The Island Stallion's Fury (15 page)

“Perhaps. But I must be ready for anything, Steve.” Pitch paused, then intentionally changed the subject. “You've decided to take the colt?”

Steve nodded.

“It's the wisest thing to do,” Pitch agreed. “Until we learn Tom's next move, the colt will be safer on Antago. I'm ready to go, Steve. I'll help you feed him.”

“It isn't necessary, Pitch. I can feed him myself just as I have been doing.” Steve poured the last of the milk formula from the gallon jug into the nursing bottle.
He wouldn't have to prepare any more until he got to Antago.

“I'll go with you to feed him,” Pitch said. “There's nothing else for me to do. And the sooner we get the foal fed and are on our way the better, Steve. We'll take the box to the launch first, then come back for the colt. It'll be almost noon before we're ready to leave the island.”

They went down the trail, Pitch hurriedly taking the lead. Reaching the valley floor, they started for Bottle Canyon. Steve saw the foal at the gate, awaiting him. In the distance Flame could be seen, grazing apart from the rest of the band. Steve knew his stallion would come to him when he and Pitch started up the valley, carrying the box. And Flame would follow them to the launch, unaware of the peril which he and they faced.

Steve lowered the top bar of the gate and stepped over the one beneath it. Pitch followed, replacing the top bar. “We won't let him out,” the man said.

The colt eagerly reached for the bottle and Steve let him have it. Pitch's hands were on the silky body.

“He won't leave,” Steve said. “You don't have to hold him unless you want to.” He held the bottle higher, making it easier for the colt to get all the milk. “I probably could lead him at the same time we're carrying the box, Pitch. It would mean only one trip to the launch then.”

“He might get away and hurt himself again,” Pitch objected. “It's best if we make a special trip just for him. Besides, we'll have to carry him through the gorge. We couldn't handle him and the box too.”

“Yes, Pitch, you're right.”

They left the colt neighing repeatedly behind them and started across the valley again. Halfway to the trail,
they heard running hoofs and turned to find Flame coming toward them. Pitch moved closer to Steve.

The red stallion reached them. He stopped abruptly, rose and pawed the air; then he whirled his giant body as though his hind legs were rooted to the ground, came down and bolted away. He cut a wide circle and came back, this time stopping in back of Steve to nuzzle the boy's shirt.

Steve ran his hands through Flame's mane, untangling the matted hairs; then suddenly he put his arms around the long neck and pressed his head hard against it.

Pitch said softly, “Come on, Steve. It's getting late.” He put a hand on the boy's arm, gently pulling him away from the stallion.

Flame followed them, pushing his body hard against Steve all the time. Only when they had reached the trail did he turn away and go back to his band.

Tears over which Steve had no control filled his eyes as he followed Pitch up the steep ascent. He stumbled on a small stone, regained his balance and went on, concentrating on the trail so as to avoid stumbling again. He didn't know Pitch had come to a sudden stop, and he crashed hard against him. He looked up. “Pitch, why are you …”

Pitch had one foot on the ledge. He stood there, not a muscle moving, deathly still.

And then Steve looked past him and saw Tom.

He stood towering above them, his pig-eyes burning brightly. The heavy whiskers about his mouth were dirty with food. He smiled, showing his small, square teeth. “Welcome back,” he said. One hand reached out toward Pitch.

Everything about Tom was as Steve remembered. He was hard, vicious, evil. Yet now he was helping Pitch onto the ledge. Such courtesy was foreign to this man. And when he spoke his voice was soft, too soft.

“It's good seeing you again, Phil.” Tom turned his gaze on Steve, and the boy knew there was something different about his eyes, too. Hate and lust were still there, but mingled with them was a kind of terror, sadness … even
an appeal for help
.

“And you. Steve's your name, isn't it? Come up, Steve. Join us.” He turned away and walked to the center of the ledge.

