The Black Stallion Revolts
The night-time stillness of the paddock was
suddenly broken by the screaming challenge of the
great stallion. The Black had broken out! Only
Alec Ramsay, his young owner, could quieten the
horse. Only Alec could save the Black's
son, Satan,
from a savage death that night. And now Alec had
to find a cure for the Black.
For many months now the once-wild stallion had
been confined to stables and farmland. Alec knew
the Black needed freedom again. A period roaming
the vast acres of the Desert Ranch in California
was the answer, and Alec would go too.
But little did Alec realise that he and his horse
would never reach their destination, that instead they would
find themselves caught up in the
strangest -- and most dangerous -- adventure they
had yet experienced.
Also by the same author,
and available in Knight Books:
The Black Stallion
The Black Stallion Returns
Son of the Black Stallion
The Black Stallion and Satan
The Black Stallion's Courage
Revolts
Walter Parley
KNIGHT BOOKS
Hodder and SY-OUGHTON
For Alice Patricia
t
[*copygg'1953 Walter Parley
11953 by Random House, Inc.
Knight
Books edition 1978
The characters and
situations in this book arc
person or actual happening
This book is sold subject toeathe condition that it shall
not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without
the dispublisher's prior consent in any form of binding
or cover other than that in which this is published and without
a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
Printed and bound in Great Britain for Hodder and
SY-OUGHTON Paperbacks, a division of Hodder
and SY-OUGHTON LI'D., Mill Road,
Dunton Green, Sevenoaks, Kent
(editorial Office: 47 Bedford
SquareeaeaLondon, WC-I sDP) by Cox and
Wyman LI'D., London, Reading and
Fakenham
CONTENTS
1The sentinel7
2Revoltff16
3Winged
fury26
4The unknownbledj
5The searchbledi
6The long night57
7Strange awakening69
8The pines77
9Horse trader89
10ationight cryff98
11The black outlaw109
12Lone rider120
13The hunters124
14Closing hands130
15Black Flame "140
16Race rider 150
17, Lightening shadows158
18Preston168
19The sprung trap179
20Match race com184
21Conclusion197
The grey, gelding, Napoleon, was built from the
ground up and butter fat. His roundness was not due
to overfeeding or lack of exercise but to a most
placid disposition and an ease
of adapting himself to any kind of situation or way of
life.
He stood with one hind foot drawn in an easy,
relaxed posi
tion and eyes half-closed. Only his long ears
moved, and
they just wobbled as if the weight of them was too much for
him to bear at this particular moment. He was the
picture of
contenI'ment; as peaceful as the June night
which enveloped
him. There was no reason for him to appear otherwise.
He
was most happy with his life. He was no youngster.
The grass of his paddock moved in the night
breeze, giving
it the soft, liquid motion of disthe sea. There were stars
and a
moon, and together they shone frostlike on the fences and
roofs of the barns and main house a short distance
away.
Finally the old grey roused himself to saunter about his
paddock. His movements were slow and quiet. He was
very
particular in his choice of grass. He would stop
only long ,
enough to crop a few mouthfuls, then go on to other
grasses
that appealed more to his fancy and discriminating taste.
But it wasn't long before he returned to his
favourite haunt
beneath the billowing oak tree. He closed his eyes
again. .. . All was quiet, and as it should be. The
inky silhouette of a tall, black stallion
moved in the adjacent paddock to his left.
Teeth clicked sharply as the stallion cut the
grass low and ,
even.
The grey's wobbling ears were keen, and by using them he
followed the movements of the Black. He was well
aware*
too, of the whereabouts of the burly, black horse in still
another paddock, the one on his right. He had heard
Satan His
snort a few moments ago.
The breeze became stronger, gently whipping his
body with a shower of deep evening coolness. After the
heat of
the day it felt very good. That there were no flies to bother
him added to his enjoyment. For ideal comfort this was the
way it should be. A fly-protected barn during the
day, and at
night disthe freedom of the paddocks. For several
weeks
now the horses had been allowed this privilege. It
would continue as long as there was peace in the paddocks.
All this the old grey knew very well; his vast
experience told
him so.
He knew why he occupied the paddock between
the
Black and Satan. To keep his head, to think for
himself, to do
what was expected of him .... these things he had
learned
long ago. He did his duties willingly, whether
he was on the
track, helping to school young and eager yearlings in
their
first lessons, or here in the paddock, where he was ever
watchful of the actions of mature stallions. Knowing
that he
was wanted, that he had a job to do, gave him a warm
consciousness of virtue disand well-being. He opened his
eyes,
took in the paddock fences, and then, as though receiving
comfort and security from their great disheight, permitted his
eyelids to drop again. This time he went fast
asleep.
He awakened to the sound of a strong wind. The skies
had
turned black. The moon was blanketed by heavy,
running
clouds and the stars were mere pinpoints in the heavens,
shedding no light below. The oak tree afforded
the grey
horse protection against the wind and he was loath
to leave
it. Besides, there was no reason for him to go. He need
only stay-here and wait put the wind. If it got
worse and became a sform, he was certain that soon
he would see the lights go
on in the house, and shortly thereafter he and the others
would be taken into their stalls. He moved closer to the
great trunk of the tree, and for a while just listened to the
racing winds above him.
It Was the wind and the blackness of the night that diver
ted Napoleon's attention from the movements of the
tall
stallion in the next paddock. For a long while he
had trotted
lightly and warily along the fence, only his eyes
disclosing
the excitement that burned within him. He made no
sound
except for the slight, hushed beat of his hoofs over the
grass. He did not shrill his challenge to the
burly stallion two pad
docks away from him. It was not yet time. The
Black was
clever and able to control the savage instinct that sought
release within his great body.
The wind whipped his mane, and his tail, set high,
bil
lowed behind him. He stopped again to measure the height
of the fence. In spite of his long limbs he had
to stretch his
head to Touch the top board. He moved on to the
front
corner of the paddock, facing the bam. Once more he
tested
his strength against the centre boards at this particular
spot.
They bent as they had before. He pushed harder this time.
They cracked and split. He stopped using his
strength, wait
ing almost cunningly until deciding on his next
move. The
fire in his eyes was mounting.
Carefully he lowered himself to the ground, pressing the.
weight of his body against the bottom board. Then he
rolled
away and struck a smashing blow against it with his hind
feet It split as had the others. Still on his back,
he rolled
back and forth, using his great body like a pendulum
against
the boards. But he did not ram his weight like a
blundering bruiser. Instead, with cunning and skill he
manoeuvred his body, using pressure against the
split boards only when he
knew they were most apt to give completely. Finally
they
broke and were swept outward as he rolled under the
top
board. The Black was free of his confining paddock!
He got to his feet with the speed and agility of the
wildest
and most savage of animals. A striking change
had swept
over his glistening body. No longer was he calm and
cun
ning, but trembling and brutally eager to kill. Gone
was his
domesticity and the inner control that had kept the fire
from
his eyes and given the coolness to his blood. Now
he was
inflamed with a terrible but natural instinct to do
battle
with another stallion. He turned his gleaming, red
eyes on
Satan, two paddocks beyond; then he hurled forth his
screaming challenge, and its shrillness rose above the
ay of the wind.
He was already on his way down the dirt road
fronting
the paddocks when the grey gelding came plunging to the
fence. The stallion paid not the slightest attention
to him.
The grey ran with his ears back, his teeth snapping
in rage
between the boards because he knew the stallion's savage
intent, and could do nothing to keep him from the black
horse beyond. The gelding stopped when he came to the
end
of his enclosure. He neighed loudly and
incessantly, know
ing this was the only useful thing he could do. But his warn
ings of the disturbed peace were deadened by the force of
the wind. The main house remained dark;
Turning from the dirt road, the tall stallion ran
down the corridor between the paddocks. Every possible
precaution
had been taken to make the paddocks
foolproof, to keep one
stallion from another, to forestall just such an emergency
as this. The paddock fences were strong and high, the
corridor wide. Yet the Black was loose, and
in spite of the fence still
separating him from Satan, his fury was not to be
denied. He
ran with reckless speed down the corridor and back
again, once hurling himself against the fence only to be
repelled.
He ignored the grey gelding, who followed his every
move
still neighing in rage. He had eyes only for the
largeea"black
horse who stood so quietly in the centre of his
paddock.
That Satan did not move, that he uttered no
scream accept
ing the challenge, infuriated the tall stallion
even more. His
nostrils were distended in recognition of the hateful
scent of
his rival as he finally left the corridor and
approached
Satan's paddock from the front.
He went to the fence screaming. Lifting his head, he
Touched his nose to the top board. Then he rose on
hind legs
to bring "his forehoofs down upon it. He was terrible in
his
fury, but his act proved futile. Frenzied rage
had replaced
the cool cunningness of his earlier behaviour. He
rose again,
trying to batter down the fence, and his legs hurt from the
crashing impact of his blows. The fence remained
intact. He
n
whirled while still at his utmost height, his hind
legs pivot
ing his great body with uncanny grace and swiftness,
then
sending him away from the fence in long strides. It was
less
than a hundred feet to the bam, and there he stopped
short
with tossing head and mane. With ho hesitation he
whirled again and swept back, his strides lengthening with
startling
swiftness for so short a distance. He gathered
his great body
in front of the fence as though to jump it, but he never
unleashed his spring. Instead he stopped short again,
stomp
ing the earth with both forefeet in his frenzy and frus
tration.
He turned to the left to run along the fence. He
had passed
the paddock gate when suddenly he felt the earth
rise grad
ually beneath his running hoof s, and then descend
abruptly.
He went
on
for a short distance before stopping and going
back to the elevated stretch of ground which was used in the
loading and unloading of horses from vans. Now he
was
more quiet, more cunning. He walked up the gradual
ascent
to the flat summit of the grassy mound. For a moment
he
stood there, his wild eyes seeming to measure the
distance to
the fence. His added height enabled him to see
over the top
board, and he screamed again at the'horse beyond. There
was a new note to his whistle, for now he knew the
battle
was close at hand. Satan, too, was aware of it;
he screamed
for the first time... and his answer was as shrill, as terrible
in its savageness as his challenger's.
The Black turned, leaving the mound, and went once
more as far as the barn. He whirled and bolted, picking
up speed with every stride. He gathered himself going up
the
grassy incline. At the top he rose in the air,
hurling himself
forward, his legs tucked well beneath him. A hoof
struck the
top of the fence but did not upset him. He came
down, and
without breaking stride raced forward to meet Satan.
He went only a short distance before he came to a
plunging stop, the cool logic that had helped him
win battles with
other stallions coming to the fore. His eyes were still blazing
with hate, his ears were flat against his head. But when he
moved again it was to encircle his opponent with
strides
that were light and cautious.
Both fear and fire shone in Satan's eyes. He
did not want
to fight yet he stood unflinching and ready. He was
heavier
than if not as tall as the Black. His bones were
larger, his
Heck shorter and more bulging with muscle, his head
heav
ier. Yet his great, thick body had the same
fascination and
swiftness of movement as the stallion who encircled
dishm. He
had inherited these together with his tremendous speed from
the Black, his sire. Now, keeping his bright eyes
on his op
ponent, he began to move with him. He heard him
scream again, and answered. He waited for the fight
to be brought
to him. He was ready!
Yet when the attack came, it was with the swiftness of
light, and even though Satan had thought himself prepared
he barely had time to rise and meet the horrible
onslaught
Two raging furies, hateful to see, began a
combat that would end only with the death of one!
The first light that went on was in the aparI'ment over the
broodmare barn, just past the main house. Seconds
later a
short, stocky man, wearing only pyjamas and
slippers, came
running out the door. He moved ghostlike in the
wind, his
face as white as his dishevelled hair. His
bowlegs spun like a
wheel as his strides came faster. He lost one
loose slipper. He
kicked the other off without breaking his run. Only when
he
came to the main house did he stop, and then just for a
second. Cupping large hands around his mouth, he
let loose- a scream in the direction of the open
window on the second
floor.- " .
"Alec! Alec! Alec!"
The wind hurled his cries aside. He didn't
know if he'd
been heard and he couldn't wait to find out. He
started run
ning again, his blood hammering within his chest, but
hotfrom his exertion. His eyes were dimmed and wet,
but not
from the wind. He had just seen the Black clear the
fence
into Satan's paddock. He knew what the
consequences
would be..
Hearing the fence, he saw the silhouette of the
attacker
encircling Satan. He knew he was too late,
that the clash of
bodies would come in seconds. His face grew even
paler, yet
uncontrollable rage was there, too. His body and
voice
trembled as he roared,
"Away! Away, you killer!"
But he
knew the Black didn't hear him, and that even if
he did the
command would have little effect
He ran to the stallion barn and flung open the
door, look
ing for any weapons he might use. A
leather riding whip
hung on a peg in the entryway. He took it A
pitchfork stood
by the door. He grabbed this, too, and ran outside
again.
Reaching the paddock gate, he pulled it open
wide, and
charged towards the black bodies now wrapped in a
deadly
embrace.
He screamed at them, but his voice was just a muted
whis
per beneath the crashing blows of forehoofs that pounded in
furious battle. Suddenly, from their great height,
the stallions toppled and fell, their bodies shaking
the very earth.
The man sprang forward, trying to get between them with
his pitchfork. But their action was too fast and
terrifying,
and his efforts were futile. They bounded'to lightning
feet
and clashed again, their heads extended long and
snakelike as they sought with bared teeth to tear and rend
each other.
Unmindful of his own safety, the man moved
forward
with his puny weapons. As yet neither stallion had
drawn
blood. But in a matter of seconds, if he
couldn't separate
them, it would be too late. They were locked together,
seem
ingly suspended in the air. Each sought the other's
windpipe
for the vicious hold that would mean certain death. The
man's breath came in fast, hard gasps as he
tried to thrust
the pitchfork between them, to divert their attention to him.
Even now he knew he could control Satan if he
ever got the
chance. But there would be no opportunity, not with the
Black,
that hellion,
forcing the fight, determined on de
struction!
The stallions lost their holds, and came screaming
down
again. The Black whirled, letting fly his hind
hoofs in an
awful blow which, if it had landed full, would have
sent
Satan reeling, but the burly horse saw the hoofs
coming. He shifted his great body with amazing agility,
and the crashing
hind legs only grazed him. Nevertheless, although he
had
avoided serious injury, the glancing blow sent him
off bal
ance. He stumbled and went down.
At this moment the man plunged forward, reaching the
Black before he could whirl on the fallen horse.
In his fury
he used the leather riding-crop, bringing it down hard
again
and again against the stallion's lathered hindquarters. A
great tremor racked the Black's body as the
blows landed. Suddenly he turned upon the man, all
his savageness now
directed upon him.
With pitchfork extended the man fell back. He
shouted futile commands as the stallion plunged
towards him and then stopped before the steel prongs of the
fork. The man
knew his life was in great danger, yet he stole a
second to
glance at Satan, Who was climbing to his feet.
If only Satan
would go through the open gate of the paddock! If only
he
could keep the Black away and get out himself! He
backed towards the gate shouting, "Out,
Satan! Out!"
But the words
barely left his lips before the Black came at him
again, and
he raised the pitchfork in his defence. He struck
hard,
viciously, and the stallion fell back.
The man saw Satan moving towards the gate.
Then, run
ning past the horse, came Alec! He shouted the
boy's name and waited for him, without lowering his
pitchfork.
Alec came to a stop. He stood still until he was
certain the
Black's wild eyes were on him, then he walked
forward, his
bare feet making no sound.
Still pale with rage and terror, the man cried,
Take the
whip, Alec! Use it on him if you have to!"
Without taking his eyes off the Black, Alec said,
"If I did,
he'd kill me, Henry. The same as he would have
killed you."
He continued walking forward, talking to the stallion in
a
soft, low voice, and never raising it or his hand in a
gesture
of any kind. Only once did he interrupt his
murmurings
with a soft-spoken command. When he got close to the
Black, he put his hand on the lathered halter. The
stallion
trembled, and for a moment his eyes gleamed brighter than
ever. Alec gave the low command again, but the stallion
drew back his head in an abrupt gesture of
defiance.
Keeping his hand on the halter, Alec moved along
with
the stallion until he came to a stop. The boy
waited patiently,
his eyes never leaving those of his horse, his murmurings
never ceasing. With a motion of his head, he indicated
to
Henry that he was to leave.
Alec turned the Black towards the upper end of the
pad
dock, diverting his attention from Satan and Henry.
With
his free hand he tried to soothe the tossing head, and
finally he got the stallion to take a few steps
up the paddock. Then
the Black stopped again, trying to turn his head.
Alec held him close, and waited for a while before
leading
him forward once more. Satan and Henry had left the
pad
dock. It was a little easier now. The Black
followed Alec for
a moment before stopping again, this time to utter his short,
piercing blast. Alec stood quietly beside him, the
wind bil
lowing his pyjamas. He knew that in a little while the
Black
would calm down, and he would be able to take him into the
barn. But right now he must go on as he was doing,
talking to him, soothing him, and waiting.
He walked him again, and as he did, he tried
to understand the reason for the Black's sudden,
vicious attack on
Satan. For many months his horse had been all a
well-man
nered stallion should be. Why, then, had he reverted
to the
role of a killer tonight? And what were he and Henry
going
to do about it?
Alec stood outside the heavy oak door of the"
Black's stall.
He heard him rustling his straw, and through the
iron-barred
window watched him move restlessly about. The fierce
light
had left the stallion's eyes, and Alec knew that
in a few
minutes it would seem as if he had never shown
rage, as if
his fury had never been aroused. Yet within him that
savage,
natural instinct to kill would live, smouldering and
waiting
for some spark to set it aflame again. It would never
die.
Alec turned from the Black to watch Henry
in his never-
ending walk up and down the long corridor, his
voice still
raised in furious tirade against the stallion. As
with the
Black, it would take a little while for Henry
to quiet down,
thought Alec. He'd be able to talk to him sensibly
then. But not now. How he could only listen and wait.
Henry came down the corridor. "He would have
killed
Satan! In another minute he'd have done it!"
He turned on
his heel quickly with only a glance at Alec. Again
he walked up the corridor, his bare grass stained
feet making no sound.
"He would have killed me, too! Just like that!"
snapping his
large, rugged fingers. ,
Henry passed Napoleon's stall. The old
grey had his large
head down as though he were assuming all blame for the
night attack and thought that Henry's loud
denunciation
was meant for him alone. Satan was in a
stall at the far end
of the barn, and only there did Henry come to a stop,
to
speak softly. There was no doubt of his love for
Satan. It was
in his eyes and voice for anyone to see. He had
raised Satan
from a colt. He had trained him carefully and
wisely,
making him a perfect racing machine, a great
champion.
Alec waited, never moving from the Black's door
while
Henry resumed his pacing. The overhead lights were
harsh
and cruel to his old friend. They emphasised the
deep lines in
Henry's face and his dropped jowls. They made his
dishevelled hair look whiter and thinner.
A few more trips up and down the corridor, and then
Henry's pace slowed. There were longer lapses between
his
sentences. Alec knew that it wouldn't be long now before
they'd be able to discuss intelligently the Black's
vicious attack on Satan, the reasons
for it, and the precautionary
measures that must be taken to prevent its happening
again.
Finally, Henry came to a stop before him.
"You've said nothing, Alec, nothing at all!
Don't you re
alise
what he
did? What could have happened to Satan?"
"And to yst Alec added. *allyes, I know.
Henry."
Henry's jaw came out, his unshaven face bristling
with
stiff, grey hair. Then why do you take it so
calmly, just as
though you didn't care?

"I do care. I'm not calm. But shouting's hot
going to help
us work it put."
"It helps me!" Henry bellowed. He turned
fiercely and
went up and down the corridor again. When he came
back
he said bitterly, "Okay, Alec,
let's have it your way, then.
You want to sit down nice-like and talk it all over
quietly as
if we're just bavin" a little trouble with an unruly
yearling."
His jaw quivered while he paused for breath. When
he
spoke again, all his anger and fury had returned.
'Get smart.
Alec! This is no yearling we're deal*in with.
Get smart
before he kills all of us!"
Alec's mouth tightened, and white showed at his cheek
bones. He kept quiet. He had to understand
Henry, just as he
did the Black. He had to remember never to force
an issue
with either of them. Trying to push them around, battling
their wills, would get him nowhere. Ask them nicely
and he
had a chance.
Henry had turned to the Black's window, and was
watch
ing the tall stallion. "It's not as if this fight
was something
that just flared up in a moment," the trainer said. This
took
time, a lot of time, a lot of planning. It took
cunning to
break down the fence, and then find a way
into Satan's pad
dock., His attack was no sudden, natural urge
to fight
another stallion, but the methodical, vicious,
premeditated
scheme of a murderer!"
For a moment the barn was quiet and they could hear
the wind blowing outside.
Alec said, 'Where'd we get the Black,
Henry"...*
The trainer's small, boring eyes left the
stallion. 'allyou're
being silly. What do you mean where'd we get him?"
'Just that, Henry. We got him in Arabia. He
was foaled
and raised in the Great Desert, the Rub" al
Khali."
7 know
all that."
"I
thought maybe you'd forgotten," Alec said.
Forgotten?

Henry sought an explanation in Alec's eyes.
"Forgotten that he was desert born? What do you
take me
for. Alec?

He raised his voice a pitch higher. "Do you
think
that excuses him for this? Wasn't Satan desert
born, too?"
'Satan came to us as a weanling," Alec said
quietly. "He
had a chance. The Black was a mature stallion,
never fully
broken, never handled. And, Henry, he had roamed
the
desert
tree
for a long while. Have you forgotten that?
'I tell you I haven't forgotten anything," the
old man said.
Some of the harshness was gone from his voice! "I know
further that he's your horse completely, that
no other
person in this world can do as much with him. But,
Alec..."
"Do you remember my telling you what happened the
first
time I ever saw him," Alec interrupted, The day
they were
loading him on board my ship when it stopped at that
Arabian port on the Red Sear
Henry shook his head in disgust. "Alec, if
you're going to
bother tellin" me the whole story of the Black
again, you'd
better just save your breath an' I'll save you some
time. I
know he was stolen from the Arab sheikh Abu Ishak,
and
put aboard your ship. I know it went down off the
west
coast of Spain and you and the Black were the only sur
vivors. An' if he hadn't pulled you to that reef
of an island
somewhere out there you wouldn't be around now to be
talkin' this way." Henry paused for breath. 'I
know, too, that
if you hadn't found food for him on the island, he
wouldn't
be any more yours than he's mine or anyone
else's. A hungry
animal is a tame animal. I've seen it
happen before. Sure, I'll
admit he loves you now, but never forget that your
finding something for him to eat when he was starving made it
all
possible."
"I wasn't going into all that." Alec said.
"You brought it up," Henry insisted, his mouth less
tight
now. I'll finish it. I don't want you to think
I've forgotten
anything,"
he added sarcastically. "When you came back to
the States with him, I met you and him for the first time.
I
knew what kind of a horse you had better'n you
did. We
raced him once and there never was or will be another
race
like it. Then we lost him because his rightful owner, Abu
Ishak, came to reclaim him. Later on
he sent you .satan as
your reward, and then when Abu died he willed you the
Black, so we got him back again."
Henry stopped. "Am I making sense, Alec?
Isn't my
memory still good"...*
Alec nodded, and. tried to interrupt. 'All I
wanted to
say, Henry, was..."
let me finish, Alec. So we have the Black and
Satan, and
we made a world's champion of Satan. It enabled
us to set
up this place." Henry's hands went out in a great
gesture.
. "We have one of the country's finest stock farms and
racing
stables. Sure, Alec, we're arrived in the big
time, and we're
more than pay*in our way along. An" we owe it
all to the
Black and Satan. Without them you and I would be
back in the suburbs of New York City. You
ridin subways instead
of horses, and I sittin' in a chair
try*in to remember the old days when I was a lot
younger and had a way with horses.
Sure and I'd be grievin' about it being all
over."
Henry paused for a moment, his yellowing teeth biting
into his lower lip. .then he went on. 'But what
has all that
got to do with what happened tonight, Alec? How does
all
disth business of remembering what's happened before, and
appreciating what we have now, got to do with the
vicious-
ness, the ruthlessness of what
he
did tonight?

'It helps us to understand him and the reasons for his
attack on Satan."
"But still
do understand,"
Henry came back, emphasising
every word, every letter. That's what I've been telling
you."
Ton do now, but you didn't. Not a few minutes
ago," Alec
said. "You didn't give yourself a chance."
"So I blew off steamst Henry said.
'So you did," Alec agreed. "And now you're
all quieted
down."
?"'
'All quieted down," Henry repeated. "If
we're goin" to talk
any more lets go into the office. Let the horses
get some
quiet too."
They left the corridor, turning off the light behind
them,"
and entered the barn's office. As Henry sat down in
the deep
cushioned chair behind the desk, Alec straddled a
straight
chair before it.
"You still haven't let me say what I wanted tost
Alec said.
"About what happened the time I first saw the
Black,"
He was a terror on the pierst Henry recalled.
"More than that He killed a manst Alec
returned quietly.
Henry's face became taut. Yes, I
remember you told me
that
'I told you why he did it, too, didn't
I
Henry nodded. 'Someone used a whip on hmst
Thats rightst Alec said. 'And you used one on him
to
night. That's why he turned on yst
'But what was I going to do. Alec? He was about
to kill
Satan!"
"I know, but the point is you forgot He would have
taken
anything else from you but a whip. You've never had any
trouble with him befirst
'All right, I forgotst Henry said brusquely.
'But where
do we go from here? What are we going to do about
him?
'ationothing. There's nothing, we
can
do except always keep
his background in mind, and never forget it. I think
we've
both been inclined lately to do just that."
He's given us every reason to forget what he was,"
Henry
insisted. "He's been easy to handle, and a
good-mannered
stallion. At times he's been just as nice as
Satan. He's taken
to stable routine like a park hack."
That's just it," Alec said. 'He's been good too
long. The
break had to come sometime, and it came tonight. Un
fortunately, neither of us was figuring on such a thing
happening. We're as much to blame."
Henry left his chair to walk nervously about the
room.
His eyes swept over the walls, taking in the
numerous cham
pionship plaques that had been awarded to Satan
during his racing career. *Do you think he's got it
out of his system for
a while then"...* he asked.
"I don't know, Henry. Maybe. Maybe not.
I don't think
there's any way of telling for sure."
Then the only thing we can do is to isolate
him until we
find out," the trainer said. Put him in one of the far
pastures or keep him in the bam most of the time."
"Isolation might make things worseea'Alec said
quietly.
'I know, but we can't take any chances of him
gettin" to
Satan again."
Alec's gaze left Henry and shifted to the east
window. The
horizon was turning a dull grey. Soon the day
would begin.
There was no sense in going back to bed now. In a little
while it would be time to feed the broodmares and
then- colts, to handle the weanlings and yearlings, to do the
many other endless tasks that went with the operation of a
stock farm. Routine and schedules. Regular hours
for feed
ing, handling, cleaning and training. But in spite of
all this,
his days were never dull. Every colt and filly, every
brood
mare and stallion was an individual to be treated
iri his or
her own special way to obtain best
results. Yet there were
only so many hours in a day with so many jobs to be
done.
Keep to a schedule and one finished in time for bed.
Hearing the Black neigh jolted Alec's mind
back to the
problem at hand. If the stallion was a person, one
would say
he was tired of routine, tired of the regularity of his
daily
schedule. All right, Alec thought, say it...
He's bored! Say it
and get it over with! Not so long ago the Black had
roamed
the Great Desert of Arabia, wild and free. Now
he was being
treated like the most domesticated of farm animals.
Was it any wonder that he had revolted against it
all? Wasn't it, indeed, a wonder that he hadn't
revolted long before tonight? The Black needed
freedom, a freedom he couldn't have here no
matter what arrangements were made!
Henry..."
*allyeah?"'
"What do you do when you get pretty fed up
with farm
routine?"' Alec asked.
Henry looked puzzled. He walked around to the
front of the desk and then sat down again, hoping
to meet Alec's
gaze. But the boy's eyes were fixed on the desk.
"You can't say I get fed up," Henry said.
"I like it here. I
just need a change every once in a while."
"So you take one or more of our horses to the track
for a
season's campaign."
"Sure, Alec. That's part of my job here.
Racing helps to
pay our bills." Henry grinned sheepishly.
"But what are you
driving at?"
.the point I'm trying to make is that you'd be a
pretty
unruly guy if you couldn't get back to the track
once in a
while."
"Naturally. If s been an important part of
my life for some
fiftyyears. If s
me."
"It's the Black too," Alex said quietly.
"Racing"...'Henry asked incredulously.'Are you out
of your
mind. Alec? He's not controllable on a track.
You know that
as well as I do."
"I didn't mean racing," Alec said quickly.
"But just as train
ing and racing are important to you, freedom-is
necessary to the Black."
Henry laughed. "Sure," he said, *b what do
you want
to do?. Turn him loose to roam wherever
he-pleases?
That's exactly what I mean."
"You're kidding But the smile left Henry's lips
when he met Alec's gaze. 'Can't you just see
him running around the
countryside? Maybe he'll even head down the
Parkway to
New York City for a look at the race
tracks."
"Now you're trying to be funny," Alec said. .
'Okay, I was tryin"," Henry
returned gravely. "But you
suggested this, so let's hear you come up with some kind of
an explanation."
*He needs a change from the routine and daily
schedule
he's had here at the farm. He's behaved himself for a
long,
long while but tonight was the turning point. We won't
have a moment's peace around here from now on. I'm con
vinced of that, now that I've thought it all over.
Give him
some freedom, a chance to roam and be on his own again,
and it'll get a lot of it out of his system. He'll
come back a
better horse for it."
"Come back? Come back from where"...*
'How about Bill Gallon's place in southern
California?"'
The Desert Ranch? You mean, Alec, you want
to send
hm'way out there? Why?

."...Because. Bill Gallon has several thousand
fenced acres of
desert and irrigated pastureland," Alec
said, quietly. The
Black would have something like his homeland. He'd have
freedom to roam. If s the closest thing I can
think of to what he needs right now. Do you think Bill
would let us turn him
out there for a month, maybe two months"...*
"Of course. He's one of my best friends, isn't
he? But,
Alec..." Henry paused. "You really think
that'll do the
trick? You just want him turned loose"...*
That's allea* Alec said. "It'll be enough.* .
*ally should go with hm/he's your horse."
Alec's gaze dropped to the huge desk in front
of him. "I'll
take him out there, anyway."
"And then come back?"' Henry asked.
Yes, just as soon as I know everything is all
right."
"Why don't you stay with him?
You know why, Henry."
Your work here?
Alec nodded.-
Henry was quiet for a few minutes, but his eyes
never left
Alec's face. Finally he said, "Maybe you
need a change, too."
No, I'm fine."
But you'll miss him."
Sure."
And he'll miss you."
He'll be too happy, too free to miss
anybody," Alec said.
Having just you around would make his freedom all the
more exciting," Henry said.
"Just
the two of you, like it was
at first."
Alec smiled. "You're getting sentimental,
Henry."
'Sure, but I'd like to see you go with him, if you're
serious
about all this."-
I'm serious, all right."
Henry stood up. 'He's your horse, so you stay
with him.
I'll take over your jobs here, and with your dad and
Jinx to help I'll have no trouble. In fact,
it'll do me good to assume
some responsibility around here for a
change."
Alec rose from his chair. "No, Henry. I'll
come back." .
dis"...Soyou think you're indispensable"...*
No, it isn't that."
"Sure it is, and that's a bad state of mind."
Henry came around the desk, and took Alec by the
arm. "If the Black
goes, you go too... and you stay with him until he
comes
back. That's decided. Now let's get out of these
pyjamas."
As they left the office Alec asked, "Will you
call Bill
Gallon today to see if if s all right with him?
"Sure. When do you want to leave?
'As soon as we can charter a plane. The sooner
the better,
now that we've decided to get him out of here."
Yeah, I guess so," Henry returned No
sense putt*in it off,
not after tonight.".
- After Henry had left, Alec stood for a few
minutes in the
darkened corridor. The air was heavy with, the
smells of
oiled leather, and soap, and hay, and grain. All this
had
become so much a part of him. Wouldn't he worry about
the mares and their foals, the yearling colts and
fillies while
he was away? He supposed so, but it was needless.
There
was competent help here and, as Henry had said, no
person
was indispensable.
He heard the Black nickering, and his heart
poundedwhile he thought of the two of them being alone again.
Remember the island? Remember his first ride on the
Black?
Remember Arabia? Remember riding the Black
across the
desert and the steady beat of the stallion's hoofs in the
sand?
Yes, in spite of his love for the farm, it would be good
to bealone with his horse again. Like the Black, he
wanted to befree for a while..
Without turning on the lights, he walked down the
long
, corridor. He'd tell the great
stallion what they were going to
do, and somehow the Black would understand. Not from his
words, but through some other way, which he himself didn't
understand and could accept.
Two days later they stood within the close confines
of a
plane that had once been specially equipped for the
air
transportation of horses. The floor of the horse
pullman was
lower than in passenger planes, providing
additional head
space, and the Black stood cross-tied in a boxed
stall. He had
given Alec no trouble while being loaded, following
him up
the ramp docilely and hesitating only before the
rooftop
doorway that had been raised high to give him more
head
room upon entering the plane.
Now Alec adjusted the meshed-rope sling before the
stall
so his horse could more easily get at the hay it
held. The Black pulled a mouthful from the
sling, but held the hay
between his lips without chewing, his large eyes wandering
over the interior of the plane. He pawed for a while
at the
wood shavings beneath his hoofs, found the rubber matting
beneath, and then his gaze finally returned to Alec. He
began
chewing the hay.
Henry said, "Until they find a better way of
securing a
horse inside these small planes, air-shipping
isn't for me."
Alec watched the stallion shift his weight from one
side of
his close stall to the other, and then shake his head as
much
as his tie ropes would allow. They've secured him
as well as
possible," Alec said. 'Give a horse no
room to move at all,
and you'll only have more trouble."
"I suppose so," Henry admitted. He
paused. "Well, Alec, I
guess this is it for a while." His smile belied the
soberness he
felt. "You two have a good vacation, and don't
worry about
the farm. We'll do all right. You give my best
to Bill. Tell him I'll be out there one of these
days." his
"I will, Henry."
"And be careful."
The captain and co-pilot'came up the ramp and
into
the plane. "We're ready whenever you arest the
captain
said.
Henry slapped Alec gently on the back.
'Okay, kid, have a
good trip."
Alec walked to the ramp with him "We'll be out there
and all settled down by morning," he said. That's the
beauty of flying."
Yeah, but you keep your eye on him every minute."
'Sure, but he'll give me no trouble. He's
been up before
and knows what it's all about."
"I knowst Henry said. He stopped at the
doorway. Teed
him light, Don't overload his stomach up
there. It's no place
for him to get sick. Keep the blanket on him.
Ifs bound to be
a little draughty. Keep him warm."
Yes, Henry." Alec pushed his friend onto the
ramp. 'If you
don't get going, I'll start advising you on the
care and feeding of the horses back at the farm."
Henry grunted. That's not necessary."
'I knowst Alec smiled.
Upon reaching the ground, Henry helped close the
port
able lightweight ramp and get it inside the plane.
The cap
tain went dishis comparI'ment, but the co-pilot stayed
behind to shut the rooftop doorway.
Alec went to his horse. The plane's take-off
might bother
the Black a little.
You'll be all right? the co-pilot asked.
dis'Surest
The man's eyes were on the stallion. 'I've always
wanted
to see the Blackea* he said. 'I saw him beat
Cyclone and Sun Raider in that big match
race in Chicago some years ago. Ill
never forget xst
Nor Iea'Alec said.
y
You never raced him again after that one, did you?"
"Nost
The co-pilot left, dosing the door of the
comparI'ment
behind him. The plane's engines shattered-the quiet,
sput-
tered, then settled into a steady drone. A few
moments later
they were moving and the Black shifted his weight to keep
his balance.
dis',sy, boy," Alec said softly.
Suddenly the plane came to a stop again, its engines
slow
ing to idling speed. The cabin door opened, and the
co-pilot returned:
Your friend is out there shouting his head off about some k
eys... keys to the van, I believe he said."
Alec's hand went to his pocket. He'd forgotten
to give
Henry the ignition keys. He remembered, too,
that in his
wallet he was carrying the registration licences for the
van
and all the other farm vehicles. Henry might need
them
during his disabsence. Quickly he took all his money
from the
wallet and, putting the keys inside, handed the
wallet to the
co-pilot. "You can throw him thst he said. 'And if
he can
hear you, tell him all the registration licences are
there too. He can send me my wallet later."
The co-pilot left, and a few minutes later the
plane was
once more moving out to the airport's runway. Through the
small windows, Alec caught a glimpse of
Henry waving at them. Fortunately, Henry had
only a short drive back to the farm from the local
airport He'd be home in time to see that
the horses were all taken care offorthe night. .
But I'm supposed to be forgetting all that, Alec
thought
This is our vacation.
The plane stopped again at the head of the runway.
Its
engines idled, and then after a few minutes they were
revved
up high. The plane shook with thunderous vibrations.
Snort
ing, the Black pulled hard on his tie ropes, and
Alec's hand
went to him. The boy began talking, to soothe the
Black,
and continued while the plane fled down the runway to
become airborne.
Only soft vibrations were felt as they climbed. The
engines, too, were more quiet Alec pulled the
sliding blank
ets up on the Black's neck, making his horse
more comfort
able. There was nothing to take him away from his horse
now, no other job to be done except to care for the
Black. It
was truly as it had been at the beginning, and it would go
on
and on for many wonderful weeks. He thought of the times
they would share together again, and told the Black of them,
knowing the stallion understood "everything he said. It was
a language all their own. It didn't
necessarily consist of words,
for Alec relied mainly on Touches and soft sounds
and quick movements of the eyes.
Alec told the Black of long days of bright
sunshine with
"endless miles before him, of great hills and mountains
show
ing blue against a pale sky, and beyond all these the
desert that would be so bare and dean beneath his feet. He
spoke
of the nights too, the network of millions and
billions of
delicate stars that would be his roof as he rested after
hard,
exciting days. He didn't mention the fences that would
keep,
him within Bill Gallon's ranch. There was no
need. With
thousands of wild acres to roam it would be as though there
were no fences. Yet for Alec it was a comfort to know they
were there, that somewhere on the Desert Ranch he would
always be able to find the Black.
The stallion had settled down, and was pulling at his
hay. Alec left him to get a drink of iced
water from the cooler at
the far end of the plane. He came back
to sit on the tack
trunk, thinking of how Henry had insisted upon his
taking
it, and how needless its contents were. He would use
no ,
brushes and curry combs on the stallion, no
saddle or
bridle when he rode him, no blankets at
night. He. would
use nothing to remind the Black of the domesticity .
that had been left behind The great stallion-would be
turned completely free, and Alec decided that he
would not force himself upon the Black. The Stallion would
be ridden
only when he asked for it, and Alec would know the
signs.
."--."
The Black whinnied, and thrust his tongue out.
Alec.,
pulled it, then let go. The Black withdrew his
tongue. This
was a game they played. It meant there was no need for
alarm or uneasiness. The Black was happy ...
and so was
Alec, incredibly happy. The dishours
sped by, with the plane
losing its race against a fast-dropping sun.
They refuelled west of Chicago, and when they took
to the
air again it was through the dark sky of night. Alec
hadn't
left the plane or the Black's side during their
short stop. He
had given him a little grain, a little water, nothing more.
Long hours and miles passed as their flight
progressed ever
westward. The tall stallion had his eyes closed.
Alec went
over to the bucket seat at the side of the stall. He
put a
blanket on the metal seat and sat down, trying
to make
himself comfortable. He closed his eyes, but couldn't
sleep.
So he thought again of the new life that would begin for him
and the Black within a few more hours. Or really
had
begun!
Their old life at the farm was already many hours behind
f
them.
Here he was alone with his horse, the finest stallion
in the
world and still the fastest. Henry might not think so.
Henry
would say that there never had been a horse with more
speed than Satan, never would be. And the racing world
would probably agree with him. But with Satan
retired from
racing, the fans would forget him too, just as they had the
Black. There were younger horses coming up each year
to hold their attention. New track records were
already being
made. New champions were being crowned. Night
Wind,
owned by the High Crest Ranch in Texas, had been
named
"Horse-of-the-Year" after last winter's racing
campaign. Soon
the track experts would think of Satan only as a
sire, just as
they did the Black. There was no doubt that the
Black was
already proclaimed by all as a great sire. He had
given them
the champions Satan and Bonfire and Black
Made, and in the
paddocks back at the farm were other colts and
fillies, all
promising in'the own right.
But for a while, Alec thought, I can forget all that.
Now
the Black can be just another horse, roaming at will and
manning as he was born to run. No duties, no
routines, no
schedules'. his
Suddenly their steady flight was disturbed. The plane
bucked, almost sending Alec out of his seat. There was a
scrambling of the Black's hoofs as he sought to keep
his
balance. The plane levelled off, only to lurch
again a few"
moments later. Alec left his seat to go to the
Black's head. He was quieting him when the
comparI'ment door opened
and the captain came inside.
There's a sform to our south," he said. 'We're
skirting the
edges of it. Had to change our course and come up more
to
the north."
- "Where are we now?"' asked Alec.
"Over western Nebraska. I doubt that the weather
will get
was any rougher than it is now, but maybe you'd
better sit down
and fasten your seat belt."
*ationo, I'd better stick close to him,"
Alec said.
'Is he all right?"'
Alec nodded. "Just a little uneasy."
After the captain left, Alec stayed close to the
Black, talk
ing to him constantly as the plane's bucking continued.
For
over an hour it went on, and the Black didn't like
it. He had
trouble keeping his feet, and his eyes were bright and
startled.
Alec became uneasy. He knew the pilots were
doing their
best to keep the plane steady, that there was nothing to fear
from the-weather itself. But the Black was getting worked-
up. His head felt damp, and his small ears
nicked back and
forth. Alec felt the mounting warmth of his great body
through the blankets that covered him.
He sought to comfort him, using every trick he knew.
X.
wasn't that he was afraid the Black would break
completely
out of control. He was more worried about the moi/s of
his head, the heat of his body. A hot horse in a
cool,
draughty plane would result in complications. He
rubbed
the stallion's muzzle, trying to get him to stick out
his
tongue in play. But the Black would have none of it
now.
The floor of the plane suddenly dropped from beneath them,
and the stallion's legs shifted again, spreading wide
and trembling. Once more the plane steadied but
additional
harm had been done. The Black snorted and shook
his head,
pulling hard against the tie ropes. His long forelock
was
damp with sweat.
Alec drew the blankets higher on the
Black's neck. He
talked to him, remembering to ask, not demand. He
pleaded
with him in their own special way. He sought the
stallion's
complete attention, his confidence, quietly
reassuring him
that there was nothing to fear. And slowly, very slowly, his
soft sounds and movements had their effect upon the great
stallion. The Black shook his head less often,
and his body,
though still hot, ceased to tremble. He stopped pulling
on die
ropes arid kept his legs wide apart, waiting and
ready for the
next sickening drop of the plane. His eyes
remained on Alec.
The captain came back again. "I'm sorry,"
he said. "It was
worse than I'd expected it to be. But we're just
about out of
it now. Is everything all right with you?

