The Black Stallion Revolts (8 page)

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’know that?”

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 men were laughing, low, guttural laughs. They set him down on the side of the road, and he clung 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 I’d keep away from the police, if
I
were in your shoes.”

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 there. 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 understand. He’d tell them that somehow he’d been struck on the head, and 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
.

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 fugitive!

He began crawling away from the side of the road, looking 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 taillights
coming back toward him. He tried to get to his feet and run, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He sank back onto 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 toward 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 you?”

“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. “Come on, kid. I’ll help you,” he added in great sympathy.

The boy was carried to the car, and when he had been set down he felt the 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 sleep,” 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 gas I’ll let you know so you can clean up your face. That is, unless you think you should see a doctor, if I can find one. Do you feel any pain? Anything that might be broken?”

“No … no pain, nothing broken.”

“Good. I’d sure like to get my hands on those guys. Beating up a kid! What’s your name?”

What’s your name? What’s my name? What is my name?
And he heard himself reply, “McGregor.” The label on his ripped shirt had provided him with a name. “McGregor’s my name,” he said again.

“Scotch, eh? Mine’s Washburn, Bill Washburn.”

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 gas. You can get washed up here.”

The boy slid out of the car and away from the lone overhead light near the gas pump. His head pains came back while he walked into the small station and found the door to the bathroom. 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 red and matted with dried blood. His eyes had dark pupils and blue irises, but there were hundreds of tiny red veins streaking the whites. 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 traveled 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 clean of all blood. He cupped it to his face with careful, gentle hands, and then 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 bathroom, he studied his face again. He wanted to know it, to remember it, for it belonged to him,
to McGregor
. He noticed the freckles on his nose and beneath his eyes, now that his face was clean. 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 bathroom to go to the car. He got inside without the station attendant’s seeing him. Once more he lay back in the corner of the seat.

The fat man said while starting the engine, “You had me worried for a moment. I 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. “You cleaned up fine,” he said. “Does it make you feel 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 a lot at the hands of those drivers. “I asked the gas station attendant if he knew of any doctors in this section,” 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 doctor,” 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 toward him and then away, quickly, shiftily. He became a little worried about McGregor. Those eyes held more than pain. A haunted look was there … or was it more of a
hunted
look? He shrugged his disturbing thought 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 contractor. 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 McGregor. 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 organizations 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 interest.

“Yes, Phoenix,” the fat man said, chuckling. “Oh, I’ll be there on time, all right. Lots of speed in this sweet baby.” His hands patted the wheel. “She’s marvelous on the flats, mountains, 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 eyes 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 raod, 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?”

“Ye-s, all the way to …” The voice went on but it was too low and the words too incoherent for the man to understand.

Pudgy fingers tightened about the wheel. The fat man was conscious of fear mounting within him. Had he gotten into more than he’d bargained for? He’d come close to it once 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 talking, 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 exaggerating 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 decided he would not pull up to the side of the road for an hour’s sleep, as was his usual custom, before going on.

For several more hours he skillfully 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.