Hoofbeats of Danger (8 page)

Ambrose headed for the stagecoach, which still stood in front of the door. The horses stamped their hooves and jingled their harness, waiting impatiently.

The blond man, the one Billy called Goldilocks, came around the corner of the cabin, a book tucked under his arm. He halted as he saw the coach waiting. “Ready to load up?” he asked the guard. “Or do I have time for another bowl of that excellent porridge?”

“You mean you haven't brought out your luggage yet?” Ambrose barked, looking up sharply at the passenger. “The rest was all strapped on a while ago. We'd be gone by now if there hadn't been all this fuss. You'd have been left behind, brother.”

“Fuss? What fuss?” Goldilocks reached up to twirl his mustache. “I was just down by the river, below the bluff—I thought I'd get in a morning stroll while I had a chance. Sitting in a cramped coach all day and night is such a bore.”

“Just get your luggage,” the guard said with a disgusted wave of his hand. “We've got a schedule to keep.” He turned away and busied himself with yanking tight the leather straps holding the pile of baggage atop the coach.

Annie watched the passenger saunter away, wondering if he was telling the truth. Maybe he really hadn't heard the shooting and the shouting. Standing below the rocky outcropping with the rain-swollen river thundering nearby, he might have been out of earshot. But it did seem odd. Why was this one passenger always absent when trouble broke out?

Billy came up behind Annie and muttered in her ear, “Goldilocks has been riding that stagecoach for two weeks. He's got to know better than to wander off when the stage is getting ready to leave.”

Annie nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Billy frowned, tugging on one ear. “Funny things are going on here. Someone's up to no good.”

The other passengers began to file out of the station house now, talking among themselves. Jeremiah slapped Billy on the shoulder as he passed, heading for the barn. “See if you can find Magpie,” he said. “Mr. Dawson and I agreed this morning, she has to be shot.” He heaved a sigh. “If we'd done it sooner, he wouldn't be hurt now.”

Annie saw an unwilling look cross Billy's face. “Aw, Jeremiah, she's already run away from the station—why don't we just let her go?”

Jeremiah shook his head. “She's dangerous, Billy. Besides, putting a bullet through her brain would be kinder than letting her break a leg out there and starve to death in some gulch.” He glanced toward the loaded stagecoach. “We got to do things right. We can't let Slocum think we're careless.”

Annie's head drooped. Jeremiah was right; they needed Mr. Slocum's good opinion to save her pa's job. But why did it have to be at the cost of Magpie's life? Then she threw a fearful look toward the station house. Would Pa be able to go on serving as stationmaster anyway?

Billy stopped at her side. “Sorry, Annie,” he said gently as he began to load his revolver. “But maybe Jeremiah's right.”

Annie clutched Billy's arm, the one that held the gun. “But Billy, she ain't loco!” she protested. “She was just spooked by that gunshot, that's why she kicked Pa.” She lowered her voice. “Redbird reckons you were right about poison, Billy. She says Magpie needs to keep moving until the bad stuff runs through her. If you just say you couldn't find her—let her run loose until she's better—”

Billy looked uneasy. “You heard what Jeremiah said. In her condition, she could break a leg or even break her neck.”

Annie tightened her fingers on his arm. “Then go find her and stay with her. Keep her safe. I just know she'll get better if we give her time.”

Billy stared into her searching eyes. “What if she runs from me? You come with me. She won't run away if she sees you.”

Annie dropped her eyes, shaking her head. “I can't leave—not with Pa lying in there like that.”

“Redbird and your ma can doctor him just fine,” Billy insisted. “We're no use to him in there. But if someone's poisoning Express ponies here, we have to stop it, for the sake of the Overland. That'd be more help to your pa than anything.”

Annie straightened her shoulders. What Billy said made sense. This might be the chance she longed for to prove herself to her father. “Let's go, then,” she decided.

