Many of the horses were miserable in the pens, unused to the soaking they were receiving. But Blue and Doe reveled in their element: Doe actually splashed a bit in one of the puddles that ringed the corral, and Blue ran in lightning-quick bursts along the fence line, Roman head held high up to the clouds, the thunder, the smell of home.
Lou Weatherall (the man who refilled the mustangs’ water trough in the evenings) grumbled all the way to the fillies’ corral. Any fool could see that there was plenty of water tonight, but his boss insisted that he check the troughs anyway. He trudged across the muddy expanse of the parking lot, his green raincoat flapping in the gusts of wind that drove the rain diagonally across his face. The gate was slick in his grip, and he struggled briefly between the latch and his wide-brimmed black cowboy hat, which the breeze threatened to tear from its snug hold on his brow. Suddenly, the wind won, and Lou felt the hat take flight. He made a grab for it, lost his footing in the slick muck under his boots, and man and hat fell to the ground in an undignified sprawl. More unfortunately for Lou, he lost his grip on the gate, and the wind pushed it wide open, giving Blue, for the first time, a view of the hills beyond … with no barrier in between!
She acted before she thought, as if pricked by a live wire. While the other horses huddled grimly under the downpour, preoccupied with their discomfort, Blue dove forward and, with a few bounding strides, was out, past the gate, past the corral, on the other side of the fence, leaping over the fallen cowboy and heading for the hills!
Crash! came the thunder. Crash! went the flailing gate, banging wide. Splash! went Lou Weatherall as he struggled, shouting and cursing, in the mud. Then: Neigh! came Doe’s cry as her sister, dizzied with the sight of unfenced horizons and with the smell of rain and leaves and green growing things (oh, the honeysuckle on the hills, the snowmelt, the breeze through the tamarack!), struggled to keep her footing as her pinwheeling legs drove her forward to freedom.
Come on, Doe! Blue called.
Her sister’s return cry was filled with anxiety and confusion.
Hurry! Blue trumpeted. Lou Weatherall was almost to his feet. Blue doubled back to the fence, every muscle of her strong, compact body tensed for flight, the rain streaming down her forelock and into her eyes. She tossed her head wildly, encouraging her sister forward.
Come on, Doe!
But Doe seemed momentarily frozen. Her rolling eyes flickered between her sister, the man with the rope, and the herd at her side.
I’m afraid! she whinnied desperately to Blue, who wheeled back and forth outside the fence, hooves churning mud. Doe looked again to the pinto, to the old mare and her strong foal. The herd watched Blue with interest but did not move to join her. There was safety in numbers. And the man was now blocking the gate.
They’re not our family, Doe! They’re not our herd! We have to go home!
Something in her sister’s piercing call—a note of authority, of love, of remembrance of home—broke through Doe’s panic and her powerful instinct to stay with the group. Holding Blue’s gaze, she bolted forward, springing like a deer toward the gate as Blue reared with joy, cheering her on.
The gate hit Doe in the chest.
Flung awkwardly backward, Doe shrilled with pain and confusion. But Lou Weatherall grimly pressed forward, blocking the mustang’s momentum, and with a wrench of wet metal and wood, he secured the gate firmly against the fence post.
No! screamed Blue, pawing the mud in a frenzy, wheeling in place, straining to get closer to her sister. Her hooves banged the outside of the corral as Doe’s banged the inside. The fence was high, but the sisters could see each other’s heads and wide, panic-struck eyes.
I can’t get to you! Doe called.
All Blue could do was cry out as she turned again, racing the fence line, as if she’d discover another opening, another chance for Doe.…
And then, even through the noise of the storm, she heard the whistle of the rope singing past her head and the loud, barking voice of Lou Weatherall at its other end. Blue shied away, spinning on her back legs, and the rope fell harmlessly to her side. But the man soon had it back and began to swing it in the ominous circle around his head. Blue cantered a few strides away, still calling to her sister, torn between fear of capture and the fear of losing sight of Doe, just unreachable, her smell still clear, so close and yet so completely cut off from her!
Wossshhh! The rope came closer this time, and Blue had to move fast to skirt the noose.
