Black Stallion's Shadow

by Steven Farley

  Wes scratched his head, as if he were holding back from speaking his mind. “Be patient, Alec. Sometimes this sort of problem will take care of itself. You never know.”

  Alec listened quietly to Wes’s generalized optimism. This positive-attitude stuff could be a bit overbearing at times, Alec thought. He wasn’t a child. He knew very well that things didn’t always work out the way you wanted, no matter how you tried. Why couldn’t the old cowboy just admit that he was stumped and didn’t have the faintest idea how to help the Black overcome the shadow shying? Certainly he wasn’t still holding on to the idea that this was mainly Alec’s problem?

  “What about the PSA tomorrow?” asked Alec. “I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

  Wes grinned. “It’ll be a snap, Alec. I told you that before. Boy, you shoulda heard the producer when I told him that I got you and the Black for the PSA. He couldn’t believe it.”

  Alec nearly dropped the reins. “The Black! You didn’t say anything about wanting to use the Black in this thing.”

  “Well, I just naturally figured you’d want to ride him.”

  “The Black’s a whole different deal, Wes, especially after what’s been happening around here lately. I thought you were going to put me up on one of your horses.”

  “But now the producer is expecting you and the Black together.” Wes looked startled. He sounded as surprised as Alec by the misunderstanding. “Come on, Alec,” pleaded Wes. “The press releases have already been sent. You can’t back out on us.”

  Alec couldn’t believe this. What had he gotten himself into? He dismounted, shaking his head. “I can’t risk it, Wes. You saw those cut reins. Something strange is going on around here, and I don’t want the Black to get mixed up in it. Besides, you know the Black isn’t himself right now.”

  “There aren’t any shadows to worry about where we’ll be going. And I doubt you’ll even have to break the Black out of a slow trot. Just go for a ride with the others and forget about the camera.”

  “But Wes …”

  “You won’t be alone up there. I’ll be with you the whole time.” Wes waited for Alec to say something, then looked him straight in the eye. “I’d never let anything happen to the Black. Believe me.”

  “Just like Pal Joey, huh?” Wes turned away. When he looked back, Alec could see the hurt showing in the old cowboy’s face. “I’m sorry, Wes,” said Alec, “but this seems to have turned into a very risky business right now.”

  Wes’s voice softened. “Please, Alec. Don’t make me beg. We’ve really put ourselves on the line this time. Please.” He took a deep breath to collect himself. “Just give it a try with the Black. If he starts acting up or if you see anything you don’t like, we’ll pull him out and put you up on another horse. You have my word.”

  Mixed emotions tugged at Alec’s heart. It was true that he and the Black took risks all the time. But taking risks with the Black on the racetrack was one thing; taking them for this silly PSA seemed crazy. On the other hand, Kramer and Maxwell didn’t seem to be frightened. And Wes’s proposal sounded fair enough. If Wes really meant what he said, maybe it would be all right.

  Alec slowly nodded. “Okay, Wes. I’ll try it. But I’m holding you to your word. If I see anything, and I mean anything …”

  Wes’s face brightened. “You got it, Alec. When it comes to the Black, whatever you say goes.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Great. You’ll see; it’ll be easy. Even Frank should be obliging at this point. I’d wager that right now he wants to get this thing over with as much as we do.”

  By that night Alec had become a little more at ease with the idea of riding the Black in the PSA. He’d make sure the Black was safe. He’d keep his eyes open. At the first sign of trouble the Black would be out of there. And everyone else was sure to be on guard also. Wes, Frank, Kramer, Maxwell: they were all professionals. Surely they wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks.

  Jim sat on the porch, listening to the radio. He roped Alec into playing a few hands of gin.

  “Getting anywhere with the Black?” asked Jim.

  “Nowhere,” said Alec. “I hate to say it, but it looks like this whole trip is turning out to be a bust as far as the Black and I are concerned.”

  “At least you tried. And if Wes can’t help the Black, I don’t know who can.”

  “Where’s Mike tonight?” Alec asked.

