“Four days,” Steve said.
Dr. Mason turned back to Pitch. “There’s no reason why a foal, with proper care, can’t be raised on cow’s milk,” he said. “It contains more fat and less sugar than mare’s milk, but it’s a good enough substitute.”
“We’ve been adding sugar,” Steve said.
Dr. Mason cast a searching glance at Steve, and then directed his next question to him. “How much milk have you been giving him?”
“About a quarter of a pint every hour except at night, when I give him a half-pint in three feedings.”
The veterinarian nodded in approval. “There’s more danger in overfeeding a young foal than underfeeding,” he said. “A general rule to follow is to have him still hungry when he’s had his allotted amount. I’m surprised you knew. A lot of people would have given him all he’d take at a feeding.”
Pitch said, “Steve loves horses.”
Dr. Crane spoke for the first time in a long while. “I can see that,” he said, smiling at Dr. Mason.
“Oh, yes, and we wanted to ask you, Doctor, whether it’s necessary to boil the milk and sterilize all the utensils.” Pitch addressed Dr. Mason. “We’ve been doing that.”
“It’s very necessary for a while. You have to take the same precautions you would in the feeding of a human infant. Everything must be scrupulously clean, otherwise digestive disturbances are certain to follow.”
Pitch glanced at Steve, then turned back to Dr. Mason. “How long before he can be taught to drink from a pail?”
“Within a few days. You can start now by offering him the pail rather than the nipple and bottle. See if you can’t get him to take it from the pail. The sooner you train him the easier it’ll be for you.”
Pitch saw no reason to tell him they hadn’t been using nipples because none had been available on Azul Island. Just as he’d suspected, the doctor assumed they lived on Antago.
Dr. Mason turned to Steve. “It’s safe now to increase gradually the amount of milk you give him,” he said, “and lengthen the period between feedings until the foal is being fed only four times a day. I want to see him again in about twenty-one days. The bone should be completely healed by that time.”
“He’ll be all right until then?” Steve asked.
“I don’t see why not. Just keep him isolated from other horses. I wouldn’t want him kicked now. He’ll get used to the splint almost immediately. He won’t give you any trouble.”
Pitch asked, “Would it be wiser to keep him here with you, Doctor?”
“No, there wouldn’t be any point to it as long as you’re able to keep your eye on him. And I’m out most of the day with Dr. Crane. I’d have no one here to care for him as you would.”
“I want to take him with us,” Steve said.
Pitch looked at him. “All right, Steve. I just thought it might be best for him under the circumstances.”
Dr. Mason smiled. “Under the circumstances it’s best that he go with you. Setting a bone is a simple matter compared to playing mother to a foal.” Sympathetically he placed his hand on Steve’s arm. “I want you to get a bottle of lime water at the drug store. Put four tablespoonfuls of it in every pint of milk you give him. He needs more calcium for a few weeks.”
A little later they were back in the car, driving to town. The foal stood on the floor before the back seat, his head stretched toward the closed window. Steve sat on the seat, holding him steady, watching him, while Pitch drove slowly.
They were nearing the center of town when Pitch said, glancing into his rear-view mirror, “I keep thinking I see Tom’s car.”
Steve looked out the back window. “What kind of a car does he drive?”
“He’s got a Ford, a maroon two-door sedan.”
“There’s nothing like that behind us.”
“I know there isn’t now,” Pitch said, pulling up in front of Antago’s largest drug store. “Just my nerves, I guess. I’m going to get the powdered milk and the nipples.”
“And lime water,” the boy reminded him.
While Steve waited he watched for a maroon Ford sedan. But he saw none and figured that Pitch had been mistaken in thinking he had seen Tom. Within a few minutes they’d be on their way back to Blue Valley where Tom never would find them.
Pitch returned, carrying a box containing the powdered milk, nursing bottles, nipples and several large bottles of lime water. When he had them in the car, Steve said, “The harness shop is just up the street. I want to get a web halter and a brush.”
