The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

His gaze turned to the nearest hammock, a round clump of land with tall palms silhouetted against the brazen sky. There were some birds flying above it and he watched them vanish behind the palm fronds. There were other hammocks to the west, some larger, others smaller, all emerging from the green-and-yellow-speared sea.

  Alec moved his horse on. He had come this far, and there was no reason to turn back now. He did not mind the quiet of the swamp after the months of pandemonium at Hialeah racetrack.

  Just ahead, a score of buzzards rose from a mud flat at the sound of the Black’s hoofs. Alec watched them move awkwardly in swift, waddling flight. They didn’t go far but stayed directly above, planing in lazy circles, waiting for him to pass.

  When he rode by he saw a dead alligator, its body furnishing forage for the hideous carrion birds. The buzzards had ripped flesh and entrails into a shredded horror; he turned away.

  For the first time Alec thought of the devastation to wildlife that the drainage canals must even now be bringing to the Everglades. Yet as he looked at the immensity of the land that stretched as far south as the Gulf of Mexico, he doubted that the swamp ever would be conquered completely by man. It was not meant for human habitation. It belonged to wildlife alone.

  Later he came to an unexpected fork in the road and brought the Black to a halt. One way led to the Seminole Indian village, while the other road wound its way through the vast wilderness of swamp to the southwest. Far in the distance Alec saw a large hammock and decided the road went there. Perhaps it was one used as a base by hunters.

  He would go in that direction rather than to the Indian village. The road had been built high, creating a dike that held surface water within the area. The saw-grass spears were tall and green beyond, and he would have a chance to see part of the true swamp before draglines and bulldozers destroyed it.

  Alec kept the Black at a slow canter, knowing he could go to the distant hammock and back without ever tiring his horse. The stallion’s ears were alert; he would miss nothing and appeared as eager as Alec to go on.

  For several miles he rode in a silence that seemed to become part of his bloodstream. The hot sun beat down mercilessly on his bare head and he felt as if he were crossing a desert and looking forward to reaching an oasis in the distant hammock. A dusty brown snake crossed the road just ahead and disappeared into the saw grass. It might be a water moccasin, he thought, and cautioned himself that he must not let the heat and silence dull his senses.

  For a long while he rode on until, finally, he approached the hammock. It was even larger than he’d thought and the trees created a towering wall of cypress before him, making it difficult to tell where land left off and the dark water of the swamp began. The water rose high around the cypress knees, and the hammock appeared all the more ghostly with Spanish moss hanging from the trees in heavy shrouds. There was a graveyard hush to the stillness, and for the first time, Alec thought seriously of turning back.

  The road seemed to ring the hammock and he saw a colorful array of air plants and orchids within the green gloom. Despite the ominous hush, the natural beauty of the hammock attracted him. He decided to go a little farther.

  The road finally turned onto the hammock, disappearing into a stand of tall yuccas. Alec followed it, glad to leave the merciless glare of the sun behind, if only for a short while.

  The road narrowed to barely more than a white shell path curling around the western end of the hammock. It skirted the silent stand of cypress trees and the dark water in which they grew, then turned away from the moist bank to wind its way through the hammock.

  He never had seen a more beautiful natural park, made all the more impressive by the saw-grass wasteland behind him. It was indeed a startling contrast, and his eyes swept to the magnificent stands of coconut palms and live oaks, the beautiful magnolias and oleanders.

  He heard the first sound of life in the dense foliage, a slight whirring noise. The Black heard it too; his ears were pitched in the direction of a patch of wild grapevine. A moment later Alec saw a hummingbird foraging among the vines, its wings shirring like a helicopter propeller as it hovered about a flower.

  He continued riding down the shell path, his imagination beginning to run wild. Where did the path lead and what would he find? He knew he would be warned of any danger by the Black’s animal instinct. As it was, his horse was moving easily, almost as if he too wanted to find out where the path led.

  Through a screen of moss-laden oak trees they emerged into a small clearing. It had been hacked from the jungle growth, probably by Indians many years ago, and kept clear by the occasional hunter who used the hammock.

