Free The Black Stallion Revolts by Walter Farley

the deadly fear of the
hunted
.
    A car’s headlights came down the road. He watched them with eyes that no longer sought aid and comfort. Instead they were shifting eyes seeking escape, the eyes of a fugitive!
    He began crawling away from the side of the road, looking for tall grass, anything in which to hide. But it was open country, and he felt the headlights sweep down upon him. He lay flat and still, pressing his body close to the damp earth. He waited while the lights passed over him and then were gone.
    He was getting up when he heard the screeching drag of braked wheels. He turned, and saw red taillightscoming back toward him. He tried to get to his feet and run, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He sank back onto the ground. Better to take a chance. Better to lie and bluff his way along than to move and cause his pain to return again.
    The car backed up until its headlights shone full upon him once more. Out of a long and racy convertible stepped a man. He was short in height, but big, tremendously big, about his shoulders and waist. He came waddling toward the boy, holding a revolver in his hand. When he stood over him, he put the gun away.
    “Kid, are you hurt? What’s happened to you?”
    “I … I’d hitched a ride on a truck. The drivers threw me off here.” He needed time, time to think and plan. He wanted to confide in no one just now. He didn’t want to go to the police.
    “And they beat you up?” The man didn’t expect an answer. He was looking at the torn clothes, the swollen face. “Come on, kid. I’ll help you,” he added in great sympathy.
    The boy was carried to the car, and when he had been set down he felt the softness of the upholstery against his head. It was good, so good, and his body relaxed. He felt safe with this man, safe and secure.
    “Go to sleep,” the fat man said kindly. “You look like you could use it. Not many places open on this road, but the next time I stop for gas I’ll let you know so you can clean up your face. That is, unless you think you should see a doctor, if I can find one. Do you feel any pain? Anything that might be broken?”
    “No … no pain, nothing broken.”
    “Good. I’d sure like to get my hands on those guys. Beating up a kid! What’s your name?”
    What’s your name? What’s my name? What is my name?
And he heard himself reply, “McGregor.” The label on his ripped shirt had provided him with a name. “McGregor’s my name,” he said again.
    “Scotch, eh? Mine’s Washburn, Bill Washburn.”
    After that the fat man let him alone.
    “McGregor’s my name,” he repeated to himself, closing his eyes. “It’ll be my name until I can remember. I’ve been struck on the head. I have amnesia. Other people have had it and recovered. In time my memory will come back, and I’ll know who I am. But now I’ll keep all this to myself just in case … just in case I’m running away from something,
from the police
. There, I’ve said it and I feel better for having said it. My name is McGregor.”
    For the next two hours he pretended to be asleep. He knew any words would come hard from his lips, disjointed and rambling, making little sense most of the time. He didn’t want to talk, not even to this man who was helping him get away. He’d only betray himself.
    In time he felt the easing up of the powerful engine, and then there was gravel sliding beneath braked wheels. The car stopped, and the fat man’s hand was on his shoulder.
    “McGregor, I’m stopping for gas. You can get washed up here.”
    The boy slid out of the car and away from the lone overhead light near the gas pump. His head pains came back while he walked into the small station and found the door to the bathroom. He closed it quickly, lockingit, and then he turned to the mirror. Beneath the bare, hanging bulb he looked at the face which belonged to him. His hair was red, dark red and matted with dried blood. His eyes had dark pupils and blue irises, but there were