The Island Stallion

by Walter Farley

  “He can’t see us,” Steve said. “Just a few hundred yards more, Pitch—then we’ll look again. We should be well downwind from him by then.”

  Pitch grunted in response, and Steve hurried forward faster than ever. His thoughts turned from the Piebald to Flame. He still had to figure out how to swing the stallion clear of the pit. He had thought of a few ways but had discarded them. Suddenly he said, “You’ve got your rope, haven’t you, Pitch?”

  “Yeah,” Pitch replied shortly; then after a pause, “You’re sure we ought to go through with this, Steve? I don’t like being down here. What if the Piebald turns on us? Let him be their leader. Why risk our lives to save that red stallion? I really don’t see what difference it makes who leads this band. And I don’t understand what you mean when you say that it does.”

  Steve didn’t answer and they walked on until the hollow was but a quarter of a mile below them.

  “We’ll look for the Piebald now,” Steve said, “and then beat it for the marsh.” When he turned around, Pitch’s head was already above the cane.

  “They’ve moved more to the center of the valley,” Pitch whispered excitedly, ducking his head again and turning to the boy. “And there’s a couple of them not more than a hundred yards away!”

  Steve, raising his head slowly above the cane, saw that the Piebald and his band had moved a little closer to them, as Pitch had said. But the black-and-white stallion was still grazing and didn’t appear to be suspicious of anything. The two horses that had moved away from the band and were grazing nearby were a bay mare and her stilt-legged foal. Steve felt that the chances of the Piebald’s coming over were slim unless the mare squealed.

  Steve knew that he should hide below the cane again, but momentarily his eyes rested upon the foal, watching the young colt as he vigorously encircled his mother, seeking her long black tail and shaking mane for protection against the flies that bothered him. He couldn’t be more than a couple of weeks old, Steve figured. Noting the colt’s perfect wedge-shaped head, he thought of Flame. Surely this foal had been sired by the red stallion. There were many like him in the band.

  “What are you doing?” Pitch asked nervously. “See anything? Let’s get going, if we’re going on!” His head too had risen above the cane beside Steve’s.

  Together they watched the colt, who had stopped encircling the mare and now was stretching his head toward the grass. His legs were too long and his neck too short for him to reach it, so cautiously he bent his forelegs until he was kneeling. He pulled at the grass, not liking it at all; then he struggled to his long legs again and once more began encircling the mare.

  Pitch and Steve were on their way again, and after several minutes Steve said thoughtfully, “That colt was him, Pitch. That’s exactly what I meant.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I mean that’s the sort of foal Flame sires. They’re beautiful—everything that he is.”

  “Sure.”

  “It would be very different if the Piebald had sired those foals.”

  “Sure,” Pitch repeated.

  “I mean it, Pitch.”

  “I know you mean it.”

  “Every bad trait in the Piebald would show up in his foals,” Steve went on earnestly. “They’d be monstrosities—all of them.”

  Pitch was silent awhile and then he said, “And if Flame does come back to his band, someday he’ll be dethroned and possibly killed by one of his own sons. Have you thought of that?”

  “Yes,” Steve said slowly. “I’ve thought of that. There can only be one stallion in the band who’ll be the leader.”

  “Some of those colts must be almost a year old now,” Pitch went on. “It won’t be long before things come to a head—less than a couple of years, perhaps.” Pitch paused, then added, “That ought to make you realize how little difference it actually makes who’s king of this band—Flame or the Piebald. Either one of them will eventually be killed by a younger and stronger stallion.”

  There was a weary note in Steve’s voice as he said, “But it may be a very long time before one of these colts is able to defeat Flame or the Piebald. In that time the Piebald, if he remains the band’s leader, can sire many foals, and this breed will never be the same as it is now. Yes, Pitch, it does make a difference—a great deal of difference.”

  They went on to the marsh in silence, and it was only when Steve set out over the green paths that Pitch spoke again. “You’re certain this ground will hold us?” he asked.

