The Island Stallion's Fury (16 page)

“Pitch. Pitch.”

The boy's voice was but a whisper, yet Pitch heard him. He raised his head when he felt Steve's hands go behind him to give support. Then he sat up straight. Everything seemed to whirl crazily at first. He couldn't feel the
weight of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He moved a hand toward his eyes but Steve stopped him.

“You're going to be all right,” the boy whispered, looking at his friend's swollen face. “Rest, Pitch. Just rest,” he begged. “Don't talk now.” He silenced the blackened lips with his fingers and moved closer to give Pitch more support.

Part of the ledge could be seen from where they sat, and Steve's eyes very seldom left it while he comforted Pitch. He knew Tom would be coming in again to find out if they had regained consciousness. For a long while it had gone on this way. Steve's head throbbed and he softly pressed the swelling on his crown to relieve the pain. But he knew his own injury was as nothing compared to the beating Pitch had suffered from Tom's fists.

The giant's figure appeared on the ledge and Steve lay back, pulling Pitch with him. “Be still, Pitch. He's coming.” The boy moved away from his friend and flattened himself face downward on the stone.

Tom's heavy breathing and footsteps came ever closer until he was beside them. The giant stood there for many moments before turning away.

Steve waited until the footsteps told him Tom had returned to the ledge. Sitting up, he watched Tom scrape clean one of the empty cans of food. Tom wouldn't be coming back into the cave again for about another hour, he knew. Moving around the range of light, he went to Pitch. His friend sat up more easily this time and needed less help. “You feel better, Pitch?” Steve asked anxiously.

The man nodded and his lips sought Steve's ear. “How long?”

“About three hours,” Steve told him. “It's almost noon, judging from the light outside.”

Pitch looked in the direction of the ledge and the glazed, stony expression left his eyes when he saw Tom. He watched him for a long while without saying anything.

“He's waiting for us to regain consciousness,” Steve said.

Pitch turned to the boy and his gaze found the large swelling on Steve's head. But he said nothing before turning back to watch Tom. Finally he drew his legs back and forth, working them, and then he moved his arms. “In a little while now, Steve,” he whispered. “A little while, and I'll be ready.”

Steve knew Pitch meant they were going to attempt to escape.

An hour passed, then they saw Tom start toward them again. They stretched out, their faces pressed hard against the stone floor.

Steve heard Tom come, then felt his heavy presence. The light of the lantern was turned on him and one of Tom's big hands lifted his wrist, feeling his pulse. Then the giant went to Pitch. Steve guessed he was turning him over, for Pitch grunted. There came the splash of water against Pitch's face, followed shortly by the sharp clang of the empty canteen as Tom let it fall to the floor. Pitch only moaned and did not stir; his heavy breathing filled the cave.

Tom made no further attempts to revive Pitch; it was as though he knew he had plenty of time and could afford to wait. He turned away and left them alone again.

Pitch sat up before Steve did; he moved out of the range of light and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Get up, Steve.”

They stood behind the light, moving slowly in place to relieve their cramped muscles. Yet all the time they watched Tom as he sat on the ledge and looked out over the valley. Steve felt sure that what held Tom's attention were Flame and the band.

A short time later they saw Tom get to his feet and start down the trail to the valley. Pitch placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and his pressing fingers told Steve this was their chance to escape from the cave and Tom.

“Now,”
Pitch said. He went to the lantern and, grabbing it, extinguished the light. “Come on!”

They moved quickly through the cave, but stopped when they reached the ledge. It was littered with pages of Pitch's manuscript; the chest was turned upside down and the relics which had not been cast below were strewn about. Tom was on his way down the trail.

Pitch stumbled as he pushed Steve in the direction of the upward trail. “Get going,” he said. “I'll follow.”

Steve started up, then stopped and turned around. Pitch wasn't following him;
he was picking up the pages of his scattered manuscript!

Steve had started back to help him when he looked down the trail and saw Tom turning back in their direction. “Pitch!” he shouted. There was no longer any need to keep his voice low.

