When Pitch opened his eyes again, the gray light of dawn had blotted out the stars. For a moment Pitch could have been anywhere; then he heard the shrill call of the stallion and it pierced his sleep-laden mind, bringing it back to reality. Quickly he turned to the blanket beside him. It was empty but wrinkled, and at least he knew that Steve had lain down on it sometime during the night.
As he glanced over toward the walls, he noticed that the stove was already burning.
A hundred yards beyond, Pitch saw the stallion slowly moving away from Steve, who stood watching him. Steve was holding a pot in his hand; he turned just then and started back toward the stove.
Pitch rose to his feet and went over to the stove. He waited until Steve was within earshot before asking, “Have you been up the whole night?”
There were dark circles under Steve’s eyes. “I slept a little,” he said, placing the pot down on the ground.
“What have you been up to?”
“He’s got a bad cut on his chest,” Steve replied. “It was dirty. I cleaned it just now.”
Pitch cast a quick glance at the first-aid kit that lay on the ground beside Steve’s pack. The package of gauze was open.
“I just used hot water and soap,” Steve was saying as he bent over the kit. “I want to put some iodine on the cut a little later on.”
“But maybe iodine is too strong for him, Steve,” Pitch protested. “It’ll burn like the devil. Have you thought of that? It might undo all the good you’ve done.”
“I thought of diluting it with water,” Steve answered, his voice troubled, too.
“Did you have much of a job getting the cut cleaned?”
“A little,” was all Steve said.
Pitch knew it had been more difficult than Steve would admit. It was one thing to stroke the stallion and another to cleanse his lacerated flesh. “Let’s have some breakfast,” he finally said with attempted lightness. “I’m sure hungry.”
While Pitch boiled the water, Steve opened a can of ham and prepared the powdered eggs. They spoke little while breakfast was being cooked, and it was only when they were eating that Pitch said, “I suppose you want to stay here with him.” He didn’t wait for Steve’s reply, but went on. “I thought I’d go back to Blue Valley. There are some caves I’d like to look into. Wouldn’t be surprised at what I might find in them.”
“But we were going to …” Steve paused, then continued in a steady voice, “… we were going to look for the way back to the dory.”
“That can wait awhile,” Pitch returned. “Or I might even stumble on it.” He smiled as he saw the concern on Steve’s face. “And don’t think for a moment that I’ll get lost again. I guess we’ve both learned our lesson on that score. I’m not taking any chances, Steve, so don’t you worry about me. I still have the chalk, and I’ll be able to mark every inch of the way if I happen to go into any of those tunnels. No more arrows like the last time. And I’ll have burning torches this time—they don’t break.” He laughed before adding, “But I probably won’t even look for the way back, Steve. As I said, there’s plenty to find in those caves near the waterfall to keep me busy.”
“But Pitch—”
“You’d only slow me down, Steve,” Pitch interrupted. “I can save time by going alone. And after all, you’re more interested in Flame than in anything I might find. You have your work, Steve—I have mine. Let it go at that.”
Steve studied Pitch for several minutes before saying, “I’ll be back at the cliff tonight, Pitch.” Then he dropped his eyes to the food in front of him as he said, almost inaudibly, “Thanks, Pitch.”
They had finished breakfast and were washing the pots when Pitch spoke again. “I’ll wait until you put the iodine on him. You might need some help.”
Steve turned and looked at his horse, who was now grazing some distance away. “I wonder,” he began, then stopped, going to the first-aid kit.
He poured some of the iodine into a pot and added water. “You think that’s enough, Pitch?”
“I think so, Steve. You’ve cut it by about half. It shouldn’t be too strong for him now. He’ll feel it, though. You’re still sure you’d better not just leave the wound alone?”
“I can’t, Pitch,” Steve returned solemnly. “Infection could so easily set in now.”
Pitch didn’t reply, and they sat watching the stallion in silence.
