Son of the Black Stallion (2 page)

“That guy is used to handlin’ horses,” Morgan told Harrity as they watched the scene.

“Yeah. He got around those hoofs all right. Not that a colt like that could hurt him much, though.”

“Still, he could put a good dent in the guy,” Morgan insisted. “I sure wouldn’t want any part of him. If he’s like that now, think what he’s goin’ to be a few months from now, when he gets some beef on him.” Morgan paused, and his gaze turned to the black stallion, who was circling nervously around the white-bearded sheikh. “Why, he’s apt to be as bad as that devil. Nope, I’ll stick to the nice tame ones,” he concluded.

They had almost reached the ship when the colt rose again. Once more the Bedouin let him go up, then closed in. But this time, as the colt came down savagely with his teeth bared, he turned upon the man. No cry of pain came from the Bedouin’s lips as the colt’s teeth sank into his shoulder, but those who were close
enough were able to see him grow pale beneath his dark mahogany skin. Moving his hand quickly, the Bedouin brought it hard against the muzzle of the colt, and was free.

The sheikh signaled to one of his men, who ran forward, moved to one side of the colt, and grabbed the halter. Then he and the bitten tribesman led the colt past the multitude and up the plank into the hold of the ship.

“And that,” muttered Morgan, “is that. Packaged neatly for delivery in New York. Wonder who the lucky person is?” he added sarcastically.

“I’m wonderin’, too,” Harrity said. “From what I’ve heard of these Bedouins they prize their horses above life itself. There are few good ones that have ever left Arabia.”

“Most likely this one isn’t any good,” Morgan said. Then he added, thoughtfully, “Still, I’d like to know where these desert Arabs are sendin’ that little devil. It’s a cinch no one just walked into their front yard and bought a horse. Think I’ll go down to the hold and find out. Sam’s there, and he’ll give me all the info I want.”

Shortly after Morgan left, the two Bedouins emerged from the hold and walked quickly down the plank onto the dock. Without glancing to the right or to the left, they hurried to their band, nodded as they passed their sheikh, and mounted.

The group stayed there until the last of the cargo was put aboard the
Queen of India
and the dockhands had thrown off the lines holding the ship to the pier.

Harrity realized that he should be below, working with his men, but the sight of that Bedouin band,
sitting still and straight on the magnificent horses, fascinated him.

The
Queen of India
was well away from the pier when Morgan rejoined him. “Sam gave me as much information as he had,” he said excitedly. “And guess what, Harrity. That baby we’re carryin’ isn’t goin’ to any of those big horse stables in Kentucky.… Nope, he’s goin’ to some guy by the name of Alec Ramsay. And this will kill you. Where does the guy live but in Flushing, New York! Why, that’s like goin’ to my burg, Brooklyn!”

“Not exactly,” Harrity replied. “It’s a lot smaller, but maybe there’s room for a horse to turn around in.”

“Well, it’s a suburb of New York, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I can’t see this horse in either place.”

They were walking toward the door leading down to the boiler room when Harrity came to a sudden stop. “Alec Ramsay,” he muttered to himself.

“Yeah, that’s his name,” Morgan said. “What’s eatin’ you?”

“That name. I know it. I’ve seen it somewhere,” Harrity said, half to himself, half to Morgan. Turning, he went back to the rail of the ship and looked again at the mighty black stallion. The sheikh had mounted him, but the band still hadn’t moved. The horse had his head high, his ears pricked, and he, too, seemed to be watching the departing ship. Then suddenly he raised his head still higher, and there was heard, resounding across the still, hot air, his shrill, piercing whistle. The scream of a wild stallion! Harrity had never heard anything
like it and he knew that in all probability few of those on the ship or dock had. It was a long, high-pitched cry that crept to the marrow of one’s bones. It was eerie, frightening.

Harrity found Morgan at his side. “Y’mean that came from him?” Without taking his eyes from the stallion, Harrity nodded. And Morgan said, “That was weirder than anything we ever heard in India.”

They saw the black horse rear to his utmost height as the sheikh astride him wrapped his long legs like two bars of steel around his girth. Coming down with battering forefeet, the stallion snorted, half-reared, and screamed again. His rider raised a hand in signal to his men, and simultaneously they wheeled their horses.

And as the Bedouin band rode up the street which would lead them back to the desert, Harrity and Morgan heard the muffled scream of the black colt in the hold.

Morgan said, “Guess that’s the end of the fireworks, Harrity. We’d better get goin’.”

