“That’s exactly what I mean,” Alec said.
The plane’s wheels began to turn. Through the windows they could see Abd-al-Rahman with his arm around Tabari. No one could have met them without liking them. As hosts they were warm-hearted, cordial and hospitable, characteristics for which their race had always been known.
“What have blood feuds to do with it?” Henry asked.
“Only that the thirst for revenge comes easily to a race whose people have waged a perpetual war against each other for thousands of years.”
“I suppose so,” Henry agreed. “And besides, family feeling is very strong.”
“Doesn’t that make it easier to understand why she sought the Black’s death in return for her father’s life?” Alec asked.
“No,” Henry said, “but it helps a little. Do you think she has any regrets for what she did?” The plane was picking up speed but they could still see the two young Arabs standing beside the carriage.
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” Alec answered. “Taking Ziyadah’s life with her own hand destroyed all her passion for revenge. If you’d seen her when she found him you’d know what I mean. She’ll never be the same again.”
“And she still has to tell her husband what happened,” Henry said, grunting. “I’d like to be around.”
“I wouldn’t. He’s touchy and he’s lost Ziyadah.”
“He’s also in love,” Henry added wisely.
They didn’t speak again until they were airborne.
“Where are we going, Henry … home?”
“A race track would be nice and clean and simple after this. Got any suggestions?” The trainer picked up a Spanish newspaper from the seat beside him and tried to read it.
“No,” Alec answered, “not now.”
The big plane banked above the first peaks and slid back along the hanging plateau. For the next few minutes Alec looked down upon the massive house he had recently left and the patchwork of green fields and stone walls.
Then he heard Henry speak. “Here’s a fine looking race horse. What’d he do, anyway?” The trainer meant his question for María, and he handed the newspaper to her.
Alec watched her take the paper in her big, fumbling hands. Her concern was for the health of Angel Rafael González and she glanced only casually at the picture and caption.
“Señor, he is not one of ours. He has won a big race in Cuba.”
“Is that right now? What’s his name an’ who owns him?”
She turned to the picture caption again, her small head cocked to one side as she read. “I believe … sí, it is Flame. There is no one owning him.”
“No one owns him?”
“No one. It is the truth. It says so in the paper.”
“Who picked up the purse money then?”
“No one, I repeat, Señor!” she answered in a fit of anger. “Es verdad! Read it for yourself if you do not believe me,” handing the newspaper back to Henry.
Henry said soothingly, “Now, María, I didn’t mean to get you all upset.”
She was watching the closed cabin door and wasn’t listening to him. “Always the baby,” she murmured. “He gives me no peace.”
“But, please, María,” Henry said insistently, going to her. “Who’s the jock?”
“Jock?” she asked. “Jock? Who’s a jock?” Her bright gaze shifted to Alec. “Es loco!” she called to him in a high-pitched voice, placing a finger on her temple.
Henry said patiently, “The rider, I mean. See, here he is, María, right up on the horse. They’ve got to give him a name.”
She snatched the paper from his hands, reading the caption again. “No name,” she said finally. “No one knows nothing, nada! ” She flung her arms high in the air and the paper went flying. “They all went pooph after the race, even the horse! No one knows where they went. You understand, Señor, entiende? No one knows!”
“Go on,” Henry said unbelievingly, “you’re kidden’.”
María turned again to Alec, her finger beating a steady rhythm against her right temple.
Alec picked up the newspaper from where it had landed at his feet. The plane dropped into an air pocket, then steadied.
Henry said, “Thanks, María. I guess I don’t want to hear any more of it, anyway. We’ve had our share of mysteries, heh, Alec?” he asked, turning to the boy.
Alec nodded without taking his eyes from the paper. The Black appeared to be looking at the same picture for suddenly his nostrils flared and he snorted at the picture of the giant red horse named Flame.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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 two 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 the 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.
Turn the page for a sneak peek
at the exciting story of how the Black must run
the race of his life to save Hopeful Farm!
available in paperback from Random House
OLD MARE, YOUNG MAN
1
Alec Ramsay opened his eyes and stared into the darkness of his bedroom. He could not sleep. The darkness was familiar enough, but not the complete silence that lay over everything.
Long moments passed and he could hear the stillness. It was more than the hush, the quiet of late night. It was more than the complete absence of sound. It was a vibrant, living silence and he listened to it as one would to the soft rustle of leaves in the stir of air. He listened to it while his eyes opened again, searching the darkness—for what?
Suddenly he swung out of bed and went to the open east window. If he couldn’t sleep, the thing to do was to get up and find out what was the matter. He put his head out the window, listening to the stillness. If he wasn’t mistaken, it meant trouble. Something was going to break fast. It was the quiet before the storm, the quiet that preceded an onslaught of terrible force. Where would it come from? What would it be?