Go, Blue! Men are coming!
Blue turned, following her sister’s gaze, and saw two more men, their garments flapping in the wind like strange birds, splashing through the river of mud that was the parking lot, running toward her with ropes in their hands.
Doe! she cried in anguish.
Go! her sister urged, eyes wide and fearful—and yet they were eyes filled with love.
The second and third ropes slashed through the rain, grazing Blue’s hindquarters and hocks. The men shouted angrily. Blue blasted out her defiance, nostrils flared, her rugged head lifted high as she reached skyward with her forelegs, rearing to the top of her height, then plunging forward as the next toss of the ropes again just grazed her neck.
But she knew this wasn’t a fight she could win, not if she stayed here by the pen … by Doe.
Go! Doe pleaded, and now her eyes were gentle and calm. Go home!
As the men raised their ropes again, Blue bolted. She ran for the rain-swept hills. She ran for the unbroken space before her. She ran for home. She ran for her sister, who could not run. And the rain came down, blotting out the hoofprints that were the only trace she left behind.
CHAPTER 7
It was dark before Blue stopped running.
It was dark and the rain had slowed to a fine mist blurring the evening star that glanced out from behind the curtains of clouds. Blue had run blindly from the corral, her only goal to reach the hills that had meant freedom during her weeks in the pen. Now she was at their base and through the last light of the day she could see that they were gentle inclines, studded with rocks and sharp, prickly plants and muddy from the rains. She slowed to a trot, sides heaving from her exertions, mud, sweat, and rain blanketing her coat. Alternating between a fast walk and a jog, she picked her way carefully up the slick slope, her strong legs, sturdy build, and tough hooves keeping her upright and balanced.
Blue didn’t stop until she reached the top of the hill, where she finally let herself slow to a halt and surveyed the strange scene spread out in the valley below her.
It looked as if the stars had fallen from the night sky: Above, the clouds formed an unbroken curtain of darkness, and below, a thousand brightly colored flares twinkled in the foothills. To her left, a river of light seemed to snake around the dazzling field. Occasionally, moving lights streamed down the river. The field itself was composed of multicolored stars, some that flickered and others that were still. It stretched out as far as her eye could see to the right, but Blue could make out darkness on the other side of the light river. After several moments of indecision, she decided to head for that patch of night beyond this spectacle of fallen stars.
It was trickier going down the hill than it had been going up. The footing was slicker and the brightness below made it difficult for Blue to pick out a trail before her. Reluctantly, she slowed her pace. Tiredness began to steal through her, but she never stumbled. In this strange land, she was on full alert, tired or not. And focusing intently on the task ahead prevented her from thinking about what she had left behind.
After a few hours of steady slogging, the land under her hooves evened out and became easier to navigate. She was down the hill and level with the lights. Blue stopped and sniffed the air. She could smell rain and mud but also another familiar yet ominous scent: men’s trucks. Blue tossed her head, trying to determine the direction of the smell, but it was too diffuse. She pawed the ground briefly, uncertain what to do. It seemed as if the acrid odor was stronger toward the light river, but it came f
rom the light field as well. Now that she was even with both, it was harder to tell which direction might be safer. Blue remembered her father standing atop the high crest of a hill on their home range, surveying the land for predators. It was better to be up high, but unless she wanted to turn around, back toward the corrals, Blue had no choice but to press forward into the unknown.
She scraped the earth a few more times with the tip of a hoof and headed left toward the darkness beyond the highway.
* * *
With a roar and a blast of foul-smelling wind, a huge truck hurtled past Blue and she swerved left, fear adding more speed to her stride. When she’d discovered that what had looked like a river from afar was actually where the men’s trucks roamed, and roamed at speeds she could barely fathom, she’d had two choices: to go back, or to try to go around the highway. The trucks seemed to catapult out of the darkness like boulders falling during an avalanche, and their brilliant lights blinded her just as the blast of their horns pierced her ears and the weight of their stride shook the very ground beneath her hooves. All of Blue’s instincts told her to get as far away from this place as possible, but the filly refused to retreat. Now she had stumbled through several miles of scrub brush, ditches, and woods, trying to find the highway’s end, and she was exhausted, tense, and confused. A conflict raged within her: She could feel that the direction of home lay on the other side of the terrifying road, and she knew for a fact that the corrals lay behind her, but the highway seemed never to end! Even worse: The farther she struggled through the woods on the side of the road, the closer she seemed to get to even more lights. And lights, she was now certain, meant danger. Blue decided that she had to cross the highway.
