of the western ranges. For a brief period he carried on his relentless search in the golden afterglow of the sun shedding its light from behind the peaks. Finally this light went, and it became dark. He banked his plane for home. Other planes would join the search tonight and tomorrow. Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow, they would find them … or even tonight.
While the planes had been searching from the sky, two woodsmen followed the Black’s trail from the crippled plane. By sunset they came to the rocky country and there they stopped to kneel on the ground, looking at the large, almost oval hoofprints that were there. Finally one said, “Take a look, Milt, these are the last ones we’re goin’ to see of his.”
The other man said nothing, only raising his head to look ahead at the desolate and tortuous terrain: miles upon miles of bare, gutted rock, spreading into the great woods where no horse, not even a shod one, would leave a track.
“He’s gone to the north, all right,” the first man spoke again, “just like they thought.”
Picking up his rifle, the other turned. “Come on, Luke. We ain’t goin’ on with no tracks to follow. We’ll go back and tell ’em so. Let someone else decide what to do. We gets paid to track.”
“An’ there ain’t no tracks no more,” Luke said, following.
The airliner was hours out of New York City, yet no word had passed between Henry Dailey and Alec’s father. The tragic news, coming early that morning, had drained them spiritually and emotionally. They were two old men and there was nothing left for either without Alec.
Henry put his hand on Mr. Ramsay’s knee. “We’ve got to believe he’s alive,” he said.
“Do you believe it, Henry?” Mr. Ramsay’s words could hardly be heard. “The reporters … they said the search has been going on since last night.” His trembling hands went to his face to cover it, and sobs racked his long, thin body.
“We got to believe he’s alive. We got to.” Henry was silent for a long time, but his hand never left his friend’s knee. Finally he said, “Remember, Alec’s got the Black with him. Remember that, Bill.”
Mr. Ramsay’s voice was muffled by his hands, but Henry heard him say, “Thank God for that. Thank God. It’s our only hope.” Then his hands came away, and his glazed eyes found Henry’s. Bitterness crept into his voice. “But why did he take Alec away? Why didn’t Alec stay in the plane? Why?”
Henry couldn’t face those eyes. He turned away. “I don’t know, Bill. The horse was in bad trouble. A colic attack, from what I can make out of what the reporters told us. Maybe Alec was trying to help him after the plane came down. I don’t know.”
Neither said anything more. The sky darkened with the swift coming of night, another night. Henry tried to close his ears to the sobs from the seat beside him. I’ve got to keep believing they’re alive, he told himself. If I don’t I’m goin’ to be no good to them or myself. They’re out there tonight, alive, and waiting to be found. They’re out there together. Remember that, and I’ll be all right. They’re together.
But the Black was spending his second night high on a southern range, many miles away from where they were looking for him. Still farther to the south, and in another state, Alec Ramsay was awakening from his long sleep in the back of the rumbling trailer truck.
THE LONG NIGHT
6
The truck swerved abruptly, throwing Alec against a corner of one of the wooden boxes. He felt the wheels leave the road, riding crazily on what must have been soft and deep-rutted shoulders, and then the truck began slowing down. He got his feet beneath him, but before standing he touched the swelling on his head again. It was sore and throbbing, but the severe pain was gone. His sleep had helped. How long had he been riding? It wasn’t important.
All that mattered was that he was afraid to ask himself, Who am I? What has happened to me?
He was afraid because he knew he still did not know the answers. And just now he did not want to disturb this peace, this comfort which came with the relief from his violent pain. So he thought only of the slowing truck, and pulled himself upright.
Opening the back canvas, he looked out into the night, its darkness broken only by the white road that trailed like a ribbon. On either side of it were mountains. The same mountains, the same night, he believed. The truck came to a stop, and he raised a foot to the boards. He felt the severe pain again as he pulled his body upward. He tore his lips with his teeth, hoping this new torture would distract him from the old. He kept going, kept climbing.
A voice from far away said, “It ain’t flat, Joe. It’ll hold up for a while. Let’s keep goin’ until we hit the next station. Ain’t no sense changin’ it out here.”
Hearing this, he screamed into the night and hung on to the top backboard, afraid to let go, afraid because of his terrible agony. He heard the heavy footsteps that came in answer to his scream. He felt the hands, as heavy as the feet had been, reach up to take him by the belt, and then he was pulled down.
For a moment he lay upon the road, his eyes closed. When he opened them two pairs of eyes were staring at him, and then two pairs of hands pulled him to his feet. It was hard focusing his eyes, harder still to move his swollen lips. And when he succeeded, his words came in gasps and were incoherent. They made no sense to the men who pulled him to the front of the truck to look at him in the glare of headlights.
The voice came to him again, an angry voice, rough, like the hands. “How long you hitched a ride with us? How long? Salt Lake City? Ain’tcha got eyes? Ya see that sign?”
He was pulled to his feet, and lifted brutally until his face was pressed hard against the truck’s windshield. There was a sign there, but he could not read it. The cold glass comforted his throbbing head.
