The Island Stallion's Fury (12 page)

Turning to the right, he saw the shallow cleft in the rock at the end of the ledge.

Carefully he made his way to it and stood within the narrow confines of its three sides. The trail was as clear as if a note had been left for him. He saw the niches in the wall opposite him, one above the other for the full fifty feet of the cleft's height. He knew why the niches were there. He put a foot in one of them and braced his back against the wall behind him; then he started up, wedged between the sides of the cleft.

When he reached the top he saw the wide ledge, in the center of which was a stone shaft rising a few feet above the ground. He ran toward it, his face aflame. He saw the rope tied securely about the shaft and hanging down inside. Bending over, he looked down into the darkness.

“I've found you. I've found you!” he said in a whisper.
Phil and Steve might be directly beneath him and he wanted to take them completely by surprise.

Putting a leg over the shaft, he tested the rope, then squeezed his body inside and started down.

He let the rope slide slowly through his hands while his feet scraped down the sides of the shaft. The light faded and he stopped a minute before descending any farther into the darkness. He regretted the loss of his flashlight which was in the shoulder bag he had so foolishly used in an attempt to plug the hole in the dory. He searched his wet pockets for a book of matches but found none. His hand caressed the leather of the bull whip still wrapped about his waist. At least he had that. Then he continued down the shaft.

Nothing would stop him now that he was so close to the end of the hunt! And perhaps it was better that he had no light. Phil and the boy couldn't be far away and he wanted to come upon them unnoticed. The light of the flash might have spoiled the surprise he had in store for them. His thin lips drew back as he tasted again the glorious fruits of a successful hunt. Who else but he could have found this trail? Now he had them! And whatever they had discovered belonged to him!

One hundred feet below, his feet touched the ground. He crouched, ready for anything. He knew he was in a tunnel and that what he had come down was a ventilation shaft. But he didn't stop to think, to wonder who might have built it or how long it had been there. It was enough that he was very close to his quarry; that was all that mattered.

The tunnel would take him to Phil and the boy; of that he was certain. They had traveled this tunnel and
so would he, and it would lead him to them. Now he must be very quiet; he must steal upon them. He started down the tunnel, never hesitating before its blackness. The two he was seeking could be but a short distance away; it wouldn't take long to find them. Certainly the darkness of the tunnel wouldn't stop him now. He even increased his pace. He kept one hand close to the jagged wall on the right. That way he'd discover if any other tunnels diverged from this one. But he was certain he'd find none. Only one tunnel, he felt, could have been hollowed through this mass of yellow rock.

It never occurred to him that no human hands had cut this tunnel, that many ages ago a giant disturbance of nature had created it
and many others
.

He walked hunched over, bent almost double, to avoid striking his head against the jagged ceiling. It was a hard, uncomfortable position, but soon, he hoped, he'd be out of the tunnel. Soon he'd be leaving this blackness behind
to find them
.

He was surprised, even startled, to have the wall suddenly give way beneath his right hand. He stopped to grope, only to find another tunnel! He remained still in the darkness, trying to decide what to do. Finally he proceeded down the new tunnel. He would travel it for just a short distance and if he found nothing he would return and continue along the first tunnel. He felt no fear, only anger that this second tunnel had complicated matters for him. Now the hunt might take just a little longer than he'd thought.

How long he had walked he didn't know. It was difficult to account for time and distance in such darkness. He came to a stop, trying to pierce the blackness with
his sharp eyes. He listened for sounds of Phil and the boy. But it was quiet, so quiet. And dark, so dark. His body trembled. He breathed deeply to still his trembling. But he didn't acknowledge the fear that was mounting within him. He went on and on.

Only when he decided that it would be best for him to return to the first tunnel was he aware of the warm blood on his hands. He must have been dragging them too hard against the walls, harder and closer than he'd thought. For a minute he rubbed his hands together, more in comfort than to ease any pain; then he started back.

