The Island Stallion's Fury (18 page)

The colt had been neighing constantly, yet there was nothing Steve could do for him. Or that Flame could do. The stallion made frequent trips down the valley to the barred gate of the canyon, but his visits only brought forth more and louder outbursts of frenzy from the colt. Steve could not see Flame in the darkness but the beat of hoofs told him when the stallion was at the gate and when he left to return to his band.

“Flame could keep Tom from going up the valley and reaching the launch,” Steve said grimly.

“I doubt it. Tom has handled wild horses like Flame before. He has his ways. No, our only chance is to get by him tonight. Try to go to sleep now, Steve. It's getting on.”

The hours passed, but it was impossible for the boy to sleep. Always there was the light below, and beyond in the darkness the frantic appeals from the colt. How could he sleep? How could anyone sleep tonight?
Even Tom
. They could only pray and wait and hope that he would.

More hours of waiting passed with never a closing of an eye for either Steve or Pitch. Was it early morning
yet? It must be, for even the colt was still now and there was no sound from Flame or the band. Yet below the light was still burning. Tom was taking no chances. He must have known he had guessed right … that they were above him with no way of reaching the launch except by using this trail. And he lay stretched out on his blanket directly in their path. Were his eyes open? They could not tell from where they were. When should they go? How much longer should they wait?

Pitch turned to Steve, his bloodshot eyes telling him to sleep, that it wasn't time yet. But Steve couldn't sleep. He could only watch and wait for Pitch's signal.

Finally it came. After looking at the luminous dial on his watch Pitch touched the boy's arm, then held a finger across his lips.

Now they were moving, their weight first on one knee, then on the other. On all fours they reached the trail. Quietly they stood up and took one step forward on the trail, then another, feeling carefully for loose stones and never taking their eyes off the giant figure below them.

Closer and closer. Don't breathe. Don't slip. Don't move a step until we're sure. He can't be more than ten feet below us. Careful now. His breathing is regular. His eyes are closed. Are we certain? It's so hard to tell, so hard. Is he sleeping? Is he waiting?

Another step, another lifetime. Pitch, oh Pitch, why are you stopping now? Go on. He's sleeping, Pitch. One step more and we're in the light. Another and another and we will have passed him. Oh, Pitch. Oh, Pitch. Go on
.

A clawlike hand lay on the stone. Pitch's eyes were on it. Steve's, too, were drawn to it. The palm was turned
up, all hard and calloused and lined in the yellow light. The fingers, curled at the ends, were moving … ever so slightly, it was true, but they were moving!

Tom was awake and waiting
.

They pivoted as the hand reached for them. They ran back up the trail, their terror giving them the speed of wings. But they were wasting their energy, for Tom did not follow them. Only his laughter, insane and hysterical, pursued them. They heard it even when they were deep within the tunnels, safely away from him. Safe? Safe to be left to die of starvation within two weeks' time!

In agony they sat down on the floor of the tunnel, dreading the approach of the new day.

Dawn found them at the bend of the stream, staring into the gray light beyond the falls. They were not hungry although they hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon. With all hope of escape gone, they were conscious of nothing but fear. Their eyes were glassy and despair had claimed them completely.

Steve looked at Pitch, trying to find some solace in the fact that his friend's face was no longer swollen, his lips no longer black. It was funny, he reflected, that he should be giving even a thought to that now … when it didn't matter at all.

From outside they heard Flame's sharp whistle, then the beat of his hoofs. And when all was still again Tom's shouts and cries came to them from the valley floor. But they couldn't make out his words.

They went to the great opening and crawled outside, ever fearful, ever careful.

Flame stood just below with only his nostrils moving; the rest of his body was rigid, and the cold light of dawn turned his coat into frozen fire. His eyes were on Tom, now scrambling up the trail.

“Tom tried to get up the valley,” Steve said. “Flame stopped him. He stopped him just as I said he might, Pitch.”