He looked at the
Black's glistening head with uneasy eyes.
'It was rough for a while, but he's all right now, I
think,"
Alec said. "Where are we?
less-than Over western" Wyoming. The rockies
are just, ahead, so
we'll be climbing. Come up forward when you get a
chance,
and take a good look at the country. If s really
rugged, but
beautiful."
When he was alone once more, Alec felt the
plane's ascent
as die pressure in his ears increased. The flight
was now
smooth, and the Black quiet. He wiped die
stallion as dry as
t
he could, and put another blanket on him disffkeep
him
" warm. Then, knowing that his horse was thirsty, he
went to
die ten-gallon can of water he had brought along,
and
poured a little into a pail. He tested it to make
certain it was
as warm as he wanted it Nothing cold should go into die
"Black's stomach now.
It took only a few swallows for die stallion
to finish die
water Alec offered him. Then he whinnied, shoving his
slen
der nostrils against die side of the pail. He was
heated. He
wanted more..
'In a little while you can have it," Alec said, *b not
now."
There was a new note to the engines. The humming rose
to a greater pitch as the plane slanted ever upward,
with its
twin propellers cutting the very heavens. Alec sat
down in
his bucket seat. The Black was quiet. There was
nothing
more for him to do.
The door of the forward comparI'ment opened, and the
co-pilot said. The captain would like you to come up and
take a look at what's ahead of us."
Thanks, but I don't want to leave him alone."
The co-pilot came inside. 'I'd be glad
to sit with him a few
minutes. It would be something to tell my kids, that I
was
baby-sitting the Black tonight."
Alec smiled and turned to the stallion. The
Black's eyes
were half-closed. It would be safe to leave him. He
got to his
feet. "Okay," he said, I'll just take a
quick look and come
right back."
He left the comparI'ment door open in order
to catch any
sound from the Black, any call from the co-pilot.
Ahead, he
saw the captain's silhouette against the lighted
instrument
panel. Outside the great windshield were the
mountains.the
air was like polished crystal, and a full moon brought
out in sharp relief the towering and jagged peaks that reared
in the
night sky.
The captain kept the plane in its steady climb.
'Sit down
over there," he said, motioning to the
cd-pilot's seat. "Ahead
of us is the Wind River Range."
Below the jumbled mass' of rock. Alec could see
the,
endless woods with their deep gullies and ridges.
The land
looked so wild and desolate. Yet every once in a
while, he could make out the few lights of scattered
towns, and oc
casionally, too, the pinpoints of a car's headlights
moving
along some mountain road.
The captain was telling him to look at an
avalanche greater-than scar
on a peak just ahead of them, when Alec heard the
sharp
ring of a pail striking metal. He turned quickly,
and then got up, hurriedly leaving the comparI'ment.
The copilot was setting the water pail to one side
of the
stall when Alec reached him. The boy turned to the
Black
and Touched him, to find his lips cold and dripping.
His own
stomach churned as he reached for the pail.
*He was thirsty," the co-pilot was saying. 'He
drank a
whole pailful."
Alec didn't look at him. He Tested what
little water was
left in the pail.
Ice cold!
He flicked a disglance at the water
cooler at the far end of the plane. That's where the
co-pilot
had got it. Ice cold water, the worst thing the
Black could have had at this time.
"I'm sure going to have something to-tell the kids
when I
get, home," the co-pilot added. "Everyone in
the neighbour
hood will know that I tended the Black. Well,
I'll get back
now. Thanks a lot for letting me stay with him."
Alec said nothing. His eyes never left the
Black. In five or
ten minutes he'd know if the worst was going
to happen.
Fifteen minutes at the most. His heart pounded,
choking the
breath from him. Cramp colic always came soon and
sud
denly, if it came at all. He'd seen horses
with it before,
horses with careless handlers who had given their charge
bar g drinks of cold water when the animals were
warm, or
had ridden them, when heated, through deep streams-or
cold
rains. The result was spasms of the small
intestines, causing
intense pain. Although most painful, this form of colic
was
scarcely ever fatal if one had the services of a
vet to give
injections that would stop the pain, and one was able to
walk-his horse, keeping him on his feet, so he
could not roll
and rupture his stomach or bowels.
But what could he do here in the confines of th* plane,
thousands of feet above a mountainous wilderness?
If cramp
colic did come, what would he do?
He felt his self-confidence ebbing. He stood there,
watch
ing the Black, hoping desperately that nothing was
going to
happenea.angrily, he shook off his feeling of
helplessness. *
Going to the tack trunk, he took out a bottle of
medicine he
had used before on colicky horses while awaiting
the arrival
of a vet He removed another blanket and a
bottle of lini-
ment, placing them on top of the trunk, and then went
back
to the stallion. The Black was quiet, even
drowsing. Perhaps ... He looked at his watch. Ten
minutes had gone by. He left
the Black to go quickly into the pilots' comparI'ment. .
They had their backs to him, the co-pilot wearing his
radio headset. They did not know he was there until
he said, "I might have a-sick horse."
Surprised by his presence, they turned
simultaneously.
"Sick?"' the captain asked, studying Alec's
face. "How sick?
"Bad, if it comes at all."
Then he isn't sick now?
No."
How do you know he will be?
'I don't know for sure. But you'd better get to the
nearest
airport anyway.

The captain tried to smile. 'allyou're kidding.
We're over-Ac
roughest part of the trip."
"I'm not kidding," Alec said. "It's cramp
colic, and if it
comes I won't be able to control him." . .
You mean ..." The captain stopped, his face
turning
white. 'How long do we have?
'A matter of minutes now, longer only if I can
keep
control." Alec's eyes met the captain's.
"We've got to get
down.";
Turning away, the captain opened the throttle and
kicked
the plane hard to' the right. Through the windshield
.alec
saw the spinning peaks below.
"Give me an hour," the captain said. I'll
need an hour.
There's a small airport behind us." He turned
to his co-pilot.
'Get them on the radio. Tell them we'll be coming
in, and
why."-
Yes, sir."
Alec returned to the Black. The stallion had his
small head
raised. He whinnied as Alec came towards him.
He put out his tongue. Alec pulled it, then let
go.
A few minutes went by with Alec praying that he was
all
wrong, that nothing was going to happen. He was conscious
of the racing engines and in silent prayer urged them to still
greater speed. Only when he and the Black were on the
ground would his deathly fear leave him. With or without a
vet's services he'd have a chance there. On the
ground he
might be able to work the pain out of the stallion. But not
up
here. Here, if it came, the results would be fatal
to all of
them.
For another minute it was quiet except for the roaring
engines, and then the Black stopped his tongue play
to stamp
his feet impatiently. He pulled on the tie
ropes, trying to
turn his head to look
at his stomach.
Alec's face blanched. Here were the first symptoms
of
cramp colic!
'ationo, boy, no,"
he said. Tears came to his eyes,
and he roughly brushed them away. He rubbed the
Black's
muzzle. The stallion stamped again, harder this time.
The
pains had begun; they'd get more severe with every "suc
cessive minute now.
:
Alec turned away, opened the comparI'ment door,
and
shouted, 'Ifs started!" He closed the door, not
knowing if
they'd heard him, and realising it didn't
matter. The pilots
were doing all they could to get to an airport. The rest
was
solely up to him. He got the bottle of medicine
from the
trunk and returned to the Black's head. The pain
was be
ginning to show in the stallion's eyes. They were large
and
bright, the pupils dilating more and more.
Alec was careful with the medicine. Seldom had it
been
necessary to give the Black stay drugs, and never had it
been
easy. Talking to the stallion, he moved to the side
of his
head, letting the fingers of one hand creep up to the
Black's mouth. In his other hand He had the
bottle, folding it low to
keep the stallion from seeing it while he opened his
mouth.
He was bringing it up when the Black tossed his head,
strik
ing Alec's hand and sending the bottle crashing against


floor. It was the only colic medicine Alec
had.
The Black struggled as the spasms increased in their
vio
lence. He plunged, and the tie ropes strained but
held. He pawed furiously, and then tried to get
down to roll, strain-
ing the ropes ag.through the heavy blankets covering
him came large and ever-widening splotches of sweat.
Alec ran to get more dry blankets and the liniment.
Returning to the Black, he threw the blankets
over the
heaving body to induce more perspiration; then, unmindful
of his own safety, he went inside the close stall
and began
rubbing liniment on the stallion's stomach.
The Black was beside himself with pain. He knew no
master, no love or tolerance, nothing but the terrible
spasms
that racked his stomach. He sought to rid himself of them
by
violent action. His thin, delicate head was wrought
with veins that were bulging, almost bursting with his heated
blood. He snorted, gathering himself back
on his haunches as
if for a mighty leap. He body quivered, and froth
showed
from gaping mouth and nostrils.
"Black ...oh, Black. I'm sorry,
sorry..."
But Alec's words,
"repeated over and over in his terrible misery, went
unheard.
Pain had closed the stallion's eyes and. ears,
blinding him,
deafening him to all he knew and loved..
Suddenly the Black flung himself forward, and the stall
door latch gave way beneath his great strength and
weight.
The tie ropes held, but his halter broke at the
buckle, and the
leather hung loosely upon his head. He stood still
for a
moment, not realising he was free.
Alec ran to the. door of the pilot's comparI'ment
and,
opening it, shouted,
'Get down, down! Now!"
He shut the door again, and turned to find the
Black bolt
ing forward in a mighty leap. His loose blankets
caught
on
the stall door but his momentum carried him on, rending
Straps, buckles and fabric. The plane
suddenly lurched be
neath his heavy movements. He careered against the op
posite side, and came away to throw himself on the
floor, his naked body sweating and squirming.
The plane bucked violently, lunging crazily
to one side,
then up and down. It stopped with a sudden jar,
levelled off,
then quickly slanted down.
Alec, knew fear, all-engulfing fear at the
abrupt descent.
His chest was tight with it, his mouth slack and gaping.
If he
didn't do something, if he didn't go to his horse
now, he'd
never go. He took a step, then another towards the
Blade.
The stallion got to his feet and reared, striking his
head
against the top of the plane. He whirled as he came
down,
and threw himself on the floor again, his legs thrashing
above him. .
Alec was flung hard against the side of the plane as
it.
lurched once more with the Black's ponderous rolling.
The
engines shrilled a new sound, an ever-expanding,
protesting
roar in the night, and the floor slanted downward more
steeply. Alec picked himself up. He realised that
the pilots, blinded by fear themselves, were going down for
any kind
of a landing while they still had control of the plane. But not
on a runway, not at an airport. They were still
too far away.
There was only a mountain wilderness beneath them!
He staggered towards the Black and found himself look
ing into eyes that were dull and heavy. The stallion's
breath
ing grew louder and louder until it could be heard
even
above the roar of the engines. Alec reached for him,
Suddenly the stallion's eyes came open
with a snap, andonce more they were wild in their brightness.
He struggled
to his feet, his nostrils swelling and widening. A
spasm
wracked his great body. He bolted, plunging the
whole
length of the comparI'ment before losing his balance and
falling again.
The plane was tossed in the sky, its engines rising
and
dwindling in horrible protest. Alec was hurled
against the
comparI'ment door. For a moment he lay there, knowing
there was nothing he could do. The door moved against his
back, and then a voice shouted, "We're crash
landing. Get
some blankets around you!"
Alec picked himself up, only to be thrown off his
feet
again as the plane disslewed to the left, and then down,
ever
down. Now he crawled past the rolling body of the
stallion.
He pulled himself to the door and unlocked it. They were
riding a comet towards a blackened earth. The
only thing he
could do now was to provide an escape for them, if they
landed safely. He glanced out the window and saw a
knife-
edged ridge below them. were they to cut a swath through
the trees or wag there a clearing beyond?
The Black was on his feet and moving about again.
Alec
pressed himself hard against the side of the plane
to avoid
the flaying, frenzied hoofs of his horse. The plane
grazed the
treetops. "Get her up!" he tried to shout.
But why? What
chance did the pilots have to find a safe place
to land? There
was nothing to do but wait, wait for the staggering plane to
find its way into the earth so close below them.
It seemed to come with the crash of the Black's body
against the door. The plane leaped and jolted, trying
to free
itself from the trees that sought to clutch and gather it to
them. Knowing the crash was coming, Alec pushed against
the door to provide an escape for them. It went
hard at
first, then suddenly burst wide open with a roar of
wind.
He glimpsed the tops of trees just below, then something
snatched him from his feet, tearing him forever from the
heaving floor of the plane.
He was outside and falling.
His
last conscious thought was realising that the plane had
lifted
again, clearing the trees as if in final, angry
repulsion of
them. Its engines thundered, rising and dwindling, as its
dark
bulk went on without him.
Then came the tearing and crashing of his body into the
trees. He screamed and his arms flayed wildly.
An explosion
came, and he knew nothing more but blackness.
It was hard... hard... so hard. Yet, finally, he
was able to
open his eyes. There was nothing for him to see, only
dark
ness. He didn't care, and closed his eyes again.
Slowly, ever
so slowly, he was able to raise a hand to his
head. He knew it
had to be his head, not from Touch, but because of the terrible
pain that began there and descended and racked his body.
He located the great swelling on the crown of his
head, but
resting his hand there afforded him no relief from the inten
sity of his pain. He kept his eyes closed,-
seeking sleep to
soothe him and provide solace.
Sleep did not come, could not overcome this great
barrier of pain. He tried opening his eyes again. His
lids came apart
slowly because even that slight movement served only to
increase his suffering. He made a great effort,
trying to with
stand the horrible electric shocks that seemed to be
passing
through him. When he was able to see again, he kept his
eyes open, knowing he could not sleep, and tried
to think.
Where was he?
His fingers found the bark of the tree beside him. Yes, it
was a tree. But why was it so wet, so moist and
clammy
beneath his Touch? He drew back his hand,
putting it to his
mouth, and tasted his own raw and bleeding flesh.

Some
thing had happened, something horriblest But what? Fiery
currents fortured him while he tried to think,
to remember.
Quickly he forced these thoughts from his mind to ease thepain.
He used his ears then, hoping they would furnish him
with all he wanted to know,
needed to know,
if he was to
get assistance.,
He squinted his eyes to shut out some of the pain. He
listened, and heard wind roaring through treetops.
Yes, there
were trees all around him. He was certain of that now.
And
it was night... that, too, he knew. He heard the
scream of
an animal, and to him, just then, it was all the more wild
and
terrible because it rent the night air of a world unknown.
Yet when the scream trailed away, he thought no more
of it,
so wretched was he in his pain. Instead he listened to
another sound, something that moved beneath the cry of
wind and trees, Something that rushed like the wind, but at
a
lower and more gentle pitch. It came to him suddenly that
the sound could be made by a stream. He opened his eyes
a
little more.
He lay in a gully, and the ground sloped away from
him.
The low, rushing sound came from behind. His going to it
would be downgrade with nothing to climb. Yet he
stayed there, not wanting to move, dreading the pain he
knew any
movement would bring.
Reaching for the trunk of the tree behind him, he dug his
nails into its bark, and began pulling himself to his
feet. He
screamed in his agony, stopped, and held fast to the
tree, not
wanting to lose the few feet he had already gained.
He
pulled again until, staggering and weak, he stood on
trem
bling legs. For a few minutes he rested,
then he pushed him
self away from the tree.
. He fell forward more often than he walked. Yet
he never
stopped in his search for the stream, for he knew he'd
never
go on again if he did. With every step, the agonising
pain
mounted until he thought his head would burst Yet he
went
on, sometimes on hands and knees, always moving a little
closer to the sound of running water. He tried to think
of the comfort the Water would bring to his head. He tried
to con
centrate on this and nothing more.
Finally he came to it, a thread of a stream rushing
down
the mountainside. He crawled into it, heedless of the
sharp rocks that fore his hands and knees, opening fresh
wounds,
causing him to shed more blood.
He let his face fall into the cold water. The
stream was
shallow, and the stones at the bottom scraped his nose

mouth. He turned his head sideways, facing
downstream. He
lay there, letting the cold water run over his head.
And for
the first time his pain lessened. He had found his
solace.
For a long, long while he lay there without moving, with
out thinking. Then, suddenly, down the mountainside he
saw the moving lights! With great effort he raised his
head
from the water.
Help was coming. Somebody knew. Somebody was coming for
him!
"He staggered to his feet, and the pain beat his head
again.
It was severe but he was able to stand it now. It wasn't
as bad as before. He would be able to move. He took
a few
steps, then stopped, his eyes on the lights below.
They were
no longer coming towards him, but turning away! They
were not lights held in the hands of people coming to his aid,
but the headlights of a car, a car that was moving along
a.
mountain road,
not looking, for bun and even now leaving
him behind.
He screamed at the top of his voice, and this great
effort
caused him to drop to his knees and clutch his head.
He
didn't watch the car disappear down the road. His
only
thought was to get back to the stream, to let the cold,
cold
water ease his pain.
In time the pain lessened again, and while lying in the
water he thought of the lights and the road below. He must
reach it. Where one car had gone another could go. He
needed help, needed it desperately. Not only
to relieve him
of his pain. No, not only that. There was something else,
something he felt rather than knew. He felt that there was
a
barrier in his mind ... a barrier that shut out the past
for
him. He couldn't explain it, but he knew nothing
at all of who he was, or where he was, or what
had happened.
He
couldn't remember.
After a long while, he raised his head from the
waterstand
sat up. The pain returned, but once more he took
hope in the
fact that he could stand it better than before. He would be
able to reach the road below. But before getting to his
feet,
he searched his clothes, seeking some due to his
identity,
and what had happened to him. Hestfound a large amount
of
money in the trouser pocket but no wallet, no
papers, noth
ing that was of any help to him. Yet he had all this
money,
wet and soaked with blood.
was He fingered the great tears in his shirt and pants.
No, not
really tears, but shreds of clothing scarcely covering
his rav
aged body. He must have been running, fighting his
way
through these woods for a long, long time. Crawling,
too, by
the sight of his raw hands and knees. But why? Why?
He sat there for some time, trying to think, trying to re
member. But the insurmountable barrier in his mind kept
its
hold, reminding him that his mental searching was
futile.
He was wearing only one shoe, and, leaning forward, he
removed it to look inside for the name of a shop, a
city.
There was nothing. He fore the collar from his shirt,
looking
for a label. He found one, and the name
"McGregor*. Was it
just the brand name of the shirt or was it his name? He
repeated the name over and over again, hoping it would
break down that terrible mental barrier. But nothing
came
of it, only greater despair, and more pain.
Once again he put his head in the cold water,
seeking
relief. Eventually he got to his feet and,
stumbling, moved
down the mountainside. He must reach the road below.
Get.
help.
Someone
would know who he was, and what had hap-
pened to him.
He followed the rushing stream for a long while,
turning
when it turned, afraid to leave the solace it
afforded him.
Finally he had to abandon it in order to reach the road
below. Heavier woods were before him, solid and alive,
and
he plunged into their va/s, alternately staggering and
crawling. Brush wrapped its arms about him, pulling
him
down only to let him go again as he rolled with the steep
grade, refusing to stop, knowing the road beyond was his
only salvation.
How long it had been since he had left the stream
he
didn't know. It seemed an eternity. His pain was
intense,
and there was no stream now to comfort him. He dishad to go
on. His squinting eyes looked for the lights that would
tell
him he was near his goal. But none came for a long
while.
Then he saw them far away, winding their way with the
conallyour of the mountain. He screamed, and tried to run.
A
black bulk rose in front of him. and he went
down hard, his
hand finding the base- of a tree. He pulled himself
to his
knees and. still screaming, began to crawl. Now the
lights
were close to him. A hundred yards away? He
got to his feet,
screaming again at the top of his voice. But with the
lights
came a roar, the thunderous roar of a heavy truck that
made
his cries seem pitifully soft in comparison.
Forgetful of his
pain he ran again, faster than before, and when he
crashed
into another tree he stayed down for a long while.
When he opened his eyes again he knew that the truck
had passed. He crawled towards-the road. Soon
he would
reach it. He would lie there, waiting for other
headlights to
find him, to stop, to give him peace. He reached the
road on will alone, and stretched the full length of his
agonised body
upon it. There was nothing more to do but wait. If only
he
could sleep while he waited!
He had his head turned sideways, his eyes
closed. He
didn't know what made him try to open them again, but
he
was aware that when he did they formed two narrow slits
in his cut and swollen face. He looked up the
road, and a con
vulsion-wracked his body. Ahead were the red
tail-lights of
the truck! And beside the right front wheel a
flashlight
moved. He heard the sound of tools being thrown into a
metal kit.
He tried to scream but had no strength left for the
effort.
Once more he started crawling. He saw the
flashlight go off,
and then came the slam of the cab's door.
The tyre had been fixed. The truck was
going!
He staggered to his feet simultaneously with the
sudden
roar of the engine. He managed to run, weaving from one
side of the road to the other, his eyes on the truck,
his hands
stretched put to it. He brought forth a pitiful
scream from
his constricted throat.
He was so close to it! A few yards now, a few
more feet
But the truck was already moving, and its backboards were
eluding his groping fingers. The heavy canvas which
covered
the back of the truck flapped in the wind as though
waving
goodbye to him.
With a last, desperate effort he let all his
weight fall for
ward, his hands stretched out, if they grasped nothing
he
would stay on the road forever...
The boards were beneath his hands! He closed his fingers
and held on to them, his legs no longer carrying him.
After amoment his dragging, burning feet forced
him to exert him
self again. Slowly he raised them until he got
one on the
lowest board. He waited, his breath coming in terrible
gasps,
then he brought up his other foot and stood on the
back of
the truck, his body pressed hard against the board.
Finally
his hand went to a corner of the canvas flap. He
pulled it
aside, his eyes trying to penetrate the blackness
of the in
terior. He'd get in there. He would walk forward
until he
reached the back of the cab. He would tell the driver
that
he was there, that he needed him.,
Every movement was one of horrible pain, but he got his
body over the boards and let it fall under the
canvas siding.
He struck a, large box, and now he realised that
the truck
was fully loaded, that there was no chance of his reachingthe
cab. Well, there was a place for him to lie
down, any
way. He would stay there until the truck stopped
again.
He was safe. He had found help. He closed his
eyes, and
for the first time since the plane crash, sleep came
to
him.-
Miles upon miles rolled beneath the wheels of the long
trailer truck. While one man drove, the other
slept, and they
alternated without stopping for even a moment One would
move from behind the big steering wheel while the other
took it over, sliding into the seat from a bunk in the
back of
the cab. One man's foot would leave the accelerafor
to be
replaced promptly by the other's. They were hardened
drivers, with many thousands of miles and many years on
the road behind them. Their world was this cab in which
they
had spent the greater part of their adult lives;
Seldom
comdid their eyes turn to the flats of canyons or
mountains
through which they passed. Only the road held their atten
tion, the never-ending road that was their sole interest and
life.
They travelled through the rest of the night, conscious
only of each other's snores, the road itself and the
steady
beat of the powerful engine. Ever southward they
travelled, their experienced eyes aware of every twist
and turn, every
downgrade and climb, but never noticing the natural
wonders about them, never seeing the moonlight baring the
beautiful tints of the mountain ranges through which they
passed. They were too busy, and their eyes too
deadened by the road to see mountain ranges as anything
but obstacles in
their way, to be climbed and left behind.
With the coming of dawn, they had left Wyoming and
were in Utah. They stopped early for breakfast, but
within a
very few minutes were on their way again. They were
anxious to reach Nevada and get rid of their cargo.
Yet they knew that no sooner would the huge trailer
be emptied than
it would be filled again, and their long trip back
to Chicago
would begin.
All day long they pushed the truck hard, and
only-when
night fell did they stop again to eat. Almost
grudgingly they
left the cab to go into a roadside diner and sit down
at the
counter. Glancing at the menu, one said, 'I guess
it's the beef
stew for me."- -
The other looked up at the counterman. "Beef
stew for
twoea'he said.'An'make it fast. We're in a
hurry."
Impatiently they awaited their orders. When their
over
loaded plates were put before them they began eating,
. paying no attention to anyone else in the diner or
to the
conversation that was taking place.
The counterman said to the customer a few stools away
from them, They haven't found any trace of that kid and
his horse yet."
x
Yeah, so I heard on the radio," the
customer replied. "But
they'll find them, all right. They got all kinds of
planes look
ing, even helicopters."
'I ain't so sure they will," the counterman said.
T*ness
rough country, that part of Wyoming is. Some say it's
the
worst in the States."
The customer nodded his head gravely. 'I heard the
kid
and his horse started for the north. How'd they know t"...*
"The pilots said so. After they got the plane down
in the
clearing they went back an" found the door open.
They saw
the horse taking off in a northerly direction."
'An" the kid?
"He was riding him. It was pretty dark, but they
could see
the kid on him.". .
"Sure funny they'd take off like that."
Yeah, but that" s the way it happened," the
counterman
said. 'It's lucky the pilots themselves
got help by this mom-.
ing."
"Well, they had their radio. No reason why they
shouldn't
have."
"I guess so."
The counterman got some coffee for the truck drivers
who had* shouted at him, and then returned. *ally
know all
about that horse, don't your he asked his customer.
"Only what I heard. He's called die
Black... a race horse or something. Pretty
well known, isn't he?
'I should say so," the counterman replied quickly.
Tie's a
great -- or at least he was at one time -- a great
race horse.
Now he's a famous sire."
'A what?
'A sire, I said. Say, don't you ever follow
the races?
No."
"Well, anyway, the Black fathered Satan...
and Satan'seaa
champion."
"Oh," said the customer. "Well, all I
hope is that they find
the kid."
"Sure," agreed the counterman. That's all I
care abbbtoo." . was His
The customer left his stool. "I don't think we
need to
worry much about him. That part of Wyoming may be
desolate, but at least he's got a horse under
him. A good
horse can find his way out of a lot of jam that people
couldn't."
The counterman used his cleaning rag. Yeah," he
said,
'and what a horse, the best there is!"
"Hey, you!"
The counterman turned quickly to the two truck
drivers. "Coming, gentlemenst he said. His
"Give us a check," one said.
Yes, sir." He wanted no trouble with these men.-
The truck drivers left the diner and, climbing
into their
cab, drove off into the night. In the back of the
trailer, Alec
Ramsay still slept. Many more miles piled
up behind him,
taking him ever farther away from Wyoming and the great
search that had begun for him and the Black.
An hour after the plane had come down in its forced land
ing, the black stallion moved slowly through, the
woods.
Crazed by his colic cramps, he had entered the
woods in full
gallop, seeking relief by speed and violent
action. But the
darkness and the density of the trees had slowed him to a
walk. He'd sweated and pawed in his frustration.
He had
wanted to run and, failing that, to lie down and roll and
kick. He'd found he could do neither, for the woods were
solid and alive with thickly grown trees, giving
him room
only to wind his way among them. Thus, he had been
forced
to stay on his feet, to walk... and this light
exercise, more
than anything else, had brought his cramps to an end.
He forgot his pains quickly.-Now his small, fine
head was
raised high, sniffing the air, his nostrils
quivering. He con
tinued walking in a northerly direction, his ears
pointed and
alert to new and strange sounds ... monotonous and
low
scraping notes, sharp staccato calls, and, in the
distance, a
forlorn and dismal howl. The howl came again, wailing
in
the wind. He was interested, but unafraid. He had
known
the great solitude of the wild in another land. Now
he was
entering a new and strange and beautiful country, but it
held no terrors for him. He was alone and free.
He remem
bered nothing of his domestic life, of barns or
farms, or a boy who loved him. Before him was a world
as thrilling,
exciting, and as wild as he.
Presently he came out of the woods to more open
country. Yet he did not break from his walk, for the
land
before him was rocky and criss-crossed with gorges and
canyons. For a long while he carefully
made his way about
the splintered rock that was merciless to his unshod
feet. He
came to a stop in a low walled canyon, and his
gaze
travelled to the long black line of trees above the
bared rims
and crags of stone. He turned his head back in the
direction
from which comhe'd come.
He stood as still as the stone about him. For some time he
kept sniffing the air; then he began walking again.
No longer
did he travel to the north, but back to the south.
He entered
a cleft in another canyon that took him through
rotting
cliffs. It cut down deep into the earth, and his path
was
strewn with gravel and rocks. Yet he never
faltered, for his
wild instinct told him this new trail would take
him to the
softer country beyond.
An hour later he came to the woods again,
but at a point
much farther away than where he had entered the gutted
terrain. His great body trembled in his excitement
at being
able to choose any trail that beckoned him. He
listened to
the wind as it roared and lulled through the trees. He
began climbing, his unerring instinct telling him of the
pure run
ning water and succulent grasses of the wilder
ranges
above; He Was aware of the grey shadows that trailed
him during his ascent. He was wary, but unafraid.
He
had the utmost confidence in his speed and endurance and
cunning.
Throughout the. rest of the night dishe travelled ever
upward, and the air became dearer, sharper. Yet his
climb
was a gradual one, never steep. The pine trees still
hemmed
him. comin, affording him no outlook from his mountain
threshold. It was almost morning when he came to the
small
meadow so typical of those he had known in the
high
country of his desert homeland. His shrill neigh
echoed the
profound joy that shook his body. He ran for the first
time
in many hours, and his long limbs carried him
beautifully
and swiftly across the carpet of short, thick
grass.
Finally he stopped running to taste the pure water from
rushing streams; to savour the cold air in his
nostrils, and
then finally to graze upon the wild grasses he
loved. The few
hours left of the night were spent on a bed of these
grasses, fresh and sweet scented. He rested with
eyes closed, but his
ears and nostrils remained alert, ready to catch the
slightest
noise or faintest scent.
With the first hour of greyness he was on his way once
more, leaving the mountain valley to its solitude.
High above him rose range after range, tier upon
tier of cloud-shattering speaks, some snow-clad, and
others bare and sheer But the stallion had no
use for the world above the timberline, a world consisting
only of rock and snow and
sky.
He trotted easily through the great woods, his hoofs
making no sound on the springy cushion of pine
needles. He
no longer was slowed to a walk, forwiththe light of day he
was able to choose his way easily through the aisles of
trees.
Why he ran when he had nowhere to go didn't
puzzle
him. He ran because he loved to run, and some
natural in
stinct kept him travelling ever southward.
Thickets full of birds rose with a clatter at
his coming. Bur he paid little
attention to themstnever slackening his easy strides.
Several hours later he came to an open plateau
and
x
stopped to graze upon the bleached mountain grass.
Suddenly, alert, he, raised his head, holding
long blades of the
grass between his lips. Only his ears had caught the
move
ment of his foe, for it was downwind. He whirled
to meet
the headlong rush of an enemy from the cover of the
woods.
The trumpet roar of the bull moose was low and
guttural
at first. Quickly it rose to a high-pitched scream,
only to
descend to the roar again, and end with a grunt. He
charged,
his heavy antlers clearing the air in their great spread
and
length.
The stallion took one look at this strange body
that came
hurtling towards him, a body taller than his own and
made
more startling by the thick, bony slabs that were pointed his
way. He knew better than to rise and clash in
deadlock with
that homed, stretched-out head. So he sprang
swiftly away;
avoiding the low-charging attack. He threw himself on
the
yellowish-grey back in violent
assault, hoping by his weight
alone to bring it to the ground. But his foe began
slipping
away from him. so with raking teeth he bit deeply
into its
dark brown neck, ripping and tearing. As he moved
off, his
feet slipped, and before he could right himself, the homed
head had slashed his belly. He screamed, whirled,
and let fly
his hind legs, landing so hard a blow that it sent his
enemy
down and falling
With savage speed he attacked again, his pounding fore
feet seeking the rolling body. Again he landed
crushing,
pommelling blows, but his foe came up, and its
pointed head
found his flesh again. He felt more pain and his fury
moun
ted. His eyes were blood-red as he flung himself
full upon his
opponent. With crashing forefeet he battered it across
the
back of its neck, unmindful now of his own
pain. Again he
lodged his teeth into ravaged flesh. ,
Yet once more his foe succeeded in heaving up beneath
him, forcing him to relinquish his hold and fall
backward.
He rolled on the ground, feeling the long horns
after him,
searching to rip open his stomach. Only the uncanny
agility
he had inherited from his desert forebears saved him
then.
He avoided the plunging head, and got to his
feet. Now he
was terrible in his cunning. He circled his foe
warily, feinted
and attacked from behind and from the side, avoiding altogether those
sharp bony prongs that had, already ripped
open his body. He was watchful every second, waiting
for
his enemy to stumble, to be caught off guard. Then he
diswd
launch his assault.
With the black stallion using- all of his running and
strength, the end came, quickly. No animal of the
wild
country could have met an adversary so worthy, so
ruthless.
The great bull moose knew, this now that it was too
late. He
coughed, the choking cough 6f death. And with the sound
of it, the black stallion came in again for a fresh and
final
assault. He feinted to the front, and the moose's
head went
down to fend him off. He swerved and dealt his foe a
blow
from the side, sending him staggering, then he reared and his
powerful forelegs came down together, splitting the
bull
moose's skull.
@lj
For a moment the Black stood over the great body be
neath him, and his loud, clarion call of conquest was
heard
for the first time in those regions. He went to the edge of the
plateau. Before him was an abrupt, sheer drop of
many
thousands of feet to lower country. He stood there, his
body-
bleeding from his wounds, his breath coming fast from his
combat. He looked below at the canyons, then up
and"
beyond, taking in the range upon range of mountains with
their great woods and peaks, all that mysterious, wild
country which seemed to have no end. As though in warning
to its inhabitants, he screamed his high-pitched
battle ay
once more, and the great wilderness echoed his call, re
sounding from the mountainsides until the very air was
alive with the ring of it. When finally it was still, he set
out again, travelling as before to the south.
Back over the many miles the black stallion had
come
during the long night and part of a day, back to the
clearing
where the crippled plane lay, the search for Alec
Ramsay
and his horse was in progress. Already two local
planes were flying low, winging their way over
knife-edged ridges whose
slopes and peaks loomed large in the windshields.
The pilots
had flown searches before above these desolate mountain
ranges. They criss-crossed diligently, their
eyes leaving the
ground below only long enough to enable them to rudder
hard and away from the menacing shoulder peaks.
*allyet this time" the pilots were not looking for the bright
winking of metal from a crashed plane, nor for a
swath cut among treetops. No, this time it was more
difficult, for this
country could gulp a boy and a horse without a sign,
a trace.
One pilot slanted down into the deep canyons.
Only here,
away from sheltered trees, did he have a chance of
seeing
them. Yet even this could not be called open country.
There
were too many crags and clefts, too many letteriack
gullies and
canyons. His great hope was that the boy would see
him,
that he would be given some signal that they were there, and
waiting to be found.
He told himself that this was not a futile search, that he
or
one of the many other pilots who would join the search
within a few hours would certainly find the boy and
horse.
They must be somewhere below, their eyes on the sky,
looking for him. If only they would give him some
sign to
tell him where they were!
He kept to the canyon country, leaving the great
wooded
mountainside to the other plane. He twisted and
turned with the steep walls, kicking his plane hard
away from them only
to be confronted by the rising, forbidding mountains that
hemmed in these canyons. For hours he climbed and
dropped, and the afternoon slipped away with increasing
fuI'llity mounting within him.
- Finally he rose again and held his plane at
cruising speed.
He began circling, and noticed that the other plane
was now
doing the same. They had given up baring their wings and
lives to the sides of the mountains. Now they would
cruise
and watch for a sign, a signal from below that would tell
them where to go.
Certainly if the boy were alive he must see them
search
ing for him. And if
he
wasn't... The thought only added to
the pilot*ness weariness. The pattern then, he
knew, would be
the familiar one of long searches on foot rather than
from
the sky. Long days and weeks of searching, perhaps without
finding a trail, a clue, anything at all in this
vast wilderness.
. But the ground search, although heartbreaking and
futile,
would be necessary because of relatives left behind, and the
newspapers that demanded it If this were settled country
it
would be different. There'd be some hope then. But it
wasn't
--settled. In every direction it was an unexplored
wilderness,
feared and avoided by hunters and trappers,
by all.
The pilot thought of the wild animals who stalked these
ranges, the mountain lions and bears, the wolf
packs and coyotes. Any of these could have attacked
and killed the
horse during the night. And if the horse
had gone down
what chance had the boy?
These thoughts drove him down to the treetops again, and
he brushed his wings against them until the sunlight
disap-
- peared behind the highest of the western ranges. For a
brief
period he carried on his relentless search in the
golden after
glow of the sun shedding its light from behind the peaks.
Finally this light went, and it became dark. He
banked his
plane for home. Other planes would join the search
tonight and tomorrow. Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow, they would
- find them... or even tonight.
While the planes had been searching from the sky, two
woodsmen followed the Black's trail from the
crippled
plane. By sunset they came to the rocky country and
there
they stopped to kneel on the ground, looking at the
large,
almost oval hoofprints that were there. Finally one said,
Take a look, Milt, these are the last ones
we're gont' to see
of his."
The other man said nothing, only raising his head
to look ahead at the desolate and fortuous terrain:
miles upon miles
of bare, gutted rock, spreading into the great woods
where
no horse, not even a shod one, would leave a
track.
'He's gone to the north, all right." the first man
spoke
was again, "just like they thought."
Picking up his rifle, the other turned. "Come
on, Luke. We
ain't goin" on with no tracks to follow. We'll
go back and
tell "em so. Let someone else decide what
to do. We gets paid"
to track."
'An" there ain't no tracks no must Luke said,
following.
The airliner was hours out of New York
City,
yet no word
had-passed between Henry Dafley and Alec's father.
The
tragic news, coming early that morning, had drained
them
spiritually and emotionally. They were two old men and
there was nothing left for either without Alec.
Henry, put his hand on Mr. Ramsay's knee.
"We've got to
believe he's alive," he said.
'Do you believe it, Henry?"' Mr. Ramsay's
words could
hardly be heard. The reporters... they said the
search has
been going on since last night." His trembling
hands went to
his face to cover it, and sobs racked his long, thin
body.
"We got to believe he's alive. We got
to." Henry was silent
for a long time, but his hand never left his friend's knee.
Finally he said, "Remember, Alec's got the
Black with him.
Remember that, Bill."
Mr. Ramsay's voice was muffled by his hands, but
Henry
heard him say, "Thank God for that. Thank
God. It's our
only hope." Then his hands came away, and his
glazed eyes
found Henry's. Bitterness crept into his voice.
'But why did
he take Alec away? Why didn't Alec stay
in the plane?
Why?"'
Henry couldn't face those eyes. He turned
away. "I don't
know, Bill. The horse was in bad trouble. A
colic attack,
from what I can make out of what the reporters told
us.
Maybe Alec was trying to help him after the plane
came
down. I don't know."
Neither said anything more. The sky darkened with the
swift coming of night,
another
night. Henry tried to close his
ears to the sobs from the seat beside him. "I've got
to keep"
believing they're alive," he told himself. 'If
I don't I'm goin"
to be no good to them or myself. They're out there
tonight,
alive, and waiting disffbe found. They're out there
together.
Remember that, and I'll be all right.
They're together."
But the Black was spending his second night high on
a
southern range, many miles away from where they were
looking for him. Still farther to the south, and in another
state, Alec Ramsay was awakening from his long
sleep in the
back of the rumbling trailer truck.
The truck swerved abruptly, throwing him against a
corner
of one of the wooden boxes. He felt the wheels
leave the
road, riding crazily on hat must have been soft and
deep-rutted shoulders", and then the truck began
slowing
down. He got his feet beneath him, but before standing
he Touched the swelling on his head again. It was sore
and
throbbing, but the severe pain was gone. His sleep comhad
helped. How long had he been riding? it wasn't
important.
All that mattered was that he was afraid to ask himself,
"Who am 1? What has happened to me?
His
. He was afraid because he knew he still did not know
the
answers. And just now he did not want to disturb this
peace,
this comfort which came with the relief-from-his violentpain.
So he thought only of the slowing truck, and pulled
himself upright.
Opening the back canvas, he looked out into the
night, its
darkness broken only by the white road that trailed like
a
ribbon. On either side of it were mountains. The same
moun
tains, the same night, he believed. The truck
came to a stop,
and he raised a foot to the boards. He felt the
severe pain
again as he pulled his body upward. He fore his
lips with his
teeth, hoping this new forture would distract him from the
old. He kept going, kept climbing."

