The Black Stallion Returns (12 page)

“There are buildings farther up the valley,” Raj said.

Their eyes swept in the direction of Raj’s extended arm. In the far corner of the valley, buildings of white stone reflected the rays of the setting sun. One stood apart from the others and was set back against the towering mountains. The other buildings were smaller and arranged in groups along the side of the valley.

They followed a well-worn path down through the brush, Alec’s eyes constantly scanning the band of horses below. Was his horse there?

After a time they came to the floor of the valley. Stopping, they watched the horses grazing a half-mile away. Suddenly one broke away from the others. He ran slowly around the band and then stood still, his nose pointed in the direction of the upper valley.

“Henry!” Alec shouted. “It’s the Black.… I’m sure it’s
he!
”

“May be,” Henry replied skeptically. “He’s too far away to be certain. Sure moved like him, though.”

The horse broke into a gallop, his head held high and mane flying in the wind. Alec watched for a moment, then turned to Henry, who said softly, “It’s him, all right, Alec. No doubt about that.”

Suddenly, far up the valley toward which the black stallion ran, a white horse and rider appeared. Moving swiftly with giant strides, the Black approached them. Alec saw him stop a short distance from the white horse, hesitate, then half rear.

“Wonder what he’s up to,” Henry muttered. “Let’s get goin’.”

Rapidly they walked up the valley, their eyes on
the small group far ahead. Then they stopped, as they saw the white horse and rider bolt forward. The Black followed for a short distance, then with a burst of speed passed the white horse.

They were coming swiftly in Alec’s direction, when he saw the rider pull his horse to an abrupt halt. The Black whirled and was on his way back, when suddenly he stopped. Turning, he lifted his nose high in the wind that blew from the south. Tossing his head, he pranced nervously.

“Maybe he’s caught our scent,” Henry told Alec. Then, smiling, he added, “Betcha the white horse is a filly … maybe his girlfriend.”

The Black was looking in their direction. Then he screamed … a long whistle, shrill, loud and clear. He ran a short distance toward them, stopped and reared. Again he came on. Again he stopped and reared. He was close now, only a few hundred yards away, and his black body glistened in the sun.

Suddenly Alec broke from the group and ran toward his horse.

The stallion shook his small, savage head and then trotted up to meet the boy running toward him.

When the rest of the group reached them, Alec had his arm around the long, slender neck of the Black. The stallion’s ears swept back as the others approached.

Henry walked up to him. “Hey,” he said, grasping the long mane, “that’s no way to greet an old friend.” Turning to Alec, he added, “Looks mighty good, Alec … better than I’ve ever seen him.”

The sound of running hoofs made them turn.
Coming toward them was the white horse, and their gaze turned to the slim, hatless rider on its back.

“Looks like a kid,” Henry commented.

“Wearing European clothes,” Mr. Volence pointed out.

A few minutes later, the rider slowed his horse down to a walk and came cautiously toward them.

Henry’s eyes were on the horse. It was a pure-blooded Arabian, no doubt about that. Small … not over fourteen hands … but beautifully proportioned. And a filly, as he had guessed. Her neck rose to a crest like the Black’s and she had the same small head, but not the savageness. She walked quietly toward them; devoted to her rider, she had complete confidence in the hands guiding her reins. Henry knew there were few horses like her to be found in the world. He looked at the rider and his eyes narrowed. The figure was slim … yes, like a kid’s … but that of a girl in her late teens!

It was obvious to all of them as horse and rider came to a stop. Her skin was honey-colored; sleek-oiled hair crowned a heart-shaped face, and oblique almond eyes peered curiously at them. She was neither white nor black, neither of the East nor of the West. Her full lips parted and she spoke in Arabic, her voice low and husky.

Raj answered her.

When he had finished, she turned to the others and said softly in English, “Welcome to the home of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak. I am his daughter, Tabari.”

They introduced themselves, and then she turned to Alec, who was rubbing the thin-skinned, pink muzzle
of the Black. “It is a great surprise and joy to meet you, Alec Ramsay. My father has told me of you and Shêtân,” she smiled. “We are very grateful.”

