The Black Stallion's Courage Read Online Free Page A

“I was just kiddin’. Besides, no one’s payin’ attention to us any more. They’re lookin’ at
him
.”
    The Black stood in the car’s doorway, his greateyes brightening at the sound of repeated clicks of camera shutters and the calls from the crowd.
    â€œHold him up there a minute, Alec! Just a couple more.”
    â€œHe ain’t filled up in front at all,” a horseman said, his voice raised so that all in his group could hear him.
    â€œI told you he wouldn’t be,” another replied. “Didn’t you hear Henry say that he’s been out every day, running so much that they always worried about his being too
light
in flesh?”
    â€œThey sure don’t have to take much off to have him ready to race,” a jockey offered. “I heard Henry say that’s the way he looked but I wouldn’t believe it.”
    â€œIf you ask me,” a groom said, “he looks better than when I saw him in that Chicago race. Not so pretty maybe, but harder. Where’d he get those scars anyway? What kind of a place do they run up there at Hopeful Farm?”
    â€œHe didn’t get them there,” an exercise boy answered. “This horse gets around. He jus’ don’t stand up there at Hopeful Farm all the time.”
    â€œYeah? What’s he done besides bein’ a sire?” the groom asked.
    â€œYou think all I got to do, Mac, is to tell you about the things this horse has done?
Don’t you ever read?
Anyway, ain’t it enough that you’re
here
, watching the Black start his comeback in the big time again?”
    â€œSure,” another groom agreed. “And what’s the difference if he does look a little more ragged than he did before? Wind and speed is what y’need on the racetrack, not looks! Besides, for my money that’s the way a horse should look! Turn ’em out, let ’em run, get ’emthin and hard! Let the fancy stock farms coddle their stallions and get those big filled-up fronts and weighted quarters. I’d sure like to be rubbin’ this one, that’s all I got to say!”
    The black stallion, more than seventeen hands tall without looking it because his parts fitted together so well, moved to the top of the ramp. His great body, wet from his nervousness, caught the rays of the morning sun and reflected them. His small batlike ears flicked sideways, forward, then back while he listened to the boy beside him and the voices below.
    Reporters noted the Black’s mounting tension and watched him more closely, for in order to race, this great stallion must also be manageable. Speed without track manners was not good, and in earlier years the Black’s natural instinct had been not to race but to do battle with those of his kind.
    â€œCount” Cornwell watched and wrote the title “Horse Talk” on his scratch paper, knowing that it would be the subject of his column for the next day. He wasn’t surprised by the Black’s display of temperament. Long ago he had decided that there was a close relationship between the ability to win races and a high-strung disposition. A racehorse that needed constant reminding that man was master was one with a tremendous
will
to win as well as the physical capacity to win. If pressed, the columnist would admit that maybe his theory didn’t always hold true, but he was certain it applied in this case.
    Cornwell moved closer to the ramp, hoping to hear what Alec was saying to the Black. It would make a good column, this conversation between such a horseand his master. His
only
master, from all reports. No one else could do anything with the Black.
    The Black raised a foreleg, bringing it down repeatedly upon the wooden ramp with dull, heavy thuds. Alec spoke to his horse but Cornwell couldn’t catch the words. In fact he wasn’t quite sure anything had been said. But the Black stopped his pawing.
    Now the stallion was as quiet