A
voice from far away said, "It ain't flat,
Joe. If 11 hold up
for a while. Let's keep goin" until we bit
the next station.
Ain't no sense changin'it out here."
Hearing this, he screamed into the night and hung on to
the top back-board, afraid to let go, afraid
17rter-than ecause of his
terrible agony. He heard the heavy footsteps that
came in
answer to his scream. He felt the hands, as heavy
as the feet
had been, reach up to take him by the belt, and then he
was
pulled down.
For a moment he lay upon the road, his eyes closed.
When
he opened them two pairs of eyes were staring at him,
and
then two pairs of hands pulled him to his feet.
It was hard
focusing his eyes, harder still to move his swollen
lips. And
when he succeeded, his words came in gasps
and were inco
herent. They made no sense to the men who pulled him
to
the front of the truck to look at him in the glare of
head
lights.
The voice came to him again, an angry voice,
rough, like
the hands. 'How long you hitched a ride with us? How
long?
Salt Lake City? Ain'tcha got eyes? Ya
see that sign?

He was pulled to his feet, and lifted brutally
until his face
was pressed hard against the truck's windshield. There
was a
sign there, but he could not read it. The cold glass
comforted
his throbbing head.
No riders, see! An" it means what it says,
y'understan'?
Do ya?"' The hands shook him roughly. You hitch a
ride
with us, an" we lose our jobs.
Y'understan'? The Company's
got spotters. Spotters, y'hear? They see ya
an' we get canned.
Y'knowthat?"'
The hands kept shaking him, and he knew he could stand
no more. He tried to scream, but nothing came.
'I... I...
need he.. *help.". His words were only
whispers. "I want the
police... need the police."
The two jnen were laughing, low, guttural laughs.
They
set him down on the side of the road, and he dung
to the
dirt, knowing aloneness again and the peace that came with
it."
Out of the blackness he heard the harsh voice once
more.
By the looks of ya Fd keep away from the police,
if still were
in your shoes." His
The other voice came, 'He ain't even got
shoes. His kind
ain't gonna* be helped by the cops none."
The cab door slammed, the engine roared,
and they left
him Acre. But he didn't care, didn't care
at all.
How long he lay there, waiting for the pain to leave his
head, he never knew. When he was able to sit up again
he
looked once more into darkness. Would this night ever end?
Was it to last forever?
He sat still, knowing that only by keeping quiet would he
have peace. He was on a valley road. Cars would
come
along, and perhaps one of them would stop. Someone would
help him. Someone would take him to the police.
He'd tell
them he couldn't remember anything, and they'd under
stand. He'd tell them that somehow he'd been struck
on the
head, arid that was the reason he couldn't remember his
name, or where he was, or what he'd been doing before
he
was hurt. They would help him. They might even be
able to tell him who he was. Perhaps they had been
looking for
him. Perhaps...
The harsh voice came to him again,
"By the looks of ya I'd
keep away
from
the police.
.." He'd always remember that
voice, those words.-
By the looks of me? His torn hands felt his
swollen face*
felt the rags that should have been clothes, felt the
clotted
blood on his raw and open flesh. And finally they
rested on
the'bulge in his pocket, and he remembered The
large
amount of money that was there. How had he come by so
much money? Why had" he been crawling through the
woods, through a mountain wilderness? Had he been
afraid?
Had he been running from something? From the police?
Perhaps the police
were
looking for him. A new and terrifying fear gripped
his body. Before he had been afraid for
his life, afraid that the help he sought would not come.
Now
he felt the deadly fear of the
hunted.
V
A car's headlights came down the road. He
watched them
with eyes that no longer sought aid and comfort Instead
they were shifting eyes seeking escape, the eyes of a
fugi
tive!
He began crawling away from the side of the road,
look
ing for tall grass, anything in which to hide. But it was
open
country, and he felt the headlights sweep down upon
him.
He lay flat and still, pressing his body close to the
damp
earth* He waited while the lights passed over
him and then
were gone.
He was getting up when he heard the screeching drag
of
braked wheels. He turned, and saw red
tail-lights coming
, back towards him. He tried to get
to his feet and run, but his
legs wouldn't hold him. He sank back on to the
ground.
Better to take a chance. Better to lie and bluff
his way along than to move and cause his pain
to return again.
The car backed up until its headlights shone
full upon him
once more. Out of a long and racy convertible stepped a
man. He was short in height,-but big,
tremendously big,,
about his shoulders and waist. He came waddling towards
the boy, holding a revolver in his hand. When he
stood over
him, he put the gun away.
"Kid, are you hurt? What's happened to your
"I... I'd hitched a ride on a truck. The
drivers threw me
off here." He needed time, time to think and plan.
He wanted
to confide in no one just now. He didn't want to go
to the
police.,
"And they beat you up"...* The man didn't expect
an answer.
He was looking at the torn clothes, the swollen
face.
'Comeddon, kid. I'll help yst he added in
great sympathy.
The boy was carried to the car, and when he had been set
. down he felt disthe softness of the upholstery against his
head.
It was good, so good, and his body relaxed. He felt
safe with
this man, safe and secure.
'Go to sleepea'the fat man said kindly. "You
look like you
" could use it. Not many places open on this road,
but the next
time I stop for petrol I'll let you know so you can
dean up
your face. That is, unless you think you should see a
docfor,
if I can find one. Do you fed any pain? Anything
that night
bebrokenr "com".
*ationo... no pain, nothing broken."
'Good. I'd sure like to get my hands on those
guys. Beating
up a kid! What"...ness your name?

WJ-WF s your name? Whats my
name? What is my name?
And he heard himself reply, 'McGregor." The
label on his
lipped shirt had provided him with a name.
"McGregor's my
name," he said again.
i
Scotch, eh? Mine's Washhum, BiUs
Washburnu'
After that the fat man let him alone.
"McGregor's my name," he repeated to himself,
closing his
eyes. "It'll be my name until I can
remember. I've been
struck on the head. I have amnesia. Other people have
had it
and recovered. In time my memory will come back, and
I'll
know who I am. But now I'll keep all this to myself
just in case... just in case I'm running away from
something, from
the police.
There, I've said it and I feel better for
having said
it. My name is McGregor."
For the next two hours he pretended to be asleep.
He
knew any words would come hard from his lips, disjointed
and rambling, making little sense most of the time. He
didn't
want to talk, not even to this man who was helping him
get away. He'd only betray himself.
In time he felt the easing up of the powerful engine, and
then there was gravel sliding beneath braked wheels. The
car
stopped, and the fat man's hand was on his shoulder.
"McGregor, I'm stopping for petrol. You can
'get washed
up here.".
The boy slid out of the car and away from the lone over
head light near the petrol pump. His head pains
came back,
while he walked into the small station and found the door
tothe gents. He closed it quickly, locking it, and
then he turned
to the mirror. Beneath the bare, hanging bulb he
looked at
the face'which belonged to him. His hair was
red, dark redand matted with dried blood. His eyes
had dark pupils and
blue irises, but there were hundreds of tiny red
veins streak
ing the white. His nose was short, and looked small
between
his puffed and bruised cheeks. He had a wide mouth
and
large lips. Or were they swollen, too?,
His glazed eyes travelled down the rest of his
body. He
carried all his weight in his shoulders and arms.
Otherwise
he was light, with a small waist, slender thighs and
long legs.
What use had he made of this body, these hands?
He turned
them up, looking at the palms. They were calloused and
hard beneath the dried blood. His fingers were lean and
strong. His hands had known work, hard work.
Turning on the water, he let it run over his
head. The
swelling on his crown throbbed, and it was sore to his
Touch.his headache was persistent, but once more the
severe pains
had subsided. He let the water run until it
had washed his
hair dean of all blood. He cupped it to his
face with careful,
gentle hands, andjhen he pushed back his hair,
smoothing it
down as best he could. When he had finished he
looked far
better except for his torn clothes and bare feet.
But he could
do nothing about those.,
Before leaving the gents, he studied his face again. He
wanted to know it, to remember it, for it belonged to him.
to
MacGregor.
He noticed the freckles on his nose and beneath
his eyes, now that his face was dean. He saw, too,
the thin white lines at the corners of his eyes,
lines that came from
squinting for long hours beneath a hot sun. His past
life, he
knew then, had been spent in the open. Doing what,
though?
Hearing the incessant blaring of a horn, he left the
gents
to go to the car. He got inside without the station
attendant's
seeing him. Once more he lay back in the corner
bf the seat.
The fat man said while starting the engine, You had me
worried for a momentrl thought you might have decided
not to come along." He laughed, but it was a kind
laugh, the
laugh of a person who liked people, all sorts of people.
Yet
curiosity was there, too, and it was reflected in his
eyes and
face. 'allyou deaned up finest he said. 'Does it
make you fed
better?"'
McGregor only nodded.. ,
The kid doesn't want to talk much, the fat man
thought.
Well, that was understandable. McGregor must have gone
through-ajot at the hands of those drivers. "I asked
the petrol
station attendant if he knew of any docfors in this
area," he
. said.
McGregor's eyes opened, and for a
second the man
thought he saw deep fear in them. The guy laughed
when I
asked him," he went on. 'Said the closest one was
fifty miles
back up the road and none going this way."
Don't need a docfor," McGregor said.
For a while the fat man drove in silence, yet his
gaze left
the road often to glance at the huddled figure in the
far
corner. Finally he said, 'Could you eat a sandwich?
There are
some right behind you."
When McGregor'didn't reply, the man reached
behind the
seat himself and placed the box of sandwiches between
them. "Help yourself," he said.
The road went across a flat stretch of country, and the
car
surged forward with increased speed beneath the heaviness
of its driver's foot.
Yet the fat man took time to glance at the boy again
when
he heard the cover being removed from the box.
He saw
McGregor's glazed eyes turn towards him and
then away,
quickly, shifI'lly. He became a little worried
about McGre
gor. Those eyes held more than pain. A haunted
look was there... or was it more of a
hunted
look? He shrugged this
disturbing though]: from him. McGregor was only a
kid, a
poor kid who was bumming his way around the country.
He
had given rides to many of his kind. He had helped
lots of
them.
He said, "I always carry my own food When I
drive all
night, especially, going through desolate country like
this.".
He didn't look at McGregor. He knew
the kid would eat if he
kept his eyes off him.
"I'm interested in young people," he said jovially.
"In fact,
working for them is all I do now. I'm a retired
building
contracfor. Retired two years ago, and thought I'd
go nuts
not having anything to do. My wife couldn't see why
I just couldn't take it easy. Sure, why not? Her
life was going on
pretty much as always in spite of my retirement.
A wife's
job doesn't change much when the old man
retires, but
his
does."
The fat man paused, but he did not even glance at
McGre-
gor. He knew the boy was eating. "Less than
a month of
loafing, and I felt like a car with a new engine, all
ready to"
go tearing down the road. But I had no place to go.
I just
moped around the house until one day I noticed that
the
kids in our town didn't have any place to play,
and not
much to do, either. I built an athletic field for
them and a
clubhouse. Then I went to another town and did the
same
kind of a job. Now I've been doing just that for two
years.
When youth organisations can pay me, I do it for
what it costs. When they can't pay, I do it for them
anyway.
Knowing the kids need it is enough compensation for
me."
The fat man looked at McGregor. The boy
had stopped eating, and three of the sandwiches were gone.
He turned
away again. 'My work takes me all over the
West. I'm due in
a little town south of Phoenix by noon tomorrow."
"Phoenix?"' For the first time McGregor showed in
terest.
Yes, Phoenix," the fat man said, chuckling.
'Oh, I'll be
less-than there on time, all right. Lots of speed
in this sweet baby." His hands patted the wheel.
"She's marvellous on the flats, moun
tains, twists, turns, anything. They're
all the same to her.
We'll be leaving Utah in a couple of hours
now."
"Utah?
Again McGregor disclosed interest.
Yes, Utah." The man turned his eys away from
the road
and caught McGregor's gaze. Again he saw that
look, and this time he was certain it was a hunted
look. The kid was
afraid, and running from something. He had seen that
look
in others. He didn't like it. He was getting
uneasy again.
Focusing on the road, he said, "But maybe you
don't want
to go as far as Arizona. Maybe you'll be getting out
before?
Once more came the hesitant voice. "No.*
There was a
long pause, and then, 'I -- I'll go
to Arizona."
"You mean all the way to Phoenix?
"Yes, all the way to,.." The voice went on
but it was too
low and the words too incoherent for the man to under
stand. . -
. was .
r
The long night

Pudgy fingers tightened about the wheel. The fat man
was
conscious of fear mounting within him. Had he got into
more than he'd bargained for? He'd come close to it
onee or
twice before in picking up the wrong kind. But it was
worse
now with only mountains and desert country ahead, for
to
save time he had picked a road that was little used.
The
night would be a long one. He felt the weight of the
revolver
in his pocket. At least he could count on that for
help, if he
needed it.
An hour passed, and then another. The fat man
kept talk
ing, as much to keep himself wide awake as
to endure his
fear. But McGregor never said a word. The kid's
eyes were
closed yet he wasn't sleeping, his breathing was not
regular
enough for that. The man told himself he was only exagger
ating his situation. There was nothing to fear.
McGregor
might be running from something, but he was unarmed and
only a boy. Yet his body was lean and lithe
and-powerful,
that of a born athlete. It was then that the man dedded
he
would not pull up to the side of the road for an hour's
sleep,
as wai his usual custom, before going on.
For several more hours he skilfully guided the
plunging,
powerful car through mountainous country. He was Well
into Arizona when his eyes became so heavy that he was
hardly able to hold them open. If he had been
alone, he
would have stopped, for it was time to rest a while.
The clock said almost one o'dock. He turned on
the radio,
hoping the loud dance music would keep him awake and
alert. McGregbr stirred. Glancing at him, the
fat man saw
the kid's hand go to his pocket. Heeasaw the
bulge. McGregor
had his hand on something! A gun? Could the kid have a
gun there? He reached for his own. "What are you
doing, McGre
gor? What do you have in your pocket"...*
The boy's eyes were furtive. "n-nqthingea'he
said.
'Play square with me," the fat man said.
r
lf I hadn't picked
you up..." The music blared, drowning out his words,
and
then became softer. 'allyou pull a gun on me, and
I'll put" this
car into that ravine. It'll be the end of botfi of
us." .
"No gunea'the boy said. He held the dark-stained
money on
his hand for the fat man to see.
The big shoulders relaxed behind the wheel. The man
turned his eyes away. That's a tot of
money." He said just
that,, and nothing more. Where the kid had got it was none of
his business. "Stay out of thst he told himself.
'Get rid
of
him as soon as you can."
He concentrated on his driving. He took the car
down the last mountainside with the rush of a toboggan.
Going across
a. great ope tilde h stretch of land, he stepped
even harder upon
the accelerafor. He turned up the radio. Another
hour passed
and his heavy lids began dropping again in spite of
all he
could da. Finally he knew he had to close his
eyes, if only
for a few minutes. It was either that or fall asleep
behind the
: wheel.
Slowing the car, he said, "My eyes are tired.
I'm going to
rest them for a few minutes." He didn't know if
the boy
heard him.-It didn't matter. He had
to stop, and he had a gun
to protect himself.
: He kept the rear wheels of the convertible on the
road. He
had passed through this desert wasteland before, and knew
. what it dismeant to get his car stuck in the sand. He
wanted none of that tonight. He turned off the engine, but
not the
radio. He wouldn't sleep. He'd just close his
eyes, rest them
for a little-while.
The music stopped and the announcer disgave the time.
Two
o'clock. He adjusted the clock oa the dashboard. The
kid
was still huddled in the corner, his eyes closed. He
shut his
- own eyes. A moment passed, another; Or was it
an hour? Was he dreaming or did he hear a
voice sayingea"... south of
Salt Lake City. The three men were captured
an hour alter
the daring theft, but the boy who accompanied them es-
. concom taped the police. Also missing is the money,
taken horn the diner's cashier. The boy
is believed to have the money. His description is:
Between sixteen and eighteen years
of
age,
about five feet Gve inches, red hair, and
lightly built. He was
injured during the fight that took place in the diner.
He'll
have cuts and abrasions on face and body. The
Utah state
police..."
The fat man opened his eyes. He tinned, to find the
boy
listening and staring at him. "Get out," the man said.
"Stay outside the car until I'm ready to go.
I can't trust you
now
that I know what you're running from."
When the man was alone he locked the doors, telling
him
self that he didn't know anything for certain. The
boy might not be the same one they were looking for, even
though the description fitted, the money fitted. He
was just being care
ful. There was no sense taking any chances.
The kid might
lift his gun, that is, if it was the same kid. As
long as he
didn't get hurt himself, this was none of his business.
Turn
ing kids over to the police wasn't for him. Besides,
he was a
long way from Salt Lake City and Utah. He
didn't want to do anything that would keep him from his
work, his work
helping young people...
The fat man went to sleep, thus missing still another
news
announcement that had to do with another boy ...
"the
search through north-western Wyoming for Alec
Ramsay
and his famous black horse is
stiff
going on. Even
now,
during this, the second night, planes are circling
above the ranges, their pilots watching for a light, a
signal from Alec
Ramsay-to indicate that he's still
alive.
But
experienced
woodsmen are pessimistic over the chances of the
boy's
safety. They say the possibility of his
survival in that deso
late country is slight. However, Alec
Ramsay's fatherland
his close friend, the well-known trainer Henry
Dailey, refuse
to believe this. Mr. Dailey said only an
hour'ugo, "Alec
is
not
dead. If he was I'd feel it. A part of me would
have died
with him, and I'd know. That hasn't happened. He's
alive.
Somewhere out there he's alive for us to
find
him.""
The fat man snored through it all. When he
awakened,
hiseyes were rested, and he was ready to go
on. Opening thefar door, he said, "Get in now,
McGregor. I'll drop you off at
the next town. What you may have done is none of my
business.". .
From outside came only silence, the utter silence
of desert
wasallyes. He moved over to the window, and could see
nothing in the blackness. He got a flashlight, and
went out
side. But he could not find the boy.
"McGregor!" he shouted.
McGregor!" But only the far-off barking of a
coyote
answered his calls. He got back in the car, and
turned the ignition key. The engine roared, but still he
didn't put the
car in gear. He felt guilty about leaving the kid
behind. He
opened the door again to shout into the night; and then he
closed it hard.
He put the car in gear, and started moving. Why should
he
feel guilty? he asked himself. No reason at
all. Actually he
was giving the kid a break. He wasn't
turning him over to
the police, was he? And he could have done that. No,
instead
he was forgetting about this whole business. No one would
ever hear anything about McGregor from him. He Was
help
ing the kid along. He was giving him a break. He
was always
interested in helping kidsst helping young people. Wasn't
that what he always said?
The low and powerful convertible rushed across the great"
desert with more speed, than ever before. It seemed that the
fat man who guided it was running away from something,
too, even as his thqughts ran on: Poor
lad on the run. McGre
gor had picked the wrong time to leave. He should have
waited a few more hours. There's nothing but there where
he's going.
...
only sand. The poor, thieving kid.
He stumbled often, yet his eyes never left the long
black
mountain range rising ahead of him. There he would
find
seclusion and peace. Soon, he thought, he
would come to it,
not knowing that the haven that seemed so near was fifty
miles away. He realised he was in desert
country by the feel
of the sand on his bare feet, and beneath his hands when he
fell.
. For the first hour the going wasn't hard. The long car
ride
had fortified him and, although his head still throbbed,
hefelt none of the stabbing pains. Nor did he
feel any of the
loneliness that comes with such vast stretches of desert
wasallyes, nor any of the hopelessness. He was free
of the fat
man who would have turned him over to-the police.
Thesand was cold and comforting on hisstfeet. The wind was
cutting yet somehow it; too, comforted him. From far
away
came the deep mournful howl of a wolf on the
hunt, yet he
did not hear it. He was running away, and'his ears
were
closed to everything but the sound of his own steps as he
put comm distance between himself and those-who would pursue
him. i
Some time during the long hours that followed, his head
pains returned. It was then that he began crawling,
sometimes on hands and Knees but most often on his
stomach,
wriggling like a snake. Yet he kept going,
believing he would.
soon reach the mountains, and knowing that this night had
to come to an end, that it could not last forever. .
He was conscious of the coming of morning. The air was
clear ancf eold, but a redness showed from "behind the
walls of the eastern peaks, a redness that was growing
brighter and
brighter. For a moment he forgot his pain and agony to
watch the rising of the sun. He had lived in a world of
The black stallion revolts
darkness for so long. Now that it had ended he might be
able to remember all comt had happened to him before it
began.
The sun mounted, and he felt its early warmth. It
gave him new hope and encouragement to go on in
spite of his
pain. He staggered to his feet, only to find that the
moun
tains were no closer than they had been during the
night.
But soon, soon he would reach them. The dissun's
ruddiness
had transformed his world into one of red earth with bared,
golden rock exposed here and there to break up its
flatness.
Not far ahead he could see rolling terraces, even
low hills, of
purples and yellows. But the reds were there, too, the
blood-
reds of the desert. Beyond all these were the mountains,
their profiles clear and distinct in the early morning
light. He
stumbled forward, determined in spite of his pain to stay
on his feet, reach the mountains before another night
fell.
The sun climbed higher, and with its ascent the desert
changed. The air close to the earth moved, shifted,
and
finally began a dance of many colours. The boy
raised the
back of his hands frequently to wipe away great
drops of
sweat from his face. No longer could he see the
mountains,
only the dancing veils of purples and
pinks and yellows
above the blood-reds.
The desert was now showing itself to him for what it was,
a deadly land of intolerable heat, a land set apart from
the
rest of the world, and to be looked upon curiously from a
comsafe distance. He wanted to run and run, but he
could do neither. His jxxly seemed to be aflame with the
great waves of heat that enveloped him. He felt
no other pain but that which came from this inferno. He lost
all track of time, not knowing if he comcrawled or
lay* still, and not
caring.
A feeling of great peace and languor swept over
him. The desert became hazy, nothing real, nothing
important. He felt
blissfully happy and very, very sleepy. He tried
to raise one
hand to his face, but he couldn't move it. His hand was
too
heavy," too big. The whole world was growing
heavier.
-. -
,..--.

comJ
Strange awakening 71
bigger. He let his head rest cm the earth, that
blood-red earth.
'Soon I'll sleep," he said, "very soon
now, then everything
will be all right."
There was no beginning or end to his sleep. But at
some
point during this indefinite period he felt hands
upon him
again.
Always hands.
Was he never to be free of them?
Would they never leave him alone? Then he felt
something
cool and wet in his mouth, flowing down his throat,
quench
ing the fires burning within him. His thick lips
moved, and
he mumbled, *My name is McGregor."
At another point during this period he felt strong
arms
lifting him, carrying him. He didn't care, and
slipped back
quickly into his oblivion. At still another time he
felt a
movement beneath him, and his head seemed to be resting
against skin, a skin covered with coarse hair. But this
held
no interest for him, either.
There were other periods, many of them, some coming in quick
succession, and others at long intervals. The
nickering
of a fire ... a glow in the dark ... squinting
eyes and then
blackness engulfing him once more. The hands coming again
... the hands
always .
.. holding his head, and bringing
wetness and comfort, lifting him, carrying him to the coarse
hahCan Again movement, periods of never-ending
movement,
periods of silence and stillness.
Towards the end of his oblivion, he became aware
of the hoofed feet beneath him and knew he was being carried
by
an animal. He tried lifting his head from the bobbing
neck,
but hands from the side gently restrained him.
'Stay down," a voice said.
It was easy to do as he was told. He knew he
did not have
the strength to raise his head. He sank back
into his dark
ness, remembering only that the voice had been
soft, and the
hands gentle,"
It was night when he opened his eyes again. He saw
the
flaring of the fire from where he lay and then, coming
within its brightness, a man's silhouette. 'My name
is McGre
gor," he said.
The voice, the gentle voice, came out of the night.
"I know His
it is. You've told me so many tunes."
He felt the spoon between his teeth. He felt the
warmth of the liquid flowing down his throat. He
opened his mouth for
more and more, and he was not disappointed. Finally he
heard the voice again. 'Go to sleep now. We'll
he travelling
again hi a little while."
He did as he was told, and soon he
felt the hands go about
him, carrying him to the animal. Once more they began,
moving.- . , . .
. When next he opened his eyes, it was late
morning. Ahead
were the mountains, boldly defined, but still in the distance.
He knew he was in the foothills, that the desert
had been left
disbbh. He knew it by the gentle ascent of the land, and the
scattered oak trees. He knew it by the small
yet frequent
currents of cool air that penetrated the dinging
furnace-like
heat of the desert. He knew it by the sweet smells
of the pine
trees, brought down by these air currents from the high
country. He felt hope and life stir within him.
The foothills
did this for him, the foothills together with the kind hands
and voice at his side.
He was aware of many things that day. He learned it was
a burro he rode. He knew this by the long ears that
flopped
. just above his head. He learned, tooea.t the man
walked
close beside him but a little to the rear, steadying his body
to
keep it on the burro's back. He could not see
him. .
For hours the trail wound disupward. The hills
grew bigger
and the trees more numerous. The sun was warm and
drowsy, but no dislonger hot. The air became sharp
and dear.
Above, and still far away, were the mountains, their hardsharp
surfaces brilliant beneath a doudless sky. The
boylooked upon all this until he could hold his
eyes open no
longer, and then slept."
When he awakened, they were in the high pines. The
" ground was no longer covered with brown brush but with
emerald-green grass. They crossed a small
open meadow
that swept up to the deep refreshing shadows of the
pines.
They entered the woods again, and the trail became one of
velvet needles that muffled the sound of the burro's
hoofs
and the man's feet.
They
continued ever upward, sometimes
passing through more open meadows and valleys, but
mostly through the long aisles of the great pines.
He was hajf-asleep, half-awake during the rest
of the
afternoon. He was conscious always of the sweet smell of
the tall trees, and the wind that played like a great
organ
through their tops. The air was cold, and it seemed that
he -
would never get enough of it.
It was almost sunset when they came to another open
meadow, no larger or smaller than many they had
left
behind them. In the centre was a cottage. Large
patches of
brilliantly Coloured flowers grew behind the
picket fence
that encircled it. A" they neared the cottage, the
cold air
carried the perfumed scents of the flowers to theljoy.
They
crossed a shallow, rushing brook, and down in the
shadows
of the trees a startled deer stopped drinking.
He raisedeahis
head to look at them, then bounded away into the woods.
They came to a stop before the fence, and the gentle voice
said, "We're home now."
Strong arms lifted him off the burro's back, and
he tried to
tell this man that 'he needn't be carried, that he would
walk.
v
But he found he could not move his tongue to form the
words, disandthe effort only served to make, his head
throb again. He was carried into the cottage, his lips
moving but
v
making no sound. He was placed down on something, and
by Its softness he-knew it had to be a bed.
Hefelt the man's
bands again as the blankets were pulled over him.
Once -
more the voice came.. 'Go to sleep now. If s
been long and
hard. You'll feel..."
He went to sleep, the first peaceful sleep he
Had. ever
known.east
The night passed, and then came another day.
Another
night, another day. He was well aware now of the
passing of
time. He knew the days by the bright sun, coming through
the white-curtained window at the foot of his bed.
He kneVery
the nights. They never held total blackness any
more.
Always a lamp burned in the other room. Beneath it he
sometimes saw the man. He knew him now, knew that
his
hands were not only kind but long-fingered and deeply
tanned, like his face. The man was very tall and leanly
built,
and his eyes, beneath bushy sun-whitened brows, were keen
and dear..
The morning finally came when he realised he was
getting
well. He awakened to find that his head no longer
throbbed and that the swelling was down. But it was still
sensitive to
his Touch so he let it alone. Finally he formed words
with his
lips, and then tried whispering to himself. His
sentences
came forth the way-he wanted them said, coherent and
comunderstandable.
He looked around the'room, actually seeing it for the
first
- time. He noticed the dean, white curtains
hung m every
window, the deep-red carpet on the floor, the
chairs of many
brilliant colours, and the dresser with its tidy
doth. He saw "the hairbrush and comb, die shaving
cream and lotions, all
heady placed on the dresser. Beyond in the open
closet, were
flannel shirts and worn leather jackets,
wide-rimmed
sombreros, and sallyout high-laced boots. Hanging
high on the
back wall were many ropes and rifles.
The dothing and the equipment belonged to a man who,
with, his burro, travelled in ever-changing
altitudes
through hot, arid foothills and the desert, through the
cold
of the high country. Somehow they did not go with
this
x
room, this dean, orderly room of clashing,
brilliant colours.
The door opened and the man stood there. *How do you
feel this morning? Betterr
Yes, better. I think I'm all right." .
"Fine! I was figuring on that. I have a good
breakfast
ready-for you. If 11 really fix you up."
The man left, yet his voice stayed in the room.
It was a low, cultured voice. It belonged to this
orderly room, and
not to a desert wanderer. He had been wearing a white
shirt and tie, well-pressed trousers, and soft
slippers. Waffthis the
man who had walked endless miles beside him under the
hot
sun of the desert?
The man returned, carrying a breakfast tray which
he
placed on the bedside table. He propped pillows
behind the
boy, and then transferred the tray to the bed. Two
fried
eggs, crisp bacon, toast and marmalade. "Go
ahead and eat," -
he said. "I guess you can do it without my help this
morning."
He smiled. It was a warm, good smile, disclosing
even, white
x
teeth. He looked younger than he was, nearer forty
than
close to
sixty,
which was probably his real age. *Eggs from my own
chickensst he said, laid fresh this morning for you."
He pulled up a chair to the bed, his eyes resting a
moment on
the yellow fabric that covered the chair's straight
disback.
What colour is this, anyway?

he asked suddenly.
Colour? I -- it's yellow."
The man laughed. "I bought it for a brown one.
That's
what they told me at the store it was. I'm
colour blind. Blind
as a bat to colours." He met the boy's eyes.
"Go ahead and
eat, McGregor. I'll keep quiet for a
while, if my talking
bothers you. But you see, I don't have many
guests". Maybe

just two or three in the
sx
years I've been here." He paused.
'And I forgot to ask my other guests about the colour
of
these chairs."
*But how do you know my name is McGregor?"'
You must have told me so at least a hundred times
during
the past week." The tall man smiled.
"Mine's Gordon."
I've been with you a week"...*
"Yes, a week since we picked you up."
- "Goldie and I," the man said.
"GoldieVmy burro, my pal."
He paused, the tiny creases at the corners of his
dear eyes
crinkling again. His full name is Black
Gold. I named him
after a winner of
the
Kentucky Derby. The only Derby I've
seen run." "dis,
Black Gold. Kentucky Derby.
The boy felt his mind grop
ing, trying to respond to these names. He shut his
eyes,
hoping to help himself, hoping to overcome the mental
bar-
.76
The black stallion revolts
* .
Tier
that would not permit his memory to return. His face
whitened at his great effort, and then suddenly saddened.
He
knew he was beaten, that it was still too early, that it would
take time, perhaps a long time, before he'd be able
to remem-
. ber anything. He opened his eyes and met the
man's gaze.
Ttoes your head still hurt?"' Gordon asked.
"No... it isn't that."
Then you're worrying more about what you don't know
is true," Gordon said. You forget all that,
McGregor, and
you'll get well a lot faster."
The boy's eyes were alive with fear. He wanted
to run
again. 'I com1 don't know what you mean," he said.
Gordon rose to his feet, standing tall, and lean
above the
bed. You- told me everything in your delirium,"
he said
quietly. 'allyou think the Utah state police are
after you. You
think you're wanted by them, for robbery, and you're run
ning, away. Maybe they are after you. I don't
know. But
jthen you don't know for certain, either. You've been
hurt so
you can't remember anything..,
even your name.
You said you assumed the name McGregor. So, I
wouldn't jump to
any conclusions now, if I were you. There'll be time enough
. for all that later. Just figure on getting well.
After that, you
can make your own decision about what to do."
He walked over to the high dresser and, opening the
top
right-hand drawer, removed an envelope. Inside was
the
blood-stained money. "It's all here," he said.
"Let it stay here,
and forget about it until you're well. If you know then
if s
not yours, you can decide for yourself the right thing to do.
But don't convict yourself before you know for certain
you've committed a crime. Your big job is to get
well, and
Jiving with a guilt Complex won't help you do
it."
He went to the door. "And don't worry so much
about
assuming another name, McGregorst he said.
'Names don't
mean anything in this country. One's as good as another.
Keep McGregor. It's a good one. So is
Gordon... and t*ness
not my right name, either." Smiling, he closed the
door,
behind him, leaving the boy alone. ,
During the week that followed, the boy learned all
he
needed to know about Gordon. Actually the man's first
name was Gordon; his last name was Davis. But he
had not used the latter in the six years he had been
living in the pine
country. There, was no sinister reason for the omission.
Gordon simply wanted to break away completely
from the
old life and habits of one Gordon greater-than
Davis.
He had talked a great deal that week, as though most
happy to have a guest in his home.
- "A few years ago I wouldn't have told this
to anyone. I
comdidn't even think about it," he said. "I
wanted nothing to
remind me of Hollywood. I halted the sound of
my own
name. I more than hated it. I was afraid of
it. Gordon Davis,
managing editor of that slick, pseudo-glamour
movie maga
zine
Seeing
Stars! I can say it now, and it doesn't bother me
at all. I know that life's all over for me. But
what the devil,
'the name Gordon alone is good enough." He
laughed. "In
fact* I don't even need that much.'It
doesn't matter around
here. Over at the general store in Leesburg they
call me "Slim, the Burro Man". That's enough
identification for
anyone around these parts.
. 'I went to work on Seeing Stars at the age of
fourteen, and
- thirty years later became editor. I spent
ten more years on that job before chucking the whole thing.
I was sick of the business, sick of Hollywood,
sick of the world. I guess rfl
felt that way for years, but never had the gumption to do
anything about it. One day my secretary hands me
A
deed to
an acre of land. "Look," she says, "what the
publicity de
partment of that movie epic Sea of Pines has come
up with.
They've given you an acre of pine woodland in
Arizona!"
'Well, sure enough, That s exactly what those
guys had
yand The black stallion revolts
done to publicize their forthcoming picture,"
Gordon con
tinued. "And there's no telling how many newspaper
and magazine editors in the country got deeds like
mine." He
smiled. "But I think I'm the only one who paid
my taxes on
the property, and then finally moved off to live on it.
I've
never had a moment's regret. Oh, it wasn't
easy at first, but before long I had it like I wanted
it. So now I'm happy and
set in my ways just like any old city bachelor,
only I'm up
here in the pines and alone. I like being alone. I'll
always like
it after what I've gone through in Hollywood.
I've got a
town, this Leesburg, just over the mountain range.
It's close
. enough, twenty-one miles through the Cut. I get
to town may
be once a month for supplies, less often if I
can manage it.
The rest of the time I spend right around here, taking care
of myself, the house, old Goldie and my flowers.
I guess
you're kind of surprised at my having so many
flowers, now
that you know I'm colour-blind. But there's nothing wrong
with my nose. I can still smell. And that makes up for
my
not being able to appreciate their beauty.
'Of course I'm away a lot, too. Goldie
and I know our way -
around most of these woods, the mountains and the desert
country. We go out prospecting for gold and
silver."
Gordon's clear eyes were always bright when he
spoke of
his journeys. "I'm no hermit, but a
prospector,. Think of me
as that, McGregor." And then he would go on,
spending
hours telling of his far wanderings through high and
low
country, searching for his elusive strike. There was a
time
comin a deep canyon I call the Gory Rut
that.... and another
time over beyond the Red Monument... then back a few
years ago I spent a month on Buckskin
Ridge and there
but you can't ignore the desert so let me tell you
about the
time..."
For most of the week the boy listened to Gordon tell
in
detail of his years on the trail with Goldie.
He listened, and
forgot for a while his own problems in the story of the
man's quest for gold and silver. But at last he
came to realise
that Gordon actually cared nothing at all about
acquiring
new wealth. His interest was in the constant search that
took him away even from the simple comforts he had
here
in his meadow home, an endless search that led through
canyons, gorges and valleys, across
wastelands, woods and
ridges. All these mysterious, unTouched lands
Gordon loved.
He was anxious to see them with his own eyes, and then
to
look at what lay beyond.
But the following week Gordon spoke little of himself,
his
journeys or his life in the pines. It was as if he
had talked his
fill, and now wanted to be left alone again. Once
he even forgot why the boy was there, for he said, Your
face is
familiar, McGregor. Have you ever been in
Hollywood?

