They walked into the shadows of the canyon walls, and for a few minutes Steve was blinded by the sudden transition from glaring light to soft darkness. Then his eyes became accustomed to the shadows, and he saw the end of the canyon a short distance away. The horses were standing there, grouped together, their frightened eyes upon the two humans. But Steve’s gaze did not linger on the horses. Instead he looked upward, to the cliff that hung three hundred feet or more above.

Pitch said, “Now you can understand, Steve, what I meant when I said that it was impossible to get to the interior of the island from here. These walls make it impossible even to get up to the cliff.” He was beside Steve, his eyes also fixed on the flat, overhanging rock. “And there’d be nowhere to go from there, either. Just look at that sheer wall of stone behind it!”

Pitch walked away but Steve stood there, still gazing up at the cliff. Pitch is right, he thought, there’s no possible way to reach the cliff from the canyon floor.

Then Pitch’s voice reached him. He was calling for the tent. He wanted to set up camp. It was getting late, he said. The sun would be going down shortly.

Steve went over to him and threw his pack against the side of the canyon wall where Pitch had decided to make camp. But as he worked alongside Pitch, his eyes would turn very often to the cliff.

The sun sank rapidly behind the mountainous rock of Azul Island, and soon the darkness of night had sped from the canyon floor to the rolling, sandy plain beyond. Steve and Pitch had finished setting up the tent and now sat before the Sterno stove, heating a pot of beans and frankfurters.

“We should have collected some driftwood before it got dark,” Pitch said, moving closer to the small flame emerging from the can of Sterno. “The night air is cool out here. It would have been nice to have a wood fire.” Pausing, he added dismally, “I’m such a greenhorn at this, I’m afraid.” He turned to Steve, who was still looking up at the darkened wall at the end of the canyon and who seemed not to have heard. Pitch pushed a fork into the frankfurters. “They’re ready, I think. Let me have your plate, Steve. Your plate, please,” Pitch repeated, more insistently.

Steve heard him then and handed over his tin plate. “Thanks, Pitch,” he said. He ate in silence for a few minutes, then looked up to find Pitch watching him. Smiling, he moved closer to his friend and the small flame. “Sorry,” he said, “I was thinking about something.” Then he added quickly, as though to make up for his inattention, “We should have gathered some wood from the beach, Pitch. A good fire would have been nice tonight.”