Looking around the yard, his gaze swept to the open field. It was getting light and already he could make out the high white fence at the north end. There was no one around. He tightened the belt holding up his corduroys and then pushed a hand through his red, tousled hair.

Turning on the lights, Henry appeared in the doorway. He beckoned Alec inside.

The Black was in his stall. He whistled softly when he saw Alec and shook his black mane, which mounted high, then fell low, like a crest.

“Find anything, Henry?”

“He was out of his stall. Someone’s been here … there’s been a fight of some kind. He’s sweated.” Henry ran a gnarled hand over the stallion’s body as it glistened in the bright light.

The Black moved nervously around his stall and didn’t quiet until Alec’s hand rested on the thin-skinned nostrils. “He seems to be okay though, Henry.”

“Yep.” Henry was quiet. In his hand he studied a long glass object wrapped in his handkerchief.

“What is it?” Alec asked.

“A hypo.”

“You mean a hypodermic needle?” Alec asked incredulously. “You found it here?”

“Yep … on the floor.”

“What’s it mean, Henry?” Alec moved away from the Black to get a closer view of the glass tube.

“Looks as if someone intended to use it on the Black.”

“Y’mean …” Alec’s heart thumped hard. “Henry, are you sure it hasn’t been used?”

“It’s filled. We’ll get the stuff analyzed today by the police and find out what it is. Maybe it’ll give us a clue of some kind.” He wrapped the needle in the handkerchief and said, “Also, there might be some fingerprints.…”

Alec moved over to the Black again. The stallion lowered his head and, rubbing it, Alec asked, “But why would anyone want to harm him, Henry?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Alec.” Then Henry added, “… perhaps better.”

“What do you mean?”

Henry moved over to Alec and placed a long arm on the stall door. “Well, here’s how I figure it out. The Black is a valuable horse since he beat out Sun Raider and Cyclone last June. There’s no doubt that he’s the fastest thing to set foot on any track here or abroad. Now to my way of thinkin’ there’s a good many reasons why somebody would want to steal the Black. He couldn’t be raced but he could be used for stud … that horse could do much to improve the bloodline of the American thoroughbred.…”

“But, Henry,” Alec interrupted, “he isn’t a registered thoroughbred. There are no papers … we know so little about where he came from or anything. If they won’t let us race him any more because no one knows who his sire and dam were, I don’t see how anyone could use him for stud either and get away with it.”

“Some folks might be able to get around it,” Henry answered. “But let me finish. Now whether or not anyone could get around the lack of registration papers for the Black is beside the point. Nobody tried to steal the Black … they tried to kill him; or at least that’s what I think we’ll find when we’ve had this stuff analyzed.” His gaze shifted to the hypodermic needle, then back to Alec. “Why would anyone want to kill the Black?”

“Hey, Henry, I don’t see how anyone could be that cruel.…” Then a vivid picture flashed before Alec; that of the small Arabian port where they had docked on his way home from visiting Uncle Ralph in India and where he had first seen the Black. Again he was looking down from the deck of the old freighter, Drake, and beholding a sight that made his body tremble with anger: The glistening black horse, too big to be pure Arabian, high on his hind legs; forelegs striking furiously in the air; white lather running from his body. And around his savage head was tied a scarf, covering his eyes. Two ropes led from the halter and four natives were attempting to pull him toward the ship. Standing behind the stallion was a dark-skinned man wearing a white turban.