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For Henry and for Nancy, who held him
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the Breyer Horse Collection book series!
When I was a young girl, I was not able to have a horse of my own. So, while I dreamed of having my own horse one day, I read every book about horses that I could find, filled my room with Breyer model horses, and took riding lessons.
Today, I’m lucky enough to work at Breyer, a company that is known for making authentic and realistic portrait models of horse heroes, great champions, and of course, horses in literature. This beautiful new fiction series is near to my heart because it is about horses whose memorable stories will take their place alongside the horse books that I loved as a child.
This series celebrates popular horse breeds that everyone loves. In each book, you’ll get to appreciate the unique characteristics of a different breed, understand their history, and experience their life through their eyes. I believe that you’ll love these books as much as I do, and that the horse heroes you meet in them will be your friends for life.
Enjoy them all!
Stephanie Macejko
Breyer Animal Creations
CHAPTER 1
The red hawk circled, wings catching a draft of warm air rising between the mountain ridges. Her keen eyes surveyed the land below, searching for a possible meal. A family of mule deer, thin and scruffy-coated from the harsh winter, tore eagerly at the early-spring grass growing in tufts along the hillside. To the east, dense forest swallowed the view, so the hawk swung into one more circle over the open land. She, too, soon would have a new family to feed.…
There! A telltale rustling among the leaves of the first spring beauties … could be a cottontail or a vole.… The hawk dipped silently downward for a closer look. She could see the small creature scurrying along its path, seeking its own spring meal. One more careful glance and the hawk would be ready to pounce.
Just as the hawk gathered herself for the kill, the quiet mountain morning was split by a piercing whistle, and a sudden thunder shook the ground. The rabbit (for it was a rabbit) leaped for his burrow, and the hawk retreated with a disappointed screech, flapping her broad wings to go in search of a quieter hunting ground. The cottontail, unaware of his close call, soon ventured back out aboveground—there was, after all, not much to fear from the familiar band of wild stallions now drinking deeply from the nearby pool of melted snow.
Like the deer, these four horses showed signs of a long winter. Their coats—dun, two shades of brown, and grullo—were shaggy and dull, pulled tightly over ribs without an ounce of flesh to spare. But their spirits were far from dull: Spring was here! From the snowmelt, icy cold and refreshing, to the new, tender shoots of grass and shiny buds of buttercups: Spring was here! No more would the bachelor band have to paw through snowdrifts in search of food. No more would they huddle deep in the forest among the rough trunks of tamarack and white pine, waiting out a blizzard. Spring was here, and it was time to play!
Thirst quenched, the dun reached out a foreleg and began to splash. It was still too cold for a full bath, but splashing was a fine thing. He was joined by his half brother, the dark brown stallion, and together they soon had half soaked themselves and their friends, raising a ruckus that drove the cottontail back to his burrow and put to flight a nearby party of grouse. The grullo—a blue-gray mustang the color of storm clouds with a long, sweeping tail and a dark stripe along his back, like the dun—pretended to be more annoyed than he actually was and charged at the dun: time for a chase!
In a froth of water and mud, the two young stallions charged out of the pool and up the rocky slope. Small in height but stocky and strong, they were evenly matched for speed, running heads high, their long tails like tangled flags behind. The dun wheeled to face the grullo and together the friends rose up on their hind legs and struck light, glancing blows with their front hooves. This play-fighting was preparation for later, more serious battles, when they would face older band stallions, herd leaders, in competition for mares. But for now, the young bachelors, having only recently left the herds in which they’d grown up, were happy to play together, forage together, roam together, and welcome spring with their bursting high spirits.
The dun nipped his friend’s flank: Now I’ll chase you! Back down the slope, nimbly maneuvering over rock and ice patch, the grullo bounded toward the snowmelt, where the two brown stallions were grazing, more interested at the moment in filling their bellies. They weren’t allowed to stay on the sidelines for long—this time the grullo started the splashing, and the dun unceremoniously jostled his two half brothers into joining the merry mayhem.
An imperious whinny, blasting from the crest of the ridge, put an abrupt halt to the stallions’ play. They had been too preoccupied to notice the presence of another, larger band of horses coming to water at the snowmelt. At its head was a strong-limbed, self-assured mare, shepherding her herd purposefully toward the inviting pool. And bringing up the rear, noisily announcing his family’s approach, was the band stallion, no larger than the bachelors, but whose arched neck, flaring nostrils, and prancing hooves signaled his authority, his pride—his domination.
The four young stallions knew their place, and despite their interest in the fillies and mares who made up the rest of the herd, they beat a quick retreat away from the water, cantering far enough away to satisfy the band stallion, but still near enough to keep an eye on this interesting herd.
And an interesting herd it was. Each member, from the stallion now keeping a watchful eye on the distant bachelors to the little foal, born early only weeks before, wore a uniquely patterned coat of many colors, as individual as a snowflake. White spots, splotches, stripes, speckles, spatters—every lacy and dramatic design seemed to be represented, creating a dazzling display of nature’s art. These were Palouse horses, named for the river their ancestors once called home. These were Appaloosa mustangs.
