The red stallion stood on the island cliff,
silhouetted against the moonlit walls like a giant
statue. When Steve Duncan saw him, he knew
this was his
horse.
His quest after the great stallion led Steve into a
fascinating lost world-a world untouched since the days
of the Spanish Conquistadores. With Steve, the
reader enters this dangerous world and meets Flame, the
wild horse of his dreams.
The author of the popular Black Stallion series
has written another exciting and moving horse
disstory
for young readers.
Books by
WALTER FARLEY
The Black Stallion
The Black Stallion Returns
Son of the Black Stallion
The Island Stallion
The Black Stallion and Satan
The Black Stallion's Blood Bay Colt
The Island Stallion's Fury
The Black Stallion's Filly
The Black Stallion Revolts
The Black Stallion's Sulky Colt
The Island Stallion Races
The Black Stallion's Courage
The Black Stallion Mystery
The Black Stallion and Flame
The Black Stallion Challenged
The Black Stallion's Ghost
The Black Stallion and the Girl
Man o" War
All titles available in both paperback
and hardcover editions
The Island Stallion
by WALTER FARLEY
RANDOM HOUSENEW YORK
Copyright 1948 by Walter Farley Copyright
renewed 1976 by Walter Farley
All rights reserved under International and
Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States
by Random House, Inc.,
New York, and simultaneously in Canada
by Random House
of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication
Data
Farley, Walter
The island stallion
New York, Random House [1948]
I. TitlePZ10.3.F22LJ 48-8397
ISBN: 0-394-80604-2 (trade hardcover)
0-394-90604-7 (library binding)
0-394-84376-2 (trade paperback)
Dedicated to
all boys and girls who love horses but never have
had one of their own
Contents
1.
ISLAND OF LOST HORSES3
2.bull WHIP AND BOTTLE18
3.unpleasant AWAKENING27
4.
THE STALLION ON THE CLIFF 38
5.the SEARCHBLEDG
6.underground WORLD56
7.lo/!68
8.
fight of the stallions82
9.the piebald king97
70.the chase104
11.
sucking death115
12.
steve makes a promise123
13.
lowered head137
14.
a boy and his horse149
15.
pitch makes his move161
16.
winged hoofs173
17.
steve's decision

18.
LAST DAY188
19.
RAGING DEMONSFF197
20.
Island of Lost Horses
Azul Island. Latitude 14dg3' North.
Longitude 56dg28'
West.
The freighter
Horn,
nine days out of New York City, was
a mile from Azul Island, and running parallel
to it. The
freighter's only passenger, Steve Duncan,
stood beside the
captain at the bow of the ship. Steve wore only a
pair of
swimming trunks, and his tanned, lithe body was wet
with
the spray that whipped from the prow of the
Horn
as she
dipped to meet each oncoming wave. Steve had
been
waiting many hours for his first sight of Azul Island.
The captain passed his binoculars to Steve,
saying, "We
can't get any closer, Steve. Dangerous reefs
there. I've never
been this close before."
Through the glasses, Steve could see the long white
line
of churning waters foaming across the reef between the ship
and the island. He watched the waters turn from white
to
blue-black once they had crossed the reef.
Surging forward, the waves gathered momentum and
height, only to disappear within the mist which hung like a
gray veil about the base of Azul Island. Then
there would be a sudden, bursting whiteness again,
momentarily blotting out the
gray, as the waves smashed heavily against what
Steve knew
must be a formidable wall of stone.
But above the mist he could see more of Azul Island,
for the rock, a yellowish gold in color, rose a
thousand or more
feet above the sea. It was this massive rock that
held his gaze
as the
Horn
ran the length of the island. Azul Island was unlike
any of the other islands they had passed in the
Caribbean Sea. Not only did it differ in color
from the green
mountain ranges Steve had seen, but there were no
peaks or ravines or indentations of any kind over
its smooth, bare surface. The top of Azul
Island seemed to be rounded off at one height, and
Steve could only think of it as a huge stone that had
been dropped into the sea. It was cold and barren, as
though vegetation would have none of it.
The captain said, "Azul means blue in
Spanish. I don't see where it gets its name.
There's nothing but yellow
rock."
"There's supposed to be a plain at one end of the
island,"
Steve said.
"We're about opposite it now," the captain
returned, "but the mist is blanketing it. That is,
if you want to call it a plain. From the sea, it's
always looked like a sandy spit. Oh, it's somewhat
rolling and green in spots, but a sailor
might as well be drowned in the sea as be
shipwrecked on it.
Azul Island is one of the most forlorn places
I've ever seen."
The captain paused and turned to the boy. "How did
you
know about
the
plain? That is, if you don't mind my
asking, Steve. Your interest in Azul Island has
aroused my
curiosity. I was surprised that you even knew of
it, because
the only map you'll ever find it on is our
large-scale navigation map of this area. And it's
nowhere near any of the airline routes. I just can't
figure out
..."
The boy's eyes were still turned shoreward as he said,
"A
very good friend of mine, Phil Pitcher, now lives on
Antago. He wrote me about Azul Island a
few weeks ago."
"Phil Pitcher," the captain repeated thoughtfully.
"I believe I remember him, Steve. Sort
of a small, thin man,
wearing steel-rimmed glasses?"
"That's Pitch, all right." Steve smiled. "I
think he did get down to Antago on the
Horn
at that."
"He sure did," the captain said, laughing. "If
you don't go to Antago on my ship, you don't go
at all. We're the
only line that puts in at Antago; it's too far
off the shipping
lanes for any of the larger lines to bother with. Sure,
I remember your Phil Pitcher. He spent most
of his time
reading during the trip, but every once in a while he'd
come
out of his shell and tell me about himself. It seems he
was a
little worried about having given up a job he'd had
practically all his life to go to Antago. He
wasn't quite sure
at the time that he'd done the right thing."
"He's sure now," Steve said quietly. "From
what he says
in his letters, he's happier than he ever was at
home. He
wasn't very happy at home. Pitch lived
next door to us for as
long as I can remember, and he was pretty much a
part of our family. We all knew he hated his
job. He was a bookkeeper in the office of a big
lumberyard, and the job kept him inside all the time.
He didn't like that. I guess
everyone had heard Pitch say at one time or
another that he was going to quit and go to Antago
to live with his stepbrother, Tom, who has a sugar
plantation there. But no one believed him. Then a little
over a year ago he did it. Quit just as he'd
said he would, and went to Antago."
"Good man," the captain said, smiling.
"Yes," Steve said seriously, "we were so glad
he finally did what he'd always wanted to do. But
we've all missed him very much."
"He certainly didn't talk like a bookkeeper,"
the captain recollected. "You should have heard some of the
tales he told me about the Conquistadores and the
Spanish Conquest. They were enough to make your head
spin."
"Pitch was always interested in the Conquistadores. That
was another reason he preferred to come down here rather
than go anywhere else. He's a lot closer to them
here."
"Then it's Pitch you're visiting on Antago,"
the captain said.
Steve nodded. "He's been asking Dad and me
to get down to see him. Dad couldn't make it very
well with his work and all, but he wanted me to go. I
had planned to visit Pitch early next summer,
instead of coming down now when I only have a few
weeks before school opens again, but ..." Steve
stopped, his gaze shifting uneasily between the captain
and the shoreline of Azul Island. He hadn't meant
to divulge so much.
The captain was looking at him questioningly, waiting.
"I-I mean I just decided to come now," Steve
said, without meeting the captain's eyes.
Smiling, the captain said, "But you'll have seventeen
or eighteen days on Antago before we pick you up
on the
return trip. Maybe you'll find that long enough to be
there."
"Sure," Steve said. "Maybe I will."
A few minutes later the captain left, and
Steve stood
alone at the rail as the
Horn
rounded the island and made its
way south toward Antago, twenty miles away.
He stayed at
the bow until he could no longer see the yellow,
dome-
shaped top of Azul Island, then went below.
In his cabin, he took a worn and much-handled
newspaper clipping from the pocket of his suitcase.
It was a
picture taken on the plain of Azul Island, and
Pitch had
enclosed it in his last letter. It was because of this clipping,
and only because of it, that he was visiting Pitch now
instead of waiting until next summer. He couldn't
have
stayed at home, wondering. He had to know.
Steve's dark, somber eyes studied the canyon in
the picture. He noted again the high walls,
tapering down to
the sea; the rolling, barren land in front; and the
cliff at the
end of the canyon, hanging two hundred feet or more
above
the floor. And then his intent gaze became fixed upon
the
group of horses running down the canyon
before the many
men who followed. The head of a man wearing glasses
was
encircled in pencil, and alongside was the notation
"Me."
A flicker of a smile passed over Steve's
face before he turned to the caption beneath the picture.
He read it
carefully, slowly, even though he could have recited it
word
for word:
CARIBBEAN ROUNDUP!-LAST week a group of
men from Antago traveled the twenty miles
to Azul Island to spend the day wrangling the wild
horses that inhabit that island. The horses are
believed to be descended from those that the Spanish
Conquistadores brought to this hemisphere centuries
ago. The government of Antago permits thirty
horses to be removed from Azul Island every five
years. The agent in charge of the procuring, breaking and
sale of these horses is
Thomas J. Pitcher.
Carefully, Steve folded the newspaper clipping
and put it
away.
It was four o'clock when the
Horn
dropped anchor a quarter of a mile from Chestertown,
the port of Antago. Steve had finished packing his
suitcase and was in the captain's cabin, awaiting the
attention of the man from the Antago Immigration
Department, who was talking to the captain. Through the
porthole, Steve could see the red-roofed buildings
on the shore and the green countryside behind the town.
He was taking it all in when he heard the man from the
Immigration Department asking for his passport.
Steve gave it to him. The captain rose to his
feet, bade Steve good-bye and said he hoped
he'd have a nice vacation on Antago; then he
excused himself and left.
After stamping Steve's passport, the man from the
Immigration Department returned it to him, saying,
"There's a Phil Pitcher waiting for you on the
wharf. If you're ready to go in now, you can come along
with me."
A few minutes later, Steve followed the man
down the
ladder at the side of the
Horn,
Below, rising and falling with the swells of the
bay, was" a large, deep rowboat manned by
six burly black men. The immigration official
stepped into
the boat and helpfully took Steve's suitcase
as the boy
followed.
The men pushed away from the ship and began rowing toward
town. For a few minutes, Steve looked back
over the stern. Already the
Horn's
cargo hoists were lifting heavy boxes from the hold
to the barges that had pulled alongside the freighter.
In a little while she would be on her way again, and
Steve felt a temporary surge of regret that
he was
not going along.
But quickly he pushed the thought aside and turned his
gaze shoreward.
Here,
he thought,
is the beginning. This is
what I actually asked for. It wasn't the
Horn
or a trip through the
Caribbean that I wanted. It was Antago.
No, rather, it was Azul
Island. Well, I've seen it, part of it at any
rate. No, I'm not
discouraged by what I've seen. Somehow, I had
expected it to be
different from the others--forlorn, forsaken by all save
the horses.
It makes Azul Island all the more interesting.
I'll have to arrange
with Pitch to get there some way.
A fishing boat passed close by, its sails
hard on the wind. And ahead, Steve could see other
boats moored closely to the sides of a canal.
They went up the canal, finally turning in toward a
wharf, alongside which there was a large shed. Steve
looked for Pitch. At first he did not recognize
him, for his gaze passed over the small, thin man
wearing knee-length pants and a long-peaked cap.
Then the man regained his attention by calling to Steve
and sweeping off his cap, waving it vigorously.
Seeing the steel-rimmed glasses the man wore was
all that Steve needed to identify Pitch at that
distance. Waving back, he replied to Pitch's
greetings and his frequent questions called across the
twenty feet of water.
THE ISLAND STALLION Yes, Steve yelled
back, he'd
had a good trip. Yes,
everything was all right at home. It was good seeing him,
too. Antago looked fine, just fine.
And all the while Steve was thinking,
He's the same Pitch,
all right. The short pants threw me off at first.
I've never seen
Pitch's knees before. Just as knobby as the rest of
him. His skin has
darkened a lot from the sun, but his face hasn't
changed any. Mom
always said that Pitch had the softest, roundest face
she'd ever seen.
Just take one look at Phil Pitcher, she'd
say, and you know right off that he wouldn't do a bit of
harm to anyone.
The rowboat pulled alongside the wharf and Pitch
got
hold of Steve's suitcase, sweeping it out of his
hands. "You don't know how good it is to see you,
Steve!" he said. "I've
looked forward to having you or your father down here for a
visit. Tell me about him, Steve. And
your mother? How is
she?"
As they walked to the shed, Steve told Pitch all
the news
he could think of. He opened his suitcase for the
Customs
authorities, then shut it again when they'd finished
looking
through it. One of the Customs men took out a piece of
chalk and scrawled his initials over Steve's
bag.
"Now we can go," Pitch said, leading the way. "I
have the car outside. We're twelve miles from
town."
As they drove through the crowded streets, Pitch
pointed
out the local sights of interest-the bank, the market,
theater, hotel-and then concluded by saying
apologetical
ly, "They're really not much. Although," he added more
hopefully, "I do think you're going to like our house.
My
brother Tom's house, that is. It's located on
a high cliff
overlooking the sea. A beautiful view,
Steve, very beauti
ful."
"I'm sure I'll like it," Steve assured him.
He said it with
enthusiasm, knowing
very
well that Pitch was afraid he'd be disappointed in
his visit to Antago. It made him a little
uncomfortable. So as they drove through the outskirts of
town, he asked Pitch many questions about Antago and his
life there.
And Pitch promptly reacted to Steve's interest
in the island. He told him about Antago's sugar
cane, among the finest grown in the world, he said. And
his stepbrother, Tom, had the largest plantation on
the island. Pitch was, Tom's bookkeeper.
Yes, it was a much better job than working in the
lumberyard office at home. It was very easy compared
to that, he confided to Steve. Really, there wasn't much
to do except at harvest time. And the weather on
Antago was always nice. A little hot just now, perhaps.
But he could always stand the heat better than the cold.
He had disliked the winters at home very much.
Steve pointed to Pitch's shorts and said, smiling,
"And you couldn't get by with an outfit like that at
home."
"No," Pitch returned very seriously, "no, you
couldn't at all. And it's a shame, for they're so
comfortable."
The countryside through which they were now driving was heavy with
green fields of tall cane, but occasionally there would
be open pasture land with lush grass upon which cattle,
goats and horses were grazing. Steve had thought it
best to wait awhile before mentioning his desire to visit
Azul Island, but the sight of the horses caused him
to consider bringing up the subject at once.
What's the sense
of putting it off?
he thought. still
like Antago all right, but only as
a place from which to get to Azul Island. I've
only a little over two
weeks, and I might as well find out now if
Pitch knows how I can
get there.
Pitch had been quiet for a while but now he turned
to

THE ISLAND STALLION
Steve. "Steve," he asked, "are you still
interested in horses? I remember that as a youngster you
sold me about ten
subscriptions to a magazine I never wanted just because
you
were going to win a pony." Pitch's tone was hopeful
again, as though he was still striving to find something of real
interest to Steve.
"Yes," Steve replied, "very much so. I've
ridden a lot during the past year."
"Good," said Pitch. "I was hoping you would be."
He paused a moment and Steve noticed an
intentness in his pale blue eyes that hadn't been there
before. "I'd like to tell you something," Pitch went on,
"that's been of great interest to me of late." He
paused again, and Steve waited impatiently for him
to continue.
"Yes, Pitch," Steve had to say finally. "What
is it?"
"Do you recall the picture I sent your father
several weeks ago? The one of our rounding up the
horses on Azul Island?"
Did he remember it! "Yes, Pitch, I do.
That's why I ..."
But Pitch interrupted with evident eagerness to tell
his story. "It was the only time I've been
to Azul Island," he began. "Oh, I'd heard
about it, of course; Tom spoke of it occasionally.
And before I arrived here he had written me once
or twice about wrangling horses on a small
island not far from Antago. But," and Pitch smiled,
"you know I'm pretty much of a greenhorn about things
like that, and I never really understood any of it. That
is, not until I went to Azul Island with Tom
and the others."
Pitch paused and glanced at Steve. Then, as though
pleased with the boy's obvious interest, he went on:
"I
remember that we all looked upon our visit
to Azul Island as
very much like a day's outing. And we spent the time there
imagining ourselves as cowboys. I couldn't help
thinking, as we ran after the horses, how strange
we'd look to any people from our western states. All
of us, of course, were
wearing our shorts and had on our sun hats because the
day
was extremely hot. We had no trouble chasing the
horses into the canyon, because the island is very narrow
at that point; and twenty of us, walking about thirty
yards apart, I would say, easily forced the
horses into the canyon. Tom was in charge because he was
the only one who knew anything about horses. The
rest of us were plantation men,
laborers, fishermen and the like with no experience
whatsoever in this business of wrangling horses.
However, as I've said, there was little to it, because Tom
told us what
to do, and it was he who selected thirty of the most
likely looking animals to take back with us
to Antago."
Pitch stopped, thought a moment, then said in an
apologetic tone, "I must tell you, Steve, that
the horses are
small, scrawny beasts and not very much to look at,
really.
But if you'd seen the desolateness of that small bit
of the island, with the sparse grass and only the few,
meager
fresh-water holes, you'd wonder that they'd
survived at all."
Pitch paused again before adding with renewed enthusi
asm, "But they have, Steve! Their breed has
survived for centuries on Azul Island!" His
words came faster now. "It was on the way back from
the island, with the animals crowded into the barge
we towed behind our launch, that I first learned of it.
I was sitting next to the photographer of our
weekly newspaper, and I mentioned that I had been
surprised to find so many, horses on Azul
Island. He
mentioned, very casually, that these horses were believed
to be descended from the ones that the Spanish
Conquistadores
rode centuries ago! I tried to learn more, but that
was all he knew. His editor had told him, he
said. It was just an assignment to him. He wasn't
really interested. It shocked me, actually, because
I've always been so very much interested in Spanish
colonial history that I suppose I assumed
everyone else would be. To think that here was a breed of
horse the Conquistadores rode, and which had
survived all these hundreds of years, and no one-not
even Tom, who knew of my interest-had thought it
important enough to tell me!
"I went to Tom immediately and asked him about it,"
Pitch continued gravely. "I asked him if what
I'd learned from the photographer was actually
true. He laughed. I remember his laughing very
well. Of course, it was obvious to him that I was
tremendously interested and excited. Tom
told me to sit down and relax because, he said, there
wasn't
a bit of truth to the story. He'd heard it mentioned
every so often for the past fifteen years, but believed none
of it. It
made a good human-interest story for newspaper
readers, he
said, and I remember he also intimated that the editor
of the
local paper, an old friend of his, was capable of
making up such a story for the benefit of his readers."
"Then it's not true," Steve interrupted,
obviously
disappointed, "none of it. But Pitch, how did the
horses get
there, then? And why does the government pf Antago
leave
them on Azul Island when they could have much better
pasture land here?"
"That's what I wondered, too, Steve," Pitch
returned,
"and that's exactly what I asked Tom. His first
answer was,
"How do animals get anywhere? They were taken
there, of
course!" To me, his answers were most confusing. I
didn't know what he was driving at until I
asked him why the
government of Antago allowed him, as agent in
charge, to
wrangle the horses only once every five years.
And why did
they limit the number of horses to be removed?
Why did they insist that enough horses be left on
Azul Island to maintain the progeny of this breed?
Why, indeed! if the story wasn't true?
"He just laughed at me for a long time. Then he said
in his most cynical way, which can be so very aggravating,
that he believed it wasn't so much the Antago
government which was interested in these horses as it was the
Antago chamber of commerce! And then he repeated that
it made a good story, a story that could be placed in
many foreign newspapers to publicize Antago, which
was what the chamber of commerce wanted! He even
intimated that he wouldn't be surprised to learn some
day that the horses had been taken to Azul Island from
Antago for the express purpose of creating such a
story!
"But I didn't believe a word Tom told me,"
Pitch went on. "By that time I was very much
interested in the subject
and was determined to see it through. I decided to learn
all I
could about the colonial history of Antago, and
anything at all that was available on Azul Island.
I wasn't able to learn much here, because the people seem so
little interested in the past. It's only the present and
future that hold their attention. They talk all the
time about how much more they should get for their sugar and rum,
and why Antago should be provided with an air
service instead of having to rely upon the few boats
that stop here. Problems like these are all they care about.
"So I got hold of some books from the States and
learned
that at one time Antago was used as a supply base
by the
Spaniards!" Pitch's eyes were bright as he went
on excitedly,
"From here, Steve, those infamous Conquistadores,
men like Cortes, Pizarro and Balboa, may have
selected their armies, their horses, guns and
provisions, and set forth to plunder the Incas and the
Aztecs of their gold!"
Pitch paused a moment, then continued in a calmer
voice, "I also learned that in the year
1669, British and French pirates succeeded in
sacking Antago and driving the Spaniards from the
island."
"And Azul Island?" Steve asked. "Did you
learn anything
about it?"
"No," Pitch replied. "Nothing . . .
absolutely nothing about its history. The report
mentioned only that it was an uninhabited island twenty
miles north of Antago."
"Then in spite of what Tom said, you think that the
horses now there could be descended from the horses of the
Conquistadores?" Steve asked with keen interest.
"I do, Steve. I most certainly do," Pitch
said slowly. "The Spaniards surely knew of
Azul Island and it's very possible that they could have used
it for something
...
or
were even forced to go there when Antago was sacked by the
British and French pirates.
I'm
terribly interested," he
added quickly, "because here's an island that's been
avoided
for centuries, except for the few visits by Tom
and the others who preceded him to obtain horses. And for
all anyone knows, it's possible that there's other
evidence besides the horses that the Spaniards once
inhabited the island. I very much want to look around,
because it's obvious no one else has."
"Pitch," Steve said quickly, "I want to go with you
to Azul Island."

ISLAND OF LOST HORSES
"You mean what I've said about Azul Island
interests you
as well?"
"More than you know," Steve replied quickly. "When can
we go, Pitch?"
"Why
...
I guess most any time," Pitch said thought
fully. "I'd planned on going when your father
wrote that
you'd like to come here. Yes, we could go anytime you
say."
"Tomorrow, Pitch?"
"Tomorrow?" Pitch's blue eyes met Steve's.
"Why, I
guess so. I'm pretty much of a greenhorn when it
comes to a
camping trip, but I guess I have most everything
ready for it." He paused, a look of concern upon his
face. "You're
sure you want to go to Azul Island more than anything
else,
Steve? It's your vacation, you know, and I'd hate
to have you go there solely on my account."
Steve smiled. "It's not . . . it's on my own
account that I want to go."
A few minutes later the car turned down a long
driveway,
and Steve saw the large house at the end. But between
them
and the house, not far off the road, he saw a
corral. A
tawny-colored horse with a long, unkempt mane
was
running about the ring. Steve heard Pitch say,
"There's one
of the horses from Azul Island."
Bull Whip and Bottle
Standing in the center of the corral was a giant of a
man, heavy limbed and long armed. In one
hand he held a bull
whip, and in his other the lead rope that was attached to the
bridle of the horse that was running about the ring. The
animal rolled his eyes restlessly, but he never
actually ceased
watching the man who held him. The man, too, had
eyes for nothing but the horse.
Pitch brought the car to a stop opposite the
corral. He and Steve were but thirty feet away
now, and two men
sitting on the fence waved to Pitch. But the eyes of the
man
in the center of the ring remained on the horse.
Pitch said, "That's Tom." He said it
matter-of-factly, as though leaving it to Steve
to draw his own conclu
sions.
Tom! This man was Tom Pitcher? This towering
giant, who could make six of Pitch? It was hard
to believe; for
never, Steve thought, had he seen two men more
unlike each other. And these two were brothers?
Stepbrothers, he
reminded himself. But even so, he'd expected some
resemblance.
The sharp crack of the bull whip brought his attention
back to the scene before him. Trotting faster about the
corral, the terrified horse snorted continually, his
eyes shifting from the man who turned slowly with him
to the long leather whip that lay snakelike on the
ground between
them.
Steve's gaze swept over the horse.
Instinctively he noted the large head with long,
almost mulelike ears; the shaggy,
unkempt mane matted with dirt; and the small,
wiry body
bleached with dust and hardened sweat. Steve watched him
as he moved ever faster about the corral, fearful of the
bull
whip which sprang at him like a striking black snake
whenever he slowed his gait.
It went on for a long while, the man and the horse
turning together, the rhythmic beat of hoofs over
well-
packed dirt, the sharp crack of the whip whenever the
beat
faltered. The horse's body was wet with sweat, and
white
lather was heavy about the bridle leathers and the
corners of his mouth. But his eyes, now dulled with
exhaustion, never
left the man in the center of the ring.
Pitch said, "Tom's way of breaking an animal
isn't a
pretty sight. Shall we go?"
Steve shook his head, but said nothing. He wondered
how long the horse had been running about the corral
before
they arrived.
The tired animal stumbled. The long bull whip
cracked
and the hard leather end caught the horse on his
haunches.

THE ISLAND STALLION
Snorting, he regained his stride and ran still faster
about the
ring. And all the time the man pivoted with him, bull
whip
raised and ready.
Would Tom never stop? Steve asked himself. How
long did this go on? The horse was beaten now! What
more did Tom expect? What satisfaction was he
getting out of this driving, driving,
driving?
And still the beat of hoofs went on, echoing more often now
to the sharp, staccato cracks of the bull whip.
Steve felt he could take no more of it. He
turned and found Pitch watching him. Pitch nodded and
his hand went to the key in the car's ignition switch.
But before he had
reached it there came a sudden end to the sound of hoofs and
whip. Deadening silence settled about the corral.
Together, Steve and Pitch looked back at the scene
they had just turned away from.
Tom was approaching the horse, the lead rope
sliding through his fingers. The horse stood there
trembling, his eyes alive with hate. Tom grabbed
the bridle, then signaled to one of the men sitting on
the fence. The man jumped down and, picking up a
blanket, walked over and put it upon the back of the
horse. Then Tom and the horse were alone in the
corral again.
Steve saw Tom move to one side of the horse,
carrying the
reins. The horse sidestepped uneasily, his
eyes following the
bull whip Tom held coiled in his hand. Then,
faster than Steve thought it possible for a man
of Tom's weight to move, he was on the horse's
back. Steve believed the horse was too tired
to put up a fight, but he'd never seen a wild
horse broken before.
The horse bucked, coming down with rigid forelegs.
Up
and down, twisting and turning, he flung himself about the
corral. And Tom, his long legs wrapped
securely about the
horse's girth, stayed with him, flaying the heavy
handle of
the bull whip hard against the heaving body.
Finally the horse stood still, and Steve thought him
surely beaten now. What more was left for him to do?
His
body, could take no more, his spirit had to be broken after
all this. But again he was mistaken. For suddenly the
horse
went down and rolled quickly over on his back. But
Tom
had moved still faster. As the horse's legs
buckled, he
slipped off, avoiding the body that had tried to pin
him to
the ground. And now he stood at the horse's
head as the
animal lay on the ground. If the horse had
wanted to stay
there he couldn't have, for Tom whipped him to his
feet; then he sprang upon his back again, cutting the
bleeding flesh with the hard, blunt end of the whip.
In spite of the beating he was taking, the horse kept
throwing his large head back, attempting to knock
Tom off. Again Tom signaled
to
the men sitting on the corral fence, and one of them
moved across the ring carrying a
bottle.
With a sudden movement Pitch turned on the ignition
and started the car's motor. "I've seen this once
before," he
said quickly, "and you'll be better off if you don't."
But Pitch was too late. As Tom held the
bottle in his
*
-
hand, Steve saw the horse throw his head back again.
Tom raised the bottle, then brought it down
heavily upon the horse's head. The bottle
broke, the contents streaming down over the head
and face of the horse. He stood there, dazed, his
body trembling, swaying.
As Pitch put the car into gear, Steve saw the
broken horse

THE ISLAND STALLION
walking slowly about the corral under Tom's
guidance.
Steve closed his eyes and felt sick to his
stomach.
That evening at dinner Steve spoke little, and most of the
time his eyes were upon Tom, sitting at the head of the
table. There were moments when Steve thought he had a
good idea of how the horse must have felt that afternoon.
At last, conscious of having been staring, Steve
shifted
his gaze to the chair in which Tom sat. It was a large
mahogany chair, heavier and stronger than Steve's
or
Pitch's. It had to be. Tom's giant frame was
slumped in it like a bulging sack of grain. Now he
was leaning heavily
over the table as he talked, his giant hands dwarfing
the plate of food set before him. His long fingers,
blunt and
square at the tips, curled even now although he
held
nothing in them. No knife or fork, no bull whip
or bottle.
Suddenly Steve heard his name mentioned. Looking up
at
Tom's dark, low-jowled face, he found the black
eyes upon
him, the thin lips drawn slightly at the corners
in what
could have been a smile. Steve could see the small,
square
teeth-teeth that looked as hard and strong as the rest of
this man.
"dis . . that bottle didn't hurt him none,"
Tom was telling
him.
So he knew, Steve thought. He was the kind of man
nothing could be kept from for very long.
Tom had turned to Pitch. "Isn't that right,
Phil? You've
seen me use the bottle before. It didn't hurt the
horse one
bit, did it?"
"That's what you tell me," Pitch said
slowly. "I don't
know much about these things, but
..."
Steve's eyes were upon Pitch as his friend groped for
words in reply to Tom's question. It was apparent that
Pitch, too, was uncomfortable. Perhaps, thought
Steve, even a little frightened-as he was.
Settling back in his big chair, Tom laughed
heartily, drowning out whatever it was that Pitch had
meant to say.
Then he turned to Steve again. "The top of a
horse's skull is
as hard as a rock," he said, his face unsmiling
once more. "You could break a hundred bottles over
it without hurting the horse."
How did he know? thought Steve cynically. Had he
ever been a horse? Had he ever been hit heavily
over the head with a bottle?
Tom hadn't finished. "It's not the bottle, but the
water in the bottle that does the trick," he said.
And now his voice was slightly contemptuous of their
silent criticism. "The horse thinks the water
is his own blood as it streams
down over his head and into his eyes. It scares him.
It scares
him so much that he never forgets it, and you won't ever
find him throwing back his head again." Tom settled
back in his chair once more, as though awaiting their
reaction to
his full explanation.
Pitch was busy cutting his meat. Steve looked
down and
toyed with the food before him.
Silence hung heavily about the room until,
suddenly, it was shattered by Tom's explosive
laughter. "You're both too soft," he said
angrily. And then, to Steve, "Why, I wasn't
any older than you when I used my first bottle on
a horse's head. We toughened up pretty young in
those days." He stopped, turned to Pitch. "Or
did we?" he added, smiling. "Perhaps I'm
mistaken. Perhaps it was

THE ISLAND STALLION
pretty much up to the man himself." Once more he
addressed himself to Steve. "Phil left England to go
to college in the States, while I joined up with the
British
Army and went to India. I got put in the
cavalry, and that's where I learned the
bottle trick. We used to get a lot of our
horses from Australia in those days. They were
ugly-looking
animals called Walers. Uglier than the ones from
Azul Island, and much bigger, too. They had a
nasty way of
throwing their heads back at you. The way we stopped
them
was with the bottle." Tom paused, smiling. "Yes,"
he added, "first the bull whip, running them until
they're groggy, then finish up with the bottle. It
never fails to break a horse-one who'll give you
a decent fight."
Steve raised his eyes and studied Tom. Was that it?
he asked himself. Was it the thrill of overpowering an
animal in physical combat that Tom enjoyed so
much? Tom was
looking at him, nodding his large head. Nodding as
though
he had no trouble reading Steve's every thought.
"Yes," Tom said, still smiling. "It's a pity that
there were so few horses with any spirit in this last group
from
Azul Island. There were only three of the whole lot
of thirty that put up any sort of a
scrap. They seem to have less spirit than they ever had.
Now, fifteen years ago when I first went
to the island it was different. There'd be about ten or more
who'd give me a good workout."
Tom was silent, and Steve thought he had finished
until he suddenly said, "There's no other reason
I want to bring
in these horses from Azul. They don't make any
money for me. Nobody will pay much for them. And then
ten percent
of whatever I do get has to go to the government. It
doesn't
leave me with anything. Oh, I didn't mind when
I could
look forward to a little fun, but if the horses don't
show more spirit next time, I'll let someone else go
to Azul
Island."
And now Pitch was talking. Steve heard him telling
Tom
about their proposed camping trip to Azul Island, the
trip he'd planned on taking for several weeks.
Yes, Pitch was saying, he was still very much interested in
the island in
spite of what Tom had told him. He still
believed that Azul
Island had played a part in the Spanish
colonization of the
New World. He wanted to look around. Yes, and
fortunately Steve too was interested in colonial
history. He
had asked to go. They planned to spend two weeks.
. . .
When Pitch mentioned their intended length of stay
upon Azul Island, Tom laughed harder than before,
and his
chair creaked as though in resentment of the heavy pounds
of flesh and bone that made up this man. Finally he
sat forward again, his elbows on the table and his fingers
digging into the sides of his scalp. "Two weeks,"
he said. "Phil, you should know better, even if the
kid doesn't.
What in God's name are you going to do for two weeks
on a
spit of ground that's nothing more than a windswept
sandbar? You'll go crazy. You won't spend two
days there,
let alone two weeks," he concluded, bursting
into laughter
again.
"I plan to do quite a bit of digging," Pitch said.
"And
Steve seems very much interested."
Tom turned
to
Steve, his black eyes smiling but probing
at the same time. "You're interested?" he asked.
"Interested
in what?"
Steve's reply came quickly, instinctively.
"Archaeology,"
he said. And he wondered why he'd said it and how he
had

