“He knows what he’s doing,” Pitch said quickly.
But as the fighting at close quarters continued with neither giving way, the Piebald’s superior weight began to tell on Flame. His movements were slower and several times the Piebald’s raking teeth had almost secured their hold on Flame’s neck before the red stallion was able to twist away.
The Piebald fought with renewed energy as he hurled his thick body again and again at his opponent. Crazed eyes of blue and white were wild, now that the moment of triumph was near.
Forelegs wrapped about each other’s neck, they screamed and bit and tore at ravaged flesh, their snapping teeth like rapiers in the hands of expert swordsmen—striking, parrying, never ending.
Demons rather than horses, their bodies wet with sweat and blood, they stood on hind legs for many minutes, savaging each other mercilessly. Then slowly, ever so slowly, it was the red stallion who gave ground. Screaming and following up his advantage, the Piebald hurled his massive body more heavily upon Flame until the red stallion, squealing in pain, wrenched himself clear of the Piebald.
In the few seconds that he twirled away, Steve thought it was over and that Flame’s only chance for his life was to run—to run as he had done before. And Steve heard himself screaming to his horse. “Run! Run!”
The red stallion pivoted around the Piebald as the black-and-white stallion plunged at him and missed. Again Flame had the opportunity to flee, and for a second he stood still, breathing heavily.
“Go, Flame! Go!” Steve shouted at the top of his voice. But his words fell away beneath the sound of the wrenching and cracking of bodies as Flame rose to meet the Piebald’s return rush.
Nevertheless, Flame’s tactics had changed, and it was as though pain and the last few agonizing minutes when he had tasted defeat had given rise to intelligence over frenzied fury. Now he moved in quickly, striking hard, but never staying long before moving away again on lightning hoofs. He was patient, waiting until he was ready before going forward with bared teeth and battering forefeet. And when the Piebald charged, Flame avoided him on winged feet, moving with swiftness and agility. Sometimes he would turn, and his hind legs would catch the Piebald with tremendous power. For many minutes Flame whirled, circled and reared, pummeling with slashing hoofs, tearing with raking, ripping teeth. And always he would leap clear again before the Piebald could hold him close.
Finally the Piebald, too, changed his tactics. No longer did he rely upon weight alone. No longer did he charge ruthlessly, blindly, to be cut to ribbons by his agile opponent. He too awaited openings, all the while maneuvering his burly body into a position where he could fight the red stallion once more at close quarters, where his weight would give him an advantage. His small eyes gleamed red as persistently but cautiously he forced the fight, rearing high to catch and hold his elusive enemy.
The hoofs of both thrashed the air, sometimes finding their mark and striking solidly upon hard flesh. Snorting, squealing, each waited for the opening that would mean destruction for the other.
Flanks heaved and their breathing became heavier, but still the furious tempo of the fight went on. Now, more than ever before, each was wary of the other. This fight had lasted too long. Both were tired; each knew his chance would come soon.
Furiously the Piebald charged. Flame moved away a fraction of a second too late, and he felt the weight of the Piebald upon his shoulders. He swerved, trying to get clear, then stumbled and fell to the ground. Frantically he regained his feet, turning to face the Piebald, who reared high to crush him. Flame rose to meet him. As their bodies met, the Piebald tried to lock the red stallion close to him. But this time Flame did not attempt to leap clear again; instead, he drove his battering forefeet hard into the Piebald, staying close and forcing the fight.
The Piebald tried to recover his balance, but the red stallion continued pounding and his teeth sank into the thick neck, secured their hold and held! Screaming in pain, the black-and-white stallion went down, and only when he was flat on the ground did Flame release his death grip; then he rose above his opponent and came down, driving his pounding forefeet into the still form that lay beneath him.
When it was over, he raised his wet, blood-soaked head, and the valley was filled with his shattering call of triumph; then he turned to his band.
Their faces white, Steve and Pitch rose uncertainly to their feet. And it was only Pitch who found words to describe his emotions. “Horrible … horrible,” he said shakingly.