It took several tries before Blue could command her unwilling body to move forward into the road, but eventually she forced herself halfway across, on the grassy strip of land that divided the east- and westbound lanes. Now there were trucks on either side of her: Some came at her from the front and others from behind! The comforting darkness she had seen from the hill should be to her left, but her view of it was blocked by a wall—not as high as the corral’s fence but solid. Each time a truck zoomed by, Blue panicked and kept running straight ahead, down the median, her ability to think scrambled by the noise and the lights and the hot fumy blasts of wind that the monsters left in their wake.
Finally, the highway was momentarily quiet. Blue halted abruptly, limbs trembling. Behind her, she could see a distant glimmer of approaching headlights, but ahead the only light was the faint blush of dawn. Blue snorted, tossed her now dry and matted mane, and took a long, appraising look at the wall before her. She had jumped higher barriers, but not without having an idea of what was on the other side.
She glanced backward: The approaching lights were growing brighter, and her sensitive hooves could feel a low tremor in the earth. She had to make her move before the next herd of trucks came on.
Blue took a few steps backward and shook her forelock from her eyes. Her body tensed, preparing for flight. She briefly pawed the grass of the median and gave a half rear. And then she was off: leaping forward, hooves meeting the hard asphalt with a clatter as she bounded in a few powerful strides across the road and flung herself up, up, and over the gray concrete wall.
Her forelegs hit the tangled briars first, then the rest of Blue’s weight landed awkwardly on the steep slope beyond the wall. Her right foreleg buckled beneath her, sending her head and neck down to receive their share of scratches from the thorny mess into which she’d leaped. Blue struggled upright, planting her legs firmly to stop her forward momentum. But she only stayed still for a moment: The sharp branches of the roadside scrub made it too uncomfortable to linger. Blue shuddered: Her coat was laced with nicks and stinging welts and she was surrounded by vegetation that seemed to trap her. She had no choice but to plunge ahead, down the slope, into the blackness.
* * *
It was an uncomfortable twenty minutes before Blue was out of the thicket. When she finally stumbled through the last of the brambles and paused to take her bearings, the morning’s first light was bringing out the faint gray outlines of the landscape around her. A thicket of small but densely planted trees blocked the view directly ahead, but Blue thought she saw the first of the sun’s rays peeping through the grove. The smell of fumes still bedeviled her nostrils; she hoped she’d left the worst of it behind. Bracing herself, Blue trotted forward through a slight break in the trees, toward the light.
Her hooves hit the pavement at almost the same moment that a trucker jumped down from his rig, eager to stretch his legs and order some breakfast. Blue skidded back on her haunches, for a confused moment convinced that she was back at Ezra Ryder’s—but no … same bright light, a false sun hovering high in the sky, same gathering of trucks, same searing smell of gasoline and exhaust, but no corral, no pine trees … as Blue turned frantically to the left and right, all she could see was more road, more gray buildings with a few lights twinkling on.
The trucker spat out his last mouthful of cold coffee as the filly emerged like a gray ghost from the thicket. But he only had a moment to take in the strange sight of the wild Appaloosa lost in the parking lot of the Chief Joseph Truck Stop. As he watched the small, rain-colored filly turn several circles, hooves sliding out beneath her on the slick asphalt, the trucker’s arms broke out in goose bumps. This was no stray pony, he realized. This was a visitor from another century … from a country that no longer existed. The wild horse circled once more, then broke to the left, heading north out of the parking lot and onto the service road. The trucker watched her go, still not entirely sure if he could believe his eyes.
