The Black Stallion

fence and ran to the stall door. The light was dim, but he had no trouble seeing inside. And Tom's body slumped hard against the door at the sight of the foal lying in the straw beside the Queen.

Wipe the Foal Dry!
4
    The Queen, her dark coat wet and matted with straw and manure, turned to Tom, and he saw the wildness in her eyes. He stepped back from the door, frightened, as she came swiftly to him.
    He didn't know how long he stood there, just staring at her disheveled head, trying to remember what he should do. But nothing came. His mind was a blank. He was dazed, bewildered.
    He found himself running along the corridor that led to the rear of the Queen's stall. He heard himself saying, "It's here. It's here." He repeated it over and over again, all the while knowing there were things to do, things to remember.
    He stood before the grain box, his hands plunged into the oats. The mare whinnied and, quickly, he turned to her. She was watching his every move.
    Feed her lightly the first two days.
    His mind was working better now. He wasn't calm yet, but things were starting to come. Jimmy had said— What else had Jimmy said?
    Bran mash. Give the mare a bran mash right after she's foaled.
    His eyes left the mare for the pail beside him. Picking it up, he went over to a sack of bran. The pail was half-filled when he set it down and turned again to the mare.
    It would take time to prepare the mash. He needed hot water and salt. He'd have to get the stove going.
    But the foal. What about the foal? The foal should come first.
    He walked to where he could get a better view of the stall, and the mare followed him. He could see the foal now, and his eyes became as liquid as those of the Queen as he watched.
    The small, dark bundle in the corner of the stall moved. With great effort, the foal raised its heavy head from the straw, only to let it fall back again. Its long legs, half-buried in the bedding, were straight and rigid. Slight ribs showed plainly beneath the wet coat, and there was a slow but regular expansion and contraction of the tiny body as the foal took the first breaths of life into its lungs.
    Filly or colt? Tom did not know or care. Nothing mattered but that the foal was alive.
    Wipe the foal dry, if the mare doesn't take care of that. Wipe his nostrils clean, so he can breathe good.
    He was thinking now. He was remembering Jimmy's instructions. But there was still the frantic pounding of his heart, the uncertainty, the lack of coordination between mind and body.
    Close to the wall there was a narrow entrance to the box stall from the rear. Tom went to it, one hand reaching for the clean handkerchief in the pocket of his overalls.
    The Queen moved with him. And when he set a foot in-side the stall, she bared her teeth and came between him and her foal.
    Frightened, Tom withdrew his foot. There was nothing docile about his Queen now. She was a protective mother, fearful that he meant harm to her first foal. And she wouldn't let him near it.
    No one, not even Jimmy Creech, had told him that this might happen.
    He heard the rustling in the straw behind the Queen. The foal must be trying to get to its feet. Tom's fist closed tightly about the handkerchief he held in his hand.
    And as he continued standing there, he suddenly realized that his heart was no longer pounding, that his mind was clearing of the dazedness and bewilderment that had beclouded it. There were no instructions to follow now, nothing to remember. He had but one thing to do, to
get
to the foal. He was on his own.
    When Tom moved finally, he went to the grain box again. And there was a resoluteness to his face and step that hadn't been there before.
    The Queen had followed to the other side of the stall, her head thrust over her manger, waiting.
    Tom came back to her, his lips moving, his voice soft. But the Queen had eyes only for the container of mixed oats and bran he carried in his hand. He dumped the contents of the tin into her box and stole a glance in the direction of the foal that was struggling to its feet.
    Tom moved quickly toward the narrow entrance to the stall, then stopped abruptly and hurried back to the grain box. Quickly he filled his pockets with bran and went back to the entrance to the stall again.
    The mare was eating ravenously and paid no attention to him as he stepped inside. Tom's eyes widened as he watched the foal.
    It was on its feet, wobbling unsteadily on long, thin legs. Its head seemed much too large for so