The Black Stallion (20 page)

Alec looked around at the crowd below him. Suddenly he stopped—could that be his father? “Dad,” he yelled. “Dad!” His father turned and waved. “Henry—look! There’s Dad over there!”

Henry pushed his way through the crowd and was halfway back with Alec’s father when a familiar voice made them both turn.

“Looks as though we’re all here!” said Alec’s mother.

“Belle!” gasped Mr. Ramsay.

She put a hand on her husband’s arm. “I’ve never
had such an afternoon in all my life,” she said. “From the time I saw Alec come out on the Black and couldn’t do anything about it, until the end.” She paused and looked at Alec sitting proudly astride his horse. “But now all I care about is that it’s over and he’s safe.”

“We all should be mighty proud of him,” Henry said as he led the way toward Alec.

The governor of the state had just given Alec the Gold Trophy emblematic of track supremacy when Alec saw both his father and his mother with Henry. His mouth dropped open, and he forgot to listen to the governor, who was talking to him. He wasn’t seeing things—they were
both
there! He waved; his throat was too tight to say anything. The governor kept talking. The Black shook his head and pawed the ground.

Finally the governor was through. The crowd cheered and Alec slid off the Black. Henry unsaddled the stallion. Suddenly a line of policemen pushed through the crowd. Following them came Jim Neville leading Napoleon. The stallion whinnied and threw his head high into the air. Old Napoleon answered and thrust his nose up to the Black’s. “Nice going, kid!” said Jim. “I knew you two could do it!” He nodded at Napoleon. “He was almost going crazy back there—wanted to do a little congratulating himself!”

“He belongs up here, anyway.” Alec laughed.

The network sportscaster pushed his way through and rushed up to Alec. “—broke the world’s record!” he was telling his audience. Then he pushed the mike in front of Alec and motioned for him to say something.

Alec hesitated a moment. “The Black was every bit as good as we believed him to be,” he said. “We knew he had it in him, and he proved it today!”

The sportscaster then broke in and started giving the history of Alec and the Black. Jim Neville had told him the whole story.

The owners of Sun Raider and Cyclone came up and congratulated Alec. “I’ve never seen anything like him as long as I’ve been around the track,” Mr. Volence said.

“That goes for me, too!” said Mr. Hurst. “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling him?”

“No, sir,” Alec answered proudly. “You’re going to hear a lot more about this fella!”

“I’m afraid of that,” laughed Cyclone’s owner.

Answering the pleas of the hundreds grouped around them, Alec took a few roses from the huge bow of flowers draped around the Black’s neck, and then threw the rest of them into the throng. In a few seconds the souvenir hunters had ripped them apart.

The Black half-reared and old Napoleon moved closer to him. Alec smiled at Henry and his mother and father. He rubbed the Black’s nose, and then led the huge stallion through the crowd—back to his victory oats.

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 Brooklyn’s Erasmus Hall High School and Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. He eventually finished it, and 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.

Night hung black and heavy about the old barn. An iron gate creaked a short distance away and a few minutes later the short figure of a man slid alongside the barn. As he moved cautiously forward his fat, gloved hand felt the wood. The man stopped as he neared the door and his hand dug into his right coat pocket. Fumbling, he searched for something. Not finding it, he uttered an oath and reached awkwardly across to his left-hand pocket. He pulled the empty sleeve from the pocket and reached inside, withdrawing a long hypodermic needle. His dark-skinned face creased into folds of fatty tissue as he smiled. Moving forward once again, he did not bother to replace the empty coat sleeve and it hung limply at his side in the still air.

The prowler reached the door. Carefully he opened it and slid inside. His eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, made out the stalls on the other side of the barn. As he moved toward them, his thumb slipped to the back of the hypodermic needle.

The hard ring of a horse’s hoofs against the floor came from one of the stalls. Then a long and slender neck that arched to a small, savagely beautiful head peered over the door. Thin-skinned nostrils quivered as black ears pitched forward. The prowler, halfway to the stall door, had stopped. The horse shook his long black mane and a powerful foreleg struck the door.

A board creaked as the man moved closer. Baring his teeth, the horse whistled the shrill, loud scream of a wild stallion. As the whistle resounded through the barn, the prowler moved forward. He would have to work fast. Mincing steps carried his round body to the stall door with amazing speed. He opened it, but fell back as the black stallion struck at him.

Gripping the hypodermic firmly, the prowler advanced again, more cautiously this time. He stopped and his fat face twitched nervously. The giant horse rose on his hind legs, mouth open and teeth bared. As he came down, the man lunged at him, but the horse’s foreleg caught him in the groin. The attacker turned gray beneath his bronze skin. Staggering back, he attempted to close the stall door behind him. The stallion, halfway through the door, rose again on his hind legs as the man stumbled and fell to the floor. Thrashing hoofs pawed the air above him. The hypodermic dropped from his hand as the giant form began to descend. The man rolled fast, avoiding the stallion’s hoofs by inches. Climbing to his feet, he ran frantically for the barn door.

