The Island Stallion

by Walter Farley

  Steve buried his head in the stallion’s flowing mane as Flame broke into his long, loping canter. Then the horse’s strides quickened until he was in full gallop. Steve’s knees pressed close to the glistening red body as he felt the surge of giant muscles. He clung like a burr to the stallion’s back while Flame swept about the edge of the valley floor, and always Steve’s soft clucking was an accompaniment to the beat of pounding hoofs.

  Flame circled the valley many times; then Steve ceased his clucking and called upon the stallion to stop. Flame responded slowly, his strides gradually growing shorter until he was in his loping canter. When he came to a halt, Steve slid off. Already the sun was sinking behind the western wall. It was time to go back to Pitch.

  He turned to Flame, pressing his head close to the soft muzzle.

  “I won’t be around tomorrow,” he whispered, “nor the next day—or the few that follow. But I won’t be long, Flame, and when I do come back it’ll be to take you away with me. Then we’ll be together always.”

  Steve stayed with his horse for a while longer before leaving him. As he walked up the slope leading to the gorge, he heard the sound of Flame’s hoofs following him. When he turned around, after he had gone some distance, Flame was close behind.

  Steve went to his horse again, his face troubled. This, he knew, was the nearest Flame had ever been to the gorge leading back to Blue Valley. Did it mean that Flame wasn’t as afraid of the Piebald as he believed? Would Flame one day go back to Blue Valley?

  Steve stood close beside his horse, rubbing his hand across the silken coat. When he turned away again he heard the sound of Flame’s hoofs behind him once more. He was almost at the gorge when the hoofbeats stopped. Turning around, Steve saw his horse standing still, watching him with large, curious eyes. The stallion shook his fiery head and whinnied.

  Steve called to him, but Flame remained still. After a while he went back to his grazing and Steve left the valley.

  All through the gorge and across the marsh, Steve thought over and over again, Will he return to his band after all? Was I wrong in thinking he’d live alone, an outcast, rather than go back and face the Piebald? But he’s not going to live alone. I want him. I’m going to take him away. I don’t want him to fight the Piebald!

  As the boy reached the top of the hollow leading from the marsh, he looked for the black-and-white stallion. The Piebald was grazing with his band in the center of Blue Valley. Steve watched for several moments before ducking below the tall cane and moving up the valley.

  And always, as he walked along, the Piebald was there before him, as vivid as though Steve were actually looking at him. He saw the close-set eyes, one blue, the other white. He saw the hatred, the viciousness gleaming in them. The long mulelike ears were pulled back flat against the heavy head as the stallion bared his teeth and shook his massive body.

  Then, in his mind, Steve saw the Piebald go forward to meet Flame, as he had done that first day. Heavily he ran, the earth shaking beneath his thunderous hoofs. And during the next few moments, Steve relived every blow of pounding hoofs on flesh, every second of raking, tearing teeth during the terrible fight.

  He came to an abrupt stop, the palms of his hands wet and a feverish light in his eyes. “Stop thinking of the Piebald!” he said aloud. “Flame isn’t coming back. There will be no fight. I’ll have him away from here soon. I’ll have him for my own.”

  But when Steve walked forward again, he asked himself, But what if he does come back? What if he fights the Piebald while you’re away? What if he’s killed? Flame is smarter and faster, but if he’s just a little afraid he’ll be killed by the Piebald. The Piebald is no blundering bruiser, but crafty and cunning, and he knows how to use his weight to his advantage.

  “I’ve got to get Flame away soon,” Steve muttered. “I won’t have him killed now.”

  Steve’s pace increased until he was running, his body crouched low and hidden from the Piebald by the tall cane.

  Ahead, high on the cliff, Pitch would be waiting, and very early tomorrow morning they’d start for Antago. Every moment, every day counted now, if he was to save his horse from what he felt would be certain death beneath the hoofs of the Piebald.

  The following morning it was still dark when they finished their breakfast. Steve packed hurriedly, then turned to find Pitch looking out upon the valley, his pack untouched. The gray of dawn began to appear in the sky to the east. Below, the band was already grazing.

