“This powdered milk is just like the real thing,” he told Pitch, when he had finished.
“It is the real thing. It’s whole milk. All you did was add water.”
Steve glanced again at the clearing on the far side of the valley. The bay mare was standing up, grazing. She seemed to be in no hurry to have her foal. Perhaps Pitch was right and she wouldn’t have her foal for hours and hours. He washed the dishes while Pitch fingered the cat-o’-nine-tails he had found in the tunnels that morning.
When Steve had finished, he took the short-handled whip which Pitch offered him for examination. He felt the nine knotted leather lines, each about three feet long, which were fastened to the handle.
“The Spaniards used it for flogging?” he asked Pitch.
“I guess so … sometimes,” the man replied quietly.
“Then in many ways Tom is like them,” Steve said. “Tom and his bull whip.”
Pitch went over to the stove to clean it. It was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss the stepbrother with whom he’d lived on Antago for the last two years.
“Flame and I went to Lookout Ledge today,” Steve said after a while. “We saw the band there—eight mares with foals, and the stallion. Tom must have taken all the weanlings and yearlings in his round-up last year.”
“I guess so,” Pitch said, moving away.
Steve’s eyes wore an expression of concern as they followed Pitch. No matter how often he’d tried he couldn’t get Pitch to talk about Tom. Tom had been commissioned by the government of Antago to remove the surplus horses from the spit of Azul Island every five years. He would leave a small band to propagate … at the present time it consisted of the eight mares and a stallion. Tom sold the horses for what he could get and took his fee, the remainder of the money going to the government of Antago. But the meager sum of money received for the small, wiry horses wasn’t important either to Tom or the government. Steve knew that Tom acted as agent solely for the pleasure of gathering and then breaking these horses to his iron hand and will. The government was interested in Tom’s “wild horse round-up” solely because of the pictures and stories they could place in foreign newspapers as a result of it. It was one of these pictures that Pitch had sent him last summer.
Tom hadn’t been at his Antago sugar cane plantation when Steve had arrived from the United States a few days ago. And all Pitch had told him was that Tom was away. Nothing more, even though he’d asked several times.
Steve didn’t want to think about Tom any more than Pitch did, so he turned his thoughts now on Flame. The stallion had taken his band far up the valley and Steve was thinking of joining them when Pitch called to him from the entrance of the cave.
“I want to show you some of the things I’ve found in the tunnels and chambers,” Pitch said, taking the lantern. “I have them in here.”
They walked to the far end of the cave, and Pitch placed the lighted lantern beside a wooden box. Removing the lid, he began taking out the relics that were there. With great care, he placed them on the ground one at a time … a tarnished silver goblet, a horseshoe, a heavy shoe stirrup of solid bronze, beautifully engraved; a short sword, a long lance or spear, which the Conquistadores carried into battle; a helmet and a coat of mail with its interlinked rings and riveted ends to protect the wearer; and more, much more. It took Pitch all of fifteen minutes to remove his precious relics from the box and show them to Steve.
“I don’t believe there’s a finer private collection in all the world,” Pitch said proudly as he put the things back in the box.
When they left the cave, they stood for a while on the ledge overlooking Blue Valley. Flame and his band were far away. The bay mare was still grazing in the clearing.
“Want to see a little of the tunnels this afternoon, Steve?” Pitch asked. “I’d especially like to show you where I have all our extra supplies stored.”
He led the way up the trail to the waterfall, then stopped at the great opening where the underground stream flowed. Taking a flashlight from his shoulder bag, he said, “I want you to enter these tunnels only in case of an emergency. And always take this bag, Steve. There are three flashlights in it, extra batteries and bulbs. Being without light in the tunnels is certain death. Come now.”
Steve followed him along the underground stream; the light grew dim and the drone of the falls lessened. As they made their way around a wide, gradual curve, Steve saw only blackness ahead. Pitch clicked on the flashlight; his pace never slackened as he followed its beam.
