The Island Stallion's Fury (19 page)

But the red stallion did not turn on him. He kept encircling the post, fleeing the whip. And as he did so the distance he was able to travel became shorter and shorter, the rope drawing him ever closer to the post and to a fate worse than that from which he now fled. But he had no way of knowing that.

Steve stood on the trail, watching the horrible spectacle below. He was unable to move, unable to think. No part of him seemed to be functioning except his eyes, no part of him moved except his glassy eyes.

Pitch's arm was about his waist, holding him, but he felt nothing. Pitch said, “There's nothing we can do to help Flame, Steve … nothing.” But Steve was deaf to all words, to anything but the rhythmic crack, crack, crack of the whip.

Smaller and smaller became the stallion's circle about the post. Suddenly, as though at last he realized
what was happening, he stopped running away from the whip. Rising to his full height, he plunged away from the post. The rope held; the noose tightened about his neck, choking him. He went down hard and felt the
thing
tearing at his body. Scrambling to his feet, he plunged again, still seeking escape. He screamed as he went down; once more he felt the searing pain and pulled himself to his feet.

The stallion stood still, his body trembling. Tom snapped the bull whip to get him going again. A few more times around the post would be all that was necessary. The horse moved and he followed him. Twice more around and he had the stallion fast and close to the post. He picked up the second rope which he had left at the foot of the trail. Smiling, he made a noose, then lightly threw it on the ground. He waited until the horse stepped into it, then pulled the noose tight about the right hind leg. With nothing to fear now, he went forward and drew the end of the rope around the stallion's neck. He pulled hard and had Flame standing immobile on three legs. Then he tied the rope about his neck.

Next he grabbed one of the small ears. He twisted it savagely, bringing down the stallion's head.

“You can't stand having it twisted, can you? No horse can. You're not dealing with a kid now. I'm Tom Pitcher. I break your kind easy. I'm the …” On and on his lips moved. But at the same time he was using his hands. He had the rope unwound from the post. Now he brought the end of it toward the lowered head. He thrust it between the teeth that sought unsuccessfully to
grab him, and bound the lower jaw; then quickly he brought the rope around the head and tightened it about the muzzle.

“A bridle you'll never forget … a war bridle, we call it. The pull is around your upper lip, your gums, too. You can't stand the pain, can you?” He pulled the rope once to make the horse aware of the additional pain he could exert; then he placed one arm across the stallion's back. A moment later he mounted, while Flame still stood on three trembling legs.

Pitch shook the boy but there was no response. He turned his own glazed eyes back to Tom. He saw Tom's hand go to the rope about the stallion's neck which also held up Flame's right hind leg. He knew Tom was going to release Flame altogether now except for the vicious war bridle. He had seen all this happen many times before.

He saw the hind leg come down. Flame had the use of all four feet once more, but still he made no move. And the answer, Pitch thought bitterly, must be that Flame was beaten in body and spirit as completely as he and Steve had been. There was no reason for Flame or them to fight Tom any longer. Tom had won. Pitch closed his eyes; he didn't want to see the next sad phase in the life of this stallion who only a short while ago had been so noble, so proud, so …

Tom's yell, not in anger but in fear, caused Pitch to open his eyes. The stallion was rearing, and Tom was clinging to his neck.
Flame wasn't beaten!

Tom dug his frantic, clawing fingers into the sweated coat. He was afraid to use the bridle rope lest he pull the stallion over backward. He tried to get off,
knowing that once he was on the ground he would have full control over the horse again. He drew up his long legs, ready to slip off the moment the horse began his forward descent. Then suddenly the small head came back; he knew then the stallion was intentionally going over backward with him! Unmindful of anything but to get free of the falling horse, he dropped the bridle rope and flung himself off the stallion's back.

He struck the ground hard and on the side of his head. He fought to retain consciousness. A heavy blackness descended, then a grayness. He tried to reach the light, which eluded him. And now he waited for the pounding hoofs to strike him. But nothing happened. When he was able to open his eyes, he saw the red stallion leaving him, moving along the end wall with the long bridle rope trailing behind.