Not
until he saw the whiteness come to the boy's face
did he
remember. Not until he heard him say"'st
don't
know* did he
mumble an abrupt apology for his own forgetfulness,
and go outside to tend to his flowers.
It was during this week that the boy was most
miserable.
His body had regained its-strength'and he felt
completely well except for the headaches that came
perhaps once or twice a day to remind him of his
injury. But he lived with
the bitter torment that while his physical condition had
im
proved considerably his mind hadn't There was no
sign of
mental' recovery, nothing that encouraged him to think,
to
hope that jn time his memory would return.
Conscious of the boy's mental agony, Gordon
tried to do
everything he could to help him. He talked a little more
during the week that'followed. Again he veered from the
set
pattern of his bachelor life to make the boy more
comfort
able. He offered him his bed again instead of sleeping on
the
living-room sofa. But the boy refused. Gordon
told him
every night to use- the big leather chair in the
living-room,
and to feel free to read any of his books. But always
the boy
refusedea.saying that he was all right, that he didn't
want to
comget in the way at all, and that he appreciated
everything
Gordon had done for him. . . backslash . "
His
So Gordon resigned himself to helping the boy in the
only
way left. He spent longer hours in the kitchen,
cooking the
most nourishing meals he, knew ... stewed young
chicken
with hot broth and potatoes and green vegetables,
roast
lamb and beef and salads ... meals such as one would
get
only in fine restaurants and good homes. He
set these dishes
down on dean tablecloths, urging the boy to eat
everything
before him.
One night he said, "You must face the fact that
you've
suffered a head concussion, and That s been followed
by am-
nesia. I suppose it's only because you were in fine
physical
shape that you were able to get along without medical atten
tion. Now you're on the way to complete recovery.
But tomake it come even faster you've got to have
plenty 6f rest
and nourishment. That's all any doctor would tell
you, I'm
sure.".
What good is my being physically well, if I
can't
remem
ber?
MacGregor asked bitterly.
'allyour memory will come back, too, if you're
healthy and
want it back."
"Want it back?"' A thin smile crept on the
boy's face.
'Don't you think l do?
The man looked at McGregor a long while, and
then said, "Yes.. disyes,. I guess you do, at
that." He turned away guiltily.
The last few days I got to thinking that maybe you
didn't want to regain your memory," he
admitted. I've heard of some people creating a mental
block because they don't want to remember their past"
He met the boy's eyes again,
those tragic, saddened eyes. "I was wrong," he
said. were
You were thinking of the money in the dresser," McGre-
gor said accusingly. You thought that since the police
are after me ..." He paused. ."...I want
to remember everything," he began again, heatedly.
"I don't care what i happens to me after that,
I can face it then. You've got to
," believe that."
'I believe you, and if you want your memory back
if 11
come."
"But how? What good is my wanting it back, if the
barrier
is always there?"'
'It's half the jobst the man said. The other half
is complete
physical recovery from your injuryst
The boy smile bitterly. Then I should be
completely well,"
he said. "I feel fine."
- "No, it isn't that fast. You have to work for it.
There are steps you must take."
"Steps?
Yes, steps. Your body, your hands must have been
trained
to do something. Start using them, and maybe you'll find
out.
what it was. Something you do should come easier, more
natural to you than, anything else. Pursue
whatever that is,
and perhaps the association of this and what comes from
it will make something else more familiar. Follow that
line and somewhere along it you should get your memory
back."
Gordon left the room. He returned a moment
later, carry- , ing a rifle which he handed to the
boy. "Let's see you hold it,
fed xst he said abruptly.
The boy's hands slid down the long barrel. The
rifle was
light in his hands but there was nothing familiar about it.
Instead he lifted it awkwardly to his shoulder.
Seeing this, Gordon quickly took the rifle away
from him.
You sure never handled a rifle much," he said.
Then he
pushed something-else into-the boy's hand, his eyes
intent,,
watching every move.
The boy looked down at the small revolver, and,
was
afraid to close his fingers about it. He was afraid
because of
what he might learn. But finally he made himself
grasp it. He
felt the polished butt in the palm of his right hand, the
trigger beneath his finger. He raised it, sighting it.
You've closed the wrong eyest Gordon said.
"Keep them both open or just close the left
one." Then he took back the
revolver, making no effort to conceal his relief at
the boy's
being no more familiar with the revolver than with the rifle.
He smiled. "Whatever you've done hasn't been in
this linest
he said. That's good to know."
The days this at followed were easier for McGregor.
He had
some kind of plan now, and it was far better
than just sitting
around the house, waiting for the black mental curtain
to
rise.
He worked with the flowers and plants, cutting them back
and planting new ones. He spaded the earth, and
rubbed the
dirt in his hands, hoping that just the feel of it would
awaken some remembrance of similar activity. He
brought
the dirt close to his nose, smelling it as he
did the flowers.
But the moist earth, the perfume-scented flowers did
nothing
for him, awakened nothing.
His nights were spent reading the many books in
Gordon's
dislibrary, hoping that some page, perhaps just a single sen
tence would provide him with a key that would open other
doors now so securely locked.
One afternoon, thinking the fishing rod he held in'his
hands felt a little familiar, he went to the meadow
stream.
Walking along, he found a black pool where fish
swarmed in the depths. He found himself
shortening tilde his line) and some
how the leader and the fly seemed familiar, too. He
must
. have fished before, and within him rose a keen sense of
an
ticipation, of frenzied hope. Maybe here was his
key! He slid
down the steep grassy bank, and then stopped. He
drew his
arm back, his wrist snapped. The reel whirled beneath
hjs
thumb. He had cast easily. He had fished before!
There was
no doubt of it! The fly rested but a second on the
surface of the stream, and then came a flash of a
white body from the
deep- blackness. He felt the fish strike, but
he was hardly
conscious of the fight to land it.
Later-he held his catch in his hands, looking at it
as if heexpected the fish to speak and. tell him who
he really was.
He sat there until the stream became dark in the
deep
disshadows of the setting sun. Finally he gqt
to his feet, and
started back for the cottage. He had found something he
had
done"...bbf He had found a key but
it bad opened no other
floors.
A feeling of bitterness, of utter defeat and hope
lessness walked with him. Nothing would change, ever
change, for him.. -
*j
The next few days he did nothing. Gordon
watched him
and offered no sympathy. This is your fight,
McGregor the
man said. "No one can help you but yourself." The boy
re
mained silent-
Early the following week Gordon said, "I'm
going to townfor supplies. You can Come or stay here just
as you like." He
didn't meet the boy's eyes.-
McGregor knew it was time to go, that Gordon had
had' enough of playing host and friend and nursemaid to him.
less-than Gordon wanted to be left alone,
to live the quiet, secluded
life he had chosen for himself six years ago.
" ."
I'll go with yea"he said.
Surprised, the man looked up. 'It's an
all-day trip," he said,
"and you'll have to walk. Goldie will be carrying some
books
I'm mailing back to a friend in Californiast
McGregor carried his breakfast dishes to the sink.
'I've .
walked before," he said, and then his eyes dropped
to die
high boots he wore. I'll have to keep these,"
he added, 'and
your clothes. But some day "dis.""
You're coming back with me. You're welcome here.*
,
The boy washed the dishes. 'ationo, you've done enough;
Z.
you said the other night, it's my figEt. No one can
help me but myself."
"I didn't mean it the way it must have sounded to you,
McGregor."" . .
?"'"
'It sounded all right. It still makes
sense. I'll find a way
out."
There's not much to do in Leesburg. If s pretty
small."
Then I'll go on until I find work."
You got that money to help..." Gordon stopped
abruptly
when the boy turned and faced him. tilde .
'Keep it," McGregor said. "I don't
even want to think about
it now. Later, when I learn..."
:
The tall man stood up. "All right, if you
want it that way.
It'll be here when you decide what to do with it." He
went to
the sink, and together they finished the dishes in silence.
Goldie stood still, awaiting his pack-Gordon
fondled die
burro's head, but his eyes were inquisitively
watching the
boy. McGregor had gone for the hobbled burro at
the far end
of the meadow. He had taken the halter and put it on
Goldie
before
taking off the burro's hobbles.
"Perhaps," Gordon thought, "I'm putting too
much em
phasis on this. But remember my first time with
Goldie?
Tenderfoot that I was, 1 went and freed
Goldie of his His
hobbles, and then tried to get the halter on him. I
chased him
for an hour, and never would have caught him without
help."
He watched McGregor run the currycomb and
brush over
Goldie, cleaning the burro's long hair until
it shone in the
sun. And then the kid took the saddle blankets,
placing them
carefully upon Goldie's back, making certain they
were
smoothly folded so there would be no chafing. Next
came the
pack saddle. Gordon hung, back, helping
only a little, his
eyes never leaving the boy's hands. The kid
was just as careful with the saddle as he had been with the
blankets. McGre
gor got it in place and then buckled the girth
straps, not too
tight, not too loose. His hands moved quickly,
surely. The
kid had saddled before, and often. There could be no doubt
of this. Yet McGregor wasn't even aware of that
his hands
were telling him. He was too busy at his job.
Only" when the pack itself was placed on Goldie's
back did
the boy hesitate and fumble. Gordon went to work
then,
drawing the pack ropes tight and fastening the boxes
firmly
so they wouldn't slip. 'ationothing is worse that a
loose hitchst
he said. 'If the pack slides or comes apart,
Goldie will take
off. and we'll be all day trailing him and picking
up the books
from the mountainside." His hands moved expertly, and
his
eyes were bright with his pride in a packer's
art For a while he forgot the toy who was watching him.
They were well on their way through the pines when
Gordon got to thinking again of McGregor's
skill in
handling
and saddling Goldie! Yet he hesitated to mention
it The kid
had learned he had fished before, but it hadn't helped.
In
fact, it had made things worse. McGregor
expected too
much too fast. So Gordon decided to say nothing
about it.
More than an hour later, the boy said, "I've
been thinking
about Goldies" name. I mean his full name.
Black Gold'
was Gordon didn't turn back to look at him.
"Why? What's
wrong with it?"-
There's nothing wrong with it. You say Black Gold
won
the Kentucky Derby
T
Yes, some years back?
The boy remained silent for a long while so
Gordon spoke
again. 'I guess I didn't tell you that I'm
interested-in the
thoroughbred. Or at least I was before coming here.
Don't
have much chance to follow the breed now."
The thoroughbred?"'
*allyes, that's what I said... the race horse, the
horse that's
been bred to race for centuries, not the quarter
horse they have in this state and that they're trying to make
into race horses. Luckily, I don't see much
of people around here.
v
The way I feel about the thoroughbred and they feel
about
their quarter horse only makes for an argument.
Oh, don't
get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with their horses,
if
they use them for what they've been developed to do, and
don't make unjustified claims as to their racing
ability. Sure, his
they're fast up to a quarter of mile, and
once in a while a
furlong farther. They're handy and quick and easy to
handle. They're the ideal
working Cow pony.
The best
pi
them do have some thoroughbred or standard bred or
Morgan blood in them, if you trace back their
blood-lines. But to hear some of the folks talk in
Leesburg, the quarter
horse is a
breed of.
long standing. He isn't at all, he's a
type of
horse that's been developed to work the range.
He's no race*
horse."
The boy spoke, his voice hesitant as if he were
a little,
unsure of himself. "You can't blame people for loving
any
kind of a race, no matter how long or how short,
and for
loving their horses regardless of type or breed."
backslash
Gordon turned) his eyes studying the boy's
face. He re-,
membered again McGregor's hands as he had saddled
Goldie,
and now the kid had spoken of people's love for racing with
an understanding that couldn't be ignored. No doubt about
it, the kid had had something to do with horses at one time
or another; And come to think of it, he had the build
of a born rider. Gordon turned again to the trail
ahead, but his eyes lost none of their thoughtfulness.
Sometime, somewhere, he'd seen this kid Where? Anything
to do with horses? Couldn't be. He'd been here for
six years, and the few horses he'd seen were the Cow
ponies in Leesburg. It
wasn't here. He was certain of that. And there was no
sense
in thinking back six years to the California
tracks, for the
kid was too young for that. How about the magazines? How
about the issues of
Thoroughbred Record
that Lew Miller
had sent him a year ago, and which he"comd read and
returned?
Could he have seen a picture of the kid in
one of them?
finally he said, I'll bet you'll find you like
horses, McGre-
gor."
- 'I like Goldie, anyway," the boy replied.
They crossed a meadow, and then the trail descended
into -
a long valley. They were nearing the mountain range.
"Maybe you can get a job near Leesburg,"
Gordon said
thoughtfully. There's a man named Allen you might
get
along with pretty well. He's an Easterner and
brought some'
friends along with him to settle down here. Three years
ago
it Was, and he and his pals have been playing cowboy
ever
since." He laughed. 'But I guess I can't
criticise them too much for that For six years
I've been playing prospector.
Anyway, this felloWill Allen had the money to buy
up the best
water and grazing land in the Leesburg area. He's
got cattle
and quarter Horses. Just now he's more interested in the
horses. He's got the three-year-old champ at
three hundred
yards... won with him last year. Since then he's
been walk
ing around town like he owned Satan."
Satan?"'
-
'Gordon turned at the sudden intensity of the boy's
voice." He saw the white face, skin drawn
tight, and the eyes that
I reflected conflicting emotions. An awareness of
something
familiar was there at first, then came a groping, a
groping
for identity. Finally the eyes were filled with deep
sadness as
the boy lost his mental fight.
Gordon spoke softly. "Satan is a race
horse," he said, "a
champion in his day."
"I know,"" the boy said. "Somehow I know. But
why?
He
put a hand to his head.
'allyou got your headache back"...*
Just a little. It'll go away."
"We'll take a rest before we got through the
Cutea* Gordon
said. "It'll make it easier for you."
He decided to speak no more about horses. But when
he
got to town he'd drop a line to Lew Miller,
asking him to.
send another batch of the
Thoroughbred Record
for him to
read. Maybe he'd find something in them that would give
him a due to the boy's identity. But what about the
blood
stained money back at the cottage? What good would
it do
to be able to tell the boy who he was, if it meant
that he was
wanted by the police for the Utah-robbery? And what
good
would it do him? He wouldn't rest very easy, knowing for
certain that he had harboured a fugitive, that he had
known his whereabouts all along without telling the
authoriti
es. Perhaps it would be best to stay out of thjs-altogether
from now on. Just try to get the kid a job at the
Allen ranch,
and then go home and take up where he'd left off before
the boy came. It was the easiest way.
So, with McGregor following him, Gordon led his
burro-
down the long valley at tilde the foot of the
mountains. Heeadid*

not know, because he had no radio, of the futile search
still
going on in northern Wyoming for Alec Ramsay,
who had
ridden Satan in some of his greatest triumphs. A
heart-
breaking search that now had been forsaken by all save a
small, private land party organised by Henry
Dailey, who
refused to give up because
"Alec is not dead. If he was I'd feel
it. A part of me would begone, would have died with him,
and I'd know
..."
And far from Wyoming, too, grazed a tall
black stallion.
the sire of Satan. He wasn't the Black of
four weeks ago.
Now his fine mane and tail were matted and heavy with
burrs, brush, and pine needles. His unshod hoofs
were worn
and hard from running at top speed over rocks,
boulders and
sagebrush. He had learned to run lightly, making
scarcely a
sound no matter what the terrain might be. His great
body ,was torn and scarred from the rakings of
savage teeth and
daws. Yet he had survived his terrible
battles, and now, shining in his eyes, was the wild
look of an animal who
knew desolate country, and feared neither it nor
man nor
beast. His body was thin yet hard from spending weeks
on .
the short forage of the high mountain country. In spite
of his,
ragged appearance, his wind and endurance were of the best. -
Now he stopped grazing to sniff the wind. Then he
whistled, and startedjiis band travelling again.
The mares
moved at his command... the sorrels, bays,
piebalds, buck
skins and palominos. Some of them were wild mustangs
Who had never known the Touch of man, others wore the
brands of ranches in Wyoming, Utah and Arizona.
They
were less than a hundred miles from where Gordon
and the
boy called McGregor stopped to rest before entering
the
mountain pass that would take them to Leesburg.
Gordon spoke no more about horses. He had
dropped the
subject, and did npt mean to bring it up again.
Nor was the
boy anxious to pursue it. The long hike had
brought back his
headache, and he wanted only to rest, hoping to get
rid of
his pain again.
For half an hour they sat before the Cut, and then
McGre-gor got to his feet. 'I'm ready if
you are," he said.
"Headache gone?

-
.mcGregor nodded. Gordon rose, taking
hold of his burro.
He didn't need to tell the kid that the roughest part
of the trip was still ahead of them. McGregor could see
that for
himself. For five more hours the trail would be
back-breaking but safe. They would climb two thousand
feet, and.then
drop four thousand. There would probably be a bear
or two to contend with somewhere on the trail, for the Cut
was the
easiest pass across this range, and bears were the most
skilled of all animals in finding the least
difficult route. Gordon held
his rifle ready.
They went slowly up the steep ascent, stopping every
half-hour to rest a few minutes before going on again.
They
were hemmed in by cliffs thousands of

feet high, the air became thinner, and their breathing more
laboured. They
saw a bear feeding and Gordon used his
rifle at a distance of
three dishundred yards and missed. From then oh they were
constantly on the look-out for disthe bear, but he never
re- His
appeared. As they continued climbing, the very tops of the
cliffs came down to meet them, and soon they seemed
to " close beneath the sky.
They rested again at the summit of the Cut. They sat
on
rocks with tumultuous boulders and slabs of sheer
stone all
around them. But above and beyond rose the giant peaks,
-

TbeWackstallionrevolts
calmccand stately in the peaceful stillness of the upper
air.
They didn't speak. Gordon only nodded towards
the drop
in the trail ahead of them, and the boy understood. From
now: on they'd be going down. The worst was behind them.
They sat for a long while in the mountain silence. There
was a wind but it passed over bare rock and made no
noise.
It could move nothing up here.
Finally they began their descent. The trail was
steep, and
all their efforts now were bent in holding'themvs'back
from going too fast and slipping on the loose shale
beneath
their feet. Once more the walls of the high crevice
closed in
about them, shutting out the sky except for a narrow strip
of light at the very
tap.
For three more hours the trail con
tinued to be steep, hard and long, and then with startling
abruptness the crevice came to an end. They
emerged upon a
bright sunlit plateau. Far in the distance, and across this
broad strip of flat, open land, were other ranges.
Mountains
edged the plateau on all sides except to the south,
where
only in the great distances could lofty peaks be seen
again.
The air was warm, having none of the coolness and sweet
ness of the high pines. But it was not the heat of the low
country and desert. Mountain quail rose from the
brown
grasses and grey brush, startled'by their
approach. Here was
waterless discountry, and Gordon, loving the green
meadows
of his pines with their swift-rushing mountain brooks,
told
McGregor, This tableland has never been for me.
One look
at it and I'm always anxious to pick up my
supplies at the
store, and get back home,"
For two more hours they travelled-across the plateau,
their" feet and Goldie's hoofs sending up dust that
dung to
the warm air for some time before settling over then*
tracks.
Finally they reached a dirt road which came from the moun
tain foothills to the north and continued across the
plateau
to Leesburg; They had walked it for an hour when the
boy
said, *My headache's back. Could we rest a
couple ofminutes"...*. v backslash
They sat down by the side of the road. A few
miles ahead
was Leesburg, "Don't go expecting much,"
Gordon warned.
" There's a general store, a few houses, and a
hotel. Leesburg sets in the middle of nowhere;
and as far as I can see has tilde no
reason for being except for the likes of myself... and the
Allen ranch," he added as an afterthought.
From the direction of the northern foothills came a
small,
open truck. Gordon said, "It's
Cruikshank. Maybe he'll
give you a ride into town. It'll save you walking
a few
miles."
The truck was still more than a mile from them, but
Gordon got to his feet. "Don't figure
on the ride until you getit," he said.
"Cruikshank is a peculiar guy. He might
not even
slow down for us. He's a horse trader, but with
nothing ever
good to trade. He's been in these parts, living up in
the foot
hills there, for twenty or more years, I hear.
He's always
been after the ranch property Allen has now, but
never had
enough money to swing the deal. Consequently, he's been
, bitter towards anyone who has ever owned the
ranch. Now.
it's Allen's turn. I heard he's uglier
towards Allen than he's
been with any of the other ranch owners. I suppose
Thats
because Allen is an Easterner. Or maybe it's because
Cruik
shank is getting older, and still isn't any closer
to buying
good pastureland for his horses than he was twenty
years
ago. He knows everyone in town dislikes him for his
bit
terness, and now he's blaming Allen for it. But
Allen hardly
knows the guy is alive. Allen's too busy
minding his own.
business to pay any attention to what people, even
Cruik
shank, think of him."-
The boy suddenly got to his feet.
"Cruikshank is pulling
something behind the truck. Doesn't it look like a
horse to
y"...tilde ?"
"I thought it was just the dust from his wheels, but now
that you mention it..." .
His"dis-"
The truck had reached a turn in the road. Behind and
just
a little to the left of the truck they were now able to see a
was tied horse. He was galloping hard to keep up
with the speed
ing truck. He disslipped coming off the turn, and the
dust
behind him billowed greater than ever as his haunches
scraped the road. Somehow he managed to get his
hind legs
beneath him again. The truck increased its speed, and the
horse was unable to keep up with it. He fell again.
"He's being dragged to his death!" Gordon
exclaimed. But
he found he was speaking to himself. The boy had left his
side, and was running down the road towards the
truck. He shouted to him, but McGregor kept
running.
The boy found himself nearing the truck without know
ing exactly what he intended to do. He had acted
strictly on impulse. He waited until the
truck was only a few feet from him, uaI'll he
heard the sudden drag of wheels as the brakes
were jammed on, and then he flung himself to the side of the
road to avoid being hit. He landed on his hands and
knees.
He saw the angry face within the cab, and heard the
oaths that were shouted at him. As the truck started up
again, he sprang from a crouched position and his hands
hit the side
rails.
He thought the pull of the truck had wrenched his arms
from their sockets. Yet he held on, his feet
dragging while
the truck picked up speed again. His eyes located
the horse
behind the vehicle. The animal had his legs under him,
but it
would be only a few minutes before he'd go down
again...
for good this time. McGregor knew it So must the man
behind the wheel. There was no doubt now that Cruikshank
meant to
murder
this horse! The truck swept past Gordon
without slowing down.-
Seeing the, animal's straining, wet body and the
blinded
lustreless eyes gave McGregor the strength and will
to pull
his feet on to the lower rail. He moved back
until he was able to reach the rope. He was familiar
with the knot. He
knew that one good pull on the hanging end would untie
it
He yanked the end hard, and the rope was whipped from the
truck. He saw the horse go down, and then the dust
swirled
and blanketed the road behind.
He knew he couldn't jump off with the truck-going so
fast There was no window in the back of the cab, so
Cruik-
shank didn't know he had lost his victim ... not
yet But
soon. The truck went faster. Cruikshank had
meant this to
be the end.
Behind them and coming from the south, McGregor
saw
three men on horseback, riding at full
gallop. They were
headed for the fallen horse and the boy was glad that others
besides Gordon and himself had seen what Cruikshank
had
intended to do.
The outlying houses of Leesburg were, less than
a mile
away when the truck came to a sudden stop.
McGregor
" knew why. Cruikshank did not intend to drag
a dead horse
into town.
The boy jumped off the back of the truck, but did not
run.
He saw the door open and the man coming towards him.
He
saw Cruikshank's gaze shift to the back of the
truck, and
then quickly return to him again. He saw wild,
sunken eyeseaa lean and gaunt body covered with
tattered clothes. He saw
the haggard face and big, worn hands, the blackened
skin
that must have been very wet a short while ago for now
it was caked with dust. He felt sudden pity for this
ragged,
unkempt form in front of him ... this worn man
with the
big eyes of terrible gloom.,
But then the hot flame of anger burned within him again
at the thought of this man's viciousness, at the agony
he had
caused a horse, at the murder he had intended
to commit!
McGregor had time to see the warning look in the
man's
eyes. He dodged the hands, but Cruikshank threw
himself at
him, catching hold oji. his leg. For a moment the
man just
held him on the ground, breathing heavily
over-Aim, and
then pulled him roughly to his feet.,
He never knew what Cruikshank intended to do, for
sud
denly the man stood still as a small car came down
the road
from town, slowing as it neared the truck and then
coming
to a stop before it. The boy saw a heavy-set man
get out. He
saw a grey suit, a grey sombrero, and then
the bright silver
star of the sheriff's office on the man's lapel.
Sudden panic seized McGregor. He ripped
Cruikshank's
- 94 Tlie
black stallion revolts
hands from his shut, and began to run. He tripped over
some
brush, and went down hard. He was getting up on his
feet
when he was shoved bade down on the ground again. This
time it was the sheriff who held him there. He heard
him
ask, 'What are you up to now, Cruikshank? What
have you
got on this boy?-
'I was bringin" a horse into town to sell. This kid
set him
loose a piece back."
'Set him loose?"'
The colt warn't clean broke yet. I
had some trouble
loadin' him so I jus* tied him up to the back,
an' wuz leadin'
. him in.".
"And this boy untied him deliberately? Where's
your
horse now?"'
"No tellin where he be now. Lost for good, I
reckon, unless
I kin track him down, an" there ain't much chance
o' that if
he gits to the stones.",
- 'Is that right, boy? You turned his horse freer
The boy didn't answer, and the sheriff finally turned
away
to look back up the road. McGregor was
conscious of
Cruikshank's large eyes studying him as he lay
there; they looked into film, seeing the fear of the sheriff
that gripped
him and closed his mind to everything but disa way to get
free,
to run again.
The sheriff turned to Cruikshank. 'It don't
make sense.
Why would this kid want to set your horse loose"...*
'I dunno anything about that. He did, an" ain't
that
enough?"' Cruikshank's eyes were shifty. He'd
had dealings
- with the sheriff often. The sheriff was against him. Every
body was against him. He'd get even. Someday he'd
get even
with them all... with the whole town.
" The sheriff got to his feet and his hands left the
boy.
"I can roll now,"
McGregor thought frantically. 7
can get
away, U I move last comenough. I'll get to the
mountains.
- They'll never catch me there. If s my only
chance."
'Better watch'm," Cruikshank warned.
"He'll get away on
ya."...com " -- .
'I'm not worriedst the sheriff said. 'Besides,
here comes
your horse."
Slowly, the moving figure of horses and
men came up the road.
McGregor turned quickly towards them. He knew
that he
didn't have to run now'. Gordon and Goldie were
there.
Gordon would help him.
"Stay where you are, Cruikshank," the sheriff said
suddenly. "You wouldn't want to leave without your
horse,
would you?"
The boy turned to the gaunt figure that had moved
towards the truck. He felt a sense of pity for
Cruikshank steal over him again. Anger had left
the man's large eyes,,
and only gloom was there once more. Cruikshank must
nave
lost his head while trying to load his unbroken
horse. His fury had mounted until his crazed mind
had told him that
his only recourse was to kill the animal who had
defied him."
Now Cruikshank was caught and cornered, and looking
for
escape ... or pity.
McGregor turned to the small group that
had reached them. He saw the beaten horse again. The
animal was as -
lean and gaunt as Cruikshank and, in addition,
bleeding and
torn, and almost dead. McGregor's anger at this
man flared
again. He had no chance to speak out in his condemnation of
tilde
Cruikshank's viciousness, for one of the riders
dismounted
just then, his face red with fury as comhe eyed
Cruikshank and
spoke to the sheriff. Tom/"...he said, 'I want you
to arrest
Cruikshank. I charge him with one of the cruellest
attempts
to murder a horse I've ever seen. He was dragging
this colt to
his death. I'll press charges all the way. I have
witnesses...
Mike, Joe, and Slim. Cruikshank would have
got away with
it, if it hadn't been for this kid here. He set the
colt loose. We
saw him do it."
Cruikshank's big eyes held terrible hate and
bitterness for
the man who had spoken out against him. His great hands
reached for his informer.
They all closed in upon Cruikshank then, pinning his
long
arms to his side and handcuffing his wrists behind him. The
sheriff took him away as with oaths and screams he
threat
ened vengeance on the man half his size and weight
who had
succeeded in sending him to jail for his crime.
Now this thin, small-boned man helped
McGregor to hisfeet and said, "It took a
lot of nerve to do what you did,
kid."
McGregor looked gratefully at the man, who
wore rimless
glasses. Then Gordon was beside him, and he knew
there
. was nothing more to fear. He looked past them to the
short-
coupled, dark bay horse with the white feet which the
man
had ridden; He watched the animal toss
his head, trying to
disbreak away from the cowboy who held him.
This is Mr. Allen," Gordon was saying.
'He's the man who"
owns the ranch I told you about."
MrGregor hardly heard Gordon. He was
watching the
horse, and trying to remember. A tossing head,
pitched ears .. all so familiar, yet seemingly
an eternity ago. Where had
: he known such things as these?
Allen said, 'Slim tells me you're looking for a
job."
Slim? Oh, yes, Gordon was Slim.
Gordon was Slim the
Burro Man. McGregor put a hand to his
head.
Allen spoke again. "Can you ride? Have you ever worked
on a ranch bef"...*
I -- d-don't..."
Gordon interrupted quickly, answering for him.
'I'msure he'll work out well. Allen. After
all, one doesn't dowhat he just did for that colt
without a genuine
feeling
for horses,".
"Yes, that's more important than anything else.
That's what counts Allen agreed. "Well, you've
got a job if you
want it, kid. What's your name ag"...*
'McGregor. My name is His
S
McGregor." It came so easy
now.
You can start any day you like," Allen said.
The boy felt Gordon's, hands on his shoulder,
prodding him. But it wasn't necessary. He was looking
at the fine.
dark bay horse as he said. I'll start now.
I'll go along with
you right away."
The horse neighed in his impatience to be turned
loose.
And, listening to him, McGregor knew that he had
found the
beginning of the road back.
Two weeks later McGregor sat with Mike and
Joe around a
small open campfire. For a while he listened
to their stories.
They had a lot to say, but most of it was about themselves,
and he'd heard it all before. As usual they were in
high
spirits, for their work was easy and fun for them. All they
had to do was to watch the small band of mares, making
sure none of them strayed or got into trouble.
It was an hour before sunset, but with the air already
turning cold they had started the fire. They were a
thousand
feet above the plateau*, and on a'gently sloping
range where
grazing was rich and water plentiful.
The band seldom moved beneath the clear sun and sky.
A-mile or so beystcattle were grazing as
peacefully as
were the mares. McGregor made out the forms of the
men riding slowly around the large herd. In the first
week
he had spent with them he had learned he was the worst
kind of an amateur at handling cattle. He
knew for
certain he'd never had anything to do with steers before.
For a few days Allen had watched him work, and
thenwisely had assigned him to Mike and Joe in
caring for
the brood mare band. Actually it was a job he
envied,
for Allen's first love were the horses, and their care
and handling took precedence over all other ranch
activities." .
Below on the broad plateau were more cattle and men.
Beyond was the ranch house with its corrals and barns.
" McGregor saw the dust being raised in the
largest corral, and
knew Allen had put out Hot Feet for a while.
The dark bay
colt was Allen's most prized possession. He
had bought him as a weanling, raised him, and last year
had seen him win his
championship.'All the mares in the band would be bred
to.
Hot Feet, and hope was running high that still other
champions would come from these matings.
The boy lay back on his blanket, hands beneath his
head.
He caught part of Mike's story, "...
an' that little horse
threw me so high I hit a blackbird Qyin'
above the ring.
.."
He knew *hat one. So did Joe, but Joe was
listening to
Mike's grand tale as though hearing it for the first time.
The
boy glanced at the mares to make certain they were all
right, and then closed'his ears to the conversation.
Two weeks had gone by. Two weeks on the right
road
back. But where was it taking him? Would he ever see
Gordon again? He must, for Gordon had the stolen
money in
his bureau drawer. He'd have to get it when he
remembered
to whom it belonged. He'd have to return it, wouldn't
he? Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd forget it
Maybe he'd just
stay here. He didn't want to go to jail.
He was getting well. Slowly, yes, but getting
there. His
headaches came only once a day now, and sometimes
not at
all if be was careful not to exert himself too much.
He thought of Cruikshank. Cruikshank had gone
to jail
for attempting to drag that colt to his death.
He'd got
twenty-one days. He'd be more bitter than ever when
he got
out. But that wasn't his concern.
Wasn't it, though? Hadn't he helped send
Cruikshank to
jail? Did he now feel any sympathy for him?
No, none at all
Instead he was glad Cruikshank was paying for his
cruelty,
his viciousness. Yet, was he any better than
Cruikshank?
Wasn't he looking for sympathy, kindness and under
standing for others? Wasn't
he trying to avoid paying for his
crime?
He accepted all this. He knew he felt as he
did about
Cruikshank because the man's crime had been against a
horse diswho could not defend himself. It made a
difference. It
was the reason he felt no sympathy for
Cruikshank.
Horses were linked to his past, all right He knew
it now.
He had known it when he had seen Hot Feet
shifting so
nimbly on his hoofs behind Allen and the sheriff that first
the black stallion revolts
day. He had been certain of it when they'd arrived
at the
ranch, and he had been given a horse to ride and
tend. He
remembered sitting in the saddle for a long time without
moving, his knees pressed close against the small
roan's
body, his hands on the soft neck. Something had tried
to get
through to him then. It had tried to pierce that black,
mental barrier. He had struggled, trying to help it
come,
and had failed again.
Allen had looked up at him. *We ride with
longer stirrups here," he'd said. "But suit
yourself. Ride any way you like.

Short stirrups. Leaning more forward in his saddle
than
the others. Something uncomfortable, uneasy about the
deep
Western saddle and the high pommel in front. Then
and
even now greater-than two weeks later. Why?
Why?
He rose from the blanket and moved closer to the
fire. He
was

tired of asking himself these questions, tired of groping,
tired of searching for answers that always evaded him.
He would try no more. From now on he would resign
him
self to waiting alone, waiting for the answers to come of
their own accord. No more thinking about it. No more
struggling.
While he looked into the small flames of the
campfire.
Gordon's words came back to him:
'Some people have
memory failure because they don't want
to remember. If
you wantddyour memory back you've got to keep
trying. You
must want it back and make every effort to get it
back. Ifs
up to you
..."
.
- All right, face it. Maybe he wasn't in such
a hurry any more. This was a good life, here on the
ranch. He didn't want to leave, to run again.
No-one bothered him here.
No one asked him questions about his past. Only the
present
was important here; and one day was very much like
another.
"Hey, Mac. McGregor!"
It was Mike calling him, and he turned away from the
fire.
Yes?
You're not being very sociable, Mac."
-.. -
Night cry!
'I was thinking about something.";
You think too much," Mike said. 'C'mon over
here an"
talk."
He went and sat down beside Mike. Mike Riso,
the dark-
haired, dark-eyed Italian who three
years ago had been a
barber in New York City. He watched Mike
fill his pipe,
packing down the tobacco before lighting. Mike with the
big, floppy sombrero, the silk handkerchief about
his bull neck, the riding-chaps about his legs, and the
boots, those
high-heeled boots. Somehow, Mike looked as
though he'd
always worn such clothes. He wished his own Western
outfit felt and looked as familiar. But it
didn't. These clothes
were strange to him -- and... He stopped abruptly.
He had
promised himself not to think about it any more. No more
struggling, he'd decided.
Mike put his arm around the boy's shoulders, and
pulled
him roughly towards himself and his partner. 'Did you
know Joey and me and Allen were once known as the
"Bronx Busters"?"' he asked.
No, I didn't, Mike," McGregor
replied. He looked at Joe.
Joe Riley, the ex-pharmacist of a New York
City drug store.
Sandy-haired and light-complexioned but no
taller, no larger
than Mike or Allen. Allen, Irv Allen, the
former owner of a
New York City petrol station. What a
strange group these
three were. Yet he knew more about them than he
did about
himself.
You know why? Mike asked.
McGregor looked up,-startled. 'Why what?"'
He had for
gotten what they were talking about.
"What I just said!" Mike shouted impatiently.
"Why we
were called the 'Bronx Busters""...*
No, I don't know..."
Mike jabbed his elbow into Joe's chest, and they
laughed
together. *We lived in the Bronx, in New York
City,"
he said,
between chuckles. *But there's a lot more to it than that.
Get
this, Mac! We not only lived in the
Bronx, but we gave a
Wild West rodeo show every Sunday in the
Bronx!"
"Weather permitting," Joe reminded him.
"Sure. Weather permitting," Mike went on.
"Anyway, we
had a rodeo. Think of it, Mac! Right smack in
the heart of
New York City we had a rodeo every Sunday for
years!"
"You're serious?"' the boy asked.
"Sure I am! Allen had three vacant lots
he owned, and we
put up some galvanised tin sheds. That's where we
kept the
Bronx Bronc, Big Brother and Little Sid."
The boy could only look at Mike, stare at him,
wondering if perhaps he wasn't being teased after all.
But no, Mike was
deadly serious.
"Don't forget our corral," Joe prompted.
"Sure,"'"...Mike said, "the biggest corral, the
only corral in
New York City. And every Sunday, people came to stand
around the corral an" watch..." .
"Lots more watched from the windows of the houses all
around us," Joe said.
Mike turned to Joe. "Are you going to tell
Mac this story
or am
IT
he asked angrily.
'AH right. You tell it your way then," Joe
said. "But don't
leave out any of the facts, the
pertinent
facts."
Mike turned again to the boy. 'Anyway, Mac.
We put on
this show every Sunday like I said. Allen rode the
Bronx
Bronc.."...."
'A big brown horse," Joe interrupted again.
"Allen could
really get him to buck."
"An"," Mike said, 'I rode Big
Brother, the most ferocious
bull..."
"Dehorned he wasst Joe said, 'z an extra
safety precaution for Mike."
Mike pushed Joe away. "An" the third act
was Joey here bulldoggin' Little Sid. He..."
"It was the only-act," Joe said, that brought the
crowd to.
its feet every Sunday! That's because we had to have a new
Little Sid each year. Little Sid had to be a
calf, and calves
grow, so every year we had a new one for my act.
Little Sid
was the only member of our cast who didn't have years
of
rodeo experience behind him. That's why the crowd never
knew what to expect from our act."
'allyou either," Mike said sarcastically.
"Anyway, Mac. It
was a good show we put on until they made us
quit."
Joe said, "A group of people in a new block of
flats got
together, and made up a petition against the
"noise, odours and actions
of
grown men playing cowboy every Sunday."
That's the way they put it," he added in disgust. The
police
had
to do something even though they'd been enjoying the rodeos
as much as everyone else. So they made us quit,
an'
we had to send the Bronx Bronc, Big Brother
and Little Sid,
off to a friend of ours in Jersey."
The boy looked from Joe to Mike, and then said, because
he felt he was expected to say it. That's a sad
ending."
"Not so sad at all, when you think of what it finally
made
us do," Mike said.
"But years later," Joe added.
Yeahst Mike said, "but we did it, an" that's
what counts."
'Did what?"' McGregor asked.
"Came here," Mike returned. You'see,
Mac, not long after
our rodeo was shut down, the city finished a new
bridge
connecting the Bronx to Long Island. First thing we
knew...*
"Allen
knew, you mean," Joe said.
Yeah, first thing Allen knew was that he was makm'
money hand over fist at his petrol station because it was
located on the approach to the bridge."
'An" his three vacant lots were on the approach
too," Joe said. 'Real estate values doubled,
then tripled. This wasn't
due only to the new bridge traffic. Tsee, a
lot of people
started moving to our neighbourhood just so they could get
out of New York weekends by crossing the bridge
and get
ting to the Long Island beaches." was "Whose story
is th"...* Mike asked furiously.
Your story," Joe said. "But don't forget the
pertinent factseal I said before."
v
Well, Mac," Mike said, 'Allen held on
to his station and
vacant lots for a couple of years
and
then sold out. He came
to us, and offered to set us up in a new business."
Out West/joe said.
"Out West," Mike repeated, where folks
appreciated the
same things we did, horses and cattle. So here
we are, an*
here we've been for three years, thanks to the good
old
rodeo days."
Thanks to the Bronx-Long Island Bridge,"
Joe added.
Thanks to Stark Realtors, Incorporated,
specialising in fine
Western properties for Easterners. And, most
important,
thanks to Irv Allen."
'An" thanks to me," Mike said, 'the ranch
foreman."
*ally're just a figurehead," Joe said, 'an"
you know it. Hank
Larom is the real boss. What do you know about
cattle?
Nothing. Allen's smart. He picked a good man
like Larom to
run things, and then he gives you a fancy title
to keep you
happy."
'Oh, I don't know about that," Mike said, his
feelings hurt.
He turned to the boy and all his zeal came back.
"How about
that for a story, Mac? What do you think of the "Bronx
Busters" now?

