The Young Black Stallion

by Walter Farley

  Rashid watched Abu Ishak dismount from his chestnut stallion and hand the reins to an attendant who was quickly by his side. The desert chieftain’s iron-gray hair and jutting beard made him stand out from the younger riders. The history of countless desert battles seemed to be etched into his dark face.

  He separated from the others and stepped into the circle. Shêtân wheeled around on his hind legs, pacing back and forth. The desert chieftain gave no outward sign of uneasiness at the stallion’s furious display. His fixed stare never left Shêtân’s piercing eyes. “Shêtân,” he called in a calm, high-pitched voice, hypnotically repeating the stallion’s name over and over, then speaking to him in lyrical, courtly Arabic. The gentle sound seemed to soothe the young black stallion. Abu Ishak approached slowly and unafraid. The stallion’s body trembled, but he didn’t lash out as he had at the others. His ears pricked forward and his eyes shone with recognition, but his sharpened instincts for survival made him wary. His flesh rippled with taut muscles as he whistled softly through his nose.

  When Abu Ishak was within a few feet of Shêtân, he stopped and held out his hand. The wild stallion came to him! There could be no doubt now that Shêtân remembered his former master.

  Rashid was dumbfounded. He had never gotten any sort of obedience out of Shêtân, even after all they had been through together. Then Abu Ishak came along, simply called him by name and the devil horse went to him. It was unbelievable!

  The sheikh’s voice fell to a whisper as he reached out and ran his hands gently over Shêtân’s glistening neck and coat. In one swift movement he slipped a loose-fitting halter over the young stallion’s proud head. After securing the halter and lead rope he waved his hand in the air ritualistically. Then he bent over so his nose came close to the stallion’s nostrils and breathed into them. In sharing his breath this way, Abu Ishak offered his spirit to the young black stallion. They were one, joined by the breath of life.

  A heavy silence had fallen over the surrounding circle of mounted riders. The witnesses to this scene watched and wondered how this horse could be the same uncontrollable creature that had led them on a wild chase over the plain and fought them like a rabid beast. From a pouch hanging at his waist, Abu Ishak took a handful of grain and held it out to Shêtân After a moment’s hesitation the stallion accepted it.

  “Enjoy it, wild one,” he said. “We are going home.”

  The desert lord had shown once again why he was regarded as one of the greatest horsemen in all of Arabia. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the horses and Abu Ishak’s reassuring words to Shêtân as the stallion chomped on his feed. The proud horseman ran his hand slowly and continuously over the stallion’s neck.

  One of Abu Ishak’s lieutenants cautiously interrupted and asked, “What about him?”—nodding toward Rashid, who groveled in the dirt at the desert chieftain’s feet.

  “Take the boy prisoner,” the sheikh said. “We’ll talk to him later. Now that Shêtân has been returned to me, those who tried to steal him must be punished and the life of the ancient herder avenged. I am sure our young friend will be able to tell us much in that regard.”

  The men cast a critical eye upon Rashid, sizing him up in quick, darting glances. Rashid’s mouth felt chalky and dry. He tried to swallow and averted his eyes from the wolf pack that surrounded him.

  And then, from high atop a nearby boulder where a lookout had climbed to keep watch, came the bellowing cry “Riders! A score or more, coming fast!” The hypnotic spell that Abu Ishak had cast upon Shêtân was broken. The stallion jerked his head against the lead rope. The lookout pointed to a cloud of dust growing larger on the horizon. The faint popping sounds of rifle reports could be heard in the distance as a raiding party bore upon them at full gallop.

  The men snapped to attention. Abu Ishak called out his orders. “Abdullah! Rahail! Take your men to the western flank! Mustafa, you and Mohammad take the eastern!”

  The squads of men rode off to meet the intruders while their leader led Shêtân to an alcove in the rocks where the stallion would be safe. Two guards escorted the captured scout along also. Abu Ishak had his hands full trying to calm Shêtân, who was becoming more anxious as the sounds of distant gunshots came closer and closer. The leader was uncomfortable staying behind. A chieftain’s place was in battle beside his men, not hiding in the background behind a rock.