“Your father … is he here?” Mr. Volence inquired.

“Yes. Come, and I will take you to him.”

As they walked up the valley, Alec looked longingly at the Black, who kept near him. It would be so easy to mount and ride. He had waited so long for this day. He glanced at Tabari, and found her looking at him. As though knowing what was in his mind, she said, “It is better to wait. My father allows only one man to ride Shêtân.” Smiling, she added, “Perhaps he will make an exception.…”

They reached the band of horses, who raised their heads from their grazing and moved slowly to the south at sight of the Black. Bolting away from Alec, the stallion encircled the horses, his black mane flowing like wind-swept flame.

“These horses …,” Mr. Volence spoke to the girl, “I have never seen any like them.”

“There aren’t any others like them,” she answered softly. “My father and his father before him have spent their lives interbreeding the original Nejdi purebred strain, like my Jôhar”—she stroked the long neck of her horse—“with others which they have sought throughout the Middle East. These horses are the result, and Shêtân is the finest of them all.”

They had almost reached the upper end of the valley when she spoke to Raj. “This chieftain you told me about, the one who brought you here … did he make known his name?”

Raj shook his head.

The girl was silent for a moment, then asked, “He was young, was he not? And riding a chestnut stallion?”

“It was difficult to tell his age,” Raj replied. “Yes, he rode a chestnut stallion.”

No further questions were asked by the girl, and it seemed to Alec that she suddenly withdrew from them. She rode in silence, her eyes on the mountains ahead.

They passed the small white homes, in front of which men and women watched curiously as they walked by. “It is not often that they see strangers,” Tabari explained.

As they approached the home of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, they heard the pounding of hoofs and, turning, saw the Black running toward them. He stopped a short distance away and reared, his forelegs pawing the air. Then he trotted up to Alec.

“Looks as though he’s still your horse, Alec,” Henry said.

Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak was standing on the steps of his home when they arrived. He wore the white flowing gown of the Bedouin, but his steel-gray head was uncovered. His black eyes swept curiously from one to another until finally they came to rest upon Alec. Slowly a look of amazement appeared on his face.

“
Âfferin!
Are
you
Alec Ramsay?” he asked incredulously.

“Sure am, sir,” Alec replied, “and you remember Henry Dailey …” He stopped and his gaze shifted to Mr. Volence. Suddenly he realized how they had all changed, why it had been difficult for Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak to recognize him. Their skin was as black as any Bedouin’s, and their eyes burned deep in dark sockets.
Their faces were haggard and drawn. It would have been difficult for even their best friends to have recognized them let alone Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, who had met them only once.

Alec heard Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak say, “Certainly. I remember Henry. I must say that it’s all rather incredible … your being here, I mean … difficult to believe. But come inside … you must be tired. I’ll have hot baths drawn for you.… Later we will talk.”

He led the way into the house. Before following the others, Alec turned to the Black. “See you later, fella.” The stallion snorted and pushed Alec with his head. Then he whirled and ran toward his band.

Later that evening, after they had bathed and changed into clean white gowns provided by Abu Ishak, they told him their story of the trip from Haribwan. Their Bedouin host listened intently, and only when they told him of the young chieftain who had guided them through the mountains did his countenance change, a sullen look falling over his mahogany-colored face and his eyes clouding. He interrupted Mr. Volence, who had been talking, and said slowly, his short white beard jutting out as he spoke, “A difficult time … a very difficult time. You are fortunate to be here. But now let us eat, as you must be very hungry.”

They entered a large chamber in the center of which was a long rectangular table laden with food and great varieties of fruit in silver vessels studded with gems. Three Bedouin servants glided silently around the room, their footsteps making no sounds on the thick, luxurious rugs.

During dinner, Alec heard Mr. Volence say to their host, “As we came through the valley today, we saw your horses. Never have I seen any to equal them. Thoroughbred-breeding is my business,” he explained.

Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak smiled. “It is the life of the Bedouin,” he said quietly. “The horses you saw today are the result of generations of breeding. There are none finer in the world.”