THE ISLAND STALLION
remembered a word he'd never used outside of his
ancient-
history class at school.
He saw Tom's brow furrow. Then Pitch said,
"You see?"
"No," Tom returned, sarcastically. "No, I
don't see. Nor
can I see you two spending two weeks in that
God-forsaken
spot!" Pushing back his chair, he rose
to his feet, towering
above them.
"We'll stay," Steve said quietly.
Tom looked at him. "You've never been to Azul,
and
you're so sure?" he asked contemptuously.
Steve nodded without speaking.
Tom walked around the table, his eyes still on the boy.
Then he came to a stop and Steve saw the smile
on the thin
lips again. Tom said quickly, "Phil told me the
other day
that you wanted a horse more than anything else when you
were a kid. Do you still want one?"
"Yes," Steve replied, slowly. "I do.
Why?"
"Then take a look at those horses on Azul
Island and take
your pick of any one of them. If you stay two
weeks on the island, I'll give him to you!"
Laughing, Tom left the room.
Pitch was talking to Steve now, telling him what
they'd have to do that evening to prepare for their trip
to Azul
Island. But Steve wasn't listening.
Instead, he was thinking
of Tom's parting wager. Two weeks on the island,
and he could have his pick of any of the horses there!
Unpleasant Awakening

The following morning they left Antago as the sun
rose out of the sea, and soon were well out of sight of
land. Pitch sat
behind the wheel of the motor launch, his round face
tense as the boat pushed its sharp prow into
the
heavy sea. Occasionally Steve heard him say
something about being a greenhorn when it came
to navigation, and that he was much better getting around on
land. But Steve had little doubt that Pitch would find
Azul Island. Pitch's boat, too, although an
old one, was in excellent condition and very
seaworthy. She rolled slightly with the waves,
making Steve
feel a little uncomfortable in the region of his
stomach, but he felt that he could stand anything now that
he was actually on his way to Azul Island.
It had worked out nicely, he thought. Pitch's own
interest in the island and his desire to go there had made

easy for Steve.
The hours dragged on, and the sun beat mercilessly
down
upon the open boat. Steve was thankful for the hat that
Pitch had made him bring along. Turning to his
friend, he saw that Pitch was facing straight ahead, but
with half-closed eyes, as though he were deep in
concentration. Steve looked back at their wake and
at the small dory they were towing. Pitch had insisted
upon taking it along just in case something should go wrong
with the launch's motor.
And lying in the back of the launch were the two
backpacks
that he and Pitch had crammed with tinned food,
cooking utensils and a tiny stove. Beside them lay the
folded canvas
tent, and next to that the pick and shovel.
Steve's eyes remained upon the last-named
objects. He
wondered if Pitch would mind very much when he
confessed to him that he really wasn't interested in
digging
up the earth in search of relics the Spaniards
might have left
there. Tonight he planned to tell Pitch
exactly why he had
come, why he wanted to explore every foot of Azul
Island.
And he wondered what Pitch's reaction would be
to his
story.
Steve remembered very clearly his first impression of the
barren, mountainous rock of Azul Island. From the
ship, it had looked as though no living thing could
climb those
sheer walls of yellow stone. Yet surely there had
to be a way
leading to the interior of the island. Still, Steve thought with
concern, whenever Pitch had spoken of the island he had
mentioned only the rolling, sandy plain. And Tom
too had called it "nothing but a spit of ground
...
a windswept sandbar."
"Pitch,"-Steve said, "I was wondering about the rest
of
Azul Island. I mean, other than the plain and
canyon you've
mentioned. How do you get into the interior of the island?"
"You don't," Pitch replied. "It isn't
possible." Then, looking at Steve in
puzzlement, "I hope, Steve, that you didn't
think it was."
Steve couldn't keep the disappointment out of his
voice.
"I did, Pitch. I didn caret that think Azul
Island just consisted of
the plain you've mentioned." Then he asked quickly,
"But
what about the rest of the island, Pitch? There's at
least nine
miles of it. I know because the ship passed it on the
way to Antago."
"Then you must know what a natural fortress it is,"
Pitch
replied quietly. "No one could possibly
scale those smooth
walls of stone, even if he wanted to." Then he
added with an
attempt at humor, "Which no one has, of
course."
"But from the canyon? Is there no way up from the
canyon?"
The serious tone of Steve's voice caused Pitch
to shake his
head sadly as he said, "No, Steve,
I'm afraid not. The
canyon comes to an end up against the most
precipitous wall
of rock you've ever seen. There's an overhanging
cliff about
three hundred feet above the canyon floor, but that
too, of
course, is inaccessible. You'll see for yourself in a
little
while now."
In a little while now. You'll see for yourself in a little
while
now.
Steve repeated Pitch's words over and over to himself
as the motor launch swept across the sea. He said
them when the horizon was nothing but sea and sky. He
said them when the yellowish dome of Azul Island
appeared, the sun turning it into a glowing spire of
copper and gold.
There was no mist and, very shortly, he could see the
waves crashing against the walled barriers, sending their
white fingers climbing frantically, eagerly up the
mountain
ous rock as though the waves, too, sought an entrance
to Azul Island. And then, their force spent,
they would retreat, falling back into the sea.
But toward the southern end of the island, the walls began
their gradual descent, finally merging with the sea and
becoming a long stretch of sandy beach over which the
waves, unstopped, rolled high onto the shore.
At one point,
a narrow wooden pier extended into the water. Pitch
steered
the motorboat toward it.
In a little while now. You'll see for yourself in a little
while
now.
Steve helped Pitch moor the boat to the pier.
He put on his backpack and carried the folded
canvas tent under his arm; then he followed Pitch
down the pier and stepped onto the beach. Stretched before
him, just over the sand dunes, was the rolling land, and
to his left, less than a mile away, where the
walls began their ascent again, was the canyon.
They were nearing the canyon when Steve first saw the
horses. There were eleven of them, small and lean and
shaggy
...
a stallion, who stopped grazing to look at them, and
five brood mares with five spindle-legged
fillies standing close beside them. It was obvious that
Tom had
left the worst of the horses upon Azul Island,
Steve thought.
Certainly the Conquistadores couldn't have ridden
puny animals like these in their long, arduous
campaigns into the New World! He remembered the
pictures of statues he had seen in his
schoolbooks of men like Pizarro and Cortes
sitting astride horses strong and powerful of limb,
capable of standing the rigors of long marches through
strange and
hostile lands. Thoughtfully he watched the horses
until the
stallion led his frightened, straggling band down the
canyon.
Pitch said, "It's truly remarkable, Steve, that
this breed of horse has survived at all in this
place."
Steve bent down, picking up a tuft of grass.
He tasted the
ends. Not the lush green grass of Antago, he
thought, but
hardy grass that could sustain life because it absorbed

bit of moisture in the ground.
"Of course," Pitch was saying, "they must spend
most of
their time in the canyon, where they're protected from the
weather and sun. The grass, too, is more abundant
in the canyon." Pausing, he looked around, then
added, "We'll make camp there, Steve."
They were approaching it now. The walls, a few
hundred
yards on either side of them, were rising, shutting out the
sea. A quarter of a mile away, the canyon
came to an abrupt
end against a sheer wall of stone, the lower part darkened
by
shadows made by the sides of the canyon, the upper part
shining like a golden vision in the sun's rays.
They walked into the shadows of the canyon walls, and
for a few minutes Steve was blinded by the sudden
transition from glaring light to soft darkness. Then his
eyes
became accustomed to the shadows, and he saw the end of
the canyon a short distance away. The horses were
standing
there, grouped together, their frightened eyes upon the two
humans. But Steve's gaze did not linger
on the horses. Instead he looked upward, to the
cliff that hung three
hundred feet or more above.
Pitch said, "Now you can understand, Steve, what I
meant when I said that it was impossible to get to the
interior of the island from here. These walls make it
impossible even to get up to the cliff." He was beside
Steve,
his eyes also fixed on the flat, overhanging rock.
"And there'd be nowhere to go from there, either. Just look at
that sheer wall of stone behind it!"
Pitch walked away but Steve stood there, still gazing
up
at the cliff.
Pitch is right,
he thought,
there's no possible way to
reach the cliff from the canyon floor.
Then Pitch's voice reached him. He was calling
for the tent. He wanted to set up camp. It was
getting late, he said. The sun would be going down
shortly.
Steve went over to him and threw his pack against the
side of the canyon wall where Pitch had decided
to make camp. But as he worked alongside
Pitch, his eyes would turn very often to the cliff.
The sun sank rapidly behind the mountainous rock of
Azul Island, and soon the darkness of night had
sped from the canyon floor to the rolling, sandy plain
beyond. Steve and Pitch had finished setting up the
tent and now sat
before the Sterno stove, heating a pot of beans and
frankfurters.
"We should have collected some driftwood before it got
dark," Pitch said, moving closer to the small
flame
emerging from the can of Sterno. "The night air is
cool out
here. It would have been nice to have a wood fire."
Pausing,
he added dismally, "I'm such a greenhorn at this,
I'm afraid." He turned to Steve, who was still
looking up at the
darkened wall at the end of the canyon and who seemed
not
to have heard. Pitch pushed a fork into the
frankfurters. "They're ready, I think. Let
me have your plate, Steve. Your plate, please,"
Pitch repeated, more insistently.
Steve heard him then and handed over his
tin
plate. "Thanks, Pitch," he said. He ate in
silence for a few minutes, then looked up to find
Pitch watching him.
Smiling, he moved closer to his friend and the small
flame.
"Sorry," he said, "I was thinking about something."
Then he added quickly, as though to make up for his
inattention, "We should have gathered some wood from the
beach, Pitch. A good fire would have been nice
tonight."
Pitch looked at him, nodding. "Yes," he said,
"it would have been nice." Steve certainly must have
been thinking about something-and very intently too, Pitch
mused-not to have heard him mention the same thing just a few
moments before. He wondered what it was that occupied
Steve's mind.
They finished eating in silence, each alone with his
thoughts. The short neigh of one of the horses echoed
throughout the canyon. Pitch turned in the direction
of the horses, then to Steve, whose whole attention
seemed to be fixed on the small flame before them.
Pitch said casually, "We should have a full moon
tonight. It'll be coming up soon." The boy was still
looking at the flame and Pitch couldn't
tell whether he'd heard or not. "A full moon
tonight, Steve," he repeated, louder this time.
Steve roused himself from his reverie. "That's right," he
said slowly, "it will be full tonight, won't it?" Then
he was
silent for a while, and only his eyes betrayed his
restlessness.
Finally he asked hesitantly, "Pitch, have you ever
had
something happen to you that you could swear had
happened before?" He paused, groping for the right words.
"I mean something you couldn't have done, actually."
Pitch was confused. "I don't quite understand what you
mean, Steve," he replied with concern. "Do you mean
something I may have dreamed?"
"Perhaps," Steve said. "Perhaps you could call it a
dream . . . only something much more real and vivid
than
a dream."
Pitch attempted a smile which failed utterly as
he saw the
intent look in Steve's eyes. "Sometimes," he
said seriously,
"I do something that I have an idea I dreamed about
before. I suppose it's the association of
things. It's never been really
vivid, though, and I'm never quite sure I actually
dreamed it."
"This is very different from that," Steve said slowly.
"And it's all here . . . now. All this," and he
looked out
over the canyon floor.
The expression on Pitch's face became still more
confused. "I don't understand, Steve," he said.
"Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning."
"The beginning," Steve began slowly, "was ten
years ago
when I had that operation for my abscessed ear. You must
remember it." He paused while Pitch nodded in
agreement.
"Then you must remember too," Steve went on,
"how badly
I wanted a pony at that time. I couldn't understand
why
Dad couldn't buy me one, if he could get me a
scooter and a
tricycle. I had to have a pony, so I tried
getting one by myself. I sold subscriptions to a
magazine that offered a pony as a prize to the kid
getting the most new subscribers." Steve
paused again, smiling as he added, "Yes, you
were one of my best customers, Pitch. But I still
didn't win
the pony. So I continued drawing pictures of
ponies and
horses, making myself more miserable and Dad and Mother
miserable as well, because they couldn't afford to buy me
a
UNPLEASANT AWAKENING35
pony, much less stand the upkeep of one."
Steve's eyes met Pitch's. "I'm telling you
all this, Pitch, because it has an important bearing
on what happened
during the operation." Steve gazed back at the fire
again. "I
remember that the doctor came to the house, and he
found me in bed, shrieking for a pony. I saw him
nod to Dad, and
then Dad was telling me I could have a pony if I
would only
lie still. So I relaxed and thought how wonderful it was
going to be to have my very own pony. It wasn't long
before
the doctor's nurse put something over my nose and
mouth. It was the anaesthetic, but I didn't
know that. I breathed in the sweet, sickly odor, and
I was still thinking of my pony
when the fiery pinwheels started. I followed them round
and
round as they sped faster and faster. Soon they were going
so
fast that they no longer made a circle, but were one
ball of fire. It came at me hard, bursting in
my face.
"It was then that I first saw Flame. I didn't
name him Flame. The name just came with this horse, for
his body was the red of fire. He was standing on the
cliff-was Steve stopped and glanced behind him. "That
cliff," he added huskily. "Below, too, was the
canyon and the rolling land beyond. All this
..."
His hand pointed to the canyon and then fell to his
side. "It was all very vivid, Pitch-so vivid that
when the operation was over I found that I had a red
horse named Flame. Ponies no longer interested
me, and when Dad brought up the subject of the
promised pony, telling me that he hoped I'd
understand why he couldn't keep his word, I told him that
it was all right, that I didn't want a pony
anyway. Then for months and months, every time
I ran from the house, trotting to the park, I was
riding a giant red stallion, the most wonderful
horse in the world!
"I grew up," Steve went on, "and put
Flame aside along with my tricycle and
scooter. But I never actually forgot
him, Pitch," he insisted, "I never forgot
Flame, or the
canyon and cliff. Then a few weeks ago' your
letter
came-your letter with the picture of a place I'd thought
an imaginary one for so many years!" Steve's
voice had risen
and there was eagerness in it now as he turned toward
Pitch.
"How could I have seen this canyon ten years ago,
Pitch? How could I, when I'd never heard of
Azul Island until a
few weeks ago when your letter came? That's what
brought
me here, Pitch," he confessed.
Pitch was silent for a long while after Steve had
finished. And when he finally spoke it was with
reluctance, as though
what he had to say would have been better left
unsaid. "But
Steve, you did know of Azul Island."
The boy's eyes were bright as he said quickly, "I
didn't,
Pitch! I couldn't have known of Azul Island when
I was only seven years old!"
"You knew of it when you were only five," Pitch
replied
slowly. "Not by name, of course. Nor did I."
"You! What did YOU have to do with it?"
Pitch was uncomfortable. "I was the one who told you
about it," he said, his eyes avoiding Steve's. "I
was visiting your father one day when you came into the room
to show
him a drawing of a pony you'd made; then you showed it
to
me. You sat on my lap and I told you a story
about horses.
It was a story based on one of Tom's first letters
to me from
Antago. He had written of going to an island not
far from Antago to wrangle the wild horses that were
there. He described everything in great detail,
including, of course,
the canyon and cliff. I passed this all
on to you, making it as
vivid and real as I possibly could. And you and I
pretended that we were with Tom, going down the canyon,
watching the horses run ahead of us. We had a
lot of fun making believe-was Pitch stopped and his
eyes met the boy's. "I'm sorry, Steve,
real sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Pitch," Steve said, angry
with himself. "I guess I knew all the time there had
to be an explanation for it all.
But,"
he went on, smiling a little, "I guess I was
trying to convince myself that something very unusual had
taken place, that for some strange reason I was being
told of an island where I should go." His voice
dropped. "I suppose
I even expected to find Flame here. It's my
wild imagination, Pitch. At least Dad would
call it that," he concluded
bitterly.
Pitch was quiet for a while, then he said, "But
there's
nothing wrong with having an imagination, Steve. Let
it
loose now, here on this island." His voice
became eager,
excited. "Azul Island has been uninhabited
by people since
the days when Spain ruled the world. Think of the
relics,
the historical treasures we may find hidden within
this
canyon. We'll look around tomorrow, Steve.
We'll do some
digging, you and I!"
"Yes," Steve said softly. "Sure, Pitch."
The Stallion on the Cliff
That night Steve lay awake for a long time, his head
protruding from the tent so he could watch the moon as it
flooded the canyon with its light.
Why think about it any longer? he asked himself.
There's
no sense to it any more. You have your explanation for it
all.
What more do you want? Flame? Sorry, but he's
part of your little dream too. You'll have to give him up
along with the rest. It was nice having Flame again.
You felt much the same as you did when you were seven,
when you first rode him through the park, didn't you?
Pitch's picture of Azul Island brought
everything back again. But Pitch's explanation tonight
brought you back to reality as well. Now you know how
silly you've been, coming to this island in search
of an imaginary horse. Too bad you can't have him.
Too bad
there is no Flame. But there are other horses here.
They're nothing like your imaginary Flame, but they're
horses nevertheless. Tom said he'd give you one if
you stayed two

THE STALLION ON THE CLIFF
weeks. You've always wanted a horse of your own,
so here's
your chance. Tomorrow you can take a closer look at them.
Tomorrow you can take your pick of them. Yes, and tomorrow
Pitch wants to start digging. Pitch, the histo
rian. Steve, the archaeologist. You'd better go
to sleep now.
It's getting late, and the moon is well up.
...
Steve didn't know how long he'd slept when
suddenly he
found himself wide awake again. He must have slept for
some time, he reasoned, for the moon was directly
overhead. What had awakened him? It
seemed to have been
something loud and shrill, like a whistle. He must have
been dreaming. Pitch was sleeping soundly beside him.
The
night was very still. Yes, it had been a dream. He'd
better go back to sleep again.
He had just closed his eyes when he heard the loud
snort of the stallion, followed by nervous neighs from
the mares.
Then there came the sound of restless hoofs against stones.
Steve opened his eyes, wondering why the horses were
moving about. An animal? Perhaps. Maybe even the
moon.
He'd heard somewhere that a full moon could make
horses restless. He turned over on his stomach,
looking at the small band grouped near the opposite
wall of the canyon. The moonlight made everything very
distinct and he could see that all the horses were on their
feet, moving about nervously. The stallion was trying
to keep them together.
One of the mares neighed loudly and the sound was echoed
by the whinnies of the others. Several tried to break
away from the group, but the stallion cut them off.
He tossed his head, snorting repeatedly. It was
obvious to Steve that the stallion was keeping
the mares from breaking away. He watched for a long
time, his eyes never leaving them. Finally he saw the
stallion turn his head away from the
mares and raise it high, snorting loudly. The other
horses too moved about more restlessly than before.
At that moment the canyon echoed to a high-pitched
whistle. Shrill, loud and clear, it vibrated from
wall to wall until it lost itself in the rolling plain
beyond. The whistle
was like nothing Steve had ever heard before, and his breath
came short. Then he forced himself to turn his head
upward. Slowly he raised it until he could see
the cliff high
overhead.
A horse stood there, silhouetted against the bare
moonlit walls like a giant statue! His small
head was raised in haughty defiance, and the only thing
about him that moved was the long mane that swept back in
the night breeze.
Steve had stopped breathing. He closed his eyes.
It's not
true,
he thought.
I'm dreaming. Nothing is true. I'm still
asleep.
I heard nothing, saw nothing, actually. Pitch is
asleep beside me.
The horses are asleep. I heard nothing. And
nothing is on the cliff.
Nothing, nothing, nothing!
But he opened his eyes and looked again. The horse was
still there. Steve could see the high crest upon the long
neck, the giant body which seemed so much out of
proportion to the small head.
"Oh, Pitch! Pitch!" Steve shouted, pounding the
sleep
ing figure beside him. If this were all a dream would
he feel
his fist sinking into Pitch's back? Would Pitch sit
up, as he did now, grabbing him, shaking him by the
shoulders?
"Steve! What on earth is the matter? Stop it!"
Then it's not a dream,
Steve thought.
This much of it, anyway.
"Look up on the cliff, Pitch. Tell me
what you see. Quick!" His voice was tired, beaten.
He watched as Pitch turned his head toward the
cliff. For
41
THE STALLION
ON
THE CLIFF
a frightening few seconds Pitch's face disclosed
nothing. Then his eyes widened, the corners of his mouth
twitched nervously and he said, "I see a horse
...
a horse on the
cliffl Incredible!"
Steve closed his eyes. When he opened them again,
he looked up at the cliff. The horse was gone,
the cliff deserted. Pitch's gaze met his.
"We're sure, Pitch?" Steve asked. "We
actually saw a horse standing there?"
Nodding, Pitch replied in a voice so low Steve
could barely make out his words. "I saw a horse.
I'm sure I saw a horse," he said, "but I
can't believe it."
Steve too found it difficult to believe what
only a few hours ago he would have accepted so
eagerly and without question. But that was before Pitch had
explained to him why he had always known this canyon of
Azul Island.
The two lay on their blankets through the long hours
before dawn, each knowing the other was not asleep,
each alone with his thoughts. And every so often, first one and
then the other would raise his head and look up at the
cliff,
only to find that there was nothing there.
The sky was becoming a dull gray when Steve said,
"Pitch."
"Yes, Steve."
"We're both very sure now?"
There was a moment's silence before Pitch replied.
"Yes,
very sure. We couldn't both have had the same
illusion."
"No," Steve agreed, slowly. "We couldn't have.
It was a
horse, all right
...
a very beautiful horse." He didn't call
him Flame. He didn't think of him as Flame.
He didn't
know whether this horse was the color of fire or not.
He

THE ISLAND STALLION
didn't care. This was no imaginary horse upon the
cliff, but a giant stallion, very much
alive. This was no dream, for Pitch too had seen
him. This was reality. A horse had stood upon the
cliff only a few hours ago.
Pitch said, "He was there. But how did he get
there?" To
Pitch, the horse on the cliff meant that there had
caret to be more
of Azul Island that was habitable than this canyon
and the plain beyond. Otherwise, where could the horse have come
from? It seemed impossible for the greater part of this island
to consist of anything more than mountainous yellow rock,
just as he'd told Steve. Yet he must be wrong,
because living proof had stood upon the cliff.
They rose with the dawn and ate a hurried breakfast;
then, without a word to each other, made for the end of the
canyon. Arriving there, they looked up at the
cliff, then cast their eyes over the sheer canyon
walls. Very slowly they
walked about the canyon, examining every foot of the
walls
in search of a possible way to the cliff from the canyon
floor.
Finally they were back from where they had started and Pitch
said, "I'm certain now that he never reached the cliff
from this canyon. It's impossible for a human
to do it, much less a horse."
"Then he had to come from up there," Steve said slowly.
"But from where, Steve?" Pitch asked incredulously.
"Look at that sheer wall behind the cliff."
Steve said, "We can see it rising
above
the cliff, but actually we can't tell from down here
what happens when it
meets
the cliff. There may be a cave or path or
something. There
has
to be a way. He got there."
"Yes," Pitch agreed, "there has to be a way."
Then he became excited. "Do you know what this
means, Steve?"

THE STALLION ON THE CLIFF
"It means there has to be more to Azul Island than you
thought," Steve returned.
"More than anyone thought," Pitch corrected
hastily. "More than anyone has ever dreamed! Why,
Steve, the presence of that horse up on the cliff
has to mean that the Spaniards did inhabit this island
at one time! How else did
that horse get up there? Could Tom or anyone
else now have
the audacity to tell me that the Antago chamber of
commerce was responsible for him too? Not for one
moment, Steve!"
Steve smiled at Pitch's last remark, but the
intent look in his
friend's eyes convinced him that Pitch had not intended
to be
humorous. "You're right, Pitch," Steve said
seriously. "And
what we have to do now is to find a way into the
interior."
Pitch shook his head sadly. "I'd give five
years of my life
to do it, Steve," he said, "but I don't see how.
I really don't.
Certainly we can't get up from here."
"No," Steve agreed. "But there's the sea,
Pitch," he
added eagerly. "We can take the launch and look
for a place
where it might be possible to climb up."
"I doubt that we could even get close enough to look,
Steve. The waves would crash us against those
stone walls.
You've seen them. You know."
"But we could try, Pitch," Steve insisted.
"There's no
other way." He paused, then added slowly,
"Unless you just
want to stay here in the canyon."
"No," Pitch denied quickly, "I never could be
content to
stay here now! You're right, Steve. We must do
everything
we can to get into the interior. This is probably the
most important thing that's ever happened to either of us.
Come on, we'll get the boat and see what we can
find."
A short while later they were in the launch and running
alongside the island. The launch rolled on the
giant swells that crashed heavily against the walled
barrier of Azul
Island.
They had gone a good distance when Pitch said, "I'm
afraid I was right, Steve. We can't get close
enough to the
island without crashing, much less try to find a
possible way
up the sides. It's no use."
But Steve's eyes were turned shoreward toward a
bursting
spray of white foam, where a wave had struck
something just before reaching the walls of Azul Island. In
the few
seconds before the next long line of waves rolled
shoreward,
Steve saw a dark greenish rock that rose from the
sea only
twenty feet or less from the mountainous shore.
"Pitch," he
said, "I see something. Bring her in closer here."
Cautiously Pitch brought the launch around, his
eyes never leaving the waters in front of the prow.
"We really shouldn't, Steve," he said gravely.
"There are far too many submerged rocks along
here."
Momentarily Steve glanced into the clear waters about
them, and he too saw the black shadows of the rocks
below,
some rising higher than others and easily capable of
putting a hole into the hull of the launch. He heard
Pitch
mumbling something about being a greenhorn at a
time
like this. But the launch kept its slow, steady course
toward
shore as Pitch skillfully avoided the rocks.
"Tell me what you see, Steve," Pitch said,
without taking his eyes from the swirling waters.
They were but thirty or forty yards away from the large
moss-covered rock, and coming in just to the right of it.
Steve watched a giant swell descend upon the
rock, and

THE STALLION ON THE CLIFF
waited for the white, foaming waters to pour from its
sides.
Then he saw a long narrow rock behind the larger one.
"Pitch!" he shouted. "There's another rock behind the
big one that's just ahead of us. It goes right up to the
wall!"
Another swell struck the large rock, and this time
Steve
watched the waters as they cascaded off its sides and
swept
past both rocks until they rolled up against the
yellow walls
of Azul Island. He noticed that the
waters struck the walls with little force and then would
roll seaward again until they were stopped by the incoming
waters that swept
around the big rock. The result was a small
channel
alongside the two rocks, of swirling but navigable
waters.
"What is it, Steve?" Pitch asked
impatiently, as he turned the launch away from the
shore. "We can't get any closer. It's too
dangerous."
"We could get in there by using the dory, Pitch,"
Steve told him excitedly. "The big rock
stops the waves before they get to the wall. The waters
flow around it and
alongside the smaller rock behind until they strike
the wall.
But they don't have any force, Pitch. They just slap
up against the wall and then roll back until they
meet the next wave coming around the big rock. The
result is that it's fairly smooth close by the
smaller rock. We could get in there with the dory,
Pitch. We could slide her in alongside the big
rock just after a wave has struck, then pull her
up onto the smaller rock, directly behind
the big one, so we'd have her to get away on."
"It sounds too dangerous," Pitch said thoughtfully.
"But Pitch, what else can we do? And if we're
careful it shouldn't be dangerous."
"I don't know, Steve," Pitch began. "There
may be an

THE ISLAND STALLION
easier way farther on. We'd better go all the
way around the
island first."
"Okay," Steve said dismally, "but I doubt that
we'll find
anything else. If there was an easier way of
getting onto this
part of the island, it would have been discovered long ago."
"I don't think anyone has ever looked before,"
Pitch replied insistently. "We wouldn't have either
if we hadn't seen the horse last night," he
reminded Steve.
"Yes, I guess you're right," Steve agreed.
But as the launch pulled still farther away from shore,
he continued
looking back at the waves striking the dark,
greenish rock.
They were well out of danger from submerged rocks
when Pitch turned to Steve, saying, "We'll go
around to the
other side of the island now, and if we find no other
way, we'll come back in the dory as you suggested,
Steve."
As they rounded the tip of Azul Island, the wind
whipped into their faces and the launch dipped deeply
into a
far heavier sea.
Steve said, "It's worse here, Pitch. We
wouldn't have a
chance of getting in. The wind is driving the waves
too hard
against the walls on this side."
Pitch nodded grimly as the launch was tossed
heavily
about on the rough sea. "You're right, Steve, we'd
better go back."
"For the dory?" Steve asked quickly.
"For the dory," Pitch repeated solemnly.
The Search

