Heavy-bodied, the Piebald grazed alone, only occasionally turning his heavy head to the band. His white tail whisked the flies away from his streaked body and he stomped the earth with his hind legs to rid himself of the flies that avoided his long tail. His short, thick neck bulged with muscle as he stretched his head to the ground. Suddenly he stopped grazing, bringing his head up with a start. He stood motionless for a while, grass protruding from his mouth, his jaws locked. Finally he turned his head to Steve’s side of the valley and watched intently; then he turned his head still farther, looking down the valley. Again he stood still, and only his small, beady eyes moved. After a long while he began chewing on the grass in his mouth, and when that was swallowed forgot his inquisitiveness and began grazing again.

Steve had bent low beneath the cane, and proceeded up the valley only when the Piebald went back to his grazing.

“It’ll be different next time,” Steve muttered to himself. Already he was thinking of the coming fight between Flame and the Piebald. “You won’t have his band much longer,” he went on, as though talking to the Piebald. “He’ll come back as fresh as you were in the first fight. He belongs with his band. He was meant to be their leader.”

And as he approached the waterfall, Steve’s spirits rose. Soon he would be with Pitch and together they would help Flame return to his band. With Flame as its leader again, this perfect breed of horse would go on. Just now, it was what Steve wanted more than anything else in the world.

When he was almost opposite the pool he straightened, running through the cane toward the trail that would take him to the cliff above and to Pitch.

“Pitch! Pitch!” Steve began calling at the bottom of the rocky trail, his face turned upward to the looming black hole that was their camp. His tired legs carried him up the trail with a speed that was generated by his eagerness to reach Pitch. But there was no reply to his frequent shouts, no sight of his friend’s thin, frail body.

But he’s got to be here, Steve thought desperately. At least, he can’t be far away.

When Steve reached the cave he came to a stop. On the floor were Pitch’s pack and rope. Beside them stood the stove and several empty cans, evidence that Pitch had recently eaten. Steve turned to the blackness of the cave’s interior. Surely Pitch wasn’t in there or there would be a light. Then where was he?

Steve had walked out upon the wide ledge in front of the cave when he heard a shout from above. Pitch! Whirling, Steve peered up at the yellow walls rising above him.

“Yo!” Pitch called again. “Over here!”