Mr. Volence was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, “The black stallion … your Shêtân. Would you sell him? I’m willing to pay almost anything you ask.”

Without looking at Mr. Volence, Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak replied, “He is not for sale.” His black eyes lifted and met those of Mr. Volence. “He is above the price of money.”

“And the others,” Mr. Volence asked, “would you sell any of them?”

After a few seconds of silence, Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak answered, “We are very proud and jealous of our horses, Mr. Volence. In the desert there may be a shortage of food, of water, and our children may cry from thirst and hunger; but we give our horse the last drop of water, the last morsel of food.” He paused, then continued, “We do not sell our horses. Their blood is pure and free from admixture, except in instances where we think that our line will be improved by careful interbreeding with other strains. Such as I have done,” he added, “and my father, and his father before him.”

“Yet,” Mr. Volence interrupted, “the blood of Arabians flows in many of our horses, including some of mine. I have seen several Arabians back home and in
England. If, as you say, you and your people do not sell your horses, where did they come from?”

Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak straightened in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “I think, in fact I am certain, Mr. Volence, that you have seen only one Arabian of purest blood, and that was Jôhar, the white one my daughter, Tabari, was riding today. There are few others like her in Arabia, and certainly none in any foreign country.”

They finished dinner in silence.

Alec walked beside Tabari as they left the large chamber. Behind him he heard Mr. Volence say quietly to Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, “I apologize for anything I have said which may have offended you. It was only because I am so very much interested in improving the bloodline of the American thoroughbred that I wanted to buy your horses. I understand now why you won’t sell.…”

Tabari led Alec out the door onto the porch. Moonlight illuminated the valley, and Alec could see the horses as they moved slowly in their grazing. The sound of voices and music drifted toward them from the homes of the Bedouins.

Tabari’s slim body was covered with a single garment of pale-pink silk. Leaning against one of the white stone pillars, she turned her head and said, “Do not let my father’s words discourage you. He is a kind and generous man.”

“You mean … you think he’ll sell some of his horses to Mr. Volence?” Alec inquired anxiously.

“No. You see, he meant it when he said our people
do not sell their horses.” Noticing the depressed look which clouded Alec’s face, she smiled and added, “He may give them to you, though. My father is like that.” She paused and then said in a lower key, which was barely audible, “So much depends upon Shêtân …”

“Shêtân … the Black? Why?” Alec asked.

She did not answer him immediately. Then, “It is a strange story, but one that you have a right to know, as you have played a part in it.”

“I?” interrupted Alec. “I … I played a part in it?”

Tabari nodded, then continued. “But I will start at the beginning. More than one hundred years ago my great-great-grandfather bred a horse which he thought the finest in Arabia, and he made his claim known far and wide. Many chieftains accepted his challenge and a race was run.”

“Did he win?” Alec broke in impatiently.

“Yes, he won. And fifteen of the finest horses from each of the tribes entering the race were given to him, for they had agreed upon such stakes before the race. Since that day similar races have taken place every five years; the years in between are spent by the chieftains in breeding the finest possible horses.

“The years passed and the races continued. My great-grandfather bred horses for the express purpose of winning these races after his father died. My father’s father carried on, and now my father. When he dies, my brother, who is now studying in England, and I will continue.”

“Has your family won all of these races throughout the years?” Alec asked.

“No, but we won most of them until twenty years
ago, when my father’s great bay, Tigris, was beaten by the horse of Abd-al-Rahman. And his horses have also won the two races which have been run since that time.”

Tabari raised her eyes to Alec, looked at him questioningly for a minute, then continued. “Perhaps it is best that I tell you more concerning Abd-al-Rahman … and his son, the young Bedouin chieftain who guided you through the mountains, and who bears his name.”

“Then the chestnut stallion he was riding,” Alec interrupted, “will be in the race?”

The girl nodded.

Alec’s head whirled. What a race that would be! Just wait until he told Henry. Never would there be one to equal it. Tabari’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he turned to her again.