The Island Stallion's Fury by Walter Farley Page B

that it was the destination of his stepbrother, the boy and the foal.
    He had gone to Azul Island a few days ago expecting to find Phil’s launch moored at the pier on the spit. When he hadn’t seen it he’d known that his suspicions were correct … that Phil and the boy, Steve, had found something they were keeping very much to themselves. Deciding they never had gone to Azul Island, he’d combed the few islands to the west, looking for them. He had found nothing and so he had returned to Antago to wait, to pick up the trail again. And now he had it and them.
    His long fingers, square at the tips, curled about the wheel. Where were they going on that island of yellow rock? Where else could they moor their launch but onthe spit? Yet it hadn’t been there before.
What had they found?
    His thin lids opened to disclose the greed in his eyes. He stared at the sun, already low in the sky. He wanted it to sink quickly into the depths of the western sea, for darkness was part of his plan.
    He stared fixedly at the launch on the horizon. When night fell, Phil would use his running lights. But he, Tom Pitcher, wouldn’t. He would trail, coming ever closer, following Phil and Steve to whatever they had found. He was no navigator but he knew beyond a doubt that Azul Island was their destination, for no other island lay in the direction they were taking.
    He glanced up at the sun. There was at least another hour of daylight. His long legs, spread wide apart, trembled. Had he figured wrong? Would they reach Azul Island before dark? The speck ahead seemed even smaller now than it had just a few minutes ago. Were they outdistancing him? Should he go faster, pull ever closer to them even now? Take a chance on their seeing him?
    He hated the sea! He was a hunter, more at home on land. He needed the earth beneath his feet, earth to provide tracks or a trail to lead him to what he sought. He increased the speed of the launch and the speck ahead grew larger.
    The yellow dome of Azul Island appeared on the horizon. Desperately he sought more speed from the launch. But only a sudden sputtering came to him. And then the motor died beneath the sound of sea and wind. Frantic, he left the wheel of the wallowing launch to go below. Yet all he could do was to look at the motorwithout touching it. He knew nothing about mechanical things.
    With angry eyes he stood before it, cursing the motor and the sea but never himself or his ignorance. Finally he thought of gasoline, remembering he had not filled the tank before his departure. Hurriedly he returned to the deck for the large can.
    How long was it before he got the motor going again? Five minutes, ten minutes? He didn’t know. All that mattered was that the launch he was following was out of sight, somewhere within the shadows of Azul Island.
    His whole being was consumed with hatred for those who temporarily had evaded him. “Fools! Fools!” he said in a hissing whisper. “To think you can get away!”
    Nearing the island, he placed a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He picked up the pier first and found no launch. Racing the motor, he turned away and spent the next hour encircling the island, studying the walled barriers against which the waves crashed. But he never ventured too close for fear of what the submerged rocks could do to the hull of his craft. Only when it became dusk did he take the launch to the pier on the spit. And now bewilderment filled the black pits of his eyes.
They were here, but where?
What had happened to their launch? It was too big to hide. Where were they?
    He fastened his eyes on the mountainous rock rising above the spit. He looked at it a long while before turning away. Tonight he would sleep on the launch. Tomorrow the hunt would begin again. Somewhere they had left a trail, and he would surely find it.
    Eagerness and anticipation absorbed his whole being now. After a while he went below, intending to eat, to satisfy the