Mustang Moon (16 page)

“We.”

“What?” Sam felt a shimmer of irritation.

“If
we're
just sitting there, the horses are more likely to approach.”

“Thanks, Jake, but you can stay in the nice warm truck. All I'm going to do is take a picture—”

“With
my mom's
camera,
if
I decide to give it to you.”

“Don't be bratty, Jake.”

“Try ‘sensible,' Pest.” Jake glanced into the rearview mirror, then pulled the truck off the street, onto a dirt road.

“Explain why it's more sensible for both of us to sit in the cold, waiting for mustangs that probably won't show up.”

“If you scare them,” Jake said patiently, “you could be hurt. Horses, you might've heard, are really big.”

Sam folded her hands. He was so annoying, it was a challenge to stay calm.

“If the horses spooked, they'd run away from me. And if they accidentally ran my way, do you think you can single-handedly stop a stampede? If you can, so can I.” Sam took a long breath, thinking of how
she'd freed the Phantom from the Willow Springs corrals. “Sometimes, I don't mess up, Jake. Sometimes, I do things right.”

Jake let her words hang there between them.

Sam didn't force him to reply. She just bounced against her seat belt as he guided the truck over the rutted road. It was five minutes before he slowed down.

“Let's eat before we go down there,” Jake said. “My mom sent food, too.”

As the truck stopped uphill from the pond, behind a screen of wind-tossed piñons, Sam let Jake believe he'd won. It would be good for his digestion.

Using the big purple first aid kit as a picnic table, they feasted on roast beef sandwiches, corn chips, and cocoa from Gram, and Swiss cheese on rye, carrot sticks, and bottled water from Jake's mother.

They chewed in such companionable silence, Sam was reluctant to rekindle their fight. She searched for words that weren't a declaration that she was, by golly, going out there alone.

The evening had turned midnight blue around them, but a smudge of tan showed against the eastern hills.

“Does that trail lead to Lost Canyon?” Sam asked.

Jake followed her pointing finger and nodded.

“Why's it called that, do you know?”

Jake narrowed his eyes, as if she were trying to trick him.

“What?” Sam demanded.

Jake settled back against the driver's door and rolled a bottle of water between his palms. “I'll only tell you this story because I'm too full to move.”

“Oh, good.” Sam leaned against her own door and nestled into her coat. She pulled the sheepskin collar against her cheeks, still watching the window behind him, in case mustangs appeared.

“A band of Shoshone—not a hunting party or families with tents, but warriors—holed up in Lost Canyon with their war ponies. Stories say they had a hundred of the West's fastest horses, and each night they led them down to water.”

Jake pointed at the pond. “In those days, that was a huge lake, blue as a bowl full of sky, with water so pure and sweet the horses craved it more than grass.

“After the Civil War, cavalrymen stationed at the remount station by Alkali had little to do. Through the war, they'd captured mustangs, broken them to saddle, and sent them off to Southern battlefields.

“After the war, there was only Indian fighting, clearing Shoshones and Paiutes off this land for farmers.

“Hoofprints told the cavalrymen of the one hundred Shoshone ponies, and the soldiers set a trap. Why didn't the warriors see it?” Jake wondered. “Was it a foggy night? Were the horses thirstier than usual and less wary? No one knows.”

Outside the truck, Sam heard an insect, but nothing else moved.

“Did they kill them?” she asked.

“They captured them and corralled the ponies. The horses could have made a run for it. They might have escaped, but herd instinct is stronger than anything. If a horse is left behind, he's prey to coyotes and cougars. Safety is with the herd. Usually.”

Sam hugged her knees to her chest. She didn't want to hear the rest of the story, but she wouldn't make Jake stop.

“These soldiers were cavalrymen. They understood the superiority of a mounted warrior over a man on foot. So they took what the Shoshone valued more than life—their war ponies.

“The shooting started at dawn. It's said all the penned ponies screamed each time a rifle cracked and the next horse fell. By noon, the soldiers were sickened by the blood-slick ground and frightened by warriors chanting death songs. But their orders said to slaughter every pony and they did.

“They released the Shoshone. Why shouldn't they? The Indians' power lay stinking on the desert floor, dinner for vultures. With the cries of dying horses still echoing from the hills, the cavalrymen watched the Shoshone warriors walk the long trail to Lost Canyon.”

Wind made the truck shudder and Sam rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. It was lucky she
wasn't superstitious, Sam thought. A more fearful sort might mistake the wailing wind for the sound of ghost ponies, crying for their lost companions.