Nodding, Harrity followed, deep in thought. And it wasn’t until they were well on their way down the iron stairs that he stopped. “I got it,” he half shouted, as his hand grabbed Morgan’s arm. “Y’remember that trip the
Queen
’s boiler went bad on us, and we had to limp back to New York for a repair job?”

“I don’t want to remember it,” Morgan said, “after the work it caused us.”

But Harrity went on. “We hit port just in time to hear all about that big match horse race out in Chicago. Y’couldn’t help rememberin’ that, Morgan,
for everybody was talkin’ their fool heads off about it. And it was all over the newspapers, ’n’ you couldn’t turn on a radio without someone blastin’ about it.”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I remember that. This match race was cooked up to get those two racers, Sun Raider and Cyclone, together. Boy, those babies sure could run. Broke just about every track record, didn’t they?” Morgan didn’t wait for Harrity’s reply. “And there was lots of talk about what was goin’ to happen when those two bolts of lightnin’ got together in Chicago. Then there was the big race.…” Morgan’s brow furrowed and his eyes met Harrity’s. “Then … then …,” his words came fast, “I remember now, Harrity. Neither of ’em won! They were both beaten by a mystery horse! A horse someone got into the race the last minute. The name of that horse is right on the tip of my tongue.…”

As Morgan hesitated, Harrity said, “He was called the Black, Morgan. Nothin’ more, just that. And he was ridden by a kid, a young kid by the name of … Alec Ramsay!” Harrity’s voice was clipped, excited. “And that black stallion ran all over Sun Raider and Cyclone.”

“That’s it, Harrity! That’s it! Alec Ramsay … that was his name, all right. And there was a story, too, about how he got hold of this horse. The papers played it up big.”

“Sure, and we got good reason to remember it,” Harrity said, lowering his voice. “The kid was comin’ back from India on the
Drake
.…”

“The
Drake
 …” Morgan’s voice was tense. “She went down off the coast of Portugal with all on board.”

Harrity took it up again. “This black stallion was aboard, picked up at … Addis.” His eyes swept back up the stairs, and he muttered, “That was Addis back there.”

“The horse saved the kid’s life, didn’t he? Dragged him to one of those islands off the coast. And about a month later, after all hope had been given up, they were picked up and brought to New York.”

“And then to Flushing,” Harrity added. “Alec Ramsay, Flushing, New York.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hold. “And that’s just where this little devil is goin’.”

Morgan began walking down the steps again, followed by Harrity. “Y’remember hearin’ anything more about the Black and this Alec Ramsay?” Morgan asked without looking back. “After the race, I mean.”

“You know as well as I do how long we were out on that South Africa trip right after,” Harrity said. “Of course I didn’t hear nothin’.”

“I was just thinkin’ about that black stallion we just saw,” Morgan muttered. “He sure looked like what I imagined the Black should look like. From everything I’ve read about him, anyway.”

Harrity said, thoughtfully, “I was thinkin’ about that, too.” Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “But he sure can’t be in Flushing and Arabia at the same time, that’s certain. And I still can’t figure out that black baby in the hold. Wonder where he comes in on it?”

“Forget it,” Morgan said. “We’ve got enough to do from here to New York without wastin’ our time on puzzles. I’m just glad my name’s Morgan instead of
Alec Ramsay, and that I live in Brooklyn an’ not Flushing. I wouldn’t want any part of that horse.”

“Yeah,” agreed Harrity. “You’re right. I’ll take my horses just by watchin’ ’em from the grandstand at a race track. Nope, I sure don’t envy this Alec Ramsay none, either.”

“Alec Ramsay live here, ma’am?” the man asked of the small, plump woman who had made her way down the porch steps of the house in Flushing.

“Why, yes,” she replied, slipping a shopping bag lightly over one arm. “Although he isn’t in just now,” she added.

“I’ve a special delivery for him,” the man explained, extending a large manila envelope.

“I’ll sign for it,” the woman said.

“You his wife, ma’am?”

“No, his mother.” She smiled.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He grinned, holding out his book for her to sign. “But I had to make sure, y’know. No sense losing this thing now, not after it’s come all the way from …” He stopped and drew the envelope closer to his eyes. “From Arabia,” he concluded. “From some guy by the name of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak. What a monicker that is!”

The smile left the woman’s face at the man’s
words. And as she took the envelope, he asked, “Anything wrong, ma’am?”

