The Black Stallion Revolts (20 page)

Allen’s eyes shifted to the window while he listened to Herbert continue to talk about the appeal such a race would have for the crowd at Preston. Finally he said, “Well, I’ll see you Saturday, then, Ralph.” He waited until Herbert was ready to hang up. He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice when he said, “Oh, Ralph … something’s come up here that just might appeal to you, and then again it might not. The boys picked up a wild horse on the upper range a while back.… Yeah, that’s what I said.… No, he’s not the mustang type, a little bigger and racier. We’ve grown pretty fond of him. Spent a lot of time grooming him and so on. We like the way he runs, but since he’s not a registered horse we can’t race him at Preston. I
thought that maybe you’d have something to match against him.”

There was a long pause at the other end. Finally Allen heard Herbert’s voice again. He listened, and then said, “Well, Night Wind seems a little hard to take, Ralph. After all, this is a horse we just picked up on the range.… Yeah, I know Night Wind is the
only
Thoroughbred you’re able to get to Preston.… Sure, I know that a Thoroughbred racing one of our local horses is what would appeal to the crowd. But, Ralph … Sure, Ralph … Yeah, I know, Ralph.”

Herbert was talking rapidly, insistently. Allen let him go on for a long time before saying, “Well, all right, Ralph. I guess we can work it out. Shall we make the race over a quarter of a mile, then? … Sure, that’s fine, Ralph. You’ll put up five quarter mares as your end of the purse and I’ll put up Hot Feet. I’d sure hate to lose my little horse, Ralph, but I don’t think I will. This black horse is pretty fast as horses go around these parts.… Sure, Ralph, I know you’d hate to lose your quarter mares, too. Well, it’s all in the game, heh? … Oh, Ralph, I just had a thought. This new horse of ours seems to like distance. You know how those range horses are, plenty of stamina. Would you be interested in making the race, say, maybe a mile instead of a quarter?”

He smiled at the eagerness of the voice at the other end of the line. He listened for a while, and then said, “Oh, you needn’t put up
ten
mares just because you like the idea so much, Ralph. Five mares are plenty.… Well, okay, Ralph, if you insist. I know you only expected a quarter-mile race, and your Night Wind is
better over a longer distance. You told me that once before, Ralph.… Yes. Sure, Ralph. No, I won’t go back on my word. We’ll be there Saturday.… Yeah, I’ll tell the race officials at Preston. I’ll get in touch with them right away, so they can put it on the program.… What’s that, Ralph? … Sure, I’ll agree to that.
If either horse, yours or mine, fails to show up at the post it’ll be the same as losing the race, and the other will take the purse.…
Sure, Ralph. Sounds fair to me, too. Okay … right you are.… Sure, Ralph … So long, Ralph.” He hung up the receiver, and sat down, breathing hard.
Ten mares from High Crest Ranch!
More, much more, than he’d hoped for. He began making plans for them.

In Leesburg, Elsie, the operator, pulled out the switchboard plug to the Allen ranch, and then removed her headset. No other lights flashed on the small board. She leaned toward the open window facing the street, and the stool creaked beneath her ponderous weight. She saw her friend Janie Conover walking by, and called. They put their heads together for a few minutes, and then Janie went bustling down the street. Elsie looked around for someone else who would be interested in learning what was going to happen at the Preston races on Saturday.

Gordon had finished packing the magazines on Goldie when the news reached him. A saggy, medium-sized man sporting a droopy, full-mouthed mustache came out of the general store.

“Slim, y’heard about it?”

“Heard what, Gus?”

“Allen’s gonna race that wild hoss he’s got against some Texas Thoroughbred this Satidy at Preston. For
the purse he’s puttin’ up Hot Feet against ten mares from the Texas feller. Ain’t no backin’ down by either of ’em, either. Got to show up an’ race or else they lose. Whatya think o’ that, Slim? Allen puttin’ up Hot Feet like he’s doin’, an’ racin’ a wild range hoss?”

