He turned again to the photograph. One horse was a famous sire and the other a wild stallion. Yet they were so much alike in every respect!
Gordon’s face, weathered by years spent in the sun, turned somewhat pale. They could be one and the same horse, but they weren’t, of course. He was crazy even to consider it. One horse was at the famous stock farm operated by Alec Ramsay and Henry Dailey. It said so right in the advertisement. The Black was in New York State, close to three thousand miles away. The other horse was in Preston, awaiting tomorrow’s race with Night Wind.
Gordon sat down in his chair again, and gradually the color came back to his face. He even smiled a little. He was trying to laugh at himself. Finally he was able to turn the page. He began reading an article written by a veterinarian on the proper care of foaling mares.
His eyes followed the type, but his mind refused to concentrate on the article. He remembered Allen telling him about the strange, almost uncanny relationship between the outlaw stallion and McGregor. The kid had been able to handle the horse from the very beginning, putting a halter on him, leading him back to the ranch, and shortly thereafter riding him. Gordon remembered replying to Allen that this was all very hard for him to believe. He had gone to the ranch to see for himself. He had found everything just as Allen had said he would. He, too, had accepted the strange relationship between the boy and the stallion. There had been no alternative. But now?
His lean body shifted uneasily in the deep chair. Now, if he looked at it this way, if he told himself that the horse was no wild stallion, that he had been broken and ridden before, could the horse then be … It was hard for him to say the Black. It was too ridiculous!
Nevertheless, Gordon found himself turning back again and again to the picture of the famous black sire. At last he got to his feet, angrily throwing the magazine to the floor. He went to the other issues on the table, the issues so neatly arranged in their proper weekly sequence. He riffled the pages of each one, his eyes scanning only the headlines. He did not really expect to find anything, yet he couldn’t stop looking.
When he came to the issue for the third week of June he grabbed it, but didn’t throw it on the floor with the others. Nor did he open the magazine. It wasn’t necessary. On the cover was a picture of McGregor standing beside his “wild” stallion! Only the caption didn’t say this. Instead it read: “Alec Ramsay and the Black—Lost in Wyoming Wilderness.”
Gordon’s knees buckled, and he caught himself on the arm of his chair. He lowered himself to the seat, and turned to the story inside. He learned of the plane’s forced landing, and the vigorous search the first few days for the Black and Alec Ramsay. He picked up the following week’s issue, and read of more days of constant search through miles of desolate wilderness. He read one issue after another, the stories of the search becoming shorter, and telling of gradually diminishing hope. The last issue stated that the search had ended and that all hope of finding Alec Ramsay and the Black, dead or alive, had ended as well.
Gordon staggered to his feet. He went to the closet, and got his jacket and hat. By starting now he’d be in Leesburg early tomorrow morning. He’d borrow a car, and get to Preston shortly after noon. He must tell McGregor who he was, and that he had nothing to fear from the police. McGregor was Alec Ramsay!
Gordon went out the door, shouting excitedly, “Goldie! Goldie!” He was running through the darkness when the thought came to him that Alec Ramsay didn’t realize he was riding the Black! No one knew this but himself! Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get there before the match race. The Black racing Night Wind. The Black coming back to the races in Preston. He couldn’t miss it! No one who liked to see a horse run would want to miss it. Yet there would be only a small number of people watching, and none would know they were witnessing a sight many thousands of others throughout the world would have given anything to see … Alec Ramsay and the Black racing again!
PRESTON
18
For more than an hour after leaving Leesburg, the horse van traveled across the dusty hot road of the broad plateau. Reaching the northern range, it began climbing, and soon left the heated air behind. At first the ascent was a gradual one across rounded hills, but within a short while the road became steeper as it wound through the ever-rising mountains. With the setting of the sun the road turned gray in the twilight, and finally blackness enveloped the van. Headlights came on to pierce the night; the van was put in low gear, moving slowly, cautiously up the steep grades.
