Hidalgo Page #3

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.

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