Two hours later, after having taken the launch
back to the
pier, they returned in the dory to the large green
rock they
had seen earlier. They had broken camp, and now their
backpacks, along with several coils of rope and
Pitch's pick
and shovel, lay at the bottom of the dory as the
small boat
lightly rode the high swells.
"Perhaps it was silly to bring all this gear along,"
Pitch
said. He was sitting beside Steve, both pulling hard
on their
oars. "Even if we're able to reach shore, we may
not find a
way up the sides, you know."
"But if we do," Steve said, "we'll be glad to have
everything with us. It's too long a row to go back for
our
gear."
The dory fell swiftly into a deep trough, then
rose high
with the next swell. Steve saw that they were nearing the
large rock, and his face became set.
Pitch said warningly, "Careful now, Steve."
A moment later they stopped rowing, but their
oars remained in the water, directing the course of the
dory and holding her back from riding in on top of the
swells. They were both tense, for they knew that if
they went too far to the left they would be swept against
the rock and too far to the right would mean being carried
all the way in against the walls of Azul Island.
There were only a few feet of swirling waters where
they could bring in the dory
safely.
A heavy swell slipped under them and crashed against the
rock, its spray coming down on top of their heads.
As the dory went down into the trough before the next
swell, Steve
said, "Now, Pitch!" Together they plunged their oars
downward and pulled hard. The small boat leapt
ahead, its prow parallel with the rock. The wave behind
them struck the face of the rock and water poured in
torrents about them. Steve's fingers clawed at the
jagged stones as he pulled the dory forward, and
Pitch struck his oar viciously into the water as though
he were wielding a canoe paddle. The dory's prow
pushed sluggishly into the strong current flowing back
from the walls of Azul Island, and for a moment Steve
thought they would be pushed back to the front of the rock
again. Then the waters from the rock surged
forward to meet those coming from the wall. Now there were
turbulent waters beneath the dory, but neither a
forward nor backward current.
They were just behind the larger rock, and Steve saw the
small alcove where the smaller rock joined the
larger one.
"While he steadied the dory, Pitch jumped out
onto the rock
and grabbed the boat. "Hurry, Steve," he said.
Steve followed, his feet slipping on the slimy,
moss-
covered rock.
"Pull her up now," Pitch said.
Together they lifted the prow out of the water and then
swung the dory sideways until she was
directly behind, and
protected by, the larger rock. That done, they sat
down quickly beside the dory. For a moment they said nothing,
each listening to the heavy thud of waves crashing against
the face of the rock.
Finally Pitch asked, "Now what, Steve? It's
just about as
bad as in the canyon."
"But it's not as smooth or as steep," Steve
pointed out
hopefully. "Maybe we can get a foothold
someplace and be
able to climb up."
"It's difficult to tell from here," Pitch said.
Simultaneously they looked in front of them at
the low, dark rock that stretched before them to the wall.
Their first
task would be to cross it safely. They waited for the
waters
to drain from the rock, and saw the green, slippery
moss that grew there.
"We'll have to be careful," Pitch cautioned. "Very
careful."
Steve's eyes were still fixed upon the rock. He
studied it intently for a few minutes more before suddenly
crawling forward on his hands and knees. He pushed
away some of the green vegetation, exposing a long,
uneven niche in the rock. A few feet above it
he uncovered another. His eyes followed the
indentations up to the small crest of the rock,
then he turned to Pitch. "They're almost like steps,"
he said excitedly. "Do you think the sea could have cut
them in the
rocks, Pitch?"
"I suppose so," Pitch returned, after
studying the niches. "Although they do seem to be about the
same distance apart, leading right across. Maybe they
even go to the
wall."
"It's hard to tell," Steve said, "because the moss
covers them so well. If we can find them, they'll
give us a little foothold." Steve's hands were on
the rock. "Shall we try it
now, Pitch?"
Pitch knelt directly behind Steve. "I
suppose so," he said
hesitantly. "I'll never be more ready than I
am now."
They heard a wave strike the face of the rock, then
the
waters came pouring over the sides sweeping past
them and covering the low rock. They waited until the
waters drained from the rock and the way was clear again;
then Steve went
ahead, followed closely by Pitch.
Steve was in a full crouch, his hands clawing at the
rock in front of him until he found the cuts;
then he brought his
feet up to them, while his hands moved forward again,
searching for the footholds he hoped he'd
find beneath the
green moss. When he reached the small crest of the
rock he
started down toward the wall, only a few feet
away. It was
more difficult finding the cuts now-or perhaps there were
none, he thought. He stopped looking for them as he
heard
the next wave crash with a dull thud against the large
rock
behind him. There were only a few seconds now before the
water would sweep over the path he was following.
Ahead
he saw a long narrow ledge on the wall, a few
feet above the
rock. He let go. Sliding and slipping, he went
over the remaining bit of rock until he had reached
the wall, then quickly stepped up to the ledge. He no
sooner had turned
his back to the wall than Pitch was climbing up beside
him.
They stood there catching their breath while the wave
covered the rock, swept up to their feet, then
receded, rolling seaward.
"It could have been worse," Steve said
encouragingly.
"Yes. Yes, I suppose so," Pitch said
slowly. Then he turned and looked at the ledge
running along the wall. "We can't just stand here,
Steve, so let's see where this goes. If it comes
to nothing we'll just have to call it quits and go back
again."
Moving slowly, Steve sidestepped along the narrow
ledge. He had gone about thirty yards when the ledge
ended
abruptly at a shallow cleft in the rock.
Steve and Pitch stood there, saying nothing, their
eyes taking in the smooth stone on either side of them.
Overhead, the cleft rose about fifty feet.
Pitch moved off the
ledge and into the cleft beside Steve; there was just enough
room for both of them. "Well, this seems to be the
end," Pitch said dismally. "There's no place to go from
here."
Steve hated to turn back now, for there was no other
way,
he knew, of setting foot onto this part of the island.
But Pitch was right-there was no place to go from here. No
place but up.
Pitch had moved back to the ledge, and
Steve pushed his
foot against the wall of the cleft. As he did so he
could feel a
small indentation in the rock. He swept his foot
along it, scattering the small stones that lay there.
He could see it
clearly now; the indentation was worn almost smooth, but
it was still very much like the uneven cuts in the rock they
had just climbed over. He glanced at a point a
few feet above the first cut; then, quickly, he leaned
forward, his fingers finding another niche in the stone
wall. Looking
above his head, he saw several more slight indentations;
but whether or not they went all the way up the wall
he could not tell, for they were too shallow to be seen from
any
distance.
Pitch had turned away from him, but Steve
excitedly called him back. Pointing to the lowest
niche in the wall, he said, "Look, Pitch! Here
are those cuts again."
Crouching down beside Steve, Pitch felt the cuts;
then after Steve had shown him the others, he said,
"They
certainly look the same, Steve. But why
would anyone-was
"Here's why!" Steve said quickly. He braced his
back
against the wall opposite the cuts, then raised his
feet to the
first niche. And there he sat, wedged between the walls of
the cleft!
"You mean . . ." Pitch began.
Instead of replying, Steve placed one foot in the
next cut, then slid his back up the wall until
he was still higher above
the ground.
Pitch looked up at him in amazement. "Can you come
down the same way?" he asked.
"Sure," Steve said, and he slowly made his way
back to
the ground. "We can do it, Pitch," he said. "We
can go right up, as long as those cuts are there to give us
a
foothold!"
"But do you think they go all the way up, Steve?"
"I'm sure they do. Those cuts were made by someone as
a
way of getting up from this ledge! Come on, Pitch,"
Steve said anxiously, "you can easily do
it."
Once more Steve was in the cleft, and a few
seconds later
he was moving slowly up between the walls. Pitch
watched him for a few moments, and then, when it was
obvious that
Steve wasn't going to wait for him or turn
back, Pitch hesitantly started up himself. He
found it easier than he had expected as long as he
kept his back hard against the opposite wall and his
feet firmly in the cuts. Soon he was
gaining upon Steve, who had to spend time uncovering
each
cut before going on.
As Steve neared the top he could see the wide
ledge above. He pushed himself up the remaining few
feet and then crawled out upon it. Pitch was just behind, and
Steve reached down to help him up.
They stood there side by side, looking about them. Below
was a precipitous drop to the sea, and above another
sheer wall of yellow stone. Pitch had begun
to shake his
head dismally when he saw the box-shaped stone that rose
a
few feet above the center of the ledge.
"Look here, Steve,"
he said, running to it.
When Steve joined Pitch, he found him looking
down a
darkened shaft. The hole was about four feet in area,
and the
stone around it was squared off at each corner.
"Somebody
built this," Steve said, looking down into the
blackness of the hole. "What is it? Where does it
go?"
Pitch was running his hands around the sides. "This
isn't
stone," he said. "It's a mortar of some kind.
See how it crumbles, Steve. I'd say it's
hundreds of years old."
"What's the hole for?"
"I don't know for sure. But it could be a ventilation
shaft," Pitch returned.
"You mean to tunnels below?" Steve asked.
"Tunnels that may lead to the interior of the island?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Steve," Pitch
replied quickly. "We've really stumbled onto
something."
Looking down the shaft, Steve said, "How
deep do you
think it goes, Pitch?"
Pitch looked about the ledge. "If we had something
to drop we could tell approximately," he said.
They searched the ledge but could find nothing on the bare
rock; then Pitch put his hand in his pockets and
finally withdrew a long piece of white chalk. "This
will do," he said. "I must
have picked it up at the Customs office when you
arrived."
Leaning over the shaft, he added, "Listen closely
now," and
dropped the chalk.
Steve heard Pitch counting to himself as the chalk
fell; then came the soft thud as it struck the
bottom of the
shaft.
Pitch said, "About a hundred feet, Steve, as
close as I can
figure it."
"The rope could easily do it then," Steve said
quickly.
"You mean for us to go down?" Pitch asked, his eyes
becoming grave. "You think we should, Steve? We
don't know what we'll find below. It might
be dangerous."
"We can't stop now," Steve pleaded. "We've
been
looking for a possible way into the interior. We've
found it.
We can easily fit into the shaft."
Pitch was silent for a moment; then he said thoughtfully,
"And if we find nothing, we can always climb back
up the rope. We'll tie it securely around the
top of the shaft here."
His voice had become eager again.
"Yes," Steve added, "and we'll have our
flashlight to use
below. We'll have to go back to the dory to get it, and
we
should get our packs, too. If we find anything and
decide to
stay, we'll need everything we have with us. We'd
better make sure the dory will stay fast as
well."
Pitch nodded. "Yes, we'd better, as you say."
But they still stood at the edge of the shaft, looking into
the blackness below.
"We found what we were looking for, Pitch."
"Much more, actually," Pitch said slowly.
"Much more."
Underground World
Steve placed the lid on top of the can of Sterno,
extinguish
ing the flame over which the midday meal had been
cooked.
Pitch had risen to his feet, wiped his
tin
plate clean with a
paper towel, and walked over to the shaft. He stood
looking
down for a few minutes, then glanced up at the
overcast sky
and said, "We're in for some rain, I'm afraid."
Smiling, Steve snapped the lid tightly over the
can and placed it inside his pack along with the small
folded stove. "It won't bother us, not where we're
going," he said.
On the ground about them, besides the backpacks, were two
coils of rope, one lying on top of the other, and
Pitch's pick and shovel, which he had insisted upon
bringing
along. It had taken them well over an hour to get
everything from the dory. They had made their way slowly
down the cleft in the wall and along the narrow
ledge until they were again facing the sea-swept path
to the large rock
and the dory lying behind it. Then Steve had insisted upon
making the two trips across the low coral rock for the
equipment, and Pitch, knowing the boy was surer footed
than he, had let him go. On the first trip,
Steve had returned with one pack, and on the
second he had tied the
pick and shovel to the rope so Pitch could haul them
across
the turbulent waters. Steve had followed with the
second pack fastened high up on his shoulders so it
would not
hinder him as he bent far over on his way across the
slippery
rock. The rest had been easier, for Pitch had
gone up the cleft again and pulled up all the
equipment by rope while
Steve waited below.
They had then decided to eat, telling each other they
were hungry, when actually they weren't. The meal had
been unhurried, almost leisurely, until each
wondered if the
other was deliberately putting off their descent down

shaft.
Steve told himself repeatedly that there was nothing to be
frightened about. He really wasn't frightened. Well,
perhaps just a little, he admitted to himself. There was always
something frightening in the unknown. They didn't know where the
shaft led, if indeed it was a shaft as Pitch thought.
The darkness below made it worse. If it were
light, it would be different. One could do all sorts
of things
in the daylight. That's why everything else they'd done
today was different from what faced them now. Yet,
Steve argued with himself, wouldn't it be much easier than
climbing over the slippery rock and scaling the
cleft? All they had to do now was to slide down a
rope. But it was black, terrifyingly black,
below-and that made all the
difference in the world.
Pitch left the shaft and walked toward him. There was
nothing else to do now. There was no more equipment to be
brought up to the ledge. They'd eaten. Everything was
put
away. They couldn't just sit there. It would be raining
soon.
Pitch started to say something, paused to clear his
throat,
then began all over again. "Shall we lower the packs?"
"We'd better go down first and see what's there,"
Steve
said slowly. "No sense lowering the stuff if we're
not going
to stay. We'd just have to haul it up again,"
Pitch nodded without saying anything. After a few
minutes, he picked up one of the ropes and went
over to the
shaft. Steve followed.
Pitch drew the rope around the top of the shaft, tied
one
end, then pulled hard, tightening'the knot.
Satisfied that it
wouldn't slip, he threw the coil down the shaft.
The rope
disappeared into the darkness of the hole, uncoiling like a
brown snake until the end struck the bottom with a
dull
thud.
"At least we know the rope reaches the bottom,"
Pitch
said.
Steve said quietly, "I'll go down now, and when
I get to the bottom I'll let you know
whether to lower the packs or
not." He reached for the flashlight Pitch was holding in
his
hand.
"I'm going first," Pitch said, just as quietly as
Steve.
"But it's easier for-was Steve began.
Pitch already had hold of the rope and one foot was
resting on the edge of the shaft.
"Pitch, it's so much easier for me to climb up,
if it's
necessary. I can make it fast, Pitch!"
Straddling a side of the shaft, Pitch placed the
flashlight
in his pocket and carefully buttoned the pocket
flap over it.
"Someone has to be in charge of an expedition like this,"
he
said with feigned lightness. "And because of my age I'm
electing myself." He looked up at Steve.
"There's really nothing to it, you know. We've gone through
much worse
today."
Pitch's hands tightened about the rope as he slid
into the
shaft and began working his way down, his feet pressed
stiffly against the wall. Steve watched him until
he could no
longer see the top of Pitch's white hat, and he
found himself
thinking how silly it was for Pitch to be wearing his hat
when he was going a hundred feet or more under the
ground. Taking off his own hat, he flung it to one
side.
For a few minutes, Steve could hear the sound of
Pitch's
feet scraping the wall. The rope was taut.
Fingering it,
Steve waited until the sounds from Pitch no longer
reached
his ears and the rope had lost its tautness. He knew
then that Pitch had reached the bottom of the shaft.
"Pitch! Pitch! Are you all right?"
There were a few seconds of frightening, agonizing
silence, then Pitch's voice came up the shaft so
suddenly that the sound burst upon Steve's ears.
"I'm all right. It's a tunnel, just as we thought,
Steve. I'm going to look
around."
"Pitch! You'd better wait," Steve
called. But as the echo
died away, there was only deadening silence within the
shaft.
Hanging over the side, Steve waited. Every minute
seemed an hour. His thin lips were set, his dark
eyes stared
into the blackness below. If anything happens to Pitch,
he thought
...
If anything happens . . .
Then Pitch's voice came up the shaft again.
"Come down, Steve," he called excitedly.
"I've really found
something."
Steve had one leg inside the shaft when he saw the
packs
lying on the ground. "Pitch!" he shouted. "What
about the packs? Shall I lower them down first? Are we
going to
stay?"
"Yes, Steve. Yes, you'd better lower everything
down. We can't stop now-not now."
Anxious to get below, Steve hurriedly tied the
second coil
of rope about the packs and lowered them into the
shaft. "Coming down," he called to Pitch. "Watch
your head."
When he felt the packs touch the bottom of the
shaft, he flung his leg over the side once more.
But then he stopped
again when he caught sight of Pitch's pick and
shovel. Surely Pitch wouldn't have any use for
them; they'd been
enough of a nuisance already. He grabbed hold of the rope
to let himself down, then hesitated again. Finally he
called
down the shaft, "How about the pick and shovel? Do you
want them, too?"
"Oh, yes, Steve," came the quick reply. "I
want them
very much."
Shaking his head, Steve climbed out of the shaft and
pulled up the second rope. When he had drawn
it to the
top, he tied the pick and shovel to it and lowered
away. As
soon as he heard the implements strike bottom,
he was on
his way down the shaft.
He lowered himself quickly, the rope sliding
between his
hands. The darkness closed in about him, and a strong
current of air from above beat upon his head. He
took one quick look up at the sky and saw the heavy
gray clouds

UNDERGROUND WORLD
overhead, then he turned away. He didn't have
far to go when Pitch flashed the light upon him, then
switched it off again. Steve figured that Pitch was
saving the battery, but
he thought it unnecessary since they had brought along four
extra batteries.
The light came on again and Steve saw Pitch's
face behind the glow as his feet found the stone floor.
"Notice how smooth it is," Pitch said, flashing
the light downward. "We're not the first here by any
means. Look here too, Steve."
He flashed the light over the yellow walls on either
side of
them, and then directed it toward the ceiling, which was so
low that the two of them had to stand in a crouched position
beneath it. "This tunnel is partly natural in formation,
Steve. It could have been cut as far back as the
Ice Age, then
pushed up by some giant upheaval." Pitch paused,
then added with great awe, "But a lot of it has been
worked out
by hand. Notice the perfect regularity of the cutting
on each
side and on the ceiling here."
Steve's eyes were following the beam of light.
"By whose
hands?" he asked.
"The Spaniards, Steve, the Spaniards,"
Pitch returned quickly. "They probably started
work on it early in the
sixteenth century and continued for well over a
hundred and
fifty years-until shortly after 1669, I'd
say."
"How do you know, Pitch? Why are you so sure it was
the Spaniards?"
Without a word Pitch took Steve by the arm and led him
up an incline, flashing the light ahead of them.
Steve's back
was almost touching the low ceiling. His sense of direction
told him they were going toward the sea and that they still
THE ISLAND STALLION
the ledge. Suddenly Pitch
must be directly beneath
switched off the light. A few yards ahead,
Steve saw three
narrow slits of daylight coming through the rock.
Stopping before the slits, Pitch flashed on the light
again, and Steve saw that they had reached the end of the
tunnel. Pitch stood flat against the wall to enable
Steve to get beside him. Two of the slits were on either
side of the
tunnel and the other was directly between them. They were
at eye height and each slit was about three feet
deep and a
foot wide. But as Steve looked through one of them
he saw
that the sides of the slit were tapered and that the opening
outside was less than an inch wide. Looking through
the slit, Steve could see the ocean to the right of the
ledge
overhead.
"Look through the middle one now," Pitch said.
Through this slit, Steve saw a continuation of the view from
the first slit.
"Now the next one," Pitch said.
Curiously, yet suspecting what he'd find,
Steve looked
through the slit on the far left of the tunnel. Again he
saw a
continuation of the view from the middle slit; and he also was
able to see the large rock behind which the dory still
lay, as well as the narrow ledge below that led to the
cleft in
the wall.
Pitch said, "A man with a gun could cover every
possible
approach from this point, Steve."
"Then they're gun slits," Steve said quickly.
"Exactly," Pitch replied. "They're wide enough
in here to slip the barrel of a gun through, but the tiny
opening on
the outside of the wall makes them a very difficult
target for
anyone firing from the sea."
, "And that's what makes you so certain it was the
Spaniards who used this tunnel?" Steve asked.
"Who else would have been attacked from the sea,
Steve?
Remember that in those days Spain's armies ruled the
New
World, but they were in constant danger of attacks by
pirates. I told you," he added, "how
Antago was sacked by
pirates in 1669. The Spaniards could have had
ready just such a place as this to flee to when they were
driven from Antago."
"Then what do you actually think we'll find here,
Pitch?"
Steve asked excitedly.
"Most anything, Steve. Most anything," Pitch
repeated
quickly. "Come on." Taking small, hurried
steps, he moved back down the tunnel, followed
by Steve.
Arriving at the shaft again, they were able to stand upright.
They remained there for a few minutes, resting their
backs. Then Pitch said, "We'd better get
on, Steve."
They placed the packs upon their shoulders and as Pitch
flung the second coil of rope about his neck, the
beam from
the flashlight fell upon the pick and shovel.
"You still want to take them along?" Steve asked.
"It's going to be trouble enough with just the packs."
Nodding, Pitch said, "I don't dare leave them
behind now." Reaching for the shovel, he added, "If
you'll just carry the pick, Steve."
With a last look up the shaft at the gray sky,
Steve
followed Pitch down the tunnel. The descent was not
steep,
but it seemed never-ending, and soon Steve felt the
dull
ache in his legs from the stiff, awkward steps he had
to take
in his crouched position. The light pack became
heavier,
and the pick he carried was an added weight to his
misery.

THE ISLAND STALLION
Suddenly Pitch came to an abrupt stop as the
flashlight revealed a sharp angle to the right.
"Another tunnel," Pitch said.
"But we should keep going down, the way we're
doing,"
Steve returned. "This other tunnel probably
only goes to
another spot along the sea."
"I know," Pitch said. "But I was thinking of our
return
trip. We want to make sure that we have
no trouble getting
back to our rope. We mustn't get lost. If
only we had
something to mark our way-was
"The chalk!" Steve said quickly. "You dropped it
down
the shaft. We could mark our way with that."
"Just the thing, Steve."
"I'll get it."
Pitch handed over the flashlight to Steve, who
removed
his pack and then went back up the tunnel. Sitting
down on
the ground, Pitch watched as the light moved along
to the
steady sound of Steve's footsteps. A little while
later, the
light flashed downward and Pitch knew that Steve
had
arrived back at the shaft. The light bobbed around the
ground, then was turned in Pitch's direction again.
"I've got it, Pitch!" Steve called down the
tunnel.
Back with Pitch, Steve sat down and rested while

friend marked a large arrow on the wall of the tunnel,
pointing in the direction of the shaft.
"We can't miss it now," Pitch said. "And we'll
do the
same each time we come to another tunnel."
Soon they were on their way again, stopping only when
they found other tunnels diverging from the one they were
following. "This place is a maze," Pitch said
after a while.
"We'd never have found our way back without the chalk
marks."

UNDERGROUND WORLD
Downward, ever downward they went, their footsteps
beginning to drag, their cramped muscles sore and
painful.
They began to stop more often, even when they did not come
upon other passageways. They found, too, that they were
too tired to talk, so they sat quietly beside each
other during their frequent rests.
Rubbing his legs, Steve breathed deeply and
wondered
that the air was still so fresh and clean. There must be many
ventilation shafts up the other tunnels, he
decided, yet he
and Pitch had not come across any on their way down.
They
must be hundreds of feet below the surface of the ground
and far into the interior of Azul Island. Well, he
asked himself, wasn't that what he wanted? No, not
quite-
because when he started he was looking for a horse. Now
he
found himself in a catacomb, almost a lost world!
Yes, but they go together, his mind insisted. If, as
Pitch figured, the
Spanish Conquistadores were responsible for the
building of
these tunnels, they also were responsible for the stallion
on
the cliff. Only those who knew the secrets of this
underground world could have gotten a horse into the
interior of Azul Island!
Steve continued thinking about the horse on the cliff as
he rose and followed Pitch down the tunnel. A
horse needed
grazing land, so surely these tunnels had to lead to the
surface. Surely there had to be more than just these
passages
running through the yellow rock. A horse
couldn't live underground. But this tunnel through which they were
traveling continued to go ever downward. Was it the wrong
tunnel? Should they have taken one of the others? Of all
the
many tunnels was there only one that led to the surface?
were they to spend days groping around behind the beam of their
flashlight, as they were doing now? were they-
Pitch came to a sudden stop and Steve bumped
into him. "What is it, Pitch?" And although Steve's
voice was little more than an anxious whisper, it echoed
loudly through the
tunnel.
Without saying a word, Pitch turned the beam of light
to
the right. Steve fully expected to see another
tunnel, but
instead he saw a high natural cleavage in the
stone. Then
Pitch flashed the light inside over a long
rectangular room
with a jagged ceiling all of six feet high. They
entered, straightening their backs and glorying in the
feeling of
being able to stand upright again.
Pitch slowly turned the flashlight over
the walls and
ceiling. They saw a ventilation shaft in the middle
of the
chamber. Then Pitch brought the light down a little
lower.
There, in front of their eyes, was a long table of
heavy
wood!
Running forward, Pitch stood before the table. The
flashlight's beam moved over a surface heavily
laden with a fine gray dust.
"What's caret that behind the table?" Steve asked
suddenly.
Pitch turned the flashlight on the object on the
floor, and they both saw the overturned chair. But
their eyes left it for the carved crest and the lettering upon the
wall be
hind it.
They rounded the table quickly, Pitch holding the
flashlight close to the wall. Half obliterated
with age, but
still faintly visible, was the outline of a scroll, in the
center
of which they made out the figure of a lion standing upon
his hind legs and holding a small bird
clutched between his
paws.
"A coat of arms," Pitch said huskily.
The lettering beneath the crest was in Spanish and only the
top two lines could be made out:
1669 ANOS
AQUI EL CAPITAN RA . . .
His voice still heavy with emotion, Pitch
translated: "In
the year 1669. Here Captain
..."
He turned to Steve.
"That's the year the Spaniards were driven from
Antago by the pirates," he said quickly. "Steve!
This proves I'm right!
This is a fort to which the Spaniards fled after leaving
Antago!"
In his excitement Pitch had directed the
flashlight's beam
from the wall to the opposite side of the room, and there
they saw another great split in the wall, leading to a
chamber beyond. "Look, Steve!" Pitch shouted.
"Another
room!"
Pitch ran around the table toward the
doorway. He was
nearing the center of the room when suddenly there was the
sharp clanking of metal against stone. Steve caught
a
glimpse of the shovel as Pitch's foot sent it
wildly across the
room. Then Pitch fell, and the flashlight went out
to the
sound of splintering glass. Stumbling against the table in
the darkness, Steve groped his way forward, trying
to find
Pitch.
Lost!

In the darkness, Steve could make out the dim square
of light beneath the ventilation shaft. Pitch's legs were
within
this patch of light, but the rest of his body was
enveloped in
the darkness of the chamber.
As Steve reached him, Pitch was drawing one leg
up to a
kneeling position.
"Pitch! Are you all right?"
There was a groan more of disgust than agony
as Pitch said, "Got the wind knocked out of me.
But the flashlight, Steve! Where is it? Is it
broken?"
They found it by groping in the dark, running their
frantic hands across the cold, smooth stone. They
took one
look at it in the dim light of the shaft and knew
immediately that it was hopeless to think it would ever
work again. The end had been driven hard against the stone;
there was no lens, no bulb, nothing but a battered,
twisted
piece of metal.
"Maybe it'll work, Pitch. We've got other
bulbs. We
can try."
Shaking his head, Pitch muttered, "Sure we've
got more
bulbs. More batteries, too. But not another
flashlight. We
haven't a chance."
Steve was making his way toward where they'd left the
packs when he heard Pitch mutter angrily,
almost to
himself, "What a numbskull I am! What a
stupid fool not
to have brought another flashlight along!"
After finding the packs, Steve pulled them across
toward
Pitch. "You didn't know we were going to go through
this," he said. "I should have thought of another flashlight
too. It's my fault as much as yours."
They found they couldn't even get the bulbs into the
wrenched socket.
Looking into the darkness, Pitch said, "A nice
mess.
Luckily, we have plenty of matches and we shouldn't
have
too much trouble getting back-if we're careful."
"Back," slowly repeated Steve. "Yes, I
guess we do have
to go back."
"There's no other choice," Pitch said. "We could
roam through these tunnels for a long time, I'm
afraid, without
finding our way to whatever it is that's at the end of
them. If
there is an end to them," he added grudgingly.
Steve didn't say anything.
"We'll have to go back to Antago to get better
equipment, including flashlights, and then
we can return,"
Pitch went on. "We've licked the hardest part,
Steve. It'll
only mean losing a couple of days, and we have
plenty of
time."
""Plenty of time." No,
Steve thought, still
don't have plenty of
time at all. I have two weeks before going home.
Two days mean a
lot to me. And we've gone through so much to turn
back. We may be
very near the end of the tunnel now,
he told himself hopefully.
It couldn't just go on and on!
Yet he wondered if it did. Did this tunnel
only lead to others that would take them still deeper within the
yellow stone of Azul Island? What then? The
matches soon would be gone. Then there would never be a
chance of finding their way back.
"I guess you're right, Pitch," he said finally.
"We have no choice but to go back."
Standing up, Pitch put his pack upon his shoulders.
"We'd better take the pack along,"
he said, "just in case-was
Pitch had left his sentence unfinished, but Steve
knew perfectly well what he had meant to say.
Just in case they
missed the chalked arrows. Just in case they got
lost!
Pitch had the large box of matches in his hand.
"We
really shouldn't have any trouble," he said, but there was a
grimness to his voice that belied his light tone.
"We'll
strike a match every fifty yards or so as we go
along. There should be plenty to last. And I have another
box if we need
them," he added quickly. "Ready, Steve?"
Strapping the pack to his shoulders and picking up the
rope Pitch had dropped when he fell, Steve
replied, "Okay,
Pitch."
They had walked only a few steps across the room
when
Pitch struck the first match. In its glow they saw
the pick
and shovel. "We'll leave them behind this time," Pitch
decided.
Before the light dimmed, they both turned toward the
cleavage in the wall they had seen a few minutes
earlier. "I'd
just like to take a look inside," Pitch said. "We
can spare the match."
LOST!

As the match burned out Steve followed Pitch, his
hand upon Pitch's shoulder. Their fingers touched the
wall and felt along it to the opening they were seeking.
"Now," Pitch said, lighting another match.
They stood just within the room, but as the match flared,
then steadied, they backed away, startled at what they
saw before them. It was a long narrow room with a ceiling
no higher than the tunnel. Along the bottom of the
wall were iron rings and fastened to each was a short
chain-chains
that were still around bones that once had been the wrists of
many men. Grotesquely, their skeletons still
remained sitting upright, their white skulls leaning
wearily against the wall. And with the flickering of the match
they seemed to move horribly.
Pitch dropped the match and, frantically, he and
Steve
groped their way through the darkness of the outer
chamber
until their fingers found the opening leading to the tunnel.
Outside they hurriedly turned left, knowing that was
the direction from which they had come. They ran until their
legs gave way beneath them, then slipped wearily to the
floor and lay there in the darkness.
It was a few minutes before Pitch struck a match,
and within its glow their faces were still white and taut.
Pitch said almost angrily, "We were very silly
to run. We have to be more careful or we'll lose our
way."
Yes, Steve admitted to himself, it had been silly
to run as
they had done. Yet one often did things without thinking.
This had been one of those times. He was not ashamed, for
he knew that many men braver than he or Pitch would
have
had a similar reaction to the horrible sight of men
who
centuries ago had died a living death, chained to the
walls of
a black pit hundreds of feet beneath the ground.

THE ISLAND STALLION
Soon they started again and found that going up the
tunnel was easier on their legs than coming down.
At regular intervals Pitch would light a match,
and from its glow they would look ahead for the other
tunnels they had passed on their way down. Then,
as the light flickered and died, they would walk forward
again until they came to what they figured had been the
range of their last light. They would stop then to light
another match before going
on.
After more than half an hour Pitch said gravely,
"Something must be wrong, Steve. I'm certain we
should
have run across other tunnels before this. I remember
marking one just fifteen minutes or so before we reached
the
chamber on our way down."
"Yes," Steve admitted slowly, "I know you
did. Do you
think we could have taken another tunnel somewhere along
the line? We must have run a hundred yards before we
lit our first match."
"I would say it was more like three hundred yards before
we stopped running," Pitch returned.
"It couldn't have been, Pitch!" Steve stopped,
suddenly realizing that probably neither of them
was right. In the darkness they could have run from fifty
to five hundred yards for all they knew. Fright
did that to a person. "We'd better turn back
then," he said aloud.
"Yes, we'd better." Pitch made no effort
to keep the concern from his voice. They both were aware
of the
consequences of getting lost.
As they started back down the tunnel Pitch said,
"You
keep a hand on the right wall when we go along in the
dark,
Steve. I'll keep mine on the left wall. That
way we won't
slip by any tunnels that may converge with this one.
If
there's a break, stop-and I'll do the same."
They had walked along for about half an hour when
suddenly Steve's hand encountered nothing but air.
"Wait, Pitch!" he called.
Pitch struck a match and they saw another
tunnel. "You
see we missed this on the way up," he said.
Eagerly they
looked for a large white arrow, but found
none. "Obviously," Pitch continued dismally, "we
didn't come down either
one of these tunnels on our way to the chamber or there
would be an arrow on one of them."
"Then which one did we just come up?" Steve asked
anxiously. "Which one goes back to the chamber?"
Pitch didn't answer. And Steve couldn't help
him. They
simply couldn't tell, for both tunnels went
downward and at this point they came together in a
V-shape.
"One's as good as another," Steve said. "Let's
take our
pick, Pitch."
Pitch's round face was grim and his pale blue
eyes were
but slits in the light of the burning match. "Don't
worry, Steve. We've got plenty of matches.
We'll find our way out."
But still they stood before the two tunnels, neither caring
to make the decision. They knew that only one
tunnel went back to the chamber where they'd have a chance
of picking
up the arrows again.
"We could separate," Steve suggested.
"You take one
tunnel and I the other. We'll come back after going
a short
way."
"A short way wouldn't do it," Pitch protested.
"We must be all of half an hour from the chamber.
No, Steve,

THE ISLAND STALLION
we'd better stick together. We need each other
now."
"Then let's go to the right," Steve suggested quickly.
"The right way could be right," he added without smiling.
Pitch nodded, and once again they made their way
downward. They had traveled for about fifteen
minutes when the burning match disclosed another
tunnel, going
still farther to the right.
"This is the end," Pitch said dismally. "We may have
been lucky enough to guess correctly the first time, but
doing it again is asking too much of luck."
Steve said slowly, "Will it be to the right or the left
or
back?"
They stood there long after the match had
burned out,
neither saying a word. Finally Pitch struck another
match,
and in the light their faces were haggard and old, far beyond
their years. When the match burned out, Pitch took
Steve by the arm and led him down the tunnel to the
right.
They went along for an hour, coming across several more
tunnels, and always they went to the right without
stopping, without talking. It didn't matter to them which
direction they took now, for they were fully convinced
they
weren't going to find their way back to the chamber. They
still looked hopefully for the chalked arrows each time they
came to another tunnel, but they really didn't
expect to find them either now.
After a while their stops to rest became more frequent,
for they were conserving their energy. And the intervals
between the striking of matches were longer, for the
matches too had to be conserved. They needed the
matches
more than ever now. Not so much for showing them their
LOST!
way, as for the warmth they gave, a spiritual
warmth that penetrated deeper and deeper into their very
souls as they
went along. Each time a match was struck they
looked more
eagerly at each other, as though they had not seen one
another for a long, long time. Darkness did that to people.
One could take only so much darkness. Their hands were
raw from constant contact with the uneven wall, but they
did not know they bled. Their cramped muscles no
longer pained them; it was as though they had always walked
in this hunched position, and always down, down. Was there
no end to this descent? they asked themselves over and over
again. Did it end nowhere? Yet the air remained
fresh. It
had been almost an hour since they had last seen a
ventilation shaft running hundreds and hundreds of
feet up
to the surface. They had stood beneath it a long time,
gazing fixedly at the small patch of blue sky
above. Yes, it was blue now instead of gray. They
had noticed that
immediately. The rain must have come and gone, then. They had
talked about it at length before giving up their
patch of blue for the blackness ahead.
Much later they came to another tunnel,
where Pitch
slipped to the floor, saying, "I'm almost whipped,
Steve. I'd
like to rest awhile."
Slowly Steve stretched out on the floor behind him,
too tired to remove his pack. "We'll rest,
Pitch, as you say. Later we'll have something to eat.
We'll feel better then, much better."
He closed his eyes and thought of the two of them
cooking their meal down here. Maybe it would be a
record of some kind. "The World's Finest Underground
Meal," he
thought morosely. It would make a good story to tell
the

THE ISLAND STALLION
fellows back home. Yes, he'd say, we had
chipped beef
and beans cooked just right over our Sterno stove.
Steve
opened his eyes as he thought of the can of Sterno.
"Pitch,"
he said slowly, "how many cans of Sterno did we
bring
along?"
"About eight." Pitch spoke with an effort, then
Steve
heard him chuckle. "But I'd figured on using
driftwood to
cook most of our meals. That's a laugh, isn't
it? Lots of
driftwood down here, all right. Just bundles of
it."
"At least we can use the Sterno when we're getting
low
on matches," Steve said thoughtfully. "It's too
bad we didn't think to use a can when we first started
back. We
wouldn't have lost our way then."
As Steve finished, Pitch's steady breathing reached
his
ears. It was good that Pitch was sleeping, he thought.
They
both needed sleep. It probably wasn't even
dark outside yet.
But it didn't matter here. Down here one didn't
have to
wait for night to fall before going to sleep. It was
always
night here.
It could have been a minute or hours that Steve
slept
when suddenly he became conscious of a low, steady
hum in
his ears. He thought it was Pitch's breathing until
he
realized there was no break in the sound, no interval as
there would be between the deep breaths of a sleeping man.
Steve
opened his eyes. The hum was very low yet very distinct.
He tried to place the sound; it was something he should
know. It came from the tunnel to the right.
"Pitch!"
Steve listened again. It was still there, low and never-
ending.
"Pitch!"
LOST!