'I think its a great story," McGregor said.
He let the subject
drop by getting to his feet and going to the saddle
racks. Darkness was falling fast, and the
well-polished leather disreflected-the glow of the
campfire. He got a bucket and went to a
nearby spring for water. It was his turn to
cook tonight. Far down the range he saw the glow of
other
campfires, and from farther beyond came the wail of a
coyote. He turned to the mares. There was plenty of
good grass and water for them here. They never strayed very
far.. Tonight he had the watch from midnight until
four o'clock, so he'd climb into his sleeping-bag
right after
supper.
He went back to the fire, and Mike and Joe, their
faces
crimsoned by the flames, looked up at him.
"Joey was just sayin"," Mike said,
't the folks out here
haven't accepted us even after three years. An"
I told him it
didn't matter "cause we haven't accepted them
yet, either.
We're independent, we are."
We can afford to be on Allen's moneyst Joe said.
"If it
wasn't for him, it'd be different, all right."
Mike withdrew his pipe, and spat in the fire.
"Well, we're
helpin" him make the ranch a payin' business,
aren't we?
He's got more money now than he had when we
came."
Thanks to Hank Larom managing things, and
Allen's
good sense," Joe said quietly. "It was Allen
who hired Hank,
and Allen who bought Hot Feet as a weanling."
Mike sucked his pipe thoughtfully. *allyep," he
said.
'We're
sure beatin" these Westerners at their own game.
Here
we
got a payin' cattle ranch an' the best little
quarter horse in
the country. T"...ness what gets ."...em, Mac, our
havin" Hot Feet.
Folks out here expect most anyone to be able
to raise cattle
and make a profit, but it's raisin' and ownin' a
grand horse
like Hot Feet that makes "em mad. Beatin"
them at their own game, that's what
we're
doin', all right."
McGregor put the comkettle on the two flat
iron bars over the
fire, and then he went to the bag of provisions.
"What you fixin" us tonight, Mac? Mike asked.
Boiled rice and steak."
'An" onions"...*
Sure."
Mike lay back on his blanket.'Goodea'he
said.
The mares nickered, but they were settling down for the
night. Mike and Joe as usual had talked their
fill, and they
would be more or less quiet until morning.
McGregor got his
pans ready. He found he liked to cook, even had
a knack for
it. And the one who cooked never had to wash the dishes.
He'd be resting after supper, taking it nice and
easy while
Mike and Joe scrubbed the pots and plates. It
was a good life
and, most importantff*) him, one set apart from the
rest of
the world. The wind beat against the hanging utensils,
rat
tling them until he removed them from their hooks. It
became quiet, and he felt a sense of aloofness from
every-
" thing. It was as he wanted it.
Mike spoke from behind him, his voice shattering the
peaceful stillness. "Y'know, Mac, between you an"
me I think
Allen's got somethin' else in mind for you. He's
never been
happy about puttin' a professional jockey up
on Hot Feet
like he had to do last year in the big race.
I remember he said
at the time, "Mike, it's a crime to spend years
raisin' a horse,
givin' him the best you got in you, and then have to turn
him
over to some little stranger you don't know a thing
about in order to race him.""
The boy froze, a cooking utensil in one hand.
'So what I think Allen has in mind is for you
to ride Hot
Feet in the races com*in up at Preston,"
Mike continued. "He
as much as told me so the other day, savin" you were a
natural born race rider, usin' such short
stirrups, and sittin' like you do."
McGregor never said a word. His feeling of
aloofness had
been destroyed. He knew that if Mike was right,
if
Allen
made him ride Hot feet at
Preston,
somebody might identify
him as the-boy wanted by the Utah state police,
and he
would only have to run again. The night air became
cold,
chilling dishm.
Shortly before midnight Joe came to him, telling
him it
was time to get up. He hadn't slept. Without a word
to Joe,
. he went to his hobbled horse, and saddled him
quickly. Later
he rode quietly out to where the band grazed and sat
there,
watching and thinking. An hour passed, and then another
with only the wild sounds of the night to keep him
company, or remind him that his job was to keep die
mares
from straying too far away. He rode around the-band,
keep
ing it together, listening to the sound of teeth cropping
grass.,
He didn't know how long he'd been on watch when
he
became aware of the mares" sudden restlessness.comThey
weren't moving, but all had stopped grazing; then*
nostrils
were blown out, sniffing the air. Some animal
scent was
coming to them, yet they seemed unafraid. Whatever it
was
created more interest than fear in them. McGregor
waited a
few minutes, and then, when their uneasiness continued,
rode quickly back to alert Mike and Joe.
"Something's upst he said, awakening them. They
rolled
from their sleeping-bags with no complaints. They knew
their jobs."
When he got back to the band, the mares were still facing
the unbroken ridge of high trees rising to the west.
They
were moving now, but in no particular direction. They
en
circled each other, their eyes leaving the western
ridge for
seconds only, their nostrils still wide and
quivering.
Mike and Joe rode up, taking their positions about
the
band. There was nothing to fear now. Working together
they'd be able to keep the mares in hand and protect
them.
comProtect them from what? Nothing that human eyes
could
see. Nothing a human nose could smell.
For a long time the mares continued to be restless. Flash
ing eyes, manes, and tails. Moving hoofs and
nostrils. Then
suddenly their action became faster, their eyes brighter.
And
with this came the scream, low at first and then mounting,
becoming more and more shriHave until it was the loudest and
dearest of whistles. It claimed the high, unbroken
ridge for
its own and then rocked the air about. It lasted for a good
many seconds, and then died slowly over the distant,
rolling
plain.
, The men had no time to think about it then. The mares
were moving to the west, and they rode after them, turning
them back, holding them together until they had them
quiet
once more. Now the night was deathly still. The mares
kept their heads up, sniffing the air for a long while
before
losing interest and grazing again. The scent, like the
scream,
was gone.
"..."'*
McGregor sat on his horse, looking over at
the western
ridge. Everything was as it had been before except that
Mike and Joe were now beside him
"What kind of a scream was that?" Mike asked.
"Sure no
animal I never heard before."
"Could have been a bird," Joe suggested.
"Maybe an eagle."
Mike shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe so, Joey.
Anyway,
it's, gone."
"But we'd better stick together the rest of the nightst
Joe said. 'It might come back, and it sure
made the mares act queer. Yeah, Mike, we'd
better stay with Mac. We don't
want anything happening to the mares. We sure
don't, not
with Allen coming around early tomorrow morning."
They turned to the boy, watching him as he continued
to gaze at the western ridge. "Whatcha lookin"
at, Mac"...* Mike
asked. "Whatcha thinkinThat
That was a horse we heard," the boy said
quietly. "A stal
lion ... a wild stallion."
You're ki.in'." Mike turned to Joe, laughing.
The kid's ki.in". Joe!"
'Maybe he isn't," Joe said. "Mac, are
you sure? Have you
ever heard a horse scream like that bef"...*
A minute passed, then another. They didn't think
McGre-
gor was going to answer. Finally his words came, so low
they could hardly hear them. 'allyes, I've heard a
horse scream
like that... a long, long time ago."
One more step on die road back.
He had recognised the
whistle of a wild stallion. Where had he heard it
before?
Joe said, "I don't think you're right, but it's
sure going to
give Allen something to worry about when we tell him
in
the morning."
"It was an owl, t*ness what it was," Mike
said. "I guess I
know an owl when I hear one."
The boy glanced at him but said nothing.
backslash .
ii The black outlaw
Dawn came with the paling of the eastern sky, and with
the red flash of the sun Allen arrived on the upland
range. He rode his champion, and the small, dark
bay was
still full of run after his long climb. Hot Feet
came towards the camp with a graceful sweep, his
strides short but quick.
He tossed his head as though furious with Allen for
sitting so
upright in the saddle and creating more wind resistance.
Allen was urging him on, but his seat in the saddle
lent no
help to the running horse. His shouts pealed up and
down
the range. He kept Hot Feet in full
stride until he was only a -
few yards from the dying campfire, and then he raised
the
reins. The small horse came to an abrupt,
plunging halt
As he witnessed this amazing, sudden stop from
a full
gallop the boy remembered Gordon's saying,
"Sure, the quar
ter horse is fast over short distances. And he's
quick and easy
to handle. He's a
type
developed to work the range, but he's
no race horse. The thoroughbred is the race
horse."
Maybe Gordon would have told all this to Allen, and
maybe not. The disboy knew only that such words would
never come from him. He realised this simply "by looking
into Allen's eyes, and seeing the love and pride that
shone
there for (jot Feet. The small horse had his
ears back and his feet were pounding the ground, sending up
dust clouds. Just
beyond were the mares, their heads held aloft, their ears
cocked forward, watching him.
"Morning, boysst Allen said, but his eyes were
only for
the mares, and the love he had for Hot Feet was
bestowed
upon them as well. He, more than Mike disand
Joe, had become
part of the West. He had been wise in listening to men
far more experienced than himself, and through themeahe had
selected the right ranch, cattle and hands to make this
new
venture pay for itself. In those early days, only the
purchase
of the weanling Hot Feet had been his decision
alone. He had
seen the potential speed in the small colt when
others had
shaken their heads. So Allen, more than anyone
else, shared
Hot Feet's glory when the championship had
been won last
year. Afterwards he had travelled throughout Arizona,
and
to California, New Mexico and Texas,
selecting brood
mares he
alone
felt best suited for Hot Feet's court. His
ranch
and cattle were making him rich, but his sole joy was
Hot
Feet and the mares. Through them he had found his place,
his niche in the West.
Only when Mike began telling him of the band's
restless
ness during the night did he turn away from the
mares. At
first he was curious and only mildly interested, but
he
became genuinely concerned when Mike attempted
to explain what the eerie scream had sounded like.
v
Mike ended with, 'It could have been an owl. I
guess it
coulda been that, Irv."
Too shrill for an owl," Joe said. 'My
guess is that it was an
eagle. But Mac here says ..." He stopped,
and turned to the
boy. "Maybe you'd better tell him, Mac."
The boy turned from Joe to Allen. He saw that
Mike's and
Joe's suggestions had failed to wipe out the concern
that still
showed in the man's eyes. Mares didn't react the
way these
had from nocturnal sounds made by an owl or an
eagle.
Allen knew this, and so did he.
Yes, Macea'Allen said. "What do you think it
was?"
'A stallion." He saw the fear come quickly,
brightly'to the
man's eyes. He saw the sudden stiffening of
Allen's seat in
the saddle, and the tightening of his legs about Hot
Feet,
sending him dancing again.
Mike's and Joe's eyes shifted nervously from the
boy to
Allen, and then back again. The swinging of their legs in
their long stirrups indicated the stress they too
felt because
of Aflen's reaction to McGregor's reply.
Allen finally spoke. "You're sure?"' he
asked. He felt both
cold and hot. His gaze never left the boy, and he
realised
in
that McGregor didn't need to answer him. The
boy was certain of what he'd heard. He
couldn't question those
eyes.
Mike said, "Joey and I think the kid's all
mixed up, Irv.
There ain't no wild horses in this section. We
know that, all
right, same as you do."
Allen's eyes were on the western ridge. He
removed his
glasses to wipe them, then put them on again.
*ationo, Mike," he
said, 'we don't know that at all. Lots of things
could be up in
that country without our knowing."
"But Hank Larom would knowst Mike insisted,
'an" all the'
other guys who've lived around here longer'n we have.
They've said lots of times, and you've heard them, that
any
wild mustangs around here were long ago driven up
into the roughest part of the country, an* have either been
starved or
hunted to death by wolves *tion mountain lions."
Allen never took his eyes off the high ride as he
said, 'I'm
not thinking of mustangs, Mike."
Then you ain't got anything else to worry about!"
Mike
attempted a short laugh. "We're here, boss.
We won't let
anything happen to 'em. Will we, Joey?
Allen said, 'I had a letter yesterday from a friend of
mine
over in Pueblo ... that's about fifty miles,
east of here. He
said a wild, outlaw horse had stolen two of his
best mares."
Mike laughed again. They prob'ly just roamed away
from his men, Irv. I guess he don't have good men
like you
do. I guess not."
No, Mike. He saw them go."" His
"i** mean he saw the stallion, Irv?"'
Joe asked.
Yes, It was night but he caught a glimpse of
him. He said
he wasn't any mustang but big and black, coal
black. The
horse ran faster than he'd ever seen one run
before, and took
the mares with him. They chased them, disb heeawas too
smart. They lost the tracks."
You're ki.in', Irv. Aren't you ki.inThat Mike
asked. "Why would I want to kid you?"' Allen's
voice was impatient, angry. He turned again to the
western ridge. That
wild outlaw might have come over here. He might
even be
out there now."
"You're crazy," Mike said. Now he wasn't
speaking to dishis
employer but to Irving Allen, who had owned the
petrol
station not far from his own barber shop four years ago in
New York City. T'been readih" too many
westerns. You're
wild and woolly like they are .... an' those days are
done
with, Irv,"
After a few minutes Allen turned to him, and then his
gaze shifted to Joe, and finally came to rest on the
boy. He
said, 'Mac, I want you to spend the day up on the
ridge. If you find any sign of Mm I want
to know... any sign at all
.... tracks, anything. If he's out there I must
do something
about him." One hand stroked Hot Feet s
glistening neck, and
when he had finished speaking he turned to look at the
mares again. All his concern and fear were for them, for
they were meant for his champion, alone.
An hour later McGregor was riding up the
ridge. The slope
at first was open and very gradual. His horse became
im
patient with the slow walk at which he was holding him.
He
was being careful, for the terrain was covered with small
angular rocks and high clods of bunch-grass on
which his
mount could easily trip. Finally he gave him his
head, and
was amazed at the way the little quarter horse chose his
ground, picking his feet well up and over the rocks
and
brush-grass, his short strides sure and never
faltering.
When the ascent became steep McGregor brought
him
down to a walk again. Soon they moved through dim forest
aisles no different from the mountain range to the east
of the . plateau, which McGregor had known with
Gordon. Above
him came the sound of the whistling wind through the tree-
tops. Beyond, and ever upward, was the high country with
its majestic peaks.
"Go only to the top of the timber line," Allen
had instruc
ted him, "and in the direction you think the scream
came
from. If you see his tracks or any indication at
all that he's
been there, come back and tell us. Tomorrow we'll make
up
a party and go after him, providing you find anything.
You'll be aMe to sight everything from up there. He'll
have
mares with him, so if he's around you ought to find some
indication of their movements. If not, just come back.
Maybe Joe was right after all. Maybe what you
heard
was
an eagle."
No, it was a stallion he'd heard. He
was certain of that.
He'd swear to it. But why was he so sure?
For many long hours he climbed, and only the
horse's
body working between his legs was familiar to him. He had
a gun in his holster, and he supposed he'd be able
to use it if
he had to. But it was a strange, hanging weight
at his side.
On the saddle's pommel was his lariat, and he thought
he
would be even more awkward using that than the gun, if he
needed it. His sole confidence rested in the
intelligence of the
horse carrying him and in his own riding ability.
The trees thinned as he neared the top of the ridge,
and
soon he was in high, open country. The stallion
could have
been somewhere up here last night. He looked down,
his
eyes roving over the pine trees below and over the
grazing
range still further below. He saw the far-off
figures of the
mares and cattle. His gaze turned to the land about
him; land
stripped bare of everything but dry brush and rock. It
was
going to be hard to find any tracks here, but he
needed to see
only a scratch on the weathered stone, the merest
indicationthat a horse's hoofs had trod here. That
was all Allen wanted
to know.-
Even at this high altitude the air was warmed by the
late
afternoon sun. It was still, very still, and the great stone
ramparts above him, reflecting all the gold of the
sun's rays,
were blazing and glorious. He suddenly forgot to look
for the tracks of a stallion. He welcomed this
silent loneliness. There
was no sound, only the great solitude of the upper
air. He
forgot Gordon and Allen, Joe and Mike. He
forgot com
pletely his recent life, the only life for him.
For the time
being he felt absolutely free and alone
and secure. Nothing
could be so wonderful as this, nothing so thrilling as that
world which lay above him. He turned his horse away
from
the world below.
He climbed towards the great, glowing pinnacles
without
knowing why he went. His horse moved very carefully
over
the rugged ground, making no attempt to move faster
than
at a slow walk. McGregor let him pick his
way. He knew he must be over ten thousand feet
high. He felt he could almost
Touch the floating cakes of snowy clouds. And above
the clouds rose the highest of the peaks. Finally he
entered a
narrow stone aisle palisaded by tremendous cliffs
of granite.
It was there he brought his horse to a stop. It was there
he
came to his senses, and asked himself why had he come?
To sit his horse on top of the world? Was this his only
answer?
He remembered the tracks he had been
sent to look for.
He remembered Allen's orders not to go any higher
than the
timber line already two thousand feet below him. He
had
been told that beyond the crest of this range was the land of
- the great canyons, seldom Touched and unknown.
Perhaps
that's why he had come to look upon these lands, for he
too
was unknown..
Since he had come this far, he decided to go to the
crest.
He urged his horse on again, continuing to climb, and the
cliffs closed in upon him. Finally he came to the end
of the
ascent and the canyon country was there for him to see.
,
For a long while he gazed upon its awesome
desolateness.
He made out the thin ribbon of a river meandering throughthe
deepest of all the canyons. It turned and twisted
but had
no movement from this height And then his eyes, becoming
more accustomed to the "fading light and shadows,
saw more
than desolateness, and he became conscious of more
than
the great void and depth and space. He saw beauty
in the
bold domes and the gouged, gutted, uplifted rock
of varied,
startling colours ... all reds and yellows and
blues. He
wiped his blurred eyes to see better and looked upon
it all
for a long, long time.:
Finally he turned away. He had seen these lands,
and now
he would go back
v
to look for hoofprints. But his gaze re-
tunaed to the trail that led down the other side of the
preci
pice. For a thousand feet it dropped sharply before
becoming lost in the highest of the canyons. It was
wide
enough and safe. It had been used by animals and
Indians
long before the white man came to this country.
He was turning his horse away from it when in the
loose
shale, weathered to a fine sand, he saw the tracks!
He left his saddle quickly and knelt on the ground.
The hoofprints were
large and oval-shaped. Moreover, they were clean
cut, and had been made recently. There were two
sets but each was
made by the same hoofs. A horse had come up this
trail, and
then gone back to the canyons bel.he had
travelled alone. If he was the stallion Allen
feared, where was his band?
McGregor got to his feet, and looked down the
trail. If it
was the same stallion he wouldn't have left his mares
very
far away ... and never for very long. Had they moved
on
again, or were they in the first canyon just a thousand feet
below from where he stood?
:
His job was to go back, and tell Allen what he had
learned.
He looked again at the hoofprints. So
large, so perfect. He
stared at them for a long while. He was drawn to them as
he
had been to the nocturnal scream that had brought him
there. They beckoned him from dark, lost time. He had
no
choice but to follow them. Leading his horse, he
started
down the trail towards that first canyon.
If the steepness of the descent frightened his horse, the
animal gave no indication of it. He followed him
with no
hesitation, balancing-and placing his feet with great
careron
the loose shale. Only once did he slip, and
he drew himself
quickly back on his haunches, his feet bunched
together,
sliding until there was a levelling off of the trail.
The worst part of the descent was behind them. The boy
looked back, knowing that in a little while he'd have to
retrace his steps. They'd made short work of the first
five
hundred feet Going back would take longer, but would
not be so difficult The yellow walls of the
first canyon were no
more than another five hundred feet away.
Why had he come this far? What did he expect
to find? A
stallion and his band of mares. He had decided that
while
above. He felt certain they'd be in the canyon
ahead. Then
What more did he need to know? Why hadn't he
returned to
the ranch?
Just to look upon them and go back?
He knew
disth wasn't the answer. There was something else ...
some
thing he did not understand or even try to understand ...
something that was making him go on, just as it had done all
day. He knew only that he didn't want to fight
this impulse,
and that he couldn't turn back.
He kept going until the canyon walls hung
over him.
There were no hoofprints on the bare, worn rock.
But ahead,
about one hundred yards or so,
brush-grass and sage grew.
When he arrived there, he found the hoofprints again in
the
dry, red earth. There were many other prints beside those
great perfect hoofs of the stallion. He needed no
more proof
than this that the stallion and his band were here.
He mounted and rode on, stopping only at a
bubbling
spring that gushed from beneath the walls. In the soft
eartharound the pool, the hoofprints were deep. There were
also
the tracks of mountain lions. A strange place.
He felt for his
gun to commake sure dishe still had it, and then mounted
and rode
into the darkening canyon. If he had looked up at
the golden
spires of the top walls, he would have known it was,
almost
sunset. But his eyes were on the ground following the
hoof
prints.
"dis"..
He first became aware that he was nearing the
band by the restlessness of his mount. The horse trembled and
his
head came up high with dilating nostrils. The
breeze in the
canyon was .-+ towards them, bringing scents with it.
McGregor raised the hand holding the reins, and his
horse
came to a stop.
Not far ahead there was a twist in the canyon. He
could not see what lay beyond. But he knew the
stallion and his mares were there, and that they could not yet be
aware of
his presence. He looked around, then turned his
horse back,
riding to a scrub cedar growing out oftheearocks. He
dis-
mounted and tied his horse securely. He didn't
want him to
getaway.
Now he proceeded up the canyon on foot,
careful to make
no noise. He kept close to the high wall on
his right, and
finally came to the twist in the canyon. He inched
forward,
staying in the shadows. Just a few feet beyond was a high
cleft in the wall. The trail led through this deep
pass, and the ground carried the tracks of many mountain
animals
as well
as those of horses. Through the pass he saw distant
mesas
and cliffs, and the endless canyons he had looked upon
from
above. This pass led the way to the far country. But the
stallion and his band had not yet used it to leave the
canyon.
He saw the mares at the far end of the canyon,
grazing on
the brown grass. All about the band hung the great
cliffs
which afforded no escape from this walled fortress.
II Allen
and his men had come along, the stallion and his band would
no longer fun free.
But the stallion. Where was he?
McGregor went forward, and-beyond the pass, going
slowly and staying in the deep shadows. The mares
couldn't
hear him or smell him because of the downwind.
Finally he
was able to distinguish their colours... bays, browns,
greys,
buckskins and palominos. Fifty or more of them,
all sizes
and kinds. Short-coupled quarter mares, lean and
wiry mus
tangs. Cow ponies "carrying their ranch brands,
and long-
limbed horses-which had been used only for pleasure
riding.
They were all there. Some were in better physical
condition
than others because they had taken more readily to the wild
life they had chosen, a life that had held many days
without
good grass and water and always constant movement.
He wondered that they stayed in this canyon, foraging on
the brush-grass when they could have gone on to better
graz
ing lands. Then he remembered Allen's quarter
mares, and
knew why then* leader kept them here.
'But where is the stallion"...'McGregor asked
himself again.
He looked for him. His gaze turned to the pool,
near the
" end of the canyon. Several mares were there but not their
leader. If the stallion was feared by so many because of his
great intelligence why was he not aware of an intruder
in
the canyon? Why was he not watchful? And why did
he
have his band grazing in a place from which they could so
easily be prevented from escaping? The stallion's
natural in
stinct should have told him of the danger that threatened
him and his band. Long ago his whistle of warning should
have resounded through the canyon, starting his band on the
move again.
A deep sense of disappointment came over
McGregor.
Why? Why had he expected so much more from this horse?
And wasn't what he found all to the good? Couldn't
he now
return to the ranch and tell Allen of the simple
job it would
be to remove the marauding outlaw and his band from the
range forever?.
Yes, unless the stallion wasn't in the
canyon.
McGregor's gaze left the band for the opposite
wall. He
looked into the deep shadows, and suddenly his body
froze.
He saw him! The stallion was only-a short
distance away; and he too stood as motionless as a
statue. They looked at each other.
Coal black. A giant horse as they'd said.
But hot burly.
Tall and long limbed. His great body was scarred with
long
running wounds that had healed only to become reopened
and closed again, criss-crossed and pitiful to see.
His long tail
trailed to the ground and, like his mane, was thickly
matted comwith burrs. His mouth was red-raw from
thistles; His head,
very small, was held high, the great eyes alert and
never
shifting, never leaving him for a second!
How long bad the stallion been there"...comAnd why? Why
bad he never uttered his shrill signal of warning
to his band?
Now, even now, the black horse didn't
move but stood still,
without thinking of escape for himself and his band!
The boy's hands clutched the flesh of his thighs. He
found
himself shaking, trembling. His eyes never left the
stallion.
Something stirred within him, and there came an inner
voice
from the deep, black recess of his mind. It commanded
him
over and over again,
"Don't move ... wait ... wait."
Even
had he been able to move, he could not have denied this
command.
Suddenly the black stallion stepped from the shadows
into
the last bit of light in the canyon. He came
quickly to the
boy, and stopped before him.
McGregor reached out to the stallion, and Touched the
raw mouth. As he did, words came to his lips that
he did not
understand, soft utterances that were meaningless to him.
But the great stallion seemed to understand them,
for he
lowered his head still more.
McGregor sought release from the black barrier that
kept him from knowing what had happened. His body
trembled
again. What were these utterances that came from the turmoil
erupting within him? He had no control over what he
said or did. Yet he knew he was talking to this
stallion, and
was being understood! He knew his hand was removing
burrs from the long forelock, and that he had done all
this before! He heard that inner voice again, that never-ending
command, "Wait... wait... wait."
For how long? How long must he wait? How long
before
he would know himself 11
Once this horse had been his. That much he knew.
No wild
outlaw would have come and stood before him, nuzzling his
hand, flickering, listening. The boy accepted this without
question, and asked himself only,
'When was he mine?
Where? How long ago?"'
The great stallion was familiar disffhm. His eyes
had
looked upon the wedge-shaped head with the small ears
before. They knew the long, thin nostrils and the
wondrous
gaze that was fixed on him. They knew the slender
neck
with its high, mounting crest... the muscled withers, the
great strength-of back, the chest and shoulders and legs.
All
these his eyes had looked upon before. Just as his hands had
known such Touches, soft and gentle. Only his brain
was the
stranger.
The shadows from the lofty walls had met an hour
before, and night had come to the canyon. Yet
McGregor continued
standing beside the stallion, his hands on the shaggy un
kempt coat as if afraid to let go lest he
lose him again. He ,
thought how much he would like to brush him and make his
coat glisten. Once before it had shone beneath his hands.
He
knew this, too..
The air became cold. A wind stirred, and. then
mounted in
intensity until it was whipping the
stallion's heavy mane andforelock. Short neighs
came from the far end of the canyon,
and the stallion turned to look at the mares. But he
did not
leave the boy."
A low whistle and stamping of hoofs broke the
stillness of the upper canyons, and McGregor
remembered the horse he
had tied to the scrub tree. ..:. . . -
The black stallion.turned, too, his head held
high, his eyes
afire. Every line of his gigantic body trembled.
He was ready
to go up the canyon, when the boy spoke to him in the
language they alone understood. Sounds and words
flowed
effortlessly and without question from McGregor's lips.
The stallion screamed his shrill clarion call of
challenge
but did not move. He stood still for several minutes,
his body
trembling in his eagerness to fight. As the boy continued
to
talk to him greater-than and no answering challenge
came from beyond,
the stallion quieted. Finally he turned again to the
mares,
and a few moments later he left to join them.
McGregor stood alone in the darkness, pondering the
things he had to do. There was feed in the saddlebags for
his
horse, and biscuits left over from noontime for
himself. It
would do him until tomorrow.
Tomorrow? What about tomorrow? He must return to
the ranch. He must tell Allen that he had found no
sign
of
the stallion and his band.
Somehow he would return to the
canyon, for here was his past. From the black stallion
he
would learn all he wanted to know.
But he needed time.
He went up the canyon to unsaddle his horse and
to feed
and water him. Later he returned to where he had
left the stallion and started a fire. Sitting beside
it, he ate the hard b
iscuits and waited impatiently for the
hours to pass.
Perhaps as early as tomorrow the door to his memory would
begin to swing open for him, allowing light to penetrate
the
mystery of his past.
During the night he slept only for minutes and at
long
intervals. The stallion visited him often, his
gigantic form
silhouetted against the walls by the light backslash of
the small
campfire. The boy never tired of feasting his eyes
upon him.
And when he could not-see him, he heard the soft rhyth
mical beat of his hoofs. Through it all, he felt the
great love he had had for this horse. He could not
sleep, knowing that the very nearness of the stallion
stimulated an emotion that was strongly linked to his
past. Soon, he thought,
it'll bring
back everything I want to know.
Dawn came to the canyon with a wan greyness, and the
movements of the band were vague and shadowy.
McGregor
waited for the black stallion to come. When
he saw him, he
felt uplifted with sheer joy and love. Through the
pale path
of light the stallion loped so beautifully that he
seemed
almost unreal in the weird greyness.
McGregor had intended to look upon him just once
more,
and then leave the canyon. But he found he could not go.
This feeling he had for the stallion was too
stimulating.
Would it not soon stimulate his very brain? And would he
not because of it, know everything about himself, his whole
past, within
minutes?
Sobs came from his lips when the stallion stopped
before
dishm. He threw his arms about the horse's neck and
waited
for the elusive mental awakening to come. But nothing
came. Screams suddenly took the place of his
sobs. He was
desperate. He refused to listen, even to hear the
inner voice
that kept repeating, "Wait... wait."
He knew no patience,
only terrible frustration and fury at being repelled
again.
He never could have told how he got on the
stallion's
back. He knew only that he was riding as he had
ridden this
great horse so often before. He burrowed into the heavy
mane as if to hide from a world that would not accept him.
He lay low on the stallion's back, urging him
to run ever
faster. Here he belonged, this much no one could take from
him! He let the stallion split the band of mares
in two fright
ened groups, let him scream and whirl, bending with him
while he-turned and levelled out again. His own shouts
echoed the stallion's whistle. The band dropped behind
them.
He rode lower and faster, up and down the canyon.
The
stallion kept running because he loved to run,
scattering and
chasing the mares in his great excitement. Finally,
McGregor
took him through the pass that led to the distant
mesas and
endless canyons.
He rode for hours, and the sun was high when he brought
the stallion back through the pass and into the canyon.
He
was tense, glowing and excited. His blood was as heated
as the stallion's. He knew so much and so little. This
horse was'
a part of him, and he a part of this horse. They were
one, yet
he did not know why this was so. He did not know the
stallion's name or his own. Where had they come from?
Where had he ridden him as he had today... so many
times.-
so long ago? Who was he? Who was the stallion?
. His head was dissplitting. All the excitement, the
hard riding had brought back the pain again. He
slipped off the stallion* and put his hands to his
head.
A deep depression swept over him. He knew
he was not
yet well, that all he could do was to wait and wait.
In time
the headaches would cease. In time he would remember
everything.
He rubbed the stallion's nose and told him to go
back to
his mares, that he would return soon, and that the horse
should wait for him. He stayed there, watching the
stallion,
until the gigantic horse had reached the mares.
Then he
turned and walked up the canyon. He knew it would
be late
in the day before he reached the ranch, and already he was a
night overdue. His steps came faster and with them a
grow
ing, gnawing fear that his long hours of riding might have
put the stallion and himself in danger of being found in the
canyon. What if Allen and his.men had set out
early this
morning or even last night to look for him? Might
they not
find his tracks and those of the stallion on the crest
of the
upper range?
He burst into a run when he neared his saddled
horse. They must not find him or his stallion! They
must leave
them alone. He. needed time, more time!
tilde
With frantic fingers he untied the horse. He had
his foot
lifted to the stirrup when he saw the riders coming down
the
"canyon. A long line of men, they were led
by Allen astride his dark bay. Hot Feet.
He mounted and rode towards them, his jaw working. He
told himself that he could stop them. They, were looking
only for him, and now that they had found him they would
return to the ranch. But as he neared the line of men
he
realised how wrong he was.
He saw more than Allen's grim face, concerned as
it had
been the day before for the safety of his mares. He saw
more than the puzzled and trail-wearied eyes of
Mike and Joe. For
with them rode the
hunters,
men hardened by long years
spent in the saddle, and their sun-blackened faces were
still,
disclosing nothing. But their eyes gave them away.
To a man
their eyes blazed with the excitement of the chase. He
knew
these men had found the stallion's hoofprints.
McGregor's gaze remained on Hank
Larom,. the ranch
foreman. Here was a good man, whose deep-set eyes
shone
blacker and brighter than any of the others. Looking
into
their great depths, McGregor believed everything
he'd been
told about him. It was said he had run so many, wild
mustangs through the uplands that he thought like one. Larom,
more than any of the others, was a man to be feared.
Larom knew the horse trails, the water holes,
the gaps and canyons.
He knew how to drive a band of wild horses, and
to turn
disthem into any one of a number of traps he had set.
He had been a wild-horse hunter not for profit
and sale, but for the
thrill of the chase.
Allen said, 'Where is
he,
McGregor?"'
The boy fore his eyes from Hank Larom. He
looked at
Allen, and answered, "He's gone. He and the
mares have left
the country."
Perhaps, if only Mike and Joe had been with
Allen,
McGregor would have been believed. But Hank
Larom was
there.
We started out last night, when you didn't get
back,"
Allen said. 'We knew you'd found something."
Larom's eyes had left McGregor. He was
looking down
the canyon.
He knew.
The horse he rode was one the boy
had never seen before. A buckskin, Yough, lean, and
wiry.
This was no quarter horse bred by man, handled by man
since the day he'd been foaled. No, this horse
had been a
wild mustang.
Larom's gaze swept back, found
McGregor looking at his
horse, and said, "Spooky is a broke wild
horse, Mac. He ain't
agreein" with you at all that the stud's gone.
Nope, it ain't so,
he's tellin' me."
The buckskin was snorting. He had his ears far
forward
and his eyes were turned down the canyon.
Larom's long jaw swung out as he added, "No
better way
of knoWin" what's around you than by ridin' a
broke wild
horse. Somehow they know plenty without seein' anything
or catchin' a scent. It ain't natural, but that's
the way it is.
Ain't it so. Spookyf He patted the neck of his
buckskin.
"Now
lets see
what's up
ahead."
The men pulled quickly out of line. The boy tried
to stop
them, but Allen had hold of his horse.
"Why'd you do it.
Mac? What reason did you have for lying to me?"
Allen kept
him with Mike and Joe while the hunters moved
away.
McGregor said nothing. He could
do
nothing except
follow then with his eyes. He had told his stallion
to wait for
him in the canyon, and had made it easy for them.
Never
had a better horse-trap been prepared by Larom
than the one
he, McGregor greater-than had set
unwittingly for.his stallion.
He slid down from the saddle, and began walking after
them. A minute later Allen rode beside him.
'Kid, what's
come over you?"' he asked. But the boy'kept
quiet, his eyes
never leaving the mounted riders beyond. He saw them stop
a short distance from the twist in the canyon, draw
together
and listen to Larom's orders. Soon they were
moving again.
He saw the last man in line disappear around the
bend. Sud
denly the canyon walls vibrated with the stallion's
whistle!
He ran, Allen's horse moving beside him, and then
he
stopped. Just ahead the hunters sat their horses
across the
canyon floor, dosing this path of escape to the
stallion. Far
on the right were Hank Larom and two more men, sitting
astride their mounts before the entrance to the pass, closing
that means of escape, too.
It was easy, so easy. The trap had been
sprung. The stal
lion and his band were only a short distance down the
canyon. The mares were bunched, their heads together. The
black stallion stood alone, just in front of his
band. His head
was held high, and turning constantly; he nickered
to his
mares. He must have realised they had no chance
to scatter and break through the line of men.
The boy went to Larom. He heard the
ranch foreman call
. to the man next to him, *Russ, look'ut that
stud horse. You never before seen anything like him!"
Larom's face was in
tensely eager. 'He's somethin" I've seen in
dreams, bu@. never
real, not in the forty years I've been huntin'.
He's a perfect horse, a
great
horse ... an' he's smart, Russ. He knows
we
got him trapped, but he's smart and waitin'
to break
through. He's waitin' there for us to come and get him."
Russ.didn't say anything for a minute, and then,
*We
won't be able to get near him. Hank, not oh what
we're
ridin". Even your buckskin is scared to death of
him. He'll
never near that hoss. He's too smart for that!"
What he said was true of all the horses in the
barrier line.
They were squealing m their terror of the black
stallion.
- Russ went on, "We got to cut him off from his
band,
Hank. The mares will be easy for us to handle, if we
kin
separate *em."-
"It's not the mares we want," Larom said.
"If s Mm. An" I
ain't never goin' to quit until I git him. After
him there ain't
no other horse for me in the world."
'It's goin" to be like fightin' a cougar with bare
hands,"
Russ said, like I said before, we ain't gettiri"
our horses up to
him. He'd kill im sure, an' they know it."
I'll go up walkin"," Larom said.
The other rider didn't takeliis eyes off the
stallion. Then
he'll kill you, too, Hank. You know that as well
as I do. I know he's got a killer look in his
eyes without even bein"
able to see it from here. I know it jus' by the way he's
standin' up there, an' waitin'."
'I ain't goin" to let him get away," Larom
said. 'I ain't, an"
that's for sure." For the first time he moved the rifle
he car
ried.
The boy saw this movement and so did Allen, who
said, 'Hank, we take this stallion alive or not
at all. I couldn't get
rid of him that way."
Larom's eyes didn't leave the stallion.
"Boss, I wasn't goin"
to kill that stud. I guess I'd shoot myself before
I done anything like that. I was jus' thinkin' I'd
crease
him, if I couldn't
git him any other way."
The other rider turned to Allen. 'By
creasin"
Hank means razin' a bullet along his neck.
It would cut him down with
out hurtin' him much. Hank's one of the few men who
can
do it, boss. I've seen him."
McGregor's face twitched convulsively. He
inched
towards Larom's rifle. No one was going to graze
his horse
with a bullet. How long ago had it been since
Larom had
hunted horses?
Years!
And his aim needed to be off only a fraction of ah
inch to
kill.
Suddenly Larom said, The stud's comin" down!"
Every man in theline was set, with one hand controlling
his frightened mount and the other on his rifle, ready
to fire
into the air to terrorise the stallion into going back
if he
sought to break out of the canyon.
The stallion came closer, the beat of his hoofs
swifter and
louder. The men looked and looked; following his every
movement, and each man longed to have him for his own*
Yet in these brief moments all the Hardened
hunters except
one gave him up as unattainable/only Larom
cherished this
stallion so much that he would risk his life
to capture him
v
The horse came to a plunging stop a short distance
away
from them. He stood there watching them, his large eyes
moving up and down the line of men until they found the
boy. He nickered and pounded his hoofs in the earth.
Every
muscle of his body was clearly defined in the bright
sun. His
small head rocked and he tossed his mane and
forelock
vigorously. He nickered again, his eyes never
leaving the
boy.
Russ said, 'He's got the killer look. I
told you he'd have it.
Hank. Even the hair on his neck gives him
away for what he
is. He'll kill you if you go after him alone,
an* if we go as a
group he'll break the line and scatter with his mares.
We
ain't seein" him again once he does that. He's
too fast for our
bosses. I knew that jus' seein' him come
down."
. 'I know," Larom said, and all his great longing was
hi his
voice. "Well never git near him ... not unless
I kin crease
him. But God, Russ, if I kill him, I
won't be able to live with myself."
"Get him now. Hank you couldn't miss at
fifty yards."
"No, I couldn't miss at this distance."
Larom slid down
from his restless buckskin, and handed the reins to Russ.
But
he never raised his rifle, for McGregor's hands
were on it,
holding it down. Then he heard McGregor's
words:
I'll get him. I'll get him for you."
Then McGregor left; before Larom had a chance
to under
stand what the boy meant to do. The foreman watched with
the others, staring and unbelieving, while McGregor
walked
towards the stallion. He realised immediately that the
kid
wasn't going to his death, for the savageness
had left the
stallion's eyes. McGregor pulled the
Black's head down to
him and stayed with the stallion, stroking him, while the
men stared, still not believing what they had witnessed. Fin
ally McGregor turned away from the stallion,
and came
back to them.
'Give me a halter, and we'll go with you," he
said.
Larom fore his incredulous gaze away from
McGregor to
.. .
The hunters

gel the halter out of his saddlebag. He gave it
to the boy
without saying a word.
Far down the canyon, the mares raised their heads
to
nicker to their leader. The stallion turned toward?
them but
didn't move. Without him they would be free no
longer, returning quickly and easily to the domestic
life most of
them had left at his bidding. They would follow the
mounted
ponies back to the ranch, eager once more for good
feed
and shelter and care.
The stallion turned to the boy approaching him.
He, too,
was ready to go home.
The men watched McGregor slip on the halter.
They
broke their line across the canyon when the stallion was
led
towards them, Allen going on ahead. Hank Larom
nodded
to several men, and they left to get the mares.
Russ, riding beside Larom, said quietly, "We
ain't never
seen anything like that before. Hank."
*ationo. We saw a lot of things today we ain't ever
seen
before."
But Thats a wild stallion. How's the kid
gittin" away with
it?
Larom shrugged his thin shoulders.

