The Black Stallion (8 page)

A young man made his way cautiously around the Black and walked up to them. He carried a camera in one hand, with the other he removed his hat, disclosing hair as black as the stallion’s body. “Pardon me,” he said to Alec, “I’m Joe Russo of the
Daily Telegram
. I’d like to take a few pictures and get your story. I understand you’re the only survivor of the
Drake
that went down off the coast of Portugal.”

Alec pointed to the Black. “He was there, too,” he said.

“Say, this
is
a story!” Joe Russo exclaimed. “You mean that horse was on the boat, too?”

“Yes,” Alec answered. “He certainly was.”

“What happened when the boat sank?” Joe asked, genuinely interested. He wrote hastily with his pencil.

“It’s too long to tell you now,” Alec replied. “Besides there is so much to be done around here.…” He turned to the Black, who was moving restlessly.

“Let me help you with him,” Joe said with all the persistence of a young reporter. “You’re going to need a van to get him home, and I think I know where I can get one. Then later on you can give me the whole story!”

“Okay,” Alec said, grateful for any assistance with the immediate problem of getting the Black home.

An hour later Alec led the Black into a covered truck that Joe Russo had secured to carry him home. His mother had gone ahead, driving the family car. “You won’t get me to ride with that horse!” she had said. His father sat in front with Joe Russo and the driver. Alec, afraid to leave the Black alone, stood in the rear with him. The stallion snorted as the truck began to move into the street. His eyes were still covered with the sweater.

Taxicabs roared past, their horns blowing loudly. Trucks rattled toward the ship to pick up cargo. Men shouted in the streets. Cart peddlers clamored their wares. Noise, noise, noise—this was the Black’s introduction to New York.

Alec’s hand was firm on the halter. Out of the small window in back of the driver he could see the buildings blazing with lights. New York seemed strange to him, too—he had forgotten. The stallion moved uneasily, his head jerked in an attempt to throw off the
sweater. “Whoa, Boy,” said Alec. He patted the smooth, black coat. Down through the city streets they went.

Alec’s father kept looking around, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off Alec and the stallion. Slowly the truck moved in and out of the traffic. An elevated train roared overhead. The stallion whistled and half-rose, almost hitting the top of the truck. Alec pulled him down.

Gradually the traffic lessened. They moved farther out of the busienss section and turned toward Flushing. The worst was over now, and the Black was quiet. Alec was free to think of what fun it was going to be to ride him in that big field near the barn—if they would only let him keep him there.

Then the van was going down the main street of Flushing. Alec peered out the window eagerly. It was good to see the familiar stores and buildings again. Two more blocks and they turend down a side street. Another ten minutes, and Alec saw his own house on the right. His father turned and smiled at him through the window. Alec smiled back.

The truck rolled on past and down the street to the old Halleran house. The van turned into the driveway past a large sign that said
TOURISTS
. It came to a stop in front of the door.

Alec’s father came around to the side of the van. “Okay, Alec,” he said, “it’s up to you now. Better go in and see whether Mrs. Dailey will let you keep him in the barn.”

Alec let go of the Black’s halter. “Take it easy, Boy,” he said. Then he jumped off the van, went up the
porch steps and rang the doorbell. The Daileys had moved into the old Halleran place shortly before Alec went to India, so he wasn’t very well acquainted with Mrs. Dailey, who now came to the door. She was a large, comfortable-looking, heavy-set woman.

“Hello, Mrs. Dailey,” Alec said. “Remember me?”

“Why, you’re the young lad from up the street, but they told me—” She paused in obvious amazement. “They told me that you had been drowned in a shipwreck.”

“We were rescued,” Alex said. “Just got home tonight.”

“Your mother and father must be awfully thankful,” she said. “You must have had an awful time!”

“It was pretty bad, Mrs. Dailey—but what I wanted to see you about, Mrs. Dailey, was—well, I brought back a horse with me—we were rescued together.”

“A horse!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Alec, “and Dad told me I could keep him if I found a place for him to stay. I’d like to put him in one of the stalls in your barn—I’ll pay you for it,” he added.

“But the barn isn’t in very good shape, son,” said Mrs. Dailey. She smiled. “And we already have a boarder in the one good stall!”

“A boarder?”

