The Black Stallion and Flame (11 page)

He led them through the marsh and onto the sea of blue grass. Quickly he found the large herd of horses grazing midway down the valley. He coveted the beautiful mares, and he took the time to let his eyes run fondly over them, the dark bays and chestnuts, the grays and an occasional white-and-black one. Many of them bore the scars of battle. Like stallions, the mares fought constantly, whether in a contest of strength or in anger or because of jealousy.

Most of the mares had stopped grazing at the sight of him but they did not flee or appear to be frightened. Yet they were alert to the signals being given them by the young stallions who stood apart from the herd acting as sentinels. They stood with their heads high, proud and free.

The Black’s own mares were far more excitable and undecided. They circled him constantly as if afraid the wild herd would charge them. At the same time there was a strong tendency on their part to wheel, dart away from him and join the large mass of horses.

Suddenly the wild ones moved in unison, running to higher ground, and the earth shook to the sound of their plunging hoofs. The Black’s mares became more uneasy than ever and only his sharp commands kept them from stampeding toward the wild runners. He knew they felt the strong urge of herd instinct despite the domesticity they had always known. They tossed their heads and manes, eager to run with the others. The Black snorted at them, refusing to set them free. And during all this time he didn’t take his eyes from the lone chestnut stallion who stood apart from the herd. There was the king!

Some of the Black’s mares sought to join the wild herd but he ran them down quickly, kicking and biting their shoulders. He kept them in a tightly packed bunch, jealous of their interest in the other stallions, and so fierce was he that they abandoned their attempts to escape.

Raising his head high, the Black turned to gaze again at his opponent. The red one stood clear of his herd, letting the others form their own groups, but there was no doubt that he was dominating them and keeping them together. His signals to the rank and file consisted
of slight sounds and movements. The younger stallions watched him and waited, completely submissive to his bidding. Occasionally he had them race around the herd and bring order to the mares and colts by nipping them with their teeth. They squealed loudly while driving laggard colts into position, ramming into them at full speed and kicking. Finally the great herd was huddled together, becoming part of the colorful valley, splashing it with varied colors—blacks, bays and grays, roans, duns and pure whites.

The red stallion continued to stand quietly, looking down the valley at his black opponent. The antics of his mares and young stallions hadn’t pressed him into action. He was the picture of alertness and vitality.

The Black sniffed the strong wind from the south, then moved swiftly about his small band on hoofs that barely touched the ground. He shook his head, still undecided. He swept about his band again, then shrieked his challenge of combat. But he didn’t go forth to meet the herd stallion. Instead he breathed in the upwind with a sharp whistling sound, his head held higher than ever. Suddenly he whirled and hurled himself at his own huddled mares, scattering them! Furiously he drove them down the valley toward the big herd, their racing hoofs sending clods of sod flying into the air.

He followed them, driving them on faster and faster by squealing and biting. He appeared ready for a vicious onslaught and a bloody fight with the red stallion! His ears were flat against his head and his teeth were bared, ready to ravage. He made the mares run as fast as they could go and their plunging hoofs echoed in the valley. Quickly they neared the big herd. The Black whistled again, his eyes blazing.

The young, wild stallions came forward to meet the band of mares, coveting them. The Black drove his band on, still going at full speed. Just before reaching the herd he scattered his mares and the young stallions followed. The Black’s blazing eyes swept to the red stallion, and suddenly he saw him, too, make his move for the new mares.

It was then that the Black Stallion uttered his loudest whistle yet. But it was not one of challenge! Instead he wheeled away from his mares, his nostrils filled with a scent carried from beyond the herd. Galloping, he swept past the others, his hoofs speeding over the ground like a bird in full flight!

He never looked back to see the young stallions take
his
mares into the herd. Nor did his large bright eyes seek the red leader. It was enough that he was unmolested and running upwind!

He swept into the tall cane, bending the stalks before him. Just beyond was a dark narrow cleavage in the southern wall of the valley and it was toward this that he streaked, slowing only when he had entered it. For a hundred yards the high walls rose on either side of him and then widened, forming a canyon. The ground was soft and free of rock.

