The Black Stallion's Filly Read Online Free Page A

pavilion.
    Smiling, the auctioneer said, “The gentleman back theah. Did you just make a bid for this colt?”
    Henry pushed back his hat. “No,” he grunted. “I just blew my nose.”
    Only then did the auctioneer and the crowd recognize Henry Dailey, and the room rocked with laughter.
    â€œWell, Henry,” the auctioneer said, “you’d better be careful how you blow your nose or you’ll own thisheah colt.” But then his attention and that of the crowd was diverted to the man seated near the ring. Mr. Ashwood was holding up three fingers.
    Once again the auctioneer’s chant claimed the pavilion. “I got three, three, sixty-three. I want five, five, sixty-five.” He was looking at Tom Flint now, and after a few seconds Flint held up four fingers.
    â€œI got four, four, sixty-four.” He turned to Mr. Ashwood. “I want five, five, sixty-five.”
    The bidder nodded without taking his eyes from the gray colt in the ring.
    â€œ
Yeah!
I got five, five, sixty-five. I want six, six, sixty-six.” Back to Tom Flint in the last row. “… six, six, sixty-six.” Flint nodded. “
Yeah!
I got six, six, sixty-six.”
    Once more the auctioneer’s gaze swept to Mr. Ashwood. “Give me seven, seven, sixty-seven.”
    This time the man near the ring turned to his right and spoke to his trainer. A moment later, Ashwood swept his hand across his chest and shook his head. He was finished and would bid no higher.
    The auctioneer’s eyes traveled once more over the crowd, looking for a bidder who might keep this colt in the ring to bring a still higher price. “All done?” he asked. “Are you all done at sixty-six?” His intent gaze became fixed on Henry Dailey. “How about you, Henry? Here’s a colt to take Satan’s place in your stable.”
    Henry shook his head, not bothering to raise his hat from his eyes. Never would he pay sixty-six thousand dollars for this gray colt, even if he’d been spendingsomeone else’s money. No unbroken, untried yearling was worth that much, regardless of pedigree. Tom Flint should have known better than to go so high for this colt.
    Henry heard the fall of the auctioneer’s gavel and the words, “Sold to Tom Flint for sixty-six thousand dollars.”
    Raising his hat, Henry saw the gray colt leave the ring. Well, that’s that, he thought. As far back as he could remember, it was the highest price paid for a yearling at a public sale. He noticed the sudden restlessness of the crowd. Many of the men were on their feet and moving toward the exits. Good, he thought, let ’em go. The fewer people here the better. He had known the sale of the gray colt would be the highlight of this session. He had counted on some of the crowd leaving afterward. It was part of his plan to get Black Minx at a price he could afford to pay.
    Henry turned to the windows. The weather was lending him a helping hand, too. It had turned cold yesterday, and this morning it had rained. During the afternoon the rain had turned to snow that was now falling heavily. The pavilion was five miles from the hotels in downtown Lexington. Driving conditions wouldn’t be good, and those who remained in the pavilion were starting to worry about getting back at all. They thumbed the pages of their catalogues, trying to decide whether or not it was worth their while to stay until the end of the session.
    â€œGet along, folks,” Henry muttered. “Get along with you.” More people left within the next fewminutes, and the empty chairs in the pavilion were more than he had dared hope to find.
    A broodmare, heavy with foal, was in the ring. The assistant auctioneer was giving her pedigree hurriedly in an attempt to arouse the interest of the prospective buyers who had started to leave. “Here’s a grand mare for any stock farm,” he said. “She’s by Count Fleet.