The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt by Walter Farley Page B

the Carlisle and Indiana County fairs, because Symbol is showing some speed. I’m hoping for even better results here at Clearfield. We’ll be here a week, then on to the Bedford Fair. Write to me c/o race secretary at either place
.
    George and I send our very best to you, and we’d sure like a photograph of the colt when you get one
.
    Your friend
,
Jimmy Creech
    Tom reread the letter before starting down the hill toward the barn.
    I’ve been doing the right thing then
, he thought happily.
I’ve been trying to win the colt’s confidence just as Jimmy has told me to do
.
    When Tom reached the paddock, he found his uncle leaning on the fence. The colt was racing about, while the mare watched him. The Queen suddenly whirled, following the colt about the paddock. Together they ran, sending large divots of earth flying in all directions.
    â€œThey ought to be out in the pasture, all right,” Uncle Wilmer said.
    â€œI’m putting them out tomorrow morning,” Tom shouted, as the colt flung his hind legs high behind him, imitating his mother.
    Uncle Wilmer nodded approvingly, then said, “You shoulda done it days ago.”
    Tom said nothing until the mare and colt had stopped running; then, turning to his uncle, he asked, “Where can I buy a halter in town?”
    â€œHeh?” his uncle asked, moving closer to Tom.
    Tom repeated his question in a louder voice.
    â€œWhat you want it for?” Uncle Wilmer asked.
    Tom gestured in the direction of the colt.
    â€œDon’t need a halter yet,” the man said. “Y’won’t need one for a couple months at least.”
    Tom raised the envelope he held in his hand. “Jimmy Creech wrote—” he began.
    Uncle Wilmer shook his head so severely that the battered hat toppled from his head. Bending down to pick it up, he muttered, “Jimmy Creech. All I hear from you is Jimmy Creech.”
    Tom said nothing, and his uncle turned to look at the horses.
    Shrugging his shoulders, Uncle Wilmer continued, “If it was my colt instead of Jimmy Creech’s, I’d—” He paused and, shaking his head again, added, “But it ain’t. I got a pony halter you can use. It’ll fit him. You won’t find anything better in town.”
    Tom waited while his uncle went into the barn and came out again, carrying the halter.
    There was an unusual gleam in Uncle Wilmer’s eyes as he tossed the halter to Tom, saying, “You go ahead, then.”
    Tom felt the leather and found it soft. Jimmy had said a web halter, if he could get one, but certainly this would do until he was able to find a web halter.
But
, he decided,
I’d better punch a couple more holes so I can make it smaller; the colt’s head isn’t very big
. Turning to his uncle, he asked him for his jackknife and Uncle Wilmer produced it from his pocket.
    â€œI’ll do it,” Uncle Wilmer said. “You just hold the strap up against the fence here.”
    The man made several attempts to locate the strap before the point of his knife sunk into the leather. “Eyesight ain’t what it used to be,” he muttered. “I remember the day when out huntin’ I could pick off a rabbit over two hundred yards—” His voice descended to the depths of his chest, and Tom turned to look at the colt.
    There was a flurry of flashing legs as the colt once again dashed about the paddock, while his mother remained still, grazing, with only an occasional look at him. Taking too sharp a corner, the colt stumbled and went down hard. He lay still for a few seconds, then raised his head, looking dazed and a little surprised by his sudden collapse. He pulled his forelegs up and then just sat there, still looking about him. Finally he uttered a short snicker, his hind legs came up, and once more he was on his way, madly encircling the paddock, pausing only occasionally to rear upon his hind legs and paw the air with his