  There was a rough hollow in the center of the clearing, and the Black moved toward it of his own accord. He lowered his head, his nostrils sniffing the ground. When he straightened, he gave vent to a clear, happy neigh of desire!

  Shocked by the Black’s soft call, Alec slipped off his back and studied the impressions in the dirt. What he found brought him quickly back to time and place. A horse had rolled in the hollow not long before, and judging from the Black’s neigh, it had been a mare!

  The shell path led into the jungle on the opposite side of the clearing, and Alec knew he had to follow it. He could not turn back without knowing why another horse and rider were there. For certainly the mare was not alone.

  “You be quiet and we’ll see what goes,” he said.

  Alec had led the Black only a short distance when he came to an abrupt stop, startled by a peculiar kind of whistle. It was a piping note, constantly repeated. It came from one place, then another, with low, sly pauses in between.

  There was a crackling noise from a nearby hedge and Alec’s eyes swept toward it. He saw nothing.

  For a moment the notes ended and the profound silence was almost as unnerving as the sounds had been. Alec felt the heavy, oppressive heat of the day. Not a leaf stirred in the creeping jungle growth. He heard no whisper of life. The very stillness of the air held him as if by some strange magic, while sweet and heavy odors filled his nostrils.

  The peculiar notes had come from some kind of bird he did not know, he decided. This land and its inhabitants were completely foreign to him.

  He moved down the path again, although there was barely room to lead the Black. The ferns grew thick and green on either side and the trees shut out the sun, leaving them more in dusk than day.

  The silence was broken by the bird once more. At least, Alec believed it was a bird. There was no other explanation for the sound. It seemed to be following him. He mustn’t think of it as anything else. The piping notes were making him more and more uncomfortable. Now he wasn’t at all certain they came from a bird. They were too high, too piercing, too demanding. Where were they coming from, and why?

  He brought the Black to a stop. All he had to do was turn back. Yet he was reluctant to do so. He wanted to find out where the path led and what another horse and rider were doing there.

  The notes ended and there was nothing but the great silence again. Alec couldn’t analyze the way he felt. He would have liked to believe it was all nonsense, but it wasn’t. There was something about the notes, something he didn’t understand but that might be made clear if he went on. He moved the Black forward.

  Once he thought he saw something gliding overhead, high in the trees and obscured by the heavy Spanish moss. It appeared to be white—perhaps a broad-winged wood ibis nesting in the trees—but he couldn’t be sure in the misty, shimmering heat. At any rate, he heard no more notes and was glad of it.

  The path ended at a narrow channel of dark water. The opposite side of the stream had been cleared of wild reeds, and in the muck Alec saw the footprints of a man and a horse!

  There was no turning back now, he knew. The winding dark water was like a slithering snake, but it was shallow enough to ford without swimming. There was no sign of any alligators and it would take only a few seconds to cross.

  There was no need to coax the Black into the water. He went forward, wadi
ng with Alec through the shallows. He was eager to keep going, but Alec brought him to a stop on the other side and placed a gentle hand upon the stallion’s nose. Alec’s instincts told him that he must proceed with the utmost caution. There was no reason to fear the presence of another horse and rider, but until he found out what they were doing there, it was best to be careful.

  The path became increasingly difficult, leading through twisting vines that only recently had been cut to clear the way. On either side was a forbidding fortress of winding tendrils, wrapped about tree trunks and locked in a continuous mesh that defied all but the sharpest machetes. Even now the vines had begun the work of reclosing the gap across the shell path.

  Alec felt uneasy at the jungle net closing in on him. He told himself that he could turn back any time he wanted, that he did not have to go farther if he felt it was not worth the risk.

  The upper branches of huge trees and the thick shrouds of Spanish moss hid the sun, leaving him in a world of dusk. But despite his apprehension, he was determined to go on. How long ago had he left the farm? Only this morning? His contact with it seemed to have faded away.

