The Island Stallion's Fury

  The colt turned large blurred eyes upon him, not understanding what had happened.

  Steve fought the fear still rising within him.

  You’ve got to do something, he told himself. Try to remember what you’ve read in all those horse books. Try to remember!

  I will. I will, he promised. I’ll try to remember. Foaling mares. Newly born foals. There were chapters on it. Twin foals. There was something on twin foals. When a mare has twins, she may very often neglect one foal … Neglect … not abandon. Nothing I ever read said the mare completely abandons one of her twins. So she might accept this colt, take him back, if I can only get him to her!

  Steve got to his feet and ran from the clearing. With Pitch’s help he might be able to do it! But once more in the wild cane he came to a sudden stop and turned back. Gradually he was recalling what he’d read should be done for a newly born foal. He grabbed several large green leaves from the cane stalks on his way back to the clearing.

  Dropping to his knees before the foal, Steve cleaned the mucus from the small nostrils so the colt would have no trouble breathing; he removed some from the corners of the eyes which now were slowly, very slowly, following his movements. He ran the dry leaves over the wet coat. Soon the sun would be over the walls of the valley, drying the foal more thoroughly than he could do now.

  Getting to his feet, Steve touched the colt on his short stubble of a mane, then ran from the clearing. But again he stopped after running only a few yards, and looked back.

  The foal was watching him, had even taken a few steps toward him.

  Steve went back to pick him up, to carry him. The small body was quiet in his arms, the head turned a little toward him, wet nostrils lightly touching him.

  Steve tripped on the cane stalks but regained his balance and his grip on the slippery coat. He shifted the foal in his arms; it weighed only about forty or fifty pounds, and most of the weight was in its long, stilted legs. When he reached the cropped grass of the valley, Steve found it easier to carry him.

  “Pitch! Pitch!” he shouted. There was movement on the ledge, but no response. “Pitch!”

  Steve was almost directly beneath the ledge when Pitch rose to his feet and looked down. Steve shouted to him again.

  Pitch flicked his eyes over at the band up the valley, then back to Steve again.

  “Put that foal down and let him go back to his dam,” he shouted. “She’ll be after you, if you don’t.”

  “She left him! Please come down, Pitch. Please!”

  “What?”

  “His dam doesn’t want him. She let him go!” Steve shouted.

  Pitch started down the trail.

  After lowering the colt to the ground, Steve backed away from him slowly. The stilt-legs moved cautiously a few steps, then stopped. The head turned a little toward Steve, and the foal would have lost his balance and fallen had it not been for the boy’s quick hands.

  Pitch was now beside him. “What’s happened, Steve?” His words were clipped in his excitement. “Where’s his dam? He’s just been born, hasn’t he?”

  “She had twins, Pitch. Twins!” Steve’s voice was high in spite of his efforts to be calm.

  “You mean … well, where is she? Why isn’t she taking care of this one? What’s happened to her? Where is she?” Pitch was just as excited as Steve. And perhaps it was this that helped the boy regain a little of his own composure.

  “I was there when it happened. She just ran off with the other … a filly. We’ve got to get him to her, Pitch! He needs her.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that. But where is she?”

  “Back with the band.”

  “Then let’s take him to her … that’s all we have to do.”

  “But that isn’t all, Pitch,” Steve said.

  “Not all? Why isn’t it?”

  “She has to accept him.”

  Pitch didn’t say anything right away. His puzzled gaze turned from Steve to the foal at the boy’s side. Then, “Why won’t she accept him? She’s his mother, isn’t she?”

  As patiently as he could, Steve explained all that had happened.

  When he had finished, Pitch said, his voice rising again, “But she can’t do that! This foal needs her. He’s got to have her. He’ll die!”

  Once more Steve lifted the colt and held the trembling body. “We’ll take turns carrying him up the valley,” he said.

  They had just started when Flame came down to meet them. He stopped beside Steve, but didn’t touch the foal.

  Steve talked to the stallion but kept walking. He realized that Flame sensed something was wrong.