“Releasing the Shoshone was a mistake,” Jake said. In the darkness, his teeth showed in a faint smile. “One man and three ponies had stayed behind. Three ponies is a small fighting force, for sure, but the warriors petted them and trained them. They decorated them in war paint with red prints on their shoulders and blue rings around their eyes. The warriors fasted, prayed, and vowed to wait.

“One day, a small cavalry patrol trotted across the desert, confident they could pass in safety. When they heard Shoshone drums, they laughed. What would the brave warriors do? Chase after them on foot?”

“But wait.” Sam remembered. “The last Indian battle in Nevada was fought on War Drum Flats, right?”

“Not much of a battle.” Jake's tone turned casual. “Not a single man died, but the Shoshone warriors took the horses and left the cavalrymen to walk back to the fort, proving the power of one man and three ponies.”

“And that's how your ranch got its name,” Sam said.

“I guess.” Jake shrugged. “You ready to walk down there?”

He turned on the headlights to light their way.

Sam started to reply, then stopped. She blinked,
making sure the combination of moonlight and headlights hadn't fooled her eyes.

“Behind you,” she whispered.

For a second, Jake turned to stone, then smoothly and slowly his head swiveled to look out the window.

Down the trail from Lost Canyon came the Phantom's herd, without him.

“I
T'S THE
P
HANTOM'S
herd, but where is he?”

In the darkness outside Jake's truck, Sam made out the lead mare with zebra-striped forelegs. She spotted one of the blood-bay mares, too, but the silver stallion was missing.

“Relax.” Jake jiggled her arm in a way he must think was calming. “You're breathing too fast for someone just sitting in a truck.”

“Jake, a couple days ago, the Phantom was in a fight. He won, but he was injured.”

Cautiously, always keeping a quarter mile between themselves and the truck, the mares made their way to level ground, headed for the pond. The wind blew from behind them. Their wild manes and tails streamed forward and the scent of humans hurried ahead of them.

“Blackie's been doing this for years, Sam. He knows how to take care of himself.”

Sam nodded, a little surprised Jake still thought of the stallion as Blackie, the colt she'd loved and lost.

Sam stayed quiet. She didn't want to frighten the mares. Still, she worried about her horse. Injured, he'd be prey for another stallion or coyotes. His own herd might outrun him.

“I've seen him up on the ridge,” Sam whispered to Jake. “He stands guard between those wind-twisted pines while the mares drink.”

Together they watched for the Phantom. Jake didn't approve of her obsession, but he knew that when she was worried about the stallion, nothing else mattered.

Sam was about to suggest they douse the headlights, when suddenly the Phantom was there.

Up on the ridge, moonlight struck his coat, turning it bright as liquid silver. The wind tossed his mane around his neck and shoulders.

“He looks fine,” Jake said.

“No, he doesn't.”

The stallion's head wasn't high flung and eager. He held it level with his shoulders. Though his ears pricked forward, alert, he rocked awkwardly as he took steps toward the path.

“Left rear leg?” Jake asked, as the stallion came down the mountain.

“Yes, just at the fetlock. I think some sagebrush stabbed him. Jake, he's really hurting. Look at him.”

Head angled toward the truck, the stallion hobbled toward the pond.

Jake drew a breath, surprised that the stallion passed so much closer than the mares. Sam felt sure the Phantom had scented her.

She wanted to get out of the truck and go to him, but she let him drink. The water was cooling his injury.

“He's favoring that leg, but I don't think he's sick, yet.” Jake leaned nearer the windshield. “I bet it could be swabbed clean, disinfected, and—oh no.” Jake's head snapped Sam's way as if he'd heard her thoughts.

“Tell me, Jake. I'm going out there. You can help me or not, but I'm going.”

“Don't dare me, or I'll drive away from here so fast it'll make your head spin.”

“You won't,” she insisted, “because it's not the right thing to do. Because you might be responsible for his death.”

“Better his than yours.”

“Will you get over that?” Sam didn't mean to shout, but she must have. The stallion's head left the water's surface so quickly, moisture scattered like diamonds.

“I am over it,” Jake said. “That doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful.”

“Of course I'll be careful. I'll get out of the truck, walk toward him, and if he wants my help—and he
has
before—I'll look at his fetlock.”

“And then what?”

“If there's, like, something sticking out, I'll pull it loose.”

“And leave him with an open wound? An invitation to infection? Great plan, Sam.”