* * *
The blast of a horn drove Blue off the road and into another parking lot. The sound of her hooves on the hard pavement was like hail on stones as she galloped across the meadow of concrete that fronted the row of big box stores that were just turning on their lights in preparation for opening. She jumped a hedge that divided one strip of stores from the next and almost collided with a girl getting out of her car to start her shift at the coffeehouse. Blue swerved, nicking the car, and bounded past the store’s neon-lighted window as startled early-morning patrons stared, as unsure as the trucker had been of what they were seeing.
As she galloped away from the coffee shop, Blue heard the sound of engines behind her. She gave a burst of speed, maneuvering past telephone poles and the parking lot’s lights, employees’ cars, and concrete planters filled with marigolds. With a throaty roar, the trucks gave chase. For a moment, Blue thought their shared path was a mistake—that the trucks would drop back to the station where they seemed to gather, or go run on the road. But after she leaped another planter, moving farther into the interior of the lot, toward the storefronts, she realized that the trucks were, in fact, following her. Soon they were close enough that she could hear the loud, exuberant voices of the men inside them. She swiveled her eyes to look behind her: Two men seemed to be riding the back of one truck, outside its body. It only took another glance to see that one of these men was twirling a rope over his head, and it only took another moment before Blue bolted with all the speed she could muster, cutting recklessly across the path of the second truck and charging back toward the road.
With what seemed a shriek of pain, the second truck swerved violently to the right, its back end fishtailing. Blue didn’t pause to look behind her: The sound of crashing metal and the sudden silence of the engines told her enough, as did the men’s furious voices.
In Blue’s experience, when men sounded that way, she was winning.
But it wasn’t many miles later that Blue began to despair that her victory was short-lived, that in the new world she’d entered since her capture, there was no avoiding the handiwork of men.
While at first glance the land that stretched before her after she’d left behind the last of the shopping mall appeared unmarked, in reality its contours were shaped by yet more fences, by roads—dirt and paved and graveled—and by build
ings. So far, these had been sparse, and Blue hadn’t seen any actual men, but she met more of their captive animals—large, horned creatures, docile and slow moving—grazing in the greener fields, which were almost always barricaded in some way. By midday, Blue had jumped barbed-wire fences, hunted out and crossed over broken fence lines, and stolen water from the cows’ troughs. She was growing tired and hot, plagued by horseflies and gnats that swarmed over her torn coat.
But eventually, she became aware that the land around her was changing—and changing dramatically. As the miles and the hours passed, the dusty, low, rolling hills became steeper and forested, and the intermittently grassy fields grew greener with a variety of living plants. As the signs of men grew fainter, Blue’s spirits lifted further, and a renewed sense of purpose animated her stride.
Mostly what she felt was space: It was as if there was suddenly more air. As she walked, she drank in the breeze, relishing the scent of scrub plants, drying earth, and, for the first time since the corral, other wild animals. She was sure there were a few deer nearby, perhaps some groundhogs. Tired, dirty, and sore as she was, a feeling of well-being stole through her as if borne on the rays of the setting sun. Her heart ached for Doe; yet, too, her heart ached for home … and she was going home. She was going home! The welts on her back, her bruised hooves, her exhausted body: These seemed to fall away as Blue contemplated the unbroken space before her—miles of it, harsh and unknown—but unfenced. After another deep, sustaining breath of the fresh air, the Appaloosa continued north.
CHAPTER 8
When Blue opened her eyes the next morning, she thought she must still be dreaming. She had slept heavier than she’d meant to, her cautiousness for once overwhelmed by exhaustion. But no harm had come to her here, in this place she now gazed at with wondering eyes. She had followed the scent of water until she reached a small creek, shrouded in darkness, the night before. After drinking deeply, the filly had actually lain down and fallen asleep—something she hadn’t done since she was a foal, not counting the miserable period of unconsciousness in the trailer. Lulled by the soft, burbling voice of the stream, Blue had slept and dreamed of home. Doe was there, and Shadow, too. Shadow and Fly were playing, and Doe was by her side, watching them. Their father and Blue’s mother were nearby, grazing peacefully under the warm summer sunshine. Above, Blue could hear the voice of a hawk calling to his mate.… It was so loud … the hawk must be close by.…
Wild Blue - The Story of a Mustang Appaloosa Page 5