The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  Alec found he could not take his gaze from them. They held him as if he and the captain had been linked together on the borderline between the living and the dead … as if each had gazed at something which had strayed from another kind of life into their own, something they could not comprehend, something that did not belong.

  The lead shank was taut in Alec’s hand and he realized suddenly that the Black was trying to break away from him. Alec turned his attention to controlling his horse. The Black’s nostrils were flared and his ears were pinned back.

  Alec moved him away and then turned back to the captain. What should he do, he wondered, leave and go for help? What kind of help? The captain was beyond anything a doctor could do. Yet others must be informed so the captain’s body could be removed from the hammock. The police would have to know what had happened.

  But what had happened?

  Alec looked down at the ravaged figure sprawled before him. Who had struck the physical blows, if Koví had not materialized bodily? He saw the trail of dark bloodstains on the trunk of the tree, the bark torn off in great pieces. He looked again at the captain’s blood-covered hands. Had he in self-induced frenzy clawed the tree in an attempt to escape his awesome mental image of Koví? Had he, a superstitious fool, in his terror pounded his head against the tree, using his great strength to inflict blows upon himself in preference to the horror which appeared before his eyes? Could that be the answer to what had happened?

  Alec looked into the captain’s wide-open eyes, which even in death did not know peace. He felt no fear of what he saw in them. The captain’s death had not come from the blows inflicted by his own hands but from his mind. It was a fearful thing to know that fear unchecked could kill.

  Alec turned away. He would first tell Odin, then he would ride on to the ranch. It would take many hours at best, providing he could find his way.

  The sky was lightening with the gray of early morning when Alec swung himself up onto the stallion’s back. The night was behind him but he knew the horror would not be ended until the captain’s body was removed from the hammock—and perhaps not even then.

  NOTHING AT ALL

  17

  Several hours later, the stallion’s running hoofbeats shattered the midmorning stillness as Alec tightened his legs around him and sent the Black into a gallop. The worst of the muddy going was behind them and a short distance away the captain’s hammock emerged from the waving sea of yellow grass.

  The Black snorted and plunged forward, as if he too was glad to leave the swamp behind. He waded through the shallows at the foot of the high bank and climbed to the firm ground of the hammock.

  Alec kept the Black at a run, and with the triple racing beat of hoofs in his ears, he found it increasingly difficult to believe that he had actually experienced the horrors of the night. In the misty sunlight filtering through the trees everything had a dreamlike quality to it.

  He kept his head close to the Black’s neck. Nothing had changed but the passing of night to day. Everything that had happened to him was as real as the warm skin his face was pressed against.

  The house loomed before him and he slowed the Black, finally coming to a complete stop. He was surprised at the feeling of wariness that had swept over him. The house was as he had left it, the shapeless roof rising in the center to the pillared tower, partially hidden by the fronds of the coconut palms. There was nothing to be cautious about any longer, he told himself.

  Alec let the Black go on, approaching the house at a slow walk.

  “Odin!” he called at the top of his voice. It was only then that he saw the large padlock on the front door, and the shuttered windows.

  “Odin!” he shouted again, knowing that no one but the old man could have closed up the house during the night.

  He did not take the time to run up the steps and pound upon the door. He rode the Black at a gallop toward the barn.

  The barn was closed and padlocked. Where had Odin taken the mare, and why?

  Alec rode over to the barred but open window of her stall. It was incredibly deserted, as if no horse had ever used it. There was no wisp of straw on the floor, no smell of any kind—manure, feed or saddle leather. But in a far corner he saw a spear-tipped rod, the same one he’d seen in Odin’s hand the day before.

  Whatever reason Odin might have had for closing and abandoning the place before the captain’s return, he had swept the barn unusually clean before taking off with the mare. That was all there was to it. He would not think otherwise, Alec told himself. He was determined to think only in terms of common sense. But he must have the help of others. He turned the Black away from the barn, knowing that the only course open to him was to get to the ranch as soon as possible.