  It was as if he were living in another world, one as timeless as the swamp itself. He felt out of place, and yet for a reason he could not understand, much less explain, a strong motivation compelled him to complete what had become an urgent mission. It drove him onward.

  Finally the shell path came to an abrupt end. But it was not the end of his journey. The vines in the area had been cut away completely and there was sufficient room between the trees for him to continue. He led the Black forward.

  A few minutes later he came in sight of a large clearing. Actually it was a meadow carpeted with cropped grass, a slab of green on the edge of the endless swamp. He heard the splash of a bird in the distant water, then the scream of an osprey as it rose above the saw grass. It was a mysterious cry in the vast void of emptiness. Alec paused a moment beside the huge trunk of an oak tree.

  At the far end of the meadow he saw the gleam of a silver body and heard the soft beat of hoofs. Cautiously he moved in that direction, aware that his excitement matched that of the stallion at his side.

  When he reached the edge of the clearing he saw a tall black man riding a gray mare.

  THE CAPTAIN

  4

  Alec clamped a hand across his horse’s nostrils, stilling the neigh that was about to come. “No,” he said softly.

  His eyes followed the man riding the gray mare. He wore the clothes of a southern farm laborer—sun-bleached trousers and a gray cotton shirt. On his head was a wide-rimmed straw hat, his thick hair falling below it, as blue-black as an Indian’s. But despite his appearance, the man failed completely to look the part of a farm laborer.

  No one but a professional horseman could sit in the saddle as this man did. He was still and unmoving while his mare trotted with the most airy steps, gliding across the grass, turning as if magically summoned one way and then another.

  Alec knew the man must be guiding her but there was no obvious movement of his hands or legs. He used no whip or spurs; his calves and thighs were directing his horse.

  Alec’s heart was racing now. The mare was as light-footed as a ghost, and, in fact, if she had been a ghost he would not have been more astonished by what he saw! Here, deep in the Everglades, he was watching the disciplined movement of haute école! He had never before seen a horse schooled in these movements perform in the United States. Only in Europe—at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Austria—had he watched the famed Lippizaner stallions in this advanced art of training and horsemanship.

  This was no Lippizaner but a horse of many strains, including Arabian; yet she performed the dancing steps as well as any horse Alec had seen in Austria. If the man riding her knew he was being watched he gave no indication of it. He sat like a statue in the saddle, his black face cold and masklike. He moved her in a wider circle, coming closer to Alec. His guiding movements were still not visible and yet the cadence of the mare’s hoofs picked up as if she had been eagerly awaiting the change of pace. Suddenly she was spinning around on her hind legs, pirouetting in place.

  The man was part of his horse as she moved at full speed while fixed to one spot. Alec realized that many years of intensive training must have been spent on the mare for her to perform this difficult movement.

  Finally the mare came out of the pirouettes and made a slow circle. It was only then that Alec saw her rider’s first movement, although it had nothing to do with cues to his horse. He raised a hand to pull his straw hat more firmly down on his head so as not to lose it.

  Alec ignored the man’s wide-rimmed hat as he did the laborer’s clothes. One who knew the art of haute école riding and training as this man did would not make his living working in the cane fields!

  The mare swept diagonally across the circle, shoulder in, then shoulder out coming back, her hoofs skimming effortlessly over the grass.

  Alec knew she was being subjected to the light pressures of her rider’s hands and legs. Every nerve in her was awaiting the next signal from him.

  Alec forgot where he was, forgot everything but the fact that for the first time in his life he was witnessing a supreme exhibition of horsemanship. Never had he seen such unity of horse and rider!

  Spellbound, he watched the mare move across the ground in flowing turns and glides and figurations he had never seen before, all in a strangely wonderful dance made even more magical by the ghostly silence of the Everglades.

  Then the tempo of her hoofs increased and Alec knew the exhibition was coming to an end. She made a high leap, her hind legs and forelegs stretched out so that she looked as if she were truly flying! When she came down, she rocked back and forth on her hindquarters before rising in a levade of supreme grace, staying up longer than Alec had ever thought possible, her neck arched while she reached for the sky with her forequarters. She came down slowly and stood still.