They must have walked for more than fifteen minutes when Pitch came to a sudden stop and flashed the light on the wall beside him. Steve could see letters and figures marked in chalk on the wall. A few feet away there was another tunnel.
“We turn right here,” Pitch said. “All these letters and figures mean something to me. They’re a code I use so I’ll always know where I am. I’ve placed them at every fork, every turn in the tunnels. But for our purpose now, and for your use later if you ever need to get additional provisions and I’m not around, I want you to look only for the letter C and to follow any tunnels in which you find a C marked with the other letters. That’s all you need to know.”
He turned into the tunnel, flashed his light on the wall to show Steve the letter C that was included with other letters and numerals, then kept on going.
Soon they came to a fork from which three tunnels extended. Pitch flashed his light on the walls. Only the tunnel on the extreme left included the letter C. Now they walked hunched over, for the ceiling was low.
Steve stayed close to Pitch, marveling at his friend’s knowledge of this underground world and hoping that never would he have to travel the tunnels alone. He knew from what Pitch had told him that some great disturbance of Nature in an early archaeological age had created these tunnels … that much was evident from their great number and the jagged, shattered ceilings. But the smoothness of some of the floors, the perfect regularity of the cutting on each side were the work of Man … so many hundreds of men, slaves of the Conquistadores, for so many years!
The ceiling of the tunnel was higher now and they were able to stand upright. Suddenly Pitch stopped, and Steve saw the high opening of a great chamber on his left. He knew where he was then. He had been in this chamber before.
There was a dim, gray light within and Steve remembered the ventilation shaft that penetrated the ceiling of this room. Pitch was standing beneath it, looking up, and Steve joined him. Through the box-like shaft they could see the blue sky hundreds of feet above them. The air coming down was fresh and cool.
Pitch directed the beam of his flashlight to a far corner of the chamber and there Steve saw several boxes of canned goods, more shovels, picks, lanterns and flashlights.
“But why keep all these extra supplies and equipment in here and not back at camp?” Steve asked.
“Just as an emergency measure,” Pitch replied.
“I don’t get it, Pitch. There’s no reason why this stuff wouldn’t be as safe back at camp as here.”
The man laughed. “You’re probably right, Steve. But I’ve always been one for keeping my valuables in two places, so I won’t lose everything at one time. I guess that’s the reason I keep half my money in my pocket and the rest in my wallet. That’s just in case somebody should steal my wallet.” He laughed again. “But no one ever has.”
“I guess you’re right,” Steve said.
“Anyway,” Pitch went on, “sometimes when I’m working in the tunnels it’s easier for me to come here than go to camp. I even have a small stove here, Steve.”
Pitch flashed the light on a long wooden table and chair which had been there when he and Steve had found the chamber the previous year. “I do some writing here occasionally, too. And just think—I use the very same table and chair the Conquistadores’ leaders used!”
He flashed the light on the wall behind the table and there, inscribed in the stone, was a coat of arms—a large shield with a lion at the top holdi
ng a bird clutched between his paws. Below was the date, 1669.
They stayed there for a few minutes longer, then returned to Blue Valley.
During the late afternoon, the bay mare left the clearing once to get a drink of water. Then she went back, carefully stepping along as though not to jostle the foal she was carrying. Night fell and Steve knew that he’d have to wait until morning to find out whether the mare had had her foal.
Lying on his blanket, Steve listened to the steady drone of the waterfall, hoping that it would bring him sleep. But it didn’t help. Pitch was turning restlessly in his sleep. Steve wondered if it was his friend’s uneasiness that was keeping him so wide awake. Or was it just his thinking about the bay mare? But that’s silly, he told himself; she can have her foal without any help from me. And morning will be time enough for me to find out what’s happened. No, it can’t be the mare that’s keeping me awake. Maybe I’m just not tired. But I should be. It’s been a long day … a good day.
