The Black Stallion Revolts

by Walter Farley

  Going past the stands, the boy held a tight rein. He tried to close his ears to the familiar, clamoring cries. He wanted to listen only to the lone beat of hoofs that told him he was free of Allen. Nothing could keep him from leaving now. All he had to do was to take the stallion to the far side of the track and go over the low fence. He’d be on his way before the sheriff or Allen realized what he was doing.

  Go now, he told himself savagely. What are you waiting for?

  The whip was clenched in his hand. He felt his flesh crawl at the touch of it. How long had he been staring at the whip? He turned his eyes away. The stallion snorted and moved faster, hating the tight rein that held him to a slow walk. McGregor rose higher in his stirrups, looking over the small head. He saw the starting gate, stretched halfway across the track. The wire-mesh doors in front were closed. To the right of the gate was a high platform, and standing there was the official starter.

  “Hurry that horse!” The starter tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  All this was so familiar, to McGregor and to the stallion. Couldn’t Allen and all the others see that this was no outlaw horse he rode, that he and the stallion had gone to the post before? Even so, what did it matter now?

  He’d had no intention of going so far, but now he found himself taking his horse around the gate. He felt the mounting tension within him. The stallion shook his head savagely, trying to get more rein. McGregor kept him near the rail and away from the horse who stood just in back of the gate. He turned the stallion’s head toward the far turn, yet his own eyes remained on the dark brown horse with white markings on face and legs. He had seen Night Wind before. He was certain of this, too.

  He let the stallion lengthen out going away from the gate. He felt reassured of his means of escape in those swift, easy strides. Finally he rose high in his stirrups, and brought the stallion down to a prancing walk. Then he turned him around. He was going back to the gate, even going inside to come out on the break. All the way down the track, he asked himself, Why? His only answer was that it didn’t matter how they reached the backstretch, just as long as they got there. One way around the oval was as good as another. Yet he knew he was lying, that something over which he had no control was taking him and his horse to the starting gate.

  The stallion’s eyes were on Night Wind. He screamed once and his loud challenge silenced the stands. For a moment every gaze was on him. He came close to the gate, his great black body glistening in the sun, and there was a savage wildness to his action.

  One of the starter’s assistants walked toward him, and the man’s movement broke the stillness of the stands. There came the drone of excited whisperings, for the spectators had caught a glimpse of what they had been told to expect, yet hadn’t believed. The Allen Ranch was racing a stallion that had run wild only two weeks ago!

  McGregor watched the assistant starter come toward them. He saw the fright in the man’s eyes when he reached for the bridle. The stallion reared.

  “Get back,” McGregor said, bringing his horse down. “I’ll take him in alone.”

  As he moved away, the man said, “Hurry him up, then. You got a whip. Use it on him, if you have to!”

  Use it on him, if you have to!

  The words seemed to tear McGregor’s ears apart. He raised the whip before his eyes, staring at it for many seconds. He felt the tears come suddenly, burning his eyelids. Why was he crying? The tears came faster, blinding him. He brushed his hand over them, angrily sweeping them away. He looked toward the stands, searching for the person who had called those very same words to him an eternity ago. The sea of faces swarmed before him. He looked harder, finding Allen, and Larom, and the sheriff on the rail … the only faces he knew. He saw a figure suddenly appear behind them, and for a flickering second hope rose within him. Then he recognized Gordon, and turned his attention back to the gate.

  At his command, the stallion moved quickly into his starting stall, and the gate closed behind them. There was only one way out now. When the door in front opened there’d be no turning back, ever.

  He didn’t look at the horse and rider in the next stall. His eyes were focused straight ahead and he was looking through the wire mesh at the track that lay before him, so golden in the sun. Suddenly he gasped. And as the air rushed out of his lungs, he knew that here was the true road back that had evaded him for so long, the road that would have told him everything he wanted to know, if he’d found it yesterday or any of the long days before it. Now it wasn’t important. Now it was just a means of escape!