Steve stood there, his glazed eyes unseeing. Then, slowly, life came back to his numbed body and he thought, It’s over … over, over. And never do I want to see another fight like it.
For several minutes they stood in silence, their eyes following the red stallion as he circled his band.
He’s alive, Steve thought. He’s killed the Piebald.
And then Pitch’s hand was upon his arm, pulling aside the torn shirt, probing, but Steve felt nothing.
Pitch said quickly, “It’s broken. I’ve got to get you out of here.” His arm went around the boy’s waist. “You’re up to it, aren’t you, Steve? It’ll be hard, but we’ve got to get you to a doctor.”
Listlessly, Steve nodded and walked beside Pitch to the trail. They had gone only a short way when Steve stopped and said, “But Flame’s hurt. He needs care.”
“You do, too,” Pitch said patiently. “He can take care of himself. He always has.”
“Yes,” Steve repeated slowly, “he always has.”
The mares had broken their ring and foals ran excitedly about, neighing to their mothers. Arrogantly Flame watched them as he trotted about with them. It was only when Steve and Pitch neared the trail that he turned to them. His small head was craned high as he whistled to Steve; then he came toward him in his long, loping canter. He stopped a few yards away and Steve went to him.
Pitch stayed behind, watching as Steve flung his arm about the ravaged neck. Then he saw the boy’s gaze move critically over the torn flesh until once more he pressed his head close to Flame’s soft muzzle.
They stayed that way for several minutes before Steve stepped back and the red stallion whirled and ran back to his band.
When Steve returned to Pitch, he said only, “He’ll be all right, I guess.”
They walked up the rocky trail until they had reached the tunnel, then they both turned back to look at the band. Flame was trotting about, his long mane and tail flowing. Once he came to a stop, and gazed upward at the ledge upon which Steve stood. His whistle filled the valley before he turned away, his eyes once more on his band.
Steve realized then that his horse belonged there; that never, never could he take him away now.
Without a word or another backward glance, he followed Pitch into the tunnel.
THEIR LOST WORLD
20
They left the quiet of the doctor’s office for the noise and busy traffic of Chestertown, Antago. As they stood upon the stone steps, Pitch said softly, “It’s like being awakened from a long dream, Steve.” His gaze left the crowded street, where automobiles and people were mixed in a crazy tangle, and fixed itself on the cast around the boy’s arm.
Pitch’s gaze was so intent that Steve asked, “What’s the matter, Pitch?”
The man’s eyes never left the cast as he said, “If it wasn’t for your arm, I’d probably think it had all been a dream.”
Their eyes met and Steve couldn’t help thinking how strange Pitch had been acting since their arrival on Antago a few hours ago. “But you know it wasn’t a dream, Pitch,” he said. “We know everything is back there, just the way it was. We can go there again whenever we like, just as you said. No one will ever know what we’ve found. No one.”
Pitch looked down at his feet for a while, then glanced at the busy street again. “It’s so different now,” he said. “I’d forgotten how … I mean, it’s just …” He paused, groping for words.
“I know, Pitch,” Steve said helpfully. “But it makes what we found all the more precio
us. We have a world of our own, Pitch! Just think of it. A world of our own!” He stopped then, his eyes afire with the full realization that he and Pitch actually possessed a lost world which now, in the clamor of Antago’s busy traffic, seemed beyond belief.
But Pitch never turned to him, nor did he say a word. He just stood there, his eyes darting uneasily about the street.
Steve watched him in growing bewilderment. “Pitch,” he finally said with effort, “what’s the matter with you? You’re not the same guy—”
“You mean,” Pitch interrupted, “I’m not the same guy I was in the valley. Maybe not, Steve. Maybe not.” He paused and glanced again at the people in the street. “I guess they did it—and all this.” He nodded his head in no particular direction. “We’re part of it now. We have responsibilities.”
“I don’t get you, Pitch. What are you driving at?”