Outside, he heard voices coming from the direction of the gate and, turning, stumbled off into the night, the empty coat sleeve waving slightly at his side.

A few minutes later a young boy, carrying a flashlight, ran up to the barn door. Following him was a bowlegged man who moved with jerky strides.

“Something must be wrong, Henry,” the youth shouted. “The door’s open!”

Henry grabbed the flashlight. “Yeah, I’ll go in, Alec. Y’stay here, just in case …”

Impatiently, Alec waited while Henry entered the barn. A hand swept nervously across his pug nose as he pinched his nostrils. There was a worried expression on his freckled face. If anything had happened to the Black! Then he heard the short neigh and the sound of the stallion’s hoofs against the floor. His tense body relaxed. Everything was probably all right. Looking around the yard, his gaze swept to the open field. It was getting light and already he could make out the high white fence at the north end. There was no one around. He tightened the belt holding up his corduroys and then pushed a hand through his red, tousled hair.

Turning on the lights, Henry appeared in the doorway. He beckoned Alec inside.

The Black was in his stall. He whistled softly when he saw Alec and shook his black mane, which mounted high, then fell low, like a crest.

“Find anything, Henry?”

“He was out of his stall. Someone’s been here … there’s been a fight of some kind. He’s sweated.” Henry ran a gnarled hand over the stallion’s body as it glistened in the bright light.

The Black moved nervously around his stall and didn’t quiet until Alec’s hand rested on the thin-skinned nostrils. “He seems to be okay though, Henry.”

“Yep.” Henry was quiet. In his hand he studied a long glass object wrapped in his handkerchief.

“What is it?” Alec asked.

“A hypo.”

“You mean a hypodermic needle?” Alec asked incredulously. “You found it here?”

“Yep … on the floor.”

“What’s it mean, Henry?” Alec moved away from the Black to get a closer view of the glass tube.

“Looks as if someone intended to use it on the Black.”

“Y’mean …” Alec’s heart thumped hard. “Henry, are you
sure
it hasn’t been used?”

“It’s filled. We’ll get the stuff analyzed today by the police and find out what it is. Maybe it’ll give us a clue of some kind.” He wrapped the needle in the handkerchief and said, “Also, there might be some fingerprints.…”

Alec moved over to the Black again. The stallion lowered his head and, rubbing it, Alec asked, “But why would anyone want to harm him, Henry?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Alec.” Then Henry added, “… perhaps better.”

“What do you mean?”

Henry moved over to Alec and placed a long arm on the stall door. “Well, here’s how I figure it out. The Black is a valuable horse since he beat out Sun Raider and Cyclone last June. There’s no doubt that he’s the fastest thing to set foot on any track here or abroad. Now to my way of thinkin’ there’s a good many reasons why somebody would want to steal the Black. He couldn’t be raced but he could be used for stud … that
horse could do much to improve the bloodline of the American thoroughbred.…”

“But, Henry,” Alec interrupted, “he isn’t a registered thoroughbred. There are no papers … we know so little about where he came from or anything. If they won’t let us race him any more because no one knows who his sire and dam were, I don’t see how anyone could use him for stud either and get away with it.”

“Some folks might be able to get around it,” Henry answered. “But let me finish. Now whether or not anyone could get around the lack of registration papers for the Black is beside the point. Nobody tried to steal the Black … they tried to kill him; or at least that’s what I think we’ll find when we’ve had this stuff analyzed.” His gaze shifted to the hypodermic needle, then back to Alec. “Why would anyone want to kill the Black?”

“Hey, Henry, I don’t see how anyone could be that cruel.…” Then a vivid picture flashed before Alec: that of the small Arabian port where they had docked on his way home from visiting Uncle Ralph in India and where he had first seen the Black. Again he was looking down from the deck of the old freighter,
Drake
, and beholding a sight that made his body tremble with anger: the glistening black horse, too big to be pure Arabian, high on his hind legs; forelegs striking furiously in the air; white lather running from his body. And around his savage head was tied a scarf, covering his eyes. Two ropes led from the halter and four natives were attempting to pull him toward the ship. Standing behind the stallion was a dark-skinned man wearing a white turban. In his hand he held a hard whip, which he raised menacingly. Then he let the whip fall on the
Black’s hindquarters and the stallion screamed. It was unlike anything Alec had ever heard before; it rose to a high-pitched whistle, the cry of a wild, unbroken stallion! He bolted, and if Alec had ever seen hate expressed by a horse, he had seen it then. The stallion struck one of the men holding the rope; he went down and lay in a still, lifeless heap. Eventually they had gotten the giant horse on the ship and in his stall.

Alec looked at Henry and realized the old man knew what he had been thinking. “You believe it might have been the man on the boat? Is that what you mean, Henry?”

“Could be, Alec.”

“But the storm, shipwreck … he was drowned. I saw him go down with my own eyes.”

“And his name wasn’t listed among the survivors?” Henry asked.

“No … there were only a few, as you know.”

“The last you saw of him was when he fell overboard … that right, Alec?”