Steve looked at Pitch, trying to find some solace in the fact that his friend’s face was no longer swollen, his lips no longer black. It was funny, he reflected, that he should be giving even a thought to that now … when it didn’t matter at all.
From outside they heard Flame’s sharp whistle, then the beat of his hoofs. And when all was still again Tom’s shouts and cries came to them from the valley floor. But they couldn’t make out his words.
They went to the great opening and crawled outside, ever fearful, ever careful.
Flame stood just below with only his nostrils moving; the rest of his body was rigid, and the cold light of dawn turned his coat into frozen fire. His eyes were on Tom, now scrambling up the trail.
“Tom tried to get up the valley,” Steve said. “Flame stopped him. He stopped him just as I said he might, Pitch.”
Tom reached the ledge. He stood there, his body rocking back and forth, back and forth. He put one hand up to his neck, his eyes. His fingers seemed to be digging, tearing into his very eyeballs.
“Oh, God, dear God, please help him,” Pitch’s lips moved in prayer. And Steve knew that neither Pitch nor he could bear any revenge toward Tom, only pity and sadness and fear.
Flame screamed again. And the sudden shrillness of it broke forever the slightest aspects of sanity which Tom had been fighting to retain. Now the mental fight was over. He screamed back at the stallion. He raced about the ledge, pawing the air with his hands, laughing, crying, shouting with no pause, going from one phase to the other, hysterically, madly.
It went on long after Flame had returned to his band. Suddenly Tom looked up the trail and saw Pitch and Steve standing there, unmoving, their startled eyes fixed upon him. He became silent.
Pitch’s hand found Steve’s arm. But neither he nor the boy ran. They could only stare at Tom pityingly, helpless to do anything for him.
And he kept staring at them. Only when the colt neighed again did he finally turn away to look toward the canyon. For many minutes he watched the colt behind the gate, then focused his attention on the stallion and band that grazed a good mile away.
His gaze swept back to them. His lips moved without words. Then his voice came, deep and guttural. “Come down. I’ll get your colt. I’ll …” His lips continued moving but no further words could be heard.
They didn’t have to hear the rest. They knew he was threatening to harm the colt if they didn’t go down.
He stood there, rocking and waiting for a long while; then he turned away from them and watched the colt, the stallion and band again.
When Tom touched the whip about his waist, when he picked up two coils of rope from the ledge, Pitch and Steve knew he meant to carry out his threat. With fearful, terrified eyes they could only watch.
They saw Tom go to the valley floor; there he dropped one rope at the foot of the trail and then went to the snubbing post and tied the end of the second rope about it. He walked swiftly and sure. His movements belied the madness that wracked his brain. It was as though he were now treading familiar ground and there was no fear within him. Yet his eyes never left the band and Flame.
They watched him walk softly, stealthily toward Bottle Canyon, toward the colt. Only Steve’s eyes were alive. He didn’t feel Pitch’s arm on him. He didn’t know he was being guided down the trail, a few steps at a time. He didn’t know, although Pitch told him over and over again, that they were going to try to reach the valley floor while Tom went for the colt.
“We must wait until he reaches the canyon,” Pitch said, coming to a stop just below the ledge. “He thinks he can get back before we have a chance of getting down the trail. But he can’t, Steve. We can make it if we run hard once he’s at the canyon.”
The boy stood deathly still, his body rigid beneath Pitch’s hand. Pitch wondered if Steve had heard him. Did he understand what they had to do? Pitch himself didn’t dare take his eyes off Tom a minute. A few feet more and Tom would be at the canyon. Another minute and they could risk running down the trail. If they could only reach the valley without Tom’s seeing them. If they could only get a good start, they’d have a chance, a real chance of getting away!
Pitch’s body trembled. Tom was at the gate. The top bar came down, then the second bar. The colt moved out into the valley. Tom reached for his halter.
“Now, Steve!”
Pitch took another step down the trail, then froze in his tracks. Tom had turned around! He was coming back. He was running his very fastest.
