It was in the direction of a towering shade tree, beneath which the black stallion was grazing at the end of a long shank.

At the other end of the shank Alec Ramsay was sitting lazily on the ground, saying, “I’d do it if he’d only let me.” He was chewing a blade of grass.

Henry Dailey, sitting in a canvas chair tilted against the tree trunk, asked, “If he let you do what?” He didn’t bother to remove the battered gray hat from his eyes.

“Braid his forelock.”

“Humph,” the stocky trainer grunted. “The likes of him’s got no use for braids. That’s for women an’ tame horses an’ he knows it.”

“Excuse me,” the visitor said.

Startled, the boy and trainer turned quickly.

“You’re a quiet one now,” Henry Dailey said, lifting his hat the better to see their visitor.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the visitor apologized.

“Not important,” Henry answered, chuckling. “We startle easy, Alec and I do. It’s him that’s the calm one.” He gestured with his chin in the direction of the stallion. The Black was chomping grass in short, tearing bites. “But I wouldn’t get any closer to him if you don’t want to get kicked,” he warned.

“Oh, I don’t intend to! I’m closer than I thought I’d ever be right now—that is, to him and you, too. I’ve always just sat in the stands and watched, never dreaming … Well, what I mean is that after I saw that wonderful race yesterday I said to myself, ‘If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to talk to the men who know him best, Alec Ramsay and Henry Dailey! So here I am. It’s perfectly all right with the policeman at the gate if you’re worrying about how I got in. He gave me this pass.”

Henry Dailey smiled at the white paper being waved at him and let the front legs of his chair drop to the ground. “We’re not worrying,” he said. “Any friend of the Black is welcome ’round here. Besides, after yesterday it’s been much too quiet.”

The visitor nodded understandingly and then patted the folded newspapers he was carrying under his arm. “All the sports writers in the city must have followed you to the barn,” he said. “I’ve read every word they wrote.”

“They meant well,” Henry said, turning to look at the grazing horse. As the reporters had written, there wasn’t a mark on the Black to indicate he’d been in the most grueling race of his life. The heavy leaden weights put in his saddle pad by the track handicapper hadn’t broken him down. He had the growth and courage to carry such a burden. His sinews were as strong and resilient as steel wires. He was all stallion with nothing immature about him—nor had he ever been coddled. He’d run free and his muscles had been strengthened for it. His hide was tough and clean and satin-smooth, whipped by rains and wind, warmed dry by many suns. He was arrogant, yes. Yet despite his arrogance he responded to the light touch of kindness and understanding which Alec gave him.

“The tame horse doesn’t step on this earth that can run with the Black,” the visitor said. “I saw him when he first raced … that year in Chicago.”

Alec turned to the visitor, studying him quietly before saying, “He’d been a killer of horses. It was instinct that made him fight that day. He’s come a long way since then.”

“You got him to go on,” the visitor said, admiration in his eyes and voice. “You made him race.”

“I asked him,” Alec corrected, turning back to his horse. “One doesn’t make him do anything.”

“I’d like to know more,” the visitor said, almost impatient now. “What’s he like personally? The little things, I mean, those that don’t get in the papers.”

Henry laughed.