Steve Duncan and his friend Pitch had discovered a
lost world behind the high cliffs of Azul Island in the
Caribbean. Only they knew of the existence of its
wild, pure-blooded horses and the great red
stallion, Flame.
Then to the island came a giant of a man intent on
destroying their private world. His great greed and
vanity drove him to dominate the valley-to match
his strength against Flame's. For to conquer the valley
he had to conquer its king!
THE BLACK STALLION SERIES
by Walter Parley
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 Horse Tamer The Black Stallion and
Flame
Man o" War The Black Stallion
Challenged
The Black Stallion's Ghost
The Black Stallion and the Girl
The Black Stallion Legend
by WALTER PARLEY
RANDOM HOUSE
NEW YORK
For a most wonderful person and mother, Mary E.
Lutz
Copyright 1951 by Walter Parley
Copyright renewed 1979 by Walter Parley
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.
Manufactured in the United States of
America.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication
Data
Parley, WalterThe island stallion's furyationew
York, Random House [1951gg'I.
TitlePZ10.3F22IU
51-aahahISBN: 0-394-80607-7 (trade
hardcover(0-394-90607-1 (library
binding(0-394-84373-8 (trade paperback)
Contents







84











1.
blue valley
2. pitch's map
3. the bay mare
4.
orphaned foal
5.red FURY
6.sea ENTRANCE
7.forced JOURNEY
8.
THE GIANT
9.black WORLD
10.
EARLY TRAINING
11.
GRAVE DECISION
12.
AMBUSH!
13.
SNAKE WHIP
14.
ESCAPE
15.
RED SENTINEL
16.
CHALLENGED!
17.
THE FIGHT
THE RECKONING

CONCLUSIO
Blue Valley

Azul Island broke the turquoise blue waters
with a startling suddenness. One saw it not as an island but
as a massive, egg-shaped boulder dropped into the
sea. The islands of the Caribbean Sea are
tropical and luxurious in their soft green
vegetation and colorful flowers. There was
nothing soft or green or colorful about Azul
Island.
Its precipitous walls rose naked from the sea,
rising a thousand or more feet in the sky until they
rounded off to form the dome-shaped top of Azul
Island. It was barren and foreboding, with the sea beating
white against its barrier walls, seeking entrance and
finding none.
Only on large-scale navigation maps of the far
eastern area of the Caribbean Sea could the island be
found. It ran north and south, nine miles long.
Few tramp steamers ever passed it and no air
lane came within five hundred miles of it. So
except for the people of the nearest inhabited island,
Antago, a little more than twenty miles to the
southwest, Azul Island was little known and untouched.
Only at the southern tip of the island did the
mountainous rock break away abruptly to become a
low, sandy spit of land where the waves were permitted
to roll high up on the shore. This spit was the only
part of Azul Island that the
people of Antago knew, and very seldom did they have
any occasion to visit it.
When they did, they would dock their boats at the
narrow wooden pier that was the island's sole
connecting link with the outside world, and set out across the
dunes of the windswept spit. They would walk up the
spit to a small canyon at the end of which was a sheer
wall rising five hundred feet above them. They
would stop and look up, knowing this was as far as they could go
on Azul Island.
"Solid rock," they usually said. "The rest of the
island is nothing but rock, eight solid miles of
it."
And soon they would leave this desolate, foreboding
place, sometimes looking back, once they were at
sea, at the bare, yellow rock and the dome-shaped
top of Azul Island which gleamed in the sun's
rays.
Never, even by the widest stretch of the imagination, could
they suspect that running down the dome was a long
gap which allowed the rays of the sun to find a valley
... a lost valley within a lost world; a valley as
soft and green and colorful as any tropical island
in the Caribbean Sea.
And it was inhabited!
Long and narrow, the valley extended almost the length
of the island; a bluish-green gem set deep amid
towering walls that were the yellow of pure gold. High
up on the wall at the southern end of the
valley an underground stream rushed from blackness
to sunlight, plummeting downward in a silken sheet
of white and crashing onto the rocks of a large pool
two hundred feet or more below.
From the great opening where the falls began, a trail
led down the wall. Halfway to the valley floor
it leveled off at a wide ledge fronting a
cave. A man sat there, writing. He used
empty wooden boxes for his seat and desk, and his pen
moved quickly over the paper before him. As he finished
each page, he dropped it beside him, and with no
hesitation went on to the next sheet.
He was a small man, thin but wiry of build. His
knobby knees were uncovered, for he wore
tropical walking shorts. Earlier in the day he
had put on his wide-brimmed straw hat to shade his
eyes from the glare of the hot sun. He was still wearing the
hat, even though the sun had dropped behind the high
walls of the valley. But he hadn't noticed, for
he was much too absorbed in his writing. His round,
tanned face, usually boyish and jovial, was
drawn taut from the intensity of his concentration.
He continued writing until two short whistles
broke the stillness of the valley. Looking up, he
noticed for the first time that it was sunset. The
shadows from the western walls had reached the valley
floor, turning the cropped grass to an almost
brilliant blue. His gaze traveled far down the
valley where a band of horses was grazing. He
tried without success to locate his friend Steve.
The two short whistles came again. Reaching for his
high-powered binoculars, the man brought them close
to the steel-rimmed glasses he wore. Near the
edge of the tall sugar cane that grew wild on the
sides of the valley, he located the boy.
Apparently Steve had been sitting there watching the
mares and foals since his arrival in Blue
Valley a few hours ago. But now he was getting
to his feet. The man saw him place his fingers
to his lips; again came the two short whistles.
Steve was calling Flame, but the stallion was nowhere
in sight.
Then from far down the valley came an answering
whistle. Steve's whistles were the softest of whispers
compared to it. Shrill, loud and clear, it rose to such
a high
pitch that it seemed it would shatter the towering walls.
And when it finally died the valley echoed to the fast,
rhythmic beat of pounding hoofs.
The man moved his binoculars to pick up the
running stallion. He was coming through the tall cane
far down on the opposite side of the valley, the
stalks bending and breaking beneath his giant body. When
he reached the short, cropped grass, his strides
lengthened as he swept toward the boy who awaited
him. He was beautiful, swift and strong, and his
chestnut coat and mane were the glowing red of fire.
The man put down his binoculars when the stallion
came to a stop before the boy.
It's so good to have Steve back again in Blue
Valley,
he thought.
Flame's glad. I'm glad. Everybody's
happy.
Smiling contentedly, the man turned once more to his
writing.
Tall and long limbed, the red stallion stood as
motionless as a statue; his small head was raised
high, not in defiance but in haughty grandeur. Yet
his large eyes never left the boy and there was soft
recognition in them. Finally he tossed his head, and
his heavy mane rose and fell with the high arch of his
neck.
"Flame."
Small ears pricked forward at the sound of
Steve Duncan's voice. Long, delicate
nostrils quivered. Then, without further hesitation,
the stallion moved toward the boy.
Steve touched the silken neck and ran his fingers through
the tousled mane, gently smoothing it. Flame
stood quietly, with only his eyes moving as they
turned from Steve to the band that had strayed in the
direction of the water pool, then back to the boy again.
And knowing now that Flame had not forgotten him during the
ten months he
had been away, Steve was content just to stand there beside him
and look at him.
Never was there a horse so beautiful! No other could
match the finely molded body or the giant
muscles that moved so smoothly beneath tight, sliding
skin. No equal did he have in strength of legs and
withers, chest and shoulders. And his head was the most
beautiful part of him, for every inch of it disclosed the
preponderance of Arabian blood that was in this
stallion. It was raised high, yet set at an
angle, accentuating the high curve at the crest of
his long neck. It was wedge-shaped, broad in the
forehead and tapering down to long, delicate
nostrils. The ears were small and close together; just
now they were pricked, almost touching at the
tips. The large eyes, set wide apart, were most
expressive, glaring wildly when the stallion's
fury was aroused and becoming soft and warm when there was
nothing to fear or fight.
That Flame had fought often and hard was easily seen
in the scars that marked his red coat. Some were jagged,
made by the cutting, ravaging teeth of fighting
stallions. Others were clean and straight, left
by pounding, battering hoofs. Some were old, some new.
All of them made this giant stallion what he
was, king of the band. He had won his leadership through
fighting; he would lose it the same way.
Steve swept his hands across the muscled withers. He
leaned a little on the stallion's back, and the red
coat beneath his hands quivered.
"Oh, Flame," he said. "It's good ... so good
to be back."
For a moment the boy just stood there. Never had this great
stallion known the touch of hands before his, he knew.
Never had Flame even seen human beings before
Steve and
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
his friend Pitch had found Blue Valley late last
summer. It had taken time to convince Flame that he
and his band had nothing to fear from Steve's and
Pitch's presence, nothing to fight. But finally
Steve had won the stallion's love and confidence.
He'd been able to play with him, run with him, ride
him any time of day or night. And now after so many
long months Steve was back with his horse, to continue
this life which was as new to him as it was to Flame.
He placed more of his weight on the stallion's
back. Flame tossed his head as though he knew
what was coming and was impatient to get along with it.
Steve leaped as high as he could and pulled himself,
face downward, across the stallion's back.
Flame whirled while the boy was still hanging on
precariously, but Steve's hand found the thick mane
and quickly he pulled himself upright as Flame again
came to a stop.
The boy pressed his knees close to the withers and then
he touched the stallion low on the neck. With short,
springy steps Flame lightly crabstepped up the
valley. He snorted repeatedly, and his ears
shifted, half turning to Steve. He wanted
to move out of the crabstep, yet he awaited the
boy's command.
Finally Steve moved his leg slightly, his heel
rubbing against the Stallion. Flame shifted
smoothly into a slow, rocking canter. Then
his strides lengthened as Steve bent closer to his
arched neck. The rhythmic beat of the stallion's
hoofs came faster. He tossed his head and
occasionally struck out a foreleg either in play or as
an indication that he wanted to run all out. Yet he
waited for a further command from Steve, and finally the boy
hunched his shoulders far forward and pressed his cheek
hard against Flame's silken neck.
Steve felt the ground give way beneath the
ever-lengthening strides, and the wind whistled until it
shut out the pounding hoofs. His eyes filled with the rush
of wind and he sought protection from it by burying his head
in the stallion's whipping mane.
He had ridden all his life, but this was not riding. This
was being part of a horse!
Through blurred eyes he saw that they had almost reached
the pool beneath the waterfall. The band moved quickly
away, scattering at the sight of their running leader.
Steve touched Flame and the stallion swerved
obediently away from the pool, cutting across the
valley floor to the far side. Steve began
talking to him then, and shifted his weight back off the
withers. The stallion slowed down, although he pawed
repeatedly with his foreleg, striking out in play.
Steve brought him to a stop, and except for
tossing his head Flame stood still. The yellow
walls had been the only spectators to the
exhibition of Flame's blazing speed.
Steve turned his attention to the band. The horses were
grazing again. The boy counted over a hundred of them,
including all the suckling foals who stayed close
beside their dams. And there were weanlings who frolicked and
played, glorying in their newly acquired
independence from their mothers and testing their strength and speed
against one another. Yearlings and older colts and
fillies kept to themselves, content in their maturity.
Flame was their leader. They looked to him for
protection against any danger and for guidance. Yet
Steve knew that someday one of the older colts,
falsely secure in his strength and youth, would
attempt to take Flame's leadership away from
him. They would meet in physical combat, and to live
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
and maintain his supremacy of the band Flame would
kill. There could be but one leader of the band. It had
been that way for centuries, ever since the Spanish
Conquistadores had forsaken the ancestors of these
horses in Blue Valley. The forebears had been
left here to die, but they had not died. Instead, they
had lived and bred and the band had survived. The
horses the Spaniards had forsaken in this valley were
of the purest blood and the finest obtainable; they had
passed on their speed, stamina and beauty to their
offspring. And Blue Valley with its good grass and
water and protective walls had fostered these
horses until today there was no finer band in all the
world.
Steve touched Flame on the neck, stroking him
gently.
No one knows what Pitch and I have found,
he mused.
Not even Mother and Dad know or suspect anything out
of the ordinary. They like Pitch; he's an old friend
of the family. They were glad I wanted to visit him
on Antago last year, glad that I wanted to come
back again this summer. Mother especially. For when
Dad proposed the long automobile trip for their
vacation this summer, she said, "You and I can do that,
Paul. Let Steve visit Pitch again. Let
him travel outside the country while he can.
There'll be time enough for him to take automobile
trips with us."
Steve smiled to himself as he thought of his mother's words.
What Mom really had meant was that she was glad
he'd be with Pitch. She had great respect
for Pitch's intelligence and she thought it would do
Steve good to be with him. She thought of Pitch as a
scholar, a historian. She knew of his interest in
archaeology and that he and Steve were doing some digging
on an uninhabited island twenty miles northeast
of Antago. Yes, that was what had brought them to the
spit of Azul Island. And they had found more
BLUE VALLEY

than they'd bargained for, much more than they'd ever
dreamed of finding. But no one else knew.
Flame moved uneasily beneath him. The stallion
wanted to be off with his band, and Steve noticed that it
was becoming dark fast. He'd better be getting
back to Pitch. He had a lot of questions he wanted
to ask him. Touching Flame, he cantered across the
valley to the trail that went up to the ledge. There he
dismounted and, giving the stallion a light slap on his
haunches, watched while Flame returned to his
band.
Steve started up the trail, thinking of all the
wonderful days to come, over two months, which he'd be
able to spend with Flame and the band in their lost world.
Pitch's Map
The climb to the ledge was steep but not hard, and
within a few minutes Steve had reached the
campsite. But Phil Pitcher didn't look up
from his writing.
"You'll go blind trying to work in the dark, Pitch."
The man raised his head in a quick, startled way.
"Oh, it's you, Steve," he said, putting down his
pen.
"Not expecting anyone else, were you?" Steve
asked, smiling.
"No. No, of course not. It was just that I was so
absorbed." Pitch paused to remove his glasses
and rub his eyes, then he too smiled. "You're
right. It
is
almost dark. I'll just put these papers away."
Steve turned on the Coleman gasoline
lantern, and his eyes blinked in its bright yellow
light. He watched Pitch pick up the pages of the
work he had done that day and place them carefully in his
leather briefcase before putting it just within the cave's
entrance. At the base of the opposite wall were
three shovels, two picks, an axe and a pile of
rope. Beside them were two rolled sleeping bags and a
half-filled box of canned foods. In the center
of the ledge was a small but efficient
two-plate kerosene stove, and next to it all the
pots, pans and eating utensils they'd ever need.
Just within
PITCH'S MAP
the entrance of the cave Steve saw a wooden box
containing flashlights, a camera, more tools and a
pile of other things. Yes, during the ten months
he'd been away from Blue Valley, Pitch had
well equipped the camp with supplies from
Antago.
"You're writing about everything?" he asked Pitch,
who was buckling the straps of his briefcase.
"Yes, Steve, I began with our finding the entrance
to the tunnels, and then have gone on covering just about
everything I've seen and done during the time you've been
away. I've given a detailed account of every
discovery, every trip I've taken through the tunnels.
I've taken photographs of Blue Valley,
the smaller valley and the canyons and gorges.
Also, I've given what I believe from my findings
is an accurate history of the island. I've stated
that I believe that this island, like Cuba and Puerto
Rico, was used as a supply base by the
Spaniards during their conquest of the New World. From
here they equipped their armies with provisions
and weapons-was
"And horses," Steve interrupted.
"Yes, horses," Pitch agreed. "Horses of
purest blood, they were. The very finest specimens
of their race to be obtained in Spain. Horses who
faced the battles and world-shaking adventures with the men
of Cortes, the Pizarros and de Soto in their
conquest of the Americas!" Pitch's eyes were bright with
his enthusiasm. "I've mentioned, too, Steve, that
I believe this island was the Spaniards' very last
stronghold in the Caribbean Sea. I feel that when
the English and French drove back the Spanish
armies in the latter part of the seventeenth century, the
Spaniards retreated to this natural fortress. But
in time they had to forsake this island hurriedly, and they
left behind the
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
ancestors of the horses we have in Blue Valley
today."
Pitch walked over to the stove, and Steve followed.
"But you're not finished with your work, are you, Pitch?"
he asked quickly.
"Oh, no, not by any means, Steve. There's much more
I want to add to it, many more years of excavation work,
tunnel explorations and writing before the
complete job is done the way I want to do it and
I can send my manuscript to a historical
society."
The boy's tense body relaxed as he listened
to his friend. He knew that when Pitch finished his work
and his discoveries were made public this world would no
longer belong solely to them. But Pitch had said that it
would take years before his work was complete. The longer it
took the better, Steve felt. He loved
Flame and his band and Blue Valley too much just as
they were to be ashamed of feeling as he did.
Pitch was speaking again. "Oh, and I've drawn a
map of the island," he said. "It's not a very
professional map, but I want to show it to you."
He went to the wooden box just within the cave's entrance
and withdrew a large, rolled paper. He placed it
on the box he'd used for a table, then called Steve
while unrolling the map.
"Now," he said, looking up at the night sky,
"let's pretend we're up there over Azul
Island and looking down. Not that you'd actually be able
to see much of what I have on this map if you were in a
plane flying over Azul Island," he explained
hurriedly. "If that ever did happen-and it never
has so far-and you could get close enough to the
dome, you'd know there was a valley down here, but little
more. Anyway," he continued, "it's just the effect I
want

you to have. Try to put yourself up there and pretend you've
got x-ray eyes so you can see right through the rock
to the tunnels when necessary." He laughed at his last
remark, then took a pencil from his pocket and
placed the point on the map.
"Here's the island, running north and south. We'll
start at the southern end, the spit of land and the pier.
Last summer you and I walked up the spit to the
canyon at the end. I call it Spit Canyon
on the map. We stopped at the end and looked up
at the wall. About three hundred feet up we
saw a ledge. I have it marked Lookout Ledge
here. Now, that's where we saw Flame that first night,
so you and I knew the rest of Azul Island couldn't
be solid rock as everyone believed . . . not if a
horse was living inside there somewhere.
"Do you follow me?" Pitch asked. When Steve
nodded, Pitch continued. "Well, back of that ledge
is a cave and narrow chasm which you can't see from the
spit below. We go through the chasm and then down a steep
trail that leads to the bottle-shaped
canyon-I call it Bottle Canyon here. The
canyon goes right to Blue Valley." Pitch
raised his eyes from the map. "Comes in right over
there," he said.
On the same wall as their camp, but almost at the far
side of the valley where the wild cane grew,
Steve could make out the dark, narrow cleavage in the
wall. "I've noticed that canyon, but never went
up it," he said.
"Let's get back to the spit again," Pitch said,
bringing his pencil back to the map. "When we saw
Flame on Lookout Ledge that first night, we
knew there had to be an entrance to the interior of
Azul Island. We realized it wasn't possible
to reach the ledge from the spit so we went back to the
pier and, taking the small dory from the launch, rowed
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
until we saw our chance to get close to the barrier
wall at what I call Chimney Entrance on this
map. I named it that because we climbed the cleft in the
wall and went down the ventilation shaft we found on
top, which is much like a chimney.
"And that took us into the tunnels," he added
quietly.
Pitch paused and Steve did not urge him
to go on. Each remembered that only by the grace of
God had they found their way out of the tunnels and were
alive to discuss them now.
Finally Pitch moved his pencil over the multitude
of lines he had drawn on the map to indicate the
tunnels. "This is not a true picture of the
direction or number of tunnels," he said. "On
this map I'm just giving you an idea caret of where they
are. The work of plotting them accurately is a big
job and one I'm not yet prepared to tackle."
"But you do know them, Pitch."
"Only some of them Steve, a small percentage
of the great number that make up this maze. They're a
world of their own ... an underground world.
"But to go back to this map," he went on. "From the
tunnels we come to Blue Valley at the top of the
waterfall. Then here's the trail leading down the
wall to our present campsite overlooking the
valley. Now, you know the rest of this pretty well,
the way we get to our launch. But I want to go
over it anyway. About two miles down the valley
we find the marsh, right here."
Pitch's pencil found the crossed marks on the
left side of the valley that designated the marsh;
then simultaneously he and Steve looked
up in the direction of the valley. But it was too dark
for them to see anything of the marsh. They turned back
to the map.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Here on the other side of the marsh," Pitch continued,
"is the dry gorge of the stream that once emptied
into the marsh. We follow it until we come to the little
valley. I just call it Small Valley on the
map," he explained. "Crossing that valley, we
enter the chasm and cave which take us to the sea entrance.
And there, as you know, we have our launch in the great
chamber, making it possible for us to come and go as we
please . . . using the very same entrance the
Conquistadores used in bringing their armies and
supplies into this stronghold."
Pitch began rolling the map. "Well, that's it,
Steve."
"It's a good job. As good a job as any
professional could have done."
"No," said Pitch with a smile. "But it's the best
I can do, and I'm glad it's clear to you." Putting
away the map, he urged, "Let's eat now,
Steve. I've spent too much time talking, and you
must be hungry and tired. It's been a hard day for
you."
Early the next morning after breakfast, Pitch
took his light pick and placed his flashlights in the
small leather bag that he carried over his shoulder.
"You're sure I can't help you?" Steve asked.
"No. I've found an interesting tunnel. I can
travel it better alone."
"You're careful?"
"Very careful, Steve. I won't get lost. I
mark every tunnel I travel. I'll show you later
today, if you'd like to go inside with me."
"I would," Steve replied.
"I'll be back by noon." As Pitch started up the
trail, he said over his shoulder, "I'm taking it for
granted you want

to spend this morning with Flame and the others."
After Pitch had disappeared within the great opening at the
top of the waterfall, Steve looked about for
Flame. The giant stallion had left his band
several times during the last hour to come up the
valley, his head raised in the direction of the ledge,
looking for the boy. But Flame was back with the band now,
grazing with them.
Steve went down the trail and started down the
valley floor. He hadn't gone very far
when Flame saw him. Lifting his head, the
stallion neighed, then went back to his grazing.
But only for a moment. He stopped, then trotted
toward the boy.
Steve watched his horse, felt the muscles of his
throat tighten at the beauty and grace of this spirited
stallion. And he marveled and was humble that Flame
belonged to him. During the months that he had been
away from Blue Valley, he had often thought that it
all had been a dream, that there was no such place as
Azul Island, no such horse as Flame, no
lost band living in a lost world.
When Flame stopped before him, Steve touched the soft
nose of the stallion, ran his hand between the large, bright
eyes and then down the soft neck. He stood stroking
his horse for a long time, straightening the red mane and
forelock which hung low over Flame's forehead.
Finally he mounted and, letting the stallion choose his
gait, rode toward the band. The mares with suckling
foals at their sides moved away at the sight of
him, but the long-legged weanlings stood their ground,
inquisitively watching his approach. They
scattered when Flame neighed shrilly, and Steve
laughed as they pushed hard against each other in their
wild efforts to get out of the path of their
running leader.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Flame moved past the band, his strides lengthening.
Letting him go, Steve rode low and close to the
stallion's neck. For all of a mile Flame
went at a full gallop, then Steve spoke to him
and sat back. The stallion responded, slowing
down to a canter and then a trot.
They were on the left side of the valley, near the
marsh. Already gray vapors were beginning to rise from the
swampland in the heat of the sun's first rays. The
hollow that fostered the marsh was no more than a hundred
yards deep and ran for perhaps a quarter of a mile
along this side of the valley. But to reach the
dry-stream gorge which cut the barrier wall here one
had to pass through the marsh. Luckily there were green
avenues of solid ground that made it possible
to avoid the quagmires.
Steve turned Flame away from the desolate marsh
and back toward the band. This morning he wanted to go
through the canyon that led to the ledge overlooking the spit
land.
Bottle Canyon,
he reminded himself-
that's what Pitch calls it on his map.
I'd better call it that, too. And the ledge
overlooking the spit is Lookout Ledge. I
guess Pitch named it that because from that ledge the
Spaniards could have seen any approach from Antago
and the south.
He gave Flame his head, and the stallion went
into his long, effortless lope up the valley. A
group of yearling colts and fillies broke and ran
at Flame's approach. Steve watched them go,
then turned to look at the mares and foals grazing
near the wild cane. Next to Flame he loved the
foals best. It was fun watching them as they stayed so
close to their mothers, seeking protection from anything that
might frighten or startle them.
But soon the band was left far behind and they had reached the
water pool. Flame stretched down to drink.
PITCH'S MAP
When he had finished Steve took him along the
southern wall of the valley toward the wild cane on
the opposite side. Just before they reached it, they
came to the cleavage in the wall. Steve turned
Flame into the long neck of Bottle Canyon.
The ground was soft with good grass and was free of
rock. Flame went from a walk to a trot, and
Steve let him go. For a hundred yards the
high walls of the canyon rose close on either
side, then they widened, forming the great base of
Bottle Canyon.
The grass here too was good and cropped low, so
Steve knew that Flame used the canyon for
grazing. The high yellow walls rose all around
them, and Steve didn't see where it was possible
to reach Lookout Ledge from the canyon floor. But
Flame seemed to know where he was going, so Steve
let him alone.
The stallion went toward the far wall, which Steve
knew was the only barrier between them and the spit of land
outside. As they neared it, Flame veered to the right,
and Steve saw the trail running up along the right
wall. He thought it too steep and narrow, and sought
to check Flame's speed. But the stallion only
shook his head, then gathered himself and lurched up the
trail. The first few feet were the steepest part of the
climb; from there on the ascent was much more gradual
than it had appeared from below. Steve noticed the
regular cuttings in the rock on either side of the
trail; the Spaniards must have widened this path
to Lookout Ledge.
Halfway up the wall, Flame entered a high
natural cleft in the stone. The light
grew dim but the sky could be seen overhead. Farther
on the chasm narrowed until Steve could touch the
walls on either side of Flame. He looked up.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
There was no opening overhead. Quickly he checked
Flame's walk. Then he saw that the light ahead
was as bright as day. Also, the walls had widened. They
were in a large shallow cave that opened on Lookout
Ledge!
Steve brought Flame to a stop and slid off his
back. He moved cautiously toward the ledge,
looking back once to make certain that Flame was not
following him. There was only one chance in a thousand that
anyone from Antago would be visiting the spit of
Azul Island, but he mustn't take even that one
chance of being seen.
Lookout Ledge was a good deal larger than it
appeared from below. It was about fifty feet long and
thirty feet wide. Flat on his stomach, Steve
crawled across the ledge until he was able to look
down three hundred feet below to the floor of Spit
Canyon. Beyond was the sandy, windswept land and the
sea. There was no human being in the canyon or on
the spit, no boat at sea.
But grazing on the tufts of grass in the
canyon was the small band of horses that lived on the
spit. There were eight mares with foals by their sides
and a stallion-all small, wiry and shaggy. These were
the horses that had brought him to Azul Island last
year, for Pitch had written him about this band.
They were supposed to be descendants of the horses the
Conquistadores rode during the Conquest, according to the
story that the chamber of commerce on Antago released
to newspapers in the United States and South
America every few years in one form or another. But
no one knew whether the story was true. Steve and
Pitch, having found Flame and his band in Blue
Valley, knew that the story could be closer to the
truth than most people on Antago actually believed.
On Antago, the "wise" citizens said that the
story was just

