The Island Stallion (11 page)

His heavy gait unchanging, the Piebald charged the red stallion, who screamed and rose to meet him. There was the hard, wrenching crack of bodies, the raking of teeth and over it all their terrible screams.

Skillfully the red stallion moved to one side of the Piebald, never underestimating the strength in his opponent’s burly body. He darted in with bared teeth and battering forefeet, never staying too long, never giving the Piebald the opportunity of using his heavier weight to his advantage.

For many minutes it went on that way, with the Piebald still confident and awaiting his chance to close in upon his elusive enemy. And soon the red stallion moved away less quickly and the infighting of bared teeth and flying hoofs became more furious.

Keep away from him, Flame! Keep away!
Steve wanted to shout, but no words came from his lips.

Pitch said, “He’s licked! He’s too far gone to keep away any longer! He was licked before the fight started!”

They were locked together now, two raging devils
with battering hoofs and gleaming teeth. Steve knew that this had to be the end, and he was deathly afraid for his horse. He saw the Piebald wheel, sending his hind legs heavily against the red stallion’s shoulder. He heard Flame scream, no longer in fury but in terrible pain. He saw his horse stumble, and then the Piebald was hurling himself upon Flame’s hindquarters. Steve knew that it was time for him to look away, but he found he couldn’t.

The end of the fight came quickly. Still screaming, the red stallion moved with a sudden, frantic burst of his old speed, avoiding the thrashing forefeet of the Piebald.

Flame had escaped death by only a fraction of a second. He had put off the end, but only momentarily. With grim realization of what the outcome had to be, Steve awaited the red stallion’s return lunge at the Piebald.

But there was no charge by Flame, no wheeling to move quickly into position to renew the battle. Instead, the red stallion was running with faltering strides down the valley floor. Behind him the Piebald stood still, his large head raised high; then his scream of triumph rang through the valley, echoing to the broken rhythm of Flame’s fleeing hoofs.

Through blurred eyes, Steve watched the running horse. He saw him veer across the valley floor until he had reached the tall grass and his glistening body was lost in shadows. But Steve kept on watching for him. He watched until none of the gray light of early evening was left and the valley had given itself over completely to the night.

Pitch had been silent, for he had seen Steve’s eyes, and thought he understood. Meanwhile, he had given his attention to the Piebald, watching him move about the band, his heavy head held high and confident. The Piebald had neighed repeatedly, and the mares had slowly broken their tight ring. Once more they had begun grazing. Where only the strongest could be king, they had no choice but to accept their new leader.

At that moment, Pitch turned to Steve. But it was as though the boy had heard nothing, had seen nothing save the red stallion. Pitch finally said, “But he wasn’t killed, Steve. He was smart enough to get away.”

Steve’s eyes were no longer tearful, but there was still a tautness to his face. “Yes,” he repeated slowly. “He was smart enough to get away. He knew he was licked.” Steve’s gaze met Pitch’s. “How bad do you think he’s been hurt?”

“Pretty bad. But if you think he ran away to die, you’re worrying needlessly. He’ll take care of himself all right.” And when Pitch saw Steve turn to look at the burly Piebald, he added, “But they have a new leader now. They don’t seem to mind it a bit, either. Just look at them, grazing away as though nothing had happened. You’d think they’d have a little to say about who’s going to be their boss. But they don’t, and they know it. All they can do is to accept this new king, ugly as he is.”

“I’m not accepting it.” Steve’s voice was low and heavy with emotion.

Bewildered, Pitch turned to him. It was several seconds before he said simply, “But you’ve got to.” Then he smiled, adding with attempted lightness, “You and I have nothing to say about this, you know, Steve.”

“I’ve got to do something.”

“But you can’t, Steve!” Pitch’s words were clipped. “And, frankly, I don’t understand why you feel it shouldn’t be this way. This is the survival of the fittest, a contest that’s been going on since the world began. Oh, I know how you feel about that red horse—I haven’t forgotten your dream of Flame. A remarkable coincidence. But you said yourself, Steve, that he knew he was licked. And it was this brute of a horse that whipped him. I don’t like it either, but you’ve got to accept it, Steve,” Pitch concluded flatly. “You couldn’t possibly do anything anyway.”

