by Terri Farley
Sam felt boneless, but she managed to climb in and fasten her seat belt. As they drove, Mrs. Ely talked about school. She described an upcoming history project she hoped would be fun. When Sam only nodded, Mrs. Ely gave up conversation in favor of the radio news. After a few minutes, she snapped off the radio.
“Can we pretend I’m not your teacher?” she asked.
“What?” Sam shook her head in confusion.
Mrs. Ely kept her eyes on the road, but she extended her right hand toward Sam. “Glad to meet you. I’m your neighbor Maxine. Jake’s mommy. Our cows sure are loving that alfalfa we got from Wyatt.”
Sam laughed. The out-of-order sign on her brain could be removed. Suddenly, she understood Mrs. Ely wanted to say something un-teacherly. Sam hoped it was something vile about Rachel.
“Do you think it was an accident?” Mrs. Ely asked.
“Maybe,” Sam said. “I wasn’t looking.”
“It looks like the mirror is broken. That was the tinkling sound, but I didn’t want to take it apart and check. That’s work for an expert.”
Sam felt her scalp tighten against her skull. Experts were always expensive.
“If Rachel broke it, she should pay for it.”
When Sam explained what Mr. Blair had told the class, Mrs. Ely’s expression darkened.
“That could be sticky, since he took a stand in front of the class,” Mrs. Ely admitted. “Still, if I told him the truth…”
Mrs. Ely’s voice trailed off. Neither of them had seen Rachel do it.
“Mr. Blair said we were responsible, no matter whose fault it was,” Sam repeated.
They drove in silence a while longer, but Sam suspected Mrs. Ely was having a serious talk with herself. She frowned, then nodded, raised one blond eyebrow, then her frown vanished.
“So, what is it you’re yearning to photograph?” Mrs. Ely asked. “You wouldn’t be shy if you knew what I like to shoot best.”
“Your family?” Sam guessed.
“Sometimes, but it’s tough to catch them being themselves. Those men of mine work hard at being stoic.” Mrs. Ely lowered the car windows to let the late August breezes surround them. “No, I like to photograph windows. Windows that reflect faces or mountains, windows that let you see inside to a family dinner table—” She shrugged. “Just windows. Nothing could be artier than that.”
“Wild horses,” Sam admitted. “At night.”
The invading breeze ruffled the ungraded papers Mrs. Ely had tossed in the backseat. Sam noticed a flash of yellow on the road, ahead. They’d catch the school bus soon.
“Oh, Sam,” Mrs. Ely said, staring ahead. “What an incredible idea. I wonder,” she mused, “what kind of equipment you’d need to do it right.”
“Well,” Sam said as they drew alongside the bus, “a camera would be a start.”
Sam saw Jen. Sam leaned forward. She waved, trying to catch Jen’s eye. Once she did, Jen looked puzzled, then angry.
Oh no. Sam just knew Jen was thinking she’d stood her up.
Sure enough, Jen straightened, pressed her shoulders against the seat back, and turned away.
Oh great, Sam thought. This day just keeps getting better and better.
When it seemed nothing else could go wrong, they arrived at River Bend. Mrs. Ely switched off the engine, said, “Be right back,” then hurried to tell Dad what had happened.
Surprised and horrified, Sam froze next to Mrs. Ely’s car.
Near the barn, Dallas and Ross were conspiring with Dad to shoe Tank, Ross’s bald-faced bay. Dad hated shoeing horses in general and Tank in particular. It took two men to hold Tank while a third wielded the hammer and horseshoe nails.
Mrs. Ely crossed the ranch yard in her tidy slacks and blazer, then folded her arms and stood talking.
From here, Sam couldn’t tell if Dad had finished shoeing Tank before he laid the hammer on the ground and walked away. Each step was firm and deliberate, but Mrs. Ely followed him. Sam wondered if Jake’s mom was doing more harm than good.
She didn’t have to wonder long. Mrs. Ely came storming back, shaking her head.
“Never marry a cowboy, Samantha,” Mrs. Ely said. She leaned against the car next to Sam and stared toward the Calico Mountains. “Pride is their downfall, and that’s for sure.”
“Am I grounded until I’m eighteen?”
“No.” Mrs. Ely looked over at her suddenly. “Oh, Samantha, of course not. You’re not in trouble. I just suggested Wyatt make a private arrangement with Slocum, to cover his daughter’s carelessness. You’d think I suggested something illegal.”
Sam felt relieved she wasn’t in trouble but not surprised at Dad’s reaction. “Yeah, Dad’s like that.”
“Aren’t they all.” Mrs. Ely rubbed her hands together. “The men of Three Ponies Ranch are exactly the same as those at River Bend.”
Mrs. Ely took the camera from Sam and looked at it once more. “Well, maybe the repair won’t be too expensive. Until it’s fixed, though, the least I can do is lend you a camera.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam protested, taking the Nikon back.
“She heard me ask you to come in after school. Then, she arranged to be there, too.” Mrs. Ely’s red lips pressed together, but she just couldn’t stay silent. “Of course, I’m not suggesting Rachel would do something destructive because you’re getting lots of attention from your teachers and classmates. What kind of teacher would even hint at such a thing?”
“Not you,” Sam said.
“Not me. I’m glad we’ve got that straight,” Maxine Ely blurted, but she was laughing as she climbed back into her car. “Jake’ll be over with that camera. Soon.”
The phone was ringing when Sam walked into the white ranch house.