Pitch paid no attention to Steve's cry of warning except to pick up the pages faster, clutching them to his chest. Running to him, Steve pulled him away as Pitch recovered the last of the pages. A swift backward glance
told Steve that Tom was coming up the trail. Steve knew he could reach the tunnels above before Tom did. But could Pitch?

They ran across the ledge to the upward trail, and Steve pushed Pitch ahead of him. Then, stooping, he picked up the cat-o'-nine-tails as he went across the ledge to meet the giant. He had to hold Tom back long enough to give Pitch the start he needed.

Steve reached the trail when Tom was but a few feet below. He swung the whip, bringing its lashes hard against the giant's chest. Bellowing in pain and rage, Tom threw himself backward and for a moment lay on the trail, looking up at the boy. Tom's piglike eyes were red with fury as he pulled himself back along the trail out of range of the whip; then he got to his feet and quickly began unwinding the bull whip from about his waist.

Steve waited, knowing the cat-o'-nine-tails was useless against the long bull whip. He had done all he could, but every second he kept Tom here meant a better chance for Pitch to get away. He took one quick look up the trail and saw that Pitch was still climbing, apparently unaware that his friend wasn't right behind him. Another few seconds and Pitch would have reached the tunnels.

Suddenly the crack of the bull whip burst in Steve's ears and he fell backward as the leather cut into his chest. He managed to regain his feet before striking the ledge, and his outstretched hands broke the force of his fall. Then he moved with the swiftness of a sprinter. He kept low, his body crouched, his running steps coming
fast and short. The whip cracked above his head, but it only served to urge him to greater speed.

Reaching the trail, he started up without checking his fast pace. He watched for stones, well knowing what a fall would mean. He took his eyes off the trail only once. Above he saw Pitch stopping at the entrance to the tunnels. “Go on!” he shouted to him.

Tom was so close on his heels that Steve could hear his heavy breathing, and his strides quickened even more. But suddenly a sharp cry came from behind. Steve didn't have to look back to know what had happened. Tom had fallen! Here was another chance to gain valuable distance! It wasn't until he had reached the entrance to the tunnels that he heard Tom's footsteps on the trail again.

Now he looked into the great opening for Pitch. There he was, traveling the right side of the underground stream. Steve followed him, catching up with him as he was going around the bend of the stream. Dead blackness lay ahead. Pitch told him to put his hand on the back of his belt; then they went on without once looking back.

They stopped at what Steve knew must have been the first fork in the tunnels, for he could find no wall to touch with his right hand. Pitch was breathing heavily, and he made no attempt to go farther.

Something rattled in Pitch's hand. Steve guessed it must be a box of matches, but Pitch did not strike a light. When he spoke, he sounded tired. “We'll wait a few moments, Steve. I don't think he'll have the nerve to follow us, but we must know for certain.”

They stood there, watching for a light that would mean Tom had entered the tunnels. There would have to be a light for Tom would never enter the tunnels without one. And even with the lantern or flashlight would he have the courage to face this underground world again? Steve doubted it, as did Pitch, and the minutes passed with no evidence that they were wrong.

Then, suddenly, the yellowish glare of the lantern broke the blackness. It came around the bend of the stream and toward them. Slowly it moved, then slower still until it came to a stop. Pitch was gripping Steve's arm; both were ready to run again.

But the light came no closer. Instead Tom screamed angrily at them. They were hysterical and meaningless words, which echoed and re-echoed, then finally died within the tunnels. A few minutes later the light retreated until it could no longer be seen.

“Come, Steve.”

Again the boy took hold of Pitch's belt, going with him down the right fork. They spoke no more in the blackness and stopped only occasionally when Pitch lit a match to look at the chalked figures and letters on the walls of the tunnels. Within a short while they entered the large chamber where the extra supplies were stored.

Pitch lit a lantern, then leaned heavily against the table. “We'll rest … that's all we can do now.”