ain't knowin' how,
but he gentled him some way before we got here."
'All in one night?
Has to be. He couldn't have come across him before late
yesterday afternoon."
"It ain't right; Russ said. 'Ifs spooky,
Thats what it is.
Spooky."
"I know, but sometimes it happens. Sometimes it
does."
Larom paused. I'd give ten years of my life
if it'd happened
to me, Russ ... ten years."
You better wait 'I'll you see how the kid
makes out with him before sayin" that. Hank. I still
wouldn't want to be in
his shoes. Nope, not me."
It was a little over a week since they had brought the
black
outlaw to the ranch and had given him the largest of the
corrals. As long as McGregor tended him he
gave no trouble,
but none of the other men dared go near him. To them he
remained 'a wild stallion never dear
broke". They knew the
boy could handle him, but with the exception of Hank
Larom none of them understood why this was so. They
listened to Larom explain that "Sometimes it happens.
Some
times it ain't necessary to break a wild horse
by ridin" him
until he finds out you're the boss." The shook
their heads, not
believing this any more than everything else they had
witnessed. They decided that sooner or later a
reckoning must
come. To their minds, gentle hands, and a soft voice
-- in
stead of ropes and bronc saddle -- had no place
in the mas
tery of a mature, unbroken stallion.
Although Allen hadn't forgiven McGregor for
telling him that the stallion and his band had left these
parts when they hadn't, he had no alternative but
to put the boy in complete
charge of the black horse. No one else would Touch
the stal
lion without his being fully broken. Only Larom
could have
broken him the way they understood, and he wouldn't do it
because he was convinced it wasn't necessary. He believed
that the boy and the stallion should be left alone for the time
being to see how things worked out.
This arrangement suited McGregor perfectly.
He had not
lost his horse. He still had time to learn all he
wanted to
know. Early one morning when he had finished brushing
the
stallion, he looked around to find Allen standing out
side the corral fence. Allen called to him. As
he walked
towards the fence he was filled with uneasiness, for he
knew
his employer would have fired him days ago if it had not
been for Hank Larom. Was his dismissal coming now?
At the fence he said, 'allyes, boss?"'
Allen removed his hat with thin, nervous hands. He
said
nothing; his eyes were on the stallion who stood in the
centre of the corral, watching them.
The boy, too, turned to his horse and then back
to Allen
" again.
Finally the man said, 'allyou got him pretty well
cleaned up
in the short time he's been here."
"I can change his coat, but not the scars."
"No, they're there to stay, all right."
In the adjacent corral was the stallion's band. The
mares
began moving about. Their hot smell was heavy in the still
air. Just beyond in another corral ran Hot Feet
with tossing head. Allen's eyes turned to his
prized quarter stallion, and
he looked upon him as he would no other horse in the
world. The outlaw's a fine horse, but Hot
Feet's a better
one," he said.
"Better for you," McGregor replied
quietly. "It all depends
who's looking at them, and what he wants in a
horse."
Allen was silent for a few moments, and then he said,
"Yes, I guess that's true." He turned
to raise a long, bony
finger in the boy's face. "But the real men in this
horse game
are the breeders, the men who take the time
to figure out
bloodlines and crosses, who mate their mares
intelligently,
trying to improve their breed or type of horse."
The boy couldn't help smiling in spite of the finger
wag
ging in his face. "Sometimes you don't get
exactly what you
want. Sometimes you're disappointed."
"I know that," Allen returned brusquely.
"But at least
we
try,
and that's what is important in this game. We
spend
time and thought trying to improve our stock." His eyes
found the black stallion again. 'I don't want
Aim," he said.

had nothing to do with his being here. Neither did any other
person. He's a product of the wild, just an
accident of birth,
like any one of the thousands of mustangs who've roamed
this country for centuries."
I'll take him, if you don't want
hmst the boy said
quickly. His chest was so tight that his words came only
in a
whisper. Allen turned to him, and McGregor
repeated what he'd said, louder this time.
The keen eyes behind the rimless glasses saw
everything.
Finally Allen said, 'ationo, I'm holding on to him,
Mac. For the
time being, anyway."
"But you'll keep me in mind in case..."
*allyes, of course. You're the only one who can
handle him
... except, perhaps, for Hank." Allen took his
foot off the fence rail and replaced his hat.
'What I wanted to talk to
you about was this. I guess you know we've got some
races
over in Preston next week. They're pretty
big, and we get
horses from California, Texas, Nevada,
Utah, New Mexico
and Colorado. Thats where Hot Feet won his
championship
last year." Allen paused. "I was
thinking that I might send
Hot Feet over to Preston again, and, to make a
long story
short,
I'd like you to ride
him."
Allen's last words came forth with a ring. He turned
to the
boy, smiling as if to say that all was forgiven, and here
was
the opportunity to ride a champion in the
South-west's
greatest race meeting. His mouth dropped when he
saw no
elation on the boy face, only a stiffness that was
cold and
unchanging.
"It's the chance of a lifetime,". Allen added
awkwardly,
last year we had over ten thousand people watching the
races. You ride Hot Feet well and you can name
your own
price in the future ... not only from me but from other
owners who are always looking for good jockeys. Riding
race horses is big business. Mac.
You can..." Allen stopped
abruptly. Then he went on. 'But maybe
you're like me and
not interested in the money end of it, Mac. I should have
known better than to put it the way I did. Here's
what
we'll do. I like the way you ride a horse, and the
way you
handle them. I'll make you my stable partner if you do
well with Hot Feet next week. After that,
we'll breed
our mares to him, and raise our own. You'll own them
with
Gosinghands

me, and do the race riding. How's that for a deal,
kid?
There was still no change in the boy's face.
Allen said, "Hank has been working Hot Feet,
so my little
champ is just about ready to go. All you'll have to do is
ride
him around here a few days to get used to his ways.
You'll
like him, Mac!"
The boy's lips barely moved. "I liked him
now, but I can't
rid him, boss. I can't." He saw the sudden
change sweep over
the man's face. A heavy mask dropped, and all
of Allen's eagerness and enthusiasm were gone. In their
place were
disappointment and bewilderment. The boy knew he
couldn't ride Hot Feet with ten thousand people watching
him. He was deathly afraid that just one person among
all
those thousands would identify him for what he was, a
thief, and he would have to run again. He knew, too,
that
Allen wouldn't force him to ride. It wasn't in this
man to
think of his riding Hot Feet as anything but a great
privilege.
"Have'it your own way," Allen said, turning
away. The
matter was closed. He would never re-open the
subject. "If
anyone's looking for me, I'll be in town. Back
this after
noon," he added brusquely.
The boy crossed the corral to his stallion. The
horse put
out his tongue for him to pull. This trick had been
going on
all week long. But it was nothing new to him or the
stallion.
When
had it first begun?
Where?
In Leesburg, the burro Goldie was tied to the
rail outside
the general store and post office. His eyes were
closed and his long ears drooped. He paid no
attention to the scrubby
Indian ponies hitched to small buckbbards and
wagons, even
when their owners came out of the store and, after loading
flour, doth, potatoes and tin dishes, rattled
away. Nor did he
hear the loud blare of the juke box coming from the res
taurant a few doors down the dirt street..
Finally Gordon emerged from the store, carrying a
heavily wrapped package whose weight bent his
long, lean
body in his effort to hold it. He put it
down before Goldie-
and said, I'll get a cup of coffee, and then
we'll start back.
I'm not packing this on you yet, but keep your eyes
on xst
Goldie never opened his eyes.
. Gordon walked down the street to the
restaurant, and
went inside. He hoped he could have his coffee in
peace, that
whoever was putting coins in the juke box would leave.
There were several men sitting at the counter. He nodded
to them, and was making his way to one of the booths
When he saw Cruikshank sitting on the stool at
the end of
the counter. He nodded to him, and Cruikshank-nodded
back.
- Reaching the booth, he sat disdown. A newspaper
had been
left on the seat. He picked-it up, noting that it
was a Phoenix paper and over a week old. He
wasn't interested in the news
- but turned to the back section, hoping to find a
crossword
puzzle. His eyes lighted when he saw
one.
"What'll you have. Slim?

It was the man from behind the
counter..
'Coffee. Maybe a couple of fried eggs,
too.'Gordon looked
up. 'Got a pencil on you. Harry?"'
Yeah. Here.* . His
When the waiter had gone, Gordon turned again to the
puzzle. While he worked on it he thought of
Cruikshank. So Cruikshank was out of jail.
Seemed only a few days ago that
he'd brought the kid to town and it all had happened.
Yet
almost a month had passed. Well, he held no
grudge against Cruikshank and Cruikshank was
letting him alone Nothing
wrong with that.
His pencil filled the empty squares of the puzzle.
They
made-them too easy. A kid wouldn't have had any
trouble doing this one. He wondered how McGregor
was making
out at the ranch. It'd be nice to get out
there, and see him
again. He had the time to do it today, but Goldie wouldn't
like it. Goldie was used to going straight home from
town.
And there was the heavy packages of magazines
to consider. No sense in taking further advantage
of Goldie's good nature
and willingness to carry her heavy burdens.
It was good of Lew Miller to send him the
magazines.
There'd be every disweekly issue of the
Thoroughbred Record
since the beginning of the year. He'd go through every one
of them. Maybe he'd find something that would remind
nun what it was that made him think he'd seen
McGregor's
face before.
He finished the puzzle and began running the pencil
around its borders. He remembered the blood-stained
money in his dresser drawer back home, and his
face so
bered. He remembered all the kid had said in his
delirium
when he'd found him. McGregor was convinced he'd
been
mixed up in a Utah robbery, and that the police were
after
him. Maybe so. Maybe not. Until the kid got
his memory
back, he couldn't be sure of anything.
Gordon, pressed harder on his pencil, blackening
the lines
around the puzzle. Besides, what the kid had done or
thought he'd done was none of Ms business. He was
keeping
out of it. All he wanted to do was to find out what
made
McGregor's face seem so familiar to him. It
was a game,
more interesting to him than simple crossword puzzles.
He looked up, to find Cruikshank still at the end
of the
counter, disand half-turned in his direction. Everyone
else
had left the restaurant and the juke box was quiet.
The
waiter came with his order, and Gordon put down his
pencil to eat. But he picked it up again when he'd
finished,
once more tracing around the puzzle, and thinking
of the
boy.
He wondered if the kid had regained his memory
dis.was he
still at the ranch or had he decided to move on again?
The
paper fore beneath his pencil and Gordon turned to the
news
item above it, tracing the lines around the story as
he'd done with the puzzle. It was noneof his business
what the kid did. He was only interested. If he
was going to become involved in other people's affairs, he
might as well go Back to Holly
wood.
Momentarily his pencil stopped on the paper. He
found
himself reading. His heavy brows lifted as his eyes
widened
in surprise. For a long while he stared at the
story, reading
and re-reading it. His pencil began moving again,
blackening
the lines around the story once more.
Howdy, Slim."
He looked up quickly, pushing the paper
to one side.
Hello, Allen," he sd.*
Allen had a cup of coffee in his hand. He placed
it on the
table, and sat down beside Gordon. If he had seen
Cruik-
shank, he gave no indication of it. He drank
half his coffee, and then said. That friend of yours,
McGregor, puzzles me,
Sum." His narrow brow was furrowed, his eyes on
Gordon.
"And he gets more puzzling all the time," he
added.
Gordon picked up his own cup of coffee, and
finished it.
He was frightened. The kid's no friend of mine.
Allen. Don't
know him at all or anything about him." He
didn't want to
get mixed up with McGregor. Not after having read
the
story in the paper at his side.
Allen said, *He was working out pretty well for us
until a little over a week ago, when I sent him
out to look for a wild
stallion thought to be on the upper range. I was
afraid for
my mares and..."
"A wild stallion"...'Gordon asked, interested
now.
Allen nodded. You'll have to see him. Sum. He's
no mus
tang but big... mighty big."
Then you got him?"'
*We got him all right, but the peculiar part of it
is that the
kid found him first and didn't let on to us. In
fact, we would
have turned back and never got him, if Hank
hadn't been
along. Hank knew the kid was lying."
"Strange that he should lie about something like that."
"And peculiar," Allen insisted. "Mighty
peculiar. But there's
more to it. The kid had gentled this wild outlaw even
before
we got there. When he knew we had him, he
walked right up to the stallion, put a halter on
him with no trouble at all,
and led him back to the ranch."
That's hard to believe," Gordon said quietly.
'ationow and
then Fve run across a small band of horses on the
upper
ranges. Nobody could gentle a wild stallion
that easily."
Allen put down his hand flat and hard against the table.
That's what I think, too. But Hank says that
sometimes it
happens."
Gordon shook his head.'I doubt itea'he said.
'Come and see for yourselfst Allen said. 'And here's
something that puzzles me more than anything else. This
morning
I gave the kid the opportunity to ride Hot
Feet in next
week's races at Preston, and he turned me
down! Of courseeaI could have ordered him to ride, but
that's not for me. Here
I thought I was giving him a big break and he
kicks it aside!"
Allen's puzzlement showed in his face. "I'd
sort of counted
on him as my regular rider from the time I took him
on. He's
a born race rider Anyone can see that just by the way
he sits
a horse."'"* . . -
Gordon's busy eyebrows were raised again. He
glanced
away from Allen to the door. He was thinking of the
package of
Thoroughbred Records
beside Goldie. "How does he
sit a horse, Allen?"'
"With short stirrups, but not so short that he loses
his
balance or control. And forward, and low near the
horse's
neck. You know how most jocks ride; don't you,
Slim?
Haven't you. ever seen a race, maybe before you
came out
here?"'-
Gordon turned back to Allen, Yes, I
know," he said. Then
after a long pause he added softly, "I'd like
to talk to the kid,"
"Come along, then. I've got the buckboard
outside, and I'll
see that you get a ride back to town later."
Together they left the restaurant. "dis
When they had gone, Cruikshank twisted his gaunt
body
off the end stool. He walked across to the booth they
had
left, his large and gloomy eyes on the newspaper
that was
still there. His worn hands picked it up, and he read the
story just above the crossword puzzle, the one marked so
heavily in pencil, the story that had brought the
startled,
frightened look to Gordon's face while he was
watching
him.
...."'*.:

The black stallion revolts
-
YOUTH WANTED IN UTAHMURDER SOUGHT HERE
PHOENIX -- The search for a boy involved in the
robbery
of a Salt Lake City diner last month has led
to Arizona and
is being intensified since the death last
week of Henry Clay;
the cashier, resulting from injuries suffered during the
theft.. -
All state, county and city police had been
alerted, for it
is believed the youth will try to cross-the border into
Mexico. His description is: Between sixteen and
eighteen
years of age, about five feet five inches tall,
red hair, and.
slight of build.
The three men for whom the boy acted as lookout were
captured by police soon after the robbery, and are
awaiting
trial.
Cruikshank re-read the description of the boy, and
his
eyes were no longer gloomy but shifty and bitter.
He knew
the reason for Gordon's sudden alarm.
He knew the boy.
His
long, bony hands were trembling as he carefully fore
the story from the paper, taking part of the crossword
puzzle
with it. He put it in his pocket. He would have good
use for
it, but not right now. He was going to wait until he was
sure
of the best way to use it. He hated them all for what
they'd
done to him. He hated the sheriff. He hated
Gordon. He
hated the kid. But most of all he hated Allen,
and maybe what he had on the kid would provide him
with a way to
get at Allen. Mumbling himself, he left the
restaurant
The torn newspaper lay on the table. The hole
left where
the clipping had been removed showed part of the next
page. Here, too, there was a story concerning a search
for a
boy. It was only a few lines in length. It was
hardly news
comany longer. tilde was .
Search Ends
jackson hoijb, wyo.,
July 25 -- The search for Alec
Ramsay and his famed stallion, the
Black, ended today
after more than a month of constant but futile search
through Wyoming's most primitive and rugged
regions* No
hope is held for their ever being found alive.
The man from behind the counter went to the table and-
cleaned it. He took the newspaper, crumpled it,
and threw it
in with the other rubbish to be burned.
Gordon spoke to Goldie again before climbing
into Allen's
buckboard. The burro nicked his ears, but
otherwise there
was no indication that he'd heard. Until he felt
the pack on
his back his eyes would remain closed.
Taking up the lines of the two horses hitched to the
buck-
board. Allen said; *ationo one is going to bother your
burro,
Slim." Then he laughed, adding, 'And it
doesn't look like he'll
mind waiting a while longer before going home."
Allen backed up the team, turned, and went down the
street. They were well outside the town before
he spoke
again. "I guess I was counting on the kid riding
Hot Feet more
'than I realised. Can't seem to get it off my
mind now." Allen
paused. "Not that it's terribly important,"
he went on. "Last
year I picked up a race rider over at
Preston, and we won all
right. It's just that riding Hot Feet is a pretty
personal thing with me. I'd been looking for someone
who'd work on the
ranch, and then ride for me in the races. Larom is
too heavy
for race riding. I thought the kid was perfect for the
job. I
guess I'd thought it all along, that's why his
turning me
down is hard to take."
Gordon's eyes didn't leave the team. He
thought he knew
very well why McGregor didn't want to ride
at Preston.
McGregor was afraid someone would identify him as

boy wanted by the police. Gordon thought of the news
story
again. An accomplice in a robbery was one thing,
murder
another. The diner's cashier had died of his
injuries. While
the kid had been only the lookout, he was still as
responsible
for the cashier's death as the men who'd been caught.
Gordon shifted uneasily in the hard buckboard
seat. He
wished he hadn't found that newspaper in the
restaurant.
Better, still, he wished he'd never found
McGregor. The last
thing he wanted was to become involved in such a mess.
But
how could he stay out of it now, when he alone knew the
whereabouts of someone who was wanted as an accomplice
in a murder?
Why was he going to the ranch? Why did he want
to talk
to McGregor? He wondered what the kid's real
name was.
Even the police didn't seem to know. It
didn't matter,
nothing mattered except that he, Gordon, get out
of this in
some way and still do what he thought was his duty
to society. Maybe he expected to talk
McGregor into giving himself up to the police. He
must have had that in mind
when he'd accepted Allen's invitation. If he had
intended to
inform the authorities of what he knew, he would have
gone
directly to the sheriff.
You're pretty quiet, Sim.
"Just thinking," Gordon replied.
*ally don't think you could get the kid to ride for
me, do
you. Slim? After all, he's a friend of yours. He
might listen to
you."
'He's no friend of minest Gordon insisted
angrily. 'I told
you I don't know anything about him."
"You don't have to get sore about it," Allen said.
'I just
figured you might help him change his
mind. After all,, he
was living with you when I hired him."
Gordon didn't look at Allen. "I found
him in the desert.
He'd been hitch-hiking and got lost."-
The desert's a strange place to be
hitch-hiking," Allen re
turned. 'Lots of strange things about the kid, all
right." He
ducked to the horses and their hoofs beat faster on the
dirt
road. greater-than
Allen said nothing more, and Gordon was glad of it.
He
wished someone else would identify the kid so he could
stay
out of the mess altogether. Not that he wanted to see
McGregor go to jail. He liked the kid. If
only it hadn't
been murder, he might have forgotten the whole thing.
Now
he had to do something about it. He had to see to it that
McGregor was apprehended by the police, and yet
stay out
of it himself. He wanted none of the
publicity he knew
would result in the kid's capture. For six years
he had lived a peaceful, quiet life. He
wanted to keep it that way.
If the kid did ride at Preston, he thought,
someone most
likely
would
identify him, just as McGregor feared.
Especially if he won, and got his picture in the
papers. Wasn't that the answer? He turned
to Allen. "Why don't
you change your mind and
order
McGregor to ride"...*
Allen shook his head adamantly. "No, Slimst
he said. "He's
got to want to ride Hot Feet. That's the only
way he'll get up
on him now."
A few moments later Allen changed the subject.
"Ralph
Herbert of the High Crest Ranch in Texas has
been after me
for months to have a match race at
Preston. I bought Hot
Feet from him as a weanling, and now that he's a
champion
Herbert would like to get him back at any price I
set. But I'm
not selling Hot Feet, and he knows it."
Gordon wasn't- listening to Allen. He was trying
tofigure out a way to get McGregor to ride in
the
Preston races.-
Allen added, *ationow Herbert wants a match
race between
Hot Feet and his horse Night Wind." His
Gordon heard this, and turned quickly. Ton don't
mean
the High Crest
thoroughbred?
That's him."
Gordon couldn't help smiling. 'allyou'd be crazy
to consent
to such a race. Last year Night Wind was voted
thorough
bred
Horse-of-the-Year.
He's a great champion, Allen."
"So's Hot Feet," Allen reported quickly,
challengingly. "But
how come you know so much about Night Wind?"'
"I read about him in some magazines a friend sent
me. I
used to be quite interested in thoroughbred racing. Night
Wind pulled up lame in the Santa Anita
Maturity last
winter. They found he had torn a ligament so he was
un
wound and sent home to High Crest Ranch. They
hoped to
bring him back to racing."
Allen said, You sure know a lot more about him than

