Free The Black Stallion Revolts by Walter Farley Page B

two years ago, and thought I’d go nuts not having anything to do. My wife couldn’t see why I just couldn’t take it easy. Sure, why not? Her life was going on pretty much as always in spite of my retirement. A wife’s job doesn’t change much when the old man retires, but
his
does.”
    The fat man paused, but he did not even glance at McGregor. He knew the boy was eating. “Less than a month of loafing, and I felt like a car with a new engine, all ready to go tearing down the road. But I had no place to go. I just moped around the house until one day I noticed that the kids in our town didn’t have any place to play, and not much to do, either. I built an athleticfield for them, and a clubhouse. Then I went to another town and did the same kind of a job. Now I’ve been doing just that for two years. When youth organizations can pay me, I do it for what it costs. When they can’t pay, I do it for them anyway. Knowing the kids need it is enough compensation for me.”
    The fat man looked at McGregor. The boy had stopped eating, and three of the sandwiches were gone. He turned away again. “My work takes me all over the West. I’m due in a little town south of Phoenix by noon tomorrow.”
    “
Phoenix?
” For the first time McGregor showed interest.
    “Yes, Phoenix,” the fat man said, chuckling. “Oh, I’ll be there on time, all right. Lots of speed in this sweet baby.” His hands patted the wheel. “She’s marvelous on the flats, mountains, twists, turns, anything. They’re all the same to her. We’ll be leaving Utah in a couple of hours now.”
    “
Utah?
” Again McGregor disclosed interest.
    “Yes, Utah.” The man turned his eyes away from the road and caught McGregor’s gaze. Again he saw that look, and this time he was certain it was a hunted look. The kid was afraid, and running from something. He had seen that look in others. He didn’t like it. He was getting uneasy again.
    Focusing on the raod, he said, “But maybe you don’t want to go as far as Arizona. Maybe you’ll be getting out before?”
    Once more came the hesitant voice. “No.” There was a long pause, and then, “I—I’ll go to Arizona.”
    “You mean all the way to Phoenix?”
    “Ye-s, all the way to …” The voice went on but it was too low and the words too incoherent for the man to understand.
    Pudgy fingers tightened about the wheel. The fat man was conscious of fear mounting within him. Had he gotten into more than he’d bargained for? He’d come close to it once or twice before in picking up the wrong kind. But it was worse now with only mountains and desert country ahead, for to save time he had picked a road that was little used. The night would be a long one. He felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket. At least he could count on that for help, if he needed it.
    An hour passed, and then another. The fat man kept talking, as much to keep himself wide awake as to endure his fear. But McGregor never said a word. The kid’s eyes were closed, yet he wasn’t sleeping; his breathing was not regular enough for that. The man told himself he was only exaggerating his situation. There was nothing to fear. McGregor might be running from something, but he was unarmed and only a boy. Yet his body was lean and lithe and powerful, that of a born athlete. It was then that the man decided he would not pull up to the side of the road for an hour’s sleep, as was his usual custom, before going on.
    For several more hours he skillfully guided the plunging, powerful car through mountainous country. He was well into Arizona when his eyes became so heavy that he was hardly able to hold them open. If he had been alone, he would have stopped, for it was time to rest a while.
    The clock said almost one o’clock. He turned on the radio, hoping the loud dance music would keep him awake and alert. McGregor stirred. Glancing at him, the fat man saw the kid’s hand go to his pocket. He saw the bulge. McGregor had his hand on