The horse came to a dead, rigid stop. It was death dark and they had just entered the heart of the marl gully.
He was already fidgety and grew urgent. “Come on, Rayside,” he shouted, “giddup.” But the mare shook, stamped, shuddered.
He stroked her mane, but a strange strong-headedness took hold of her. She flung her ears forward.
Bellon dismounted, and the mare’s inelegant tail switched her bony flanks. He coaxed and patted her, but all she did was jerk her head the more.
Resorting to a flashlight, Bellon clicked it at her feet.
As the glare hit the marl, he recoiled, as one struck, at the spectacle it revealed—a little Negro baby sleeping in the marl!
“God, what’s next!”
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