“No.” Sam pressed her hands palm down on the purple first aid kit. “I'll use whatever you tell me to, from this.”

Jake's breath rushed out. He muttered, “No, no, no.” At the same time, he started assembling what she'd need.

“Listen to every word, Sam.”

“I will.” She watched him, knowing her mind had never been more alert. “But, remember, I can't carry too much. He always watches my hands. And I don't think he'll like this coat.”

As Sam shrugged out of her sheepskin coat, Jake rubbed his forehead, but he didn't give in to frustration. He lifted the purple lid slowly, so the hinges wouldn't creak.

“We'll drench this gauze with water,” Jake said, reaching to the truck floor to shake a plastic water bottle. “Good thing you didn't finish yours. If he lets you close enough, go to his near side and face back, toward his tail, to clean that wound.”

“Facing back? Are you sure?”

“I'm—” Jake hesitated. One other time he'd been sure, and caused her accident. “I think his kick would
have the least strength from that position.”

“I'll do it. What next?”

Sam listened, shoving gauze and a needleless syringe of betadine into her pockets. Last, she tucked a disposable diaper—a perfect lightweight bandage—into her jeans' waistband.

Before she could climb out, the Phantom summoned her.

“Jake, look.”

The Phantom limped toward the truck. He left the mares behind and halted about four car lengths away to stand in the headlights' beam. He tossed his head in three quick jerks and stood, ears swiveled toward her. Then, looking right at her, he nickered.

“If I get out now, he won't run.” Sam put her hand on the truck door, then stopped. The Phantom trusted her to do what was right. “Is this all I need, Jake?”

“I'm trying to think—” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Aw shoot, it can't hurt. Here.”

Confused, Sam watched as Jake reached into their sandwich sack and sorted out a small piece of plain bread. “My grandfather used to make bread poultices for horses. To draw out infection, he said.”

“Bread,” Sam repeated.

As Jake dampened the bread with water, Sam listened to his directions, but she kept watching the Phantom.

“Do you know what's going to happen to me, if
you get hurt?” Jake muttered.

His words wrenched her attention away from the stallion.

Sam bristled with anger. “I know I'm getting really sick of you expecting me to fail,” she said and scooted toward the door.

“No, I don't think you'll fail, or I wouldn't let you go,” Jake snarled. Sam saw Jake really didn't care if they kept fighting. “Now, get him back in the water.”

“What?” Sam barely got the word out. Jake couldn't change the rules at the last minute.

“You tamed him in the water. He trusts you in the water.” Jake's voice was level and calm. “Get him back in the water or the deal is off.”

Forget it
, Sam thought. She opened the truck door as silently as she could. Then she glanced back.

“My hand's going to be on the horn,” Jake said, demonstrating. “If the safest thing for you is to scare him away, I'll lean on this horn with everything I've got.”

Jake and his idiot caution.

Sam moved toward the pond. The mares scattered further up the hillside, but the Phantom stayed quiet. As she passed, his head bobbed, scattering his mane and forelock free of his brown eyes. His weight rested on his three good legs. Maybe that, and pain, made it hard for Sam to read his body language.

Would he follow? He hadn't since he was a colt.

The sound of following hooves did not come. Sam
glanced back over her shoulder. Every line of the stallion's body showed his puzzlement. Whenever he'd come to her before, she'd met him. Now, she was walking away.

“Come on, boy.” Sam swung along at a casual pace.

Icy water slapped over her tennis shoes and soaked her socks. She waded out three steps, four, five…and heard the splash of hooves behind her.

Yes
. Sam felt a smile lift her lips. This stallion was the most wonderful horse in the world. Sam wanted to throw her arms around his satiny neck, but when she turned the night wind pierced her tee shirt. The chill was like a splash of cold water, awakening her to the fact that this was no dream.

The stallion was curious but cautious. He whuffled his lips, switched his tail, then stamped a forefoot. When he stamped, his balance shifted and he stumbled a step.

“Poor boy.”

The stallion sighed as Sam edged closer. She held her hands out to him. Up the hillside, the clustered mares raised their heads. The stallion sniffed her hands, then turned his attention to her pockets and waistband. Maybe he couldn't see the supplies she'd hidden, but he knew they were there.

“We haven't done this in a long time, boy.” Sam walked past the horse's front legs, dragging her hand along his sleek hide. “I'm going back here, okay? I'll
pet you as I go, so you know right where I am. Full hand, okay, boy? No tickly stuff.”

