The Young Black Stallion

by Walter Farley

  As he left the ravine, he found the sun was rising and the air already becoming heated. He welcomed the warmth and stillness and solitude. He was high in the mountains, where no riders could follow. It meant no Ibn al Khaldun. No Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. It meant freedom. He forgot his enemies in his eagerness to find his way home. Perhaps the hunters he’d seen had lost one of their horses. The neigh he had heard might mean a loose mount that would help him get there!

  He moved carefully over the rugged trail ahead of him. The land was stripped bare of everything but dry brush and rock, but he needed to see only a scratch on the weathered stone to know that a loose horse was nearby—one he might catch and ride home. But what kind of horse could live in these highlands?

  Only once did he slip on the loose shale. He drew himself back and wiped his blurred eyes, which hadn’t adjusted yet to the light. Then in the powdered shale he saw the hoofprints. Kneeling on the ground, he found that most of them had been made by mountain goats, but there, too, was the oval-shaped hoofprint of a horse! By the shape and size of the print he judged it had been made by a young horse, but perhaps one old enough to carry him. He took heart and went on.

  For several hundred yards there were no more hoofprints on the bare, worn rock. But just ahead, where large patches of grass grew, he found prints again of grazing goats and a lone horse.

  His eyes searched the mountain walls. He saw a thin ribbon of water coming down from the upper peaks to form a stream that meandered down a ravine. He moved forward, following the hoofprints and being careful to remain in the shadows. He didn’t want to scare the horse away by his presence.

  Suddenly, his body froze. From deep shadow into light stepped the black colt he had left for dead in the valley so many weeks ago!

  The colt’s ragged body was scarred with long running wounds, crisscrossed and pitiful to see. His long tail, like his mane, was matted with blood. Yet he wore his wounds proudly, like the wild thing he had become. He held his head high, his eyes alert and never shifting as he moved slowly away from the stream. He had grown considerably over the past couple of months. There was little of the young colt about him any longer. His muscles were tense and ready for escape, as were his wits.

  But Rashid knew the colt would go nowhere. An ugly wound had been gouged into his right foreleg. He was lame, dead lame. How the colt had managed to escape the valley and find his way here was unimaginable. But he had survived only to die in the upper mountains, for he would not travel far, crippled as he was.

  The injured colt was of no use to him. The scout turned and walked away.

  THE LEOPARD

  8

  Shêtân wheeled on rigid hind legs, his small ears pricked and alert for the slightest sound. He could scent nothing in his refined nostrils. They quivered and curled as he sensed the intruder rather than smelled him.

  The purple-walled ravine to which he had come led down to a stream and patches of tall green grass. Other creatures had been here before, he could tell, but he was not afraid. He had become accustomed to facing danger. His muscles were tense and bulging beneath his ragged coat, and after being slashed by the ibex ram, his right foreleg was so painful that he could not put his full weight on it. Yet he was ready to run, if necessary.

  After a moment of patient watchfulness, he made out the human figure moving within the shadows, a hooded cloak hiding face and body. Trusting no one, he turned away and ran as best he could. He moved along the bank of the stream, slower than he would have liked, seeking escape from still another who would cause him pain.

  Hearing the sound of running hooves, Rashid turned and watched the black colt. Shêtân, the old herder had called him. Rashid thought how much he would like to wrap his legs around the girth of a healthy horse, any horse, to save his strength. What a pity the black colt was crippled. What a shame the colt that Ibn al Khaldun had wanted so desperately, a colt he had said was destined for greatness, was being left to die in these Allah-forsaken mountains.

  Suddenly the thought came to him that if this Shêtân was so valuable, why should he not capture him and sell him at home? And what if he wasn’t lame? Rashid could live forever with the money he would get. What had he to lose? He had no other way of making a prosperous living when he reached home, no one who truly cared what happened to him except his family and perhaps his camel, which he had trained for himself.

  He knew people in his tribe who were saving for a horse. It would not be difficult to sell the black colt. But why should he think only of selling the colt to one of his tribesmen when there were others in the Rub‘ al Khali who would pay much more? There were wealthy sheikhs other than Ibn al Khaldun who wanted a black stallion for their very own.

  The black colt had moved away, and the scout followed him in a leisurely fashion. There was no hurry. His hands and mind were quick, and he was confident he could capture the injured colt. Moreover, Abu Já Kub ben Ishak, master horse breeder that he was, would have handled his young horses as his own children. Despite what the black colt had experienced here in the mountains, Rashid felt certain he would welcome having his wounds treated.

  It wasn’t long before the colt came to a stop, his lameness becoming more of a hindrance over the rocky ground. As Rashid neared him the colt pinned back his ears, and there was hatred in his eyes. If the colt had ever trusted men before, Khaldun’s whip had made sure he would never do so again.

  Rashid stopped in his tracks, fear of the black horse lodging in his chest for the first time. He had seen such a look in the eyes of older stallions, but never in one so young. It was enough to stand a man’s hair on end! No longer was he certain that capturing Shêtân would be as easy as he’d thought. His lifelong experience had been with camels, he reminded himself, not mean and vicious stallions.

