The Black Stallion Revolts by Walter Farley Page B

the thickets with a clatter. But he paid little attention to them, never slackening his easy strides.
    Several hours later he came to an open plateau and stopped to graze upon the bleached mountain grass. Suddenly alert, he raised his head, holding long blades of the grass between his lips. Only his ears had caught the movement of his foe, for it was downwind. He whirled to meet the headlong rush of an enemy from the cover of the woods.
    The trumpet roar of the bull moose was low and guttural at first. Quickly it rose to a high-pitched scream, only to descend to the roar again, and end with a grunt. He charged, his heavy antlers cleaving the air in their great spread and length.
    The stallion took one look at this strange body that came hurtling toward him, a body taller than his own and made more startling by the thick, bony slabs that were pointed his way. He knew better than to rise and clash in deadlock with that horned head. Instead, he sprang swiftly away, avoiding the low-charging attack. He threw himself on the yellowish gray back in violent assault, hoping by his weight alone to bring it to the ground. But his foe began slipping away from him, sowith raking teeth the stallion bit deeply into the moose’s dark-brown neck, ripping and tearing. As he moved off, his feet slipped, and before he could right himself, the horned head had slashed his belly. He screamed, whirled, and let fly his hind legs, landing so hard a blow that it sent his enemy down and rolling.
    With savage speed he attacked again, his pounding forefeet seeking the rolling body. Again he landed crushing, pommeling blows, but his foe came up, and its pointed head found his flesh again. The stallion felt more pain and his fury mounted. His eyes were bloodred as he flung himself full upon his opponent. With crashing forefeet he battered it across the back of its neck, unmindful now of his own pain. Again he lodged his teeth into ravaged flesh.
    Yet once more his foe succeeded in heaving up beneath him, forcing him to relinquish his hold and fall backward. He rolled on the ground, feeling the long horns after him, searching to rip open his stomach. Only the uncanny agility he had inherited from his desert forebears saved him them. He avoided the plunging head, and got to his feet. Now he was terrible in his cunning. He circled his foe warily, feinted and attacked from behind and from the side, avoiding altogether those sharp bony prongs that had already ripped open his body. He was watchful every second, waiting for his enemy to stumble, to be caught off guard. Then he would launch his assault.
    With the black stallion using all of his cunning and strength, the end came quickly. No animal of the wild country could have met an adversary so worthy, soruthless. The great bull moose knew this now that it was too late. He coughed, the choking cough of death. And with the sound of it, the black stallion came in again for a fresh and final assault. He feinted to the front, and the moose’s head went down to fend him off. The stallion swerved and dealt his foe a blow from the side, sending him staggering. Then he reared and his powerful forelegs came down together, splitting the bull moose’s skull.
    For a moment the Black stood over the great body beneath him, and his loud, clarion call of conquest was heard for the first time in those regions. He went to the edge of the plateau. Before him was an abrupt, sheer drop of many thousands of feet to lower country. He stood there, his body bleeding from his wounds, his breath coming fast from his combat. He looked below at the canyons, then up and beyond, taking in the range upon range of mountains with their great woods and peaks, all that mysterious, wild country which seemed to have no end. As though in warning to its inhabitants, he screamed his high-pitched battle cry once more, and the great wilderness echoed his call, resounding from the mountainsides until the very air was alive with the ring of it. When