The Black Stallion Legend (8 page)

Alec’s mind as well as his body had been trained to survive in a world of steel-shod hoofs. He would not lie down and die. He was going to die
violently
, if at all. Clambering to his feet, he moved slowly toward the hills, one painful step at a time. His state of mind was somewhere between reality and a dream, but in his consciousness the anger remained. It was that which kept him going. It would not let him yield to death.

Before reaching the foothills, he became so exhausted that for a few seconds he lost consciousness. Yet his legs continued plodding until he reached the foothills and fell flat on his face. Even then he began crawling up the incline on hands and knees.

He knew that somewhere within the hills was water. Halfway up the incline, he reached a small hollow with overhanging cliffs throwing a few feet of shade over the ground. He crawled into the shadows, breathing heavily, grateful for the shelter from the sun.

It was not long before he moved on again, knowing there was no time to lose. He had to find water soon or he would die. He clawed his way on all fours up a steep path until he had reached the top of the hill.
Looking down the other side, he saw a small green valley watered by a stream flowing from a spring in the rocks.

He wanted to cry out in joy but no sound came from his swollen mouth. Pitching forward, he rolled down the incline until his body came to a stop in deep grass. Still on all fours, like the animal he had become, he crawled to the stream and dropped his face in the water.

Alec emerged from dark unconsciousness hours later to find himself being rocked back and forth by rough hands on his shoulders. Turning his head, he looked into the black, shiny eyes of a young Indian squatting in the dirt beside him. The boy’s body was as tense as a wildcat’s, ready to pounce if Alec made the slightest effort to get away.

“Where do you come from?” the Indian asked. There was no sympathy, no compassion, in the boy’s voice; nothing soft or warm-looking about his face. He sat quietly on his haunches, his hair straight and pitch-black, pulled back and tied, with the front tucked under a sweated brow band. His face was flat and broad with a big nose, all as stony as his eyes. He wore a dirty gray shirt, blue jeans and bloodstained moccasins. He shifted his weight as he balanced a heavy backpack on his shoulders while repeating his question, “Where do you come from?”

Alec tried to speak out but couldn’t. Again he felt
the boy’s strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him to a sitting position. He could now see a small herd of sheep grazing on the other side of the stream.

Forcing the words from his mouth, Alec said, “Please … I need your help.”

The Indian’s black eyes remained on Alec, still suspicious and a little wild. The boy appeared to be about twelve years old. Despite his youth he looked as if he was able to cope with anything. Finally the boy shrugged his shoulders and removed his backpack. Only then did Alec see the old shotgun lying on the ground beside him. Thinking the boy was reaching for it, Alec attempted to get to his feet.

Instead of reaching for the gun, the boy withdrew a can of warm soda from the backpack. Opening the can, he sipped from it. “You lost from the mining company?” he asked sullenly.

“I’m lost, but I’m not from any mining company,” Alec said, the words coming easier now. He searched the boy’s face for some sign of sympathy but found only bitterness. “Will you take me to your village?”

The boy grinned for the first time. “It’s a long walk to our mesa,” he said, lifting his moccasins to show Alec his bloodstained feet. “Are you with the Bureau?”

“Bureau? What bureau?”

“Indian Bureau.”

“No, I’m not with the Indian Bureau.”

“What are you doing here then? Are you looking for your loco brothers?”

Alec shook his head in dismay, and yet he knew that whatever happened between the two of them, it was far better than his being alone. “Who are they?” he asked.

The boy took a deep swallow of cola before answering. “They’re up there, living on sacred ground,” he said, nodding his dark head toward the mountains. “Mixed-up people, my old father says. Your people and my people, too, who cover their bodies with white powder. They drink. They get buzz on. They eat crazy weeds, jimson and peyote and nightshade, until they know nothing but a dream world.”

“No, I’m not looking for them either,” Alec said.

“Then
what
are you doing here?” the boy asked, his tone less hostile now.

