The Young Black Stallion Read Free Page B

old one’s strength was lessening every day. It was time to get him down to the encampment in the valley. The young man looked below for the herders who would take their place in this high upper pasture, but there was no sign of them. It was too early.
    Turning to the old man, he shook him gently. “Please, Great Father, we will go now. I will help you to your feet.” But the old one did not stir, except for mumbling to himself as if asleep.
    Thrusting his turbaned head close to that of the old man, the young herder tried again. “Wake up, Great Father. You’re dreaming. It is time for us to go. If you remain here in the cold, your only destiny is death.” He shook the thin shoulders harder than before.
    Finally the old man opened his small, piercing eyes and found the strength somewhere to speak. “I cannot go,” he said, his voice but a whisper. “You no longer have need of me.”
    “By the love of the Prophet!” cried the young man. “You are old and sick in the head, Great Father. You cannot stay here. As powerful as you are, I will not allow it. I will go below. I will return with others and we will carry you away!”
    Having made up his mind, the young man turned abruptly and made for the trail to the valley floor.
    For several minutes the old man sat there, motionless. Then slowly he struggled to his feet and stood very straight despite the strong wind that buffeted his body. He frowned as he squinted into the dark shadows of the fast-approaching night. Suddenly he felt terribly alone beneath the vastness of the mountains and the unknowable peaks looming above him. The terrifying stillness was broken by the loud wail of an animal in the distance. He sought to place the cry but could not recognize it.
    Darkness settled on the pasture. He remainedwhere he was, conscious only of a bird of night circling lazily above him.
    Then a full yellow moon began to rise above the craggy ridge that bordered the valley. Turning his head, the old man looked at the horses close by. The magnificence of the black colt, the encampment hidden below in the remote valley, the sheltering mountains over which no intruders could come without betraying their approach—these things were all according to the plan of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak and his forefathers.
    So the black colt, the one he knew to be like no earthly horse he had ever seen, would be forever safe.
    The lone Bedouin scout lay on the cold stone, having watched and listened to the two herders until the old man had been left alone. Now he crawled forward with the adeptness and quietness of the born desert raider. If the old man cried out, he would have to kill him. The thought of killing the ancient one disturbed him. But his chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun, who was not far behind, had told him he must be prepared to do so. He should not wonder at his fear of killing the old man, for the ancient one’s reputation was well-known throughout the land. He was more than a herder of horses, a nomadic driver. He was a legendary chieftain in his own right, a survivor in a land soaked in the blood of slaughtered tribes. There were some who said he was too close to the Prophet to ever die.
    The scout would soon know. He had never killed before, but he had been told it was simple. You flicked your knife, and they were dead. He wasn’t afraid to kill, he told himself, only
not
to kill. For Ibn al Khaldun,who wanted the black colt, would have his head if he failed to silence the guard.
    But the scout did not think that he would need to kill. All he had to do was suddenly appear by the old man’s side, show his dagger and say, “Be quiet, Father, and you will live to see the dawn.” Perhaps he would have to clamp his hand over the old man’s mouth. The ancient one would be too feeble to resist.
    Drawing his long knife, the scout moved cautiously toward the old man. The herder stood alone in the moonlight as if asleep on his feet. It would be easy, very easy.

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