The Island Stallion's Fury (8 page)

Finally the jar was empty, and Steve straightened, relaxing his cramped back muscles. He watched the foal bend his long forelegs in an attempt to reach the grass. Successful in pulling loose a few blades, the colt held them between his lips without trying to chew them. He had no taste for grass yet, that would come later.

Steve ran his hands over the hardening body and down the legs to the tiny, fawn-like hoofs. He handled the foal this way every hour, rubbing him to strengthen the muscles and to stimulate circulation. He picked up each foot to get the foal used to his holding them. Already Steve had begun the early training of this colt which so completely relied upon him, belonged to him.

And now he thought of the other things he would ask Pitch to bring back in order that he might continue this early training. A small, soft brush to groom the colt. He had one he used on Flame, but it was too large and heavy for the foal's slight body. And a soft web halter,
too, which the colt could wear. It would make it easier to train him to be led, to stand still, to be tied.

This early schooling was very important, for Steve was determined that when he left for home he was going to take the colt with him. He told himself that he had to do it because the colt would be relying on him for milk for at least six months, and therefore the only thing he could do was to take him home. Actually Steve had his own reasons for wanting to take the colt with him. The colt would be living evidence of the lost world within the walls of Azul Island. The colt would help him through the long months when he would be away from Blue Valley and Flame. Steve knew he'd never be able to take Flame away from the island, for the great stallion belonged there with his band. But the colt didn't belong. He was an orphan, an outcast even from this forsaken band.

The boy reached down to lift the foal, and carried him the short distance to Bottle Canyon.

Early the next morning Steve was back to turn the colt loose in Blue Valley and to feed him again. He left the colt stretched out asleep in the sun after the meal, and went back below the ledge.

“Pitch!” he shouted.

“Yes, Steve?” Pitch looked down.

“I'm going to the launch for the can of powdered milk. Please keep your eye on the colt if the band comes down for water.”

“All right, Steve. I'll be ready to leave in about an hour or so. I'm just finishing some work.”

Steve walked part way up the valley, then whistled to Flame when he saw the stallion emerging from the
cane. There came a quickening beat to Flame's running hoofs, then he was in full gallop.

He neared Steve with flying mane and tail, his sharply pointed ears pricked forward and almost touching at the tips. He plunged past, then came to a sudden stop, whirled, and returned to the boy, stopping at his side.

His action free and graceful, Flame pranced at Steve's side. The boy put his hands on the stallion, then quickly pulled himself up. Hardly did he have his balance when Flame was off with giant strides. Faster and faster the long legs moved, and Steve shifted his weight forward.

He kept Flame far to the left of where the band was grazing and finally sent him flying into the tall cane, never slowing the stallion's strides until they came out on the other side of the field. Before them now was the long, gradual climb to the base of the western wall of the valley.

Without any direction from Steve, Flame turned to the right, running between the field of cane and the wall. He seemed to know where they were going. Less than a mile away, a thin cloud of vapor was beginning to rise from the hollow which fostered the marsh.

The footing beneath Flame's running feet was hard and stony, so Steve kept the stallion at a slow canter lest he stumble and fall. He slowed him down still more when they reached the rim of the hollow and started their descent. The ground became soft, and voluntarily Flame slowed to a walk as he neared the edge of the swamp.

The foul smell of rotting vegetation was in their
nostrils, but Steve knew the odor wasn't anything compared to what it would be when the vapors thickened with the heat of the noonday sun. Flame's hoofs made soft sucking sounds as he went toward one of the narrow green avenues running through the marsh.

At a very slow walk the stallion entered the cloudlike world, following hoofprints which he had left from countless other journeys. He was no stranger to the marsh. Solid ground was beneath his feet, but on either side was a slimy wilderness of high reeds, swamp ferns and all-engulfing quagmires.