Within the close confines of the van, the boy and stallion were aware of the precipitous climb only because of the slanting floor. The stallion had his long legs spread apart, with the straw rising above his fetlocks. McGregor sat in a canvas chair in front of him, watching him and listening to the steady pull of the engine. Its pitch was low, too low for what he wanted to associate with it. There was also the noise from the slow turning of rubber wheels on well-packed gravel. This wasn’t the same, either.
He watched the stallion reach for the hay in the rope-mesh sling in front of his stall. He saw him pull it out and begin chewing. He listened to the sound of his hoofs in the straw when the stallion shifted his weight. He watched him shake his head, pulling taut the cross ropes that held him. The blanket slipped down on his neck.
McGregor got to his feet, and pulled the blanket up again. His hands stayed on the stallion’s neck, his touch soft and gentle. He talked to the horse. He watched the ears come forward, the stallion turning and listening. He waited. Any second, any moment that black mental curtain would rise, and he would remember everything.
His lips were drawn in a fine thin line as he tried to make his memory return. He felt he could do it now, this moment, if only he made a great effort to remember.
The van lurched as it was thrown into still lower gear to ease the strain of the climb. McGregor found himself noticing the steeper pitch of the floor. The stallion snorted with tossing head. McGregor turned to the blanketed body. He read the white letters on the maroon background. “The Allen Ranch.”
He closed his eyes. He mustn’t look at the blanket or the sloping floor of the van … or even his horse. He must shut his ears to the sound of the engine, and where it was taking him. He must concentrate only on what he wanted to know. He must make a great effort. His demand must come from within. He must …
But he found he could not close his mind as he had his eyes. It was not that easy. As he thought of Preston and all the people who would be watching him tomorrow, he felt a terrible fear rising within him. He looked at his horse, and found that his terror was mirrored in the stallion’s eyes.
There came a snort and the pawing of a muscled foreleg. Thin-skinned nostrils were blown out. The cross ropes became taut as the stallion shook his head.
Realizing that his fear was causing the stallion’s restlessness, McGregor turned away from him. He went to the chair and sat down. He told himself that he wanted to race the stallion for Allen, that at times during the past few days he had even looked forward to it. No harm would come to him. He would be back at the ranch by tomorrow night. The terror that now gripped him was due only to their being on their way, leaving behind for a short while the protection, the security he had known at the ranch. He would get used to it. He would be all right by the time they reached Preston.
He remained in the chair until his fear had left him. He made no further effort to bring back his memory. He realized that he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t demand to know anything now … not with tomorrow’s race so near. After the race, when he was back at the ranch, it might be different. But now he could only wait, wait as he had been doing for what already seemed a lifetime.
An hour later, the van reached the crest of the range and began its descent. It went no faster than it had during the long climb, and at times much slower. The road turned and twisted, dropping abruptly alongside tremendous cliffs. Mile after mile the van descended, wallowing in the blackness of the great walls that rose higher and higher above it to
shut out the dim illumination of the stars.
After a long while, the van left the canyon, picking up speed as it went through a valley surrounded on every side by towering rock. The road led to another mountain range many miles away. After an hour the van slowed, and crossed a long bridge. Far below was a tremendous chasm, and deep within its bowels flowed a river. The moon turned the water into a silver ribbon, brilliant yet seemingly unmoving in the great depth of the canyon.
On the other side of the bridge the van picked up speed again. The high peaks ahead were no closer than before, but the van had gained open country now, mounting and descending little flat hills covered with sage. Finally, as it descended one of the hills, the lights of Preston could be seen in the distance.
The van surged forward until it neared the outskirts of the city. The mass of buildings rose feebly in comparison to the towering mountain range beyond, but their lights shone brightly in the night … red, green and white, going on and off along street after street.
