The Island Stallion's Fury

  “You’re going to eat,” Steve told the colt, placing his hand on the soft nose and stroking it. “You’ll like this, boy.” Then, speaking to Pitch, “I guess we’d better get him down on the ground. It’ll be easier.”

  “You get him down, then,” Pitch said. “I’ll hold the milk.”

  Steve put his arms around the foal, fore and hind, then carefully placed him down on his side; the colt scarcely stirred.

  “You hold him still now, Pitch,” Steve said. “He just might struggle and upset the jar while I’m feeding him.”

  He knelt beside the small head, stroking it, talking to the colt all the while. The colt was too little, too weak to do any fighting. But the milk would come as a surprise to him. He could have no idea what they intended doing and perhaps he didn’t care.

  Steve raised the foal’s head a little so that once the milk was in his mouth it would flow down his throat. Taking up a spoonful, he carefully opened the foal’s mouth on the side and fed him the milk.

  The foal struggled a little, even made an attempt to get up. But Pitch had no trouble keeping him down, and after a minute or two Steve gave him another spoonful of milk. There was less struggling by the foal this time. With the fourth spoonful he ceased fighting altogether, taking the milk as readily and as often as Steve fed it to him.

  Steve stopped when the foal had finished a quarter of a pint. “I think that’s enough for him now,” he told Pitch. “I’ll give him that much every hour until I see how he reacts to it.”

  “Just as you say, Steve.” Pitch stood up, releasing the colt. “But it’s a full-time job feeding him that often. And you’ll have to sterilize the jar and spoon each time, as well as warm the milk.”

  “I know,” Steve said. “But I’ll be able to feed him alone after this. You won’t have to help me.”

  “I want to help you,” Pitch returned quietly.

  The foal made no attempt to get to his feet. But his eyes were open, and there was a clearness to them that hadn’t been there before. His breathing was better too, regular and without effort.

  “I believe he’s going to do all right on that formula,” Pitch said, watching him. “He seems very contented now.”

  “The warm milk has probably made him sleepy,” Steve said. “Rest and the sun will do him good.”

  They heard the beat of Flame’s running hoofs and turned to watch the stallion as he came down the valley. He stopped beside Steve, but his eyes were only for the foal.

  Steve put a hand on him. “I guess we’ve got someone to look after, Flame,” he told the stallion. “And he’s so little; he’ll take a lot of care if we’re going to do a good job.”

  Pitch let his gaze travel over the valley. “It would be so much better if we could only get the mare to let him nurse just once,” he said. “Maybe she’d accept him as hers then. The cow’s milk we’re giving him is only a fair substitute for her milk. And he needs her care, too. Being any kind of an orphan is hard. And no matter how good we are to him, we’re not going to take the place of his mother. It just isn’t natural.”

  “But what can we do, Pitch?” Steve asked miserably. “Everything you say is true. But she’s abandoned him, and we can’t force her to take him back. By now she doesn’t even remember having had him. I’m sure of that.”

  Flame tossed his head, and Steve rubbed the stallion’s red coat hard in an attempt to rid himself of the anxiety which troubled him as much as it did Pitch.

  “I still might be able to get a rope around her,” Pitch suggested.

  “But she’s wild, just like all the others in the band,” Steve said. “You wouldn’t stand a chance of holding her.”

  “I could if I cut down one of those dwarfed trees over there and made a snubbing post of it,” Pitch returned seriously. “I’d tie her fast, then we’d try and get the colt up to her.”

  “I doubt that we could do it,” Steve said. “And if we did get her fast to the post, she might kick the devil out of the colt before she’d let him nurse her.”

  “But we might try, Steve. It’s worth it as our last resort.”

  Steve glanced away from Pitch to the foal, who now had his eyes closed and was sleeping.

  “All right, Pitch. It’s worth a try, as you say. Anything to get him back to her!”

  During the afternoon and early evening, Steve fed the colt every hour. Pitch offered to help, but Steve told him that it wasn’t necessary, that the colt took the milk from him and gave no trouble. Actually it took a lot of patience and was hard work but never tedious, for the foal responded quickly to the life-giving milk. He was more alert, more active. And for Steve there was the wonderful satisfaction of having the colt come forward at sight of him, hungry and eager.

