The Black Stallion Mystery

by Walter Farley

  Alec kept on with his packing. “What’s so funny about that, Henry? More yearlings from abroad are being sent over here every year.”

  “I know,” Henry said patiently. “Foreign breeders are after the same money we are. They’re providin’ a lot of competition, too, because many American farms need new bloodlines and buyers have found a good source in England and France. But you didn’t get my point. These three yearlings are from Spain.”

  “What’s so special about that?” Alec wanted to know.

  “Just that I never thought of it as horse racin’ country,” Henry answered. “I don’t think I’m alone, either. That’s the land of the pure-bred fighting bull, not the pure-bred race horse. Wonder how John Hudson ever got mixed up with that consignment?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Alec quipped. “The magazine says they’re at his farm and that’s just over in Westbury. It’s Sunday and he’ll be home. So will the yearlings. Maybe they’re a better lot than you think they are. Why don’t you find out?”

  “Got better things to do than that,” Henry grumbled.

  “Such as griping about weights and handicappers, or going home?” Alec asked, smiling. “It’d do you good to get away for a little while. Also, our business is selling horses as well as racing them. Go see what our competition is like.”

  “Hummph,” Henry grunted. “Horses from Spain aren’t goin’ to worry the Black’s colts none. Still, I can’t understand why John Hudson of all good agents should—”

  “Get goin’, Henry. You know you’d like to see them,” Alec prodded.

  “Not unless you come along too. You need a breather same as I do. You haven’t left this barn since yesterday.”

  “Sure I’d go, but what about him?” Alec asked, nodding in the direction of the Black’s stall.

  “We’ll feed him an’ lock up. Slim will keep an eye on him. Another horse won’t bother Slim none.”

  Alec nodded thoughtfully. “It won’t take long to get over there and back. Okay, Henry.”

  A short while later Hopeful Farm’s small van, driven by Henry, rocked wildly down a dirt lane.

  “I’m sure glad you don’t drive this way with horses in the back,” Alec commented.

  “Of course not,” Henry growled. “What do you take me for—a hack?” He stepped harder on the accelerator.

  The low barns of John Hudson’s farm suddenly appeared around a bend in the lane and Henry slowed down. “Got to be careful now,” he said. “Don’t want to scare any young horses.”

  “There are three out in that paddock just beyond,” Alec said, squinting in the bright glare of the setting sun. “Can’t be sure, but they look like yearlings from here.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Henry said. “John’s cleared his barns, gettin’ ready for the young stock he’ll take to the Sales. Those yearlings must be the ones from Spain. A couple minutes now and we’ll get a good look at them.”

  Slower and slower turned the wheels of the van. The road was empty and there was a peaceful late-Sunday quietness to John Hudson’s farm. Even the yearlings in the big paddock were still. They stood together not far from the fence, their heads up and eyes sharp.

  Inside the cab Henry’s body suddenly stiffened against the back of his seat as if for support after a staggering blow. His hands shook and he sought to steady them by gripping the wheel even harder. Beside him Alec’s face was as pale as his own.

  “It couldn’t be,” Henry said hoarsely. “It’s not possible.”

  “But it is,” Alec said. “Except for color and size they’re models of him. They’re the Black all over again!”

  When Alec and Henry climbed the paddock fence the yearlings moved toward them rather than away from them. There was no doubt that the colts had been well handled, but the two horsemen weren’t interested in the yearlings’ stable manners. Only the glistening bodies held their attention and the two men missed nothing. Two of the yearlings were dark brown, almost black, and the third was a golden-yellow chestnut.

  Henry said, “Tell me what I’m seein’ and I won’t believe you.”

  Alec answered, “In conformation they’re everything we’ve tried to breed … and haven’t.”

  Like begets like was the adage but never had the Black sired such models of himself as these three colts from Spain. They made a picture worthy of the work of a great painter or sculptor. Even then it is doubtful if a master could have caught their fineness of features and form.

