The Island Stallion's Fury (6 page)

BOOK: The Island Stallion's Fury
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“Here, Pitch … over here are the instructions. But it doesn't say anything about feeding babies.”

“Where? Oh, yes. It's in Spanish, isn't it?
‘Klim se produce removiendo solamente el aqua de la leche de vaca fresca y limpia.' ”
He paused and looked up at Steve. “That says, ‘Klim is made by removing the water from fresh, clean—' ”

“ ‘Pasteurized cow's whole milk,' ” Steve finished for him. “It's all right here in English, Pitch, on the other side.”

Pitch turned the can around to read the instructions in English. When he had finished he said, “You're right; it doesn't say anything about feeding babies. But to make regular whole milk that you've been drinking, it says to use eight tablespoonfuls to a pint of water.”

“But we should cut that,” Steve said quickly. “We shouldn't make it too rich for him.”

“Right again,” Pitch agreed. “So let's make it two tablespoonfuls to a pint of water, and see how he gets along on it.”

“All right, Pitch, but let's hurry,” Steve said impatiently. “Let's mix it and give it to him.”

“But we can't do it just like that,” Pitch returned, snapping his fingers.

“Why can't we? All we have to do is to put the powder in the water and mix it.”

“But we can't. We have to sterilize everything first.”

“Sterilize?”
Steve asked incredulously.

“Yes, Steve,” Pitch answered solemnly. “We're feeding a baby, and babies are very susceptible to disease.”

“But there's no disease here, Pitch.”

“We're not certain of that, Steve. There are germs almost everywhere. So I say we should boil the water, the jar and everything we're going to use.” He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. “But I don't know anything about feeding a foal, Steve. If you know more about orphaned foals, or anything at all about their feeding, speak up.”

“No,” Steve confessed. “I don't know a thing, Pitch.”

“Then I feel that we should feed this foal just as we'd feed a baby until we find out otherwise from someone who does know. And I've watched Mrs. Reynolds feeding her babies and I know she sterilized everything. But he's your foal, Steve. I'll do as you say.”

Steve cast a glance at the valley below. The colt was moving a little. Flame was a short distance away. Everything looked all right. The colt had waited this long for his milk; it probably wouldn't hurt him to wait just a little while longer. And Pitch was right. The only thing they could do for the time being was to feed this colt as they would a human baby. Perhaps sterilization wasn't necessary. But perhaps it was. They'd better do it, for there was no sense in taking any chances now.

“Okay, Pitch, let's sterilize,” he said.

Pitch already had the stove going and the water
was being heated. “We'll give everything a good boiling,” he said.

Steve stooped down to help him. “I guess we've become foster mothers,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I guess we have,” Pitch agreed.

R
ED
F
URY
5

The water was in a large aluminum kettle. After a while Pitch lifted the lid. “It's coming to a boil, Steve,” he said, “and there's enough water to sterilize everything and make a gallon of milk formula for the colt.”

“But we don't want him to drink a gallon at first,” Steve said quickly. “I'd say give him a little, about a half-pint, at frequent intervals, maybe every hour.”

“Yes, but we should make up a lot now, while we're at it,” Pitch said. “Saves work. We can keep a gallon jug of milk in the pool, where it'll be kept cold and won't spoil.”

Steve turned away from Pitch to look down at the foal in the valley. “But how will we get the milk into him, Pitch? We don't have any nursing nipples around, do we?”


Nipples?
Nursing nipples?” Pitch wearily shook his head. “I didn't know we were going to start a nursery here,” he replied, and there was just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Then he looked up at the boy, smiled and
said more patiently, “Why can't we just pour it down his throat?”

“We couldn't, Pitch. He'd choke.”

“Then maybe he'll just drink the milk from a pail.”

“Maybe in a few days he could do that,” Steve said, “but not now. He's too young; he couldn't be taught right away.”

“Then what do
you
suggest?”

