The Black Stallion Revolts by Walter Farley

something! A gun? Could the kid have a gun there? He reached for his own. “What are you doing, McGregor? What do you have in your pocket?”
    The boy’s eyes were furtive. “N-nothing,” he said.
    “Play square with me,” the fat man said. “If I hadn’t picked you up …” The music blared, drowning out his words, and then became softer. “You pull a gun on me, and I’ll put this car into that ravine. It’ll be the end of both of us.”
    “No gun,” the boy said. He held the dark-stained money in his hand for the fat man to see.
    The big shoulders relaxed behind the wheel. The man turned his eyes away. “That’s a lot of money.” He said just that, and nothing more. Where the kid had gotten it was none of his business.
Stay out of this
, he told himself.
Get rid of him as soon as you can
.
    He concentrated on his driving. He took the car down the last mountainside with the rush of a toboggan. Going across a great open stretch of land, he stepped even harder upon the accelerator. He turned up the radio. Another hour passed and his heavy lids began dropping again in spite of all he could do. Finally he knew he had to close his eyes, if only for a few minutes. It was either that or fall asleep behind the wheel.
    Slowing the car, he said, “My eyes are tired. I’mgoing to rest them for a few minutes.” He didn’t know if the boy heard him. It didn’t matter. He had to stop, and he had a gun to protect himself.
    He kept the rear wheels of the convertible on the road. He had passed through this desert wasteland before, and knew what it meant to get his car stuck in the sand. He wanted none of that tonight. He turned off the engine, but not the radio. He wouldn’t sleep. He’d just close his eyes, rest them for a little while.
    The music stopped and the announcer gave the time. Two o’clock. He adjusted the clock on the dashboard. The kid was still huddled in the corner, his eyes closed. He shut his own eyes. A moment passed, another. Or was it an hour? Was he dreaming or did he hear a voice saying, “
… south of Salt Lake City. The three men were captured an hour after the daring theft, but the boy who accompanied them escaped the police. Also missing is the money, two hundred dollars, taken from the diner’s cashier. The boy is believed to have the money. His description is: between sixteen and eighteen years of age, about five feet five inches, red hair, and lightly built. He was injured during the fight that took place in the diner. He’ll have cuts and abrasions on face and body. The Utah state police …
”
    The fat man opened his eyes. He turned, to find the boy listening and staring at him. “Get out,” the man said. “Stay outside the car until I’m ready to go. I can’t trust you now that I know what you’re running from.”
    When the man was alone he locked the doors, telling himself that he didn’t know anything for certain. The boy might not be the same one they were looking for, even though the description fitted, the money fitted. He was just being careful. There was no sense takingany chances. The kid might lift his gun—that is, if it
was
the same kid. As long as he didn’t get hurt himself, this was none of his business. Turning kids over to the police wasn’t for him. Besides, he was a long way from Salt Lake City and Utah. He didn’t want to do anything that would keep him from his work, his work helping young people.…
    The fat man went to sleep, thus missing still another news announcement that had to do with another boy—“
… the search through northwestern Wyoming for Alec Ramsay and his famous black horse is still going on. Even now, during this, the second night, planes are circling above the ranges, their pilots watching for a light, a signal from Alec Ramsay to indicate that he’s still alive. But experienced woodsmen are pessimistic over the chances of the boy’s safety. They say the possibility of his survival in that desolate country is slight.