“Make it snappy, Steve,” Pitch said, getting in the back of the car to hold the colt.
Steve was gone only a few minutes and when he returned with his packages, Pitch moved up front again behind the wheel.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider boarding the colt somewhere on Antago,” he said before starting the motor. “It might be wiser than taking him back … for his good, I mean.”
Steve rubbed the foal’s muzzle. “But where, Pitch? Do you know anyone we could trust, anyone who would take good care of him?”
“Frankly I don’t, Steve. But we might be able to find someone.”
“I wouldn’t trust just anyone with him,” Steve said thoughtfully. “If you knew of a good home for him it would be different. But I just won’t take a chance. He’ll be safe with us. We know that. No harm can come to him where we’re going.”
“I suppose you’re right, Steve,” Pitch said, starting the motor. “But he’s going to keep you busy. You won’t have much time for anything else.”
They drove to the wharf. The freighter had finished unloading, but the activity on the wharf had not lessened for now Antago’s exports, rum and molasses, were being taken to the waiting ship. Slowly Pitch steered the car through groups of perspiring stevedores, honking his horn constantly to avoid hitting anyone. They passed the long row of parked cars and trucks on their left without looking at them. They went to the far end of the wharf where they could park easily and leave the car until Pitch’s next trip to Antago.
The foal hardly moved in their arms as they carried him from the car to the waiting motor launch.
Pitch said, “He’s getting so used to being carried by us that the next thing we know he won’t want to walk!”
Steve laughed, all his worry and tension gone. “I don’t think so, Pitch. Someday he’ll be as big and strong as Flame, then he’ll be carrying us.”
There was no longer any pain in the colt’s eyes, only wonder and curiosity at everything Steve and Pitch did. As Dr. Mason had said, he was already getting used to the splint. He had no trouble standing, and Steve knew he would start walking the moment they gave him a chance.
“Well, we did everything we wanted to do,” he told Pitch as the launch’s motor burst into a roar. “And we needn’t have worried about meeting Tom. My guess is that he did go to South America and it’ll be a long, long time before you see him again.”
“Yes,” Pitch agreed, “you’re probably right. We just caused ourselves needless worry. It wasn’t even necessary for me to have given you the whole story on Tom.”
“But I’m glad you did, Pitch. I’m in this as much as you are, you know.”
Pitch headed the launch toward the open sea.
Neither he nor Steve looked back at the wharf, for now their eyes and thoughts were only for Azul Island. But if either had turned, he might have seen the Ford pull out of the line of parked cars on the wharf. It was a sedan, a two-door sedan, and its color was maroon.
Now it sped down the wharf, its motor racing, its horn blaring. The stevedores jumped out of the car’s way, yelling; but when they saw the giant figure that dwarfed the wheel, they shut their mouths tight. They knew this man well. They wanted to have no trouble with Tom Pitcher.
He turned right when he came off the wharf, slowing down only because of a car directly ahead of him. He cursed, and his heavy hand never left the horn. He brought his front bumper hard against the car ahead. Startled, the driver looked back, saw To
m’s face, and went faster.
Tom Pitcher went faster and faster as he tore through the outskirts of town and entered open country. Now his huge face showed no emotion at all; it held the deathly stillness and unnaturalness of a theatrical mask. A pallor showed beneath his tanned skin. His mouth was a thin, hard scratch of red, too small for the rest of him, as were his eyes. They were beady, snakelike … staring now at the road ahead without actually seeing it. He wore no hat and his black hair stood bristling straight, adding more inches to his giant’s height. His white sleeveless shirt was open at the throat, disclosing his thick bull neck.
He turned down a dirt lane without slackening his speed. Fields of cane were on his left, the sea on his right. He glanced at the open water just once and momentarily his eyes came alive.