  “Let’s hurry, Pitch,” Steve said impatiently.

  But it was another moment before Pitch gave his attention to his pack. “Have you ever seen anything like it, Steve?” he asked. “Where else on earth could anyone find the magnificent beauty, the solitude and peace we have here?”

  Steve didn’t reply, for he was watching the Piebald move from his band to the pool directly below. And when he again turned to Pitch, he found that his friend still hadn’t packed; he was gazing at the pistol, the sextant, the spurs and the few other things he had found, which were all neatly placed in a small pile beside his pack.

  “I’d better put them in first, hadn’t I?” Pitch asked. “I want to pack them in the bottom, so no one will see them. I may have to leave some of my equipment behind, unless you have room for it in your pack.”

  “I can take a little,” Steve replied quickly. “I’ve some room.”

  Pitch looked out at the valley again.

  Steve said once more, “Let’s go, Pitch. It’ll be light in a few minutes.” He bent down to pick up Pitch’s equipment, but momentarily his gaze too swept down the valley. Yes, he thought, soon it will be light, and it will be the first morning I haven’t been with Flame since I found him. I wonder if he’ll miss me. I wonder what he’ll do. But the sooner I get Pitch out of here, the sooner I’ll be back.

  Pitch bent down beside him, but he only handled one of the spurs, without placing it in his pack. “Steve,” he said slowly, “do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  Steve looked at him questioningly.

  “I mean,” Pitch began, then he paused. “Maybe I should leave all this here. Wouldn’t it be better not to take chances on having anyone learn about Blue Valley? It’s rather wonderful having a world all our own, Steve. I … I guess I’ve changed in the past few days. What I mean to say is I’d rather leave everything here just as we found it … and then come back to it,” he added, his gaze dropping. “No one will ever know about Blue Valley that way and we can come back to it every summer—when you’re able to be here, I mean. We won’t arouse anyone’s curiosity. We’ll just be camping, Steve. No one will ever know what we’ve found.”

  Steve had listened in silence, knowing what it meant for Pitch to give up his treasures for something he valued even more. When Pitch had finished, Steve found that he couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes, and he asked himself, Would you give up Flame to keep this world for yourself—for yourself and Pitch? And he thought selfishly, No, I couldn’t do that. For much as I love this valley, I love Flame even more. And if I want him to be safe, I must take him away from here—away from the Piebald.

  “What do you think, Steve?” Pitch was asking again. “Should I leave everything here? Do you think it best, too?”

  “No, Pitch,” Steve replied slowly, “I think you’d better take it with you.” He paused. “I’m going to take Flame away from here, you know. And when Tom sees him—” Steve left the sentence unfinished. When he looked up, Pitch’s eyes were upon him. And he realized from what he saw in them that Pitch doubted he would be able to take Flame away, doubted his parents would ever send him the money to get Flame home. But he doesn’t know them, Steve thought. He doesn’t really know them.

  The boy stood up and walked over to his pack, while Pitch stayed behind, still fondling the heavy iron spur.

  After a while Steve heard Pitch say, “I’m going to leave them behind, Steve. I’ve decided for myself. I’ve made up my mind.” And when the boy turned to him, he saw that Pitch’s eyes we
re bright and that his face had lost the tautness of the past few days. Steve suddenly felt very old and very tired.

  Pitch began packing his equipment, paying no further attention to his newly acquired possessions until he had finished. Then he said, “I want to hide them, Steve. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Steve nodded, and Pitch picked up his treasures one by one. When he started for the cave behind them, Steve looked anxiously at the eastern sky. The gray had given way to the golden light of the sun.

  I’m always with Flame by this time, he thought. I’d be standing close to him, maybe even riding him by now. I know he’s looking for me, wondering where I am. He’ll miss me. I’m sure he’ll miss me. But it won’t be long before I’ll be back, and he’ll wait for me. I’m sure he will.

  Pitch came out of the cave just as the sun appeared above the eastern walls and the valley gleamed brightly as the grass, heavy with dew, picked up the sun’s rays. The band was grazing a short distance from the pool, with only the young, spindle-legged foals running about, slipping as they turned too sharply on their uncertain legs. The Piebald grazed alone with only an occasional glance at his band. Confident and defiant, he stood there with nothing to fear.