  Several hours later, Alec rode down the dirt road which led to the cultivated farmland beyond. He still had a long way to go, but, knowing that the Black was as spent as himself, he let the stallion choose his own gait. His gaze followed the flight of several buzzards over the saw grass; they planed in lazy circles, rising ever higher in the sky in their hunting. Alec cast a glance toward the south, wondering if he would get back in time to save the captain’s body from the winged scavengers.

  There was a haze on the horizon, and at first he mistook it for heavy mist rising from swamp water. Then he saw thin spiraling wisps of smoke and knew that it was not mist but fire! A lightning bolt from the storm of the day before could have started it, to smolder in the black peat during the night and come to life in the fresh morning breeze.

  Alec tightened his legs about the Black, and the stallion’s strides quickened. He urged him into a gallop, then a run, knowing there was a strong possibility the fire would reach the humpbacked hammock before their return!

  He’d gone no more than a mile when he saw dust stirring in the distance. A few minutes later he was able to make out a jeep coming down the road. He slowed the Black immediately but he was too tired to feel greatly relieved. At last his grim solitude was coming to an end.

  Joe Early, the ranch manager, jumped out of the jeep. “Where the devil have you been?” he asked, more angry than relieved, now that he’d found Alec and the Black. “We’ve spent all night looking for you.” Two Seminole Indians sat in the back seat of the jeep.

  “Didn’t you get my message?” Alec asked wearily. “From an Indian named Odin.”

  “No,” Joe said. He turned to the two men in the jeep. “You know him?”

  “Yes, Mr. Joe,” one answered. “He come from old Jake Potter’s place. But he no Seminole, Mr. Joe. Odin part Carib, ver’ bad blood. But we not see him in long time.”

  “They’d know if there’d been a message, Alec. They’re from the village and the best hunters in the swamp. That’s why I got them.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alec said. So Odin never had left the hammock; he’d been there all the time, watching everything that had taken place. Being as superstitious as the captain, he would have believed they faced certain death by going into the swamp. His first thought would have been to remove all evidence of anything but an orderly move and then escape. He’d have no trouble selling the mare for a price that would enable him to return to Haiti and live as well as he pleased.

  “Where were you?” Joe asked again.

  “I was with the man Odin lived with, a Frenchman, Captain Pluminel—”

  “But we went there,” Joe interrupted sharply. “It was closed up tight, shuttered and padlocked.” He turned to the Indians again. “What time was that, boys, three or four o’clock maybe?” The men nodded and Joe turned back to Alec. “He must have moved out days ago, so how could you have been with him?”

  “He’s dead, Joe,” Alec said. “Just let me tell you that and I’ll explain the rest later. You’ve got to help me. We’ve got to go back.”

  Joe Early studied Alec’s face, then said quietly, “You’re not going anywhere, Alec, not in the shape you’re in.”

  “But I left him, Joe! You’ve got to believe me. We went into the swa
mp last night to the hammock with the humped spine. That’s where he died. I’ll show you. You’ve got to help me, Joe,” he repeated.

  “You went all the way to the humpbacked hammock?” Joe asked incredulously. “I don’t believe it, no one could. Even with all the drainage going on …” Then quickly he softened his voice, alarmed by what he saw in Alec’s eyes. “We’d better get you home, Alec.” His concern showed plainly in his face as he took Alec’s arm. “You’re in no shape to—”

  Alec tore his arm away. “You’ve got to go back with me,” he said.

  “Okay, Alec,” Joe replied kindly, trying to quell the terrible urgency he saw in Alec’s eyes. “But not now. I mean, not right this minute. You wouldn’t want the Black to travel that distance again, would you? You’ve got to think of him, if not yourself. And we’ve got to get some guns an’ a few supplies. I’m not going into the swamp without ’em.

  “Then you’ll go?”

  “Yes, providing we can get Dr. Palmer to come along with us. If Pluminel is dead like you say he is, I ain’t moving his body until Doc says so. That’s the law. I’ll call him as soon as we get back. He’ll be home at this hour. He’ll come.”