The gray light of early morning had given way to the brightness of day when Steve rose to his feet. He went to the first-aid kit, and taking up the package of gauze, tore a long piece from the roll, which he folded carefully; then he went over to the stove and picked up the pot containing the iodine solution.
It had been difficult enough cleaning the thigh wound only with water, for he had had to stand quietly beside the stallion for many hours, stroking him until he could draw the cloth across the cut. It would be much more difficult now, because although the iodine had been diluted it would still smart and burn when applied to Flame’s open wound. And Steve knew that as a result his horse might forever be afraid of him.
Pitch asked, “Are you going now?”
Steve didn’t answer, but the steps he took away from the stove were all the reply Pitch needed. He watched Steve walk down to the floor of the valley. He heard him call to the stallion who was grazing fifty or more yards away from him. Flame raised his head and, although he returned to his grazing, seemingly ignoring the boy, his searching muzzle and chopping teeth brought him closer and closer to Steve.
Steve made no attempt to hide the cloth or pot. As he approached the stallion Flame looked up at him and at the pot the boy was holding. Blowing out his nostrils, Flame turned away from Steve. But he didn’t run, and Steve followed, talking all the while.
When Flame reached the stream and stopped to drink, Steve placed the pot down on the ground and dipped the gauze in the antiseptic until it was thoroughly soaked; then, taking the dripping cloth with him, he approached the stallion.
Steve stroked the horse as he drank, then dipped his left hand in the stream and wet Flame’s matted mane. His hand didn’t stop when it came to the end of the mane, but traveled across the muscled withers until it rested upon Flame’s chest. Just below Steve’s hand was the open wound.
Steve held the cloth in his other hand. He hesitated a moment before taking this next step, knowing full well that possibly it might be the last time he would be able to stand so close to his horse; for he had decided to hold the cloth on the wound as long as he could. He would not dab as he had done that morning, when he had been using only water.
Flame stomped his hind foot and swished his long tail about. He had stopped drinking and was moving to a new spot to graze. Steve walked along with him, his hand still upon him.
Finally the stallion came to a halt again. Steve glanced at the folded gauze in his hand, then at the flesh ravaged by the Piebald. Now was the time. The muscles in his face became taut, and then his hand moved forward, slowly at first until the gauze was but a few inches from the wound. He kept talking to the stallion as he placed the cloth over the wound and pressed it firmly onto the flesh.
For a fraction of a second the stallion stood still; then, as the diluted iodine penetrated his raw skin, he snorted and sidestepped quickly.
Steve watched him go, knowing the job had been done.
Flame galloped in long, fast strides until he reached the walls; then he slowed down to a trot before he finally stopped. He turned to the boy, shrilling loudly, as though in reproach; then he went back to his grazing.
It stung him only for a few seconds, Steve thought. He really didn’t act up as much as I thought he might. And it’s done now.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Steve turned. “You got it on him?” Pitch asked. Steve nodded, and together they walked back to their packs.
A short time later Steve watched Pitch cross the valley floor and disappear within the gorge; then the boy sat down upon his unrolled blanket.
Flame was grazing about a
quarter of a mile away.
Steve’s eyes rested on the stallion for a long time. Then he thought, I’d better leave him alone for a little while longer. If I don’t go after him, perhaps he’ll come to me. I don’t want to push him. I want him to come to me. It’s better that way.
Large, billowy clouds appeared overhead, but through them burst the morning sun, warming the upper valley with its light. Steve, welcoming the sun’s rays, lay back on the blanket, his head turned to one side and his eyes resting on Flame. The stallion had moved from the shadows along the walls out into the sun, and his body glowed a fiery red. His long tail no longer trailed the ground but swished constantly about his body.
“Flies,” muttered Steve. “They’re starting to bother him.”
