Free The Black Stallion by Walter Farley Page A

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.
    Calling to him, Tom ran down the slight slope, passed the mare and, jumping the brook, set out across the fields. Behind him he heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs; then the colt sped by him swiftly, running a hundred yards or more ahead before coming to a stop and turning to face Tom.
    But the boy was on his way again, running in another direction. With a snort, the colt went after him.
    Uncle Wilmer watched until he saw Tom come to a halt and sit down upon the grass. The colt stopped too, but after a few moments he walked slowly over to the boy and shoved his nose into Tom's chest.
    Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer left the fence and walked toward the house. His face was twisted in thought. He was trying to understand Tom's strange way of training this colt.
No
, he decided,
it's Jimmy Creech's way. Jimmy Creech, whoever he is. Tom's doin'