When he reached the short, cropped grass, his strides lengthened as he swept toward the boy who awaited him. He was beautiful, swift and strong, and his chestnut coat and mane were the glowing red of fire.

The man put down his binoculars when the stallion came to a stop before the boy. It’s so good to have Steve back again in Blue Valley, he thought. Flame’s glad. I’m glad. Everybody’s happy. Smiling contentedly, the man turned once more to his writing.

Tall and long limbed, the red stallion stood as motionless as a statue; his small head was raised high, not in defiance but in haughty grandeur. Yet his large eyes never left the boy and there was soft recognition in them. Finally he tossed his head and his heavy mane rose and fell with the high arch of his neck.

“Flame.”

Small ears pricked forward at the sound of Steve Duncan’s voice. Long, delicate nostrils quivered. Then, without further hesitation, the stallion moved toward the boy.

Steve touched the silken neck and ran his fingers through the tousled mane, gently smoothing it. Flame stood quietly, with only his eyes moving as they turned from Steve to the band that had strayed in the direction of the water pool, then back to the boy again. And knowing now that Flame had not forgotten him during the ten months he had been away, Steve was content just to stand there beside him and to look at him.

Never was there a horse so beautiful! No other could match the finely molded body or the giant muscles that moved so smoothly beneath tight, sliding skin. No equal did he have in strength of legs and withers, chest and shoulders. And his head was the most beautiful part of him, for every inch of it disclosed the preponderance of Arabian blood that was in this stallion. It was raised high, yet set at an angle, accentuating the high curve at the crest of his long neck. It was wedge-shaped, broad in the forehead and tapering down to long, delicate nostrils. The ears were small and close together; just now they were pricked, almost touching at the tips. The large eyes, set wide apart, were most expressive, glaring wildly when the stallion’s fury was aroused and becoming soft and warm when there was nothing to fear or fight.

That Flame had fought often and hard was easily seen in the scars that marked his red coat. Some were jagged, made by the cutting, ravaging teeth of fighting stallions. Others were clean and straight, left by pounding, battering hoofs. Some were old, some new. All of them made this giant stallion what he was, King of the Band. He had won his leadership through fighting; he would lose it the same way.

Steve swept his hands across the muscled withers. He leaned a little on the stallion’s back, and the red coat beneath his hands quivered.

“Oh, Flame,” he said. “It’s good … so good to be back.”

For a moment the boy just stood there. Never had this great stallion known the touch of hands before his, he knew. Never had Flame even seen human beings before Steve and his friend Pitch had found Blue Valley late last summer. It had taken time to convince Flame that he and his band had nothing to fear from Steve’s and Pitch’s presence, nothing to fight. But finally Steve had won the stallion’s love and confidence.