The Island Stallion (10 page)

Their eyes went back to the red leader as he continued moving uneasily away from his band.

It was Steve who directed Pitch’s attention to the band once more. “They all have Arabian blood in them, Pitch. Notice their wedge-shaped heads.” And then Steve went on to point out every physical characteristic of the Arabian that he had observed in the horses. He concluded by saying, “They’re the same horses the Conquistadores rode centuries ago, Pitch. Maybe even better with their inbreeding and the fact that only the finest and strongest stallion could survive as their leader in this small valley. It’s his blood that makes them what they are! Look for yourself, Pitch. The red stallion is king of this band and sire of all those long-legged foals running around. They have his blood, and the finest and strongest of the colts will one day take his place.” Steve’s voice was so low that it almost seemed as though he were talking for his own benefit.

But Pitch had been listening, for he said, “But all this inbreeding, Steve. I don’t understand how there could have been so much of it during all these years and still leave the horses with what good qualities they had at the beginning. Of course, I’m a greenhorn.”

“I only know what I’ve read, Pitch,” Steve said seriously. “And it’s a cinch no one has ever known of a band of horses left to themselves for centuries, as these
have been, so your opinion is as good as anyone else’s. But I’ve read,” he went on, “that inbreeding is perfectly all right if the horses are of the purest blood and don’t have any bad traits or weaknesses; because if they do, the bad traits in both sire and dam show up in the foal worse than ever.” Steve paused. “But that hasn’t happened here—at least, as far as we can tell.”

They watched the horses for a few more minutes before Pitch said, “I was thinking of the Arabian blood in these horses, Steve. You know that seems logical to me too, now, because the Arabs invaded Spain in about 700 A.D. They remained in Spain for five hundred years before they were forced out, and I’m sure that by that time their horses had become native to Spain.” Pleased with his own reasoning, Pitch looked at the horses with renewed interest.

Steve’s eyes were upon the red stallion again. The leader’s head had stopped moving back and forth but it was still raised high. Steve saw the quivering of the stallion’s nostrils as he sniffed the air. He was suspicious of something, yet he remained amazingly cool. He still gave no signal to his complacent followers. Suddenly he turned to the south, up the valley this time, sniffing again.

Steve turned with him, but the rocky slope on which he and Pitch were camped blocked his view of the valley to the right and behind them. When he looked back again at the red stallion, he saw that the leader was moving still farther to the center of the valley. There was a quickness to his gait that hadn’t been there before, yet he did not seem frightened. Finally he
came to an abrupt stop, his nostrils blown out. Raising his head still higher, he sniffed suspiciously, then quickly turned his head downwind again.

“Seems he’s expecting something,” Pitch said huskily.

“From both directions,” Steve said. “He’s picked up some scent from upwind, yet I’m sure he’s heard something down the valley, even though he can’t smell anything. Look at those ears, Pitch. He’s turned downwind again.”

For several minutes the red stallion stood still, facing the valley to the north and ignoring whatever it had been from upwind that had caused him to look in that direction. Now his eyes, alert and blazing, were fixed upon one spot down the valley. His nostrils dilated, and his pricked ears suddenly were pulled back flat against his head. He snorted and then gave a loud, sharp blast.

There was a sudden movement in the band as they stopped grazing. Short, incessant neighs broke the stillness of the valley. Foals, some graceful, others clumsy, ran to their mothers. The band moved away from the long grass and closer to the center of the valley. Nipping and kicking, the mares directed their foals into the middle of a small tight ring which they formed, their heads toward the center and hindquarters tense and ready to fling strong hoofs at any attacker.

The red stallion stood alone, ready to defend his band. Never once did his head turn in the direction of the ring; he seemed to have eyes only for the danger that threatened from down the valley.

Suddenly Pitch said, “There he is!” A stallion was coming up the valley, followed by five or six mares.

“There’s going to be a fight, sure as anything,” Pitch said quickly. “There’s room for only one leader in this place.”

Steve said nothing, but his eyes never left the red stallion. He saw him turn his gaze away from the approaching band and come to rest upon his own. The stallion moved his head slowly, as though there was no hurry now that he had seen his foe. Only once did he move about uneasily and that was when he turned again to the south, sniffing. Steve was convinced then that the stallion was aware of danger from upwind too and that it worried him more than the approaching stallion.

