The Black Stallion

anything like that.
    The boy reread the letter several times before folding it and putting it away. There were an awful lot of things to remember, he thought. And they came so easily to Jimmy Creech.
    Tom turned to the Queen. "But I'm going to watch you every minute, and I'm going to have a veterinary there when your foal comes. I'm not going to take any chance trying to get a veterinary
after
complications set in. Jimmy says to use my own judgment, and that's just what I'm going to do."
    The truck had reached the valley, and Tom directed the driver up a side road. They had gone only a short distance when Tom told the man to stop before a dirt lane entering the woods on the left.
    "I'll lead her up from here," the boy said. "It's a bad road and bumpy. It wouldn't do her any good to ride it."
    "Just as you say," the driver returned. "Guess this is as good a spot as any we'll find." Putting the truck in reverse, he backed up to the low embankment on the side of the road.
    The Queen's ears pitched forward as the back gate of the truck was let down.
    "Steady, girl," Tom said, holding her by the halter.
    The driver walked up the backdrop. "Steeper than I thought it would be," he said. "You'd better take her down. I got her here. She's your responsibility from now on. If she breaks a leg, I want no part of it."
    Tom looked at him. "Yes," he said slowly. "She's my responsibility now, all right." Then he turned to the job ahead of him.
    The Queen hesitated as Tom led her to the backdrop. Patiently Tom waited, talking to her all the time. It wasn't too steep or he wouldn't be taking her down. The. Queen could get down all right. He brought her forward until her forefeet were on the board; then he stopped again, talking to her. His grip tightened about the halter, steadying her. "Now, Queen," he said softly.
    The mare followed him down, her haunches tucked beneath her. But as she neared the end of the backdrop she let herself go and jumped down to the embankment. Seeking the grass, she thrust her head down, pulling away from Tom. He let her alone, knowing she was all right now. But he took the lead rope from his pocket and snapped the clip to the mare's halter.
    "I'll be getting along now," the driver said.
    "How about the blanket and the hood?" Tom asked.
    "Jimmy said to keep them here with you. I'll be coming back for her in September. We can use them on the return trip." The driver walked to the cab of the truck. "So long," he said.
    "So long."
    Tom allowed the Queen to graze until long after the truck had disappeared down the road. Finally, taking her by the halter, he said, "Let's go, girl."
    She walked quickly beside him as he led her up the lane, and Tom carefully avoided the sharp rocks for he knew the mare was shoeless. And when his eyes left the road ahead, they would turn always to the Queen. He was alone with her now. She was his responsibility, just as the driver had said. Jimmy Creech wasn't around; neither was George. It frightened him a little, having all this responsibility. Yet it was what he had wanted. He had wanted to take care of the Queen all by himself. He had wanted to help bring her foal into the world. And even though he was a little frightened just now, things would work out all right. He felt sure they would. Jimmy said he had good judgment, and Jimmy should know.
    The Queen shied nervously around a branch lying in the lane. Tom held her, talking all the while. She was easy to handle. They didn't come any gentler than the Queen. Here he was, walking beside the Queen. All anyone had to do was to look in any book on harness racing and he'd find the Queen's name there. "Volo Queen," that's the way the record books had it; "a dark bay mare by Victor Volo established new track record for two-year-old fillies at the Reading Fair track.
    The Queen hadn't held the record very long before it was broken by a score of others. Jimmy said the Queen had showed potential greatness that day at Reading, and he had expected her to get better and better. But she hadn't. The Queen had never become the great racer Jimmy had thought she would. Close to it, but not quite.
    Tom turned to the mare. "Maybe," he said softly, "you left that for your colt. Maybe you decided that if only one of you were to be great, you wanted him to be the one."
    And he really could be great, Tom thought, he really could. For there just wasn't any mare with better bloodlines than the Queen. She had been bred to the Black, the fastest horse in