Black Stallion's Shadow (5 page)

By the time Alec got back to the track, all the other horsemen were packing up. Many had come to Santa Anna just for the races on Cup day. Now it was time to move on. Alec loaded the Black, and soon the top-heavy van was teetering back and forth on its way out of the stable area. Alec waved to the security guards posted at the gate. “Good luck,” one of them called. After the bumpy road smoothed out, the van picked up speed. Before long Alec was cruising along in a steady stream of Sunday morning freeway traffic.

He wondered how Morales was doing in the hospital. A couple of spills like that could end a jockey's career. The thought made Alec feel uncomfortable. He wished he could get his mind off yesterday's race and everything that had happened since. It wasn't easy. He turned the radio on to distract his thoughts.

Soon the landscape changed from suburban sprawl to rolling hills. Wes Taylor's ranch was supposed to be about fifty or sixty miles from Santa Anna. After an hour on the road, the Black began to paw and scrape restlessly at the rubber matting covering the floor. Alec turned to look through the small window in the back of the cab. “I know, I know,” he called sympathetically. “Just hang in there a little farther and we'll get you out of this tin can.”

Alec dug a scrawled note out of his shirt pocket, the directions to Taylor Ranch. Somehow he managed to decipher Henry's handwriting and spotted the freeway exit for Sky View Terrace. Gas stations, fast-food restaurants
and video stores lined the main street. Taylor Ranch was somewhere on the other side of the small town.

Alec turned west onto a freshly paved two-lane street empty of traffic. Ahead of him rose the shoulders of a high canyon. Bunch grass and thick weeds covered a gentle slope bordering the right side of the road. To the left were open fields.

The wide bottom land narrowed and steepened as Alec followed the road up toward the canyon. A billboard announced the approach to Sagebrush Village Estates, “A planned luxury community of the future.” Large ranch-style homes dotted the terraced landscape. Spacious lawns, gardens and swimming pools surrounded each of them. In one area of the development bulldozers and backhoes were parked beside houses still under construction.

Past Sagebrush the road leveled off slightly. Acres of fenced-in pasture land replaced the luxury homes. Horses clustered together beneath shady oaks and grazed on patches of worn grass. Stately-looking Arabs mixed with compact Quarter Horses. A long dirt road bordered the far side of the pasture. This must be the place, Alec thought.

The paved road came to a dead end at a wooden barricade in front of him. Alec slowed the van to a crawl. He turned left off the pavement and drove through an open gate. A sign nailed to the gate read
TAYLOR LIVESTOCK, INC.—LIVESTOCK, PROPS AND LOCATION SITE
.

The dirt road ran straight ahead for nearly a hundred yards. It led past a ranch house, badly in need of paint,
tucked among oak, pine and eucalyptus trees. A wide porch wrapped around two sides of the faded green building. The driveway ended beyond the house, where a number of small trucks were parked beneath the trees. Alec edged the van off to the side of the drive and pulled to a stop.

To the left, a dirt driveway split the ranch in two, running past horse pens and corrals. Alec saw no barns at all, just a cluster of small wooden buildings, most little more than sheds with aluminum roofs. Their Spanish-style design kept them open to the breezes, something possible only in a warm climate. This was hardly the Hollywood showplace Alec had imagined from all Henry had said about Wes Taylor. It looked more like a small working ranch.

Alec switched off the motor and climbed out of the van. A canopy of leaves rustled lazily overhead. A dozen or so people were working in a corral at the far end of the ranch. Alec wondered if Wes Taylor was with them. He walked up the dirt driveway to find out.

Henry had mentioned that a television crew was shooting some scenes for
Drover Days
at the ranch. This must be the crew. Some of them coiled thick black cables that snaked along the ground. Others folded metal stands and tripods or dismantled cameras.

“Hey there, young fella,” a voice called from behind him. Alec turned as a man appeared at the ranch house door and waved him over. He was short, round and fifty-ish, wearing a red baseball cap and a long, soup-stained apron.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice reverberating with a Texas twang.

“I'm Alec Ramsay. Wes Taylor is supposed to be expecting me.”

A flash of recognition sparked in the man's eyes. “Well, I'll be. I thought Wes was pulling my leg when he said you might be stopping by. Boy, that was some race yesterday! Saw it on the news last night. Too bad about the colt.”

The man climbed down the porch steps and wiped his hand off on his apron. He gave Alec a firm handshake. “Jim Culpepper. Pleasure meeting you.” He glanced over at the van. “The Black?”

Alec nodded. Jim's eyes widened. “How d'ya like that?” He shuffled to the back of the van and peeked over the rear half-doors. “Never thought I'd get a chance to see him.”

Alec smiled proudly. Jim craned his neck, trying to get a closer look at the Black. After a moment he said, “I believe Wes's over in his schoolhouse. Come on, I'll show you.”

Jim led Alec up the driveway. Just before reaching the crowded corral, Jim turned right. A narrow dirt path ran alongside the corral's split-rail fence. Midway along the fence they veered off on another path between more oaks and eucalyptus. In a clearing hidden among the trees stood something that looked like a huge wooden above-ground swimming pool. Rickety stairs ran along one part of the high wooden walls. A walkway rimmed the upper edge.

Alec had no idea what it was. The fifteen-foot walls kept him from seeing inside, but he could hear noises from within, a clattering sound mixed with a horse's blowing breath. It sounded as if the horse had just finished a heavy workout.

