The Black Stallion Revolts

by Walter Farley

  He watched McGregor run the currycomb and brush over Goldie, cleaning the burro’s long hair until it shone in the sun. And then the kid took the saddle blankets, placing them carefully upon Goldie’s back, making certain they were smoothly folded so there would be no chafing. Next came the pack saddle. Gordon hung back, helping only a little, his eyes never leaving the boy’s hands. The kid was just as careful with the saddle as he had been with the blankets. McGregor got it in place and then buckled the girth straps, not too tight, not too loose. His hands moved quickly, surely. The kid had saddled before, and often. There could be no doubt of this. Yet McGregor wasn’t even aware of what his hands were telling him. He was too busy at his job.

  Only when the pack itself was placed on Goldie’s back did the boy hesitate and fumble. Gordon went to work then, drawing the pack ropes tight and fastening the boxes firmly so they wouldn’t slip. “Nothing is worse than a loose hitch,” he said. “If the pack slides or comes apart, Goldie will take off, and we’ll be all day trailing him and picking up the books from the mountainside.” His hands moved expertly, and his eyes were bright with his pride in a packer’s art. For a while he forgot the boy who was watching him.

  They were well on their way through the pines when Gordon got to thinking again of McGregor’s skill in handling and saddling Goldie. Yet he hesitated to mention it. The kid had learned he had fished before, but it hadn’t helped. In fact, it had made things worse. McGregor expected too much too fast. So Gordon decided to say nothing about it.

  More than an hour later, the boy said, “I’ve been thinking about Goldie’s name. I mean his full name, Black Gold.”

  Gordon didn’t turn back to look at him. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. You say Black Gold won the Kentucky Derby?”

  “Yes, back in 1924.”

  The boy remained silent for a long while so Gordon spoke again. “I guess I didn’t tell you that I’m interested in the Thoroughbred. Or at least I was before coming here. Don’t have much chance to follow the breed now.”

  “The Thoroughbred?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said … the racehorse, the horse that’s been bred to race for centuries, not the quarter horse they have in this state that they’re trying to make into a racehorse. Luckily, I don’t see much of people around here. The way I feel about the Thoroughbred and they feel about their quarter horse only makes for an argument. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with their horses, if they use them for what they’ve been developed to do, and don’t make unjustified claims as to their racing ability. Sure, they’re fast up to a quarter of a mile, and once in a while a furlong farther. They’re handy and quick and easy to handle. They’re the ideal working cow horse. The best of them do have some Thoroughbred or Standardbred or Morgan blood in them, if you trace back their bloodlines. But to hear some of the folks talk in Leesburg, the quarter horse is a breed of long standing. He isn’t at all, he’s a type of horse that’s been developed to work the range. He’s no racehorse.”

  The boy spoke, his voice hesitant as if he was a little unsure of himself. “You can’t blame people for loving any kind of a race, no matter how long or how short, and for loving their horses regardless of type or breed.”

  Gordon turned, his eyes studying the boy’s face. He remembered again McGregor’s hands as he had saddled Goldie, and now the kid had spoken of people’s love for racing with an understanding that couldn’t be ignored. No doubt about it, the kid had had something to do with horses at one time or another. And come to think of it, he had the build of a born rider. Gordon turned again to the trail ahead, but his eyes lost none of their thoughtfulness. Sometime, somewhere, he’d seen this kid. Where? Anything to do with horses? Couldn’t be. He’d been here for six years, and the few horses he’d seen were the cow horses in Leesburg. It wasn’t there. He was certain of that. And there was no sense in thinking back six years to the California tracks, for the kid was too young for that. How about the magazines? How about the issues of Thoroughbred Record that Lew Miller had sent him a year ago, and which he’d read and returned? Could he have seen a picture of the kid in one of them?

  Finally he said, “I’ll bet you’ll find you like horses, McGregor.”

  “I like Goldie, anyway,” the boy replied.

  They crossed a meadow, and then the trail descended into a long valley. They were nearing the mountain range.

