And his own eyes gleamed with a light equally bright. He had to have this colt. He held the long whip ready but did not want to use it. No whip marks should mar such a beautiful body.

The black colt rose as high as he could on his hind legs as if to frighten the man. Ibn al Khaldun roared his laughter and cracked his whip again to send the colt back. But suddenly, before he could gather up his whip, the colt had bolted forward, charging hard against the chieftain’s mount, long legs thrashing out trying to reach him in the saddle! The man hurled himself away from the colt’s forelegs, but one hoof struck his shoulder. In pain and anger, he brought down the butt of his whip hard against the colt’s nose. Maddened with pain, the colt struck back. Ibn al Khaldun felt another hoof strike his side, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the ground!

The mounted men broke their line before the relentless onslaught of the young stallion. They were close enough to him to use their ropes, and they attempted to wrap them about his neck, hoping to bring him down. Yet they moved cautiously, fearful now of the colt’s slashing teeth and hooves, which had caught them and their chieftain so unprepared.

The men fought back as the black colt continued to lash out with cutting hooves, using all the strength and energy in his young body. Avoiding their ropes, he went forward, then backward, as cunning and quick as a wild animal on the attack, fighting for his life.

There were just too many of them for Shêtân to win. He was breathing heavily and blood spewed from the cut on his nose. An intense hatred for all men had replaced the fury in his eyes. Turning suddenly, he sped up a canyon at the edge of the pasture in an attempt to outrun them.

The colt made for a narrow, steep trail that wild goats used in their ascent to the mountaintops. Jumping over snags and boulders, he reached it and began climbing, not knowing what lay beyond, only that there was no turning back.

Below him the mounted men came to a halt, realizing the path was too narrow and steep for them as well as for the black colt. It was only a question of time and height before he had to come down or fall down.

Having regained his seat in the saddle, Ibn al Khaldun watched the colt climb higher and, it seemed, forever higher up the steep mountain slope. He looked like a black spider in the moonlight, spread-eagled across the trail, hard against the mountainside. No horse in the world could stand upright against such a steep grade. In a few minutes the colt would tumble over backward to his grave. Already he was veering backward, teetering precariously, his body weight causing him to lose his balance.

Ibn al Khaldun decided quickly that he did not want to witness the colt falling to the rocks below. That which he did not see he would not remember. The one-armed chieftain turned away in disgust. The colt had lost as he had lost. To avoid tribal war, they must leave quickly. They dared not remain to raid the other horses, as their numbers were too small. If they were lucky, Abu Já Kub ben Ishak might never know which of his enemies had killed the old man, and perhaps he would see the death of the black colt as an accident.

It was a pity, Khaldun thought. Perhaps the black colt would have been the perfect horse, the one of destiny. He signaled the others with a low whistle. Turning his gray stallion, Ibn al Khaldun led his men away.

Shêtân plunged heavily up the trail, his body heaving to compensate for the steepness of the ascent.