The Black Stallion

the world. Yes, he knew the Black was a runner while this colt to come would race at a trot. But Jimmy Creech had said that this wasn't important, for the Black's pedigree showed a preponderance of Arabian blood and such blood was the source of all racing stock in the world today, trotters as well as runners. Jimmy believed that it was necessary to breed back to the Arabian horse whenever possible in order to renew and strengthen the strain. And he had done just this with the Queen. Jimmy's eyes had become two glowing balls of fire as he discussed the potentialities with Tom.
    "I gave this mating of the Queen to the Black a lot of thought, Tom. I figured that in the Queen I had 'most everything that any breeder would want to have in a broodmare. She has a gentle disposition and is easy to handle, as you know. She never gets upset about a thing, either on the track or in her stall. Her action is smooth and beautiful to watch. She has the speed…" and then Jimmy Creech had hesitated, "even though all of it never did come out of her. If the Queen lacks one thing, Tom, it's gameness and the drive and will to win. She never extended herself and that's why she never became a champion." Jimmy Creech had paused before going on. "And that's why I bred her to the Black. I've never seen any horse—runner, trotter or pacer— with the fire and the intense desire to win that he has. I'm hoping he'll pass that on to the Queen's foal. If he does, we'll have a colt which'll be hard to beat."
    A short distance farther on, the woods gave way to cleared fields. To the right lay a long, rambling chicken house in front of which there was a brook that crossed the lane and went winding far into the rolling pasture land.
    The boy stopped when they reached the brook. "Look, Queen," he said, "your new home." Directly ahead of them, and built on the gradual slope of a hill, was a stone barn with its red roof gleaming in the sun. Before it was a fenced barnyard and below a spacious green lawn leading to a stone house.
    The short, stocky figure of an elderly man appeared at one of the stall doors of the barn. Closing the door behind him, he walked across the paddock, his left arm thrust behind him as he bent over slightly.
    Tom Messenger waved to him. He knew it was useless to call to Uncle Wilmer, for one had to be very close and almost shouting before his uncle could hear anything. He was almost stone deaf.
    His uncle waited while Tom led the mare into the paddock. Tom saw Uncle Wilmer's narrow lids open slightly, disclosing more of his keen gray eyes.
    "Wait'll I get her blanket off," the boy shouted proudly. "Just wait until you see her."
    The man nodded but said nothing. He held the Queen while Tom removed the hood and blanket.
    Finally the boy stepped back, his eyes shining. "How do you like her, Uncle Wilmer?"
    But his uncle only said brusquely, "Give her some water, Tom. Give her some water. She's thirsty."
    The light left the boy's eyes as he led the Queen to the trough. "I was going to give her water," he said, knowing his uncle couldn't hear him. "I only thought you might like to take a look at her."
    When the Queen had finished drinking, she turned to the grass. Tom unsnapped the lead rope and closed the paddock gate.
    His uncle stood quietly beside the mare as she grazed, his battered hat sitting ridiculously high on the top of his egg-shaped head. Finally he said, "She's purty big for a fast one. The best ones are smaller. Like the ones Harvey Moorheart's got over at Amityville."
    The boy's face flushed. "She's only fifteen hands," he shouted angrily. "That's not big."
    "She looks more like a workhorse. I'll bet she'd be good in front of a plow, all right." The flickering specks of light in his eyes went unnoticed by the boy.
    Tom started to say something but stopped.
    "You oughta go over and see Harvey Moorheart's horses," his uncle was saying. "He's got one, a sorrel gelding, that raced once't at the Allentown Fair. Did purty well, Harvey says."
    "The Queen's got a record of two-o-seven for the mile. There are no horses like her around here," Tom said proudly.
    "What's that?" his uncle asked, cupping an ear.
    "Nothing, Uncle Wilmer. Nothing."
    Tom heard his aunt Emma calling, and he turned to look at her as she stood in the doorway of the small house. She was tall and thin, and her gray hair was parted in the center and drawn back to a knot in the back.
    "Tom!" she called. "Tell your uncle to bring some wood for the stove. I've