  “Who knows? Probably went into town. I wonder what’s bothering him. He’s been acting a mite cranky all afternoon.”

  “Maybe his leg is hurting him.”

  “I think he’s still brooding over what happened to Joey. Or who knows, could be he’s in love. You never can tell what’s up with that guy.”

  Even though they’d spent a good bit of time together, Alec felt he knew Mike the least of all the people at Taylor Ranch. The young wrangler was a horseman like Alec and the closest to him in age. Yet those similarities hadn’t brought them together as they might have.

  Jim dealt the cards. “Mike reminds me of myself when I was a young hotshot buckaroo. He’s better at handling horses than I ever was, though. That boy has God-given talent. He could go off on his own right now and make a living for himself if he wanted to.”

  “Think so?”

  “You bet. If it wasn’t for Wes, Mike would have packed his bags a long time ago. Mike wants to learn about stunt riding and handling picture horses. And there isn’t another trainer working in Hollywood who can match Wes’s know-how when it comes to that.”

  “I imagine Wes can be a pretty tough teacher, though.”

  “Sure. But Mike would rather be kicked by Wes than knighted by the queen of England.”

  Jim dealt out a few hands of gin, winning each time. Finally Alec called it quits. He said good night and walked over to his trailer.

  Only one more day and his visit to Taylor Ranch would be over, Alec thought. He’d be glad to get home. Maybe Henry could come up with some new plan to help the Black. One way or the other, it looked like they were all right back where they started.

  CHAPTER 17

  Barrel Rider

  Will you hold still, Black.” Alec groaned as he tried to move around his horse without being kicked or stomped. The Black was acting frisky this morning. He whisked his tail back and forth, then twisted his neck and reached around to nip at the brush in Alec’s hand. “Come on, fella. You want to look pretty for the cameras, don’t you?”

  Small puffs of dust rose from the stallion’s coat and melted away in streaks of sunlight as Alec worked. Soon the Black’s coat shone like well-oiled leather. From beyond the trees Alec could hear the sounds of cars and trucks rumbling up the ranch driveway. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost time to go. His instructions were to meet Frank and Wes at the tack room by seven thirty.

  Halfway along the path, Alec met Ellie coming the other way. “I was just on my way to get you,” she said. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. The Black missed you last night, by the way. Me too.”

  “I had to work.”

  Alec nodded. “Any word about Dousette?”

  “He’s still in the hospital. They’re doing more tests. The doctor said he’ll be able to leave in a day or so.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yeah, but it’s looking like he’ll have to be written out of the next couple episodes of Drover Days, at least.”

  “You working in the office today?”

  “Where else? Why?”

  “I’d appreciate having some familiar faces around.”

  “Don’t worry—Pops and Mike will be there.”

  They turned onto the corridor, passing a line of parked trucks and trailers. Wes came out of the house and called them over. “There you two are. Ellie, show Alec to the wardrobe trailer, will you?”

  “I know where it is,” Alec said. “But don’t we have to rehearse or something? I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do.”


  “We’ll block it out when we get to the location. For now, go on and get yourself outfitted.”

  Alec walked over to the trailer. He was surprised to feel a few nervous butterflies flutter around in his stomach. Could they be the beginnings of stage fright? The thought of being on a set wasn’t quite so new to him as when he’d first arrived. Only this time he’d be in front of the camera, not behind it.

  Myron, the makeup man, greeted him at the door to the wardrobe trailer. In his early thirties, he was tall and bearded and dressed in a flashy shirt that looked more like a painting than something to wear. Angie, an intense, pint-size woman with a pug nose, handled the wardrobe. She tried to make Alec feel at ease as she took his measurements.

  Rows of cowboy boots were lined up beneath clothes racks running the length of the trailer. Like the boots, the shirts, pants and jackets were in all sizes and conditions. Angie pulled out a particularly flashy outfit, the kind a cowboy might wear in a parade. “How’d you like to wear this today?” Alec cringed at the thought.

  “Don’t worry. You couldn’t use this stuff anyway,” said Angie with a grin. “It’s Kramer’s. No one else can wear it. It’s in his contract. Kramer always has to be the dude, even when he’s playing the part of a broncobuster.”

