The Black Stallion Returns (21 page)

Walter Farley’s love for horses began when he was a small boy living in Syracuse, New York, and continued as he grew up in New York City, where his family moved. Unlike most city children, he was able to fulfill this love through an uncle who was a professional horseman. Young Walter spent much of his time with this uncle, learning about the different kinds of horse training and the people associated with them.

Walter Farley began to write his first book,
The Black Stallion
, while he was a student at Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn, New York, and Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. It was published in 1941 while he was still an undergraduate at Columbia University.

The appearance of
The Black Stallion
brought such an enthusiastic response from young readers that Mr. Farley went on to create more stories about the Black, and about other horses as well. In his life he wrote a total of thirty-four books, including
Man o’ War
, the story of America’s greatest thoroughbred, and two
photographic storybooks based on the Black Stallion movies. His books have been enormously popular in the United States and have been published in twenty-one foreign countries.

Mr. Farley and his wife, Rosemary, had four children, whom they raised on a farm in Pennsylvania and at a beach house in Florida. Horses, dogs and cats were always a part of the household.

In 1989, Mr. Farley was honored by his hometown library in Venice, Florida, which established the Walter Farley Literary Landmark in its children’s wing. Mr. Farley died in October 1989, shortly before publication of
The Young Black Stallion
, the twenty-first book in the Black Stallion series. Mr. Farley co-authored
The Young Black Stallion
with his son, Steven.

For days the Bedouin band had ridden across the white sands of the Rub‘ al Khali, the Great Central Desert of Arabia, and the steady pounding of the horses’ hoofs left a rising cloud of sand behind them. The white-robed figures rode in no particular formation, their long guns resting easily across their thighs, their hands lying only lightly upon them. For the danger of a surprise raid by desert bands had passed … ahead lay Addis, on the Red Sea, their destination.

There were twenty of them, sitting still and straight in their saddles as their horses moved effortlessly across the sand. Each steed’s head was held high, his hot coat shining in the sun, and each pulled slightly on his bit as though impatient to break out of the slow canter to which he had been held for so many days. The men, too, were as impatient as the blacks, bays, and chestnuts they rode.
Ê
 … yes! It had taken them ten days to cross the Great Desert from the mountain stronghold of their sheikh, Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, who led them. Ten
days! When other trips had taken them but four! Ten days of constant riding, halting during the day only for prayer, to turn toward Mecca with a reverent
“La ilaha-’llah: Muhammadum rasula-’llah.”
And then they would be in the saddle again, their long limbs wrapped about the girths of their mounts.

And as they rode, if their eyes left the sheikh, astride his giant black stallion, Shêtân, it was only to come to rest upon the small black colt who followed doggedly behind the stallion, straining at the lead rope that the sheikh had attached to his own saddle.
Ê
 … yes! It was the young colt with his spindled, tiring legs who was responsible for this long slow march across the Rub‘ al Khali. It was he, as much as his great black stallion of a father, who had caused them to ride with heavy hands upon unslung rifles for so many suns. Only for the possession of the mighty Shêtân and his firstborn, worth all the treasures beneath the sun and moon, would other desert tribes dare to challenge the might of the powerful Sheikh Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak! But now the worst of the trek was over, for ahead was Addis and the ship of the sea which would take the young colt to another land.

Nearing the outskirts of town, the sheikh raised his rifle high in the air, and then slung it over his shoulder; and it came to rest with those of his men.

They were in formation, riding two abreast as they entered Addis and started down the street that would lead them to the sea and the ship that awaited the son of the black stallion.

Two boiler-room men climbed the spiraling iron staircase leading up from the bowels of the tramp steamer,
Queen of India
, as she docked at Addis. Reaching the upper deck, one of them wiped a greasy hand across his perspiring forehead, leaving it streaked with grime. “No better up here, Morgan,” he said, as they walked over to the rail and leaned heavily upon it.

Below on the dock, vendors shouted forth their wares to the multitude of onlookers, freight agents and dock hands who laboriously loaded the varied produce of the desert and farms onto the ship. Camels and donkeys, heavily laden with the wares of vendors, milled with the crowd, superbly unbothered by the high-pitched voices of their owners.