do. But maybe it isn't "the same horse.
Herbert never men
tioned anything like that."
"It's the same horse, if his name is Night
Wind and he's a
thoroughbred from High Crest Ranchst Gordon said
quietly.
Allen frowned. 'I know that much is true," he
replied.
Then his face lightened. "Anyway,
Herbert made this pro
posed match race sound plenty inviting. He
wrote that he
was sending this thoroughbred, Night Wind,
to California, and could very easily ship him via
Preston for the races."
Gordon interrupted. Then Night Wind has been
put back
in training, and is ready to go."
f
'Herbert said that match races between thoroughbred and
quarter running horses were rare," Allen went
on, "and the
crowd at Preston might like to see one. He offered
to put up
five of his best quarter mares as his end of the purse,
if I put .
up ..." Allen stopped.
"If you'd put up what?" Gordon prompted.
'Hot Feet.'v
You'd lose him, if you did," Gordon said.
"Stick to your
own kind of racing, and leave the thoroughbreds alone.
No
quarter horse in the world could stay with Night
Wind. -
Herbert would just like to get Hot Feet from you the
easiest.
possible way... and such a match race would be
it.""
I'd like to get those mares," Allen said thoughtfully.
"I sure would. High Crest Ranch is such a
big operation that Herb
ert's cornered the finest quarter-horse stock in the
country."
"And some of the best thoroughbred blood, too,"
Gorden
added. That's exactly why you should stick
to quarter-horse
racing, Allen." . . -- ,
'Oh, I'm going to stick* to it, all right... that's
why I'd like
to get hold of those High Crest mares. But I'm
not racing Hot was Feet against Night Wind the way
Herbert wants it. I've writ
ten him I'd race Hot Feet any day of the
week against his
n ght Wind at three hundred yards but no
farther. He wants
the race over a quarter of a mile. I'm
not that dumb. Hot
Feet s best distance is three hundred. I'd be
taking too big a
chance racing him at a quarter."
You'd be taking a big chance at any distance,"
Gordon
said.
No," Allen insisted. "Hot Feet could beat
anything Herbert
has at three hundred yards, and I'd take his
mares."
The ranch was less than a mile away. At the
far-off sound
of running hoofs they turned to look across the
plateau.
Allen's face disclosed his alarm at sight of the
running blade
horse. For a moment he thought the big stallion had
broken
from his corral and was free. Then he saw the slight
figure
on the horse's back and, realising it had to be
McGregor, his
fear left him. In its place came swift
anger, McGregor had no
right to take the black horse from the corral without his
permission! . His
'Say, that horse out there is beginning to move!"
Gordon
exclaimed.
That s the outlaw I told you about," Allen
returned. The
one we caught."
Gordon looked at Allen, but it was only a
fleeting glance.
He couldn't keep his eyes off the fast approaching
horse.
"And That s McGregor riding him?
'ationo one else would be up on him," Allen said
brusquely.
"He's got no business being out there, running him
like
that."
"Open your eyes, Allen. You've never seen such
strides!
And the kid's making him go.
Look at them come!"
But Allen's gaze had left the black stallion.
At the far side
disofa group of steers he saw Hank
Larom-riding Hot Feet.eaLarom turned Hot
feet around as he neared the path of the
boy and horse. He was going to make a race of it!
Hot Feet
was given dishis head as the black stallion came
rushing up
from behind..
Allen took a quick breath at Hot Feets fast
start. He knew
ho horse in the world could reach his top speed faster
than
Hot Feet. His champion was in full stride
almost at once, -
and the distance between the two horses remained the same.
Nothing could
catch Hot feet
now .,. for three hundred
yards no horse could beat him! After that distance.
Allen
his
Black Flame
decided, it didn't matter if the black horse
did overtake Hot
Feet.
For- almost the full three- hundred yards
there was nochange in the position of the racing horses.
Allen's, eyes
blazed more brightly than ever in his love for his horse.
He
told himself that the black stallion could run, there was
nodoubt of it. But Hot Feet was running under
saddle and
carrying Larom's heavy weight. The black horse
was beingridden bareback by a lightly built kid.
Allen banged his fist
against the buckboard. "come on, you little horse!
Move
away from him! Move!"" .
They heard a short blast from the black stallion;
echoed by the boy's shrill call. They saw
McGregor bend closer to the stallion's neck,
and then with startling suddenness the horse came on with
terrifying speed. The blazing light in
Allen's eyes flickered and died.
If the black stallion had been running before, he
was flying now! It was as though in one mighty leap he
had
overtaken Hot Feet. He became nothing but a
black, whirl
ing blur in the watchers' eyes. They
couldn't make out the boy on his back, for he was one
with the horse. Faster and faster he came towards them,
his strides lengthening more and more. They knew they had
never seen a horse run like this. He was liking nothing
real. This was no horse, there was no rider... nothing
but a blackness moving across the plateau with
electrifying speed. It whipped past them, low and
long, and the greater-than air twisted about them. The team
screamed and rose in their harness. The swirling dust
moved
away, "going faster and faster, and only the beat of
magnificent strides betrayed it for what it was.
Cordon and Allen watched and watched until the
black stallion disappeared behind the distant barns.
Their gazes were still turned in his direction when Larom
rode Hot Feet up beside the buckboard. His
face was still
and pale. "Boss, did you see him! I ain't
never seen a horse
run like that. Boss, he was flyin"!"
Allen turned to Larom, and then to the sweated,
snorting
Hot Feet. He felt his anger quickly return.
His mouth
twitched as to himself he cursed the black
stallion. Aloud he
said, 'Take Hot Feet back to the corral.
Hank."
Allen picked up the long lines to the team. Before the
buckboard moved Gordon said,
"That
black stallion only
started to run when he passed Hot Feet."
Allen clucked to the horses. "Nothing can beat
Hot Feet at
three hundred yards ... nothing. I'll bet he
had the. black
stallion beaten at that distance, close to three
hundred yards
anyway, and he was carrying a lot more weight. It
would be
a different story if he'd been going light."
"Have it your way," Gordon said agreeably.
"But I was
thinking of something else. Do you still want those High
Crest mares"...*
'allyou trying to be funny, Slim?"
'ationo. Herbert wants the match race at more than
three
hundred yards, doesn't her
'I told you all that. That's why there's not going to be
any
match race." He turned to Gordon. "What
the devil are you
driving at, Slim"...*
The kid could really set things afire riding that
black stal
lion in a distance race. ...the longer the better,
I think."
was Allen said nothing. His eyes lost some of their
anger, and
became more thoughtful. You mean..."
dis'I mean here's your chance to pick up the mares you
want. Let Herbert select any distance he
likes for the race."
"Race the black stallion, instead of Hot
Feet, against Night Wind"...* Allen knew
Gordon meant exactly that. He wanted
only to hear himself say it, to see how it sounded,
to see if it made any sense to him.
'Herbert would think you were crazy for suggesting such
a race, and that would give you a chance to set up 'most
anything you want in the way of additional purse."
Gordon
paused. "Maybe afew more mares," he
suggested cagily.
'He'd think I was crazy, all right," Allen
said slowly. "And
I sure would be." He added quickly, *ationo,
Slim. Racing a wild
horse isn't in my line."
-
Nack Flame
In the distance they saw the black stallion again.
McGre
gor had taken him from behind the barns, and was moving
him back down the plain. Allen's gaze never
left the horse
and rider. He watched the easy, unhurried
movements of the
stallion. McGregor wasn't pushing the horse
now. Allen
disthought again of Gordon's suggestion, and his face
became
dark and troubled by the conflicting emotions that surged
within him.. He wanted those High Crest quarter
races. He'd
like to beat Herbert at his own game.
But to race a wild
range horse at "Preston was
unthinkable!
He was as silly as
Slim even to be considering it.
Gordon was saying something, but Allen didn't listen
to
him. Instead he watched the stallion's strides
lengthen.
McGregor was sitting almost upright, trying to hold
down the horse's speed. But suddenly the kid gave
in to the stal
lion's demand to run again. He had moved forward, and
was
almost lost from sight by the horse's whipping mane.
Allen
saw them pass the chuck wagon he kept on the
range, and his eyes left the horse for a fleeting
second to glance at his
wrist watch. If McGregor took the stallion
straight down the.
plain they would pass an empty corral which, Allen
knew, was a, little over a quarter of a mile from the
chuck wagon.
It would give him a better idea of how fast this
horse was
running.
When Gordon saw Allen glance at his wrist
watch, he
knew the rancher was clocking the stallion, so he said
nothing more. His arguments in favour of racing the black
horse at Preston were no longer needed. Allen's
watch,
during the next few seconds, was all that was necessary.
Gordon's gaze remained on Allen until the
rancher turned to
look at his watch again. Gordon saw the
incredulous look
that came quickly to Allen's face when he noted the
time
made by the running horse.
They had reached the ranch before Allen spoke again.
'I've been sort of mulling over what you suggested
back
therest he said slowly.. .
Yes? Gordon waited, but he knew what was coming.
You you honestly think that black horse could beat a
thoroughbred, one as good as you said Night Wind
is"...* Allen
asked. His watch had told him no quarter horse
in the
world could have run faster over a quarter-mile
than had
the stallion. But he knew nothing about thoroughbred
records.
The way he ran today he could beat
anything,"
Gordon
said. I'd stake all I have on it."
Allen climbed down from the buckboard. 'Well,
I might just think a little more about it, Slim." Then
he added, has
I'lly, "Mind you now, I'm not saying I'm
going to do it."
"No, of course not," Gordon said, but he had
no doubt that
the match race would be arranged.
Allen spoke again, and his voice held a ring of
excitement
that couldn't be completely muted. "Even if I
did
decide to
do it, maybe the kid won't want to ride in the
race," he said.
Gordon replied, "You could order him to ride. It
wouldn't
be the same as the way you feel about his riding
Hot Feet."
'allyeah,,! suppose I could do that," Allen said
thoughtfully.
Well, no sense talking any more about it. Slim.
Come in the
house, and wait there for the kid to get back."
'I've changed my mind," Gordon said. I'll
see him some
other time. If you've got anyone around to drive me
back to town, I'd like to go now."
Allen shook his head. 'Sure, I got someone, but
you
'I know what I said, but it can wait now,"
Gordon inter
rupted. I'll see McGregor on my next
trip to town." Every
thing had been arranged so perfectly that he could afford
to
wait now. He was almost certain that Allen would
decide in
favour of the match race, and that McGregor would be
forced to ride at Preston. There, someone would
identify
him, as the boy wanted by the police.
You're a strange fellow, Slim,"
Allen said thoughtfully.
"First you want to talk to McGregor, and then you
don't.
. You like horses and racing, yet you got only a
burro for
yourself. You seem to be interested in folks, and yet you
,
be
shut yourself up in the pines, and most of the time see no
one. Maybe you're not a happy guy, Slim."
'allyou're wrong, Allen. Most of the time I've very
happy.
Its only once in a while that I feel I've
let myself down and
others as well." He turned to takeddanother
look at the distant
horse and rider. This is just one of those times," he
added
quietly. I'll get over it."
.af Gordon had left, Allen waited
impatiently for McGre-
gor, who had the horse in a walk, and was slowly
approaching the corral. Allen had decided to race
the black
horse at Preston, providing he could
get the kid to ride him.
Allen moved towards the boy and horse. He hoped
he wasn't
going to run into any trouble with McGregor. His best
way
of avoiding it was by getting right to the point. He
wasn't going to
ask
McGregor to ride. It would be an order. He
wasn't going to take any more disobedience from
McGregor.
Allen saw the uneasiness in the boy's flushed
face at his approach. McGregor expected a
reprimand, for taking the horse from the corral, but
instead Allen said. Take him in,
and sponge him down good, McGregor."
Yes, sir."
"And you're riding at Preston," Allen added
quickly. "But ifs not going to be on Hot Feet.
You'll be up on this horse, racing him like you just showed
me he can run." He paused, his eyes
unwavering. That's an order. If you don't like it,
I'm firing you now. So make up your mind
quick!"
The boy's face showed white beneath his tan.
He said
nothing.
'Well, McGregor? Allen waited, his feet
beginning to shift
uneasily, for seldom had he used such tactics
in getting co
operation from his men. Yet he felt it was the only
way to handle McGregor. You win with hmst he
continued less harshly, 'and maybe we can discuss again
what we talked" about this morning. Maybe he'll
be yours in a short while.
But I'm not promising anything. I'm just telling you
to ride
him in the race or leave the ranch today. Understand,
McGregor?"
Finally the boy nodded. I'll stay, and ride
him," he said, "... at Preston."
Allen's face softened. T*ness more like xst he said.
"Now
cool him off, and take care of him, Mac He's
got a big job to
do next week."
Yes, sir," the boy answered tonelessly. He
rode the stallion
towards the corral.
Allen hurried into the house. Entering the dining-room,
he
made his way around a long table covered with red-check
tablecloths. Through the kitchen door, at the far end
of the
room, came the rattling of pots and pans. He
went to the
doorway. At the kitchen table stood Reni, the
ranch cook,
his hands in flour, and his watery blue eyes on the
pan in front of him. Allen said, I'll be using
the phone a few
minutes, Ren."
He closed the kitchen door, and went to the
telephone in
the corner of the dining-room. He preferred not to have
Reni
overhear his conversation. No sense in having everybody
know what he intended to propose to Herbert... not right
now, anyway.
He cranked the wall telephone, and waited for the
Lees-
burg operator to answer. After a few seconds
she said, Yes,
Mr. Allen."
Elsie, I want to put in a long distance call
to Texas ... Yes, you heard me right, Elsie,
I said Texas ... What was that?... I know if
s a long way off ... Yes, I suppose it
would have to go through Preston, Elsie. After all, that's
your job ... Why, I don't care if you never
did put a call through to Texas before, that's what I
want you to do ..." Yes, I'm sure it'll work.
You go ahead now, Elsie ... Ask
her what? Ask her go get Texas for you, of
course, Elsie
What was that? Oh, yes, I'm sorry, Elsie.
I want the High Crest Ranch near Abilene.
I want to speak to Mr. Ralph ,
Herbert... Yes, that's right. Ralph Herbert at
the High Crest
Ranch. You got it now, Elsie? I'll wait.
You go right ahead,
and get the Preston operator. Tell her
exactly what 1 told you ... Of course I'll
wait, Elsie ... No, I don't care hove
long if 11 take ..-. No, Elsie. I'll
wait,.. Please put. the call through, Elsie...
Thank you, Elsie."
He leaned against the wall, his eyes
closed, and waited,
listening to Elsie get the Preston operator and
going through
the whole thing again. Finally it sounded as though they
were getting somewhere. He heard the Phoenix
operator,
and then they had Fort Worth, Texas. Ah, it
wouldn't be
long now.
"Opening his eyes, he looked out the window. He
could see
the vast plateau stretched endlessly before him and, to his
right, the mountain range with its peaks golden against the
purple-blue sky. He heard the bellowing of the
cattle in the
distance, and then, close to the ranch, came the beat of
hoofs. He turned in the direction of the corral and
saw the
black stallion moving about. A moment later he
saw McGre-
gor go to him, carrying a bucket of water. He
shook his head
in wonder as the stallion trotted towards the boy
without hesitation and shoved his muzzle into the pail. It
was too
easy for McGregor. Everything had been too
easy. After all,
the black stallion had been an outlaw until a
little over a
week ago. Allen continued to watch them. He
had
to accept this strange, unnatural relationship, but
he sure didn't under
stand it.
'Hello. Hello. High Crest Ranch"...* this
Ralph Herbert?...
Ralph, this is Allen, Irv Allen up near
Preston... Fine. Fine.
How are you?... Good* glad to hear it,
Ralph... Yes, well
be there on Saturday. How about you, Ralph? Are
you
coming"...eaGood. Great... No, I haven't changed my
mind,
Ralph. Three hundred yards is the only distance
I'll race Hot
Feet, this year anyway... No, a quarter of a
mile is too far
for him. He can't hold his speed that long. I might
as well
admit it... What*ness that, Ralph?... Yes,
I know a quarter is
pretty short for a thoroughbred, or at least I've
been told so.
Don't know much about that breed of horse, as you're
aware ... I guess the match race is out,
Ralph ... Yes, it is
too bad, I know how the crowd would, like it ...
Sure,
Ralph, I know. Well, I guess, that's about
all. I just wanted to
make sure you knew the match race with Hot
Feet couldn't possibly be run under the conditions
you've set for it."
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
't 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 longcompause 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 backslash 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
programme
... 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 switch
board plug to the Allen ranch, and then removed her
head
set. No other lights flashed on the small
board. She leaned
towards 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 moustache came out
of the
general store.
'Slim, stheard about it?"
"Heard what, Cus"..."...com . . .
'Allen's gonna" race that wild boss 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 ba.n' down by either of "em, either. Got
to show
up an" race or else they lose. Whatya think
b* that. Slim? Allen puttin' up Hot
Feet like he's doin', an' racin' a
wild
range boss?"'
Gordon turned to Goldie. 'I think," he
said, "that it's time
comwe were going home," and he led Goldie down the
street. He
didn't want to return to Leesburg until it was
all over. He realised what the coming race would mean
to McGregor,
Allen, and everybody else concerned. A bombshell
explod
ing in their midst would be as nothing compared to 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 the
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
caf6.
y
As
Gordon went by, he noticed that Cruikshank was
showing
great interest in Gus' story. There was even a
trace of a smile
on Cruikshank's thin lips. Gordon left
town, knowing Cruik
shank would enjoy nothing more than to have Allen losethe
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., His
Cruikshank continued sitting on the steps of the
caf6 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 cher
ished 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 roam
ing 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 remem
ber when or where it had all started. But soon he would
know. Every day he came a little closer to knowing, to re
membering.
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 pfct 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 for
ward 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
-
,"
Race rider
take over his body, when he thought of running away.
But
he realised 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
Pre
ston 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 McGregoreafeared. He tried to convince himself that
there was a good chance nobody would be able to identify
him in Allen's racing silks that he'd be wearing.
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
towards
the corral fence and found the black horse following
him.
He stopped, and then walked on again. He heard
die 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 Satur
day'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 colours
at Preston.
But Allen never asked their opinions, and his grim
face
deterred them from offering voluntary advice. He
realised
he had not been successful in keeping anything from any
body. He supposed that Elsie had given him
away, and re
gretted 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 scepticism 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 over-excited 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 spectafors,
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 comvast, 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 towards
them. What would he gain by taking his horse into the
deso
late canyon country? Freedom for a while, but
certain death by
comthe 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
fam
iliar? 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
to rob a diner. He had been in a fight. He had
succeeded in
getting away by hopping on 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.
Larom allowed Allen this indulgence by never admitting
Hot Feet was going all out when the black
stallion passed
them. But Larom knew, as did McGregor, that
Hot Feet
could not stay within the stallion's shadow at
any
distance.
Today was no exception. The boy gave the stallion
his
head at the start of the mile course. He felt the
sudden re
lease of powerful muscles. He heard the
stallion's furious
snorts at just the sight of Hot Feet running far
ahead of him.
McGregor bent low against the straining neck and
called
repeatedly, knowing that only the sound of his voice would
Lightening shadows 161
remind the stallion of the boy who was riding him.
The black horse was in full stride now, and he
closed the
distance to Hot feet in electrifying seconds.
Reaching Hot
Feet's hindquarters, his strides shortened. The
boy spoke to
him, and he went on, leaving Hot Feet behind as if
the small boy horse had come to a sudden, full
stop.
McGregor rode him out for another mile, and then
trotted him back to where Larom was standing. The ranch
foreman watched every movement of the stallion, and finally
he said, 'ationothing could have beaten him today."
"If he runs that way tomorrow," McGregor
disbbgan,
we'll i,."
His
When
he runs that way tomorrow, y*mean," Larom inter
rupted. 'It ain't goin" to be any other way
ever, not as long as
you're up on him. He wants to run for you. Ain't
no doubt
about that. He's a killer, an outlaw ... everything
he does
shows that. But he'll do what you want, because you ask
him to do it. Jus* look how you got him under
saddle the
other day. Never a fight, nothin'. He jus'
took it "cause you
asked him. I've seen horses take a likin"
to certain people
before, but nothin'ever like this."
McGregor Touched his horse, and the stallion
moved in
quick, springy strides to the front of Hot Feet
How could he
tell Larom that this was no outlaw horse he rode?
How
could he explain to him that this stallion had worn
Saddle and bridle before, and that he had ridden him
before?
From behind him came the man's voice again. 'I
wouldn't
miss tomorrow's race for the whole state of Arizona.
Ain't
goin" to be nothin' like it again, not once they see
what you
and him do to that track. I guess I'd give up
anything, if I
had to, jus* to see it.". .
McGregor said nothing. He felt the same way.
He knew it
was more than Allen's orders that was taking him
to Preston
to ride. He
wanted
to race the stallion. He wa excited about
it. He was a fool. He might be giving up
everything, in
cluding his freedom!
Late that same afternoon. Allen drove the van to the
corral where the boy and stallion awaited him. It
was a large van with room for six horses. Allen
had bought it
when he had purchased his broodmares a year ago.
Now it
was. to carry the black stallion to Preston.
Only a few riders had been able to come off the
range to
watch the loading. The others would start for Preston
later that night. Larom waved the riders back from the
barred
gate. He waited until Allen had the van's
side door opposite
the gate, and then took down the bars. -
In the centre of the corral, McGregor held his
horse. He
waited for them to lower the van's ramp, to adjust the
heavyfibre matting, and then he led his horse
towards it. He knew
he wasn't going to have any trouble loading him. He
knew
Allen and Larom would shake their heads at the wonder
of it
all, just as they had done when he'd thrown Allen's
maroon
racing blanket over the stallion without any trouble,
without a restless movement from the horse. They should have
known then that there was no magic about it, that he'd done
all this many times before to the same horse... somewhere,
long ago. . .
Larom was standing on one side of the ramp, and Allen
on
the other. Neither wanted to allow the stallion to get
through the openings there. They expected trouble. Seeing
them, the stallion shied, moving with marvellous ease
and
swiftness.
"Move away from the ramp," McGregor told
them. .
Reluctantly, and afraid of what might happen,
they moved to the sides of the corral. The boy.went
forward
then, the stallion following on a slack lead
rope. McGregor
walked up the ramp without turning around, but he knew
his horse was right behind him. He heard the light hoofs
come down on the matting calmly and deliberately,
as he had expected. Yet the sound of them, and the
closeness of
the stallion's blanketed body once they were
inside the van, caused his head to pound. He raised
a hand to his forehead.
Where
had this all happened before? He was so close to
remembering!
As he turned his horse around and backed him into the
straight stall at the front of the van, his head
pounded even
more.
A narrow, straight stall. A stallion
cross-tied. A great
roar, a drone of engines.
All these he could remember. Not so
long ago. He closed his eyes. He waited.
He prayed for it all
to come back to him.
Set, Mac?
He opened his eyes. Larom was standing in the
doorway.
The starter ground. The engine caught, steadied,
idled.
Larom said, I'd better ride up with the boss.
He's so jittery
I ain't trustin' his drivin' over the mountains."
The door closed. He was alone again. He could
wait He had time. It would be five hours before they
reached Preston. So much could happen to him in five
hours. He might be able to remember
everything
in five hours. He turned to
the stallion, wanting his help more than ever before.
The van moved down the dirt road towards
Leesburg and
the mountain range beyond.
That evening Gordon sat down and reached again for the
stack of
Thoroughbred Records
on the table beside him. He
wasn't looking for a picture of McGregor.
He was trying to
forget McGregor and was being more successful than
he'dhoped. He'd found the contents of the magazines
more
interesting than he'd remembered. He made a
mental note to
subscribe to the Thoroughbred
Record.
It wouldn't disrupthis quiet life to keep up with
what was going on in the
racing world..
He hadn't riffled the pages of all the issues
looking for a picture of McGregor. He had
convinced himself that it wouldn't matter much if he
did
find McGregor's picture in the
magazines. So the kid had been a jockey. A
jockey turned thief and murder accomplice.
Finding his picture would mean onlyst that he would know
McGregor's real name. So he had decided
to proceed in his usual, orderly way, and begin at
the beginning. He had spent the first night reading every word
of the January 1/ issue, and the
second night the following week's issue. Tonight the
issue of
January 15th lay on his lap.
This procedure, he thought, would give him a complete
picture of what had happened in racing this year.
He would
go along with the thoroughbreds from week to week,
coming to the big races in their proper sequence. It would
be
almost as good as though he had attended them. He would
never cheat by skipping issues to learn who had won
theKentucky Derby, the Preakness, the Belmont,
and other
classics. ,
This way, too, he told himself, would help him
to forget
McGregor and what he'd done to the kid. But tomorrow,
he realised, would be the worst time of all for
him. Tomorrow
the kid would race, and his running from the police would
come to an end.
He picked up the magazine from his lap. He
studied the
cover, driving his disciplined mind to note every muscle
of
the thoroughbred horse picture, there. It was a dark
stallion,
wearing racing bridle but no saddle. He was
solid, good look
ing. He seemed to be a big horse, standing perhaps
over sixteen hands. The bridle reins hung
loosely over his thick neck
and crest. He had good eyes and a wide,
intelligent head. A
white stripe ran from forehead to muzzle, and there was
white on all four legs, adding emphasis to his
dark body. He
had sloping shoulders, powerful hind muscles, and
low-set
hocks. He was a very racy type. He was all
thoroughbred.
It was not until Gordon read the print at the
bottom of the
cover that he realised he was looking at a picture
of Night
Wind. The caption read, Wight Wind -- He'll
Be Back."
Gordon's long, thin fingers pressed deeply into the
maga
zine until the whites of his nails showed. Finally
he turned
over the cover. It was no time to be reminded of
Night
Wind. Yet when he came to the story inside
regarding
The
Covet Horse
he read it quickly as though to get it over with
and then forget it.
Night Wind, voted Horse-of-the-Year, is
recovering satis-
facforily from an injury suffered at Santa
Anita. He is at
the High Crest Ranch in Texas, and his owner,
Ralph
Herbert, expects to have him back at the ranch
track by Spring. If he trains well hell be
sent to California some
time during the summer months for another campaign.
Night Wind is a five-year-old son of Count
Fleet-Lovely
Lady by Sir Gallahad in. He was bred by his
owner,
Ralph HerberteaHe is trained by
.,,
Gordon turned the page. He had had enough of
Night Wind for tonight,
tonight of all nightsl
A large advertisement caught his attention, and his
sunbleached, heavy eyebrows came up quickly as he
read the headline: *His Daughter Won the
Kentucky Derby!" Beneath it was a pic
ture of a black horse,
the black horse he had seen at Allen's
ranch!
Still holding the magazine, Gordon got to his
feet, distrying
to control the trembling of his hands. He told himself that
the resemblance between the two stallions was remarkable,
but it didn't necessarily mean they were one and the
same
horse! This picture was of the Black, one of the
foremost
sires in the country... sire of Black Minx, the
filly who had
won the Kentucky Derby!... sire of Satan,
a world's cham
pion before his retirement!
He looked again at the picture, his bright eyes
missing nothing. He remembered the black horse
at Allen's, and
compared the two stallions. The heads were surely the
same
... small, noble and arrogant. Yes, and the eyes,
too
...
very
large and set wide apart. Ears were the very same. And
their
bodies were alike in every detail.
He couldn't sit down. He tried to remember
dearly the black stallion he had seen
McGregor riding. He saw him
again, coming towards him, his body low, and head held
high
.., that long and slender neck arched even at full
gallop... die long mane so heavy yet
windblown in his great speed.
He turned again to the photograph. One horse was
a
famous sure and the other a wild stallion. Yet
they were so
much alike in every respect!
Gordon's face, weathered by years spent in the
sun, turned somewhat pale. They
could
be one and the same horse,
but they weren't, of course.
He was crazy even to
consider it. One horse was at the famous stock farm
operated by Alec Ramsay and Henry Dailey.
It said so right in
the advertisement. The Black was in New York
State, close
to three thousand miles away. The other horse was in
Preston, awaiting tomorrow's race with Night Wind.
Gordon
sat down in his chair again, and gradually the colour
came
back to his face. He even smiled a little. He
was trying to laugh at himself. Finally he was able to turn
the page. He
began reading an article written by a vet
on the proper care
of foaling mares)
His eyes followed the type, but his mind refused
to con
centrate on the article. He remembered Allen
telling him
about the strange, almost uncanny relationship between the
outlaw stallion and McGregor. The kid had
been able to
handle the horse from the very beginning, putting a halter
on
him, leading him back to the ranch, and shortly thereafter
riding him. Gordon remembered replying to Allen
that fliis
was all very hard for him to believe. He had gone to the
ranch to see for himself. He had found everything just as
Allen had said he would. He, too, had accepted the
strange
relationship between the boy and the stallion. There had
been no alternative. But now?
His lean body shifted uneasily in the deep
chair. Now, if
he looked at it this way, if he told himself that the
horse was
no wild stallion, that he had been
broken and ridden before,
could the horse then be ... It was hard for him to say
the
Black.
It was too ridiculous!
Nevertheless, Gordon found himself turning back again
and again to the picture of the famous black sire. At
last he got to his feet angrily throwing the
magazine to the floor.he
went to the other issues on the table, the issues so
neatly arranged in their proper weekly sequence.
He riffled the pages
of each one, his eyes scanning only the headlines.
He did not
really expect to find anything, yet he couldn't stop
looking.
When he came to the issue for the third week of
June he
grabbed it, but didn't throw it on the floor, with the
others.
Nor did he open the mage. It wasn't necessary.
On the
cover was a picture of
McGregor
standing beside his
'wild
stallion
Only the caption didn't say this. Instead it read:
'Alec Ramsay and the Black -- Lost in
Wyoming Wilderness."
Gordon's knees buckled, and he caught himself
on the arm
of his chair. He lowered himself to the seat, and turned
to
the story inside. He learned of the plane's forced
landing,
and the vigorous search, the first few days for the Black
and Alec Ramsay. He picked up the following
week's issue, and
read of more days of constant search through miles of deso
late wilderness. He read one issue after another,
the stories
of the search becoming shorter, and telling of gradually
dim
inishing hope. The last issue stated that the search had
ended
and that all hope of finding Alec Ramsay and the
Black, dead
or alive, had ended as well.
Gordon staggered to his feet. He went
to the closet, and got his jacket and hat By starting
now he'd be in Leesburg
early tomorrow morning. He'd borrow a car, and get
to
Preston shortly after noon. He must tell
McGregor who he
was, and that he had nothing to fear from the police.
McGregor was Alec Ramsay t
Gordon went out the door, shouting excitedly,
"Goldie!
Goldie!" He was running through the darkness when the.
thought came to him that Alec Ramsay didn't
realise he was
riding the Black! No one knew this but himself!
Maybe he
wouldn't be able to get there before the match race.
The
.slack racing Night
Wind. The Black coming back to the
races in Preston. He couldn't miss it! No
one who liked to see
a horse run would want to miss it. Yet there would
be only a
small number of people watching, and none would know
they were witnessing a sight many thousands of
others
throughout the world would have given anything to see...
Alec Ramsay and the Black racing again!
For more than an hour after leaving Leesburg, the
horse van
travelled across the dusty hot road of the broad
plateau.
Reaching the northern range, it began climbing, and
soon left the heated air behind. At first the ascent
was a gradual one across rounded hills, but within a
short while the road
became steeper as it wound through the ever rising mountains.
With the setting of the sun the road turned grey in the
twilight, and finally blackness enveloped the van.
Headlights
came on to pierce the night, the van was put in low
gear*
moving slowly, cautiously up the steep grades.
Within the close confines of the van, the boy and
stallion
were aware of the precipitous climb only because of the
slanting floor. The stallion had his long legs
spread apart,
with the straw rising above his fetlocks. McGregor
sat in a
discanvas chair in front of him, watching him and
listening to
the steady pull of the engine. Its pitch was low, too
low for
what he wanted to associate with it. There was also the
noise from the two slow turning of rubber wheels on
well-
packed gravel. This wasn't the same, either.. .
Hie watched the stallion reach for the hay in the rope
mesh sling in front of his stall. He saw him
pull it out and
begin chewing, tie listened to the sound of his hoofs in the
straw when the stallion shifted his weight. He
watched him
shake his head, pulling taut the cross ropes that
held
comMni-
- The blanket slipped down on his neck.
McGregor got to his feet, and pulled the
blanket up again.
His hands stayed on the stallion's neck, his Touch
soft andgentle. He talked to the horse. He
watched the ears come
forward, the stallion turning and listening. tilde He
diswaited. Any
second, any moment that black mental curtain would
rise,
and he would remember everything.
,"
His lips
were
drawn in a fine thin line as be tried to make
his memory return. He felt he could do it now,
this moment,
if only he made a
great effort
to remember.
The van lurched as it was thrown into still lower gear to
ease the strain of the climb. McGregor found himself
noticing
the steeper pitch of the floor. The stallion snorted
with toss
ing head. McGregor disturned to the blanketed
body. He read
the white letters on. the maroon background. The
Allen
Ranch"discom,
He closed his eyes. He mustn't look at the
blanket or the sloping floor of the van ... or
even his horse. He must shut
. his ears to the sound of the engine, and where it was taking
him. He must concentrate only on what he wanted
to know.
He must make a great effort. His demand must come from
within. He must'''
But he found he could not close his mind as he had his
" eyes. It was not that easy. As he thought of
Preston and all
the people who would be watching him tomorrow, he felt a
terrible fear rising within him. He looked at his
horse, and
... found that his terror was mirrored in the
stallion's eyes.
There came a snort and the pawing of a muscled
foreleg.
Thin-skinned nostrils were blown-out. The cross
ropes
became taut as the stallion shook his head.
Realising that his fear was causing the stallion's
restless
ness, McGregor turned away from him. He
went to the chair
and sat down. He told himself that he wanted to race
the
stallion for Allen, that at times during the
past few days he
had even looked forward to it. No harm would come to him.
He would be back at the ranch by tomorrow night. The
terror that now gripped him was due only to their being
on
their way, leaving behind for a short while the protection,
the security he dishad known at the ranch. He would
get used to it. He would be all right by the time they
reached
Preston,
He remained in the chair until his fear had left
him. He made no further effort to bring back his
memory. He realised that he couldn't concentrate,
couldn't demand to
know anything now ... not with tomorrow's race so near.
After the race, when he was back at the ranch, it
might be
'different. But now he could only wait, wait as
he had been
doing for what already seemed a lifetime.
,
An hour later, the van reached the crest of the range
and
began its descent. It went no faster than it had
during the
long climb, and at times much slower. The road
turned and
twisted, dropping abruptly alongside tremendous
cliffs. Mile
after mile the van descended, wallowing in the
blackness of
the great walls that rose higher and higher above it
to shut
out the dim illumination of the stars.
After a long while, disthe van left the canyon,
picking up.
speed as it went through a valley surrounded on every
side
by towering rock. The road led to another mountain
range
many miles away. After an hour the van slowed, and
crossed a long bridge. Far below was a tremendous
chasm;
and deep within its bowels flowed a river. The moon
turned
the water into a silver ribbon, brilliant yet
seemingly un-
moving in the great depth of the canyon.
On the other side of the bridge the van picked up
speed
again. The high peaks ahead were no closer than before,
but
the van had gained open country now, mounting and de
scending little flat hills covered with sage. Finally,
as it de
scended one of the hills, the lights of Preston could
be seen in
the distance.
The van surged forward until it neared the
outskirts of the city. The mass of buildings rose
feebly in comparison to the
towering mountain range beyond, but their lights shone
brightly in the night... red, green and
white*greater-than going on and
off along street after street.
The van passed the railroad station, and then crossed
the
tracks. It glided into the city on wheels that
turned
smoothly, almost noiselessly, on paved streets.
It went down
broad avenues, slowing to the speed that had taken it
up the
steepest of the mountain grades, but for a different
reason.
The way was filled with people overflowing from the. pave
ments. Cattlemen, prospectors, miners,
sheepherders, and
Indians had- descended upon Preston for three
days of cel
ebration. Long-legged cowboys and punchers, dressed
in
skin-tight Levis, colourful silk shirts, and
broad sombreros,
were there from near and far to take home prize money.
They would participate in the bronc-busting,
bull-dogging,
and calf-tying contests. They would enter the fastest of
their
horses in the races. Indians from the reservations
mingled with them, some squatting on the pavements trying
to sell their pottery, baskets and beadwork; others
ignoring the confusion of the crowd, waiting aloof and
patiently for
tomorrow's horse racing, a sport they loved and
understood
above all others. They, too, would race, for as
Navajos they
had been taught to ride almost in their infancy, and
horses
were their most prized possessions.
The van wound its way through the streets, sometimes
stopping and waiting for the mass of people to. give it
room
to pass. There were cars and taxis and buses having no
easier
time of it. Slowly the van passed the park and the
hotels, the
shops and restaurants. Finally it came to the broad
highway
leading out of the city. It passed tourist camp
sites, jammed,
like the city behind, with cars and people. Another mile, and it
passed the airport with the tower beacon turning
slowly in the night. A short distance beyond was the
city's
race track.
The van turned off the highway, and crossed the
plain to
the half-mile oval. Along the track's
home-stretch were un
covered stands, and across the way a line of open stables.
Horses stood beneath bare light bulbs. Other
horses were
stabled in trailers, vans, and in tents behind
the sheds;
Allen's van passed the stable area, and kept going
until it
was beyond the turn of the track. There in the darkness it
stopped.
McGregor waited for the side door to be opened.
He knew
they had arrived. He had known-it for a long time, from the
noise of downtown Preston to the shrill neighs and
nickering
of horses here at the track.
'Mac?
The black stallion revolts
"Yes, boss." He could see the dim outline of
Allen's head and shoulders when the door was opened.
You want to walk the kinks out of his legs? Hank
thinks
it would be best'
No. We'll stay here. I'm going to turn-him
loose in the
van for the rest of the night. That's all the exercise
he'll
need."
Allen said nothing. McGregor heard him whispering
to
larom, and then, "Where'full you sleep, Mac?"'
"In the stall, so he won't be stepping on
me."
"Okay, but bed down the back of the van, then. I
don't
want him slipping on the bare floor."
Yes, boss."
Again McGregor saw their heads come together, and
heard their whispered consultation.
Allen said finally, "Hank will be sleeping in the
front seat,
Mac. Call him if you need him."
"I will, boss. Goodnight."
" 'ationight, Mac. You got a light?
Yes, boss."'st
The door closed, and a few moments later
McGregor
heard Larom climb into the van's cab.
Apparently he had
been ordered to stick close by until time for the race.
Allen
was taking no chance of McGregor's not being around in
the
morning.
Turning on his flashlight, he took
several bales of straw,
and bedded down the back of the van. Then he hung
buckets
of water and feed in the far corner, and turned the
stallion,
loose. His horse moved from the stall and walked
around the van, sniffing and snorting until he found his
feed.
McGregor cleaned the stall, and then unfolded his
port
able canvas bed. Within a few minutes he was lying
on it,
and listening to the movements of his horse. He could
smell
the wood smoke from the fires a short distance away.
He knew what it was like down there. He could see the
ban
dages, cloths and coolers hanging on the lines.
He was aware
of the excitement and anticipation that was sweeping
through men and horses alike. He could hear the good-
natured calls, the whistling, the humming of men while
they
cared for their horses. All this was there tonight, the night
before the races. Tomorrow it would be different.
Men and
horses would awaken to the seriousness of the day. There
would be no laughing, no gay calls in the stable area.
They
would leave all that to the people in the stands, those who had come
only to watch. The backside of the track would
know only tenseness, a long period of waiting before
being
called to the post.
No visifors today. No hay today. We go to the post
at one
o'clock..
.
He knew what it was like now, and what it would be like
tomorrow. He knew everything disexcept where he', had
learned it all, and
when.
He closed his. eyes, not wanting to
think about it any more, and asking only for sleep to come.
He concentrated on the unceasing movements of his
horse as
he.walked about the van, working the stiffness out of his
legs. Finally the constant rustling of hoofs in the
deep
straw put him to sleep..
......
He awakened to the grey light of dawn coming through
the high window behind him. He saw that the stallion was
stretched out down on the straw. He was glad his
horse had
got off his feet during the night. It was a good
sign. He
moved on his cot, and the stallion's head came up
and
turned towards him. This, is it," he told him
softly. This is
the dayst
Hearing someone at the door, he got to hiseafeet.
Larom
was outside, carrying two pails.
'Morning, Mac. Here's some fresh water."
Thanks, Hank." McGregor watered his
horse, and then returned to Larom, saying, 'He
should get out for a while
this morning."
"I know, but Allen doesn't want him on the
track. He's got
some funny idea about springin" him all at once
on every
body, indudin'"Herbert and Night
Wind. I don't get it, but
he's the boss."
The boy turned away from the door. He went to the
stal
lion again, and this time gave him some grain. He
knew that
he was responsible for Allen's not wanting the
stallion seen
until post time. He had told Allen that it was
best to keep
him away from other horses, so that he would not become
over-excited. He had told him, too, that if knowledge
of the
stallion's swiftness could be kept from Herbert they
would have an advantage in the race.
"Where is Ralph Herbert"...* he asked Larom.
'In town, but that ain't makin" any difference,"
Larom
said. 'His trainer and boys are over there with Night
Wind.
We take our horse on the track this morning, and
Herbert and the town would know all about him before noon.
The
boss says to keep him away from them, and that's what
we're doing."
*Where's the boss?
"He caught a ride into town last night,
figuring to stay
there, and let Herbert know we're all set to go."
"What's to stop Herbert from coming out here and finding
us?
Larom smiled. "Several hundred vans just like
ours, and
most of 'em carryin" horses. Allen says
Herbert ain't the kind
of guy to spend all morning just lookin' for a
horse.?-He turned towards the track. Things
are just startin" to stir
down there. Can't even get a cup of coffee yet,
and we only
had one sandwich since we left the ranch."
.the boy's gaze was on the broad expanse of
endless plain to the west-The sky above it was still dark.
'Let me take him
out there," he said. *He only needs a light
gallop. Allen said to
keep him off the track, but he didn't say
anything about not working him out there."
"No, he didn't say anything about that" Larom
turned his
dark leathery face towards the boy. "But he said
I should
stick close to you, and I got no horse."
"But why. Hank? What does he think I might
do anyway?
'I don't know why. It ain't my orders. If
s his. He's got his
own notions. I guess he's just playin" it
safe. He don't want
anything to happen to you. I can't blame comhm. He
ain't
playin' for pennies, not with Hot Feet up as his
part of the
purse he ain't. And if you don't ride that
black horse no one
else is goin' to do it."
'But you want us to win, don't y"...*
'I ain't say*in nothin" but that."
Then you'd better let me gallop him,"
McGregor said quietly. Tie's had more than
five hours of hard travelling
and six more hours of just waiting around here. Give him
a chance to stretch out now, and we'll Come back all
ready to
race."
For a moment Larom was undecided, and then he said,
'Okay, Mac. I guess it'll be all right.
No one will see you out
there."
A little later McGregor led the saddled stallion
down the
ramp. Larom boosted him up, and said, "You work him
like
you think you should, but don't go far, Mac."
The boy's hand was on the black neck. 'Quit
worrying,
Hank. This will only take a few minutes."
He let the stallion
go.
They left the ever-lightening sky of early morning behind
them. He kept the stallion at a-mild gallop,
wanting him only
to loosen up. He felt the great hoofs come down upon
the
ground without a jar. He leaned forward, whispering
softly
into ears that flicked back at the sound of his voice.
He knew
the stallion wanted to run all out. He told him
that it was
not time, that they must wait a few more hours. Now they
were just to gallop easily and without strain. The rest would
come later.
He took him a half-mile, and then turned, coming
back at
a slow lope. Standing in his stirrups, he did not
look at Hank
Larom, who was impatiently awaiting their return.
Instead
he looked beyond the man, towards the land beneath the
distant, dull-grey sky. Out there and not so many
miles away was the beginning of the deep canyon
country. No
one, not even Allen, who was so afraid that something
might happen to him, realised that only yesterday he
had fleetingly
considered riding the great stallion into that country where
no one would ever find them.
He spurned the thought now as he had then. He
turned
. away from its beckoning, knowing that he did not have to
run again, that soon he would be back at the ranch.
Later, after he had cooled out the stallion and left
him
blanketed in the big van, he went to the
stable area with
Larom. They found the kitchen tent with its long counter
and stools, and sat down.
The early morning air was brisk, but that was not the
reason McGregor pulled up his jacket collar
high on his
neck. He was afraid of being recognised. But his
fear left him
almost immediately. There were too many men shouting and
clamouring for anyone to pay much attention to him. He
had no special identity in this carefree throng of
swaggering
cowboys. He tried to be one of them; it was the
easiest way to avoid suspicion.
While he sat on the stool, awaiting his
breakfast, he won
dered why the stable area wasn't the same as he had
ex
pected. These men were gay and laughing. They were
enjoying themselves. Where was the tenseness, that long
period of dreadful waiting before being called to the post?
Where were the grim faces and the silent men who walked
up and down before their barns until even in the coolness
of
early morning their shirts would be wet with
sweat? Not
here certainly. Yet he had expected it to be this
stway. Why?
Because it had been that way for him
before?
Yes, that was
his answer.
be
still
After breakfast they returned to the van, and found
Allen
awaiting them. They all climbed into the back of the
van,
and sat there quietly, watching the black stallion.
The boy
turned to Allen many times. Here was more what he had
known before. Here was a grim face, a fortured face,
that
knew the pain of waiting. He turned to Larom, and
found
that his face disclosed everything that was in Allen's. He
found himself wondering about his own face. Was the
agony of waiting written there, too?
Preston
He said, "Just a couple more hours now."
He hardly recog
nised his own voice, and he realised then that he
looked and
felt no different
from
the two men.
An hour before the race they convinced themselves that
they should get a cup of coffee. They went to the
kitchen
tent again. They spoke only to give their orders.
McGregor sat between them, and waited for his coffee,
waited for the
race to begin. It wouldn't be long now. Post time for the
match race was one o'clock. It was to be the first race
on
the day's programme. Across the track the stands had
filled
with spectafors long ago. Hundreds more were already
standing around the half-mile oval, and there was an endless
stream of cars still coming from the highway.
"I wish this thing was over."
The voice came from McGregor's right, and he
thought
Allen had spoken. But it wasn't Allen, for his
employer had
turned to the man sitting beside him. He was a small
man,
different from all others here because he wore no wide-
rimmed sombrero, and.no colourful silk shirt.
His face was.pinched and widened, as was the rest of him
except for his
hands. They were giant-size..
McGregor turned away quickly, pulling his
sombrero
down close to his eyes. He had* known this man
before. He
knew this, but nothing else... not where or when, only
that
the slight figure had stepped from behind the black
mental barrier of lost time.
The man was talking to Allen. 1 ride Night
Wind," he said.
Tin a contract rider for High Crest Ranch. I
got no beef.
Herbert tells me to ride and I ride. But what
he makes me
come here for, I don't know. I miss a couple of
good rides at Santa Anita today because he calls
me, and says get to Pre
ston! Sure I come. .if I don't,
I break my contract, and I'm fired. I don't
get to ride Night Wind at Santa Anita or
no
where else.. I ain't dumb enough to let a thing like that
get by
me. But what for he gets me to ride in this jerk
rodeo circus,
I don't know. Night Wind don't need me up
on him none to
win here. As I say, I got no beef with
Herbert He's paying
me all right, and I get his best horses to ride.
But why didn't
he get one of his ranch boys to ride this race, I
don't know.
Why he gets me to come all the way from California
for this
thing, I don't know."
Allen finished his coffee, and turned on his stool.
I don't
know either," he said, getting to his feet. Only
when they
were leaving the tent did he speak again. 'I didn't
expect
Herbert to get his top rider here. Herbert
is out for blood, all right." His face was white.
"Hot Feet, y'mean," Larom said.
McGregor said nothing.
They pushed their way through the packed crowd in the stable
area, having to look at the laughing faces, having
to
listen to the gay, carnival spirit that had swept over the
grounds. They walked single file, following each
other with McGregor hi the lead, for it was he who
wanted most to get
away. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes on the tall
man coming
towards him. Fear choked him. He wanted to turn
and run,
but, could only stand still. He knew the man and he
didn't
have to ask himself when he had last seen him. The
heavy-set frame, the round face, the grey suit,
and grey sombrero,
the bright silver star . .".
the
sheriff from
Leesburg
Close
behind him was another man McGregor
recognised ..".
Cruikshank,
with his gaunt body stooped, the more easily to
move through the crowd.
Somehow, he knew they had come for him! He turned
on
leaden feet and tried to run. He bumped
into Allen. His em
ployer's face showed surprise and then alarm when
he tried
to break away from him. A hand from behind fell on his
shoulder, and he heard the sheriff say, "You're
wanted on
suspicion of robbery and murder, kid."
backslash
19 The sprung trap
'Murder!"
McGregor mouthed the word, but it never left his
bloodless lips. He looked at Allen. He
saw the rancher's face
lengthen until the skin was drawn tight and white.
He watched him try to smile, a thin, sickly
opening of the
mouth.
"You're joking, Tom," Allen said.
'It's no time for stuff like
that. We're going to race in just a'few minutes."
McGregor heard the sheriff's reply, while the
heavy hand
remained dison his shoulder, the fingers deep in his
flesh. "No,
Irv. I'm not kidding." There was sympathy in the
sheriff's
voice, but resoluteness as well. The whole
state's been
alerted to be on the lookout for him. He's wanted
in Utah
.. a diner stick-up... the three men who worked with
him
on the job have been caught." His voice dropped
a little. The
diner's cashier died a couple of weeks ago from
injuries they .
gave him at the time."...com..
Allen turned to the boy. 'Let's get out of here,
Tomst he
said. "We can't talk here."
There's only one place for me to take hmst the
sheriff
said quietly.
"I want to know more before you do that." Allen's eyes
had left the boy, and there was fury in his gaze when
he
looked at the haggard face, of the man standing behind the
sheriff. "I want to know what Cruikshank had
to do with
this."
.
The sheriff shifted his big frame uneasily, but his
eyes and
voice were steady when he sdea"Cruikshank just
tipped me .
off, Irv. He pointed out to me what I hadn't
noticed at all...
that the description of the kid wanted in Salt Lake
City fits
McGregor." The sheriff paused before adding,
"If you want to
get put of here, and hear the rest, I guess it'll
be all right."
McGregor was pulled around, and then directed through
the crowd. He didn't raise his eyes. He
didn't care any
longer. He was wanted for
murder.
There would be no more running.
They stopped before the van; there were no people this far
from the track. He heard one of the stallion's hoofs
strike
wood, and then it was quiet inside again. Maybe
they'd let
him see him once more. Maybe, if Allen asked
the sheriff, he'd be allowed inside the van for the last
time.
The sheriff said, "Here's the state circular
I've had hanging
in my office, Irv and attached to it is the news
dipping
Cruikshank gave me last night, when he
reminded me of the
kid who was working for you."
Allen read the details of the robbery, and the
description
of the missing boy. He turned to study
McGregor;
The sheriff said, You see the description fits,
don't yeaIrv?.
Yes, but you're not certain ifs he," Allen said.
'allyou're
taking him to jail only on
suspicion."
" The sheriff tried to smile. That's all they sent
me on him,
Irv. If the description fits, I got to take
him in." He turned to
McGregor. "And the kid isn't denying anything.
You even
saw him try to get away back there, when he saw
me
coming."
Allen turned to the boy. "Mac," he said,
"did you do it? Are
you the one they want?

