Son of the Black Stallion

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  THE BLACK STALLION SERIES BY WALTER FARLEY

  THE BLACK STALLION

  THE BLACK STALLION RETURNS

  SON OF THE BLACK STALLION

  THE ISLAND STALLION

  THE BLACK STALLION AND SATAN

  THE BLACK STALLION’S BLOOD BAY COLT

  THE ISLAND STALLION’S FURY

  THE BLACK STALLION’S FILLY

  THE BLACK STALLION REVOLTS

  THE BLACK STALLION’S SULKY COLT

  THE ISLAND STALLION RACES

  THE BLACK STALLION’S COURAGE

  THE BLACK STALLION MYSTERY

  THE HORSE-TAMER

  THE BLACK STALLION AND FLAME

  MAN O’ WAR

  THE BLACK STALLION CHALLENGED!

  THE BLACK STALLION’S GHOST

  THE BLACK STALLION AND THE GIRL

  THE BLACK STALLION LEGEND

  THE YOUNG BLACK STALLION (with Steven Farley)

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Text copyright © 1947 by Walter Farley

  Text copyright renewed 1975 by Walter Farley

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-80494-5

  Reprinted by arrangement with Random House Books for Young Readers

  v3.1

  For Mabel L. Robinson

  and all the boys and girls

  whose letters of encouragement and suggestions

  made possible this book

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Desert Born

  2. The Letter

  3. Sinister Eyes

  4. Satan

  5. Bill of Sale

  6. Satan Runs Free

  7. Smoldering Fury

  8. Throwback!

  9. January 2nd

  10. Killer!

  11. Peter Boldt

  12. The Fight

  13. Lowered Head

  14. Training Begins

  15. Fanning Sticks

  16. The Sanford

  17. Accused!

  18. Mrs. Ramsay

  19. Race Day

  20. The Hopeful

  About the Author

  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, cobblestoned 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, M
organ. 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.

  Harrity’s eyes were upon the black stallion and the sheikh with the white beard who stood beside him, holding the bridle. The stallion snorted and plunged, and the man let the horse carry him until he had regained control.

  “A black devil,” Harrity muttered. “A black, untamed devil.”

  “What’dya say?” Morgan asked.

  “That black stallion … he’s a devil,” Harrity repeated.

  “Yeah.” There was a slight pause, then Morgan said, “And didya notice that little black one just behind him? He’s tryin’ to work up a lather, too.”

  Harrity hadn’t noticed the young colt, but now he saw him. Standing there on his long legs, the black colt, whom Harrity judged to be about five months old, was being held by one of the Bedouins.

  The colt moved restlessly, trying to pull away from the tribesman who held him close. As though imitating the big black in front of him, he snorted and plunged, throwing his thin forelegs out, striking at the Bedouin. The man moved quickly, avoiding the small hoofs, and then closed in upon the savage head and held him still.

  “Could be father and son from the way they act.” Morgan laughed.

  “Yeah,” returned Harrity. “Look a lot like each other, too. Coal black they are, except for that small splotch of white on the colt’s forehead. Didya notice it, Morgan?”

  “Uh,” Morgan grunted. “It looks diamond-shaped from here.”

  A few minutes later they saw the tribesman lead the colt away from the band and in the direction of the Queen of India.

  “Y’mean that baby is goin’ to ship with us?” Morgan said excitedly.

  “Mebbe,” Harrity replied. “After all, they came into town for some reason, and that’s as good as any.”

  The Bedouin had the black colt part way down the path which the natives and vendors had opened for them when the colt reared again, fighting for his head. The Bedouin let him go up, and when he came down closed in upon his head again. Grabbing the rope halter, the Bedouin moved quickly to the side, avoiding the pawing hoofs.

  “That guy is used to handlin’ horses,” Morgan told Harrity as they watched the scene.

  “Yeah. He got around those hoofs all right. Not that a colt like that could hurt him much, though.”

  “Still, he could put a good dent in the guy,” Morgan insisted. “I sure wouldn’t want any part of him. If he’s like that now, think what he’s goin’ to be a few months from now, when he gets some beef on him.” Morgan paused, and his gaze turned to the black stallion, who was circling nervously around the white-bearded sheikh. “Why, he’s apt to be as bad as that devil. Nope, I’ll stick to the nice tame ones,” he concluded.

  They had almost reached the ship when the colt rose again. Once more the Bedouin let him go up, then closed in. But this time, as the colt came down savagely with his teeth bared, he turned upon the man. No cry of pain came from the Bedouin’s lips as the colt’s teeth sank into his shoulder, but those who were close enough were able to see him grow pale beneath his dark mahogany skin. Moving his hand quickly, the Bedouin brought it hard against the muzzle of the colt, and was free.

  The sheikh signaled to one of his men, who ran forward, moved to one side of the colt, and grabbed the halter. Then he and the bitten tribesman led the colt past the multitude and up the plank into the hold of the ship.

  “And that,” muttered Morgan, “is that. Packaged neatly for delivery in New York. Wonder who the lucky person is?” he added sarcastically.

