His eyes devoured the red stallion, as though to fix him forever in his memory. Yet he had always known this horse in his dreams. He had looked upon him many times as he was doing now. So he wasn’t surprised to see the small, arrogant head with the large eyes set low in the wide and prominent forehead. It was the head of an Arabian, as he knew it would be.

Still in the sun, the red stallion continued to stand at gaze with only his head moving slowly, watchfully. He was like a giant statue. Steve’s eyes moved over every inch of him. He watched the alert, shifting gaze of the stallion, then studied the wedge-shaped head and the small ears now pricked forward until they almost came to a point at the tips. The stallion’s head was raised high, yet set at an angle, accentuating the high curve at the crest of his long neck. The length of his back, along with his large size, made it apparent to Steve that he was not a pure-blooded Arabian. Yet Steve knew, from the red stallion’s head and neck, from the well-muscled withers, chest and shoulders, from the unusually long quarters and strong legs, that there was a preponderance of Arabian blood in this horse.

The red stallion moved; tall and long-limbed he trotted, his tail flowing behind him and his heavy mane sweeping lightly in the breeze. After a short distance he came to an abrupt stop, his gaze still shifting about the valley floor to the north, his ears alert.

Steve, too, turned his gaze down the valley, but he saw nothing in the dim, fading light of sunset. Still, he knew from the red stallion’s actions that he was uneasy. And whatever it was that bothered him was downwind, so the breeze could not bring any scent to his nostrils. He was not frightened, Steve decided, only cautious.

The thirty-odd mares and their long-legged foals were still grazing without so much as a glance at their leader. They were not restless and Steve knew that only a signal of danger from the red stallion would make them abandon their grazing. Yet what had these horses to fear in this lovely, serene valley? Few animals dangerous to them would be on the island. And no animal could withstand the powerful, crushing hoofs of their angered leader.

Steve was watching the band, thinking how little they resembled the small, wiry horses on the plain outside the walls, when Pitch joined him.

“Steve,” Pitch said excitedly, “look what I found!” He held an iron spur with a sharp-pointed rowel at the end of it.

Taking the spur from Pitch, Steve ran his fingertips over the spike-wheeled rowel, thinking of the damage it could do to a horse when it was on the heel of a vicious rider.