Steve hated this place, but he made no attempt to hurry Flame. A slip, a fall, a few feet on either side meant a terrible death in the still, black pools. But while the marsh was long it wasn't wide and he knew they'd be out of it within a few minutes. They were going in the direction of the western wall. Steve looked straight ahead, toward the high cut that shattered the wall. He thought of the name Pitch had given it on his map—Dry Stream Gorge. Well, that's exactly what it was, for a stream had once cut that gorge and had flowed into the hollow. It was now dry because the Conquistadores had diverted the stream in order to use this gorge as a passage to Blue Valley. At least, that's what he and Pitch had decided between them.

They emerged from the marsh and Flame began his climb up the twisting, turning gorge. High yellow walls rose on either side of them, and the way was strewn with stones and boulders. Flame attempted to lengthen his strides, but Steve kept him at a slow walk, fearing he might fall and injure himself.

At the top of the gorge the yellow walls widened. Set amidst their towering peaks was the green sliver of a long and narrow valley.

Steve stopped a moment to rest Flame. “On the map Pitch calls this Small Valley,” he said aloud. Nothing fancy about any of the names Pitch had given these places. But then there was nothing fancy about Pitch, either. Smiling, Steve led Flame into the valley.

The far wall toward which he rode was split with many chasms and caves. From one cave flowed a stream which came a short way down the valley, then turned suddenly and disappeared at the base of the northern wall. It was this stream which had been diverted from flowing into the hollow in Blue Valley.

When he reached the stream, Steve slid off Flame's back to let the stallion drink. The far wall was only a hundred yards away, and he intended to go the rest of the way alone, leaving Flame to graze.

He hurried toward the chasm just to the right of the cave from which the stream came. With no hesitation he entered it. The sea entrance to Azul Island was just a short distance away. Already he could hear the dull thud of the waves beating against the outer wall.

At the end of the chasm loomed a large hole. Steve stopped for a moment to accustom his eyes to the dim, gray light. Then he hurried on, bracing himself against the gusts of wind that intermittently came at him.

Fine white sand was beneath his feet, and as Steve rounded a turn the light became brighter. Then he stepped into the great rectangular chamber that housed the entrance to the sea. Through the center of the
chamber ran a narrow canal, its waters flooding and ebbing with the waves which struck the outer wall and found their way inside through a low but wide hole at the base.

Steve went to the motor launch that was moored to one of the low, moss-covered piles on the side of the canal. Boarding, he found the can of powdered milk which Pitch had left in the galley. He looked around the launch for anything else he might need. But the only things to be seen were a pile of rope in the stern and two more picks.

Before leaving, he turned to look at the great wooden panels above the sea hole. The two panels could be slid apart, giving the hole in the wall all the height anyone would need to bring in a launch. But unless one knew about it one would never suspect the existence of the false partition from the sea, for outside it was the color of the walls, and the hole itself was too low for anyone to notice.

It was through this entrance that the Conquistadores had brought their men, their weapons, and their horses to Blue Valley. Steve thought of them now, wondering what it would have been like to have been one of them. Then his thoughts turned back to Flame and Pitch and the foal. He'd better return to Blue Valley, for Pitch probably was ready to leave for Antago.

He hurried from the chamber without a backward glance.

Later, when he rode Flame into the dry stream gorge leading back to the marsh, he slowed down the stallion reluctantly. He was anxious to get back to Blue Valley, more anxious and worried than he should have
been. And there wasn't any reason for it, he told himself. No reason at all. He hadn't been gone more than an hour. Pitch was taking care of the foal. Nothing could have happened. Pitch wouldn't let the colt out of his sight. He could depend upon that. Yet his uneasiness that something had gone wrong during his short absence persisted. There was nothing to account for it, yet try as he did he couldn't rid himself of it.

He started to urge Flame out of his cautious walk around the stones of the gorge, then stopped himself from giving any command to the stallion. He couldn't risk going faster. Flame knew this twisting, turning gorge, and he was going down it carefully. To increase his speed might result in a broken leg. Just the thought of it caused Steve to sit back and try again to relax.

