When Pitch reached the canal, he saw the sunken, moss-covered piles. His hands touched them almost caressingly as he thought of the long centuries they had been there. He moved forward, watching the water in the canal rise and fall with the sea swells that came from the outer world. Upon reaching the hole, he stood to one side where he could see a little of the ocean. The wind tore through the hole, whipping the spray upon him until his face was wet.

“Steve,” he said quietly, “there must be a channel outside, running right up to this entrance. The way must be clear through the reef and rocks, because they must have brought their boats in here. This hole is higher than I thought it would be from your description, but there must be some plant life on the outside that keeps it from being seen—that and the waves would hide it unless one got really close. The Spaniards must have protected this entrance with guns in the walls above and on the sides. I believe we could find them if we looked, Steve …”

Pitch turned, expecting to find the boy close behind him.

“Steve!” he called excitedly. “Steve! Where are you?” But his voice was lost in the roar of wind and waves.

Pitch went running back through the cavern until he saw the adjoining chamber. He stopped in front of it, startled by the semidarkness within; then, when his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he went inside.

Pitch walked forward a few yards, his eyes wide with amazement at the sight before him. He caught only a glimpse of the heavy wooden structure he knew was the crane, for his gaze left it immediately for the sunken rim of the pit. Steve was kneeling upon it beside the still form of what had to be the red stallion.

Pitch’s pace slowed until he came to a halt a short distance behind Steve and Flame.

But it can’t be the same horse, he thought. It can’t be!

There was nothing beautiful or proud or defiant about this horse, whose limp body hung heavily upon the rope noose that extended from the end of the chain and encircled the hind part of his body. Only one foreleg remained upon the rim of the pit and that was still; the other hung below him, dangling above the quicksand. White lather covered his body, from the flanks that rose above the quicksand to the small lowered head.

This couldn’t be the same horse, Pitch thought again. It couldn’t be the tall, long-limbed stallion who so proudly and gallantly had defended his band! This could be any horse outside Blue Valley—and he looks beaten, exhausted, almost dead.