  “Maybe you can get a job near Leesburg,” Gordon said thoughtfully. “There’s a man named Allen you might get along with pretty well. He’s an Easterner and brought some friends along with him to settle down here. Three years ago it was, and he and his pals have been playing cowboy ever since.” He laughed. “But I guess I can’t criticize them too much for that. For six years I’ve been playing prospector. Anyway, this fellow Allen had the money to buy up the best water and grazing land in the Leesburg area. He’s got cattle and quarter horses. Just now he’s more interested in the horses. He’s got the three-year-old champ at three hundred yards … won with him last year. Since then he’s been walking around town like he owned Satan.”

  “Satan?”

  Gordon turned at the sudden intensity of the boy’s voice. He saw the white face, skin drawn tight, and the eyes that reflected conflicting emotions. An awareness of something familiar was there at first, then came a groping, a groping for identity. Finally the eyes were filled with deep sadness as the boy lost his mental fight.

  Gordon spoke softly. “Satan is a racehorse,” he said, “a champion in his day.”

  “I know,” the boy said. “Somehow I know. But why?” He put a hand to his head.

  “You got your headache back?”

  “Just a little. It’ll go away.”

  “We’ll take a rest before we go through the Cut,” Gordon said. “It’ll make it easier for you.”

  He decided to speak no more about horses. But when he got to town he’d drop a line to Lew Miller, asking him to send another batch of the Thoroughbred Record for him to read. Maybe he’d find something in them that would give him a clue to the boy’s identity. But what about the bloodstained money back at the cottage? What good would it do to be able to tell the boy who he was, if it meant that he was wanted by the police for the Utah robbery? And what good would it do him? He wouldn’t rest very easy, knowing for certain that he had harbored a fugitive, that he had known his whereabouts all along without telling the authorities. Perhaps it would be best to stay out of this altogether from now on. Just try to get the kid a job at the Allen ranch, and then go home and take up where he’d left off before the boy came. It was the easiest way.

  So, with McGregor following him, Gordon led his burro down the long valley at the foot of the mountains. He did not know, because he had no radio, of the futile search still going on in northern Wyoming for Alec Ramsay, who had ridden Satan in some of his greatest triumphs. A heartbreaking search that now had been forsaken by all save a small, private land party organized by Henry Dailey, who refused to give up because “Alec is not dead. If he was I’d feel it. A part of me would be gone, would have died with him, and I’d know.…”

  And far from Wyoming, too, grazed a tall black stallion, the sire of Satan. He wasn’t the Black of four weeks ago. Now his fine mane and tail were matted and heavy with burrs, brush, and pine needles. His unshod hoofs were worn and hard from running at top speed over rocks, boulders and sagebrush. He had learned to run lightly, making scarcely a sound no matter what the terrain might be. His great body was torn and scarred from the rakings of savage teeth and claws. Yet he had survived his terrible battles, and now, shining in his eyes, was the wild look of an animal who knew desolate country, and feared neither it nor man nor beast. His body was thin yet hard from spending weeks on the short forage of the high mountain country. In spite of his ragged appearance, his wind and endurance were of the best.

  Now he stopped grazing to sniff the wind. Then he whistled, and started his band traveling again. T
he mares moved at his command … the sorrels, bays, piebalds, buckskins and palominos. Some of them were wild mustangs who had never known the touch of man, others wore the brands of ranches in Wyoming, Utah and Arizona. They were less than a hundred miles from where Gordon and the boy called McGregor stopped to rest before entering the mountain pass that would take them to Leesburg.

  HORSE TRADER

  9

  Gordon spoke no more about horses. He had dropped the subject, and did not mean to bring it up again. Nor was the boy anxious to pursue it. The long hike had brought back his headache, and he wanted only to rest, hoping to get rid of his pain again.

  For half an hour they sat before the Cut, and then McGregor got to his feet. “I’m ready if you are,” he said.

  “Headache gone?”