He was beginning to wonder if he actually did hear
anything. He wanted somebody else to hear it.
Pitch had to
hear it!
"Pitch!" Frantically Steve climbed to his
feet and shook
Pitch's leg until he awakened.
"Listen, Pitch! Do you hear it?"
Pitch sat up but said nothing.
The low humming swept through Steve's ears until
he couldn't stand Pitch's silence any longer. "You
hear it,
Pitch! You do hear it, don't you?" His voice was
pleading,
entreating.
, "I think I hear something," Pitch said slowly.
"I'm not
quite sure, though. My ears
..."
"Is it a low, humming sound, Pitch? Do you think
it might get louder if we walked down that tunnel
to the
right?" Steve was almost in a frenzy. He wished he
could see
Pitch. He would be able to tell by his eyes whether
or not Pitch was saying he
did
hear something just to agree with
him. But he couldn't see Pitch.
"Steve!" Pitch's voice was raised, excited.
"I do hear it
now. It sounds almost like water-rushing
water!"
"Yes, that's it!" Steve yelled, moving past
Pitch. "It's a
stream!" He was already on his way down the tunnel
when Pitch rose from the floor and hurriedly
followed.
Steve was in a half-run when his outstretched hands
banged against a wall in front of him. "A match,
Pitch.
Quick!" he cried.
Striking a match, Pitch moved up toward Steve.
Ahead
they saw that the tunnel took a sharp right-angle
turn to a
short flight of steps cut in the stone. Eagerly
they rushed up
the steps, and before the lighted match had gone out
completely they saw that the tunnel now ran up
instead of
down.
Then it was dark again.
"Careful," Pitch warned. "Let's go slowly
now."
Steve went forward, his head and shoulders down as
before, his skinned hands trailing the walls on
either side of
him. The low, humming sound became louder. It rushed
and roared in his ears. His half-steps came faster
until he
was running again.
"Slower, Steve! You're going much too fast,"
Pitch
warned from behind. "Stop, and we'll light another
match
now."
In the light of the burning match, they saw that the
tunnel continued to lead upward. Steve plunged
forward.
After the light died out, he had gone only a few
yards when
his right shoulder crashed heavily against stone. He
reeled
back from the force of the impact, falling at Pitch's
feet.
Quickly Pitch struck another match and bent down
toward Steve. The worry in his eyes turned
to anger when he
saw that Steve was all right and climbing to his
knees. "You
fool, Steve!" he shouted. "You can't go
plunging through
this tunnel. You should know that by now!" Then the anger
left his voice as he said, "I'll go first from now
on, Steve. I
don't want you to get hurt."
Steve nodded, but he was only conscious of the ever-
increasing roar ahead of them. "We must be very close
to it
now," he said.
The tunnel took a sharp turn to the left this time,
and
Pitch struck another match. Ahead, the tunnel
continued to
lead upward, but Pitch too knew they were almost at
the end. The roar had become the distant sound of rushing
water. They moved forward, with Pitch striking
matches
more frequently than before.
Soon they noticed that the ceiling of the tunnel was
gradually becoming higher. They were able slowly to
straighten their backs until finally they were standing
upright for the first time since they had left the cham
ber.
Pitch struck another match, and this time they saw the
waters of a very narrow but fast-flowing stream
plunging
directly across their path. They moved forward. The
tunnel
came to an end at a doorway leading to a high
natural cut in
the rocks through which the underground stream flowed. It
came from their right, rushing past them and continuing
downward. Along the stream a narrow path had been
cut in
the stone.
Turning to Pitch, Steve asked anxiously, "Shall
we go
down or up the stream?"
Pitch had bent down to the water and was tasting it.
"Fresh water," he announced.
Steve drank with him, then said, "I think we should
follow the stream down, don't you, Pitch? It has
to lead
somewhere."
"I think we should, Steve."
Striking another match, they walked cautiously
along the
stream. They had gone only a short distance when
Steve said
quickly, "I'd swear it's getting lighter,
Pitch. Don't you
notice it?"
"It doesn't seem to be quite so dark," Pitch
agreed
cautiously.
They struck another match and saw the gradual
curve in
the course of the stream. While the match burned they
walked quickly forward and then slowed down as the light
flickered and went out.
The burned match dropped from Pitch's fingers as he
grabbed hold of Steve's arm. Ahead of them the
blackness of
the curving stream gave way to a dim gray light.
They rushed forward, needing no burning match to guide
their
running feet. Rounding the curve, they came to an
abrupt
stop as they saw a large opening in the rocks through which
came the light of late afternoon.
They stood there quietly, neither of them saying a word.
And when they walked forward again their steps were
unhurried as though each was experiencing an emotion
he wanted to prolong. For they were walking from the fear
of death into the light of the living.
The roar of the stream became louder but they did not hear
it; their dazed eyes were focused upon the blue sky
ahead. It wasn't until they stood in the great
opening in the
yellow rock that they saw the water pouring in a
silken sheet
of white, crashing far down onto the rocks of a
large pool
two hundred feet or more below them. And stretched before
their eyes, as far ahead as they could see, was a long
valley
within the yellow walls of Azul Island!
"A lost valley," Pitch said unbelievingly.
"A lost world!"
But Pitch's words went unheard by Steve. His
eyes were fixed upon the shadows to the left of the pool
below them.
He watched for a few minutes, then his hand tightened
on
Pitch's arm. For grazing below was a large band of
horses,
their long tails touching the ground and their small heads
stretched forward as they cropped the blue-green
grass. Steve's breath came short at the sight
of them, then his breathing seemed to stop altogether.
Leaving the herd,
moving from shadow to sun, stepped the giant stallion
of the cliff! He walked toward the pool, his proud
head raised high, his muscles moving easily beneath
sleek skin. The sun's rays turned his chestnut
coat into the glowing red of
fire.
Under his breath, Steve murmured,
"Flame!"
Fight of the Stallions

They stood there for a while in silent awe and wonder
at the
scene below them. Steve's eyes never left the red
stallion as
he stretched his long neck in a graceful arc to the
water. But
Pitch's gaze turned from the horses to the valley
carpeted with the short, thick, bluish-green grass.
He followed it with his eyes as far ahead as he could
see, then looked over the rolling land that led to the
yellow walls rising high about the valley. There the
grass grew tall and had the appearance of young,
green cane. It bent slightly in the breeze that
blew down the valley from the south. As he
looked, the shadows of the western walls lengthened
until they reached the floor of the valley, where
suddenly they turned from the dark ominous black of
night to an almost brilliant blue. Pitch grabbed
Steve's arm. "Blue as blue can be, Steve,"
he said slowly. "Blue Valley."
The boy looked over at the shadows that had picked
up
the blue in the grass. "That's where the island gets
its name then, Pitch. Azul means blue in
Spanish. Blue Island. Blue Valley, as you
say." But then his eyes went back to the stallion,
who had finished drinking and now stood at gaze, his
head moving slowly from side to side. "Let's get
closer, Pitch," Steve said. "I want to get
closer to them."
Slowly they made their way down the steps cut in the
rock until they had almost reached the valley
floor; then they came upon a large cave.
"We can set up camp here, Steve," Pitch said.
"We're
near water. It's everything we need. Just think,
Steve," he continued more slowly, "the last persons
who lived in this
cave were the Conquistadores!"
But Steve had turned away from the cave and was again
looking at the horses grazing but a short distance
away. He
took off his pack, letting it slide to the ground, but
he didn't follow Pitch into the cave.
His eyes devoured the red stallion, as though to fix
him
forever in his memory. Yet he had always known this
horse
in his dreams. He had looked upon him many times as
he was doing now. So he wasn't surprised to see
the small, arrogant head with the large eyes set low
in the wide and prominent forehead. It was the head of
an Arabian, as he knew it would be.
Still in the sun, the red stallion continued to stand at
gaze with only his head moving slowly, watchfully.
He was
like a giant statue. Steve's eyes moved over every
inch of him. He watched the alert, shifting gaze of the
stallion,
then studied the wedge-shaped head and the small ears now
pricked forward until they almost came to a point at
the
tips. The stallion's head was raised high, yet
set at an angle,
accentuating the high curve at the crest of his long
neck. The length of his back, along with his large
size, made it apparent to Steve that he was not a
pure-blooded Arabian. Yet Steve knew, from
the red stallion's head and neck, from the
well-muscled withers, chest and shoulders, from the
unusually long quarters and strong legs, that there was a
preponderance of Arabian blood in this horse.
The red stallion moved; tall and long-limbed he
trotted, his tail flowing behind him and his heavy mane
sweeping lightly in the breeze. After a short
distance he came to an abrupt stop, his gaze still
shifting about the valley floor to the north, his ears
alert.
Steve too turned his gaze down the valley, but
he saw nothing in the dim, fading light of sunset.
Still, he knew from the red stallion's actions that he
was uneasy. And whatever it was that bothered him was
downwind, so the
breeze could not bring any scent to his nostrils.
He was not
frightened, Steve decided, only cautious.
The thirty-odd mares and their long-legged foals were
still grazing without so much as a glance at their leader.
They were not restless and Steve knew that only
a signal of
danger from the red stallion would make them abandon their
grazing. Yet what had these horses to fear in this
lovely, serene valley? Few animals
dangerous to them would
be on the island. And no animal could withstand the
powerful, crushing hoofs of their angered leader.
Steve was watching the band, thinking how little they
resembled the small, wiry horses on the plain
outside the walls, when Pitch joined him.
"Steve," Pitch said excitedly, "look what I
found!" He held an iron spur with a sharp-pointed
rowel at the end of it.
Taking the spur from Pitch, Steve ran his
fingertips over the spike-wheeled rowel, thinking of the
damage it could do to a horse when it was on the heel
of a vicious rider.
Pitch said almost reverently, "It's nearly three
hundred years old, Steve. Think of it! And
there's a heavy wooden
table in the cave. There are a couple of chairs,
too," he went on quickly. "I'm sure we'll
find other caves like this one and
probably many other historical relics!"
"But Pitch-was Steve's voice was a little
annoyed as he turned to his friend. "Why be bothered
by relics when-was He stopped as he saw the eagerness
leave Pitch's eyes. "I mean," he went on,
his voice gentler, "those horses down there-they're
alive, Pitch!" His eyes pleaded with his friend. "And
they, or rather their ancestors, were left behind by the
Spaniards too. Think of it, Pitch! Look at
them!" Steve's voice was raised as he gestured in
the drection of the horses. "They're nothing like the
horses on
the plain."
Pitch was now close beside him. "No," he
admitted,
"they're not. But don't you think it's because conditions
are
so much better here, Steve? There's plenty of good
grass, water, and the walls protect them from the
wind."
Steve shook his head. "No, Pitch. It isn't
that at all. These horses have the breeding. I'm
convinced that the Conquistadores brought only their finest
horses to this
valley, and that those on the outside were pack horses
or of a
crossbreed which didn't work out for them."
"You might be right," Pitch said. "I've never seen
such beautiful animals and, certainly, never any like
that red stallion." He stopped abruptly, turning
to Steve, his eyes searching. "Red stallion
..."
he repeated slowly. Then, although he said nothing more,
Steve knew Pitch was
thinking of Flame and the story he had told him the
night
before.
Their eyes went back to the red leader as he continued
moving uneasily away from his band.
It was Steve who directed Pitch's attention to the
band once more. "They all have Arabian blood in
them, Pitch. Notice their wedge-shaped heads."
And then Steve went on
to point out every physical characteristic of the Arabian that
he had observed in the horses. He concluded
by saying, "They're the same horses the
Conquistadores rode centuries ago, Pitch.
Maybe even better with their inbreeding and the fact that
only the finest and strongest stallion could survive
as their leader in this small valley. It's his blood
that makes them what they are! Look for yourself,
Pitch. The red
stallion is king of this band and sire of all those
long-legged
foals running around. They have his blood, and the finest
and strongest of the colts will one day take his place."
Steve's voice was so low that it almost seemed as though
he were talking for his own benefit.
But Pitch had been listening, for he said, "But all
this inbreeding, Steve. I don't understand how there could
have been so much of it during all these years and still leave
the horses with what good qualities they had at the
beginning.
Of course, I'm a greenhorn."
"I only know what I've read, Pitch," Steve
said seriously.
"And it's a cinch no one has ever known of a band of
horses
left to themselves for centuries, as these have been, so your
opinion is as good as anyone else's. But I've
read," he went on, "that inbreeding is perfectly
all right if the horses are of
the purest blood and don't have any bad traits
or weakness
es; because if they do, the bad traits in both sire
and dam
show up in the foal worse than ever."
Steve paused. "But that hasn't happened here-at
least, as far as we can tell."
They watched the horses for a few more minutes before
Pitch said, "I was thinking of the Arabian blood in
these
horses, Steve. You know that seems logical to me
too, now,
because the Arabs invaded Spain in about 700
a.d.
They remained in Spain for five hundred years before
they were forced out, and I'm sure that by that time their
horses had become native to Spain." Pleased with
his own reasoning, Pitch looked at the horses with
renewed interest.
Steve's eyes were upon the red stallion again. The
leader's
head had stopped moving back and forth but it was still
raised high. Steve saw the quivering of the
stallion's nostrils
as he sniffed the air. He was suspicious of
something, yet he
remained amazingly cool. He still gave no
signal to his complacent followers. Suddenly he
turned to the south, up the valley this time, sniffing
again.
Steve turned with him, but the rocky slope on which
he
and Pitch were camped blocked his view of the valley
to the
right and behind them. When he looked back again at the red
stallion, he saw that the leader was moving still farther
to the center of the valley. There was a quickness to his
gait
that- hadn't been there before, yet he did not seem
frightened. Finally he came to an abrupt stop, his
nostrils
blown out. Raising his head still higher, he sniffed
suspiciously, then quickly turned his head downwind
again.
"Seems he's expecting something," Pitch said
huskily.
"From both directions," Steve said. "He's
picked up some scent from upwind, yet I'm sure
he's heard something
down the valley, even though he can't smell
anything. Look
at those ears, Pitch. He's turned downwind
again."
For several minutes the red stallion stood still,
facing the valley to the north and ignoring
whatever it had been from upwind that had caused him
to look in that direction. Now his eyes, alert and
blazing, were fixed upon one spot down the valley.
His nostrils dilated, and his pricked ears suddenly
were pulled back flat against his head. He snorted
and then gave a loud, sharp blast.
There was a sudden movement in the band as they
stopped grazing. Short, incessant neighs broke
the stillness
of the valley. Foals, some graceful, others
clumsy, ran to their mothers. The band moved away from the
long grass
and closer to the center of the valley. Nipping and
kicking,
the mares directed their foals into the middle of a
small
tight ring which they formed, their heads toward the center
and hindquarters tense and ready to fling strong hoofs
at any
attacker.
The red stallion stood alone, ready to defend his
band.
Never once did his head turn in the direction of the
ring; he
seemed to have eyes only for the danger that
threatened
from down the valley.
Suddenly Pitch said, "There he is!" A
stallion was
coming up the valley, followed by five or six
mares.
"There's going to be a fight, sure as anything,"
Pitch said
quickly. "There's room for only one leader in this
place."
Steve said nothing, but his eyes never left the red
stallion. He saw him turn his gaze away from the
approaching band and come to rest upon his own. The
stallion moved his head slowly, as though there was no
hurry now that he had seen his foe. Only once
did he move
about uneasily and that was when he turned again to the south,
sniffing. Steve was convinced then that the stallion
was aware of danger from upwind too and that it worried
him more than the approaching stallion.
Pitch gripped Steve's arm and instinctively the
boy looked at the valley below. The rival
stallion had left his
mares behind and was loping easily toward the red
stallion. Suddenly the valley echoed
to his clarion call of challenge. As he drew
closer, Steve saw that he was a dark bay horse.
He noticed too that he was as tall and long-limbed
as the
red stallion and that he had the same perfectly
molded form.
He moved gracefully, his long, easy gait never
changing,
his head still and his ears pricked forward almost to a point.
"He's a beauty," Pitch gasped. "Equally as
good as the
red stallion. This will be a fight to the death, Steve!
Survival
of the fittest! We're going to see it, Steve!"
But Steve wasn't listening. He was staring at the red
stallion. To Pitch, to anyone else, it would
matter little who won the coming encounter. To anyone else
there was little to choose between the two stallions. But
Steve thought of the red stallion only as Flame.
His Flame! The
horse he had found again! He didn't want
to lose him now. Flame had to win! If this was to be
a battle to the death, he wanted Flame to kill!
The red stallion had made no move toward his
foe. He
stood there quietly, confidently, as though he knew
he was
king and any challenger to his throne would have to bring the
fight to him. Steve watched, marveling at the red
stallion's coolness, yet afraid for him as
well. "Flame," he said aloud. "I don't
want to lose you now. Get ready for him, Flame.
He's coming. Don't underestimate him!"
"Just look at that red horse, Steve!" Pitch's
voice was guttural, his words hardly distinguishable.
"He's been

THE ISLAND STALLION
through this before. He's not scared a bit. He's fought his
way to the top and that other stallion is going to have
to kill
him to take his title away. Look, Steve! You
never saw such
confidence as that red devil has!"
Pitch's words went unheard by Steve, for the boy
saw
nothing but Flame, standing there, waiting; heard nothing
but the running, steady rhythm of hoofs belonging to a
horse as beautiful, swift and strong as the red
stallion. Steve
knew that in a little while one of them would be no more. It
could end no other way, where there could only be one
king. Unashamed, he prayed that Flame would win.
The sound of the running hoofs came ever onward, and
still the red stallion didn't move forward. Steve
saw him
turn his head upwind again as though still wary of
something he could not see. The beat of hoofs became
louder and Steve was forced to focus his attention on the
dark bay stallion. The challenger was now rushing
headlong
into the encounter, and as he drew closer his gait
slowed.
He was beautiful and powerful to see, and fear for
Flame took hold of Steve as he looked again
at the red stal
lion.
His small, arrogant head had turned away from the
south
and he now faced the challenger. At a sudden,
piercing scream from the bay stallion he flattened his
ears and
shattered the air with his own high-pitched whistle.
Then,
his ears forward, he moved in a slow but
steady gait to meet
his opponent.
Within the walled amphitheater of Azul Island, across
the short, thick grass and ever-lengthening blue
shadows,
the two stallions moved toward each other to fight for
supremacy of a band whose eyes were turned away from the
encounter and who would wait for the stronger of the two to
claim them.
Cautiously the stallions ran, their strides of
equal length,
and the distance between them lessened.
Steve said, "Flame
..."
but it was lost in the loud screams of both stallions
as they met.
They moved deftly on winged hoofs. No longer were
they
beautiful to see; they were two raging furies. Their
screams
drove the serenity and solitude from the valley, and the
yellow walls picked up the heavy thuds of their
hoofs on flesh and bone and cast them back into the
arena.
For many minutes it went on. Equally fast
on their feet, the stallions feinted skillfully
until one or the other saw an opening; then there would
be the charge of thrashing
forefeet or powerful hind legs raised to crash
heavily against
the attacker.
It was too fast, too terrible to go on very long.
Steve saw
the dark, bleeding wound on Flame's shoulder where the
bay stallion's hoofs had found their mark, and he
prayed for
his horse.
Again and again the stallions lunged at each other,
neither showing any signs of retreating. Their screams
rent
the air, and now blood flowed freely from their
bodies. There was no difference in the color of their
coats any longer. No difference in ravaging teeth
and flying hoofs.
"They'll kill each other," Pitch babbled
hysterically.
They were on their hind legs, locked together. Steve
knew it had to end now. Neither could stand much more. Both
would be killed, as Pitch had said.
The end did come at that moment. It came
swiftly, sickeningly. Steve saw the bay
stallion lunge for Flame's
neck and miss. There was a twisting, turning of
bodies as Flame hurled himself on the bay
stallion's hindquarters. His weight threw the bay
stallion off balance, for he stumbled, then fell.
Flame did not let him get up. Screaming, he
brought his driving forefeet down on his opponent.
He was still pounding when Steve and Pitch turned
away, their faces drained of all color.
They said nothing until the sound of battering hoofs
stopped and the air was pierced by the shrill whistle of
triumph from the red stallion.
"It's over," Pitch said huskily.
Steve nodded without saying anything.
"I hope I never see another," Pitch went
on. "It's a terrible-was The valley walls
resounded to another shrill
scream, and Steve turned quickly to Pitch, who said,
"That's his scream again."
"No, it's not," Steve returned grimly. "It
didn't sound like him at all."
He forced himself to look again. He saw Flame still
standing near the broken and lifeless form of the bay
stallion. Flame's body was ripped and
bleeding, his head turned to the south. Steve looked in
that direction, then
closed his eyes and wept.
Pitch was beside him. "Steve! What's the matter with
you? After all-was
Then he, too, saw the monstrosity of a horse that
now stood a few hundred yards from the red
stallion.
He had come with the falling of the sun behind the walls
of Azul Island. In the shadows, his massive
body penetrated
the darkness like a luminous thing. It was as though he
belonged only to the night. He was as grotesquely
ugly as
the red stallion was beautiful. Thick-bodied, he
stood still, waiting . . . waiting as he had done
all through the fight of
the other two stallions. Small, close-set
eyes-one blue, the
other a white wall-eye-gleamed from his large head,
which
was black except for the heavy blaze that descended
over his
wall-eye. His neck was thick and short, as was his
body, and
black too except for the ghostly streaks of white that
ran through it. His mane and tail were white.
Arrogant and ruthless, fearing nothing, he moved
toward
the red stallion at a walk, hate gleaming in his
beady eyes. His heavy ears were pulled back flat
against his head, his teeth bared. Suddenly he stopped,
with ears pitched forward, and screamed his challenge again.
He was the
embodiment of ugliness, of viciousness. Only the
high crest
upon his neck and the high set of his tail gave
evidence of the Arabian blood in him.
Pitch turned to Steve and saw that the boy was intent
upon the terrible drama unfolding before them. Seeing
Steve's grim, taut face, he remembered what
the boy had
said only a few hours before.
"Inbreeding is perfectly all right if
the horses are of the purest blood and don't have any
bad traits or
weaknesses; because if they do, the bad traits in both
sire and dam
show up in the foal worse than ever,"
And then Steve had
added,
"But that hasn't happened here."
But it has happened,
Pitch thought,
and that monstrosity is
the result. Perhaps the same thing has happened before in
all the
years these horses have been here, but the monstrous ones
have all
been killed off. This time, it may be different
--
very different.
Steve said, "Pitch! Why did it have to happen now?
He's not ready to fight again. The Piebald will
kill him."
"The Piebald."
Pitch turned to look at him. So that's what

THE ISLAND STALLION
this horse with the weird black-and-white markings was
called. The Piebald came closer, moving faster
now,
galloping, plunging heavily forward.
Steve watched Flame's every move. His red coat,
wet and
dark from blood and sweat, was pitiful to see. A little
unsteadily, Flame moved away from the dead
stallion at his
feet. Then he screamed and ran forward, his
disheveled head
held high, his large eyes blazing with hate.
Again the valley echoed to pounding hoofs over
soft-carpeted earth. Swift, light and cautious were
the strides of the red stallion. Heavy, plunging and
confident were those
of the Piebald. The heads of both were raised high;
one was small, sensitive and intelligent; the other,
large and
grotesquely ugly with bright eyes too small and
set too close. Each stride brought them closer;
a burly, powerful
outcast-the product of a cruel twist of fate-and a
long-limbed stallion, graceful, swift and
strong, a superb
creation.
Steve watched with dull, pained eyes. His desire
to see
the red stallion win went far beyond his love for
Flame; for
he knew that if the red stallion won, it
would mean more
horses like him in the years to come. If he lost, it
meant the
end of this breed of horse, because the Piebald's
blood
would flow into the small band. The result would be
misfits
and monstrosities like him.
His heavy gait unchanging, the Piebald charged the
red
stallion, who screamed and rose to meet him. There
was the
hard, wrenching crack of bodies, the raking of teeth
and over it all their terrible screams.
Skillfully the red stallion moved to one side of the
Piebald, never underestimating the strength in his
oppo-
nent's burly body. He darted in with bared teeth
and battering forefeet, never staying too long, never
giving the Piebald the opportunity of using his
heavier weight to his
advantage.
For many minutes it went on that way, with the Piebald
still confident and awaiting his chance to close in upon his
elusive enemy. And soon the red
stallion moved away less quickly and the infighting of
bared teeth and flying hoofs
became more furious.
Keep away from him, Flame! Keep away!
Steve wanted to
shout, but no words came from his lips.
Pitch said, "He's licked! He's too far gone
to keep away any longer! He was licked before the
fight started!"
They were locked together now, two raging devils.with
battering hoofs and gleaming teeth. Steve knew that this
had to be the end, and he was deathly afraid for his
horse, He saw the Piebald wheel, sending his
hind legs heavily
against the red stallion's shoulder. He heard
Flame scream,
no longer in fury but in terrible pain. He saw his
horse stumble, and then the Piebald was hurling himself
upon Flame's hindquarters. Steve knew that it was
time for him to look away, but he found he couldn't.
The end of the fight came quickly. Still screaming, the red
stallion moved with a sudden, frantic burst of his
old speed, avoiding the thrashing forefeet of the
Piebald.
Flame had escaped death by only a
fraction of a second. He had put off the end, but
only momentarily. With grim
realization of what the outcome had to be, Steve
awaited the
red stallion's return lunge at the Piebald.
But there was no charge by Flame, no wheeling to move
quickly into position to renew the battle. Instead, the
red

THE ISLAND STALLION
stallion was running with faltering strides down the
valley floor. Behind him the Piebald stood still,
his large head raised high; then his scream of
triumph rang through the valley, echoing to the broken
rhythm of Flame's fleeing
hoofs.
The Piebald King
Through blurred eyes, Steve watched the running
horse. He
saw him veer across the valley floor until he
had reached the
tall grass and his glistening body was lost in
shadows. But Steve kept on watching for him. He
watched until none of the gray light of early evening
was left and the valley had given itself over
completely to the night.
Pitch had been silent, for he had seen Steve's
eyes, and thought he understood. Meanwhile, he had
given his attention to the Piebald, watching him move
about the band, his heavy head held high and confident.
The Piebald had neighed repeatedly, and the mares
had slowly broken their tight ring. Once more they had
begun grazing. Where only the strongest could be king,
they had no choice but to accept their new leader.
At that moment, Pitch turned to Steve. But it was as
though the boy had heard nothing, had seen nothing save

THE ISLAND STALLION
the red stallion. Pitch finally said, "But he
wasn't killed, Steve. He was smart enough to get
away."
Steve's eyes were no longer tearful, but there was still a
tautness to his face. "Yes," he repeated
slowly. "He was
smart enough to get away. He knew he was licked."
Steve's
gaze met Pitch's. "How bad do you think he's
been hurt?"
"Pretty bad. But if you think he ran away
to die, you're worrying needlessly. He'll
take care of himself all right."
And when Pitch saw Steve turn to look at the
burly Piebald,
he added, "But they have a new leader now. They
don't seem to mind it a bit, either. Just look at
them, grazing
away as though nothing had happened. You'd think they'd
have a little to say about who's going to be their boss. But
they don't, and they know it. All they can do is
to accept this new king, ugly as he is."
"I'm not accepting it." Steve's voice was low and
heavy with emotion.
Bewildered, Pitch turned to him. It was several
seconds
before he said simply, "But you've got to." Then
he smiled,
adding with attempted lightness, "You and I have nothing
to say about this, you know, Steve."
"I've got to do something."
"But you can't, Steve!" Pitch's words were clipped.
"And, frankly, I don't understand why you feel it
shouldn't
be this way. This is the survival of the fittest, a
contest that's been going on since the world began. Oh,
I know
how you feel about that red horse-I haven't forgotten
your
dream of Flame. A remarkable coincidence. But you
said
yourself, Steve, that he knew he was licked. And it was
this
brute of a horse that whipped him. I don't like it
either, but
you've got to accept it, Steve," Pitch concluded
flatly. "You
couldn't possibly do anything anyway."
"I could try to kill the Piebald." There was no
doubt of
the sincerity in Steve's voice.
"You're kidding," Pitch said quickly.
"No, I'm not, Pitch."
It was too dark to see Steve's eyes. Pitch
said, "You're
being silly, Steve. Come on, let's get the
fire going and have
some food."
But the boy didn't move, and his head was still turned
toward the band-toward the Piebald.
"If
only we'd
brought a gun," he said almost to himself. "I could have
killed him with a gun. Still, there must be some other
way."
"Steve!" Pitch's voice was shrill. "What in
the world is
the matter with you! You comtry killing that vicious
horse and
you'll be killed yourself! I won't have any more of this
foolish talk. These horses were here long before we were
born, and they'll be here long after we're dead. Why
get so
excited over the Piebald? He means nothing
to you."
"But he does! Can't you understand, Pitch?" Steve
asked,
turning quickly to his friend. "Can't you see that if the
Piebald is left as their leader this breed will never
be the
same? His blood will be in every single foal, Pitch.
They'll
be like him and much worse in a very few years."
After a long silence Pitch said quietly, "So
that's what's
troubling you. But you still can't do anything about it,
Steve. You couldn't possibly do anything.
If it's the end of
this particular breed of horse, it's the end-that's
all."
"But not if I can kill the Piebald," Steve
insisted.
"You're not making sense, Steve," Pitch
returned
angrily. "And I'm not going to allow you to risk your
neck

THE ISLAND STALLION
trying to kill him either. The only one who could
possibly
do away with the Piebald is that red horse, and I'm
afraid he
won't be back for another try."
"But maybe he will, Pitch!" Steve said
excitedly. "Maybe
that's it! Maybe he will come back!"
"Maybe he will," Pitch agreed resignedly,
walking back
to the cave.
Steve was behind him, his voice eager now. "Maybe
that's why he ran away-so he can come back again, I
mean!
He's an intelligent animal, Pitch. Don't
forget that."
"I'm not forgetting it," Pitch returned
agreeably.
Steve didn't speak again until after they had opened
their packs, and then his voice had lost its eagerness.
"Or do you
think, Pitch," he asked slowly, "that he took
too much
punishment today, that he'll never be the same? I've
heard
of such things happening to prize fighters."
"This is a horse, Steve," Pitch replied, "not
a prize
fighter. And, frankly, I don't know anything about
either of
them."
A few minutes later the fire was licking
greedily beneath
their stove.
"Pitch
..."
Pitch turned to the boy, noting the tense face, the
bright, excited eyes. "What is it now, Steve?"
he asked.
"Tomorrow I'm going to look for Flame. Maybe I
can
help him some way. Maybe I can do something that'll
get
him back to fight the Piebald-when he's well
again, I
mean."
"Sure, Steve. Maybe it's a good idea."
Pitch felt certain that Steve wouldn't even get a
glimpse of the red stallion,
much less be able to do anything to send him back to fight

THE PIEBALD KING
the Piebald. But searching for Flame would take his
mind off the black-and-white stallion and his
ridiculous notion of finding some way to kill him.
Pitch found the thought comforting. "Open a can of beans,
Steve," he said. "The pot is ready."
Steve set out alone early the next morning.
Reaching the valley floor, he began crossing it
to get to the far side. The horses had moved down the
valley, but still could be easily
seen.
As Steve walked along, his gaze remained on the
Piebald.
The breeze was coming from upwind, carrying the boy's
scent to the stallion. But Steve didn't think that
he was in any danger. The stallion would fight
anything that threatened his supremacy of the band, but he
wouldn't go out looking for trouble. Steve realized,
too, that his scent was something entirely new to the
Piebald. It would bother him and he would be
curious, but only if Steve approached the band would
he be in any danger. And Steve planned to keep
far away from the horses. He had nothing with which
to protect himself. One of the coils of rope was all
he carried, and that, he had told Pitch, was for
Flame just in case he got close to him. Steve
knew Pitch was watching him. He had promised him
he'd go to the far side of the
valley, away from the horses, before making his way
down.
The Piebald stood at gaze, his long ears
pricked forward, his large face, half black,
half white, still turned in Steve's direction. For
several minutes he stood there, his small eyes
unwavering. Then he lowered his heavy head to the
grass.
Steve's pace quickened until he was running.
Reaching the tall grass, he found it to be
young wild sugar cane like

THE ISLAND STALLION
that on Antago. Flimsy as it was, he
welcomed it as a protection. It grew high, almost
to his chest. He crouched low beneath it and only the
bending of the stalks betrayed
his presence.
Cautiously he made his way to the end of the cane,
then he stopped to take in his surroundings. There were some
trees between him and the yellow walls. More of them grew
along the edge of the cane and down the side of the
valley. They would afford him some protection if he
needed it. Now he slowly raised his head in the
direction of the Piebald and his band, noting with
relief that the Piebald was still grazing and had moved
closer to the band. So far, so good. It would appear that
the black-and-white stallion had decided to ignore
him, since Steve did not seem to be a threat to him
or his newly acquired band.
Bending down again, Steve started down the valley,
taking short, fast steps. But it wasn't until
he had passed opposite the place where the
Piebald and his band were grazing that he breathed
easily and ceased raising his head every so often
above the cane to look at them.
Now Steve was downwind from the Piebald and he
felt comparatively safe. His pace quickened. His
destination was approximately two miles still farther
down the valley. When he arrived there he would look
across the valley floor for the lone tree with the red
cluster of flowers that grew alongside the
green-carpeted valley floor. It was a little past
that tree that he had seen Flame turn into the tall
cane, running in the direction of the yellow walls
until he became lost in the shadows.
More than half an hour had passed when Steve
raised his head to find that he was just about opposite the
tree across

THE PIEBALD KING
the valley that he was using as his marker. He continued
walking another hundred yards or more, then entered the
tall cane again, making his way to the green-carpeted
floor.
Reaching the edge of the cane, he peered through the stalks
and saw that the band was still far up the valley. The distance
between the horses and Steve was too great for them
to notice him as he walked quickly onto the green
grass. Halfway across, he broke into a
run and didn't stop
until he had reached the cane on the other side of the
valley.
Now he was below the tree and near the spot where he
had seen Flame entering the tall cane. His eyes
followed the
line of stalks from where he stood to the tree. There was
no break in the line, no evidence of broken or
bent stalks to disclose Flame's path. Steve then
turned in the opposite direction, his gaze still
following the edge of the cane. There was nothing there either
to show that the horse had gone through. Knowing that Flame
had passed the tree, Steve began walking farther
down the valley. He had gone about three hundred
yards when he came upon the broken stalks. Quickly
he followed the path swept clear by the running
horse.
The Chase

The field of wild cane was no wider than a
hundred yards at
most, and when Steve emerged from it he found that there was
a long, gradual slope to the yellow,
precipitous walls. He looked around for some
trace of Flame's trail, but his
untrained eyes found no evidence of flying hoofs
over the
grassy plain.
For some time he stood there undecided, sweeping his
eyes over the yellow walls, then along their base.
Finally he set out, traveling down the valley
toward a thin cloud of vapor beginning to rise from the
ground about a mile away. Surely, he decided,
there was no other direction in which Flame could have gone.
The base of the walls was an disunbroken line of
sheer, bare rock which towered hundreds
of feet into the sky. Like himself, the red stallion could
have
had no alternative but to go down the valley.
The ground before him began to fall gradually toward the
THE CHASE

hollow from which the mist rose. Steve stopped to rest
for a moment and looked behind him at the valley, at the
bending cane and beyond that to the valley floor, rich in
grass and colorful foliage. Then he turned
back to the desolate land ahead of him, throwing the
rope he carried over his shoulder. He was near enough
to the vapors to smell their foul stench. They came from
a patch of marshland, as he had thought. And,
as the sun began to rise above the walls to the east, the
vapors thickened as though in resentment against
Steve's approach.
But the sickening smells of rotting vegetation did not
stop him; instead Steve's pace quickened as he
approached the marsh. He felt certain that Flame
had come this way, and with the ground already becoming soft and
wet beneath his feet, there was the possibility of finding
the stallion's hoofprints. Upon reaching the border
of the dismal swamp, Steve came to a stop. To the
left the vapors reached almost to the walls, and to his
right they extended almost to the cane. How deep the marsh
went he could not tell.
Steve kept his eyes on the ground as he walked
along the edge of the marsh. He was but fifty yards from
the walls when he came to an abrupt halt.
Quickly he dropped to his knees, running his hands
over the soft earth. He had found Flame's
hoofprints and they led straight into the marsh!
He hesitated a moment and thought of waiting for the
vapors to subside. They were probably at their
worst in the sun's first rays. Perhaps when Flame
had entered the marsh last night there had been none at
all. But why even think about that! He was on the
track of the red stallion and perhaps too
close to him already to delay his search any longer than
was absolutely necessary. Holding his breath,