  “You promise, Joe?”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Joe answered, “for everybody concerned. Now get in the jeep, Alec, an’ lead your horse alongside. You look like you’re ready to drop.”

  Joe drove the jeep while Alec sat beside him holding the stallion’s lead shank. Joe went slowly, knowing that the horse’s energy was spent, as was Alec’s. He’d do the best he could, as he’d promised, but it wouldn’t be what Alec thought it was. He’d get Doc to give Alec a sedative that would put him out, make him sleep even if he didn’t want to.

  He’d seen others, older and more experienced than Alec, succumb to the real and imaginary hazards of the Everglades at night. The ’glades did things to a person’s mind unless, if he was real lucky, he found his way out. Alec had made it, but not by much; another few hours and he would have been finished for good.

  Alec touched his shoulder but Joe didn’t take his eyes off the road to look at him. He didn’t want to see any more misery than he already had.

  “Did you know him, Joe?” Alec asked in a voice not much above a whisper.

  “Who, Pluminel? Well, no, not really. I met him once, about a month ago, when he first rented old Jake’s place. It had been closed for over ten years. I know because I’ve been trying to buy it that long from Jake’s widow over in Immokalee. She won’t sell because she knows all this land is going to be worth more than I’m offering her, once it’s drained. Old Jake built the place himself and that was quite a feat. That hammock was pretty much inaccessible before the drainage canals were dug.”

  Joe smiled, trying to humor Alec and erase the glazed look he saw in the youth’s eyes. “I only spent a few minutes with Pluminel that time. He didn’t seem to want company so I left him alone. All I wanted to find out, anyway, was if he intended to buy the place. He didn’t, an’ that was good enough for me.”

  “Did you see his mare?” Alec asked.

  “No. I didn’t know he had one. But, like I say, I didn’t stay long and didn’t see what he had in the barn, if anything. Old Jake had built it for his workhorse, an aged gelding named Jelly Roll.”

  Joe Early glanced at the two Indians behind him. “How about it, boys, did you know the Frenchman had a mare out there?”

  The Indians looked at each other, smiling as they nodded their heads. “Yes, Mr. Joe. We seen her,” one said. “Maybe same thing happened to him that happened to Mr. Potter, Mr. Joe.”

  Alec turned quickly to them, then back to Joe Early. “What do they mean?”

  “Nothing,” Joe said. “At least nothing that has anything to do with what you’re thinking. It’s just one of their superstitious beliefs, some kind of a swamp god that protects the Indians from those who’d take their land from them. Personally, I think they made it up, hoping to keep us out of the ’glades. But they ain’t got a chance, as you can see for yourself. We’re moving in, all right.”

  “But what happened to Jake Potter?” Alec asked.

  Joe Early glanced at Alec. “Nothing that had anything to do with their swamp god,” he said. “Old Jake had just finished building his place when a big hurricane hit the area. Most of it was under water for several days. Later, when we got to Jake’s place, we found him sitting on his horse in the barn. He was dead but Jelly Roll was still alive. We figured Jake climbed up on him to avoid the rising water and suffered a heart attack or something. His face had a pretty frightened look to it so we figured he’d suffered a lot of pain just before he died. The Indians with us looked on it as something else. They believed old Jake had been scared to death by their swamp god. They’re a superstitious lot, Alec. When they talk that way you just ignore them.”

  Alec said nothing and Joe hoped the matter had ended. He wanted to get Alec back to the farm without any trouble. He owed that much to Henry Dailey, whom he’d promised to look after Alec while the trainer was up north. Luckily Henry wasn’t due back for another couple of days, and by that time Alec and the Black should be back to normal. He wouldn’t tell Henry what had happened. He’d leave that to Alec. After a good sleep, Alec would realize that nothing that had happened to him in the swamp was real, only imaginary.

