The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (7 page)

Tom reread the letter before starting down the hill toward the barn.

I've been doing the right thing then
, he thought happily.
I've been trying to win the colt's confidence just as Jimmy has told me to do
.

When Tom reached the paddock, he found his uncle leaning on the fence. The colt was racing about, while the mare watched him. The Queen suddenly whirled, following the colt about the paddock. Together they ran, sending large divots of earth flying in all directions.

“They ought to be out in the pasture, all right,” Uncle Wilmer said.

“I'm putting them out tomorrow morning,” Tom shouted, as the colt flung his hind legs high behind him, imitating his mother.

Uncle Wilmer nodded approvingly, then said, “You shoulda done it days ago.”

Tom said nothing until the mare and colt had stopped running; then, turning to his uncle, he asked, “Where can I buy a halter in town?”

“Heh?” his uncle asked, moving closer to Tom.

Tom repeated his question in a louder voice.

“What you want it for?” Uncle Wilmer asked.

Tom gestured in the direction of the colt.

“Don't need a halter yet,” the man said. “Y'won't need one for a couple months at least.”

Tom raised the envelope he held in his hand. “Jimmy Creech wrote—” he began.

Uncle Wilmer shook his head so severely that the battered hat toppled from his head. Bending down to pick it up, he muttered, “Jimmy Creech. All I hear from you is Jimmy Creech.”

Tom said nothing, and his uncle turned to look at the horses.

Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer continued, “If it was my colt instead of Jimmy Creech's, I'd—” He paused and, shaking his head again, added, “But it ain't. I got a pony halter you can use. It'll fit him. You won't find anything better in town.”

Tom waited while his uncle went into the barn and came out again, carrying the halter.

There was an unusual gleam in Uncle Wilmer's eyes as he tossed the halter to Tom, saying, “You go ahead, then.”

Tom felt the leather and found it soft. Jimmy had said a web halter, if he could get one, but certainly this would do until he was able to find a web halter.
But
, he decided,
I'd better punch a couple more holes so I can make it smaller; the colt's head isn't very big
. Turning to his uncle, he asked him for his jackknife and Uncle Wilmer produced it from his pocket.

“I'll do it,” Uncle Wilmer said. “You just hold the strap up against the fence here.”

The man made several attempts to locate the strap before the point of his knife sunk into the leather. “Eyesight ain't what it used to be,” he muttered. “I remember the day when out huntin' I could pick off a rabbit over two hundred yards—” His voice descended to the depths of his chest, and Tom turned to look at the colt.

There was a flurry of flashing legs as the colt once again dashed about the paddock, while his mother remained still, grazing, with only an occasional look at him. Taking too sharp a corner, the colt stumbled and went down hard. He lay still for a few seconds, then raised his head, looking dazed and a little surprised by his sudden collapse. He pulled his forelegs up and then just sat there, still looking about him. Finally he uttered a short snicker, his hind legs came up, and once more he was on his way, madly encircling the paddock, pausing only occasionally to rear upon his hind legs and paw the air with his forehoofs like a boxer feinting a blow.

“There it be,” Uncle Wilmer said, finishing his job.

Taking the small halter, Tom climbed through the bars of the paddock fence.

The colt stopped playing and stood still when he saw him.

Tom moved forward, calling to the colt. He had gone only a few yards when he stopped, hoping the colt would come to him.

The forelegs were spread far apart, the big and fuzzy eyes upon him. There was a moment's hesitation, then the colt was moving slowly toward him.

For a few minutes Tom remained still, only talking to the colt; then, slowly, he raised the halter.

There was a quick, sudden movement as the colt pulled back, startled by the leather that had touched him. Twirling, he ran to his mother and hid behind her.

Tom heard his uncle's deep chuckle, then, “Grab him, Tom. You ain't goin' to get it on him that way.”

Tom walked slowly toward the mare. He touched Jimmy Creech's letter in his pocket. Jimmy had said, “You got to be patient with him. You got to work slow.”

The Queen raised her head to look at him. She pushed her muzzle into his hand, and finding nothing to eat turned back to her grazing. The colt was on the other side of her, and Tom walked around, only to have the colt move quickly beneath his mother's whisking tail and away from him.

