He did not run away but stood still—as quiet as the morning—proud and long-limbed, waiting.

Alec snapped the shank on the halter ring. He never got tired of looking at his horse. He would always stand in awe of the Black, no matter how long he had him.

Few ever saw the true greatness in the Black without standing close to him. No picture could convey it. Nor could it be seen from fence rail or grandstand, as electric as his presence and speed might be. One had to stand beside him to appreciate the arrogance and nobility that were stamped on his small fine head. One had to rub him with soft cloths and brushes to see how well every part of his seventeen-hand body fitted together to make him the greatest runner of all time.

Alec watched the stallion’s ears, for his horse talked with his ears. Now they flicked south in the direction of the Everglades.

Alec answered with his hands, running them down the arched neck. Then he said aloud, “You too? Okay, we’ll go that way this morning if only for a change of scenery.”

His fingers rubbed the ridge of the stallion’s neck. “We’re on vacation, you and I,” he said. “We can do pretty much as we please with Henry gone.”

There was a long sun-filled day ahead of them. Early up and early to bed, that alone was the rule on vacation and an easy one to keep.

“You’re a good fellow,” Alec said softly. The Black turned his head toward him, as if listening attentively. Alec knew that his horse understood the warmth of his words if not the precise meaning, and that was all that mattered. He felt the stallion’s breath against his face. There was a gentleness, too, about his horse which few people ever saw. The large eyes gazed calmly and trustfully into his own.

“We’d probably get pretty lazy staying here all the time,” he said. “You and I need a change of seasons. I don’t think this place would be good for us at all.”

The Black snorted.

“Not that we can’t have fun here,” Alec continued, rubbing the soft muzzle. “And there’s no reason why we can’t see some of the swamp today. No reason at all.”

He paused before mounting, aware of an odd feeling coming over him. It was vague but there, an awareness that this morning somehow was not like other mornings. He shrugged his shoulders. Today was like any other day, he told himself, except that he would ride south for a change and do some exploring.

He passed a hand along the stallion’s backbone, waiting for the headiness, almost a feeling of momentary intoxication, to leave him. He decided that the feeling might be one of pure joy at having his horse to himself for a change.

It had taken three days of Henry’s absence for him to realize how glad he was to be free of the trainer’s yoke. He longed for complete abandon and freedom of movement, if only for a short while. Ahead of him was a long summer of racing, unremitting in its toil and preparation. And, when he wasn’t racing, there was work to be done at Hopeful Farm. Good help was hard to get and even more difficult to keep. Every free day would be used to help repair fences and barns, to harrow paddocks, to care for the new foals and to cut, bale and store hay for the winter.