With the passengers milling around the stagecoach, wondering when they might pull out, nobody noticed the boy and girl hurrying to the barn door. Billy quickly fetched a rope from a hook, and then the two headed for the pine scrub behind the barn. Billy gestured toward a gap in the foliage. Judging from the broken boughs and trampled sagebrush, it was a good guess that this was the way Magpie had run—away from the river, toward the open plains.

Billy started down the muddy slope into the scrubby woods. Annie hitched up her brown wool skirt to follow him, wishing as she often did that her mother would let her wear pants. Billy had little trouble scrambling down the slope in his riding boots with the pointed toes. Annie did the best she could in her stiff, thick-soled shoes.

Though the sun was rising ahead of them in the eastern sky, the dense scrub was still dark, the low overhead branches matted and heavy with last night's rain. Following the trail Magpie had thrashed through the wet pine scrub, Annie called out to Billy, “How can we ever catch her on foot? You know what a speedy little horse she is.”

“The brush and trees will slow her down,” Billy pointed out as he swung around a thorn bush. “And I'm betting she ain't running her usual pace. You saw how confused and worn out she was. Anyway, we've got to try.” He sprinted ahead.

For ten minutes or so, Annie picked her way along, straining her ears for the sound of hoofbeats. Then she saw Billy halt ahead of her. She hurried to his side. He was staring down into a jagged gully.

Annie followed his gaze. There at the bottom of the gully, near the flooded creek, lay Magpie, her legs splayed awkwardly to one side. All around her sprawled a dense thicket of gray-green bushes, climbing halfway up the gully wall.

Holding onto a pine sapling, Annie lowered herself into the gully. To her left, a fresh vertical gash, gouged deeply into the gully wall, suggested that Magpie had come down the same way—and probably by accident.
Please don't let her have a broken leg,
Annie prayed silently.

She threw an anxious glance at Magpie, not far below her. The pony seemed to have landed in the densest part of the thicket. For a moment, Annie felt relieved. The mass of tough branches would have cushioned the mare's fall. Annie charged toward Magpie. But as she reached the edge of the thicket, her skirt tore on a barrier of sharp thorns. “Sticker bushes!” she yelled to Billy, who was dropping down the gully wall behind her. “A whole big patch of 'em!”

As she waded in, the thorns bit cruelly into her skin. Even worse, they hooked the tough branches to each other like a huge springy net. Magpie must have flailed about and tangled herself even further, Annie realized.

Peering ahead to find a gap in the thorns, she saw Magpie shudder in agony as a spasm went through her. Coldness gripped Annie's heart.

Magpie was trapped in the brambles. She couldn't move.

Then how was she going to work the poison out of her body?

C
HAPTER
9

T
RAPPED
!

Annie tore her skirt free and then stepped downward hard, trampling the brambles under her thick soles. Though the thorns dug into her ankles and stung her legs, she waded across the briar patch to Magpie. Nearing the horse's side, Annie held out her hand. But just then, another spasm took hold. Magpie flattened her ears and jerked her head around, trying to bite at her belly. Annie drew back, frightened. Her own stomach doubled up as she watched the pains rack Magpie's gut.

Billy halted at the edge of the briar patch. “Look at the way her stomach's heaving—like something's eating her up inside,” Annie groaned. ‘And her breathing is so harsh. That's a sure sign she's sick, not crazy.” Billy nodded grimly.

“We can't leave her lying still like this,” Annie pressed on anxiously. “Have you got your knife with you?”

“Always,” Billy replied. From his belt he pulled his long hunting knife with the mother-of-pearl handle. Annie knew it was one of his few prized possessions. He'd told her it had been a gift from the great Indian scout Kit Carson, though she suspected that was just another of his tall tales.

Billy leaned over and began to saw at the thickest bramble branches, hewing a path toward the trapped horse. His silver blade flashed as he cut, and Magpie, eyeing him, snorted nervously. “Hush now, girl,” Annie crooned as she began to yank aside snarled branches at her end. The mare quivered but lay still.