  The black stallion’s clear, high neigh rang through the stillness of the hammock too quickly for Alec to stop it. The silver-gray mare turned her ears in his direction and answered. But her rider did not so much as glance toward the intruders.

  The Black pawed the ground and neighed again. Alec did not try to quiet him, for his eyes were on the rider. The man had turned in their direction; slowly, he doffed his wide-rimmed hat.

  “Hello!” he called. His voice was oddly deep.

  Alec remained where he was, mindful again of Henry’s final instructions. “Above anything else, keep him away from mares.”

  He watched the man come forward as if riding on air rather than a horse. His shoulders were immense and his head was held high in an arrogant manner. He must be over six feet tall, Alec decided, for his legs were as long and powerful as his arms. His body was heavy yet lithe, bulky yet smoothly muscled and carrying not an ounce of superfluous fat. He looked every bit the professional horseman he was, not the farm laborer the clothes represented. Why was he dressed as he was? What was he doing there?

  Alec’s grip tightened on the Black’s halter. He saw at least a week’s growth of beard on the stern face. The eyes were inquisitive, as well they should be at finding someone watching his performance. But there was also a coldness in them that foreboded danger. There was no getting away now. He had to face up to this meeting.

  Alec allowed his gaze to shift to the mare, noting the lightness of the narrow reins and bridle. Then he looked at the man and said, “I enjoyed watching you very much. I’ve never seen a performance quite like it.”

  “It’s centuries old,” the man answered quietly. He spoke with a strong French accent. “You’ve wasted a great deal of time.”

  Alec’s brows knit in puzzlement at the man’s words. He searched for an explanation in the cold face, with its blunt nose, its wide and high cheekbones, but found nothing. The man’s eyes were only for the Black.

  Suddenly the stallion bolted, trying to reach the mare. Alec managed to stop him but not before there
was a hard impact of bodies. He pulled the Black away, talking to him all the while.

  Anger glittered in the man’s eyes and it was evident that the mare felt his annoyance. Her body moved violently. There was a gentle pressure of the man’s hands and it was enough to restrain her.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Alec said.

  “It was to be expected.” The man’s gaze remained on the stallion. “It is good to hear one talk to animals as you do,” he added. “It is a simple thing, but few seem to know it is the only way.”

  Alec was used to having professionals scrutinize his horse, just as he, too, carefully noted everything about another’s. He studied the mare before him. She possessed the full, unsloped croup and high-set tail so characteristic of the Arabian. Her long, arched neck and slim, sinewy legs indicated the desert breed as well. But her head, although tapered, did not have the dish-faced profile of the Arabian. And she had a slight ramlike convex nose common to Spanish-Barbary stock. She was broad of chest and deep through the heart like the Lippizaner, and had that breed’s wider hips and back ribs. The additional “room inside” and the compactness of body structure gave her stamina as well as force.

  Alec decided that she might well possess the best of many breeds—or, at least, the best for the kind of work she was doing. Her height was just under sixteen hands, and her weight was proportionate to her size, solid but not heavy. She was a mare he would have liked to own.

  His gaze and thoughts returned to her rider as the man dismounted. Alec’s first reaction was that he had been right—the man was well over six feet tall.

  “My name is Captain Philippe de Pluminel,” he said.

  Alec took the man’s offered hand. “Mine is Alec Ramsay.” He smiled, hoping the captain would smile back and, perhaps, explain what he was doing with such a highly trained horse on a remote hammock in the Everglades.

  No smile appeared on the man’s masklike face. Yet Alec found that it did not frighten him any longer. He recalled other horsemen who allowed no emotion to show on their faces so as to reveal nothing of themselves or their motives. Alec decided that he would let the captain divulge as much or as little as he chose without any prodding from him. If he read the dark face correctly, this was a man of experience, used to command and, most of all, impatient with anyone who questioned him too closely. And, apparently, Alec’s name meant nothing to the captain—just as the name Captain Philippe de Pluminel was not familiar to him.