one that had been promoted by the publicity-minded
chamber of commerce to get the name of Antago in
foreign newspapers and possibly build up the
island's tourist trade. These people claimed that
actually the horses were from Antago-that many years
ago they had been taken to the spit of Azul Island
and released to propagate and create the basis for such
an interesting and romantic story!
Steve didn't know the correct answer any more
than anyone else did, although he and Pitch had
discussed the small band very often. The horses had
none of the characteristics of Flame and his band. But then, as
Pitch had said, the ancestors of these horses may
have been those that hadn't met the high equine standards
of the Conquista-dores, so the Spaniards had kept
them on the spit and away from their favorites which
grazed in Blue Valley. Then, too, the spit
being what it was, windswept and with scarcely any
grass, it was only natural that the horses would be
very much unlike those of Blue Valley in size and
quality.
Steve heard Flame behind him. He got to his
feet to stand beside the stallion. Flame's ears were
pitched forward, his nostrils dilated. He neighed
to the mares below. The band scattered, the mares whinnying.
Only the small stallion stood his ground. He
raised his head, whistling. Flame's answering
challenge shattered the cry of the rival stallion.
Then Flame moved uneasily up and down the
ledge, his red body trembling in his eagerness
to fight.
Steve went back to the cave, calling Flame and
hoping he'd follow him. He kept walking
and calling, but only when he was nearing the trail did
he hear Flame's hoofbeats behind him. He began
his descent to the floor of Bottle Canyon with the
stallion following him.
Later, when they walked into Blue Valley,
Steve looked
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
toward camp and saw that Pitch had already returned.
Flame moved away from Steve, cantering toward his
band. The boy watched him until he heard the sudden
breaking of cane stalks on his right. Turning around,
he saw a heavy bay mare making her way alone
through the tall cane. He watched her until she
came to a stop in a small clearing not far from the
wall. From her size and actions he knew she'd be
giving birth to a foal sometime during the afternoon or
night.
Steve turned away. He was going to take a
special interest in this foal to come, for never had he
seen a newly born foal. He'd watch the mare
carefully and, if possible, go to her the moment the
foal was born. Would it be a colt or filly?
Would it be a red chestnut like Flame or a dark
brown bay like the mare?
Feeling like the luckiest and happiest boy in
the world, he shouted to Pitch and burst into a run
to tell him about the foal to come.
The Bay Mare
"Finish your beans, Steve," Pitch said a little
sternly, "and stop watching that bay mare. She won't
have her foal during the daytime. Mares are just like
women; they have their babies at the most unreasonable
hours of the night . . . just to make it hard on you,"
he added, smiling.
Steve smiled too. "How do you know, Pitch?
You're a bachelor." Finished with his beans, he
put the empty plate in a pail of hot water.
"What was the name of that couple who ran the boarding
house on your block?" Pitch asked in reply
to Steve's question.
"Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds," the boy answered.
"You ought to remember-you lived there five years."
Nodding, Pitch said, "Yep. And she had three children
while I was there. They all were born between three and
five o'clock in the morning. Mr. Reynolds and I
often discussed how unreasonable it was of Mrs.
Reynolds."
"But children and foals
can
be born during the daytime," Steve insisted.
"Perhaps, but I doubt it."
Steve reached for the can of powdered milk and, removing the
lid, put several tablespoonfuls of the powder
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
into a pint jar half-filled with water. He stirred
briskly until the powder was thoroughly mixed with the
water, then raised the jar to his lips and drank.
"This powdered milk is just like the real thing," he told
Pitch when he had finished.
"It
is
the real thing. It's whole milk. All you did was
add water."
Steve glanced again at the clearing on the far side
of the valley. The bay mare was standing up, grazing.
She seemed to be in no hurry to have her foal.
Perhaps Pitch was right and she wouldn't have her foal for
hours and hours. He washed the dishes while Pitch
fingered the cat-o'-nine-tails he had found in the
tunnels that morning.
When Steve had finished, he took the short-handled
whip which Pitch offered him for examination. He felt
the nine knotted leather lines, each about three feet
long, that were fastened to the handle.
"The Spaniards used it for flogging?" he
asked Pitch.
"I guess so ... sometimes," the man replied
quietly.
"Then in many ways Tom is like them," Steve said.
"Tom and his bull whip."
Pitch went over to the stove to clean it. He
obviously didn't want to discuss the stepbrother with
whom he'd lived on Antago for the last two
years.
"Flame and I went to Lookout Ledge today,"
Steve said after a while. "We saw the band
there-eight mares with foals, and the stallion. Tom
must have taken all the weanlings and yearlings in his
roundup last year."
"I guess so," Pitch said, moving away.
Steve's eyes wore an expression of concern as
they followed Pitch. No matter how often he'd
tried he couldn't get Pitch to talk about Tom.
Tom had been commissioned
THE BAY MARE
by the government of Antago to remove the surplus
horses from the spit of Azul Island every five
years. He would leave a small band
to propagate-at the present time it consisted of the
eight mares and a stallion. Tom sold the
horses for what he could get and took his fee, the
remainder of the money going to the government of
Antago. But the meager sum of money received for the
small, wiry horses wasn't important to either
Tom or the government. Steve knew that Tom
acted as agent solely for the pleasure of gathering and
then breaking these horses to his iron hand and will. The
government was interested in Tom's "wild horse
roundup" solely because of the pictures and stories they
could place in foreign newspapers as a result of
it. Pitch had sent Steve one of these pictures
last summer.
Tom hadn't been at his Antago sugar-cane
plantation when Steve had arrived from the United
States a few days ago. And all Pitch had
told him was that Tom was away. Nothing more, even
though Steve had asked several times.
Steve didn't want to think about Tom any more than
Pitch did; so he turned his thoughts now to Flame.
The stallion had taken his band far down the valley
and Steve was thinking of joining them when Pitch called
to him from the entrance of the cave.
"I want to show you some of the things I've found in the
tunnels and chambers," Pitch said, taking the
lantern. "I have them in here."
They walked to the far end of the cave, and Pitch
placed the lighted lantern beside a wooden box.
Removing the lid, he began taking out the relics that
were there. With great care, he placed them on the ground
one at a time ... a tarnished silver goblet, a
horseshoe, a heavy shoe stirrup of solid
bronze, beautifully engraved; a short sword,
a long
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
lance or spear, which the Conquistadores carried
into battle; a helmet and a coat of mail with its
interlinked rings and riveted ends to protect the
wearer; and more, much more. It took Pitch all of
fifteen minutes to remove his precious relics from
the box and show them to Steve.
"I don't believe there's a finer private
collection in all the world," Pitch said proudly as
he put the things back in the box.
When they left the cave, they stood for a while on the
ledge overlooking Blue Valley. Flame and his
band were far away. The bay mare was still grazing in the
clearing.
"Want to see a little of the tunnels this afternoon,
Steve?" Pitch asked. "I'd especially like to show
you where I have all our extra supplies
stored."
He led the way up the trail to the waterfall, then
stopped at the great opening where the underground stream
emerged. Taking a flashlight from his shoulder bag,
he said, "I want you to enter these tunnels only in
case of emergency. And always take this bag,
Steve. There are three flashlights in it, extra
batteries and bulbs. Being without light in the
tunnels is certain death. Come now."
Steve followed him along the underground stream; the
light grew dim and the drone of the falls lessened.
As they made their way around a wide, gradual
curve, Steve saw only blackness ahead.
Pitch clicked on the flashlight; his pace never
slackened as he followed its beam.
They must have walked for more than fifteen minutes when
Pitch came to a sudden stop and flashed the light on
the wall beside him. Steve could see letters and figures
marked in chalk on the wall. A few feet away
there was another tunnel.
THE BAY MARE
"We turn right here," Pitch said. "All these letters
and figures mean something to me. They're a code I
use so I'll always know where I am. I've placed
them at every fork, every turn in the tunnels. But
for our purpose now, and for your use later if you ever
need to get additional provisions and I'm not around,
I want you to look only for the letter
C
and to follow any tunnels in which you find a
C
marked with the other letters. That's all you need to know."
He turned into the tunnel, flashed his light on the
wall to show Steve the letter
C
that was included with other letters and numerals, then kept
on going.
Soon they came to a fork from which three tunnels
extended. Pitch flashed his light on the walls.
Only the tunnel on the extreme left included
the letter
C.
Now they walked hunched over, for the ceiling was low.
Steve stayed close to Pitch, marveling at his
friend's knowledge of this underground world and hoping that never would he
have to travel the tunnels alone. He knew from what
Pitch had told him that some great disturbance of
nature in an early geologic age had created
these tunnels-that much was evident from their great number
and the jagged, shattered ceilings. But the
smoothness of some of the floors, the perfect
regularity of the cutting on each side were the work of
man-so many hundreds of men, slaves of the
Conquistadores, for so many years!
The ceiling of the tunnel was higher now and they were able
to stand upright. Suddenly Pitch stopped, and Steve
saw the high opening of a great chamber on his left.
He knew where he was then. He had been in this
chamber before.
There was a dim, gray light within and Steve remem-
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
bered the ventilation shaft that penetrated the ceiling of
this room. Pitch was standing beneath it, looking up, and
Steve joined him. Through the boxlike shaft they could
see the blue sky hundreds of feet above them. The
air coming down was fresh and cool.
Pitch directed the beam of his flashlight to a far
corner of the chamber, and there Steve saw several
boxes of canned goods, more shovels, picks,
lanterns and flashlights.
"But why keep all these extra supplies and
equipment in here and not back at camp?" Steve
asked.
"Just as an emergency measure," Pitch replied.
"I don't get it, Pitch. There's no
reason why this stuff wouldn't be as safe back at
camp as here."
The man laughed. "You're probably right, Steve.
But I've always been one for keeping my valuables in
two places, so I won't lose everything at one
time. I guess that's the reason I keep half my
money in my pocket and the rest in my wallet.
That's just in case somebody should steal my wallet."
He laughed again. "But no one ever has."
"I guess you're right," Steve said.
"Anyway," Pitch went on, "sometimes when I'm
working in the tunnels it's easier for me to come here
than go to camp. I even have a small stove here,
Steve."
Pitch flashed the light on a long wooden table and
chair that had been there when he and Steve had found the
chamber the previous year. "I do some writing here
occasionally, too. And just think-I use the very same
table and chair the Conquistadores' leaders used!"
He flashed the light on the wall behind the table and
there, inscribed in the stone, was a coat of arms-a
large shield with a lion at the top holding a bird
clutched between his paws. Below was the date, 1669-
They stayed there for a few minutes longer, then
returned to Blue Valley.
During the late afternoon, the bay mare left the clearing
once to get a drink of water. Then she went
back, carefully stepping along as though not to jostle
the foal she was carrying. Night fell and Steve
knew that he'd have to wait until morning to find out
whether the mare had had her foal.
Lying on his blanket, Steve listened to the steady
drone of the waterfall, hoping that it would bring him
sleep. But it didn't help. Pitch was turning
restlessly in his sleep. Steve wondered if it was his
friend's uneasiness that was keeping him so wide awake.
Or was it just his thinking about the bay mare?
But that's silly,
he told himself.
She can have her foal without any help from me. And
morning will be time enough for me to find out what's happened.
No, it can't be the mare that's keeping me awake.
Maybe I'm just not tired. But I should be. It's
been a long day . . . a good day.
Closing his eyes, he tried to fall asleep. The
nickering of the mare came to him and occasionally he heard
Flame's sharp, piercing call as the stallion
moved with his band.
There were so many good days to look forward to, Steve
thought . . . the rest of June, all of
July and August, and part of September before he'd
have to leave again. Over two months to be spent with
Flame and the band. Nothing in the world could be more
wonderful than the days to come!
But again he opened his eyes, wide awake. Was he
thinking of Tom Pitcher? were Pitch's evasive
answers to his questions about Tom bothering him more than
he let on? Tom was nothing like Pitch. There was no
blood relationship, for Pitch's father had adopted
Tom as a baby and
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
had given him his name. Pitch and Tom had grown up
together in England, then separated, with Tom joining the
British army and going to India while Pitch left
home to attend school in the United States. After
college, Pitch had stayed on in America
until two years ago when he heard Tom had a
plantation on Antago and decided to join him.
Tom had changed a great deal in the many years he and
Pitch had been separated. Tom was hard and ruthless
and, at times, cruel. Steve had seen all these
things for himself last summer. He had seen too that
Pitch was afraid of Tom, just as he was.
But he didn't want to think of Tom Pitcher.
There was no reason to think of him here, where
Tom could never bother them. Steve closed his eyes
and thought only of Flame and the band and the bay mare . .
. until finally he fell asleep.
He awakened with the first heavy gray light of early
morning. He could just make out the band grazing far down
the valley. Pitch was still sleeping. Suddenly
Steve remembered the bay mare and his eyes turned
quickly to the clearing. He couldn't see her; she was
down or had left the clearing. Without awakening
Pitch he hurried down the trail.
Reaching the valley floor, he ran until he
came to the wild cane, then bent low, cautiously
stealing through the stalks. If the mare was having her
foal, he didn't want to disturb her. He only
wanted to watch and help her if necessary. She could have
left the clearing to have her foal in some more secluded
spot, but he doubted it; it was more than likely that
she was here.
He was close to the clearing when he saw the mare.
She had gotten to her feet and now stood quietly.
Her black
THE BAY MARE
mane was tousled and matted with long blades of
grass. Her brown coat was sweated. She looked
over the cane, but did not see the boy. She
whinnied and her head went down.
Steve knew she'd had her foal. Quietly he
moved closer to the clearing. If she didn't see
him she wouldn't know he was there for he was downwind from
her and she couldn't pick up his scent. He stopped
dead still when the mare uttered a short squeal. After a
few minutes he rose cautiously to look over the
cane. The mare was still standing quietly, her head
extended downward. Steve guessed the foal was
nursing and that everything was all right. He ducked below the
cane again and sat there for a while. He didn't
want to disturb the mare now; the foal needed her
milk.
Finally he got to his feet and, seeing that the bay
mare was walking about the clearing, rose to his full
height. She stopped when she saw him. He stood
there without moving and talked to her in a soft, low
voice. For a minute she watched him, then turned
away, and Steve knew she was not very frightened or
upset by his presence.
Again he moved forward, talking all the while. He
could not see the foal yet. But just a few yards more and
he'd be able to see him-or would it be a filly? And
would it have Flame's red chestnut coat and mane or
would it be a bay like the mare? He could hear
its movements now, tiny hoofs shuffling alongside the
mare. Another few yards and Steve stood on the
edge of the clearing.
He saw the foal, a filly! She was standing close
beside the mare and nursing again. Her coat was still wet, and
her mane was nothing but a stubble of hair; yet
Steve could tell she was going to be chestnut
colored, like her sire.
Steve watched them for several minutes before he
became conscious of the slight movement to his left.
Turning
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
quickly, he saw the other foal.
Twins!
The mare had had twins! He knew the odds against such
a thing happening were one in ten thousand. And the odds were
even greater, a hundred thousand to one, against twin
foals living.
The second foal was struggling to its feet. This one,
too, had the red chestnut coloring of Flame.
But it was a colt!
Steve watched him stand unsteadily on teetering long
legs, afraid to move lest he lose his balance and
fall. With large, fuzzy eyes the colt looked
at the mare, then very slowly and carefully
attempted to turn his head toward Steve. But he
lost his balance and fell.
Steve went to him, his arms going around the soft, wet
limbs. He picked him up, putting him on his
feet again and supporting the wobbling body. He
felt much of the unsteadiness leave the colt as he
held him. Soft, large eyes looked into his own;
then the colt nuzzled him and Steve knew he was
hungry and looking for food.
"Not me," he said, turning to the mare. "She's the
one." He saw that the filly had finished nursing.
"You're next," he said, turning back to the colt.
But he suspected he might have trouble getting the
mare to allow this second foal to nurse. Steve had
read that when this rare event of foaling twins happened,
the mare was very apt to favor one foal, giving it all
of her attention while neglecting the other. Picking
up the colt in his arms, he carried him toward the
mare, hoping desperately that she would accept him.
The mare moved away at his approach, but she
didn't leave the clearing, for the filly was not yet
ready to follow her. Turning her head around, she
stood still and watched as Steve placed the colt on his
feet next to the filly. Two pairs of soft,
wondrous eyes looked at each other. Then
the filly, her first hunger having been satisfied and
stronger for
THE BAY MARE
the nourishment she'd had, moved her stilted legs
alongside the colt, pushing him in her efforts
to nuzzle him. He would have fallen again if Steve
had not been holding him.
The boy watched the mare, calling to her all the
while, coaxing her to come to them. Her anxious eyes
were on the foals yet she made no move toward
them. Again the colt nuzzled Steve, seeking the
milk he needed so desperately if he were to live.
Steve waited no longer for the mare to come to him.
Lifting the colt, he carried him slowly toward the
mare. She shied and trotted around him, returning to the
filly. Steve followed her, moving with her as she
circled the clearing'. Finally she came to a stop, and
Steve succeeded in shoving the colt gently but
firmly toward her belly. The mare's ears swept
back as the colt touched her. Viciously she reached
down and bit him, causing the blood to come; then she
whirled and took the filly to the far side of the
clearing. Steve bent over and lifted the colt
to carry him to the mare again. But when he straightened up
he found she was going through the cane with the filly
close behind.
Steve stood there holding the little colt. As he
watched the mare and filly go down the valley to join
the band, he realized that what he held in his arms was
an
orphaned
foal!
Orphaned Foal

The foal never moved while Steve held him with one
arm around his chest, the other beneath his rump. The eyes
of the boy and the colt were the same, dazed and unseeing.
Finally Steve turned his eyes away from the valley
and focused them upon the foal.
What was he going to do with him? How could he get him
back to the mare? And if he didn't, how could he
keep him alive?
Bewilderment left his eyes now to be replaced
by worry, concern, even fear for the life of this soft,
slippery foal in his arms.
Don't get excited,
he told himself.
Put him down. Put him down. You can't do anything
with him in your arms. Be calm. You'll get him
back to the mare. Everything will be all right.
Pitch will help you.
Pitch!
He put down the foal and turned quickly in the
direction of the ledge. "Pitch!" he shouted. But there
was no answer from his friend, no sign of him. Pitch was
still sleeping.
Again Steve let his eyes travel over the foal
standing so close beside him. The tiny hoofs never moved,
but the skinny body with ribs showing prominently beneath the
ORPHANED FOAL
wet coat wavered a little. Steve put a hand on the
colt to steady him.
"You'll be all right," he said in a broken voice.
He tried to get a grip on himself, then repeated his
words, more convincingly this time. He spoke for his own
benefit as much as for the foal's. "She'll co'me
back. I know she'll come back to you."
But he wasn't at all certain of this. And with that knowledge
fear rose within him again. If the mare didn't
return for her foal, or if he couldn't get him
to her, the colt would die.
Why hadn't he left the mare alone? Why couldn't
he have stayed away from the clearing? If he had not
been there to pick up the colt, to confuse the mare, she
might have accepted both her twins. He
knew nothing about a foaling mare. It would have been so
much better if he had just left her alone!
"But she might have abandoned the colt anyway,"
Steve said aloud in his own defense. "I know that.
I read it somewhere ... or someone told me."
The colt turned large, blurred eyes upon him, not
understanding what had happened.
Steve fought the fear still rising within him.
You've got to do something, he told himself. Try
to remember what you've read in all those horse
books.
Try to remember!
I will. I will,
he promised. stHis
try to remember. Foaling mares. Newly born
foals. There were chapters on it. Twin foals.
There was something on twin foals. When a mare has
twins, she may very often neglect one foal.
Neglect . . . not abandon.
Nothing I ever read said the mare completely abandons
one of her
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
twins. So she might accept this colt, take him
back, if I can only get him to her!
Steve got to his feet and ran from the
clearing. With Pitch's help he might be able to do
it! But once more in the wild cane he came to a
sudden stop and turned back. Gradually he was
recalling what he'd read should be done for a newly
born foal. He grabbed several large green
leaves from the cane stalks on his way back to the
clearing.
Dropping to his knees before the foal, Steve
cleaned the mucus from the small nostrils so the colt
would have no trouble breathing. Then he removed some from the
corners of the eyes, which now were slowly, very slowly,
following his movements. He ran the dry leaves
over the wet coat. Soon the sun would be over the
walls of the valley, drying the foal more thoroughly
than he could do now.
Getting to his feet, Steve touched the colt on his
short stubble of a mane, then ran from the clearing. But
again he stopped after running only a few yards, and
looked back.
The foal was watching him, had even taken a few
steps toward him.
Steve went back to pick him up, to carry him. The
small body was quiet in his arms, the head turned
a little toward him, wet nostrils lightly touching
him.
Steve tripped on the cane stalks but regained his
balance and his grip on the slippery coat. He
shifted the foal in his arms; it weighed only about
forty or fifty pounds, and most of the weight was in its
long, stilted legs. When he reached the cropped
grass of the valley, Steve found it easier to carry
him.
"Pitch! Pitch!" he shouted. There was movement on
the ledge, but no response. "Pitch!"
Steve was almost directly beneath the ledge when Pitch
ORPHANED FOAL
rose to his feet and looked down. Steve shouted
to him again.
Pitch flicked his eyes at the band down the
valley, then back to Steve again.
"Put that foal down and let him go back to his
dam," he shouted. "She'll be after you, if you
don't."
"She left him! Please come down, Pitch.
Please!"
"What?"
"His dam doesn't want him. She let him
go!" Steve shouted.
Pitch started down the trail.
After lowering the colt to the ground, Steve
backed away from him slowly. The stilt-legs moved
cautiously a few steps, then stopped. The head
turned a little toward Steve, and the foal would have lost
his balance and fallen had it not been for the boy's quick
hands.
Pitch was now beside him. "What's happened,
Steve?" His words were clipped in his excitement.
"Where's his dam? He's just been born, hasn't
he?"
"She had twins, Pitch.
Twins!"
Steve's voice was high in spite of his efforts
to be calm.
"You mean . . . well, where is she? Why isn't
she taking care of this one? What's happened to her?
Where is she?" Pitch was just as excited as Steve.
And perhaps it was this that helped the boy regain a little of
his own composure.
"I was there when it happened. She just ran off with the
other-a filly. We've got to get him to her,
Pitch! He needs her."
"Yes, yes, I know that. But where is she?"
"Back with the band."
"Then let's take him to her. That's all we have
to do."
"But that isn't all, Pitch," Steve said.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Not all? Why isn't it?"
"She has to accept him."
Pitch didn't say anything right away. His
puzzled gaze turned from Steve to the foal at the
boy's side. Then, "Why won't she accept him?
She's his mother, isn't she?"
As patiently as he could, Steve explained all that
had happened.
When he had finished, Pitch said, his voice rising
again, "But she can't do that! This foal needs her.
He's got to have her. He'll die!"
Once more Steve lifted the colt and held the
trembling body. "We'll take turns carrying
him up the valley," he said.
They had just started when Flame came up to meet
them. He stopped beside Steve, but didn't touch the
foal.
Steve talked to the stallion but kept walking. He
realized that Flame sensed something was wrong.
"Careful, Steve," Pitch warned. "He might
think you're going to hurt this foal. Let me take
the colt; you handle Flame. It'll be better all
round."
Steve gave the foal to Pitch, then turned
to Flame, putting a hand on his arched neck. The
stallion was tense, excited. He kept watching the
foal, never taking his eyes off him. Steve stayed
close to him, careful but not afraid.
After a short while he took the foal again, talking
to Flame all the time. "We're not hurting him,"
he said. "We're taking him back." The foal
raised his head a little when Flame bent down and
sniffed him. Their noses had only touched when the
stallion drew back quickly. Bolting, he moved
ahead of them, whirled and came back. As he
walked beside them again, Steve noticed that much of the
stallion's restlessness was gone. Perhaps Flame in
some way
ORPHANED FOAL
now sensed what had happened. At least, he knew
they meant no harm to this foal.
Steve saw the bay mare grazing with the others. Beside
her was her filly, nursing again.
Pitch said, glancing at the foal in Steve's
arms, "He looks terribly weak. How long can
they go without food, Steve?"
"I don't know, Pitch. But he needs some
pretty soon. He's so little."
They stopped, for the band was less than a hundred
yards away and some of the mares had turned in their
direction. The suckling foals moved away first,
running behind their mothers for the protection afforded by their
large bodies.
"Don't startle them," Steve warned, "or we'll
never catch up to them."
"What should we do then?" Pitch asked. "How are
we ever going to get close enough to them to do any good?"
Steve moved forward. "A little closer, then we'll
put him down," he said. "We can just hope his dam
will take him when she sees him alone."
"Maybe she's forgotten by now she ever had him," was
Pitch's retort.
Steve was silent.
They left the foal not more than fifty yards from the
band, and walked back up the valley. Only when
they were a good distance away did they stop and watch
to see what would happen to the foal.
Flame had followed them but now he too stopped,
midway between them and the foal. He seemed undecided
whether to go to Steve or return to the colt, who
stood alone, bewildered and waiting.
For a while nothing happened. The foal stood as still as
a statue, his eyes fixed on the band. Over
the eastern wall of
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
the valley came the sun, its rays finding him and
drying his wet coat; his eyes blinked in this new
light. But he remained still, never moving.
"The band means nothing to him without his mother to guide
him," Pitch said in a low voice. "He doesn't
even know they're his kind. He doesn't belong."
The bay mare moved away from the band, the filly
staying close by her side. "Watch her," Steve
said hopefully. "She may be going to him."
But the bay mare was only taking her newly born
filly away from the older foals. She knew the
others played rough and her filly needed a few more
days before she'd match them in strength. The mare came
to a stop, then lowered her head to graze, never
noticing the colt who stood such a short distance
away from her.
The colt looked at her, but there was no sign of
recognition, no attempt on his part to go to her.
Instead, his head moved slightly in the direction of the
others in the band. But he"'"...did not go to them either.
Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he had no interest in
them.
"The mare isn't going to take him," Pitch
said. "He doesn't mean a thing to her. I never
heard of such a thing." He paused, then added
indignantly, "It's not right of her, Steve. It's
not right. Let's get a rope, lasso her, tie
her up and get the colt to her!"
"It wouldn't work," Steve said miserably. "We
couldn't get a rope on a wild mare like her. And
even if we did we couldn't get her to let the
colt nurse, to accept him . . . unless she
wanted to. And she doesn't want to."
Suddenly the foal's small tail moved with a jerk,
and he shook his thin body.
"Flies," Steve said bitterly.
ORPHANED FOAL
Pitch watched the other foals in the band making use
of their mothers' sweeping tails as their protection against
flying insects, and he understood Steve's
bitterness.
Flame trotted past the foal and went to the band.
He encircled the mares, neighing repeatedly as though
in reprimand. But he served only to frighten them and they
moved farther down the valley.
Flame came back and stopped a few feet away
from the colt. His long tail whisked the air, and for the
first time the colt moved. Carefully he
shuffled over the ground until he was beside the great
stallion and making use of Flame's long tail
to keep the flies off him.
"That's it," Pitch said. "His father's taken
over."
"But Flame can't give him any milk," Steve
pointed out. "He needs the mare for that."
"Yes, he needs-was Pitch stopped, then his voice
rose excitedly. "But we've got milk,
Steve! Lots of it!"
Quickly the boy turned to him. He'd never thought ...
In all the excitement it had never occurred to him that
they had powdered whole milk, that they could give it to the
foal, that perhaps they could keep him alive without the
mare!
His excitement matched Pitch's. "Maybe we can.
Maybe that's it!"
Together they ran to get the colt. Pitch picked him
up without ever thinking that Flame might resent his
hasty handling of the foal.
Steve took the colt's hindquarters, while
Pitch picked up the fore. Carrying the colt in this
way, they went up the valley at a fast walk,
Flame following close behind.
Near the water pool, they set down their
burden and ran up the trail. Arriving on the
ledge, Pitch was the first to
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
reach the tin of powdered milk. Excitedly he took
it in his hand, turning it around to find the instructions on
the back of the label.
"I know they use powdered milk in formulas for
babies when they can't get bottled milk," he
said, his words tumbling over one another.
"Take it easy, Pitch," Steve gibed.
"Don't get so excited. You passed the
instructions. They're on this side." He tried
to steady the can in Pitch's hands, but he only
succeeded in fumbling too.
"Who's excited? I'm not excited. Don't
you
get excited. Mrs. Reynolds-you know the Mrs.
Reynolds I boarded with on your block, the one
who had all the kids-well, when she went on an
automobile trip she always took powdered milk
instead of bottled milk so it wouldn't spoil."
"Here, Pitch. Over here are the instructions. But it
doesn't say anything about feeding babies."
"Where? Oh, yes. It's in Spanish, isn't it?
"Klim seproduce removiendo
solamente el agua de la lecbe de
vacafresca y limpia." his
He paused and looked up at Steve. "That says,
"Klim is made by removing the water from fresh,
clean-" his
was "Pasteurized cow's whole milk," was Steve
finished for him. "It's all right here in English,
Pitch, on the other side."
Pitch turned the can around to read the instructions in
English. When he had finished he said, "You're
right; it doesn't say anything about feeding babies.
But to make regular whole milk, it says to use
eight tablespoonfuls to a pint of water."
"But we should cut that," Steve said quickly. "We
shouldn't make it too rich for him."
ORPHANED FOAL
"Right again," Pitch agreed. "So let's make it
two tablespoonfuls to a pint of water, and see how
he gets along on it."
"All right, Pitch, but let's hurry," Steve
said impatiently. "Let's mix it and give it
to him."
"But we can't do it just like that," Pitch returned,
snapping his fingers.
"Why can't we? All we have to do is to put
the powder in the water and mix it."
"But we can't. We have to sterilize everything first."
"Sterilize?"
Steve asked incredulously.
"Yes, Steve," Pitch answered solemnly.
"We're feeding a baby, and babies are very
susceptible to disease."
"But there's no disease here, Pitch."
"We're not certain of that, Steve. There are germs
almost everywhere. So I say we should boil the water,
the jar and everything we're going to use." He paused,
then shrugged his shoulders. "But I don't know anything
about feeding a foal, Steve. If you know more about
orphaned foals, or anything at all about their
feeding, speak up."
"No," Steve confessed. "I don't know a thing,
Pitch."
"Then I feel that we should feed this foal just as we'd
feed a baby until we find out otherwise from someone
who does know. And I've watched Mrs.
Reynolds "feeding her babies and I know she
sterilized everything. But he's your foal, Steve.
I'll do as you say."
Steve cast a glance at the valley below. The colt
was moving a little. Flame was a short distance
away. Everything looked all right. The colt had
waited this long for his milk; it probably wouldn't
hurt him to wait just a little while longer. And Pitch
was right. The only thing they could do for the time being was to feed
this colt as they
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
would a human baby. Perhaps sterilization wasn't
necessary. But perhaps it was. They'd better do it, disfor
there was no sense in taking any chances now.
"Okay, Pitch, let's sterilize," he said.
Pitch already had the stove going and the water was being
heated. "We'll give everything a good boiling," he
said.
Steve stooped down to help him. "I guess
we've become foster mothers," he said quietly.
"Yes, I guess we have," Pitch agreed.
HedFury
The water was in a large aluminum kettle. After a
while Pitch lifted the lid. "It's coming to a
boil, Steve," he said, "and there's enough water
to sterlize everything and make a gallon of milk
formula for the colt."
"But we don't want him to drink a gallon at
first," Steve said quickly. "I'd say give him a
little, about a half-pint, at frequent
intervals, maybe every hour."
"Yes, but we should make up a lot now, while
we're at it," Pitch said. "Saves work. We can
keep a gallon jug of milk in the pool, where
it'll be kept cold and won't spoil."
Steve turned away from Pitch to look down at the
foal in the valley. "But how will we get the milk
into him, Pitch? We don't have any nursing
nipples around, do we?"
"Nipples?
Nursing nipples?" Pitch wearily shook his
head. "I didn't know we were going to start a
nursery here," he replied, and there was just a touch of
sarcasm in his voice. Then he looked up at the
boy, smiled and said more patiently, "Why can't we
just pour it down his throat?"
"We couldn't, Pitch. He'd choke."
"Then maybe he'll just drink the milk from a
pail."
"Maybe in a few days he could do that," Steve
said, "but
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
not now. He's too young. He couldn't be taught right
away."
"Then what do
you
suggest?"
Steve was unable to make any answer at first. He
knew Pitch was becoming impatient with him and the
orphaned foal. Pitch's first love wasn't
horses, as it was his. Although Pitch would do everything
he could to help save the colt's life, he wanted
to get back to his own work as soon as possible.
He wanted to be relieved of all
responsibility to this foal, and the sooner the better.
"I'll have to use a spoon," Steve said finally.
"That's the only way I know to get the milk
into him."
Pitch shrugged his shoulders. "A spoon it is,
then."
The water in the kettle was boiling, but they left it
on the fire until they felt certain any germs
had been killed. Then they sterilized the utensils
they were going to use in the feeding of the foal. There was enough
water left over to fill the gallon jug that was
to hold their milk formula.
"Now we have to wait for it to cool off before we add the
powdered milk," Pitch said. "It mixes better."
"Can't I cool off the water right away?" Steve
asked. "I'm worried about that colt.
He's gone so long without food. I could cool it
off in the stream."
"Yes, you can do that. But be careful that the glass
doesn't break."
Taking the gallon jug, Steve ran up to the top
of the waterfall. There he carefully cooled off the
jug and then submerged it in the stream. While waiting
for the sterile water inside to cool even more, he
watched the foal. Flame had left him to rejoin his
band, and the colt stood alone again. But he moved about
more now, his long legs shuffling over the ground and taking
him first in one

