The Black Stallion Revolts

by Walter Farley

  Focusing on the raod, he said, “But maybe you don’t want to go as far as Arizona. Maybe you’ll be getting out before?”

  Once more came the hesitant voice. “No.” There was a long pause, and then, “I—I’ll go to Arizona.”

  “You mean all the way to Phoenix?”

  “Ye-s, all the way to …” The voice went on but it was too low and the words too incoherent for the man to understand.

  Pudgy fingers tightened about the wheel. The fat man was conscious of fear mounting within him. Had he gotten into more than he’d bargained for? He’d come close to it once or twice before in picking up the wrong kind. But it was worse now with only mountains and desert country ahead, for to save time he had picked a road that was little used. The night would be a long one. He felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket. At least he could count on that for help, if he needed it.

  An hour passed, and then another. The fat man kept talking, as much to keep himself wide awake as to endure his fear. But McGregor never said a word. The kid’s eyes were closed, yet he wasn’t sleeping; his breathing was not regular enough for that. The man told himself he was only exaggerating his situation. There was nothing to fear. McGregor might be running from something, but he was unarmed and only a boy. Yet his body was lean and lithe and powerful, that of a born athlete. It was then that the man decided he would not pull up to the side of the road for an hour’s sleep, as was his usual custom, before going on.

  For several more hours he skillfully guided the plunging, powerful car through mountainous country. He was well into Arizona when his eyes became so heavy that he was hardly able to hold them open. If he had been alone, he would have stopped, for it was time to rest a while.

  The clock said almost one o’clock. He turned on the radio, hoping the loud dance music would keep him awake and alert. McGregor stirred. Glancing at him, the fat man saw the kid’s hand go to his pocket. He saw the bulge. McGregor had his hand on something! A gun? Could the kid have a gun there? He reached for his own. “What are you doing, McGregor? What do you have in your pocket?”

  The boy’s eyes were furtive. “N-nothing,” he said.

  “Play square with me,” the fat man said. “If I hadn’t picked you up …” The music blared, drowning out his words, and then became softer. “You pull a gun on me, and I’ll put this car into that ravine. It’ll be the end of both of us.”

  “No gun,” the boy said. He held the dark-stained money in his hand for the fat man to see.

  The big shoulders relaxed behind the wheel. The man turned his eyes away. “That’s a lot of money.” He said just that, and nothing more. Where the kid had gotten it was none of his business. Stay out of this, he told himself. Get rid of him as soon as you can.

  He concentrated on his driving. He took the car down the last mountainside with the rush of a toboggan. Going across a great open stretch of land, he stepped even harder upon the accelerator. He turned up the radio. Another hour passed and his heavy lids began dropping again in spite of all he could do. Finally he knew he had to close his eyes, if only for a few minutes. It was either that or fall asleep behind the wheel.

  Slowing the car, he said, “My eyes are tired. I’m going to rest them for a few minutes.” He didn’t know if the boy heard him. It didn’t matter. He had to stop, and he had a gun to protect himself.

  He kept the rear wheels of the convertible on the road. He had passed through this desert wasteland before, and knew what it meant to get his car stuck in the sand. He wanted none of that tonight. He turned off the engine, but not the radio. He wouldn’t sleep. He’d just close his eyes, rest them for a little while.

  The music stopped and the announcer gave the time. Two o’clock. He adjusted the clock on the dashboard. The kid was still huddled in the corner, his eyes closed. He shut his own eyes. A moment passed, another. Or was it an hour? Was he dreaming or did he hear a voice saying, “… south of Salt Lake City. The three men were captured an hour after the daring theft, but the boy who accompanied them escaped the police. Also missing is the money, two hundred dollars, taken from the diner’s cashier. The boy is believed to have the money. His description is: between sixteen and eighteen years of age, about five feet five inches, red hair, and lightly built. He was injured during the fight that took place in the diner. He’ll have cuts and abrasions on face and body. The Utah state police …”

  The fat man opened his eyes. He turned, to find the boy listening and staring at him. “Get out,” the man said. “Stay outside the car until I’m ready to go. I can’t trust you now that I know what you’re running from.”

