The red stallion whinnied and thrust his nose into the hollow of Steve’s hand. There was no hatred or menace in his large eyes now; nothing was there but wonder. When Steve turned away from him, going up to the entrance to the gorge, the stallion did not follow; instead he turned in the direction of the valley floor as though he wanted none of the trail ahead.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” Steve repeated aloud, as the walls closed in upon him. “And the day after—and the one after that. Oh, if only I could be with him always!”

Always!

WINGED HOOFS

16

Tomorrow … and the day after … and the one after that.

Five days came and went, with each morning’s sun finding Steve in the smaller valley. He lived for the hours of daylight when he could be with his horse. Yet he reckoned the passing of time only by the condition of the scabs upon Flame’s wounds, scabs that hardened until finally they began cracking off, giving way, piece by piece, to the new skin beneath.

And each night back in Blue Valley, Pitch listened as Steve spoke of the stallion’s speedy recovery and of Flame coming to him at his call. After the first few nights, Pitch had let himself think that Steve’s enthusiasm for the red stallion would lessen, but again he found he still did not understand the relationship between the boy and the horse; for if anything, Steve became more intense, his voice more excited, as he told Pitch about Flame during the nights that followed.

And Pitch, when Steve had finished talking each evening, would tell the boy of his day’s explorations, would show him the sextant he’d found, the pistol with the handle etched in gold, small ammunition and the dagger. But he knew that Steve never really looked at them, and thought only of his horse. Even when Pitch told Steve how well he was learning his way around the tunnels and that one day soon he was certain he would come upon the way back to the dory, he wondered if the boy actually listened to him. It was as though Steve didn’t care about ever leaving this valley—as though he wanted to remain here always with his horse.

It was only when Pitch spoke of the Piebald, which he did more often now, that Steve’s eyes disclosed his attentiveness. The Piebald worried Pitch. The Piebald stood between him and his complete freedom of the valley, for Pitch feared the black-and-white stallion more with every day that passed.