  The yearlings raised their heads high, eyes alert. There was a slight movement of a bird directly to their rear and they seemed aware of it without moving their heads.

  Henry said, “Like him they don’t miss much.”

  Alec said nothing. Nor did he follow Henry as the trainer walked around the yearlings. In all the breeding they’d done at Hopeful Farm no colt or filly had yet inherited the absolute refinement of the Black’s head. Alec had taken it for granted, as many horsemen did, that when there is a mixture of blood the head of the newborn colt or filly is almost always the same as that of the less beautiful type. Where then could these colts have come from in Spain? Who owned them and, of even more importance, what was their breeding?

  Alec studied again their dish-faced profiles, with the wide foreheads bulging like shields between their eyes and ears and running part way down the nasal bone. Here could be seen the same concave hollowness as in the Black. Their nostrils, too, were his—long and delicate. Their muzzles were so small Alec could have cupped each one in his hand. The ears were tiny and delicate, pointing inwards and, now that they were pricked up, almost touching at the tips.

  Henry said, “Look over here, Alec, an’ get away from their heads. You don’t ride heads.”

  Alec obeyed the trainer and Henry continued, “The lines of the shoulder and quarters are his. So are the hocks.”

  “And the fetlocks and pasterns,” Alec added.

  “No,” Henry disagreed, “not quite. They’re almost too delicate an’ not to my liking. But they’re goin’ to be big horses and nobody’ll know it until they stand beside ’em. It’s amazing that …” Henry’s eyes left the horses for the house beyond.

  “John could tell us who bred them,” Alec suggested.

  “More important is who sired them,” Henry answered. “A stallion that can stamp his get to look almost like our horse could be mighty valuable. In fact it’s almost like … well, what I mean is …” He stopped and their eyes met.

  Alec said, “It couldn’t be the Black’s sire, Henry. You know that as well as I do. He’s dead.”

  “A lot of people are goin’ to wonder about that when they see these colts in the ring at Saratoga,” said Henry. “And whoever the sire is they’ll be after him fast.” The trainer shifted uneasily on his big feet. “Where’s John, anyway?” he growled. “Anyone could walk off with these colts right under his nose. John!” he shouted. “Hey, John! You home?”

  A few minutes later a man as short and bowlegged as Henry came out of the house. When he had reached them, Henry said with feigned lightness, “Hello, John. We were hopin’ you’d be at home. Nothin’ important, though. Just lookin’ at your stock for Saratoga. Got anything else we can look at?”

  John Hudson had an enormous nose and he brushed it as if to hide a wide smile. Henry had walked behind the colts and was shaking his head in disapproval.

  “Do they always stand like that?” he asked. “Pull ’em up a little, Alec.”

  It was then that John Hudson laughed out loud. “Who are you trying to kid, Henry? You never saw better legged colts. And you also know what they’ll bring in the ring!”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders.

  “Don’t give me that offhanded stuff either,” the agent said. “You’re as surprised as I was when I first saw them. They’re carbon copies of the Black and worth their weight in gold. I figured I’d be seein’ you the moment you heard about them. But I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

  Henry moved from behind the horses. “Okay,
John, you win. I don’t know what I was tryin’ to prove anyway. Matter of habit, I guess. Now, these colts. Where’d you get ’em?”

  “Spain.”

  “That’s a big country, John. We’re old friends, remember?”

  “Sure, Henry.”

  “I’m lucky to be the first here.”

  “I know that, Henry.”

  “Who sent them to you?”

  The agent ran his hand down the long neck of the chestnut colt. “A gentleman by the name of Don Angel Rafael González,” he answered.

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Nope. Never even heard of him before.”

  “Did he contact you himself?”

  John Hudson nodded. “By letter first. Then he flew them in. His own plane, too, a big cargo job with a private crew. There was money in it. For me, too, when I saw the yearlings come out of it.” The agent smiled.

  “John …”

  “Yes, Henry?”