direction, then in another. He stayed in the immediate
vicinity of the water pool, seemingly having no
desire to join the band that grazed far down the
valley.
A feeling of pity for him swept over Steve.
He'd do everything he possibly could to keep this
foal alive!
When the sterile water was cool enough for the foal to drink,
Steve returned to the ledge with it. He removed the
cap of the jug, and Pitch put in sixteen
tablespoonfuls of powdered milk.
"Let's put a spoonful of sugar in it,
too," Steve said. "It can't do him any harm, and
maybe he'll like it better."
That done, Steve replaced the cap and vigorously
shook the jug until the powder and sugar were well
mixed with the water.
"That's enough," Pitch said. "Now let's pour
whatever amount you're going to give him into this pint jar.
It's been sterilized, too."
"We'll give him a half-pint," Steve said as
Pitch poured.
When they reached the valley floor, Pitch placed
the gallon jug in a corner of the water pool, where
it would be kept cool and safe. Then he rejoined
Steve as the boy approached the foal.
"You're going to eat," Steve told the colt,
placing his hand on the soft nose and stroking it.
"You'll like this, boy." Then, speaking to Pitch, "I
guess we'd better get him down on the ground.
It'll be easier."
"You get him down then," Pitch said. "I'll
hold the milk."
Steve put his arms around the foal, fore and hind, then
carefully placed him down on his side. The colt
scarcely stirred.
"You hold him still now, Pitch," Steve
said. "He just
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
might struggle and upset the jar while I'm feeding
him."
He knelt beside the small head, stroking it, talking
to the colt all the while. The colt was too little,
too weak to do any fighting. But the milk would come as
a surprise to him. He could have no idea what they
intended doing and perhaps he didn't care.
Steve raised the foal's head a little so that once the
milk was in his mouth it would flow down his throat.
Taking up a spoonful, he carefully opened the
foal's mouth on the side and fed him the milk.
The foal struggled a little, even made an attempt
to get up. But Pitch had no trouble keeping him
down, and after a minute or two Steve gave him
another spoonful of milk. There was less struggling
by the foal this time. With the fourth spoonful he ceased
fighting altogether, taking the milk as readily and as often
as Steve fed it to him.
Steve stopped when the foal had finished a quarter
of a pint. "I think that's enough for him now," he told
Pitch. "I'll give him that much every hour until
I see how he reacts to it."
"Just as you say, Steve." Pitch stood
up, releasing the colt. "But it's a full-time job
feeding him that often. And you'll have to sterilize the jar and
spoon each time, as well as warm the milk."
"I know," Steve said. "But I'll be able to feed
him alone after this. You won't have to help me."
"I
want
to help you," Pitch returned quietly.
The foal made no attempt to get to his feet.
But his eyes were open, and there was a clearness to them that
hadn't been there before. His breathing was better too,
regular and without effort.
"I believe he's going to do all right on that
formula,"

Pitch said, watching him. "He seems very contented
now."
"The warm milk has probably made him
sleepy," Steve said. "Rest and the sun will do him
good."
They heard the beat of Flame's running hoofs and
turned to watch the stallion as he came up the
valley. He stopped beside Steve, but his eyes were
only for the foal.
Steve put a hand on him. "I guess
we've got someone to look after, Flame," he
told the stallion. "And he's so little. He'll
take a lot of care if we're going to do a good
job."
Pitch let his gaze travel over the valley.
"It would be so much better if we could only get the
mare to let him nurse just once," he said.
"Maybe she'd accept him as hers then. The cow's
milk we're giving him is only a fair
substitute for her milk. And he needs her care,
too. Being any kind of an orphan is hard. And
no matter how good we are to him, we're not going
to take the place of his mother. It just isn't
natural."
"But what can we do, Pitch?" Steve asked
miserably. "Everything you say is true. But she's
abandoned him, and we can't force her to take him
back. By now she doesn't even remember having
had him. I'm sure of that."
Flame tossed his head, and Steve rubbed the
stallion's red coat hard in an attempt to rid
himself of the anxiety that troubled him as much as it did
Pitch.
"I still might be able to get a rope around her,"
Pitch suggested.
"But she's wild, just like all the others in the band,"
Steve said. "You wouldn't stand a chance of holding
her."
"I could if I cut down one of those dwarfed trees
over there and made a snubbing post of it," Pitch
returned seriously. "I'd tie her fast, then
we'd try and get the colt up to her."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"I doubt that we could do it," Steve said. "And if
we did get her fast to the post, she might kick the
devil out of the colt before she'd let him nurse
her."
"But we might try, Steve. It's worth it as our
last resort."
Steve glanced away from Pitch to the foal, who now
had his eyes closed and was sleeping.
"All right, Pitch. It's worth a try, as you
say. Anything to get him back to her!"
During the afternoon and early evening, Steve fed the colt
every hour. Pitch offered to help, but Steve told him
that it wasn't necessary, that the colt took the milk from
him and gave no trouble. Actually it took a lot
of patience and was hard work but never tedious, for the foal
responded quickly to the life-giving milk. He was more
alert, more active. And for Steve there was the
wonderful satisfaction of having the colt come forward
at sight of him, hungry and eager.
That evening Pitch said, "He's become so dependent
on you in just one day that we'll have trouble getting him
to the mare even if I do manage to get her tied
fast."
"There's a difference, and he'll know it if she
accepts him," Steve said as he busied himself with the
stove and the water he was boiling.
"You're not going to feed him every hour tonight, are you?
You've got to sleep yourself, you know."
"I'll get up two or three times, I
guess," Steve said. "He'll be all right. I'm
giving him a little more milk during the night feedings."
Pitch watched Steve for a while, then said, "I have
the post. I'll dig a hole for it in the morning,
then we'll wait our chance to get a rope around the
mare."
"All right, Pitch," Steve said without looking up.

The next morning Pitch dug his post hole not far
from the water pool, figuring that the best opportunity
to lasso the bay mare would be when she and the others came
up to drink.
Steve fed the colt, marveling at what
seemed to him to be more flesh on the frail little body.
He told himself that he might be wrong about the
colt's added weight, but there was no doubt that the
foal was stronger, more sure of himself on this, his
second day. His eyes were no longer fuzzy and
bewildered, but bright and clear. He watched Steve's
every move, staying close and only leaving him when
Flame came up the valley to join them. But he
would never follow Flame when the stallion returned
to the band. Instead, he would always turn away from him,
looking for Steve.
Pitch finished putting up the post and called Steve
over to examine it.
"It's solid," Pitch said, his hand on the post.
"It'll hold the mare, all right, if I get her
tied to it."
Simultaneously their eyes strayed to the band far
down the valley. "They should be coming up in a little
while for water," Pitch said. "And you know, Steve,
I got to thinking last night that it might be wise if
we put the foal in Bottle Canyon at night.
The youngsters in the band might hurt him when they come up
to the pool. They're much stronger than he is."
"I watched them last night," Steve said.
"Flame wouldn't let any of them come near
him. But you're right, Pitch. We could easily do
that. Then if Flame should be away from him when the band
comes up at night, we'll be sure that no harm can
come to him."
"That's what I thought. I cut down a couple of
thin trees
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
to make rails which we can put across the entrance to the
canyon. That'll keep him in nights and the others
out."
Steve looked at the post. "But if we get the
mare tied and the colt to her, we won't need to do that."
"No," Pitch agreed, "of course not."
Pitch returned to the ledge, while Steve went to the
foal. The soft nose nuzzled his hand, searching for
milk.
"You just had it," Steve told him. "You've got
another hour to go before you get any more." He could
feel the soft gums of the colt's mouth as the foal
pulled at his fingers. He looked into the eyes set
far apart in the wide forehead and saw the mischievous
light in them as the colt held on to his fingers.
Then his gaze traveled to the long, delicate
nostrils, now partly closed but ready to open wide
at any movement Steve might make to get
his hand free. This foal was so much Flame's colt,
every bit of him. He was small, perhaps much smaller
than any of the other foals had been at birth. But
then he was a twin, and his sister was just as small. He
would grow to be tall and strong just as she would. Or would
he, without the mare's milk?
Steve turned to look at the band. He loved the
foal, loved caring for him, but he would help Pitch
in every way to rope the mare and make her accept her
son. To grow big and strong, the colt needed her.
Certainly no cow's milk could take the place of
hers. And he, Steve, couldn't be expected to do as
good a job of faring for him as could the mare. As Pitch
had said, it just wasn't natural.
Steve saw the band start up the valley. "Pitch!"
heddyelled. "They're coming!"
A few minutes later Pitch was beside him. In his
hand he carried a long rope.
"Let's take the colt to Bottle Canyon,"
Pitch said. "We

can get him again if we succeed in getting the mare
tied to the post. Meanwhile, it'll keep him out of the
way."
The foal struggled as they picked him up.
He was stronger, there was no doubt of that. But without
too much trouble they were able to carry him across the
valley to the mouth of Bottle Canyon. Putting
him just inside, they placed long rails across the
entrance.
"It's not a very sturdy gate," Pitch said, wedging
the ends of the rails between the stones. "But it'll hold
him in all right."
They went back near the pool and awaited the coming of the
band.
"Don't get any closer," Pitch warned.
"We'll only frighten them away."
"They're not all coming up," Steve said. "Just a
small group of them."
"Is she with them-the bay mare?"
"I can't tell yet. Five of the mares are bay.
They're all too far away."
"Look for the twin filly," Pitch said, fingering the
rope. "You ought to recognize the mare by the filly
at her side. She's smaller than the others."
"All the foals are too close to the mares to tell
yet."
They waited while the small group of mares stopped
to graze, then came on again. "They're after water.
They'll be along, all right. Can you see
her, Steve?"
"I think so, but I'm not sure."
The mares stopped to graze again. Steve looked past
them to the main part of the band farther down the valley.
He saw Flame far beyond, grazing alone. Steve
glanced sideways at the barred canyon on his right;
the foal was at the gate, watching, waiting.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"That noose," Steve said, referring to the rope
Pitch was fingering so nervously. "Have you fixed it so it
won't run too tight around her neck?"
"It's knotted. It'll hold her without choking
her." Pitch's words were tense, clipped, for the group
of mares had moved toward them again. "That's her,
isn't it, Steve? See that filly! She went right
under the mare's belly to get away from that gray
foal!"
"Yes," Steve said, "that's the mare, all right."
"Don't move, Steve. Don't move!"
Steve knew that Pitch was very nervous, even frightened.
He'd had no experience roping any kind of a
horse, let alone a wild mare. But he was going
through with his plan just the same.
"I'll throw the rope if you want," Steve said.
But he knew he had no better chance of
roping the mare than Pitch. And he was just as nervous.
"No. No, I'll do it," Pitch said. "But
we'll move together, and if I should get it around her,
Steve ... if I should, why ..." He stopped,
turning to Steve, and a white pallor showed beneath his
tanned skin. "W-what do we do then?"
"We get our end of the rope around the post," Steve
said.
"Yes, and then we'll pull her to it until she's
fast."
Steve nodded in agreement. But it wasn't until
the mares were close to the pool and he and Pitch took
a step forward that Steve wondered how they were going
to pull the mare fast to the post. She was ever so much
stronger than they were. He was about to ask Pitch about
it when the latter put a hand across his lips.
"Shh, Steve."
The boy followed close behind Pitch, feeling very

strongly that what they were trying to do was foolish, even
insane. But the foal needed his dam, and this knowledge drove
Steve on, the same as it did Pitch.
They were close against the wall. The drone of the
waterfall silenced their footsteps. There was no
wind to carry their scent to the mares. They were
near the pool now . . . not far from the bay mare.
She was within reach of the rope.
Pitch's body tensed, and Steve guessed he would
throw the rope as soon as the mare finished drinking, as
soon as she straightened and turned in their direction.
There was no doubt that she would do just that, for the other mares
were too close on her right for her to turn toward them.
"Relax, Pitch," Steve wanted to say. "If
you're tense your aim won't be true." But he said
nothing. They were too close to the mares.
Pitch held the noose in his right hand, ready to throw.
Steve saw the twin filly move quickly around the
bay mare. They'd have to be careful not to hurt the
filly. It would be terrible if they caused her any
injury in their efforts to help the colt. He'd
better caution Pitch to-
The bay mare straightened. There was the quick but jerky
movement of Pitch's arm. The noose struck the
mare on the side of her neck instead of dropping
over her head! Neighing shrilly, the bay mare
twirled; then the whole group was in motion, getting
into one another's way in their frenzy to escape this
sudden danger.
Pitch had run forward. He was drawing up the
rope, getting ready to throw again. Steve
stared after him. The mares' confusion afforded Pitch still
another chance.
But as he followed Pitch he heard Flame's
shrill whistle, then the terrible pounding of hoofs. He
looked beyond to
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
find the stallion only fifty yards away
and charging Pitch!
He screamed to Pitch and Flame in the same
breath.

Pitch saw the oncoming stallion, turned and started
back, then fell.
Flame came on, his ears back, his nostrils
spread wide in his fury. Steve shouted again, but the
stallion had reached Pitch. Flame stopped before the
man's inert body. He pawed the ground but his pounding
hoofs never touched Pitch. Steve ran forward.
He reached for his friend with trembling hands, pulling him
to his feet. Then they just stood there, terrified in
their knowledge of what Flame could do with hoofs and teeth when
enraged.
Steve tried to find the words to say to Flame. But
they wouldn't come. The stallion had seen Pitch
chasing the mares,
bis mares,
and he had seen the rope. It had been enough to send his
hot blood raging and to fill his mind with only comone
thought-
to protect his band.
But he had not killed. Something had stopped him-his
recognition of Pitch, Steve's screams or the
sudden realization that Pitch actually meant no harm
to his mares.
Pitch stood close beside Steve, one hand on the
boy's arm. Slowly the pounding in his heart lessened.
Slowly reassurance came to him that he was no longer
in any great danger with Steve at his side. He
heard Steve's voice. The boy was talking to the
stallion, and his words were soft, caressing. As Pitch
listened, his eyes remained on Flame. He saw
the spreading nostrils begin to close, the fury begin
to ebb from the giant body. He marveled at what
he saw and heard. He forgot his fear, forgot
everything else in witnessing Steve's domination of this
untamed stallion.
Once before, the previous year when they had found
Blue
RED FURY
Valley, he had heard Steve talk this way
to Flame. During the following weeks he had come
to accept Steve's mastery of the stallion as a
matter of course. Only now, though, did he
accept this relationship between boy and horse for what it
actually was.
Not that he understood it. No person could say
distruthfully he understood why or how a boy could still
a wild rage like the one that filled this stallion. And
Pitch wasn't even going to try to understand it.
He listened to Steve's words coming so soft andwitha kind
of rhythm. Few people in the world could talk that way to a
horse ... to any animal. The sound and words were those
of a mother talking to her child; it was the only comparison
Pitch knew. Soft words, sentimental words. Many
adults would laugh if they heard them. Sickly
sentimentalism, they would say, never knowing or understanding
that the words came from the heart of a boy who loved this
horse.
And there were still other adults, men like Tom, for
example, who went further than ridiculing such
caressing words, such soft and gentle touches as Steve
now gave Flame. They would say, as he'd heard
Tom say very often,
"There's only one way to conquer a wild
horse. You've got to break him with your own hands.
You've got to show him who's boss!"
But they'd never seen what he'd seen. They weren't
watching Steve now . . . Steve and Flame.
The boy was standing beside the stallion, his hand on the arched
neck. There was nothing frightening about Flame now. He
was quiet, docile, allowing Steve to straighten his
mane, his forelock.
"Pitch. Come over."
The man's footsteps lagged and he was extremely
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
cautious when he did come. He'd rather have kept
away from the stallion, have left it all up
to Steve. But the boy wanted him to come. Perhaps
Steve was right. Perhaps it would be best to make friends again
now.
He stopped beside the boy. He touched the stallion with
nervous, careful fingertips. Nothing happened.
Flame turned his head in the direction of the band, but
that was all. Pitch rested the palm of his hand on the
stallion's back, then he stroked him, slowly,
carefully. He knew everything was all right again. But
he was lucky. He could have been killed. Never again
would he chase any of the mares in Flame's band.
No . . . never, never again.
Sea Entrance
That evening Steve was preparing to leave the ledge for his
eight o'clock feeding of the foal when Pitch said, "I
thought I'd go to Antago sometime tomorrow morning,
Steve."
"You need to go?"
"I want to check with the vet about our feeding of the
colt. I might as well do it now as later."
"He seems to be doing very well on what I'm
giving him, Pitch. I'm sure we can wait
until you have to go to Antago for supplies or
something. Then you won't have to make any extra
trips." Steve knew how much Pitch wanted
to get back to his explorations and manuscript.
The trip to Antago would take away from him another
full day of work, and Steve felt guilty about it.
"I'd rather do it now than have it on rny mind,"
Pitch said. "Besides, we need more powdered milk.
It's going fast."
Steve looked into the almost empty can. "Don't you have
more in the chamber, where you keep the extra supplies?
I thought I saw some there."
"No. But there's a small can in the launch. You can
get that tomorrow morning and it'll hold you over until
I get back."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Okay, Pitch." Steve reached for the tablespoon which
he had been sterilizing in boiling water.
Watching him, Pitch said, "Maybe the vet will say
all this sterilization isn't necessary. It'll save you a
lot of work if it isn't. And I'll bring back
some nursing nipples; they'll be easier than using
a spoon."
Steve nodded, then suddenly thought of something. "But
what will you tell the vet, Pitch? I mean, how much
will you tell him? What if he asks,
where is this orphaned foal?"
"I don't think he will, Steve. I don't know
him very well, and I'll just be seeking information for a friend
of mine." Pitch smiled. "You're a friend of mine."
Pausing, he added, "But even if he does pin me
down I'll tell him the foal is on Azul
Island and he'll think only of the band on the spit.
And I won't be lying, for the colt
is
on Azul Island."
"But you'd better be careful," Steve warned.
"I will. You can count on me for that," Pitch
replied. "I don't want anyone to suspect
what we've found any more than you do."
When Steve went down to the valley floor, he
heard the colt before he was able to see him in the dim
light of the starlit valley. A soft neigh came
to him, then the sound of a slight movement of hoofs.
Steve saw the outline of the foal's figure as he
came trotting across the valley. And he marveled that
while yesterday the foal could hardly move about, tonight
he was trotting! Tomorrow he might even take his first
few strides at a run!
The colt stopped before him, his muzzle seeking the
glass jar he had come to know so well. It was no
longer necessary for Steve to put him on the ground to feed
him. He had only to hold the colt's head steady
and spoon the milk into his eager mouth. Tonight he
counted the number of spoonfuls
SEA ENTRANCE
in the half-pint of milk he gave the foal. He
stopped counting when he had reached thirty and there was more
milk still left in the jar. Pitch was right; it was going
to be a lot easier feeding the colt when they had
nursing nipples.
Finally the jar was empty, and Steve straightened,
relaxing his cramped back muscles. He watched
the foal bend his long forelegs in an attempt
to reach the grass. Successful in pulling
loose a few blades, the colt held them between his
lips without trying to chew them. He had no taste for
grass yet; that would come later.
Steve ran his hands over the hardening body and down the
legs to the tiny, fawnlike hoofs. He handled the
foal this way every hour, rubbing him to strengthen the
muscles and to stimulate circulation. He picked
up each foot to get the foal used to his holding
them. Already Steve had begun the early training of this
colt which so completely relied upon him, belonged
to him.
And now he thought of the other things he would ask Pitch
to bring back in order that he might continue this early
training. A small, soft brush to groom the colt.
He had one he used on Flame, but it was too
large and stiff for the foal's slight body. And a
soft web halter, too, which the colt could wear. It
would make it easier to train him to be led, to stand still,
to be tied.
This early schooling was very important, for Steve was
determined that when he left for home he was going
to take the colt with him. He told himself that he had
to do it because the colt would be relying on him for milk for
at least six months, and therefore the only thing he could
do was to take him home. Actually Steve
had his own reasons for wanting to take the colt with
him. The colt would be living evidence of the lost world
within the walls of Azul
Island. The colt would help him through the long months
when he would be away from Blue Valley and
Flame. Steve knew he'd never be able to take
Flame away from the island, for the great stallion
belonged there with his band. But the colt didn't belong.
He was an orphan, an outcast even from this forsaken
band.
The boy reached down to lift the foal, and carried him
the short distance to Bottle Canyon.
Early the next morning Steve was back to turn the
colt loose in Blue Valley and to feed him again.
He left the colt stretched out asleep in the sun
after the meal, and went back below the ledge.
"Pitch!" he shouted.
"Yes, Steve?" Pitch looked down.
"I'm going to the launch for the can of powdered milk.
Please keep your eye on the colt if the band comes
up for water."
"All right, Steve. I'll be ready to leave in about
an hour or so. I'm just finishing some work."
Steve walked partway down the valley, then whistled
to Flame when he saw the stallion emerging
from the cane. There came a quickening beat to Flame's
running hoofs, then he was in full gallop.
He neared Steve with flying mane and tail, his
sharply pointed ears pricked forward and almost touching
at the tips. He plunged past, then came to a
sudden stop, whirled and returned to the boy, stopping
at his side.
His action free and graceful, Flame pranced at
Steve's side. The boy put his hands on the
stallion, then quickly pulled himself up. Barely
did he have his balance when Flame was off with giant
strides. Faster and faster the long
SEA ENTRANCE
legs moved, and Steve shifted his weight forward.
He kept Flame far to the left of where the band was
grazing and finally sent him flying into the tall cane,
never slowing the stallion's strides until they
came out on the other side of the field. Before them now
was the long, gradual climb to the base of the western
wall of the valley.
Without any direction from Steve, Flame turned
to the right, running between the field of cane and the wall.
He seemed to know where they were going. Less than a
mile away, a thin cloud of vapor was beginning
to rise from the hollow that held the marsh.
The footing beneath Flame's running feet was hard and
stony, so Steve kept the stallion at a slow
canter lest he stumble and fall. He slowed him
down still more when they reached the rim of the hollow and started
their descent. The ground became soft, and
voluntarily Flame slowed to a walk as he neared
the edge of the swamp.
The foul smell of rotting vegetation was in their
nostrils, but Steve knew the odor wasn't
anything compared to what it would be when the vapors
thickened with the heat of the noonday sun. Flame's
hoofs made soft sucking sounds as he went toward
one of the narrow green avenues running through the marsh.
At a very slow walk the stallion entered the
cloudlike world, following hoofprints that he had
left from countless other journeys. He was no
stranger to the marsh. Solid ground was beneath his feet,
but on either side was a slimy wilderness of high
reeds, swamp ferns and all-engulfing quagmires.
Steve hated this place, but he made no attempt
to hurry Flame. A slip, a fall, a few
feet on either side meant a terrible death in the still,
black pools. But while the marsh
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
was long it wasn't wide and he knew they'd
be out of it within a few minutes. They were going in the
direction of the western wall. Steve looked
straight ahead, toward the high cut that shattered the
wall. He thought of the name Pitch had given it on his
map-Dry Stream Gorge. Well, that's
exactly what it was, for a stream had once cut that
gorge and had flowed into the hollow. It was now dry
because the Conquistadores had diverted the stream in
order to use this gorge as a passage to Blue
Valley. At least, that's what he and Pitch had
decided between them.
They emerged from the marsh and Flame began his climb
up the twisting, turning gorge. High yellow
walls rose on either side of them, and the way was
strewn with stones and boulders. Flame attempted
to lengthen his strides, but Steve kept him at a
slow walk, fearing he might fall and injure himself.
At the top of the gorge the yellow walls widened.
Set amid their towering peaks was the green sliver of a
long and narrow valley.
Steve stopped a moment to rest Flame. "On the
map Pitch calls this Small Valley," he said
aloud. Nothing fancy about any of the names Pitch had
given these places. But then there was nothing fancy about
Pitch, either. Smiling, Steve led
Flame into the valley.
The far wall toward which he rode was split with many
chasms and caves. From one cave flowed a stream which
came a short way down the valley, then turned
suddenly and disappeared at the base of the northern
wall. It was this stream that had been diverted from flowing
into the hollow in Blue Valley.
When he reached the stream, Steve slid off
Flame's back to let the stallion drink. The far
wall was only a hundred
SEA ENTRANCE
yards away, and he intended to go the rest of the way
alone, leaving Flame to
graze.
He hurried toward the chasm just to the right of the cave from
which the stream came. With no hesitation he entered it.
The sea entrance to Azul Island was just a short
distance away. Already he could hear the dull thud of the
waves beating against the outer wall.
At the end of the chasm loomed a large hole.
Steve stopped for a moment to accustom his eyes to the
dim, gray light. Then he hurried on, bracing
himself against the gusts of wind that intermittently came
at him.
Fine white sand was beneath his feet, and as
Steve rounded a turn the light became brighter. Then
he stepped into the great rectangular chamber that housed
the entrance to the sea. Through the center of the chamber ran
a narrow canal, its waters flooding and ebbing with the
waves which struck the outer wall and found their way
inside through a low but wide hole at the base.
Steve went to the motor launch that was moored to one
of the low, moss-covered piles on the side of the
canal. Boarding, he found the can of powdered milk that
Pitch had left in the galley. He looked around
the launch for anything else he might need. But the
only things to be seen were a pile of rope in the stern
and two more picks.
Before leaving, he turned to look at the great wooden
panels above the sea hole. The two panels could
be slid apart, giving the hole in the wall all the
height anyone would need to bring in a launch. But
unless one knew about it one would never suspect the
existence of the false partition from the sea, for,
outside, it was the color of the walls, and the hole itself
was too low for anyone to notice.
It was through this entrance that the Conquistadores had
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
brought their men, their weapons and their horses to Blue
Valley. Steve thought of them now,
wondering what it would have been like to have been one of them.
Then his thoughts turned back to Flame and Pitch and the
foal. He'd better return to Blue Valley,
for Pitch probably was ready to leave for Antago.
He hurried from the chamber without a backward glance.
Later, when he rode Flame into the dry stream
gorge leading back to the marsh, he slowed down the
stallion reluctantly. He was anxious to get
back to Blue Valley, more anxious and worried
than he should have been. And there wasn't any reason
for it, he told himself. No reason at all. He
hadn't been gone more than an hour. Pitch was taking
care of the foal. Nothing could have happened. Pitch
wouldn't let the colt out of his sight. He could
depend upon that. Yet his uneasiness that something had
gone wrong during his short absence persisted. There was
nothing to account for it, yet try as he did he
couldn't rid himself of it.
He started to urge Flame out of his cautious walk
around the stones of the gorge, then stopped himself from giving
any command-to the stallion. He couldn't risk going
faster. Flame knew this twisting, turning gorge,
and he was going down it carefully. To increase his
speed might result in a broken leg. Just the thought
of it caused Steve to sit back and try
again to relax.
They were almost at the end of the gorge. Another turn
would take them to the marsh and after that they'd be in Blue
Valley. He'd let Flame go at full
gallop then, Steve decided.
The stallion slipped as they made the last sharp
turn, regained his balance and went on. Steve was
giving thanks to Flame's sure-footedness when he
saw the foal.
SEA ENTRANCE