  The change in the colt had come abruptly. He looked as if he wouldn’t trust anyone. Everybody was his enemy. So Rashid stayed well away from him, pondering what to do.

  He decided, finally, that he would simply bide his time, staying in the vicinity of the ravine, hoping Shêtân would understand that he meant him no harm and would accept his attentions.

  To that end he made camp near the stream and began looking for small-animal tracks in the dirt. Perhaps he could catch a hare for dinner.

  He found the hoof marks of a grazing goat and not far away the paw print of an animal he believed to be a leopard. He was not surprised. Where there were wild goats, there would be an occasional leopard, as well as hyenas and wolves. But he had to be careful, for if the paw print truly was that of a leopard, it signaled the most dangerous animal of all.

  Moving forward, he followed the prints until he lost them on the stony ground. Before long he picked up the hoof marks of the lone mountain goat again, and clearly visible in the dusty earth were the paw prints of the leopard. There was no mistaking the prints this time. The leopard’s pug “ball” was much larger than that of a hyena and the points of the claws did not show at all, as did the hyena’s when walking.

  Finally he came to the end of his tracking. Clearly visible were drag marks where the leopard had obviously attacked and killed the goat, and then had hauled his victim away. Scattered at intervals were a few drops of blood, but most of the area was sunbaked and hard, the blood and tracks absorbed.

  He had to be careful, for he knew leopards to be very dangerous, having tracked many of them in the arid savannas bordering the Rub‘ al Khali. They could be found wherever there was a reasonable amount of cover and enough animals to prey on. This area was ideal for them. He cautioned himself to be careful even though it was full daylight and leopards did most of their stalking and feeding at night.

  There were many exaggerated stories about the treachery and ferocity of leopards. Yet he had known many of them to be very timid and foolish, quite harmless, running away at the first sight and sound of a human being. There were others, he reminded himself, with uncanny cunning, who could read and anticipate one’s every thought and had developed a taste for human
flesh.

  His father had told him of one that had killed three men in their tribe alone. In return his people had killed leopards, to protect not only themselves but also their livestock—and, of course, for profit. Leopard skins brought good prices at the market.

  He took courage from the fact that the sun was directly overhead and the day was becoming increasingly hot. Leopards were nocturnal animals and did not like the sun. If one was still in the area, he would be sleeping, having fed heavily on the goat. But, Rashid cautioned himself, he was not sure the kill had been a recent one.

  Further on he picked up the tracks of the leopard again, not paw marks but a mound of gravel and dry brush that covered the excreta left by the leopard. From the pile he knew this leopard was a male and had to weigh well over two hundred pounds, an animal to be reckoned with if Rashid had to face him. Luckily, the scout still carried his long knife in his belt.

  The black colt was grazing just a short distance away. Rashid moved slowly around him, not wanting to disturb him. Only through the colt’s accepting his presence did he have any chance of catching him.

  Finally, the scout reached a higher level of ground where there was a small cavern. To either side of it was heavy growth, and he got down on his hands and knees to peer into the opening. He didn’t need to crawl inside to know that the tall grass and bushes outside provided ample shelter for the leopard’s lie-up for awaiting prey, if not his permanent lair. There was also the prevailing odor of a large wild animal within the cavern.

  Slowly he got to his feet and turned in the direction of the black colt. He had no fear for his own life. It was the injured colt who was the most vulnerable. Rashid decided to drive the black colt from the area.

  Walking down the slope he began humming, then talking, anything to alert Shêtân without frightening him, hoping he would move to another part of the ravine.

  Rashid changed his mind quickly as he neared the colt and saw the open mouth, the teeth bared as though the young horse was ready to tear him apart. Convinced that he was dealing with a devil, a hellion, he decided not to push the colt too far for the time being. Later in the day or early evening would be better. He must have patience. It would take time to be accepted by the colt. He turned and walked away quickly.

  Returning to his camp, he ate some dried rabbit meat and waited for dusk to come. The light of day vanished quickly in the ravine, but the stars shone brightly and a crescent moon illuminated the running stream. Rashid listened intently but heard nothing—no insect sounds, no night birds, no neigh of alarm from the colt, nothing at all. It was strange, eerie, and yet he waited expectantly. Finally he recognized the sound that he’d been waiting for—an almost imperceptible rustle, the faintest sound of dry, brittle weeds being trodden upon.

  Alarmed, he rose to his feet and moved into the darkness. The crucial moment had arrived, when he had to pit his wits and tracking skills against one of the most adept and dangerous of killers. He felt the comfort of the knife in his belt, although it was not for his own life he feared, but that of the black colt, whose great value was going to make him a rich man.

  Rashid used his keen night vision to creep across the ravine in the direction of the sound he had heard. He was hunting a cunning animal on its own terms. He must be as cunning.

  Carefully he made his way around boulders and ventured onward, knowing only too well that the leopard might be hiding nearby, ready to attack. He knew that the leopard had little sense of smell, but its sight and hearing were among the best of all wild animals.

  The scout stopped and waited patiently until, finally, he heard the faint crackling, rustling of undergrowth beneath padded feet to his far right. He moved on again, as stealthily as the animal he stalked.

