The Island Stallion (7 page)

Smiling, Steve snapped the lid tightly over the can and placed it inside his pack along with the small folded stove. “It won’t bother us, not where we’re going,” he said.

On the ground about them, besides the backpacks, were two coils of rope, one lying on top of the other, and Pitch’s pick and shovel, which he had insisted upon bringing along. It had taken them well over an hour to get everything from the dory. They had made their way slowly down the cleft in the wall and along the narrow ledge until they were again facing the sea-swept path to the large rock and the dory lying behind it. Then Steve
had insisted upon making the two trips across the low coral rock for the equipment, and Pitch, knowing the boy was surer footed than he, had let him go. On the first trip, Steve had returned with one pack, and on the second he had tied the pick and shovel to the rope so Pitch could haul them across the turbulent waters. Steve had followed with the second pack fastened high up on his shoulders so it would not hinder him as he bent far over on his way across the slippery rock. The rest had been easier, for Pitch had gone up the cleft again and pulled up all the equipment by rope while Steve waited below.

They had then decided to eat, telling each other they were hungry, when actually they weren’t. The meal had been unhurried, almost leisurely, until each wondered if the other was deliberately putting off their descent down the shaft.

Steve told himself repeatedly that there was nothing to be frightened about. He really wasn’t frightened. Well, perhaps just a little, he admitted to himself. There was always something frightening in the unknown. They didn’t know where the shaft led, if indeed it was a shaft as Pitch thought. The darkness below made it worse. If it were light, it would be different. One could do all sorts of things in the daylight. That’s why everything else they’d done today was different from what faced them now. Yet, Steve argued with himself, wouldn’t it be much easier than climbing over the slippery rock and scaling the cleft? All they had to do now was to slide down a rope. But it was black, terrifyingly black, below—and that made all the difference in the world.

Pitch left the shaft and walked toward him. There
was nothing else to do now. There was no more equipment to be brought up to the ledge. They’d eaten. Everything was put away. They couldn’t just sit there. It would be raining soon.

Pitch started to say something, paused to clear his throat, then began all over again. “Shall we lower the packs?”

“We’d better go down first and see what’s there,” Steve said slowly. “No sense lowering the stuff if we’re not going to stay. We’d just have to haul it up again.”

Pitch nodded without saying anything. After a few minutes, he picked up one of the ropes and went over to the shaft. Steve followed.

Pitch drew the rope around the top of the shaft, tied one end, then pulled hard, tightening the knot. Satisfied that it wouldn’t slip, he threw the coil down the shaft. The rope disappeared into the darkness of the hole, uncoiling like a brown snake until the end struck the bottom with a dull thud.

“At least we know the rope reaches the bottom,” Pitch said.

Steve said quietly, “I’ll go down now, and when I get to the bottom I’ll let you know whether to lower the packs or not.” He reached for the flashlight Pitch was holding in his hand.

“I’m going first,” Pitch said, just as quietly as Steve.

“But it’s easier for—” Steve began.

Pitch already had hold of the rope and one foot was resting on the edge of the shaft.

“Pitch, it’s so much easier for me to climb up, if it’s necessary. I can make it fast, Pitch!”

Straddling a side of the shaft, Pitch placed the flashlight
in his pocket and carefully buttoned the pocket flap over it. “Someone has to be in charge of an expedition like this,” he said with feigned lightness. “And because of my age I’m electing myself.” He looked up at Steve. “There’s really nothing to it, you know. We’ve gone through much worse today.”

Pitch’s hands tightened about the rope as he slid into the shaft and began working his way down, his feet pressed stiffly against the wall. Steve watched him until he could no longer see the top of Pitch’s white hat, and he found himself thinking how silly it was for Pitch to be wearing his hat when he was going a hundred feet or more under the ground. Taking off his own hat, he flung it to one side.

For a few minutes, Steve could hear the sound of Pitch’s feet scraping the wall. The rope was taut. Fingering it, Steve waited until the sounds from Pitch no longer reached his ears and the rope had lost its tautness. He knew then that Pitch had reached the bottom of the shaft. “Pitch! Pitch! Are you all right?”