  After a few anxious minutes a messenger returned from the skirmish with a report. The fighting was becoming fierce. The enemy was a raiding party of considerable size and wore the striped shepherd coats favored by the clan of their blood rival, Abd-al-Rahman. Abu Ishak’s second in command had been wounded. The sheikh knew he must join the fight, but he felt uneasy about leaving Shêtân He had not spent so long searching for the young black stallion to risk losing him again. But his men needed him, and he was obliged to help them. It was his duty as a leader; he had no choice.

  He reluctantly tied his end of the rope around a tree and secured it, leaving Shêtân in the hands of the two guards. The stallion tested the restraint of the halter and pulled on the lead rope while the desert chieftain rode back with the messenger to join his men.

  AMBUSH

  13

  The air was filled with the sounds of battle. Bullets whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the rocks. In the distance, metal clashed on metal as sabers struck hard on one another. Men shouted and the wounded cried out for help. Hidden from sight in the rocky alcove, Shêtân strained at his rope and rocked back and forth on his hind legs. Rashid and the guards took cover in a shallow cave while Shêtân remained tied up outside.

  The sounds of combat began to grow fainter. Soon Rashid heard only the crackle of distant gunshots. The men emerged from their hiding place in the cave. One guard climbed over the rocks to the lookout’s perch to gain a better vantage point from which to observe the fighting. The other guard kept his rifle trained on Rashid.

  “Our forces are beginning to turn the tide of battle,” the lookout announced. “It’s only a matter of time before Abd-al-Rahman and his men are driven out of our district.” On the horizon Abu Ishak was chasing his rival away to the frontier of his territory, followed by his band.

  Rashid heard a slight, nearly imperceptible sound—the faint crunching of a footstep. Only an experienced tracker like himself would have noticed it. The sound seemed to be coming from behind a nearby wall of stones. Rashid turned to see if the guards had heard it too, but they hadn’t taken notice. Nor did they see, as Rashid did, the long, dark muzzles of two rifle barrels sticking out from between the rocks to take aim at them.

  Two muffled gunshots popped nearby as fire spit from the assassins’ hidden rifles. The guards were caught unaware and hit. The one sitting beside Rashid dropped his weapon and slumped to the ground. The lookout struggled to raise a cry and shoulder his rifle until another shot rang out. He fell from his perch, bounced off the rocks and tumbled to the ground. When the snipers’ guns were leveled at Rashid, he said a quick prayer to Allah and braced himself for death. He waited, but no ball of lead pierced his chest to send him to the hereafter. His time to leave this world had not yet come.

  A turbaned head popped up from where the shots had been fired. The face was familiar. It was Mansoor, the Cat, the same man Rashid had seen in Khaldun’s tent, the one who wanted to buy racehorses for the English.

  The Cat kept his gun trained on Rashid and ordered him not to move. His two bodyguards cautiously emerged from their hiding places and ran over to the fallen guards like hungry jackals. The guards were still alive. The bodyguards unsheathed their daggers. “Shall we finish them off?” they asked Mansoor.

  “Easy, boys, no need for that,” he replied. “Tie them up and leave them.” The bodyguards did as they were told.

  The Cat stepped out from behind a rock. As when Rashid had seen him before, Mansoor was dressed in a white jacket, matching leg coverings and shiny boots.

  Rashid wondered how the Cat had found his way to this spot. C
ould it be that Mansoor and the crafty Khaldun were behind this raid, not Abd-al-Rahman as the messenger had said? The fighting might be just a diversion to draw attention away from Shêtân

  The Cat turned to face the young black stallion. Shêtân backed up and pawed the ground. The hair on his neck seemed to bristle at the sight of Mansoor, who leered at him.

  “What about this dog?” one of the bodyguards asked, nodding toward Rashid.

  “We’ll take care of him later,” Mansoor replied. “Now we have to stick to our schedule. Timing is crucial in an operation like this. Just keep him out of the way.” Waving his gun, he gestured for Rashid to move up against the wall.

  Rashid could not understand it. How long did Mansoor think he had before Abu Ishak returned? How did they expect to steal this stallion that knew no master and escape from under Abu Ishak’s nose?

  Mansoor did not appear to be concerned about these things. He ignored Rashid, Shêtân and his men, seeming intent on checking his watch, compass and map. He took a fat-barreled pistol from one of the bodyguards and shot it into the sky. The signal flare burst into a ball of yellow flame. White smoke trailed behind it as it slowly floated back to earth.