Pitch gripped Steve’s arm and instinctively the boy looked at the valley below. The rival stallion had left his mares behind and was loping easily toward the red stallion. Suddenly the valley echoed to his clarion call of challenge. As he drew closer, Steve saw that he was a dark bay horse. He noticed too that he was as tall and long-limbed as the red stallion and that he had the same perfectly molded form. He moved gracefully, his long, easy gait never changing, his head still and his ears pricked forward almost to a point.

“He’s a beauty,” Pitch gasped. “Equally as good as the red stallion. This will be a fight to the death, Steve! Survival of the fittest! We’re going to see it, Steve!”

But Steve wasn’t listening. He was staring at the red stallion. To Pitch, to anyone else, it would matter little who won the coming encounter. To anyone else there was little to choose between the two stallions. But Steve thought of the red stallion only as Flame. His Flame! The horse he had found again! He didn’t want to lose
him now. Flame had to win! If this was to be a battle to the death, he wanted Flame to kill!

The red stallion had made no move toward his foe. He stood there quietly, confidently, as though he knew he was king and any challenger to his throne would have to bring the fight to him. Steve watched, marveling at the red stallion’s coolness, yet afraid for him as well. “Flame,” he said aloud. “I don’t want to lose you now. Get ready for him, Flame. He’s coming. Don’t underestimate him!”

“Just look at that red horse, Steve!” Pitch’s voice was guttural, his words hardly distinguishable. “He’s been through this before. He’s not scared a bit. He’s fought his way to the top and that other stallion is going to have to kill him to take his title away. Look, Steve! You never saw such confidence as that red devil has!”

Pitch’s words went unheard by Steve, for the boy saw nothing but Flame, standing there, waiting; heard nothing but the running, steady rhythm of hoofs belonging to a horse as beautiful, swift and strong as the red stallion. Steve knew that in a little while one of them would be no more. It could end no other way, where there could only be one king. Unashamed, he prayed that Flame would win.

The sound of the running hoofs came ever onward, and still the red stallion didn’t move forward. Steve saw him turn his head upwind again as though still wary of something he could not see. The beat of hoofs became louder and Steve was forced to focus his attention on the dark bay stallion. The challenger was now rushing headlong into the encounter, and as he drew closer his
gait slowed. He was beautiful and powerful to see, and fear for Flame took hold of Steve as he looked again at the red stallion.

His small, arrogant head had turned away from the south and he now faced the challenger. At a sudden, piercing scream from the bay stallion he flattened his ears and shattered the air with his own high-pitched whistle. Then, his ears forward, he moved in a slow but steady gait to meet his opponent.

Within the walled amphitheater of Azul Island, across the short, thick grass and ever-lengthening blue shadows, the two stallions moved toward each other to fight for supremacy of a band whose eyes were turned away from the encounter and who would wait for the stronger of the two to claim them.

Cautiously the stallions ran, their strides of equal length, and the distance between them lessened.

Steve said, “Flame …” but it was lost in the loud screams of both stallions as they met.

They moved deftly on winged hoofs. No longer were they beautiful to see; they were two raging furies. Their screams drove the serenity and solitude from the valley, and the yellow walls picked up the heavy thuds of their hoofs on flesh and bone and cast them back into the arena.

For many minutes it went on. Equally fast on their feet, the stallions feinted skillfully until one or the other saw an opening; then there would be the charge of thrashing forefeet or powerful hind legs raised to crash heavily against the attacker.

It was too fast, too terrible to go on very long.
Steve saw the dark, bleeding wound on Flame’s shoulder where the bay stallion’s hoofs had found their mark, and he prayed for his horse.

Again and again the stallions lunged at each other, neither showing any signs of retreating. Their screams rent the air, and now blood flowed freely from their bodies. There was no difference in the color of their coats any longer. No difference in ravaging teeth and flying hoofs.

“They’ll kill each other,” Pitch babbled hysterically.

They were on their hind legs, locked together. Steve knew it had to end now. Neither could stand much more. Both would be killed, as Pitch had said.

