The Island Stallion's Fury (11 page)

Tom Pitcher went faster and faster as he tore through the outskirts of town and entered open country. Now his huge face showed no emotion at all; it held the deathly stillness and unnaturalness of a theatrical mask. A pallor showed beneath his tanned skin. His mouth was a thin, hard scratch of red, too small for the rest of him, as were his eyes. They were beady, snakelike … staring now at the road ahead without actually seeing it. He wore no hat and his black hair stood bristling straight, adding more inches to his giant's height. His white sleeveless shirt was open at the throat, disclosing his thick bull neck.

He turned down a dirt lane without slackening his speed. Fields of cane were on his left, the sea on his right. He glanced at the open water just once and momentarily his eyes came alive.

He drove on and on until he came to the driveway of a plantation. Turning into it, he passed the high
barred corral, then the low, rambling house. He went on for another mile before bringing the car to a stop before steep, wooden steps that descended the cliff to the sea.

He sprang out of the car with a grace and swiftness one would not have expected from such a giant of a man. His feet, like his eyes and mouth, were small for the rest of him, and now they carried him softly, stealthily down the wooden steps even though there was no reason for quiet or secrecy. Yet he could not have walked any other way. Fondly, caressingly he touched the leather of the bull whip wrapped around his bulging waist.

Reaching the pier at the bottom of the steps, he turned once more to look at the point of land around which his stepbrother's boat must come. This time he saw it, and his short steps quickened as he made his way to his own launch, the
Sea Queen
.

Quickly he had her unmoored and the motor racing. He started out to sea, following the launch which was now less than a mile away. The chase had entered its final stage. He would follow his stepbrother, the boy and the foal to wherever they were going and then …

For more than three hours he stayed far behind the launch; it was only a tiny speck on the horizon. But this was enough for him to know they were headed for Azul Island. Until now the giant had not been certain that it was the destination of his stepbrother, the boy and the foal.

He had gone to Azul Island a few days ago expecting to find Phil's launch moored at the pier on the spit. When he hadn't seen it he'd known that his suspicions were correct … that Phil and the boy, Steve, had found something they were keeping very much to themselves. Deciding they never had gone to Azul Island, he'd combed the few islands to the west, looking for them. He had found nothing and so he had returned to Antago to wait, to pick up the trail again. And now he had it and them.

His long fingers, square at the tips, curled about the wheel. Where were they going on that island of yellow rock? Where else could they moor their launch but on
the spit? Yet it hadn't been there before.
What had they found?

His thin lids opened to disclose the greed in his eyes. He stared at the sun, already low in the sky. He wanted it to sink quickly into the depths of the western sea, for darkness was part of his plan.

He stared fixedly at the launch on the horizon. When night fell, Phil would use his running lights. But he, Tom Pitcher, wouldn't. He would trail, coming ever closer, following Phil and Steve to whatever they had found. He was no navigator but he knew beyond a doubt that Azul Island was their destination, for no other island lay in the direction they were taking.

He glanced up at the sun. There was at least another hour of daylight. His long legs, spread wide apart, trembled. Had he figured wrong? Would they reach Azul Island before dark? The speck ahead seemed even smaller now than it had just a few minutes ago. Were they outdistancing him? Should he go faster, pull ever closer to them even now? Take a chance on their seeing him?

He hated the sea! He was a hunter, more at home on land. He needed the earth beneath his feet, earth to provide tracks or a trail to lead him to what he sought. He increased the speed of the launch and the speck ahead grew larger.

The yellow dome of Azul Island appeared on the horizon. Desperately he sought more speed from the launch. But only a sudden sputtering came to him. And then the motor died beneath the sound of sea and wind. Frantic, he left the wheel of the wallowing launch to go below. Yet all he could do was to look at the motor
without touching it. He knew nothing about mechanical things.

With angry eyes he stood before it, cursing the motor and the sea but never himself or his ignorance. Finally he thought of gasoline, remembering he had not filled the tank before his departure. Hurriedly he returned to the deck for the large can.