  “Of course he turned over the necessary registration papers to you.”

  “Of course. How else could I sell them?”

  “May I see them?”

  “They’re in the house.”

  “All three sired by the same stallion?” Henry asked anxiously.

  “You didn’t have to ask that, but the answer is yes. His name is El Dorado.”

  “Does this González fellow have him?”

  “He said so.” John Hudson smiled. “I believe you’d like González, Henry. He seemed to know all about you an’ the Black an’ Alec.”

  “Did he give you the impression he might part with this El Dorado?”

  “No, but I don’t think he’d turn a good price down. He seems to live pretty high and was interested in last year’s Sales figures. I guess he’s something of a playboy although you’d hardly know it to look at him. He’s very big and rather ugly—except for his eyes, that is. They’re black and piercing like an eagle’s. They never seem to leave you. But somehow they don’t make you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not interested,” Henry said, walking toward the horses. “But I would like to see those papers if you don’t mind, John.”

  Later, on the way back to their barn, Henry said to Alec, “If we’re smart we’ll do something.”

  “About El Dorado?”

  “Of course. I don’t know if his colts will run the way they look but they could. We ought to try to buy El Dorado before another breeder does.”

  “But that isn’t all you’re thinking about, is it, Henry?” Alec asked quietly.

  “No.”

  “Maybe the Black’s sire isn’t dead after all. Isn’t that it? Desert Arabs don’t always keep written pedigrees, and names can be changed.”

  Henry nodded. “We’d better find out before somebody else does,” he said. “Since we were thinkin’ of goin’ to Europe anyway, we’d better make Spain our first stop.”

  BLACK ANGEL

  3

  The Trans-Ocean cargo plane crossed the Atlantic at altitudes of fifteen to twenty thousand feet but because of the pressurized cabin its occupants felt no discomfort. Even the occasional bump that marred a flight’s smoothness was no different from the ones they had felt a few hours before on the ground. The cargo was mixed—eighteen dogs, four calves, three goats and one horse. The horse was the Black and with him was Alec Ramsay.

  The tall stallion stood in a specially built traveling stall furnished by the airline. It was very strong, the stout wood being reinforced by metal. Inside, it was lined with straw and sack padding so there was no danger of the horse’s hurting himself if he kicked or pawed.

  Alec had been watchful for any signs of restlessness during the trip but the Black had been quiet. His main interest was watching the other animals in their boxes. Even the almost incessant barking of the dogs hadn’t seemed to bother him. So Henry had been right, Alec mused … the Black’s unfamiliar traveling companions had been more of a comfort to him than a trial. It was a good thing, for they’d had no choice but to take the first air freighter they could get if they wanted to reach Angel Rafael González before other breeders did so.

  Three days had passed since Alec and Henry had seen the yearlings at John Hudson’s. Within two more days the colts would be taken to Saratoga, where almost every horseman in the country would see them.

  Henry hadn’t dawdled. He’d used every connection and pulled every string he knew. Passports had been secured within a day. The Spanish Consul in New York was only too happy to cooperate in every way possible, hoping they’d see fit “to race the great Black at the Hipodromo de Madrid.” There had also been a series of cables between Henry and Angel González, with the trainer requesting that they be shown El Dorado.

  González had been most gracious and eager to welcome “such famous horsemen whose interest in El Dorado and his colts was very gratifying.” He would be happy to have them as his guests for as long as they cared to stay in Spain.

  Everything had worked out very well, Alec thought, almost too well. He was always wary when pieces fell into a pattern with so little trouble. He shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “That’s only because Henry and I have had to work hard for everything we have. We’ll never get used to people doing favors for us. How about you?” he asked the Black aloud.

  The horse glanced his way but turned quickly back to the dogs. He snorted at them and for a moment their barking stopped, only to begin again louder than ever. The attendant in charge tried unsuccessfully to quiet them and then went back to reading his pocketbook.