  “I’m wonderin’, too,” Harrity said. “From what I’ve heard of these Bedouins they prize their horses above life itself. There are few good ones that have ever left Arabia.”

  “Most likely this one isn’t any good,” Morgan said. Then he added, thoughtfully, “Still, I’d like to know where these desert Arabs are sendin’ that little devil. It’s a cinch no one just walked into their front yard and bought a horse. Think I’ll go down to the hold and find out. Sam’s there, and he’ll give me all the info I want.”

  Shortly after Morgan left, the two Bedouins emerged from the hold and walked quickly down the plank onto the dock. Without glancing to the right or to the left, they hurried to their band, nodded as they passed their sheikh, and mounted.

  The group stayed there until the last of the cargo was put aboard the Queen of India and the dockhands had thrown off the lines holding the ship to the pier.

  Harrity realized that he should be below, working with his men, but the sight of that Bedouin band, sitting still and straight on the magnificent horses, fascinated him.

  The Queen of India was well away from the pier when Morgan rejoined him. “Sam gave me as much information as he had,” he said excitedly. “And guess what, Harrity. That baby we’re carryin’ isn’t goin’ to any of those big horse stables in Kentucky.… Nope, he’s goin’ to some guy by the name of Alec Ramsay. And this will kill you. Where does the guy live but in Flushing, New York! Why, that’s like goin’ to my burg, Brooklyn!”

  “Not exactly,” Harrity replied. “It’s a lot smaller, but maybe there’s room for a horse to turn around in.”

  “Well, it’s a suburb of New York, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I can’t see this horse in either place.”

  They were walking toward the door leading down to the boiler room when Harrity came to a sudden stop. “Alec Ramsay,” he muttered to himself.

  “Yeah, that’s his name,” Morgan said. “What’s eatin’ you?”

  “That name. I know it. I’ve seen it somewhere,” Harrity said, half to himself, half to Morgan. Turning, he went back to the rail of the ship and looked again at the mighty black stallion. The sheikh had mounted him, but the band still hadn’t moved. The horse had his head high, his ears pricked, and he, too, seemed to be watching the departing ship. Then suddenly he raised his head still higher, and there was heard, resounding across the still, hot air, his shrill, piercing whistle. The scream of a wild stallion! Harrity had never heard anything like it and he knew that in all probability few of those on the ship or dock had. It was a long, high-pitched cry that crept to the marrow of one’s bones. It was eerie, frightening.

  Harrity found Morgan at his side. “Y’mean that came from him?” Without taking his eyes from the stallion, Harrity nodded. And Morgan said, “That was weirder than anything we ever heard in India.”

  They saw the black horse rear to his utmost height as the sheikh astride him wrapped his long legs like two bars of steel around his girth. Coming down with battering forefeet, the stallion snorted, half-reared, and screamed again. His rider raised a hand in signal to his men, and simultaneously they wheeled their horses.

  And as the Bedouin band rode up the street which would lead them back to the desert, Harrity and Morgan heard the muffled scream of the black colt in the hold.

  Morgan said, “Guess that’s the end of the fireworks, Harrity.
We’d better get goin’.”

  Nodding, Harrity followed, deep in thought. And it wasn’t until they were well on their way down the iron stairs that he stopped. “I got it,” he half shouted, as his hand grabbed Morgan’s arm. “Y’remember that trip the Queen’s boiler went bad on us, and we had to limp back to New York for a repair job?”

  “I don’t want to remember it,” Morgan said, “after the work it caused us.”

  But Harrity went on. “We hit port just in time to hear all about that big match horse race out in Chicago. Y’couldn’t help rememberin’ that, Morgan, for everybody was talkin’ their fool heads off about it. And it was all over the newspapers, ’n’ you couldn’t turn on a radio without someone blastin’ about it.”

  Morgan nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I remember that. This match race was cooked up to get those two racers, Sun Raider and Cyclone, together. Boy, those babies sure could run. Broke just about every track record, didn’t they?” Morgan didn’t wait for Harrity’s reply. “And there was lots of talk about what was goin’ to happen when those two bolts of lightnin’ got together in Chicago. Then there was the big race.…” Morgan’s brow furrowed and his eyes met Harrity’s. “Then … then …,” his words came fast, “I remember now, Harrity. Neither of ’em won! They were both beaten by a mystery horse! A horse someone got into the race the last minute. The name of that horse is right on the tip of my tongue.…”

  As Morgan hesitated, Harrity said, “He was called the Black, Morgan. Nothin’ more, just that. And he was ridden by a kid, a young kid by the name of … Alec Ramsay!” Harrity’s voice was clipped, excited. “And that black stallion ran all over Sun Raider and Cyclone.”

  “That’s it, Harrity! That’s it! Alec Ramsay … that was his name, all right. And there was a story, too, about how he got hold of this horse. The papers played it up big.”

  “Sure, and we got good reason to remember it,” Harrity said, lowering his voice. “The kid was comin’ back from India on the Drake.…”

  “The Drake …” Morgan’s voice was tense. “She went down off the coast of Portugal with all on board.”