He drove on and on until he came to the driveway of a plantation. Turning into it, he passed the high barred corral, then the low, rambling house. He went on for another mile before bringing the car to a stop before steep, wooden steps that descended the cliff to the sea.
He sprang out of the car with a grace and swiftness one would not have expected from such a giant of a man. His feet, like his eyes and mouth, were small for the rest of him, and now they carried him softly, stealthily down the wooden steps even though there was no reason for quiet or secrecy. Yet he could not have walked any other way. Fondly, caressingly he touched the leather of the bull whip wrapped around his bulging waist.
Reaching the pier at the bottom of the steps, he turned once more to look at the point of land around which his stepbrother’s boat must come. This time he saw it, and his short steps quickened as he made his way to his own launch, the Sea Queen.
Quickly he had her unmoored and the motor racing. He started out to sea, following the launch which was now less than a mile away. The chase had entered its final stage. He would follow his stepbrother, the boy and the foal to wherever they were going and then …
BLACK WORLD
9
For more than three hours he stayed far behind the launch; it was only a tiny speck on the horizon. But this was enough for him to know they were headed for Azul Island. Until now the giant had not been certain that it was the destination of his stepbrother, the boy and the foal.
He had gone to Azul Island a few days ago expecting to find Phil’s launch moored at the pier on the spit. When he hadn’t seen it he’d known that his suspicions were correct … that Phil and the boy, Steve, had found something they were keeping very much to themselves. Deciding they never had gone to Azul Island, he’d combed the few islands to the west, looking for them. He had found nothing and so he had returned to Antago to wait, to pick up the trail again. And now he had it and them.
His long fingers, square at the tips, curled about the wheel. Where were they going on that island of yellow rock? Where else could they moor their launch but on the spit? Yet it hadn’t been there before. What had they found?
His thin lids opened to disclose the greed in his eyes. He stared at the sun, already low in the sky. He wanted it to sink quickly into the depths of the western sea, for darkness was part of his plan.
He stared fixedly at the launch on the horizon. When night fell, Phil would use his running lights. But he, Tom Pitcher, wouldn’t. He would trail, coming ever closer, following Phil and Steve to whatever they had found. He was no navigator but he knew beyond a doubt that Azul Island was their destination, for no other island lay in the direction they were taking.
He glanced up at the sun. There was at least another hour of daylight. His long legs, spread wide apart, trembled. Had he figured wrong? Would they reach Azul Island before dark? The speck ahead seemed even smaller now than it had just a few minutes ago. Were they outdistancing him? Should he go faster, pull ever closer to them even now? Take a chance on their seeing him?
He hated the sea! He was a hunter, more at home on land. He needed the earth beneath his feet, earth to provide tracks or a trail to lead him to what he sought. He increased the speed of the launch and the speck ahead grew larger.
The yellow dome of Azul Island appeared on the horizon. Desperately he sought more speed from the launch. But only a sudden sputtering came to him. And then the motor died beneath the sound of sea and wind. Frantic, he left the wheel of the wallowing launch to go below. Yet all he could do was to look at the motor without touching it. He knew nothing about mechanical things.
With angry eyes he stood before it, cursing the motor and the sea but never himself or his ignorance. Finally he thought of gasoline, remembering he had not filled the tank before his departure. Hurriedly he returned to the deck for the large can.
How long was it before he got the motor going again? Five minutes, ten minutes? He didn’t know. All that mattered was that the launch he was following was out of sight, somewhere within the shadows of Azul Island.
His whole being was consumed with hatred for those who temporarily had evaded him. “Fools! Fools!” he said in a hissing whisper. “To think you can get away!”
Nearing the island, he placed a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He picked up the pier first and found no launch. Racing the motor, he turned away and spent the next hour encircling the island, studying the walled barriers against which the waves crashed. But he never ventured too close for fear of what the submerged rocks could do to the hull of his craft. Only when it became dusk did he take the launch to the pier on the spit. And now bewilderment filled the black pits of his eyes. They were here, but where? What had happened to their launch? It was too big to hide. Where were they?