“Makes me think of the barkers at Coney Island, Harrity,” Morgan said nostalgically.

Harrity didn’t answer, for his gaze had left the crowd below and had traveled up the long, narrow, cobble-stoned street that led from the pier. Coming toward them was a group of horsemen. And even from this distance he could see that they weren’t like the natives below. Heads moving neither to the right nor left, they rode forward, the hoofs of their horses ringing on the stones. Only for a few seconds did Harrity’s gaze rest upon the riders’ flowing robes; fascinated, he turned his attention to the magnificent animals they rode. He’d heard tales of such horses as these, owned by the feared and little-known Bedouins, supreme rulers of the desert. But in all his years of traveling up the coast of Arabia, he had never seen even one of them until now.

The horsemen came closer, and Harrity’s eyes were drawn to the great black stallion in the lead. Never in the world had he seen a horse like this one, he
told himself. This horse towered above the others, his body beautiful to behold. Thunder could roll under those powerful legs, Harrity was sure.

“Look at that band of Arabs comin’ down the street,” Harrity heard Morgan say.

Without taking his eyes from the mighty black, Harrity replied, “Look at the horses, Morgan. Look at them.”

“I’m lookin’. And me who’s been to Aqueduct and Belmont, and thought I’d seen the best of ’em.”

“Me, too.” Harrity paused, then added, “Get a load of that black stallion in the lead, Morgan. If he isn’t one of the finest chunks of horseflesh I’ve ever seen, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Yeah,” Morgan replied. “And he’s a wild one, all right. See that small head and those eyes? There’s fire in those eyes, Harrity. Look! He half-reared. He doesn’t want to come any closer to this mob on the dock. That Arab on his back can ride, all right, but he’s no match for that devil and he knows it. See, what’d I tell you, Harrity! They’re stoppin’ out there. He’s goin’ to get off.”

Suddenly, Harrity realized that the shrill voices of the vendors and natives had stilled. The dock was unnaturally quiet. Everybody there had seen the Bedouins.

A few of the multitude moved toward the band, but stopped when they were still a good distance away. They had moved as though compelled by the fascination of this wild band, and had stopped in fear of it. They knew this group of horsemen, no doubt about that.

Harrity’s eyes were upon the black stallion and the sheikh with the white beard who stood beside him, holding the bridle. The stallion snorted and plunged, and the man let the horse carry him until he had regained control.

“A black devil,” Harrity muttered. “A black, untamed devil.”

“What’dya say?” Morgan asked.

“That black stallion … he’s a devil,” Harrity repeated.

“Yeah.” There was a slight pause, then Morgan said, “And didya notice that little black one just behind him? He’s tryin’ to work up a lather, too.”

Harrity hadn’t noticed the young colt, but now he saw him. Standing there on his long legs, the black colt, whom Harrity judged to be about five months old, was being held by one of the Bedouins.

The colt moved restlessly, trying to pull away from the tribesman who held him close. As though imitating the big black in front of him, he snorted and plunged, throwing his thin forelegs out, striking at the Bedouin. The man moved quickly, avoiding the small hoofs, and then closed in upon the savage head and held him still.

“Could be father and son from the way they act.” Morgan laughed.

“Yeah,” returned Harrity. “Look a lot like each other, too. Coal black they are, except for that small splotch of white on the colt’s forehead. Didya notice it, Morgan?”

“Uh,” Morgan grunted. “It looks diamond-shaped from here.”

A few minutes later they saw the tribesman lead
the colt away from the band and in the direction of the
Queen of India
.

“Y’mean that baby is goin’ to ship with us?” Morgan said excitedly.

“Mebbe,” Harrity replied. “After all, they came into town for some reason, and that’s as good as any.”

The Bedouin had the black colt partway down the path which the natives and vendors had opened for them when the colt reared again, fighting for his head. The Bedouin let him go up, and when he came down closed in upon his head again. Grabbing the rope halter, the Bedouin moved quickly to the side, avoiding the pawing hoofs.

“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.