The Island Stallion's Fury by Walter Farley Page B

take any active interest in my work until the last few months. In his sarcastic way he asked if my digging had turned up anything. I told him I’d found nothing on the spit … which I hadn’t, of course.”
    â€œBut why his sudden interest?” Steve asked gravely.
    â€œPerhaps his restlessness was the cause of it. Perhaps it was your letters.”
    â€œYou didn’t let him see them, Pitch?” Steve’s words were clipped.
    â€œNo, but I burned them after reading them. Tom saw me burning one. He probably guessed my only reason for doing such a thing was to keep the letter out of his hands. I should have been more careful.”
    They said nothing more for a long while, then Steve spoke. “And you’re afraid he might have returned to Antago by this time? You’re afraid he’ll see the …”
    â€œâ€¦Â the colt.” Pitch said it for him. “And if he did he’d know we
had
found something on Azul Island we were keeping to ourselves.”
    â€œBut the colt could be from the band on the spit,” Steve said quickly. “We can tell Tom that, if he sees us.”
    â€œBut would he believe us?” Pitch asked quietly.
    Steve turned to the foal, who was starting to wake up. Again he took note of the fine wedge-shaped head, the delicate lines of neck and body.
    Even as he looked at the colt, Pitch reminded him, “Tom’s been around horses most of his life. He’ll see what you see, Steve … he’ll know that that foal could never have been born from the stock on the spit.”
    The boy turned to him. “But we don’t need to go to the plantation, do we, Pitch?”
    â€œNo. I did all I could there before your arrival. I have no reason to go.”
    â€œThen after we’ve seen the vet we’ll go right back to Blue Valley,” Steve said.
    â€œYes,” Pitch agreed, “that’s our best bet. Do what we have to do, then get off Antago fast.” He paused. “I feel much better now that I’ve told you everything, Steve … much better.”
    The foal was fully awake, and Steve hurried below to the galley to get the milk for him.
    During the remainder of the trip to Antago, Steve stayed with the colt, keeping him down on the blanket. There was pain in the foal’s eyes now and Steve tried to comfort him, soothing him with voice and hands. Occasionally the foal would drop off to sleep again and only then would the boy’s thoughts turn to Tom Pitcher and what he had seen this giant of a man do with the long bull whip which he wore wrapped around his bulging waist. He knew the terror Tom would bring to Blue Valley if he ever found the lost band of horses that grazed there.
    But never would Tom find them. Never!
    It was almost a year since Steve had last seen Tom Pitcher. But it could have been only an hour ago, for it wasn’t easy to forget him. Steve saw his dark, low-jowled face with its beady, suspicious eyes always watching, waiting to catch one off guard. And when the opportunity came, Tom attacked viciously by word or action, for it was in him always to demonstrate his superiority over man and animal. Steve wondered now what instinctfostered Tom’s determination to dominate everything before him. Was it fear? Was it pride in his tremendous body and strength? Anyway, it was there for anyone to see.
    Steve thought again of the bull whip which Tom could use so skillfully that it might as well be his own arms going out to grasp and tear at will. Steve had seen him use it last summer.
    There had been no escape for the small, wiry horse in the plantation’s corral. Tom had run him before the whip until the horse could hardly stand. He’d fought him for what seemed to Steve to be a terrible love of fighting. And when the horse had stood before him with swaying and trembling body, Tom had regretted the end of the fight. Then the animal had been broken to