  “Careful, Steve,” Pitch warned. “He might think you’re going to hurt this foal. Let me take the colt; you handle Flame. It’ll be better all round.”

  Steve gave the foal to Pitch, then turned to Flame, putting a hand on his arched neck. The stallion was tense, excited. He kept watching the foal, never taking his eyes off him. Steve stayed close to him, careful but not afraid.

  After a short while he took the foal again, talking to Flame all the time. “We’re not hurting him,” he said. “We’re taking him back.” The foal raised his head a little when Flame bent down and sniffed him. Their noses had only touched when the stallion drew back quickly. Bolting, he moved ahead of them, whirled and came back. As he walked beside them again, Steve noticed that much of the stallion’s restlessness was gone. Perhaps Flame in some way now sensed what had happened. At least, he knew they meant no harm to this foal.

  Steve saw the bay mare grazing with the others. Beside her was her filly, nursing again.

  Pitch said, glancing at the foal in Steve’s arms, “He looks terribly weak. How long can they go without food, Steve?”

  “I don’t know, Pitch. But he needs some pretty soon. He’s so little.”

  They stopped, for the band was less than a hundred yards away and some of the mares had turned in their direction. The suckling foals moved away first, running behind their mothers for the protection afforded by their large bodies.

  “Don’t startle them,” Steve warned, “or we’ll never catch up to them.”

  “What should we do then?” Pitch asked. “How are we ever going to get close enough to them to do any good?”

  Steve moved forward. “A little closer, then we’ll put him down,” he said. “We can just hope his dam will take him when she sees him alone.”

  “Maybe she’s forgotten by now she ever had him,” was Pitch’s retort.

  Steve was silent.

  They left the foal not more than fifty yards from the band, and walked back down the valley. Only when they were a good distance away did they stop and watch to see what would happen to the foal.

  Flame had followed them but now he too stopped, midway between them and the foal. He seemed undecided whether to go to Steve or return to the colt, who stood alone, bewildered and waiting.

  For a while nothing happened. The foal stood as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the band. Over the eastern wall of the valley came the sun, its rays finding him and drying his wet coat; his eyes blinked in this new light. But he remained still, never moving.

  “The band means nothing to him without his mother to guide him,” Pitch said in a low voice. “He doesn’t even know they’re his kind. He doesn’t belong.”

  The bay mare moved away from the band, the filly staying close by her side. “Watch her,” Steve said hopefully. “She may be going to him.”

  But the bay mare was only taking her newly born filly away from the older foals. She knew the others played rough and her filly needed a few more days before she’d match them in strength. The mare came to a stop, then lowered her head to graze, never noticing the colt who stood such a short distance away from her.

  The colt looked at her, but there was no sign of recognition, no attempt on his part to go to her. Instead, his head moved slightly in the direction of the others in the band. But he did not go to them either. Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he had no interest in them.
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  “The mare isn’t going to take him,” Pitch said. “He doesn’t mean a thing to her. It’s just as though he’d never been born to her. I never heard of such a thing.” He paused, then added indignantly, “It’s not right of her, Steve. It’s not right. Let’s get a rope, lasso her, tie her up and get the colt to her!”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Steve said miserably. “We couldn’t get a rope on a wild mare like her. And even if we did we couldn’t get her to let the colt nurse, to accept him … unless she wanted to. And she doesn’t want to.”

  Suddenly the foal’s small tail moved with a jerk, and he shook his thin body.

  “Flies,” Steve said bitterly.

  Pitch watched the other foals in the band making use of their mothers’ sweeping tails as their protection against flying insects and he understood Steve’s bitterness.

  Flame trotted past the foal and went to the band. He encircled the mares, neighing repeatedly as though in reprimand. But he served only to frighten them and they moved farther up the valley.

  Flame came back and stopped a few feet away from the colt. His long tail whisked the air, and for the first time the colt moved. Carefully he shuffled over the ground until he was beside the great stallion and making use of Flame’s long tail to keep the flies off him.

