The Black Stallion Revolts

by Walter Farley

  He took him a half-mile, and then turned, coming back at a slow lope. Standing in his stirrups, he did not look at Hank Larom, who was impatiently awaiting their return. Instead he looked beyond the man, toward the land beneath the distant, dull-gray sky. Out there and not so many miles away was the beginning of the deep canyon country. No one, not even Allen, who was so afraid that something might happen to him, realized that only yesterday he had fleetingly considered riding the great stallion into that country where no one would ever find them.

  He spurned the thought now as he had then. He turned away from its beckoning, knowing that he did not have to run again, that soon he would be back at the ranch.

  Later, after he had cooled out the stallion and left him blanketed in the big van, he went to the stable area with Larom. They found the kitchen tent with its long counter and stools, and sat down.

  The early morning air was brisk, but that was not the reason McGregor pulled up his jacket collar high on his neck. He was afraid of being recognized. But his fear left him almost immediately. There were too many men shouting and clamoring for anyone to pay much attention to him. He had no special identity in this carefree throng of swaggering cowboys. He tried to be one of them; it was the easiest way to avoid suspicion.

  While he sat on the stool, awaiting his breakfast, he wondered why the stable area wasn’t the same as he had expected. These men were gay and laughing. They were enjoying themselves. Where was the tenseness, that long period of dreadful waiting before being called to the post? Where were the grim faces and the silent men who walked up and down before their barns until even in the coolness of early morning their shirts would be wet with sweat? Not here certainly. Yet he had expected it to be that way. Why? Because it had been that way for him before? Yes, that was his answer.

  After breakfast they returned to the van, and found Allen awaiting them. They all climbed into the back of the van, and sat there quietly, watching the black stallion. The boy turned to Allen many times. Here was more what he had known before. Here was a grim face, a tortured face, that knew the pain of waiting. He turned to Larom, and found that his face disclosed everything that was in Allen’s. He found himself wondering about his own face. Was the agony of waiting written there, too?

  He said, “Just a couple more hours now.” He hardly recognized his own voice, and he realized then that he looked and felt no different from the two men.

  An hour before the race they convinced themselves that they should get a cup of coffee. They went to the kitchen tent again. They spoke only to give their orders. McGregor sat between them, and waited for his coffee, waited for the race to begin. It wouldn’t be long now. Post time for the match race was one o’clock. It was to be the first race on the day’s program. Across the track the stands had filled with spectators long ago. Hundreds more were already standing around the half-mile oval, and there was an endless stream of cars still coming from the highway.

  “I wish this thing was over.”

  The voice came from McGregor’s right, and he thought Allen had spoken. But it wasn’t Allen, for his employer had turned to the man sitting beside him. He was a small man, different from all others here because he wore no wide-rimmed sombrero, and no colorful silk shirt. His face was pinched and wizened, as was the rest of him except for his hands. They were giant-sized.

  McGregor turned away quickly, pulling his sombrero down close to his eyes. He had known this man before. He knew this, but nothing else … not where or when, only that the slight figure had stepped from behind the black mental barrier of lost time.

  The man was talking to Allen. “I ride Night Wind,” he said. “I’m a contract rider for High Crest Ranch. I got no beef. Herbert tells me to ride and I ride. But what he makes me come here for, I don’t know. I miss a couple of good rides at Santa Anita today because he calls me, and says get to Preston! Sure I come. If I don’t, I break my contract, and I’m fired. I don’t get to ride Night Wind at Santa Anita or nowhere else. I ain’t dumb enough to let a thing like that get by me. But why he gets me to ride in this jerk rodeo circus, I don’t know. Night Wind don’t need me up on him to win here. As I say, I got no beef with Herbert. He’s paying me all right, and I get his best horses to ride. But why he didn’t get one of his ranch boys to ride this race, I don’t know. Why he gets me to come all the way from California for this thing, I don’t know.”

  Allen finished his coffee, and turned on his stool. “I don’t know, either,” he said, getting to his feet. Only when they were leaving the tent did he speak again. “I didn’t expect Herbert to get his top rider here. Herbert is out for blood, all right.” His face was white.