The colt was lying sprawled on the jagged stones.
Flame snorted. Beyond the colt, emerging from the
marsh, was Pitch. He looked at them, then at the
foal. "He followed you," Pitch called, running
toward the colt. "I tried, but I couldn't keep
up with him."
Steve slid off Flame's back, his heart like
lead, his stomach sick.
Forced Journey
The foal raised his head as Steve neared him. He
uttered a short neigh, then lowered his head again. His
eyes were clear; there was no pain in them.
Steve turned to Pitch, who now stood beside him.
"Maybe he's just tired," he said
hopefully.
"Could be," Pitch said, the fear gone from his voice,
too. "He's been going a long time for him, ever
since you and Flame started down the valley. He
watched you a moment, then got to his feet and went
into that mincing trot of his. I yelled, but he paid
no attention to me so I started after him. He stopped
often to rest, but whenever I was just about to get my hands
on him he'd start moving again. He went right past the
band-scarcely even noticed them. I guess he
didn't want to forget which way you and Flame had
gone. Four times I almost caught him before he reached
the marsh, but he always got away. And how he ever
found his way through the marsh, I'll never know. Maybe
he followed Flame's hoofprints. Maybe it was
only instinct that showed him the way. He was a good
two hundred yards ahead of me by that time, I
guess."
Pitch turned to look at the foal before adding, "You
know as much about what happened after that as I do. I was
just coming out of the marsh when you and Flame appeared. The
colt could be exhausted and just resting now ... or he
could have stumbled and fallen. I don't know, Steve.
I'm sorry it had to happen, but I did my best
to catch him."
The boy was bending over the foal. "Come on,
fellow. Let's get up now." The colt nuzzled
him, pulling his fingers. It was an encouraging sign.
"I think he's just resting, Pitch. He doesn't
seem to be in any pain."
"No, he doesn't."
The colt was lying on his right side, his legs
outstretched. There was no mark on him, no apparent
evidence of injury. But Steve saw the large
boulder a few feet behind the colt. If the colt
had struck that on his way up the gorge, he could have
fallen hard and be hurt without their knowing it.
"Let's try to get him up, Pitch. If he
stands without showing any sign of pain we'll know he's
all right."
Flame had been watching them from a few feet
away, but now he came close to the foal, nickering
and stretching his neck toward him.
Steve got his hands around the foal's shoulders,
while Pitch took the hindquarters. "Easy now,"
Steve said, addressing both the foal and Pitch. A
startled expression came into the colt's eyes, but
he did not struggle. "We just want you to stand a
minute, fellow, then you can rest again," Steve told
him.
The colt's long legs were under him. With great care
Steve and Pitch kept their hands on him when the tiny
hoofs touched the ground. They sent worried glances
at the legs that supported the tired, wavering body.
The forelegs were
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
unsteady but down; so were the hind.
No!
The colt wasn't using his right hind leg to support
any of his weight!
Steve dropped down beside him, sick at heart again.
Feeling, probing, he ran his hand down the foal's
leg. Only after he had passed the hock did he
feel anything.
"Pitch!"
The colt tried to move away on three legs when
Pitch dropped down beside Steve.
"Right here!" Steve said.
The man's fingers went to the leg, and the foal whinnied
at his touch.
"Something's wrong," Pitch said gravely after a
minute. "But maybe it's not a break . . . just a
sprain."
"We've got to get him out of here. To the vet's,
Pitch."
"You don't think that if we just wrapped it well,
it'd heal?"
Steve shook his head, his eyes closed. "Not if
we ever want him to use that leg again," he said
miserably.
"But of course we want him to use it," Pitch
returned quickly. "We'll take him to the
veterinarian now, Steve. Right'now," he repeated.
With grave faces they rose to their feet. Flame
seemed to sense something was wrong for he stood without
moving, without any sign of restlessness, just waiting.
"We'll have to carry him, Pitch."
The man nodded, but then he saw Flame and asked,
"Can't you ride Flame and carry the foal in
front of you? It would be easier on him and us."
A few minutes later Steve was on Flame, and
Pitch was carefully lifting the foal up to him. They
got the forelegs on one side of Flame, the hind
legs on the other. Finally they
started up the gorge, Pitch walking beside Flame and
keeping one hand on the foal to help Steve hold
him steady.
The going was hard in the gorge, but much easier in the
small valley. They traveled faster up the
valley and entered the chasm, not stopping
until they came to the cave which led to the sea chamber.
Only then did they speak again.
"Should we carry the foal from here?" Pitch asked.
"No, he's resting comfortably. It'll be easier
if we go on as we are."
They entered the dimly lit cave and Flame walked
carefully as though fully aware of the burden he
carried. Never did he crabstep or break from his
smooth, easy walk in the cave's white sand.
They came to the sea chamber and stopped beside the motor
launch.
"We'll have to be careful getting him down now,"
Pitch cautioned. "I'll get his hindquarters and
watch the leg. You just take care of him up
front."
Flame never moved as Steve carefully raised the
colt's forelegs, while Pitch lowered the
hindquarters. Finally Pitch had the foal in his arms
and was carrying him aboard the launch. Steve
followed, and they placed the colt on a blanket in
the stern. They stepped back to see if he would make
any attempt to get to his feet. He didn't.
He was weary and his eyes were half-closed.
"At least he doesn't seem to be in pain,"
Steve said hopefully.
"He's probably too tired to feel anything just
now," Pitch said. "And we were careful not to jostle
him. But the sooner we get him to the vet the better.
When he wakes up it might be different."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Steve was with Flame when Pitch started the launch's
motor. The roar of it caused the stallion to move
quickly away. Steve watched him until he
disappeared through the cave on his way back to Blue
Valley, then he boarded the moving launch. The
foal had raised his head a little at the sudden
noise, but now was sleeping again. Steve hurried to the
bow of the boat. Pitch kept the launch steady while
Steve reached for the handholds in the wooden doors
above the low sea hole. The partitions spread apart,
sliding easily in their grooves.
"That's wide enough," Pitch yelled over the
motor's roar. The wind swept into the chamber. The
open sea was before them.
While Pitch was taking the launch through the exit,
Steve ran back to the stern. Once they were outside
the wall, Pitch held the boat steady while
Steve closed the panels. Then he went to sit beside
the foal. Pitch gunned the motor, taking the
launch safely through a channel that found its
way past the black shadows of submerged rocks.
It would take them about four hours to get to Antago,
Steve knew. That meant it would be a little after noon
when they arrived. He turned to look back at
the'yellow dome of Azul Island when they were well
away from the barrier walls. Then his gaze swept
back to the foal, who still slept. The boat rocked
on the swells of the open sea; there were no waves
to speak of and the colt wouldn't be jostled in any way.
Steve thought of the hours he had spent dreaming of
taking this colt away with him from Blue Valley.
But not like this.
Would it be possible for the veterinarian to help him?
Would it ...
Steve got to his feet and joined Pitch at the
wheel. He
needed Pitch's assurance that everything would turn out
all right.
"Even if it's a break, the vet on Antago could
set it, couldn't he?"
"I've heard that he's a very good man, Steve."
Pitch turned to the boy, saw the fear in his eyes,
then added emphatically, "I'm certain everything will
turn out all right. Bone injuries heal fast in the
young. Why, Mrs. Reynolds's baby
fell out of her highchair when she was only a year
old and broke her collarbone. And new bone started
forming within a few days!"
"I hope you're right."
"I
know
I'm right," Pitch said. "You'd better stop
worrying about what the vet will do and start thinking * about
having some milk ready for the colt when he wakes
up."
"I hadn't even thought of it, Pitch." The boy
reached into his pocket and pulled out the tin of powdered
milk that he'd taken from the launch earlier.
"I know," the man said. "Go below to the galley and
you'll find everything else you need. There's not much
powder in the can, but it's enough for a couple of feedings
until we get to Antago."
Pitch waited until the boy had disappeared down the
short steps to the galley, then his face sobered and
concern was evident in his eyes. He wasn't
worried about the colt. He sincerely believed all
he'd told Steve. It was his stepbrother Tom who
was worrying him. If Tom had returned
to Antago, if he by any wild chance saw the
colt, all the strange things that had been
happening during the last six months might be brought
to a head. And it
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
wouldn't be a happy affair. He had avoided
telling Steve very much about Tom whenever the boy had
asked. But now . . . now it would be best if Steve
were told. They had to be ready for anything Tom
might do if he did see them and the colt.
Later, Steve reappeared. "I found everything,"
he said. "I'm waiting for the water to cool." He
turned to the foal, saw he was still sleeping, then
asked, "Want me to take the wheel for a while,
Pitch?"
"No, Steve . . . thanks." Pitch kept his
eyes on the sea ahead. "Steve?"
"Yes, Pitch?"
"You've asked me about Tom several times since your
return."
"Yes? What about him, Pitch?"
"I'd felt it best all along not to discuss Tom
with you," Pitch said. "We were safe from him in Blue
Valley. But now that you and the colt are going
to Antago ..." He stopped as though to collect his
thoughts, then plunged into what he had to say.
"Tom's been acting very strange the last
five or six months. He's always been a
domineering person, as you know. But it's more than that
now. With no just cause, he's been cruel, even
vicious at times, to the native help we've had
at the plantation. Finally it reached the point where no
one living on Antago would work for him. He lost
our last cane crop. But even this didn't seem
to bother him. I made it a point to keep out of his
way. That wasn't very difficult for me to do,
especially since he started making trips to the
islands south of Antago and once even went to South
America.
"While he was gone, I was able to get the natives
back to work. But when Tom returned they'd leave
again the moment they saw him. A week before you arrived,
Tom left Antago once more, this time telling me
he'd be in South America for a year."
When Pitch had finished, Steve studied his face a
long while before asking, "Do you think he really went
to South America, Pitch?"
"I don't know, Steve. He's been restless and
wanting excitement which he can't get on Antago.
He's lived there for years, longer than he's ever
settled down in any one place before. He could have
gone to South America again but ..." Pitch
stopped.
"But what, Pitch? What makes you think he
didn't?"
"The morning of the day you arrived, a friend of mine told
me he thought he'd seen the
Sea Queen
in the waters to the north."
Steve's gaze never left Pitch as they stood at
the bow in silence.
Sea Queen
was the name of Tom's motor launch. If Tom had
been going to South America he would have traveled
west ... to one of the western islands, where he could get
a plane for South America.
"You think then," Steve said, "that he's been
to Azul Island? Does he have any idea what
we've found there?"
"I don't honestly know, Steve. He may be
curious about my trips to the spit to do a little
excavation work. He knows of my interest in the island.
But he didn't seem to take any active interest
in my work until the last few months. In his
sarcastic way he asked if my digging had turned
up anything. I told him I'd found nothing on the
spit-which I hadn't, of course."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"But why his sudden interest?" Steve asked
gravely.
"Perhaps his restlessness was the cause of it. Perhaps it was
your letters."
"You didn't let him see them, Pitch?"
Steve's words were clipped.
"No, but I burned them after reading them. Tom saw
me burning one. He probably guessed my only
reason for doing such a thing was to keep the letter out of his
hands. I should have been more careful."
They said nothing more for a long while, then Steve
spoke. "And you're afraid he might have returned
to Antago by this time? You're afraid he'll see the
..."
"dis . . the colt." Pitch said it for him. "And if
he did he'd know we
bad
found something on Azul Island we were keeping
to ourselves."
"But the colt could be from the band on the spit," Steve
said quickly. "We can tell Tom that, if he sees
us."
"But would he believe us?" Pitch asked quietly.
Steve turned to the foal, who was starting
to wake up. Again he took note of the fine
wedge-shaped head, the delicate lines of neck and
body.
Even as he looked at the colt, Pitch reminded
him, "Tom's been around horses most of his life.
He'll see what you see, Steve. He'll know that
that foal could never have been born from the stock on the
spit."
The boy turned to him. "But we don't need to go to the
plantation, do we, Pitch?"
"No. I did all I could there before your arrival.
I have no reason to go."
"Then after we've seen the vet we'll go right back
to Blue Valley," Steve said.
"Yes," Pitch agreed, "that's our best bet. Do
what we
have to do, then get off Antago fast." He paused.
"I feel much better now that I've told you
everything, Steve . . . much better."
The foal was fully awake, and Steve hurried below
to the galley to get the milk for him.
During the remainder of the trip to Antago, Steve
stayed with the colt, keeping him down on the blanket.
There was pain in the foal's eyes now and Steve
tried to comfort him, soothing him with voice and
hands. Occasionally the foal would drop off to sleep
again and only then would the boy's thoughts turn to Tom
Pitcher and what he had seen this giant of a man do
with the long bull whip that he wore wrapped around his
bulging waist. He knew the terror Tom would bring
to Blue Valley if he ever found the lost band of
horses that grazed there.
But never would Tom find them. Never!
It was almost a year since Steve had last seen
Tom Pitcher. But it could have been only an hour
ago, for it wasn't easy to forget him. Steve saw
his dark, low-jowled face with its beady, suspicious
eyes always watching, waiting to catch one off guard.
And when the opportunity came, Tom attacked
viciously by word or action, for it was in him always
to demonstrate his superiority over man and
animal. Steve wondered now what instinct fostered
Tom's determination to dominate everything before him. Was
it fear? Was it pride in his tremendous body and
strength? Anyway, it was there for anyone to see.
Steve thought again of the bull whip which Tom could use so
skillfully that it might as well be his own arm going
out to grasp and tear at will. Steve had seen him use
it last summer.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
There had been no escape for the small, wiry
horse in the plantation's corral. Tom had run
him before the whip until the horse could hardly stand.
He'd fought him out of what seemed to Steve to be a
terrible love of fighting. And when the horse had
stood before the man with swaying and trembling body,
Tom had regretted the end of the fight. Then the
animal had been broken to saddle by Tom, broken
in body by Tom, broken in spirit by Tom.
The colt moved, seeking to get to his feet.
Steve quieted him, keeping his hands on the small,
hard body, comforting him, protecting him.
Before noon they were within sight of Antago. The island
lay green and rolling, with no hill more than a
hundred feet high. They could see the red-roofed
homes that dotted the coastline and, beyond, the waving'
green fields of sugar cane. A half-hour
later they rounded a point and came into Chestertown, the
only port and town of any size on Antago.
A freighter was just offshore, transporting its
cargo into large, deep rowboats. But Pitch and
Steve were more interested in the sailboats and launches
moored to the wharf.
"Would the
Sea Queen
be here, if Tom's on Antago?" Steve asked
from where he sat with the colt.
"Usually he keeps it here," Pitch said without
turning around. "But he has a pier near the
plantation also, and once in a while he uses that."
The foal raised his head as though he, too, wanted
to know what lay ahead. Keeping the tiny body still,
Steve said, "Quiet, fellow. Just be patient a
little longer, and we'll have you at the doctor's."
Pitch said, "The
Sea Queen's
not here."
A few minutes later he brought the launch in to the
end
of the wharf, where he had left his car when he and Steve
had set out for Azul Island a few days earlier.
Steve helped him dock the boat, then they carried
the foal to the car. There was plenty of activity going
on farther down the wharf, near the great warehouse
sheds, so scarcely anyone noticed their burden.
"You get in back with him," Pitch said. "That's it.
But watch his legs; they're hitting the door."
They got the foal inside the car, stretched out on the
seat. "It's the best we can do, Pitch," Steve
said. "I'll watch his leg so it won't be
jarred."
The man nodded and got behind the wheel. Leaving the long
wharf, they went up the main street of Chestertown.
The noise and confusion were startling after the quiet of
Blue Valley, and Steve tried to shut his eyes
and ears to the sight and sound of the crazy tangle of
traffic.
The shops on either side of the street were colorless but
neat. The too-narrow sidewalks overflowed with
busy people who spilled into the cobblestone road and
scurried before cars and bicycles. They were
predominantly black, and a few made their way
through the bustling traffic skillfully balancing huge
baskets on their heads. Native policemen,
snappily dressed in khaki uniforms and caps,
stood at the street intersections frantically blowing
their whistles in an attempt to maintain some
semblance of order.
Soon they had left the business section behind and were in
the suburbs of Chestertown. Here they passed
small, neat houses with yards of colorful
tropical shrubs protected by freshly painted
white fences.
"The vet's office is just a little farther on,"
Pitch said. "We'll soon be there."
They were out of the heaviest traffic when Steve noticed
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Pitch's frequent glances in the rear-view
mirror. "What is it?" he asked.
"I thought I saw Tom's car behind us. But I must
have been mistaken; it's not there now."
A mile farther on Pitch came to a stop before a
two-story frame house. On the picket gate was
the sign: dr. F. A. MASON, V.m.d.
They carried the foal around the house to a low
one-story building in the back. "Now let's just
hope he's in," Pitch said, ringing the office
bell.
A moment later, a baldheaded man appeared at the
screen door. He had a gray mustache and a
short, pointed beard.
"Dr. Mason?" Pitch asked.
"Yes," said the man, his eyes on the foal.
"Bring him in," he said abruptly, holding the
door open. "Follow me, please."
He ushered them into a large room with a tanbark
floor. Another man, younger than Dr. Mason,
looked up inquiringly as they approached. "This is
Dr. Crane, my assistant."
"It's his leg," Steve said. "His right
hind."
Dr. Mason nodded. "Let Dr. Crane hold
him, please. And step back from the table, if you will."
Pitch drew Steve away, but not before the boy had
explained, "He fell, Doctor. He's hurt
just below the hock."
"He can find it, Steve," Pitch said
sympathetically. "We'll help more by leaving them
alone."
Steve didn't say anything, but his eyes never
left the doctor as the veterinarian's hands
traveled down the right hind leg. In an attempt
to relieve his anxiety he listened to the sounds from
other animals housed somewhere in the
building. He heard the incessant barking of a dog,
the bleating of goats.
Pitch said, "He keeps only his small
animals here. But he does a lot of work on the
plantations for cattle, horses and mules. He's
good. He's got so much business he needed someone
to help him. Dr. Crane arrived a month ago."
Much later, Steve heard Dr. Mason tell his
assistant, "It's a fracture of the proximal
end of the tibia. We'll use a modified Thomas
splint of light aluminum." Only-the word
fracture
meant anything to Steve. He broke away from
Pitch's grasp and ran to the table, fixing frightened
eyes on Dr. Mason. "How bad is it,
Doctor? Will he be all right?"
The doctor turned to him, annoyed at first, then
tolerant and understanding. He put his hand on Steve's
arm. "Don't you worry about him," he said. "Within
three weeks that leg will be completely healed, and
you'll forget he ever injured it. And so will he."
Addressing Pitch, and motioning to him to get Steve out
of the room, he said, "If you two will wait in my
office, we'll get him fixed up all the
sooner."
Pitch understood. He took Steve's arm and led
him out of the room. Across the corridor was the
doctor's office, and they went in there to sit down and
wait for the colt.

"What time is it, Pitch?"
"One-thirty. It's only been a half-hour."
"It seems longer than that."
Pitch nodded. They sat in silence for another
fifteen minutes. The boy rose from the couch,
walked around the room, then sat down again,
glancing at Pitch's wrist watch.
"We must remember to ask Dr. Mason about feeding
the colt," Pitch said, hoping that conversation would
relieve the boy's tension.
Steve nodded but said nothing.
"Unless we have to, let's not mention anything to him
about Azul Island," Pitch went on. "The less
people know about our being there the better. The colt's an
orphaned foal; that's all we'll say. If
I'm not mistaken the vet will just assume that we're
keeping him right here on Antago. What else
could
he think?"
Again Steve nodded without saying anything.
The door opened and Dr. Mason appeared, his hand
stroking his light beard. "The colt's ready to go,"
he said.
Steve was out of the office before Pitch had risen to his
feet. He entered the large room across the
corridor ahead of

Dr. Mason. The colt was standing, his injured leg
held in a fixed position by a crutchlike splint
that began at his tiny hoof and ended in a large hoop
around his hindquarters. The veterinarian's
assistant was with him.
Steve dropped down beside Dr. Crane. "He's
all right?"
"Yes. He'll have no trouble. We've set the
bone and the healing should be rapid." Dr. Crane's
hands traveled up and down the light metal rods
on either side of the foal's leg and then he examined
again the heavy bandaging above and below the hock. "We've
used plaster of Paris here," he explained.
"There's no chance of his getting out of the splint.
He'll be able to walk but not trot or run." His
hand went to the hoop of the splint which encircled the
colt's hindquarters. "This is covered with soft
leather, as you can see, so I don't think there'll be
any chafing of the skin." Smiling, he turned
to Steve. "You needn't worry about him. The bone's
been set and now he just has to use a crutch for a
while. It's as simple as that."
Dr. Mason joined them, his hands too checking the
heavily bandaged leg. "But keep him away from other
horses, and watch his dam to make certain she
doesn't push him around either."
Steve turned to him. "He doesn't have any-was
Pitch interrupted. "He's an orphaned foal,"
he told the doctor.
Dr. Mason rose to his feet, and Steve heard
him ask Pitch, "You've been giving him cow's
milk?"
Pitch nodded, and the doctor said, "He looks as
though he's doing all right. How old is he?"
"Four days," Steve said.
Dr. Mason turned back to Pitch. "There's no
reason why
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
a foal, with proper care, can't be raised on cow's
milk," he said. "It contains more fat and less
sugar than mare's milk, but it's a good enough
substitute."
"We've been adding sugar," Steve said.
Dr. Mason cast a searching glance at Steve, and
then directed his next question to him. "How much milk have
you been giving him?"
"About a quarter of a pint every hour except at
night, when I give him a half-pint in three
feedings."
The veterinarian nodded in approval. "There's more
danger in overfeeding a young foal than underfeeding,"
he said. "A general rule to follow is to have him still
hungry when he's had his allotted amount. I'm
surprised you knew. A lot of people would have
given him all he'd take at a feeding."
Pitch said, "Steve loves horses."
Dr. Crane spoke for the first time in a long while.
"I can see that," he said, smiling at Dr.
Mason.
"Oh, yes, and we wanted to ask you, Doctor,
whether it's necessary to boil the milk and sterilize all
the utensils." Pitch addressed Dr. Mason.
"We've been doing that."
"It's very necessary for a while. You have to take the same
precautions you would in the feeding of a human infant.
Everything must be scrupulously clean, otherwise
digestive disturbances are certain to follow."
Pitch glanced at Steve, then turned back
to Dr. Mason. "How long before he can be taught
to drink from a pail?"
"Within a few days. You can start now by offering him the
pail rather than the nipple and bottle. See if you
can't get him to take it from the pail. The sooner you
train him the easier it'll be for you."

Pitch saw no reason to tell him they hadn't been
using nipples because none had been available on
Azul Island. Just as he'd suspected, the
doctor assumed they lived on Antago.
Dr. Mason turned to Steve. "It's safe now
to increase gradually the amount of milk you give
him," he said, "and lengthen the period between feedings
until the foal is being fed only four times a day.
I want to see him again in about twenty-one days. The
bone should be completely healed by that time."
"He'll be all right until then?" Steve asked.
"I don't see why not. Just keep him isolated from
other horses. I wouldn't want him kicked now.
He'll get used to the splint almost immediately. He
won't give you any trouble."
Pitch asked, "Would it be wiser to keep him here with
you, Doctor?"
"No, there wouldn't be any point to it as long as
you're able to keep your eye on him. And I'm out
most of the day with Dr. Crane. I'd have no one here
to care for him as you would."
"I want to take him with us," Steve said.
Pitch looked at him. "All right, Steve. I just
thought it might be best for him under the circumstances."
Dr. Mason smiled. "Under the circumstances it's
best that he go with you. Setting a bone is a simple
matter compared to playing mother to a foal."
Sympathetically he placed his hand on Steve's
arm. "I want you to get a bottle of
lime water at the drug store. Put four
tablespoonfuls of it in every pint of milk you give
him. He needs more calcium for a few weeks."
A little later they were back in the car, driving to town.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
The foal stood on the floor in front of the back
seat, his head stretched toward the closed window.
Steve sat on the seat holding him steady, watching
him, while Pitch drove slowly.
They were nearing the center of town when Pitch said,
glancing into his rear-view mirror, "I keep
thinking I see Tom's car."
Steve looked out the back window. "What kind of a
car does he drive?"
"He's got a Ford, a maroon two-door
sedan."
"There's nothing like that behind us."
"I know there isn't now," Pitch said, pulling up
in front of Antago's largest drug store. "Just
my nerves, I guess. I'm going to get the
powdered milk and the nipples."
"And lime water," the boy reminded him.
While Steve waited he watched for a maroon Ford
sedan. But he saw none and figured that Pitch had
been mistaken in thinking he had seen
Tom. Within a few minutes they'd be on their way
back to Blue Valley, where Tom never would find
them.
Pitch returned, carrying a box containing the powdered
milk, nursing bottles, nipples and several
large bottles of lime water. When he had them in
the car, Steve said, "The harness shop is just up the
street. I want to get a web halter and a
brush."
"Make it snappy, Steve," Pitch said, getting
in the back of the car to hold the colt.
Steve was gone only a few minutes and when he
returned with his packages, Pitch moved up
front again behind the wheel.
"I don't suppose you'd consider boarding the colt

somewhere on Antago," he said before starting the motor.
"It might be wiser than taking him back ... for his
good, I mean."
Steve rubbed the foal's muzzle. "But where,
Pitch? Do you know anyone we could trust, anyone
who would take good care of him?"
"Frankly I don't, Steve. But we might be
able to find someone."
"I wouldn't trust anyone with him," Steve
said thoughtfully. "If you knew of a good home for him
it would be different. But I just won't take a chance.
He'll be safe with us. We know that. No harm can
come to him where we're going."
"I suppose you're right, Steve," Pitch said,
starting the motor. "But he's going to keep you busy.
You won't have much time for anything else."
They drove to the wharf. The freighter had finished
unloading, but the activity on the wharf had not
lessened for now Antago's exports, rum and
molasses, were being taken to the waiting ship. Slowly
Pitch steered the car through groups of perspiring
stevedores, honking his horn constantly to avoid
hitting anyone. They passed the long row of parked
cars and trucks on their left without looking at them.
They went to the far end of the wharf where they could park
easily and leave the car until Pitch's next
trip to Antago.
The foal hardly moved in their arms as they carried
him from the car to the waiting motor launch.
Pitch said, "He's getting so used to being carried
by us that the next thing we know he won't want
to walk!"
Steve laughed, all his worry and tension gone. "I
don't
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
think so, Pitch. Someday he'll be as big and strong
as Flame; then he'll be carrying us."
There was no longer any pain in the colt's eyes,
only wonder and curiosity at everything Steve and
Pitch did. As Dr. Mason had said, he was
already getting used to the splint. He had no trouble
standing, and Steve knew he would start walking the moment
they gave him a chance.
"Well, we did everything we wanted to do," Steve
told Pitch as the launch's motor burst into a
roar. "And we needn't have worried about meeting
Tom. My guess is that he did go to South
America and it'll be a long, long time before you see
him again."
"Yes," Pitch agreed, "you're probably right.
We just caused ourselves needless worry. It wasn't
even necessary for me to have given you the whole story on
Tom."
"But I'm glad you did, Pitch. I'm in this as
much as you are, you know."
Pitch headed the launch toward the open sea.
Neither he nor Steve looked back at the wharf, for
now their eyes and thoughts were only for Azul Island.
But if either
had
turned, he might have seen the Ford pull out of the line
of parked cars on the wharf. It was a sedan, a
two-door sedan, and its color was maroon.
Now it sped down the wharf, its motor racing, its
horn blaring. The stevedores jumped out of the car's
way, yelling; but when they saw the giant figure that
dwarfed the wheel, they shut their mouths tight. They
knew this man well. They wanted to have no trouble with
Tom Pitcher.
He turned right when he came off the wharf, slowing
down only because of a car directly ahead of him.
He cursed, and his heavy hand never left the horn.
He brought his front