Anger replaced the fear within him. Getting to his feet, he picked up the bull whip and followed. In body, if not in spirit, the horse was beaten and too spent to evade him for long. He broke into a run, his fingernails pressed deeply into the butt of the whip.

Pitch's arm tightened about the boy's waist. “Now, Steve. Now we can get away. He's forgotten us. He's …”

Steve was enveloped in a feeling of numbness, but Pitch got him to take one step, then another down the trail. He noticed that the boy's eyes were following Flame, following Tom.

“Flame's beaten, Steve. Do you understand? We can't help him. Move faster, Steve. Move faster.”

More steps. Ever closer to the floor of the valley and escape. But Steve's gaze never left Flame and Tom.

The red stallion moved across the valley at a slow trot, so slow it was almost a walk. From about his small head trailed the rope of the war bridle. He made no effort to rid himself of it, perhaps because he sensed that it would be useless to do so. He stopped once and turned in the direction of the band far up the valley. But he didn't go to them, for Tom was between him and them.

Crouched low, the giant ran parallel with the stallion, keeping him close to the wall. An ugly smile played about Tom's lips. All he had to do was to keep the horse at this end of the valley, then close in on him. It was only a matter of minutes now.

He saw the injured colt just a short distance to his left. He cracked his whip, hoping to scare him away. He didn't want him around to get in the way, to spoil the fun. This fight was just between the stud horse and himself. It had begun that way. It would end that way. It wouldn't be long now.

The colt moved farther away, stumbling a little as he tried to go into a trot with his injured leg. But Tom paid no attention to him; his eyes were on the stallion and on the narrow canyon where the colt had been kept. His pace quickened as a new thought occurred to him. It would be more fun, more exciting if he could force the stallion down the canyon where he'd have him all to himself.

The whip cracked incessantly now in a large circular movement. Four beats, one to the right, one forward, one to the left and one behind. A rhythm, a chant, its tempo rising, becoming maddening. Going forward, the giant stomped and beat his feet to it as though he were dancing. His eyes gleamed, his lips moved but no sound came from them.

Seeking escape, the stallion turned into the canyon and Tom burst into a run as he followed him.

Pitch got Steve down the last few feet to the valley floor. Then he shook the boy in an attempt to rid him of his terrifying numbness. But he stopped when he looked into Steve's face. The boy's eyes were glazed
and streaked with red. In them Pitch saw mirrored all the horror they had witnessed. And he wondered if his own eyes looked the same.

“Steve. Steve. Listen to me.” He tried to keep his voice low and soft, but a shrillness crept into it. “We can go now. We can leave and get help!”

For a moment he was still again, just gazing into that smooth, lineless face before him … the face of a boy except for the eyes. They were sick, mature, even old.

“We're going now, Steve,” he said, and this time he succeeded in keeping his voice soft. He pulled Steve gently, guiding him up the valley. A few feet, a few more feet. But the boy's head was turned back, back toward the canyon.

“We can't help Flame. We've got to think of the others now, Steve. We're leaving. We're going for help. Understand? We're going for help. We'll be back before he can touch the others.” The boy turned to him, and Pitch spoke faster. “The colt. Think of him, Steve,” he pleaded. “We'll be back in time to help him. But we must hurry now. We must get away. You must move faster, Steve.”

Steve flicked a glance at the colt across the valley; then the dullness in his eyes was pricked with pinpoints of life, of understanding of what Pitch had said. His steps came faster, faster.
He was going to leave. He was going with Pitch to get help
.

Then came Flame's shrill scream from the canyon. Steve stopped, breathing heavily. He tried to deafen his ears to it, to listen only to Pitch's words urging him on. But it was no good, no good!

He twisted violently away from Pitch. He felt the man's grasping fingers on his skin, then the sound of his shirt tearing as Pitch sought a new hold on him. But he spun completely around. Now he was free and running! He turned to the end wall, to the canyon,
to Flame
. And he never heard Pitch's cries behind him.