  “That’s it,” Pitch said. “His father’s taken over.”

  “But Flame can’t give him any milk,” Steve pointed out. “He needs the mare for that.”

  “Yes, he needs …” Pitch stopped, then his voice rose excitedly. “But we’ve got milk, Steve! Lots of it!”

  Quickly the boy turned to him. He’d never thought … In all the excitement it had never occurred to him that they had powdered whole milk, that they could give it to the foal, that perhaps they could keep him alive without the mare!

  His excitement matched Pitch’s. “Maybe we can. Maybe that’s it!”

  Together they ran to get the colt. Pitch picked him up without ever thinking that Flame might resent his hasty handling of the foal.

  Steve took the colt’s hindquarters, while Pitch picked up the fore. Carrying the colt in this way, they went down the valley at a fast walk, Flame following close behind.

  Near the water pool, they set down their burden and ran up the trail. Arriving on the ledge, Pitch was the first to reach the tin of powdered milk. Excitedly he took it in his hands, turning it around to find the instructions on the back of the label.

  “I know they use powdered milk in formulas for babies when they can’t get bottled milk,” he said, his words tumbling over one another.

  “Take it easy, Pitch,” Steve jibed. “Don’t get so excited. You passed the instructions. They’re on this side.” He tried to steady the can in Pitch’s hands, but he only succeeded in fumbling too.

  “Who’s excited? I’m not excited. Don’t you get excited. Mrs. Reynolds—you know the Mrs. Reynolds I boarded with on your block, the one who had all the kids—well, when she went on an automobile trip she always took powdered milk instead of bottled milk so it wouldn’t spoil.”

  “Here, Pitch … over here are the instructions. But it doesn’t say anything about feeding babies.”

  “Where? Oh, yes. It’s in Spanish, isn’t it? ‘Klim se produce removiendo solamente el aqua de la leche de vaca fresca y limpia.’ ” He paused and looked up at Steve. “That says, ‘Klim is made by removing the water from fresh, clean—’ ”

  “ ‘Pasteurized cow’s whole milk,’ ” Steve finished for him. “It’s all right here in English, Pitch, on the other side.”

  Pitch turned the can around to read the instructions in English. When he had finished he said, “You’re right; it doesn’t say anything about feeding babies. But to make regular whole milk that you’ve been drinking, it says to use eight tablespoonfuls to a pint of water.”

  “But we should cut that,” Steve said quickly. “We shouldn’t make it too rich for him.”

  “Right again,” Pitch agreed. “So let’s make it two tablespoonfuls to a pint of water, and see how he gets along on it.”

  “All right, Pitch, but let’s hurry,” Steve said impatiently. “Let’s mix it and give it to him.”

  “But we can’t do it just like that,” Pitch returned, snapping his fingers.

  “Why can’t we? All we have to do is to put the powder in the water and mix it.”

  “But we can’t. We have to sterilize everything first.”

  “Sterilize?” Steve asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Steve,” Pitch answered solemnly. “We’re feeding a baby, and babies are very susceptible to disease.”

  “But there’s no disease here, Pitch.”

  “We’re not certain of that, Steve. There are germs almost everywhere. So I say we should boil the water, the jar and everything we’re going to use.” He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. “But I don’t know anything about feeding a foal, Steve. If you know more about orphaned foals, or anything at all about their feeding, speak up.”

  “No,” Steve confessed. “I don’t know a thing, Pitch.”

  “Then I feel that we should feed this foal just as we’d feed a baby until we find out otherwise from someone who does know. And I’ve watched Mrs. Reynolds feeding her babies and I know she sterilized everything. But he’s your foal, Steve. I’ll do as you say.”

  Steve cast a glance at the valley below. The colt was moving a little. Flame was a short distance away. Everything looked all right. The colt had waited this long for his milk; it probably wouldn’t hurt him to wait just a little while longer. And Pitch was right. The only thing they could do for the time being was to feed this colt as they would a human baby. Perhaps sterilization wasn’t necessary. But perhaps it was. They’d better do it, for there was no sense in taking any chances now.

