The Black Stallion's Ghost (3 page)

Alec shifted his body in order to get into a more comfortable position on the fence. He wondered if this might not be an ideal place to raise horses. Henry Dailey had suggested as much before leaving to oversee the training of several two-year-olds in New York. Henry, his old friend and trainer, had suggested they might even purchase a small farm in this area as an annex to Hopeful Farm up north. They would move their young stock here and, perhaps, some of the older horses that needed a long rest in the sun.

It was not a new idea, Alec had reminded Henry, for the Ocala area in upper-central Florida had become very popular with horse breeders as a year-round operation.

“Too popular,” Henry had answered. “Land is more costly there, and we don't need to be with the others. This area is worth considering. Think about it while I'm gone.”

There were advantages and disadvantages to it, Alec thought. The area was more suitable for the growing of sugar cane and vegetables than pasture grass. It was reclaimed swampland, the soil a black carpet of peat muck. Beneath it, of course, was the solid bedrock of coral limestone that shaped and held the Florida peninsula.

The rich farmland had been reclaimed by a flood control basin which the United States Army Engineers
had constructed to contain the waters of Lake Okeechobee to the north. They had diverted the waters which normally had flowed over this area and drifted south to nourish the Everglades. It had meant thousands of square miles of new agricultural land and communities. But it also meant, Alec reflected bitterly, the ultimate death of the great swamp. More and more canals were being built, not only by the Army engineers but by private developers promising “residential neighborhoods where wild animals once lived.”

Alec turned and faced south, where he could see an endless tawny blaze of light that seemed to merge and mingle with the rays of the rising sun. He was at the doorstep of the wild Everglades, and after what he had read and heard of the immensity of the swamp, he wondered if bulldozers and draglines would ever be able to transform it completely into the realtors' promised Garden of Eden. He stared in that direction a long time.

Finally, he roused himself, shaking his head and wondering why on this morning he should be drawn to the swamp, as if by a magnet, when he never had thought much about it before.

Perhaps, he decided, the peace, the languor, or whatever one wished to call it was changing his metabolism as it seemed to be doing to the Black this very moment.

He jumped down from the fence, determined to disturb the quiet of the morning. He rode the Black daily, and today must be no exception. The spring racing season would open soon in New York and they were scheduled to be there. Henry had given them a
few weeks to freshen up from their hard winter campaign but no more than that.

He walked over to his horse, wondering if he'd be able to acquire another paddock for him. It was the first time he'd seen mares turned out in the adjacent field, and he did not want the Black distracted. It was difficult enough in the spring of the year without having a band of broodmares in the next field! He knew that mares generally coped with the breeding season better than stallions; they possessed patience, whereas stallions, once started on a breeding program, felt only the persistent drive to mate.

He was glad Henry had not been around to see the mares in the adjacent pasture. He'd have raised the devil. It was an oversight, Alec knew, and he'd be able to straighten it out with Joe Early, the ranch manager, later in the day.

The Black had rolled over on his side and was the picture of a horse completely at ease. His eyes were open, and when he saw Alec coming toward him with the lead shank, he scrambled to his feet. He did not run away but stood still—as quiet as the morning—proud and long-limbed, waiting.

Alec snapped the shank on the halter ring. He never got tired of looking at his horse. He would always stand in awe of the Black, no matter how long he had him.

Few ever saw the true greatness in the Black without standing close to him. No picture could convey it. Nor could it be seen from fence rail or grandstand, as electric as his presence and speed might be. One had
to stand beside him to appreciate the arrogance and nobility that were stamped on his small fine head. One had to rub him with soft cloths and brushes to see how well every part of his seventeen-hand body fitted together to make him the greatest runner of all time.

Alec watched the stallion's ears, for his horse talked with his ears. Now they flicked south in the direction of the Everglades.

Alec answered with his hands, running them down the arched neck. Then he said aloud, “You too? Okay, we'll go that way this morning if only for a change of scenery.”

His fingers rubbed the ridge of the stallion's neck. “We're on vacation, you and I,” he said. “We can do pretty much as we please with Henry gone.”

There was a long sun-filled day ahead of them. Early up and early to bed, that alone was the rule on vacation and an easy one to keep.

“You're a good fellow,” Alec said softly. The Black turned his head toward him, as if listening attentively. Alec knew that his horse understood the warmth of his words if not the precise meaning, and that was all that mattered. He felt the stallion's breath against his face. There was a gentleness, too, about his horse which few people ever saw. The large eyes gazed calmly and trustfully into his own.

“We'd probably get pretty lazy staying here all the time,” he said. “You and I need a change of seasons. I don't think this place would be good for us at all.”

The Black snorted.

“Not that we can't have fun here,” Alec continued,
rubbing the soft muzzle. “And there's no reason why we can't see some of the swamp today. No reason at all.”