He fastened his eyes on the mountainous rock rising above the spit. He looked at it a long while before turning away. Tonight he would sleep on the launch. Tomorrow the hunt would begin again. Somewhere they had left a trail, and he would surely find it.
Eagerness and anticipation absorbed his whole being now. After a while he went below, intending to eat, to satisfy the hunger that was already gnawing at his stomach. The chase on Antago had not given him time for lunch. But in the galley he found no food. In his excitement he hadn’t thought of provisions either. Well, he would go without food tonight. But tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he’d find Phil and the boy. They must have plenty of food, wherever they were. And what else did they have? What else? His thin lips drew back, disclosing his small, even teeth. His tongue ran along his lower lip as though tasting, savoring all the fine things that were in store for him.
The next morning he was up with the first gray light of dawn. His plan was to use the dory, which he towed behind the launch, to get as close as possible to the barrier walls of the island. With his binoculars he would be able to pick up any track Phil and Steve had left. He was certain that somewhere, somehow, Phil and the boy had penetrated the walls of Azul Island. Where else could they be?
He stood up and stared at the sea, then decided it was still too early to encircle the island in the dory. He was afraid of all small craft; the launch was bad enough, the dory worse. He might not be able to see the submerged rocks in the early light. He would have to be careful, too, not to be swept in against the walls by the waves. He didn’t like any part of this phase of the hunt. Scaling the barrier wall from the spit would be much more to his liking. But could he do it? He’d never tried, but then he’d never had any reason before. There might be a way.
Taking two long ropes and a pick, he left the launch and walked down the pier to the spit. He stopped for a moment to tighten the bull whip wrapped securely about his waist, then he climbed to the top of the sand dunes. From there he could see almost all of the spit. Stretched before him was rolling land for a quarter of a mile before it met the sea on the other side. To his right the spit extended for a mile before disappearing into the sea. But he never looked in those directions. Turning to his left, he walked swiftly toward the mountainous rock that loomed less than a mile away.
He entered the canyon, his eyes squinting as he looked up at the sheer walls which rose on either side of him. He knew that his only chance of p
ossibly finding a way into the interior of Azul Island lay at the end of the canyon. He remembered the ledge high on the cliff, which overlooked the spit. Behind and above it was a narrow cleavage in the wall which might mean something if he could ever reach the ledge to find out.
The small band of horses grazing at the end of the canyon ran when they saw him. But he paid no attention to them, for his eyes were on the end wall. The ledge, he figured, was about three hundred feet above the ground. His eyelids opened slightly as he scrutinized the wall beneath it. He considered the possibility of lassoing two protruding stones and reaching the ledge in stages. But the higher of the stones was still a hundred feet below the ledge. Still, once he was up there he might find something else above him to lasso. It was well worth a try.
He made his noose and coiled the rope. His long arm came back, then forward with the force of a giant spring. The noose of the rope settled around the first stone above and he drew it tight. He would have been surprised if he hadn’t succeeded with his first throw. He tested his weight on the rope, then with the second coiled rope over his shoulder he pulled himself up, his feet braced against the wall.
Within a few minutes he had almost reached the stone. He stopped then to remove the second rope from his shoulder. Another seventy-five feet above him was the next stone to be lassoed. It was much smaller and he knew he was going to have trouble getting the rope around it.
Four times he failed, but with his fifth try the noose settled about the stone. Carefully he drew it tight, then considered his next step. Before removing the rope below him, he would go up the second rope to see if there was anything above which he might lasso that would get him to the ledge.
Gradually he put his weight on the rope above him. The noose slipped until there was only a small loop around the end of the stone. He knew then that it wouldn’t bear his weight. He couldn’t go up any higher than he was. Cursing, he lowered himself to the canyon floor and, leaving both ropes hanging on the wall, hurried back to the launch.