The Island Stallion Read online

  “Yes, Pitch,” Steve had to say finally. “What is it?”

  “Do you recall the picture I sent your father several weeks ago? The one of our rounding up the horses on Azul Island?”

  Did he remember it! “Yes, Pitch, I do. That’s why I …”

  But Pitch interrupted with evident eagerness to tell his story. “It was the only time I’ve been to Azul Island,” he began. “Oh, I’d heard about it, of course; Tom spoke of it occasionally. And before I arrived here he had written me once or twice about wrangling horses on a small island not far from Antago. But,” and Pitch smiled, “you know I’m pretty much of a greenhorn about things like that, and I never really understood any of it. That is, not until I went to Azul Island with Tom and the others.”

  Pitch paused and glanced at Steve. Then, as though pleased with the boy’s obvious interest, he went on: “I remember that we all looked upon our visit to Azul Island as very much like a day’s outing. And we spent the time there imagining ourselves as cowboys. I couldn’t help thinking, as we ran after the horses, how strange we’d look to any people from our western states. All of us, of course, were wearing our shorts and had on our sun hats because the day was extremely hot. We had no trouble chasing the horses into the canyon, because the island is very narrow at that point; and twenty of us, walking about thirty yards apart, I would say, easily forced the horses into the canyon. Tom was in charge because he was the only one who knew anything about horses. The rest of us were plantation men, laborers, fishermen and the like with no experience whatsoever in this business of wrangling horses. However, as I’ve said, there was little to it, because Tom told us what to do, and it was he who selected thirty of the most likely looking animals to take back with us to Antago.”

  Pitch stopped, thought a moment, then said in an apologetic tone, “I must tell you, Steve, that the horses are small, scrawny beasts and not very much to look at, really. But if you’d seen the desolateness of that small bit of the island, with the sparse grass and only the few, meager fresh-water holes, you’d wonder that they’d survived at all.”

  Pitch paused again before adding with renewed enthusiasm, “But they have, Steve! Their breed has survived for centuries on Azul Island!” His words came faster now. “It was on the way back from the island, with the animals crowded into the barge we towed behind our launch, that I first learned of it. I was sitting next to the photographer of our weekly newspaper, and I mentioned that I had been surprised to find so many horses on Azul Island. He mentioned, very casually, that these horses were believed to be descended from the ones that the Spanish Conquistadores rode centuries ago! I tried to learn more, but that was all he knew. His editor had told him, he said. It was just an assignment to him. He wasn’t really interested. It shocked me, actually, because I’ve always been so very much interested in Spanish colonial history that I suppose I assumed everyone else would be. To think that here was a breed of horse the Conquistadores rode, and which had survived all these hundreds of years, and no one—not even Tom, who knew of my interest—had thought it important enough to tell me!

  “I went to Tom immediately and asked him about it,” Pitch continued gravely. “I asked him if what I’d learned from the photographer was actually true. He laughed. I remember his laughing very well. Of course, it was obvious to him that I was tremendously interested and excited. Tom told me to sit down and relax because, he said, there wasn’t a bit of truth to the story. He’d heard it mentioned every so often for the past fifteen years, but believed none of it. It made a good human-interest story for newspaper readers, he said, and I remember he also intimated that the editor of the local paper, an old friend of his, was capable of making up such a story for the benefit of his readers.”

  “Then it’s not true,” Steve interrupted, obviously disappointed, “none of it. But Pitch, how did the horses get there, then? And why does the government of Antago leave them on Azul Island when they could have much better pasture land here?”

  “That’s what I wondered, too, Steve,” Pitch returned, “and that’s exactly what I asked Tom. His first answer was, ‘How do animals get anywhere? They were taken there, of course!’ To me, his answers were most confusing. I didn’t know what he was driving at until I asked him why the government of Antago allowed him, as agent in charge, to wrangle the horses only once every five years. And why did they limit the number of horses to be removed? Why did they insist that enough horses be left on Azul Island to maintain the progeny of this breed? Why, indeed! if the story wasn’t true?