  McGregor nodded, Gordon rose, taking hold of his burro. He didn’t need to tell the kid that the roughest part of the trip was still ahead of them. McGregor could see that for himself. For five more hours the trail would be backbreaking but safe. They would climb two thousand feet, and then drop four thousand. There would probably be a bear or two to contend with somewhere on the trail, for the Cut was the easiest pass across this range, and bears were the most skilled of all animals in finding the least difficult route. Gordon held his rifle ready.

  They went slowly up the steep ascent, stopping every half-hour to rest a few minutes before going on again. They were hemmed in by cliffs thousands of feet high. The air became thinner, and their breathing more labored. They saw a bear feeding, and Gordon used his rifle at a distance of three hundred yards and missed. From then on they were constantly on the lookout for the bear, but he never reappeared. As they continued climbing, the very tops of the cliffs came down to meet them, and soon they seemed close beneath the sky.

  They rested again at the summit of the Cut. They sat on rocks with tumultuous boulders and slabs of sheer stone all around them. But above and beyond rose the giant peaks, calm and stately in the peaceful stillness of the upper air.

  They didn’t speak. Gordon only nodded toward the drop in the trail ahead of them, and the boy understood. From now on they’d be going down. The worst was behind them. They sat for a long while in the mountain silence. There was a wind but it passed over bare rock and made no noise. It could move nothing up here.

  Finally they began their descent. The trail was steep, and all their efforts now were bent in holding themselves back from going too fast and slipping on the loose shale beneath their feet. Once more the walls of the high crevice closed in about them, shutting out the sky except for a narrow strip of light at the very top. For three more hours the trail continued to be steep, hard, and long, and then with startling abruptness the crevice came to an end. They emerged upon a bright sunlit plateau. Far in the distance, and across this broad strip of flat, open land, were other ranges. Mountains edged the plateau on all sides except to the south, where only in the great distances could lofty peaks be seen again.

  The air was warm, having none of the coolness and sweetness of the high pines. But it was not the heat of the low country and desert. Mountain quail rose from the brown grasses and gray brush, startled by their approach. Here was waterless country, and Gordon, loving the green meadows of his pines with their swift-rushing mountain brooks, told McGregor, “This tableland has never been for me. One look at it and I’m always anxious to pick up my supplies at the store and get back home.”

  For two more hours they traveled across the plateau, their feet and Goldie’s hoofs sending up dust that clung to the warm air for some time before settling over their tracks. Finally they reached a dirt road which came from the mountain foothills to the north and continued across the plateau to Leesburg. They had walked it for an hour when the boy said, “My headache’s back. Could we rest a couple of minutes?”

  They sat down by the side of the road. A few miles ahead was Leesburg. “Don’t go expecting much,” Gordon warned. “There’s a general store, a few houses, and a hotel. Leesburg sets in the middle of nowhere, and as far as I can see has no reason for being except for the likes of myself … and the Allen ranch,” he added as an afterthought.

  From the direction of the northern foothills came a small, open truck. Gordon said, “It’s Cruikshank. Maybe he’ll give you a ride into town. It’ll save you walking a few miles.”

  The truck was still more than a mile from them, but Gordon got to his feet. “Don’t figure on the ride until you get it,” he said. “Cruikshank is a peculiar guy. He might not even slow down for us. He’s a horse trader, but with nothing ever good to trade. He’s been in these parts, living up in the foothills there, for twenty or more years, I hear. He’s always been after the ranch property Allen has now, but never had enough money to swing the deal. Consequently, he’s been bitter toward anyone who has ever owned the ranch. Now it’s Allen’s turn. I heard he’s uglier toward Allen than he’s been with any of the other ranch owners. I suppose that’s because Allen is an Easterner. Or maybe it’s because Cruikshank is getting older, and still isn’t any closer to buying good pastureland for his horses than he was twenty years ago. He knows everyone in town dislikes him for his bitterness, and now he’s blaming Allen for it. But Allen hardly knows the guy is alive. Allen’s too busy minding his own business to pay any attention to what people, even Cruikshank, think of him.”

  The boy suddenly got to his feet. “Cruikshank is pulling something behind the truck. Doesn’t it look like a horse to you?”