bumper hard against the car ahead. Startled, the driver
looked back, saw Tom's face and went faster.
Tom Pitcher went faster and faster as he tore through
the outskirts of town and entered open country. Now his
huge face showed no emotion at all; it held the
deathly stillness and unnaturalness of a theatrical
mask. His mouth was a thin, hard scratch of red,
too small for the rest of him, as were his eyes. They were
beady, snakelike . . . staring now at the road
ahead without actually seeing it. He wore
no hat and his black hair stood bristling
straight, adding more inches to his giant's height.
His white sleeveless shirt was open at the throat,
disclosing his thick bull neck.
He turned down a dirt lane without slackening his
speed. Fields of cane were on his left, the sea
on his right. He glanced at the open water just once
and momentarily his eyes came alive.
He drove on and on until he came to the
driveway of his plantation. Turning into it, he
passed the high barred corral, then the low, rambling
house. He went on for another mile before bringing the
car to a stop before steep wooden steps that descended a
cliff to the sea.
He sprang out of the car with a grace and swiftness one
would not have expected from such a giant of a man. His
feet, like his eyes and mouth, were small for the rest of
him, and now they carried him softly, stealthily down
the wooden steps even though there was no reason for
quiet or secrecy. Yet he could not have walked
any other way. Fondly, caressingly he touched the
leather of the bull whip wrapped around his bulging
waist.
Reaching the pier at the bottom of the steps, he
turned once more to look at the point of land
around which his
stepbrother's boat must come. This time he saw it, and
his short steps quickened as he made his way to his own
launch, the
Sea Queen.
Quickly he had her unmoored and the motor racing.
He started out to sea, following the launch which was now
less than a mile away. The chase had entered its
final stage. He would follow his stepbrother, the
boy and the foal to wherever they were going and then . . .
For more than three hours he stayed far behind the other
launch; it was only a tiny speck on the
horizon. But this was enough for him to know they were headed for
Azul Island. Until now the giant had not been
certain that it was the destination of his stepbrother, the boy
and the foal.
He had gone to Azul Island a few days ago
expecting to find Phil's launch moored at the
pier on the spit. When he hadn't seen it he'd
known that his suspicions were correct . . . that
Phil and the boy, Steve, had found something they were
keeping very much to themselves. Deciding they never had gone
to Azul Island, he'd combed the few islands to the
west, looking for them. He had found nothing and so he
had returned to Antago to wait, to pick
up the trail again. And now he had it and them.
His long fingers, square at the tips, curled about the
wheel. Where were they going on that island of yellow
rock? Where else could they moor their launch but on
the spit? Yet it hadn't been there before.
What had they found?
His thin lids opened to disclose the greed in his eyes.
He stared at the sun, already low in the sky. He
wanted it to sink quickly into the depths of the western
sea, for darkness was part of his plan.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
He stared fixedly at the launch on the horizon.
When night fell, Phil would use his running
lights. But he, Tom Pitcher, wouldn't. He would
trail, coming ever closer, following Phil and Steve
to whatever they had found. He was no navigator but
he knew beyond a doubt that Azul Island was their
destination, for no other island lay in the direction they
were taking.
He glanced up at the sun. There was at least
another hour of daylight. His long legs, spread
wide apart, trembled. Had he figured wrong?
Would they reach Azul Island before dark? The launch
ahead seemed even smaller now than it had just a
few minutes ago. were they outdistancing
him? Should he go faster, pull ever closer to them even
now? Take a chance on their seeing him?
He hated the sea! He was a hunter, more at home
on land. He needed the earth beneath his feet, earth
to provide tracks or a trail to lead him to what
he sought. He increased the speed of the launch and the
boat ahead grew larger.
The yellow dome of Azul Island appeared on the
horizon. Desperately he sought more speed from the
launch. But only a sudden sputtering came to him.
And then the motor died beneath the sound of sea and wind.
Frantic, he left the wheel of the wallowing launch
to go below. Yet all he could do was to look at the
motor without touching it. He knew nothing about
mechanical things.
With angry eyes he stood before it, cursing the
motor and the sea but never himself or his ignorance.
Finally he thought of gasoline, remembering he had not
filled the tank before his departure. Hurriedly he
returned to the deck for the large can.
How long was it before he got the motor going again?
Five minutes, ten minutes? He didn't know.
All that
BLACK WORLD
mattered was that the launch he was following was
out of sight, somewhere within the shadows of Azul Island.
His whole being was consumed with hatred for those who
temporarily had evaded him. "Fools!
Fools!" he said in a hissing whisper. "You
won't get away!"
Hearing the island, he placed a pair of binoculars
to his eyes. He picked up the pier first and found
no launch. Racing the motor, he turned away and
spent the next hour encircling the island, studying the
walled barriers against which the waves crashed. But he
never ventured too close for fear of what the
submerged rocks could do to the hull of his craft.
Only when it became dusk did he take the
launch to the pier on the spit. And now bewilderment
filled the black pits of his eyes.
They were here, but where?
What had happened to their launch? It was too big
to hide. Where were they?
He fastened his eyes on the mountainous rock rising
above the spit. He looked at it a long while before
turning away. Tonight he would sleep on the launch.
Tomorrow the hunt would begin again. Somewhere they had left a
trail, and he would surely find it.
Eagerness and anticipation absorbed his whole being
now. After a while he went below, intending
to eat, to satisfy the hunger that was already gnawing at
his stomach. The chase on Antago had not given him
time for lunch. But in the galley he found no food.
In his excitement he hadn't thought of provisions
either. Well, he would go without food tonight. But tomorrow would
be different. Tomorrow he'd find Phil and the boy. They
must have plenty of food, wherever they were. And what
else did they have?
What else?
His thin lips drew back, disclosing his small,
even teeth. His tongue ran along his lower lip as
though tasting,
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
savoring all the fine things that were in store for him.
The next morning he was up with the first gray light of
dawn. His plan was to use the dory, which he towed behind
the launch, to get as close as possible to the barrier
walls of the island. With his binoculars he would be able
to pick up any track Phil and Steve had
left. He was certain that somewhere, somehow, Phil and the
boy had penetrated the walls of Azul Island.
Where else could they be?
He stood up and stared at the sea, then decided it
was still too early to encircle the island in the dory.
He was afraid of all small craft; the
launch was bad enough, the dory worse. He might
not be able to see the submerged rocks in the early
light. He would have to be careful, too, not to be
swept in against the walls by the waves. He didn't
like any part of this phase of the hunt. Scaling the
barrier wall from the spit would be much more to his liking.
But could he do it? He'd never tried, but then he'd
never had any reason before. There might be a way.
Taking two long ropes and a pick, he left the
launch and walked down the pier to the spit. He
stopped for a moment to tighten the bull whip wrapped
securely about his waist, then he climbed to the top
of the sand dunes. From there he could see almost all of the
spit. Stretched before him was rolling land for a quarter
of a mile before it met the sea on the other side.
To his right the spit extended for a mile before
disappearing into the sea. But he never looked in those
directions. Turning to his left, he walked
swiftly toward the mountainous rock that loomed less
than a mile away.
He entered the canyon, his eyes squinting as he
looked up at the sheer walls which rose on either
side of him. He knew that his only chance of
possibly finding a way into the
BLACK WORLD
interior of Azul Island lay at the end of the
canyon. He remembered the ledge high on the
cliff, which overlooked the spit. Behind and above it was
a narrow cleavage in the wall which might mean something
if he could ever reach the ledge to find out.
The small band of horses grazing at the end of the
canyon ran when they saw him. But he paid no
attention to them, for his eyes were on the end wall. The
ledge, he figured, was about three hundred feet
above the ground. His eyelids opened slightly as he
scrutinized the wall beneath it. He considered the
possibility of lassoing two protruding stones and
reaching the ledge in stages. But the higher of the stones was
still a hundred feet below the ledge. Still, once he was
up there he might find something else above him
to lasso. It was well worth a try.
He made his noose and coiled the rope. His long
arm came back, then forward with the force of a giant
spring. The noose of the rope settled around the first
stone above and he drew it tight. He would have been
surprised if he hadn't succeeded with his first throw.
He tested his weight on the rope; then with the second
coiled rope over his shoulder he pulled himself up,
his feet braced against the wall.
Within a few minutes he had almost reached the
stone. He stopped then to remove the second rope
from his shoulder. Another seventy-five feet above
him was the next stone to be lassoed. It was much
smaller and he knew he was going to have trouble getting
the rope around it.
Four times he failed, but with his fifth try the
noose settled around the stone. Carefully he drew
it tight, then considered his next step. Before removing
the rope below him, he would go up the second rope
to see if there was
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
anything above which he might lasso that would get him to the
ledge.
Gradually he put his weight on the rope above
him. The noose slipped until there was only a
small loop around the end of the stone. He knew then
that it wouldn't bear his weight. He couldn't go up
any higher than he was. Cursing, he lowered himself
to the canyon floor and, leaving both ropes hanging
on the wall, hurried back to the launch.
Perhaps later, if all else failed, he'd try the
ropes again. But he knew there was little chance of his
reaching the ledge, and his only alternative was to find
the entrance which Phil and the boy had used.
Back at the launch, he put his
binoculars in a shoulder bag and stepped into the dory.
The small boat creaked with his weight. He hated
going to sea in it, but there was nothing else he could do.
The sun was up, the hunt was on!
He rowed for more than a mile, his beady eyes
shifting from the wall to the submerged rocks that seemed
to lie waiting for him everywhere. Perspiration broke out
on his large forehead, yet he continued rowing, continued
looking toward the rugged shore for any trace or
track of his quarry. He watched the sea beat
mercilessly against the wall, sending its white spray
many feet high in raging wrath at being stopped.
Certainly Phil and the boy had never brought in their
launch here! Perhaps farther on? But yesterday from his own
launch everything had looked the same as this when he had
encircled the island. Yet there had to be a way!
Their launch could not disappear without a trace!
He kept rowing. Another mile, two miles?
He didn't know. He stayed far enough away from the
wall so as not to
BLACK WORLD
be carried in by the increased momentum of the swells as
they plunged shoreward. Now his eyes were more on the
submerged rocks about him than on the island. He
knew he would have turned back long ago
except that he dared not risk going back the same
way. He had been lucky to get this far. He
turned the dory away from the wall, seeking the
safety pf the outer sea. His face and body were
wet with perspiration. He pulled hard upon the oars.
He heard the deep thud, the shattering of wood before
he actually realized what had happened. Then the
water began sweeping swiftly into the boat. He
tried to plug the hole with his shoulder bag, but the bag
was too small and he too slow. The boat settled
quickly. He held on to its side until it
disappeared beneath the surface, leaving him alone against the
sea.
He swam toward the wall, fifty yards away.
Strangely enough he was less afraid now than before.
He had feared the submerged rocks because he could not
see them, because his tremendous strength could not be used
against them. The waves which swept him closer and
closer to the wall were an adversary he understood and
could fight. Even if this was the end he was not afraid.
There was nothing ignoble in dying this way, fighting.
The wall came ever closer and he swam hard
to keep off the crest of wave after wave. He slid
into deep troughs, plunging under water each time a
wave would seek to pick him up and hurl
him forward. His body scraped hard against the
submerged rocks, but he felt no pain.
And then he saw the wall very close to him. One
slip now and he'd be hurled against it. He plunged
beneath a swell that curled upon him. When he came to the
surface he saw the large moss-covered rock a
few feet to his left. The white
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
waters of the last wave were running down its sides,
leaving it completely exposed. Furiously he
swam to it and secured a hold as the next wave
struck. The fury of the waters almost tore his grip
away from the rock. But he held on to it as he'd
never held on to anything before; then he pulled himself
around the side of the rock to find still another rock behind
it. Long and narrow and low, it extended to the wall.
He pulled himself onto it and lay there, breathing
heavily. When his strength had returned he looked
at the wall. He saw the thin ledge near the base.
He noticed something else that caused his eyes
to burn again with eagerness. The hunt wasn't over, as
he'd thought!
When the next big wave receded, it exposed the
low, narrow rock before him. Quickly he made his way
to the wall, his hands clawing the rock, his
feet slipping over its wet, green moss. Reaching
the ledge, he turned to face the wall, his fingers
groping for the piece of cloth that was imbedded within a
jagged crack in the stone. He felt it between his thumb
and forefinger. But he didn't look at it again. He
didn't need to. He knew the cloth was from
Phil's bush jacket. And he knew from the feel
of it that it had been there a long time, maybe a year.
Perhaps when Phil and the boy had first come to Azul
Island they had stood on this thin ledge with their backs
hard against the wall,
the same as he did now!
Turning to the right, he saw the shallow cleft in the
rock at the end of the ledge.
Carefully he made his way to it and stood within the
narrow confines of its three sides. The trail was as
clear as if a note had been left for him. He
saw the niches in the wall opposite him, one above
the other for the full fifty feet of the cleft's
height. He knew why the niches were there. He
BLACK WORLD
put a foot in one of them and braced his back against
the wall behind him; then he started up, wedged between the
sides of the cleft.
When he reached the top he saw the wide
ledge, in the center of which was a stone shaft rising a
few feet above the ground. He ran toward it, his
face aflame. He saw the rope tied securely
about the shaft and hanging down inside. Bending over,
he looked down into the darkness.
"I've found you. I've found you!" he said in a
whisper. Phil and Steve might be directly beneath
him and he wanted to take them completely
by surprise.
Putting a leg over the shaft, he tested the rope,
then squeezed his body inside and Started down.
He let the rope slide slowly through his hands while
his feet scraped down the sides of the shaft. The
light faded and he stopped a minute before descending
any farther into the darkness. He regretted the loss
of his flashlight which was in the shoulder bag he had so
foolishly used in an attempt to plug the hole in
the dory. He searched his wet pockets for a book
of matches but found none. His hand caressed the leather
of the bull whip still wrapped about his waist. At least
he had that. Then he continued down the shaft.
Nothing would stop him now that he was so close to the end
of the hunt! And perhaps it was better that he had no
light. Phil and the boy couldn't be far away and he
wanted to come upon them unnoticed. The light
of the flash might have spoiled the surprise he had in
store for them. His thin lips drew back as he
tasted again the glorious fruits of a successful
hunt. Who else but he could have found this trail?
Now he had them! And whatever they had discovered
belonged to him!
One hundred feet below, his feet touched the ground.
He
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
crouched, ready for anything. He knew he was in a
tunnel and that what he had come down was a ventilation
shaft. But he didn't stop to think, to wonder who
might have built it or how long it had been there. It
was enough that he was very close to his quarry; that was all that
mattered.
The tunnel would take him to Phil and the boy; of that
he was certain. They had traveled this tunnel and so
would he, and it would lead him to them. Now he must be very
quiet; he must steal up on them. He started down
the tunnel, never hesitating before its blackness. The
two he was seeking could be but a short distance away;
it wouldn't take long to find them. Certainly the
darkness of the tunnel wouldn't stop him now. He even
increased his pace. He kept one hand close to the
jagged wall on the right. That way he'd
discover if any other tunnels diverged from this one.
But he was certain he'd find none. Only one
tunnel, he felt, could have been hollowed through this
mass of yellow rock.
It never occurred to him that no human hands had cut
this tunnel, that many ages ago a giant disturbance
of nature had created it
and many others,
He walked hunched over, bent almost double, to avoid
striking his head against the jagged ceiling. It was a
hard, uncomfortable position, but soon, he hoped,
he'd be out of the tunnel. Soon he'd be leaving this
blackness behind
to find them.
He was surprised, even startled, to have the wall
suddenly give way beneath his right hand. He stopped
to grope, only to find another tunnel! He
remained still in the darkness, trying to decide what to do.
Finally he proceeded down the new tunnel. He
would travel it for just a short distance and if he found
nothing he would return and
BLACK WORLD
continue along
the
first tunnel. He felt no fear, only
anger that this second tunnel had complicated
matters for him. Now the hunt might take just a little
longer than he'd thought.
How long he had walked he didn't know. It was
difficult to account for time and distance in such darkness.
He came to a stop, trying to pierce the blackness with
his sharp eyes. He listened for sounds of Phil and the
boy. But it was quiet, so quiet. And dark, so
dark. His body trembled. But he didn't
acknowledge the fear that was mounting within him. He went
on and on.
Only when he decided that it would be best for him
to return to the first tunnel was he aware of the warm
blood on his hands. He must have been dragging them
too hard against the walls, harder and closer than
he'd thought. For a minute he rubbed his hands together, more
in comfort than
to
ease any pain; then he started back.
At first he went at a slow, careful walk. A
few minutes more, a few yards more, and he went
faster; then he was in a run. As he straightened up
a little too much, his head struck a jagged ceiling
stone and he went down hard. He lay still for a moment,
resting and seeking control of himself. He
placed a hand on his head, felt the bump that was there.
But it was not bleeding.
Getting to his feet, he began to walk very slowly.
His hands felt another break in the wall, another
tunnel. Could it be the first one, the one that led back
to the shaft? He didn't remember passing any
others. Should he go down it? Or should he ignore it
and go on? His body started trembling again. And this time
he accepted it for what it
was, fear.
Fear that he was lost! Fear of the blackness! Fear
of the deathly quiet! And it turned suddenly to a
savage hatred
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
of the tunnels as though they were living, breathing things.
He cursed them, cursed his stepbrother and the boy and
whatever they'd found. His voice rose shrilly in the
tunnels and echoed back to him.
He started running again. He wanted only to reach the
shaft that would take him to the light of day. He
wanted only to escape, to see! But which tunnel would
take him back? He went on and on, frantic and
desperate. He came upon tunnel after tunnel.
He turned down some, and passed others. He
fell, got up and ran on. It was
futile, never-ending. It went on hour after hour .
. . perhaps even day after day. Hecom didn't know; there
was no way of knowing.
He was crazed with fear. He slowed his running
footsteps, and groped feebly through the utter
blackness. He fell again. This time-was it the
hundredth or thousandth time?-he lay still for a long
while, his face pressed hard against the cold rock.
He stayed there until he felt the warmth of his own
blood from his battered, cut face. Then he
struggled to his feet.
Hunched over, the weight of his large head and
shoulders propelled him forward; his steps came
rapidly as he fought to keep his balance. His dazed
mind warned him he was going too fast for the many
abrupt turns in the passageways, and he knew
what would happen again. Yet he didn't care.
Lurching, he wavered from one side wall to the other;
then his outstretched hand struck solid rock in
front of him. He tried to stop but couldn't. His
body crashed hard against it, and he went down.
He couldn't have told later how long he stayed there.
It could have been minutes or hours. Or even days.
When at last he opened his small, piglike
eyes, they
BLACK WORLD
stared unseeingly for he made no attempt
to penetrate the blackness all about him. He ran his
tongue over his thin, cracked lips, but he could not
moisten them. He was dying of thirst, dying of starvation.
His resentment against such an ignoble death for one who
had risked his life countless times in physical
combat brought forth a quick surge of renewed strength.
His small, even teeth took hold of his lower lip
as he raised his head from the floor of the tunnel and
got to his knees.
He had slept; he was rested. His bleeding hands
felt the wall in front of him. The passageway
turned to the right here. He would follow it. But he would
go slowly, conserving his strength. He was Tom
Pitcher. He wasn't going to die
this way.
And no longer would he be afraid. Instead he would
remain very calm.
Before rising to his feet, he ran his hands over his
legs and body. No bones were broken. His skin was
torn and bleeding from the jagged rocks, but that was all.
He was all right except for his hunger and thirst.
Well, there had been plenty of times in his life when
he had gone for days without food and water.
He could do it again.
He started to get up, his lips drawn in a bitter
and hateful smile. Hadn't he found the entrance to the
tunnels of Azul Island? But what lay beyond these
tunnels? What had that weak-sister, Phil, and that
kid, Steve Duncan, found that they thought they could
keep to themselves? He'd find out. He was close
to knowing.
When he was on his feet, weakness and then fright
claimed him again. He shook his head to throw off this
terrifying fear of the darkness, but his shaking only served
to start his nose bleeding again. He put his hands to his
face. And suddenly he was clawing his eyes and
shouting.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
The sound of his voice, maniacal in its fury,
reverberated up and down the never-ending tunnels.
"See! See! I want to see!"
Sometime later, he found himself on his hands and knees,
crawling. He told himself that he wanted to crawl,
that it was slower but less tiring. He began breathing
faster, taking huge gulps of air. He thought that this
would clear his dizziness. But it didn't. And again the
fear of dying this slow, terrible death absorbed his mind
and body. He crawled faster to get
away.
Feebly he moved forward, thinking he was traveling
rapidly yet barely moving. He thought of himself as
still crawling when he lay quiet on the cold stone,
his hands and legs outstretched. Convulsively his
legs twitched in attempted motion, and for a long
while his battered fingers moved. But finally the huge
man lay still, buried a thousand feet beneath the golden
dome of Azul Island.
Again, as for centuries past, the tunnels knew
only silence. They were a world of their own, a maze,
a catacomb of disaster for those who did not know them
well. And Tom Pitcher was a stranger.
Early Training

It was the third morning after their return to Blue
Valley, and Steve knelt beside the foal, feeding
him. He watched the quick movements of the colt's mouth
as he sucked the milk through the nursing nipple. The
large, bright eyes were on him, fearful that he would
take the bottle away. Smiling, Steve turned
to Flame, who stood behind them, watching and still curious
about all that went on.
Steve talked to the stallion while feeding the foal.
There had been slight indications at times that
Flame might be a little jealous of all the attention
the colt was getting. But never had Flame shown any
outright animosity toward the colt. He was careful
never to push him when he grazed near him during the
day. And at night Steve always put the colt in
Bottle Canyon.
Everything was going very well and Steve was thankful. Just
as Dr. Mason had said, the foal didn't seem
to mind having his injured leg held from hoof to rump in
a fixed position. He went where he pleased at a
slow walk, but Steve never let him stray too
near the band. His early training had been started,
too, for now he wore the soft web halter as if it
always had been a part of him.
They were beneath the ledge, and Steve shifted his eyes
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
from the stallion and the colt to where Pitch was sitting
above. He saw his friend working on his manuscript.
He was glad of that, too. Everything was as it should be
again. Pitch was back enjoying the work he loved so
much, while he, Steve, took care of the colt.
Pitch left them pretty much alone now; perhaps he
was still wary of Flame after his terrifying experience with the
stallion when he'd tried to rope the bay mare.
The colt finished the milk in the bottle and
held on to the nipple with tight lips as Steve
attempted to take it away from him.
"That's enough. Nothing there but air, and that's not good for
you to swallow." Steve pulled the bottle away and
rose to his feet.
Flame circled them, snorting, while the colt
watched his sire. Steve snapped a lead shank to the
halter. "Come on, fellow," he said. The foal,
intent on following Flame's movements,
hesitated a moment. Steve waited patiently
until he had his attention again. For a few minutes
each day he was teaching the colt to be led, to have
complete confidence in whatever Steve asked him to do.
His schooling now would make it easier later on, when
the colt would be ever so much bigger and stronger and Steve
took him home.
Finally the foal started forward and Steve walked a
few more steps away. He went to the left, then to the
right, the little colt following him. He stopped before the
post to which Pitch had intended tying the bay mare. That
post was useful to Steve during this early training, and
now he tied the end of the rope shank about it and sat
down, watching the foal.
The colt stood still a moment, then he drew back his
EARLY TRAINING
head a little, feeling the tug of the tope. His eyes
turned to Steve, and the boy talked to him.
If the colt had shown any sign of fear or
fight, Steve would have released him immediately. But the
colt accepted being tied. Steve went to him,
unsnapping the shank from the halter and rubbing him
gently on the muzzle.
Flame circled them again, his movements more spirited and
restless. Watching him, Steve knew that the stallion
was becoming impatient, that he had waited long enough for the
attention he was seeking. Steve walked across the
valley to the entrance of Bottle Canyon.
Flame stayed right beside him; the colt watched them go,
then followed at his slow walk.
Steve waited for the colt at the entrance to the
canyon, then he put him inside and drew the long
bars across. When he mounted Flame, the foal
neighed shrilly. Steve felt sorry at leaving
him behind but he had no alternative. He couldn't
take a chance on the colt's following them again; neither
could he spend all his time with him.
He felt the spirited restlessness leave Flame when he
touched the stallion on the neck and leaned forward.
Flame settled into his long, easy lope, but
Steve felt the pulsating flow of power between
his legs. There was no doubt that Flame wanted to go
all out this morning. Steve knew what was coming.
From the lope, Flame went quickly into his gallop,
each running stride greater than the one before. He
held his head high, one ear turned back as though
listening for Steve's slightest whisper of command. But
none came. His ear pricked forward with the other, and he
extended his head a little. The stallion knew he was
being left to choose his own gait, his own speed. His
tail spread like a red cloak behind
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
him, and his mane suddenly whipped back.
Bending low, Steve pressed his hands and arms about
Flame's neck. He had ceased trying to see
ahead through his wind-blurred eyes, so now he closed
them, conscious only of the terrifying speed at which the
stallion was covering ground.
He rode and rode, and there was no slackening of
stride. Beneath his hands he felt the rushing, heated
blood of the great stallion. Was any horse in the
world so fast as Flame? He opened his eyes, but still
he could not see. He could only wait, wait for the
stallion to run himself out as he wanted to do today.
Perhaps Steve could have stopped him. Perhaps not. But he
wasn't going to try. Flame would know when
he'd had enough.
A long while later, the stallion's stride
slowed. Steve sat back slightly then and with one hand
wiped the wetness from his eyes. Apparently Flame
had taken him to the far end of the valley and then
turned, coming back. For now they were opposite the
marsh and sweeping down again upon the band. Flame
swerved to the left, then came to an abrupt stop before
the band.
Steve saw no sign of restlessness among the band, so
he slipped off Flame's back. He stood beside
the stallion until Flame left him to join the
band. Then Steve started up the valley. His heart
was beating rapidly from the stimulation of the stallion's
long run and the beauty and joy of being a part of this lost
world.
When Steve reached the ledge, Pitch glanced up at
him, said somehing that was garbled in his deep concentration,
then turned back to the papers before him and continued
writing. Steve went to the case of provisions,
took out a can
EARLY TRAINING
of pork and beans, and lit the stove.
"We'll have to get more food from the chamber," he said.
"There are only a few cans left in this
case."
Pitch never looked up, and Steve doubted that he'd
even heard him. He got some biscuits and put
those, too, on the stove to be toasted. Only when the
meal was ready and he had put Pitch's plate before
him did his friend stop working.
"Everything all right down there, Steve?"
"Very much all right," the boy said.
"How often are you feeding him now?"
"Five times a day."
"Good! And the vet said you could get him down to four."
Steve nodded.
"Are you offering him milk from the pail?" Pitch
asked.
"Yes, but he prefers the nipple. I guess
it'll take time to get him to drink from the pail."
"But keep trying. It'll make it easier for you.
Does the milk still clog the nipple?"
"Once in a while. But I open it with the needle, as
you suggested."
"Well, that's what Mrs. Reynolds did when
milk clogged the nipples on her nursing
bottles. I know. I watched her many a time."
Pitch paused. Then, "But that's why I say
getting the foal to drink out of a pail will
make it easier for you. No fuss about that."
"I know, Pitch. I'll keep trying at every
feeding."
"And his leg isn't giving him any trouble?"
"No. It's just as though he'd been born with that
splint. He doesn't seem to pay any attention
to it."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Veterinary surgery has come a long way,"
Pitch said. "I remember the day when we couldn't do
anything for a horse with a fractured leg but destroy
him to relieve his suffering."
"And Dr. Mason said the leg would be completely
healed in a short time," Steve said. "Just eighteen
more days, Pitch," he added eagerly.
"Sure. He's young and bones heal quickly at his
age. But its' different when it happens to old boys
like me." Pitch laughed and rose to wash his plate in
a bucket of hot water. "Not that I aim to let it
happen," he added. "I'm a careful old
codger."
Finished with his food, Steve stood up. "I
guess we need another case of provisions from the
chamber, Pitch. What we have here is pretty
nearly gone."
"You said that before."
"I didn't think you heard me," Steve said.
"Sure I did. I hear everything. Even when you
think I don't." Pitch glanced at the almost
empty case. "We have enough to last another day or so.
But maybe I'll go to the chamber later in the afternoon.
I'm going inside anyway. There's another
tunnel I'm following, Steve. I'm writing a
description of it now, and I want to explore it a
little more today, if I have the time."
A little later Pitch was once more back at his work,
and Steve left to release the colt from Bottle
Canyon. He didn't like leaving the colt alone
or penned up except when necessary. After all, the
colt had only him and Flame, and now the stallion
was far down the valley, grazing with his band.
Pitch looked up from his writing when Steve reached the
EARLY TRAINING
valley floor. He saw him going toward the barred
entrance to Bottle Canyon and knew Steve would be
spending the rest of the afternoon with the foal. He turned
back to his work.
More than an hour later he had finished his writing
for the day. He pressed his fingers softly but firmly
against his eyeballs, seeking to rest them.
Then he replaced his glasses and looked down at
the valley. For a few minutes he watched Steve
leading the colt on the rope shank, then shifted his
gaze to the almost empty case of provisions.
Well, he might as well get more food now. First
he'd travel the new tunnel again, and on the
return trip he'd stop at the chamber.
Taking his shoulder bag, he walked up the trail
to the top of the waterfall where he stopped to take a
long drink of the running water. He wasn't taking
his canteen and this drink would have to last him until his
return an hour from now, maybe two.
He entered the tunnel and followed the stream for only
a short distance before turning into another passageway.
He walked swiftly, his flashlight picking up the
chalked figures and letters he had marked on the
walls.
An hour later he arrived at the new tunnel.
He went slowly now, discovering new chambers which he
searched carefully for anything left behind by the
Spaniards. He found another tarnished silver
goblet, a sextant and a heavy spur with a sharp
rowel. Finding these relics stimulated him in his
search and exploration of the new tunnel. When finally
he decided to go back he knew he must have
spent much more time there than he'd planned and that
outside it would be almost dark. Steve would be
worried. He started
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
back, going almost at a run, his light bobbing with the
short, mincing strides he had to take in the
low-ceilinged passageways.
He had almost reached the stream again when he thought of the
food he was to have brought back. It would take only
a short while longer to get it, and perhaps he wouldn't
get a chance to go for the food tomorrow. He came to another
fork and took a tunnel that he knew would lead him
to the chamber.
He was almost there when he came to an abrupt,
startled stop. The flashlight shook in his hand as its
beam picked out the heavy body lying face downward
on the cold stone.
Tom!
Unable to move, Pitch stood there trembling. He
didn't know how long it was before he was able to make his
legs move; then he went forward, slowly and as if
stunned.
He found himself bending over the prone body. He
turned it over, flashing the light on the bearded,
scowling face. He looked upon it a long
while before his numbed mind became active once more.
He noticed the slight movement of the thin, dry
lips. He felt the pulse and found it strong. He
knew then there was nothing wrong with Tom that food and
water wouldn't cure.
Still dazed, Pitch stumbled to his feet and left the
giant behind. Blue Valley was but a short distance
away. Food and water were there to save Tom's
life. And he brought them back, Tom would live
to destroy Blue Valley.
Grave Decision