Steve was ready to run back down the trail, to flee from Tom at Pitch's first signal. But his friend's eyes never turned to him, never left Tom; yet Pitch said nothing to his stepbrother. Steve noticed the three empty cans, the last of their food, which Tom had finished. Pitch's briefcase had been removed from the box but was unopened; the rolled map lay beside it. Tom was
standing beside the box. Pitch moved forward, and Steve knew then they were not going to run away from Tom.

Pitch stopped a few feet away from Tom; he stood there silently watching his stepbrother. Finally he said, “Now that you know, Tom, I …” He stopped abruptly, for Tom had turned upon him.

Now, Steve noticed, Tom's eyes were the same as he'd remembered. No longer did they contain any sadness or fear or appeal for help. Only hate and contempt were there. Tom leaned forward, his body swaying a little … just his eyes seemed alive. But again he turned away from Pitch, this time to look out upon the valley. And when he spoke his voice was still soft.

“Now there's something,” he said. He spoke as a man would speak if he owned the whole world. And he looked as such a man might look. “Imagine all this being here without anyone ever knowing.” His eyes were following the movements of the band. Steve watched him, his heart sick, his body numb.

“Tom, since you now know we must …” Pitch's voice faltered again, then broke completely.

Steve turned to him, aware of the terrible fear that gripped Pitch. What could Pitch say that would matter now? They had to wait for Tom, to see what he would do. And now the giant turned to them once more, his little eyes staring. His lips moved but no words came, only sounds almost animal-like, choking and short.

Steve's heart was pounding hard, driving the numbness away. He realized now that they were not dealing with a sane man, that Tom was sick,
mentally sick
.
Maybe Pitch had known it all along. Or maybe it had happened to Tom in the tunnels.

Tom's body stiffened. Like something inhuman, he uttered a growl, a snarl; then he was still. For a long time there was no change, then Steve saw the terror come to Tom's eyes again, the terrible sadness and fear and appeal for help. Yet there was nothing they could do for him … 
or for themselves
.

He was walking now. He went to Pitch. “I finished all the food, Phil,” he said, his voice still soft. “But you'll get more for me, won't you?”

Pitch nodded and turned away.

“Oh, not now. I've had enough for now. I wouldn't want you to leave.” He smiled and only vengeance and hate were in his eyes.

“I found you,” Pitch said brokenly. “You would have died, Tom.”

Steve moved closer to his friend. Why was Pitch even trying to reason with Tom? It would do no good. They must try to escape!

“I know you'll get me food, Phil.” Tom's voice rose until it became a contemptuous snarl; then he laughed loudly for the first time. “You'll do anything I want you to do, won't you? I can say kneel and you will kneel, crawl and you will crawl. I'm a little god, Phil, aren't I? I have power, absolute power. There's nothing I can't do
here
. And no one would ever know.”

He turned toward Steve. “You too,” he said. “You'll do everything I say, won't you?”

Steve nodded without looking at him. He couldn't stand looking into those eyes any more. He wanted to
run, but he and Pitch had to make the break together. Neither could be left behind to bear the crazed wrath of this man.

Tom stooped down. “What junk you have here, Phil,” he said, removing the lid from the box. “What is it?”

“Relics … relics left by the Spaniards.”

Steve saw the agony, the fear in Pitch's face. He supposed his own face looked no different. Tom was sick … he would kill if aroused or if he thought it necessary. But not now. He was going to take what he wanted, beat them down slowly, torturously, break them to his will. It was his way even now. He had not forgotten.

Yet knowing all this, Pitch was trying to be calm, to be rational with this man!

Tom straightened, holding a spur in his hand. “They knew how to make a horse mind,” he said, fingering the sharp rowel.

Suddenly Steve felt the giant's blunt fingers on his shoulder. But they did not press deep into his flesh as he'd expected. Instead, Tom patted him. “Now, you're not at all like Phil,” he said, and there was a mild friendliness to his tone. “You go after horses, not stuff like this. You got to that red stallion. I was watching you.”

Steve's heart pounded and seemed to rise in his throat until he thought it would choke him. He never looked up at Tom.

The spur was cast to the ground, then Tom had the cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand. Fondly he fingered the whip with its nine hard leather cords.

