Katie and the Mustang, Book 4 (3 page)

Every day that we traveled, grass got scarcer. A number of times we saw some kind of antelope with pronged horns at a distance.

Twice the Kyler men rode out with their guns to try to kill fresh meat for the party. The first time they came back tired and grumpy; but the second time, they came back with two of the antelope slung over their saddles.

That night everyone in the party gathered around Mrs. Kyler's fire. I could tell that she loved it, that the commotion and the laughter—and a good supper that contained no bacon—were a balm to her sore spirits. She loved having people around, she loved joking and laughing and making each one feel welcome.

My mother had been like that—always ready for company. Watching Mrs. Kyler made me miss her so badly that I had to keep myself busy to keep from crying.

I didn't want to spoil Mrs. Kyler's happy evening. She didn't have all that many now. I knew she was constantly worried about Annie, left behind in Council Bluff with Hiram. How could she not be worried? Annie's hands had been burned so badly. And it would be a least a year before Mrs. Kyler would find out how Annie was doing—and probably closer to two years. Letters to and from the Oregon country were slow and uncertain at best.

I sent a little prayer for Hiram and Annie's welfare and wished they could have come. Annie had been right that day back in Council Bluff. Hiram was kind. He was the best sort of man—and a good friend. I missed him.

CHAPTER THREE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“
T
he prairies are behind us,” Mr. Kyler said one evening. “We will have nothing but hills and rocks for quite some time—and a pass through the Rocky Mountains after that.”

I sighed. Rocks and ravines were all I had seen in every direction every morning for a week or more—except to the west. In that direction, the Rocky Mountains rose up out of the earth, blue and misty with distance—and with every passing day they looked bigger.

The Mustang seemed uneasy one morning, prancing sideways as we veered off from the wagons as we always did, searching for grass. I found three or four clumps right off that still had some green blades—most was hay brittle from the summer heat. I let the Mustang graze until the wagons had rolled past, then I ran to catch up, the Mustang trotting beside me.

The lead rope, as always, was slack between my hand and the Mustang's halter. We had walked so long, so close together every day, that it was as though as soon as I
thought
about slowing down, he responded by
doing
it.

Most of the time, I didn't think twice about him being with me—in fact, it felt odd to me when he wasn't. In the evenings, sometimes, I had the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something, that something was missing, and then I would realize that it was the Mustang, off with Delia and Midnight and the rest of the horses.

I pulled in a long breath, appreciating the cool morning air as the Mustang grazed. When he had leveled the patch we were on, we ran to catch up, then repeated the process. It felt good to run, the air was almost chilly.

I watched the ground ahead of us for snakes, but I didn't see any—nor did I expect to, at least not until the sun was enough to warm their cold blood.

The day passed slowly, the sun sliding upward in the sky until the midday heat settled against the land. After our dinner stop at noon, the wagons moved through a haze of heat and dust, the oxen plodding onward as though they had forgotten any other kind of life and would plod onward until they dropped dead.

I squinted, trying to spot patches and pockets of grass, as always, but the heat made it harder to see—the air shimmered up from the ground in waves. Grass was greener and darker than the sage, but the heat blurred the colors and the shape of the land ahead.

I saw what I thought might be grass and headed toward it, following a downward slope. There was a slough, I discovered, as I got closer, marshy and wet. There was no river, not even a creek—and the ground around the slough was dry as old bones. It had to be spring-fed, the water just bubbling up somewhere close by.

I glanced up at the Rocky Mountains in the distance as I followed along the edge of the slough. They looked a deeper blue as we got closer, darker than the sky but not by too much. They were crowned in white.

“That's snow, Miss Liddy says,” I said to the Mustang as I spotted a tiny stream flowing from the earth. The water looked clear enough, and I stepped in it to cool my bare feet—then jumped backward. The water and the mud around it were icy cold!

My reaction startled the Mustang, and he shied sideways, half rearing. I stood aside, leaving the lead rope loose, waiting for him to calm down; then, when he had, I put my foot closer to the spring. I hadn't imagined it! The ground felt like frozen soil in the middle of winter, not like sun-heated earth in the hottest part of summer.

I looked back toward the wagons. I was too far away to shout and be heard. I would go tell them in a minute. But first, I wanted to explore the slough a little. What in the world could cause such icy water? I waded into the little creek. It was so cold that I began to shiver, in spite of the hot sun. In places, there was a skim of ice on the surface. It seemed impossible. I had to reach down and touch it to believe it. I drank a little of the water. It tasted a little like moss, but it was good and cold as December icicles.

The Mustang lowered his muzzle, then lifted it, as surprised as I had been. Then he took a long drink from the shallow rill, and turned to face me, nuzzling his dripping cold muzzle against my neck.

I laughed and stepped back from him. He came with me, reaching out to nibble at my hair.

“Hey!” I scolded him, still laughing. “You'd better stop that!”

He shook his mane and tilted his head, and I turned to run, knowing he would canter a stride or two, then settle back into a trot I could keep up with as he always did.

Moving easily together, the lead rope loose in my hands, the Mustang and I played along the side of the strange ice-cold slough. It was amazing to find this little bit of winter in the oppressive heat of summer. Even the soil felt cold beneath my bare feet.

The stallion seemed to feel exactly like I did, a little giddy from the strange surprise, and just plain happy to be happy…we had had so many long, weary days on the journey.