  “He just laughed at me for a long time. Then he said in his most cynical way, which can be so very aggravating, that he believed it wasn’t so much the Antago government which was interested in these horses as it was the Antago chamber of commerce! And then he repeated that it made a good story, a story that could be placed in many foreign newspapers to publicize Antago, which was what the chamber of commerce wanted! He even intimated that he wouldn’t be surprised to learn some day that the horses had been taken to Azul Island from Antago for the express purpose of creating such a story!

  “But I didn’t believe a word Tom told me,” Pitch went on. “By that time I was very much interested in the subject and was determined to see it through. I decided to learn all I could about the colonial history of Antago, and anything at all that was available on Azul Island. I wasn’t able to learn much here, because the people seem so little interested in the past. It’s only the present and future that hold their attention. They talk all the time about how much more they should get for their sugar and rum, and why Antago should be provided with an air service instead of having to rely upon the few boats that stop here. Problems like these are all they care about.

  “So I got hold of some books from the States and learned that at one time Antago was used as a supply base by the Spaniards!” Pitch’s eyes were bright as he went on excitedly, “From here, Steve, those infamous Conquistadores, men like Cortés, Pizarro and Balboa, may have selected their armies, their horses, guns and provisions, and set forth to plunder the Incas and the Aztecs of their gold!”

  Pitch paused a moment, then continued in a calmer voice, “I also learned that in the year 1669, British and French pirates succeeded in sacking Antago and driving the Spaniards from the island.”

  “And Azul Island?” Steve asked. “Did you learn anything about it?”

  “No,” Pitch replied. “Nothing … absolutely nothing about its history. The report mentioned only that it was an uninhabited island twenty miles north of Antago.”

  “Then in spite of what Tom said, you think that the horses now there could be descended from the horses of the Conquistadores?” Steve asked with keen interest.

  “I do, Steve. I most certainly do,” Pitch said slowly. “The Spaniards surely knew of Azul Island and it’s very possible that they could have used it for something … or were even forced to go there when Antago was sacked by the British and French pirates. I’m terribly interested,” he added quickly, “because here’s an island that’s been avoided for centuries, except for the few visits by Tom and the others who preceded him to obtain horses. And for all anyone knows, it’s possible that there’s other evidence besides the horses that the Spaniards once inhabited the island. I very much want to look around, because it’s obvious no one else has.”

  “Pitch,” Steve said quickly, “I want to go with you to Azul Island.”

  “You mean what I’ve said about Azul Island interests you as well?”

  “More than you know,” Steve replied quickly. “When can we go, Pitch?”

  “Why … I guess most any time,” Pitch said thoughtfully. “I’d planned on going when your father wrote that you’d like to come here. Yes, we could go anytime you say.”

  “Tomorrow, Pitch?”

  “Tomorrow?” Pitch’s blue eyes met Steve’s. “Why, I guess so. I’m pretty much of a greenhorn when it comes to a camping trip, but I guess I have most everything ready for it.” He paused, a look of concern upon his face.
“You’re sure you want to go to Azul Island more than anything else, Steve? It’s your vacation, you know, and I’d hate to have you go there solely on my account.”

  Steve smiled. “It’s not … it’s on my own account that I want to go.”

  A few minutes later the car turned down a long driveway, and Steve saw the large house at the end. But between them and the house, not far off the road, he saw a corral. A tawny-colored horse with a long, unkempt mane was running about the ring. Steve heard Pitch say, “There’s one of the horses from Azul Island.”

  BULL WHIP AND BOTTLE

  2

  Standing in the center of the corral was a giant of a man, heavy limbed and long armed. In one hand he held a bull whip, and in his other the lead rope that was attached to the bridle of the horse that was running about the ring. The animal rolled his eyes restlessly, but he never actually ceased watching the man who held him. The man, too, had eyes for nothing but the horse.

  Pitch brought the car to a stop opposite the corral. He and Steve were but thirty feet away now, and two men sitting on the fence waved to Pitch. But the eyes of the man in the center of the ring remained on the horse.

