The Black Stallion Revolts (17 page)

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 hosses. I knew that jus’ seein’ him come down.”

“I know,” Larom said, and all his great longing was in his voice. “We’ll 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 understand what the boy meant to do. The foreman watched with the others, staring and unbelieving, while McGregor walked toward the stallion. He realized 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. Finally McGregor turned away from the stallion, and came back to them.

“Give me a halter, and we’ll go with you,” he said.

Larom tore his incredulous gaze away from McGregor to get 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 toward 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.”

“No. We saw a lot of things today we ain’t ever seen before.”

“But that’s a wild stallion. How’s the kid gittin’ away with it?”

Larom shrugged his thin shoulders. “I 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. “It’s spooky, that’s 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 ’til 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 clear 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. Sometimes it ain’t necessary to break a wild horse by ridin’ him until he finds out you’re the boss.” They 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—instead of ropes and a bronc saddle—had no place in the mastery 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 stallion 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 outside the corral fence. Allen called to him. As he walked toward 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 dimissal coming now?

At the fence he said, “Yes, boss?”

Allen removed his hat with thin, nervous hands. He said nothing; his eyes were on the stallion who stood in the center of the corral, watching them.

The boy, too, turned to his horse and then back to Allen again.

Finally the man said, “You 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 wagging 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
him,
” he said. “I 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 him,” 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, “No, I’m holding on to him, Mac. For the time being, anyway.”

“But you’ll keep me in mind in case …”

“Yes, 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. That’s 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 Southwest’s greatest race meeting. His mouth dropped when he saw no elation on the boy’s 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 racehorses 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 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 like him now, but I can’t ride him, boss. I can’t.” He saw a sudden change sweep over the man’s face. 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 reopen the subject. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be in town. Back this afternoon,” 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 buckboards and wagons, even when their owners came out of the store and, after loading flour, cloth, potatoes and tin dishes, rattled away. Nor did he hear the loud blare of the jukebox coming from the restaurant 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 it.”

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 jukebox 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 down. 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.”

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 package of magazines to consider. No sense in taking further advantage of Goldie’s good nature and willingness to carry his heavy burdens.

It was good of Lew Miller to send him the magazines. There’d be every weekly 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 him 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 bloodstained money in his dresser drawer back home, and his face sobered. He remembered all the kid had said in his delirum 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
his
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, and half-turned in his direction. Everyone else had left the restaurant and the jukebox 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. Was he still at the ranch or had he decided to move on again? The paper tore 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 none of 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 Hollywood.