Free The Black Stallion Legend by Walter Farley Page B

himself, rocked back on his hindquarters and plunged upward. The desert echoed to the wild pounding of his hoofs as he raced toward Alec, his black mane and long thick tail streaming in the wind.
    Sobs came from Alec when the Black stopped before him. He threw his arms about the stallion’s neck, and sounds and words flowed from his lips. He didn’tknow why the horse had returned, but he didn’t need a reason. It was enough that the Black was here!
    The Black held his head high, his eyes afire. Every line of his gigantic body trembled. That the Black had fought other stallions in the short time he’d been away from Alec was evident in his red-raw mouth and in the wounds that marked his black body. Some were jagged, made by cutting, ravaging teeth. Others were clean and straight, left by pounding, battering hoofs. Whether he had won or lost those battles made little difference to Alec. His horse had returned to him, and that was all that mattered.
    Alec swept his hands over the wet, sweated body—the muscled withers, the great length of back, the chest and shoulders and legs. There were no serious injuries, and the flesh wounds would heal.
    “Oh, Black,” he said. “It’s good … so good to have you back.”
    Alec reached out to the Black and touched the torn mouth. He uttered soft words in sympathy, and the stallion lowered his head, his large eyes alert but never shifting, never leaving Alec for a second.
    Alec pushed back the long forelock. It was then he saw the wound in the center of the Black’s forehead, a white circular spot where the coat hair had been swept clean, as a razorlike blow from a battering hoof might do. Luckily the blow had not landed square or the Black might well be dead. As it was, he would carry only a circular white scar, and in time the coat hair might even grow over it.
    Alec continued to stand beside the stallion, his hand still holding the long forelock as if afraid to let golest he lose the Black again. Suddenly the air became cold. A wind stirred, then mounted in intensity until it was whipping the stallion’s mane and forelock. Alec looked skyward into the blackness of the storm overhead. It was time to seek cover at the campsite.
    The rain came down in torrents, drenching and cold. Alec moved quickly to the stallion’s side and, leaping high, he pulled himself face downward across the stallion’s back. The Black whirled while he was still hanging on precariously, but Alec’s hands found the thick mane and quickly he pulled himself upright as the Black came to a stop.
    Alec spoke softly, a sound rather than a word, and the Black broke swiftly into a full run. Alec guided him up the incline and into the green valley. The triple, throbbing beat of the Black’s hoofs over the hard ground came faster and louder, echoing the thunder that rolled overhead. Alec moved closer to the stallion’s neck and adjusted himself to the rhythm of his horse. Through rain-blurred eyes, he saw that they had almost reached the campsite. Quickly he slowed the Black and brought him to a stop before the Indian boy who awaited them, his eyes wild with shock.
    Sliding off the Black, Alec took the stallion into the rocky shelter, which provided them with some protection from the storm.
    “This is my horse,” he told Alph. “He came back. I thought he was gone forever.”
    “You call him what you want,” Alph said in reply. “I know him for what he foretells,
the coming of the end.
” Lightning flashed overhead and thunder shattered the heavens.
    Astonished by the boy’s words, Alec asked, “What do you mean?”
    “I have told you what my old father said. A horse of fire will come out of the desert, a horse as black as the deepest blackness except for a small white spot in the center of his forehead …” Alph’s hand shook as he pointed to the stallion. “You see?”
    Alec understood what the boy meant, for the Black’s forelock was swept back and the white circular scar stood out