The Island Stallion (3 page)

“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.”

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.”

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.

“Yes,” Tom said, still smiling. “It’s a pity that there were so few horses with any spirit in this last group from Azul Island. There were only three of the whole lot of thirty that put up any sort of a scrap. They seem to have less spirit than they ever had. Now, fifteen years ago when I first went to the island it was different. There’d be about ten or more who’d give me a good workout.”

Tom was silent, and Steve thought he had finished until he suddenly said, “There’s no other reason I want
to bring in these horses from Azul. They don’t make any money for me. Nobody will pay much for them. And then ten percent of whatever I do get has to go to the government. It doesn’t leave me with anything. Oh, I didn’t mind when I could look forward to a little fun, but if the horses don’t show more spirit next time, I’ll let someone else go to Azul Island.”

And now Pitch was talking. Steve heard him telling Tom about their proposed camping trip to Azul Island, the trip he’d planned on taking for several weeks. Yes, Pitch was saying, he was still very much interested in the island in spite of what Tom had told him. He still believed that Azul Island had played a part in the Spanish colonization of the New World. He wanted to look around. Yes, and fortunately Steve, too, was interested in colonial history. He had asked to go. They planned to spend two weeks.…

When Pitch mentioned their intended length of stay upon Azul Island, Tom laughed harder than before, and his chair creaked as though in resentment of the heavy pounds of flesh and bone that made up this man. Finally he sat forward again, his elbows on the table and his fingers digging into the sides of his scalp. “Two weeks,” he said. “Phil, you should know better, even if the kid doesn’t. What in God’s name are you going to do for two weeks on a spit of ground that’s nothing more than a windswept sandbar? You’ll go crazy. You won’t spend two days there, let alone two weeks,” he concluded, bursting into laughter again.

“I plan to do quite a bit of digging,” Pitch said. “And Steve seems very much interested.”

Tom turned to Steve, his black eyes smiling but
probing at the same time. “You’re interested?” he asked. “Interested in what?”

Steve’s reply came quickly, instinctively. “Archaeology,” he said. And he wondered why he’d said it and how he had remembered a word he’d never used outside of his ancient-history class at school.

He saw Tom’s brow furrow. Then Pitch said, “You see?”

“No,” Tom returned, sarcastically. “No, I don’t see. Nor can I see you two spending two weeks in that Godforsaken spot!” Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, towering above them.

“We’ll stay,” Steve said quietly.

Tom looked at him. “You’ve never been to Azul, and you’re so sure?” he asked contemptuously.

Steve nodded without speaking.

Tom walked around the table, his eyes still on the boy. Then he came to a stop and Steve saw the smile on the thin lips again. Tom said quickly, “Phil told me the other day that you wanted a horse more than anything else when you were a kid. Do you still want one?”

“Yes,” Steve replied, slowly. “I do. Why?”

“Then take a look at those horses on Azul Island and take your pick of any one of them. If you stay two weeks on the island, I’ll give him to you!” Laughing, Tom left the room.

Pitch was talking to Steve now, telling him what they’d have to do that evening to prepare for their trip to Azul Island. But Steve wasn’t listening. Instead, he was thinking of Tom’s parting wager. Two weeks on the island, and he could have his pick of any of the horses there!