“No riders, see! An’ it means what it says, y’understan’? Do ya?” The hands shook him roughly. “You hitch a ride with us, an’ we lose our jobs. Y’understan’? The Company’s got spotters. Spotters, y’hear? They see ya, an’ we get canned. Y’know that?”
The hands kept shaking him, and he knew he could stand no more. He tried to scream, but nothing came. “I … I … need he … help.” His words were only whispers. “I want the police … need the police.”
The two men were laughing, low, guttural laughs. They set him down on the side of the road, and he clung to the dirt, knowing aloneness again and the peace that came with it.
Out of the blackness he heard the harsh voice once more. “By the looks of ya I’d keep away from the police, if I were in your shoes.”
The other voice came, “He ain’t even got shoes. His kind ain’t gonna be helped by the cops none.”
The cab door slammed, the engine roared, and they left him there. But he didn’t care, didn’t care at all.
How long he lay there, waiting for the pain to leave his head, he never knew. When he was able to sit up again he looked once more into darkness. Would this night ever end? Was it to last forever?
He sat still, knowing that only by keeping quiet would he have peace. He was on a valley road. Cars would come along, and perhaps one of them would stop. Someone would help him. Someone would take him to the police. He’d tell them he couldn’t remember anything, and they’d understand. He’d tell them that somehow he’d been struck on the head, and that was the reason he couldn’t remember his name, or where he was, or what he’d been doing before he was hurt. They would help him. They might even be able to tell him who he was. Perhaps they had been looking for him. Perhaps …
The harsh voice came to him again, “By the looks of ya I’d keep away from the police.…” He’d always remember that voice, those words.
By the
looks of me? His torn hands felt his swollen face, felt the rags that should have been clothes, felt the clotted blood on his raw and open flesh. And finally they rested on the bulge in his pocket, and he remembered the large amount of money that was there. How had he come by so much money? Why had he been crawling through the woods, through a mountain wilderness? Had he been afraid? Had he been running from something? From the police?
Perhaps the police were looking for him. A new and terrifying fear gripped his body. Before he had been afraid for his life, afraid that the help he sought would not come. Now he felt the deadly fear of the hunted.
A car’s headlights came down the road. He watched them with eyes that no longer sought aid and comfort. Instead they were shifting eyes seeking escape, the eyes of a fugitive!
He began crawling away from the side of the road, looking for tall grass, anything in which to hide. But it was open country, and he felt the headlights sweep down upon him. He lay flat and still, pressing his body close to the damp earth. He waited while the lights passed over him and then were gone.
He was getting up when he heard the screeching drag of braked wheels. He turned, and saw red taillights coming back toward him. He tried to get to his feet and run, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He sank back onto the ground. Better to take a chance. Better to lie and bluff his way along than to move and cause his pain to return again.
The car backed up until its headlights shone full upon him once more. Out of a long and racy convertible stepped a man. He was short in height, but big, tremendously big, about his shoulders and waist. He came waddling toward the boy, holding a revolver in his hand. When he stood over him, he put the gun away.
“Kid, are you hurt? What’s happened to you?”
“I … I’d hitched a ride on a truck. The drivers threw me off here.” He needed time, time to think and plan. He wanted to confide in no one just now. He didn’t want to go to the police.
“And they beat you up?” The man didn’t expect an answer. He was looking at the torn clothes, the swollen face. “Come on, kid. I’ll help you,” he added in great sympathy.
The boy was carried to the car, and when he had been set down he felt the softness of the upholstery against his head. It was good, so good, and his body relaxed. He felt safe with this man, safe and secure.
“Go to sleep,” the fat man said kindly. “You look like you could use it. Not many places open on this road, but the next time I stop for gas I’ll let you know so you can clean up your face. That is, unless you think you should see a doctor, if I can find one. Do you feel any pain? Anything that might be broken?”
“No … no pain, nothing broken.”
“Good. I’d sure like to get my hands on those guys. Beating up a kid! What’s your name?”
What’s your name? What’s my name? What is my name? And he heard himself reply, “McGregor.” The label on his ripped shirt had provided him with a name. “McGregor’s my name,” he said again.
“Scotch, eh? Mine’s Washburn, Bill Washburn.”
After that the fat man let him alone.
“McGregor’s my name,” he repeated to himself, closing his eyes. “It’ll be my name until I can remember. I’ve been struck on the head. I have amnesia. Other people have had it and recovered. In time my memory will come back, and I’ll know who I am. But now I’ll keep all this to myself just in case … just in case I’m running away from something, from the police. There, I’ve said it and I feel better for having said it. My name is McGregor.”
For the next two hours he pretended to be asleep. He knew any words would come hard from his lips, disjointed and rambling, making little sense most of the time. He didn’t want to talk, not even to this man who was helping him get away. He’d only betray himself.
In time he felt the easing up of the powerful engine, and then there was gravel sliding beneath braked wheels. The car stopped, and the fat man’s hand was on his shoulder.
“McGregor, I’m stopping for gas. You can get washed up here.”