Steve was unable to make any answer at first. He knew Pitch was becoming impatient with him and the orphaned foal. Pitch's first love wasn't horses, as it was his. Although Pitch would do everything he could to help save the colt's life, he wanted to get back to his own work as soon as possible. He wanted to be relieved of all responsibility to this foal, and the sooner the better.

“I'll have to use a spoon,” Steve said finally. “That's the only way I know to get the milk into him.”

Pitch shrugged his shoulders. “A spoon it is, then.”

The water in the kettle was boiling, but they left it on the fire until they felt certain all or any germs had been killed. Then they sterilized the utensils they were going to use in the feeding of the foal. There was enough water left over to fill the gallon jug which was to hold their milk formula.

“Now we have to wait for it to cool off before we add the powdered milk,” Pitch said. “It mixes better.”

“Can't I cool off the water right away?” Steve asked. “I'm worried about that colt. He's gone so long without food. I could cool it off in the stream.”

“Yes, you can do that. But be careful that the glass doesn't break.”

Taking the gallon jug, Steve ran up to the top of the
waterfall; there he carefully cooled off the jug and then submerged it in the stream. While waiting for the sterile water inside to cool even more, he watched the foal. Flame had left him to rejoin his band, and the colt stood alone again. But he moved about more now, his long legs shuffling over the ground and taking him first in one direction, then in another. He stayed in the immediate vicinity of the water pool, seemingly having no desire to join the band that grazed far up the valley.

A feeling of pity for him swept over Steve. He'd do everything he possibly could to keep this foal alive!

When the sterile water was cool enough for the foal to drink, Steve returned to the ledge with it. He removed the cap of the jug, and Pitch put in sixteen tablespoonfuls of powdered milk.

“Let's put a spoonful of sugar in it, too,” Steve said. “It can't do him any harm, and maybe he'll like it better.”

That done, Steve replaced the cap and vigorously shook the jug until the powder and sugar were well mixed with the water.

“That's enough,” Pitch said. “Now let's pour whatever amount you're going to give him into this pint jar. It's been sterilized, too.”

“We'll give him a half-pint,” Steve said as Pitch poured.

When they reached the valley floor, Pitch placed the gallon jug in a corner of the water pool, where it would be kept cool and safe. Then he rejoined Steve as the boy approached the foal.

“You're going to eat,” Steve told the colt, placing his hand on the soft nose and stroking it. “You'll like
this, boy.” Then, speaking to Pitch, “I guess we'd better get him down on the ground. It'll be easier.”

“You get him down, then,” Pitch said. “I'll hold the milk.”

Steve put his arms around the foal, fore and hind, then carefully placed him down on his side; the colt scarcely stirred.

“You hold him still now, Pitch,” Steve said. “He just might struggle and upset the jar while I'm feeding him.”

He knelt beside the small head, stroking it, talking to the colt all the while. The colt was too little, too weak to do any fighting. But the milk would come as a surprise to him. He could have no idea what they intended doing and perhaps he didn't care.

Steve raised the foal's head a little so that once the milk was in his mouth it would flow down his throat. Taking up a spoonful, he carefully opened the foal's mouth on the side and fed him the milk.

The foal struggled a little, even made an attempt to get up. But Pitch had no trouble keeping him down, and after a minute or two Steve gave him another spoonful of milk. There was less struggling by the foal this time. With the fourth spoonful he ceased fighting altogether, taking the milk as readily and as often as Steve fed it to him.

Steve stopped when the foal had finished a quarter of a pint. “I think that's enough for him now,” he told Pitch. “I'll give him that much every hour until I see how he reacts to it.”

“Just as you say, Steve.” Pitch stood up, releasing the colt. “But it's a full-time job feeding him that often.
And you'll have to sterilize the jar and spoon each time, as well as warm the milk.”

“I know,” Steve said. “But I'll be able to feed him alone after this. You won't have to help me.”

“I
want
to help you,” Pitch returned quietly.

The foal made no attempt to get to his feet. But his eyes were open, and there was a clearness to them that hadn't been there before. His breathing was better too, regular and without effort.

“I believe he's going to do all right on that formula,” Pitch said, watching him. “He seems very contented now.”