THE ISLAND STALLION
Steve plunged into the gray, cloudlike world.
Within the marsh, he saw a slimy wilderness of high
reeds and swamp ferns dotted with many small black
pools
and broken only by long, green, narrow avenues of
what was
comparatively solid ground. It was down these strips
of
green that Flame's trail led. Steve followed
them cautiously.
The vapors weren't as dense as he had expected,
but the stench, when he finally had to breathe, was almost more
than he could stand. Yet he kept on, encouraged
by the
evidence before him that the red stallion had gone on
ahead
and that the vapors were thinning in the direction he was
traveling.
Flame's trail zigzagged with the green strips, but
Steve knew from the gradual rise of the land that he was
going toward the walls. He never relaxed
his vigil as he walked along slowly, treading
carefully over the ground. Quagmires, heavy with
sucking, all-engulfing quicksand, were
on each side of him. That Flame had passed over
this same
route did not make Steve less cautious. And as
he went
farther along, he was certain that Flame knew his
way very
well. There had been no hesitancy or break in
the stallion's
stride, for his hoofprints were regular and long enough for a
slow gallop.
In a little while the vapors dwindled to mere wisps
and
the ground grew more and more solid beneath Steve's feet.
The pull upward became more abrupt and as the air
cleared,
feeling almost fresh again, Steve breathed deeply and
walked faster.
At last he was completely free of the marsh, and he
stopped abruptly, astounded by what he saw ahead of
him. On either side were the high yellow cliffs and before
him a
THE CHASE

long, steep channel penetrating deeply within the
walls! Flame's hoofprints were no longer visible
on the hard ground, but Steve had no doubt that the
stallion had gone on ahead.
His heart pounding heavily, more from excitement than from
the exertion of his climb, Steve followed the channel
which, he decided, at one time had been the bed of a
stream emptying into the marsh below. The dry stream bed was
strewn with rocks and Steve picked his way slowly
among them. The course, although still steep, began
to twist and turn, the yellow walls closing in more and
more.
For another quarter of an hour Steve walked up the
gorge. He picked his way with great care, for the
stream bed was pitted with deep holes. Steve
wondered how Flame had managed to go up this
passage without breaking a leg. The red stallion
had passed through here many times before; there was no doubt of
that. Finally Steve came to the end of the gorge and before
his eyes stretched a green sliver of a valley, not
more than half a mile long and only three hundred
yards or so wide. Through the center of it ran the dry
stream bed, with short, green grass on either side that
became lost in the wild cane that spread
to the walls.
Steve stood silently in awe at his discovery of the
new valley. It gleamed like a green gem placed
in a setting of yellow gold. The high cliffs
surrounding it enhanced its solemn beauty and
breathtaking solitude.
So overwhelmed was Steve by his discovery that it was a
matter of minutes before he saw the red stallion.
Flame was grazing less than half the valley
away from Steve, and the boy's body became rigid
as he looked upon him with1 unbelieving eyes. The
stallion walked over to a stream and
stretched his long, graceful neck down to it, his red
coat blazing in the sun.
When Steve finally moved it was in the direction of the
cane. He walked quickly, yet his eyes never
left the red stallion, who still hadn't become aware
of his presence. Steve wanted to get close to him.
It never occurred to him that he might be in danger from
the red stallion, for this was his horse and there was no
fear within him. He had known this moment before, for very often
in his dreams he had approached Flame as he was
doing now,
Steve had reached the tall cane and was in a crouched
position when the stallion raised his head and
turned it in the boy's direction.
Not a muscle of the red stallion's body moved, but
he sensed danger. His coat and long mane were
matted with
his opponents" blood as well as his own; his mouth
was raw
and red from the fury of his battles. Yet he raised
his head arrogantly and fire still burned in his startled
eyes. He was
alert and suspicious of an enemy he could not see.
The scent
that came to his sensitive nostrils was of an
animal unknown
to him. His small head moved slowly over the
grass, his neck so tense that the great muscles
bulged beneath his velvet-soft coat. He was
accustomed to facing danger. Yet
now, after a few minutes of patient watchfulness,
he turned
away, frightened. Quickly he moved farther up the
valley. The fear that was slowly taking over his tired
body was as new and strange to him as the scent that now
came to his
nostrils.
Steve had remained absolutely still,
close enough to watch the stallion as he wheeled on
rigid hind legs and made off for the far end of the
valley.
Now Steve stood up amid the cane, realizing that
the stallion knew of his presence in the valley.
He can't go far,
Steve told himself.
There's no place to go up there.
And there's no sense in my hiding from him,
he thought.
The
only way 1 can do anything for him is to win his
confidence. He's
more beautiful than anything I've ever dreamed of!
If there ever was
a perfect horse, he's it. And he's not hurt
badly. I can tell from the
free, easy strides he's taking. He's been
cut up plenty. But he'll be well in a few
days, for wounds heal fast in a wild, healthy
animal
like him. He's tired more than anything else now. I
know he can
beat the Piebald. He could whip anything! He was
smart enough
to get away, to wait until he's ready to meet the
Piebald again,
and on an equal basis. He'll go back to his
band. He's been their
leader too long to keep away from them, to live
alone-an outcast.
At the end of the valley, the red stallion came to a
stop, then wheeled around. His small ears were pricked
forward, alert for the slightest sound; his muscles were
tense and ready, as were his wits. But he needed only
his eyes to see his foe. His shifting gaze easily
picked up the two-legged figure walking through the
tall grass, coming steadily in his direction. His
gigantic body trembled and he opened his
blood-caked mouth to bare his teeth. He moved about
restlessly, but neither drew away nor advanced
to meet this new foe. His thin-skinned nostrils
quivered, then curled. Finally he shattered the
stillness of the valley with his whistle. Shrill, loud
and clear, it reverberated from wall to
wall!
Then that new feeling was there again. It probed the
ravaged body of the red stallion until it found and
engulfed his heart. Shaking his fiery head, he pawed
the ground. That new feeling had come during his
fight with the
black-and-white stallion and now was part of him. His
splendid body trembled, as always before an encounter
with a foe. But he knew it was different this time. His
trembling was not caused by tension, excitement or
ruthlessness, but by a fear that now dominated every inch of
him. Accepting
it, he turned again, running with long, ground-covering
bounds away from the figure that was tracking him.
Steve had crossed the short grass and was walking
alongside the dry stream bed when he saw Flame
turn and head up the grassy slope toward the base
of the walls. He didn't know whether to be
surprised that the stallion had run away from him.
He had never tracked a wild horse before. Yet
momentarily he remembered the savageness of the
Piebald, born wild as Flame had been. The
Piebald
hadn't run away, but then he had had a band
to protect; and
that, Steve decided, must be the difference in their
reactions
to the sight of him.
still
can just get close enough to show him I don't
mean any
harm,
Steve thought. still
can just do that.
The walls toward which Flame ran were the highest in the
valley, rising almost a thousand feet, with their
summits touching the sky. At their base the rock was
neither sheer nor precipitous, Steve found, but
pierced with narrow crags and chasms. And into one of those
indentations in the walls Steve saw Flame
suddenly disappear!
Walking faster, Steve went up the slope until
creeping shadows from the walls above swallowed the
brightness of the late morning sun. Ahead of him was the
dark tunnel from which the stream came, and a little to the
left of it, the narrow chasm where Flame had gone.
The chasm led ever downward. Steve hadn't gone very
far
THE CHASE

when he realized that no river had cut this passage;
possibly
a giant disturbance of nature, such as an
earthquake, had made the cleavage through the walls.
The course was straight, with no twisting or
turning as in the gorge. The walls overhead were
jagged and torn, so much so that at times they shut out the
blue sky from Steve's wondering
gaze.
As he walked down the chasm, he felt the great
gusts of wind that came intermittently at him. His
pace became
faster, for he knew that only an outlet to the sea
could cause
such a wind within the walls of the island. Where was
Flame taking him? To what would this trail lead?
Leaning
into the wind, which was now blowing steadily, Steve broke
into a half-run down the steep grade.
Finally he came to a level stretch of ground, at
the end of
which the chasm stopped. Ahead of Steve loomed a
large, black hole. He ran to it, then came
to an abrupt halt, for
even above the wind he could hear the heavy thud of
waves
pounding upon rock.
His excitement mounting, Steve proceeded into the
hole,
cautiously at first until his eyes
became accustomed to the
semi-darkness, then faster, ever faster. As he
walked along
he noticed that it was becoming much lighter ahead. The
tunnel was high and wide, and there was every evidence that
it had been made by the sea. The walls on either
side were porous, and sea moss hung from the rock.
Steve's heart beat rapidly as he rushed
headlong around a
sharp turn, the sound of crashing waves loud in his
ears. Then he brought himself up suddenly.
Directly ahead of him was a great cavern, about
seventy-five feet in length,
equally high and fifty-odd feet wide! Through the
center of
it ran a narrow canal, its waters flooding and
ebbing with the waves as they struck the outside walls and
found their way into the cavern through a low but wide hole
at the base of the walls.
Steve's startled eyes turned quickly from the sea
hole back
to the canal. The sides of it were lined with green
moss-covered piles that poked their way through the fine
white sand that covered the floor of the cavern. This,
then, at one time had been the landing place
for the boats from the Spanish galleons that had
anchored off this island! Through the sea hole the
Conquistadores were able to bring their loot and their
armies within the natural fortress of Azul Island!
And the chances of anyone else's finding their entrance from
the sea were very slight. No enemy would have noticed it,
Steve felt certain-any more than he and Pitch had
when they had gone around the island looking for a place
to scale the walls.
For several minutes Steve stood there,
transfixed. Then he
suddenly became filled with concern. Where was Flame?
Surely he had to be here-this definitely was the end
of the
chase! Steve's gaze left the canal and
traveled over the walls
of the cavern.
The cavern was bathed in the soft glow of light from the
sea hole. Slowly Steve walked into the cavern and
found that
for some reason he was uneasy, even a little frightened.
Why he should be, he didn't know. But the feeling was
there and he couldn't fight it down. He had gone
only a few yards when he came upon an adjoining
cave to his right. Startled, he drew
back, for he had not been able to see it from where he had
stood before.
The cave was small and the light gray and dim
inside.
THE CHASE

But Steve had no trouble seeing the large wooden
structure that dominated it. A large, heavy pole
rose fifteen or more feet above the ground, and from the
top extended a wooden arm from which hung a long,
heavy chain reaching halfway to the ground. As Steve
continued to look at the structure, he noticed other
details. He saw the iron band dangling from the end
of the chain-a band like the one he had seen when he and
Pitch had come upon the chamber of the dead! And he
realized that the chain was used to support a suspended
weight and that the structure itself was a derrick
crane. He saw the tackle running along across the
wooden arm, then down the large supporting pole
until it came to what looked like a metal wheel
with a handle for turning. Cautiously Steve moved
toward the structure.
He was only a few yards away when he made out
the black pool beneath the hanging chain. He reached the
edge of it by going carefully down a rather steep
grade that encircled the pool. The water was but a
few inches beneath the rim and he saw that it just covered a
brownish mud or sand. Immediately Steve remembered
the quagmires back
in the marsh and he felt sure it was a quicksand pit.
Seeing a
large piece of timber lying on the ground nearby,
he picked it up and shoved it into the pool. Slowly
the pole disappeared into the quicksand until it was
completely
covered over.
Steve turned away and didn't stop until he
had reached the level floor of the chamber. Nervously
he removed his rope and transferred it from one
shoulder to the other. He'd had enough of this place. He
wanted to leave. But first he
had to make sure Flame wasn't in this cave. His
gaze shifted
about until it reached the depths of the chamber. The
light

THE ISLAND STALLION
was gray-black, and he would have to go forward to make
certain Flame wasn't there.
Steve passed the crane, walking
cautiously and very much
afraid. He was almost at the farthest end now. A
few more
strides and he would turn back to the lighter cavern
beyond.
Perhaps he had spent too much time here. Perhaps
Flame
already had gone back through the chasm.
He was about to turn when he saw a slight movement
against the rocks. Startled and frightened, he drew
back. He didn't know what it was, but he
didn't think of it as
being Flame. He was too scared for that. He backed
away
quickly, stumbling and falling to one knee. Then came
a sudden movement from the blacker-than-black form in
front of him. He turned and ran, cutting across the
chamber. And then he heard the heavy thud of hoofs
upon
sand, saw the gigantic shape of the red stallion coming
from
his right! Steve turned again, as frightened as the
stallion,
who veered sharply away from him.
Steve saw Flame and the crane at the
same time, and tried
to avoid them both by flinging himself to the sandy floor.
Then came a wild, horrible scream from the
stallion as his
hind legs caught in the rim of the short, steep
embankment tilde
descending to the pit. Thrown off balance by the abrupt
grade, Flame pummeled the earth with his forelegs in
an attempt to regain his balance. But his hind
weight carried him over the rim, and before Steve's
frantic eyes the red stallion slid into the pool
of sucking death!
Sucking Death

For a few minutes all fear left the red stallion
and fighting fury took its place. His hindquarters
were in the pit, but he still held on to the rim with his
pounding forelegs. He was fighting the battle of his
life
for
his life, and his body swelled with untamed
fierceness.
But the pit was an enemy far more formidable than the
burly Piebald, more deadly than any living
creature. And as the red stallion beat the
earth with his forelegs, the pit slowly, steadily
pulled his hindquarters deeper and deeper into its
soft, yielding bosom.
Steve had remained by the crane but had risen to his
knees. His body was limp, his senses numb, and
only his
eyes seemed at all alive as he watched the
scene before him.
Flame's fight for his life was unreal and the fury of
it didn't wholly penetrate the boy's dazed mind
for a few seconds. But when it did, and he became
aware of the sinking

THE ISLAND STALLION
hindquarters, the terrible, pounding forelegs of the
stallion,
fear passed from him to be replaced by a frenzy such as
he'd never felt before.
Steve moved quickly, wildly about the pit, not knowing
what to do for the horse and wasting valuable time. Then he
slipped on the steep grade descending to the rim of the
pit, and brought himself to a stop by falling to the ground and
digging his heels and hands into the loose dirt. His own
narrow escape from the pit drove the frenzy out of his
mind
and he was able to think clearly.
Sitting on the ground, his heels still braced in the
dirt, he looked at the raging horse. If only
Flame would stop
fighting so hard! If only he would keep his body
still and his
forelegs rigid on the rim, he wouldn't sink so
fast!
Steve was filled with anxiety for the stallion; he
had an
overpowering desire to help. But what could he do?
Where
would he start? There was that chain hanging over the pit.
A moment later Steve moved toward the crane's
supporting
pole with a swiftness that only comes in moments of great
stress, when actions are never remembered in
detail.
Reaching the pole with long, quick strides, he bent
down, picking up the rope that he had dropped during
his fall. Then he returned to the pit, moving
closer to the stallion than he'd been before.
The horse's forefeet had stopped thrashing and now
moved only when his hoofs slipped on the loose
dirt of the pit's rim. His arrogant
head, with teeth bared, was turned toward the boy, but
Steve was unmindful of it. His attention was fixed on
Flame's hindquarters. Momentarily the stallion
had stopped sinking. If he continued to remain still there
might be time to save him.

SUCKING DEATH
The boy studied the chain dangling a few feet above
and a little to the rear of the stallion. He had to get his
rope through the iron band at the end. For a matter of
seconds there was indecision in Steve's eyes; then
quickly he made his way to the supporting pole,
stopping for a second to gaze at the metal wheel
around which the chain was wound. Steve's hand went toward the
handle of the wheel but he did not touch it. There would be
time for that later, he told himself. He heard
Flame resume pounding his hoofs and knew he had
to work even faster. The coil of rope went about his
neck and his arms reached high up the supporting pole
and around it. Then he jumped, clearing the wheel, and his
legs encircled the pole. His arms reached higher on
the pole, and his shoulder muscles bulged through his thin
shirt as he pulled himself up, his legs wrapped
securely about the pole.
Upon reaching the top, Steve looked across
at the wooden arm extending over the pit. He
pressed his hand down on it, and found it solid and
steady. Gradually he placed all his weight upon it
until he was convinced that the aged wood was as strong as
it had ever been.
He moved across the arm, straddling it with his legs
locked together beneath him and with his hands moving along in
front. Only once did he look down at the
stallion
and pit fifteen feet below; he saw that Flame's
haunches had
sunk deeper into the quicksand with the stallion's renewed,
futile efforts to escape. Steve's movements
became faster until he was within reaching distance of the
hanging
chain.
Drawing the heavy chain to him until he had hold
of the
iron band at its end, he removed the rope about his
neck and

THE ISLAND STALLION
doubled it, drawing the two ends through the band and
tying them securely to it. He now had a long
noose hanging
from the end of the chain. Slowly he lowered the chain, then
flung the rope down to the rim of the pit. That done,
he made his was back quickly along the arm and shinnied
down the pole.
Upon reaching the ground, he ran to where he'd thrown his
rope. He picked it up and went toward the
stallion, his strides slower now and more cautious.
Taking hold of the doubled rope, he separated the
two parts, forming a noose. Then he turned to the
stallion, knowing that the most difficult job of all
was ahead. For now he had to get the noose about
Flame's girth!
Carrying the rope, Steve approached the red
stallion. For
the first time he was able to get a good look at the raw
T
red
mouth now speckled with white foam, the matted
blood upon the long mane. The stallion shifted his
eyes toward him, and there was a brightness, a savageness
to them that sent cold tremors through the boy's body.
The red stallion's forefeet slipped closer to the
edge of the
pit and his furious pounding began again. But powerful
though his legs were, they could not free him from
the
deadly quicksand that had pulled its prey down as far as
the
flanks.
Steve twisted the doubled rope nervously, parted the
two pieces again, then pulled the rope as taut as
he could, swinging the chain far over the plunging
stallion. Now for the hardest part of the job!
He took a step toward the stallion, knowing he would
have no more than a foot of clearance between himself and
Flame's head when he tried to get the lower part of the
noose under the horse. And as Steve neared the
stallion, the
noose stretched wide, he began talking to Flame
in a soft voice, not betraying his fear.
"You're my horse, Flame. I'll help you,
if you let me," he
said, knowing it would be the sound of his voice and not his
words that might convince Flame he was there to help
him.
"You need me now.
..."
Steve was getting very close to the red stallion, whose
teeth were still bared and who was still snorting with rage and
pain. For only a second did the boy
stop talking, but there was no hesitancy in his
slow-moving footsteps. He knew he couldn't come
to a halt now because if he did the
red stallion would know of his fear and it would be the end.
He must continue walking forward, as though he belonged
with the stallion. It was that or forever lose his horse.
"Keep walking. Keep talking," he told himself
aloud.
"It doesn't matter what I say, it's only the
sound of my voice
that matters to him. But don't stop. Keep talking
and keep going toward him. Isn't that right, Flame?
You know me. You know my voice. You've heard it
before. I've heard
yours before too. Your scream rises to such a high
pitch that
it sounds like a whistle that no other whistle can match.
But
you're in a mess now. That's what I meant when I
said I
wanted to help you. You're in a spot where you can't
get out
by yourself. You need help, Flame. You need me. Just
..."
Steve was close enough now to the stallion to have
the white foam splatter upon him. Close enough to begin
feeling the stallion's hot breath upon his outstretched
hands as they held the rope.
The red stallion flung his hoofs at Steve but
stopped when
he found himself slipping farther back toward the pit.
His

THE ISLAND STALLION
forelegs became still and rigid again, but his glaring eyes
never left the boy.
Steve went on talking, but now he shifted his gaze
to the lower part of the noose that hung to one side of
Flame. Raising his left hand, he held the upper
part of the noose above the stallion's head. It was time
to pass in front of the horse now. The stretch of
rope gave him less than a foot of leeway.
His body and raised hand would be clear of the raking
teeth, but his other hand, carrying the lower part of the
noose would be within striking range of the stallion's
hoofs.
There was a wavering to Steve's low voice as he
moved in
front of the stallion, but recognizing it as fear,
he drove it
from him and his voice became steady again. "You've got
to
help me now, Flame. The rope's got to go under
your forelegs. It means you'll have to raise them again.
Just once more, then you can keep them still again."
Haunches deep in the wet sand that held him fast,
the red stallion swelled to greater fury at the
nearness of this foe, who had tracked him down. He
sensed the sucking death behind him, yet his forelegs still
trod upon solid ground and his untamed heart would not
admit defeat. But now this new enemy approached
him, when he was unable to fight back! He bared his
teeth, waiting. And all the time he
heard the soft sounds this foe uttered as he
approached him.
He had never heard such sounds before, nor seen a
foe who walked on hind legs only. His eyes
met the newcomer's.
Shaking his head, the stallion snorted repeatedly in
rage and
fear. Now his foe was directly in front of him.
He saw the long, thin object close to his
forefeet. It looked and moved like a snake.
Furiously he struck at the thing and it passed
121
SUCKING DEATH
quickly under his legs. Another frantic plunge at
it, and it swept clear of him and entwined itself about his
belly! The two-legged foe had moved away, too
far for him to reach with teeth or hoofs. He screamed
and pounded upon the ground in front of him, and then he
felt the weight of the wet sand pulling more heavily on
his hindquarters.
Carrying the lower part of the noose, Steve hurried
around the rim of the pit, his heart beating wildly.
He had the noose about Flame! He pulled it as
far back to the sinking hindquarters as possible, then
dropped it and ran over to the crane. Reaching the
wheel, he took hold of the handle and breathed a
short prayer before turning it. The handle moved,
turning the wheel and winding the chain about it.
The chamber resounded to the long-unheard noise of the
iron chain passing through the crane's tackle and
moving down the supporting pole to the wheel.
Anxiously Steve watched the end of the chain ascend
until the rope became taut about the stallion's
body. He knew the chain would not slip back, for the
wheel was fitted with teeth into which a metal hook from the
handle slipped as he turned, thus locking it and
preventing the wheel from turning in reverse
unless the metal hook was released.
Now that the slack had been taken up, it was harder
to turn the wheel. Steve bore down on it with all
his strength, knowing that with each click of the wheel's
teeth Flame's hindquarters were being lifted from the
quicksand. He stopped to rest only when he saw that
Flame's flanks were clear. And then he realized
that he would need Pitch's help to raise Flame
all the way out of the quicksand and swing him clear of the
pit. After making certain the wheel was
locked, Steve went over to the red stallion.
"You're safe now, Flame," he said. "You
won't sink any deeper. And I'll be back
soon. Then you'll be free again to go back to your
band."
With one last look at his horse, Steve left the
chamber at a half-run. And as he made his way
back through the outer cavern and up the tunnel leading
to the chasm, he was unmindful of the tiredness in his legs
and the long trek back
to camp.
Steve Makes a Promise

Steve slowed down a little as he went through the chasm and
then the smaller valley where he had first
seen Flame that morning, hurrying again when he made
his way to the gorge that would take him to Blue
Valley and Pitch.
After leaving the cavern and Flame, Steve had moved
as one in a stupor, his eyes unseeing and glazed, his
senses numbed; yet even so his feet had held to the
trail as though
they had always known it. The lack of expression on his
face
and the limpness of his muscles were those of a person who
had passed through a great crisis without realizing
exactly what the crisis or the outcome had been.
But slowly, as he went along, the knowledge penetrated his
dazed mind that somehow he had saved Flame from
certain death. He knew that he had placed a
noose about Flame's girth-a noose he had
made with his rope. He knew that the noose was
attached to the end of the chain that

THE ISLAND STALLION
hung from the crane over the pit. He remembered that
he was going back to camp to get Pitch's help in
swinging Flame clear of the pit. But other than that he
remembered little. The details of what he had done
from the time of his fall in the cavern until
he had stood before Flame, knowing that the stallion was
safe from the danger of sinking deeper into the quicksand,
weren't clear in his mind.
He glanced up at the sun as he entered the gorge.
From its height he decided that it was early afternoon. But
was it
the same day? Had it been only this morning that he
had set
out looking for Flame? Surely it was much longer
ago than
that!
Steve followed the twisting, turning dry stream bed
and passed the yellow overhanging cliffs. Gradually
his eyes began to lose their glazed look.
"Yes," he finally admitted aloud, "it has to be
the same day. Just as it was only two days ago that
I first set foot on Azul Island."
Only two days ago-then this was his third day here.
It
was incomprehensible to Steve. Surely hours and
days were
no way of measuring time! Time should be reckoned
by events that happen to a person, and not by the lapse of
hours! It seemed months ago-almost years-since
he and Pitch had headed for the sandy spit of
land that was known as the only habitable part of Azul
Island.
When Steve came to the marsh, he saw that the vapors
were rising only from the low end of the hollow, near the
cane. He made his way down the long stretches of
soft green
ground which still bore Flame's hoofprints. Now for the
top of the rise leading from the hollow. From there he would
be able to see the floor of the valley-and he would be
looking
for the Piebald. It would be the
black-and-white-streaked stallion who would dictate
the direction he would take in his journey back
to camp.
He was eager to reach Pitch. He would tell him how
he had found Flame and helped him, just as he'd said
he was going to do. He'd tell Pitch he needed his
help now; it
would mean going back to the cavern this very same day and
probably spending the night there. Surely Pitch
would understand that Flame had to be swung clear of the
pit
today.
"I'll help Flame return to his band,"
Steve told himself. "I'll take care of
his wounds."
It had been only a short time ago that Steve had
recoiled in fear at the viciousness of the stallion,
yet now there was
no fear within him as he thought of aiding Flame.
Along
with many details of the scene in the cave, his fear also
was
forgotten.
Reaching the flat top of the hollow, he stood looking
at the grassy plain stretching before him. A little
to his left
was the cane, and beyond that the green velvet floor of the
valley. Far off, a silken sheet of water fell
from the high tunnel to the pool below.
It was a few minutes before Steve saw the
Piebald and his
newly acquired band, for they had moved away from the
pool and were grazing far across the valley. The boy
quickened his pace when he realized that
it
would be safe for
him to stay on his side of the valley.
When he came to the cane he bent low beneath it to keep
out of sight. The Piebald was upwind from
him, so Steve
knew his scent would not betray his presence. All he
had to
do was to keep from being seen. The Piebald was too far

THE ISLAND STALLION
away to give him any trouble.
As Steve drew parallel with the band, he stopped for a
moment to look over the cane at the black-and-white
stallion.
Heavy-bodied, the Piebald grazed alone, only
occasional
ly turning his heavy head to the band. His white tail
whisked the flies away from his streaked body and he
stomped the earth with his hind legs to rid himself of the
flies that avoided his long tail. His short, thick
neck bulged
with muscle as he stretched his head to the ground.
Suddenly he stopped grazing, bringing his head up with a
start. He stood motionless for a while, grass
protruding
from his mouth, his jaws locked. Finally he turned his
head
to Steve's side of the valley and watched intently;
then he
turned his head still farther, looking down the valley.
Again
he stood still, and only his small, beady eyes
moved. After a
long while he began chewing on the grass in his
mouth, and
when that was swallowed forgot his inquisitiveness and
began grazing again.
Steve had bent low beneath the cane, and proceeded up
the valley only when the Piebald went back
to his grazing.
"It'll be different next time," Steve muttered
to himself.
Already he was thinking of the coming fight between Flame
and the Piebald. "You won't have his band much longer,"
he went on, as though talking to the Piebald.
"He'll come
back as fresh as you were in the first fight. He belongs
with
his band. He was meant to be their leader."
And as he approached the waterfall, Steve's spirits
rose. Soon he would be with Pitch and together they would
help Flame return to his band. With Flame as
its leader again, this perfect breed of horse would go
on. Just now, it was

THE ISLAND STALLION
what Steve wanted more than anything else in the world.
When he was almost opposite the pool he
straightened, running through the cane toward the trail that
would take him to the cliff above and to Pitch.
"Pitch! Pitch!" Steve began calling at the
bottom of the rocky trail, his face turned
upward to the looming black hole that was their camp.
His tired legs carried him up the trail with a speed
that was generated by his eagerness to reach Pitch. But there
was no reply to his frequent shouts, no sight of
his friend's thin, frail body.
But he's got to be here,
Steve thought desperately.
At least,
he can't be far away.
When Steve reached the cave he came to a stop.
On the floor were Pitch's pack and rope. Beside
them stood the stove and several empty cans,
evidence that Pitch had recently eaten. Steve
turned to the blackness of the cave's interior.
Surely Pitch wasn't in there or there would be a
light. Then where was he?
Steve had walked out upon the wide ledge in
front of the cave when he heard a shout from above.
Pitch!
Whirling, Steve peered up at the yellow walls
rising above him.
"Yo!" Pitch called again. "Over here!"
Steve shifted his gaze to the right, from where the stream
flowed out of the walls above the tunnel. And there stood
Pitch, flat against what seemed to Steve to be a
sheer, bare sheet of stone! He wanted to yell, but
was afraid that
anything he did might upset Pitch's balance.
So he
remained still and silent while he watched Pitch
move slowly across the wall like a human fly.
A few minutes later Pitch had reached the
tunnel and was
coming down the trail to the cave.
"Steve!" Pitch shouted when he was still fifty yards
away.
"What I've found! What treasures! And it's
only the
beginning!"
And then Pitch had reached the ledge, the pockets of
his
jacket bulging, and his eyes met
Steve's. Pitch saw the
concern on his friend's taut face, and his own became
puzzled before breaking into a wry smile.
"You thought I was a goner up there, didn't you?" he
asked. "Well, it's safer than it looks from here,
Steve.
There's a wide ledge-the side of it must have been
built up
by the Spaniards-so it's as easy as walking down a
flight of
stairs. There are some small caves up there,
Steve, and you
should see-was
Pitch, whose hands had gone to his pockets, broke
off
abruptly, puzzled again by the expression on
Steve's
face.
"You didn't run into any trouble, did you?" he
asked with concern. "I saw that Piebald devil
moving around
when you first set out this morning. I was worried until
you
got clear across the valley and he went back to his
graz
ing."
Suddenly a swift look of guilt swept over
Pitch's face as he studied Steve's unwavering
gaze. Here he was shooting
off his mouth about himself, and the boy was hungry and
looking very worn.
"You'd better eat," he said quickly. "And you must be
dead tired. Where have you been, anyway? What have you
been up to?" Pitch sheepishly withdrew empty
hands from
his pockets and walked toward the stove. "I'll
get the fire
going," he said, then added with his back turned
to Steve,
"I don't suppose you found that red stallion.
Didn't see

THE ISLAND STALLION
him, did you?" Without waiting for Steve's reply,
he asked,
"Do you want just beans or shall I open a can of soup,
too?"
"I'm not hungry," Steve said quietly. Somehow
all his
enthusiasm to tell Pitch everything that had
happened was
gone. He felt let down. Maybe he was
tired-but he couldn't afford to be tired now. He had
to get back to Flame. Desperately Steve
tried to regain his lost enthusiasm. "Pitch-was he
began.
"But you have to be hungry," Pitch interrupted. "You
haven't eaten, and it's way past noon."
"I know, Pitch. I know I should be hungry, but
I'm not.
Pitch-was
"You tell me while
I'm
getting something to eat for you,
all right?"
"All right." But Steve didn't go on.
After a few moments of silence, Pitch spoke
while he was
opening a can of soup. "You found him, didn't you."
It was
put not as a question but stated as a fact, as though
Pitch
already knew what Steve's reply would be.
"Yes, I found him." For reasons Steve could not
explain
he now wanted Pitch to wait, to ask him about his
search for Flame, rather than to tell it all as he had
so eagerly planned.
His eyes were drawn to Pitch's pockets again.
Was that it? he asked himself. Was it the "treasures" that
Pitch valued so highly? were they responsible for his
own
reluctance to tell Pitch all? Was it because he
felt that Pitch
thought more of the things he was carrying in his pockets
than he did of the horses which were truly treasures
in their
own right? But even if Pitch did feel that way,
Steve argued
with himself, was there anything wrong in it? Pitch was a
scholar, and if he preferred relics to horses, that
was his business. There were plenty of people in the world who
didn't love horses, or who loved other things
more.
Still . . .
"Did you just see him? Or get close to him? Or
what?" Pitch asked with genuine interest in his
voice. He placed the soup on the stove and turned
around, facing Steve.
"I got close to him, Pitch. Real
close. So close I guess I
must have touched him. I'm not quite sure, though." Now
it came easier as Steve saw the interest mounting in
Pitch's
eyes and the incredulous look upon his face. He
felt his own
enthusiasm mounting once more and he wanted to confide
in Pitch. "I first saw him in the valley," he
continued
quickly. "He was drinking from the stream and, oh
Pitch!,
if only you could have seen him!"
"It's funny I didn't see him," Pitch said.
"Wait a
minute-there isn't any stream running through this
valley. There's no outlet to that pool below."
"It wasn't this valley, Pitch. It's another
one-a smaller one on the other side of the marsh."
"Marsh? What marsh? Where's a marsh and where's a
smaller valley?"
Quickly Steve pointed far down to the left side of the
valley. "You can just make out the hollow from here,
Pitch," he said. "See the slight gray mist
rising from the
ground?"
"Yes, I see it all right. This morning there was more
of
it. I was wondering about the land there. And the valley?"
"It's after you go through the gorge to the left of the
hollow. You can't see the gorge from here, but it goes
right
into the walls."
"What kind of gorge?"
Steve was impatient to get to his story of
Flame, and managed to tell it only by replying
brusquely to Pitch's
frequent questions. Pitch gave him his soup and made
him
eat it while the beans were being heated. Then, as
Steve told
Pitch of his chase through the chasm and tunnel into the
cavern, Pitch's queries stopped altogether.
Steve's soup cooled as he told Pitch about coming
upon Flame in the smaller chamber. He had to omit
details he himself couldn't remember, and Pitch
did not question
him, for he knew the boy would have told him had he
been
able to do so. It was enough, Pitch thought, that Steve
hadn't been killed!
"But Flame's safe now," Steve concluded, his
eyes bright
and steady. "He won't sink any deeper until
we get there. And we can get him out, Pitch."
"What good would it do, Steve?" Pitch asked
quietly after a long silence. "Why should you take
any more chances? I don't think we should go any
further with this
business."
"Pitch! You don't mean what you're saying, do you?
You
can't mean it!" Steve's eyes mirrored the
intensity he was
feeling.
Pitch bent over the fire. He didn't like what
he saw in Steve's eyes, but he felt that he was
responsible for it. He
was the one who had suggested they come to this island! He
was the one who had kindled the boy's enthusiasm with
tales of Spanish conquest. Yes," and they had
found more than they had bargained for-much more! For here was a
lost world untouched by man for centuries! A lost world
with treasures for which many men would give their lives.

