“If you don’t return?” Steve repeated, startled. “What do you mean, Pitch? Even if Tom does force you to bring him here, you’ll be free to return to Antago.”
“Will I?” Pitch’s words were more for himself than for Steve. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He raised his voice as his eyes met the boy’s anxious gaze. “But the letter should bring help enough to stop Tom from destroying everything if I can’t get back. And if the instructions aren’t absolutely clear to my friends, you can lead them back. But I’d rather you didn’t,” he added soberly.
“I lead them back? Pitch! I’ll be with you!”
“You won’t, Steve. You’ll go to Antago with me tomorrow morning and stay there.”
“I won’t. You’ll need help if anything goes wrong. I’m coming back with you.”
“You’ll help more by leading our party back to Blue Valley if necessary,” Pitch said, seeking to keep calm before the boy’s defiance. “You’ll be helping me and the band. You know as well as I do what’ll happen to the horses if Tom ever has a free hand with them.”
Steve looked at his friend for a long while but said nothing. He didn’t want to leave Pitch alone to face Tom. And yet, if anything did go wrong, he could lead friends back to Blue Valley just as Pitch had said. But wouldn’t the letter serve the same purpose? The paneled doors above the sea hole could be left open, and those who followed would have no trouble finding it with Pitch’s written directions. Meanwhile, he could be with Pitch to help him, if necessary.
Steve saw the hardness in Pitch’s eyes, which told him as well as words that it would be useless to argue just now. A little later it might be different. But not now.
They returned to the ledge and stretched out on their blankets. Steve closed his eyes to induce sleep, which didn’t come. His heart was beating very rapidly, as though he were doing some violent exercise. A frightening weakness absorbed his body. For the first time in his life his body shook with fear, and he sweated even though the night air was cool. He could think only of Tom and his bull whip; Tom in the tunnels, such a short distance away; Tom in Blue Valley. Was it the end, as Pitch thought?
He decided to get a drink of water. He told himself he was thirsty. But he wasn’t. He wanted to stand, to walk, to rid himself of a terrifying weakness in mind and body. He went to the water canteen, only to find it empty. He welcomed the walk to the stream above to fill the canteen. He went up the trail to the great opening and gazed into its blackness, thinking of Tom. Then he turned away quickly to fill the canteen and to look out over Blue Valley.
It was a moonless night, but the stars were so close and there were so many of them that their light brightened the valley. Steve made out the dark silhouettes of the horses. He listened to them cropping the grass. He heard a short neigh from the colt in Bottle Canyon. He saw Flame moving quickly on light, ghostly hoofs across the valley. A few minutes later, the stallion had stopped to graze again.
Steve watched him, thinking of Flame’s tearing teeth, his thrashing forehoofs and powerful, pounding hind legs. If ever Tom found Blue Valley, he would seek to dominate Flame. And the stallion would answer his challenge. It would be a terrible, horrible fight, one that never should be given the chance to start.
Steve descended the trail to the ledge. He put down the full canteen without taking a drink. But he felt better for his walk; the weakness had left his legs. Going to his blanket, he lay down again, hoping sleep would come. He needed all the rest he could get.
Tomorrow they had to face Tom, bargain with him. Pitch was right; there was no alternative but to go through with the plan he had suggested. They couldn’t let Tom die. They couldn’t keep him a prisoner within the tunnels. For if they did either, they would be as cruel and vicious as he. They had to let him go.
It was many hours later when Steve finally fell asleep, dreading the day to come.
AMBUSH!
12
Pitch, awakening a little before dawn, found that Steve was asleep. Good, he thought. He wouldn’t disturb him.
Quietly he got to his feet. Steve did not stir as he heated the last can of soup and poured it into his canteen. Finally he turned away and started up the trail. His intention was to feed Tom now so he and Steve could get an early start for Antago. He’d return alone to Azul Island late this afternoon to bargain with Tom.