The end did come at that moment. It came swiftly, sickeningly. Steve saw the bay stallion lunge for Flame’s neck and miss. There was a twisting, turning of bodies as Flame hurled himself on the bay stallion’s hindquarters. His weight threw the bay stallion off balance, for he stumbled, then fell. Flame did not let him get up. Screaming, he brought his driving forefeet down on his opponent. He was still pounding when Steve and Pitch turned away, their faces drained of all color.

They said nothing until the sound of battering hoofs stopped and the air was pierced by the shrill whistle of triumph from the red stallion.

“It’s over,” Pitch said huskily.

Steve nodded without saying anything.

“I hope I never see another,” Pitch went on. “It’s a terrible—” The valley walls resounded to another shrill scream, and Steve turned quickly to Pitch, who said, “That’s his scream again.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve returned grimly. “It didn’t sound like him at all.”

He forced himself to look again. He saw Flame still standing near the broken and lifeless form of the bay stallion. Flame’s body was ripped and bleeding, his head turned to the south. Steve looked in that direction, then closed his eyes and wept.

Pitch was beside him. “Steve! What’s the matter with you? After all—”

Then he, too, saw the monstrosity of a horse that now stood a few hundred yards from the red stallion.

He had come with the falling of the sun behind the walls of Azul Island. In the shadows, his massive body penetrated the darkness like a luminous thing. It was as though he belonged only to the night. He was as grotesquely ugly as the red stallion was beautiful. Thick-bodied, he stood still, waiting … waiting as he had done all through the fight of the other two stallions. Small, close-set eyes—one blue, the other a white wall-eye—gleamed from his large head, which was black except for the heavy blaze that descended over his wall-eye. His neck was thick and short, as was his body, and black too except for the ghostly streaks of white that ran through it. His mane and tail were white.

Arrogant and ruthless, fearing nothing, he moved toward the red stallion at a walk, hate gleaming in his beady eyes. His heavy ears were pulled back flat against his head, his teeth bared. Suddenly he stopped, with ears pitched forward, and screamed his challenge again. He was the embodiment of ugliness, of viciousness. Only the high crest upon his neck and the high set of his tail gave evidence of the Arabian blood in him.

Pitch turned to Steve and saw that the boy was intent upon the terrible drama unfolding before them. Seeing Steve’s grim, taut face, he remembered what the boy had said only a few hours before.
Inbreeding is perfectly all right if the horses are of the purest blood and don’t have any bad traits or weaknesses; because if they do, the bad traits in both sire and dam show up in the foal worse than ever
. And then Steve had added,
But that hasn’t happened here
.

But it has happened
, Pitch thought,
and that monstrosity is the result. Perhaps the same thing has happened before in all the years these horses have been here, but the monstrous ones have all been killed off. This time, it may be different—very different
.

Steve said, “Pitch! Why did it have to happen now? He’s not ready to fight again. The Piebald will kill him.”

The Piebald
. Pitch turned to look at him. So that’s what this horse with the weird black-and-white markings was called. The Piebald came closer, moving faster now, galloping, plunging heavily forward.

Steve watched Flame’s every move. His red coat, wet and dark from blood and sweat, was pitiful to see. A little unsteadily, Flame moved away from the dead stallion at his feet. Then he screamed and ran forward, his disheveled head held high, his large eyes blazing with hate.

Again the valley echoed to pounding hoofs over soft-carpeted earth. Swift, light and cautious were the strides of the red stallion. Heavy, plunging and confident were those of the Piebald. The heads of both were raised high; one was small, sensitive and intelligent; the other, large and grotesquely ugly with bright eyes too
small and set too close. Each stride brought them closer; a burly, powerful outcast—the product of a cruel twist of fate—and a long-limbed stallion, graceful, swift and strong, a superb creation.

Steve watched with dull, pained eyes. His desire to see the red stallion win went far beyond his love for Flame; for he knew that if the red stallion won, it would mean more horses like him in the years to come. If he lost, it meant the end of this breed of horse, because the Piebald’s blood would flow into the small band. The result would be misfits and monstrosities like him.