The Black Stallion Revolts (25 page)

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 he remembered seeing Night Wind do just that in the Belmont 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 tore his lips. His memory was coming back! They were entering the backstretch. Here was where they would leave the track. Here was where
his
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 the infield. His jockey
went for the whip, bringing 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 pajamas, his face as white as his disheveled hair … a pitchfork in one hand, a whip in the other … a raging face and voice saying, “Take the whip. Use it on him if you have to!
”

And his own reply in the night, “
If 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 realizing 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 and strides were extended until he seemed barely to touch the track. He swept into the back turn, gaining rapidly on the running horse in front of him. 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!

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 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 Night 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! 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.”

“Just a horse race,
nothing
!” Gordon shouted
hysterically. “That’s Alec Ramsay riding the Black against the fastest Thoroughbred in the country! It’s the race of the year, and you don’t even realize 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
him,
” Larom said.

McGregor shortened the reins still more, despite the stallion’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 incoherent 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 center of the track, paying no attention to the scarlet-clad 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 center 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 hand, his eyes opened, the words kept coming. “
Black, I’m Alec Ramsay. I remember. My name is Alec Ramsay. It’s come. I know. I know!
” Nothing could equal the joy that came to him then. He was free of the darkness. He could remember everything, including 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 headlights, 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 pictures, and then he 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 and electrifying 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 known before this day. Now he heard the familiar ring of a name that made everything all right again.

“
Go, Black. 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 Belmont 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 victories 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 a black flame. He was not a horse but a phantom, a flying black shadow in the eyes of the
spectators. 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 spectators took their eyes off the other side of the track where the giant black horse had been brought to a stop. Finally he was turned around and brought back toward 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 race. And as they came down the stretch, he had identified the Black’s rider.

Finally he was able to get the words out. “
Allen, that was Alec Ramsay and the Black!
”

Allen was thinking of the ten mares he would get from High Crest Ranch, and what he would do with them. “I don’t care what names you and Slim Gordon give those two,” he said. “They’re Range Boss and McGregor to me.” He paused, studying Herbert’s shocked face. “We won, Ralph. You’re not trying to get out of your end of the purse, are you?”

“
But the Black! He and Alec Ramsay are supposed to be …
”

“I tell you that horse is what I said he was,” Allen interrupted 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 certain,” Herbert stammered.

“I’m certain, too, Ralph.”

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 what 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 what’s been going on? Haven’t they heard of
the Black
and
Alec Ramsay?
”

“There’s your answer,” Gordon said, nodding toward 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.”

“Just as soon as I can get to a phone,” 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 have gotten free? He rubbed 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 him. “Mac, what a race!”

Alec tried to keep his voice steady. “Boss,” he said, “my name isn’t McGregor. It’s Ramsay, Alec Ramsay.”

Allen turned to the sheriff, and then back to the boy again. “I know,” he said kindly. “We’ve heard that.”

No longer did Alec make any attempt to conceal his excitement. “
Who
could have told you, boss? I didn’t know myself until a couple of minutes ago.”

Allen was puzzled. “Y’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 hastily, “he was in that mental state at the time of the robbery.”