Entering the tunnels, Pitch turned on his flashlight. He didn’t expect any trouble. He doubted that Tom would be conscious of what was going on. Soup was good for him now, and this afternoon when he got back he would give him something more substantial. With solid foods, Tom’s recovery would be rapid. Tonight would be a good time to face him … before he got too strong again.
Pitch’s steps quickened, taking him ever closer to the giant whom he didn’t know was conscious and already waiting for him.
Tom lay in the blackness of the tunnels, his eyes open and staring. He listened for the sound of footsteps, knowing that eventually they must come. He still retained the taste of chicken in his mouth, so he knew he had been fed. The renewed strength in his arms and legs told him so, too. He drew up a leg, then stretched it out again and drew up the other. He lifted his arms high, then brought them back to rest upon his massive chest. Again he listened for the slightest sound, but the tunnels were quiet. After a few minutes he sat up. His body wavered a little. Satisfied that he could sit upright he lay back once more and waited … waited for Phil to bring him food.
His thin lips were drawn back in what could have been a smile. Who else but Phil would have fed him? He closed his eyes to shut out the blackness of the tunnels which brought back all the agonizing memories of his fight for life. He hated this black, tomblike world. But soon, very soon, he’d leave it behind. He was alive. He’d won. Whatever lay beyond, whatever Phil and the kid had found was his! He’d play it smart. Perhaps Phil intended to leave him here to die. No, Phil wouldn’t have the guts for that. He might intend keeping him a prisoner here but Phil wouldn’t let him die.
“I’ll just wait,” he told himself. “I’ll play along with him when he comes. I’ll let him feed me again, thinking I’m still unconscious. And when he goes I’ll follow him … to find what he finds!”
When he heard the soft footsteps on the stone, he opened his eyes. He smiled, for he would have known the sound of Phil’s steps anywhere, any place, any time. For a moment he watched the bobbing light coming toward him, then shut his eyes once more.
His breathing was deep and regular when the light was directed on his face. He felt a hand lift his head; it was a small hand, soft and gentle, Phil’s hand. The metal of the canteen was pressed to his mouth, and the soup was warm and good as it ran down his throat. He drank without opening his eyes. He waited. He wanted to smile again, but he knew it would only give him away and spoil his plan.
The canteen was taken from his mouth; his head was lowered to the floor. And then came the sound of Phil’s retreating footsteps. He opened his eyes and sat up. For just a few seconds he watched the bobbing light, then he struggled to his feet. He swayed drunkenly at first, but the soup had given him additional strength and steadied him. Hunched over, he stole silently along the low tunnel, following the light that would take him out of this black world.
Steve awakened to the sound of a pan being placed on the stove. He saw that it was light and well after dawn.
Pitch said, “Breakfast is ready. I let you sleep.”
The box containing Pitch’s relics had been moved to the ledge. Seeing it, Steve remembered with startling suddenness and dread all that lay ahead of them on this day. He went to the stream to wash, and when he returned Pitch handed him his plate of bacon and toast.
“I’ve fed him,” Pitch said quietly while Steve ate.
Startled, the boy looked up from his food. “You mean you’ve been to him already?”
“Early,” Pitch said.
“Nothing happened?”
“No. He’s still pretty weak, I guess. He didn’t even open h
is eyes.” Pitch finished his breakfast before speaking again. “The box will be heavy but I think we’ll be able to manage it.” Removing the lid, he neatly placed his briefcase, containing manuscript and photographs, on top; then he covered the box again.
Steve watched him without saying a word.
“I have a few personal things already in the bank vault,” Pitch continued, “so another box of mine being put there shouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions. And it’ll be nailed tight.”
As he helped himself to more coffee, his hand shook. He looked at Steve to see if the boy had noticed. Steve hadn’t for his eyes were on his plate of untouched food. “Eat your breakfast, Steve,” Pitch urged. “You’ll need it.”
Pitch said nothing more until the boy had finished his food. “I’ve written the letter I spoke about,” he said. “So in case anything …”
“Pitch! Nothing’s going to happen to you. Tom wouldn’t dare! He’ll be only too glad that you’ll show him the way out of the tunnels. It’s what will happen later, when he’s free and can return, that we have to worry about.”