Gordon turned to Goldie. “I think,” he said, “that it’s time we were going home,” and he led Goldie down the street. He didn’t want to return to Leesburg until it was all over. He realized what the coming race would mean to McGregor, Allen and everybody else concerned. A bombshell exploding in their midst would be nothing compared with the shock that would rock the racing world if a captured outlaw stallion beat Night Wind, Thoroughbred Horse-of-the-Year. The kid had no idea what he was getting into. Neither did Allen. They’d be overwhelmed by publicity. And for McGregor it would mean the end of his running away from the police. As for himself, well, he was out of it now. He wouldn’t become involved in this very messy business. He had instigated the race, making possible McGregor’s capture. Yet he was out of it completely. He hoped that in time he’d be able to forget what he’d done to the kid.

Gus ran past, and Gordon saw him stop to tell the news to Cruikshank, who was sitting on the steps of the café. As Gordon went by, he noticed that Cruikshank was showing great interest in Gus’s story. There was even a trace of a smile on Cruikshank’s thin lips. Gordon left town, knowing Cruikshank would enjoy nothing more than to have Allen lose the race—and his prized Hot Feet. But the black stallion wouldn’t be
beaten, not if the kid was able to ride him as he had ridden him today.

Cruikshank continued sitting on the steps of the café for a long while. His big hands worked nervously up and down his thighs, wiping off the sweat on them. He’d heard about the black stallion at the Allen ranch, and knew that only the kid was able to handle him. Soon he’d tell the sheriff who the kid was. But not now. He’d wait until Saturday. He’d wait until just before the race. With no kid to ride the stallion, there’d be no race. And Allen would lose Hot Feet, his cherished possession.

Back at the ranch, McGregor stayed with his horse, moving with him about the corral, finding solace in his very nearness. Often he just watched the stallion standing so still in the sun, his black coat shining as though afire. His stallion was no wild horse, no mustang who had spent years roaming endless ranges. Every inch of him denoted his fine blood and breeding … the small head, the great eyes and body. His every move disclosed it.

He rubbed the stallion’s neck. Riding him today had been like riding the wind! The black stallion had passed Hot Feet as though the bay horse had been standing still. He had been called upon to run, and he had flown, snorting, wanting to fight as he had drawn close to Hot Feet. McGregor had called in his ear and the stallion had responded, leaving Hot Feet alone, and running the way the boy had wanted him to run. McGregor knew he could handle this stallion,
his
stallion. He knew this much but no more. He couldn’t remember when or
where it had all started. But soon he would know. Every day he came a little closer to knowing, to remembering.

He ran his hands down one of the stallion’s long legs, and lifted a hoof. He began cleaning it. Every small job was familiar, and brought him that much closer to remembering. He would put shoes on his stallion for the race. He wouldn’t have any trouble. He’d done it before.

There were moments when he found himself looking forward to racing this horse. He couldn’t understand why. But he didn’t attempt to fight it. He accepted his mounting excitement, the compelling urge to race. He knew that he had not felt this way when Allen had asked him to ride Hot Feet. Why was racing his black horse so different? Why did just the thought of it sometimes send his blood rushing, driving the very dangers of the race away from him?

Yet there were other moments when he felt fear and panic take over his body, when he thought of running away. But he realized he couldn’t leave his horse now. Finally he came to a decision. He would tell Allen that he and the stallion should be kept away from all the horses and people at Preston until the race was called. Otherwise he wouldn’t be responsible for what the stallion might do. Allen would understand and agree. His stake in the match race was too high for him not to go along with anything McGregor might propose in the best interests of the stallion.

Actually, it was only what might happen after the race that McGregor feared. He tried to convince himself that there was a good chance nobody would be able to identify him in Allen’s racing silks. And he’d
leave the track right after the race. He’d get the stallion to act up and no one would come very close to them. They’d return to the ranch, and someday soon, if Allen had meant what he’d said, the stallion would be his!

He finished cleaning the perfect hoofs. He started toward the corral fence and found the black horse following him. He stopped, and then walked on again. He heard the stallion behind him. Once more he stopped, this time to turn and go back to him, pressing his head against the black neck.