“No,” she said, her gaze still on the envelope, “… nothing at all.” Turning back to the house, she added, “Thank you for bringing it. Thank you very much.”

She walked slowly, without looking again at the envelope in her hand. After going up the porch steps, she moved across to the small table beside the hammock and carefully placed the envelope upon it. She stood there quietly for a few moments, then turned and again started to leave the porch.

As she passed the screened front door, a small dog with long, shaggy brown hair peered out. Whimpering, he shoved his nose against the corner of the door and pushed, his short legs rigid.

A slight smile lightened the woman’s face as she opened the door for the dog. And as he leapt outside, she said, “All right, Sebastian, you find Alec and tell him it’s here. He’s been waiting for it a long time.”

She watched the dog run down the steps and across the yard, and then set out to do her shopping.

Sebastian traveled fast, his short legs covering the ground with great speed. Crossing the street, he slid to a stop before a high iron-barred fence which kept him from the field on the other side. Then he retracked a few yards, and went to a bar which was bent slightly at the base. His head went through easily, but the bars closed in upon his round body. He stopped for a minute, half in, half out. His soft brown eyes turned in the direction of the old barn a few hundred yards away in the field. Panting, he squirmed his way through.
With a short bark, he ran down the graveled driveway and bounded into the barn.

But once there, he came to a dead stop, his ears cocked. The short whinny of a horse came from one of the box stalls, and the dog ran forward, his paws pattering softly upon the wood floor. Reaching the door, he found it ajar, and without hesitating went into the stall.

The old gray horse with the low sway back removed his muzzle from the feed box and, lowering his head, sniffed suspiciously.

Moving across the soft straw, the dog ran between the horse’s hind legs and underneath the low-hanging girth as though he were treading on familiar ground. He moved up to the large head and shoved his nose against the horse’s muzzle. The old gray whinnied and then drew back to his feed box, munching his oats.

The dog stood there listening quietly for a few seconds. Then he was out of the stall and running past the row of empty stalls toward the rear of the barn. Finally he came to a room and sprang inside, sniffing and with his eyes alert.

A voice came from the end of the room. “It’s a Sebastian. Here, come to Tony.”

The dog ran toward the man, who sat on a chair holding long leather straps across his lap. Sebastian threw his front paws upon the man’s knee and let him rub his head.

“Heesa feelin’ good, no?” Tony laughed. “Heesa feelin’ like the wan young fella he is.
Sì
, Sebastian!” His hands rubbed the back of the dog’s ears. “Where sucha small puppy like you get so longa ears, Sebastian?
Maybe just a leetle bit of whatya call da bloodhound in you, no?”

The dog barked, his gaze leaving Tony, moving to the far corner of the room, and then back again. With a burst of speed he was out of the room, running past the stalls and through the door.

Outside in the bright sunlight he stopped, as though undecided which way to go. He turned his head, looking across the street at the brown house which he had left. Then he looked in the opposite direction, at the green field adjacent to the barn. His eyes followed the wooden fence that encircled the field until they came to the hollow at the south end. Without further hesitation, he ran to the wooden barred-gate entrance to the field, dashed underneath the lowest crossbar, and went tearing across the long grass toward the hollow.

As he reached the top of the hollow, he barked and his hooked tail wagged furiously. Then he ran down toward the boy who was sitting in the grass, and swarmed all over him.

Alec Ramsay grabbed the dog as he leapt into his lap, and Sebastian’s long tongue sought the boy’s face. Alec’s hands moved underneath the dog’s shoulders and he turned him over on his back, holding him between his knees. The dog wriggled at first, but then relaxed as the boy’s fingers found his chest. “Hey, Seb,” and Alec smiled. “You’re not supposed to be out. It’s too hot for you. Do you want to get sick again?” But there was no sound from Sebastian as he stretched his head back, allowing Alec to scratch his neck.

They stayed there for some time, the dog content to
be in the boy’s arms. And as Alec stroked Sebastian, his gaze very often would leave the dog, move across the high, uncropped grass, and come to rest upon the heavy underbrush at the low end of the hollow. There were thistles growing there now, plenty of them. He’d have to fence it off before his horse could graze in the field as the Black had once done. Alec’s brow wrinkled. Would he ever see
his
horse running around in this field? Would Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak keep his promise to send him the first foal of the Black, or Shêtân, as the sheikh called him? Shêtân. It meant
devil
in Arabic. The Black was no devil … not to him, anyway.