The boy neither moved nor said a word while Pitch
told him of Tom's presence in the tunnels. It
was as though he had lost all feeling, all sense of
everything, even fear. He seemed to be conscious
only of Pitch's face, so taut, so ghastly in the
yellowish glare of the lantern.
"If I'd found him dead," Pitch concluded, "it
would have been better. I have no sympathy, no
feeling for him any more, and he has none for me. I
know he hates me for my shyness, my weakness ... for
being everything that he isn't." He paused to turn
down the flame in the lamp. "Steve, are you all
right?" He reached over toward the boy and
shook him gently.
"I'm all right," Steve said finally. "It's just the
shock, the ..." He left his sentence unfinished.
Turning toward the stove, Pitch lifted from it a
pot of heated soup and poured it into his canteen.
"I've got to feed him, Steve," he said.
"I've no choice. We can't let him die."
"No, we can't let him die," the boy repeated in
a voice that was barely above a whisper. He rose
to his feet.
"You don't have to go with me," Pitch said. "He's
unconscious."
1.18
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Pitch, when Tom regains consciousness he won't
be
certain
we're the ones who fed him."
"Who else could it have been, Steve?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders. "But he'll be
guessing. He can't be sure."
"He probably followed us. He knows we're
here."
"If he had followed us, he'd know of the sea
entrance," Steve protested. "And there was
no one behind us when we came in. We both
looked."
"I don't mean that he stayed close enough for us to see
him," Pitch explained. "And since he didn't
find our launch at the spit, he knew we were
inside."
He paused, then went on. "But let's assume
you're right, Steve. What if he doesn't know for
certain it's us? How would that help?"
"If we could blindfold him," the boy suggested
quickly. "If we could just get him back to the spit
without his knowing that it's us and how we got him out."
Pitch smiled grimly, shaking his head at the same
time. "You don't honestly think for a moment we could do
all that without letting him get his hands on us, do you?
No, I'm afraid it would never work, Steve."
"Then what
can
we do, Pitch?" Steve asked desperately.
"We've got to do something."
"I know. I know, Steve. Maybe something will come
to me. Go feed the colt."
Steve started for the trail, stopped and turned
to Pitch to say something. But he changed his mind when
he saw Pitch's hands covering his face,
and continued on down to the floor of the valley.
Flame came to him, neighing for attention. He
straightened the stallion's mane and then walked
toward the foal, Flame staying close to his
side.
GRAVE DECISION
The colt had his forelegs bent, his small head
lowered and just reaching the grass. He straightened at the
sight of Steve, stood quietly for a moment chewing
the blades he held in his mouth, then spat them out and
moved toward the boy.
Steve stretched out a hand and gently rubbed the furry
body. He checked the hoop of the splint around the
hindquarters to make certain there was no chafing of the
skin. The foal whinnied, reaching for the bottle in his
hand. Steve pushed the soft muzzle away, and
continued walking toward the canyon. The colt and
Flame followed at his heels.
Steve fed the foal just within the entrance of the canyon
while Flame stood by. The boy watched them both
but thought only of Tom and what the giant would do if
he ever found Flame and the colt and the band.
When the foal had finished, Steve put up the bars
of the canyon. Flame nuzzled his shirt from behind. The
colt neighed repeatedly from the other side
of the gate, furious at being left behind. Steve
lingered, waiting for him to calm down.
"Oh, Pitch," he pleaded aloud, "please think
of something to keep Tom away. You know this world so
well . . . you can keep him from ever finding them.
He'll want the horses more than anything else
here. He'll destroy them if he finds them. ..."
Later, when he arrived back at the ledge, Pitch
handed him his food. Steve took the plate but
looked only at his friend's face. And he saw
nothing that gave him any hope.
They said nothing while they ate. There were no sounds in
this lost valley but the steady drone of the waterfall and
an occasional nicker from a mare. Even the colt had
settled down for the night.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"You haven't thought of anything, Pitch," Steve said
finally.
It was a statement, not a question. But Pitch answered,
"No."
They finished their food, then Pitch said, "I'm
afraid our only chance is for me to make myself known
to him, Steve. I'll remind him that he would be dead
if I hadn't found him. I'll tell him that
I'll take him safely back to his
launch, if he gives me his word never to return
or tell anyone what he's discovered."
"But he won't keep his word, Pitch. He'll be
back if he doesn't turn on you before you get him
out of the tunnels."
"What
else
can I do, Steve?" And when the boy had no
alternate plan to offer, Pitch continued, "I'll
take him back the very same way he came in, then
he won't know of Blue Valley."
"Unless he comes back later," Steve said. "And
he'll do exactly that, Pitch. You know it as well
as I do. He'll bring help, too . . . other
men to help him find his way through the tunnels."
Pitch rose to his feet. "Yes, I know that. But
it won't be easy for them to find Blue Valley.
I can't think of anything else to do, Steve."
The boy's teeth were clamped hard on his lower lip,
and he said nothing as he followed Pitch into the cave
behind the ledge. At the far end Pitch stopped before the
wooden box containing his collection of treasured
relics. Lifting the lid, he placed inside the
goblet and sextant and spur he had found that afternoon in
the new tunnel.
Steve saw the cat-o'-nine-tails lying near the
top and again thought of the bull whip that he had failed
to remove from Tom's waist. Replacing the lid on
the box, Pitch
GRAVE DECISION
picked up the lantern and turned to him.
"This will sound very selfish to you, Steve," he said
slowly. "But I'm taking this box to Antago early
tomorrow morning."
"Why, Pitch?"
"Because, as you just mentioned, Tom could turn on me in
the tunnels. He could force me to bring him here. For
that reason these relics, my manuscript and
photographs, everything that's of historical value
must be kept away from him. I'm certain that Tom
would willfully destroy them if he ever got his hands
on them."
"But the horses?" Steve asked bitterly. "What
about them, Pitch? Don't you think they're as
valuable as your-was
"They are. They are. I know, Steve." Pitch's
words came fast in an attempt to stem the boy's
anger. "But we can't possibly remove the
horses from the island . . . except for the colt. You
can take the colt."
Steve was still for a long while. When he spoke there was
no anger in his voice, only hopelessness and
despair. "Then you really think it's the end of
everything, Pitch? There's nothing we can do to prevent
it happening?"
"Not the end of everything, Steve. Perhaps the end of
living here by ourselves, of going on with our work alone as
we'd planned until we were ready to let the world know
what we'd found. The wisest thing we can do, no,
the only thing,
is to remove what we can from here. And when we reach
Antago tomorrow morning I'll place this box in the
vault at the bank. No one will know what's
inside. The president of the bank is a friend of mine
and I'll leave with him a letter which he is to open only
if I don't return to the bank within two days'
time. The letter will explain how to reach Blue
Valley."
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"If you don't return?"
Steve repeated, startled. "What do you mean,
Pitch? Even if Tom does force you to bring him
here, you'll be free to return to Antago."
"Will I?" Pitch's words were more for himself than for
Steve. "I don't know what's going
to happen." He raised his voice as his eyes met
the boy's anxious gaze. "But the letter should bring
help enough to stop Tom from destroying everything if I
can't get back. And if the instructions aren't
absolutely clear to my friends, you can lead them
back. But I'd rather you didn't," he added
soberly.
"still
lead them back?
Pitch! I'll be with you!"
"You won't, Steve. You'll go to Antago with me
tomorrow morning and stay there."
"I won't. You'll need help if anything goes
wrong. I'm coming back with you."
"You'll help more by leading our party back to Blue
Valley if necessary," Pitch said, seeking to keep
calm before the boy's defiance. "You'll be helping
me and the band. You know as well as I do what'll
happen to the horses if Tom ever has a free hand
with them."
Steve looked at his friend for a long while but said
nothing. He didn't want to leave Pitch alone
to face Tom. And yet, if anything did go wrong,
he could lead friends back to Blue Valley just as
Pitch had said. But wouldn't the letter serve the
same purpose? The paneled doors above the sea
hole could be left open, and those who followed would have
no trouble finding it with Pitch's written
directions. Meanwhile, he could be with Pitch
to help him, if necessary.
Steve saw the hardness in Pitch's eyes, which told
him as well as words that it would be useless to argue just
now. A little later it might be different. But not now.
GRAVE DECISION
They returned to the ledge and stretched out on their
blankets. Steve closed his eyes to induce
sleep, which didn't come. His heart was beating very
rapidly, as though he were doing some violent
exercise. A frightening weakness absorbed his body.
For the first time in his life his body shook with fear, and
he sweated even though the night air was cool. He
could think only of Tom and his bull whip; Tom in
the tunnels, such a short distance away;
Tom in Blue Valley.
Was it the end, as Pitch thought?
He decided to get a drink of water. He told
himself he was thirsty. But he wasn't. He wanted
to stand, to walk, to rid himself of a terrifying weakness in
mind and body. He went to the water canteen, only
to find it empty. He welcomed the walk
to the stream above to fill the canteen. He went up the
trail to the great opening and gazed into its blackness,
thinking of Tom. Then he turned away quickly
to fill the canteen and to look out over Blue
Valley.
It was a moonless night, but the stars were so close and
there were so many of them that their light brightened the valley.
Steve made out the dark silhouettes of the horses.
He listened to them cropping the grass. He heard a
short neigh from the colt in Bottle Canyon.
He saw Flame moving quickly on light, ghostly
hoofs across the valley. A few minutes later, the
stallion had stopped to graze again.
Steve watched him, thinking of Flame's tearing
teeth, his thrashing forehoofs and powerful, pounding hind
legs. If ever Tom found Blue Valley, he
would seek to dominate Flame. And the stallion would
answer his challenge. It would be a terrible, horrible
fight, one that never should be given the chance to start.
Steve descended the trail to the ledge. He put
down the full canteen without taking a drink. But he
felt better for
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
his walk; the weakness had left his legs. Going
to his blanket, he lay down again, hoping
sleep would come. He needed all the rest he could
get.
Tomorrow they had to face Tom, bargain with him. Pitch
was right; there was no alternative but to go through with the plan
he had suggested. They couldn't let Tom die.
They couldn't keep him a prisoner within the
tunnels. For if they did either, they would be as
cruel and vicious as he.
They had to let him go.
It was many hours later when Steve finally fell
asleep, dreading the day to come.
Pitch, awakening a little before dawn, found that Steve
was asleep. Good, he thought. He wouldn't disturb
him.
Quietly he got to his feet. Steve did not
stir as Pitch heated the last can of soup and poured it
into his canteen. Finally he turned away and started
up the trail. His intention was to feed Tom now so he
and Steve could get an early start for Antago.
He'd return alone to Azul Island late that
afternoon to bargain with Tom.
Entering the tunnels, Pitch turned on his
flashlight. He didn't expect any trouble.
He doubted that Tom would be conscious of what was going
on. Soup was good for him now, and that afternoon when
he got back he would give him something more
substantial. With solid foods, Tom's
recovery would be rapid. Tonight would be a good time
to face him . . . before he got too strong again.
Pitch's steps quickened, taking him ever closer to the
giant whom he didn't know was conscious and already
waiting for him.
Tom lay in the blackness of the tunnels, his eyes
open and staring. He listened for the sound of footsteps,
knowing that eventually they must come. He still retained the
taste of soup in his mouth, so he knew he had been
fed. The
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
renewed strength in his arms and legs told him so,
too. He drew up a leg, then stretched it out again
and drew up the other. He lifted his arms high, then
brought them back to rest upon his massive chest. Again
he listened for the slightest sound, but the tunnels were
quiet. After a few minutes he sat up. His
body wavered a little. Satisfied that he could sit
upright he lay back once more and waited . . .
waited for Phil to bring him food.
His thin lips were drawn back in what could have been a
smile. Who else but Phil would have fed him? He
closed his eyes to shut out the blackness of the
tunnels which brought back all the agonizing
memories of his fight for life. He hated this
black, tomblike world. But soon, very soon,
he'd leave it behind. He was alive. He'd won.
Whatever lay beyond, whatever Phil and the kid had found
was his! He'd play it smart. Perhaps Phil
intended to leave him here to die. No, Phil wouldn't
have the guts for that. He might intend to keep him a
prisoner here but Phil wouldn't let him die.
stHis
just wait,
he told himself. still"
play along with him when he comes. I'll let him
feed me again, thinking I'm still too weak to know what's
going on. And when he goes I'll follow him
... to find what he finds!
When he heard the soft footsteps on the stone, he
opened his eyes. He smiled, for he would have known the
sound of Phil's steps anywhere, anyplace,
anytime. For a moment he watched the bobbing light coming
toward him, then shut his eyes once more.
His breathing was deep and regular when the light was
directed on his face. He felt a hand lift his
head; it was a small hand, soft and gentle,
Phil's hand.
The metal of the canteen was pressed to his mouth, and the
soup was warm

and good as it ran down his throat. He drank without
opening his eyes. He waited. He wanted to smile
again, but he knew it would only give him away and
spoil his plan. The canteen was taken from his mouth;
his head was lowered to the floor. And then came the sound
of Phil's retreating footsteps. He opened his
eyes and sat up. For just a few seconds he
watched the bobbing light, then he struggled to his
feet. He swayed drunkenly at first, but the soup
had given him additional strength and steadied him.
Hunched over, he stole silently along the low
tunnel, following the light that would take him out of this
black world.
Steve awakened to the sound of a pan being placed on the
stove. He saw that it was light and well after dawn.
Pitch said, "Breakfast is ready. I let you
sleep."
The box containing Pitch's relics had been moved
to the ledge. Seeing it, Steve remembered with startling
suddenness and dread all that lay ahead of them on this
day. He went to the stream to wash, and when he
returned Pitch handed him his plate of
bacon and toast.
"I've fed him," Pitch said quietly while
Steve ate.
Startled, the boy looked up from his food. "You mean
you've been to him already?"
"Early," Pitch said.
"Nothing happened?"
"No. He's still pretty weak, I guess. He
didn't even open his eyes." Pitch finished his
breakfast before speaking again. "The box will be heavy but
I think we'll be able to manage it." Removing the
lid, he neatly placed his briefcase, containing
manuscript and photographs, on top; then he
covered the box again.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Steve watched him without saying a word.
"I have a few personal things already in the bank
vault," Pitch continued, "so another box of mine
being put there shouldn't arouse anyone's suspicions.
And it'll be nailed tight."
As he helped himself to more coffee, his hand shook. He
looked at Steve to see if the boy had noticed.
Steve hadn't, for his eyes were on his plate of
untouched food. "Eat your breakfast, Steve,"
Pitch urged. "You'll need it."
Pitch said nothing more until the boy had finished his
food. "I've written the letter I spoke about,"
he said. "So in case anything-was
"Pitch! Nothing's going to happen to you. Tom
wouldn't dare! He'll be only too glad that you'll
show him the way out of the tunnels. It's what will
happen later, when he's free and can return, that
we have to worry about."
"Perhaps. But I must be ready for anything, Steve."
Pitch paused, then intentionally changed the subject.
"You've decided to take the colt?"
Steve nodded.
"It's the wisest thing to do," Pitch agreed.
"Until we learn Tom's next move, the colt
will be safer on Antago. I'm ready to go,
Steve. I'll help you feed him."
"It isn't necessary, Pitch. I can feed him myself just
as I have been doing." Steve poured the last of the
milk formula from the gallon jug into the nursing
bottle. He wouldn't have to prepare any more until
he got to Antago.
"I'll go with you to feed him," Pitch said. "There's
nothing else for me to do. And the sooner we the get the
foal fed and are on our way the better, Steve.
We'll take the box to the launch first, then
come back for the colt. It'll be almost noon before
we're ready to leave the island."

They went down the trail, Pitch hurriedly taking
the lead. Reaching the valley floor, they started for
Bottle Canyon. Steve saw the foal at the
gate, awaiting him. In the distance Flame could be
seen, grazing apart from the rest of the band. Steve knew
his stallion would come to him when he and Pitch started
down the valley, carrying the box. And Flame would
follow them to the launch, unaware of the peril that he and
they faced.
Steve lowered the top bar of the gate ai. conepped
over the one beneath it. Pitch followed, replacing the
top bar. "We won't let him out," the man said.
The colt eagerly reached for the bottle and Steve
let him have it. Pitch's hands were on the silky
body.
"He won't leave," Steve said. "You don't have
to hold him unless you want to." He held the
bottle higher, making it easier for the colt to get
all the milk. "I probably could lead him at the
same time we're carrying the box, Pitch. It would
mean only one trip to the launch then."
"He might get away and hurt himself
again," Pitch objected. "It's best if we make
a special trip just for him. Besides, we'll have
to carry him through the gorge. We couldn't handle him
and the box too."
"Yes, Pitch, you're right."
They left the colt neighing repeatedly behind them and
started across the valley again. Halfway up the
trail, they heard running hoofs and turned to find
Flame coming toward them. Pitch moved closer
to Steve.
The red stallion reached them. He stopped
abruptly, rose and pawed the air; then he whirled
his giant body as though his hind legs were rooted to the
ground, came down and bolted away. He cut a
wide circle and came back, this time stopping in
back of Steve to nuzzle the boy's shirt.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Steve ran his hands through Flame's mane,
untangling the matted hairs; then suddenly he put
his arms around the long neck and pressed his head hard
against it.
Pitch said softly, "Come on, Steve. It's
getting late." He put a hand on the boy's arm,
gently pulling him away from the stallion.
Flame followed them, pushing his body hard
against Steve all the time. Only when they had reached
the trail did he turn away and go back to his
band.
Tears over which Steve had no control filled his
eyes as he followed Pitch up the steep ascent.
He stumbled on a small stone, regained his balance
and went on, concentrating on the trail so as to avoid
stumbling again. He didn't know Pitch had come to a
sudden stop until he crashed hard against him. He
looked up. "Pitch, why are you-was
Pitch had one foot on the ledge. He stood there,
not a muscle moving, deathly still.
And then Steve looked past him and saw Tom.
He stood towering above them, his pig-eyes burning
brightly. The heavy whiskers about his mouth were dirty with
food. He smiled, showing his small, square
teeth. "Welcome back," he said. One hand
reached out toward Phil.
Snake WJ-IIP

Everything about Tom was as Steve remembered. He was
hard, vicious, evil. Yet now he was helping
Pitch onto the ledge. Such courtesy was foreign
to this man. And when he spoke his voice was soft,
too soft.
"It's good seeing you again, Phil." Tom turned his
gaze on Steve, and the boy knew there was something
different about his eyes, too. Hate and lust were still
there, but mingled with them was a kind of terror, sadness .
. . even
an appeal for help.
"And you. Steve's your name, isn't it? Come up,
Steve. Join us." He turned away and walked
to the center of the ledge.
Steve was ready to run back down the trail,
to flee from Tom at Pitch's first signal. But his
friend's eyes never turned to him, never left Tom.
Yet Pitch said nothing to his stepbrother. Steve
noticed the three empty cans, the last of their
food, which Tom had finished. Pitch's briefcase
had been removed from the box but was unopened; the
rolled map lay beside it. Tom was standing beside the box.
Pitch moved forward, and Steve knew then they were not
going to run away from Tom.
Pitch stopped a few feet away from Tom; he
stood there
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
silently watching his stepbrother. Finally he said,
"Now that you know, Tom, I-was He stopped
abruptly, for Tom had turned upon him.
Now, Steve noticed, Tom's eyes were the same
as he'd remembered. No longer did they contain
any sadness or fear or appeal for help. Only
hate and contempt were there. Tom leaned forward, his
body swaying a little . . . just his eyes seemed
alive. But again he turned away from Pitch, this time
to look out upon the valley. And when he spoke his
voice was still soft.
"Now
there's
something," he said. He spoke as a man would speak
if he owned the whole world. And he looked as such a
man might look. "Imagine all this being here without
anyone ever knowing." His eyes were following the
movements of the band. Steve watched him, his heart
sick, his body numb.
"Tom, since you now know we must ..." Pitch's
voice faltered again, then broke completely.
Steve turned to him, aware of the terrible fear that
gripped Pitch. What could Pitch say that would
matter now? They had to wait for Tom, to see what
he would do. And now the giant turned to them once more,
his little eyes staring. His lips moved but no words
came, only sounds almost animal-like, choking and
short.
Steve's heart was pounding hard, driving the numbness
away. He realized now that they were not dealing with a
sane man, that Tom was sick,
mentally sick.
Maybe Pitch had known it all along. Or
maybe it had happened to Tom in the tunnels.
Tom's body stiffened. Like something inhuman, he
uttered a growl, a snarl; then he was still. For a long
time there was no change, then Steve saw the terror
come to

Tom's eyes again, the terrible sadness and fear and
appeal for help. Yet there was nothing they could do for
him . . .
or for themselves.
He was walking now. He went to Pitch. "I
finished all the food, Phil," he said, his voice
still soft, "But you'll get more for me, won't you?"
Pitch nodded and turned away.
"Oh, not now. I've had enough for now. I wouldn't
want you to leave." He smiled and only vengeance and
hate were in his eyes.
"I found you," Pitch said brokenly. "You would have
died, Tom."
Steve moved closer to his friend. Why was
Pitch even trying to reason with Tom? It would do no
good. They must try to escape!
"I know you'll get me food, Phil." Tom's
voice rose until it became a contemptuous
snarl; then he laughed loudly for the first time. "You'll
do anything I want you to do, won't you? I can say
kneel and you will kneel, crawl and you will crawl.
I'm a little god, Phil, aren't I? I have power,
absolute power. There's nothing I can't do
here.
And no one would ever know."
He turned toward Steve. "You, too," he said.
"You'll do everything I say, won't you?"
Steve nodded without looking at him. He couldn't stand
looking into those eyes any more. He wanted to run, but
he and Pitch had to make the break together. Neither could
be left behind to bear the crazed wrath of this man.
Tom stooped down. "What junk you have here,
Phil," he said, removing the lid from the box.
"What is it?"
"Relics . . . relics left by the
Spaniards."
Steve saw the agony, the fear in Pitch's face.
He supposed
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
his own face looked no different. Tom was sick
... he would kill if aroused or if he thought it
necessary. But not now. He was going to take what he
wanted, beat them down slowly, torturously,
break them to his will. It was his way even now. He
had not forgotten.
Yet knowing all this, Pitch was trying to be calm,
to be rational with this man!
Tom straightened, holding a spur in his hand. "They
knew how to make a horse mind," he said, fingering
the sharp rowel.
Suddenly Steve felt the giant's blunt fingers
on his shoulder. But they did not press deep into his
flesh as he'd expected. Instead, Tom patted
him. "Now, you're not at all like Phil," he said,
and there was a mild friendliness to his tone. "You go after
horses, not stuff like this. You got to that red
stallion. I was watching you."
Steve's heart pounded and seemed to rise in his
throat until he thought it would choke him. He never
looked up at Tom.
The spur was cast to the ground, then Tom had the
cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand. Fondly he fingered
the whip with its nine hard leather cords.
"The Spaniards are getting more and more of my
respect."
He snapped the whip, and one of the cords struck
Pitch on the forehead. "So sorry, Phil," he
said, smiling. "I'm not used to this thing."
Terrified, Steve watched the blood come from the cut
on Pitch's face. But his friend didn't move;
neither did he look at Tom. He stayed close
beside the box, protecting its contents the only way
he knew how.
"This whip isn't bad," the giant continued. "But
it's for

close work. You don't get any reach, with it."
Throwing down the cat-o'-nine-tails, he began
removing the long bull whip from about his waist.
Steve felt his muscles contract. He saw
Pitch's face get whiter still as the whip was unwound.
The long leather was now coiled like a snake at the
feet of the giant. He held the short hard butt
in his hand. "The beauty of the bull whip is that your
opponent never gets a chance to get close to you,"
Tom said. "I'll show you what I mean."
They didn't need to be shown. They had seen Tom
work his bull whip before. He knew they had.
Tom walked to the far side of the ledge,
away from them and the box.
Oh, Pitch, Pitch. Let's run.
But Steve's words weren't uttered aloud. He,
too, was within easy reach of the bull whip.
Tom didn't ask them to move. The bull whip was
drawn back, its leather writhing venomously along
the ground until Tom had it behind him. His big
wrist and hand moved and a sharp crack came from behind him
as though in warning of the blow to come. Then the leather moved
over Tom's head so fast its movement was lost.
There was another sharp crack as the end of the whip was
flipped in the box, then silence. When Tom drew
the whip out, he brought the sextant with it.
The leather was entwined about the sextant, and now it lay
at Pitch's feet. As Pitch stooped down
to pick it up, Tom flicked his wrist. The whip
moved, and the sextant was released from the leather to be
cast over the ledge. They heard it strike the cliff
in two or three different places, then once more
there was only silence.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
The whip cracked again, this time picking up the spur which
Tom had dropped earlier; it followed the sextant
over the ledge. Then things happened so quickly that
Steve lost all feeling, all sense of
reality.
The bull whip beat a faster and faster rhythm
until it became a weird chant. Steve never
saw the grasping, tearing leather, only the effects it
created. Half the relics in the box were cast over
the ledge. And above the shrill screaming of the whip
rose Tom's maniacal laughter.
Then suddenly there was quiet. Steve and Pitch
stood white and shaking before Tom's inhuman rage.
"You were going to let me rot in there," he shouted at
the top of his voice. "You thought you could-was
"He wasn't! He didn't!" Steve screamed.
"He was going to take you out of the tunnels!"
The leather cracked at Pitch's feet. For a
fraction of a second it stayed there, the pointed,
fanglike end never moving. Without thinking of the
consequences, Steve fell upon it, his fingers grabbing
and tearing at the leather as though it were a living thing.
He felt it being pulled away from him; then Pitch
was at his side, reaching for the leather.
They heard Tom's loud laughter as he came
toward them. Fear swept through Steve, then a heavy
pounding filled his ears. He hurled himself at Tom.
Steve's right shoulder struck the giant above the
knees and with his arms he sought to pull Tom
off balance. The massive body swayed a little but
Tom didn't fall. Again came his laughter, and
Steve felt himself being picked up. Rough, angry
hands placed him on his feet, shook him, then sent
him reeling backward. He was trying to regain his
balance when he struck the wall behind him; his head
snapped back against the stone, then all went black.
Pitch lunged at Tom even before Steve's limp
body fell against the base of the wall. With all his
strength, the small man struck out at Tom's
face. He landed once, twice, then the terrible
hands were on him and a massive fist struck him full
in the face. He knew nothing more.
Escape

