Mustang Moon

by Terri Farley

  Sam had just drawn a breath to test her plan on Jen, when a boy’s shout cut her off.

  “Look at those idiots!”

  Every student on the bus watched a black truck swerve across the range, raising a rooster’s tail of dust. A skinny, shirtless guy stood in the truck bed, hugging the cab for balance. A lariat dangled from his hand, but he was hanging on too hard to use it.

  “They’re chasing a horse,” Jen said, pointing. “It must be for the reward. Look, the truck has Idaho license plates.”

  But Sam couldn’t look away from the horse. Long-limbed and root-beer colored, he raced toward the school bus. Their driver slowed to let him pass.

  As he did, Sam noticed the animal wasn’t young. His muzzle was gray and the bridge of his nose had been rubbed bare by years of wearing a bridle.

  “He’s not even wild,” Sam gasped.

  “He looks like an old saddle horse someone turned out after years of ranch work,” Jen agreed. “Some reward.”

  “I’m phoning the BLM as soon as I get to school,” Sam said.

  “Your dad already did,” Jen reminded her. “It didn’t do any good.”

  Although Sam blamed the men in the black truck for their actions, Slocum had created this craziness by dangling a reward.

  “I’m calling the BLM again,” Sam insisted as the truck drove out of sight. “And I won’t hang up until someone listens.”

  Jen nodded, then withdrew a pen from her backpack, grabbed Sam’s hand and began writing on it.

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “The truck’s license number.” Jen shrugged at Sam’s amazement. “Numbers just stick in my brain.”

  Things could go wrong in such a hurry.

  As soon as Sam arrived at school, she jogged to the journalism room. Mr. Blair let her use his telephone and listened while she talked.

  After she reported the men harassing the horse, an efficient voice at the Willow Springs holding pens thanked Sam and explained a ranger had already been dispatched to deal with the situation.

  Sam’s next ugly chore was to tell Mr. Blair about the camera. He didn’t seem shocked. In fact, Mr. Blair was almost sympathetic as he looked the camera over and agreed with Mrs. Ely’s diagnosis of a broken mirror.

  “You’ll have to pay for the repair,” he said. “But it shouldn’t be more than a couple hundred dollars.”

  Before Sam could hit the floor in a faint, Mr. Blair explained how she would go about earning money to pay for the repair. That’s when Sam felt the icy fingers of panic.

  “One of those sandwiches and one package of—no, two packages of corn chips.”

  Halfway through her first shift in Darton High School’s snack bar, Sam had reached three conclusions.

  One, teenagers really did have lousy diets.

  Two, she must earn good grades and attend college to avoid long-term snack bar employment.

  Three, if another dollar bill stamped with Rachel’s name smeared pink ink on her hands, she would scream.

  This was Mr. Blair’s remedy for penniless wrongdoers. She worked in the school snack bar but never saw a dollar of her wages. The Darton High bookkeeper deposited Sam’s pay directly into the school newspaper’s bank account.

  Sam stared through the order window, trying to enjoy the sunlight and forget tomorrow’s algebra test.

  The job wasn’t too bad. Jen had come by to sympathize and so had Jake’s friend Darrell, though he was mostly interested in negotiating a deal on sunflower seeds. That meant Jake would know about her humiliation soon.

  All at once, her view of the school courtyard vanished.

  “Samantha Forster.” Rachel strained to put a British slant on the name. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Sam couldn’t think of a clever answer, so she extended a cellophane wrapped dessert.

  “Want a Ding Dong, Rachel?” Sam thought how appropriate it was that she’d been basking in the sunshine streaming through the snack bar window until Rachel blocked it.

  “What I want is for you to explain why a ranger showed up at my house this morning.” Rachel’s expressive hands reminded Sam of rosy talons.

  “Hurry,” urged a voice from behind Rachel. “The bell’s gonna ring in a minute and—”

  Rachel swung to face the impatient customer.

  “Do you mind?” Her icy tone sent the boy running.

  Sam looked after the guy, grateful he’d distracted Rachel.