“Tom is mad, Pitch. No man in his right mind would act as he did.”

“Sick,” Pitch corrected in a hoarse whisper. “He's sick mentally, Steve.”

“Did you know? Have you known all the time?”

Pitch shook his head. “No. He's been harder to get
along with the last few months, as I told you. But I took it for restlessness. I never suspected …” His sunken eyes rose to meet the boy's. “Perhaps his ordeal in the tunnels did it, Steve. I don't know. But the tunnels could have done it to him. We've got to get away. We must get help … a doctor … somebody. It's our only chance … 
his only chance ever to get well
.”

Neither spoke for a long while. The yellow light bared the room and their fear. They still had not reached the launch. And it was their only means of getting help.

“Is there no way to get from here to Blue Valley without …”

“Without going down the trail again and past Tom?” Pitch finished for him. “No, Steve, there isn't. It's the only way.”

A half-hour later, Steve walked dazedly about the chamber. He stared at the Spanish coat of arms cut in the wall behind the table, but he didn't actually see it any more than he saw the blue sky when he gazed up the ventilation shaft that penetrated the hundreds of feet of rock above the chamber.

He was thankful for the food he had just eaten, thankful to Pitch for having had the foresight to keep supplies here for use in an emergency. For this was indeed an emergency. It was true that for the time being they were safe from Tom; there would be be more beatings, no more pain
providing
they were careful. Yet they were still his prisoners. There was no way to reach the launch except through Blue Valley. No way to reach Blue Valley except to go back the way they had come.

Would they be able to get past Tom during the night, as Pitch planned? Even if they watched and slept in shifts would the moment come when Tom would be sleeping so soundly that they could get by the ledge in
safety? They would be taking a terrible chance, but what was their alternative?

And even if they were successful, where would it all end? What would Tom do while they were gone for help? What would happen to Flame and his band? And to the colt? Would Tom touch him, hurt him? The colt would be frantic with hunger; he might even do himself harm. But, as Pitch had said, the colt could go a day, perhaps two days, without food … and by that time they'd be back with help.

It was Flame's safety that would worry him more than anything else even if they did get away. Tom's hard hands were skilled in breaking horses in the only way he knew how. And Steve knew the slightest spark could touch off a horrible battle between Tom and Flame. It could happen any hour, any minute … 
even now
.

“Oh, Steve. Steve.”

It was Pitch, and his words carried all the pity and suffering and sadness of a man in pain too great to bear. His face was buried in his hands as he sat in the chair behind the table.

Steve stood still, just looking. He was afraid to move, to speak. He waited, his fearful eyes on the bent head before him.

Finally Pitch spoke again, but his hands still covered his face so that his words were just mutterings. But Steve made out one word and it was enough to make him freeze still more.

The map!

Tom had it! When they had fled, Pitch had taken his manuscript but they had left the map behind. On the map was marked the way to the launch. Tom could
leave the island now, leave them to die here if he wished! And then he could return in his own time to do as he wanted with this lost world.

Pitch was the first to move. He staggered to his feet and started across the chamber. “We must go back,” he said hoarsely. “Now.”

When they reached the bend of the stream, they got to their hands and knees. They crawled a few feet at a time, stopped, listened and went on. Just within the great opening they flattened themselves down even more, twisting and squirming over the cold stone.

Slow now, and listen. Listen for any sound of his footsteps on the trail. He may be there. He could be just outside the opening, waiting and ready. Keep close to the stone. But be set to run back if he's here, if he sees us. Don't talk. Don't breathe. We're almost in the sunlight. We can see the top of the trail and he isn't there, waiting as he might have been. A few more feet and we'll be in the sunlight. We'll be able to look down at the ledge. But listen first. Listen for any sound of footsteps. Could we hear him above the drone of the falls? Yes, yes we could. Go forward then, but keep flat. We're outside. We should be able to see him now. Or has he already gone to the launch? Take a deep breath, hold it and look for Tom!