Annie and Billy worked swiftly, urgently, both aware of the desperate need to free Magpie so she could move again. Feeling thorns slashing her palms, Annie dug her hands into her skirt and doubled up the rough wool to protect herself as she worked.

Finally Annie ripped away the last brambles snaring Magpie's neck and shoulders. Without waiting for them to clear any more away, Magpie heaved herself forward, scrambling to her feet and through the narrow clearing Billy had hacked open. Her hindquarters were scored with bloody scratches.

Annie hurried after her, whistling for the mare to wait. Magpie pricked her ears and jerked to a stop. Billy scooped up the rope he'd brought and tossed it to Annie to slip around Magpie's neck. As Annie leaned toward her, Magpie shuddered with a fresh convulsion of pain and staggered a few steps away. “It'll be all right, girl. It'll be all right,” Annie said, trying to calm the anguished horse. She sidled carefully toward her and got the rope around her neck.

Billy approached cautiously as Annie knotted the rope. He thrust out an arm and pointed at Magpie's flank, his face creased with concern. “There it is! Look on her rump, Annie.”

Annie peered carefully. Amid the fresh scratches from the thorns she saw a deeper cut about three inches long, its blood already dried, in the middle of the white patch on Magpie's hindquarters. “What's that?” she asked, her voice tightening.

“Your pa told me he saw it early this morning—I guess Magpie was dozing, and he was able to sneak up and look her over. He said he'd found an arrow wound on her flank.”

“An arrow wound?” Annie wondered. “How can that be? There wasn't a single mark on her coat when I groomed her yesterday afternoon. I'd've noticed.”

Billy nodded. “Your pa figured she got it yesterday, when those Blackfeet attacked me.”

Annie's shoulders sagged. “You mean … he thought the Indians made Magpie sick? Tipped their arrows with poison or something?”

Billy sighed. “Something along those lines. 'Course, I insisted she hadn't been hit. But he didn't believe me. He thought I just hadn't noticed the wound.” He hung his head. “You know, Annie, those braves didn't really shoot any arrows at me at all. They just shouted from afar. I guess I exaggerated when I told the story later. I was just making up a brag—trying to look like a hero.”

Annie frowned. “Your stories are always right entertaining, Billy,” she said, “but it looks like this one's backfired. It could even lead to bloodshed.”

Suddenly they both noticed that Magpie was standing still and swaying dizzily. Annie gave a gentle tug to the rope around the mare's neck. Magpie grunted and skittered a few steps, and then Annie began to pace her up and down along the creek bank, leading her by the rope. Magpie followed, trembling and wheezing roughly.

Keeping a watchful eye on her, Annie considered what they knew about Magpie's wound. “All right, we know for certain Magpie wasn't shot by an Indian arrow yesterday afternoon. But how do you explain this wound on her flank now? She was inside the barn from the time I finished grooming her to the time she started acting up.”

“She was out in the corral during the night,” Billy pointed out. “But it ain't likely any Blackfeet crept up in the night and shot her then. Not in a rainstorm, with a dozen people staying at the station.”

“Even if they did, it wasn't the thing that made her go loco,” Annie reminded him. “She was already acting crazy by then.”

Annie watched another spasm grip the weary mustang, her own body shuddering in sympathy.

“I didn't have a chance to check out the wound this morning before she ran off,” Billy said. He cautiously came closer to Magpie and peered at the wound. Then he gave Annie a grim look. “That's no arrow wound, Annie. Look at it yourself.”

Annie held out her open hand until Magpie nuzzled it, her hot breath warming Annie's palm. Then Annie gently ran her hand along Magpie's side, moving cautiously to her sore flank. She delicately fingered the wound. Magpie flinched from her touch.

“It isn't deep enough for an arrow wound,” Billy pointed out, “and the edges are too clean. They were cut with something sharper—a knife, maybe.”