  Angie turned Alec over to Myron, who began to pat down Alec’s face with powder. Alec felt trapped. Myron told him to be still. “That Black of yours is lucky to have such a lovely mane. For closeups like these, Frank usually wants to weave in extensions.” Right, Alec thought. A fake mane. He could just see this guy trying to get close to the Black. Myron babbled on, “… makes it longer and more luxurious, know what I mean?”

  Alec spent the next half-hour trying on different outfits. When he stepped out of the wardrobe trailer again, he wore what Angie called the “classic look”: cowboy boots, jeans, a denim jacket, a red flannel shirt and a tan cowboy hat.

  A production assistant met Alec by the trailer door and told him they were going to have to delay the PSA about an hour or so. Alec grabbed a cup of coffee at the snack table and walked over to the corral. It was crowded with the tools of TV production. He recognized some of the technicians from yesterday and the day before. Frank stood off to one side holding a battery-powered megaphone.

  In the middle of the corral three men fiddled with an odd-looking contraption, a saddle strapped to a fifty-gallon oil drum. The drum was suspended on cables between four posts. Four ropes ran beneath it. The ropes crossed through rings welded to the bottom of the barrel and stretched out on either side.

  Alec saw Ellie and Mike leaning against the corral’s fence rail. He walked over to join them. “Hey. What’s up?”

  Ellie gave him a nod. “Kramer’s going to ride the barrel. After his spill the other day we thought he’d want to postpone that scene.”

  “Barrel?”

  “In the story he’s supposed to be riding a bucking bronco.”

  “And he’s going to ride that thing instead?”

  “It’s just for closeups,” Ellie explained. “On-screen, no one will be able to tell the difference.”

  “You mean the rodeo scenes on Drover Days are faked?”

  “Controlled is more like it. This way the cameraman can zoom in on Kramer’s face without worrying about being trampled. The shots will be edited together with scenes of a stunt double riding a real bronco. Hardly any actors do their own rodeo stunts.”

  Mike spat out his toothpick. “Yeah, only real tough New York cowboys like Kramer can ride a barrel.” His voice dripped sarcasm and disdain. “Kramer spends more time on that barrel than on his horse.” Mike limped off, clearly disgusted by such silliness. Alec chuckled. Henry would be surprised to learn the facts about Paul Kramer, doughnut-wrangling King of the Wild Barrels!

  Ellie nodded toward the barrel. “Want to give it a try, Alec?”

  Alec swallowed his smile. “Ah, no thanks.”

  “Don’t pay attention to Mister Macho, Alec. Riding a barrel isn’t as easy as it sounds, once those guys start working the lines. You’ll see.” She turned to go back to the office.

  Soon Alec understood what Ellie meant. A stand-in for Kramer slung himself into the saddle while the rope handlers tested the pitch and roll of the barrel. There were four handlers, two on either side. They manipulated the barrel with a rope held in each hand. Two ropes controlled the twisting motion, the other two pitched the barrel up and down. The stand-in was thrown about like someone being jerked around on a ride at an amusement park.

  When Frank felt satisfied with the position of the lights, he called out, “You ready, Paul?”

  Kramer walked onto the set wearing one of his trademark white leather suits. “Are you joking? Let’s get this thing over with, already. I’m sick and tired of trudging out to this dump of a ranch every other day.”

  “Places, everyone,” the director called out. The stand-in left the set. Kramer mounted the barrel and took up the reins in one hand, holding the other hand above his head. “Makeup!” yelled Frank. Myron ran over to spray bottled water on Kramer’s face. The cowboy star focused his eyes on a spot to one side of the camera.

  “Roll tape. Action!” shouted Frank. The rope handlers went to work. The mechanical bucking bronco began twisting from side to side and jerking up and down. Kramer’s hat flew off his head as he expertly contorted his body with the undulations of the barrel.

  Frank shot the scene four times before he was satisfied. Kramer began to look queasy from all the bouncing around. In between the last two takes, assistants helped him down from the saddle and over to his chair.