A sad whimper escaped Pitch’s lips. For a few seconds he was incapable of doing anything but watching Tom racing toward them. Suddenly he came to his senses and started pushing Steve ahead of him. It was then that he heard the shrill, clarion call of the stallion, and he realized it was Flame who had caused Tom to turn back. If Flame had given them only a few minutes more! Steve was going up the trail so slowly. Pitch pushed harder against him. He looked back at Tom.
But Tom wasn’t coming up the trail. He had already passed it. He was going to the post. He was going to fight Flame!
Pitch turned to Steve. The boy had come to a stop, fully aware of the terrible, horrible drama about to take place beneath them.
Tom had reached the post. Arrogantly he stood before it, the coiled rope in his left hand, the bull whip in his right. “Come on, you stud horse! Come on!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Flame swept across the valley.
THE FIGHT
17
Flame’s feet barely touched the ground as he came ever closer. His small ears were pricked forward and fire burned in his eyes. As he neared Tom, his ears swept back until they were flat against his head.
With the charging stallion less than a hundred yards away, Tom moved behind the post and cocked the wrist of his whip hand. He was ready.
Pitch said, “He’ll stop him with the whip.”
Steve shook his head. “He won’t. He’ll be killed, trampled.”
They saw the long leather of the whip start to move when Flame was still fifty yards from the post. Tom brought back his arm. They couldn’t see the leather as it streaked through the air, but they heard its pistol-like crack.
The sharp retort slowed the strides of the running stallion but didn’t stop him. The whip spoke again, and now it cracked incessantly as Tom brought it back and forth, shattering the air. But Flame came on with dilated nostrils and thin lips drawn back. Screaming, he came to within fifty feet of Tom … thirty feet … and then he was within the range of the whip.
The leather bit deeply into his chest; he came to an abrupt stop, pawing furiously.
Steve closed his eyes. Move, Flame. Move. Don’t stand there!
But the stallion only rose high in the air, seeking to pummel this long, snakelike thing that reached out to strike him. Again the whip bit into him, tearing at the softness of his belly. Screaming in rage and pain, he came down and the whip struck his chest. He rose, pawing, and once more the whip found his belly. When he came down, he stood still for a second, shaking in his fury, undecided what to do. His red eyes found the man who was standing a short distance away from him.
“Flame!” Steve shouted to his horse when he saw him standing still. “Go! Go! Go!”
Tom had been waiting for this precise second. Quickly he threw the rope and the noose arched cleanly in the air, then dropped over the stallion’s head, settling around his neck.
Too late to avoid the lasso, Flame moved. He charged the man, screaming in all his fury and hatred.
Furiously the giant worked his whip, but the stallion came on, too close now to suffer the full impact of the long leather. Fear came to Tom’s eyes as Flame sought his body with pawing hoofs. He kept the pole between them, narrowly avoiding the thrashing forelegs. He struck hard with the heavy butt end of the whip, which landed on the stallion’s nose. Again and again he struck, always keeping the post between them, staying on his feet even when the pawing hoofs glanced off his shoulders. He was fighting for his life now, and th
is terrifying knowledge lent superhuman strength to the blows he delivered upon the stallion each time the horse reached for him with his raking teeth.
But there came the moment when Tom realized he couldn’t keep the stallion away from him much longer. He kept moving around the post, kept hammering at the stallion’s nose, and all the while his fear-crazed eyes never left those of the raging demon that rose before him. Soon one of those pawing forelegs would catch him hard and square, sending him to the ground. It would be the end.
Suddenly Flame came down close to the post, too close, for his shoulder brushed it, knocking him temporarily off balance. Tom moved quickly. Reaching down, he got hold of the rope that had encircled the stallion’s hind legs. Pulling hard, he felt the legs give. The stallion tripped, then fell.
Turning quickly, Tom ran. He heard the pounding hoofs behind him and knew the horse had regained his feet and was after him. But less than forty feet away was safety, for the stallion was tied fast to the post.