  “The sun’s up,” Steve said as Pitch reached for his pack.

  Pitch fell in behind Steve as they made their way up the trail. “It makes little difference to us in the tunnels,” he remarked.

  “But we want to get back to Antago before dark,” Steve replied.

  “We’ll make it with hours to spare,” Pitch returned.

  They had reached the black hole from which the stream poured when Pitch called out to Steve to stop for a moment. “One last look, Steve,” he said.

  “But Pitch—” Steve began impatiently. “We’ll be coming back in a few days.”

  “I know, Steve. But just in case we don’t. Just in case …” Pitch left the sentence unfinished, but Steve knew what he meant.

  Together they watched the water plummet down to the pool below; then Pitch looked about at Blue Valley, but Steve turned his eyes toward the marsh, where just beyond, he knew, Flame was waiting for him. The vapors rising from the hollow were becoming heavier with the heat of the sun’s first rays.

  “Soon I’ll be back, Flame,” Steve muttered. “Very soon. Wait for me.”

  “What’d you say, Steve?” Pitch asked.

  “Nothing, Pitch. We’d better get going.”

  “Yes, I guess we should. All right, Steve.”

  But the boy, his eyes still fixed on the hollow, didn’t move.

  “I’m ready,” Pitch said. “I said I’m ready, Steve,” he repeated. He was about to give the boy a light push when he noticed Steve’s blood-drained face and wide, staring eyes. Glancing quickly at the hollow, he too saw the weird, ghostly sight before them.

  The stallion stood just below the top of the hollow, his giant body enshrouded by clinging, smokelike mist; then he moved forward a few strides, and the vapor gave way to the bright sun that turned his red coat into living, breathing fire.

  Flame had returned to Blue Valley!

  RAGING DEMONS!

  19

  For many minutes the red stallion stood there. His head was raised high but he made no move or sound.

  Trembling, Steve awaited his shrill clarion call of challenge but none came, and silence prevailed throughout the valley. Steve turned quickly to the Piebald, who still grazed, unmindful of the red stallion’s presence, for he was upwind.

  Steve’s gaze swept back to Flame. More minutes passed, yet Flame made no move toward the Piebald. But Steve could see his head begin to turn back and forth as though he were looking for something.

  Pitch said, “He’s after you, Steve. He’s not after the Piebald.”

  Yes! Steve thought. Yes, that’s it! He’s looking for me!

  The boy’s heart beat faster, and the blood surged through him, flooding his pale face. Quickly he turned, making his way back down the trail, and it wasn’t until he had reached their old campsite that he felt Pitch’s hand upon his arm. Angrily he pulled away; Pitch’s grip loosened, then tightened again and held. Furiously Steve turned upon him, the white heat of anger making his words indistinct.

  “You young stupid fool, Steve!” Pitch shouted. “Where do you think you’re going? You’ll be killed if you go down there! The Piebald—there’ll be a fight!”

  Steve twisted his arm free of Pitch’s grip and ran headlong down the trail. Halfway to the valley floor, he flung his pack off his back without stopping. Behind him, Pitch followed crying, “Steve! You fool! You fool!”

  Blindly, the boy turned from the trail as he reached the floor of the canyon, and ran across the grass. He didn’t head for the cane, but ran swiftly across the floor in a straight line, heading directly for his horse.

  A short distance away from him, mares squealed in fright as they saw him running past; foals kept close to their mothers; and a few hundred yards away from them, the Piebald jerked his head up, snorted and plunged forward, his ears pinned back, his eyes wild and frightening.

  Unmindful of his danger, Steve still ran forward. He saw nothing but the route ahead that would take him to Flame, heard nothing but the sound of his own running feet.