  His tracking took him back to the grassy slope leading to the cavern. He ignored the cavern but studied the tall growth to either side of it. The slight movement he perceived might have been caused by the night breeze or an animal slinking through the weeds. He didn’t know which it was, but he cautioned himself to proceed slowly and not take any chances.

  As he continued up the slope and drew level with the cavern, his searching eyes made out a spotted shape in the tall grass. Its size made him stop abruptly, for he had never seen a leopard as large as this one. As he’d thought, the animal was an old male, well over two hundred pounds.

  The leopard was aware of his presence, but had not slunk away. Instead, he uttered a faint hiss, his lips curled back in a snarl.

  Rashid took several steps backward, for he had unknowingly ventured too close. The giant leopard was no more than ten feet away, close enough for him to see the large black spots on the fawn-colored head. Close enough, too, for the animal to leap on him with a rush of tremendous speed if he chose to.

  The snarl from the leopard’s curled lips was followed by a loud growl. There was every sign of his being a man-eater, for he had not backed off. And yet Rashid knew that the growls might be meant only as a warning for him to stay away. They would increase if he remained where he was while the leopard bolstered his own courage, lashing himself into a fury. Only if the leopard attacked would the scout actually know if he was a man-eater or not.

  Not wanting to find out, Rashid backed away still farther down the incline. But his eyes never left the spot where the leopard hid. Close at hand he found a long stick he could use as a club. He picked it up and waited.

  Finally the growls ended and there was more movement in the tall grass as the leopard slunk away. Encouraged that he was free from attack, Rashid followed him, taking advantage of every bush and stone for cover so as to remain unseen by his prey. He flattened himself to the ground when necessary, as invisible as the leopard he followed. Occasionally he would hear a rough, rasping sound from the leopard as the animal proclaimed his right to the territory. But most of the time the leopard silently made his way through the tall grass as if he knew well where he was going.

  It was only a short time later that Rashid knew too. Directly ahead the black colt lay on the ground, apparently to take the weight off his injured foreleg.

  A faint hiss came from the leopard as he lay concealed in the high grass, followed immediately by a bloodcurdling growl. Hearing the leopard, Shêtân attempted to get to his feet, his movements labored as he struggled to get his injured leg beneath him.

  Rashid knew he had only a few seconds to act if he was to prevent the leopard’s attack on the colt. He hoped to scare off the leopard by waving his club furiously in the air. He had used this means before in his encounters with leopards and it had worked. Yet he realized this leopard was not one of the timid ones who would run away at first sight of a threatening human being.

  As the leopard approached the black colt his growls increased in volume, making a terrific noise. Knowing he had no time to lose and had no other choice, the scout ran forward, waving the club.

  The leopard came out of the grass with lightning speed and with two mighty leaps reached the black horse. He leapt upon his back, attempting to seize the colt’s throat with his powerful fangs and forcing the colt to fall away from him so he could avoid the thrashing hooves. Shêtân screamed with pain and tried to shake off the leopard, who lay with heaving flanks across his prey. Rashid rushed forward, shouting and waving his club in the air before bringing it down hard against the head of the leopard.

  The leopard let go his grip on the colt and turned his blood-smeared mouth toward his attacker. He growled hideously, his eyes blazing with hatred.

  Rashid jumped away as the leopard came at him, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the attack. The leopard jumped on his back and he was borne to earth by the weight of the animal.

  Terror and desperation swept over him, lending strength and quickness to his movements. Rolling sideways, he jammed the end of the club into the leopard’s mouth, causing him to release his hold. He rolled away quickly but felt sharp pain where the leopard had clawed his shoulder.

  Blood streaming down his back, Rashid lashed out with hi
s club again, hard against the leopard’s nose. The blows caused the leopard to lose courage and fall back, rearing on his hind legs. It was at that precise second that Rashid pulled out his knife and quickly threw it.

  The leopard fell over backward, tumbling into the grass, the knife blade deep in his throat. A few minutes later came the unmistakable gurgling sounds of a dying animal.

  HEALING

  9

  Rashid crawled over to a bed of dry grass and collapsed. His shirt had been shredded by the leopard’s claws and teeth. Blood flowed freely from a row of deep gashes that ran across his mauled left shoulder. Allah must have been watching over him, because the leopard had barely missed tearing out his throat. And he must take credit himself. He had killed the leopard. It wasn’t every man who could kill a leopard with only a knife. Later he must render some of the dead animal’s fat and prepare an ointment from it. This balm would help heal his wounds and inspire him with boldness. But now he must rest. He fell into a deep sleep.

  The next morning he made his way back to his campsite. His body ached and was stiff with pain. He knelt down and lowered his face to the stream to drink. When he had finished, he opened his eyes and saw a shadow fall over him from behind. He sprang to his feet and spun around, ready to run, ready to fight.

  It was the black colt. Shêtân stood on three legs, lifting his right foreleg. Despite this he did not wobble. His coat and mane were thick with blood. Streaked wounds crossed his black body like red ribbons. Rashid stood still, eyes fixed on the wild animal before him. The colt regarded him just as intently. They both seemed dazed from the fight with the leopard the night before.