  Out of the setting sun Rashid saw something approaching from beyond the small dunes that bordered the vast Rub‘ al Khali. At first he thought it might be camels, but the thing was moving too fast for even the swiftest camel herd. It could not be horses, as it was coming from out of the heart of the desert, a place so desolate that no horses could travel there. The thing came closer, and he saw that it was a truck like the ones the army used in their desert patrols, but painted yellow to match the color of the sand instead of military green. These army trucks rarely ventured beyond the rim of the Empty Quarter. What were they doing out here now?

  Like a huge caterpillar, the truck rumbled across the desert, mounted on wide, knobby tires in front and crawler tracks in back. A rack of lamps and headlights ran across the top of the cab along with two pairs of trumpet-shaped horns. Smokestacks ran up the back of the cab and belched clouds of black smoke into the darkening twilight sky. There was something printed on the side of the truck, but it wasn’t written in Arabic script and Rashid could not understand what it said. Otherwise, there seemed to be no indication of whom the vehicle belonged to or where it was coming from. There was something sinister about this big metal insect, Rashid thought. The closer it came, the more he began to doubt that it was a military truck at all.

  Mansoor called and waved to the driver as the truck chugged to a stop before them. The driver jumped down from the cab. He was not dressed as a soldier in a uniform but wore blue jeans and a T-shirt instead. A pair of green sun goggles hung loosely around his neck. He shook hands and exchanged a few quick words with Mansoor. Then he ran to the back of the truck, unlatched one of the two rear doors and swung it open. The bodyguards helped him lower a loading ramp while Mansoor turned his attention upon Shêtân

  The stallion had been watching all these actions warily. He gathered his legs beneath him, keeping his head low but his ears pricked up and alert. As the Cat came closer, Shêtân unwound from his crouched position. The stallion took a few quick steps and sprang up, throwing his full weight against the rope that held him. It snapped and he struck out furiously with both fore and hind legs, kicking and thrashing the air wildly. The only things standing between him and Mansoor were the two bodyguards who fired their rifles into the air repeatedly in an effort to terrorize the stallion and keep him back.

  Rearing up on his hind legs, Shêtân towered before them like a giant black statue. The stallion’s small head rocked and he tossed his mane and forelock viciously. His bared teeth and threatening actions showed him for what he was—cunning, ruthless and savage.

  Gunshots and the stallion’s shrill cries filled the air. Mansoor’s laughter rang out in the midst of it all. “Sorry, you black devil, I don’t have time to wrestle today,” he said. Turning to the driver he barked out an order: “Bring the sleep gun!” The driver ran back to the truck and returned holding a long, skinny air pistol with a red-feathered dart attached to the tip of it. He handed it to Mansoor. Mansoor sighted down the barrel and took aim. The pistol clenched in his hands made a whooshing sound as the red-winged dart flew through the air and pricked the stallion’s neck.

  Shêtân raged on. All the while the bodyguards kept firing their guns into the air to keep him back. Within seconds the tranquilizing drug took effect. The great stallion began to stagger like a punch-drunk boxer. He turned in circles, around and around like a top. And like a top, he soon began to wobble and turn more and more slowly. Finally he came to a stop, his eyes rolling, his legs unsteady.

  Mansoor stepped forward and took a firm hold on Shêtân’s ear. Twisting it, he forced Shêtân’s head down. The legs of the dazed and dizzy stallion began to buckle and he dropped to the ground, breathing heavily.

  “Let’s go, men!” Mansoor barked. “This is lightweight stuff, not elephant tranquilizer. It will wear off fast. Move!”

  Within seconds the stallion struggled to his feet again and seemed to be recovering. Mansoor whipped a hemp rope around Shêtân’s neck. As the stallion reached for Mansoor with bared teeth, the Cat pulled the rope through his gaping mouth and wound it behind his ears. Once more he put the rope around the stallion’s head and tightened it. The coarse rope cut into Shêtân’s lips while it applied pressure to a horse’s most vulnerable spot, a point behind the ears. Rashid had seen such a bridle only once before, when Khaldun had corralled a renegade bull camel that he did not want to kill. Khaldun had called it a war bridle.