  The track announcer said, “The horses are at the post.” The spectators were quiet, awaiting the start. Their eyes were on the front door of the gate. They didn’t want to miss a thing. They knew that a world of horsepower was ready to explode in a single race. This was to be no usual sprint of three hundred or four hundred yards, but a long mile, twice around the track. This was to be a very special race, and they awaited it in hushed silence.

  At the rail near the starting gate, Ralph Herbert removed his horn-rimmed glasses, and quickly wiped the sweat from his eyes. “I don’t like this,” he told his trainer, a man with a frame as solid and big as his own. “Allen has put something over on us. That black horse isn’t fresh off the range. Did you see how he walked into his stall?”

  “Yeah, I saw.” The trainer worked his jutting square jaw. “But he’s wild enough to fight at the drop of a rein. If anything should happen to Night Wind …”

  “Nothing will happen to him,” Herbert said. “But that kid sure can handle that black horse. Look how he’s quieting him down, after all his twisting.”

  “Who is the kid, anyway?”

  “Allen said his name’s McGregor. Works at the ranch.”

  “He looks familiar to me,” the trainer said, “as I mentioned before.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’d like to see him without that hat. He’s got it pulled far enough down to pretty near cover his eyes.”

  “And that horse is like something we’ve seen before, too. He’s no mustang, that’s for sure. He’s bigger than Night Wind and hot-blooded, Ralph.”

  Herbert said, “I know it. I’m worried. Allen’s sprung a racehorse on us.”

  “Maybe so. But there’s no doubt that horse has run wild, and done a lot of fighting, Ralph. He’s been cut up plenty. Look at his scars.”

  “I’m still worried.”

  The trainer smiled. “What for, Ralph? So he’s a racehorse, and that’s why Allen agreed so readily to the mile distance. You think anything here is going to beat Night Wind? Our horse is better than he was last year. You know that as well as I do. If you’re going to worry, save it for Santa Anita, when we’ll be up against the best again. Even then I won’t be worrying, not if Night Wind keeps running the way he’s been going.”

  Herbert nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But just the same I’m glad I have Eddie Malone up on him. I’ve got ten of my best quarter mares at stake in this race.”

  “I know that, all right,” his trainer answered. “Just don’t worry, Ralph.”

  A short distance down the rail Allen felt a hand from behind grab his arm. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t take his eyes from the horses in the gate. Any second they’d be off. But Larom and the sheriff turned to the man behind, and Larom said, “Hello, Slim. I didn’t think anything would get you this far from Leesburg!”

  Allen felt Gordon’s fingers digging deeper into his arm, and then Gordon said, “That kid is Alec Ramsay and the horse is the Black. Alec Ramsay and the Black! Did you hear what I said, Allen?” His voice was shrill.

  Without turning to him, Allen asked, “You mean McGregor?”

  “McGregor, nothing. That’s not his name. It’s Alec Ramsay!”

  Allen shrugged his shoulders. The kid had the stallion quiet. The break was coming. “What’s the difference what his name is, Slim? He’s wanted by the police in Salt Lake City. Tom’s here to pick him up.”

  “You’re all crazy!” Gordon shouted. “He has
n’t done anything! He’s Alec Ramsay and the horse is the Black. They’re famous, I tell you! Their plane crashed in Wyoming and …” The roar of the crowd droned out his words.

  “THEY’RE OFF!”

  With the opening of the doors, the stallion broke from the boy’s restraining hands, and came out of the gate in front of Night Wind. McGregor caught a glimpse of the white blaze at his horse’s flanks, and then it fell behind quickly as the black stallion’s strides steadied and began to lengthen. He drew back on the reins. He called to his horse. He didn’t want him running all out. Their race wasn’t here, but across the plain! The stretch was short. They’d be at the first turn before he’d be able to pull down the stallion.

  Allen’s eyes were moist as he pounded Larom on the back. “He’ll hold that lead! He’s got the race, Hank!” His foreman nodded his head vigorously in complete agreement.

