The Black Stallion Revolts by Walter Farley

again, and their long trip back to Chicago would begin.
    All day long they pushed the truck hard, and only when night fell did they stop again to eat. Almost grudgingly they left the cab to go into a roadside diner and sit down at the counter. Glancing at the menu, one said, “I guess it’s the beef stew for me.”
    The other looked up at the counterman. “Beef stew for two,” he said. “An’ make it fast. We’re in a hurry.”
    Impatiently they awaited their orders. When their overloaded plates were put before them they began eating, paying no attention to anyone else in the diner or to the conversation that was taking place.
    The counterman said to the customer a few stools away from them, “They haven’t found any trace of that kid and his horse yet.”
    “Yeah, so I heard on the radio,” the customer replied. “But they’ll find them, all right. They got all kinds of planes looking, even helicopters.”
    “I ain’t so sure they will,” the counterman said.“That’s rough country, that part of Wyoming is. Some say it’s the worst in the States.”
    The customer nodded his head gravely. “I heard the kid and his horse started for the north. How’d they know that?”
    “The pilots said so. After they got the plane down in the clearing they went back an’ found the door open. They saw the horse taking off in a northerly direction.”
    “An’ the kid?”
    “He was riding him. It was pretty dark, but they could see the kid on him.”
    “Sure funny they’d take off like that.”
    “Yeah, but that’s the way it happened,” the counterman said. “It’s lucky the pilots themselves got help by this morning.”
    “Well, they had their radio. No reason why they shouldn’t have.”
    “I guess so.”
    The counterman got some coffee for the truck drivers who had shouted at him, and then returned. “You know all about that horse, don’t you?” he asked his customer.
    “Only what I heard. He’s called the Black … a racehorse or something. Pretty well known, isn’t he?”
    “I should say so,” the counterman replied quickly. “He’s a great—or at least he was at one time—a great racehorse. Now he’s a famous sire.”
    “A what?”
    “A sire, I said. Say, don’t you ever follow the races?”
    “No.”
    “Well, anyway, the Black fathered Satan … and Satan’s a champion.”
    “Oh,” said the customer. “Well, all I hope is that they find the kid.”
    “Sure,” agreed the counterman. “That’s all I care about, too.”
    The customer left his stool. “I don’t think we need to worry much about him. That part of Wyoming may be desolate, but at least he’s got a horse under him. A good horse can find his way out of a lot of jams that people couldn’t.”
    The counterman used his cleaning rag. “Yeah,” he said, “and what a horse, the best there is!”
    “
Hey, you!
”
    The counterman turned quickly to the two truck drivers. “Coming, gentlemen,” he said.
    “Give us a check,” one said.
    “Yes,
sir.
” He wanted no trouble with these men.
    The truck drivers left the diner and, climbing into their cab, drove off into the night. In the back of the trailer, Alec Ramsay still slept. Many more miles piled up behind him, taking him ever farther away from Wyoming and the great search that had begun for him and the Black.

T HE S EARCH
5
    An hour after the plane had come down in its forced landing, the black stallion moved slowly through the woods. Crazed by his colic cramps, he had entered the woods in full gallop, seeking relief by speed and violent action. But the darkness and the density of the trees had slowed him to a walk. He’d sweated and pawed in his frustration. He had wanted to run and, failing that, to lie down and roll and kick. He’d found he could do neither, for the woods were solid and alive with thickly grown trees, giving him room only to wind his way among them. Thus, he had been forced to stay on his feet, to walk … and this light exercise,