  When the man was alone he locked the doors, telling himself that he didn’t know anything for certain. The boy might not be the same one they were looking for, even though the description fitted, the money fitted. He was just being careful. There was no sense taking any chances. The kid might lift his gun—that is, if it was the same kid. As long as he didn’t get hurt himself, this was none of his business. Turning kids over to the police wasn’t for him. Besides, he was a long way from Salt Lake City and Utah. He didn’t want to do anything that would keep him from his work, his work helping young people.…

  The fat man went to sleep, thus missing still another news announcement that had to do with another boy—“… the search through northwestern Wyoming for Alec Ramsay and his famous black horse is still going on. Even now, during this, the second night, planes are circling above the ranges, their pilots watching for a light, a signal from Alec Ramsay to indicate that he’s still alive. But experienced woodsmen are pessimistic over the chances of the boy’s safety. They say the possibility of his survival in that desolate country is slight. However, Alec Ramsay’s father and his close friend, the well-known trainer Henry Dailey, refuse to believe this. Mr. Dailey said only on hour ago, ‘Alec is not dead. If he was I’d feel it. A part of me would have died with him, and I’d know. That hasn’t happened. He’s alive. Somewhere out there he’s alive and waiting for us to find him.’ ”

  The fat man snored through it all. When he awakened, his eyes were rested, and he was ready to go on. Opening the far door, he said, “Get in now, McGregor. I’ll drop you off at the next town. What you may have done is none of my business.”

  From outside came only silence, the utter silence of desert wastes. He moved over to the window, and could see nothing in the blackness. He got a flashlight, and went outside. But he could not find the boy. “McGregor!” he shouted. “McGregor!” But only the far-off barking of a coyote answered his calls. He got back in the car, and turned the ignition key. The engine roared, but still he didn’t put the car in gear. He felt guilty about leaving the kid behind. He opened the door again to shout into the night, and then he closed it hard.

  He put the car in gear, and started moving. Why should he feel guilty? he asked himself. No reason at all. Actually he was giving the kid a break. He wasn’t turning him over to the police, was he? And he could have done that. No, instead he was forgetting about this whole business. No one would ever hear anything about McGregor from him. He was helping the kid along. He was giving him a break. He was always interested in helping kids, helping young people. Wasn’t that what he always said?

  The low and powerful convertible rushed across the great desert with more speed than ever before. It seemed that the fat man who guided it was running away from something, too, even as his thoughts ran on: Poor kid on the lam. McGregor had picked the wrong time to leave. He should have waited a few more hours. There’s nothing out there where he’s going … only sand. The poor, thieving kid.

  STRANGE AWAKENING

  7

  He stumbled often, yet his eyes never left the long black mountain range rising ahead of him. There he would find seclusion and peace. Soon, he thought, he would come to it, not knowing that the haven that seemed so near was fifty miles away. He realized he was in desert country by the feel of the sand on his bare feet, and beneath his hands when he fell.

  For the first hour the going wa
sn’t hard. The long car ride had fortified him and, although his head still throbbed, he felt none of the stabbing pains. Nor did he feel any of the loneliness that comes with such vast stretches of desert wastes, nor any of the hopelessness. He was free of the fat man who would have turned him over to the police. The sand was cold and comforting on his feet. The wind was cutting yet somehow it, too, comforted him. From far away came the deep mournful howl of a wolf on the hunt, yet he did not hear it. He was running away, and his ears were closed to everything but the sound of his own steps as he put more distance between himself and those who would pursue him.

  Sometime during the long hours that followed, his head pains returned. It was then that he began crawling, sometimes on hands and knees but most often on his stomach, wriggling like a snake. Yet he kept going, believing he would soon reach the mountains, and knowing that this night had to come to an end, that it could not last forever.