  “Go ahead and play innocent,” Rachel snarled when Sam didn’t speak. “But you’ve declared war on the wrong family. You have no idea how unpleasant your life will be, if you decide to stick around.” Then, she flounced off without buying a thing.

  Sam and Rachel ignored each other during journalism. In fact, the newspaper staff labored toward a deadline in near silence. The only sounds were tapping computer keys and rustling paper.

  Three minutes before class ended, Mr. Blair approached Sam. She braced herself for the possibility the camera was ruined.

  “Forster, are you still interested in night shoots?” he asked.

  Night shoots. Sam’s relief was so great, it took her a few seconds to understand. Then she nodded vigorously.

  “Do you think I can do them with this?” Sam held up Mrs. Ely’s old Pentax.

  “Sure. It’d be easier with one of those little point-and-shoot jobs you see on television, but you wouldn’t learn anything.

  “Quick lesson.” Mr. Blair glanced at the clock. “Listen up.”

  As he explained, Sam took notes on the back of an algebra worksheet. The grade on the front side wasn’t worth saving.

  Most of Mr. Blair’s directions made sense. She hoped she understood enough to carry out the plan she and Jen had put together.

  Sam checked her watch and counted. In four hours, she should be arriving to study algebra and spend the night at Jen’s house. In five-and-a-half hours, Jen’s parents should be driving off for their weekly “date” in Darton. Just after that, Sam would be crouched and ready for the blue stallion’s appearance.

  A day or two later, she figured, she’d be rich.

  “Hey, Forster, no daydreaming.” Mr. Blair snapped his fingers. “Don’t be afraid to shoot. Film comes out of the factory by the mile, so keep shooting as long as there’s something to see.”

  The bell shrilled, class ended, and Sam rushed out. She needed to find Jen and work out a few more details.

  They spent so long conspiring at the bus stop, Sam and Jen both had to jog home before someone came looking for them.

  Dressed in jeans and a white blouse, with her hair in a tidy knot, Gram waited for Sam at the door.

  “What did your teacher say about the camera?” Gram asked.

  Sam explained and prepared to launch her plan, but when she entered the house, she was nearly sidetracked. A meringue-topped lemon pie sat on the kitchen table.

  She loved lemon meringue pie and Gram knew it. Since Sam had worked through the lunch hour, she was hungry. She could almost taste the sugary meringue and lemon tartness on her tongue.

  But some things were more important than food. Like saving her horse. Sam turned her back on the pie and met Gram’s eyes.

  “Gram, I got a C minus on my algebra pretest today.” Sam saw Gram wince. “Tomorrow is the real test, and Jen offered to help me study. I know it’s a school night, but numbers just come naturally to her and I really need the help.”

  “Why didn’t you girls get together right after school?” Gram asked.

  “I had my chores to do.” Sam gestured toward the pasture and barn. Though Buddy’s brand and Ace’s bites were almost healed, Sam still checked them. And of course there were chickens to tend and water troughs to check. “So can I please spend the night?”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Gram said, “if you two don’t stay up too late.”

  “We still have to catch the bus in the morning,” Sam said and Gram nodded. Sam figured she could sleep in this weekend.

  If there w
as a truer test of friendship, Sam couldn’t imagine it. Jen offered to help Sam study the material for her algebra test. Instead, Jen ended up teaching.

  “You really don’t get this, do you?” Jen was mystified.

  “I really don’t, but you make more sense than any teacher I’ve had so far.”

  “Cool,” Jen said. “Wait until you see me on linear equations.”

  At last, Sam declared her brain was full, so the girls baked frozen pizza and drank sodas. After washing the dishes, they picked the perfect spot for Sam and her camera.

  The sorrel mare, Kitty, had been trotting along the fence since dusk. Her high-strung actions convinced the girls Hammer was near.

  “I know it will work,” Jen said. “It’s not like you’re trying to catch him, just photograph him. What can go wrong?”

  “Your parents could come home early.”

  “They won’t,” said Jen. “Statistically speaking, it cannot happen. My parents are creatures of habit.”

  Because she planned to be tucked up inside the house watching television while Sam shivered behind a stump, Jen refused to share the reward money. She did agree to let Sam buy her a poster of her hero, mathematician and scientist Albert Einstein, if everything went as planned.