  “Hot Feet, y’mean,” Larom said.

  McGregor said nothing.

  They pushed their way through the packed crowd in the stable area, having to look at the laughing faces, having to listen to the gay, carnival spirit that had swept over the grounds. They walked single file, following each other with McGregor in the lead, for it was he who wanted most to get away. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes on the tall man coming toward him. Fear choked him. He wanted to turn and run, but could only stand still. He knew the man and he didn’t have to ask himself when he had last seen him. The heavyset frame, the round face, the gray suit, and gray sombrero, the bright silver star … the sheriff from Leesburg! Close behind him was another man McGregor recognized … Cruikshank, with his gaunt body stooped, the more easily to move through the crowd.

  Somehow he knew they had come for him! He turned on leaden feet and tried to run. He bumped into Allen. His employer’s face showed surprise and then alarm when McGregor tried to break away from him. A hand from behind fell on the boy’s shoulder, and he heard the sheriff say, “You’re wanted on suspicion of robbery and murder, kid.”

  THE SPRUNG TRAP

  19

  “Murder!” McGregor mouthed the word, but it never left his bloodless lips. He looked at Allen. He saw the rancher’s face lengthen until the skin was drawn tight and white. He watched him try to smile, a thin, sickly opening of the mouth.

  “You’re joking, Tom,” Allen said. “It’s no time for stuff like that. We’re going to race in just a few minutes.”

  McGregor heard the sheriff’s reply, while the heavy hand remained on his shoulder, the fingers deep in his flesh. “No, Irv. I’m not kidding.” There was sympathy in the sheriff’s voice, but resoluteness as well. “The whole state’s been alerted to be on the lookout for him. He’s wanted in Utah … a diner stickup … The three men who worked with him on the job have been caught.” His voice dropped a little. “The diner’s cashier died a couple of weeks ago from injuries they gave him at the time.”

  Allen turned to the boy. “Let’s get out of here, Tom,” he said. “We can’t talk here.”

  “There’s only one place for me to take him,” the sheriff said quietly.

  “I want to know more before you do that.” Allen’s eyes had left the boy, and there was fury in his gaze when he looked at the haggard face of the man standing behind the sheriff. “I want to know what Cruikshank had to do with this.”

  The sheriff shifted his big frame uneasily, but his eyes and voice were steady when he said, “Cruikshank just tipped me off, Irv. He pointed out to me what I hadn’t noticed at all … that the description of the kid wanted in Salt Lake City fits McGregor.” The sheriff paused before adding, “If you want to get out of here and hear the rest, I guess it’ll be all right.”

  McGregor was pulled around, and then directed through the crowd. He didn’t raise his eyes. He didn’t care any longer. He was wanted for murder. There would be no more running.

  They stopped before the van; there were no people this far from the track. He heard one of the stallion’s hoofs strike wood, and then it was quiet inside again. Maybe they’d let him see him once more. Maybe, if Allen asked the sheriff, he’d be allowed inside the van for the last time.

  The sheriff said, “Here’s the state circular I’ve had hanging in my office, Irv, and atta
ched to it is the news clipping Cruikshank gave me last night, when he reminded me of the kid who was working for you.”

  Allen read the details of the robbery, and the description of the missing boy. He turned to study McGregor.

  The sheriff said, “You see the description fits, don’t you, Irv?”

  “Yes, but you’re not certain it’s him,” Allen said. “You’re taking him to jail only on suspicion.”

  The sheriff tried to smile. “That’s all they sent me on him, Irv. If the description fits, I got to take him in.” He turned to McGregor. “And the kid isn’t denying anything. You even saw him try to get away back there, when he saw me coming.”

  Allen turned to the boy. “Mac,” he said, “did you do it? Are you the one they want?” He couldn’t get McGregor to raise his eyes from the ground. “You can tell me, Mac,” he went on softly. “I’ll help you all I can, if you did do it. We’ll fight it. Remember, Mac, if it’s you they want, you were only the lookout for those men, grown men. You’re nothing but a kid. They could have forced you to go with them.”