At first he went at a slow, careful walk. A few minutes more, a few yards more, and he went faster; then he was in a run. As he straightened up a little too much, his head struck a jagged ceiling stone and he went down hard. He lay still for a moment, resting and seeking control of himself. He placed a hand on his head, felt the bump that was there. But it was not bleeding.

Getting to his feet, he began to walk very slowly. His hands felt another break in the wall, another tunnel. Could it be the first one, the one which led back to the shaft? He didn't remember passing any others. Should he go down it? Or should he ignore it and go on? His body started trembling again. And this time he accepted it for what it was,
fear
. Fear that he was lost! Fear of this blackness! Fear of the deathly quiet! And it turned suddenly to a savage hatred of the tunnels as though they were living, breathing things. He cursed them, cursed his stepbrother and the boy and whatever they'd found. His voice rose shrilly in the tunnels and echoed back to him.

He started running again. He wanted only to reach the shaft that would take him to the light of day. He wanted only to escape, to see! But which tunnel would take him back? He went on and on, frantic and desperate. He came upon tunnel after tunnel. He turned down some, and passed others. He fell, got up and ran on. It was futile, never-ending. It went on hour after hour … perhaps even day after day. He didn't know; there was no way of knowing.

He was crazed with fear. He slowed his running footsteps, and groped feebly through the utter blackness. He fell again. This time … was it the hundredth or thousandth time?… he lay still for a long while, his face pressed hard against the cold rock. He stayed there until he felt the warmth of his own blood from his battered, cut face, then he struggled to his feet.

Hunched over, the weight of his large head and shoulders propelled him forward; his steps came rapidly as he fought to keep his balance. His dazed mind warned him he was going too fast for the many abrupt turns in the passageways, and he knew what would happen again. Yet he didn't care. Lurching, he wavered from one side wall to the other; then his outstretched hand struck solid rock in front of him. He tried to stop but couldn't. His body crashed hard against it, and he went down.

He couldn't have told later how long he stayed there. It could have been minutes or hours. Or even days.

When at last he opened his small, piglike eyes, they stared unseeingly for he made no attempt to penetrate
the blackness all about him. He ran his tongue over his thin, cracked lips, but he could not moisten them. He was dying of thirst, dying of starvation.

His resentment against such an ignoble death for one who had risked his life countless times in physical combat brought forth a quick surge of renewed strength. His small, even teeth took hold of his lower lip as he raised his head from the floor of the tunnel and got to his knees.

He had slept; he was rested. His bleeding hands felt the wall in front of him. The passageway turned to the right here. He would follow it. But he would go slowly, conserving his strength. He was Tom Pitcher. He wasn't going to die
this way
. And no longer would he be afraid. Instead he would remain very calm.

Before rising to his feet, he ran his hands over his legs and body. No bones were broken. His skin was torn and bleeding from the jagged rocks, but that was all. He was all right except for his hunger and thirst. Well, there had been plenty of times in his life when he had gone for days without food and water. He could do it again.

He started to get up, his lips drawn in a bitter and hateful smile. Hadn't he found the entrance to the tunnels of Azul Island? But what lay beyond these tunnels? What had that weak-sister, Phil, and that kid, Steve Duncan, found that they thought they could keep to themselves? He'd find out. He was close to knowing.

When he was on his feet, weakness and then fright claimed him again. He shook his head to throw off this terrifying fear of the darkness, but his shaking only served to start his nose bleeding again. He put his hands
to his face. And suddenly he was clawing his eyes and shouting. The sound of his voice, maniacal in its fury, reverberated up and down the never-ending tunnels.

“See! See! I want to see!”

Sometime later, he found himself on his hands and knees, crawling. He told himself that he wanted to crawl, that it was slower but less tiring. He began breathing faster, taking huge gulps of air. He thought that this would clear his dizziness. But it didn't. And again the fear of dying this slow, terrible death absorbed his mind and body. He crawled faster to get away.

Feebly he moved forward, thinking he was traveling rapidly yet barely moving. He thought of himself as still crawling when he lay quiet on the cold stone, his hands and legs outstretched. Convulsively his legs twitched in attempted motion, and for a long while his battered fingers moved. But finally the huge man lay still, buried thousands of feet beneath the surface of Azul Island.

