The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1945-06-29
CHAPTER III

the Albino right there in the stall!
Was the power and ferocity OF the
great outlaw enclosed within that
mottled baby hide of pink and
white? This thought made shivers 60
through Ken.
Flicka had finished her mash. Ken
lifted the bucket down and went to
the door of the barn. He swung the
top half open and looked out. It had
stopped showing. The wind had re-
versed itself and had blown the
storm back into the east whence 1t
had come. There was a riot Of scud-
ding clouds in the sky with big stars
close and bright, going in and out
between them. It was much warmer.
Ken folded his arms on the bottom
half of the Dutch door and leaned
there thinking.
There were still other shadow
shapes woven into the aura that en-
circled the foal like the predictions
Sf fortune-teller.
That word Rob Mclaughlin had
dropped so casually into Ken's
thought stream that day - race
horse
Race horse. It could not, of
course, be Flicka, owing to the
thickened tendon which was the re-
suit of her infection. But why not
a colt of Flicka's? With sweet and
tractab1e mother to teach him man.
ners, with the power and speed
which came down to every one of the
Albino's line-why not? 1t had been
Nell who had first made this sug-
gestion. Since then it had not been
out Of Ken's mind.
Ken turned from the barn door
and ran his hand down that right
hind leg of Flicka's. It was his
fault-that thickened tendon-be-
cause he had made them catch her
for him.
"But you're not sorry, are you,
Flicka?" he whispered, going to her
head, because now you've got
me"
Her face, leaning against him,
was very still and oontented.
Ken took the lantern, gave one
last look backward, and then left
the barn, closing the door tightly
behind him. He ran down through
the gorge.
In front Of the rambling stone
ranch house were several acres of
lawn, called by his mother, the
Green, after the neat little village
Greens of New England where she
had spent her childhood. It was
covered with a thin sheet Of snow.
Ken ran across it to the house, and,
in the warm kitchen, took off his
slicker and sou'wester and drank
the hot chocolate Howard had made.
While they sat drinking, the two
boys engaged in one Of the wran-
Cling, incomprehensible and wholly
oblque discussions which make
adult listeners conclude that the con-
stitution of boys minds, and their
language, have nothing to do with
reason, logic or natural facts.
''Promisel" +
'Let 60 Of mel"
"But he's mine"
''My tongues not yours"
"Prom-" Ken's voice rose.
''Sh-sh-sh-" warned Howard. !.
But Ken was conscious of being
in the right. If their father heard
the noise and discovered it was be-
cause Howard wouldn't promise not
to tell about Ken's colt before he
had a chance to, Howard would get
it in the neck.
"Promise. PROMISED PROMISE!"
''AIl right, promise. Get off my
back"
Bound for the stables and the colt,
they paused behind the house at the
sight of two strange cars. Visitors.
Visitors brought home to the ranch
from the dinner party last night.
They recognized the cars. The blue
one belonged to Colonel Morton Har-
ris, an old Glassmate Of their
fathers at West Point, now Colonel
Of Artillery at Fort Francis War
rem. The gray one belonged to
Charles Sargent, millionaire horse
breeder, owner of the famous rae
ing stud, Appalachian. Sargent had
his home ranch not twenty-five
miles from the Goose Bar.
Charley Sargent and Mort Har-
ris," said Howard airily. "That's
keen. No church today"
But Ken stood looking at the cars
and thinking. Charley Sargent, tall
and thin as a beanpole in his narrow
Cheyenne pants-always kidding
and clowning-his long brown face
under the widebrimmed western hat
looking as Gary Cooper's might
when he got older-it was always
fun when Charley Sargent came to
visit, and he might talk about his