The Black Stallion's Ghost Read Online Free

there’s no reason why we can’t see some of the swamp today. No reason at all.”
    He paused before mounting, aware of an odd feeling coming over him. It was vague but there, an awareness that this morning somehow was not like other mornings. He shrugged his shoulders. Today was like any other day, he told himself, except that he would ride south for a change and do some exploring.
    He passed a hand along the stallion’s backbone, waiting for the headiness, almost a feeling of momentary intoxication, to leave him. He decided that the feeling might be one of pure joy at having his horse to himself for a change.
    It had taken three days of Henry’s absence for him to realize how glad he was to be free of the trainer’s yoke. He longed for complete abandon and freedom of movement, if only for a short while. Ahead of him was a long summer of racing, unremitting in its toil and preparation. And, when he wasn’t racing, there was work to be done at Hopeful Farm. Good help was hard to get and even more difficult to keep. Every free day would be used to help repair fences and barns, to harrow paddocks, to care for the new foals and to cut, bale and store hay for the winter. One never caught up. Time taken out—even for racing—was never regained.
    Alec thought longingly of the days when his every move did not have to be obedient and useful, when he could be off on the Black, to go where he liked and as he pleased.
    â€œWhy not ride bareback this morning?” he askedhimself. “Why not leave the saddle and bridle behind? Why not ride him the way I used to?”
    Alec reached up and grasped the stallion’s mane with both hands. He spoke to the Black as he backed up beside the horse’s head. Then he took two short, springy steps forward and swung his legs up while pulling on the mane at the same time. His body rolled and twisted in the air, reaching for seventeen hands of horse!
    He landed astride the Black, his hands and legs communicating immediately to his horse in a language of their own. He could control the Black’s direction and pace by the pressure of a knee or calf, by the touch of a heel on his flank or a hand on his neck. Sometimes all that was necessary was a sound from his lips.
    There would be no bridle or saddle today—no restrictions upon him or his horse. This
was
going to be a different kind of a day!
    He squeezed his horse into a canter and cued him into a left lead. He made a large circle, hastening and smoothing the stallion’s strides until he had him almost in a full gallop.
    â€œToo fast, too cocky,” he warned himself, slowing down the Black as they approached the closed gate of the paddock.
    When they were outside, Alec turned the Black south and did not check his horse’s speed. He was happier than he’d been in a long time. He was not merely at home on the Black; he belonged entirely to him. It was as if he had no other existence. There was no room for anything else.
    The stallion’s strides came swift and easy, between a gallop and a run, what racetrack people call a “breeze.” Alec settled down to enjoy the ride. In a short while he’d slow down the Black, but for the moment he let the wind water his eyes. He listened to the beat of the Black’s hoofs over the dirt road. The secret of his horse’s success lay not only in his great strength and speed but also in his perfect rhythm and unwasted motion.
    Alec moved closer to the stallion’s neck and adjusted himself to the rhythm of the stallion’s strides. He felt a sudden urge to let him go into a headlong run, for the sound of the Black’s running hoofs had always broken the world apart for him! The taste of the wind, when the Black was in full flight, brought him greater joy than anything else in the world!
    Alec spoke softly, a sound rather than a word, and the Black broke swiftly into full run. The triple, throbbing beat of his racing hoofs