  He was conscious of the coming of morning. The air was clear and cold, but a redness showed from behind the walls of the eastern peaks, a redness that was growing brighter and brighter. For a moment he forgot his pain and agony to watch the rising of the sun. He had lived in a world of darkness for so long. Now that it had ended he might be able to remember all that had happened to him before it began.

  The sun mounted, and he felt its early warmth. It gave him new hope and encouragement to go on in spite of his pain. He staggered to his feet, only to find that the mountains were no closer than they had been during the night. But soon, soon he would reach them. The sun’s ruddiness had transformed his world into one of red earth with bared, golden rock exposed here and there to break up its flatness. Not far ahead he could see rolling terraces, even low hills, of purples and yellows. But the reds were there, too, the blood-reds of the desert. Beyond all these were the mountains, their profiles clear and distinct in the early morning light. He stumbled forward, determined in spite of his pain to stay on his feet, to reach the mountains before another night fell.

  The sun climbed higher, and with its ascent the desert changed. The air close to the earth moved, shifted, and finally began a dance of many colors. The boy raised the back of his hands frequently to wipe away great drops of sweat from his face. No longer could he see the mountains, only the dancing veils of purples and pinks and yellows above the blood-reds.

  The desert was now showing itself to him for what it was, a deadly land of intolerable heat, a land set apart from the rest of the world, and to be looked upon curiously from a safe distance. He wanted to turn and run, but he could do neither. His body seemed to be aflame with the great waves of heat that enveloped him. He felt no other pain but that which came from this inferno. He lost all track of time, not knowing if he crawled or lay still, and not caring.

  A feeling of great peace and languor swept over him. The desert became hazy, nothing real, nothing important. He felt blissfully happy and very, very sleepy. He tried to raise one hand to his face, but he couldn’t move it. His hand was too heavy, too big. The whole world was growing heavier, bigger. He let his head rest on the earth, that bloodred earth. “Soon I’ll sleep,” he said, “very soon now, then everything will be all right.”

  There was no beginning or end to his sleep. But at some point during this indefinite period he felt hands upon him again. Always hands. Was he never to be free of them? Would they never leave him alone? Then he felt something cool and wet in his mouth, flowing down his throat, quenching the fires burning within him. His thick lips moved, and he mumbled, “My name is McGregor.”

  At another point during this period he felt strong arms lifting him, carrying him. He didn’t care, and slipped back quickly into his oblivion. At still another time he felt a movement beneath him, and his head seemed to be resting against skin, a skin covered with coarse hair. But this held no interest for him, either.

  There were other periods, many of them, some coming in quick succession, and others at long intervals. The flickering of a fire … a glow in the dark … squinting eyes and then blackness engulfing him once more. The hands coming again … the hands always … holding his head, and bringing wetness and comfort, lifting him, carrying him to the coarse hair. Again movement, periods of never-ending movement, periods of silence and stillness.

  Toward the end of his oblivion, he became aware of the hoofed feet beneath him and knew he was being carried by an animal. He tried lifting his head from the bobbing neck, but hands from the side gently restrained him.

  “Stay down,” a voice said.

  It was easy to do as he was told. He knew he did not have the strength to raise his head. He sank back into his darkness, remembering only that the voice had been soft, and the hands gentle.

  It was night when he opened his eyes again. He saw the flaring of the fire from where he lay and then, coming within its brightness, a man’s silhouette. “My name is McGregor,” he said.

  The voice, the gentle voice, came out of the night. “I know it is. You’ve told me so many times.”

  He felt the spoon between his teeth. He felt the warmth of the liquid flowing down his throat. He opened his mouth for more and more, and he was not disappointed. Finally he heard the voice again. “Go to sleep now. We’ll be traveling again in a little while.”

  He did as he was told, and soon he felt the hands go about him, carrying him to the animal. Once more they began moving.