Alec had no answer, not for the boy or for himself. “Please take me to your village,” he pleaded. “I can walk …” He staggered to his feet, only to lose his balance and fall heavily to the ground.

“You’re too weak to go anywhere,” the boy said. Then, lifting the shotgun from the ground, he rested the stock on an elbow and put a shell in the breech. “I will shoot rabbit for us. Fresh meat is better to eat than pan bread and corn.” He got to his feet and strode away, long and lean, like a young panther.

The boy hunter disappeared from view and Alec turned his gaze to the high country above, wondering if it was in that direction that he would find the Indian village. Up there the scrub gave way to tall trees, junipers, oaks and piñons. All were in shadow even though there were still several hours left of daylight.

To the east, the desert would still be glistening in the brilliant rays of the sun. Alec’s horse was out there somewhere. Would he ever see him again?

It was an hour before the Indian boy returned, carrying a dead rabbit in his hand. He waved it in
Alec’s face but his eyes were on the eastern sky as he said, “Rain will come soon. We must move now.”

With the boy’s help, Alec got to his feet and together they walked to an overhanging cliff. Beneath the cliff was a small campsite, high enough on the valley wall to give a view of the desert. The site had obviously been used often, for ashes of other fires remained in a small pit.

Alec heard the coughing of thunder over the desert and looked toward it. Dark clouds climbed into the sky while lightning exploded within them like bombs.

The boy had a fire going, burning bits of tree bark from his backpack. He said nothing but his black, shiny eyes seldom left Alec.

A strong wind scurried ahead of the storm, meeting the cool air of the hills. The torrential rain would come soon.

The boy said, “Rain is good for our land. It brings water to the arroyos. Water is wealth in the hills.”

From their campsite, Alec could see the sheep quietly grazing below. All was very peaceful despite the ominous blackness over the desert.

“What’s your name?” Alec asked after a long silence.

“Alph.”

“Mine’s Alec.”

The boy sipped from another can of cola, then abruptly offered it to Alec.

“Thanks,” Alec said, taking the cola. Drinking it, he felt as if he’d been put into a new world where he had begun his life all over again.

The boy was watching Alec with his mouth wide open and grinning. Despite whatever suspicions he’d had at the beginning and the vast differences between them, it was evident to Alec that Alph wanted to talk to relieve his loneliness.

While they were eating their meal of cooked rabbit and tortillas, the boy said curtly, if not viciously, “All this land is ours. You do not belong here. You cannot take it from us.”

“I don’t want to take it from you.”

“But your people do. They have big shovels digging up our mesas and canyons, taking our water.”

“I have no part in it.”

“Your people are killing us. My old father says so. He tells me everything about your oil, coal and gas companies. You destroy our grazing lands and leave us with nothing.”

“They aren’t
my
companies.”

“My old father tells me about your federal courts, even the Indian Bureau, which cannot be trusted. I go to no bureau school. I tend my sheep and listen to my old father, who is the wisest of all.”

“Your father is chief of the clan?”

“My
old
father is chief. He is the father of my father’s father. He is the oldest of all. He knows all. He says this world will be destroyed because many of our own people are as bad as your people. They lease our land. They make tourist junk and sell it to your people. They are brown outside but white inside. They have gone over the edge into your world. They see only your dollars. We will live. They will die.”

Exhausted from his long, angry tirade, the Indian
boy stopped and sat back on his haunches, his eyes searching Alec’s.

Alec said nothing. Such accusations were similar to those of the world he had left behind. Was it no different here?

Finally Alph spoke again, his voice more solemn than angry. “What has happened to the breed of white man?” he asked. “You take more from our land than you will ever need. You destroy the way it should be for all time. Why?”

Alec had no answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are many things I don’t know about my people.”

“My people were the first inhabitants of this land, but we do not see ourselves as masters of it,” Alph said. “We are brothers to all who live on it, including our animal brothers. We take only what we need from this land.”

“I know that,” Alec said. If he’d ever seen a people in need, the Indians were it.

The Indian boy’s speech became almost guttural as he continued, his words rising from deep in his throat.

