The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt (8 page)

Eagerly, Tom ran to the Queen. She neighed repeatedly as he stroked her head; she struck her forehoof against the door in her anxiety to be let out. The colt was hidden behind the mare, and Tom couldn't see him.

He opened the door and stepped back, allowing the Queen to come outside. The colt followed closely behind her and when Tom saw him, the boy's face suddenly became pale, then distorted in pain and anguish. The colt's nose was swollen far out of proportion to the small head. The nose band, much too tight, had cut into tender skin!

Sick at heart and furious with himself, Tom ran toward the colt who, frightened, avoided him. Unthinking, Tom made desperate efforts to grab the colt, but all to no avail. He knew he had to get the halter off immediately, so he kept running, trying to chase the colt into a corner of the paddock where he could get his hands upon him. But always there would be the quick twisting and turning of the slim legs and the colt would be away.

Finally Tom's eyes lit on the open door of the box stall and then on the Queen. He ran inside the barn and to the grain box. Taking a container of oats, he poured it into the Queen's manger, calling loudly and banging the empty container against the side of the box.

The Queen came through the door and moved quickly to her feed. Behind her followed the colt, staying close to his mother.

Tom went into the stall again and closed the door. Without hesitation he approached the colt, who now stood between the mare and the side of the stall. Tom moved quickly, pushing the mare to one side to get to the colt. He had to get the tight halter off now. For the colt's own good, he couldn't afford to be patient.

The colt moved to the front of the mare, then to the other side of her, and Tom followed. He went around the Queen again before he was able to get the colt in a corner of the stall. He had his hands at last on the small, writhing body. The colt's eyes were white with fury and fright, and his forelegs struck out as Tom pinned him against the side of the stall.

Tom reached for the halter and the colt fought with such frenzy that only the boy's desperation gave him the strength to hold the heaving body. He had hold of the buckle; he pulled; the strap loosened. Tom tore the halter off the colt's head and flung it down on the straw; then, sickened by the sight before him, he stepped back and away from the colt.

He watched him go to the mare and, trembling, snuggle close to her. He saw the blood come to the open welt, slowly at first, then even faster, until rivulets of blood ran down the small nose.

Weakly, Tom leaned against the wall. Why had he let this happen? And then his face flamed in anger. He didn't deserve Jimmy's confidence! He knew nothing about caring for horses! He was stupid! A fool! Anyone should have seen that the nose band was too tight. Anyone!

“Burn the halter. Burn it.”

It was his uncle's voice, and Tom turned to find
him standing by the door. How long he'd been there he didn't know … or care.

Tom didn't meet his uncle's eyes. He just stood there unseeing. But a few minutes later, the door opened and his uncle entered the stall. It was only when he was going past Tom that the boy angrily turned to him. “Keep away from him!” he shouted. “You've done—” He stopped when he saw the whiteness of his uncle's face. Tom's gaze fell. What good would it do to take it out on his uncle? Sure, he could say it was his uncle's poor eyesight that was responsible for his putting the halter on so tight. But
he
was more to blame. It was
his
colt. He should have made sure the halter fit correctly. He couldn't say it was the darkness of the stall that was responsible for his not noticing the tight nose band. He had no excuse. He should have made certain last night. It was too late now.

“I was just goin' to get the halter,” his uncle was saying “I'm goin' to burn it, if you won't.” He had the halter and was leaving the stall, when he stopped in front of Tom. His sad eyes sought those of the boy. “I'd let it bleed good, Tom. Bleedin' will help,” he said in a low voice.

Tom nodded, but didn't raise his eyes.

It was only when Tom heard his aunt calling him that he left the stall. He didn't feel like eating, but it would be better if he went to breakfast. Aunt Emma would ask a lot of questions if he didn't, and he didn't want to talk about it. He would let the welt bleed a while; it would help to cleanse the cut and reduce the
swelling. After breakfast he would do what he could for the colt. He would do it his own way. He wouldn't ask any help from Uncle Wilmer. Tom had a lot to make up for, and it would take time—much longer than if this hadn't happened.