  Pitch said, “That’s Tom.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though leaving it to Steve to draw his own conclusions.

  Tom! This man was Tom Pitcher? This towering giant, who could make six of Pitch? It was hard to believe; for never, Steve thought, had he seen two men more unlike each other. And these two were brothers? Stepbrothers, he reminded himself. But even so, he’d expected some resemblance.

  The sharp crack of the bull whip brought his attention back to the scene before him. Trotting faster about the corral, the terrified horse snorted continually, his eyes shifting from the man who turned slowly with him to the long leather whip that lay snakelike on the ground between them.

  Steve’s gaze swept over the horse. Instinctively he noted the large head with long, almost mulelike ears; the shaggy, unkempt mane matted with dirt; and the small, wiry body bleached with dust and hardened sweat. Steve watched him as he moved ever faster about the corral, fearful of the bull whip which sprang at him like a striking black snake whenever he slowed his gait.

  It went on for a long while, the man and the horse turning together, the rhythmic beat of hoofs over well-packed dirt, the sharp crack of the whip whenever the beat faltered. The horse’s body was wet with sweat, and white lather was heavy about the bridle leathers and the corners of his mouth. But his eyes, now dulled with exhaustion, never left the man in the center of the ring.

  Pitch said, “Tom’s way of breaking an animal isn’t a pretty sight. Shall we go?”

  Steve shook his head, but said nothing. He wondered how long the horse had been running about the corral before they arrived.

  The tired animal stumbled. The long bull whip cracked and the hard leather end caught the horse on his haunches. Snorting, he regained his stride and ran still faster about the ring. And all the time the man pivoted with him, bull whip raised and ready.

  Would Tom never stop? Steve asked himself. How long did this go on? The horse was beaten now! What more did Tom expect? What satisfaction was he getting out of this driving, driving, driving?

  And still the beat of hoofs went on, echoing more often now to the sharp, staccato cracks of the bull whip.

  Steve felt he could take no more of it. He turned and found Pitch watching him. Pitch nodded and his hand went to the key in the car’s ignition switch. But before he had reached it there came a sudden end to the sound of hoofs and whip. Deadening silence settled about the corral. Together, Steve and Pitch looked back at the scene they had just turned away from.

  Tom was approaching the horse, the lead rope sliding through his fingers. The horse stood there trembling, his eyes alive with hate. Tom grabbed the bridle, then signaled to one of the men sitting on the fence. The man jumped down and, picking up a blanket, walked over and put it upon the back of the horse. Then Tom and the horse were alone in the corral again.

  Steve saw Tom move to one side of the horse, carrying the reins. The horse sidestepped uneasily, his eyes following the bull whip Tom held coiled in his hand. Then, faster than Steve thought it possible for a man of Tom’s weight to move, he was on the horse’s back. Steve believed the horse was too tired to put up a fight, but he’d never seen a wild horse broken before.

  The horse bucked, coming down with rigid forelegs. Up and down, twisting and turning, he flung himself about the corral. And Tom, his long legs wrapped securely about the horse’s girth, stayed with him, flaying the heavy handle of the bull whip hard against the heaving body.

  Finally the horse stood still, and Steve thought him surely beaten now. What more was left for him to do? His body could take no more, his spirit had to be broken after all this. But again he was mistaken. For suddenly the horse went down and rolled quickly over on his back. But Tom had moved still faster. As the horse’s legs buckled, he slipped off, avoiding the body that had tried to pin him to the ground. And now he stood at the horse’s head as the animal lay on the ground. If the horse had wanted to stay there he couldn’t have, for Tom whipped him to his feet; then he sprang upon his back again, cutting the bleeding flesh with the hard, blunt end of the whip.

  In spite of the beating he was taking, the horse kept throwing his large head back, attempting to knock Tom off. Again Tom signaled to the men sitting on the corral fence, and one of them moved across the ring carrying a bottle.

  With a sudden movement Pitch turned on the ignition and started the car’s motor. “I’ve seen this once before,” he said quickly, “and you’ll be better off if you don’t.”