Closing his eyes, he tried to fall asleep. The nickering of the mares came to him and occasionally he heard Flame’s sharp, piercing call as the stallion moved with his band.
There were so many good days to look forward to, Steve thought … the rest of June, all of July and August, and part of September before he’d have to leave again. Over two months to be spent with Flame and the band. Nothing in the world could be more wonderful than the days to come!
But again he opened his eyes, wide awake. Was he thinking of Tom Pitcher? Were Pitch’s evasive answers to his questions about Tom bothering him more than he let on? Tom was nothing like Pitch. There was no blood relationship, for Pitch’s father had adopted Tom as a baby and had given him his name. Pitch and Tom had grown up together in England, then separated, with Tom joining the British army and going to India while Pitch left home to attend school in the United States. After college, Pitch had stayed on in America until two years ago when he heard Tom had a plantation on Antago and decided to join him.
Tom had changed a great deal in the many years he and Pitch had been separated. Tom was hard and ruthless and, at times, cruel. Steve had seen all these things for himself last summer. He had seen too that Pitch was afraid of Tom, just as he was.
But he didn’t want to think of Tom Pitcher. There was no reason to think of him here, where Tom could never bother them. Steve closed his eyes and thought only of Flame and the band and the bay mare … until finally he fell asleep.
He awakened with the first heavy gray light of early morning. He could just make out the band grazing far up the valley. Pitch was still sleeping. Suddenly Steve remembered the bay mare and his eyes turned quickly to the clearing. He couldn’t see her; she was down or had left the clearing. Without awakening Pitch he hurried down the trail.
Reaching the valley floor, he ran until he came to the wild cane, then bent low, cautiously stealing through the stalks. If the mare was having her foal, he didn’t want to disturb her. He only wanted to watch and help her if necessary. She could have left the clearing to have her foal in some more secluded spot, but he doubted it; it was more than likely that she was here.
He was close to the clearing when he saw the mare. She had got to her feet and now stood quietly. Her black mane was tousled and matted with long blades of grass. Her brown coat was sweated. She looked over the cane, but did not see the boy. She whinnied and her head went down.
Steve knew she’d had her foal. Quietly he moved closer to the clearing. If she didn’t see him she wouldn’t know he was there for he was downwind from her and she couldn’t pick up his scent. He stopped dead still when the mare uttered a short squeal. After a few minutes he rose cautiously to look over the cane. The mare was still standing quietly, her head extended downward. Steve guessed the foal was nursing and that everything was all right. He ducked below the cane again and sat there for a while. He didn’t want to disturb the mare now; the foal needed her milk.
Finally he got to his feet and, seeing that the bay mare was walking about the clearing, rose to his full height. She stopped when she saw him. He stood there without moving and talked to her in a soft, low voice. For a minute she watched him, then turned away, and Steve knew she was not very frightened or upset by his presence.
Again he moved forward, talking all the while. He could not see the foal yet. But just a few yards more and he’d be able to see him … or would it be a filly? And would it have Flame’s red chestnut coat and mane or would it be a bay like the mare? He could hear its movements now, tiny hoofs shuffling alongside the mare. Another few yards and Steve stood on the edge of the clearing.
He saw the foal, a filly! She was standing close beside the mare and nursing again. Her coat was still wet, and her mane was nothing but a stubble of hair; yet Steve could tell she was going to be chestnut colored, like her sire.
Steve watched them for several minutes before he became conscious of the slight movement to his left. Turning quickly, he saw the other foal. Twins! The mare had had twins! He knew the odds against such a thing happening were one in ten thousand. And the odds were even greater, a hundred thousand to one, against twin foals living.
The second foal was struggling to its feet. This one, too, had the red chestnut coloring of Flame. But it was a colt! Steve watched him stand unsteadily on teetering long legs, afraid to move lest he lose his balance and fall. With large fuzzy eyes the colt looked at the mare, then very slowly and carefully attempted to turn his head toward Steve. But he lost his balance and fell.