“It’s Jennifer Kenworthy.” Gram extended the telephone receiver toward Sam, then whispered, “She doesn’t sound very happy.”
“Hello?” Sam let her backpack down to the floor.
“So, you got a better offer and ditched me?” Jen meant her tone to be sarcastic, but it sounded hurt. “Next time, let me know, so I don’t feel dumb saving you a seat.”
“I missed the bus.” Sam tried to keep the weariness from her voice, but a glance from Gram said she wasn’t doing a good job. “Because Rachel broke the camera Mr. Blair loaned me.”
Jen gasped as if someone had poured cold water down her neck. “The Nikon?”
“The Nikon.”
“I suppose Mrs. Ely was your escort home because the school police think you’re a flight risk. So, are you making a run for the border?”
“Jen, this isn’t funny.” Sam’s mouth smiled in spite of her gloom.
“I know.” Jen took a breath, then asked, “How much?”
“I don’t know yet. It makes a tinkling sound when you shake it.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Jen said. After a few seconds silence, she asked, “How deep?”
Sam took a glass of lemonade from Gram and repeated, “How deep?”
“Yeah, how deep are we going to bury Rachel’s body?”
“You are really awful.” Sam wavered between laughing and crying. “But you’re not still mad at me, right?”
“Not this time,” Jen said. “Even though you probably want to put off our ride for a really interesting family discussion.”
“Oh yeah,” Sam said, looking at Gram’s impatient expression. “Interesting.”
Sam braced herself for further explanation, but as soon as she hung up the phone, it rang again. Because her voice was still unsteady, Sam let Gram answer.
“Hello,” Gram said. “Oh, Maxine.”
Sam lifted the cookie jar lid, quietly, so she could listen. She loaded three raisin-fat oatmeal cookies onto a saucer, then poured a glass of milk.
“Is that so?” Gram said. “A knack? He said ‘promising’ and that little—” Gram broke off. “Samantha, please take your snack upstairs and get started on your homework.”
Sam trotted upstairs. At least Gram and Dad
didn’t seem mad at her. She could be grateful for that.
A shrill wind chased around the house, banging the shutters on Sam’s window.
It was almost dinnertime, but she heard Jake pull up in his Dad’s truck. As she folded away her biology worksheet and stacked her books, Sam could hear past the wind and knew Jake was talking to Dad and Gram.
When Sam came down the stairs, she could tell he’d laid out some sort of plan.
Jake wore a brick-colored shirt Sam hadn’t seen before. It was tucked into faded jeans. The scuffed toes of his boots showed as he leaned against the kitchen door, but Jake smelled like soap and his black hair was shiny.
Something was up, and Sam felt uneasy.
“You want to drive down by War Drum Flats, lay low, and see if some stallion shows up with Sweetheart and that Appaloosa of Slocum’s?” Jake asked.
Sam’s glance flew to Dad, then Gram.
“I packed some sandwiches and a thermos of cocoa, so you can get there before dark.” Gram indicated a brown paper bag. “If the lead mare sees you there as part of the scenery, she’ll be less spooked than if you drive up later.”
It made sense, but Sam wondered why Gram and Dad were going along with this scheme.
“But it’s a school night,” Sam blurted.
Jake groaned an instant before Dad spoke.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “You’ve got a watch and you’d better use it. I expect you in bed by ten o’clock.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said.
Gram handed Sam the bag and kissed her cheek. “See if you can find Sweetheart for me, dear.”
“Okay, Gram.”
Jake opened the door, lifted her sheepskin coat from a hook, and shoved it toward her. Nights on the range could turn cold, even after ninety-degree days. Sam took it, then hurried, before Gram and Dad changed their minds.
“Don’t ask me,” Jake said, as Sam fell into step beside him. “It’s Mom’s doin’ and I’m just your chaperone.”
Sam’s mind spun as they left the ranch, crossed the River Bend bridge, and headed into the wind toward War Drum Flats.
She hadn’t told Maxine Ely the details of her plan, just that she wanted to photograph horses at night. Somehow, though, Maxine had figured it out and sent Jake to help.
Jake on a horse might help by roping Hammer, but this Jake—looking mature and in charge at the steering wheel—could just as easily get in her way.
Sam crossed her arms in determination.
“Your hair’s okay,” Jake said, without looking at her.
“What a relief,” Sam said. “You can’t imagine how many nights I’ve stayed awake worrying that—”
“Don’t annoy the driver,” Jake interrupted. “I just thought I’d mention I’m getting used to it.” He switched on the truck’s heater. “You should know, though, guys always think it’s a mistake when girls cut their hair.”
“I’ll write it in my diary,” Sam sneered, but they both relaxed after that.
As the sun dropped behind the mountains, the glow from the instrument panel made the truck’s dark cab almost cozy.
“Remember when we were little and you used to tell me Indian stories?” Sam asked.
“I remember that you were a pest and I could bore you into falling asleep so you would leave me alone.”
Sam shivered. “I was never bored,” she said, pulling her sheepskin coat closer. It was a good thing she’d brought it, since the truck’s heater barely did its job. “How many of those stories were true?”
“Lots of them are legends. People all over the country substitute the names of their own tribes or heroes. I don’t know.” Jake shrugged. “Mom could tell you better than I could.”
When Jake still didn’t offer a story, Sam began planning. “Can you park the truck off the road? Then I’ll walk down by the water. Like Gram said, if I’m just sitting there—”
“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.