How long was it before he got the motor going again? Five minutes, ten minutes? He didn't know. All that mattered was that the launch he was following was out of sight, somewhere within the shadows of Azul Island.

His whole being was consumed with hatred for those who temporarily had evaded him. “Fools! Fools!” he said in a hissing whisper. “To think you can get away!”

Nearing the island, he placed a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He picked up the pier first and found no launch. Racing the motor, he turned away and spent the next hour encircling the island, studying the walled barriers against which the waves crashed. But he never ventured too close for fear of what the submerged rocks could do to the hull of his craft. Only when it became dusk did he take the launch to the pier on the spit. And now bewilderment filled the black pits of his eyes.
They were here, but where?
What had happened to their launch? It was too big to hide. Where were they?

He fastened his eyes on the mountainous rock rising above the spit. He looked at it a long while before turning away. Tonight he would sleep on the launch. Tomorrow the hunt would begin again. Somewhere they had left a trail, and he would surely find it.

Eagerness and anticipation absorbed his whole being now. After a while he went below, intending to eat, to satisfy the hunger that was already gnawing at his stomach. The chase on Antago had not given him time for lunch. But in the galley he found no food. In his excitement he hadn't thought of provisions either. Well, he would go without food tonight. But tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he'd find Phil and the boy. They must have plenty of food, wherever they were. And what else did they have?
What else?
His thin lips drew back, disclosing his small, even teeth. His tongue ran along his lower lip as though tasting, savoring all the fine things that were in store for him.

The next morning he was up with the first gray light of dawn. His plan was to use the dory, which he towed behind the launch, to get as close as possible to the barrier walls of the island. With his binoculars he would be able to pick up any track Phil and Steve had left. He was certain that somewhere, somehow, Phil and the boy had penetrated the walls of Azul Island. Where else could they be?

He stood up and stared at the sea, then decided it was still too early to encircle the island in the dory. He was afraid of all small craft; the launch was bad enough, the dory worse. He might not be able to see the submerged rocks in the early light. He would have to be careful, too, not to be swept in against the walls by the waves. He didn't like any part of this phase of the hunt. Scaling the barrier wall from the spit would be much more to his liking. But could he do it? He'd never tried, but then he'd never had any reason before. There might be a way.

Taking two long ropes and a pick, he left the launch and walked down the pier to the spit. He stopped for a moment to tighten the bull whip wrapped securely about his waist, then he climbed to the top of the sand dunes. From there he could see almost all of the spit. Stretched before him was rolling land for a quarter of a mile before it met the sea on the other side. To his right the spit extended for a mile before disappearing into the sea. But he never looked in those directions. Turning to his left, he walked swiftly toward the mountainous rock that loomed less than a mile away.

He entered the canyon, his eyes squinting as he looked up at the sheer walls which rose on either side of him. He knew that his only chance of possibly finding a way into the interior of Azul Island lay at the end of the canyon. He remembered the ledge high on the cliff, which overlooked the spit. Behind and above it was a narrow cleavage in the wall which might mean something if he could ever reach the ledge to find out.

The small band of horses grazing at the end of the canyon ran when they saw him. But he paid no attention to them, for his eyes were on the end wall. The ledge, he figured, was about three hundred feet above the ground. His eyelids opened slightly as he scrutinized the wall beneath it. He considered the possibility of lassoing two protruding stones and reaching the ledge in stages. But the higher of the stones was still a hundred feet below the ledge. Still, once he was up there he might find something else above him to lasso. It was well worth a try.

He made his noose and coiled the rope. His long arm came back, then forward with the force of a giant
spring. The noose of the rope settled around the first stone above and he drew it tight. He would have been surprised if he hadn't succeeded with his first throw. He tested his weight on the rope, then with the second coiled rope over his shoulder he pulled himself up, his feet braced against the wall.

Within a few minutes he had almost reached the stone. He stopped then to remove the second rope from his shoulder. Another seventy-five feet above him was the next stone to be lassoed. It was much smaller and he knew he was going to have trouble getting the rope around it.

