The Island Stallion (21 page)

“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!

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.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Pitch said quickly.

But as the fighting at close quarters continued with neither giving way, the Piebald’s superior weight began to tell on Flame. His movements were slower and several
times the Piebald’s raking teeth had almost secured their hold on Flame’s neck before the red stallion was able to twist away.

The Piebald fought with renewed energy as he hurled his thick body again and again at his opponent. Crazed eyes of blue and white were wild, now that the moment of triumph was near.

Forelegs wrapped about each other’s neck, they screamed and bit and tore at ravaged flesh, their snapping teeth like rapiers in the hands of expert swordsmen—striking, parrying, never ending.

Demons rather than horses, their bodies wet with sweat and blood, they stood on hind legs for many minutes, savaging each other mercilessly. Then slowly, ever so slowly, it was the red stallion who gave ground. Screaming and following up his advantage, the Piebald hurled his massive body more heavily upon Flame until the red stallion, squealing in pain, wrenched himself clear of the Piebald.

In the few seconds that he twirled away, Steve thought it was over and that Flame’s only chance for his life was to run—to run as he had done before. And Steve heard himself screaming to his horse. “Run! Run!”

The red stallion pivoted around the Piebald as the black-and-white stallion plunged at him and missed. Again Flame had the opportunity to flee, and for a second he stood still, breathing heavily.

“Go, Flame! Go!” Steve shouted at the top of his voice. But his words fell away beneath the sound of the wrenching and cracking of bodies as Flame rose to meet the Piebald’s return rush.

Nevertheless, Flame’s tactics had changed, and it
was as though pain and the last few agonizing minutes when he had tasted defeat had given rise to intelligence over frenzied fury. Now he moved in quickly, striking hard, but never staying long before moving away again on lightning hoofs. He was patient, waiting until he was ready before going forward with bared teeth and battering forefeet. And when the Piebald charged, Flame avoided him on winged feet, moving with swiftness and agility. Sometimes he would turn, and his hind legs would catch the Piebald with tremendous power. For many minutes Flame whirled, circled and reared, pummeling with slashing hoofs, tearing with raking, ripping teeth. And always he would leap clear again before the Piebald could hold him close.

Finally the Piebald, too, changed his tactics. No longer did he rely upon weight alone. No longer did he charge ruthlessly, blindly, to be cut to ribbons by his agile opponent. He too awaited openings, all the while maneuvering his burly body into a position where he could fight the red stallion once more at close quarters, where his weight would give him an advantage. His small eyes gleamed red as persistently but cautiously he forced the fight, rearing high to catch and hold his elusive enemy.

The hoofs of both thrashed the air, sometimes finding their mark and striking solidly upon hard flesh. Snorting, squealing, each waited for the opening that would mean destruction for the other.

Flanks heaved and their breathing became heavier, but still the furious tempo of the fight went on. Now, more than ever before, each was wary of the other. This
fight had lasted too long. Both were tired; each knew his chance would come soon.

Furiously the Piebald charged. Flame moved away a fraction of a second too late, and he felt the weight of the Piebald upon his shoulders. He swerved, trying to get clear, then stumbled and fell to the ground. Frantically he regained his feet, turning to face the Piebald, who reared high to crush him. Flame rose to meet him. As their bodies met, the Piebald tried to lock the red stallion close to him. But this time Flame did not attempt to leap clear again; instead, he drove his battering forefeet hard into the Piebald, staying close and forcing the fight.

The Piebald tried to recover his balance, but the red stallion continued pounding and his teeth sank into the thick neck, secured their hold
and held!
Screaming in pain, the black-and-white stallion went down, and only when he was flat on the ground did Flame release his death grip; then he rose above his opponent and came down, driving his pounding forefeet into the still form that lay beneath him.

When it was over, he raised his wet, blood-soaked head, and the valley was filled with his shattering call of triumph; then he turned to his band.

Their faces white, Steve and Pitch rose uncertainly to their feet. And it was only Pitch who found words to describe his emotions. “Horrible … horrible,” he said shakingly.

Steve stood there, his glazed eyes unseeing. Then, slowly, life came back to his numbed body and he
thought,
It’s over … over, over. And never do I want to see another fight like it
.

For several minutes they stood in silence, their eyes following the red stallion as he circled his band.

He’s alive
, Steve thought.
He’s killed the Piebald
.

And then Pitch’s hand was upon his arm, pulling aside the torn shirt, probing, but Steve felt nothing.

Pitch said quickly, “It’s broken. I’ve got to get you out of here.” His arm went around the boy’s waist. “You’re up to it, aren’t you, Steve? It’ll be hard, but we’ve got to get you to a doctor.”