There were a few seconds of frightening, agonizing silence, then Pitch’s voice came up the shaft so suddenly that the sound burst upon Steve’s ears. “I’m all right. It’s a tunnel, just as we thought, Steve. I’m going to look around.”

“Pitch! You’d better wait,” Steve called. But as the echo died away, there was only deadening silence within the shaft.

Hanging over the side, Steve waited. Every minute seemed an hour. His thin lips were set, his dark eyes stared into the blackness below.
If anything happens to Pitch
, he thought … 
If anything happens
 …

Then Pitch’s voice came up the shaft again. “Come down, Steve,” he called excitedly. “I’ve really found something.”

Steve had one leg inside the shaft when he saw the packs lying on the ground. “Pitch!” he shouted. “What about the packs? Shall I lower them down first? Are we going to stay?”

“Yes, Steve. Yes, you’d better lower everything down. We can’t stop now—not now.”

Anxious to get below, Steve hurriedly tied the second coil of rope about the packs and lowered them into the shaft. “Coming down,” he called to Pitch. “Watch your head.”

When he felt the packs touch the bottom of the shaft, he flung his leg over the side once more. But then he stopped again when he caught sight of Pitch’s pick and shovel. Surely Pitch wouldn’t have any use for them; they’d been enough of a nuisance already. He grabbed hold of the rope to let himself down, then hesitated again. Finally he called down the shaft, “How about the pick and shovel? Do you want them, too?”

“Oh, yes, Steve,” came the quick reply. “I want them very much.”

Shaking his head, Steve climbed out of the shaft and pulled up the second rope. When he had drawn it to the top, he tied the pick and shovel to it and lowered away. As soon as he heard the implements strike bottom, he was on his way down the shaft.

He lowered himself quickly, the rope sliding between his hands. The darkness closed in about him, and a strong current of air from above beat upon his head. He took one quick look up at the sky and saw the heavy
gray clouds overhead, then he turned away. He didn’t have far to go when Pitch flashed the light upon him, then switched it off again. Steve figured that Pitch was saving the battery, but he thought it unnecessary since they had brought along four extra batteries.

The light came on again and Steve saw Pitch’s face behind the glow as his feet found the stone floor.

“Notice how smooth it is,” Pitch said, flashing the light downward. “We’re not the first here by any means. Look here too, Steve.”

He flashed the light over the yellow walls on either side of them, and then directed it toward the ceiling, which was so low that the two of them had to stand in a crouched position beneath it. “This tunnel is partly natural in formation, Steve. It could have been cut as far back as the Ice Age, then pushed up by some giant upheaval.” Pitch paused, then added with great awe, “But a lot of it has been worked out by hand. Notice the perfect regularity of the cutting on each side and on the ceiling here.”

Steve’s eyes were following the beam of light. “By whose hands?” he asked.

“The Spaniards, Steve, the Spaniards,” Pitch returned quickly. “They probably started work on it early in the sixteenth century and continued for well over a hundred and fifty years—until shortly after 1669, I’d say.”

“How do you know, Pitch? Why are you so sure it was the Spaniards?”

Without a word Pitch took Steve by the arm and led him up an incline, flashing the light ahead of them. Steve’s back was almost touching the low ceiling. His
sense of direction told him they were going toward the sea and that they still must be directly beneath the ledge. Suddenly Pitch switched off the light. A few yards ahead, Steve saw three narrow slits of daylight coming through the rock.

Stopping before the slits, Pitch flashed on the light again, and Steve saw that they had reached the end of the tunnel. Pitch stood flat against the wall to enable Steve to get beside him. Two of the slits were on either side of the tunnel and the other was directly between them. They were at eye height and each slit was about three feet deep and a foot wide. But as Steve looked through one of them he saw that the sides of the slit were tapered and that the opening outside was less than an inch wide. Looking through the slit, Steve could see the ocean to the right of the ledge overhead.

“Look through the middle one now,” Pitch said.

Through this slit, Steve saw a continuation of the view from the first slit.

“Now the next one,” Pitch said.

Curiously, yet suspecting what he’d find, Steve looked through the slit on the far left of the tunnel. Again he saw a continuation of the view from the middle slit; and he also was able to see the large rock behind which the dory still lay, as well as the narrow ledge below that led to the cleft in the wall.