  Steve pointed to Flame’s hoofprints in the soft earth, as though they were all the explanation necessary, and kept going. He was anxious to get back to the cavern, for it was hours since he had left Flame and he was very conscious of the struggle his horse must be having. He had decided, too, how he and Pitch would attempt to swing Flame clear of the pit.

  When they reached the dry stream bed, they followed it into the gorge. Pitch’s exclamations rose with the ascent, but ceased altogether when they reached the smaller valley. Steve too was moved again, even more deeply this time, by the solemn splendor of the hidden valley.

  As they started across the valley floor there was no need for him to urge Pitch to greater speed.

  Steve called a halt when they reached the spot where the stream had been diverted across the valley. “Let’s leave our packs here, Pitch,” he said. “There’s no need to carry them the rest of the way. And if we make camp tonight, don’t you think it should be here? Where we can get water, I mean.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Pitch returned quickly, anxious to be on his way. He had his pack off before Steve and was already walking toward the chasm when Steve called to him.

  “Your rope, Pitch. Where is it? We’ll need it.”

  “It’s in my pack,” Pitch replied without stopping.

  Steve got the rope and ran after Pitch, managing to catch up to him only when he had reached the entrance to the chasm.

  Pitch took in the jagged walls rising above them. Then he turned to Steve, and his voice wavered as he said, “You realize what we’re doing, don’t you, Steve? We’re following the footsteps of the Conquistadores. This was their way to and from Blue Valley. And we’re the first, the very first ones …” Without finishing the sentence Pitch walked forward again, and Steve followed.

  The gusts of wind coming from the tunnel beyond began blowing in their faces as they made their way down the chasm; eventually they heard the sound of crashing waves on the outer walls.

  There was no time for talk now, and they went forward eagerly, one thinking of his horse, the other of the Conquistadores’ exit to the sea.

  When they reached the tunnel, Pitch, who still led, slowed his pace until the light became brighter as they went along, then he hurried on. But he came to an abrupt halt as the tunnel opened into the large cavern and before them, in the room’s dim light, was the canal leading to the sea.

  Pitch stood there for a long while, and Steve was about to pass him when he moved quickly toward the canal. Steve followed, stopping again as he came to the adjoining chamber which Pitch had passed in his haste. Turning, Steve went inside.

  When Pitch reached the canal, he saw the sunken, moss-covered piles. His hands touched them almost caressingly as he thought of the long centuries they had been there. He moved forward, watching the water in the canal rise and fall with the sea swells that came from the outer world. Upon reaching the hole, he stood to one side where he could see a little of the ocean. The wind tore through the hole, whipping the spray upon him until his face was wet.

  “Steve,” he said quietly, “there must be a channel outside, running right up to this entrance. The way must be clear through the reef and rocks, because they must have brought their boats in here. This hole is higher than I thought it would be from your description, but there must be some plant life on the outside that keeps it from being seen—that and the waves would hide it unless one got really close. The Spaniards must have protected this entrance with guns in the walls above and on the sides. I
believe we could find them if we looked, Steve …”

  Pitch turned, expecting to find the boy close behind him.

  “Steve!” he called excitedly. “Steve! Where are you?” But his voice was lost in the roar of wind and waves.

  Pitch went running back through the cavern until he saw the adjoining chamber. He stopped in front of it, startled by the semidarkness within; then, when his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he went inside.

  Pitch walked forward a few yards, his eyes wide with amazement at the sight before him. He caught only a glimpse of the heavy wooden structure he knew was the crane, for his gaze left it immediately for the sunken rim of the pit. Steve was kneeling upon it beside the still form of what had to be the red stallion.

  Pitch’s pace slowed until he came to a halt a short distance behind Steve and Flame.

  But it can’t be the same horse, he thought. It can’t be!

  There was nothing beautiful or proud or defiant about this horse, whose limp body hung heavily upon the rope noose that extended from the end of the chain and encircled the hind part of his body. Only one foreleg remained upon the rim of the pit and that was still; the other hung below him, dangling above the quicksand. White lather covered his body, from the flanks that rose above the quicksand to the small lowered head.

