Hidalgo Page #2

Perhaps all of us will die

in this show of the great Cody.

You have a chance

to go save yourself, Far Rider.

Hidalgo is not the horse

he used to be, Chief.

There's nothing wrong with that horse.

Is it better to perish here

in this Wild West, as Cody tells it?

I saw what happened

at Wounded Knee Creek.

I carried the orders.

I call you Far Rider, not because of

your great races and your fine pony,

but because you are one who rides far

from himself, and wishes not to look home.

Until you do,

you are neither white man nor Indian.

You are lost.

You think we got one more in us?

Nah, me neither.

Hell, I don't even know

who Frank Hopkins

is no more, brother.

A hundred of us

put in our 10 coin.

Chief Eagle Horn put in 20.

Don't waste our money, Hopkins.

There goes Hopkins.

The house of Sheikh Riyadh

will be greatly honored.

Bertolt, accommodate Mr. Hopkins

and his horse.

Halt!

Are you all right, sir?

Ice is a precious commodity

at sea, my friend.

My gin might go warm

for the sake of your misfortune.

Much obliged.

But I'd take a... warm gin

over ice anytime, mister.

Major, actually.

Major Davenport. Yeah.

Oh. I believe you already

know my wife, Lady Anne.

She tells me you put on

quite a Wild West display

down there in steerage.

You handled yourself

with aplomb, Mr. Hopkins.

Well done.

Now, tell me, Mr. Hopkins...

Is it true that you're

en route to Aden

to enter your horse

in the famous race?

Well, I can't think

of any other, uh, reason

to cross the big water, ma'am.

Splendid.

He's the real item, isn't he?

Have you ever killed

any red Indians?

Just one.

A long time ago.

Do you know who you'll be

racing against, Mr. Hopkins?

Yeah. Pretty near a hundred

Arabians is the word.

It's-it's not just... 100 Arabians.

It's 100 of the finest

and purest horses

ever bred on the sands

of the Nedj.

There's Al-Hattal,

the sheikh's champion.

Al Amir of Syria is entering

Kusma, the blue mare.

And then there's Camria.

The red racer who descends

from the great Al-Jebla.

The best.

Who owns that one?

Queen of Sheba?

No, Mr. Hopkins. I do.

Lady Davenport has lived

among the Bedouin.

She's fluent

in Arabic, Kurdistani.

And what's that... African dialect?

- Tuareg.

- Yes, right.

Tell me, Mr. Hopkins,

what breed is your stud?

My Hidalgo's a mustang, ma'am.

Oh! Mustang?

From the Spanish mesteno,

meaning untamed.

That's right.

Horse of the red Indian.

Small, hearty.

Mixed blood.

Of Spanish origin.

Mixed. Mm...

Well, I, uh, think I'll turn in.

Thanks for the gin.

And the ice.

Nice meeting you, sir.

Ma'am.

Good night, Mr. Hopkins.

I find him rather

ingenuous and charming.

Don't you, Annie?

Sorry, darling?

Godspeed to you all.

Win one for the crown, Annie!

The major prefers

to stay at port

and... guard the ice chamber.

Have you never seen

a slave market, Mr. Frank?

Al-Hattal.

Equine perfection.

He sure looks like a handful.

The Prince is a fine young man of

pedigree, educated in the mission school.

I have chosen him to ride Al-Hattal.

Why can you not accept...?

Father...

I pray only for your happiness.

Be careful, then, father.

Because I am happiest on a horse,

riding where females are forbidden.

There is a tempest in my tent.

But it has come

in the form of my cherished daughter

to upset my failing pancreas.

The Aden caravan has arrived.

The good Lady Davenport...?

Yes. And an American

on a horse of most unusual colour.

The cowboy.

Let in the light.

Well, what do you make of it

so far?

Too late to turn back now.

Very wise to tie

your horse, Mr. Hopkins.

If he were

to cover an Arab mare,

it would be viewed

as a most inviolable blemish.

The foal would need

to be destroyed

before touching the ground.

As would the offending sire.

You hear that?

Keep your pride tucked.

The Rub Al-Khali.

The Empty Quarter.

It is but the first march

of the great race.

Alas, most of the riders

do not even get halfway.

Last year, 40 men perished,

roasted alive

before reaching Iraq.

The fortunate few

cross Allah's Frying Pot,

then must pray

they do not bear witness

to the jinni of the West.

Thank you, sir.

That's... mighty interesting.

Ah!

Where the old ones

speak of the sand devil

who guards the secrets

of the passage to the sea.

Those who reach the gulf waters

travel west across Syria

where the sands shift.

East becomes west.

West becomes south.

What looks like sand to you

soon becomes the poison pits.

Men and horses

fall through the air

and are boiled thus.

Get outta here, mister.

Leave me be.

This is not possible!

You see, I was

Sheikh bin Riyadh's goat herder.

I was charged

with the crime of stealing milk.

As punishment,

I have been assigned

to the American and his horse.

You're working for me?

It was this or be

removed of my left hand.

The future will tell

if I have chosen poorly.

To cross Syria to Damascus,

one must face

hundreds of miles of salt

where no food can be found.

Men go mad!

I can see that.

I pray to Allah,

the All-Compassionate,

that he will give you

the merciful wisdom to go home.

- You know horses?

- Goats.

That'll help.

In the name of Allah,

I welcome you

into my tent as my guest.

If His Excellence

were to touch an infidel,

he would lose his ability

to foretell the future.

Oh. Sorry.

Most foreigners find

our coffee to be too potent.

Too...

Back home we toss

a horseshoe in the pot.

Stands up straight,

coffee's ready.

Shall we play at cards?

No, I ain't too much

of a gambler, sir.

To the contrary.

You are gambling with

your very life in this great race.

I had five sons once.

Three were killed in the raids.

One perished

in this very race six years ago.

The other was swallowed

by the quicksand of the Hammad.

I'm now a man with no sons.

Just...

... one lowly daughter.

Please.

Ignore her presence.

I am greatly pleased that

you have accepted my challenge.

But I must warn you.

Never before has a foreigner

partaken in the great race.

Some here are angry.

I'm not here

to insult anybody, sir.

I'm just here to race.

You may smoke if you wish.

Oh, well, don't mind if I do.

The winner's purse

in the Ocean of Fire

exceeds 100,000 in American

currency, Mr. Hopkins.

But that matters

very little to me.

What matters to my house

is honor.

Our culture revolves around

our sacred horses, Mr. Hopkins.

It is written in the Koran.

"For they were born

of the south winds,"

"and sculpted from

essence by Allah."

On cold nights, my wives

sleep in the stable tents...

so that Al-Hattal

is comfortable and appeased.

Jaffa.

Show Mr. Hopkins to his tent.

He needs his rest.

All right.

Thank you.

Oh, Mr. Hopkins.

Please.

I will amend the winner's

purse with another 10,000

if you will put

that Colt pistol in the pot.

That is an authentic Colt,

is it not?

As they say, God didn't

make all men equal.

Mr. Colt did.

Colt did not make

all men equal, Mr. Hopkins.

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