Pitch said, “A man with a gun could cover every possible approach from this point, Steve.”

“Then they’re gun slits,” Steve said quickly.

“Exactly,” Pitch replied. “They’re wide enough in here to slip the barrel of a gun through, but the tiny
opening on the outside of the wall makes them a very difficult target for anyone firing from the sea.”

“And that’s what makes you so certain it was the Spaniards who used this tunnel?” Steve asked.

“Who else would have been attacked from the sea, Steve? Remember that in those days Spain’s armies ruled the New World, but they were in constant danger of attacks by pirates. I told you,” he added, “how Antago was sacked by pirates in 1669. The Spaniards could have had ready just such a place as this to flee to when they were driven from Antago.”

“Then what do you actually think we’ll find here, Pitch?” Steve asked excitedly.

“Most anything, Steve. Most anything,” Pitch repeated quickly. “Come on.” Taking small, hurried steps, he moved back down the tunnel, followed by Steve.

Arriving at the shaft again, they were able to stand upright. They remained there for a few minutes, resting their backs. Then Pitch said, “We’d better get on, Steve.”

They placed the packs upon their shoulders and as Pitch flung the second coil of rope about his neck, the beam from the flashlight fell upon the pick and shovel.

“You still want to take them along?” Steve asked. “It’s going to be trouble enough with just the packs.”

Nodding, Pitch said, “I don’t dare leave them behind now.” Reaching for the shovel, he added, “If you’ll just carry the pick, Steve.”

With a last look up the shaft at the gray sky, Steve followed Pitch down the tunnel. The descent was not steep, but it seemed never-ending, and soon Steve felt
the dull ache in his legs from the stiff, awkward steps he had to take in his crouched position. The light pack became heavier, and the pick he carried was an added weight to his misery.

Suddenly Pitch came to an abrupt stop as the flashlight revealed a sharp angle to the right.

“Another tunnel,” Pitch said.

“But we should keep going down, the way we’re doing,” Steve returned. “This other tunnel probably only goes to another spot along the sea.”

“I know,” Pitch said. “But I was thinking of our return trip. We want to make sure that we have no trouble getting back to our rope. We mustn’t get lost. If only we had something to mark our way—”

“The chalk!” Steve said quickly. “You dropped it down the shaft. We could mark our way with that.”

“Just the thing, Steve.”

“I’ll get it.”

Pitch handed over the flashlight to Steve, who removed his pack and then went back up the tunnel. Sitting down on the ground, Pitch watched as the light moved along to the steady sound of Steve’s footsteps. A little while later, the light flashed downward and Pitch knew that Steve had arrived back at the shaft. The light bobbed around the ground, then was turned in Pitch’s direction again.

“I’ve got it, Pitch!” Steve called down the tunnel.

Back with Pitch, Steve sat down and rested while his friend marked a large arrow on the wall of the tunnel, pointing in the direction of the shaft.

“We can’t miss it now,” Pitch said. “And we’ll do the same each time we come to another tunnel.”

Soon they were on their way again, stopping only when they found other tunnels diverging from the one they were following. “This place is a maze,” Pitch said after a while. “We’d never have found our way back without the chalk marks.”

Downward, ever downward they went, their footsteps beginning to drag, their cramped muscles sore and painful. They began to stop more often, even when they did not come upon other passageways. They found, too, that they were too tired to talk, so they sat quietly beside each other during their frequent rests.

Rubbing his legs, Steve breathed deeply and wondered that the air was still so fresh and clean. There must be many ventilation shafts up the other tunnels, he decided, yet he and Pitch had not come across any on their way down. They must be hundreds of feet below the surface of the ground and far into the interior of Azul Island. Well, he asked himself, wasn’t that what he wanted? No, not quite—because when he started he was looking for a horse. Now he found himself in a catacomb, almost a lost world! Yes, but they go together, his mind insisted. If, as Pitch figured, the Spanish Conquistadores were responsible for the building of these tunnels, they also were responsible for the stallion on the cliff. Only those who knew the secrets of this underground world could have gotten a horse into the interior of Azul Island!