He kept the injured leg clear of the water. Sam half squatted and he allowed it. “Good, good boy.”

He let her touch his fetlock. Just as Sam realized it felt hot, he jerked away from her shaking hand. She tried again and he let her dab at the wound with the gauze.

Sam had faced his tail, just as Jake ordered, but now she looked over her shoulder. The Phantom was watching. He blinked, looking nervous, but no more than a domestic horse would.

Sam hurried. Once the hair was washed free of dirt, she noticed a nub of sagebrush protruding from the wound. Why hadn't she brought tweezers?

Sam's knees shook, but she kept her hands steady. She knew what she had to do.

“This is the test,” she crooned to the horse. “I'll get it right the first time, but it's going to hurt. Zanzibar, good boy, just let me do it and you'll be better.”

Using her fingernails like tweezers, she jerked the sagebrush free.
Don't honk, don't honk
, Sam thought, and Jake didn't, though the stallion bolted a splashing step forward.

The Phantom stopped, shuddering.

“That was the hard part, boy.”

Sam edged back into position. The stallion's head swung back and nuzzled her shoulder. He didn't want her facing away. She let him lip her shirt,
hoping it would distract him when she squirted a stream of disinfectant on the wound.

His skin shivered, but he didn't move away.

“The medicine's just cold, right, boy?” Sam's own teeth were about to chatter, but it had nothing to do with the temperature.

Fingers flying, she molded the damp bread against the stallion's fetlock, glad he held the hoof above the water. The Phantom seemed to relax.

“You like that, boy? It's supposed to draw out the infection. That's what Jake's grandpa said. You remember Jake, don't you?”

The stallion didn't respond and he didn't trust the disposable diaper. At the first crinkle of plastic, his ears flattened. He walked out of the water, and this time Sam followed. Jake had better not honk. The disposable diaper and the pond water were a lousy combination. He ought to have the sense to see that.

Once out of the water, the stallion circled back. Clearly irritated, he swung his head in her direction and snapped his teeth.

“‘Just get it over with,' is that it, boy?” Sam kept her voice low and worked quickly.

She pressed the bread poultice more firmly into place, wrapped the plastic diaper around the stallion's leg and fastened the tapes.

As her fingers left his leg, the stallion launched himself away. By the time Sam regained her feet, he was gone.

Sam got the truck door open. She sat in the doorway, unlaced her shoes and poured out the water, and stripped off her socks. By the time she closed the door, Sam was shaking so hard, she couldn't get arms into her coat sleeves. Once she quit struggling, she noticed Jake's silence.

“Didn't you even watch?” she asked.

“I watched.”

Sam waited, excitement fading. “Wasn't it incredible?”

“He remembers you, I guess.”

“Why are you talking like a robot?” Sam asked.

“I'll stop.” Jake started the truck and drove back toward the main road.

Sam crossed her legs and wiggled one bare and freezing foot. It seemed unlikely that Jake was waiting for a compliment, but she gave one anyway. “Everything you told me to do worked.”

Jake just kept driving.

By the time the truck tires bounced off the dirt road and back onto the asphalt, Jake still hadn't spoken.

“Why are you acting so weird?” Sam demanded.

Jake looked over. His expression mirrored the Phantom's as he'd pinned his ears back and glared.

“I hate feeling afraid,” Jake said as if she'd dragged the words out of him. “Half the time I'm around you—”

He didn't finish. He waved one hand in dismissal
and leaned closer to the steering wheel.

Sam let him drive. He'd only had his license a month and it was a bad idea to distract him.

His reaction wasn't a surprise. Her accident had changed their friendship.

Sam tugged her coat cuffs down and pulled her fingers up into her sleeves. She didn't want Jake to worry, but she wasn't going to sit home playing Nintendo or doing her nails either.

Facing forward, Sam rolled her eyes to peer at him. The dashboard lights glowed off the shelf of his cheekbones and lit his hard-set jaw.

Let him sit there
, Sam thought.
She
sure wouldn't talk first.

River Bend's porch light was visible miles before they crossed the bridge and rolled into the ranch yard.

Sam had hopped down from the truck and started to close the door when Jake's voice stopped her.

“Here's Mom's camera.”

He dangled it by a leather strap and Sam wanted to refuse. Why hadn't he given it to her earlier, when they were on the range with the horses? That had been the plan.

As she took the camera, Sam felt an odd satisfaction. Jake hadn't forced it on her earlier, because he'd known she was watching for the Phantom.

“See ya at school,” she said through a tight throat.