  Now, Sam crouched next to Kitty’s corral, reviewing Mr. Blair’s advice on shooting in the darkness. When she tired of that, Sam watched Kitty. She couldn’t ignore the Phantom’s mother.

  Clean-limbed and graceful, Kitty trotted around the corral, then stopped a few feet from Sam. When Kitty cocked her head to the side, as if wondering what Sam was up to, a lock of flaxen mane veiled one eye.

  Sam smooched at the mare. Kitty’s ears flickered back and forth, then she struck at the dirt with a foreleg. Sam had seen the Phantom do the very same thing. Had he learned it from his mom? When Kitty lived at River Bend, she and her son had shared the same pasture for two years.

  As the mare sidled near, Sam reached out. Kitty shied and bolted across the corral.

  “Hey, girl,” Sam said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Seconds later, Kitty returned, alert ears turned to catch Sam’s voice.

  “Your baby’s turned out real nice,” Sam told the inquisitive mare. “He’s a stallion with pretty colts of his own. You’d be proud of him.”

  Sam tried to shake off a wave of sadness. She needed to look through the camera’s viewfinder. This was no time to let her eyes blur with tears simply because she missed her own mother.

  The next time Kitty shied, Sam hadn’t moved a muscle.

  It must be him. The sorrel’s head lifted. Her nostrils sampled the wind. Kitty stared into the darkness. Sam followed her stare but saw nothing. The mare snorted. Her legs were braced straight as broomsticks. Something was there.

  A hoof clacked on asphalt. The Shetlands near the front gate moved across the frosty grass, and nickers floated on night air.

  Hammer, Sweetheart, and Apache Hotspot drifted like ghosts up the driveway.

  Patience. Let them get closer, Sam told herself. Her fingers trembled. She’d done everything Mr. Blair suggested, except brace the camera against something solid. For that, she’d have to wait until the horses moved into position.

  The blue looked sleeker than before. Jets of steam huffed from his nostrils. His massive head swung from side to side, checking each shadow in the ranch yard.

  Hammer didn’t move as if his fight with the Phantom had lamed him. With rippling stealth the blue stallion drew closer, looking prehistoric and tough.

  His shoulders churned as he came on. Ranch lights glimmered on wisps of hair under his chin, making the stallion look like a bearded unicorn. Sam remembered how Hammer had turned on her, treating her as an enemy, threatening to run her down just before the Phantom appeared. She didn’t look forward to startling him.

  Tonight, the Phantom couldn’t save her. If the blue stallion heard the click of the shutter, he’d be in her face or gone.

  Just a few feet away sat a series of flat-topped redwood hitching posts with brass rings. As the stallion passed the farthest one, Sam thought she might use the nearest one to prop her camera.

  Almost there. Almost…

  Far out, car headlights slashed across the desert. The electric gates whirred, responding to a remotecontrol opening the entrance to the Gold Dust Ranch.

  Hammer hesitated and Sam knew what she had to do.

  She ran into the stallion’s path. He reared. Click. He threatened her with his fury. Click.

  Sam braced against the redwood post, following the rising torso and flailing forefeet. Then, as the Kenworthys’ headlights lit the horses from behind, Sam took a final shot of the rearing stallion with the red-eyed mares behind him.

  She expected the stallion to turn and run. Instead, he bolted straight toward her. Flint-hard hooves reached forward, pulling his body after. Sam ducked behind the redwood post, and rolled to the ground, clutching Mrs. Ely’s camera to her chest.

  Eyes wide open, she saw the shaggy belly pass overhead. She heard the crash of his hooves landing, running past Sam, past Kitty, past Slocum’s mansion on the hill, and into the night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SATURDAY MORNING, two days after Sam’s photograph ran on page one of the Darton Review-Journal, the newspaper still sat on kitchen table.

  ROGUE STALLION REVEALED! shouted the headline.

  While Jake and Dad fought to read the follow-up article in today’s newspaper, Sam ate the cinnamon toast Gram had just served and studied her picture again.

  In rearing close-up, Hammer looked like a Wild West bronco. The mares behind him looked terrified. She almost wished the stallion captured on film had been the Phantom. At least it would mean he was alive.