“My old father has said that the time is not far off when we will be overcome by your people. But we still must not resist. We must have patience to await the One who will lead us to a safe place while the rest of the world is destroyed. There we will live peacefully with each other until it is time to emerge and help create a new world. My old father has said that only those who live by the laws of Creation will survive to start over again. We will be among them, for we are the Chosen People.”

“And you believe all this?” Alec asked quietly. “It’s a fearful prophecy.”

“It will be as my old father says it will be,” the Indian boy persisted, “and I will watch for the One who is coming. If he does not come during my lifetime, it will be during the time of my children or my children’s children. It is only a question of waiting for him to come.”

“How will you know him?” Alec asked, becoming intrigued by such a legend.

“I do not know what shape he will take but he will be riding the swift mount of Father Sun, a horse as black as the deepest blackness except for a small white spot in the center of his forehead. He will have great speed and magical powers. I will have no trouble recognizing such a horse.”

Alec remained quiet when Alph had finished. He thought of his own black horse, somewhere in the desert, a horse as symbolic to him as any supernatural horse would ever be to the Indians in their mythical tales and legends.

The boy stretched his long, thin legs before the fire. “Only the Chosen People will live,” he said quietly. “It will be as my old father says.”

“Will you take me to him?” Alec asked.

Alph shrugged his shoulders, and for the first time his eyes showed concern. “My old father has been gone from our village for many days,” he said. “He may have gone to meet the Creator. I do not know.”

Alec turned away, realizing he could only await the following day when he hoped the boy would show him the way to the Indian village. He had found much
of the boy’s story too difficult to understand. It bordered too much on mysticism, even the occult. Most of it, Alec decided, was the kind of folklore that had no place in the world as he knew it. All his rationalism tended to refute such a fearful prophecy as the end of one world and the emergence of the next.

They finished their meal as thunderheads climbed ever higher over the desert. Only a few drops of rain fell from the leaden sky; more rain would come when the bulk of the hot air reached the coolness of the mountains beyond.

As Alec watched the lightning jigsaw over the desert, he saw a flying, moving shape beneath the storm clouds. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision to make certain he saw what he thought he saw.

As the clouds advanced toward him, so did the figure of a running horse. Jumping to his feet, Alec ran toward the desert shouting,
“Black, Black. Here I am!”

The Black was only a short distance away from Alec, standing still on the hillside that led up from the desert. Alec found himself shaking, trembling. His eyes never left the stallion, and something within told him not to move, to let the Black come up to him of his own accord.

Even for so short a time, the Black had become accustomed to the wild. He was alone and free. Perhaps he remembered nothing of his domestic life of barns and farms or of Alec who loved him.

Suddenly the waiting was over. The Black gave a shrill neigh meant clearly for Alec. He gathered himself, rocked back on his hindquarters and plunged upward. The desert echoed to the wild pounding of his hoofs as he raced toward Alec, his black mane and long thick tail streaming in the wind.

Sobs came from Alec when the Black stopped before him. He threw his arms about the stallion’s neck, and sounds and words flowed from his lips. He didn’t
know why the horse had returned, but he didn’t need a reason. It was enough that the Black was here!

The Black held his head high, his eyes afire. Every line of his gigantic body trembled. That the Black had fought other stallions in the short time he’d been away from Alec was evident in his red-raw mouth and in the wounds that marked his black body. Some were jagged, made by cutting, ravaging teeth. Others were clean and straight, left by pounding, battering hoofs. Whether he had won or lost those battles made little difference to Alec. His horse had returned to him, and that was all that mattered.

Alec swept his hands over the wet, sweated body—the muscled withers, the great length of back, the chest and shoulders and legs. There were no serious injuries, and the flesh wounds would heal.

“Oh, Black,” he said. “It’s good … so good to have you back.”

Alec reached out to the Black and touched the torn mouth. He uttered soft words in sympathy, and the stallion lowered his head, his large eyes alert but never shifting, never leaving Alec for a second.