Free The Black Stallion Legend by Walter Farley Page A

know about my people.”
    “My people were the first inhabitants of this land, but we do not see ourselves as masters of it,” Alph said. “We are brothers to all who live on it, including our animal brothers. We take only what we need from this land.”
    “I know that,” Alec said. If he’d ever seen a people in need, the Indians were it.
    The Indian boy’s speech became almost guttural as he continued, his words rising from deep in his throat.
    “My old father has said that the time is not far off when we will be overcome by your people. But we still must not resist. We must have patience to await the One who will lead us to a safe place while the rest of the world is destroyed. There we will live peacefully with each other until it is time to emerge and help create a new world. My old father has said that only those who live by the laws of Creation will survive to start over again. We will be among them, for we are the Chosen People.”
    “And you believe all this?” Alec asked quietly. “It’s a fearful prophecy.”
    “It will be as my old father says it will be,” the Indian boy persisted, “and I will watch for the One who is coming. If he does not come during my lifetime, it will be during the time of my children or my children’s children. It is only a question of waiting for him to come.”
    “How will you know him?” Alec asked, becoming intrigued by such a legend.
    “I do not know what shape he will take but he will be riding the swift mount of Father Sun, a horse as black as the deepest blackness except for a small white spot in the center of his forehead. He will have great speed and magical powers. I will have no trouble recognizing such a horse.”
    Alec remained quiet when Alph had finished. He thought of his own black horse, somewhere in the desert, a horse as symbolic to him as any supernatural horse would ever be to the Indians in their mythical tales and legends.
    The boy stretched his long, thin legs before the fire. “Only the Chosen People will live,” he said quietly. “It will be as my old father says.”
    “Will you take me to him?” Alec asked.
    Alph shrugged his shoulders, and for the first time his eyes showed concern. “My old father has been gone from our village for many days,” he said. “He may have gone to meet the Creator. I do not know.”
    Alec turned away, realizing he could only await the following day when he hoped the boy would show him the way to the Indian village. He had found muchof the boy’s story too difficult to understand. It bordered too much on mysticism, even the occult. Most of it, Alec decided, was the kind of folklore that had no place in the world as he knew it. All his rationalism tended to refute such a fearful prophecy as the end of one world and the emergence of the next.
    They finished their meal as thunderheads climbed ever higher over the desert. Only a few drops of rain fell from the leaden sky; more rain would come when the bulk of the hot air reached the coolness of the mountains beyond.
    As Alec watched the lightning jigsaw over the desert, he saw a flying, moving shape beneath the storm clouds. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision to make certain he saw what he thought he saw.
    As the clouds advanced toward him, so did the figure of a running horse. Jumping to his feet, Alec ran toward the desert shouting,
“Black, Black. Here I am!”

B LACK F IRE
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    The Black was only a short distance away from Alec, standing still on the hillside that led up from the desert. Alec found himself shaking, trembling. His eyes never left the stallion, and something within told him not to move, to let the Black come up to him of his own accord.
    Even for so short a time, the Black had become accustomed to the wild. He was alone and free. Perhaps he remembered nothing of his domestic life of barns and farms or of Alec who loved him.
    Suddenly the waiting was over. The Black gave a shrill neigh meant clearly for Alec. He gathered