  They waited for him to lift his gaze, to say something. But he did neither. He couldn’t. What good would it do to tell them he didn’t know? It wouldn’t help. And he did remember certain gruesome details … the great swelling on the crown of his head, the terrible pain that had stayed with him for days afterward, the raw and bleeding hands, the dark-stained money he had found in his pocket. Yet Allen was trying to convince him that he might not have had anything to do with fatally injuring the cashier. Where, then, could he have received his own injuries except in a fight?

  The wafting call of a bugle rose above the distant wave of voices. When it ended, and its lingering note had died down, there came a great roar of acclamation. Even McGregor raised his head and turned his eyes in the direction of the horse moving before the stands. Night Wind had answered the call to the post.

  Allen’s face was white. Finally he said, “Hank, you’d better tell them the race is off.”

  Larom didn’t leave. Instead he turned to the sheriff as the roar of the crowd rang in their ears. The sheriff dropped his gaze and said, “We’d better get going, kid. Don’t give me any trouble now.”

  Larom said quietly, “It doesn’t take very long for a horse to run a mile, Tom.”

  The sheriff knew what Larom was asking, and he shook his head. Allen knew, too, but he only said, “I’ll go along with you, Mac. Hank can stay here.”

  “I’m sorry, Irv,” the sheriff said. “I know what this race meant to you.”

  “It’s harder to lose before a race than after,” Allen said. His voice shook, and he knew he fooled no one. “The kid’s in a jam. I want to help him, if I can. There’ll be other races.”

  “But no other horses for you like Hot Feet,” the sheriff reminded him.

  Swift, disturbed anger came to Allen’s face. “Quit it, Tom,” he said bitterly. “You got what you came for, so let’s go.”

  The sheriff still didn’t move. Suddenly Cruikshank said, “Ain’t goin’ to stay here for the whole day, are we, sheriff? Take’m, an’ pen him up like ya’ done t’me.”

  They all turned to him, and Larom said, “You timed it good, Cruikshank. You couldn’t have timed it better.”

  “Don’t know what ya’ mean, Hank. I seen my duty an’ I done it.” Cruikshank’s pitted black eyes were bright and shifting. “Let’s get him in, sheriff.”

  The sheriff shifted his weight against Cruikshank’s prodding shoulder. “We’ll go when I say to go, and not before,” he said.

  The sound of the bugle came again. The crowd was no longer shouting, only impatient for the race to begin. The stands shook to the rhythmical stomping of feet.

  Allen said, “Hank, I told you to go and tell them it’s off.”

  But Larom didn’t leave. Again he caught and held the sheriff’s uneasy, undecided eyes. “Tom,” he said with quiet assurance, “like I just told you, it would be only a few minutes from the time he leaves here and the time he gets back. It would mean a lot to us, and somethin’ to the kid, too. He’s worked hard on this horse.”

  “No y’don’t!” Cruikshank screamed, and his long fingers tore at McGregor’s arm in an attempt to pull him away from the sheriff. “Y’git him in now jus’ like you done t’me.”

  McGregor felt the sheriff’s hand again, grabbing and holding him steady against Cruikshank’s crazed attempts to yank him away.

  “Take your hands off him,” the sheriff said in a cutting voice. Cruikshank’s black eyes shifted from the sheriff to the boy, and then back again. Finally he took his hands away.

  The sheriff said, “That’s better. Now, Hank, you go and tell them that your horse will be coming down in a minute. Irv, I’m letting McGregor ride, but holding you responsible for him until the race is over.”

  They pushed McGregor toward the van, and opened the door. He saw his horse, and only then did he realize it wasn’t the end at all. With the great stallion he could get away.

  They put the ramp down, and Allen said softly, “Get the horse, Mac. After the race I’ll go with you. You needn’t be afraid. I’ll get the best lawyer. I’ll …”

  But the boy didn’t listen. He went into the van, and put on the stallion’s bridle and saddle. Then he took him down the ramp. Only the sheriff and Allen were waiting for them … these two and the crowd beyond. Cruikshank had gone, beaten again and running … just as he, too, would be running within a few minutes. He felt sorry for Cruikshank. He knew what it was like to be beaten, to live with fear and to hide and run.