Jim pointed Alec toward the stairs and said, “Go on up. I best be getting back to the kitchen—or lunch'll be later than it already is.” Jim turned to leave, and Alec thanked him for his help.

As Alec started slowly up the stairs, something heaved against the wall from inside. An unnerving squeal cut through the air. He reached the top of the stairs and looked down into the ring below. A big bay gelding cowered beside the wall. Hobbles made of thick rope ran from leg to leg and kept the horse from moving except to keep his balance. Nervous tremors rippled across the bay's coat, which was dark and slick with sweat. His ears lay flat against his head. Fear-widened eyes stared fixedly at the man standing before him—presumably Wes Taylor.

Taylor was lean as a wolf. He wore a stiff white cowboy hat and held a six-foot pole with a string of soda cans wired to the end. He shook the cans around the horse's head, then rubbed them on the horse's neck, back and legs. The sole purpose seemed to be to scare the hobbled horse out of his wits. Alec winced as the horse screamed again.

A minute passed before Taylor noticed the young man watching him from the overlook. Slowly he let the pole slide through his fingers to the ground. He squinted up at Alec.

“Looking for someone?”

“I'm Alec Ramsay. Henry Dailey said …”

“Ramsay? What do you know! How's Henry? I haven't seen that ol' horn toad in years. Is the Black with you?”

Alec hesitated before nodding. After what he'd just seen, he almost wished he hadn't brought the Black here at all.

“Great! Find Jim and he'll show you to one of the far corrals. The Black'll like it there, plenty of room. I'll be along soon as I finish up here.” Taylor turned his attention back to the horse.

“What are you doing there, anyway?” Alec asked.

“Giving Salty Sam a confidence lesson. In here, a horse can't be distracted. The rattle of the cans gets him used to noise, makes him manageable on a film set. Some take to it better than others. This old boy'll come around.” Wes cackled softly.

Alec climbed down the stairs. Could this old crackpot, with his soda cans, really be the renowned trainer Henry spoke of so highly? That sort of treatment might be all right for ranch or rodeo horses. It would never, never work with a high-strung animal like the Black.

CHAPTER 6

A
lec went to find Jim and then set about unloading the Black. Once out of the van the Black sniffed the air. His ears pitched forward, his eyes opened wide. Alec stroked the stallion's neck gently. Jim led the way up the driveway and followed the path running alongside the corral fence. It took them between some pine trees, then wound past more trees and back through the ranch property before ending at two empty corrals. One seemed about a quarter acre in area; the other was a bit smaller. Each had its own feed and water troughs. Sparse clumps of grass grew in splotches on the dusty ground.

On the far side of the corrals sprawled the green lawns and opulent homes of Sagebrush Village. A broken-down fence ran the length of the ranch property. It served as a boundary line separating the ranch from Sagebrush. Jim
told Alec to take his pick of the two corrals. He gave Alec a little salute with his hand, then tramped back to the ranch house.

Alec opened the gate to the larger corral. Unclipping the lead line, he took a firm hold on the Black's halter. The Black uttered a muffled neigh. Alec stared up into the stallion's eyes for a moment, wishing he could understand the nature of the thing that troubled his horse.

“Don't worry, fella,” Alec said. “We'll shake it.” He only wished he could be as sure of that as he sounded. He gave the Black a clap on the neck and turned him loose.

The stallion charged across the corral. He zigzagged back and forth in short bursts of speed, then slid to a stop, throwing up a spray of dust. Lowering his bulk to the ground, the Black rolled over onto his back. The stallion kicked his feet in the air and grunted with pleasure. So much for this morning's careful grooming, Alec thought.

Alec filled the water trough and dumped the small bucket of oats Jim had given him into the feed trough. A few minutes later Wes Taylor drove up in a golf cart. Two long lash whips were propped up behind the seat like fishing poles. He still wore his white cowboy hat. The cart coasted to a quiet stop only a few yards from where Alec stood. The Black paced around the inside of the corral in lazy circles. Wes got out and walked to the fence rail.

A faint smile creased the old cowboy's leather-brown face. Piercing, deep-set eyes scrutinized the stallion's hind legs, ran along his quarters, then up the back, shoulders and neck. Finally he turned to Alec and said, “Now I
know what's been keeping Henry back east all these years.”

Wes's cheeks bulged with chewing tobacco. His drooping handlebar mustache was waxed and curled up at the ends. It made him look like a Texas sheriff in an old Western movie. He switched the chaw of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.

In an easy, drawling voice he said, “You know, every horseman carries around a picture of the perfect horse in his head. Never thought I'd see mine. But what's this little problem Henry mentioned?”

Little problem? Hadn't Henry told Wes about the seriousness of the situation? They were talking about something that could end the Black's racing career!

“This morning he started shying from shadows on the training track. It could mean big trouble for us if he keeps it up.”

“What happened?”

“That's hard to say exactly. You heard about the race yesterday and Ruskin going down, didn't you?”

Wes nodded. “A real shame.”

“It must have something to do with that. They were running nose to nose when Ruskin fell.”

“Tell me more.”

Alec recounted the events of yesterday and this morning. Wes listened, but his gaze seemed far away, as if he had something else on his mind. When Alec finished his story, Wes scratched his chin. “What's wrong with using a shadow roll?”