STEVE MAKES A PROMISE
And he and Steve had found it. But what price must
they
pay for their discovery? Already they had lived a
lifetime in
their few hours of groping about the death-black
tunnels. They had survived to find this valley, but
now Steve had undergone another terrible experience.
How much could
the boy take? He was no longer the same Steve
who had set out for this island. He was no longer a
boy but a man-very
much a man. Without turning around, Pitch listened to
part of what Steve was saying.
"Can't you understand, Pitch?" Steve asked. "We
can't leave him there to die! It's worse than if
I'd done nothing
and he'd been pulled down by the quicksand, because he'd
be gone by now. You can't let him die a living death
over that pit, Pitch! still can't! I'll have to go back
alone if you won't come. And if I can't get him
up by myself, I'll drop the chain."
He stopped, but Pitch still hadn't turned around
to face him. Striding over to Pitch, he knelt
down beside him. "Pitch, you remember what we both
thought of the
Conquistadores when we saw those chains around the
bones
of the skeletons in the dungeon." Steve's voice
was husky but no longer pleading. "It's the same
thing, Pitch. If I don't go back, I'll be
no better than they were. He's just as much alive
as any human being. I've got to go back. You
see that, don't you, Pitch? I've either got to get
him out or let him down all the way. You understand that,
don't
you?"
Steve said no more, and there was a long silence between
the two.
Then Pitch said slowly and in a voice that shook with
emotion, "I realize. I understand, Steve."
Removing the
beans from the stove, he dumped them with trembling hands
into the
tin
plate before Steve. "Eat this, then, and
we'll be going."
The tautness of Steve's muscles was released with the
speed of a spring as he cried, "You mean it,
Pitch! You'll go
with me!"
Pitch was busy extinguishing the fire, and there was a
pause before he replied, "Yes, I'm going,
Steve. What else
can I do?"
Steve's face sobered, then lighted up again as he
began
making plans for their return trip. "I want
to be sure to take
along the first-aid kit," he said quickly.
"Eat your food while it's hot," Pitch
ordered. Between mouthfuls Steve said, "He's been
badly cut, Pitch, but I can
help him. We should get back soon, though.
He's probably
still 'fighting, trying to get clear of the pit. Each
hour he's
there means a day longer in his recovery."
Pitch waited until Steve had finished eating before
he
said, "Steve, if we do succeed in getting him out
of the pit,
you've got to promise me that you'll have nothing more to
do with him. By that I mean I want you to forget about
helping him, forget about that red stallion."
"You mean-was Steve began.
"Exactly that, Steve," Pitch interrupted, and his
voice
was harsh. "You will have nothing more to do with him. It
has to be that way. I know he's everything you ever
hoped to
see in a horse-and I know now, if I never quite
knew
before, how much you love horses. But Steve, he's
as vicious
and wild as-why, that Piebald! There's no difference
in
their natures. They're both from the same mold.
They were
born wild, Steve, and meant to stay wild.
You've got to
realize that before you're killed."
"But, Pitch, Flame is different. He's not at
all like the
Piebald. He
knows
me now, Pitch. He knows that I don't mean any
harm to him, that I'm only trying to help
him."
"You've got to stay away from him, Steve," Pitch
said
with finality. "Whether he goes back to his band
Or not will
be no concern of yours or mine. If we get him out
of this, you'll have to let him go where he pleases without
having
anything more to do with it. Only on that understanding
will I go along with you." Pitch paused before adding,
"We'll have enough to do trying to find our way out of here.
I have some torches that'll help us in getting around the
tunnels." Then, changing the subject abruptly,
"Picked up
another spur and a pistol today," and he tapped his
poc
kets.
But Steve wasn't listening. After several minutes
he said
quietly, "Do you mean what you said, Pitch? That
if we get
him out, still
have to let him go where he pleases?"
"Exactly," Pitch replied. "Without chasing him
any more. Without trying to help that wild stallion,
who doesn't want any help."
"Okay, Pitch," Steve said thoughtfully. "I
agree. I'll let
him go where he pleases." But there was a brightness in his
eyes that Pitch didn't understand.
"You take a rest now, while I clean the pots,"
Pitch said.
"You need a rest."
Steve stretched out upon the ground, his head on his
pack. "We'd better take our packs," he
said, closing his eyes, "just in case we have to spend the
night there."
"Sure," Pitch replied.

THE ISLAND STALLION
"And Pitch, wait'll you see him close! You'll
forget all
those things in your pockets. You've never in your
life
..."
Steve's voice dropped to a mumble, then died
altogether as he dozed off.
Pitch's gaze left Steve for the pot he held in
his hand. "I can hardly wait," he muttered.
"Hardly."
Lowered Head

The western walls of the valley were casting
lengthening shadows over the cane as Steve and Pitch,
crouched low,
cautiously moved along beside it.
"You shouldn't have let me fall asleep," Steve
said.
"You needed it," Pitch replied bluntly. "And
we have
hours of daylight ahead of us." He pulled his
pack higher on his back, but his eyes never left the
bent-over figure ahead of
him. After a while he asked with concern, "You don't
think
that Piebald has moved, do you, Steve? Maybe
we'd better
look again."
"We just got through looking," Steve replied.
"It's
better for us to keep going until we get downwind
from
him."
"Maybe he's coming across for water," Pitch insisted
gravely. "I don't like this business, you know. That
Piebald
is capable of doing almost anything."
138
THE ISLAND STALLION
"He can't see us," Steve said. "Just a few
hundred yards more, Pitch-then we'll look again.
We should be well downwind from him by then."
Pitch grunted in response, and Steve hurried
forward faster than ever. His thoughts turned from the
Piebald to Flame. He still had to figure out how
to swing the stallion clear of the pit. He had thought
of a few ways but had discarded them. Suddenly he
said, "You've got your rope, haven't you,
Pitch?"
"Yeah," Pitch replied shortly; then after a
pause, "You're
sure we ought to go through with this, Steve? I don't like
being down here. What if the Piebald turns on
us? Let him
be their leader. Why risk our lives to save that red
stallion?
I really don't see what difference it makes who
leads this
band. And I don't understand what you mean when you say
that it does."
Steve didn't answer and they walked on until the
hollow
was but a quarter of a mile below them.
"We'll look for the Piebald now," Steve said,
"and then beat it for the marsh." When he turned around,
Pitch's
head was already above the cane.
"They've moved more to the center of the valley," Pitch
whispered excitedly, ducking his head again and turning
to
the boy. "And there's a couple of them not more than a
hundred yards away!"
Steve, raising his head slowly above the cane, saw
that
the Piebald and his band had moved a little closer
to them,
as Pitch had said. But the black-and-white stallion
was still grazing and didn't appear to be suspicious of
anything. The
two horses that had moved away from the band and were
grazing nearby were a bay mare and her stilt-legged
foal.
Steve felt that the chances of the Piebald's coming over
were
slim unless the mare squealed.
Steve knew that he should hide below the cane again, but
momentarily his eyes rested upon the foal, watching the
young colt as he vigorously encircled his
mother, seeking her long black tail and shaking mane
for protection against the flies that bothered him. He
couldn't be more than a
couple of weeks old, Steve figured. Noting the
colt's perfect
wedge-shaped head, he thought of Flame. Surely
this foal had been sired by the red stallion. There were
many like him in the band.
"What are you doing?" Pitch asked nervously.
"See anything? Let's get going, if we're
going on!" His head too had risen above the cane
beside Steve's.
Together they watched the colt, who had stopped
encircling the mare and now was stretching his head toward
the grass. His legs were too long and his neck too
short for him to reach it, so cautiously he bent his
forelegs until he was kneeling. He pulled at the
grass, not liking it at all; then he struggled
to his long legs again and once more began encircling the
mare.
Pitch and Steve were on their way again, and after several
minutes Steve said thoughtfully, "That colt was
him,
Pitch. That's exactly what I meant."
"I don't get you."
"I mean that's the sort of foal Flame sires.
They're
beautiful-everything that he is."
"Sure."
"It would be very different if the Piebald had sired
those
foals."
"Sure," Pitch repeated.

THE ISLAND STALLION
"I mean it, Pitch."
"I know you mean it."
"Every bad trait in the Piebald would show up in his
foals," Steve went on earnestly. "They'd be
monstrosities comall of them."
Pitch was silent awhile and then he said, "And if
Flame
does come back to his band, someday he'll be
dethroned and
possibly killed by one of his own sons. Have you thought
of that?"
"Yes," Steve said slowly. "I've thought of that.
There can
only be one stallion in the band who'll be the
leader."
"Some of those colts must be almost a year old now,"
Pitch went on. "It won't be long before things come
to a
head-less than a couple of years, perhaps." Pitch
paused,
then added, "That ought to make you realize how little
difference it actually makes who's king of this
band-Flame
or the Piebald. Either one of them will eventually be
killed
by a younger and stronger stallion."
There was a weary note in Steve's voice as he
said, "But it
may be a very long time before one of these colts is able
to
defeat Flame or the Piebald. In that time the
Piebald, if he
remains the band's leader, can sire many foals, and this
breed will never be the same as it is now. Yes,
Pitch, it does make a difference-a great deal of
difference."
They went on to the marsh in silence, and it was only
when Steve set out over the green paths that Pitch
spoke
again. "You're certain this ground will hold
us?" he asked.
Steve pointed to Flame's hoofprints in the soft
earth, as
though they were all the explanation necessary, and kept
going. He was anxious to get back to the cavern, for
it was
hours since he had left Flame and he was very
conscious of

LOWERED HEAD
the struggle his horse must be having. He had
decided, too, how he and Pitch would attempt
to swing Flame clear of the
pit.
When they reached the dry stream bed, they followed it
into the gorge. Pitch's exclamations rose with the
ascent,
but ceased altogether when they reached the smaller valley.
Steve too was moved again, even more deeply this time,
by
the solemn splendor of the hidden valley.
As they started across the valley floor there was no
need
for him to urge Pitch to greater speed.
Steve called a halt when they reached the
spot where the stream had been diverted across the
valley. "Let's leave our
packs here, Pitch," he said. "There's no need
to carry them the rest of the way. And if we make
camp tonight, don't you think it should be here? Where we can
get water, I
mean."
"Yes. Yes," Pitch returned quickly, anxious
to be on his
way. He had his pack off before Steve and was already
walking toward the chasm when Steve called to him.
"Your rope, Pitch. Where is it? We'll need
it."
"It's in my pack," Pitch replied without
stopping.
Steve got the rope and ran after Pitch, managing
to catch
up to him only when he had reached the entrance to the
chasm.
Pitch took in the jagged walls rising above them.
Then
he turned to Steve, and his voice wavered as he
said, "You
realize what we're doing, don't you, Steve?
We're following
the footsteps of the Conquistadores. This was their way
to and from Blue Valley. And we're the first, the very
first ones
..."
Without finishing the sentence Pitch walked
forward again, and Steve followed.
The gusts of wind coming from the tunnel beyond began blowing
in their faces as they made their way down the
chasm; eventually they heard the sound of crashing
waves on
the outer walls.
There was no time for talk now, and they went forward
eagerly, one thinking of his horse, the other of the
Conquistadores" exit to the sea.
When they reached the tunnel, Pitch, who still led,
slowed his pace until the light became brighter as they
went
along, then he hurried on. But he came to an
abrupt halt as
the tunnel opened into the large cavern and before them, in
the room's dim light, was the canal leading to the
sea.
Pitch stood there for a long while, and Steve was about
to
pass him when he moved quickly toward the
canal. Steve
followed, stopping again as he came to the adjoining
chamber which Pitch had passed in his haste. Turning,
Steve went inside.
When Pitch reached the canal, he saw the sunken,
moss-covered piles. His hands touched them almost
caress
ingly as he thought of the long centuries they had been
there. He moved forward, watching the water in the
canal
rise and fall with the sea swells that came from the outer
world. Upon reaching the hole, he stood to one side where
he could see a little of the ocean. The wind tore through
the hole, whipping the spray upon him until his face
was
wet.
"Steve," he said quietly, "there must be a
channel
outside, running right up to this entrance. The way must
be
clear through the reef and rocks, because they must have
brought their boats in here. This hole is higher than
I
thought it would be from your description, but there must
be some plant life on the outside that
keeps it from being
seen-that and the waves would hide it unless one got
really
close. The Spaniards must have protected this
entrance with guns in the walls above and on the sides.
J believe we could find them if we looked,
Steve
..."
Pitch turned, expecting to find the boy close behind
him.
"Steve!" he called excitedly. "Steve! Where
are you?" But
his voice was lost in the roar of wind and waves.
Pitch went running back through the cavern until he
saw the adjoining chamber. He stopped in front of
it, startled by the semidarkness within; then, when his eyes
became
accustomed to the dim light, he went inside.
Pitch walked forward a few yards, his eyes wide
with amazement at the sight before him. He caught
only a glimpse of the heavy wooden structure he
knew was the crane, for his gaze left it immediately for the
sunken rim of the pit. Steve was kneeling upon it beside
the still form of what had to be the red stallion.
Pitch's pace slowed until he came
to a halt a short distance behind Steve and Flame.
But it can't be the same horse,
he thought.
can't be!
There was nothing beautiful or proud or defiant about
this horse, whose limp body hung heavily upon the
rope noose that extended from the end of the chain and
encircled the hind part of his body. Only one
foreleg remained upon the rim of the pit and that was still; the
other hung below him, dangling above the quicksand. White
lather covered his body, from the flanks that rose above
the quicksand to the small lowered head.
This couldn't be the same horse, Pitch thought again.
It couldn't be the tall, long-limbed stallion who
so proudly
and gallantly had defended his band! This could be any
horse outside Blue Valley-and he looks
beaten, exhausted,
almost dead.
Then Pitch became aware of soft murmurings within the
chamber. Startled, he whirled around, his eyes
seeking the chamber's dark corners. Above the heavy
sounds coming from the outer cavern, he still could hear the
other, softer sounds. He moved closer to Steve, and
as he did, the murmurings became more
distinct, finally resolving into Steve's voice! But
there was a soft, melodious quality to it that Pitch
had never heard in Steve's voice before. And for some
unexplainable reason, Pitch found himself thinking of
the look that had come into Steve's eyes that day. They
went
together, somehow-the eyes and the voice.
Pitch remained still, listening to Steve; not so much
to what the boy said as to the sound of his voice.
"It's done now, Flame," Steve was saying.
"It's over. You
don't have to fight any more. We're going to get you out
now. You'll be free again."
When Steve had first arrived in the chamber, the
stallion had raised his head at the sight of him,
and for a short time fire had gleamed in his large eyes.
Then he had lowered his
head again, and Steve had walked up to him, placing a
hand
upon his horse for the first time.
Now, as he talked to Flame, he continued stroking
the
lowered head. The stallion attempted to raise his
head once,
but let it fall again. Steve noticed that his
teeth were no longer bared, nor was there any spirit in his
eyes; nothing but tired, hopeless defeat was in them.
Suddenly Steve turned and ran up the side of the
pit,
crying, "Pitch! Pitch!"

LOWERED HEAD
In his desperation he ran solidly into Pitch, who
was standing at the top. "The crane," Steve shouted.
"Come
on!"
Pitch followed Steve and eagerly they both
grasped the crane's winch handle. The wheel turned
beneath their combined strength, the teeth clicking rapidly
as the chain wound about the wheel. Slowly, inch by inch,
to the clicking of the wheel and the clattering of the moving
chain, Flame's hindquarters emerged from the clutching
sand and water.
"A little more, Pitch!" Steve half shouted. "Just
another foot and we'll have him clear!"
Furiously they pulled at the handle until
Flame was
completely free of the quicksand. There he hung, the
noose about his hindquarters, both of his forefeet
resting upon the
rim of the pit. He began struggling again, driving his
forefeet into the ground, but finally stopped as though he
had used up every bit of energy.
"Now what, Steve?" Pitch asked with concern.
"The rope," Steve returned quickly, his words
clipped.
He knew what he was going to do. "I've got
to get this rope too about his hindquarters." Hastily
he began uncoiling the
rope he had carried with him.
"Then?"
"Then," Steve went on hurriedly, "I'm going
to pull his hindquarters over as you let the chain down
again. But you've got to do it slowly, Pitch."
Pitch looked puzzled. "You mean turn the wheel
backward, letting him down again?"
"You don't have to turn it. His weight at the end will
take care of that. You've just got to see that the wheel

THE ISLAND STALLION
moves backward only a few inches at a time.
You can do it
by keeping hold of this bar of metal that fits into the
teeth
of the wheel."
"I don't see how you're going to-was
"You won't be letting him down into the pit again,
Pitch," Steve interrupted. "You'll just be giving
me more
chain, so I can pull his hindquarters closer to the
rim of the
pit as you let him down."
Pitch's face lit up. "I see now," he said.
"His forefeet will act as the pivot while you swing
his hindquarters
over."
Nodding, Steve widened the noose he had made with
his
rope; then he went down to the rim of the pit, with
Pitch
close beside him.
Pitch's arm encircled the boy's waist as Steve
hurled the
lasso at the stallion's hindquarters. It took
several attempts
before the noose settled over the quarters and encircled
the
stallion's girth. With Steve carrying the end of the
rope, the
two made their way up to the top of the pit
again.
"You'd better move over closer to him," Pitch
said.
Steve nodded and walked around the pit. "Let the
chain
down slowly, Pitch," he cautioned. "Very
slowly."
Steve shortened the rope until it was taut, then,
bracing a
foot on a rock, pulled the stallion's
hindquarters as far toward him and the rim of the pit as
possible. "Now, Pitch," he yelled.
There was a sharp click as the wheel turned backward
a
few inches, then held again. Steve pulled on the
rope,
drawing Flame's hindquarters closer to the rim.
Again there
was the click of the wheel's teeth-and again Flame's
hindquarters swung closer to the rim. Again and again the

LOWERED HEAD
clicks sounded until the stallion's hind legs were
almost above solid ground.
Flame had raised his head. He knew
something was happening. Snorting, he resumed pounding his
forefeet.
Pulling on the rope, Steve saw Flame's hind
feet touch the rim of the pit.
"Now, Pitch!" he yelled.
And.the clicks came faster as Pitch lowered away
until the noose hung loosely about the
stallion's girth.
For a moment Flame stood there as though his
hindquarters were no longer a part of him and had no
feeling. And in that moment Steve moved forward,
unheeding Pitch's sharp yell. Quickly Steve
withdrew the ropes from about the stallion; then he fell
backward as the stallion moved. From the ground,
Steve saw Flame plunge heavily up the side
of the pit, his body heaving and his hindquarters dragging.
Then, snorting, he ran slowly from the chamber.
Getting to his feet, Steve quickly followed, but
before he had reached the outer cavern he felt
Pitch's hand on his arm.
"Steve!" Pitch shouted. "Let him go! You
promised!"
For a moment Steve's eyes blazed and he pulled
away from Pitch. "But he's hurt, Pitch. You can
see that. He still
needs help!"
"He can take care of himself, Steve," Pitch
replied harshly. "He doesn't need you any
longer. You promised me, Steve! You gave me
your word-was
"That I'd let him go where he pleases,"
Steve finished bitterly,
"without chasing him,"
Then, after a long pause, he said, "Maybe you're
right and he can take care of himself now. Maybe he
doesn't need me any longer.
..."

THE ISLAND STALLION
Yet Steve still could hear the sound of Flame's
hoofs on stone as the stallion ran through the tunnel,
and he
wondered.
A Boy and His Horse

They stood before the sea exit, the great chamber behind
them. Once again Pitch looked at the hole in the
outer wall,
his keen interest evident in his eyes.
Steve stood a few feet away, his
gaze not on the exit but directed at his feet, which
were imbedded in the fine, white
sand of the cavern's floor. He could think only of
Flame.
You'd better forget him, he told himself.
Forgetddab running after him, at any rate. You
gave Pitch your word.
It was a bargain you made with him. You've got
to stick to
it. Pitch has done his part. You've got to do yours
now.
Flame is free.
Steve looked up at Pitch, who was talking about the
exit
again. He had forgotten Flame; or at least, it was
apparent to Steve, Pitch no longer cared to think about
the stallion. This hole in the rock and the canal were of
much more interest to him.
And he wants you to think that way, too, Steve
thought. He wants you to forget Flame. Instead,
think about the sea exit and the tunnels and the
Conquistadores! Think about
all of them, but don't think about Flame! Why did
Pitch
believe he could so easily forget his
horse, Steve wondered.
Or was he underestimating Pitch? Perhaps Pitch
knew that
he could never forget Flame for all the sea exits,
tunnels and
lost worlds ever left by the Conquistadores!
Flame is safe now, Steve went on saying
to himself. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? Pitch
kept his word and
helped you; now you have to keep yours. Flame is
free to go
where he pleases. That's what Pitch said:
"You'll have to let
him go where he pleases."
Steve shuffled his feet through the sand. Yes, when
he'd made that promise to Pitch he had thought that
maybe the red stallion would come to him, that he wouldn't
have to chase him any longer. He'd figured that
Flame would know he was trying to help him, that he was
his friend. And
several times, when he had been close to him, Steve
thought
Flame really did understand what he was trying to do.
But Flame was gone now, and there was nothing he could do
about it. He had promised Pitch not
to chase him, and he couldn't go back on his word.
"I'm puzzled by one thing, Steve," Pitch was
saying. "From all we've seen, this hole was
definitely the Conquistadores' main entrance and
exit. But if that's so, how did they get their
armies, especially their horses, through this hole?
It's wide enough-it must be about twelve feet
wide-but there's only about four feet of head room
there. They couldn't have brought their horses through here."
Pitch went closer to the exit, peering at the
dark-green
moss clinging to the wall above the hole. "I
wonder-was he began, then stopped, leaning forward
to run his hand
through the moss.
Steve saw Pitch's fingers probe into the heavy
growth on
the wall. Then they bent until they were clawing,
digging.
And Pitch didn't stop until he had a large
area cleared of the growth.
"It's wood underneath!" Pitch shouted. "Wood,
Steve, right above the hole!" His hands worked
furiously now,
clearing away more of the moss.
The import of Pitch's discovery didn't register
with Steve
until Pitch had cleared an area six feet high
and as many feet
wide above the hole. Then Steve saw the paneled
rectangu
lar door and the beamed grooves above and below. It was a
sliding panel!
Now Pitch was digging far over on the side of the
hole, and finally his frantic fingers found the
indentations in the
wood by means of which the Conquistadores must have
pulled the panel across the grooved supporting
beams. Pitch
thrust his fingers into the holes and tugged hard. The
door
didn't budge. Pitch then called to Steve, who
got hold of the lower holes and pulled too. Together
they forced the
panel through the green moss. Then the door moved
easily
in the-grooves, and before them was the opening to the sea,
heightened by all of six feet!
Even Pitch was quiet as they looked out upon the
ocean.
"It's high enough now for anything," he said finally.
"Even
to have gotten their horses through." Then his gaze turned
to the other side of the canal and he added, "There's a
panel
over there, too. They come together over the middle of the
canal." His eyes gleamed. "We could get the
launch
through here, Steve! We could load her up with everything
we find! Steve, do you realize what this means?
Here we have an entrance to this lost world from the sea! We
must be
on the northwest tip of the island-don't you think so,
Steve? We could easily find it from the boat,
couldn't
we?"
But Steve wasn't listening to Pitch. He hadn't
listened since Pitch had mentioned that the exit was
large enough
"even to have gotten their horses through."
But he wasn't
thinking of the horses of the Conquistadores. He was
thinking of Flame. And as he looked at the hole,
now more than ten feet high, he thought how easy it
would be to get a
small barge in to take his horse from the island. His
horse!
Flame!
You shouldn't even think of it, he told himself. It's
impossible.
But I don't think
anything
is impossible now,
he thought
soberly.
And the hole is large enough to get a barge through. Even
Pitch would agree to that.
But you shouldn't be thinking of it, he told himself
again. You don't even have Flame. You're not going
to have
him. You gave Pitch your word you wouldn't chase him
any
longer. And there's something else even more important.
What about the Piebald? What about the band? You
want Flame to go back to his band, don't you?
What about all
your talk of this perfect breed of horse-of the foals
now in
Blue Valley and those to come? Would you forget all that
just to have Fkme? Was it only talk to show
Pitch how much you knew about horses-about breeding?
Was that all it was, just talk, or were you sincere?
still
was sincere,
he thought. still
am sincere. It wasn't just talk, I

A BOY AND HIS HORSE
want nothing more than for Flame to lead his band again, for
he's
their rightful leader. The band will never be the same if the
Piebald remains their king. So I shouldn't be
thinking of taking
Flame away, even if it were possible, which it
isn't.
Steve's eyes were focused upon Pitch, who was
closing the
panel door.
"I don't want to take any chances of this entrance
being
seen by anyone on the outside," Pitch said. "We
can always
open it again when we're ready to come in this way. What
we've got to do now, Steve," he added quickly and with
great concern, "is to go back the way we
came. That's what
we've got to do next."
"Sure, Pitch," Steve said. "Sure."
With Pitch doing all the talking, they walked back
through the tunnel unril they came to the chasm. Steve
kept
looking ahead, hoping he might catch a glimpse
of Flame.
"We don't have to get excited about this," Pitch was
saying in a high, broken voice. "We've got
plenty of time to
use that entrance and to do a good job of exploring this
island. All I want to do now is to make sure
we can get: back
to the dory all right. Then we'll have two ways of
getting to
Blue Valley." Pitch stopped, and then he said
frankly, "I guess I might as well admit
it,
Steve. I've never been so
excited about anything in my whole life!"
"I know," Steve said.
Pitch looked at him as though he were seeing Steve
for
the first time in a long while. "But you don't
seem very
enthusiastic about what we've found, Steve. You're
certain
you realize-was
"What this means? What we're doing?" Steve
finished fot
him. "Yes, I know, Pitch."
Pitch said slowly, "Then it's still the horse,
Steve. Isn't
it?"
Steve shrugged his shoulders. "It's still the horse,
Pitch.
I feel the same way about him as you do about all these
other
things. I just can't forget him as you'd like me to do,
Pitch."
Pitch said seriously, "I know how you feel,
Steve, but I'm
thinking of your safety. I must hold you to your
promise
that you'll have nothing more to do with that wild stallion.
He's savage and would kill you if you ever got
close to him.
You know that as well as I do. If you'd only
admit it, it
would be much easier for both of us."
Steve didn't want to argue with Pitch again. He
felt,
from what he'd seen of Flame, that the horse would not
hurt
him. So he said only, "I promised you that I
wouldn't run
after him any more, Pitch. I'll keep my word."
"And if you don't run after him, you'll have nothing
more to do with him," Pitch muttered as they went along.
Then, changing the subject, "It's getting dark.
Good thing
we're going to camp out here. I wouldn't like to think of
going back through that marsh at night."
They had reached the end of the chasm, with the smaller
valley spread out before them, when they saw the red
stallion again.
He stood knee-deep in lush grass. And the dusk
cloaked his torn body in a soft veil of gray,
concealing the ravaged
flesh.
His long neck was stretched down to the stream and the
blood-matted mane fell about his head as he
drank deeply.
Pitch and Steve had stopped in their
tracks. For different
reasons, neither dared to move as they watched the red
stallion. Pitch was afraid to move, lest the
stallion attack
them; while Steve was afraid his horse would run
away again
once he became aware of their presence.
"What'll we do, Steve?" Pitch asked
anxiously. "We
can't camp here with him around. He might kill us."
Steve didn't answer; his eyes were upon Flame.
Pitch said, "We can go back to the cavern. We can
stay
there tonight."
"We need our packs," Steve said simply.
"We need food
and water. We've got to stay here, Pitch. He
won't bother us. I'm sure he won't bother
us."
"Maybe he'll move away, farther from our
packs," Pitch
said hopefully. "Then we can get them and run for
it."
The red stallion raised his head, ears pricked
forward. Without moving his body, he turned
his eyes in their direction. For all of a minute he
stood there, quietly watching them; then he went
back to his grazing.
"You see, Pitch!" Steve's words came fast.
"He'd never
bother us. He's seen us, but it hasn't made any
difference to
him. He's not even leaving!"
Pitch was talking now, but Steve didn't listen.
He hadn't
lost his horse after all! Flame was here, less
than a hundred
yards from where they stood! And most important, oh!
most
important of all, was that he hadn't run away
again at the sight of them. It was as though the stallion
had accepted them. It was almost as though he knew they
had helped him. Steve felt it had to be this way.
"Steve! What's the matter with you? You're not even
listening to me!" Pitch saw the specks of light in
Steve's eyes, and he knew that look, knew what
it meant.
Steve walked forward.
"Steve! You promised me you wouldn't go near him!
You
gave me your word! Steve!"
The boy's footsteps came to a halt, but he
didn't turn
to Pitch as he said, "I'm only going for the packs,
Pitch.
I'm not chasing him. I promised you I wouldn't
chase
him."
"But, Steve, he might . . ."
The boy was walking forward again, toward the packs,
toward the stallion! Pitch stood still, not knowing what
to do, but his eyes never left the boy.
Steve was talking now, calling to his horse. He
had nearly reached the packs when the stallion stopped
his
grazing again and turned his small, wedge-shaped head
toward the boy. No fire burned in the large,
glazed eyes and
only his blown-out nostrils disclosed any of his former
hatred for the figure who continued to track him. But
after a
short time his nostrils stilled and he went back
to his
grazing.
He knows me,
Steve thought excitedly.
He knows that I
don't mean him any harm, and that's half the
battle. If I could
only follow through now by staying with him while he's so
tired. If
only I hadn't given my word to Pitch!
Steve's eyes left the stallion and rested on the
packs. In
his own would be the first-aid kit. He could cleanse
Flame's
wounds and prevent any possible infection. He
wanted to
take care of him so much!
But you promised Pitch, he reminded himself again. You
told him you wouldn't run after Flame, that you wouldn't
go to him.
But what if Flame comes to me?
he thought.
What if I stand
still and call him and he comes? I won't be breaking
my word then.

A BOY AND HIS HORSE
You're being silly, he told himself. He
wouldn't come to you, even now after all you've done for
him.
Why wouldn't he?
Steve's other self argued.
He hasn't run
away, has he? He's standing there, not even moving,
while I walk
over closer to him. He knows I mean no harm.
He knows I've helped
him. He would have moved away by now if he didn't.
Steve turned to look at Pitch when he reached the
packs. His friend was still standing in the same spot as though
he had frozen in his tracks.
only he had come with me,
Steve thought, still
could have asked him. I don't want to turn back
now.
still
want to stay here,
close by my horse.
And all the time Steve continued talking, calling to the
red stallion. Even though he thought of Pitch,
wondering
whether his friend had moved closer or not, he talked
to his horse. And it seemed to him the
stallion listened, for Flame
paused more often in his grazing to turn to him.
Steve could hear Pitch calling, but he didn't
take his eyes
off Flame. If Pitch would only come over, he
could reason with him, ask him to release him from his
promise. If ever
there was a time to win the confidence of Flame, this was it!
The horse was too tired, too beaten to move
away. Flame would respond willingly to all the
kindness he could offer
him, Steve was certain.
But Pitch stayed and Steve could only remain still,
talking to the stallion, hoping he would come to him.
After a long while the red stallion, still chewing the
grass, moved in Steve's direction.
Excitedly, Steve watched him, yet his voice
remained
low.
"I've got to have patience," he said aloud to himself,

THE ISLAND STALLION
knowing it did not matter what Flame heard. "I'm
sure he's
coming, but it'll take time. I'm keeping my
promise to Pitch. I'm not chasing Flame. I
went for the packs because Pitch wanted them. I don't
have to go back right away. I didn't tell him I
would. I'm waiting, Flame. I've got lots of
time. I'm going to stay here until you come all the
way."
Now the red stallion was only twenty yards away
from Steve, and the boy could see the bulging veins that
stood
out on the sides of his head. The ears were cocked, coming
almost to a point at the tips. He held long
blades of grass in
his mouth without chewing them. He was listening to
Steve, associating this voice with the one he'd heard
so often
during the past few hours. His large eyes became
curious as
he saw the figure lower itself close to the ground, so
low that he had to look down to see him.
Steve was squatting on the ground, knowing that the
stallion would be less frightened of him if he made
himself
as small as possible. He was certain Flame was
coming to
him. It was just a matter of a few minutes
before he would
be able to touch him. He began talking once more, his
hand
outstretched.
Five yards away the stallion stopped to graze
again. Steve
moved a few feet toward him, then came to a
halt, thinking
it best that the stallion come all the way to him.
Flame moved closer, his teeth still chopping the
grass. Steve waited, his heart pounding, and he
tried to keep the excitement from his voice. The
stallion didn't look up
again, but his head moved alongside Steve's hand.
Slowly,
ever so slowly, the boy moved his hand to the stallion's
muzzle. Gently he touched the mole-soft skin, and
there
was no objection, no movement from Flame at his
touch. Steve stroked the horse. "You're mine,
Flame," he said.
"You came to me, just as I'd hoped you would. It's the
way
it should be."
After a while, Steve examined the
blood-clotted wounds.
There was only one that caused him concern. It lay low
on
the stallion's chest and the open flesh was covered with the
sand and dirt of the pit. It needed to be cleansed or
it would become infected. The other wounds on the
stallion's strong
body had already begun to heal.
Steve rose to his knees, running his hand across the
blood-caked mane. He wanted to take care of the
chest wound, but he would have to wait until the stallion
had
complete confidence in him.
So for a long time Steve stood beside his horse, moving
with him as he grazed and always talking to him.
The valley was steeped in darkness when he heard
Pitch
call to him. Turning slightly, he saw Pitch
only a few yards away from the packs.
"I'm all right," Steve said, his eyes turning
back to the stallion. "He came to me, Pitch.
I didn't chase him this
time. I kept my word."
And the voice that came out of the darkness was low and
resigned. "I saw him," Pitch said.
"I know, Steve.
Now
I
know."
Pitch said nothing more, and when Steve turned to him
again, he saw that Pitch had opened the packs and that the
stove was already on the ground.
Flame moved, but Steve walked beside him, always
stroking, always talking.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you'll let me help you more.