  Allen boosted him up. “No time to put on silks,” he said. “It makes no difference, anyway.”

  No, racing silks made no difference. McGregor picked up the reins, and felt the stallion surge at his touch. He held him still. The horse was alive with fire today and ready for the race of his life! But not with Night Wind. There wasn’t going to be any match race. Instead he and his stallion would be racing toward the deep canyon country, and once there he would stay forever. If it meant death for him, well, he preferred such a death to what the sheriff offered in its place. He didn’t plan to let his horse die with him. He’d turn him loose, make him go away, once they were in the great canyons. The stallion would find his way out.

  “Ready, kid?” Allen was standing close, his hands hot and shaking on McGregor’s leg in the drawn-up stirrup.

  The boy nodded, and took his eyes off Allen. He didn’t want to look at him, knowing what he was about to do to him. The sheriff was on the other side, and far enough away. Now, if Allen would just step back a few feet, he wouldn’t hurt him when he whirled the stallion. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to get away. Allen removed his hand from McGregor’s leg. Now, the boy thought, now!

  MATCH RACE

  20

  But Allen didn’t step away from the black stallion. Instead he reached for the bridle. He’d never before taken hold of the stallion, but in his great excitement he didn’t think of this now. For the moment he’d forgotten all caution. He was thinking only of the race to come, the race that a few minutes ago had been hopelessly lost to him. Now he was taking his entry to the post. The crowd was waiting for them. After the race he’d do all he could for McGregor. But he needn’t think of that now. He turned to the sheriff. “Tom,” he said, “you’ll find a racing whip in the tack trunk. Please get it for me.” He began walking.

  The boy hardly breathed, his head reeled, when his horse stepped forward obediently beneath Allen’s hand. This wasn’t as he’d planned. The stallion was eager to go along with Allen. McGregor sat back in the saddle, his spine stiff. He could do nothing but await an opportunity to be free of Allen. He rose in his stirrups and leaned forward again, talking to the stallion, reminding him that he was there. But the small head never tossed or turned in understanding of his sounds and touches. There was no flicking back of pricked ears to listen to him. The stallion’s senses were keyed to what lay ahead.

  Allen kept walking, taking them
ever closer to the track. The boy saw the faces of the crowd beginning to turn in their direction, and he knew he had to get away at once, regardless of what happened to Allen. He drew back on the reins. Allen turned to him quickly, his gaze startled and searching. McGregor was ready to pull his horse around when the sheriff’s towering figure came up beside them. Again McGregor had to wait. He watched the sheriff pass the whip to Allen.

  Suddenly the short leather whip was in his own hand, and Allen was leading the stallion again. McGregor didn’t remember relinquishing his tight hold of the reins. He was looking at the whip, his nails pressed deep into its leather. He was aware of nothing but the feel of it in his hand. He didn’t want the whip, yet he couldn’t drop it. He stared at it. Why did he know he should never touch the stallion with it? Why?

  They were on the track. The stands were a sea of swarming, indistinct faces, strangely quiet while the stallion moved in front of them. Then came a mounting hum of excited voices until suddenly the air was shattered by a continuous roar.

  Allen smiled, knowing the crowd was for him and his entry. Night Wind was a Texas Thoroughbred, an outsider, while he and his horse belonged.

  The track announcer said over the public address system, “Coming on the track is Range Boss, owned by the Allen Ranch of Leesburg, Arizona.”

  The boy felt his blood run hot while the shouts of the crowd rang in his ears. The stallion sidestepped across the track, pulling Allen into a run. McGregor heard himself say to Allen, “Better let go of him now. I’ll take him up.”

  Allen turned the stallion loose, but he remained on the track, sharing his entry’s glory. His eyes stayed on the stallion, but his ears were tuned to the voices from the stands, taking in the great acclamation while the black horse moved past. Allen loved every moment of it. Last year it had been this way with Hot Feet. But that had been after the race, he reminded himself, when Hot Feet had won the three-year-old crown. This was much too early to feel as he did. His face sobered, and he hurried to catch up to the black stallion.