the answer to the question that tormented him:
I wonder if my horse made it too?
W ALLED A RENA
7
The chestnut stallion stood motionless on a slight incline overlooking his herd. He might have been a giant statue on a pedestal except that no sculptor could have reproduced accurately his fineness of form and carriage.
He was the color of fire and the very air about him crackled as if he were discharging invisible flames. His head was small but his eyes were large and black and brilliant. It was his eyes that betrayed him for what he was—a wild stallion on guard, alert, questioning and dangerous.
Suddenly, and for the first time in many minutes, he moved. There was a quivering of his flaring nostrils, followed by a nervous twitching of his ears. His cascading mane and tail were picked up and riffled by a sudden gust of wind, then he was still again.
He was the veteran of hundreds of battles, completely unafraid of the intruder who sought his mares as openly as this black one. He raised his handsome headhigher, surveying the stranger’s small band and coveting it. His body rocked slightly on his long, clean legs, and the interplay of his muscles was beautiful to see. He exuded power, bearing himself as if he could never be conquered by man or beast, never be ridden or put between shafts. And he knew exactly what to do in the face of danger.
He turned to his own mares, moving with all the dignity of a thousand monarchs. He was the object of trembling reverence and awe until he snorted. Then the mares heeled like a giant pinwheel, starting to form a tight circle with their hindquarters at the outer edge. Mindful of their long-legged foals at their sides, some of the mares trotted more slowly than others. The red stallion moved upon them swiftly. Nipping the tardy mares gently, for he was considerate as well as intelligent, he hurried them into formation and then turned again to face his foe. He waited for the fight to be brought to him.
The moments dragged on. He waited for the strange stallion to move, to fidget. But it seemed that his foe, too, was content to wait. Such steadiness in another stallion was unknown to him. In all his years of combat it had never happened before. Little did he know that the strange stallion was his equal in all things and that he faced the fiercest battle of his life.
The Black Stallion wasn’t startled by what he had found. The trail he had followed was plainly marked with hoofprints as large as his own, and the scent of other horses had been strong in his nostrils. But now he did not go forward eagerly. He quieted his excited mares with a sharp reprimand and then stood stock-still while the breeze bent the tall cane around them.
Only the rapid rise and fall of his ribs and thebrightness of his eyes betrayed his excitement. He began to breathe harder, his strong muscles bulging beneath his glossy satin coat.
His eyes left the leader of the herd just once. That was when he glanced skyward at the flowing clouds and saw the great black bird that swept across the valley and perched itself on a dead tree beyond the cane.
The Black turned back to his foe, waiting for him to attack. His fury mounted like an oncoming wind and finally he shook his head, tossed his mane and rose high in the air. He came down hard, pawing the ground and lashing the wind. He squealed furiously as if to tell his foe that he, too, had led wild herds and conquered many stallions! Never had he been matched in courage and cunning! He feared no savage beast, no other stallion!
One sharp ear was turned to his own mares while the other remained pricked forward toward his foe. His fury continued to mount and again he tossed his head and rose, pawing the air. When he finally came down he seemed to be breathing fire.
Suddenly the Black moved forward. His mares followed him, smashing through the cane in their eagerness not to be left behind. But the Black had little thought for his band at this time and his speed
I wonder if my horse made it too?
W ALLED A RENA
7
The chestnut stallion stood motionless on a slight incline overlooking his herd. He might have been a giant statue on a pedestal except that no sculptor could have reproduced accurately his fineness of form and carriage.
He was the color of fire and the very air about him crackled as if he were discharging invisible flames. His head was small but his eyes were large and black and brilliant. It was his eyes that betrayed him for what he was—a wild stallion on guard, alert, questioning and dangerous.
Suddenly, and for the first time in many minutes, he moved. There was a quivering of his flaring nostrils, followed by a nervous twitching of his ears. His cascading mane and tail were picked up and riffled by a sudden gust of wind, then he was still again.
He was the veteran of hundreds of battles, completely unafraid of the intruder who sought his mares as openly as this black one. He raised his handsome headhigher, surveying the stranger’s small band and coveting it. His body rocked slightly on his long, clean legs, and the interplay of his muscles was beautiful to see. He exuded power, bearing himself as if he could never be conquered by man or beast, never be ridden or put between shafts. And he knew exactly what to do in the face of danger.
He turned to his own mares, moving with all the dignity of a thousand monarchs. He was the object of trembling reverence and awe until he snorted. Then the mares heeled like a giant pinwheel, starting to form a tight circle with their hindquarters at the outer edge. Mindful of their long-legged foals at their sides, some of the mares trotted more slowly than others. The red stallion moved upon them swiftly. Nipping the tardy mares gently, for he was considerate as well as intelligent, he hurried them into formation and then turned again to face his foe. He waited for the fight to be brought to him.
The moments dragged on. He waited for the strange stallion to move, to fidget. But it seemed that his foe, too, was content to wait. Such steadiness in another stallion was unknown to him. In all his years of combat it had never happened before. Little did he know that the strange stallion was his equal in all things and that he faced the fiercest battle of his life.
The Black Stallion wasn’t startled by what he had found. The trail he had followed was plainly marked with hoofprints as large as his own, and the scent of other horses had been strong in his nostrils. But now he did not go forward eagerly. He quieted his excited mares with a sharp reprimand and then stood stock-still while the breeze bent the tall cane around them.
Only the rapid rise and fall of his ribs and thebrightness of his eyes betrayed his excitement. He began to breathe harder, his strong muscles bulging beneath his glossy satin coat.
His eyes left the leader of the herd just once. That was when he glanced skyward at the flowing clouds and saw the great black bird that swept across the valley and perched itself on a dead tree beyond the cane.
The Black turned back to his foe, waiting for him to attack. His fury mounted like an oncoming wind and finally he shook his head, tossed his mane and rose high in the air. He came down hard, pawing the ground and lashing the wind. He squealed furiously as if to tell his foe that he, too, had led wild herds and conquered many stallions! Never had he been matched in courage and cunning! He feared no savage beast, no other stallion!
One sharp ear was turned to his own mares while the other remained pricked forward toward his foe. His fury continued to mount and again he tossed his head and rose, pawing the air. When he finally came down he seemed to be breathing fire.
Suddenly the Black moved forward. His mares followed him, smashing through the cane in their eagerness not to be left behind. But the Black had little thought for his band at this time and his speed
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