The Black did not shudder. There had been no impact of bullet against flesh. Alec would have felt it had the bullet struck its mark! But how could Ibn al Khaldun have missed at this close range? The powerful forelegs of the stallion descended and struck the ground, close to the body of the Bedouin, who lay flat on his back, his arm outstretched and fingers still clasped on the butt of his gun. A dark red blotch spread slowly over his heart and his beady eyes were rolled back. Alec knew he was dead.
The Black struck at the prone body, the scent of Ibn al Khaldun strong in his nostrils. Pulling him away, Alec heard the sound of hoofs behind. Abd-al-Rhaman rode up, gun in hand, and Alec realized it had been his gun he had heard and not Ibn al Khaldun’s.
Without a word, Abd-al-Rahman jumped off Sagr’s sweating body and went to Ibn al Khaldun. He bent down over him a minute, then straightened and looked at Alec. Perspiration poured from his face and his black beard was wet. He said something in Arabic, then casting Ibn al Khaldun’s gun aside, he mounted Sagr. His gaze turned to the trail over which they had come. The ring of many hoofs against stone came to their ears. Nodding to Alec, Abd-al-Rahman raised his crop and then wheeled Sagr in a swirl of red dust.
Alec glanced at the lifeless body of Ibn al Khaldun and the fat face which was even more hideous and evil in death. The unwritten law of the desert had been enforced. The deaths of the mother and father of Abd-al-Rahman had been avenged by their son. Alec wheeled the Black and set out after Sagr.
He held the stallion back as they swept down the trail toward the desert which stretched out below them. He noticed that Abd-al-Rahman was now also saving Sagr for the race to come on the flat. The Bedouin sheikh glanced back more often, and Alec knew he wondered how much speed and stamina the Black had left. He had staked much on tiring him before they reached the desert. Alec smiled and was confident, for the Black was running well and pulling at his bit. It was a good sign.
Sagr had reached the desert and Abd-al-Rahman sat down to ride. Alec knew that he would not glance back again for there was but a mile and a half to go and he would drive Sagr hard to the finish.
The Black left the trail and pounded onto the desert. Stumbling as his hoofs sank into the sand, he recovered and drove forward. Alec moved forward in his saddle and gave the stallion his head. The Black extended his body and with long strides swept over the sand, scarcely touching the ground. Sixty yards ahead thundered Sagr, the white sand flying from beneath his hoofs.
The course led up the edge of the desert, the mountains rising high on the right, and nothing but the broad expanse of white burning sand to the left. Far ahead Alec could see the mountains as they descended to the Plain of Andulla over which they would ride to the finish.
A mile to go and the distance between Sagr and the Black had lessened. Abd-al-Rahman was using his crop lightly.
Alec had not yet called upon the Black for everything. He was content to let Abd-al-Rahman keep his lead until they entered the homestretch across the plain. The footing would be better on the hard ground.
As they swept onto the plain Abd-al-Rahman began using his whip, and under it Sagr pulled ahead again until twenty yards separated him from the Black. The finish was near now and a quarter of a mile ahead Alec could see the Bedouins swarming around the finish line. Moving forward in his saddle, he raised his hands and called upon the Black. “C’mon, fella,” he shouted into the leveled ears. “C’mon!”
Slowly, the giant stallion cut the lead. Slowly, he moved up behind Sagr. Powerful muscles heaved as the two horses extended themselves. Stride for stride they moved forward; and inch by inch the Black gained.
To one side Bedouins galloped, shouting and firing their guns. Several attempted to keep up with them, but even their fresh horses could not stand the swift pace and soon fell back.
Only two hundred yards to go. Alec could see the colored dresses of the women and distinguished the red headdress and gown of the old sheikh as he stood alone and apart from the others at the finish line.
Already the people were opening a path for them to gallop through. Alec knew that the time had come. Leaning forward, he called again to the Black and slapped him with his open hand. The stallion drew alongside Sagr and they rode neck to neck, stirrup to stirrup. Neither horse showed any sign of faltering as they galloped stride for stride, their strained bodies glistening with sweat and powdered with gray dust.
Entering the path to the finish line, Alec saw Abd-al-Rahman glance toward him, then his crop fell heavily on the chestnut’s flank. At the same time Alec slapped the Black’s neck. Simultaneously, both horses shot forward as though hurled from a giant spring. Thundering, they pounded down to the finish line. So close to the Black’s neck that his body was enveloped by the long flowing mane, Alec called upon his horse for the last time. Between his knees he felt the surge of powerful muscles as the Black extended himself. Slowly he inched ahead of Sagr until he was in front by a head … then a neck. As the Black forged ahead, Alec suddenly saw Sagr, his teeth bared, whip his head toward the Black’s neck in an attempt to ravage him! Screaming in anger, the black stallion turned upon Sagr. Alec jerked his horse’s head away from the chestnut, and as he did he saw Abd-al-Rahman lay his crop across Sagr’s muzzle. As the Black sprang forward, increasing his lead, Abd-al-Rahman’s eyes met Alec’s for a fraction of a second; then he raised his crop in a salute as the Black swept over the finish line.