Steve watched Flame go after Tom, saw the rope between the post and the running horse tighten, then become taut, throwing Flame to the ground. The horse was up almost immediately, fighting the rope that held him, screaming in rage.
A safe distance away Tom turned, frenzied hatred replacing the fear in his eyes. For a moment he just stood there, facing the horse, breathing heavily. Then he too screamed. He drew back the bull whip and then brought it forward, striking the tied horse who was pawing so futilely at it. Again the valley echoed to the terrible, horrible chant of the whip.
The red stallion plunged once, twice at the man who stood such a short distance away from him, who reached out at him with this thing that tore open his flesh. And each time he sought to reach him he felt the rope choking him around his neck. He plunged no more, now only rising to his full height to paw furiously.
As the beating continued, Flame ran around the post, the man following him, always reaching out with the whip.
“Fight me!” Tom shouted hysterically at the top of his voice. “You yellow-bellied stud horse!”
But the red stallion did not turn on him. He kept encircling the post, fleeing the whip. And as he did so the distance he was able to travel became shorter and shorter, the rope drawing him ever closer to the post and to a fate worse than that from which he now fled. But he had no way of knowing that.
Steve stood on the trail, watching the horrible spectacle below. He was unable to move, unable to think. No part of him seemed to be functioning except his eyes, no part of him moved except his glassy eyes.
Pitch’s arm was about his waist, holding him, but he felt nothing. Pitch said, “There’s nothing we can do to help Flame, Steve … nothing.” But Steve was deaf to all words, to anything but the rhythmic crack, crack, crack of the whip.
Smaller and smaller became the stallion’s circle about the post. Suddenly, as though at last he realized what was happening, he stopped running away from the whip. Rising to his full height, he plunged away from the post. The rope held; the noose tightened about his neck, choking him. He went down hard and felt the thing tearing at his body. Scrambling to his feet, he plunged again, still seeking escape. He screamed as he went down; once more he felt the searing pain and pulled himself to his feet.
The stallion stood still, his body trembling. Tom snapped the bull whip to get him going again. A few more times around the post would be all that was necessary. The horse moved and he followed him. Twice more around and he had the stallion fast and close to the post. He picked up the second rope which he had left at the foot of the trail. Smiling, he made a noose, then lightly threw it on the ground. He waited until the horse stepped into it, then pulled the noose tight about the right hind leg. With nothing to fear now, he went forward and drew the end of the rope around the stallion’s neck. He pulled hard and had Flame standing immobile on three legs. Then he tied the rope about his neck.
Next he grabbed one of the small ears. He twisted it savagely, bringing down the stallion’s head.
“You can’t stand having it twisted, can you? No horse can. You’re not dealing with a kid now. I’m Tom Pitcher. I break your kind easy. I’m the …” On and on his lips moved. But at the same time he was using his hands. He had the rope unwound from the post. Now he brought the end of it toward the lowered head. He thrust it between the teeth that sought unsuccessfully to grab him, and bound the lower jaw; then quickly he brought the rope around the head and tightened it about the muzzle.
“A bridle you’ll never forget … a war bridle, we call it. The pull is around your upper lip, your gums, too. You can’t stand the pain, can you?” He pulled the rope once to make the horse aware of the additional pain he could exert; then he placed one arm across the stallion’s back. A moment later he mounted, while Flame still stood on three trembling legs.
Pitch shook the boy but there was no response. He turned his own glazed eyes back to Tom. He saw Tom’s hand go to the rope about the stallion’s neck which also held up Flame’s right hind leg. He knew Tom was going to release Flame altogether now except for the vicious war bridle. He had seen all this happen many times before.
He saw the hind leg come down. Flame had the use of all four feet once more, but still he made no move. And the answer, Pitch thought bitterly, must be that Flame was beaten in body and spirit as completely as he and Steve had been. There was no reason for Flame or them to fight Tom any longer. Tom had won. Pitch closed his eyes; he didn’t want to see the next sad phase in the life of this stallion who only a short while ago had been so noble, so proud, so …
Tom’s yell, not in anger but in fear, caused Pitch to open his eyes. The stallion was rearing, and Tom was clinging to his neck. Flame wasn’t beaten!