“Perhaps. But I must be ready for anything, Steve.” Pitch paused, then intentionally changed the subject. “You’ve decided to take the colt?”
Steve nodded.
“It’s the wisest thing to do,” Pitch agreed. “Until we learn Tom’s next move, the colt will be safer on Antago. I’m ready to go, Steve. I’ll help you feed him.”
“It isn’t necessary, Pitch. I can feed him myself just as I have been doing.” Steve poured the last of the milk formula from the gallon jug into the nursing bottle. He wouldn’t have to prepare any more until he got to Antago.
“I’ll go with you to feed him,” Pitch said. “There’s nothing else for me to do. And the sooner we get the foal fed and are on our way the better, Steve. We’ll take the box to the launch first, then come back for the colt. It’ll be almost noon before we’re ready to leave the island.”
They went down the trail, Pitch hurriedly taking the lead. Reaching the valley floor, they started for Bottle Canyon. Steve saw the foal at the gate, awaiting him. In the distance Flame could be seen, grazing apart from the rest of the band. Steve knew his stallion would come to him when he and Pitch started up the valley, carrying the box. And Flame would follow them to the launch, unaware of the peril which he and they faced.
Steve lowered the top bar of the gate and stepped over the one beneath it. Pitch followed, replacing the top bar. “We won’t let him out,” the man said.
The colt eagerly reached for the bottle and Steve let him have it. Pitch’s hands were on the silky body.
“He won’t leave,” Steve said. “You don’t have to hold him unless you want to.” He held the bottle higher, making it easier for the colt to get all the milk. “I probably could lead him at the same time we’re carrying the box, Pitch. It would mean only one trip to the launch then.”
“He might get away and hurt himself again,” Pitch objected. “It’s best if we make a special trip just for him. Besides, we’ll have to carry him through the gorge. We couldn’t handle him and the box too.”
“Yes, Pitch, you’re right.”
They left the colt neighing repeatedly behind them and started across the valley again. Halfway to the trail, they heard running hoofs and turned to find Flame coming toward them. Pitch moved closer to Steve.
The red stallion reached them. He stopped abruptly, rose and pawed the air; then he whirled his giant body as though his hind legs were rooted to the ground, came down and bolted away. He cut a wide circle and came back, this time stopping in back of Steve to nuzzle the boy’s shirt.
Steve ran his hands through Flame’s mane, untangling the matted hairs; then suddenly he put his arms around the long neck and pressed his head hard against it.
Pitch said softly, “Come on, Steve. It’s getting late.” He put a hand on the boy’s arm, gently pulling him away from the stallion.
Flame followed them, pushing his body hard against Steve all the time. Only when they had reached the trail did he turn away and go back to his band.
Tears over which Steve had no control filled his eyes as he followed Pitch up the steep ascent. He stumbled on a small stone, regained his balance and went on, concentrating on the trail so as to avoid stumbling again. He didn’t know Pitch had come to a sudden stop, and he crashed hard against him. He looked up. “Pitch, why are you …”
Pitch had one foot on the ledge. He stood there, not a muscle moving, deathly still.
And then Steve looked past him and saw Tom.
He stood towering above them, his pig-eyes burning brightly. The heavy whiskers about his mouth were dirty with food. He smiled, showing his small, square teeth. “Welcome back,” he said. One hand reached out toward Pitch.
SNAKE WHIP
13
Everything about Tom was as Steve remembered. He was hard, vicious, evil. Yet now he was helping Pitch onto the ledge. Such courtesy was foreign to this man. And when he spoke his voice was soft, too soft.
“It’s good seeing you again, Phil.” Tom turned his gaze on Steve, and the boy knew there was something different about his eyes, too. Hate and lust were still there, but mingled with them was a kind of terror, sadness … even an appeal for help.
“And you. Steve’s your name, isn’t it? Come up, Steve. Join us.” He turned away and walked to the center of the ledge.