Four times he failed, but with his fifth try the noose settled about the stone. Carefully he drew it tight, then considered his next step. Before removing the rope below him, he would go up the second rope to see if there was anything above which he might lasso that would get him to the ledge.

Gradually he put his weight on the rope above him. The noose slipped until there was only a small loop around the end of the stone. He knew then that it wouldn't bear his weight. He couldn't go up any higher than he was. Cursing, he lowered himself to the canyon floor and, leaving both ropes hanging on the wall, hurried back to the launch.

Perhaps later, if all else failed, he'd try the ropes again. But he knew there was little chance of his reaching the ledge, and his only alternative was to find the entrance which Phil and the boy had used.

Back at the launch, he put his binoculars in a shoulder bag and stepped into the dory. The small boat creaked with his weight. He hated going to sea in it, but
there was nothing else he could do. The sun was up, the hunt was on!

He rowed for more than a mile, his beady eyes shifting from the wall to the submerged rocks that seemed to lie waiting for him everywhere. Perspiration broke out on his large forehead, yet he continued rowing, continued looking toward the rugged shore for any trace or track of his quarry. He watched the sea beat mercilessly against the wall, sending its white spray many feet high in raging wrath at being stopped. Certainly Phil and the boy had never brought in their launch here! Perhaps farther on? But yesterday from his own launch everything had looked the same as this when he had encircled the island. Yet there had to be a way! Their launch could not disappear without a trace!

He kept rowing. Another mile, two miles? He didn't know. He stayed far enough away from the wall so as not to be carried in by the increased momentum of the swells as they plunged shoreward. Now his eyes were more on the submerged rocks about him than on the island. He knew he would have turned back long ago except that he dared not risk going back the same way. He had been lucky to get this far. He turned the dory away from the wall, seeking the safety of the outer sea. His face and body were wet with perspiration. He pulled hard upon the oars.

He heard the deep thud, the shattering of wood before he actually realized what had happened. Then the water began sweeping swiftly into the boat. He tried to plug the hole with his shoulder bag, but the bag was too small and he too slow. The boat settled quickly. He held
on to its side until it disappeared beneath the surface, leaving him alone against the sea.

He swam toward the wall, fifty yards away. Strangely enough he was less afraid now than before. He had feared the submerged rocks because he could not see them, because his tremendous strength could not be used against them. The waves which swept him closer and closer to the wall were an adversary he understood and could fight. Even if this was the end he was not afraid. There was nothing ignoble in dying this way, fighting.

The wall came ever closer and he swam hard to keep off the crest of wave after wave. He slid into deep troughs, plunging under water each time a wave would seek to pick him up and hurl him forward. His body scraped hard against the submerged rocks, but he felt no pain.

And then he saw the wall very close to him. One slip now and he'd be hurled against it. He plunged beneath a swell that curled upon him. When he came to the surface he saw the large moss-covered rock a few feet to his left. The white waters of the last wave were running down its sides, leaving it completely exposed. Furiously he swam to it and secured a hold as the next wave struck. The fury of the waters almost tore his grip away from the rock. But he held on to it as he'd never held on to anything before; then he pulled himself around the side of the rock to find still another rock behind it. Long and narrow and low, it extended to the wall.

He pulled himself onto it and lay there, breathing heavily. When his strength had returned he looked at the wall. He saw the thin ledge near the base. He noticed
something else that caused his eyes to burn again with eagerness. The hunt wasn't over, as he'd thought!

When the next big wave receded, it exposed the low, narrow rock before him. Quickly he made his way to the wall, his hands clawing the rock, his feet slipping over its wet, green moss. Reaching the ledge, he turned to face the wall, his fingers groping for the piece of long thread that was imbedded within a jagged crack in the stone. He felt it between his thumb and forefinger. But he didn't look at it again. He didn't need to. He knew the thread was from Phil's bush jacket. And he knew from the feel of it that it had been there a long time, maybe a year. Perhaps when Phil and the boy had first come to Azul Island they had stood on this thin ledge with their backs hard against the wall,
the same as he did now!