The Black went forward at a trot, breathing the air deeply, and his excitement mounted. He neighed shrilly once, then again. He ran as far as he could go and then stood still, the yellow walls of the canyon rising high above him. He shrilled his cries over and over again until the canyon reverberated with his great longing for the boy he loved.

The
Night Owl
lay just off the southern spit of Azul Island and the tall, heavy black man at the wheel said, “We can go ashore if you like, boss, but you can see ’bout everything from here.”

Alec and Henry stood at his side, their eyes searching the spit for some sign of the Black. As the fisherman had said, there wasn’t too much to be seen of Azul Island—nothing but the sandy spit and yellow rock—or so it appeared from the sea.

Alec’s gaze wandered over the wind-swept spit, finally resting on the towering stone that climbed into the sky forming a dome that gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun.

“That’s a lot of rock,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else.

The fisherman heard Alec. “Over nine miles of it,” he said, pulling down his big straw hat and shielding his eyes from the sun, “and good for nothing.”

Henry pointed to the narrow wooden pier extending into the water from the spit. “But why the pier if there’s nothing to the island but solid rock?”

“Just for emergency landings. There was a time, too, when we had some horses here.”

“Horses?” Alec asked eagerly.

The fisherman grinned, disclosing large square teeth. “Well, if you can call them that,” he said apologetically. “Pretty small and scrawny they were, living wild like they did on that hunk of sand. ’Course it’s a wonder they survived at all.”

Henry’s eyes swept over the barren spit. “But what did they graze on?”

“Oh, there’s grass there, most of it growing up near where the rocks begin. It’s sparse all right but hardy. Horses could live on it because it absorbs every bit of moisture in the ground.”

“And there must be fresh water holes,” Alec said, his gaze taking in the sand dunes.

“A few of them, poor but enough to keep the beasts alive.”

“But why were the horses left here at all?” Alec asked.

“It was sort of a government project,” the fisherman explained. “Or at least the government protected the horses for a while.”

“What was the story?” Henry asked, keenly interested.

The boat rolled softly on the swells. “It goes back centuries, to 1669 to be exact,” the fisherman began. “They say—that’s the local newspaper—that at that time our island of Antago was taken over by the Spaniards.”

“You mean the Conquistadores,” Alec asked, “men like Cortés, Pizarro and Balboa?”

“I suppose so,” the fisherman said, his eyes on the sea, “if that was their names. Anyway, they used Antago, since it wasn’t too far off the South American mainland, as a supply base. They put together their armies there before setting out to fight the Incas and Aztecs.”

“And to plunder them of their gold,” Henry mused.

“But what’s that got to do with this island and the horses?” Alec asked impatiently.

“Well, there came a time when the Spaniards had to run for it themselves,” the fisherman explained. “The British and French pirates got too strong for them and started sacking Antago. The Spaniards spread out to other islands ’round here, trying to get back safely to their homeland. One of the places they landed was supposed to be this Azul. At least, the papers say the horses that were found here later were direct descendants of those the Conquistadores rode.”

The fisherman’s eyes roved over the barren land. “I don’t believe it because I don’t think anyone in his right mind would have come to this rock in the first place,” he concluded abruptly. “Even the Spaniards. Anyway, the government took off the last of the horses a year ago.”

Alec sat down, the swells making him a little queasy. For a moment more his gaze remained on this island of stone that thrust itself up out of the sea. Blue waters churned white going over submerged coral before crashing against the precipitous walls. The heavy thudding of the waves seemed ominous, the sound
rising above that made by the boat’s throbbing engines. Azul Island made Alec think of a huge castle or fortress out of the Middle Ages, its cliffs seeming to say to all who would enter, “Turn back!”

Finally he said, “I wonder if there is more to this island than just the sandspit.”

“There isn’t,” the fisherman said quietly. “I’ve been in these waters long enough to know. It’s rock, nothing but a big boulder plunked into the sea.”

Henry watched the fisherman steady the vessel, keeping it well away from the submerged coral; then he squinted into the sun. “But did you ever get close enough to find out for sure?” he asked.

