Pitch was uncomfortable. “I was the one who told you about it,” he said, his eyes avoiding Steve’s. “I was visiting your father one day when you came into the room to show him a drawing of a pony you’d made; then you showed it to me. You sat on my lap and I told you a story about horses. It was a story based on one of Tom’s first letters to me from Antago. He had written of going to an island not far from Antago to wrangle the wild horses that were there. He described everything in great detail, including, of course, the canyon and cliff. I passed this all on to you, making it as vivid and real as I possibly could. And you and I pretended that we were with Tom, going down the canyon, watching the horses run ahead of us. We had a lot of fun making believe—” Pitch stopped and his eyes met the boy’s. “I’m sorry, Steve, real sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Pitch,” Steve said, angry with himself. “I guess I knew all the time there had to be an explanation for it all. But,” he went on, smiling a little, “I guess I was trying to convince myself that something very unusual had taken place, that for some strange reason I was being told of an island where I should go.” His voice dropped. “I suppose I even expected to find Flame here. It’s my wild imagination, Pitch. At least Dad would call it that,” he concluded bitterly.

Pitch was quiet for a while, then he said, “But there’s nothing wrong with having an imagination, Steve. Let it loose now, here on this island.” His voice became eager, excited. “Azul Island has been uninhabited by people since the days when Spain ruled the world. Think of the relics, the historical treasures we may find hidden within this canyon. We’ll look around tomorrow, Steve. We’ll do some digging, you and I!”

“Yes,” Steve said softly. “Sure, Pitch.”

THE STALLION ON THE CLIFF

4

That night Steve lay awake for a long time, his head protruding from the tent so he could watch the moon as it flooded the canyon with its light.