“I could try to kill the Piebald.” There was no doubt of the sincerity in Steve’s voice.

“You’re kidding,” Pitch said quickly.

“No, I’m not, Pitch.”

It was too dark to see Steve’s eyes. Pitch said, “You’re being silly, Steve. Come on, let’s get the fire going and have some food.”

But the boy didn’t move, and his head was still turned toward the band—toward the Piebald. “If only we’d brought a gun,” he said almost to himself. “I could have killed him with a gun. Still, there must be some other way.”

“Steve!” Pitch’s voice was shrill. “What in the world is the matter with you! You try killing that vicious horse and you’ll be killed yourself! I won’t have any more of this foolish talk. These horses were here long before we were born, and they’ll be here long after we’re dead. Why get so excited over the Piebald? He means nothing to you.”

“But he does! Can’t you understand, Pitch?” Steve asked, turning quickly to his friend. “Can’t you see that if the Piebald is left as their leader this breed will never be the same? His blood will be in every single foal, Pitch. They’ll be like him and much worse in a very few years.”

After a long silence Pitch said quietly, “So that’s what’s troubling you. But you still can’t do anything about it, Steve. You couldn’t possibly do anything. If it’s the end of this particular breed of horse, it’s the end—that’s all.”

“But not if I can kill the Piebald,” Steve insisted.

“You’re not making sense, Steve,” Pitch returned
angrily. “And I’m not going to allow you to risk your neck trying to kill him either. The only one who could possibly do away with the Piebald is that red horse, and I’m afraid he won’t be back for another try.”

“But maybe he will, Pitch!” Steve said excitedly. “Maybe that’s it! Maybe he will come back!”

“Maybe he will,” Pitch agreed resignedly, walking back to the cave.

Steve was behind him, his voice eager now. “Maybe that’s why he ran away—so he can come back again, I mean! He’s an intelligent animal, Pitch. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” Pitch returned agreeably.

Steve didn’t speak again until after they had opened their packs, and then his voice had lost its eagerness. “Or do you think, Pitch,” he asked slowly, “that he took too much punishment today, that he’ll never be the same? I’ve heard of such things happening to prize fighters.”

“This is a horse, Steve,” Pitch replied, “not a prize fighter. And, frankly, I don’t know anything about either of them.”

A few minutes later the fire was licking greedily beneath their stove.

“Pitch …”

Pitch turned to the boy, noting the tense face, the bright, excited eyes. “What is it now, Steve?” he asked.

“Tomorrow I’m going to look for Flame. Maybe I can help him some way. Maybe I can do something that’ll get him back to fight the Piebald—when he’s well again, I mean.”

“Sure, Steve. Maybe it’s a good idea.” Pitch felt certain that Steve wouldn’t even get a glimpse of the red stallion, much less be able to do anything to send him back to fight the Piebald. But searching for Flame would take his mind off the black-and-white stallion and his ridiculous notion of finding some way to kill him. Pitch found the thought comforting. “Open a can of beans, Steve,” he said. “The pot is ready.”

Steve set out alone early the next morning. Reaching the valley floor, he began crossing it to get to the far side. The horses had moved down the valley, but still could be easily seen.

As Steve walked along, his gaze remained on the Piebald. The breeze was coming from upwind, carrying the boy’s scent to the stallion. But Steve didn’t think that he was in any danger. The stallion would fight anything that threatened his supremacy of the band, but he wouldn’t go out looking for trouble. Steve realized, too, that his scent was something entirely new to the Piebald. It would bother him and he would be curious, but only if Steve approached the band would he be in any danger. And Steve planned to keep far away from the horses. He had nothing with which to protect himself. One of the coils of rope was all he carried, and that, he had told Pitch, was for Flame just in case he got close to him. Steve knew Pitch was watching him. He had promised him he’d go to the far side of the valley, away from the horses, before making his way down.

The Piebald stood at gaze, his long ears pricked forward, his large face, half black, half white, still turned
in Steve’s direction. For several minutes he stood there, his small eyes unwavering. Then he lowered his heavy head to the grass.