  It had been three days since she’d seen him, wounded and limping. Her amateurish vet care might not have been enough to save him from infection.

  Sam shook her head against her gloomy thoughts and straightened the wrinkles in the newspaper. She’d studied the picture so often, it hardly seemed to be hers anymore, but the tiny type under the photograph read, PHOTO BY S. FORSTER.

  Sam remembered how Mr. Blair had interrupted Mrs. Ely’s history class to show Sam the picture as soon as he’d developed her film.

  Mr. Blair and Mrs. Ely had encouraged Sam to submit the photograph to the Review-Journal. They’d claimed the recognition would build her self-esteem, but Sam knew the truth. The teachers thought Linc Slocum would try to wriggle out of paying the reward.

  That’s exactly what he was doing.

  The newspaper across the table rustled fiercely as Jake demanded their attention.

  “Listen to this,” Jake said, reading. “‘The reward of ten thousand dollars has yet to be paid. According to local rancher Lincoln Slocum, who offered the reward, “My posters clearly state the reward will be paid for the stallion’s capture and information leading to Apache Hotspot’s return. The filly is still out on the range. As far as I’m concerned, after running with that wild bunch, she can stay there.”’”

  Gram, Dad, and Jake grumbled in disapproval.

  Sam had another hope, though. She’d heard a helicopter making sweeps overhead all morning. Perhaps the BLM was on the stallion’s trail.

  “Never thought I’d be glad to hear those choppers,” Dad echoed Sam’s thought. “But that son of a gun Slocum owes you a college fund.”

  “And Sweetheart should be back here where she belongs,” Gram said.

  “I just want to hear Slocum tell Sam thank you.” Jake laughed.

  “But he is right.” Sam went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of orange juice. “He—I’ll get it.”

  Sam broke off when the phone rang.

  “Good morning, Samantha. This is Brynna Olson. Sorry to call so early—”

  “Brynna? When did you get back?” Sam looked up. Jake met her eyes and began punching the air. He must think Brynna could force Slocum to pay up. Sam crossed her fingers.

  “Yesterday. And I bet you can guess what
I found on my desk when I went in to work.”

  “The newspaper?”

  “Yesiree.” Brynna’s voice sounded young and completely unprofessional. “Congratulations on that super photograph and on snagging the reward.”

  “But, well…” Sam’s voice faltered. She didn’t want to drain away Brynna’s excitement. “In today’s paper, he says—” Sam broke off, realizing Brynna wasn’t listening.

  “What are you doing for lunch today?” Brynna asked. “Do you think you could make it to Clara’s in Alkali about noon?”

  “I’ll see.” Sam felt awkward as she turned to Dad. “I don’t quite understand what’s going on, but Brynna is”—Sam spun her hand next to her head—“pretty excited. In fact, she’s downright giddy and she wants us to meet her at Clara’s today at noon.”

  Dad drained his coffee cup and set it down hard. His face held no more expression than the tabletop as he said, “Tell her we’ll be there.”

  Sam stared in amazement. Saturday was a serious workday on the River Bend Ranch. They never went out for lunch. Something was going on.

  “Brynna? Dad says we’ll be there.”

  “I don’t suppose Clara serves champagne,” Brynna said, laughing.

  “What?” Sam wondered what had happened to Brynna in Washington.

  “Never mind, just plan on chocolate upside-down cake for everyone. And, Sam, you know what?”

  Sam was almost afraid to ask, but curiosity won out. “What?”

  “It’ll be your treat.”

  The blue stallion didn’t enjoy the party held in his honor. He kicked the tailgate of the horse trailer parked in front of Clara’s café.

  Inside, the jukebox played, and Clara dealt out plates of cheeseburgers and fries to the table of rowdy customers celebrating Sam’s victory.

  But Sam stood over by the window, beside a young woman watching the horse trailer.

  Rosa Perez had midnight hair and the flavor of New Mexico in her voice.

  “He is such a bad boy.” Rosa tried to glimpse the horse inside the trailer, then turned to Sam with a smile. “And I am so glad to be taking him home.”