The van passed the railroad station, and then crossed the tracks. It glided into the city on wheels that turned smoothly, almost noiselessly, on paved streets. It went down broad avenues, slowing to the spead that had taken it up the steepest of the mountain grades, but for a different reason. The way was filled with people overflowing from the sidewalks. Cattlemen, prospectors, miners, sheepherders, and Indians had descended upon Preston for three days of celebration. Long-legged cowboys and punchers, dressed in skin-tight Levis, colorful silk shirts and broad sombreros, were there from near and far to take home prize money. They would participate in the bronc-busting, bulldogging and calf-tying contests. They would enter the fastest of their horses in the races. Indians from the reservations mingled with them, some squatting on the sidewalks, trying to sell their pottery, baskets and beadwork; others ignoring the confusion of the crowd, waiting aloof and patiently for tomorrow’s horse racing, a sport they loved and understood above all others. They, too, would race, for as Navajos they had been taught to ride almost in their infancy, and horses were their most prized possessions.
The van wound its way through the streets, sometimes stopping and waiting for the mass of people to give it room to pass. There were cars and taxis and buses having no easier time of it. Slowly the van passed the park and the hotels, the stores and restaurants. Finally it came to the broad highway leading out of the city. It passed tourist courts, jammed, like the city behind, with cars and people. Another mile, and it passed the airport with the tower beacon turning slowly in the night. A short distance beyond was the city’s racetrack.
The van turned off the highway, and crossed the plain to the half-mile oval. Along the track’s homestretch were uncovered bleacher stands, and across the way a line of open stables. Horses stood beneath bare lightbulbs. Other horses were stabled in trailers, vans and in tents behind the sheds.
Allen’s van passed the stable area, and kept going until it was beyond the turn of the track. There in the darkness it stopped.
McGregor waited for the side door to be opened. He knew they had arrived. He had known for a long time, from the noise of downtown Preston to the shrill neighs and nickering of horses here at the track.
“Mac?”
“Yes, boss.” He could see the dim outline of Allen’s head and shoulders when the door was opened.
“You want to walk the kinks out of his legs? Hank thinks it would be best.”
“No. We’ll stay here. I’m going to turn him loose in the van for the rest of the night. That’s all the exercise he’ll need.”
Allen said nothing. McGregor heard him whispering to Larom, and then, “Where’ll you sleep, Mac?”
“In the stall, so he won’t be stepping on me.”
“Okay, but bed down the back of the van, then. I don’t want him slipping on the bare floor.”
“Yes, boss.”
Again McGregor saw their heads come together, and heard their whispered consultation.
Allen said finally, “Hank will be sleeping in the front seat, Mac. Call him if you need him.”
“I will, boss. Good night.”
“ ’Night, Mac. You got a light?”
“Yes, boss.”
The door closed, and a few moments later McGregor heard Larom climb into the van’s cab. Apparently he had been ordered to stick close by until time for the race. Allen was taking no chance of McGregor’s not being around in the morning.
Turning on his flashlight, he took several bales of straw, and bedded down the back of the van. Then he hung buckets of water and feed in the far corner, and turned the stallion loose. His horse moved from the stall and walked around the van, sniffing and snorting until he found his feed.
McGregor cleaned the stall, and then unfolded his portable canvas cot. Within a few minutes he was lying on it, and listening to the movements of his horse. He could smell the wood smoke from the fires a short distance away. He knew what it was like down there. He could see the bandages, cloths and coolers hanging on the lines. He was aware of the excitement and anticipation that was sweeping through men and horses alike. He could hear the good-natured calls, the whistling, the humming of men while they cared for their horses. All this was typical of the night before the races. Tomorrow it would be different. Men and horses would awaken to the seriousness of the day. There would be no laughing, no loud shouts in the stable area. They would leave all that to the people in the stands, those who had come only to watch. The back side of the track would know only tenseness, a long period of waiting before being called to the post.
No visitors today. No hay today. We go to the post at one o’clock.