How long he had been unconscious, Pitch
didn't know. He felt hands running over his
body, probing, feeling and finally shaking him gently.
He knew then that they didn't belong to Tom;
Tom's hands didn't know gentleness. He tried
to respond, to lift his head. But it felt much too
big and heavy, and his efforts served only to blacken
out everything again.
It could have been minutes or hours when once again he
felt the hands. The pain in his head was less
severe. He was able to make out the lantern burning
against the wall. So he knew he was in the cave.
Something big and blurred moved in front of the light.
He stared at it a long time before he was able to make out
Steve's face.
"Pitch. Pitch."
The boy's voice was but a whisper, yet Pitch
heard him. He raised his head when he felt
Steve's hands go behind him to give support. Then
he sat up straight. Everything seemed to whirl
crazily at first. He couldn't feel the weight of
his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He moved
a hand toward his eyes but Steve stopped him.
"You're going to be all right," the boy whispered,
looking at his friend's swollen face. "Rest,
Pitch. Just rest,"

he begged. "Don't talk now." He silenced the
blackened lips with his fingers and moved closer to give
Pitch more support.
Part of the ledge could be seen from where they sat, and
Steve's eyes very seldom left it while he
comforted Pitch. He knew Tom would be coming in again
to find out if they had regained consciousness. For a long
while it had gone on this way. Steve's
head throbbed and he softly pressed the swelling on
his crown to relieve the pain. But he knew his own
injury was as nothing compared to the beating Pitch had
suffered from Tom's fists.
The giant's figure appeared on the ledge and
Steve lay back, pulling Pitch with him. "Be
still, Pitch. He's coming." The boy moved away from
his friend and flattened himself face downward on the stone.
Tom's heavy breathing and footsteps came ever
closer until he was beside them. The giant stood there
for many moments before turning away.
Steve waited until the footsteps told him
Tom had returned to the ledge. Sitting up, he
watched Tom scrape clean one of the empty cans
of food. Tom wouldn't be coming back into the cave again
for about another hour, he knew. Moving around the
range of light, he went to Pitch. His friend sat
up more easily this time and needed less help. "You
feel better, Pitch?" Steve asked anxiously.
The man nodded and his lips sought Steve's ear.
"How long?"
"About three hours," Steve told him. "It's
almost noon, judging from the light outside."
Pitch looked in the direction of the ledge and the
glazed, stony expression left his eyes
when he saw Tom. He watched him for a long while
without saying anything.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"He's waiting for us to regain consciousness," Steve
said.
Pitch turned to the boy and his gaze found the large
swelling on Steve's head. But he said nothing before
turning back to watch Tom. Finally he drew his
legs back and forth, working them, and then he moved his
arms. "In a little while now, Steve," he
whispered. "A little while, and I'll be ready."
Steve knew Pitch meant they were going to attempt
to escape.
An hour passed, then they saw Tom start toward
them again. They stretched out, their faces pressed hard
against the stone floor.
Steve heard Tom come, then felt his heavy
presence. The light of the lantern was turned on him
and one of Tom's big hands lifted his wrist,
feeling his pulse. Then the giant went to Pitch.
Steve guessed he was turning him over, for Pitch
grunted. There came the splash of water against
Pitch's face, followed shortly by the sharp clang
of the empty canteen as Tom let it fall to the
floor. Pitch only moaned and did not
stir; his heavy breathing filled the cave.
Tom made no further attempts to revive
Pitch; it was as though he knew he had plenty of
time and could afford to wait. He turned away and
left them alone again.
Pitch sat up before Steve did; he moved out of the
range of light and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Get up, Steve."
They stood behind the light, moving slowly in place
to relieve their cramped muscles. Yet all the
time they watched Tom as he sat on the ledge and
looked out over the valley. Steve felt sure that
what held Tom's attention was Flame and the band.
A short time later they saw Tom get to his
feet and start down the trail to the valley. Pitch
placed a hand on the
ESCAPE
boy's shoulder, and his pressing fingers told Steve
this was their chance to escape from the cave and Tom.
"Now,"
Pitch said. He went to the lantern and, grabbing it,
extinguished the light. "Come on!"
They moved quickly through the cave, but stopped when they
reached the ledge. It was littered with pages of
Pitch's manuscript; the chest was turned
upside down and the relics which had not been cast below were
strewn about. Tom was on his way down the trail.
Pitch stumbled as he pushed Steve in the direction
of the upward trail. "Get going," he said.
"I'll follow."
Steve started up, then stopped and turned around.
Pitch wasn't following him;
he was picking up the pages of his scattered
manuscript!
Steve had started back to help him when he looked
down the trail and saw Tom turning back in their
direction. "Pitch!" he shouted. There was no longer
any need to keep his voice low.
Pitch paid no attention to Steve's cry of warning
except to pick up the pages faster, clutching them
to his chest. Running to him, Steve pulled him
away as Pitch recovered the last of the pages. A
swift backward glance told Steve that Tom was
coming up the trail. Steve knew he could reach the
tunnels above before Tom did. But could Pitch?
They ran across the ledge to the upward trail, and
Steve pushed Pitch ahead of him. Then, stooping,
he picked up the cat-o'-nine-tails as he went
across the ledge to meet the giant. He had to hold
Tom back long enough to give Pitch the start
he needed.
Steve reached the trail when Tom was but a few
feet below. He swung the whip, bringing its lashes
hard against the giant's chest. Bellowing in pain and
rage, Tom threw
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
himself backward and for a moment lay on the trail,
looking up at the boy. Tom's piglike eyes were
red with fury as he pulled himself back along the
trail out of range of the whip; then he got to his
feet and quickly began unwinding the bull whip from about
his waist.
Steve waited, knowing the cat-o'-nine-tails was
useless against the long bull whip. He had done all
he could, but every second he kept Tom here meant a
better chance for Pitch to get away. He took one
quick look up the trail and saw that Pitch was still
climbing, apparently unaware that his friend wasn't right
behind him. Another few seconds and Pitch would have
reached the tunnels.
Suddenly the crack of the bull whip burst in
Steve's ears and he fell backward as the leather
cut into his chest. He managed to regain his feet
before striking the ledge, and his outstretched hands broke
the force of his fall. Then he moved with the
swiftness of a sprinter. He kept low, his body
crouched, his running steps coming fast and short. The
whip cracked above his head, but it only served
to urge him to greater speed.
Reaching the trail, he started up without checking his
fast pace. He watched for stones, well knowing what
a fall would mean. He took his eyes off the
trail only once. Above he saw Pitch stopping
at the entrance to the tunnels. "Go on!" he shouted
to him.
Tom was so close on his heels that Steve could hear
his heavy breathing, and his strides quickened even more. But
suddenly a sharp cry came from behind. Steve didn't
have to look back to know what had happened. Tom had
fallen! Here was another chance to gain valuable distance!
It wasn't until he had reached the entrance to the
tunnels that he heard Tom's footsteps on the
trail again.

Now he looked into the great opening for Pitch. There
he was, traveling the right side of the underground
stream. Steve followed him, catching up with him as
he was going around the bend of the stream. Dead blackness
lay ahead. Pitch told him to put his hand on the
back of his belt; then they went on without
once looking back.
They stopped at what Steve knew must have been the
first fork in the tunnels, for he could find no wall
to touch with his right hand. Pitch was breathing heavily, and
he made no attempt to go farther.
Something rattled in Pitch's hand. Steve guessed
it must be a box of matches, but Pitch did not
strike a light. When he spoke, he sounded
tired. "We'll wait a few moments, Steve.
I don't think he'll have the nerve to follow us, but
we must know for certain."
They stood there, watching for a light that would mean Tom
had entered the tunnels. There would have to be a light for
Tom would never enter the tunnels without one. And even
with the lantern or flashlight would he have the courage
to face this underground world again? Steve doubted it, as
did Pitch, and the minutes passed with no evidence that
they were wrong.
Then, suddenly, the yellowish glare of the lantern
broke the blackness. It came around the bend of the
stream and toward them. Slowly it moved, then slower still
until it came to a stop. Pitch was gripping
Steve's arm; both were ready to run again.
But the light came no closer. Instead Tom
screamed angrily at them. They were
hysterical and meaningless words, which echoed and re-echoed,
then finally died within the tunnels. A few minutes
later the light retreated until it could no longer be
seen.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
"Come, Steve."
Again the boy took hold of Pitch's belt, going
with him down the right fork. They spoke no more in the
blackness and stopped only occasionally when Pitch
lit a match to look at the chalked figures and
letters on the walls of the tunnels. Within a short
while they entered the large chamber where the extra
supplies were stored.
Pitch lit a lantern, then leaned heavily against the
table. "We'll rest . . . that's all we can do
now."
"Tom is mad, Pitch. No man in his right mind
would act as he did."
"Sick," Pitch corrected in a hoarse whisper.
"He's sick mentally, Steve."
"Did you know? Have you known all the time?"
Pitch shook his head. "No. He's been harder
to get along with the last few months, as I told you.
But I took it for restlessness. I never suspected
..." His sunken eyes rose to meet the
boy's. "Perhaps his ordeal in the tunnels did it,
Steve. I don't know. But the tunnels could have
done it to him. We've got to get away. We must
get help ... a doctor . . . somebody. It's
our only chance . . .
his only chance ever to get well."
Neither spoke for a long while. The yellow light
bared the room and their fear. They still had not reached the
launch. And it was their only means of getting help.
"Is there no way to get from here to Blue Valley
without . . ."
"Without going down the trail again and past Tom?"
Pitch finished for him. "No, Steve, there isn't.
It's the only way."
Red Sentinel

A half-hour later, Steve walked dazedly about
the chamber. He stared at the Spanish coat of arms
cut in the wall behind the table, but he didn't
actually see it any more than he saw the blue sky
when he gazed up the ventilation shaft that penetrated
the hundreds of feet of rock above the chamber.
He was thankful for the food he had just eaten,
thankful to Pitch for having had the foresight to keep
supplies here for use in an emergency.
For this was indeed an emergency. It was true that for the
time being they were safe from Tom; there would be no more
beatings, no more pain
providing
they were careful. Yet they were still his prisoners. There
was no way to reach the launch except through Blue
Valley. No way to reach Blue Valley
except to go back the way they had come.
Would they be able to get past Tom during the night, as
Pitch planned? Even if they watched and slept in
shifts, would the moment come when Tom would be sleeping
so soundly that they could get by the ledge in safety?
They would be taking a terrible chance, but what was their
alternative?
And even if they were successful, where would it all end?
What would Tom do while they were gone for help?
What
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
would happen to Flame and his band? And to the colt? Would
Tom touch him, hurt him? The colt would be
frantic with hunger; he might even do himself harm.
But, as Pitch had said, the colt could go a day, perhaps
two days, without food . . . and by that time they'd be
back with help.
It was Flame's safety that would worry
him more than anything else even if they did get
away. Tom's hard hands were skilled in breaking
horses in the only way he knew how. And Steve
knew the slightest spark could touch off a horrible
battle between Tom and Flame. It could happen any
hour, any minute . . .
even now.
"Oh, Steve, Steve."
It was Pitch, and his words carried all the pity and
suffering and sadness of a man in pain too great to bear.
His face was buried in his hands as he sat in the
chair behind the table.
Steve stood still, just looking. He was afraid
to move, to speak. He waited, his fearful eyes on
the bent head before him.
Finally Pitch spoke again, but his hands still covered his
face so that his words were just mutterings. But Steve
made out one word and it was enough to make him freeze still
more.
The map!
Tom had it! When they had fled, Pitch had taken
his manuscript but they had left the map behind. On
the map was marked the way to the launch. Tom could
leave the island now, leave them to die here if he
wished! And then he could return in his own
time to do as he wanted with his lost world.
Pitch was the first to move. He staggered to his feet
and
RED SENTINEL
started across the chamber. "We must go back," he said
hoarsely. "Now."
When they reached the bend of the stream, they got to their
hands and knees. They crawled a few feet at a
time, stopped, listened and went on. Just within the great
opening they flattened themselves down even more, twisting and
squirming over the cold stone.
Slow now, and listen. Listen for any sound of his
footsteps on the trail. He may be there. He
could be just outside the opening, waiting and ready.
Keep close to the stone. But be set to run back
if he's here, if he sees us. Don't talk.
Don't breathe. We're almost in the sunlight. We
can see the top of the trail and he isn't there,
waiting as he might have been. A few more feet and
we'll be in the sunlight. We'll be able to look
down at the ledge. But listen first. Listen for any
sound of footsteps. Could we hear him above the drone
of the falls? Yes, yes we could. Go forward then, but
keep flat. We're outside. We should be able
to see him now. Or has he already gone to the
launch? Take a deep breath, hold it and look
for Tom!
Their eyes swept down the trail to the ledge. Tom
sat on a wooden box, the map spread before him.
Then they still had time! But for what? How could they
prevent Tom from reaching the launch? Jump him?
Fight him?
No! No!
What chance did they have to stop him? They could only
watch and wait and hope.
Tom got to his feet and stood looking toward the
marsh. The way to the launch would be easy for him; he
had only to follow the map Pitch had drawn so
well in detail. But he wasn't going yet;
instead he opened the can of whole milk and, mixing
powder with water, swallowed it in long gulps.
They watched him, aware that the milk appeased his
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
enormous appetite but did not by any means
satisfy it. Soon Tom would go to the launch in the
hope of finding food there. When he found none he
would go on to Antago. He would return with
provisions immediately or he would wait for them to die of
starvation before he returned. They had enough food in the
chamber to last them a week, perhaps a little
longer.
Steve heard a short, shrill neigh from the colt in
Bottle Canyon. It was time for his feeding; he was
becoming impatient. Was this then the end for him, too?
Pitch whispered, "Our only chance is that Tom
doesn't go to the launch today, that we can get past him
during the night."
The band had come up the valley. The mares with
suckling foals were closest; some of them went to the
pool while others grazed near the cane. Yearlings
and weanlings were scattered, grazing and playing in
small, separate groups. Flame had come up with
them but had gone directly to the barred gate of
Bottle Canyon. He stood there, listening to the
incessant neighing of the colt on the other side.
Steve watched Flame and so did Tom. Finally the
giant turned, looked in the direction of the marsh
again, then at the map. He studied it for a little longer
before rolling it up.
Pitch and Steve could tell that Tom was trying
to make up his mind whether to go to Antago that day. It
was past midafternoon. If he left then it would be dark
before he reached Antago. It would mean a night
voyage. Tom was no navigator, no seaman.
He wouldn't like being on the open sea at
night. But his hunger might compel him. . . .
They saw the bird rise from the cane, startling a
few of
RED SENTINEL
the foals and causing them to move hurriedly back
to their dams. Tom had seen the bird, too, for now
he put down the map and his hands moved to the bull
whip about his waist. When he started down the trail
Steve and Pitch knew he was going after the bird.
They waited until he had reached the valley
floor, then they hurried down the trail to the ledge.
Pitch looked at the relics strewn about, but he
picked up only the rolled map.
Then he and Steve fell flat on their stomachs
again. They didn't want to be seen by Tom or
by Flame. The stallion would betray their presence
on the ledge if he saw them. He had moved away
from Bottle Canyon, then had come to a stop,
watching Tom. But his eyes, his movements disclosed
only curiosity and interest in the man who was walking
slowly toward the pool. He had no reason not
to accept Tom.
If Tom had seen the stallion, he paid no
attention to him. He walked past Pitch's snubbing
post, intent only on the place in the
canefield where the bird had come to rest. The mares
moved quickly away at Tom's approach. The
bronze shoe stirrup lay gleaming on the ground where
it had been cast from the ledge; near it were the silver
goblet and horseshoe; a little beyond were the long lance, the
helmet and the sextant.
Tom went around the pool to the edge of the cane. His
bull whip was ready. His wrist was bent back, the
long leather whip trailing behind, straight and still now.
But any second it would strike, its movement so
fast it would be lost to the eye.
Steve and Pitch could only wait and watch. Tom
was still between them and the marsh. They remained his prisoners.
A mare whinnied, breaking the ominous stillness. It was
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
the bay mare, but the twin filly was not beside her. The
mare had turned toward the cane, her eyes startled,
worried. She whinnied again.
Deep within the cane, Steve saw the little filly's
head. She answered her mother's call, then the cane
stalks bent as she started for the mare. Her movements
were frantic for she was small and the cane high. She
neighed repeatedly and sought to keep her head above the
stalks as she neared the cropped grass of the valley
floor and Tom.
The nesting bird was flushed by the filly's movements
and neighs. With its rise in the air came the crack
of Tom's whip. There followed the flutter of flying
feathers. But the bird escaped! Tom's head moved
simultaneously with its flight, and Steve and
Pitch could sense the anger and fury that burned within
him at his near miss. Another second, another
foot closer, and his hunt for food would have been
successful.
The filly had come to an abrupt stop at the crack
of the whip. She stood still for a moment, trembling and
uncertain. The mare neighed shrilly, and the filly
turned to go to her.
But she moved too late. The crack of the whip
came again and with it Tom's enraged bellow. The leather
bit into the filly's slender haunches. Squealing and
terrified, she bolted. Tom ran crazily after
her, chasing her around the pool and almost back to the
mare.
Every horse in the band was moving now; scattering,
neighing, running. But their hoofbeats were deadened beneath
Flame's whistle. Tom turned toward him, as
did Steve and Pitch. They saw Flame
galloping across the valley to attack Tom.
Steve's fingers found Pitch; he pressed
hard,
RED SENTINEL
realizing that what he had feared most of all was about
to happen.
Tom did not run. He even turned his face
away from the stallion, the better to gauge the distance
to the trail. It was less than thirty feet. He
could reach the trail easily if he ran. But he
didn't run. He had never run from a horse, from
any animal, in his life. He was not afraid.
Instead he was more elated, more excited than he'd
been in a long, long time.
Close to the trail he stopped and turned to meet the
oncoming stallion. The long leather of the bull whip
was behind him; his wrist was drawn back and ready. He
saw the fire in the large, lustrous eyes of the
horse. And his own eyes gleamed with a light equally
bright. He moved his feet wider apart and his eyes
narrowed until they were mere slits. He saw the red
stallion gather himself for the quick, sudden stop and
attack to come. His wrist tightened and his fingers
pressed hard into the leather of the whip's handle.
With bared teeth the stallion carne to an abrupt
stop fifteen feet away from him, just as Tom had
known he would do. Tom watched as the
stallion snorted and rose on hind legs to his
full height. Then Tom stepped back quickly; his
whip cracked, its biting end tearing into the
stallion's belly. Screaming in pain, the horse
came down. Again Tom struck and the bull whip
tore into Flame's neck and withers.
Tom's face was distorted in evil rapture. Here
was a horse who would give him a fight worthy of his
great strength and skill! He was pulling back the
long leather he so foolishly had let encircle the
stallion's neck when the horse suddenly jerked his
head, tearing the whip from his hands. He started forward
to retrieve it but was too late.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
Terrible in his rage, the red stallion rose above
him. And for the first time in his life Tom knew what it
was to fear an animal. He hurled himself away from the
thrashing forelegs, feeling one graze his shoulder as
he fell to the ground. Quickly he rolled again and again,
and then he felt the stone of the trail beneath his frantic
hands. His face white and terrified, he scrambled
upward, expecting to feel the terrible hoofs crushing
his back. Only when he was well up the trail
did he realize that the path was too narrow and steep
for the stallion to follow and that he was safe.
Turning around, he saw Flame pounding the long
leather of the bull whip.
Slowly Tom regained his composure. "I'll
break you yet, you stud horse!" he shouted
hysterically, repeating the words over and over as he
sat watching the stallion in all his terrible but,
to him, beautiful fury. His hunger for the time being was
completely forgotten as he made his plans to beat this
horse that knew no master.
Chattengedt

Steve and Pitch left the ledge as soon as Tom
started up the trail. He hadn't seen them for he was
too frantic then to have noticed anything. Now they
stood just within the great opening of the falls again, breathing
heavily from their fast climb.
"Flame almost killed him, Pitch.
It would have been all over."
Pitch looked at the boy's white face a long
while before saying, "We can't think that way, Steve.
He's sick. We must think only of getting
help."
"But he'd kill us, Pitch. I know he would."
Pitch had nothing more to say.
Once more they got down flat on their
stomachs and crawled toward the sunlight. They had
to watch Tom, to make certain he wasn't coming up
the trail. Pitch made Steve stay behind him; it was
necessary for only one of them to act as lookout.
Now Pitch would peek down. Tom was standing on the
ledge, watching every move made by the red stallion.
From time to time he shouted at Flame. Finally, when
Flame moved away to return to his band, Tom
searched the ledge
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
for the rolled map. When he could not find
it,
he looked up in the direction of the trail.
Pitch flattened himself still more against the stone. He
didn't think Tom could see him, but he couldn't be
sure. There was no need to raise his eyes; his ears
would tell him of Tom's approach. And at the
slightest sound of a step on the trail, he and
Steve would start running.
But no footsteps came, only Tom's voice.
And his words were all the more startling because of the softness with which
they were uttered.
"I know you're up there, Phil," he said. "But
I'm not running after you any more. I don't need
to. You're going to come to me."
Pitch felt Steve's clawing hands on his legs,
attempting to pull him back.
Run! He'll be coming. He knows we're here!
But still there were no footsteps on the trail. Instead
Tom's voice came again.
"We'll talk this over, you and me, Phil. You're
there. I know you're there."
Steve pulled Pitch back within the opening.
"Don't believe him, Pitch. He won't talk
it over. He'll ..."
Tom's voice came once more, still calm, but now the
softness was mingled with his hatred for them.
"I don't need the map any more to find your
launch," he said.
They hardly heard his words; they were listening only for
his footsteps on the trail.
"You'd better come down, Phil. You'll have
to anyway. You can't reach your launch without coming down
here. I know that, otherwise you'd be gone by now.
Phil, are you listening? Do you realize what's going
to happen? What I
CHALLENGED!
can do? You know very well, don't you, Phil?"
His laughter reached them now, low at first, almost a
cackle, then rising until it was hideous
in all its madness. Then, "I'm not going to ask you
again, Phil, so you'd better come down."
For a long while, there was only the drone of the
waterfall. No words, no footsteps. Their
bodies sweated and ached with their tenseness; their legs
were ready to carry them back into the blackness where Tom
never would follow them.
Then his voice came again. "You've had your chance,
Phil. You should have known better than not to come to me.
I'm going to let you rot here. I'm taking your
launch tomorrow morning. I'm going home. And do you know
what, Phil? I'm not coming back for a long, long
time, not until you're dead. Not until you starve
as you were going to let me starve. . . .
"It's too late now, Phil, but you should have thought
of the kid. He's pretty young to die. And it'll be
your fault, Phil. You should have thought of him."
Pitch made no move but his face was ghastly
white.
"Don't listen to him," Steve said desperately.
"We know he wouldn't give us a chance. Tonight,
Pitch . . . tonight we'll get past him."
Pitch said nothing, and there were no further words from
Tom.
They stayed here, knowing Tom couldn't be
certain that they were here, for he hadn't seen them. They
would not go back to the chamber; it was best that they remain
here, watching, waiting for the slightest chance to get past
Tom before morning.
From time to time during the late afternoon, they
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
crawled out of the great opening to look down upon the
ledge. They saw Tom descend the trail to the
valley floor to retrieve his bull whip. The
remainder of the day he spent watching Flame's
movements with the band. He saw the great stallion come
up the valley often in answer to the incessant
neighing of the colt in Bottle Canyon. Tom must
have recognized the colt, for he looked at him for a
long time after Flame had returned to his band.
Once he started down the trail as though to go to the
canyon gate, but he stopped when Flame came
up the valley again. Back at the ledge once more,
Tom sat down, his thoughtful gaze leaving the
stallion only for the snubbing post below.
Shadows fell quickly and heavily over the valley
with the sinking of the sun behind the walls. Night would soon
follow, and with it would come Steve's and Pitch's only
chance of escape.
Pitch spoke to Steve, still keeping the
side of his face pressed hard against the stone.
"He'll have to sleep sometime," he whispered.
"I'll keep the first watch and call you when I
feel I'm getting drowsy, then you take over."
"I'm not sleepy," Steve said. "I don't think
I will be."
"In a few hours you will."
Somber blackness came to the valley. Even the
stars seemed fewer and farther away that night as though
they too would do all they could to conceal Steve and
Pitch from Tom. But the yellow light of the lantern
gleamed below, exposing the ledge as bright as day.
They watched Tom pick up all the empty cans
and scrape them clean into a pot of water he had on
the stove. Finally he lifted it to his lips,
drank from it in great gulps, then
CHALLENGED!
hurled the pot against the stone. He strode about the
ledge, every stride giving evidence of his fury and
hunger. He looked up in the direction of the
trail, but there was no chance of his seeing Pitch and
Steve in the darkness.
The colt had been neighing constantly, yet there was
nothing Steve could do for him. Or that Flame could do.
The stallion, made frequent trips up
the valley to the barred gate of the canyon, but his
visits only brought forth more and louder outbursts of
frenzy from the colt. Steve could not see Flame in
the darkness but the beat of hoofs told him when the
stallion was at the gate and when he left to return
to his band.
"Flame could keep Tom from going down the valley
and reaching the launch," Steve said grimly.
"I doubt it. Tom has handled wild horses like
Flame before. He has his ways. No, our only
chance is to get by him tonight. Try to go to sleep now,
Steve. It's getting on."
The hours passed, but it was impossible for the boy
to sleep. Always there was the light below, and beyond in the
darkness the frantic appeals from the colt. How could
he sleep? How could anyone sleep tonight?
Even Tom.
They could only pray and wait and hope that he would.
More hours of waiting passed with never a closing of an
eye for either Steve or Pitch. Was it early morning
yet? It must be, for even the colt was still now and there
was no sound from Flame or the band. Yet below the
light was still burning. Tom was taking no chances. He
must have known he had guessed right . . . that they were
above him with no way of reaching the launch
except by using this trail. And he lay stretched out
on his blanket directly in their path.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
were his eyes open? They could not tell from where they
were. When should they go? How much longer should they
wait?
Pitch turned to Steve, his bloodshot eyes
telling him to sleep, that it wasn't time yet. But
Steve couldn't sleep. He could only watch and
wait for Pitch's signal.
Finally it came. After looking at the luminous dial
on his watch Pitch touched the boy's arm, then held
a finger across his lips.
Now they were moving, their weight first on one knee,
then on the other. On all fours they reached the
trail. Quietly they stood up and took one step
forward on the trail, then another, feeling carefully
for loose stones and never taking their eyes off the
giant figure below them.
Closer and closer. Don't breathe. Don't
slip. Don't move a step until we're
sure. He can't be more than ten feet below us.
Careful now. His breathing is regular. His eyes
are closed. Are we certain? It's so hard
to tell, so hard. Is he sleeping? Is
he waiting?
Another step, another lifetime. Pitch, oh,
Pitch, why are you stopping now? Go on. He's
sleeping, Pitch. One step more and we're in the
light. Another and another and we will have passed him.
Oh, Pitch. Oh, Pitch. Go on.
A clawlike hand lay on the stone. Pitch's
eyes were on it. Steve's, too, were drawn to it.
The palm was turned up, all hard and calloused and
lined in the yellow light. The fingers, curled at the
ends, were moving . . . ever so slightly, it was
true, but they were moving!
Tom was awake and waiting.
They pivoted as the hand reached for them. They ran
back up the trail, their terror giving them the speed
of wings. But they were wasting their energy, for Tom did
not
CHALLENGED!
follow them. Only his laughter, insane and
hysterical, pursued them. They heard it even when
they were deep within the tunnels, safely away from
him. Safe? Safe to be left to die of starvation
within two weeks' time!
In agony they sat down on the floor of the
tunnel, dreading the approach of the new
day.
Dawn found them at the bend of the stream, staring into the
gray light beyond the falls. They were not hungry although
they hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon. With all
hope of escape gone, they were conscious of nothing but
fear. Their eyes were glassy and despair had
claimed them completely.
Steve looked at Pitch, trying to find some
solace in the fact that his friend's face was no longer
swollen, his lips no longer black. It was
funny, he reflected, that he should be giving even a
thought to that now . . . when it didn't matter at
all.
From outside they heard Flame's sharp whistle, then
the beat of his hoofs. And when all was still again Tom's
shouts and cries came to them from the valley floor.
But they couldn't make out his words.
They went to the great opening and crawled outside, ever
fearful, ever careful.
Flame stood just below with only his nostrils moving;
the rest of his body was rigid, and the cold light of
dawn turned his coat into frozen fire. His eyes
were on Tom, now scrambling up the trail.
"Tom tried to get down the valley," Steve said.
"Flame stopped him. He stopped him just
as I said he might, Pitch."
Tom reached the ledge. He stood there, his body
rocking
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
back and forth, back and forth. He put one hand up
to his neck, his eyes. His fingers seemed to be
digging, tearing into his very eyeballs.
"Oh, God, dear God, please help him."
Pitch's lips moved in prayer. And Steve knew
that neither Pitch nor he could bear any revenge
toward Tom, only pity and sadness and fear.
Flame screamed again. And the sudden shrillness of it
broke forever the slightest aspects of sanity which
Tom had been fighting to retain. Now the mental
fight was over. He screamed back at the
stallion. He raced about the ledge, pawing the air
with his hands, laughing, crying, shouting with no pause,
going from one phase to the other, hysterically, madly.
It went on long after Flame had returned to his
band. Suddenly Tom looked up the trail and saw
Pitch and Steve standing there, unmoving, their startled
eyes fixed upon him. He became silent.
Pitch's hand found Steve's arm. But neither he nor
the boy ran. They could only stare at Tom
pityingly, helpless to do anything for him.
And he kept staring at them. Only when the colt
neighed again did he finally turn away to look
toward the canyon. For many minutes he watched the
colt behind the gate, then focused his attention on the
stallion and band that grazed a good mile away.
His gaze swept back to them. His lips moved without
words. Then his voice came, deep and guttural.
"Come down. I'll get your colt. I'll ..."
His lips continued moving but no further words could be
heard.
They didn't have to hear the rest. They knew he was
threatening to harm the colt if they didn't go down.
CHALLENGED!
He stood there, rocking and waiting for a long while;
then he turned away from them and watched the colt, the
stallion and band again.
When Tom touched the whip about his waist, when he
picked up two coils of rope from the ledge,
Pitch and Steve knew he meant to carry out his
threat. With fearful, terrified eyes they could only
watch.
They saw Tom go to the valley floor. There he
dropped one rope at the foot of the trail and then
went to the snubbing post and tied the end of the second
rope about it. He walked swiftly and
surely. His movements belied the madness that wracked
his brain. It was as though he were now treading familiar
ground and there was no fear within him. Yet his eyes
never left the band and Flame.
They watched him walk softly, stealthily toward
Bottle Canyon, toward the colt. Only
Steve's eyes were alive. He didn't feel
Pitch's arm on him. He didn't know he was being
guided down the trail, a few steps at a time.
He didn't know, although Pitch told him over and
over again, that they were going to try to reach the valley
floor while Tom went for the colt.
"We must wait until he reaches the canyon,"
Pitch said, coming to a stop just below the ledge. "He
thinks he can get back before we have a chance of getting
down the trail. But he can't, Steve. We can
make it if we run hard once he's at the
canyon."
The boy stood deathly still, his body rigid beneath
Pitch's hand. Pitch wondered if Steve had
heard him. Did he understand what they had to do?
Pitch himself didn't dare take his eyes off Tom
a minute. A few feet more and Tom would be at the
canyon. Another minute and they could risk running
down the trail. If they could only reach
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
the valley without Tom's seeing them. If they could
only get a good start, they'd have a chance, a real
chance of getting away!
Pitch's body trembled, Tom was at the gate.
The top bar came down, then the second bar. The
colt moved out into the valley. Tom reached for his
halter.
"Now, Steve!"
Pitch took another step down the trail, then
froze in his tracks.
Tom had turned around!
He was coming back. He was running his very fastest.
A sad whimper escaped Pitch's lips. For a
few seconds he was incapable of doing anything but
watching Tom racing toward them. Suddenly he came
to his senses and started pushing Steve ahead of him.
It was then that he heard the shrill, clarion call
of the stallion, and he realized it was Flame who had
caused Tom to turn back.
If Flame had given them only a few minutes
more!
Steve was going up the trail so slowly. Pitch
pushed harder against him. He looked back at
Tom.
But Tom wasn't coming up the trail. He had already
passed it. He was going to the post.
He was going to fight Flame!
Pitch turned to Steve. The boy had come to a stop,
fully aware of the terrible, horrible drama about
to take place beneath them.
Tom had reached the post. Arrogantly he stood
before it, the coiled rope in his left hand, the bull
whip in his right. "Come on, you stud horse! Come
on!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
Flame swept across the valley.