The boy slid out of the car and away from the lone overhead light near the gas pump. His head pains came back while he walked into the small station and found the door to the bathroom. He closed it quickly, locking it, and then he turned to the mirror. Beneath the bare, hanging bulb he looked at the face which belonged to him. His hair was red, dark red and matted with dried blood. His eyes had dark pupils and blue irises, but there were hundreds of tiny red veins streaking the whites. His nose was short, and looked small between his puffed and bruised cheeks. He had a wide mouth and large lips. Or were they swollen, too?
His glazed eyes traveled down the rest of his body. He carried all his weight in his shoulders and arms. Otherwise he was light, with a small waist, slender thighs and long legs. What use had he made of this body, these hands? He turned them up, looking at the palms. They were calloused and hard beneath the dried blood. His fingers were lean and strong. His hands had known work, hard work.
Turning on the water, he let it run over his head. The swelling on his crown throbbed, and it was sore to his touch. His headache was persistent, but once more the severe pains had subsided. He let the water run until it had washed his hair clean of all blood. He cupped it to his face with careful, gentle hands, and then he pushed back his hair, smoothing it down as best he could. When he had finished he looked far better except for his torn clothes and bare feet. But he could do nothing about those.
Before leaving the bathroom, he studied his face again. He wanted to know it, to remember it, for it belonged to him, to McGregor. He noticed the freckles on his nose and beneath his eyes, now that his face was clean. He saw, too, the thin white lines at the corners of his eyes, lines that came from squinting for long hours beneath a hot sun. His past life, he knew then, had been spent in the open. Doing what, though?
Hearing the incessant blaring of a horn, he left the bathroom to go to the car. He got inside without the station attendant’s seeing him. Once more he lay back in the corner of the seat.
The fat man said while starting the engine, “You had me worried for a moment. I thought you might have decided not to come along.” He laughed, but it was a kind laugh, the laugh of a person who liked people, all sorts of people. Yet curiosity was there, too, and it was reflected in his eyes and face. “You cleaned up fine,” he said. “Does it make you feel better?”
McGregor only nodded.
The kid doesn’t want to talk much, the fat man thought. Well, that was understandable. McGregor must have gone through a lot at the hands of those drivers. “I asked the gas station attendant if he knew of any doctors in this section,” he said.
McGregor’s eyes opened, and for a second the man thought he saw deep fear in them. “The guy laughed when I asked him,” he went on. “Said the closest one was fifty miles back up the road and none going this way.”
“Don’t need a doctor,” McGregor said.
For a while the fat man drove in silence, yet his gaze left the road often to glance at the huddled figure in the far corner. Finally he said, “Could you eat a sandwich? There are some right behind you.”
When McGregor didn’t reply, the man reached behind the seat himself and placed the box of sandwiches between them. “Help yourself,” he said.
The road went across a flat stretch of country, and the car surged forward with increased speed beneath the heaviness of its driver’s foot.
Yet the fat man took time to glance at the boy again when he heard the cover being removed from the box. He saw McGregor’s glazed eyes turn toward him and then away, quickly, shiftily. He became a little worried about McGregor. Those eyes held more than pain. A haunted look was there … or was it more of a hunted look? He shrugged his disturbing thought from him. McGregor was only a kid, a poor kid who was bumming his way around the country. He had given rides to many of his kind. He had helped lots of them.
He said, “I always carry my own food when I drive all night, especially going through desolate country like this.” He didn’t l
ook at McGregor. He knew the kid would eat if he kept his eyes off him.
“I’m interested in young people,” he said jovially. “In fact, working for them is all I do now. I’m a retired building contractor. Retired two years ago, and thought I’d go nuts not having anything to do. My wife couldn’t see why I just couldn’t take it easy. Sure, why not? Her life was going on pretty much as always in spite of my retirement. A wife’s job doesn’t change much when the old man retires, but his does.”
The fat man paused, but he did not even glance at McGregor. He knew the boy was eating. “Less than a month of loafing, and I felt like a car with a new engine, all ready to go tearing down the road. But I had no place to go. I just moped around the house until one day I noticed that the kids in our town didn’t have any place to play, and not much to do, either. I built an athletic field for them, and a clubhouse. Then I went to another town and did the same kind of a job. Now I’ve been doing just that for two years. When youth organizations can pay me, I do it for what it costs. When they can’t pay, I do it for them anyway. Knowing the kids need it is enough compensation for me.”
The fat man looked at McGregor. The boy had stopped eating, and three of the sandwiches were gone. He turned away again. “My work takes me all over the West. I’m due in a little town south of Phoenix by noon tomorrow.”
“Phoenix?” For the first time McGregor showed interest.
“Yes, Phoenix,” the fat man said, chuckling. “Oh, I’ll be there on time, all right. Lots of speed in this sweet baby.” His hands patted the wheel. “She’s marvelous on the flats, mountains, twists, turns, anything. They’re all the same to her. We’ll be leaving Utah in a couple of hours now.”
“Utah?” Again McGregor disclosed interest.
“Yes, Utah.” The man turned his eyes away from the road and caught McGregor’s gaze. Again he saw that look, and this time he was certain it was a hunted look. The kid was afraid, and running from something. He had seen that look in others. He didn’t like it. He was getting uneasy again.
The Black Stallion Revolts Page 6