Steve was ready to run back down the trail, to flee from Tom at Pitch’s first signal. But his friend’s eyes never turned to him, never left Tom; yet Pitch said nothing to his stepbrother. Steve noticed the three empty cans, the last of their food, which Tom had finished. Pitch’s briefcase had been removed from the box but was unopened; the rolled map lay beside it. Tom was standing beside the box. Pitch moved forward, and Steve knew then they were not going to run away from Tom.
Pitch stopped a few feet away from Tom; he stood there silently watching his stepbrother. Finally he said, “Now that you know, Tom, I …” He stopped abruptly, for Tom had turned upon him.
Now, Steve noticed, Tom’s eyes were the same as he’d remembered. No longer did they contain any sadness or fear or appeal for help. Only hate and contempt were there. Tom leaned forward, his body swaying a little … just his eyes seemed alive. But again he turned away from Pitch, this time to look out upon the valley. And when he spoke his voice was still soft.
“Now there’s something,” he said. He spoke as a man would speak if he owned the whole world. And he looked as such a man might look. “Imagine all this being here without anyone ever knowing.” His eyes were following the movements of the band. Steve watched him, his heart sick, his body numb.
“Tom, since you now know we must …” Pitch’s voice faltered again, then broke completely.
Steve turned to him, aware of the terrible fear that gripped Pitch. What could Pitch say that would matter now? They had to wait for Tom, to see what he would do. And now the giant turned to them once more, his little eyes staring. His lips moved but no words came, only sounds almost animal-like, choking and short.
Steve’s heart was pounding hard, driving the numbness away. He realized now that they were not dealing with a sane man, that Tom was sick, mentally sick. Maybe Pitch had known it all along. Or maybe it had happened to Tom in the tunnels.
Tom’s body stiffened. Like something inhuman, he uttered a growl, a snarl; then he was still. For a long time there was no change, then Steve saw the terror come to Tom’s eyes again, the terrible sadness and fear and appeal for help. Yet there was nothing they could do for him … or for themselves.
He was walking now. He went to Pitch. “I finished all the food, Phil,” he said, his voice still soft. “But you’ll get more for me, won’t you?”
Pitch nodded and turned away.
“Oh, not now. I’ve had enough for now. I wouldn’t want you to leave.” He smiled and only vengeance and hate were in his eyes.
“I found you,” Pitch said brokenly. “You would have died, Tom.”
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Steve moved closer to his friend. Why was Pitch even trying to reason with Tom? It would do no good. They must try to escape!
“I know you’ll get me food, Phil.” Tom’s voice rose until it became a contemptuous snarl; then he laughed loudly for the first time. “You’ll do anything I want you to do, won’t you? I can say kneel and you will kneel, crawl and you will crawl. I’m a little god, Phil, aren’t I? I have power, absolute power. There’s nothing I can’t do here. And no one would ever know.”
He turned toward Steve. “You too,” he said. “You’ll do everything I say, won’t you?”
Steve nodded without looking at him. He couldn’t stand looking into those eyes any more. He wanted to run, but he and Pitch had to make the break together. Neither could be left behind to bear the crazed wrath of this man.
Tom stooped down. “What junk you have here, Phil,” he said, removing the lid from the box. “What is it?”
“Relics … relics left by the Spaniards.”
Steve saw the agony, the fear in Pitch’s face. He supposed his own face looked no different. Tom was sick … he would kill if aroused or if he thought it necessary. But not now. He was going to take what he wanted, beat them down slowly, torturously, break them to his will. It was his way even now. He had not forgotten.
Yet knowing all this, Pitch was trying to be calm, to be rational with this man!
Tom straightened, holding a spur in his hand. “They knew how to make a horse mind,” he said, fingering the sharp rowel.
Suddenly Steve felt the giant’s blunt fingers on his shoulder. But they did not press deep into his flesh as he’d expected. Instead, Tom patted him. “Now, you’re not at all like Phil,” he said, and there was a mild friendliness to his tone. “You go after horses, not stuff like this. You got to that red stallion. I was watching you.”