“Back in the valley,” Pitch said slowly, “I was a boy again. I was thrilled at finding our secret world. I wanted nothing more than for us to keep it to ourselves. But I’m afraid we can’t—”
“Pitch!” Steve shouted. He had his hand on his friend’s arm. He whirled him around, forcing him to look his way. “You wouldn’t! You can’t!” His eyes were blazing in anger.
“Steve! Steve! You’ve got to understand the responsibility we have. We’ve made a discovery that should be made known to the world!”
“But, Pitch—”
They stood looking at one another, each trying to make the other understand.
“I feel the same way you do, Steve, about having our very own world. Please believe me, Steve,” Pitch pleaded. “I meant every word I said on the island about keeping it to ourselves. But now that we’re back, now that we’re a part of civilization again, I can’t help feeling that it’s our duty, our responsibility, to make known our secret.”
“And Flame?” Steve asked bitterly. “What do you think will happen to him and his band? Have you forgotten all about Tom, Pitch? You know as well as I do what he’d do with those horses. And even if I could have Flame, I wouldn’t sacrifice the others to Tom. I won’t let you do it, Pitch.” Steve’s voice was cold and determined. “I don’t know just how I’ll stop you, but I will.”
“Stop talking that way, Steve,” Pitch said angrily. “You know that I don’t want the horses to fall into Tom’s hands any more than you do. All I’m asking is that you talk this over with me, realizing, as I do now, that we have a great responsibility on our shoulders. Do you think it’s easy for me to give up what we’ve found? Don’t you realize how much I’d like to continue with my explorations?”
“I’m sorry, Pitch,” Steve said.
“It’s just that I’m older, Steve,” Pitch sought to explain, “and I do realize the importance of our discovery.”
Steve looked at him, trying to understand all that Pitch was telling him; but it was difficult, in view of his love for Flame and the band.
“Pitch,” he said finally, “don’t you think there are many places in this world where archaeologists and historians are working all by themselves? Isn’t it possible,” he continued, his words coming faster now, “that there are many men like you, who have found something of real historical value, yet who will keep their work to themselves until they’re ready to make public what they’ve found?”
“I suppose so, Steve. Yes, I’m certain there must be. I have a friend, a historian, who’s been in Tibet for a number of years on a secret project.” Pitch was looking at Steve now, and slowly the tiny pinpoints of light were reappearing in his eyes. “You mean—” He paused. “You think that I—”
“I think,” Steve said quickly, “that here’s your chance to work on something really important all by yourself. You can do all the explorations you’ve ever wanted to do. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, Pitch.”
Eagerly, yet a little afraid, Steve watched Pitch’s face. He still saw the doubt and uncertainty there, the lack of confidence.
“You could do it, Pitch. You really could,” Steve said.
“Do you really think so, Steve? I’m pretty much of a greenhorn. But I’ve read a lot. I know a great deal about the Conquistadores. Still, it’s such a big project—”
“No greenhorn could have done what you did in those tunnels,” Steve said sincerely.
Pitch was trying hard to stem the flood of eagerness that he could feel surging through him. But he failed utterly, and it was there in his eyes, shining brightly for Steve to see.
Pitch’s words came fast now. “I’m sure I could do a good job of it, Steve. Really I am. I could map every one of those tunnels. There must be many more than we found. And chambers as well. I could—Oh, Steve, there are so many things I could do. Perhaps even a book. Yes, I’d write a book about it eventually. Why, it might even make me famous!” He stopped, blushing and becoming embarrassed. “I mean that some historical society might find some good use for it.” Then he paused again, his face a little troubled. “But it will take a long time to do the right kind of job, Steve. It may take me years, doing it all alone.” Steve smiled. “That’s what I figured, Pitch. Exactly what I figured.”
“But I’ll do a thorough, competent job of it,” Pitch said with determination.
Steve took Pitch by the arm as they made their way down the stone walk. “I know you will, Pitch. And you won’t be alone all the time, because every vacation I’ll be back.”