  “I thought it was just the dust from his wheels, but now that you mention it …”

  The truck had reached a turn in the road. Behind and just a little to the left of the truck they were now able to see a tied horse. He was galloping hard to keep up with the speeding truck. He slipped coming off the turn, and the dust behind him billowed greater than ever as his haunches scraped the road. Somehow he managed to get his hind legs beneath him again. The truck increased its speed, and the horse was unable to keep up with it. He fell again.

  “He’s being dragged to his death!” Gordon exclaimed. But he found he was speaking to himself. The boy had left his side, and was running down the road toward the truck. He shouted to him, but McGregor kept running.

  The boy found himself nearing the truck without knowing exactly what he intended to do. He had acted strictly on impulse. He waited until the truck was only a few feet from him, until he heard the sudden drag of wheels as the brakes were jammed on, and then he flung himself to the side of the road to avoid being hit. He landed on his hands and knees. He saw the angry face within the cab, and heard the oaths that were shouted at him. As the truck started up again, he sprang from a crouched position and his hands hit the side rails.

  He thought the pull of the truck had wrenched his arms from their sockets. Yet he held on, his feet dragging while the truck picked up speed again. His eyes located the horse behind the vehicle. The animal had his legs under him, but it would be only a few minutes before he’d go down again … for good this time. McGregor knew it. So must the man behind the wheel. There was no doubt now that Cruikshank meant to murder this horse! The truck swept past Gordon without slowing down.

  Seeing the animal’s straining, wet body and the blinded, lusterless eyes gave McGregor the strength and will to pull his feet onto the lower rail. He moved back until he was able to reach the rope. He was familiar with the knot. He knew that one good pull on the hanging end would untie it. He yanked the end hard, and the rope was whipped from the truck. He saw the horse go down, and then the dust swirled and blanketed the road behind.

  He knew he couldn’t jump off with the truck going so fast. There was no window in the back of the cab, so Cruikshank didn’t know he had lost his victim … not yet. But soon. The truck went faster. Cruikshank had meant this to be the end.

  Behind them and coming from the south, McGregor saw three men on horseback, riding at full gallop. They were headed for the fallen horse, and the boy was glad that others besides Gordon and himself had seen what Cruikshank had
intended to do.

  The outlying houses of Leesburg were less than a mile away when the truck came to a sudden stop. McGregor knew why. Cruikshank did not intend to drag a dead horse into town.

  The boy jumped off the back of the truck, but did not run. He saw the door open and the man coming toward him. He saw Cruikshank’s gaze shift to the back of the truck, and then quickly return to him again. He saw wild, sunken eyes, a lean and gaunt body covered with tattered clothes. He saw the haggard face and the big, worn hands, the blackened skin that must have been very wet a short while ago, for now it was caked with dust. He felt sudden pity for this ragged, unkempt form in front of him … this worn man with the big eyes of terrible gloom.

  But then the hot flame of anger burned within him again at the thought of this man’s viciousness, at the agony he had caused a horse, at the murder he had intended to commit! McGregor had time to see the warning look in the man’s eyes. He dodged the hands, but Cruikshank threw himself at him, catching hold of his leg. For a moment the man just held him on the ground, breathing heavily over him, and then pulled him roughly to his feet.

  He never knew what Cruikshank intended to do, for suddenly the man stood still as a small sedan came down the road from town, slowing as it neared the truck and then coming to a stop before it. The boy saw a heavyset man get out. He saw a gray suit, a gray sombrero, and then the bright silver star of the sheriff’s office on the man’s lapel.

  Sudden panic seized McGregor. He ripped Cruikshank’s hands from his shirt, and began to run. He tripped over some brush, and went down hard. He was getting up on his feet when he was shoved back down on the ground again. This time it was the sheriff who held him there. He heard him ask, “What are you up to now, Cruikshank? What have you got on this boy?”

  “I was bringin’ a horse into town to sell. This kid set him loose a piece back.”

  “Set him loose?”