  Shêtân struck out, fighting the overwhelming pain of the rope in his mouth, but no animal could resist the cruel pressure of the war bridle for long. His legs began to tremble. Mansoor gave the rope another twist to remind the stallion that he was in charge now. Then he turned to his men and shouted, “Get ready, I’m going to bring him in!” The men cautiously began to move forward.

  While Mansoor and his men were preoccupied with Shêtân, Rashid slipped away and scrambled out of sight behind an embankment. His first instinct was to make a break for the dunes, but then he thought better of it. For the moment he was safe—they hadn’t even noticed he was missing yet. He concealed himself in the rocks and watched Mansoor’s fight with the stallion.

  The Cat yanked on the war bridle and dragged Shêtân forward. Standing on either side of the horse, his men held a taut rope behind the stallion’s rump to force him up the loading ramp. When Shêtân balked and refused to move, the driver savagely whipped his hindquarters.

  Rashid could not bear to watch such brutality and turned his head away in disgust. Finally he heard the stallion’s hooves ring out on the metal floor of the ramp as Shêtân lunged forward. The rear door slammed shut behind him but could barely muffle the ravings of the wild horse trapped inside. He could not go on that way without harming himself, Rashid thought. Surely such an animal could not live for long in captivity.

  The men scurried around to the sides of the truck. Still no one seemed to have noticed that Rashid had disappeared. If they did notice, no one seemed to care. Nor did Abu Ishak’s certain return seem to trouble them. Perhaps they didn’t fear Abu Ishak at all, with their big-wheeled metal monster and their guns that shot tiny arrows bringing sleep instead of death.

  Rashid drew a deep breath. He had to think. With his strange machines and weapons, this Mansoor was a formidable enemy. But Rashid was not afraid of the marvels of the modern world. He wanted to learn. One day he too would buy a compass, a sleep gun … one day.

  He watched the burly truck driver check the crawler tracks and tires to make final preparations for the return trip into the desert. Mansoor and his bodyguards climbed aboard, and then the driver swung himself up into the cab of the truck after them. The driver gunned the engine and a cloud of black smoke puffed into the air. In a few moments they would be on their way, leaving only their tire tracks to tell the tale of where they had come from and whe
re they were going. In the distance, beyond the line of small dunes, were the great dunes of the Uruq al Shaiba. How could any truck cross them? Rashid wondered.

  But the only thing that really mattered was, What was he going to do right now? He was alone again; Shêtân was gone. To try to cross the desert on foot was suicide. He could return to the mountains where he had lived a life in hiding, but then what? If he escaped to the village by the lake that he had seen earlier, it would be the first place Abu Ishak and his men looked on returning from battle and finding Shêtân gone. It would only be a matter of time before they caught up to him. When that happened, a quick and painless death would be all he could hope for.

  Rashid had to make a decision and make it fast. He raced back down behind the rocks to where the truck was beginning to plod along, bumping over the sand and grinding its gears. Rashid ran after it. The spinning wheels threw up a spray of fine sand until the crawler tracks bit into the ground. The truck began to gain speed. Rashid ran faster, catching up to the truck at last. He jumped up onto the tailgate, slipped the latch that bolted the second rear door and opened it. Crawling inside, he pulled the door closed behind him. The truck picked up more speed.

  Inside, Rashid smelled the rich aroma of hay and feed. Out of habit he moved quietly around the compartment, though there was hardly any reason to do so. No one could hear him. On the other side of the stall divider the enraged Shêtân hammered away with his hooves. He was making so much noise that Rashid could have screamed at the top of his lungs and the men in the cab of the truck would not have heard him.

  He found a sack full of grain, ripped it open and ate a few handfuls. The meal tasted sweet and delicious. As he savored the taste of the grain, he looked around at his surroundings. There was straw and a layer of wood shavings spread on the floor. Hay was stacked in bales behind him. Hay nets and crossties hung from the ceiling. Blankets were folded and neatly stowed away. Rashid propped himself up on a bundle of these and made himself comfortable. There was nothing he could do now but wait. He pulled out a blanket to cover himself. Inscribed on a tag in Arabic he read the words PROPERTY OF MARLEY STABLES, SUSSEX, ENGLAND. That must be the English stable Mansoor worked for, Rashid thought. He felt the texture of the blanket. It was of good quality, far superior to his own.