The boy’s eyes closed. He was tired. He’d rest for a while, then go to his horse again. It had been a long night, and as he’d told Pitch, he hadn’t had much sleep. But it had been worth it. Now he’d just rest for a little while. He wouldn’t go to sleep, just rest. Resting was as good as sleeping, anyway. But he didn’t want to rest very long, either. There was so much to do today. No more iodine, just being with his horse. He wanted to be around him a lot so that before long Flame would take his presence very much for granted. Flame would never know why he had cleaned his wound and put the iodine on it. He’d remember only that it had stung him and he hadn’t liked it. But it had had to be done. There was plenty of time to make amends … plenty of time.
Steve’s eyes remained closed as the sun’s warmth slowly relaxed his taut muscles. He felt his face become hot, and for a moment he didn’t even think of Flame. And in that moment he fell asleep.
He didn’t know how long he had lain there when suddenly he felt something soft and wet against his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Flame standing close beside him!
The stallion’s muzzle moved about the grass, and Steve realized that was what had touched his face a few minutes before. He lay there quietly, but his eyes devoured the stallion.
Don’t rush to him, he told himself. Take it nice and easy. Take him for granted, too. Just pretend you’ve always been with him. You can sit up now, but don’t rush to him yet. Take it easy as you did last night. He likes you or he wouldn’t be here. He’s getting used to you, Steve!
Slowly Steve rose to a sitting position, talking to his horse, his eyes going to the chest wound. It was still clean, but he’d have to watch it for any infection that might develop. Shifting his gaze to the other cuts on the stallion’s body, he found that hard scabs had already formed over them. There was no sign of infection in any of them.
Flame’s head rose a few inches from the ground, his neck extended. He shook his mane and his body twitched.
Steve saw the large flies hovering above him and about his girth. Flame’s tail whipped at them like a lash. Then he sniffed the ground and moved away until he had found a slight depression in the ground. Carefully, he lowered himself down to it and rolled over on his back. Long legs thrashed the air as he grunted in pleasure. Finally he turned over on his side again before rolling over once more and driving his back into the soft earth.
Steve waited until the horse had risen to his feet and had shaken himself before going to him. Anxiously he looked at the chest wound and to his relief found it to be still clean.
Gently Steve’s hand swept over the giant body until it came to rest upon the mane; then he stroked the slender neck and small head which had jerked up at his touch.
Flame’s flashing eyes turned from side to side, but he remained still; then, as though satisfied there was nothing to fear, he went back to his grazing.
Hour after hour Steve stayed with his horse, talking to him as though Flame understood everything he had to say. He walked with him about the valley while the sun moved slowly across the sky and began its descent. And, very often, as he looked at the glistening body beside him, studying the strong limbs and well-muscled withers, chest and shoulders, all of which indicated tremendous strength, and the sculptured head and neck that indicated a perfect breed, he thought of what it would be like to ride this horse. But he never let himself think of it too long or too often, for it was enough, at this moment, that he walked beside him. Yet he could dream—and dream he did as he watched the red stallion throughout the day. He saw himself riding Flame about the valley and, at times, could even feel the surge of the stallion’s giant muscles beneath his knees.
But with the setting of the sun behind the walls to the west, Steve left his horse.
I’ll leave everything here, he thought. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll just take my blanket. Pitch will have enough food for both of us.
Steve went over to Flame, stood with him a few minutes more, then reluctantly turned toward the gorge that would take him back to Blue Valley. He hadn’t walked very far when he heard Flame’s shrill whistle and, turning, saw the stallion moving slowly toward him.
Steve stood still while the horse stopped to graze again. The boy’s eyes took in the ever-lengthening shadows, and he knew he had to go now if he was to get back to Pitch before dark. So, turning, he walked on. Behind him he could hear Flame’s hoofs as the stallion followed him.
Steve didn’t stop until he had reached the ascent to the gorge; then he turned and found Flame close behind him. Going up to him, he stroked the pink-skinned muzzle.