THE ISLAND STALLION
Tonight we'll just get used to each other."
And when the small stove cast its light into the
blackness, Pitch could see the outline of a boy and a
giant horse standing close together.
Pitch Makes His Move

Lying on his back, Pitch stared at the stars. The
moon had risen above the valley's walls, so he
knew that he had slept for a little while. He rolled
over on his side to take another look at
Steve's blanket, knowing in advance that he wouldn't
find Steve asleep in it. Pitch wondered if the
boy was going to use it at all.
There was a nickering, a sudden start from the stallion,
and Pitch's gaze swept in his direction. He
stood silhouetted against the walls in the moonlight.
Steve was beside him, and across the still night air Pitch
could hear the boy's soft murmurings as he talked
to the red stallion.
Would Steve stay with his horse all through the night?
Would he never sleep? Pitch's own eyes were heavy
and his
body weary from the exhaustion of the day's work and
excitement, yet his mind was too active and Pitch
tried his best to quiet it.

THE ISLAND STALLION
You don't have to worry about Steve any longer, he
told himself. You're silly if you do. The stallion
won't harm
him. You've seen that for yourself. This relationship
between Steve and the stallion is something you don't
understand, but you saw for yourself that the stallion came
to Steve. He always will be his horse from now on.
Maybe he always has been, for all you know.
Maybe Steve has always known this red stallion, just
as he says. Maybe it
is
his Flame. Who are you to doubt it? Not after all
you've seen today. You've read of such things happening
between man and horse, although Tom once said it never
actually happened.
"It's storybook stuff" . . .
those were his exact words. Tom, with his big hands.
Tom, with his bull whip and bottle. Tom, who
thought there was only one way to
conquer a wild horse.
"You've got to break him with your own
hands,"
he would say.
"You've got to show him who's boss!"
I wonder what Tom would say to all this,
Pitch thought. still
wonder if he'd believe it even if he witnessed
it, as I'm doing.
But Tom never would have Steve's patience. Never would
he have waited for this stallion to come to him, urging him
on only by kindness and by his voice.
Pitch listened to the sound of Steve's voice and thought
again:
It's Steve's voice that's winning the confidence of this
stallion
as much as anything. I'm sure Tom
couldn't talk that way even if
he wanted to. I don't think there
are
many people in the world who
could talk that way to a horse. A voice like that has
to come from
the heart. It's like a mother talking to her child-that's the
only
comparison I know.
But stop thinking about it, Pitch told himself almost
angrily. Maybe Steve can do without sleep, but you
can't. You're getting old, man. You need your
sleep. Steve's

PITCH MAKES HIS MOVE
young. He's all right-he'll always be all right. You
don't have to worry about anything. And if you have to think,
you'd better think about the sea exit and what you might
find in some of those other caves in Blue Valley.
Better still,
don't think of anything until tomorrow. Tomorrow you can start
looking for the way back to the dory, too. Steve will
want to stay with his horse. You might as well
accept that
now, because nothing is more important to Steve
than what
he's doing now. He might not like you to go alone, but just
tell him you want to look around the caves all
by yourself.
Tell him you can get around faster that way, since you
know
exactly what you're looking for. That's a laugh,
your
getting around faster without Steve. . . .
Pitch's eyes left the boy and horse and turned
to the stars overhead again. After many minutes, heavy
lids dropped over his eyes and his breathing became
deeper as he fell
asleep.
When Pitch opened his eyes again, the gray light of
dawn
had blotted out the stars. For a moment Pitch could have
been anywhere; then he heard the shrill call of the
stallion and it pierced his sleep-laden mind, bringing
it back to reality. Quickly he turned to the blanket
beside him. It was empty but wrinkled, and at least he
knew that Steve had lain down on it sometime during the
night.
As he glanced over toward the walls, he noticed
that the
stove was already burning.
A hundred yards beyond, Pitch saw the stallion
slowly moving away from Steve, who stood watching
him. Steve was holding a pot in his hand; he turned
just then and started back toward the stove.

THE ISLAND STALLION
Pitch rose to his feet and went over to the stove.
He
waited until Steve was within earshot before asking,
"Have
you been up the whole night?"
There were dark circles under Steve's eyes. "I
slept a little," he said, placing the pot down on the
ground.
"What have you been up to?"
"He's got a bad cut on his chest," Steve
replied. "It was dirty. I cleaned it just now."
Pitch cast a quick glance at the first-aid kit that
lay on the ground beside Steve's pack. The
package of gauze was
open.
"I just used hot water and soap," Steve was saying
as he bent over the kit. "I want to put some
iodine on the cut a little later on."
"But maybe iodine is too strong for him,
Steve," Pitch protested. "It'll burn like the
devil. Have you thought of that? It might undo all the
good you've done."
"I thought of diluting it with water," Steve
answered, his
voice troubled, too.
"Did you have much of a job getting the cut cleaned?"
"A little," was all Steve said.
Pitch knew it had been more difficult than Steve
would admit. It was one thing to stroke the stallion and
another to cleanse his lacerated flesh. "Let's have
some breakfast," he finally said with attempted
lightness. "I'm sure hungry."
While Pitch boiled the water, Steve opened a can
of ham
and prepared the powdered eggs. They spoke little while
breakfast was being cooked, and it was only when they were
eating that Pitch said, "I suppose you want to stay
here with
him." He didn't wait for Steve's reply, but
went on. "I
thought I'd go back to Blue Valley. There are
some caves I'd
165
PITCH MAKES HIS MOVE
like to look into. Wouldn't
be
surprised at what I might find in them."
"But we were going to . . ." Steve paused, then
continued in a steady voice, "dis . . we were going
to look for
the way back to the dory."
"That can wait awhile," Pitch returned. "Or
I might even stumble on it." He smiled as he
saw the concern on
Steve's face. "And don't think for a moment that
I'll get lost
again. I guess we've both learned our lesson
on that score.
I'm not taking any chances, Steve, so don't you
worry about
me. I still have the chalk, and I'll be able to mark every
inch
of the way if I happen to go into any of those
tunnels. No
more arrows like the last time. And I'll have burning
torches this time-they don't break." He laughed before
adding, "But I probably won't even look for the
way back,
Steve. As I said, there's plenty to find in those
caves near the
waterfall to keep me busy."
"But Pitch-was
"You'd only slow me down, Steve," Pitch
interrupted. "I
can save time by going alone. And after all, you're more
interested in Flame than in anything I might find.
You have
your work, Steve-I have mine. Let it go at that."
Steve studied Pitch for several minutes before
saying, "I'll be back at the cliff tonight,
Pitch." Then he dropped his eyes to the food in
front of him as he said, almost inaudibly,
"Thanks, Pitch."
They had finished breakfast and were washing the pots when
Pitch spoke again. "I'll wait until you put
the iodine
on him. You might need some help."
Steve turned and looked at his horse, who was now
grazing some distance away. "I wonder," he began,
then

THE ISLAND STALLION
stopped, going to the first-aid kit.
He poured some of the iodine into a pot and added water.
"You think that's enough, Pitch?"
"I think so, Steve. You've cut it by about half.
It shouldn't be too strong for him now. He'll feel
it, though. You're still sure you'd better not just leave
the wound
alone?"
"I can't, Pitch," Steve returned solemnly.
"Infection
could so easily set in now."
Pitch didn't reply, and they sat watching the
stallion in
silence.
The gray light of early morning had given way to the
brightness of day when Steve rose to his feet. He
went to the
first-aid kit, and taking up the package of gauze,
tore a long piece from the roll, which he folded
carefully; then he went
over to the stove and picked up the pot containing the
iodine solution.
It had been difficult enough cleaning the thigh wound
only with water, for he had had to stand quietly beside the
stallion for many hours, stroking him until he could
draw the cloth across the cut. It would be much
more difficult
now, because although the iodine had been diluted it would
still smart and burn when applied to Flame's open
wound. And Steve knew that as a result his horse
might forever be
afraid of him.
Pitch asked, "Are you going now?"
Steve didn't answer, but the steps he took
away from the
stove were all the reply Pitch needed. He watched
Steve
walk down to the floor of the valley. He heard him
call to
the stallion who was grazing fifty or more yards
away from him. Flame raised his head and, although he
returned to his

PITCH MAKES HIS MOVE
grazing, seemingly ignoring the boy, his searching
muzzle
and chopping teeth brought him closer and closer
to Steve.
Steve made no attempt to hide the cloth or
pot. As he
approached the stallion Flame looked
up at him and at the
pot the boy was holding. Blowing out his nostrils,
Flame turned away from Steve. But he didn't
run, and Steve followed, talking all the while.
When Flame reached the stream and stopped to drink,
Steve placed the pot down on the ground and dipped
the
gauze in the antiseptic until it was thoroughly
soaked; then,
taking the dripping cloth with him, he approached the
stallion.
Steve stroked the horse as he drank, then dipped
his left
hand in the stream and wet Flame's matted mane.
His hand
didn't stop when it came to the end of the mane, but
traveled across the muscled withers until it rested upon
Flame's chest. Just below Steve's hand was the open
wound.
Steve held the cloth in his other hand. He
hesitated a
moment before taking this next step, knowing full well that
possibly it might be the last time he would be able
to stand
so close to his horse; for he had
decided to hold the cloth on
the wound as long as he could. He would not dab as he
had
done that morning, when he had been using only water.
Flame stomped his hind foot and swished his long
tail about. He had stopped drinking and was moving to a
new spot to graze. Steve walked along with him,
his hand still
upon him.
Finally the stallion came to a halt again. Steve
glanced at
the folded gauze in his hand, then at the flesh
ravaged by the Piebald. Now was the time. The
muscles in his face became taut, and then his hand
moved forward, slowly at

THE ISLAND STALLION
first until the gauze was but a few inches from the wound.
He kept talking to the stallion as he placed the
cloth over the wound and pressed it firmly onto the
flesh.
For a fraction of a second the stallion stood still;
then, as
the diluted iodine penetrated his raw skin, he
snorted and
sidestepped quickly.
Steve watched him go, knowing the job had been done.
Flame galloped in long, fast strides until
he reached the walls; then he slowed down to a trot
before he finally stopped. He turned to the boy,
shrilling loudly, as though in reproach; then he went
back to his grazing.
It stung him only for a few seconds,
Steve thought.
He really
didn't act up as much as I thought he might. And
it's done now.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Steve turned.
"You got it on him?" Pitch asked.
Steve nodded, and together they walked back to their
packs.
A short time later Steve watched Pitch cross
the valley
floor and disappear within the gorge; then the boy sat
down
upon his unrolled blanket.
Flame was grazing about a quarter of a mile away.
Steve's eyes rested on the stallion for a long
time. Then he
thought,
I'd
better leave him alone for a little while longer. If
I
don't go after him, perhaps he'll come to me. I
don't want to push
him.
still
want him to come to me. It's better that way.
Large, billowy clouds appeared overhead, but through
them burst the morning sun, warming the upper valley
with its light. Steve, welcoming the sun's rays,
lay back on the blanket, his head turned to one
side and his eyes resting on Flame. The stallion
had moved from the shadows along
the walls out into the sun, and his body glowed a fiery
red. His long tail no longer trailed the ground but
swished constantly about his body.
"Flies," muttered Steve. "They're starting
to bother
him."
The boy's eyes closed. He was tired. He'd
rest for a while,
then go to his horse again. It had been a long
night, and as
he'd told Pitch, he hadn't had much
sleep. But it had been worth it. Now he'd just
rest for a little while. He wouldn't
go to sleep, just rest. Resting was as good as sleeping,
anyway. But he didn't want to rest very long,
either. There was so much to do today. No more iodine, just being
with his horse. He wanted to be around him a lot so
that before
long Flame would take his presence very much for
granted.
Flame would never know why he had cleaned his wound and
put the iodine on it. He'd remember only that it
had stung
him and he hadn't liked it. But it had had to be
done. There
was plenty of time to make amends . . . plenty of
time.
Steve's eyes remained closed as the sun's warmth
slowly
relaxed his taut muscles. He felt his face
become hot, and
for a moment he didn't even think of Flame. And in
that
moment he fell asleep.
He didn't know how long he had lain there when
suddenly he felt something soft and wet against
his face.
Opening his eyes, he saw Flame standing close beside
him!
The stallion's muzzle moved about the grass, and
Steve
realized that was what had touched his face a few
minutes
before. He lay there quietly, but his eyes devoured
the
stallion.
Don't rush to him, he told himself. Take it
nice and easy.
Take him for granted, too. Just pretend you've
always been

THE ISLAND STALLION
with him. You can sit up now, but don't rush to him
yet. Take it easy as you did last night. He
likes you or he wouldn't be here. He's getting
used to you, Steve!
Slowly Steve rose to a sitting position, talking
to his horse, his eyes going to the chest wound. It was
still clean, but he'd have to watch it for any infection that
might
develop. Shifting his gaze to the other
cuts on the stallion's
body, he found that hard scabs had already formed over
them. There was no sign of infection in any of them.
Flame's head rose a few inches from the ground, his
neck
extended. He shook his mane and his body twitched.
Steve saw the large flies hovering above him and about
his
girth. Flame's tail whipped at them like a lash.
Then he sniffed the ground and moved away until he
had found a slight depression in the ground.
Carefully, he lowered himself down to it and rolled over
on his back. Long legs
thrashed the air as he grunted in pleasure. Finally
he turned
over on his side again before rolling over once more and
driving his back into the soft earth.
Steve waited until the horse had risen to his
feet and had
shaken himself before going to him. Anxiously he looked
at
the chest wound and to his relief found it to be still
clean.
Gently Steve's hand swept over the giant body
until it came to rest upon the mane; then
he stroked the slender neck and small head which had
jerked up at his touch.
Flame's flashing eyes turned from side to side,
but he remained still; then, as though satisfied there was
nothing to fear, he went back to his grazing.
Hour after hour Steve stayed with his horse, talking
to him as though Flame understood everything he had
to say. He walked with him about the valley while the
sun moved

PITCH MAKES HIS MOVE
slowly across the sky and began its descent. And, very
often, as he looked at the glistening body beside him,
studying the strong limbs and well-muscled withers,
chest and shoulders, all of which indicated tremendous
strength, and the sculptured head and neck that indicated
a perfect breed, he thought of what it would be like
to ride this horse. But he never let himself think of it
too long or too often, for it was enough, at this
moment, that he walked beside him. Yet he could
dream-and dream he did as he watched the red
stallion throughout the day. He saw himself riding
Flame about the valley and, at times, could
even feel the surge of the stallion's giant
muscles beneath his
knees.
But with the setting of the sun behind the walls to the west,
Steve left his horse.
stHis
leave everything here,
he thought. still"
be back in the
morning. I'll just take my blanket. Pitch will
have enough food for
both of us.
Steve went over to Flame, stood with him a few
minutes more, then reluctantly turned toward the
gorge that would take him back to Blue Valley.
He hadn't walked very far when he heard Flame's
shrill whistle and, turning, saw the stallion moving
slowly toward him.
Steve stood still while the horse stopped to graze
again. The boy's eyes took in the ever-lengthening
shadows, and he knew he had to go now if he was
to get back to Pitch before dark. So, turning, he
walked on. Behind him he could hear Flame's hoofs
as the stallion followed him.
Steve didn't stop until he had reached the
ascent to the gorge; then he turned and found Flame
close behind him. Going up to him, he
stroked the pink-skinned muzzle.
"I'll be back, Flame," he said. "I'll be
back tomorrow."
The red stallion whinnied and thrust his nose into the
hollow of Steve's hand. There was no hatred or
menace in his large eyes now; nothing was there but
wonder. When Steve turned away from him, going up
to the entrance to the gorge, the stallion did not
follow; instead he turned in the direction of the
valley floor as though he wanted none of the trail
ahead.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow," Steve repeated aloud, as the walls
closed in upon him. "And the day after-andthe one after that.
Oh, if only I could be with him always!"
Always!
Winged Hoofs
"Tomorrow
and the day after
and the one after that."
Five days came and went, with each morning's sun
finding Steve in the smaller valley. He lived
for the hours of
daylight when he could be with his horse. Yet he
reckoned the passing of time only by the condition of the
scabs upon Flame's wounds, scabs that
hardened until finally they began cracking off, giving
way, piece by piece, to the new skin beneath.
And each night back in Blue Valley, Pitch
listened as Steve spoke of the stallion's speedy
recovery and of Flame coming to him at his call. After
the first few nights, Pitch had let himself think that
Steve's enthusiasm for the red stallion would lessen,
but again he found he still did not understand the relationship
between the boy and the horse; for if anything, Steve
became more intense, his voice more


THE ISLAND STALLION
excited, as he told Pitch about Flame during the
nights that
followed.
And Pitch, when Steve had finished talking each
evening, would tell the boy
of his
day's explorations, would
show him the sextant he'd found, the pistol with the
handle etched in gold, small ammunition and the
dagger. But he knew that Steve never really looked
at them, and thought only of his horse. Even when
Pitch told Steve how well he was
learning his way around the tunnels and that one day
soon he was certain he would come upon the way back
to the
dory, he wondered if the boy actually listened
to him. It was as though Steve didn't care about ever
leaving this valley-as though he wanted to remain here
always with his
horse.
It was only when Pitch spoke of the Piebald, which
he
did more often now, that Steve's eyes disclosed his
attentiveness. The Piebald worried Pitch. The
Piebald stood
between him and his complete freedom of the valley, for
Pitch feared the black-and-white stallion more with every
day that passed.
"If it weren't for him," he told Steve one
night, "I could get around this valley a lot
easier. I'm certain I could find plenty by doing
some digging down there, but he keeps me away. Oh,
I'm not thinking of right now, Steve, because I
have plenty of stuff to take back on this trip. I
don't want to
bring back too much, you know, for fear someone will get
wise to what we've found. But later on
I'd like to look around the valley floor-do a
thorough job of it, I mean. I can't with that
Piebald around." And then Pitch had stopped, his
gaze unwavering as he looked at Steve. "But I
could do it if Flame led the band again," he went on.

WINGED HOOFS
"When do you think he'll be coming back, Steve?
He's going to return to his band, isn't he? He
won't just stay in the smaller valley, will he?"
Steve had merely shrugged his shoulders, and before
Pitch could continue, the boy had changed the
subject.
This dawn, as Steve walked through the gorge toward the
smaller valley, he thought:
Should it be this morning? Haw I
waited long enough? Flame lets me put my
weight on him. He's never given me any trouble.
What difference will it make to him
whether I'm leaning on him or sitting upon his back?
I just want to
sit there, that's all I want to do.
For the first few days, Steve had only dreamed of
riding his horse, but then dreams had given way to a
great desire actually to press his knees
close to the muscled withers, to sit astride his
horse. So for many hours he had stood and
walked patiently beside Flame, his weight resting more
and
more heavily upon the red stallion.
The smaller valley opened before Steve, and the boy's
eyes
eagerly sought Flame. He found him in the center
of the
valley. Already Flame had turned in his direction
with ears
pricked forward, alert to the slightest sound, and head
craned high.
Steve called to him, but even before the words had left
his
mouth, the valley echoed to the shrill whistle of the
stallion;
then Flame was moving toward him, no longer
hesitant as in earlier days, no longer stopping
to graze, but taking long, swift strides, his long
tail and mane whipping the air
like searing flame. He swept across the valley
floor until he reached the ascent to the gorge, where
suddenly he came to
a stop. Shaking his head, he whinnied
repeatedly, his eyes
never leaving the boy.

THE ISLAND STALLION
And as Steve walked forward to meet him, the brightness
left the boy's eyes for a fraction of a second,
to be replaced
by soberness.
Never has Flame come to me while I have been near
the gorge,
he
thought.
Why? Is it because he's afraid to leave?
Steve paused
in his thinking, his face troubled.
No, it isn't that,
he thought.
It hasn't anything to do with it. I won't think that
way.
Then he had reached the stallion, and there was room
only for affection in his eyes. He burrowed his hands
in the
fiery mane as he talked to his horse.
After several minutes, Flame lowered his head to the
grass and Steve slid his hand over the
sleek back. For a while
he studied the wounds, all of them nearly healed
except for
the one on the stallion's chest. But there was no sign
of
infection and in just a few days it too would be well
healed.
Moving to one side of Flame, Steve raised both
hands to
the stallion's back. The boy stood there quietly
for a few moments before leaning more heavily upon the
horse.
Finally most of his weight rested upon the stallion.
"Steady, Flame," Steve heard himself say.
Flame raised his head, turning to the boy before going
back to his grazing once more.
Steve's hands moved over the stallion's back
again; his fingers were nervous and uncertain now that the moment
was near. Flame stomped the ground with his hind leg
to
rid himself of flies.
I can't very well get on his back,
Steve thought.
He's much too
high for me. But I could mount him from that
rock over there. He'd
follow me over there.
The stallion's small ears pricked forward as
Steve moved

WINGED HOOFS
slowly over to the rock. Without hesitation, the horse
followed the boy.
The rock was three feet high and flat on top.
Steve stood
up on it. It was as good as anything he could want as
a
springboard from which to mount Flame. He was aware of
that, and yet still he hesitated, his left hand upon the
red
mane.
Finally he raised his other hand to the stallion's
back. Half his weight now rested upon Flame.
There was a moment when Flame turned to him, his eyes
wide with
wonder. Steve talked to him, and the stallion went
back to
his
grazing
again.
He's got complete confidence in you, Steve told
himself.
He knows you wouldn't hurt him. Lean more upon him,
then move over onto his back. Don't jump,
though. The
slower and easier you do it, the better.
Steve knew there was no turning back now. He was
going
to ride his horse!
Gradually the bulk of his weight fell upon Flame
until
only the balls of his feet were resting on the rock.
One swing will do it now, he told himself. One easy
swing. Keep hold of the mane in case he bolts.
Remember,
you don't have any bridle or saddle. You've got
only your
voice. Keep talking to him every second. You have to
...
But he had already swung one leg from the rock and it
was closely followed by the other as, with his hands resting
upon Flame, he bore down on the stallion with
all his
weight.
Flame's head came up quickly, but for a
fraction of a second he didn't move. And just then
Steve pressed his knees against him and wrapped his
fingers in the long
mane. All the while he continued talking to his
horse.
He felt Flame's muscles grow taut beneath his
knees. He talked faster, desperately trying
to keep his voice from wavering. Flame crabstepped,
forgetting his grazing. Then the tautness left his
muscles and suddenly he bolted.
Steve, his face close to Flame's neck, could
use only his voice in an effort to slow the
ever-lengthening, ever-faster strides of the stallion. But
all he heard himself saying was, "Flame!
Flame!" The wind tore the words from his mouth.
For some time the stallion ran with his ears flat against
his head, yet there was no plunging to his gait, no
attempt to unseat his rider.
Leaning forward, Steve pressed his mouth close to the
stallion, "It's me!" he cried. "Flame!
Flame!" Repeatedly he
shouted the horse's name into the whipping wind.
The stallion's ears pitched forward, and between them
Steve could see the stream cutting across the valley.
When Flame came to it he swerved
sharply, and Steve moved his
body with him. For the first time he felt a part of his
horse!
It had come to him with the suddenness of the stallion's
shifting gait as he had turned across the valley.
Now there was nothing fearful about the ever-lengthening
strides or the wind that tore at his tear-filled
eyes. Leaning forward, Steve moved with his horse,
glorying in the surge of powerful muscles beneath his
legs. No longer did he feel that the stallion was
separate from him, that he was riding Flame. It was
entirely different now. It was as though he and the
horse were one. He was Flame! He thought the
same, felt the same! They were running because they
loved to run, because this was the way it was meant to be!
As they turned from the stream, heading down the valley

WINGED HOOFS
once more, Steve heard himself clucking to his
horse. Clucking to the rhythmic beat of thunderous
hoofs upon soft turf and thinking that all this was far beyond
his wildest dreams. For this wasn't riding but being a
part of a
giant stallion who was his horse, his very own! It was
flying
without wings! It was wonderfully effortless and easy.
He belonged there on Flame's back.
He let the stallion run, his tight fingers about the
mane long since relaxed, as was his body. He
continued clucking softly, his head close to the sleek
neck. And beneath his knees he felt the restrained
power within Flame and knew the stallion was running
at only a fraction of his utmost
speed.
Flame galloped with his ears pricked forward;
occasionally one or both cocked back as Steve
called to him. Finally he
slowed to a long, easy lope.
They had approached the ascent to the gorge when
Flame
swerved quickly away from it, snorting at the same
time; then he turned toward the center of the valley,
slowing to a canter until he was crabstepping on
prancing hoofs.
When Flame came to a stop, Steve sat still for a
moment,
while the stallion stretched his long neck down
to graze. Then Steve slid off, but his hands still
rested upon Flame. He knew that now he could never
part with his horse.
Nothing mattered now but Flame. Steve faced
everything
now. There was no sense in kidding himself any longer,
he felt. He had been reluctant to talk
to Pitch about Flame's return to his band because he
knew full well that Flame
wasn't
going back! He had known if for many days-ever since
the stallion had first turned away from the gorge
leading to Blue Valley. Flame didn't want
to go back. The
Piebald had left his mark not only on
Flame's flesh, but deep in his very heart. And it was
Flame's fear of the Piebald, together with his
loneliness, that had made it easier for Steve to win the
stallion's love.
Knowing all this, Steve had looked upon the Piebald
with new eyes, aware of the viciousness, the
reptilian cunning of the new leader. And he
realized full well that if Flame had even the
slightest fear of the Piebald, he would
be killed in battle.
But he won't have to fight him now,
Steve thought, as he
stood beside his horse. 7
won't have him killed. He means more
to me than anything else. I don't care about the
band. Let the
Piebald lead them. Let it be the end of this breed,
as long as I have
Flame. I'll take him away. I'll take
him home. . . .
Steve's Decision

That evening, as blue shadows blanketed the valley
floor
below, Pitch listened to Steve tell of his desire
to take Flame
away from the island. His face grave, Pitch said
nothing until the boy had finished.
After a moment of silence, he said slowly, choosing his
words with great care, "You haven't thought this out,
Steve. You don't realize the consequences of what
you're planning to do. Even if you are successful in
getting Flame off the island, what will you do with him-a
wild stallion? And there's Tom. What do you think
his reaction will be? What of all this?" Pitch
gestured toward the towering walls whose summits
seemed to reach the darkening sky. "It could possibly
be the end of this lost world, you know-a world only
the two of us know." Then he looked straight at
Steve, his words clipped and his eyes unwavering as
he asked, almost angrily, "And what about your band,
Steve?
What about all your talk of maintaining this perfect
breed of horse? It wasn't long ago that you said
you'd do
anything
to keep the band as it is.
You
were going to find some way to
kill
the Piebald. Remember?"
Steve's tanned face flushed as he turned from
Pitch's
accusing gaze to look at the dark figures of the
horses as they
moved quietly in the dusk.
"I didn't mean to be unkind," Pitch said
quickly. "I'm sorry, Steve. It's just that I'm
finding it difficult to keep pace with your reasoning.
Why are you so certain that
Flame won't return to his band? Is"...there
actually a reason or
is it your riding him that has brought about this
sudden
decision to take him away?"
Pitch waited for Steve's reply, but it was several
moments
before the boy said in a very low voice, "He's
afraid."
Pitch leaned forward, "I didn't hear you,
Steve."
Steve turned to his friend. The words came hard, but
he repeated them. "He's afraid.
..."
"Afraid? Afraid of what?"
"Of
...
of the Piebald." Steve's voice wavered, for
Flame's fear of the black-and-white stallion was
something
he had wanted to keep to himself. But there was no
alternative now; he had to tell Pitch everything.
"He's not coming back, Pitch. He'll never
return to his band while the Piebald is there.
He won't go near the gorge leading back to Blue
Valley. I've known it for a long time."
Pitch remained silent, but his gaze swept to the band

to the Piebald in the valley below.
"I can't leave him alone, Pitch." Steve's
words came
faster now. "What good would come of it? He'd stay in
the
smaller valley until he died, and he's not
meant to be an
outcast like that. He needs affection. He's my
horse, and I
want him."
"So much that you don't care what happens to the band,"
Pitch said, without turning to the boy.
"That's unfair, Pitch," Steve said angrily.
"I can't do
anything about them. There's nothing you or I can do about
the Piebald."
"No, I guess there isn't," Pitch admitted.
"But there are
other things to be considered, Steve. What of Tom's
reaction to such a horse as Flame coming from this island?
What do you think he'll do?"
Steve's eyes met Pitch's as he said
defiantly, "He can't
take him from me. He said I could have any horse
I wanted
if I stayed here two weeks. You heard him,
Pitch."
"Yes, I know," Pitch replied. "And he
won't go back on
his word; I know him well enough for that." He paused
before adding, "But I wasn't thinking of his taking
Flame
away from you, Steve. I was wondering what he'd do
about this island, once he's seen Flame. What he
and others would
do, I mean."
"I'll tell him I found Flame on the plain
outside," Steve
returned grudgingly. "I won't tell him any
more than
that."
"I don't think he'll believe you," Pitch said
gravely.
"Even if he doesn't, he'll never find his way
into Blue
Valley," Steve returned with a confidence he
didn't entirely
feel.
"Perhaps not, Steve. Still
..."
Pitch paused and his gaze
left the boy as he added, "You see, I'm being
selfish, too.
You want your horse, and I want everything I can
possibly
find that was left behind by the Conquistadores.
Naturally

THE ISLAND STALLION
I'd like to keep this world to ourselves."
"But I would, too, Pitch," Steve said quickly.
"We'll
just have to take a chance that no one else will find it."
He
stopped, then asked slowly, "Have you thought of what
Tom's reaction will be to the things
you're
bringing
back-the pistol, the spurs and all that other stuff?
What will you tell him when he asks where you found them,
Pitch?"
The man dropped his eyes as he admitted,
"I'll tell him I
found them on the sandspit outside."
"But I don't think he'll believe
you,
either," Steve said
slowly.
They were silent for a long while as dusk slowly
gave way
to night and stars needled their way through the ever-darkening
sky to hang like a jeweled crown above the valley.
It was a wondrous view that lay before them, this world of
beauty and intrigue that had been untouched for
hundreds of years. Now it was theirs alone. But each
asked
himself, for how long will it be only ours?
Finally Pitch said, "I still think you should leave
Flame here, Steve. What will you do with him, if you
get him to
Antago?"
"I'll take him home with me," Steve said
slowly.
"It'll cost money. More than you have."
"I'll cable my father when we go back to Antago
for the
barge," Steve said, but his voice was hesitant,
unsure.
"How do you think he and your mother are going to take
it-your asking for money to bring home a
horse?"
"It'll be all right. I'm sure it will. Dad will
understand,"
Steve replied quickly.
But would it be all right, Steve wondered. Would they
send him the money? Would they understand?
"I have to take him home," Steve told Pitch.
"I couldn't leave him on Antago-with Tom."
"No," Pitch agreed. "You couldn't do that and still
keep
your horse." Rising to his feet, he added, "Then
maybe
you'd better not think too much about taking Flame off
this
island before you learn what your folks have to say.
Maybe
we'd better let it go at that for the time being."
"I'm sure they'll understand. I have some money
saved. It
shouldn't cost too much." Steve paused, then asked,
"Can we look for the way back to the dory tonight,
Pitch?"
Nodding, Pitch turned to him. "Yes, we can do that,
Steve. I can show you a tunnel that might be it-at
least, it
seems to be going in the right direction."
"And we'll keep looking every evening until we find
it,
won't we, Pitch? I'll leave Flame a few
hours early each day,
so I'll have more time to look for it with you. Is that all
right, Pitch?" Steve asked anxiously.
"Yes, Steve," Pitch replied. "That's all
right."
Three nights went by, with Steve following Pitch
through the tunnels for many hours, marveling at his
friend's newly acquired knowledge of this underground
world. Pitch walked quickly in the light from his burning
torch, stopping only to point out chambers he had
found in
previous days. Always upon the walls Steve would
see his
friend's chalked lines, and when they came to intersections
there would be figures and letters of which only Pitch
knew
the meaning. But when Pitch came upon tunnels he
had not
been through before, his pace would slacken, and after a few
minutes it would be he who decided whether or not they
should continue onward.
Confidently Steve placed himself in Pitch's hands,
knowing there were few tunnels left through which Pitch had
not already walked and that one night soon they would find
their way back. Each night, too, even as he
followed doggedly at Pitch's heels, he would
think of what it would be like to have Flame at home where
he could be with him always. And in his mind he framed the
cable he planned to send to his father, for his father would
understand while his mother might not. He would wire,
"PLEASE CABLE ME . . ."
How much money will I need to ship Flame home?
he
wondered. stHis
have to find out before I send my cable. If it's only
one hundred dollars I have that much saved up. In that
case, I'll
say,
"PLEASE SEND ME MY ONE HUNDRED
DOLLARS. URGENT. I HAVE FOUND MY
STALLION."
No, Perhaps
stallion
isn't the best word to use. It might frighten them.
I'd better make it
horse. still"
say,
"PLEASE
SEND ME MY ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS.
URGENT. I HAVE FOUND MY HORSE."
still doesn't sound right,
he thought.
They'll never
understand how important it is to me from that. I'm
sure it would be much better if I put it in a letter.
I could really tell them how I
feel about Flame in a letter. I'll write
to Dad. He should understand. He knows how I feel
about horses better than Mom
does.
It was early the fourth evening when their burning torch
disclosed the fork in the tunnel ahead. Steve saw
Pitch come
to an abrupt stop, then move close to the right
wall.
And in the light each saw it-a large arrow, drawn
by them days, or was it weeks, ago?
Simultaneously they both cried out, but then afterward
they stood quietly before it, neither saying a word.