  When next he opened his eyes, it was late morning. Ahead were the mountains, boldly defined, but still in the distance. He knew he was in the foothills, that the desert had been left behind. He knew it by the gentle ascent of the land, and the scattered oak trees. He knew it by the small yet frequent currents of cool air that penetrated the clinging furnace-like heat of the desert. He knew it by the sweet smells of the pine trees brought down by these air currents from the high country. He felt hope and life stir within him. The foothills did this for him, the foothills together with the kind hands and voice at his side.

  He was aware of many things that day. He learned it was a burro he rode. He knew this by the long ears that flopped just above his head. He learned, too, that the man walked close beside him but a little to the rear, steadying his body to keep it on the burro’s back. He could not see him.

  For hours the trail wound upward. The hills grew bigger and the trees more numerous. The sun was warm and drowsy, but no longer hot. The air became sharp and clear. Above, and still far away, were the mountains, their hard, sharp surfaces brilliant beneath a cloudless sky. The boy looked upon all this until he could hold his eyes open no longer, and then slept.

  When he awakened, they were in the high pines. The ground was no longer covered with brown brush but the emerald-green grass. They crossed a small open meadow that swept up to the deep refreshing shadows of the pines. They entered the woods again, and the trail became one of velvet needles that muffled the sound of the burro’s hoofs and the man’s feet. They continued ever upward, sometimes passing through more open meadows and valleys but mostly through the long aisles of the great pines.

  He was half-asleep, half-awake during the rest of the afternoon. He was conscious always of the sweet smell of the tall trees, and the wind that played like a great organ through their tops. The air was cold, and it seemed that he would never get enough of it.

  It was almost sunset when they came to another open meadow, no larger or smaller than many they had left behind them. In the center was a cottage. Large patches of brilliantly colored flowers grew behind the picket fence that encircled it. As they neared the cottage, the cold air carried the perfumed scents of the flowers to the boy. They crossed a shallow, rushing brook, and down in the shadows of the trees a startled deer stopped drinking. He raised his head to look at them, then bounded away into the woods.

  They came to a stop before the fence, and the gentle voice said, “We’re home now.”

  Strong arms lifted him off the burro’s back, and he tried to tell this man that he needn’t be carried, that he would walk. But he found he could not m
ove his tongue to form the words, and the effort only served to make his head throb again. He was carried into the cottage, his lips moving but making no sound. He was placed down on something, and by its softness he knew it had to be a bed. He felt the man’s hands again as the blankets were pulled over him. Once more the voice came. “Go to sleep now. It’s been long and hard. You’ll feel …”

  He went to sleep, the most peaceful sleep he had ever known.

  The night passed, and then came another day. Another night, another day. He was well aware now of the passing of time. He knew the days by the bright sun coming through the white-curtained window at the foot of his bed. He knew the nights. They never held total blackness anymore. Always a lamp burned in the other room. Beneath it he sometimes saw the man. He knew him now, knew that his hands were not only kind but long-fingered and deeply tanned, like his face. The man was very tall and leanly built, and his eyes, beneath bushy sun-whitened brows, were keen and clear.

  The morning finally came when he realized he was getting well. He awakened to find that his head no longer throbbed and that the swelling was down. But it was still sensitive to his touch so he let it alone. Finally he formed words with his lips, and then tried whispering to himself. His sentences came forth the way he wanted them said, coherent and understandable.

  He looked around the room, actually seeing it for the first time. He noticed the clean, white curtains hung on every window, the deep-red carpet on the floor, the chairs of many brilliant colors, and the dresser with its tidy cloth. He saw the hairbrush and comb, the shaving cream and lotions, all neatly placed on the dresser. Beyond, in the open closet, were flannel shirts and worn leather jackets, wide-rimmed sombreros, and stout high-laced boots. Hanging high on the back wall were many ropes and rifles.

  The clothing and the equipment belonged to a man who, with his burro, traveled in ever-changing altitudes … through hot, arid foothills and the desert, through the cold of the high country. Somehow they did not go with this room, this clean, orderly room of clashing, brilliant colors.