Just beyond the stallion barn were the separate paddocks and in one he saw Napoleon’s white, ghostlike figure. The old gelding was standing still, probably asleep. Somewhere in the adjacent paddock was the Black.
The boy’s keen eyes searched the darkness for some sign of movement. Finally they found the tall stallion, his head up and the pricked ears showing clearly against the backdrop of stars. The Black did not move. The night remained still, too still.
Alec’s gaze swept across the fields to where the mares and suckling foals were grazing. He made out their dark movements but heard nothing except the s
ilence, so heavy with its dreadful portent. If the danger was not to come from the Black would the mares be the ones to set it off?
Turning from the window, Alec went to the closet and pulled on a pair of coveralls over his pajamas. The only thing to do was to go out and look things over. Some of the new broodmares didn’t get along very well together. Also, old Miz Liz was due to foal sometime soon and it just might be tonight. She’d bear watching. If Snappy, the foaling man, was on the job, Alec wouldn’t have to worry about her.
Softly Alec tiptoed to the door, carrying his boots so as not to wake up his parents. Then he remembered that he would need his house key to get back in, and retraced his steps to the closet. The key should be in his brown suit. The last time he’d used it was two weeks ago when he’d seen Henry off on the train for Pimlico racetrack. He missed having his old partner and trainer around the farm.
He found the key and something else which he had completely forgotten about—a registered letter that he’d picked up at the local post office after leaving Henry. Concerned and angered at his forgetfulness, he went to a small desk and switched on the lamp. The letter was from the insurance company. Opening it he found that as of three days ago, when final payment on the fire insurance policy had been due, all the barns and other buildings of Hopeful Farm were unprotected in case of loss or damage! Furious with himself, Alec shoved the letter into his pocket. It was inexcusable that he should have forgotten to give the premium notice to his father, allowing the policy to lapse.
He left his bedroom and went quietly down the hall, stopping only at his father’s business office. There he left the letter on the big desk, knowing that he’d have a lot of explaining to do later in the morning.
Outside the house he waited a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Again he heard the stillness and felt its warning. This was very real. This was not his imagination playing tricks with him.
Having the lapsed insurance policy heavy on his mind, he thought back to the warning he had given Snappy about smoking in the broodmare barn. Twice during the past week he’d had to speak sharply to the foaling man about it. More apprehensive than ever, Alec now started running down the road while behind him the Black snorted, breaking the deathly quiet of the night.
Going into the dimly lit broodmare barn, Alec breathed deeply the odors he loved—the hay, ammonia and feed. He smelled no tobacco smoke. He walked down the long corridor of empty box stalls, going toward the far end of the barn where he’d find Miz Liz all by herself in the biggest stall of all awaiting the birth of her colt or filly. It wouldn’t be tonight, Alec decided, or Snappy would have had the place more brightly lit.
At the large foaling stall, Alec peeked over the half-door. Miz Liz stood beneath a very small overhead bulb, looking fat and tired, with her head drooped.
“Hello, old mare,” Alec said softly, going into the stall. There was only a slight twitching of Miz Liz’s long ears to disclose she’d heard him.
Alec squinted, deepening the white creases in skin as tanned as old saddle leather, while he examined the mare. He looked at her longer than was necessary, remembering Henry’s description of her going to the post as a three-year-old, all sleek and shiny and fired up, so long ago. Running his hand over the mare’s sagging back, Alec left the stall.
Now he thought he knew the ominous portent of the night’s stillness. Miz Liz was going to foal very soon and that spelled trouble. Where was Snappy?
Alec opened the door of the small room beside the foaling stall. There were a chair and a cot, both empty. The foaling equipment was set out with the oxygen tank ready for use if necessary. It was Snappy’s job to be here now, watching Miz Liz. It could happen any moment.
Leaving the room, Alec stood in the corridor. Suddenly he heard the faint sound of music. He looked up at the ceiling, certain that Snappy was in Henry’s vacant apartment, where he had no right to be at any time, much less tonight. With a bound Alec climbed the stairs, taking two at a jump. Reaching the apartment door, he flung it open without knocking and there was Snappy sitting in Henry’s big living-room chair, his feet on the center table and a pipe in his mouth. Mixed with the pleasant aroma of burning tobacco was the hickorywood smell of smoked bacon frying on the kitchen stove!
Startled by the opening of the door, Snappy looked up and then quickly removed his long legs from the table.
Alec said, “You’re sure making yourself at home while Henry’s away.”
The man mumbled something beneath his breath and then said, “I figured he wouldn’t mind.”
“You know he minds. It’s his home and he likes to keep it private, the same as you would. He’s told you that before.”
The man banged his pipe bowl against a white saucer, knocking out the top ashes; then he relit the tobacco.