STEVE'S DECISION
For both knew they could leave now, anytime they
pleased. And they could return to Blue Valley just
as easily.
Also, they could open the upper doors of the sea entrance
for
their launch and carry away what they both wanted so
desperately. But what would be the outcome? Would it
mean that this world would be theirs no longer? Would
Tom and others search for the entrance to Blue Valley
until
they found
it?
As they linked arms they smiled, each wondering what
the other was thinking.
Last Day

Steve sat quietly on Flame's back, his
hands softly stroking
the sleek neck. He had been astride his horse
since his
arrival in the valley at dawn. Throughout the day he
had sat
there, longer than ever before. For this day was different from
any of the others-this was his fourteenth day on the
island, and tomorrow morning he and Pitch would
return to
Antago.
"But I'll be back in a few days," he told
Flame. "I'll be back to get you, and then we'll
never be separated again."
"We'll never be separated again."
Would it be like that? he asked himself over and over again.
Would his mother and father understand his love for Flame as he
thought they would? Would Tom keep his word to let him have
any horse on Azul Island once he set
eyes on Flame? And if he did, would Tom
believe him when he told him that he had found
Flame on the plain?
LAST DAY

Steve's eyes left his horse for the western walls
that separated them from the sea.
No,
he thought,
he won't believe
me-that much
still
know. How could he possibly? He'll know we've
found something, and he'll look for it himself. But he
won't find the way. He'll never find the
right tunnel or the sea
entrance.
Steve's hands fell about the stallion's neck as
he placed his
face close to his horse.
Raising his head, Flame cocked his ears, moved
forward a
few strides and stopped to graze once more.
Steve let him graze only a short while longer
before leaning forward and saying, "Let's go, Flame."
He clucked softly in the stallion's ear and
Flame's head came up with a start; then he moved
forward on dancing hoofs as Steve squeezed his
legs slightly about him.
Steve buried his head in the stallion's flowing
mane as Flame broke into his long, loping
canter. Then the horse's strides quickened until
he was in full gallop. Steve's knees pressed
close to the glistening red body as he felt the
surge of giant muscles. He clung like a
burr to the stallion's back while Flame swept
about the edge of the valley floor, and always Steve's
soft clucking was an accompaniment to the beat of pounding
hoofs.
Flame circled the valley many times; then
Steve ceased his clucking and called upon the stallion
to stop. Flame responded slowly, his strides
gradually growing shorter until he was in his loping
canter. When he came to a halt, Steve slid
off. Already the sun was sinking behind the western wall.
It was time to go back to Pitch.
He turned to Flame, pressing his head close to the
soft
muzzle.
"I won't be around tomorrow," he whispered, "nor the
next day-or the few that follow. But I won't be
long, Flame, and when I do come back it'll be
to take you away with me. Then we'll be together always."
Steve stayed with his horse for a while longer before
leaving him. As he walked up the slope leading to the
gorge, he heard the sound of Flame's hoofs
following him. When he turned around, after he had
gone some distance,
Flame was close behind.
Steve went to his horse again, his face troubled.
This, he
knew, was the nearest Flame had ever been to the
gorge
leading back to Blue Valley. Did it mean that
Flame wasn't
as afraid of the Piebald as he believed? Would
Flame one
day go back to Blue Valley?
Steve stood close beside his horse, rubbing his hand
across the silken coat. When he turned away again
he heard
the sound of Flame's hoofs behind him once more. He
was almost at the gorge when the hoofbeats stopped.
Turning around, Steve saw his horse standing still,
watching him with large, curious eyes. The stallion
shook his fiery head
and whinnied.
Steve called to him, but Flame remained still. After
a
while he went back to his grazing and Steve left
the valley.
All through the gorge and across the marsh, Steve
thought over and over again,
Will he return to his band after
all? Was I wrong in thinking he'd live alone,
an outcast, rather
than go back and face the Piebald? But he's not
going to live alone.
I want him.
I'm
going to take him away. I don't want him
to fight
the Piebald!
As the boy reached the top of the hollow leading from the
marsh, he looked for the black-and-white stallion.
The
Piebald was grazing with his band in the center of Blue
Valley. Steve watched for several moments before
ducking
below the tall cane and moving up the valley.
And always, as he walked along, the Piebald was there
before him, as vivid as though Steve were actually
looking
at him. He saw the close-set eyes, one
blue, the other white.
He saw the hatred, the viciousness gleaming in them.
The long mulelike ears were pulled back flat
against the heavy head as the stallion bared his teeth and
shook his massive
body.
Then, in his mind, Steve saw the Piebald go
forward to meet Flame, as he had done that first day.
Heavily he ran,
the earth shaking beneath his thunderous hoofs. And during
the next few moments, Steve relived every
blow of
pounding hoofs on flesh, every second of raking, tearing
teeth during the terrible fight.
He came to an abrupt stop, the palms of his hands
wet and a feverish light in his eyes. "Stop thinking
of the Piebald!" he said aloud. "Flame isn't
coming back. There
will be no fight. I'll have him away from here soon.
I'll have
him for my own."
But when Steve walked forward again, he asked himself,
But what if he does come back? What if he
fights the Piebald while you're away? What if
he's killed? Flame is smarter and faster, but if
he's just a little afraid he'll be
killed by the Piebald. The Piebald is no
blundering bruiser,
but crafty and cunning, and he knows how to use his
weight
to his advantage.
"I've got to get Flame away soon," Steve
muttered. "I won't have him killed
now."
Steve's pace increased until he was running, his
body
crouched low and hidden from the Piebald by the tall
cane. Ahead, high on the cliff, Pitch would be
waiting, and very early tomorrow morning they'd start for
Antago. Every
moment, every day counted now, if he was to save his
horse
from what he felt would be certain death beneath the hoofs
of the Piebald.
The following morning it was still dark when they
finished their breakfast. Steve packed hurriedly,
then turned
to find Pitch looking out upon the valley, his pack
untouched. The gray of dawn began to appear in the
sky to the east. Below, the band was already grazing.
"Let's hurry, Pitch," Steve said
impatiently.
But it was another moment before Pitch gave his
attention to his pack. "Have you ever seen anything like
it, Steve?" he asked. "Where else on earth could
anyone find the magnificent beauty, the solitude
and peace we have
here?"
Steve didn't reply, for he was watching the
Piebald move
from his band to the pool directly below. And when
he again turned to Pitch, he found that his friend still
hadn't packed; he was gazing at the pistol, the
sextant, the spurs and the few other things he had
found, which were all neatly placed in a small pile
beside his pack.
"I'd better put them in first, hadn't I?"
Pitch asked. "I
want to pack them in the bottom, so no one will see
them. I
may have to leave some of my equipment behind, unless you
have room for it in your pack."
"I can take a little," Steve replied quickly.
"I've some
room."
Pitch looked out at the valley again.
Steve said once more, "Let's go, Pitch.
It'll
be light in a
few minutes." He bent down to pick up
Pitch's equipment, but momentarily his gaze too
swept down the valley.
Yes,
he thought,
soon it will be light, and it will be the first morning I
haven't been with Flame since I found
him. I wonder if he'll miss
me. I wonder what he'll do. But the sooner I
get Pitch out of here,
the sooner I'll be back.
Pitch bent down beside him, but he only handled one
of the spurs, without placing it in his pack. "Steve,"
he said slowly, "do you think we're doing the right
thing?"
Steve looked at him questioningly.
"I mean," Pitch began, then he paused.
"Maybe I should
leave all this here. Wouldn't it be better not to take
chances
on having anyone learn about Blue Valley?
It's rather
wonderful having a world all our own, Steve. I
...
I guess
I've changed in the past few days. What I mean
to say is I'd
rather leave everything here just as we found it
...
and then come back to it," he added, his gaze dropping.
"No
one will ever know about Blue Valley that way
and we can
come back to it every summer-when you're able to be here, I
mean. We won't arouse anyone's curiosity.
We'll just be camping, Steve. No one will ever know
what we've
found."
Steve had listened in silence, knowing what it meant for
Pitch to give up his treasures for something he
valued even more. When Pitch had finished, Steve
found that he
couldn't meet his friend's eyes, and he asked himself,
Would you give up Flame to keep this world for yourself-
for yourself and Pitch? And he thought selfishly,
No, I
couldn't do that. For much as I love this valley, 1
love Flame even
more. And if I want him to be safe, I must take
him away from
here-away from the Piebald.
"What do you think, Steve?" Pitch was asking again.
"Should I leave everything here? Do you think it best,
too?"
"No, Pitch," Steve replied slowly, "I
think you'd better take it with you." He paused.
"I'm going to take Flame away from here,
you know. And when Tom sees him-was Steve left the
sentence unfinished. When he looked up, Pitch's
eyes were upon him. And he realized from what he saw
in them that Pitch doubted he would be able to take
Flame away, doubted his parents would ever send him
the money to get Flame home. But he doesn't
know them,
Steve thought. He doesn't really know them.
The boy stood up and walked over to his pack,
while Pitch stayed behind, still fondling the heavy iron
spur.
After a while Steve heard Pitch say, "I'm
going to leave them behind, Steve. I've decided for
myself. I've made up my mind." And when the boy
turned to him, he saw that Pitch's eyes were bright and
that his face had lost the tautness of the past few days.
Steve suddenly felt very old and very tired.
Pitch began packing his equipment, paying no
further attention to his newly acquired
possessions until he had finished. Then he said,
"I want to hide them, Steve. I'll only be a
few minutes."
Steve nodded, and Pitch picked up his treasures
one by one. When he started for the cave behind them, Steve
looked anxiously at the eastern sky. The
gray had given way
to the golden light of the sun.
I'm always with Flame by this time,
he thought.
I'd be
standing close to him, maybe even riding him by now. I
know he's
looking for me, wondering where I am. He'll miss
me. I'm sure he'll
miss me. But it won't be long before I'll be
back, and he'll wait for
me. I'm sure he will.
LAST DAY

Pitch came out of the cave just as the sun appeared
above
the eastern walls and the valley gleamed brightly as the
grass, heavy with dew, picked up the sun's
rays. The band was grazing a short distance from the
pool, with only the
young, spindle-legged foals running about, slipping as
they
turned too sharply on their uncertain legs. The
Piebald grazed alone with only an occasional
glance at his band.
Confident and defiant, he stood there with nothing
to fear.
"The sun's up," Steve said as Pitch reached for his
pack.
Pitch fell in behind Steve as they made their way
up the trail. "It makes little difference to us in the
tunnels," he
remarked.
"But we want to get back to Antago before dark,"
Steve
replied.
"We'll make it with hours to spare," Pitch
returned.
They had reached the black hole from which the stream
poured when Pitch called out to Steve to stop for a
moment.
"One last look, Steve," he said.
"But Pitch-was Steve began impatiently.
"We'll be
coming back in a few days."
"I know, Steve. But just in case we don't. Just
in case
..."
Pitch left the sentence unfinished, but Steve knew
what he meant.
Together they watched the water plummet down to the pool
below; then Pitch looked about at Blue Valley,
but
Steve turned his eyes toward the marsh, where just beyond,
he knew, Flame was waiting for him. The vapors
rising
from the hollow were becoming heavier with the heat of the sun's
first rays.
"Soon I'll be back, Flame," Steve
muttered. "Very soon.
Wait for me."
"What'd you say, Steve?" Pitch asked.
"Nothing, Pitch. We'd better get going."
"Yes, I guess we should. All right, Steve."
But the boy, his eyes still fixed on the hollow,
didn't
move.
"I'm ready," Pitch said. "I said I'm ready,
Steve," he
repeated. He was about to give the boy a light push
when he
noticed Steve's blood-drained face and wide,
staring eyes.
Glancing quickly at the hollow, he too saw the
weird,
ghostly sight before them.
The stallion stood just below the top of the hollow, his
giant body enshrouded by clinging, smokelike mist;
then
he moved forward a few strides, and the vapor gave
way to the bright sun that turned his red coat into living,
breathing fire.
Flame had returned to Blue Valley!
Raging Demons!

For many minutes the red stallion stood there. His
head was
raised high but he made no move or sound.
Trembling, Steve awaited his shrill clarion
call of
challenge but none came, and silence prevailed
throughout
the valley. Steve turned quickly to the Piebald,
who still
grazed, unmindful of the red stallion's presence, for
he was
upwind.
Steve's gaze swept back to Flame. More
minutes passed,
yet Flame made no move toward the
Piebald. But Steve
could see his head begin to turn back and forth as though
he
were looking for something.
Pitch said, "He's after you, Steve. He's not after
the
Piebald."
Yes!
Steve thought.
Yes, that's it! He's looking for
me!
The boy's heart beat faster, and the blood surged
through him, flooding his pale face. Quickly he
turned, making his
way back down the trail, and it wasn't until
he had reached
their old campsite that he felt Pitch's hand upon
his arm.
Angrily he pulled away; Pitch's grip
loosened, then tightened again and held. Furiously
Steve turned upon him,
the white heat of anger making his words indistinct.
"You young stupid fool, Steve!" Pitch shouted.
"Where do you think you're going? You'll be killed if
you go down there! The Piebald-there'll be a
fight!"
Steve twisted his arm free of Pitch's grip and
ran
headlong down the trail. Halfway to the valley
floor, he flung his pack off his back without
stopping. Behind him, Pitch followed crying,
"Steve! You fool! You fool!"
Blindly, the boy turned from the trail as he reached the
floor of the canyon, and ran across the grass. He
didn't head
for the cane, but ran swiftly across the floor in a
straight line, heading directly for his horse.
A short distance away from him, mares squealed in
fright
as they saw him running past; foals kept close
to their mothers; and a few hundred yards away from them, the
Piebald jerked his head up, snorted and plunged
forward, his ears pinned back, his eyes wild and
frightening.
Unmindful of his danger, Steve still ran forward.
He saw nothing but the route ahead that would take him
to Flame, heard nothing but the sound of his own running
feet.
Then Pitch's scream shattered the boy's frenzied
mind and stilled his heart. Turning, he
saw Pitch close behind him, but Pitch was standing still,
frozen in his tracks, his face turned away. And
it was then that Steve heard for the first time the thunderous
hoofs that shook the very ground beneath him. Steve's face
paled as he saw the Piebald coming at them.
Wildly, Steve ran to Pitch. "The pool!" he

RAGING DEMONS!
shouted. "It's our only chance!" And before the words had
left his mouth, he had Pitch by the arm and was pulling
him toward the water.
They took one step for every stride of the Piebald's.
The
pool was twenty-five yards away, and twice that
distance behind them was the plunging black-and-white
stallion, snorting now as he neared them.
Pitch's running steps faltered and his breath came
heavily. Steve ran beside him, his head
half-turned to the
onrushing stallion. He saw the bared teeth, the
beady eyes,
and knew the savage brute meant to run them down.
Ten yards more to the pool, only a second more, but it
was too late, for the Piebald was upon them! Steve
shoved
Pitch toward the pool and flung himself to the side.
The stallion turned with him, his shoulder striking the
boy's arm and twirling him around. As Steve hit the
ground, he
saw Pitch dive headlong into the pool. The
Piebald slid on his haunches as he tried
to stop. Frantically, Steve climbed
to his feet, but even before he was fully up he was
taking the
fast, pounding steps of a sprinter just off his mark. He
was
five yards from the pool when the Piebald turned
upon him again. But Steve flew over the ground and
plunged into the
water.
When he came to the surface, he heard Flame's
wild clarion call. High-pitched, shrill and
piercing, it claimed the valley as its own. And when
it died away, the valley echoed to the repeated
neighs of the mares as they rapidly
formed their tight circle, with hindquarters facing
outward
and foals secure in the center of the ring.
Through the cane rushed the giant red stallion, the
tall stalks bending and breaking beneath his
weight. Without

THE ISLAND STALLION
stopping, he entered the arena, running up the valley
floor
until he was within a few hundred yards of the
Piebald, who
had turned to meet him. Flame stopped only long
enough to cry his shattering challenge again, then came
onward, carrying the fight to the Piebald.
The black-and-white stallion plunged forward, his
eyes livid with hate as the tall, long-limbed red
stallion galloped to meet him and the valley
resounded to their pounding
hoofs of death.
Steve and Pitch had pulled themselves up to the bank
of the pool. They said nothing, their eyes upon the
stallions.
Steve's shirt was torn where the Piebald had
struck him, and
his arm hung limp at his side, but he felt no
pain.
Any second now the bodies of the two horses would
clash,
for Flame was moving in faster and faster. The
thought frightened Steve, for he well remembered the red
stallion's caution in the first fight, when he had
let the Piebald carry the fight to him, avoiding the
heavily plunging black-and-white stallion with the
skill and agility of a trained fighter.
But he's not afraid,
Steve told himself.
He's not afraid!
And
then he said aloud, "Pitch, he's got to win.
He's just got
to!"
Pitch muttered, "You did it. He wouldn't have come
on
if he hadn't seen you."
But Pitch's words were lost in the heavy, terrible
clashing
of bodies as the two stallions met with such fury
as could
only be kindled by two wild, savage animals
whose only intent is to kill.
They had met head on, neither seeking to avoid the
other, and each consumed with an unearthly hatred that
turned them into raging beasts, horrible to see.
RAGING DEMONSFF201
Seemingly unmindful of the Piebald's superior
weight, Flame rose with the black-and-white
stallion after the first resounding clash that had locked
them together. His teeth tore at the neck of the
Piebald, seeking a hold which once secured would
never be released. Screaming in rage, the Piebald
drove his heavy hoofs into Flame's shoulders, and the
red stallion reeled back from the force of the blows.
Plunging forward, the Piebald sought to drive
Flame to the ground. But the red stallion twirled and
in an instant had
raised his long hindquarters, his hoofs battering his
opponent's face. Staggering, the Piebald took
the blows and rose to meet Flame as the red
stallion circled and moved in on him again. They were
locked together once more, raking teeth their only
weapons, and the screams of both reached a new and
terrible pitch.
Each lunged for the other's neck. But always there would be
a twisting, a turning of bodies that avoided death
by
fractions of inches. More and more the Piebald sought
to use
his brute weight by throwing himself repeatedly on the red
stallion. But he was fearful of Flame's
teeth, which moved with the speed of a striking snake.
"Why doesn't Flame keep away from him? Why
doesn't he?" Steve babbled.
"He knows what he's doing," Pitch said quickly.
But as the fighting at close quarters continued with neither
giving way, the Piebald's superior weight
began to
tell on Flame. His movements were slower and
several times
the Piebald's raking teeth had almost secured their
hold on
Flame's neck before the red stallion was able to twist
away.
The Piebald fought with renewed energy as he hurled
his thick body again and again at his opponent. Crazed
eyes of

THE ISLAND STALLION
blue and white were wild, now that the moment of
triumph
was near.
Forelegs wrapped about each other's neck, they
screamed
and bit and tore at ravaged flesh, their snapping
teeth like
rapiers in the hands of expert swordsmen-striking,
parrying, never ending.
Demons rather than horses, their bodies wet with
sweat and blood, they stood on hind legs for many
minutes,
savaging each other mercilessly. Then slowly, ever so
slowly, it was the red stallion who gave ground.
Screaming
and following up his advantage, the Piebald
hurled his
massive body more heavily upon Flame until the
red
stallion, squealing in pain, wrenched himself clear of the
Piebald.
In the few seconds that he twirled away, Steve
thought it
was over and that Flame's only chance for his life was
to
run-to run as he had done before. And Steve heard
himself
screaming to his horse. "Run! Run!"
The red stallion pivoted around the Piebald as the
black-and-white stallion plunged at him and
missed. Again
Flame had the opportunity to flee, and for a
second he stood
still, breathing heavily.
"Go, Flame! Go!" Steve shouted at the top of
his voice.
But his words fell away beneath the sound of the wrenching
and cracking of bodies as Flame rose to meet the
Piebald's return rush.
Nevertheless, Flame's tactics had changed, and it
was as
though pain and the last few agonizing minutes when he
had tasted defeat had given rise to intelligence
over frenzied
fury. Now he moved in quickly, striking hard, but
never
staying long before moving away again on lightning hoofs.

RAGING DEMONS!
He was patient, waiting until he was ready before
going forward with bared teeth and battering forefeet. And
when the Piebald charged, Flame avoided him on
winged feet, moving with swiftness and agility.
Sometimes he would turn, and his hind legs would catch
the Piebald with tremendous power. For many minutes
Flame whirled, circled and reared, pummeling with
slashing hoofs, tearing with raking, ripping
teeth. And always he would leap clear again before the
Piebald could hold him close.
Finally the Piebald, too, changed his tactics.
No longer did he rely upon weight alone. No
longer did he charge ruthlessly, blindly, to be cut
to ribbons by his agile opponent. He too
awaited openings, all the while maneuvering his
burly body into a position where he could fight the red
stallion once more at close quarters, where his
weight would give him an advantage. His small
eyes gleamed red as persistently but cautiously he
forced the fight, rearing high to catch and hold his
elusive enemy.
The hoofs of both thrashed the air, sometimes finding their
mark and striking solidly upon hard flesh.
Snorting, squealing, each waited for the opening that would
mean destruction for the other.
Flanks heaved and their breathing became heavier, but still
the furious tempo of the fight went on. Now, more
than ever before, each was wary of the other. This fight had
lasted too long. Both were tired; each knew his
chance
would come soon.
Furiously the Piebald charged. Flame moved
away a fraction of a second too late,
and he felt the weight of the
Piebald upon his shoulders. He swerved, trying
to get clear,
then stumbled and fell to the ground. Frantically he

THE ISLAND STALLION
regained his feet, turning to face the Piebald,
who reared high to crush him. Flame rose to meet
him. As their bodies met, the Piebald tried
to lock the red stallion close to him. But this time
Flame did not attempt to leap clear again; instead,
he drove his battering forefeet hard into the
Piebald, staying close and forcing the fight.
The Piebald tried to recover his balance, but the red
stallion continued pounding and his teeth sank into the
thick neck, secured their hold
and held!
Screaming in pain, the black-and-white stallion
went down, and only when he
was flat on the ground did Flame release his death
grip; then
he rose above his opponent and came down, driving
his pounding forefeet into the still form that lay beneath him.
When it was over, he raised his wet, blood-soaked
head,
and the valley was filled with his shattering call of
triumph;
then he turned to his band.
Their faces white, Steve and Pitch rose
uncertainly to their feet. And it was only Pitch who
found words to describe his emotions. "Horrible . .
. horrible," he said
shakingly.
Steve stood there, his glazed eyes unseeing. Then,
slowly, life came back to his numbed body and
he thought,
It's over . , . over, over. And never do I
want to see another fight
like it.
For several minutes they stood in silence, their eyes
following the red stallion as he circled his band.
He's alive,
Steve thought.
He's killed the Piebald.
And then Pitch's hand was upon his arm, pulling aside
the torn shirt, probing, but Steve felt nothing.
Pitch said quickly, "It's broken. I've got
to get you out of
RAGING DEMONS!
here." His arm went around the boy's waist. "You're
up to it, aren't you, Steve? It'll be hard, but
we've got to get you to a doctor."
Listlessly, Steve nodded and walked beside Pitch to the
trail. They had gone only a short way when
Steve stopped
and said, "But Flame's hurt. He needs care."
"You do, too," Pitch said patiently. "He can
take care of
himself. He always has."
"Yes," Steve repeated slowly, "he always
has."
The mares had broken their ring and foals ran
excitedly
about, neighing to their mothers. Arrogantly Flame
watched them as he trotted about with them. It was only
when Steve and Pitch neared the trail that he turned
to them. His small head was craned high as he whistled
to
Steve; then he came toward him in his long, loping
canter.
He stopped a few yards away and Steve went
to him.
Pitch stayed behind, watching as Steye flung his arm
about the ravaged neck. Then he saw the
boy's gaze move
critically over the torn flesh until once more he
pressed his
head close to Flame's soft muzzle.
They stayed that way for several minutes before Steve
stepped back and the red stallion whirled and ran
back to
his band.
When Steve returned to Pitch, he said only,
"He'll be all
right, I guess."
They walked up the rocky trail until they had
reached the
tunnel, then they both turned back to look at the
band.
Flame was trotting about, his long mane and tail
flowing.
Once he came to a stop, and gazed upward at the
ledge upon
which Steve stood. His whistle filled the valley before
he
turned away, his eyes once more on his band.
Steve realized then that his horse belonged there; that
never, never could he take him away now.
Without a word or another backward glance,
he followed
Pitch into the tunnel.
Their Lost World

They left the quiet of the doctor's office for the
noise and
busy traffic of Chestertown, Antago. As they
stood upon the
stone steps, Pitch said softly, "It's like being
awakened
from a long dream, Steve." His gaze left the
crowded street,
where automobiles and people were mixed in a crazy
tangle,
and fixed itself on the cast around the boy's arm.
Pitch's gaze was so intent that Steve asked,
"What's the
matter, Pitch?"
The man's eyes never left the cast as he said,
"If it wasn't
for your arm, I'd probably think it had all been
a dream."
Their eyes met and Steve couldn't help thinking how
strange Pitch had been acting since their arrival
on Antago a
few hours ago. "But you know it wasn't a dream,
Pitch," he
said. "We know everything is back there, just the way it
was. We can go there again whenever we like, just as you said.
No one will ever know what we've found. No one."
Pitch looked down at his feet for a while, then
glanced at

THE ISLAND STALLION
the busy street again. "It's so different now," he
said. "I'd
forgotten how
...
I mean, it's just
..."
He paused,
groping for words.
"I know, Pitch," Steve said helpfully. "But it
makes
what we found all the more precious. We have a world of
our own, Pitch! Just think of it. A world of our
own!" He
stopped then, his eyes afire with the full realization that
he
and Pitch actually possessed a lost world
which now, in the clamor of Antago's busy
traffic, seemed beyond belief.
But Pitch never turned to him, nor did he say a
word. He
just stood there, his eyes darting uneasily about the
street.
Steve watched him in growing bewilderment. "Pitch,"
he finally said with effort, "what's the matter with you?
You're not the same guy-was
"You mean," Pitch interrupted, "I'm not the same
guy I
was in the valley. Maybe not, Steve. Maybe
not."
He
paused and glanced again at the people in the street. "I
guess they did it-and all this." He nodded his head
in no
particular direction. "We're part of it now. We
have
responsibilities."
"I don't get you, Pitch. What are you driving
at?"
"Back in the valley," Pitch said slowly, "I
was a boy
again. I was thrilled at finding our secret
world. I wanted
nothing more than for us to keep it to ourselves. But I'm
afraid we can't-was
"Pitch!" Steve shouted. He had his hand on his
friend's
arm. He whirled him around, forcing him to look his
way.
"You wouldn't! You can't!" His eyes were blazing in
anger.
"Steve! Steve! You've got to understand the
responsibility
we have. We've made a discovery that should be made
known to the world!"
"But, Pitch-was
They stood looking at one another, each trying
to make the other understand.
"I feel the same way you do, Steve, about having
our very
own world. Please believe me, Steve," Pitch
pleaded. "I meant every word I said on the island about
keeping it to
ourselves. But now that we're back, now that we're a
part of
civilization again, I can't help feeling that it's our
duty, our responsibility, to make known
our secret."
"And Flame?" Steve asked bitterly. "What do
you think will happen to him and his band? Have you forgotten
all about Tom, Pitch? You know as well as I do
what he'd do with those horses. And even if I could
have Flame, J wouldn't sacrifice the others
to Tom. I won't let you do it, Pitch."
Steve's voice was cold and determined. "I
don't know just how I'll stop you, but I will."
"Stop talking that way, Steve," Pitch said
angrily. "You know that I don't want the horses
to fall into Tom's hands any more than you do. All
I'm asking is that you talk this over with me,
realizing, as I do now, that we have a great
responsibility on our shoulders. Do you think it's
easy for me to give up what we've found? Don't
you realize how much I'd like
to
continue with my explorations?"
"I'm sorry, Pitch," Steve said.
"It's just that I'm older, Steve," Pitch sought
to explain, "and I do realize the importance of our
discovery."
Steve looked at him, trying to understand all that
Pitch was telling him; but it was difficult,
in view of his love for Flame and the band.
"Pitch," he said finally, "don't you think there are
many
places in this world where archaeologists and historians
are working all by themselves? Isn't it possible," he
continued,
his words coming faster now, "that there are many men like
you, who have found something of real historical value,
yet who will keep their work to themselves until they're
ready to make public what they've found?"
"I suppose so, Steve. Yes, I'm certain
there must be. I have a friend, a historian, who's
been in Tibet for a number of years on a secret
project." Pitch was looking at Steve now, and
slowly the tiny pinpoints of light were reappearing in
his eyes. "You mean-was He paused. "You think that
I-was
"I think," Steve said quickly, "that here's your chance
to work on something really important all by yourself. You
can do all the explorations you've ever wanted to do.
It's the
opportunity of a lifetime, Pitch."
Eagerly, yet a little afraid, Steve watched
Pitch's face. He
still saw the doubt and uncertainty there, the
lack of
confidence.
"You could do it, Pitch. You really could," Steve
said.
"Do you really think so, Steve? I'm pretty much
of a
greenhorn. But I've read a lot. I know a
great deal about the
Conquistadores. Still, it's such a big project-was
"No greenhorn could have done what you did in those
tunnels," Steve said sincerely.
Pitch was trying hard to stem the flood of eagerness that
he could feel surging through him. But he failed
utterly, and it was there in his eyes, shining brightly for
Steve to
see.
Pitch's words came fast now. "I'm sure I
could do a good
job of it, Steve. Really I am. I could map every
one of those
tunnels. There must be many more than we found. And
chambers as well. I could- Oh, Steve, there are
so many things I could do. Perhaps even a book. Yes,
I'd write a
211
THEIR LOST WORLD
book about
it
eventually. Why, it might even make me
famous!" He stopped, blushing and becoming
embarrassed.
"I mean that some historical society might find
some good use for it." Then he paused again, his face
a little troubled.
"But it will take a long time to do the right kind of job,
Steve. It may take me years, doing it all
alone." Steve
smiled. "That's what I figured, Pitch.
Exactly what I
figured."
"But I'll do a thorough, competent job of it,"
Pitch said
with determination.
Steve took Pitch by the arm as they made their way
down
the stone walk. "I know you will, Pitch. And you
won't be
alone all the time, because every vacation I'll be back."
At the gate, Pitch turned to Steve. "I can't
tell you how much better I feel. I
knew that by talking it over with you we'd work something out.
I never would have thought of going ahead alone and, perhaps,
if I were lucky, making a
name for myself. But I'm ready for it now, Steve,"
he said,
smiling. "I'm just as confident as can be!"
They walked down the street with Pitch protecting
Steve's broken arm from the crowd. They were passing a
shipping office when Steve called Pitch's
attention to a large
blackboard. "Due next Monday," they read,
"the
S. S.
Horn.
Sails same day. Cargo space available for
Puerto Rico,
Haiti, and the United States. Mail closes
seven
a.m.
day of
departure."
"She's on schedule," Steve said.
"I'm going to miss you, Steve."
"It won't be long before I'll be back again," the
boy said.
"But I'll be missing you, too, Pitch."
In the next block, they found a taxi and climbed
inside.
Their driver was about to pull away from the curb when a
large truck drew up alongside. The man behind the
wheel of
the truck shouted to them, and Steve was the first to
recognize Tom.
Steve sat back in his seat, but Pitch leaned out the
window and greeted his stepbrother.
Then Steve heard Tom say, "I've got a
job to do, but I'll
be out to the house right after. Didn't think you'd last the
two weeks on Azul. Tell the kid I said that.
Tell him he won his bet and can have any horse on
the island he wants-if he still wants any of
"em," he added, laughing; then Tom had his truck
in gear and went on ahead.
"Well, you've got your horse," Pitch said,
smiling.
"Yes," Steve agreed. "I have him, all right."
And once more Steve was riding Flame, his face
pressed
close to the silken neck as the red stallion swept
about an
arena whose towering yellow walls were the only
spectators.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walter Farley's love for horses began when he
was a small boy living in Syracuse, New
York, and continued as he grew up in New York
City, where his family moved. Unlike most city
children, he was able to fulfill this love
through an uncle who was a professional horseman.
Young
Walter spent much of his time with this uncle, learning
about the different kinds of horse training and the people
associated with each.
Walter Farley began to write his first book,
The Black
Stallion,
while he was a student at Brooklyn's Erasmus
Hall
High School and Mercersburg Academy in
Pennsylvania. He finished it and had it published
while he was still an undergraduate at Columbia
University.
The appearance of
The Black Stallion
brought such an enthusiastic response from
young readers that Mr. Farley went on to write more
stories about the Black, and about other horses as
well. He now has twenty-five books to his
credit, including his first dog story,
The Great Dane Thor,
and his story of America's greatest thoroughbred,
Man o' War.
His books have been enormously successful in this
country, and have also been published in fourteen foreign
countries.
When not traveling, Walter Farley and his wife,
Rosemary, divide their time between a farm in
Pennsylvania
and a beach house in Florida.