Steve went to him, his arms going around the soft, wet limbs. He picked him up, putting him on his feet again and supporting the wobbling body. He felt much of the unsteadiness leave the colt as he held him. Soft large eyes looked into his own; then the colt nuzzled him and Steve knew he was hungry and looking for food.
“Not me,” he said, turning to the mare. “She’s the one.” He saw that the filly had finished nursing.
“You’re next,” he said, turning back to the colt. But he suspected he might have trouble getting the mare to allow this second foal to nurse. Steve had read that when this rare event of foaling twins happened, the mare was very apt to favor one foal, giving it all of her attention while neglecting the other. Picking up the colt in his arms, he carried him toward the mare, hoping desperately that she would accept him.
The mare moved away at his approach, but she didn’t leave the clearing, for the filly was not yet ready to follow her. Turning her head around, she stood still and watched as Steve placed the colt on his feet next to the filly. Two pairs of soft, wondrous eyes looked at each other; then the filly, her first hunger having been satisfied and stronger for the nourishment she’d had, moved her stilted legs alongside the colt, pushing him in her efforts to nuzzle him. He would have fallen again if Steve had not been holding him.
The boy watched the mare, calling to her all the while, coaxing her to come to them. Her anxious eyes were on the foals yet she made no move toward them. Again the colt nuzzled Steve, seeking the milk he needed so desperately if he were to live.
Steve waited no longer for the mare to come to him. Lifting the colt, he carried him slowly toward the mare. She shied and trotted around him, returning to the filly. Steve followed her, moving with her as she circled the clearing. Finally she came to a stop, and Steve succeeded in shoving the colt gently but firmly toward her belly. The mare’s ears swept back as the colt touched her. Viciously she reached down and bit him, causing the blood to come; then she whirled and took the filly to the far side of the clearing. Steve bent over and lifted the colt to carry him to the mare again. But when he straightened up he found she was going through the cane with the filly close behind.
Steve stood there holding the little colt. As he watched the mare and filly go up the valley to join the band, he realized that what he held in his arms was an orphaned foal!
ORPHANED FOAL
4
The foal never moved while Steve held him with one arm around his chest, the other beneath his rump. The eyes of th
e boy and the colt were the same, dazed and unseeing.
Finally Steve turned his eyes away from the valley and focused them upon the foal.
What was he going to do with him? How could he get him back to the mare? And if he didn’t how could he keep him alive?
Bewilderment left his eyes now to be replaced by worry, concern, even fear for the life of this soft, slippery foal in his arms.
Don’t get excited, he told himself. Put him down. Put him down. You can’t do anything with him in your arms. Be calm. You’ll get him back to the mare. Everything will be all right. Pitch will help you. Pitch!
He put down the foal and turned quickly in the direction of the ledge. “Pitch!” he shouted. But there was no answer from his friend, no sign of him. Pitch was still sleeping.
Again Steve let his eyes travel over the foal standing so close beside him. The tiny hoofs never moved, but the skinny body with ribs showing prominently beneath the wet coat wavered a little. Steve put a hand on him to steady him.
“You’ll be all right,” he said in a broken voice. He tried to get a grip on himself, then repeated his words, more convincingly this time. He spoke for his own benefit as much as for the foal’s. “She’ll come back. I know she’ll come back to you.”
But he wasn’t at all certain of this. And with that knowledge fear rose within him again. If the mare didn’t return for her foal, or if he couldn’t get him to her, the colt would die.
Why hadn’t he left the mare alone? Why couldn’t he have stayed away from the clearing? If he had not been there to pick up the colt, to confuse the mare, she might have accepted both her twins. He knew nothing about a foaling mare. It would have been so much better if he had just left her alone!
“But she might have abandoned the colt anyway,” Steve said aloud in his own defense. “I know that … I read it somewhere … or someone told me.”