“The Spaniards are getting more and more of my respect.”

He snapped the whip, and one of the cords struck Pitch on the forehead. “So sorry, Phil,” he said, smiling. “I'm not used to this thing.”

Terrified, Steve watched the blood come from the cut on Pitch's face. But his friend didn't move, neither did he look at Tom. He stayed close beside the box, protecting its contents the only way he knew how.

“This whip isn't bad,” the giant continued. “But it's for close work. You don't get any reach with it.” Throwing down the cat-o'-nine-tails, he began removing the long bull whip from about his waist.

Steve felt his muscles contract. He saw Pitch's face get whiter still as the whip was unwound.

The long leather was now coiled like a snake at the feet of the giant. He held the short hard butt in his hand. “The beauty of the bull whip is that your opponent never gets a chance to get close to you,” Tom said. “I'll show you what I mean.”

They didn't need to be shown. They had seen Tom work his bull whip before. He knew they had.

Tom walked to the far side of the ledge, away from them and the box.

Oh, Pitch. Pitch. Let's run
.

But Steve's words weren't uttered aloud. They, too, were within easy reach of the bull whip.

Tom didn't ask them to move. The bull whip was drawn back, its leather writhing venomously along the ground until Tom had it behind him. His big wrist and hand moved and a sharp crack came from behind him
as though in warning of the blow to come. Then the leather moved over Tom's head so fast its movement was lost. There was another sharp crack as the end of the whip was flipped into the box, then silence. When Tom drew the whip out, he brought the sextant with it.

The leather was entwined about the sextant, and now it lay at Pitch's feet. As Pitch stooped down to pick it up, Tom flicked his wrist. The whip moved, and the sextant was released from the leather to be cast over the ledge. They heard it strike the cliff in two or three different places, then once more there was only silence.

The whip cracked again, this time picking up the spur which Tom had dropped earlier; it followed the sextant over the ledge. Then things happened so quickly that Steve lost all feeling, all sense of reality.

The bull whip beat a faster and faster rhythm until it became a weird chant. Steve never saw the grasping, tearing leather, only the effects it created. Half the relics in the box were cast over the ledge. And above the shrill screaming of the whip rose Tom's maniacal laughter.

Then suddenly there was quiet. Steve and Pitch stood white and shaking before Tom's inhuman rage.

“You were going to let me rot in there,” he shouted at the top of his voice. “You thought you could …”

“He wasn't! He didn't!” Steve screamed. “He was going to take you out of the tunnels!”

The leather cracked at Pitch's feet. For a fraction of a second it stayed there, the pointed, fanglike end never moving. Without thinking of the consequences, Steve fell upon it, his fingers grabbing and tearing at the leather as though it were a living thing.

He felt it being pulled away from him; then Pitch was at his side, reaching for the leather.

They heard Tom's loud laughter as he came toward them. Fear swept through Steve, then a heavy pounding filled his ears. He hurled himself at Tom.

Steve's right shoulder struck the giant above the knees and with his arms he sought to pull Tom off balance. The massive body swayed a little but Tom didn't fall. Again came his laughter, and Steve felt himself being picked up. Rough, angry hands placed him on his feet, shook him, then sent him reeling backward. He was trying to regain his balance when he struck the wall behind him; his head snapped back against the stone, then all went black.

Pitch lunged at Tom even before Steve's limp body fell against the base of the wall. With all his strength, the small man struck out at Tom's face. He landed once, twice, then the terrible hands were on him and a massive fist struck him full in the face. He knew nothing more.

How long he had been unconscious, Pitch didn't know. He felt hands running over his body, probing, feeling and finally shaking him gently. He knew then that they didn't belong to Tom; Tom's hands didn't know gentleness. He tried to respond, to lift his head. But it felt much too big and heavy, and his efforts served only to blacken out everything again.

It could have been minutes or hours when once again he felt the hands. The pain in his head was less severe. He was able to make out the lantern burning against the wall. So he knew he was in the cave. Something big and blurred moved in front of the light. He stared at it a long time before he was able to make out Steve's face.