Steve’s pace quickened until he was running. Reaching the tall grass, he found it to be young wild sugar cane like that on Antago. Flimsy as it was, he welcomed it as a protection. It grew high, almost to his chest. He crouched low beneath it and only the bending of the stalks betrayed his presence.

Cautiously he made his way to the end of the cane, then he stopped to take in his surroundings. There were some trees between him and the yellow walls. More of them grew along the edge of the cane and down the side of the valley. They would afford him some protection if he needed it. Now he slowly raised his head in the direction of the Piebald and his band, noting with relief that the Piebald was still grazing and had moved closer to the band. So far, so good. It would appear that the black-and-white stallion had decided to ignore him, since Steve did not seem to be a threat to him or his newly acquired band.

Bending down again, Steve started down the valley, taking short, fast steps. But it wasn’t until he had passed opposite the place where the Piebald and his band were grazing that he breathed easily and ceased raising his head every so often above the cane to look at them.

Now Steve was downwind from the Piebald and he felt comparatively safe. His pace quickened. His destination was approximately two miles still farther down the valley. When he arrived there he would look across the valley floor for the lone tree with the red cluster of
flowers that grew alongside the green-carpeted valley floor. It was a little past that tree that he had seen Flame turn into the tall cane, running in the direction of the yellow walls until he became lost in the shadows.

More than half an hour had passed when Steve raised his head to find that he was just about opposite the tree across the valley that he was using as his marker. He continued walking another hundred yards or more, then entered the tall cane again, making his way to the green-carpeted floor. Reaching the edge of the cane, he peered through the stalks and saw that the band was still far up the valley. The distance between the horses and Steve was too great for them to notice him as he walked quickly onto the green grass. Halfway across, he broke into a run and didn’t stop until he had reached the cane on the other side of the valley.

Now he was below the tree and near the spot where he had seen Flame entering the tall cane. His eyes followed the line of stalks from where he stood to the tree. There was no break in the line, no evidence of broken or bent stalks to disclose Flame’s path. Steve then turned in the opposite direction, his gaze still following the edge of the cane. There was nothing there either to show that the horse had gone through. Knowing that Flame had passed the tree, Steve began walking farther down the valley. He had gone about three hundred yards when he came upon the broken stalks. Quickly he followed the path swept clear by the running horse.

The field of wild cane was no wider than a hundred yards at most, and when Steve emerged from it he found that there was a long, gradual slope to the yellow, precipitous walls. He looked around for some trace of Flame’s trail, but his untrained eyes found no evidence of flying hoofs over the grassy plain.

For some time he stood there undecided, sweeping his eyes over the yellow walls, then along their base. Finally he set out, traveling down the valley toward a thin cloud of vapor beginning to rise from the ground about a mile away. Surely, he decided, there was no other direction in which Flame could have gone. The base of the walls was an unbroken line of sheer, bare rock which towered hundreds of feet into the sky. Like himself, the red stallion could have had no alternative but to go down the valley.

The ground before him began to fall gradually toward the hollow from which the mist rose. Steve stopped to rest for a moment and looked behind him at
the valley, at the bending cane and beyond that to the valley floor, rich in grass and colorful foliage. Then he turned back to the desolate land ahead of him, throwing the rope he carried over his shoulder. He was near enough to the vapors to smell their foul stench. They came from a patch of marshland, as he had thought. And, as the sun began to rise above the walls to the east, the vapors thickened as though in resentment against Steve’s approach.

But the sickening smells of rotting vegetation did not stop him; instead Steve’s pace quickened as he approached the marsh. He felt certain that Flame had come this way, and with the ground already becoming soft and wet beneath his feet, there was the possibility of finding the stallion’s hoofprints. Upon reaching the border of the dismal swamp, Steve came to a stop. To the left the vapors reached almost to the walls, and to his right they extended almost to the cane. How deep the marsh went he could not tell.

Steve kept his eyes on the ground as he walked along the edge of the marsh. He was but fifty yards from the walls when he came to an abrupt halt. Quickly he dropped to his knees, running his hands over the soft earth. He had found Flame’s hoofprints and they led straight into the marsh!