Tom waited a few minutes before following him. The colt knew something was going to be done to him and he was going to avoid it if he could. Tom held out a handful of crushed oats. But the colt ignored the feed, sweeping beneath the mare's belly to reach the other side of her.

The Queen saw the feed and reached for it. Tom let her have it, hoping the colt too would show an interest and come to him. But he didn't. He remained behind his mother, hidden from Tom's sight.

Several more times Tom cautiously attempted to approach him, and only once did the colt stand still long enough for Tom to put a hand on him. He was able to run his hand up and down the short neck, but as soon as he moved the halter toward the head the colt drew back, frightened and rearing.

“You're goin' to make a balker of him sure as anything,” Uncle Wilmer called. “You let him get away
from you now and you're goin' to have trouble with him, all right. Like I been tellin' you, you got to show him who's boss. You got to show him now.”

Close to an hour went by with Tom making futile attempts to reach the colt. The sky glowed with the brilliant red of sunset. Tom moved with the colt, hoping to get the halter on him.

Uncle Wilmer still leaned upon the paddock fence, shaking his head repeatedly, shouting his criticisms.

And his uncle's words rang in Tom's ears even when the man was quiet. “You're lettin' him get away with it. I never seen the like of it. You're goin' to make him an outlaw, all right, if you don't show him who's boss right now. You got to teach him to do what you want. You got to have a firm hand.”

As the minutes passed, Tom's eyes became more grave. Was his uncle right? he wondered. Was he letting the colt get away with too much? Jimmy Creech had said that he must have patience, but he had also said, “I don't mean you shouldn't have a firm hand with the colt. He's got to learn obedience and he has to learn it early.”

Wasn't his uncle saying exactly that? Perhaps he was doing more harm than good by letting the colt get away from him. Perhaps the colt should be held, even against his will, while the halter was put on. He'd find the halter wouldn't hurt him. He'd get used to it and everything would be all right.

Tom waited until the colt's interest was diverted from him to the Queen, then he went forward, quietly walking up to the foal as he nursed. He placed a hand
on the fuzzy coat, and the colt was too absorbed in his feeding to pay any attention to him. Tom ran his hands over the small body, waiting.

When the colt had finished he turned to Tom, but made no effort to get away. The boy knew that only his raising of the halter would cause the colt to run. His arm was around the colt, his body pressed close to him. All he had to do was to hold him still for a minute while he got the halter on him. His grip tightened about the muscular body. He thought he'd be able to hold him now. As he continued talking to the colt, he raised the halter.

A startled look came into the colt's eyes at sight of it. He felt the arm about his body. He pulled back, dragging Tom with him. Then he half-reared, twisting and turning as he came down.

Tom felt his grip on the writhing body slipping, and realized he couldn't hold him. Rather than fight the colt any longer, he let him go.

“Now y'did it!” his uncle yelled, coming into the paddock. “Y'tried to hold him an' he broke away from you! He'll never forget it if you don't teach him better.”

Uncle Wilmer swept past Tom, still shouting. And before the boy had any inkling of what his uncle intended doing, the man had the colt hard up against the Queen's side.

The colt tried to get away, but Uncle Wilmer moved quickly, his long arms encircling the colt's chest and haunches. Then there was a sudden twist, and the man heaved the colt off his feet and threw him to the ground, holding him still with his hands and knees.

Tom was standing over his uncle, shouting and trying to pull him away from the colt, but the man paid no attention to him.

“Give me that halter,” Uncle Wilmer growled, snatching it from the boy. “I'll teach him who's boss,” he muttered as he slipped the halter over the small head. “I'll teach him, all right.”

Uncle Wilmer and the colt were on their feet at almost the same time. The colt, now wearing the halter, ran quickly behind his mother.

Uncle Wilmer was leaving the paddock. Aunt Emma was calling to him and Tom to come to supper. The skies were darkening fast, and it would be night in a matter of minutes.