“I’ll be back, Flame,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The red stallion whinnied and thrust his nose into the hollow of Steve’s hand. There was no hatred or menace in his large eyes now; nothing was there but wonder. When Steve turned away from him, going up to the entrance to the gorge, the stallion did not follow; instead he turned in the direction of the valley floor as though he wanted none of the trail ahead.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” Steve repeated aloud, as the walls closed in upon him. “And the day after—and the one after that. Oh, if only I could be with him always!”
Always!
WINGED HOOFS
16
Tomorrow … and the day after … and the one after that.
Five days came and went, with each morning’s sun finding Steve in the smaller valley. He lived for the hours of daylight when he could be with his horse. Yet he reckoned the passing of time only by the condition of the scabs upon Flame’s wounds, scabs that hardened until finally they began cracking off, giving way, piece by piece, to the new skin beneath.
And each night back in Blue Valley, Pitch listened as Steve spoke of the stallion’s speedy recovery and of Flame coming to him at his call. After the first few nights, Pitch had let himself think that Steve’s enthusiasm for the red stallion would lessen, but again he found he still did not understand the relationship between the boy and the horse; for if anything, Steve became more intense, his voice more excited, as he told Pitch about Flame during the nights that followed.
And Pitch, when Steve had finished talking each evening, would tell the boy of his day’s explorations, would show him the sextant he’d found, the pistol with the handle etched in gold, small ammunition and the dagger. But he knew that Steve never really looked at them, and thought only of his horse. Even when Pitch told Steve how well he was learning his way around the tunnels and that one day soon he was certain he would come upon the way back to the dory, he wondered if the boy actually listened to him. It was as though Steve didn’t care about ever leaving this valley—as though he wanted to remain here always with his horse.
It was only when Pitch spoke of the Piebald, which he did more often now, that Steve’s eyes disclosed his attentiveness. The Piebald worried Pitch. The Piebald stood between him and his complete freedom of the valley, for Pitch feared the black-and-white stallion more with every day that passed.
“If it weren’t for him,” he told Steve one night, “I could get around this valley a lot easier. I’m certain I could find plenty by doing some digging down there, but he keeps me away. Oh, I’m not thinking of right now, Steve, because I have plenty of stuff to take back on this trip.
I don’t want to bring back too much, you know, for fear someone will get wise to what we’ve found. But later on I’d like to look around the valley floor—do a thorough job of it, I mean. I can’t with that Piebald around.” And then Pitch had stopped, his gaze unwavering as he looked at Steve. “But I could do it if Flame led the band again,” he went on. “When do you think he’ll be coming back, Steve? He’s going to return to his band, isn’t he? He won’t just stay in the smaller valley, will he?”
Steve had merely shrugged his shoulders, and before Pitch could continue, the boy had changed the subject.
This dawn, as Steve walked through the gorge toward the smaller valley, he thought: Should it be this morning? Have I waited long enough? Flame lets me put my weight on him. He’s never given me any trouble. What difference will it make to him whether I’m leaning on him or sitting upon his back? I just want to sit there, that’s all I want to do.
For the first few days, Steve had only dreamed of riding his horse, but then dreams had given way to a great desire actually to press his knees close to the muscled withers, to sit astride his horse. So for many hours he had stood and walked patiently beside Flame, his weight resting more and more heavily upon the red stallion.
The smaller valley opened before Steve, and the boy’s eyes eagerly sought Flame. He found him in the center of the valley. Already Flame had turned in his direction with ears pricked forward, alert to the slightest sound, and head craned high.
Steve called to him, but even before the words had left his mouth, the valley echoed to the shrill whistle of the stallion; then Flame was moving toward him, no longer hesitant as in earlier days, no longer stopping to graze, but taking long, swift strides, his long tail and mane whipping the air like searing flame. He swept across the valley floor until he reached the ascent to the gorge, where suddenly he came to a stop. Shaking his head, he whinnied repeatedly, his eyes never leaving the boy.
And as Steve walked forward to meet him, the brightness left the boy’s eyes for a fraction of a second, to be replaced by soberness.