I turned suddenly, knowing the Mustang would follow my lead perfectly. He did, tossing his mane. I ran in long strides, making him extend his trot into a spanking, staccato cadence to keep up.

Then I saw the rattlesnake, coiled and still, beside a sharp rock that jutted up out of the soil. But I saw it an instant too late. My right leg was already in motion, lifting, my left knee straightening as my weight came off my foot. The snake raised its head, rattling, a sound like steam chattering a pot lid, an ugly hissing.

Time stopped for me. I knew my foot would come to earth within inches of the snake's head and there was nothing I could do about it short of learning to fly. Then, quicker that I could think, the Mustang shouldered me aside. I was thrown a few feet, far enough, landing stumbling and stunned, the lead rope no longer in my hand.

I watched, terrified, as the Mustang reared. The snake coiled tighter and lifted its head.

“No,” I shouted. “Just stay away from it!” I made a grab for the lead rope,but I couldn't get close enough.

The Mustang reared again, and I had to jump back to stay clear of his hooves. He squealed and pounded the earth a few inches from the snake—it recoiled, slithering backward against the rock to shelter itself. Then it coiled again and lifted its head. It was not going to flee, it was going to fight. I looked around, frantic to find a stick, a rock, anything to help the Mustang.

I glanced back toward the wagons. Through the glaring heat, someone was walking toward me. Maybe one of the Kyler men had seen the Mustang rearing. I waved both hands above my head and screamed “Help!” Then I turned back to the Mustang.

He was rearing once more, his head tucked into his chest, half turned, to keep one eye on the snake. There was no doubt that his hooves could crush the rattler—but it might manage to strike, its fangs pumping venom into the Mustang's foreleg—before it died. The rock it was backed up against was the same sharp black rock we had been traveling past for a week. If the Mustang missed by even an inch...

“Stand back!”

I whirled, startled, and saw Grover's face, flushed from running, his eyes on the snake.

“Get back, Katie!”

I stumbled out of his way, watching transfixed as the Mustang dropped to all fours, danced backward as the snake slithered toward him, then reared again, even closer to the rattler. Grover cocked his arm, and I saw the rock, balanced, perfectly at home in his hand. Then he threw.

The stallion was in the air, his front hooves poised to strike. The rock smashed into the snake's skull an instant before his forehooves hit it. The Mustang drove all his weight downward, one front hoof pinning the snake to the ground for an instant, then he reared again. The second time he struck at the rattler's head, hitting hard.

But it didn't matter. The snake was already dead. Grover's rock lay beside the crumpled rattler, as though it had been there through the ages, still and solid and the same color as all the rocks around it.

I turned to face Grover. I was shaking. “Thank you…” I managed. It felt like I should say something else, but I simply could not make my mind work for a long moment. I stared at the snake, its muscles still writhing, even though its life had ended.

Grover jutted his chin at the Mustang. “You better catch him.”

I looked up, my heart skipping a beat when I saw that the Mustang was a little ways off, snorting and pawing at the earth, the lead rope trailing on the ground beside him.

He was shaking, too, but with anger, not fear. His eyes were wide and wild, and he shook his mane, hard, then reared again, striking the ground as though he was imagining the fight again, convincing himself that he had won.

“It's dead,” I told him, “You don't have to worry about it anymore.”

He stood steady at the sound of my voice and lifted his head sharply. He watched me walk toward him. I kept talking quietly, telling him how strong and brave he was, how he had saved my life.

He came toward me, and I reached out to gather up the lead rope as he nuzzled my cheek, blowing out long, windy breaths against my skin. “It's all right now,” I told him again.

Then I bit my tongue. I was talking a blue streak to the Mustang. Grover would never stop taunting me now.

“He sure does trust you,” Grover said quietly.

The soft, nearly gentle tone of his voice caught me off guard. I stared at him, waiting for him to sneer, to say something mean. But he didn't. “You saved his life,” I said. “I am forever grateful. If he had been bitten... if he had died...”

I couldn't finish either sentence, and Grover just ducked his head anyway. Was he trying not to laugh? I was pretty sure he would lift his chin, grin his mean grin, and start to make fun of me any second. Before he did, I wanted to explain; I wanted him to understand.

“The Mustang has been my only real friend,” I managed. “You laugh when I talk to him, but he listens, Grover. He really does.” I knew that sounded foolish, but I knew I couldn't do any better now or later. It was true. Grover could taunt me all he wanted. I was still grateful. He had saved my best friend's life.

Grover didn't say anything for so long that I thought he was so completely disgusted with me that he'd just turn and head back to the wagons, without saying anything at all. I started to hope he would do that, rather than make fun of me.

“I didn't mean to,” he said finally.

His voice was flat, full of pain. It took me a long moment to figure out what he was talking about. He just waited until he saw in my eyes that I understood.

“I only meant to scare that cat,” he said in a low, pained voice. “I never meant to kill it.” He sighed. “Did you tell them it was me?”

I shook my head. “I was afraid to have you mad at me. I was afraid you'd hurt the Mustang.”

His eyes were glossy with tears. “Last thing I want is to be cruel like him.”

I understood what he meant instantly this time. He was talking about his father. “You aren't. You never will be.”

He smiled, a thin, uneasy smile that faded, then disappeared. But he met my eyes. “Andrew Kyler said you can tell a person's heart by how they treat a horse—and how the horse treats them.”