Steve opened his eyes, wondering why the horses were moving about. An animal? Perhaps. Maybe even the moon. He’d heard somewhere that a full moon could make horses restless. He turned over on his stomach, looking at the small band grouped near the opposite wall of the canyon. The moonlight made everything very distinct and he could see that all the horses were on their feet, moving about nervously. The stallion was trying to keep them together. One of the mares neighed loudly and the sound was echoed by the whinnies of the others. Several tried to break away from the group, but the stallion cut them off. He tossed his head, snorting repeatedly. It was obvious to Steve that the stallion was keeping the mares from breaking away. He watched for a long time, his eyes never leaving them. Finally he saw the stallion turn his head away from the mares and raise it high, snorting loudly. The other horses, too, moved about more restlessly than before.

At that moment the canyon echoed to a high-pitched whistle. Shrill, loud and clear, it vibrated from wall to wall until it lost itself in the rolling plain beyond. The whistle was like nothing Steve had ever heard before, and his breath came short. Then he forced himself to turn his head upward. Slowly he raised it until he could see the cliff high overhead.

A horse stood there, silhouetted against the bare moonlit walls like a giant statue! His small head was raised in haughty defiance, and the only thing about him that moved was the long mane that swept back in the night breeze.

Steve had stopped breathing. He closed his eyes. It’s not true, he thought. I’m dreaming. Nothing is true. I’m still asleep. I heard nothing, saw nothing, actually. Pitch is asleep beside me. The horses are asleep. I heard nothing. And nothing is on the cliff. Nothing, nothing, nothing!

But he opened his eyes and looked again. The horse was still there. Steve could see the high crest upon the long neck, the giant body which seemed so much out of proportion to the small head.

“Oh, Pitch! Pitch!” Steve shouted, pounding the sleeping figure beside him. If this were all a dream would he feel his fist sinking into Pitch’s back? Would Pitch sit up, as he did now, grabbing him, shaking him by the shoulders?

“Steve! What on earth is the matter? Stop it!”

Then it’s not a dream, Steve thought. This much of it, anyway. “Look up on the cliff, Pitch. Tell me what you see. Quick!” His voice was tired, beaten.

He watched as Pitch turned his head toward the cliff. For a frightening few seconds Pitch’s face disclosed nothing. Then his eyes widened, the corners of his mouth twitched nervously and he said, “I see a horse … a horse on the cliff! Incredible!”