“The warm milk has probably made him sleepy,” Steve said. “Rest and the sun will do him good.”

They heard the beat of Flame's running hoofs and turned to watch the stallion as he came down the valley. He stopped beside Steve, but his eyes were only for the foal.

Steve put a hand on him. “I guess we've got someone to look after, Flame,” he told the stallion. “And he's so little; he'll take a lot of care if we're going to do a good job.”

Pitch let his gaze travel over the valley. “It would be so much better if we could only get the mare to let him nurse just once,” he said. “Maybe she'd accept him as hers then. The cow's milk we're giving him is only a fair substitute for her milk. And he needs her care, too. Being any kind of an orphan is hard. And no matter how good we are to him, we're not going to take the place of his mother. It just isn't natural.”

“But what can we do, Pitch?” Steve asked miserably.
“Everything you say is true. But she's abandoned him, and we can't force her to take him back. By now she doesn't even remember having had him. I'm sure of that.”

Flame tossed his head, and Steve rubbed the stallion's red coat hard in an attempt to rid himself of the anxiety which troubled him as much as it did Pitch.

“I still might be able to get a rope around her,” Pitch suggested.

“But she's wild, just like all the others in the band,” Steve said. “You wouldn't stand a chance of holding her.”

“I could if I cut down one of those dwarfed trees over there and made a snubbing post of it,” Pitch returned seriously. “I'd tie her fast, then we'd try and get the colt up to her.”

“I doubt that we could do it,” Steve said. “And if we did get her fast to the post, she might kick the devil out of the colt before she'd let him nurse her.”

“But we might try, Steve. It's worth it as our last resort.”

Steve glanced away from Pitch to the foal, who now had his eyes closed and was sleeping.

“All right, Pitch. It's worth a try, as you say. Anything to get him back to her!”

During the afternoon and early evening, Steve fed the colt every hour. Pitch offered to help, but Steve told him that it wasn't necessary, that the colt took the milk from him and gave no trouble. Actually it took a lot of patience and was hard work but never tedious, for the foal responded quickly to the life-giving milk. He was
more alert, more active. And for Steve there was the wonderful satisfaction of having the colt come forward at sight of him, hungry and eager.

That evening Pitch said, “He's become so dependent on you in just one day that we'll have trouble getting him to the mare even if I do manage to get her tied fast.”

“There's a difference, and he'll know it if she accepts him,” Steve said, as he busied himself with the stove and the water he was boiling.

“You're not going to feed him every hour tonight, are you? You've got to sleep yourself, you know.”

“I'll get up two or three times, I guess,” Steve said. “He'll be all right. I'm giving him a little more milk during the night feedings.”

Pitch watched Steve for a while, then said, “I have the post. I'll dig a hole for it in the morning, then we'll wait our chance to get a rope around the mare.”

“All right, Pitch,” Steve said without looking up.

The next morning Pitch dug his post hole not far from the water pool, figuring that the best opportunity to lasso the bay mare would be when she and the others came down to drink.

Steve fed the colt, marveling at what seemed to him to be more flesh on the frail, little body. He told himself that he might be wrong about the colt's added weight, but there was no doubt that the foal was stronger, more sure of himself on this, his second day. His eyes were no longer fuzzy and bewildered, but bright and clear. He watched Steve's every move, staying close and only leaving him when Flame came down the valley to join them. But he would never follow
Flame when the stallion returned to the band. Instead, he would always turn away from him, looking again for Steve.

Pitch finished putting up the post, and called Steve over to examine it.

“It's solid,” Pitch said, his hand on the post. “It'll hold the mare, all right, if I get her tied to it.”

Simultaneously their eyes strayed to the band far up the valley. “They should be coming down in a little while for water,” Pitch said. “And you know, Steve, I got thinking last night that it might be wise if we put the foal in Bottle Canyon at night. The youngsters in the band might hurt him when they come down to the pool. They're much stronger than he is.”

BOOK: The Island Stallion's Fury
13.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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