  Alec reached over the high sides of the stall to rub the Black’s neck. His coat had a rich glow, almost as if it had been rubbed with olive oil as was often done with show horses before they entered the ring. No need to do that to the Black. His shining coat reflected his good condition and health.

  Alec glanced at the cabin door leading into the pilots’ compartment, and wondered how much longer Henry would remain up there. He was hoping to get more information about González from the crew, one of whom was Spanish.

  A little later Henry returned, taking a seat beside Alec. “Not much,” he said. “This González is a gentleman rancher, raisin’ fighting bulls mostly. The Spaniard up there was surprised to learn he had race horses. Said his countrymen never have been very much interested in horse racin’ even though there’s a track in Madrid. Their taste runs more to the bulls. Racin’ one horse against another is too tame for them.” Henry chuckled. “That’s a laugh,” he added.

  Alec said, “It’s a cinch they’ve never stood on the rail near the first turn.”

  “No,” Henry agreed quietly, “they haven’t.” His tone tightened. “Anyway, no one up there knew anything about El Dorado.”

  “And we’re crossing an ocean to see him,” Alec said. “It’s a long jump just to get a look at a stallion.”

  “Not so long. Think of Abu Ishak going halfway around the world to look at the Black when he learned you had a horse that might be the one he’d lost.”

  Alec nodded his head, thinking again of the Arab chieftain who had befriended him and changed the course of his life by bequeathing the Black to him.

  Henry stood up. “Say, don’t these dogs ever shut up?”

  “It doesn’t seem to be bothering him any.”

  “It better not or there’d be trouble.”

  Alec nodded. He had been watching the Black’s eyes and he knew there was nothing to be concerned about. The light that flickered and blazed in those eyes when his horse became excited or angry wasn’t pleasant to see, for then there was nothing fine and noble about the Black. He fought with fury, knowing no master, no love. At such times nothing remained but his wild desert instinct to kill.

  The plane dropped suddenly and sickeningly. The air remained rough and Henry said, “We must be coming in. They said it’d be no more than another hour before landing.”

  Alec looked out the window into the grayness of a heavy cloud bank. It was mid-afternoon and he hoped it would be clear below.


  The big plane dropped into sunlight and Alec could see mountains and swift-flowing white streams tumbling down green hills. Just beyond, however, the landscape changed dramatically from lushness to brown, thirsty plains as golden and tawny as the desert. The treeless land stretched for miles upon miles in the bright sunlight. But soon this, too, passed beneath the swift wings of the plane.

  The waterless landscape gave way to more streams and deep, dark rivers. Villages appeared, dominated by great churches and cathedrals whose towers rose mast-like into the sky. Rows upon rows of tall poplars and silver birches separated cultivated fields and small cottages of gray stone. Then this dropped behind and the plane was flying over what seemed to be an endless plain. But it was green and lush like the earlier hills. Great walnut trees grew everywhere and in their shade grazed large herds of goats and cattle. Many wide streams split the great plain and in them could be seen, splashing, the bodies of young swimmers.

  Lower and lower they flew, the plane braking like a giant sled. Just beyond, the land rose in brown ridges and here, on the bank of a river, was the city. It climbed the hills in every direction, sprawling and white against the khaki-colored landscape.

  The big plane banked sharply and for the first time during the trip the Black kicked the padding of his stall. Alec spoke to him and rubbed his muzzle.

  The brown hills rose on either side of the plane and Alec could see men at work on the sharply tilted patches of cultivated land. Then they fell behind and the landing strip came up to meet the wheels of the plane. There was a hollow thud of rubber grasping the concrete runway and the big plane rolled past the airport buildings.

  The dogs barked louder than ever and the Black snorted repeatedly. All the animals seemed to know that the plane had landed. Henry went to the window as the plane turned off the runway and taxied toward the largest building.

  “There’s a flashy yellow convertible out there with a horse trailer attached to it,” he said. “That could be our Spanish playboy, all right.”