Even among this colorful band, two fillies stood out, at least to the young stallions sniffing the April breeze, hoping to catch their scent. They were half sisters, nearly identical in size, conformation, and bearing, and both boasted roan coats that would be nearly iridescent if not for their winter shag. One wore her mother’s color, chestnut, shot through with white. The other sister had their father’s coloring—black, which combined with the white hairs that make a coat “roan” gave her the color of rain, of water over rocks. In their own special form of communication, that was how this filly was known to her family—by her color. They called her Blue.
Blue and her sister, named Doe for her gentle disposition as well as for her bounding fleetness of foot, made their way to the water side by side, as they most often were. Behind them tagged their youngest brother, the new foal, a dark bay with a snowy blanket of white covering his tiny hindquarters and splashing down his hind leg
s. Rambunctious and bold, despite only having been in the world for a matter of weeks, he didn’t let his unsteady balance stop him from skittering over the rocky hills, his long, ungainly legs flying, as he harassed each member of the band, from his indulgent sisters and aunts to his dignified father: Come play!
For the moment, the herd was too eager to reach the water to pay much attention to Fly, as the youngster was known. His mother turned and whinnied impatiently, urging him along. Finally the family was all gathered at the edge of the pool, their leader the last to arrive. He paused a final time to sniff the wind, survey the landscape, then lowered his proud head, with its distinctive Roman nose, and drank.
In between long drafts of the fresh, snow-tasting water, Blue cast sideways glances at the group of bachelors, standing a wary and respectful distance away. Like her mother, the herd’s lead mare, she wanted to watch over and help guide the family, though she was far too young to take such responsibility. Her sister shared this instinct, though she showed it by helping to mother the foal and by giving contented, unselfish respect to the other, older mares—a sometimes cantankerous group. Through her gentleness, Doe commanded, just as Blue’s alert eyes and fearlessness made her truly her father’s daughter.
Blue was not the only Appaloosa with an interest in the nearby stallions. His thirst satisfied, Fly took advantage of the grown-ups’ distraction and trotted confidently down the slope, his short, brushy tail flicking from side to side. Just as he reached the foursome, who watched his approach with curiosity, he paused and snorted, a tiny blast of challenge that fooled no one, then took another step forward onto a patch of slick ice and fell, legs sprawling out like a water bug’s.
Blue could have laughed at her bold brother’s ridiculous entrance, and the stallions looked on with expressions a human would have sworn looked like amusement mixed with sympathy. After all, they had been foals only a few years before. But Fly, only a little embarrassed, was already struggling to his feet, clumsy but determined. He began to prance a circle around the bachelors, occasionally darting closer to give one of them a daring poke with his muzzle, until finally the grullo gave in—and gave chase.
Keeping his strides short, much in the way an adult human will let a small child win a race, the grullo cantered behind Fly, and then with a mighty bound he surged forward, cut Fly off, and changed direction, leaving the foal to pursue him. Up and down the rock-strewn slope they galloped, first one ahead, then the other—catch me if you can! Blue and Doe watched calmly, knowing that Fly was getting good practice, both in learning the terrain and in learning the language of stallions, of challenge and retreat, threat and response. It may be play now, but it would be serious later.
The dun and the brown brothers joined the play, and the pace picked up. Fly began to tire, and with the addition of the older stallions, the action was becoming rougher. Hooves and bared teeth, whirling and charging! The lead mare decided it was too much. Trumpeting a loud, clear warning, she summoned her youngest back to the herd. Fly, still trying to keep up with the roughhousing brothers, pretended not to hear. The mare whinnied again. Fly was almost sent to the ground by a shove from the light brown stallion. Get back here, Fly! his mother’s call rang out. And when her son still didn’t listen, Ollokot, the band stallion, charged forward.
Here was stallion language at its clearest and loudest. Chin slightly tucked toward his flexed, heavily muscled neck, ears pinpointed forward, straining with attention, the characteristic mottled pink Appaloosa nostrils blown open, Ollokot came on. He was a rough-looking animal, his eyes rimmed white, giving his expression a ferocious cast, the ghosts of old injuries lacing his body along with the white hairs painted down his hindquarters and back legs in slashing streaks. At ten years old, he was in the prime of his life, and he had defended his family against cougars and raiding stallions. Compared to these, the antics of a herd of adolescents, barely more than colts, were only an annoyance. Still, a display of power, even a minor one, was called for.
It only took one look at the charging band stallion for the bachelor herd to scatter. The grullo was the last to go, and he trotted away reluctantly. He respected the older, dominant mustang, but one day he knew he would challenge him. He cast a last look at the filly Blue, then turned to join his comrades.