  Among the thousands who watched, only Herbert and his trainer were silent. They were unimpressed by flying starts from the gate. They knew their champion was built to go a distance, and that his speed would mount steadily until he’d run over anything before him. This was a mile race, and what happened in the first few hundred yards was for fanciers of the quarter horse, and not the Thoroughbred. Herbert’s clenched hand began pounding the rail, for even now with the horses approaching the first turn Night Wind was gaining!

  McGregor slowed the stallion’s strides still more. He drew back on the reins, and kept talking to his horse. He heard the fading roar of the crowd as his mount swept into the turn. The stallion’s resentment at the tight rein was felt by McGregor in the terrible pull on his arms. The stallion wanted to run, and was telling him so forcefully.

  “Soon,” he called, “but not now!”

  He saw the straining, nut-brown body of Night Wind come up on the outside. His jockey was sitting still in the saddle, not asking Night Wind for more speed, but getting it. Their eyes met for a second. The black stallion lowered his head, pulled harder and picked up speed. The horses reached the middle of the turn, racing stride for stride, stirrup to stirrup.

  The boy’s head throbbed. He knew Night Wind wasn’t going to be taken to the front because that horse couldn’t, wouldn’t run up there. Once in front Night Wind would relax and start looking around him, forgetting completely about the business at hand unless reminded by his rider.

  How did he know this? Why was he so sure of it? Because he remembered seeing Night Wind do just that in the Belmont Stakes. Night Wind had gone into the lead at the half-mile pole. He had stopped then to glance at the far stands. He had been whipped by his jockey, and brought on again in the last quarter to win over Hyperion by a head!

  McGregor’s teeth tore his lips. His memory was coming back! They were entering the backstretch. Here was where they would leave the track. Here was where his race would actually begin! He shortened the reins, and the stallion’s head came down again. He pulled harder, knowing he would have to fight the stallion to get him off the track.

  He saw the look of surprise come to the other rider’s face as he succeeded in shortening the stallion’s strides, and Night Wind surged ahead. He saw the horse’s powerful quarters rise and fall in front of him. He was still watching when Night Wind suddenly relaxed and began to bounce along easily and without effort. Then Night Wind turned his head to the side, interested in the crowd across the infield. His jockey went for the whip, bringing it down solidly on Night Wind’s haunches. Once more the whip rose and fell before Night Wind’s attention returned to the track ahead, and his strides picked up again.

  The boy tried to get the stallion away from the rail and off the track. His fury mounted when the stallion fought him, straining his arms until he could no longer stand the pull. He remembered the whip in his boot and reached for it. Just as he raised it, ready to bring it down, he remembered something else.

  A man … a short, stocky man standing beside him in the night and wearing only pajamas, his face as white as his disheveled hair … a pitchfork in one hand, a whip in the other … a raging face and voice saying, “Take the whip. Use it on him if you have to!”

  And his own reply in the night, “If I did, he’d kill me. The same as he would have killed you.”

  The whip fell to the track as though he had held a hot coal. His hand seemed to burn, and he placed it on the wet neck before him. Then he leaned forward until his cheek, too, was pressed against his horse. He began talking, sobbing to him. Without realizing what he was doing, he let his hands come up, giving the stallion more rein. He never heard the increased pounding of the lightning hoofs nor was he aware that the backstretch rail was slipping by faster and faster. He was conscious only of the turbulent working of his mind.

  The stallion’s body and strides were extended until he seemed barely to touch the track. He swept into the back turn, gaining rapidly on the running horse in front of him. Night Wind’s jockey glanced back and began using his whip again. But the black stallion’s rush was not to be denied. His head was parallel with Night Wind’s stirrups as the horses came off the turn and entered the stretch. The crowd was on its feet. Voices shattered the heavens. With still a lap to go, the two horses were racing as one!

  Night Wind’s jockey rocked in his saddle, using his hands and feet. But he never touched his horse with the whip again, for no longer was it necessary. Night Wind was being challenged, and this was all the champion Thoroughbred needed to urge him on to greater speed.

