The Island Stallion by Walter Farley

wall. “We can’t just stand here, Steve, so let’s see where this goes. If it comes to nothing we’ll just have to call it quits and go back again.”
    Moving slowly, Steve sidestepped along the narrow ledge. He had gone about thirty yards when the ledge ended abruptly at a shallow cleft in the rock.
    Steve and Pitch stood there, saying nothing, their eyes taking in the smooth stone on either side of them. Overhead, the cleft rose about fifty feet. Pitch moved off the ledge and into the cleft beside Steve; there was just enough room for both of them. “Well, this seems to be the end,” Pitch said dismally. “There’s no place to go from here.”
    Steve hated to turn back now, for there was no other way, he knew, of setting foot onto this part of the island. But Pitch was right—there was no place to go from here. No place but up.
    Pitch had moved back to the ledge, and Steve pushed his foot against the wall of the cleft. As he did so he could feel a small indentation in the rock. He swept his foot along it, scattering the small stones that lay there. He could see it clearly now; the indentationwas worn almost smooth, but it was still very much like the uneven cuts in the rock they had just climbed over. He glanced at a point a few feet above the first cut; then, quickly, he leaned forward, his fingers finding another niche in the stone wall. Looking above his head, he saw several more slight indentations; but whether or not they went all the way up the wall he could not tell, for they were too shallow to be seen from any distance.
    Pitch had turned away from him, but Steve excitedly called him back. Pointing to the lowest niche in the wall, he said, “Look, Pitch! Here are those cuts again.”
    Crouching down beside Steve, Pitch felt the cuts; then after Steve had shown him the others, he said, “They certainly look the same, Steve. But why would anyone—”
    “Here’s why!” Steve said quickly. He braced his back against the wall opposite the cuts, then raised his feet to the first niche. And there he sat, wedged between the walls of the cleft!
    “You mean …” Pitch began.
    Instead of replying, Steve placed one foot in the next cut, then slid his back up the wall until he was still higher above the ground.
    Pitch looked up at him in amazement. “Can you come down the same way?” he asked.
    “Sure,” Steve said, and he slowly made his way back to the ground. “We can do it, Pitch,” he said. “We can go right up, as long as those cuts are there to give us a foothold!”
    “But do you think they go all the way up, Steve?”
    “I’m sure they do. Those cuts were made by someoneas a way of getting up from this ledge! Come on, Pitch,” Steve said anxiously, “you can easily do it.”
    Once more Steve was in the cleft, and a few seconds later he was moving slowly up between the walls. Pitch watched him for a few moments, and then, when it was obvious that Steve wasn’t going to wait for him or turn back, Pitch hesitantly started up himself. He found it easier than he had expected as long as he kept his back hard against the opposite wall and his feet firmly in the cuts. Soon he was gaining upon Steve, who had to spend time uncovering each cut before going on.
    As Steve neared the top he could see the wide ledge above. He pushed himself up the remaining few feet and then crawled out upon it. Pitch was just behind, and Steve reached down to help him up.
    They stood there side by side, looking about them. Below was a precipitous drop to the sea, and above another sheer wall of yellow stone. Pitch had begun to shake his head dismally when he saw the box-shaped stone that rose a few feet above the center of the ledge. “Look here, Steve,” he said, running to it.
    When Steve joined Pitch, he found him looking down a darkened shaft. The hole was about four feet in area, and the stone around it was squared off at each corner, “Somebody built this,” Steve said, looking down into the blackness of the