Tom reached the ledge. He stood there, his body rocking back and forth, back and forth. He put one hand up to his neck, his eyes. His fingers seemed to be digging, tearing into his very eyeballs.

“Oh, God, dear God, please help him,” Pitch's lips moved in prayer. And Steve knew that neither Pitch nor he could bear any revenge toward Tom, only pity and sadness and fear.

Flame screamed again. And the sudden shrillness of it broke forever the slightest aspects of sanity which Tom had been fighting to retain. Now the mental fight was over. He screamed back at the stallion. He raced about the ledge, pawing the air with his hands, laughing, crying, shouting with no pause, going from one phase to the other, hysterically, madly.

It went on long after Flame had returned to his band. Suddenly Tom looked up the trail and saw Pitch and Steve standing there, unmoving, their startled eyes fixed upon him. He became silent.

Pitch's hand found Steve's arm. But neither he nor the boy ran. They could only stare at Tom pityingly, helpless to do anything for him.

And he kept staring at them. Only when the colt neighed again did he finally turn away to look toward
the canyon. For many minutes he watched the colt behind the gate, then focused his attention on the stallion and band that grazed a good mile away.

His gaze swept back to them. His lips moved without words. Then his voice came, deep and guttural. “Come down. I'll get your colt. I'll …” His lips continued moving but no further words could be heard.

They didn't have to hear the rest. They knew he was threatening to harm the colt if they didn't go down.

He stood there, rocking and waiting for a long while; then he turned away from them and watched the colt, the stallion and band again.

When Tom touched the whip about his waist, when he picked up two coils of rope from the ledge, Pitch and Steve knew he meant to carry out his threat. With fearful, terrified eyes they could only watch.

They saw Tom go to the valley floor; there he dropped one rope at the foot of the trail and then went to the snubbing post and tied the end of the second rope about it. He walked swiftly and sure. His movements belied the madness that wracked his brain. It was as though he were now treading familiar ground and there was no fear within him. Yet his eyes never left the band and Flame.

They watched him walk softly, stealthily toward Bottle Canyon, toward the colt. Only Steve's eyes were alive. He didn't feel Pitch's arm on him. He didn't know he was being guided down the trail, a few steps at a time. He didn't know, although Pitch told him over and over again, that they were going to try to reach the valley floor while Tom went for the colt.

“We must wait until he reaches the canyon,” Pitch
said, coming to a stop just below the ledge. “He thinks he can get back before we have a chance of getting down the trail. But he can't, Steve. We can make it if we run hard once he's at the canyon.”

The boy stood deathly still, his body rigid beneath Pitch's hand. Pitch wondered if Steve had heard him. Did he understand what they had to do? Pitch himself didn't dare take his eyes off Tom a minute. A few feet more and Tom would be at the canyon. Another minute and they could risk running down the trail. If they could only reach the valley without Tom's seeing them. If they could only get a good start, they'd have a chance, a real chance of getting away!

Pitch's body trembled. Tom was at the gate. The top bar came down, then the second bar. The colt moved out into the valley. Tom reached for his halter.

“Now, Steve!”

Pitch took another step down the trail, then froze in his tracks.
Tom had turned around!
He was coming back. He was running his very fastest.

A sad whimper escaped Pitch's lips. For a few seconds he was incapable of doing anything but watching Tom racing toward them. Suddenly he came to his senses and started pushing Steve ahead of him. It was then that he heard the shrill, clarion call of the stallion, and he realized it was Flame who had caused Tom to turn back.
If Flame had given them only a few minutes more!
Steve was going up the trail so slowly. Pitch pushed harder against him. He looked back at Tom.

But Tom wasn't coming up the trail. He had already passed it. He was going to the post.
He was going to fight Flame!

Pitch turned to Steve. The boy had come to a stop, fully aware of the terrible, horrible drama about to take place beneath them.

Tom had reached the post. Arrogantly he stood before it, the coiled rope in his left hand, the bull whip in his right. “Come on, you stud horse! Come on!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Flame swept across the valley.