  Joe glanced at the swamp through which the road ran. It was a horrible place and worthless before the Army engineers had arrived on the scene. Now it was only a question of time before the swamp was completely drained and it became rich, productive farmland and residential development. Some people, mostly biology professors and nature lovers, wanted to save the Everglades, but not him. He was only interested in saving dollars, same as the real estate boys. He was going to get all the money he could out of the swamp.

  Fires always helped speed things along and he welcomed the one he’d seen to the south. The yellow dry grass was ripe for burning. He turned his head to look at the smoke; it was more dense now, billowing ever higher in the sky, and coming this way. It was going to be a big one with a strong breeze blowing from the southeast. Nothing in its way had any chance of survival. Later, when the fire was out, the engineers would move in with their bulldozers and draglines.

  Joe Early focused his eyes back on the road. Even if he’d wanted to go back with Alec, they never could have reached the humpbacked hammock before the fire. The whole area would be an inferno in no time at all. Anyway, it was ridiculous to believe Alec had left Pluminel there—or, for that matter, that he’d been with him during the night. He’d suffered hallucinations produced by sheer terror at being lost in the swamp. Joe didn’t blame Alec. It could happen to anybody in the ’glades at night. It was best forgotten and he hoped Alec would get well soon.

  The ranch was just a short distance away and Joe heard the Black whinny to the broodmares in the nearest pasture. He smiled. What he’d give to own that stud! Tired as the Black was, he’d run for the mares if given a chance. But they weren’t for him, not now. In a few weeks, the big horse would be racing in New York.

  Joe glanced sideways at Alec. He was slumped down in his seat, with his eyes closed. It wouldn’t take much sedative to put him out for a long while, Joe decided. He’d be as good as new when he woke up; it’d all seem pretty much like a dream to him. Anyway, Alec wouldn’t have much time to think about it, not with Henry Dailey coming back so soon. There’d be nothing but training and racing and work—the best thing for him under the circumstances.

  Joe took a long breath and exhaled slowly. He’d sure like to see Alec and the Black race in New York, but his job was here where nothing much ever happened. Well, the least he could do was to make certain Alec got all the rest he needed; that way he’d play a part in the big scene of racing.

  RACE DAY!

  18

  Four weeks later, on April 19, Alec Ramsay rode the Black postward at Aqueduct Race Course in New York City. It was the Toboggan Handicap at a distance of six furlongs for a purse of
twenty-five thousand dollars.

  They were last in the parade of five horses, a field kept small by the Black’s entry in the race. He was the heavy favorite and carried high weight of 130 pounds, enough weight to give the others a fighting chance to beat him in his opening defense of the Handicap Championship.

  Alec felt the first drops of rain from the ominous sky overhead. The heavy clouds let go quickly and the rain came down harder until he could barely make out the starting gate and the horses approaching it. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by loud thunderclaps.

  It would be a long time, he thought, before thunder and lightning did not take him back to a stable in the Everglades. It didn’t matter that no one, not even Henry, would believe what he’d told them of that night. They had accepted only what they wanted to believe, all based on the medical testimony of Dr. Palmer that delusions were common to people under stress. He was glad he had not thrown away the gold figurine that night. They would accept that he’d found it in the swamp, but no more. And since he’d been unable to offer any rational explanation of the captain’s death and his own horrible experiences, he had pretended to accept their version, if only to bring peace to his mind as well as theirs.

  For several days afterward, he had been kept quiet by drugs. He held no bitterness toward Joe Early and the others, knowing it had been for the best. His dread of that which defied all common sense would not have enabled him to think clearly. Finally the weight had lifted from his mind and he had looked upon the Everglades again.

  As far as his eyes could see, there was nothing but smoldering ashes. The immense swamp to the south and west had been gutted by the raging fire. At his insistence, they had gone to the humpbacked hammock, more to appease him than to give any credence to his story. They’d found nothing, for no remains of the captain’s body could have withstood the cremating blast of the holocaust. Still, he was glad that he had returned, if only to prove to himself that he had been there.