“Yes, Tony, the huckster, keeps old Napoleon down there now.”

“Napoleon? Do you mean the old gray horse he’s always had?” Alec asked.

“Yes, that’s the one—seems to me he should die any day now, though, then you’ll be able to use his stall!”

“But I don’t know of any other place I could keep my horse, Mrs. Dailey.” Alec was beginning to feel desperate. “Don’t you have another stall he could use?”

“Well, I suppose the stall right next to Napoleon could be fixed up, but I haven’t the time or the money to have it done. If you want to keep your horse there, you’ll have to fix it yourself.”

“Sure I will, Mrs. Dailey!” said Alec happily. “Could I keep him there tonight?”

“Oh, all right,” she gave in with a smile. “And if you do a good job in the barn, I’ll go easy on the rent.”

“That’s swell of you, Mrs. Dailey. I’ll do a good job all right!”

“I’ll get my husband to open the gate for you,” she said. “Henry!” she called loudly. “He’ll be down in a few minutes, I suppose. You can drive to the gate—I’ll have him meet you there.”

“Thanks again, Mrs. Dailey,” said Alec. “Thanks a million times.” He turned and leaped down the porch steps.

“She’s going to let me keep him here!” he shouted as he jumped on the running board of the van.

“That’s good,” answered his father.

“You’re quite a salesman!” laughed Joe Russo. Alec saw that he was making notes on his pad.

“Wait until she sees what’s going to stay in her barn!” said Alec’s father gravely.

They drove past a high iron fence until they reached the gate. There they stopped and waited for Henry. Finally he showed up—a short, chunky man with large shoulders. He came toward them walking in jerky, bowlegged strides. His white shirt tails flapped in
the night wind. He wiped a large hand across his mouth. “Right with you,” he yelled. He shoved a key inside the lock and then pushed back the heavy gate; the hinges creaked as it swung open. “Come on,” he said.

The van rolled through and went up the gravel road to the barn. The headlights shone on the large door. Henry came up behind them. “I’ll open the door,” he said, “and you can bring him right in.”

Alec let down the side door of the van so that he could get the stallion out. He grasped the halter. “It’s your new home, Boy!” he said. Slowly he led the stallion down to the ground. The Black tossed his head and kicked up his heels.

“Look at him!” said Alec. “He feels swell already!” He saw the men gazing admiringly at the stallion.

Henry leaned on the barn door; his eyes moved slowly over the Black. “The Missus told me you had a horse—but I never expected one like this!” He shook his head. “Good head, wide chest, strong legs,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Alec led the Black into the barn. In the box stall nearest the door was Napoleon, his old gray head hanging out over the stall door. He whinnied when he saw the Black and drew his head back into the stall.

“Shall I put him next to Napoleon there, Mr. Dailey?” Alec asked. “Do you think it’ll be safe? He gets pretty nervous sometimes.”

“Sure, put him there. Old Napoleon will be more of a help to him than anything—steady him down.” Henry went over to a corner of the barn and picked up a bale of straw which he carried back into the stall and
spread around. “We’ll borrow some of Tony’s straw for bedding. He won’t mind. Now you can put him in, son,” he said. “There are a few things that need to be fixed, but I guess it’ll hold him—you can do a better job tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Alec said.

“What are you going to feed him tonight, Alec? Did you think of that?” his father asked.

“Gee, that’s right!” said Alec. “I
had
forgotten!” He turned to Henry. “Where do you think I could get some feed, Mr. Dailey?”

“Well, Tony gets his down at the feed store on the corner of Parsons and Northern, but I imagine they’re closed now. But you can use some of Tony’s and pay him back when you get your own.”

“Great,” answered Alec. He led the Black into the stall next to Napoleon’s. It was a little run-down, but it was roomy, and Alec could tell that the stallion liked it. He stood very patiently while Alec removed his halter and rubbed him down. Then Henry handed Alec a pail of feed and Alec dumped it into the Black’s box.

Old Napoleon stuck his head curiously over the board between the stalls. The Black saw him, strode over and sniffed suspiciously. Napoleon didn’t move. Alec was afraid they might fight. Then the Black put his head over into Napoleon’s stall and whinnied. Napoleon whinnied back.