He knew what it was like now, and what it would be like tomorrow. He knew everything except where he had learned it all, and when. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about it any more, and asking only for sleep to come. He concentrated on the unceasing movements of his horse as he walked about the van, working the stiffness out of his legs. Finally the constant rustling of hoofs in the deep straw put him to sleep.
He awakened to the gray light of dawn coming through the high window behind him. He saw that the stallion was stretched out down on the straw. He was glad his horse had gotten off his feet during the night. It was a good sign. He moved on his cot, and the stallion’s head came up and turned toward him. “This is it,” he told him softly. “This is the day.”
Hearing someone at the door, he got to his feet. Larom was outside, carrying two pails.
“Morning, Mac. Here’s some fresh water.”
“Thanks, Hank.” McGregor watered his horse and then returned to Larom, saying, “He should get out for a while this morning.”
“I know, but Allen doesn’t want him on the track. He’s got some funny idea about springin’ him all at once on everybody, includin’ Herbert and Night Wind. I don’t get it, but he’s the boss.”
The boy turned away from the door. He went to the stallion again, and this time gave him some grain. He knew that he was responsible for Allen’s not wanting the stallion seen until post time. He had told Allen that it was best to keep him away from other horses, so that he would not become overexcited. He had told him, too, that if knowledge of the stallion’s swiftness could be kept from Herbert they would have an advantage in the race.
“Where is Ralph Herbert?” he asked Larom.
“In town, but that ain’t makin’ any difference,” Larom said. “His trainer and boys are over there with Night Wind. We take our horse on the track this morning, and Herbert and the town would know all about him before noon. The boss says to keep him away from them, and that’s what we’re doing.”
“Where’s the boss?”
“He caught a ride into town last night, figuring to stay there, and let Herbert know we’re all set to go.”
“What’s to stop Herbert from coming out here and finding us?”
Larom smiled. “Several hundred vans just like ours, and most of ’em carryin’ horses. Allen says Herbert ain’t the kind of guy to spend all mor
ning just lookin’ for a horse.” He turned toward the track. “Things are just startin’ to stir down there. Can’t even get a cup of coffee yet, and we only had one sandwich since we left the ranch.”
The boy’s gaze was on the broad expanse of endless plain to the west. The sky above it was still dark. “Let me take him out there,” he said. “He only needs a light gallop. Allen said to keep him off the track, but he didn’t say anything about not working him out there.”
“No, he didn’t say anything about that.” Larom turned his dark, leathery face toward the boy. “But he said I should stick close to you, and I got no horse.”
“But why, Hank? What does he think I might do, anyway?”
“I don’t know why. It ain’t my orders. It’s his. He’s got his own notions. I guess he’s just playin’ it safe. He don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t blame him. He ain’t playin’ for pennies, not with Hot Feet up as his part of the purse he ain’t. And if you don’t ride that black horse no one else is goin’ to do it.”
“But you want us to win, don’t you?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ but that.”
“Then you’d better let me gallop him,” McGregor said quietly. “He’s had more than five hours of hard traveling and six more hours of just waiting around here. Give him a chance to stretch out now, and he’ll come back all ready to race.”
For a moment Larom was undecided, and then he said, “Okay, Mac. I guess it’ll be all right. No one will see you out there.”
A little later McGregor led the saddled stallion down the ramp. Larom boosted him up, and said, “You work him like you think you should, but don’t go far, Mac.”
The boy’s hand was on the black neck. “Quit worrying, Hank. This will only take a few minutes.” He let the stallion go.
They left the ever lightening sky of early morning behind them. He kept the stallion at a mild gallop, wanting him only to loosen up. He felt the great hoofs come down upon the ground without a jar. He leaned forward, whispering softly into ears that flicked back at the sound of his voice. He knew the stallion wanted to run all out. He told him that it was not time, that they must wait a few more hours. Now they were just to gallop easily and without strain. The rest would come later.