Tom dug his frantic, clawing fingers into the sweated coat. He was afraid to use the bridle rope lest he pull the stallion over backward. He tried to get off, knowing that once he was on the ground he would have full control over the horse again. He drew up his long legs, ready to slip off the moment the horse began his forward descent. Then suddenly the small head came back; he knew then the stallion was intentionally going over backward with him! Unmindful of anything but to get free of the falling horse, he dropped the bridle rope and flung himself off the stallion’s back.
He struck the ground hard and on the side of his head. He fought to retain consciousness. A heavy blackness descended, then a grayness. He tried to reach the light, which eluded him. And now he waited for the pounding hoofs to strike him. But nothing happened. When he was able to open his eyes, he saw the red stallion leaving him, moving along the end wall with the long bridle rope trailing behind.
Anger replaced the fear within him. Getting to his feet, he picked up the bull whip and followed. In body, if not in spirit, the horse was beaten and too spent to evade him for long. He broke into a run, his fingernails pressed deeply into the butt of the whip.
THE RECKONING
18
Pitch’s arm tightened about the boy’s waist. “Now, Steve. Now we can get away. He’s forgotten us. He’s …”
Steve was enveloped in a feeling of numbness, but Pitch got him to take one step, then another down the trail. He noticed that the boy’s eyes were following Flame, following Tom.
“Flame’s beaten, Steve. Do you understand? We can’t help him. Move faster, Steve. Move faster.”
More steps. Ever closer to the floor of the valley and escape. But Steve’s gaze never left Flame and Tom.
The red stallion moved across the valley at a slow trot, so slow it was almost a walk. From about his small head trailed the rope of the war bridle. He made no effort to rid himself of it, perhaps because he sensed that it would be useless to do so. He stopped once and turned in the direction of the band far up the valley. But he didn’t go to them, for Tom was between him and them.
Crouched low, the giant ran parallel with the stallion, keeping him close to the wall. An ugly smile played about Tom’s lips. All he had to do was to keep the horse at this end of the valley, then clos
e in on him. It was only a matter of minutes now.
He saw the injured colt just a short distance to his left. He cracked his whip, hoping to scare him away. He didn’t want him around to get in the way, to spoil the fun. This fight was just between the stud horse and himself. It had begun that way. It would end that way. It wouldn’t be long now.
The colt moved farther away, stumbling a little as he tried to go into a trot with his injured leg. But Tom paid no attention to him; his eyes were on the stallion and on the narrow canyon where the colt had been kept. His pace quickened as a new thought occurred to him. It would be more fun, more exciting if he could force the stallion down the canyon where he’d have him all to himself.
The whip cracked incessantly now in a large circular movement. Four beats, one to the right, one forward, one to the left and one behind. A rhythm, a chant, its tempo rising, becoming maddening. Going forward, the giant stomped and beat his feet to it as though he were dancing. His eyes gleamed, his lips moved but no sound came from them.
Seeking escape, the stallion turned into the canyon and Tom burst into a run as he followed him.
Pitch got Steve down the last few feet to the valley floor. Then he shook the boy in an attempt to rid him of his terrifying numbness. But he stopped when he looked into Steve’s face. The boy’s eyes were glazed and streaked with red. In them Pitch saw mirrored all the horror they had witnessed. And he wondered if his own eyes looked the same.
“Steve. Steve. Listen to me.” He tried to keep his voice low and soft, but a shrillness crept into it. “We can go now. We can leave and get help!”
For a moment he was still again, just gazing into that smooth, lineless face before him … the face of a boy except for the eyes. They were sick, mature, even old.
“We’re going now, Steve,” he said, and this time he succeeded in keeping his voice soft. He pulled Steve gently, guiding him up the valley. A few feet, a few more feet. But the boy’s head was turned back, back toward the canyon.