  That evening Pitch said, “He’s become so dependent on you in just one day that we’ll have trouble getting him to the mare even if I do manage to get her tied fast.”

  “There’s a difference, and he’ll know it if she accepts him,” Steve said, as he busied himself with the stove and the water he was boiling.

  “You’re not going to feed him every hour tonight, are you? You’ve got to sleep yourself, you know.”

  “I’ll get up two or three times, I guess,” Steve said. “He’ll be all right. I’m giving him a little more milk during the night feedings.”

  Pitch watched Steve for a while, then said, “I have the post. I’ll dig a hole for it in the morning, then we’ll wait our chance to get a rope around the mare.”

  “All right, Pitch,” Steve said without looking up.

  The next morning Pitch dug his post hole not far from the water pool, figuring that the best opportunity to lasso the bay mare would be when she and the others came down to drink.

  Steve fed the colt, marveling at what seemed to him to be more flesh on the frail, little body. He told himself that he might be wrong about the colt’s added weight, but there was no doubt that the foal was stronger, more sure of himself on this, his second day. His eyes were no longer fuzzy and bewildered, but bright and clear. He watched Steve’s every move, staying close and only leaving him when Flame came down the valley to join them. But he would never follow Flame when the stallion returned to the band. Instead, he would always turn away from him, looking again for Steve.

  Pitch finished putting up the post, and called Steve over to examine it.

  “It’s solid,” Pitch said, his hand on the post. “It’ll hold the mare, all right, if I get her tied to it.”

  Simultaneously their eyes strayed to the band far up the valley. “They should be coming down in a little while for water,” Pitch said. “And you know, Steve, I got thinking last night that it might be wise if we put the foal in Bottle Canyon at night. The youngsters in the band might hurt him when they come down to the pool. They’re much stronger than he is.”

  “I watched them last night,” Steve said. “Flame wouldn’t let any of them come near him. But you’re right, Pitch. We could easily do that, then if Flame should be away from him when the band comes down at night we’ll be sure that no harm can come to him.”

  “That’s what I thought. I cut down a couple of thin trees to make rails which we can put across the entrance to the canyon. That’ll keep him in nights and the others out.”

  Steve looked at the post. “But if we get the mare tied and the colt to her, we won’t need to do that.”

  “No,” Pitch agreed, “of course not.”

  Pitch returned to the ledge, while Steve went to the foal. The soft nose nuzzled his hand, searching for milk.

  “You just had it,” Steve told him. “You’ve got another hour to go before you get any more.” He could feel the soft gums of the colt’s mouth as the foal pulled at his fingers. He looked into the eyes set far apart in the wide forehead and saw the mischievous light in them as the colt held on to his fingers. Then his gaze traveled to the long, delicate nostrils now partly closed but ready to open wide at any movement he might make to get his hand free. This foal was so much Flame’s colt,
every bit of him. He was small, perhaps much smaller than any of the other foals had been at birth. But then he was a twin, and his sister was just as small. He would grow to be tall and strong just as she would. Or would he, without the mare’s milk?

  Steve turned to look at the band. He loved the foal, loved caring for him, but he would help Pitch in every way to rope the mare and make her accept her son. To grow big and strong, the colt needed her. Certainly no cow’s milk could take the place of hers. And he, Steve, couldn’t be expected to do as good a job of caring for him as could the mare. As Pitch had said, it just wasn’t natural.

  Steve saw the band start down the valley. “Pitch!” he yelled. “They’re coming!”

  A few minutes later Pitch was beside him. In his hand he carried a long rope.

  “Let’s take the colt to Bottle Canyon,” Pitch said. “We can get him again if we succeed in getting the mare tied to the post. Meanwhile, it’ll keep him out of the way.”

  The foal struggled as they picked him up. He was stronger, there was no doubt of that. But without too much trouble they were able to carry him across the valley to the mouth of Bottle Canyon. Putting him just inside, they placed long rails across the entrance.