  “What a he-man,” someone snickered.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” said someone else.

  Frank leveled an icy stare over the crew. “Cut the chatter, people.” If he heard the bad jokes and snide comments, they didn’t seem to rile Kramer too much. Perhaps he was immune to them after all his years in the business.

  Alec felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Wes. “Let’s go, Alec. We’re gonna be heading up the canyon soon.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The PSA

  Alec brought the Black in from his corral and over to the tack room. Wes showed Alec the saddle that had been picked out for the Black to wear in the PSA. It was a simple Western saddle, nowhere near as flashy as the parade saddle Kramer liked to use. Kramer’s saddle was made of heavy black leather and decorated with embossed designs.

  While Alec tacked up his horse, the camera car and Jeeps started out for the upper canyon. Cast and crew for the PSA were jammed inside them. Marty Fisher trailed them in his pickup, followed by Wes in his truck. Alec and the wranglers came last. As the riders turned onto the driveway, Ellie stepped out of the office door. She waved and called, “Good luck, Alec.”

  An hour later everyone had regrouped at a spot in the box canyon. Kramer was there, and Doug Maxwell, the actor who played Jed. Seeing the two actors together, Alec noticed how similar they looked. Maxwell could have been a younger version of Kramer—his face had the same good looks and fine bone structure. And despite his youth, Maxwell was already a famous TV personality.

  Marty Fisher walked by and nodded to Alec. Now that the Black was going to be involved, it made Alec glad to see Marty there. Under the present circumstances, the more watchful eyes there were on the Black, the better Alec felt.

  The Black whinnied softly as Alec dismounted. Alec’s stomach churned nervously again. There had been one too many accidents the last few days for him to feel relaxed. He stroked the Black’s neck gently to soothe them both.

  Frank called Alec and the two actors together. Maxwell, like Alec, wore denim and flannel. Kramer still wore his white leathers.

  Kramer put his arm around Alec’s shoulders. “We all appreciate what you’re doing, son, especially after what happened to Louie.”

  Alec smiled. “Wes has been helping me with the Black. I want to return the favor.”

  “It’s all for a good cause.”

  “I’m still a li
ttle nervous,” Alec confessed.

  The old pro gave Alec a friendly squeeze and said, “You’ll be fine. These PSAs are easy. Anyway, we’re glad you could jump in on such short notice.”

  Maxwell shook Alec’s hand. “I saw you at lunch and on location the other day, but I don’t think we’ve met formally. I’m Doug Maxwell.”

  “Alec Ramsay.”

  Maxwell gave Alec a thousand-dollar smile. “It’s going to be a thrill to work with you and the Black.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” said Alec. “We don’t get a chance to meet many television stars where I come from, much less work with them.”

  Myron scurried around the actors and their horses. He wanted to give the Black a quick grooming. Alec shook his head. After the way things had been going on Drover Days, no one was getting near the Black today except him.

  The makeup man turned to Frank. “His mane really could use a little spray to bring out the highlights.”

  Again Alec shook his head. The Black fluttered his nostrils. Frank waved Myron off. “Forget it,” he said.

  Myron shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “The Black looks fine,” the director continued. “As for you, Ramsay … Give him a touch-up, will you Myron?”

  “Sure, Frank.”

  Alec winced. “Is that really necessary?”

  Myron nodded and went to work. “You must have smudged your makeup on the ride here,” he said. “You don’t want to have to retake a scene because of smudges or because you look too shiny or green, do you?”

  “Okay, okay.” Alec closed his eyes, submitting to Myron’s powder pad and admonishments to stand still.

  When Myron finished, Frank told the actors to mount their horses. Kramer was astride the big Thoroughbred, Lowball. Maxwell rode a golden-colored palomino. Both horses were perfectly groomed. Not a hair was out of place.

  The Black threw his head and paced in step a moment. Perhaps the closeness of the other horses, the crew and their equipment was making him a little edgy. Or maybe he could sense some of Alec’s own nervousness. With a little coaxing, Alec managed to hold the Black still.