Tom stood there, dazed by the quick turn of events. He shouldn't have let Uncle Wilmer. But how could he have stopped him? The halter was on. Uncle Wilmer's way had been swift, firm and hard, yet he hadn't hurt the colt. The job had been done quickly, easily. But he had done it by force.

“I've seen too many people try to knock obedience into a colt by giving him the rough treatment,” Jimmy Creech had written. “They say it's faster, and they're right. But what they forget is that it usually breaks the colt's spirit, too. And when that's done you've killed what may have been a fine horse.”

Tom thought of Jimmy's words as he moved to where he could see the colt. He found him standing close beside the mare, yet bending down, trying to reach the grass to graze. The colt was more intent upon his effort to stretch his short neck as far as possible than he was upon the halter about his head.

Again Aunt Emma called Tom to come to supper, and her voice was more demanding now.

Tom led the Queen into the box stall and the colt followed close behind. After feeding the mare, Tom stopped beside the colt, who was beginning to show an interest in the Queen's oats. It was dark inside the stall and Tom could only see the outline of the small body. The boy attempted to place a hand on the colt, but he moved away quickly from him.

“I couldn't stop Uncle Wilmer this time,” Tom said. “But it won't happen again. I promise you that.”

Tom knew that his uncle had only done what he thought best. Tom realized too that he himself had made a mistake in attempting to hold the colt. He should have had more patience. He should have spent days, if necessary, trying to coax the colt into letting him put the halter on his head. And if that had failed, he could have asked Uncle Wilmer simply to hold the colt still while he put it on. But Uncle Wilmer had thrown the colt hard to the ground. It shouldn't have been done that way. It wouldn't happen again. Some way, Tom decided, he'd have to make it plain to Uncle Wilmer that he wanted no further help from him.

Tom managed to get his hand on the colt's body, but as he reached for his head the colt swerved away from him, moving behind the Queen. Concerned and worried, Tom left the stall.

Early the following morning, Tom came downstairs to the kitchen to find his aunt and uncle already there.

“Good morning, Tom,” his aunt greeted him cheerfully. But her eyes were searching as they met his, and he knew that his uncle had told her what had happened the day before.

Uncle Wilmer stood by the door, ready to go out. He didn't look at the boy as he repeated his wife's greeting. He shifted uneasily upon his feet, obviously waiting for Tom to join him.

“You got a while till breakfast,” Aunt Emma was saying. “I'm making pancakes this morning.”

“You comin'?” his uncle asked.

Nodding, Tom followed him out the door, stopping only to douse his head in the water trough outside. He was wiping his face on the roller towel when Uncle Wilmer said, “It's a mighty nice morning, all right.”

The sky above held all of summer's brilliant blue and the fields, heavy with valley dew, sparkled in the
sun's first rays. But Tom turned quickly from all this to the red-roofed barn and the stall door over which the Queen peered. She neighed loudly at sight of them.

They walked across the lawn, Tom following his uncle. He wondered if it was necessary to tell him how he felt about the throwing of the colt. Certainly his uncle must know. It was apparent by his unusual silence of the evening before and even now. Uncle Wilmer's use of force had been instinctive, for he'd always done it that way.

They were nearing the gate when Tom touched his uncle's arm. “It
is
a grand day,” he said, smiling, when his uncle turned to look at him.

“Heh?” Uncle Wilmer's eyes were puzzled and a little troubled as they met Tom's.

“A nice day!” Tom shouted.

Uncle Wilmer nodded his head vigorously. “I already said that,” he replied. But there was a lightness to his eyes that hadn't been there before, and when they went through the gate he put his hand on Tom's shoulder.

Uncle Wilmer was heading for the chicken house, but before leaving Tom he said, without turning to him, “I oughtn't to have done what I did yesterday. It's your colt and you do with him the way you think you ought …” He was still talking as he moved away from Tom.

For a moment, Tom watched his uncle while the man walked toward the chicken house, his arm slung behind his back, his body bent forward. Tom realized the effort it had taken for his uncle to apologize. He knew too that his uncle meant it, and that there
wouldn't be a repeat performance of what had happened yesterday. It had turned out the way he had hoped it would.