He paused before mounting, aware of an odd feeling coming over him. It was vague but there, an awareness that this morning somehow was not like other mornings. He shrugged his shoulders. Today was like any other day, he told himself, except that he would ride south for a change and do some exploring.

He passed a hand along the stallion's backbone, waiting for the headiness, almost a feeling of momentary intoxication, to leave him. He decided that the feeling might be one of pure joy at having his horse to himself for a change.

It had taken three days of Henry's absence for him to realize how glad he was to be free of the trainer's yoke. He longed for complete abandon and freedom of movement, if only for a short while. Ahead of him was a long summer of racing, unremitting in its toil and preparation. And, when he wasn't racing, there was work to be done at Hopeful Farm. Good help was hard to get and even more difficult to keep. Every free day would be used to help repair fences and barns, to harrow paddocks, to care for the new foals and to cut, bale and store hay for the winter. One never caught up. Time taken out—even for racing—was never regained.

Alec thought longingly of the days when his every move did not have to be obedient and useful, when he could be off on the Black, to go where he liked and as he pleased.

“Why not ride bareback this morning?” he asked
himself. “Why not leave the saddle and bridle behind? Why not ride him the way I used to?”

Alec reached up and grasped the stallion's mane with both hands. He spoke to the Black as he backed up beside the horse's head. Then he took two short, springy steps forward and swung his legs up while pulling on the mane at the same time. His body rolled and twisted in the air, reaching for seventeen hands of horse!

He landed astride the Black, his hands and legs communicating immediately to his horse in a language of their own. He could control the Black's direction and pace by the pressure of a knee or calf, by the touch of a heel on his flank or a hand on his neck. Sometimes all that was necessary was a sound from his lips.

There would be no bridle or saddle today—no restrictions upon him or his horse. This
was
going to be a different kind of a day!

He squeezed his horse into a canter and cued him into a left lead. He made a large circle, hastening and smoothing the stallion's strides until he had him almost in a full gallop.

“Too fast, too cocky,” he warned himself, slowing down the Black as they approached the closed gate of the paddock.

When they were outside, Alec turned the Black south and did not check his horse's speed. He was happier than he'd been in a long time. He was not merely at home on the Black; he belonged entirely to him. It was as if he had no other existence. There was no room for anything else.

The stallion's strides came swift and easy, between a gallop and a run, what racetrack people call a “breeze.” Alec settled down to enjoy the ride. In a short while he'd slow down the Black, but for the moment he let the wind water his eyes. He listened to the beat of the Black's hoofs over the dirt road. The secret of his horse's success lay not only in his great strength and speed but also in his perfect rhythm and unwasted motion.

Alec moved closer to the stallion's neck and adjusted himself to the rhythm of the stallion's strides. He felt a sudden urge to let him go into a headlong run, for the sound of the Black's running hoofs had always broken the world apart for him! The taste of the wind, when the Black was in full flight, brought him greater joy than anything else in the world!

Alec spoke softly, a sound rather than a word, and the Black broke swiftly into full run. The triple, throbbing beat of his racing hoofs over the dirt road came faster and louder. He thrust out his small head as if ready to extend himself to the fullest; his haunches glittered in the early morning sun like black satin.

Alec's eyes were as bright as his mount's. The Black was reveling in his freedom from bit and saddle! Still, Alec knew he must keep him under control. He pushed away the stallion's mane that streamed back at him, clearing his blurred eyes so he could see objects along the road. Instinctively he began estimating furlongs and began counting off the seconds, down to fifths of seconds, keeping time in his mind. Every jockey needed to know the pace of his mount, whether running at full speed or not, and Alec never stopped
practicing because he knew it was not a question of talent but of hard work. Also, he didn't want the Black to run himself into the ground.

After a mile, he slowed the Black to a walk. He let go of the mane and wiped the sweat from his face. They were close enough to the Everglades for him to be able to smell the rank odor that blew from the swamp.

Suddenly the air took on a warning bite. Alec had the same feeling he'd had earlier, an awareness that this morning was not like other mornings. But now another element had been added. He stopped the Black in his tracks. He didn't know if the
danger
he felt was real or something he sensed in the air around him. But he knew it was there, somewhere in the Everglades.

Alec's gaze swept over the saw-grass empire, colored like ripe wheat nearby but shading to emerald green in the distance. It was a wild bright plain, neither land nor water, with no visible limits. It was a land mostly untouched by human hands. It was motionless—and yet Alec sensed in it a throbbing heartbeat of its own.

He shrugged off the feeling of apprehension that had come to him. There was no reason to fear this watery wilderness that was being drained by the canals. He realized that the huge swamp was resisting, fighting for its life. This was evident in the sun-bitten vastness spreading before him as if in challenge to all those who sought to destroy it.

The dirt road went to a remote and isolated Seminole Indian village a couple of miles away. The people there were hunters, he had been told, and lived on one of the high islands in the swamp known as hammocks.

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.