The following days were unlike any that had gone before. There wasn’t a man on the ranch who didn’t know of Saturday’s match race and the conditions under which it would be run. They gave any excuse to get near the black stallion’s corral. In large groups they watched him, accepting him for what he was, a wild stallion, a beautiful stallion, but never broken, not ready to carry Allen’s racing colors at Preston.

But Allen never asked their opinions, and his grim face deterred them from offering voluntary advice. He realized he had not been successful in keeping anything from anybody. He supposed that Elsie had given him away, and regretted that he hadn’t been mindful of her listening to his conversation with Herbert at the time. However, it made no great difference. It was only an annoyance. He didn’t like the looks of skepticism on the faces of his men.

Now that he had committed himself to the match race, he watched over the boy and the black stallion
more than ever, worrying about them. These last few days were serious business. Nothing must happen to either of them. The kid had his own peculiar ideas about Saturday’s race, and Allen had agreed to them readily. There was too much at stake to do otherwise. At McGregor’s suggestion, they would van the stallion to Preston the night before the race rather than a day early, as he’d intended to do. They would park the van in the outlying district of the track and keep the stallion there until the race was called. All this was to prevent him from becoming overexcited by the presence of other horses and the crowd.

Perhaps McGregor’s ideas weren’t so peculiar at that, for they were racing a stallion who only a short time ago had been running wild. Yet it was hard for Allen to think of this horse as being wild and unbroken, as his men did. He had spent too many hours watching the boy handle him with an ease that made every horse on the place, including Hot Feet, seem much more wild. But he mustn’t forget that the black stallion accepted only the boy, that no one else could get near him, much less ride him. If anything happened to McGregor, handling the stallion would be a far different story.

Early Friday morning they rode to the north of the ranch where there was no grass, only hard-packed sand. Here they had laid out a mile course, and the black stallion had been trained before the eyes of just two spectators, Allen and Larom.

For this last gallop at the ranch, McGregor took the great stallion far beyond the starting mark. He kept him at a lope, waiting for him to get warm. His own
blood became heated at the feel of the reins and the creaking of saddle leather. He rose in his stirrups and the irons felt worn and familiar on the balls of his feet. With a loose rein, he held the stallion down to a lope by his voice alone. He never worried him. He looked between the small, pricked ears at the hills in the distance. He felt a strong urge to let the stallion go on, never to turn back. No one would catch them! They would go to the hills, and then turn to the western range. They would climb, and then descend into that vast, unknown country of the great canyons. No one would find them there.

He spoke to his horse, and turned him in a wide circle, still loping. He saw Allen and Larom two miles away, waiting for them to come down. He guided the stallion toward them. What would he gain by taking his horse into the desolate canyon country? Freedom for a while, but certain death in the end. For just as it was true that no one would find them, he would not be able to find his way out. It was far better to stay here, to take a chance that the race would come and go without his being caught by the police. Only Gordon was aware of the crime he had committed, and Gordon was keeping quiet.

He moved forward a little more, and the stallion responded with longer strides. He thought of the race to come against Night Wind. Why did that name seem so familiar? Had he known Night Wind? Had he ridden Night Wind just as he was now riding the black stallion? Had he once been a jockey? He must have been, for there was nothing strange about this racing bridle and saddle. How long ago and where? And why
had he been in Salt Lake City? Why had he regained consciousness in the back of a trailer truck? He remembered the money Gordon was keeping for him, and it was easy to figure out the answers. He had been a jockey. He had run out of money. He had helped some men rob a diner. He had been in a fight. He had succeeded in getting away by hopping a truck.

He clucked to the stallion and sat down to ride. He felt the slight twinge of head pain, the first in more than a week. He had thought himself completely well except for not being able to remember. But he wasn’t. The pain had returned.

The stallion snorted, and showed fight, but there was no slackening of stride. The boy looked ahead and saw Larom already on the course with Hot Feet. For the past few days Hot Feet had acted as the stallion’s prompter. Hot Feet was taken to the last three hundred yards of the mile course, and never asked to run all out. It had been Allen’s idea. He wanted to use Hot Feet but didn’t care to have him race the black stallion even at three hundred yards. He didn’t want to be convinced of the black stallion’s superior speed at so short a distance.