The Black Stallion

small a body.
    The foal's gaze was upon him, and as Tom looked into the soft, seeking, bewildered eyes, he knew that nothing in the world would ever equal this moment for him. He wanted to love, to cherish, to protect this foal.
    He sprang forward as the foal's legs gave way and it fell heavily to the straw. He had reached it, had touched the wet, limp body, when the mare came at him with bared teeth and ears flat against her head.
    Quickly he rose from his stooped position beside the foal. The mare stopped before his raised hand, blinking and uncertain. Tom brought his hand down softly on the Queen's muzzle.
    "I wouldn't hurt your foal. You know that. I want to help." As Tom continued talking to the mare, he fed her the bran from his pocket.
    The foal had risen to its trembling legs again and was looking at them. Tom's eyes devoured it. Its legs were straight. It wasn't deformed. It was—yes, it was a
colt Jimmy Creech had wanted a colt
.
    Stilt-legged, the foal moved toward them, shuffling, pushing his feet through the straw. He had gone only a short distance when the straw became entwined about his legs, causing him to fall. He lay still for a few minutes, then struggled to his feet again.
    Tom was beside him now. The Queen shoved her head down, seeking the bran the boy had been feeding her. Tom's eyes took in the foal's wet, sticky coat; then, taking a handful of bran from his pocket, he sprinkled it over the colt.
    The Queen turned to her foal and began licking the bran off him.
    Smiling, Tom said, "Lick him dry, Queen. That's your job as well as mine."
    As he steadied the wobbling body with one hand, Tom reached for his handkerchief and then wiped the foal's face, beginning with his nostrils.
    The small colt stood still amidst all this attention, yet his soft muzzle moved searchingly about Tom's face and chest.
    "You're hungry," Tom said softly. "There's your mom."
    He pushed the foal gently to the side of the mare, helping him to find his mother. While the colt nursed, Tom fed the Queen from his hand.
    "You're supposed to be having a bran mash, Queen," he said to the mare, "and in a little while you'll have it. I don't know whether I'm doing the right thing or not. Things just happened this way. But the worst is over now. Everything is going to work out all right. I know it is. And you have a beautiful colt. Just as beautiful as we knew he'd be."
    When Tom left the stall a few minutes later, the sun was just coming up. It was a wonderful, wonderful morning, and he knew what he had to do in the hours to come. It was as if he'd always known.
    In the kitchen, he set the pail of bran on the floor, got the stove going and put the kettle up. Soon it was steaming. Lifting it carefully, he carried it over to the pail.
    Wet it good, then put a sack over the pail and let it steam until it's cool enough for the mare to eat.
    He poured the water over the bran. There was something else.
Salt
. Yes, that was it, a handful of salt.
    After adding the salt, Tom gazed about the room until he saw his aunt's dishtowels folded neatly on the shelf above the sink. Quickly he went over and, removing one, placed it over the pail.
    He was leaving the kitchen, carrying the pail of steaming mash, when he stopped and looked again at the dishtowels piled high on the shelf.
    They were soft, very soft. He would find nothing better to use on the foal's soft body.
    He hesitated but a moment, then removed another towel from the pile and hurried out the door.
    Arriving at the barn, he set the pail down once more and went inside.
    The Queen was licking the last bit of bran off the foal. She looked at him, and again there were fear and uncertainty in her eyes.
    But he belonged here. She had to accept it. And knowing this, Tom walked straight ahead to the foal and placed his hands upon the soft and still trembling body. The liquid, luminous eyes were turned on him. There was neither fear nor timidity in the foal's gaze, only wonder.
    The mare snorted as Tom drew the towel across the foal's back. The boy spoke to the Queen without turning around, for he was concentrating on the teetering body before him. He brought the cloth gently down over the velvet-soft, furry-coat and the thin legs.
    The foal stood very still, as though grateful for Tom's steadying hands.
    When he had finished, Tom stepped back and watched while the colt nursed again. The mare looked at Tom, the fear gone from her eyes. She had learned he would do no harm to her foal.
    Tom