  “It’s not a very sturdy gate,” Pitch said, wedging the ends of the rails between the stones. “But it’ll hold him in all right.”

  They went back near the pool and awaited the coming of the band.

  “Don’t get any closer,” Pitch warned. “We’ll only frighten them away.”

  “They’re not all coming down,” Steve said. “Just a small group of them.”

  “Is she with them … the bay mare?”

  “I can’t tell yet. Five of the mares are bay. They’re all too far away.”

  “Look for the twin filly,” Pitch said, fingering the rope. “You ought to recognize the mare by the filly at her side. She’s smaller than the others.”

  “All the foals are too close to the mares to tell yet.”

  They waited while the small group of mares stopped to graze, then came on again. “They’re after water. They’ll be down, all right. Can you see her, Steve?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  The mares stopped to graze again. Steve looked past them at the main part of the band farther up the valley. He saw Flame far beyond, grazing alone. Steve glanced sideways at the barred canyon on his right; the foal was at the gate, watching, waiting.

  “That noose,” Steve said, referring to the rope Pitch was fingering so nervously. “Have you fixed it so it won’t run too tight around her neck?”

  “It’s knotted. It’ll hold her without choking her.” Pitch’s words were tense, clipped, for the group of mares had moved toward them again. “That’s her, isn’t it, Steve? See that filly! She went right under the mare’s belly to get away from that gray foal!”

  “Yes,” Steve said, “that’s the mare, all right.”

  “Don’t move, Steve. Don’t move!”

  “I’m not moving.”

  Steve knew that Pitch was very nervous, even frightened. He’d had no experience roping any kind of a horse, let alone a wild mare. But he was going through with his plan just the same.

  “I’ll throw the rope if you want,” Steve said. But he knew he had no better chance of roping the mare than Pitch. And he was just as nervous.

  “No. No, I’ll do it,” Pitch said. “But we’ll move together, and if I should get it around her, Steve … if I should, why …” He stopped, turning to Steve, and a white pallor showed beneath his tanned skin. “W-what do we do then?”

  “We get our end of the rope around the post,” Steve said.

  “Yes, and then we’ll pull her to it until she’s fast.”

  Steve nodded in agreement. But it wasn’t until the mares were close to the pool and he and Pitch took a step forward that Steve wondered how they were going to pull the mare fast to the post. She was ever so much stronger than they were. He was about to ask Pitch about it when the latter put a hand across his lips.

  “S-shh, Steve.”

  The boy followed close behind Pitch, feeling very strongly that what they were trying to do was foolish, even insane. But the foal needed his dam, and this knowledge drove Steve on, the same as it did Pitch.

  They were close against the wall. The drone of the waterfall silenced their footsteps. There was no wind to carry their scent to the mares. They were near the pool now … not far from the bay mare. She was within reach of the rope.

  Pitch’s body tensed, and Steve guessed he would throw the rope as soon as the mare finished drinking, as soon as she straightened and turned in their direction. There was no doubt but that she would do just that, for the other mares were too close on her right for her to turn toward them.

  “Relax, Pitch,” Steve wanted to say. “If you’re tense your aim won’t be true.” But he said nothing. They were too close to the mares.

  Pitch held the noose in his right hand, ready to throw. Steve saw the twin filly move quickly around the bay mare. They’d have to be careful not to hurt the filly. It would be terrible if they caused her any injury in their efforts to help the colt. He’d better caution Pitch to …

  The bay mare straightened. There was the quick but jerky movement of Pitch’s arm. The noose struck the mare on the side of her neck instead of dropping over her head! Neighing shrilly, the bay mare twirled; then the whole group was in motion, getting into one another’s way in their frenzy to escape this sudden danger.

  Pitch had run forward. He was drawing up the rope, getting ready to throw again. Steve stared after him. The mares’ confusion afforded Pitch still another chance.

  But as he followed Pitch he heard Flame’s shrill whistle, then the terrible pounding of hoofs. He looked beyond to find the stallion only fifty yards away and charging Pitch!

