The Black Stallion's Courage Read Online Free Page B

as the morning, standing proud and long limbed before the men gathered around the ramp. He did not move even when the camera shutters continued clicking incessantly and the photographers’ cries of “
Just one more!
” shattered the still air.
    Cornwell’s eyes did not leave the horse. He knew no camera would ever catch the arrogance and nobility that were stamped on the Black’s small, fine head. To be fully aware of these qualities in him one had to be here, standing close, watching the great eyes of the stallion as he looked down upon the people below. He might have been a king surveying his subjects. Suddenly the Black tossed his head and the silky foretop that crowned him dropped over his eyes. He half-reared and the arched crest of his neck became even more pronounced. It mounted high, then fell low, flowing powerfully into his shoulders.
    Cornwell heard Alec Ramsay speak to his horse again. He listened quietly, paper and pencil ready. But in the end he wrote nothing. It was a language neither he nor his readers would understand, he decided. It belonged to Alec and the Black. Only occasionally had he heard an intelligible word. Most of it had been murmuringsand touches, soft and gentle, and quick movements of the eye. Yet the Black had understood everything. Cornwell was certain of that. The columnist accepted this as an undeniable fact, but would his readers? Maybe he didn’t have a column of “Horse Talk” after all.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Alec told the photographers. “I’m bringing him down now.”
    The Black came down the ramp a little too fast, a startled look in his eyes. The crowd fell back quickly but stopped moving when the stallion halted. The Black was listening to the sound of Alec’s voice. He jerked his head high again and held it still, all his senses keyed to the bidding of the boy beside him.
    Henry Dailey said, “Come on, fellows. Open up now. Give us a break. The show’s over. You got your pictures.” Henry’s bowlegs spun like a wheel as he hurried Napoleon over to the Black’s side. “Horses comin’ through, fellows! Make way!” he shouted.
    Napoleon saw the crowd open up at their approach. He snorted and enjoyed to the utmost his sense of usefulness. It was good to be needed and wanted. He felt the Black’s weight as the stallion swerved sharply against him. Henry patted him sympathetically but it wasn’t necessary. He was used to such bumps from the Black. It was his job to remain patient and quiet while everything about him was a bedlam.
    One of the reporters touched Henry Dailey on the shoulder as the small procession neared the long green-and-white sheds. “How come you didn’t let the Black finish out the season at Hopeful Farm?” he asked.
    â€œIt seems we need a good handicap horse more than we need another sire,” Henry answered. “Satan’s there.”
    â€œThen you think you can win again with the Black?”
    â€œSure. Why not?”
    The reporter laughed. “Well, I can think of a lot of reasons but I’d rather listen to you. As far as I can remember there was only one older horse that was ever able to come back after being retired and that was Citation.”
    â€œThat’s your quote, not mine,” Henry said. “I’m not worryin’ about the Black bein’ able to make a comeback, so don’t you worry, either.”
    They turned down one of the long shed rows and found the Black’s stall open and waiting for him. As Alec led his horse inside, he heard another reporter say to Henry, “All this doesn’t sound as though you have much confidence in Black Minx winning the Preakness next Saturday.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I haven’t got much confidence in her?”
    â€œWell, your need for a handicap horse like the Black
and
a hundred thousand dollars for that new barn.”
    â€œNothin’ to do with