They were almost at the end of the gorge. Another turn would take them to the marsh and after that they'd be in Blue Valley. He'd let Flame go at full gallop then, Steve decided.

The stallion slipped as they made the last sharp turn, regained his balance and went on. Steve was giving thanks to Flame's sure-footedness when he saw the foal.

The colt was lying sprawled on the jagged stones.

Flame snorted. Beyond the colt, emerging from the marsh, was Pitch. He looked at them, then at the foal. “He followed you,” Pitch called, running toward the colt. “I tried, but I couldn't keep up with him.”

Steve slid off Flame's back, his heart like lead, his stomach sick.

The foal raised his head as Steve neared him. He uttered a short neigh, then lowered his head again. His eyes were clear; there was no pain in them.

Steve turned to Pitch, who now stood beside him. “Maybe he's just tired,” he said hopefully.

“Could be,” Pitch said, the fear gone from his voice, too. “He's been going a long time for him, ever since you and Flame started up the valley. He watched you a moment, then got to his feet and went into that mincing trot of his. I yelled, but he paid no attention to me so I started after him. He stopped often to rest, but whenever I was just about to get my hands on him he'd start moving again. He went right past the band—scarcely even noticed them. I guess he didn't want to forget which way you and Flame had gone. Four times I almost caught him before he reached the marsh, but he always got away. And how he ever found his way through the marsh, I'll never know. Maybe he followed Flame's hoofprints. Maybe it was only instinct which
showed him the way. He was a good two hundred yards ahead of me by that time, I guess.”

Pitch turned to look at the foal before adding, “You know as much about what happened after that as I do. I was just coming out of the marsh when you and Flame appeared. The colt could be exhausted and just resting now … or he could have stumbled and fallen. I don't know, Steve. I'm sorry it had to happen, but I did my best to catch him.”

The boy was bending over the foal. “Come on, fellow. Let's get up now.” The colt nuzzled him, pulling his fingers. It was an encouraging sign. “I think he's just resting, Pitch. He doesn't seem to be in any pain.”

“No, he doesn't.”

The colt was lying on his right side, his legs outstretched. There was no mark on him, no apparent evidence of injury. But Steve saw the large boulder a few feet behind the colt. If the colt had struck that on his way up the gorge, he could have fallen hard and be hurt without their knowing it.

“Let's try to get him up, Pitch. If he stands without showing any sign of pain we'll know he's all right.”

Flame had been watching them from a few feet away, but now he came close to the foal, nickering and stretching his neck toward him.

Steve got his hands around the foal's shoulders, while Pitch took the hindquarters. “Easy now,” Steve said, addressing both the foal and Pitch. A startled expression came into the colt's eyes, but he did not struggle. “We just want you to stand a minute, fellow, then you can rest again,” Steve told him.

The colt's long legs were under him. With great
care Steve and Pitch kept their hands on him when the tiny hoofs touched the ground. They sent worried glances at the legs which supported the tired, wavering body. The forelegs were unsteady but down, so were the hind.
No!
The colt wasn't using his right hind leg to support any of his weight!

Steve dropped down beside him, sick at heart again. Feeling, probing, he ran his hand down the foal's leg. Only after he had passed the hock did he feel anything.

“Pitch!”

The colt tried to move away on three legs when Pitch dropped down beside Steve.

“Right here!” Steve said.

The man's fingers went to the leg, and the foal whinnied at his touch.

“Something's wrong,” Pitch said gravely after a minute. “But maybe it's not a break … just a sprain.”

“We've got to get him out of here. To the vet's, Pitch.”

“You don't think that if we just wrapped it well, it'd heal?”

Steve shook his head, his eyes closed. “Not if we ever want him to use that leg again,” he said miserably.

“But of course we want him to use it,” Pitch returned quickly. “We'll take him to the veterinarian now, Steve. Right now,” he repeated.

With grave faces they rose to their feet. Flame seemed to sense something was wrong for he stood without moving, without any sign of restlessness, just waiting.