Only one horse was unmoved by the stallion’s interruption: the foal. Fly watched his new friends retreat up the hillside and let out a plaintive whinny. Ollokot grumbled impatiently, ears sawing backward. Fly glanced at him, as if to say, What do you want, and why did you break up our fun? Ollokot’s head whipped forward and he gave the young horse a nip: Don’t sass me, boy! Finally, Fly turned and allowed himself to be shepherded back to his family, unwillingness written in every slow stride. The only youngster not afraid of the battle-scarred, fierce band stallion was his son.
CHAPTER 2
As the days lengthened and the sun’s rays grew warmer, Blue’s herd relaxed into spring’s rhythm. Grazing, watering, playing, and even quarreling: Everything felt easier when the last of the long winter’s snows had melted. And soon two more mares stole away from the band for a few days, seeking privacy as they brought forth their foals in the night’s protective darkness.
One of these mares, an older bay with a lacy white pattern blanketing her entire body, had just returned with her newborn filly, a tiny, bandy-legged creature trembling under her father’s curious inspection. Blue paused from grazing to watch her new sister, and after her father had covered the filly with his warm breath, gently nudging his greeting and his approval, she eagerly trotted forward to offer her own welcome.
The foal’s Appaloosa markings covered her whole body, like her mother’s, and she looked almost entirely off-white, except for patches of brown peeking out on her head, chest, and forelegs. Her mane, thin and tufted, was a zebra-like mixture of black and white. But more than her unusual coloring, Blue noticed the filly’s tired air, and she whickered encouragingly to her. It was hard to be born, Blue knew, but even in spring the wilderness was not kind to the weak or the slow. She remembered this lesson well from Doe’s brush with death, soon after her mother had given her life.
Doe had been born out of season, in November, five months after Blue. The snows had come, and Ollokot nearly prevented Doe’s mother from going off alone to birth, as all wild horses are instinctively driven to do. Blue remembered his nervous harassment of the mare—a lovely young chestnut mustang with a delicate head that Doe had inherited, as well as her dished face and widely spaced, liquid eyes. Ollokot had lured the mare away from her family at a young age, and Doe was her first foal. One November evening, as the sun disappeared behind the ridge of hills, the mare grew more and more anxious to get away from the herd, but Ollokot kept bringing her back, blocking her with his body, neck long and sinuous like a snake as he nipped at her flanks, demanding she stay near and safe. The snow was deep, and the night wind cold.
But even these conditions and her mate’s anxious bullying couldn’t stop the young mare from following nature’s instructions, and at some point in the long late-autumn night she slipped away from the herd to give birth to Doe. When dawn came, and the mare’s loss was discovered, Ollokot went on immediate watch, as did Blue’s mother, the lead mare. Instead of taking the herd to root for food in a new part of the mountain, the lead mare and the band stallion stood sentry, pacing the line of forest where the herd sheltered from the worst of the bitter wind. Blue, not yet a weanling but strong-limbed and steady on her feet, kept close by her mother’s side, scanning the trees, the hills, the empty silence for any sign of her new half sibling.
Day turned to night and back to day, and still the young mare did not return. Finally, the herd had to move to a different part of their territory in search of food, but the band stallion lingered behind, trumpeting his call over the hills, restlessly pacing the high ground, sniffing the cold wind, searching for his lost mare. Blue tried to stay back with her father, but he drove her away, toward the herd and safety. Then he, too, was f
orced to abandon his watch, for he could not abandon his herd. But he did not allow the band to stray too far from where they were when the young mare had last been with them, despite their need to forage new ground. And he continued to search the skyline. His small, roan daughter, with her miniature copy of his Roman nose, also copied his movements, keeping her own watch, tiny nostrils flared open to scent the breeze.
On the fourth night after the mare’s disappearance, Blue was woken from a light doze by a faint, faraway sound. She raised her head and listened, unsure what, if anything, she’d heard. The rest of her family was dozing, even her father, exhausted from his days of sleepless sentry. There it was again—a brief, high-pitched sound, almost like a bird. Blue’s curiosity was alight, and despite the fearsome dark around her, she left the warmth of the herd’s protective circle to investigate.
Moonlight shone through the needles of the white pine trees, making the crust of snow glitter and lighting Blue’s path as she searched out the source of the sound. Neee! It came again, a short whistling call, and Blue picked her way forward through the trees. The voice, for she was sure now it was a voice and not the wind, was both familiar and strange, and Blue was afraid to call back, wanting to find but not to be found herself. She had seen a cougar once and had not forgotten its lantern eyes or the look of its white, sharp teeth, bared at her father as he drove the big cat away. And there were other dangers in these woods.…
The wind picked up, stealing through the fir and pine branches, and Blue raised her head to sniff deeply. There was indeed the scent of horse, and not a horse of her own herd, borne on the wintry breeze! Now she moved forward with determination, her mother’s and father’s instincts coursing through her veins, ready to meet whoever was lost on this winter night.
Wild Blue - The Story of a Mustang Appaloosa Page 1