  Herbert’s fist banged the rail when the horses flashed by him. The kid riding the stallion was making no move. He was sitting absolutely still, almost lifeless, in the saddle, and yet his horse was matching Night Wind stride for stride.

  Herbert’s trainer said, “Ralph, we got him, I tell you! No horse in the country could get past Night Wind now!”

  But the trainer’s words provided no solace for Herbert. He had been tricked by Allen. This black horse had raced before. Where had he seen him? Night Wind should have been pulling away from him by now. But he wasn’t at all! He was only holding his own.

  Not far down the rail, Gordon was screaming at the top of his voice, “Go, Alec! Go!” He pushed between Allen and the sheriff to watch the horses pound into the first turn again.

  The sheriff shoved back, and said, “Take it easy, Slim. This is just a horse race.”

  “Just a horse race, nothing!” Gordon shouted hysterically. “That’s Alec Ramsay riding the Black against the fastest Thoroughbred in the country! It’s the race of the year, and you don’t even realize it!”

  Allen paid no attention to them. His glazed eyes were on the horses, but they were an indistinct blur to him. “Can anyone see what’s happening?” he asked. “Did he get past Night Wind yet?”

  “No,” Larom answered. “Mac’s got a tight hold on him again. He took up rein just after they passed us. That black horse doesn’t like it any more than he did before. He’s fighting him.”

  “Why doesn’t he let him go?” Allen shouted.

  “He’s riding. You ask him,” Larom said.

  McGregor shortened the reins still more, despite the stallion’s fury. He pulled him down until Night Wind surged a length ahead and then two lengths more as they came off the turn, entering the backstretch. The boy’s mind still erupted with fiery currents that afforded him no peace and produced nothing but a great, flowing mass of conflicting and incoherent elements. Yet sometime within the last few seconds had sprung once more the determination that their race was not to take place here on the track but across the plain. Instinctively he had drawn up on the stallion, trying to force him to respond to his will.

  He got his horse away from the rail and to the center of the track, paying no attention to the scarlet-clad jockey on Night Wind, who was drawing farther and farther away from them. His eyes were only for the fighting black head that sought to break his tight hold. He got his horse over closer to the outer rail, working the bit against the corners of the stallion’s mouth. His horse fought him more furiously than ever before
, and then suddenly bolted back to the center of the track. The boy lost his balance and was thrown forward, his hands grasping the stallion’s neck. He felt the great body extend itself again in a determined effort to catch Night Wind. He closed his eyes, sobbing. And then the words came tumbling, bubbling from his mouth, “Black … Black … Black …”

  The reins dropped from his hand, his eyes opened, the words kept coming. “Black, I’m Alec Ramsay. I remember. My name is Alec Ramsay. It’s come. I know. I know!” Nothing could equal the joy that came to him then. He was free of the darkness. He could remember everything, including his fall from the plane into the treetops, his crashing and tearing through the branches. The details of what had happened after he’d regained consciousness were hazy. But he could remember the groping in the night, the bright headlights, a long ride that had never seemed to end and then, finally, the desert. Vague though those first hours were to him, he knew that they led directly to Gordon’s cottage in the pines, and that he had never been inside a diner, had never taken part in robbery and murder.

  All this came to Alec Ramsay in flashing, successive pictures, and then he looked ahead. They were going into the last turn, with Night Wind’s lead already reduced to only two lengths! His jockey was swinging his whip back and forth, keeping Night Wind going now that he was running in front all by himself again.

  Alec picked up the loose reins. “Go, Black. Go!” he called. Now he was one with his horse. He knew it, and so did the Black! The stallion responded to his call with a new and electrifying burst of speed that sent the earth flying from beneath his hoofs. Gone were the uncertainty and the conflicting wills that had kept them apart for most of the race. No longer did the stallion feel the hard, frenzied pull on his mouth that he had never known before this day. Now he heard the familiar ring of a name that made everything all right again.