CONCLUSION
18
A week after the race Abd-al-Rahman came to the home of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak. With him he brought the fifteen horses which Abu Ishak had selected from his herd after the Black’s victory. Raj, who accompanied him, told Alec, “My brother says that the Sheikh Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak does not have faint eyesight when he looks for fine horses. He has taken the best of our stock.” He paused and smiled. “It will be different, the next race.… There will be no Shêtân.” Then he added admiringly, “That was a fine race you rode, Alec. My brother said that no Bedouin could have equaled it. He was very much impressed for he did not think you could handle the black stallion.”
“He is all horse, Raj, and we have gotten to know one another well.” Alec’s voice was soft as he added, “I wouldn’t be too sure about winning the next race. Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak will not sit idly through the next five years. No, Raj, the blood of the Black will be in the horse that Abu Ishak sends to the next race. You can be sure of that … and he, like the Black, will be hard to beat.”
Raj looked at Alec. “It will be difficult for you to leave him behind, will it not?”
Alec nodded. “But it is better … for he belongs here. I know that now.”
They walked to the porch of the big house in silence. Then Raj asked, “Will Mr. Volence take any of Abu Ishak’s horses back with him?”
“Yes, he has given him four.”
“Mr. Volence … he is pleased?”
“Very much,” Alec replied. “For they are four of Abu Ishak’s finest, and much better than any he had hoped to find in Arabia. We’re taking them with us tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Raj asked, his inquisitive brown eyes seeking those of his friend. “But that is too soon. Can you not stay longer? We could have many good times together now that there is peace between my family and that of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Can you keep a secret, my friend? Ê … yes, you must, for if you do not and my brother hears of it, I fear he will send me back to Haribwan.”
“Sure, Raj. What is it?”
His friend’s voice was so low Alec could scarcely hear him. “There is to be a wedding,” he whispered. “My brother has asked the Sheikh Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak for the hand of his daughter, Tabari, and he has given his consent. My brother speaks to Tabari today, if he has not already, and if she agrees to become his bride there will be much feasting and celebration among our people. Could you not stay for it, Alec?”
Alec shook his head and smiled. “I’d like to, Raj, very much. But by starting tomorrow we?
??ll arrive at Aden in time to meet a freighter which Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak told us is scheduled to stop there in three weeks.” He paused. “I’m sure there will be a wedding for I saw your brother walking with Tabari a short while ago and she didn’t look as though she would refuse him.”
Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, with Henry and Mr. Volence, walked toward them from the direction of the stables. When he reached the porch steps the sheikh asked Alec to come with him into the library. There, he shut the door behind him and said, “I wish to have a few words with you, Alec, and would rather not have the others hear what I have to say.”
Alec sat down in the chair Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak offered him. He watched the sheikh as he stood silently looking out of the long window. Finally, turning to Alec, he spoke. “I need not tell you,” he said, “that I am very grateful.… That you know, I am certain. I know also of your great love for Shêtân, and his for you.” He paused, then after a few seconds continued. “It is not possible for me to give him to you, for to do that would be to throw away all the years of careful breeding that have been spent in the development of such a horse. And from Shêtân I must breed others.”
“I didn’t expect you to give me the Black …,” Alec interrupted. “I know how valuable he is to you. It isn’t necessary for you to explain.” He rose from his chair.
Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak moved over to Alec and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There is just one thing more, Alec,” he said. “As you no doubt have guessed I now plan to place Shêtân in stud, and before many months there will be a foal.” He paused. “It will be yours, Alec, and I shall send it to you.”
“Y … You mean, sir,” Alec stared at him incredulously, “that it’ll be mine? The first foal by the Black …”
Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak smiled. “Yes, Alec, and out of Jôhar, the finest pure-blood Arabian in the world.”
“Gosh!” Alec said dazedly, walking to the window. The view overlooked the valley, and in the late afternoon sun he could see the grazing horses. Apart from the others stood the Black, his head raised high as he surveyed his herd. He, Alec Ramsay, was to have the Black’s first foal. His throat tightened at the thought. Perhaps it would be a colt … a son. The son of the Black! And it would be his, his alone … to raise, to take care of, and eventually to train for the track. What a horse he should be, with the Black for a sire and Jôhar for a dam! His eyes shining, he turned to Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak and together they walked from the room.
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 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.
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DESERT BORN
1
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.