Again, as for centuries past, the tunnels knew only silence. They were a world of their own, a maze, a catacomb of disaster for those who did not know them well. And Tom Pitcher was a stranger.

It was the third morning after their return to Blue Valley, and Steve knelt beside the foal, feeding him. He watched the quick movements of the colt's mouth as he sucked the milk through the nursing nipple. The large, bright eyes were on him, fearful that he would take the bottle away. Smiling, Steve turned to Flame, who stood behind them, watching and still curious about all that went on.

Steve talked to the stallion while feeding the foal. There had been slight indications at times that Flame might be a little jealous of all the attention the colt was getting. But never had Flame shown any outright animosity toward the colt. He was careful never to push him when he grazed near him during the day. And at night Steve always put the colt in Bottle Canyon.

Everything was going very well and Steve was thankful. Just as Dr. Mason had said, the foal didn't seem to mind having his injured leg held from hoof to rump in a fixed position. He went where he pleased at a slow walk, but Steve never let him stray too near the band.
His early training had been started, too, for now he wore the soft web halter as if it always had been a part of him.

They were beneath the ledge, and Steve shifted his eyes from the stallion and the colt to where Pitch was sitting above. He saw his friend working on his manuscript. He was glad of that, too. Everything was as it should be again. Pitch was back enjoying the work he loved so much, while he, Steve, took care of the colt. Pitch left them pretty much alone now; perhaps he was still wary of Flame after his terrifying experience with the stallion when he'd tried to rope the bay mare.

The colt finished the milk in the bottle and held on to the nipple with tight lips as Steve attempted to take it away from him.

“That's enough. Nothing there but air, and that's not good for you to swallow.” Steve pulled the bottle away, and rose to his feet.

Flame circled them, snorting, while the colt watched his sire. Steve snapped a lead shank to the halter. “Come on, fellow,” he said. The foal, intent on following Flame's movements, hesitated a moment. Steve waited patiently until he had his attention again. For a few minutes each day he was teaching the colt to be led, to have complete confidence in whatever he asked him to do. His schooling now would make it easier later on, when the colt would be ever so much bigger and stronger and Steve
took him home
.

Finally the foal started forward and Steve walked a few more steps away. He went to the left, then to the right, the little colt following him. He stopped before the post to which Pitch had intended tying the bay mare. That post was useful to Steve during this early
training, and now he tied the end of the rope shank about it and sat down, watching the foal.

The colt stood still a moment, then he drew back his head a little, feeling the tug of the rope. His eyes turned to Steve, and the boy talked to him.

If the colt had shown any sign of fear or fight, Steve would have released him immediately. But the colt accepted being tied. Steve went to him, unsnapping the shank from the halter and rubbing him gently on the muzzle.

Flame circled them again, his movements more spirited and restless. Watching him, Steve knew that the stallion was becoming impatient, that he had waited long enough for the attention he was seeking. Steve walked across the valley to the entrance of Bottle Canyon. Flame stayed right beside him; the colt watched them go, then followed at his slow walk.

Steve waited for the colt at the entrance to the canyon, then he put him inside and drew the long bars across. When he mounted Flame, the foal neighed shrilly. Steve felt sorry at leaving him behind but he had no alternative. He couldn't take a chance on the colt's following them again, neither could he spend all his time with him.

He felt the spirited restlessness leave Flame when he touched the stallion on the neck and leaned forward. Flame settled into his long, easy lope, but Steve felt the pulsating flow of power between his legs. There was no doubt that Flame wanted to go all out this morning. Steve knew what was coming.

From the lope, Flame went quickly into his gallop, each running stride greater than the one before. He held his head high, one ear turned back as though listening
for Steve's slightest whisper of command. But none came. His ear pricked forward with the other, and he extended his head a little. The stallion knew he was being left to choose his own gait, his own speed. His tail spread like a red cloak behind him, and his mane suddenly whipped back.