At the gate, Pitch turned to Steve. “I can’t tell you how much better I feel. I knew that by talking it over with you we’d work something out. I never would have thought of going ahead alone and, perhaps, if I were lucky, making a name for myself. But I’m ready for it now, Steve,” he said, smiling. “I’m just as confident as can be!”
They walked down the street with Pitch protecting Steve’s broken arm from the crowd. They were passing a shipping office when Steve called Pitch’s attention to a large blackboard. “Due next Monday,” they read, “the S. S. Horn. Sails same day. Cargo space available for Puerto Rico, Haiti and the United States. Mail closes seven A.M. day of departure.”
“She’s on schedule,” Steve said.
“I’m going to miss you, Steve.”
“It won’t be long before I’ll be back again,” the boy said. “But I’ll be missing you, too, Pitch.”
In the next block, they found a taxi and climbed inside. Their driver was about to pull away from the curb when a large truck drew up alongside. The man behind the wheel of the truck shouted to them, and Steve was the first to recognize Tom.
Steve sat back in his seat, but Pitch leaned out the window and greeted his stepbrother.
Then Steve heard Tom say, “I’ve got a job to do, but I’ll be out to the house right after. Didn’t think you’d last the two weeks on Azul. Tell the kid I said that. Tell him he won his bet and can have any horse on the island he wants—if he still wants any of ’em,” he added, laughing; then Tom had his truck in gear and went on ahead.
“Well, you’ve got your horse,” Pitch said, smiling.
“Yes,” Steve agreed. “I have him, all right.”
And once more Steve was riding Flame, his face pressed close to the silken neck as the red stallion swept about an arena whose towering yellow walls were the only spectators.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walter Farley’s love for horses began when he was a small boy living in Syracuse, New York, and continued as he grew up in New York City, where his family moved. Unlike most city children, he was able to fulfill this love through an uncle who was a professional horseman. Young Walter spent much of his time with this uncle, learning about the different kinds of horse training and the people associated with them.
Walter Farley began to write his first book, The Black Stallion, while he was a student at Brooklyn’s Erasmus Hall High School and Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. He eventually finished it, and it was published in 1941 while he was still an undergraduate at Columbia University.
The appearance of The Black Stallion brought
such an enthusiastic response from young readers that Mr. Farley went on to create more stories about the Black, and about other horses as well. In his life he wrote a total of thirty-four books, including Man o’ War, the story of America’s greatest thoroughbred, and two photographic storybooks based on the two Black Stallion movies. His books have been enormously popular in the United States and have been published in twenty-one foreign countries.
Mr. Farley and his wife, Rosemary, had four children, whom they raised on a farm in Pennsylvania and at a beach house in Florida. Horses, dogs and cats were always a part of the household.
In 1989 Mr. Farley was honored by his hometown library in Venice, Florida, which established the Walter Farley Literary Landmark in its children’s wing. Mr. Farley died in October 1989, shortly before the publication of The Young Black Stallion, the twenty-first book in the Black Stallion series. Mr. Farley co-authored The Young Black Stallion with his son, Steven.
Turn the page
for an exciting preview of
WALTER FARLEY’S SECOND TITLE
FEATURING FLAME,
available in paperback from Random House
BLUE VALLEY
1
Azul Island broke the turquoise blue waters with a startling suddenness. One saw it not as an island but as a massive, egg-shaped boulder dropped into the sea. The islands of the Caribbean Sea are tropical and luxurious in their soft green vegetation and colorful flowers. There was nothing soft or green or colorful about Azul Island.
Its precipitous walls rose naked from the sea, rising a thousand or more feet in the sky until they rounded off to form the dome-shaped top of Azul Island. It was barren and foreboding, with the sea beating white against its barrier walls, seeking entrance and finding none.
Only on large-scale navigation maps of the far eastern area of the Caribbean Sea could the island be found. It ran north and south, nine miles long. But no ships ever passed it unless driven far off their course. Neither did any air lane come within five hundred miles of it. So except for the people of the nearest inhabited island, Antago, a little more than twenty miles to the southwest, Azul Island was little known and untouched.