  Then Pitch’s scream shattered the boy’s frenzied mind and stilled his heart. Turning, he saw Pitch close behind him, but Pitch was standing still, frozen in his tracks, his face turned away. And it was then that Steve heard for the first time the thunderous hoofs that shook the very ground beneath him. Steve’s face paled as he saw the Piebald coming at them. Wildly, Steve ran to Pitch. “The pool!” he shouted. “It’s our only chance!” And before the words had left his mouth, he had Pitch by the arm and was pulling him toward the water.

  They took one step for every stride of the Piebald’s. The pool was twenty-five yards away, and twice that distance behind them was the plunging black-and-white stallion, snorting now as he neared them.

  Pitch’s running steps faltered and his breath came heavily. Steve ran beside him, his head half-turned to the onrushing stallion. He saw the bared teeth, the beady eyes, and knew the savage brute meant to run them down.

  Ten yards more to the pool, only a second more, but it was too late, for the Piebald was upon them! Steve shoved Pitch toward the pool and flung himself to the side. The stallion turned with him, his shoulder striking the boy’s arm and twirling him around. As Steve hit the ground, he saw Pitch dive headlong into the pool. The Piebald slid on his haunches as he tried to stop. Frantically, Steve climbed to his feet, but even before he was fully up he was taking the fast, pounding steps of a sprinter just off his mark. He was five yards from the pool when the Piebald turned upon him again. But Steve flew over the ground and plunged into the water.

  When he came to the surface, he heard Flame’s wild clarion call. High-pitched, shrill and piercing, it claimed the valley as its own. And when it died away, the valley echoed to the repeated neighs of the mares as they rapidly formed their tight circle, with hindquarters facing outward and foals secure in the center of the ring.

  Through the cane rushed the giant red stallion, the tall stalks bending and breaking beneath his weight. Without stopping, he entered the arena, running up the valley floor until he was within a few hundred yards of the Piebald, who had turned to meet him. Flame stopped only long enough to cry his shattering challenge again, then came onward, carrying the fight to the Piebald.

  The black-and-white stallion plunged forward, his eyes livid with hate as the tall, long-limbed red stallion galloped to meet him and the valley resounded to their pounding hoofs of death.

  Steve and Pitch had pulled themselves up to the bank of the pool. They said nothing, their eyes upon the stallions. Steve’s shirt was torn where the Piebald had struck him, and his arm hung limp at his side, but he felt no pain.

  Any second now the bodies of the two horses would clash, for Flame was moving in faster and faster. The thought frightened Steve, for he well remembered the red stallion�
��s caution in the first fight, when he had let the Piebald carry the fight to him, avoiding the heavily plunging black-and-white stallion with the skill and agility of a trained fighter.

  But he’s not afraid, Steve told himself. He’s not afraid! And then he said aloud, “Pitch, he’s got to win. He’s just got to!”

  Pitch muttered, “You did it. He wouldn’t have come on if he hadn’t seen you.”

  But Pitch’s words were lost in the heavy, terrible clashing of bodies as the two stallions met with such fury as could only be kindled by two wild, savage animals whose only intent is to kill.

  They had met head on, neither seeking to avoid the other, and each consumed with an unearthly hatred that turned them into raging beasts, horrible to see.

  Seemingly unmindful of the Piebald’s superior weight, Flame rose with the black-and-white stallion after the first resounding clash that had locked them together. His teeth tore at the neck of the Piebald, seeking a hold which once secured would never be released. Screaming in rage, the Piebald drove his heavy hoofs into Flame’s shoulders, and the red stallion reeled back from the force of the blows. Plunging forward, the Piebald sought to drive Flame to the ground. But the red stallion twirled and in an instant had raised his long hindquarters, his hoofs battering his opponent’s face. Staggering, the Piebald took the blows and rose to meet Flame as the red stallion circled and moved in on him again. They were locked together once more, raking teeth their only weapons, and the screams of both reached a new and terrible pitch.

  Each lunged for the other’s neck. But always there would be a twisting, a turning of bodies that avoided death by fractions of inches. More and more the Piebald sought to use his brute weight by throwing himself repeatedly on the red stallion. But he was fearful of Flame’s teeth, which moved with the speed of a striking snake.

  “Why doesn’t Flame keep away from him? Why doesn’t he?” Steve babbled.