  This couldn’t be the same horse, Pitch thought again. It couldn’t be the tall, long-limbed stallion who so proudly and gallantly had defended his band! This could be any horse outside Blue Valley—and he looks beaten, exhausted, almost dead.

  Then Pitch became aware of soft murmurings within the chamber. Startled, he whirled around, his eyes seeking the chamber’s dark corners. Above the heavy sounds coming from the outer cavern, he still could hear the other, softer sounds. He moved closer to Steve, and as he did, the murmurings became more distinct, finally resolving into Steve’s voice! But there was a soft, melodious quality to it that Pitch had never heard in Steve’s voice before. And for some unexplainable reason, Pitch found himself thinking of the look that had come into Steve’s eyes that day. They went together, somehow—the eyes and the voice.

  Pitch remained still, listening to Steve; not so much to what the boy said as to the sound of his voice.

  “It’s done now, Flame,” Steve was saying. “It’s over. You don’t have to fight any more. We’re going to get you out now. You’ll be free again.”

  When Steve had first arrived in the chamber, the stallion had raised his head at the sight of him and for a short time fire had gleamed in his large eyes. Then he had lowered his head again, and Steve had walked up to him, placing a hand upon his horse for the first time.

  Now, as he talked to Flame, he continued stroking the lowered head. The stallion attempted to raise his head once, but let it fall again. Steve noticed that his teeth were no longer bared, nor was there any spirit in his eyes; nothing but tired, hopeless defeat was in them.

  Suddenly Steve turned and ran up the side of the pit, crying, “Pitch! Pitch!”

  In his desperation he ran solidly into Pitch, who was standing at the top. “The crane,” Steve shouted. “Come on!”

  Pitch followed Steve and eagerly they both grasped the crane’s winch handle. The wheel turned beneath their combined strength, the teeth clicking rapidly as the chain wound about the wheel. Slowly, inch by inch, to the clicking of the wheel and the clattering of the moving chain, Flame’s hindquarters emerged from the clutching sand and water.

  “A little more, Pitch!” Steve half shouted. “Just another foot and we’ll have him clear!”

  Furiously they pulled at the handle until Flame was completely free of the quicksand. There he hung, the noose about his hindquarters, both of his forefeet resting upon the rim of the pit. He began struggling again, driving his forefeet into the ground, but finally stopped as though he had used up every bit of energy.

  “Now what, Steve?” Pitch asked with concern.

  “The rope,” Steve returned quickly, his words clipped. He knew what he was going to do. “I’ve got to get this rope too about his hindquarters.” Hastily he began uncoiling the rope he had carried with him.

  “Then?”

  “Then,” Steve went on hurriedly, “I’m going to pull his hindquarters over as you let the chain down again. But you’ve got to do it slowly, Pitch.”

  Pitch looked puzzled. “You mean turn the wheel backward, letting him down again?”

  “You don’t have to turn it. His weight at the end will take care of that. You’ve just got to see that the wheel moves backward only a few inches at a time. You can do it by keeping hold of this bar of metal that fits into the teeth of the wheel.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to—”

  “You won’t be letting him down into the pit again, Pitch,” Steve interrupted. “You’ll just be giving me more chain, so I can pull his hindquarters closer to the rim of the pit as you let him down.”

  Pitch’s face lit up. “I see now,” he said. “His forefeet will act as the pivot while you swing his hindquarters over.”

  Nodding, Steve widened the noose he had made with his rope; then he went down to the rim of the pit, with Pitch close beside him.

  Pitch’s arm encircled the boy’s waist as Steve hurled the lasso at the stallion’s hindquarters. It took several attempts before the noose settled over the quarters and encircled the stallion’s girth. With Steve carrying the end of the rope, the two made their way up to the top of the pit again.

  “You’d better move over closer to him,” Pitch said.

  Steve nodded and walked around the pit. “Let the chain down slowly, Pitch,” he cautioned. “Very slowly.”

  Steve shortened the rope until it was taut, then, bracing a foot on a rock, pulled the stallion’s hindquarters as far toward him and the rim of the pit as possible. “Now, Pitch,” he yelled.