Carefully, expertly, the man turned the wheel, guiding the boat between two coral reefs. His eyes never left the shadowy waters before him. There was no doubt that he knew this particular area very well.

“I’ve been as close as anybody, I guess,” he said quietly.

“And you saw no breaks in the wall that could be used as an entrance of some sort?” Henry asked.

The fisherman grinned while shifting his ponderous weight in his seat. “Nothing but sheer rock,” he repeated, “and if you have the luck to get close enough to look at it you might be unlucky enough to have the sea smash you to pieces against it. No, boss, I have cast my nets in these waters many times and I know it is best to stay clear of this island. It is only for the devil and his disciples,” he concluded, his eyes sweeping skyward.

Alec looked above, too. All he could see was a large black bird soaring above the dome of Azul Island. “Are there other islands nearby?” he asked finally.

“Several.” The fisherman studied Alec. “We can go to them but it will mean spending the night here rather than returning to Antago.”

Alec looked at Henry questioningly.

“It will cost only a little more than if we return to Antago,” the fisherman went on. He ran his tongue along his lower lip. “It will soon be dark.”

“I
would
like to look around here a little more,” Alec admitted.

“So would I,” Henry said thoughtfully. “The story’s interesting even if it isn’t true.”

Thinking of the extra money he would earn, the fisherman smiled and said warmly, “We can put in now, then.”

“No,” Henry said, “run a little more along the cliffs. We have time, and there may be something to see.”

“Are there binoculars on board?” Alec asked.

“Below on the lower bunk,” the fisherman answered. “But you will see no more of this island with them than with the naked eye.”

“Perhaps not,” Alec admitted, going through the companionway. Below deck he rubbed his stomach gently. It was upset, due either to the day’s excitement or to the rolling of the vessel. He picked up the binoculars but instead of returning to the deck stretched out on the lower bunk and closed his eyes.
Just for a moment
, he thought.
Only a moment
.

He didn’t know how many minutes he’d been there when a faint stirring in the far corner of the cabin caused him to open his eyes. The boat was rolling gently on the swells and the light coming through the porthole was almost gone. Sleepy, he closed his eyes again only to snap them open a moment later. Was he awake
or dreaming? The air was hot and oppressive. Had he actually heard the slight, familiar squeak of a bat or was his imagination playing tricks on him?

He stared into the darkened corner, looking for shadowy wings. Was there a blacker than black object hanging there or was he recalling too vividly his experiences in Bat Cave?

As his vision became more adjusted to the dim light he had no doubt as to what was there.
The vampire bat hung by one leg, his head bent against his chest and partly covered by a softly moving wing
.

Alec fought to keep from yelling at the top of his lungs. There was only one thing to do—kill the bat before it awakened. It had to be done quickly, quietly,
now
.

There was a broom beside his bunk. Not much of a weapon but it would have to do. The vampire was stirring still more. If he swung hard, he might at least stun it and then get help from the men above. He recalled the veterinarian’s warnings—vampires would bite viciously when caught or provoked—and he wished he had on the heavy leather gloves loaned him earlier by the veterinarian.

Alec lay motionless, his hand tightening about the broomstick. He told himself that he wasn’t going to be the vampire’s next victim, but his hands and body were clammy with fear. Turning over cautiously on his side, he put one foot on the floor, then the other. Quietly he rose to a sitting position and then got to his feet. Softly he moved forward, one slow step at a time.

He was almost within reach of the vampire when there was a quick movement of its wings and suddenly small bright eyes were staring into his. The vampire
continued hanging downward but now his lips were drawn back, disclosing long, sharp-edged teeth. And from the tiny mouth came a low, rumbling snarl.

Alec was afraid to make the first move so he remained stock-still, staring back at the vampire. The bat seemed disinclined to move also but began uttering soft, hissing cries. Alec wondered if the squeals could be heard on deck and if the men would come to his aid. Or was it better for him to strike now while he still had a chance? Perhaps if he swung hard and fast he might just be able to reach the vampire.