  “Okay, Pitch, let’s sterilize,” he said.

  Pitch already had the stove going and the water was being heated. “We’ll give everything a good boiling,” he said.

  Steve stooped down to help him. “I guess we’ve become foster mothers,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, I guess we have,” Pitch agreed.

  RED FURY

  5

  The water was in a large aluminum kettle. After a while Pitch lifted the lid. “It’s coming to a boil, Steve,” he said, “and there’s enough water to sterilize everything and make a gallon of milk formula for the colt.”

  “But we don’t want him to drink a gallon at first,” Steve said quickly. “I’d say give him a little, about a half-pint, at frequent intervals, maybe every hour.”

  “Yes, but we should make up a lot now, while we’re at it,” Pitch said. “Saves work. We can keep a gallon jug of milk in the pool, where it’ll be kept cold and won’t spoil.”

  Steve turned away from Pitch to look down at the foal in the valley. “But how will we get the milk into him, Pitch? We don’t have any nursing nipples around, do we?”

  “Nipples? Nursing nipples?” Pitch wearily shook his head. “I didn’t know we were going to start a nursery here,” he replied, and there was just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Then he looked up at the boy, smiled and said more patiently, “Why can’t we just pour it down his throat?”

  “We couldn’t, Pitch. He’d choke.”

  “Then maybe he’ll just drink the milk from a pail.”

  “Maybe in a few days he could do that,” Steve said, “but not now. He’s too young; he couldn’t be taught right away.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  Steve was unable to make any answer at first. He knew Pitch was becoming impatient with him and the orphaned foal. Pitch’s first love wasn’t horses, as it was his. Although Pitch would do everything he could to help save the colt’s life, he wanted to get back to his own work as soon as possible. He wanted to be relieved of all responsibility to this foal, and the sooner the better.

  “I’ll have to use a spoon,” Steve said finally. “That’s the only way I know to get the milk into him.”

  Pitch shrugged his
shoulders. “A spoon it is, then.”

  The water in the kettle was boiling, but they left it on the fire until they felt certain all or any germs had been killed. Then they sterilized the utensils they were going to use in the feeding of the foal. There was enough water left over to fill the gallon jug which was to hold their milk formula.

  “Now we have to wait for it to cool off before we add the powdered milk,” Pitch said. “It mixes better.”

  “Can’t I cool off the water right away?” Steve asked. “I’m worried about that colt. He’s gone so long without food. I could cool it off in the stream.”

  “Yes, you can do that. But be careful that the glass doesn’t break.”

  Taking the gallon jug, Steve ran up to the top of the waterfall; there he carefully cooled off the jug and then submerged it in the stream. While waiting for the sterile water inside to cool even more, he watched the foal. Flame had left him to rejoin his band, and the colt stood alone again. But he moved about more now, his long legs shuffling over the ground and taking him first in one direction, then in another. He stayed in the immediate vicinity of the water pool, seemingly having no desire to join the band that grazed far up the valley.

  A feeling of pity for him swept over Steve. He’d do everything he possibly could to keep this foal alive!

  When the sterile water was cool enough for the foal to drink, Steve returned to the ledge with it. He removed the cap of the jug, and Pitch put in sixteen tablespoonfuls of powdered milk.

  “Let’s put a spoonful of sugar in it, too,” Steve said. “It can’t do him any harm, and maybe he’ll like it better.”

  That done, Steve replaced the cap and vigorously shook the jug until the powder and sugar were well mixed with the water.

  “That’s enough,” Pitch said. “Now let’s pour whatever amount you’re going to give him into this pint jar. It’s been sterilized, too.”

  “We’ll give him a half-pint,” Steve said as Pitch poured.

  When they reached the valley floor, Pitch placed the gallon jug in a corner of the water pool, where it would be kept cool and safe. Then he rejoined Steve as the boy approached the foal.