All through breakfast Aunt Emma knew there was something wrong, but she didn't ask what it was. Nor did Tom or Uncle Wilmer volunteer any information. They ate in silence, Tom toying with his pancakes. And for the first time since he had arrived at the farm, Aunt Emma didn't urge him to eat more.

He left before his uncle and aunt had finished their breakfast. And if his aunt wondered why he had poured hot water into the porcelain washbowl and carried it with him, she did not ask.

When he reached the barn, Tom went into the end stall, which had been used for the tack room. He went to the chest and, removing a small bottle of disinfectant, poured a few drops into the hot water. Next, he tore a piece of gauze from a roll and folded it carefully; then he left the room.

The Queen moved toward him when he entered the box stall. But his eyes were for the colt, standing close beside her. The bleeding had stopped and the swelling was beginning to go down a bit. The Queen pushed her nose toward the bowl Tom carried. He put it high on the window sill, where she could not get at it; then he went to the rear of the stall and pitched some hay into the Queen's rack. It would be best if she ate while he took care of the colt.

He went inside the stall again and soaked the
gauze in the disinfectant solution. Then, holding the gauze behind him, he extended his other hand toward the colt, still half-hidden behind the mare. In the palm of his hand were some crushed oats. He knelt down beside the mare, his hand thrust beneath her belly toward where he could see the slim legs of the colt.

He was content to wait, and wait he did. Many minutes passed while the mare continued eating and the cloth dried in Tom's hand, yet the colt made no move nor did he attempt to eat the feed offered him.

Tom looked up to find his uncle standing in the doorway.

“I could hold him for you,” Uncle Wilmer said slowly. “That way you could do it easier an' faster—” He stopped abruptly, looking toward the floor. “You'd better do it your way,” he added finally.

A short time later, Uncle Wilmer left while Tom still sat on the straw beside the mare, waiting for the colt to show an interest in the oats he was offering him.

He didn't know how long he had been there when he felt the colt's breath on his fingers; then, seconds later, the soft muzzle touched his hand. He held it still and steady as the colt ate the feed, and when it was gone Tom reached for more in his pocket. He wet the gauze again, hopeful that he would be able to get close to the colt this time.

Now he moved to the front of the mare and the colt stood before him. He began talking to him softly as he once more offered him the oats. There was a moment's hesitation on the part of the colt. Big-eyed and
not quite certain, he watched Tom. Finally his muzzle reached for the feed.

Tom continued talking to him as he ate, but his eyes were upon the welt, now blood-caked. After a while his hand went to the small head. The colt drew back, but not before Tom's hand had come to rest upon his nose. Gently the boy held the gauze there as the colt backed away until his rump met the wall. The colt was a little frightened, but he wasn't fighting him. Tom took the gauze away and offered him the feed again. The colt came closer to it. Cautiously Tom dabbed at the cut, cleansing it well, while the colt licked the oats from his hand.

Much later, he left the stall again to go to the chest in the tack room. He found the bottle of methylene blue, and soaked a clean piece of gauze with it. When he returned to the stall, the colt was moving restlessly about. But as Tom entered, the colt hurried behind the mare once more.

Tom went forward, his hand finding more feed in his pocket. It would take time to paint the methylene blue on the cut, but it would take longer still, days and perhaps weeks, before he won the colt's full confidence again. And what would happen the next time he attempted to put a halter on the colt? It would take a long time for the cut to heal properly, and only then would he know. Meanwhile, during the weeks ahead the colt would grow in body and strength. If it was difficult holding him now, what would it be like a month from now?