  But Pitch was too late. As Tom held the bottle in his hand, Steve saw the horse throw his head back again. Tom raised the bottle, then brought it down heavily upon the horse’s head. The bottle broke, the contents streaming down over the head and face of the horse. He stood there, dazed, his body trembling, swaying.

  As Pitch put the car into gear, Steve saw the broken horse walking slowly about the corral under Tom’s guidance. Steve closed his eyes and felt sick to his stomach.

  That evening at dinner Steve spoke little, and most of the time his eyes were upon Tom, sitting at the head of the table. There were moments when Steve thought he had a good idea of how the horse must have felt that afternoon.

  At last, conscious of having been staring, Steve shifted his gaze to the chair in which Tom sat. It was a large mahogany chair, heavier and stronger than Steve’s or Pitch’s. It had to be. Tom’s giant frame was slumped in it like a bulging sack of grain. Now he was leaning heavily over the table as he talked, his giant hands dwarfing the plate of food set before him. His long fingers, blunt and square at the tips, curled even now although he held nothing in them. No knife or fork, no bull whip or bottle.

  Suddenly Steve heard his name mentioned. Looking up at Tom’s dark, low-jowled face, he found the black eyes upon him, the thin lips drawn slightly at the corners in what could have been a smile. Steve could see the small, square teeth—teeth that looked as hard and strong as the rest of this man.

  “… that bottle didn’t hurt him none,” Tom was telling him.

  So he knew, Steve thought. He was the kind of man nothing could be kept from for very long.

  Tom had turned to Pitch. “Isn’t that right, Phil? You’ve seen me use the bottle before. It didn’t hurt the horse one bit, did it?”

  “That’s what you tell me,” Pitch said slowly. “I don’t know much about these thing, but …”

  Steve’s eyes were upon Pitch as his friend groped for words in reply to Tom’s question. It was apparent that Pitch, too, was uncomfortable. Perhaps, thought Steve, even a little frightened—as he was.

  Settling back in his big chair, Tom laughed heartily, drowning out whatever it was that Pitch had meant to say. Then he turned to Steve again. “The top of a horse’s skull is as hard as a rock,” he said, his face unsmiling once more. “You could break a hundred bottles over it without hurting the horse.”r />
  How did he know? thought Steve cynically. Had he ever been a horse? Had he ever been hit heavily over the head with a bottle?

  Tom hadn’t finished. “It’s not the bottle, but the water in the bottle that does the trick,” he said. And now his voice was slightly contemptuous of their silent criticism. “The horse thinks the water is his own blood as it streams down over his head and into his eyes. It scares him. It scares him so much that he never forgets it, and you won’t ever find him throwing back his head again.” Tom settled back in his chair once more, as though awaiting their reaction to his full explanation.

  Pitch was busy cutting his meat. Steve looked down and toyed with the food before him.

  Silence hung heavily about the room until, suddenly, it was shattered by Tom’s explosive laughter. “You’re both too soft,” he said angrily. And then, to Steve, “Why, I wasn’t any older than you when I used my first bottle on a horse’s head. We toughened up pretty young in those days.” He stopped, turned to Pitch. “Or did we?” he added, smiling. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps it was pretty much up to the man himself.” Once more he addressed himself to Steve. “Phil left England to go to college in the States, while I joined up with the British Army and went to India. I got put in the cavalry, and that’s where I learned the bottle trick. We used to get a lot of our horses from Australia in those days. They were ugly-looking animals called Walers. Uglier than the ones from Azul Island, and much bigger, too. They had a nasty way of throwing their heads back at you. The way we stopped them was with the bottle.” Tom paused, smiling. “Yes,” he added, “first the bull whip, running them until they’re groggy, then finish up with the bottle. It never fails to break a horse—one who’ll give you a decent fight.”

  Steve raised his eyes and studied Tom. Was that it? he asked himself. Was it the thrill of overpowering an animal in physical combat that Tom enjoyed so much? Tom was looking at him, nodding his large head. Nodding as though he had no trouble reading Steve’s every thought.