  There was a sharp click as the wheel turned backward a few inches, then held again. Steve pulled on the rope, drawing Flame’s hindquarters closer to the rim. Again there was the click of the wheel’s teeth—and again Flame’s hindquarters swung closer to the rim. Again and again the clicks sounded until the stallion’s hind legs were almost above solid ground.

  Flame had raised his head. He knew something was happening. Snorting, he resumed pounding his forefeet.

  Pulling on the rope, Steve saw Flame’s hind feet touch the rim of the pit.

  “Now, Pitch!” he yelled.

  And the clicks came faster as Pitch lowered away until the noose hung loosely about the stallion’s girth.

  For a moment Flame stood there as though his hindquarters were no longer a part of him and had no feeling. And in that moment Steve moved forward, unheeding Pitch’s sharp yell. Quickly Steve withdrew the ropes from about the stallion; then he fell backward as the stallion moved. From the ground, Steve saw Flame plunge heavily up the side of the pit, his body heaving and his hindquarters dragging. Then, snorting, he ran slowly from the chamber.

  Getting to his feet, Steve quickly followed, but before he had reached the outer cavern he felt Pitch’s hand on his arm.

  “Steve!” Pitch shouted. “Let him go! You promised!”

  For a moment Steve’s eyes blazed and he pulled away from Pitch. “But he’s hurt, Pitch. You can see that. He still needs help!”

  “He can take care of himself, Steve,” Pitch replied harshly. “He doesn’t need you any longer. You promised me, Steve! You gave me your word—”

  “That I’d let him go where he pleases,” Steve finished bitterly, “without chasing him.” Then, after a long pause, he said, “Maybe you’re right and he can take care of himself now. Maybe he doesn’t need me any longer …”

  Yet Steve still could hear the sound of Flame’s hoofs on stone as the stallion ran through the tunnel, and he wondered.

  A BOY AND HIS HORSE

  14

  They stood before the sea exit, the great chamber behind them. Once again Pitch looked at the hole in the outer wall, his keen interest evident in his eyes.


  Steve stood a few feet away, his gaze not on the exit but directed at his feet, which were imbedded in the fine, white sand of the cavern’s floor. He could think only of Flame.

  You’d better forget him, he told himself. Forget about running after him, at any rate. You gave Pitch your word. It was a bargain you made with him. You’ve got to stick to it. Pitch has done his part. You’ve got to do yours now. Flame is free.

  Steve looked up at Pitch, who was talking about the exit again. He had forgotten Flame; or at least, it was apparent to Steve, Pitch no longer cared to think about the stallion. This hole in the rock and the canal were of much more interest to him.

  And he wants you to think that way, too, Steve thought. He wants you to forget Flame. Instead, think about the sea exit and the tunnels and the Conquistadores! Think about all of them, but don’t think about Flame! Why did Pitch believe he could so easily forget his horse, Steve wondered. Or was he underestimating Pitch? Perhaps Pitch knew that he could never forget Flame for all the sea exits, tunnels and lost worlds ever left by the Conquistadores!

  Flame is safe now, Steve went on saying to himself. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Pitch kept his word and helped you; now you have to keep yours. Flame is free to go where he pleases. That’s what Pitch said: “You’ll have to let him go where he pleases.”

  Steve shuffled his feet through the sand. Yes, when he’d made that promise to Pitch he had thought that maybe the red stallion would come to him, that he wouldn’t have to chase him any longer. He’d figured that Flame would know he was trying to help him, that he was his friend. And several times, when he had been close to him, Steve thought Flame really did understand what he was trying to do. But Flame was gone now, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had promised Pitch not to chase him, and he couldn’t go back on his word.

  “I’m puzzled by one thing, Steve,” Pitch was saying. “From all we’ve seen, this hole was definitely the Conquistadores’ main entrance and exit. But if that’s so, how did they get their armies, especially their horses, through this hole? It’s wide enough—it must be about twelve feet wide—but there’s only about four feet of head room there. They couldn’t have brought their horses through here.”