Tom knelt down a few feet from the colt, offering him the crushed oats. And as he waited for the colt to
come to it, he thought of the letter he must write today to Jimmy Creech. He would have to say, “A terrible thing happened today, Jimmy, and I'm so ashamed because I know how much you trusted me to look after our colt.…”

It took a full month for the colt's nose to heal. And during that time Tom's days were the busiest he had ever known. With anxious eyes he watched the hard scab form over the cut. He looked at it frequently for any signs of infection beneath. But none appeared and finally the scab fell off, giving way to new skin. For a long while Tom wondered if the colt would carry a large scar to remind him of his neglect; but then the soft brown fuzz appeared, and Tom knew his sole reminder would be that which he carried within himself. His only hope was that the colt wouldn't remember, and Tom's hours with him were spent in helping him to forget.

During the day, he was away from the colt only to attend to the chores his uncle and aunt had assigned to him. There were a thousand and more chickens about the farm, and Tom helped his uncle feed them and collect their eggs to be crated and sent to town. But when his work was done, he would follow the colt about the
pasture, watching him roam inquisitively to the far corners of this new great and endless world that stretched before him. Only when the colt showed an interest in his presence and came to him would Tom run his hands over the furry brown coat and down the long legs. And in time the colt's visits became more frequent, for he knew he would find crushed oats in the boy's hand and there was always, too, the soft brush that felt so good on his body.

As Tom groomed him daily he noted the definite physical characteristics that were becoming more prominent in the colt. His eyes were clear and bold; his head was fine and delicate; and there were the straight knees and broad hocks, the shoulders which would be high and clean, and the chest with its good depth.

What Tom saw pleased him greatly, and he knew that Jimmy Creech would find many other fine qualities that would give evidence of the speed and stamina within this colt. For Tom was certain he would have the speed Jimmy sought; it was evident in his love of running about the pasture, urging the Queen to join him in his mad dashes across the green fields. Speed showed early in youngsters like him, and it was there plainly for Tom to see.

The colt's gait even now was long, low and sweeping. And when he ran, he usually carried his ears flat against his head, yet there was no viciousness in his nature.

Tom never tired of watching him, whether the colt was speeding about on lightning hoofs or emulating his mother by eating grass, which he now found much to
his liking. He grazed with forelegs spread far apart and slightly bent to enable him to reach the ground.

Tom had heard from Jimmy Creech soon after he had written to him about the tight halter. “It's too bad it happened,” Jimmy wrote, “but what's done is done, and cuts heal fast in youngsters like him. So I'm not worrying about that none. What bothers me more, Tom, is your uncle's throwing the colt. You say he won't do it again, and you must make sure he don't. You'd better have it out with him if he tries any more rough treatment. I won't stand for it, and I'm telling you not to, either. You wouldn't throw a year-old baby around to get him to do what you want, and the same thing goes for a colt. The use of force has no place in his training. Your uncle may not know it, but yanking a colt around or throwing him before he knows what is expected of him is liable to cause some slight injury to his spine or legs that will become worse in time and end up in the breakdown of a good racehorse. And, just as important, rough treatment can kill his will to win and his spirit. I'd just as soon have him dead as that.

“So you don't have to worry none about the cut on his nose, Tom. He'll pick up a lot more cuts before he's through. What you got to be concerned about, though, is your uncle. I know he means well, like you say, but I hope he won't take matters in his own hands again. You got to make sure he doesn't or I'll have to take the colt away from him.…”

But Uncle Wilmer never again attempted to handle the colt the way he thought best. And while he watched Tom and the colt very often, he offered neither advice
nor criticism. Instead, he would lean upon the pasture fence as he did now, following the boy and colt with his eyes as they played together in the field. And he would wonder and be a little bewildered by the sight before him.

Breathing heavily, Tom stood about fifty feet away from the colt. He had been running with him for the past half-hour and was tired. He was ready to stop playing but the colt wasn't.

Long-legged and high-headed, the colt stood watching Tom and waiting. He waited for all of five minutes before moving, then he turned to look at the Queen, who was grazing, and back at the boy. Suddenly his ears swept back flat against his head, and he ran toward Tom. Five yards away, he swerved with the agility of a broken field runner and plunged past. Before coming to a stop, he flung his hind legs high in the air with reckless abandon.