Flame's feet barely touched the ground as he
came ever closer. His small ears were pricked
forward and fire burned in his eyes. As he neared
Tom, his ears swept back until they were flat
against his head.
With the charging stallion less than a hundred yards
away, Tom moved behind the post and cocked the wrist
of his whip hand. He was ready.
Pitch said, "He'll stop him with the whip."
Steve shook his head. "He won't. He'll be
killed, trampled."
They saw the long leather of the whip start to move when
Flame was still fifty yards from the post.
Tom brought back his arm. They couldn't see the
leather as it streaked through the air, but they heard its
pistol-like crack.
The sharp retort slowed the strides of the running
stallion but didn't stop him. The whip spoke
again, and now it cracked incessantly as Tom brought
it back and forth, shattering the air. But Flame
came on with dilated nostrils and thin lips drawn
back. Screaming, he came to within fifty feet of
Tom . . . thirty feet . . . and then he was within
the range of the whip.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
The leather bit deeply into his chest. He came
to an abrupt stop, pawing furiously.
Steve closed his eyes.
Move, Flame, Move. Don't stand there!
But the stallion only rose high in the air,
seeking to pummel his long, snakelike thing that reached
out to strike him. Again the whip bit into him, tearing at
the softness of his belly. Screaming in rage and pain,
he came down and the whip struck his chest. He
rose, pawing, and once more the whip found his belly.
When he came down, he stood still for a second,
shaking in his fury, undecided what to do. His red
eyes found the man who was standing a short
distance away from him.
"Flame!" Steve shouted to his horse when he
saw him standing still. "Go! Go! Go!"
Tom had been waiting for his precise second.
Quickly he threw the rope and the noose arched cleanly
in the air, then dropped over the stallion's head,
settling around his neck.
Too late to avoid the lasso, Flame moved.
He charged the man, screaming in all his fury and
hatred.
Furiously the giant worked his whip, but the stallion
came on, too close now to suffer the full
impact of the long leather. Fear came to Tom's
eyes as Flame sought his body with pawing hoofs.
He kept the pole between them, narrowly avoiding the
thrashing forelegs. He struck hard with the heavy butt
end of the whip, which landed on the stallion's nose.
Again and again he struck, always keeping the post between
them, staying on his feet even when the pawing hoofs
glanced off his shoulders. He was fighting for his life
now, and his terrifying knowledge lent superhuman strength to the
blows he delivered upon the stallion each time the
horse reached for him with his raking teeth.
But there came the moment when Tom realized
he couldn't keep the stallion away from him much
longer. He kept moving around the post, kept
hammering at the stallion's nose, and all the while
his fear-crazed eyes never left those of the raging
demon that rose before him. Soon one of those pawing
forelegs would catch him hard and square, sending him
to the ground. It would be the end.
Suddenly Flame came down close to the post,
too close, for his shoulder brushed it, knocking him
temporarily off balance. Tom moved quickly.
Reaching down, he got hold of the rope that had
encircled the stallion's hind legs. Pulling
hard, he felt the legs give. The stallion
tripped, then fell.
Turning quickly, Tom ran. He heard the pounding
hoofs behind him and knew the horse had regained his
feet and was after him. But less than forty feet
away was safety, for the stallion was tied fast to the
post.
Steve watched Flame go after Tom, saw the rope
between the post and the running horse tighten, then become
taut, throwing Flame to the ground. The horse was up
almost immediately, fighting the rope that held him,
screaming in rage.
A safe distance away Tom turned,
frenzied hatred replacing the fear in his eyes. For a
moment he just stood there, facing the horse, breathing
heavily. Then he too screamed. He drew back
the bull whip and then brought it forward, striking the tied
horse who was pawing so futilely at it. Again the
valley echoed to the terrible, horrible chant of the
whip.
The red stallion plunged once, twice at the
man who stood such a short distance away from him, who
reached out at him with this
thing
that tore open his flesh. And each
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
time he sought to reach him he felt the rope choking him
around his neck. He plunged no more, now only
rising to his full height to paw furiously.
As the beating continued, Flame ran around the post, the
man following him, always reaching out with the whip.
"Fight me!" Tom shouted hysterically at the top
of his voice. "You yellow-bellied stud horse!"
But the red stallion did not turn on him. He
kept encircling the post, fleeing the whip. And as he
did so the distance he was able to travel became shorter
and shorter, the rope drawing him ever closer to the post
and to a fate worse than that from which he now
fled. But he had no way of knowing that.
Steve stood on the trail, watching the horrible
spectacle below. He was unable to move, unable
to think. No part of him seemed to be functioning
except his eyes, no part of him moved except his
glassy eyes.
Pitch's arm was about his waist, holding him, but he
felt nothing. Pitch said. "There's nothing we can do
to help Flame, Steve . . . nothing." But
Steve was deaf to all words, to anything but the rhythmic
crack, crack, crack of the whip.
Smaller and smaller became the stallion's
circle about the post. Suddenly, as though at last
he realized what was happening, he stopped running
away from the whip. Rising to his full height, he
plunged away from the post. The rope held; the
noose tightened about his neck, choking him. He went
down hard and felt the
thing
tearing at his body. Scrambling to his feet, he
plunged again, still seeking escape. He screamed as
he went down; once more he felt the searing pain and
pulled himself to his feet.
The stallion stood still, his body trembling. Tom
167
snapped the bull whip to get him going again. A few
more times around the post would be all that was necessary. The
horse moved and he followed him. Twice more around
and he had the stallion fast and close to the post.
He picked up the second rope which he had left
at the foot of the trail. Smiling, he made a
noose, then lightly threw it on the ground. He
waited until the horse stepped into it, then pulled
the noose tight about the right hind leg. With nothing
to fear now, he went forward and drew the end of the rope
around the stallion's neck. He pulled hard and had
Flame standing immobile on three legs. Then he
tied the rope about his neck.
Next he grabbed one of the small ears. He
twisted it savagely, bringing down the stallion's
head.
"You can't stand having it twisted, can you? No horse
can. You're not dealing with a kid now. I'm Tom
Pitcher. I break your kind easy. I'm the ..."
On and on his lips moved. But at the same time he
was using his hands. He had the rope unwound from the
post. Now he brought the end of it toward the lowered
head. He thrust it between the teeth that sought
unsuccessfully to grab him, and bound the lower jaw;
then quickly he brought the rope around the head
and tightened it about the muzzle.
"A bridle you'll never forget ... a war
bridle, we call it. The pull is around your
upper lip, your gums, too. You can't stand the pain,
can you?" He pulled the rope once to make the
horse aware of the additional pain he could exert; then
he placed one arm across the stallion's back. A
moment later he mounted, while Flame still stood on
three trembling legs.
Pitch shook the boy but there was no response. He
turned his own glazed eyes back to Tom. He
saw Tom's hand go to
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
the rope about the stallion's neck which also held up
Flame's right hind leg. He knew Tom was going
to release Flame altogether now except for the vicious
war bridle. He had seen all this happen many times
before.
He saw the hind leg come down. Flame had the
use of all four feet once more, but still he made
no move. And the answer, Pitch thought bitterly,
must be that Flame was beaten in body and spirit as
completely as he and Steve had been. There was no
reason for Flame or them to fight Tom any
longer. Tom had won. Pitch closed his
eyes. He didn't want to see the next sad
phase in the life of this stallion who only a
short while ago had been so noble, so proud, so
...
Tom's yell, not in anger but in fear, caused
Pitch to open his eyes. The stallion was rearing, and
Tom was clinging to his neck.
Flame wasn't beaten!
Tom dug his frantic, clawing fingers into the sweated
coat. He was afraid to use the bridle rope
lest he pull the stallion over backward. He
tried to get off, knowing that once he was on the ground
he would have full control over the horse again. He
drew up his long legs, ready to slip off the moment
the horse began his forward descent. Then suddenly the
small head came back; he knew then the
stallion was intentionally going over backward with him!
Unmindful of anything but to get free of the falling
horse, he dropped the bridle rope and flung
himself off the stallion's back.
He struck the ground hard and on the side of his
head. He fought to retain consciousness. A heavy
blackness descended, then a grayness. He tried
to reach the light, which eluded him. And now he waited
for the pounding hoofs to strike him. But nothing
happened. When he was able to open his eyes, he saw
the red stallion leaving him,

moving along the end wall with the long bridle rope
trailing behind.
Anger replaced the fear within him. Getting to his
feet, he picked up the bull whip and followed.
In body, if not in spirit, the horse was beaten and too
spent to evade him for long. He broke into a run,
his fingernails pressed deeply into the butt of the
whip.
The Mectewning

Pitch's arm tightened about the boy's waist.
""Now, Steve. Now we can get away. He's
forgotten us. He's ..."
Steve was enveloped in a feeling of numbness, but
Pitch got him to take one step, then another down
the trail. He noticed that the boy's eyes were
following Flame, following Tom.
"Flame's beaten, Steve. Do you understand? We
can't help him. Move faster, Steve. Move
faster."
More steps. Ever closer to the floor of the valley and
escape. But Steve's gaze never left
Flame and Tom.
The red stallion moved across the valley at a slow
trot, so slow it was almost a walk. From about his
small head trailed the rope of the war bridle.
He made no effort to rid himself of it, perhaps because he
sensed that it would be useless to do so. He stopped once
and turned in the direction of the band far down the
valley. But he didn't go to them, for Tom was between
him and them.
Crouched low, the giant ran parallel with the
stallion, keeping him close to the wall. An
ugly smile played about Tom's lips. All he
had to do was to keep the horse at this end of the valley,
then close in on him. It was only a matter of
minutes now.
THE RECKONING
He saw the injured colt just a short distance to his
left. He cracked his whip, hoping to scare him
away. He didn't want him around to get in the
way, to spoil the fun. This fight was just between the stud
horse and himself. It had begun that way. It would end
that way. It wouldn't be long now.
The colt moved farther away, stumbling a little as he
tried to go into a trot with his injured leg. But Tom
paid no attention to him; his eyes were on the
stallion and on the narrow canyon where the colt had
been kept. His pace quickened as a new thought
occurred to him. It would be more fun, more exciting if
he could force the stallion down the canyon where he'd
have him all to himself.
The whip cracked incessantly now in a large
circular movement. Four beats, one to the right, one
forward, one to the left and one behind. A rhythm, a
chant, its tempo rising, becoming maddening. Going
forward, the giant stomped and beat his feet to it as
though he were dancing. His eyes gleamed, his lips
moved but no sound came from them.
Seeking escape, the stallion turned into the
canyon and Tom burst into a run as he followed
him.
Pitch got Steve down the last few feet to the
valley floor. Then he shook the boy in an
attempt to rid him of his terrifying numbness. But
he stopped when he looked into Steve's face. The
boy's eyes were glazed and streaked with red. In them
Pitch saw mirrored all the horror they had
witnessed. And he wondered if his own eyes looked
the same.
"Steve. Steve. Listen to me." He tried
to keep his voice low and soft, but a
shrillness crept into it. "We can go now. We can
leave and get help!"
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
For a moment he was still again, just gazing into that smooth,
unlined face before him . . . the face of a boy
except for the eyes. They were sick, mature, even
old.
"We're going now, Steve," he said, and this time he
succeeded in keeping his voice soft. He pulled
Steve gently, guiding him down the valley. A
few feet, a few more feet. But the boy's head was
turned back, back toward the canyon.
"We can't help Flame. We've got to think of the
others now, Steve. We're leaving. We're going
for help. Understand? We're going for help. We'll
be back before he can touch the others," The boy turned
to him, and Pitch spoke faster. "The colt. Think
of him, Steve," he pleaded. "We'll be back in
time to help him. But we must hurry now. We must
get away. You must move faster, Steve."
Steve looked at the colt across the valley; then the
dullness in his eyes was pricked with pinpoints of
life, of understanding of what Pitch had said. His steps
came faster, faster.
He was going to leave. He was going with
Pitch to get help.
Then came Flame's shrill scream from the
canyon. Steve stopped, breathing heavily. He
tried to deafen his ears to it, to listen only to Pitch's
words urging him on. But it was no good, no good!
He twisted violently away from Pitch. He
felt the man's grasping fingers on his skin, then the
sound of his shirt tearing as Pitch sought a new hold
on him. But he spun completely around. Now he was
free and running! He turned to the end wall, to the
canyon,
to Flame.
And he never heard Pitch's cries behind him.
He entered the neck of Bottle Canyon, his
strides racing over the short cropped grass. The
walls widened. Far up the
THE RECKONING
canyon and to the right was Torn, his whip cracking.
Steve didn't see Flame until he looked
up the trail, and there he saw his horse climbing
toward the cave and the crevice in the wall.
Not there. Not there, Flame!
Only to the ledge overlooking the spit of land did this
trail lead; only to Lookout Ledge from where there was
no escape, no turning back. It would
all end there, the pain, the hatred, the brutality
... for him and his horse.
When Steve reached the trail, Tom already had
followed Flame into the cave. Steve's eyes were
glazed with tears so he could hardly see. He
stumbled, fell, and his nose crashed hard against the
stone. He got up and, animal-like, used his hands as
well as his feet in climbing.
He entered the grayness of the shallow cave, stumbled
forward into the light from the crevice which split the rock
above him. Just ahead was the ledge. A few more feet
and he would see it all. But it was so quiet. No
sound from Flame. No sound from the whip. No shrill
words from Tom. Only silence. Was it over then?
He dropped to his hands and knees, then to his
stomach, and pulled himself over the stone the last few
feet. He looked out upon the ledge.
They were to the far left. He wasn't too late!
Or was he? Flame was standing still except for the constant
trembling of his gigantic body. His head was down,
almost lifeless. From it stretched the bridle rope for
twenty feet. At the end of it was Tom. He had
the rope around the lower part of his great frame and all
his ponderous weight was being used as he strained against
it. The rope was taut and tight about the
stallion's muzzle.
Tom had the bull whip in his right hand but he wasn't
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
using it. Instead he was jerking the rope hard.
Flame's head came up in pain with each pull but
his rigid legs never moved.
Steve looked for a rock, for anything to use as a
weapon against Tom. But there were no rocks on the
bare ledge, nothing he could use. He'd go back
to the trail. He'd find a rock there. He got
to his knees, then suddenly fell down again, close
to the stone.
Tom had straightened, had removed his weight from the
rope, causing it to slacken. Flame's head came
up in relief from the pressure about his mouth. All
the pain he was suffering was in his eyes. But there was the
glowing red of fire, too, fire that apparently
meant more to Steve than to Tom. For Tom was going
toward Flame as though he had nothing more to fear from the
stallion.
Then Steve heard Tom begin to laugh. It came
slowly at first and was nothing more than a chuckle. Then
he was shrieking and screaming, his feet again stomping the
stone in a frenzied dance. All the while he moved
closer and closer to Flame. Behind him
trailed the long leather of the bull whip.
Steve got to his knees. He knew Flame was
going to bolt, to make another break for freedom.
He would help him in any way he could.
It was then that he felt Pitch's arms closing around
him from behind and pulling him backward. He was being
half-dragged. He fought hard and got his legs
braced against the wall. The pulling stopped. He
turned to face Pitch. He still heard Tom's
laughter, but suddenly it was stilled beneath the scream of the
stallion. Clawing the stone, Steve pulled himself
toward the cliff, dragging Pitch with him in his
frenzy.
THE RECKONING
They saw Flame rising to his full height,
while Tom backed away. He was still laughing but now
it was more of a giggle. He kept backing, never taking
his eyes off the stallion. Then he was crying, and his
sobs wracked his tremendous body. Still retreating,
he cowered before Flame, his whipless hand covering his
eyes.
Pitch groaned,
"Oh, Tom. Tom"
He ran out on the ledge.
Tom kept going backward, never feeling
the dangling leather of the bull whip as it encircled his
ankles. He realized nothing until he tripped
and felt himself falling. Frantically he reached out
to break his fall. But he was near the edge and there was
nothing there but air. For more than three hundred feet
to the spit below there was nothing to break his fall.
Steve watched it happen. He saw Pitch grab
for Tom too late, then fall heavily on the
stone. Pitch began whirling crazily before Steve's
eyes. And with it came blackness, spinning blackness.
Steve slumped forward and lay still.
Conclusion

When Steve regained consciousness, Pitch was standing
beside him.
"Steve," the man said, kneeling down. The boy
did not seem to hear him. "Steve," he repeated.
The boy heard this time for his eyes focused on him.
"He's dead," Pitch said. "Tom's dead. Do you
understand? There was nothing we could have done. Perhaps it's
for the best. Perhaps ..."
Steve did not say anything. But he understood. He
had seen Tom fall over the cliff. No one could
have survived such a fall.
Pitch lifted the boy's head from the ground.
"When you're up to it, we'll go back to the
valley," he said. His voice was gentle; his words
were simple and distinct as though he were speaking to a child.
Steve's head cleared when he sat up straight.
He had fainted. But he felt no shame. He
made a move toward the ledge, but Pitch's hands
restrained him.
"Don't look over. It's better that you don't
see him."
"But Flame? Where is he?"
"He's safe," Pitch said. "He went back .
. . right after it happened. He's probably in the
valley. We'll go there when you're ready."
CONCLUSION
Steve pulled himself to his feet. He stood still
until he knew he was all right. Nodding to Pitch,
he followed his friend through the crevice.
When they reached the trail, they saw Flame below
them. Pitifully slow, the stallion moved down the
canyon toward Blue Valley.
Leading the way, Steve quickened his pace; but he
didn't break into a run until he reached the
bottom of the trail. He spoke his horse's name
over and over again in his mind, but the words never left his
lips. Closer and closer he came
to Flame. He saw the terrible lashes and clotted
blood that covered his horse's body. He saw the
long bridle rope trailing along the grass; even
this seemed much too heavy for Flame to drag.
The red stallion's head came up when he heard the
running footsteps behind him. Then he turned, his
teeth bared once more.
Steve stopped. "Flame," he said. "Flame.
Flame." His voice was scarcely audible. He
went forward, repeating his horse's name over and over.
Yards, then only a few feet separated them. His
eyes were blurred. Flame was but a dark mass in
front of him. He went forward, his hands outstretched
until they found the wet and trembling body. He
stood there, trembling too, and the tears that had welled
in his eyes broke through and flowed down his cheeks.
When Flame was quiet, Steve glanced at the
horse's head; it was lowered now. He moved toward
it, taking the soft muzzle in his hands and loosening the
rope from about it; then he pulled off the rope and let
it fall to the ground without looking at it.
Steve took a step forward, and Flame moved beside
him.
Only when they were in Blue Valley and nearing the
pool
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
did Pitch speak. "The first-aid kit is in my
pack, Steve," he said. "There's gauze there and a
bottle of antiseptic. Wash him clean and
he'll get better. I'll leave him to you."
"Then you're going?"
"I'm bringing back the police constable this afternoon,"
Pitch said. "I want him to see where Tom fell.
I don't want to move him."
"You'll go to the spit, not bring the police to Blue
Valley?" Steve asked.
"Only to the spit," Pitch promised. "It
happened there." Pausing, he added, "Tom's death
was accidental, Steve. He fell. You and I know
that to be the truth. That's what I'll tell the
police. It's all they'll need to know. What
Tom was like these past few days, what he did to us and
to Flame is of no importance to them now. And
Steve," Pitch paused again before going on, "Tom
would never have gotten well. I know that."
They stopped when they reached the pool. Flame lowered
his head to drink the cool, soothing water.
"It's over, Steve . . .
over,"
Pitch said.
It was late in the afternoon of the same day when Pitch
carefully brought the launch in toward the pier on the
spit of Azul Island. Standing behind him were two men,
both tall and thin and wearing white linen suits,
black ties and hats.
"Haven't been here in ten years," said one. "Just
once, and that was enough for me. Why anybody would ..."
He left his sentence unfinished.
The other removed his hat and ran a handkerchief over
his hairless dome. He said nothing, for he was watching
the

submerged rocks that seemingly grazed the prow of the
launch as they approached the pier.
"Only Tom Pitcher would go and die in this
Godforsaken spot," the first man spoke again. "As
if we didn't have enough trouble with him on Antago.
He was-was The man stopped, his eyes on
Pitch's back. "I'm sorry, Phil," he
apologized. "My sympathy."
Pitch said nothing. He had talked little since he
had picked up the chief constable and his assistant at
the police station. He had answered their questions
truthfully and he would continue to do so. But they hadn't
been very surprised at Tom's death or the
way he had died.
Pitch moored the launch to the pier. Then they walked
across the wooden planking and stepped onto the sandy
land. Climbing the dunes, they turned toward the
mountainous yellow rock.
They walked in silence until the baldheaded man
said, gazing up at the darkening sky above them, "We
shouldn't spend much time here. No sense making the
whole trip back in the dark."
The chief nodded in agreement, then turned to Pitch.
"All the way to the end of the canyon, Phil?"
"Yes," Pitch said. "At the foot of the cliff."
"You saw him fall?" the chief asked quickly. "I
believe I asked you that before, Phil. But just for the
record ..."
"I saw him fall," Pitch answered. The constable
didn't ask him from where he had seen Tom fall.
He hadn't asked him earlier, nor did he now.
He took it for granted that one couldn't have been
anywhere else but below.
The yellow rock closed in on them, the end wall was
just ahead. They saw Tom's body at its base.
Pitch's footsteps
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
lagged. The baldheaded man went forward
while the chief constable stayed with Pitch, his arm going
around him to lend support. "Easy now, Phil,"
he said.
The man had reached Tom. The body was heavy, but
he was able to turn it over. He looked up at his
chief and Pitch, and nodded. Pitch turned away.
Later they all looked up at the precipitous
wall. They saw the two protruding rocks and the
ropes hanging from them. Only Pitch knew that
Tom must have thrown the ropes up when he had first
reached Azul Island and had tried unsuccessfully
to scale this wall.
The chief looked down at the foot of the wall again.
He saw the pick. "Tom tried to reach the ledge,
then," he said. It was not a question. He said it as a
matter of fact, for it was so obvious that this was what
Tom had attempted to do.
Pitch said, "Yes. He tried to reach the ledge."
He was being truthful. Tom had tried and failed, and
gone on to find another entrance to the interior of
Azul Island.
"Why was he trying to get up there, Phil?"
Pitch spoke without hesitation. He had expected
this question. He was ready for it. "Tom thought there was a
habitable interior to this island," he said.
"He expected to find out by reaching the ledge above."
This, too, was the truth.
The man shook his head. "Just like him," he said.
"Always asking for it." He gazed up at the yellow
rock, which gleamed in the sun's last rays.
"Well, he got it this time. Everyone knows there's
nothing there but rock, solid rock."
He hadn't asked if there was. He had just said there
wasn't. A statement of fact, requiring no
answer.
"I guess that's all," the chief said. "I'll
help carry the body, Phil. You get the pick,
if you will." He was walking forward when he saw the
bull whip lying on the ground a few feet away.
"And there's his whip, Phil. Get that, too."
Pitch got the pick, then waited until the men had
started
off
with Tom's lifeless body before he went over to get
the bull whip. He reached down. To touch it was the
most difficult thing of all.
"Phil! Let's get going." The chief had
turned back to him. "It's late."
Pitch picked up the bull whip and followed them.
Halfway to the pier he stopped to look
back at the high wall; then he went on toward the
launch.
It was a month later and the valley was quiet again.
The lower bar across the entrance to Bottle Canyon
had been removed and now the colt dropped his head a
little to get beneath the top bar. He went to the box of
feed just within the canyon entrance.
Steve watched him as he played with the rolled oats
in the box, blowing through dilated nostrils. Then,
taking a mouthful, the colt turned back to the gate.
The cast and splint had been removed a week before,
and there was no evidence of the fracture either in his
appearance or movement. He had put on weight,
too, during the last month, and the size of his bones and
recent development showed promise of his becoming a
horse as large as Flame. He was broad between the
eyes and jaws, his head well set on a strong,
arched neck which entered the shoulders into good withers; his
body was handsome yet rugged, his legs hard and
flinty.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
He would continue growing and getting stronger every day, for
in addition to the rolled oats and grass, Steve
gave him all the milk he would drink. His coat
had a polished sheen from constant grooming.
And never did a day go by that the colt didn't have his
feet and legs handled and cleaned by Steve.
Now he ducked his head beneath the bar and came
to Steve. The boy removed the halter, rubbed the
colt's head where the straps had been, then put the
halter back on. Snapping the lead shank to it, he
led the colt across the valley, then back and around in
a circle, again and again. He kept leading him
until he saw Flame leave his band to join them.
He unsnapped the lead shank then and waited for his
horse.
The red stallion ignored the colt when he came
to a stop before Steve. He stood still for a moment when
Steve placed a hand on him, then he went to the
barred entrance to the canyon. He snorted at the
sight of the oats in the box. But he couldn't get
to them, for Steve wasn't giving him any grain.
Flame's life in the valley was far different from
what the colt's would be like away from the island. The
great stallion lived only on grass as nature
had intended all horses to do. Flame's life was
wild and free; he grazed where he wished in the
valleys and canyons of Azul Island. But the
colt would be leaving it all behind him within a few
weeks. He would live for a while on a
ship that would take him and Steve to the United
States. Then they would be home. Not far from
Steve's house were a barn and pasture where this colt
would live and grow, with Steve watching him, caring for
him.
Would it be as lovely, as good as this valley? No,
in many ways it wouldn't. The colt would be giving up
his life

of freedom for domesticity. But in other ways it
would be better. For he was a colt, soon to become
a stallion. With Steve he was assured a long
life, a life in which he could reproduce others
perhaps like him. But here in Blue Valley he would be
killed by Flame, just as colts before him had been
killed. For Flame was a young leader and none would
defeat him in battle for a long, long time. So it
would be as Steve wanted it to be . . . the colt would
go home with him.
Flame left the barred gate to move back
to Steve, and the boy glanced for a fleeting moment at the
scarred body where the whiplash cuts had healed. Then
he turned away to look at the towering rock behind
him. Somewhere in the tunnels Pitch was continuing his
explorations, work that he had said would take
him three to four years to finish. Three to four long
years before he'd be ready to submit his manuscript
to the historical society and let the world know what
he and Steve had found here.
And so one might say,
Steve thought,
that all our worries and fears are over. One might
suppose that with Tom's death we could go on just as we
did before he found us. Pitch has recovered all his
relics and has found more. The snubbing post no longer
stands by the pool. It's been taken down and burned.
And no one on Antago is honestly sorry that
Tom is dead, for he hurt too many people. The
natives are again working the plantation, and they have nothing
to fear any longer. So all in all one would be
justified in thinking we could go on here as we did
before.
But it isn't quite that simple . . . not for me or
Pitch or Flame. I've been in the tunnels
only a few times since it all happened, and always
with Pitch. It's never easy for me because
still
think I hear Tom somewhere ahead in the blackness.
Silly; but that's the way it is. Usually Pitch
takes me by the arm. I guess he does
it to assure me everything is all right.
THE ISLAND STALLION'S FURY
And it's the same with Flame whenever I ride him
near the place where the snubbing post used to be or when
we go through Bottle Canyon. He's restless,
even a little afraid, although we've never again gone up
the trail leading to the ledge overlooking the spit. I
comfort him then because I understand.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walter Parley'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 Parley 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. Parley 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 Parley and his wife,
Rosemary, divide their time between a farm in
Pennsylvania and a beach house in Florida.