  He screamed to Pitch and Flame in the same breath. Pitch saw the oncoming stallion, turned and started back, then fell.

  Flame came on, his ears back, his nostrils spread wide in his fury. Steve shouted again, but the stallion had reached Pitch. Flame stopped before the man’s inert body. He pawed the ground but his pounding hoofs never touched Pitch. Steve ran forward.

  He reached for his friend with trembling hands, pulling him to his feet. Then they just stood there, terrified in their knowledge of what Flame could do with hoofs and teeth when enraged.

  Steve tried to find the words to say to Flame. But they wouldn’t come. The stallion had seen Pitch chasing the mares, his mares, and he had seen the rope. It had been enough to send his hot blood raging and to fill his mind with only one thought: to protect his band. But he had not killed. Something had stopped him: his recognition of Pitch, Steve’s screams, or the sudden realization that Pitch actually meant no harm to his mares.

  Pitch stood close beside Steve, one hand on the boy’s arm. Slowly the pounding in his heart lessened. Slowly reassurance came to him that he was no longer in any great danger with Steve at his side. He heard Steve’s voice. The boy was talking to the stallion, and his words were soft, caressing. As Pitch listened, his eyes remained on Flame. He saw the spreading nostrils begin to close, the fury begin to ebb from the giant body. He marveled at what he saw and heard. He forgot his fear, forgot everything else in witnessing Steve’s domination of this untamed stallion.

  Once before, the previous year when they had found Blue Valley, he had heard Steve talk this way to Flame. During the ensuing weeks he had come to accept Steve’s mastery of the stallion as a matter of course. Only now, though, did he accept this relationship between boy and horse for what it actually was.

  Not that he understood it. No person could say truthfully he understood why or how a boy could still a wild rage like the one that filled this stallion. And Pitch wasn’t even going to try to understand it.

  He listened to Steve’s words coming so soft and with a kind of rhythm. Few people in the world could talk that way to a horse … to any animal. The sound and words were those of a mother talking to he
r child; it was the only comparison Pitch knew. Soft words, sentimental words. Many adults would laugh if they heard them. Sickly sentimentalism, they would say, never knowing or understanding that the words came from the heart of a boy who loved this horse.

  And there were still other adults, men like Tom, for example, who went further than ridiculing such caressing words, such soft and gentle touches as Steve now gave Flame. They would say, as he’d heard Tom say very often, There’s only one way to conquer a wild horse. You’ve got to break him with your own hands. You’ve got to show him who’s boss!

  But they’d never seen what he’d seen. They weren’t watching Steve now … Steve and Flame.

  The boy was standing beside the stallion, his hand on the arched neck. There was nothing frightening about Flame now. He was quiet, docile, allowing Steve to straighten his mane, his forelock.

  “Pitch. Come over.”

  The man’s footsteps lagged and he was extremely cautious when he did come. He’d rather have kept away from the stallion, have left it all up to Steve. But the boy wanted him to come. Perhaps Steve was right. Perhaps it would be best to make friends again now.

  He stopped beside the boy. He touched the stallion with nervous, careful fingertips. Nothing happened. Flame turned his head in the direction of the band, but that was all. Pitch rested the palm of his hand on the stallion’s back, then he stroked him, slowly, carefully. He knew everything was all right again. But he was lucky. He could have been killed. Never again would he chase any of the mares in Flame’s band. No … never, never again.

  SEA ENTRANCE

  6

  That evening Steve was preparing to leave the ledge for his eight o’clock feeding of the foal when Pitch said, “I thought I’d go to Antago sometime tomorrow morning, Steve.”

  “You need to go?”

  “I want to check with the vet about our feeding of the colt. I might as well do it now as later.”

  “He seems to be doing very well on what I’m giving him, Pitch. I’m sure we can wait until you have to go to Antago for supplies or something, then you won’t have to make any extra trips.” Steve knew how much Pitch wanted to get back to his explorations and manuscript. The trip to Antago would take away from him another full day of work, and Steve felt guilty about it.