He entered the neck of Bottle Canyon, his strides racing over the short cropped grass. The walls widened. Far down the canyon and to the right was Tom, his whip cracking. Steve didn't see Flame until he looked up the trail, and there he saw his horse climbing toward the cave and the crevice in the wall.

Not there. Not there, Flame!

Only to the ledge overlooking the spit of land did this trail lead; only to Lookout Ledge from where there was no escape, no turning back. It would all end there, the pain, the hatred, the brutality … for him and his horse.

When he reached the trail, Tom had followed Flame within the cave. Steve's eyes were glazed with tears so he could hardly see. He stumbled, fell, and his nose crashed hard against the stone. He got up and, animal-like, used his hands as well as his feet in climbing.

He entered the grayness of the shallow cave, stumbled forward into the light from the crevice which split the rock above him. Just ahead was the ledge. A few more feet and he would see it all. But it was so quiet. No sound from Flame. No sound from the whip. No shrill words from Tom. Only silence. Was it over then?

He dropped to his hands and knees, then to his stomach, and pulled himself over the stone the last few feet. He looked out upon the ledge.

They were to the far left. He wasn't too late! Or was he? Flame was standing still except for the constant trembling of his gigantic body. His head was down, almost lifeless. From it stretched the bridle rope for twenty feet. At the end of it was Tom. He had the rope around the lower part of his great frame and all his ponderous weight was being used as he strained against it. The rope was taut and tight about the stallion's muzzle.

Tom had the bull whip in his right hand but he wasn't using it. Instead he was jerking the rope hard. Flame's head came up in pain with each pull but his rigid legs never moved.

Steve looked for a rock, for anything to use as a weapon against Tom. But there were no rocks on the bare ledge, nothing he could use. He'd go back to the trail. He'd find a rock there. He got to his knees, then suddenly fell down again, close to the stone.

Tom had straightened, had removed his weight from the rope, causing it to slacken. Flame's head came up in relief from the pressure about his mouth. All the pain he was suffering was in his eyes. But there was the glowing red of fire, too, fire that apparently meant more to Steve than to Tom. For Tom was going toward Flame as though he had nothing more to fear from the stallion.

Then Steve heard Tom begin to laugh. It came slowly at first and was nothing more than a chuckle. Then he was shrieking and screaming, his feet again stomping the stone in a frenzied dance. All the while he moved closer and closer to Flame. Behind him trailed the long leather of the bull whip.

Steve got to his knees. He knew Flame was going
to bolt, to make another break for freedom. He would help him in any way he could.

It was then that he felt Pitch's arms closing around him from behind and pulling him backward. He was being half-dragged. He fought hard and got his legs braced against the wall. The pulling stopped. He turned to face Pitch. He still heard Tom's laughter, but suddenly it was stilled beneath the scream of the stallion. Clawing the stone, Steve pulled himself toward the cliff, dragging Pitch with him in his frenzy.

They saw Flame rising to his full height, while Tom backed away. He was still laughing but now it was more of a giggle. He kept backing, never taking his eyes off the stallion. Then he was crying, and his sobs wracked his tremendous body. Still retreating, he cowered before Flame, his whipless hand covering his eyes.

Pitch groaned,
“Oh, Tom. Tom.”
He started to get to his feet, to go to him, to help him. But he was too late.

Tom kept going backward, never feeling the dangling leather of the bull whip as it encircled his ankles. He realized nothing until he tripped and felt himself falling. Frantically he reached out to break his fall. But he was near the edge and there was nothing there but air. For more than three hundred feet to the spit below there was nothing to break his fall.

Steve saw it happen. He saw Pitch grab for Tom too late, then fall heavily on the stone. Pitch and the ledge began whirling crazily before Steve's eyes. And with it came blackness, spinning blackness. Steve slumped forward and lay still.

When Steve regained consciousness, Pitch was standing beside him.

“Steve,” the man said, kneeling down. The boy did not seem to hear him. “Steve,” he repeated. The boy heard this time for his eyes focused on him. “He's dead,” Pitch said. “Tom's dead. Do you understand? There was nothing we could have done. Perhaps it's for the best. Perhaps …”