Soon he’d be with his stallion. There was only a short distance to go now.

Finally his path led upward, taking him from the hollow that fostered and nurtured the marsh. He began running again, leaving the dense vapors far behind. He climbed higher—and then, just beyond a field of wild cane, he saw Blue Valley! At the upper end a band of horses grazed. A few of them were drinking from a pool that was fed by a waterfall dropping a hundred feet or more down the precipitous wall.

Steve Duncan stopped then and whistled as loud as he could. In answer, a lone stallion emerged from the band … a tall chestnut horse whose mane and tail seemed to move like burning flame when he broke into a gallop. Steve ran to meet him.

No longer was the valley a place of quiet and peaceful solitude. The great stallion moved faster and faster over the short, thick grass, the beat of his hoofs resounding loudly from the walls of the natural amphitheater. He ran easily and without effort, his small head held high, his eyes never leaving the distant figure of the boy coming to meet him.

Steve entered one side of the field of wild cane as the horse reached the other. He saw the stalks bend and break beneath the tall body of his horse. As he called and kept running, the red stallion swept by him, close enough almost to touch but without slowing stride. Steve did not turn back but ran faster through the cane.

When he had reached the grassy floor of the valley, he heard Flame behind him, and then the stallion thundered by again, running halfway down the valley before slowing. Steve watched him make his sweeping turn, moving from sunlight into shadows cast by the high western wall. Flame’s great body was now shrouded with a clinging veil of blue, a color that the shadows picked up from the grass and coral rock.

And now Flame’s call rose above the beat of his hoofs. It wasn’t his clarion whistle of angry challenge. Soft and wavering, it hung on the air and welcomed Steve back home.

The boy laughed and kept running across the valley floor. He’d been gone only two days on this last trip to Antago but to him, as well as to Flame, it had seemed much longer. He was breathing heavily but soon he would stop running. He watched Flame sweep by him once more, and saw the short thrust of a foreleg as the stallion struck out in play without breaking stride.

Upon reaching the opposite side of the valley, Steve jumped onto a flat rock and then turned around, awaiting his horse. In only a few seconds Flame was beside him and he slid quickly onto the stallion’s back. He gave no command. He barely had time to close his knees before Flame was off, stretching out as he had not done before.

Only twice during the long ride down the valley floor did Steve call to him, and then he spoke softly into the pricked ears. “Run, Flame! Run!” He had learned long ago never to shout, only to whisper to Flame. He saw his stallion make for the band, the mares and foals scattering at his swift approach. Flame turned on winged hoofs and Steve shifted with him; then he went all-out up the valley and Steve had to close his eyes against the force of the wind Flame created. He pressed his head against the stallion’s mane and neck. He was content to let Flame run as long and as fast as the horse liked. He’d know when the ride was over. But now he was one with Flame.

A half hour later he slid down from the sweaty back, as hot and wet as his horse. They were near the pool, and from all about them came the neighs of the mares.