Flame's feet barely touched the ground as he came ever closer. His small ears were pricked forward and fire burned in his eyes. As he neared Tom, his ears swept back until they were flat against his head.

With the charging stallion less than a hundred yards away, Tom moved behind the post and cocked the wrist of his whip hand. He was ready.

Pitch said, “He'll stop him with the whip.”

Steve shook his head. “He won't. He'll be killed, trampled.”

They saw the long leather of the whip start to move when Flame was still fifty yards from the post. Tom brought back his arm. They couldn't see the leather as it streaked through the air, but they heard its pistol-like crack.

The sharp retort slowed the strides of the running stallion but didn't stop him. The whip spoke again, and now it cracked incessantly as Tom brought it back and forth, shattering the air. But Flame came on with dilated
nostrils and thin lips drawn back. Screaming, he came to within fifty feet of Tom … thirty feet … and then he was within the range of the whip.

The leather bit deeply into his chest; he came to an abrupt stop, pawing furiously.

Steve closed his eyes.
Move, Flame. Move. Don't stand there!

But the stallion only rose high in the air, seeking to pummel this long, snakelike thing that reached out to strike him. Again the whip bit into him, tearing at the softness of his belly. Screaming in rage and pain, he came down and the whip struck his chest. He rose, pawing, and once more the whip found his belly. When he came down, he stood still for a second, shaking in his fury, undecided what to do. His red eyes found the man who was standing a short distance away from him.

“Flame!” Steve shouted to his horse when he saw him standing still. “Go! Go! Go!”

Tom had been waiting for this precise second. Quickly he threw the rope and the noose arched cleanly in the air, then dropped over the stallion's head, settling around his neck.

Too late to avoid the lasso, Flame moved. He charged the man, screaming in all his fury and hatred.

Furiously the giant worked his whip, but the stallion came on, too close now to suffer the full impact of the long leather. Fear came to Tom's eyes as Flame sought his body with pawing hoofs. He kept the pole between them, narrowly avoiding the thrashing forelegs. He struck hard with the heavy butt end of the whip, which landed on the stallion's nose. Again and again he struck, always keeping the post between them, staying
on his feet even when the pawing hoofs glanced off his shoulders. He was fighting for his life now, and this terrifying knowledge lent superhuman strength to the blows he delivered upon the stallion each time the horse reached for him with his raking teeth.

But there came the moment when Tom realized he couldn't keep the stallion away from him much longer. He kept moving around the post, kept hammering at the stallion's nose, and all the while his fear-crazed eyes never left those of the raging demon that rose before him. Soon one of those pawing forelegs would catch him hard and square, sending him to the ground. It would be the end.

Suddenly Flame came down close to the post, too close, for his shoulder brushed it, knocking him temporarily off balance. Tom moved quickly. Reaching down, he got hold of the rope that had encircled the stallion's hind legs. Pulling hard, he felt the legs give. The stallion tripped, then fell.

Turning quickly, Tom ran. He heard the pounding hoofs behind him and knew the horse had regained his feet and was after him. But less than forty feet away was safety, for the stallion was tied fast to the post.

Steve watched Flame go after Tom, saw the rope between the post and the running horse tighten, then become taut, throwing Flame to the ground. The horse was up almost immediately, fighting the rope that held him, screaming in rage.

A safe distance away Tom turned, frenzied hatred replacing the fear in his eyes. For a moment he just stood there, facing the horse, breathing heavily. Then he too screamed. He drew back the bull whip and then
brought it forward, striking the tied horse who was pawing so futilely at it. Again the valley echoed to the terrible, horrible chant of the whip.

The red stallion plunged once, twice at the man who stood such a short distance away from him, who reached out at him with this
thing
that tore open his flesh. And each time he sought to reach him he felt the rope choking him around his neck. He plunged no more, now only rising to his full height to paw furiously.

As the beating continued, Flame ran around the post, the man following him, always reaching out with the whip.

“Fight me!” Tom shouted hysterically at the top of his voice. “You yellow-bellied stud horse!”