Alec went on. “Just as we’ve warned you before about smoking in the barn.”
“This is Henry’s apartment,” the man said curtly, “not the barn.”
“It’s the same thing, and Henry doesn’t smoke.”
“You’re not tellin’ me nothin’. He’s too old to have any bad habits. He ain’t worth much any more, Henry ain’t. Anybody can see that.”
For several minutes Alec didn’t answer. Knowing he’d gone too far, Snappy shifted uneasily in the chair. “I won’t burn your farm down,” he said. “You don’t have to worry none. Just go back to sleep and forget you found me here. I’ll take care of my end, all right.”
Alec saw the grin on the man’s thick lips but he ignored it just as he did Snappy’s outspoken arrogance. Good foaling men were hard to find and Snappy was one of the best. Hopeful Farm needed such a man.
“I want you downstairs,” Alec said finally, holding his temper. “Miz Liz is going to foal.”
“Not right this minute she ain’t. Too much rushin’ and hurryin’ only causes those old mares trouble. Let her be.” The big man smiled, reassured of his position. “Besides, I got this pipeful to finish.”
Alec broke out all over in clammy perspiration and his hands trembled. “With some mares you can wait,” he said, “but not with her. You should know better than I that it’s too dangerous.”
“If you’re worried, go take care of her yourself,” the man answered. “I don’t need this job. I got people wantin’ me back home, lots of people. Plenty of mares in Kentucky but not many foaling men like me.”
“Only because your father was the greatest of all teachers,” Alec said, unable to control himself any longer. “Everybody knows that. But I don’t think you ever listened to him, Snappy. If you had you wouldn’t be sitting here smoking a pipe when Miz Liz is about to foal! So you’re not good enough for our farm any longer. You’re fired, Snappy. Now get out of here and stay out!” He reached for the man’s arm.
Snappy rose and towered above Alec, the pipe smoke curling about his surprised but scornful eyes. Then his big hands tore Alec’s fingers away from his arm and he gave the boy a hard push.
Although Alec braced himself for the backward fall, his head hit the floor with terrific impact. And although he did not lose consciousness he was barely aware of Snappy’s leaving the apartment.
Alec lay on the floor a short while, waiting for his head to clear. Then, suddenly, he heard a loud snort from below. He struggled to his feet and opened the apartment door, shouting down the stairwell to Miz Liz that she was not alone with her foal! He knew the foal had come, that he had only a few seconds more to reach the stall in time to prevent what he dreaded. Miz Liz always got to her feet soon after foaling. It wouldn’t be any different this time. That’s why Snappy should have been there, waiting.
Running down the stairs, Alec made straight for the end of the corridor, where he flipped on the bright overhead light. The foaling stall came to life with festive brilliance. In the center Miz Liz was climbing to her feet, while beside her deep in the straw lay her newly born colt.
Alec did not stay quietly outside the stall to watch mother and son become acquainted i
n those wondrous first moments together as he did with other mares. Instead he flung open the door and shouted! Miz Liz moved toward her colt, not to lick his coat dry but to kill him!
Alec reached out and slapped her hindquarters hard, throwing her off balance and distracting her attention. Startled, she hesitated before the sight of his raised hand and the sound of his urgent commands.
The mare’s eyes were wild, matching the viciousness shown by her flattened ears. Yet she fell back a step, giving Alec a chance to gather the wet colt in his arms. She came for them when the boy moved toward the door, her head outstretched and teeth bared.
Alec swung the colt away from her and felt the searing pinch of her teeth as she turned upon him in all her fury and frustration. But she had not taken hold and he jumped through the open door, slamming it behind him.
Gently he placed the newly born foal on the floor, while the stall became suddenly quiet. Left alone, Miz Liz would cause no trouble. For a moment Alec looked at her as she stood so wearily beneath the bright light, her wet coat matted with straw and manure. She showed no further interest in him or her colt, not even when the boy spoke to her.
“Old mare, why do you make these moments, which should be the best of all, so terrible? I’m not going to let you kill him as you did another of your sons. Nor will you kill me as you did old Charley Grimm. I’m not afraid of you, old mare, just very sad for you.”
He turned to the sprawled bundle on the floor, all legs and head and eyes. A fine colt. Not black like his famous sire but chestnut with a blaze, the same as Miz Liz. A big-boned colt. Big nostrils, too. Good for scooping in the air on his way down the homestretch when he’d need it most.
Alec’s hands were slippery on the wet body. Large eyes, so inquisitive and unafraid, met his own. Finally he rose and went to the adjacent room, noting the equipment he’d need later on. Taking a soft, clean cloth he went back to the colt and began wiping him dry.
“Not the same as your mother’s tongue,” he said, “but it’ll do for the time being.”