The Black Stallion Revolts (13 page)

“This is Mr. Allen,” Gordon was saying. “He’s the man who owns the ranch I told you about.”

McGregor 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 before?”

“I—I d-don’t …”

Gordon interrupted quickly, answering for him. “I’m sure he’ll work out well, Allen. After all, one
doesn’t do what 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 again?”

“McGregor. My name is 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 beyond, cattle 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 then wisely had assigned him to Mike and Joe in caring for the broodmare band. Actually it was a job to be envied, for Allen’s first love was 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 flyin’ above the ring …
” He knew that 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 he 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 gotten 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 understanding from 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 who 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 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, 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 himself 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 want your memory back you’ve got to keep trying. You must want it back and make every effort to get it back. It’s up to you.…
”

All right, face it. Maybe he wasn’t in such a hurry anymore. 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.”

“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 anymore. No more struggling, he’d decided.

Mike put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and pulled him roughly toward 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 drugstore. 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 gasoline 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 forgotten 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 galvanized 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 kidded 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 apartment houses all around us,” Joe said.

Mike turned to Joe. “Are you going to tell Mac this story or am I?” he asked angrily.

“All 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 in …”

“Dehorned he was,” Joe said, “as 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.”

“You, 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 apartment house got together, and made up a petition against the
‘noise, odors, 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.

“Yah,” Mike said, “but we did it, an’ that’s what counts.”

“Did what?” McGregor asked.

“Came here,” Mike returned. “Y’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 makin’ money hand over fist at his gas 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. Y’see, a lot of people started moving to our neighborhood just so they could get out of New York weekends by crossing the bridge and getting to the Long Island beaches.”

“Whose story is this?” Mike asked furiously.

“Your story,” Joe said. “But don’t forget the pertinent facts, like I said before.”

“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, specializing in fine western properties for Easterners. And, most important, thanks to Irv Allen.”

“An’ thanks to me,” Mike said, “the ranch foreman.”

“You’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 it’s 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 reflected 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 glows 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.