Henry laughed. “See, what’d I tell you? They’re friends already.”

Alec left the stall, feeling more easy about the Black than at any time since they had begun the long journey home. “I’m glad he liked Napoleon,” he said.
“Perhaps I can leave him now. He has to learn to be alone sometime.”

“He looks as though he’ll be all right,” said his father. “In fact, he seems to like it here. He isn’t so wild, after all!”

“He’s all right, Dad, when he gets used to things. It’s just when something new upsets him that he gets out of control.”

“Well, son, let’s go home and see your mother. She’s probably worrying herself to death.”

Joe Russo spoke up. “I hate to make a nuisance of myself, Mr. Ramsay, but I’d like to go along and get your son’s story. It has all the earmarks of a good yarn and I certainly could use one!”

Alec’s father smiled. “Sure, it’s all right. Glad to have you. This is a day of celebration for us, you know!”

Henry led the way out of the barn. Alec heard the Black’s soft whistle as the light went out. Then there was silence. Henry shut the barn door.

A slight chill had crept into the air. The van had already gone. They walked slowly down the gravel road toward the gate. Henry handed Alec the key to the lock. “You can have this, son,” he said. “I’ve another up at the house, and you’ll probably be coming around here a lot now.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dailey,” replied Alec. “I certainly will.”

“That’s all right—and you don’t have to call me Mr. Dailey—just call me Henry like everyone does around here. Anything else seems kind of funny!”

“Right, Henry.”

Henry left them at the gate. They crossed the street and walked up toward the house. Alec saw a light on the front porch and his legs traveled faster.

“Take it easy,” said his father. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know!”

“I can’t even keep up with that pace myself,” laughed Joe, “and I’m still pretty young.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Alec, and he broke into a run.

He reached the house and took the porch steps two at a time. He flung himself at the door. It was unlocked; he ran into the hallway and glanced into the living room; it was empty. He put a hand on the banister and started up the stairs. Then he heard his mother’s voice from the kitchen. “Alexander, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom, it’s really me,” he yelled. He ran into the kitchen and flung his arms around his mother. “Boy, it’s good to be home!” he said.

He looked up at his mother and saw that her eyes were moist. “What’s the matter, Mom? What are you crying for?”

Mrs. Ramsay smiled through her tears. “Nothing’s the matter. I’m just glad you’re home, that’s all.”

Alec put his lean brown arm through his mother’s soft plump one, and together they went into the living room as his father and Joe Russo came in from outdoors.

The reporter looked around the room with its soft shaded lights and its comfortable-looking furniture, then at Alec and his father and mother. “Guess you couldn’t blame him for wanting to get back to this,” Joe said.

“You bet!” Alec agreed.

His mother sat down on the couch and Alec sat beside her, his arm still in hers. His father was filling his pipe in his favorite chair in the corner. “All right, son,” he said. “Tell us all about it.”

“Well,” Alec began, “it was a few days after I left Uncle Ralph at Bombay that we stopped at a small Arabian port on the Red Sea—”

The clock on top of the radio ticked off the minutes as Alec told his story. Once more he was on the
Drake
and seeing the Black for the first time. He forgot that his mother, his father and Joe Russo were listening to him. He was in the storm, hearing the roar of the gale and the smashing of the waves against the boat. He heard the loud crack of lightning as it struck the ship. Then the Black was dragging him through the water—hours and hours they battled the waves in the darkness. He roamed the island, fighting against starvation. He discovered the carragheen that had saved them both. He rode the stallion for the first time—that wild, never-to-be-forgotten ride! Then the fire, that awful fire, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The joy that was his when he saw the sailors dragging their boat up the beach. Rio de Janeiro—home.…

He finished, and there was silence. His mother’s hand was gripping his. The clock ticked loudly. It seemed to say, “You’re home … you’re home …”

His father’s pipe had gone out. “I don’t know what to say, son”—he broke the silence—“except that God must have been with you—and with us.” He turned to Mrs. Ramsay. “We’re pretty thankful, aren’t we, Mother?”

Alec felt the pressure of her hand. “Yes,” she answered, “we have much to be thankful for.”

“I can understand now how you love that horse,” Joe Russo said.

“Yes, Alec,” said his father, “I can promise you now he’ll always have a place here with us.”