He couldn't get McGregor to raise
his eyes from the ground. You can tell me, Mac,"
he went on
softly. I'll help you all I can, if you did do
it. We'll fight x.st
Remember, Mac, if ifs you they want, you were
only the lookout for those men,
grown men.
You're nothing but a
kid. They could have forced you to go with them."
They waited for him to lift his gaze, to say
something. But
he did neither. He couldn't. What good would it do
to tell
them he didn't know? It wouldn't help. And he
did
remem
ber certain gruesome details ..". the great
swelling on the
crown of his head, the terrible pain that had stayed with
bun for days afterwards, the raw and bleeding hands, the
dark-stained money he had found in his pocket. Yet
Allenwas trying to-convince him that he might not have
hadanything to do with fatally injuring the cashier.
Whereeathen, could he have received his own injuries except
in a
fight?.
The wafting call of a bugle rose above the distant
wave ofvoices. When it ended, and its lingering note
had died down,
there came a great roar of acclamation. Even
McGregorraised his head and turned his eyes in the
direction of the
horse moving before the stands.
Night Wind had answered
the call to the post.
.
Allen's face was white. Finally he said,
"Hank, you'd
better tell them the race is off."
Larom didn't leave. Instead he turned to the
sheriff as theroar of the crowd rang in their ears. The
sheriff dropped his
gaze and said, "We'd better get going, kid.
Don't give me any
trouble now."
" His
Larom said quietly, It doesn't take very long
for a horse to run a mile, Tom."
The sheriff knew what Larom was asking, and he
shook
his head. Allen knew, too, but he only said.
I'll go along
with you, Mac. Hank can stay here."
"I'm sorry, Irv," the sheriff said. "I
know what this race
meant to you."
If s harder to lose before a race than
afea"Allen said. His
voice shook, and he knew he fooled no one. The
kid's in a
jam. I want to help him, if I can. There'll be
other races."
"But no other horses for you like Hot Feet," the
sheriff
ncnnncfed
nun*
Swift, disturbed anger came to Allen's face.
"Quit it, Tomst
he said bitterly. "You got what you came for, so
let*ness gst
The sheriff still didn't move. Suddenly
Cruikshank said, 'Ain't goin" to stay here for the
whole day, ate we, sheriff?
Take*m, an'pen him up like ya* done to me."
They all turned to him, and Larom said, "You timed it
good, Cruikshank. You couldn't have timed it
better."
"Don't know what
y"
mean, Hank. I seen my duty an" I
done it." Cruikshank's pitted black eyes were
bright and
shifting. 'Let's get him in, sheriff."
The sheriff shifted his weight against Cruikshank's
prodding shoulder. "We'll go when I say
to go, and not
befirst he said.
The sound.of the bugle came again. The crowd was no
longer shouting, only impatient for the race to begin.
The
stands shook to the rhythmical stamping of feet.
Allen saidea'Hank, I told you to go and tell them
it's off."
But Larom didn't leave. Again he caught and
held the
sheriff's uneasy, undecided eyes. "Tom,"
he said with quiet
assurance, like I just told you, it would be only a
few
minutes from the time he leaves here and the time he gets
back. It would mean a lot to us, and somethin' to the
kid,
too. He's worked hard on this horse."
'ationo y*'don't!"
Cruikshank screamed, and his long fingers
fore at McGregor's arm in an attempt to pull
him away
from the sheriff. "git him in now jus" like you done
t'me."
McGregor felt the sheriff's hand again,
grabbing and hold
ing him steady against Cruikshan'k's crazed
attempts to
yank him away.
Take your hands off him," the sheriff said in a
cutting
voice. Cruikshank's black eyes shifted from the
sheriff to the boy, and then back again. Finally he
took his hands away.
The sheriff said. That's better. Now, Hank, you go
and tell
them that your horse will be coming down hi a minute.
Irv,
I'm letting.mcGregor ride, but holding you
responsible forhim until the race is over.""
They pushed McGregor towards the van, and opened
the
door. He saw his horse, and only then did he
realise it wasn't
the end at all.
With the great stallion he could get away.
They put the ramp down, and Allen said softly,
"Get the
horse, Mac. After the race I'll go with you. You
needn't be
afraid. Ill get the best lawyer. I'll..."
But the boy didn't listen. He went into the ran, and
put on
the stallion's bridle and saddle. Then he took
him down the
ramp. Only the sheriff'and Allen were waiting for them
...
these two and the crowd beyond. Cruikshank comhad gone*
beaten again and running... just as he, too, would be run
ning within a few minutes. He felt sorry for
Cruikshank. He
knew what it was like to be beaten, to live with fear, and
to comhide and run.
Allen boosted him up. *ationo time to put on
silks," he said. "It
makes no difference, anyway."
No, racing silks made no difference.
McGregor picked up
the reins, and felt the stallion surge at his
Touch. He held him
still. The horse was alive with fire today and ready for the
race of his life! But not with' Night Wind. There
wasn't
going to be any match race. Instead he and his
stallion
would be racing towards the deep canyon country, and
once
there he would stay forever. If it meant death for him,
well,
he preferred such a death to what the sheriff offered in
its
place. He didn't plan to let his horse die
with him. He'd turn
him loose, make him go away, once they were in the
great
"Canyons. The stallion would find his way out.
"Ready, kid? Allen was standing close, his hands
hot and
shaking on McGregor's leg in the drawn-up
stirrup.
The boy nodded, and took his eyes off Allen. He
didn't want to look at him, knowing what he was about
to do to
him. The sheriff was on the other side, and far enough
away.
Now, if Allen would just step back a few feet,
he wouldn't
hurt him when he whirled the stallion. He
didn't want to
hurt anyone. He just wanted to get
away. Allen removed his
hand from McGregor's leg.
Now,
the boy thought, now!
But Allen didn't step away from the black
stallion. Instead
he reached for the bridle. He'd never before taken
hold of
the stallion, but in his great excitement he didn't
think of
this now. For the moment he'd forgotten all caution.
He was
thinking only of the race to come, the race that a few
minutes ago had been hopelessly lost to him. Now
he was
taking
his entry
to the.post. The crowd was waiting for
them. After the race he'd do all he could for
McGregor. But he needn't think of that now. He
turned to the sheriff. Tom,"
he said, "you'll find a racing whip in the tack
trunk. Please
get it for me." He began walking.
The boy hardly breathed, his head reeled,
when his horse
stepped forward obediently beneath Allen's hand. This
- wasn't as, he'd planned. The stallion was
eager to go along
with Allen. McGregor sat back in the saddle,
his spine stiff.
He could do nothing but await an opportunity to be
free' of
Allen. He rose in his stirrups and leaned forward
again, talk
ing to the stallion, reminding him that he was there. But the
small head never tossed or turned in understanding of his
sounds and Touches. There was no flickering back of
pricked
ears to listen to him. The stallion's senses were keyed
to
what lay ahead.
Allen kept walking, taking them ever closer to the
track.
The boy saw the faces of the crowd beginning to turn in
their direction, and he knew he had to get away at
once,
regardless of what happened to Allen, He drew
back on the
reins. Allen turned to him quickly, his
gaze startled and
searching. McGregor was ready to pull his horse
around
when the sheriff's towering figure came up beside them.
Again McGregor had to wait. He watched the
sheriff pass the whip to Allen.
Suddenly the short leather whip was in his own hand, and
Allen was leading the stallion again. McGregor
didn't re
member relinquishing his tight hold of the reins. He
was
looking at the whip, his nails pressed deep into its
leather.
He was aware of nothing but the feel of it in his hand.
He
didn't want the whip, yet he couldn't drop it.
He stared at it.
Why did he know he should never Touch the stallion with
it?
Why?
His
They were on the track. The stands were a sea of
swarming, indistinct faces, strangely quiet
while the stallion moved
in front of them. Then came a mounting hum
of excited
voices until suddenly the air was shattered by a
continuous
roar. .
Allen smiled, knowing the crowd was for him and. his
entry. Night Wind was a Texas thoroughbred, an
outsider,
while he and his horse
belonged..
..
:
his
The track announcer said over the public address
system.
'Coming on the track is Range Boss, owned
by the Allen.
Ranch of Leesburg, Arizona."
The boy felt his blood run hot while the shouts
of the
crowd rang in his ears. The stallion sidestepped
across the
. track, pulling Allen into a run. McGregor
heard himself say to Allenea"Better let go of him
now. I'll take him up."
still Allen turned the stallion loose, but
he remained on the
track, sharing his entry's glory. His eyes stayed
on the stal
lion, beahis ears were tuned to the voices from the
stands,
taking in the great acclamation while the black horse
moved
past. Allen loved every-moment of it Last year it had
been this way with Hot Feet But that had been
after
the race, he
reminded himself, when Hot Feet had won the
three-year-
old crown. This was much too early to feel as he
did. His still face sobered, and he hurried to catch
up to the black stal
lion.
Going past the stands, the boy held a tight rein.
He tried to close his ears to the familiar,
clamouring cries. He wanted to
"listen only to the lone beat of hoofs that told him
he was
free of Men. Nothing could keep him from leaving now.
All
he had to do was to take the stallion to the far
side of the
track and go over the low fence. He'd be on his way
before the sheriff or Allen realised what he was doing.
. 'Go nowst he told himself savagely.
'What are you waiting f
or?
The whip was clenched in his hand. He felt his flesh
crawl
at the Touch of it. How long had he been staring at
the whip?
He turned his eyes away. The stallion snorted
and moved
faster, hating the tight rein that held him to a slow
walk.
McGregor rose higher in his stirrups, looking
over the.small
head. He saw the starting gate, stretched halfway
across the
track. The wire-mesh doors in front were
closed. To the right
of the gate was a high platform, and standing there was the
official starter.
'Hurry that horse!" The starter tried to keep the
im
patience out of his voice.
All this was so familiar, to McGregor and to the
stallion.
Couldn't Allen and all the others see that this was no
outlaw
horse he rode, that he and the stallion had gone to the
post
before? Even so, what did it matter now?
He'd had no intention of going so far, but now he
found
himself taking his horse around the gate. He felt the
mount
ing tension within him. The stallion shook his head
savagely,
trying to get more rein. McGregor kept him near
the rail and
away from the horse who stood just in back of the gate.
He
turned the stallion's head towards the far turn,
yet his own
eyes remained on the dark brown horse with white
markings on face and legs. He had seen Night
Wind before. He was certain of this, too.
He let the stallion lengthen out going away from the
gate. He felt reassured of his means of
escape in those swift, easy
strides. Finally he rose high in his stirrups and
brought the
stallion down to a prancing walk. Then he turned
him
around. He was going back to the gate, even going
inside to
come out on the break. All the way down the track,
he
asked himself, "Way? His only answer was that it
didn't
matter how they reached the backstretch just as long as
they
got there. One way around the oval was as good as
another.
Yet he knew he was lying, that something over which he
had no control was taking him and his horse to the starting
gate.
The stallion's eyes were on Night Wind. He
screamed
once and his loud challenge silenced the stands. For a
moment every gaze was on him. He came close to the
gate*
his great black body glistening in the sun, and there was
a
savage wildness to his action.
One of the starter's assistants walked towards him,
and
the man's movement broke the stillness of the stands.
There
came the drone of excited whisperings, for the
spectafors
had caught a glimpse of what they had been told
to expect,
yet hadn't believed. The Allen Ranch was racing
a stallion
that had run wild only two weeks ago!
- McGregor watched the assistant starter come
towards
them. He saw the fright in the man's eyes when he
reached
for the bridle. The stallion reared.
'Get backst McGregor said, bringing his horse
down. I'll
take
him
in alone."
. As he moved away, the man said, "Hurry him
up then.
You got a whip. Use it on him, if you have to!"
Use it on him, if you have to!
The words seemed to tear McGregor's ears apart
He
raised the whip before his eyes, staring at it for many
seconds. He felt the tears come suddenly,
burning his
eyelids. Why was he crying? The tears came
faster, blinding
him. He brushed his hand over them, angrily
sweeping them
away. He looked towards the stands, searching for the
person who had called those very same words to him an
eternity ago. The sea of faces swarmed before him.
He
looked harder, finding Allen, and Larom, and the
sheriff on
the rail... the only faces he knew. He saw
a figure suddenly His
appear behind them, and for a flickering second hope
rose
within him. Then he recognised Gordon, and turned
his at
tention back to the gate.
*At his command, the stallion moved quickly into his
start-
ing stall, and the gate closed behind them. There
was only
one way out now. When the door in front opened
there'd be
no turning back, ever.
He didn't look at the horse and rider in the
next stall. His
eyes were focused straight ahead and he was looking
through the wire mesh at the track that lay before him, so
golden in the sun. Suddenly he gasped. And as the
air rushed
. out of his lungs, he knew that here was the true
road back
that had evaded him for so long, the road that would have
told him everything he wanted to know, if he'd found
it yesterday or any of the long days before it Now it
wasn't
important. Now it was just a means of escape!
The track announcer said, The horses are at the
post." The spectafors were quiet, awaiting the
start. Their eyes were on the front doors of the
gate. They didn't want to miss a thing.
They knew that a world of horsepower was ready to ex
plode in a single race. This was to be no usual
sprint of three
hundred or four hundred yards, but a
long mile, twice around the track. This was to be a
very special race, and
they awaited it in hushed silence.
At the rail near the starting gate, Ralph
Herbert removed
his horn-rimmed glasses, and quickly wiped the sweat
from
his eyes. "I don't like this," he told his
trainer, a man with a
frame as solid and big as his own. "Allen has
put something
over on us.. That black horse isn't fresh off
the range. .did
you See how he walked into his stall"...*
, Yeah, I saw." The trainer worked his jutting
square jaw.
But he's wild enough to fight at the drop of a rein.
If any-
jthing should happen to Night Wind..."
'ationothing will happen to
lam,"
Herbert said. "But that
kid sure can handle that black horse. Look how
he's quieting
him down, after all his, twisting."
"Who is the kid, anyway?
. "Allen said his name's McGregor. Works at
the ranch."
*He looks familiar to me," the trainer said,
'z I mentioned
before.

. " .
n
"Yeah, I know. I'd like to see him without that hat
He's
got it pulled far enough down to pretty near cover his
eyes."
"And that horse is like something we've seen before,
too.
He's no mustang, that's for sure. He's bigger
than Night
Wind and hot-blooded, Ralph."
Herbert said, "I know it. I'm worried.
Allen's sprung a race
horse on us."
"Maybe so. But there's no doubt that horse has
run wildeaand done-a lot of fighting, Ralph.
He's been cut up plenty.
Look at his scars." ,
comI'm still worried.*
The trainer smiled. "What for, Ralph? So
he's a race horse,
and that's why Allen agreed so readily to the mile
distance.you think anything here is going to beat Night
Wind? Our
horse is better than he was last year. You know that
as well
as I do. If you're going to worry, save it for
Santa Anita,
when we'll be up against the best again. Even then I
won't be
worrying, not if Night Wind keeps running the
way he's
been going."'*
Herbert nodded. "I suppose you're right. But just
the same
I'm glad I have Eddie Malone up on him.
I've got ten of my best quarter mares at
stake-in this race."
"I know that, all right,", his trainer answered.
"Just don't
worry, Ralph."
A short distance down the rail Allen felt a hand

behind grab his arm. He didn't turn. He couldn't
take his
eyes from the horses in the gate. Any second
they'd be Off. .
But Larom and the sheriff turned to the man behind and
Larom said,-"Hello, Slim. I didn't think
anything would get
you this far from Leesburg!"
Allen felt Gordon's disfingers digging deeper
into his arm,
and then Gordon said. That kid is
Alec Ramsay
and the
horse is
the Black.
Alec Ramsay and the Black! Did you hear
what I said, Allen?"' His voice was shrill.
Without turning to him. Allen asked, *ally6u mean
McGre-
gor?
'McGregor nothing. That's not his name.
It's Alec
Ramsayst"
Allen shrugged his shoulders. The kid had the
stallion quiet The break was coming.
"What's the difference what his name is, Slim?
He's wanted by the police in Salt Lake
City. Tom's here to pick him up."
"You're all crazy!" Gordon shouted. *He
hasn't done anything! He's Alec Ramsay and the
horse is the Black. They're
famous, I tell you! Their plane crashed in
Wyoming and..." The roar of the crowd drowned out his
words.
THEY'RE
OFF!"
With the opening of the doors, the stallion broke from the
boy's restraining hands, and came out of the gate in
front of Night Wind. McGregor caught a
glimpse of the white blaze
at his horse's flank and then it fell behind quickly as
the . black stallion's stride steadied and began
to lengthen. He drew back on the reins. He
called to his horse. He didn't want him
running all out. Their race wasn't
here, but across the plain! The stretch was short. They'd
be
at the first turn before he'd be able to pull down the
stallion.
Allen's eyes were moist as he pounded
Larom on the back.
"He'll hold that lead! He's got the race,
Hank!" His foreman
nodded his head vigorously in complete agreement.
Among the thousands who watched, only Herbert and his
trainer were silent. They were unimpressed by flying
starts from the gate. They knew their champion was
built to go a
distance, and that his speed would mount steadily until
he'd
run over anything before him. This was a mile race, and
what happened in the first few hundred yards was for
fan
ciers of the quarter horse, and not the thoroughbred.
Herbert's clenched hand combbgan pounding the rail, for
even now
with the horses approaching the first turn Night Wind
was
gaining!
McGregor slowed the stallion's strides still more.
He drew
back on the reins, andkept talking to his horse.
He heard the
fading roar of the crowd as his mount swept into the turn.
The stallion's resenI'ment at the tight
rein was felt by McGre-
gor in the terrible pull on his arms. The stallion
wanted to
run, and was telling him so forcefully.
"Soonea'he calledea'b not now!"
He saw the straining, nut-brown body of Night
Wind
come up on the outside. His jockey was sitting still in
the
saddle, not asking Night Wind for more speed, but
getting it.
Their eyes met for a second. The black stallion
lowered his
head, pulled harder, and picked up speed. The
horses
reached the middle of the turn, racing stride for
stride, stir
rup to stirrup.-
The boy's head throbbed. He knew Night Wind
wasn't
going to be taken to the front because that horse couldn't,
wouldn't
run up there. Once in front Night Wind would
relax and start looking around him, forgetting
completely
about the business at hand unless reminded by his rider.
How did he know this? Why was he so sure of it?
Because
be remembered seeing Night Wind do just that in the
Bel-
mont Stakes.
Night Wind had gone into the lead at the half-
mile pole. He had stopped then to glance at the far
stands.
He had been whipped by his jockey, and brought on
again in
the last quarter to win over Hyperion by a head!" .
McGregor's teeth fore his lips. His memory was
coming,
back! They" were entering the backstretch. Here was
where they would leave the track. Here was where Ms
race would actually begin! He shortened the reins,
and the
stallion's head came down again. He pulled
harder,
knowing he would have to fight the stallion to get him off
the track.
He saw the look of surprise come to the other
rider's face
as he succeeded in shortening the stallion's
strides, and Night
Wind surged ahead. He saw the horse's powerful
quarters
rise and fall in front of him. He was still watching
when
Night Wind suddenly relaxed and began to bounce
along
easily and without effort. Then Night Wind turned
his head
to the side, interested in the crowd across tilde the
infield: His
jockey went for the whip, bring it down- solidly on
Night
Wind's haunches. Once more the whip rose and
fell before
Night Wind's attention returned to the track
ahead, and his
strides picked up again.
The boy tried to get the stallion away from the rail
and
off the track. His fury mounted when the stallion
fought
him, straining his arms until he could no longer stand the
pull. He remembered the whip in his boot and reached
for it.
Just as he raised it, ready to bring it down, he
remembered
something else.
A man
... a short,
stocky man standing beside him in the
night and wearing only pyjamas, his lace as white
as his
dishevelled bait
... a
pitchfork in one hand, a whip in the
other
... a
raging lace and voice saying, "Take the whip-
Use
it on him if you have to!"
And his own reply in the night,
'It I did, he'd kill me. The
same as he would have killed you."
The whip fell to the track as though he had held a
hot
coal. His hand seemed to burn, and he placed it on
the wet
neck before him. Then he leaned forward until his
cheek,
too, was pressed against his horse. He began
talking, sobbing
to him. Without realising what he was doing, he let his
hands come up, giving the stallion more rein. He never
heard
the increased pounding of the lightning hoofs nor was he
aware that the backstretch rail was slipping by faster and
faster. He was conscious only of the turbulent working
of
his mind.
The stallion's body strides were extended until
he
seemed barely to touch the track. He swept into the
bade
turn, gaining rapidly on the running horse in
front of Mm.
Night Wind's jockey glanced back, and began
using his whip
again. But the black stallion's rush was not to be
denied. His
head was parallel with Night Wind's stirrups as the
horses
came off the turn and entered the stretch. The crowd was
on
its feet. Voices shattered the heavens.
With still a lap to go,
the two horses were racing as one! tilde
Night Wind's jockey rocked in his saddle, using
his hands
and feet. But he never, touched his horse with the whip
again, for no longer was it necessary. Night Wind was being
i
Match race
challenged, and this was all the champion thoroughbred
needed to urge him on to greater speed.
Herbert's fist banged the rail when the horses
flashed by
him. The kid riding the stallion was making no
move. He
was sitting absolutely still, almost lifeless, in the
saddle, and
yet his horse was matching Nigh Wind stride for
stride.
Herbert's trainer said, "Ralph, we got him,
I tell you! No
horse in the country could get past Night Wind
now!"
But the trainer's words provided no solace for
Herbert.
He had been tricked by Allen. This
black horse had raced
before. Where had he seen him? Night Wind should have
been pulling away from him by now. But he wasn't at
all.
r
He was only holding his own.
Not far down the rail, Gordon was screaming at the
top of
his voice,
"Go, Alec! Go!"
He pushed between Allen and
the sheriff to watch the horses pound into the first turn
again..
The sheriff shoved back, and said, Take it easy,
Slim. This
is just a horse race."
dis.st.
'Just a horse race
notbingl"
Gordon shouted hysterically.
Thats Alec Ramsay riding the Black against the
fastest
thoroughbred in the country! If s the race of the
year, and you don't even realise it!"
Allen paid no attention to them. His glazed
eyes were on
the horses, but they were an indistinct blur to him.
'Can
anyone see what's happening?

he asked. 'Did he get past
- Night Wind yet?"
No," Larom answered. "Mac's got a tight
hold on him
again. He took up rein just after they passed us. That
black
horse doesn't like it any more than he did before.
He's
fighting him."
"Why doesn't he let him
go?
Allen shouted.
"He's riding. You ask himea'Larom said.-
McGregor shortened the reins still more, despite the
stal
lion's fury. He pulled him down until
Night Wind surged a
length ahead and then two lengths more as they came off
the
turn, entering the backstretch. The boy's
mind still erupted
with fiery currents that afforded him no peace and
produced*
nothing but a great, flowing mass of conflicting and
incoher
ent elements.
Yet sometime within the last few seconds had sprung
once more the determination that their race was not to take
place here on the track but across the plain.
Instinctively he
had drawn up on the stallion, trying to force him
to respond
to his will.
He got his horse away from the rail and to the centre
of the track, paying no attention to the scarlet-dad
jockey on
Night Wind, who was drawing farther and farther away
from them. His eyes were only for the fighting black head
that sought to break his tight hold. He got his horse
over
closer to the outer rail, working the bit against the
corners
of the stallion's mouth. His horse fought him more
furiously
than ever before, and then suddenly bolted back
to the
centre of the track. The boy lost his balance and was
thrown
forward, his hands grasping the stallion's neck. He
felt the
great body extend itself again in a determined effort
to catch
Night Wind. He closed his eyes, sobbing. And
then the
words came tumbling, bubbling from his mouth,
'Black..
.
Black... Black
..."
The reins dropped from his hands, his eyes opened, the
words kept coming.
"Black, I'm Alec Ramsay. J
remember.
My name
is
Alec Ramsay.
It's come.
I know. I know!"
Nothing could equal the joy that came to him then. He

free of the darkness. He could remember everything, in-
duding his fall from the plane into the treetops, his
crashing
and tearing through the branches. The details of what had
happened after he'd regained consciousness were hazy.
But
he could remember the groping in the night, the bright
head
lights, a long ride that had never seemed to end, and
then, finally, the desert. Vague though those first hours
were to him, he knew that they led directly
to Gordon's cottage in
the pines, and that he had never been inside a diner,
had
never taken part in robbery and murder.
All this came to Alec Ramsay in flashing,
successive pic-
fores, and then looked ahead. They were going into the last
turn, with Night "Wind's lead already reduced
to only two
lengths! His jockey was swinging his whip back and forth,
keeping Night Wind going now that he was running in
front
all by himself again.
Alec picked up the loose reins.
"Go,
Black. Go!"
he called.
Now he was one with his horse. He knew it, and so
did the
Black! The stallion responded to his call with a
new andelectrifying burst of speed that sent the earth
flying from
beneath his hoofs. Gone were the uncertainty and the
conflicting wills that had kept them apart for most of the
race. No longer did the stallion feel the hard,
frenzied pull
on his mouth that he had never know before this day. Now
he heard the familiar ring of a name that made everything
all right again.,
Go, Slack. Go!"
Every muscle of the great stallion was strained to its.
utmost. He came off the turn, drawing
alongside the dark,
brown champion in great, sweeping strides.
The roar of the crowd split Alec's ears, and now it
was no
different for him here at Preston than it had been
at Bel-
mont Park or Churchill Downs. They
were in the stretch
drive. He strained with his horse, lifting and
urging. He
hardly breathed. His hat flew off. Night
Wind's jockey was
riding as if his Very life depended upon it. For a few
seconds
the brown horse matched strides with the Black, and
then
Night Wind began to fall rapidly behind.
His-rider turned to
Alec, and sudden recognition came to his eyes
when he saw
the boy without his hat.
Alec let out a yell. There was nothing more to this
race! He remembered all the classic vicfories
he had seen Night
.wind win last year, and yet the Black,
who hadn't raced in
years,
was running him into the ground! The stallion's
strides became ever greater as he swept
gloriously down the
homestretch. His hoofs pounded with a thunderous rhythm
that silenced the voices in the stands. He was
black flame. He
was not a horse but a phantom, a flying black
shadow in the
icom .
.
eyes of the spectafors. And they watched him finish the
race
in quiet homage.
The stands didn't come to life until long after he
had left
the homestretch. Even then there was no thunderous
ovation, only the cries of people asking if what they had
witnessed had been seen by others. There were just nods in
reply, and none of the spectafors took their eyes off
the
other side of the track where the giant black horse
had been
v brought to a stop. Finally he was turned around and
brought
back towards them.
Ralph Herbert moved dazedly among the people standing
at
the rail until he had reached Allen. His face was
white, and
for a moment he had to struggle to make the words
come.
He
knew.
He had known all during that last drive, when he
had seen the black stallion, running so low and
pointed, so
magnificent in the strides that had taken him far
ahead of
Night Wind. In flashing seconds, he had
remembered
another time in Chicago, when he had seen the
Black rate.
And as they came down the stretch, he had identified
the
r
.
Black's rider.
Finally he was able to get the words out
'Allen, that was
Alec Ramsay and the Black!" His
Allen was thinking of the ten mares he would get from
High Crest Ranch, and what he would do with them.
'I dont
care what names you and Slim Gordon give those
two," he
said. They're Range Boss and McGregor
to mest He paused,
studying Herbert's shocked face. *We won,
Ralph.. You're
not trying to get out of your end of the purse, are your his
"But
the Slack! He and Alec
Ramsay are
supposed to
**"
"I tell you that horse is what I said he
was," Allen inter
rupted angrily. He was beginning to get worried;
"Ask Hank.
Ask anyone who was with us. We caught him on the
upper
range. Right, Hank?"'
"Right, boss." Larom turned to Herbert.
*We still got his
band of mares back at the ranch. And if you need more
convincing, take a look at those scars on him when
he comes
up. He didn't get those in any corral."
'But... but I.". .i'm discertain," Herbert
stammered.
I'm certain too, Ralph."
"tilde
The sheriff said, "Let's go, Irv. I've got
to take him in now."
Gordon reached for Allen when the rancher bent to get
beneath the rail. Herbert's right. You've no idea
diswhat
you're in for.".
Allen came up on the track side. "Sure
I do, Slim. Mac's
being booked by the sheriff on suspicion of robbery,
and I'm
on my way to help him." He followed the sheriff
down the track.
Herbert asked incredulously, "Do they think
they're
taking him to jail?
, Gordon nodded.
Don't they know whats been going on? Haven't they
heard of the Black and Alec Ramsay?"'
There's your answer," Gordon said, nodding towards
the three, men walking down the track. They don't
have much
use for news outside of what goes on in
Leesburg."
They'll learn soon enough."
'j as soon as I can get to a phonest Gordon
said. He
moved quickly through the crowd.
Alec rode the Black into the stretch, hardly
conscious of
the wild uproar from the stands. He kept repeating his
name, just to hear it again. He wanted to get to a
telephone
right away. He wanted to call
home.
More than two months
had passed since the accident. What did his parents
and
Henry think had happened to him? What had happened
to
the plane? To the pilot and the co-pilot? The plane
must have
crashed. How else would the Black had got free?
He rubbed His
his horse's neck. And what was the Black doing
here, so
many hundreds of miles from Wyoming? Was it a
fantastic
coincidence that they were together? Or had the
stallion's
wild, uncanny instinct brought him here? Alec
knew all his
questions except the last would be answered as soon as he
could get to a phone.
Allen approached hm."...Mac, what a race!"
Alec tried to keep his voice steady. "Bossst
he said.-"My
name isn't McGregor. It's Ramsay, Alec
Ramsay."
Allen turned to the sheriff, and then back to the boy
ag."...I knowea'he said kindlyea'We've heard that"
No longer did Alec make any attempt
to conceal his exci
tement
"Who
could have told you, boss? I didn't know
myself until a couple of minutes ago."
Allen was puzzled. I'mean you didn't know your own
name?

.
"I'd been hurt. I lost my memory. I
haven't been able to
remember a thing about myself, who I was,
why I was here,
anything at all."
"Oh," Allen said, and then he smiled as he
turned to the
sheriff. Tom, you heard what he said. He's been
sick a long
time,
mentally
sick. He didn't know what he was doing. A good
lawyer ought to make a real good case out of something like
that, shouldn't he?
"I sure would think so, Irv. If he had
amnesia like he says, he couldn't be held
responsible for his actions. Providing, of
course," he added hasI'lly, "he was in that
mental state at the time of the robbery."
Alec's face had frozen. He looked at the
sheriff, remem
bering suddenly why he was there, "But I
didn't..." He
stopped, knowing that whatever he said now wouldn't con
vince them that he'd had no part in the Salt Lake
City rob
bery. Besides, it didn't matter. All this could be
straightened out later. "Can I use the
phone when we get to whatever it is
you're taking me?

he asked.
"Of course you can," the sheriff said. "As Irv
says, we're
going to do all we can to help you, Mac."
Alec rode the Black towards the track gate.
A bugle
sounded, calling the horses in the next race to the
post. The
Black tossed his head, and sidestepped with
marvellous ease, and swiftness. He seemed eager
to race again.
Allen said, "Well put Range Boss in the
van, and leave
Hank here to watch him, Mac. You and I will go
into town
with Tom. Don't you worry none. Everything's
goin" to turn
out all right.?"'*
Alec nodded. To Allen he always would be
McGregor and
the Black would be Range Boss. It would have been
funny
under any other circumstances.
An hour later Alec Ramsay sat in the
Preston courthouse.
His fingerprints had been taken and sent to the Salt
Lake
City police. He had been booked on
suspicion of robbery
and murder. Finally he was given permission by the
Preston police captain to use the telephone.
His voice trembled while he placed the long-distance
call.
He listened to the voices of the operators in distant
cities
that were taking him ever closer to
home.
At last he heard
the final call, one long and one short,
their
ring on the party line. His heart pumped harder.
"Hello." His mother had answered.
"Mom. Mom! It's me!" There was silence at
the other end. "Mom, can you hear me"....x's
Alec!" Now came only terrible,
wracking sobs from his mother, and he suddenly realised the
shock his call must be to her. "Mom.
Mom.
Don't try to talk.
Just listen. I'm alive, and in Preston,
Arizona. Preston, Ar
izona. Can you hear me, Mom?"'
The wire at the other end was dead... no sobs,
nothing at
all. Then, suddenly, a man's voice came on.
"Hello ...
hello."
"Jinx! Jinx, is that you?"' Alec thought it might
be the hired
man who took care of the farm's broodmares.
"Yes, this is Jinx. Is this really you, Alec"...*
"Jinx listen to me. I'm alive and in Preston,
Arizona. Did
you get that. Jinx?"'
The voice at the other end descended to barely more
than
a whisper. "Yes, I heard you. Alec. I'll
tell Henry and your
father at once. They're in town. I was just passing
by the
house when your mother..." Jinx's voice trailed
off.
"Ask Henry to come out herest Alec said. 'He'll
take this better than Dad."
"Yes, Alec."-
When Alec hung up the phone, the door opened and
two
men rushed into the room. One said, "We're from the
Journal.
We had a call from the track from someone named
Gordon who said this kid is
Alec
Ramsay!""
Allen and the Leesburg sheriff nodded their heads.
That
might be his name, all right," Allen said. "At
least he said so before. But what difference
The Preston police captain turned quickly
to Allen and
the Leesburg sheriff. 'But you booked him as
McGregor! If he
should be
Alec Ramsay
..." He swept a startled look at the
boy. 7's that your name?"
. *allyes, that's my name. I've had amnesia."
For a moment the police captain just stared at
Alec, and
then his face turned red in anger. His eyes raked
Allen. 'Why
didn't you tell me that when you brought him in here!"
Allen said sheepishly, "It's hard for me to think
of him as
anyone but McGregor."
"And the name Alec Ramsay meant nothing to you when
he told you who he was?

'ationo," Allen said. "Should it have? He glanced
worriedly
towards disthe newspaper men, who were already taking pic
tures and making notes.. -
.the police captain turned to the Leesburg
sheriff. 'And
you, Tom? It meant nothing to y"...*
Now that you mention it, I think I might have heard
something a couple of months ago about an Alec
Ramsay..."
The police captain threw up his hands in disgust.
"He's
only been the subject of one of the biggest searches
ever
conducted in Wyoming," he shouted
furiously.
One of the reporters spoke to Alec. That horse you
rode
today. Was he really
the Black
as we've been told by this
man Gordon"...*
Yes," Alec said. 'Somehow he got here, too.
I didn't know
it was he until the race, when my memory came
back."
. You mean," the reporter said, *t you didn't
know who
you were or what horse you were riding until the actual
running of the race?
Alec nodded. 'ationot until almost the end of it,"
he said.
The reporter grabbed the phone. "I got to get this
to my
editor," he told the police captain. This
news is going to
"make" Preston like nothing ever did before. Once it
goes
out on the wires, we'll have a representative from
very big paper in the country coming here!"
The police captain nodded. He turned to Allen
and the
Leesburg sheriff. 'And you two never even heard
of Alec
Ramsay and the Blackst he said, shaking his head.
Finally he
turned to Alec. 'I guess you'd better stay here
for the night.
We can make you comfortable and afford you some pro
tection from all the newsmen who'll be arriving before
long,
And, since we've already sent out your fingerprints to the
Salt Lake City police, we'd better wait
for an answer from
them. That'll clear that incident up, and satisfy
him."
He
nodded his head towards the Leesburg sheriff.
Alec turned to Allen. "You didn't know,
boss," he said kindly. "And there are a lot of
others who wouldn't have
known, either. It isn't as bad as you're being led
to believe."
He paused, waiting for Allen to lift his gaze.
'I wish you'd do
me a favour. Go to the track and have Hank take the
Black
... or Range Boss, if you want to call him
that... back to
the ranch. It'll be better if he's kept away
from all this."
"Sure, Mac. I'll do it right now." Allen
hurried to the door,
glad of an opportunity to escape the scathing
remarks of the
police captain.
The reporter had finished the telephone call to his
editor,
and was now bombarding Alec with questions. The boy
answered quickly. He realised this was just the beginning, and
that his call home hadn't been necessary at all in
order
for his parents and Henry to learn of his whereabouts.
Within a few short hours the news of his being in
Preston
would be in every newspaper in the country. He hoped
Henry would get here soon.
By later afternoon, newspaper correspondents from
nearby cities had arrived. And by evening the number
had
grown considerably. They descended upon Preston's
small
courthouse, jamming the room. Alec sat in a
chair answer
ing all questions put to him, co-operating in every way he
could by telling the reporters the complete story. The
news
men listened attentively to him, to Allen, to anyone
who
would give them something they could file to their papers.
They learned of the match race, and soon the story of
Night
Wind's crushing defeat by the Black was released to the
world.
All that night, the reporters and photographers
stayed in
Preston, knowing that before many hours Henry Dailey
would arrive by plane. Alec slept on a camp
bed, waiting
too for Henry's arrival.
By morning, word was received from Salt Lake Qty that
Alec Ramsay's fingerprints were not those of the boy
wanted by the police there. This information the police
cap
tain turned over to the Leesburg sheriff.
They must think
we're fools down here," he said gruffly.
A plane from the East was due in Preston at
seven o'clock,
and the reporters, having learned that Henry was on it,
went
- to the airport. A short while later they
returned, and Henry strode belligerently into the
courtroom. Yet when Alec ran
to meet him, Henry's stocky body slumped, and
he wept
unashamedly with his arms around the boy.
Finally he said, "y-you're all right. Alec?
'Sure, Henry. Mom and Dad? Are they..."
They're okay now ... they're waiting. You're
certain
you're all right? The reporters in New York
said..."
'I've had amnesia, but I'm fine now. I've
felt pretty good
all along, except that I couldn't remember
anything."
"Have you see a docfor"...*
*ationo, if s not necessary. I'm all right, I tell
yst
"You're going to see one. Here and in New York,
too."
The photographers were taking pictures of them, and the
reporters pushed close. Henry answered their questions
for a
while, and then decided he'd had enough. T*ness
all," he said.
"We're going now, and we don't want anyone
following.
Alec needs a rest, and you've got everything there is
for
your stories."
comOutside, Henry had a taxi waiting. Alec
glanced back and saw Allen standing silently among
all the newsmen. 'Come
on, boss." he called to him.
When they were in the taxi he said, This is
Mr.
Allen,
Henry. I've been working for him. He raises,
quarter race
horses."
Henry turned quickly to Allen. You call yourself a
horse
man an" you didn't even recognise
Mm
all this timest he said
angrily.
Allen's slight figure slumped in the corner of the
seat. "I com1 only follow q-quarter horse
racing," he said.
Alec said, "Please, Henry. You're expecting
too much from
him. Of course he wouldn't know. He didn't have
any way
of knowing." Alec paused. "And without him, the
Black and I
might not have got together. I owe him an awful lot,
Henry."
The trainer said softly, "I know, Alec. I'm
sorry. Allen, and
I apologise. It's just that it's been so long...
and we'd given
up all hope." He turned to look out the window
of the
moving taxi before adding, "And now I want to have a
docfor see, you, Alec. Maybe you know a good one
here in town. Allen."
"Yes, I do," the rancher said, eager to be of
help.
'After that," Henry added, "we'll go
to Leesburg. I want to see the Black, and then
we'll have to make arrangements to
take him back with us."
"I wish you'd spend a few days as my guest,"
Allen said
quickly.
" Thanks, but I know Alec is eager to get
home, and his
folks are just as eager to see him."'st
Alec thought of his mother and father waiting, and his
eyes blurred. "I can phone them when we get to the
ranch,"
he thought This time if 11 be all right, I know."
Henry said, "We'll take-the Black home
by train."
*We sure will," Alec said. "No planes for
us, not for a
while, anyway."
n
Towards evening of that-same day, they arrived at the
ranch. Alec and Henry went directly to the big
corral. The Black saw them coming and, snorting,
moved over to the.
bars. Alec put his hand on him. He
noticed that the stallion's
eyes were on Henry, never leaving him for a moment.
I'm getting old," Henry said. I don't
trust my sight any
more."
"It's
he,
all right, Henryst Alec said. He couldn't
smile,
couldn't make light of Henry's finding it so
difficult to be
lieve they were all together again.
'He's been cut up pretty bad."
"Yes, some scars, but he's fit, Henry."
"I know," the trained agreed. "He never
looked better. His good physical condition carried
him through these last two months, the same as the docfor
said about you. I guess you
were both ready for the punishment you had to take take."
Alec said nothing. The Black turned away from
Henry to
nuzzle the boy's hand. Alec stroked him for a few
minutes, and then said, "He got more freedom than
either of us bar
gained for, all right."
Yeah, a lot more. Alec..."
Yes, Henry?"'
"It must have been a race to see, his whipping Night
Windcom
like they say he did."
It
was a race to ride, I know that," Alec answered.
'He didn't have any trouble at all with Night
Wind"...*
"No, not once I stopped fighting him and gave
him
his"
head."
"He didn't make any attempt to attack
Night Wind during
the race?
No, Henry, not at all. Perhaps he got all the
fighting out
of his system while he was running wild. I don't
know."
"Maybe you're right," Henry agreed. He
watched the Black
move away from Alec to go to the other side of the
corral;,
there the stallion neighed to the group of mares
in the adjacent
corral. "Are those mares from his band?"'
Yes."
Henry said, 'I suppose he'll miss 'em but
we got plenty of
mares back at the farm to interest hm."...com
Then you think it's absolutely safe to take him
back
home?"'
'Sure. Don't you?" Henry asked.
Yes, I guess so. It hasn't been the kind of a
vacation we had planned for him, but he probably
had a far better time of it."
Yes, since he was lucky enough to stay alive,"
Henry re
turned quietly. He was thinking that it wasn't the
vacation
they had planned for Alec either, but said nothing more.
Hank Larom came out of the ranch house, and
joinedthem beside the fence. Alec introduced them, and then
Larom said, 'Allen tells me you'll be leaving
soon. I wish youcd stay, Alec."-
Henry put his arm around Alec. "We got his mother
and father waiting for him, Hank," he sdea"... and
lots of other
people."
Larom nodded. I'll bet they're all anxious
to see the Black
again, too." He didn't take his eyes off the
stallion. There'll
never be another horse like him out here."
There just might be," Alec said quietly.
Larom turned, smiling. "You goin" to bring him
back some
day, Alecf
"I don't know about that, Hank. Buf didn't
I hear Allen tell
you, just before we left for Preston, that those mares from
the Black's band were yours for the asking?"'
Yeah, he said that. I'll probably take them and
sell "em."
, I'd take them and
keep
them, if I were you. Hank," Alec said. 'Chances
are that some of them are in foal, and he's a pretty
good sire."
For a moment Larom was silent. Finally he said,
"I never
gave that a thought. Alec. You sure could be right."
He
flicked a glance at the ranch house. "When I
left Allen a few minutes ago, he'd succeeded
in getting hold of HerberFover at Preston.
He wanted to make certain Herbert wasn't going
to get out of giving him those quarter mares. Maybe this
is a
good time to remind Allen of the offer he made me."
After Larom had left them, Alec called the
Black, and the
stallion came quickly to him.
Henry said, "From what you've told me, Alec,
I guess we
could even race him dison the big tracks without Ms
gett*in.
into trouble. That is," he added hasI'lly, 'if you
wanted to
race him." Henry looked hopefully at
Alec.
There'll be time enough later to talk about that," Alec
Larom and Allen came out of the ranch house. When
they
neared the corral, Larom winked at Alec, and the
boy knew
that Hank had been successful in getting the
Black's mares
and the foals to come.
Allen was grinning. 'Just got through talking
to Ralph
Herbert on the phone," he said. "He's burned
up because
Range Boss won, but he's going to ship me his
quarter mares
by the first of next week. I'm all set now.
By next year I'll have the best foals in the
state."
"I'm not so sure of that," Hank Larom said, but
only Alec
heard him.
"Oh,
Mac,"
Allen went on, "that reminds me. The phone
was ringing when I got back. It was Slim Gordon
in Lees-
burg. He wanted me to tell you that he'll be
reading some
magazine called
Thoroughbred Record
regularly from now
on, so he'll be keeping posted on how you and
Range Boss
are doing at the races back East."
Alec smiled. Thanks, boss." He rubbed the
Black's neck.
Maybe Slim Gordon would be reading about them.
Maybe
they'd be racing again. Maybe so.