Wild Horses

by Jenny Oldfield

  “Hey, Art!” Hadley stood up in his stirrups and hollered. “How are y’all?”

  “Hey!” Art answered. He turned his head away from the onlookers, ducked his head, and shrugged.

  Kirstie stared from one to the other; the old wrangler on the ridge riding Yukon, her new friend standing by her side. “You know him?” Cupping her hands to her mouth, she yelled up at Hadley.

  “Sure I know him. He’s Fenney Fischer’s boy from Aspen Falls.”

  “How come you didn’t tell us?” she cried.

  And back came the slow, inevitable answer, as Hadley led the riders on along the ridge: “How come you never asked?”

  “I got a real nice site at Lone Elm,” Lennie told Art later that same evening. The bulldozer had shifted tons of rock and earth, and the entrance to Dead Man’s Canyon was clear at last. “It’s got running water, I can connect you up to the electricity generator, no problem.”

  Art listened and smiled.

  Lisa’s grandpa described the advantages of moving down from lonely Eden Lake to the comforts of an official trailer park. “Hot showers, a grocery store right on site, folks to get along with on a long winter’s night.”

  Kirstie raised her eyebrows at Lisa, slipped an arm through hers, and wandered away from the group. She was happy that the blocked entrance had been cleared, glad that Matt had contacted their mom on the radio, and that Sandy and Hadley had made it to the canyon with a set of dry clothes for Kirstie and in time to see Lennie’s giant machine complete the job.

  Now it was evening. The sun was setting, shadows creeping down the silent mountain.

  “What do you reckon? Will Art take Grandpa’s vacant site?” Lisa asked as they strolled toward the waterfall.

  “Nope.” Kirstie grinned. “Folks can come knocking too easy with their damn fool questions in a trailer park.”

  Lisa glanced back at Art, standing now a little way apart from Matt and Sandy Scott, her grandpa, and Hadley. “He’s kinda shy.”

  “Kinda.” She took a deep breath and gazed up at the sparkling, rushing water. Beyond the fall, beyond Miners’ Ridge and way past Eagle’s Peak in the far distance, the sun was disappearing from the sky. “He says dawn tomorrow we can let the stallion go free,” she told Lisa softly. “Do you want to be here?”

  Tuesday sunrise. Before the guests at Half Moon Ranch were stirring, while Matt and Sandy, Hadley, and Charlie were bringing in the horses from the remuda, brushing them down, and saddling them up for the day’s rides, Kirstie rode out with Lisa to Dead Man’s Canyon.

  Though the sun was just up and the air still sharp with an overnight frost, Art Fischer was there before them.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  “Hey, Art.” The girls dismounted and tied up Lucky and Cadillac.

  Then they all three went along the ledge behind the fall to bring the black stallion out of the clearing.

  He was grazing by the young aspen trees. When he saw them, he came quietly, curiously, taking his weight nicely on the left front leg, the limp almost gone. Kirstie and Lisa held their breaths, and as he came close, they gazed up into his deep brown eyes.

  He scarcely noticed when Art quietly slipped a halter rope around his neck. It tightened. He pulled away once, then accepted it.

  Art spoke gently to him, rubbing the back of his hand up and down his long face. “Easy, boy. Time for you to leave this place.”

  The horse heard and followed the man along the bed of the stream, out of the clearing between the tall rocks of the dark gully. Not even the narrow ledge behind the waterfall spooked him. He just went straight along it, right after Art Fischer.

  Lisa and Kirstie watched with silent awe the trust between horse and man.

  “It’s magic!” Lisa breathed as they came out into the canyon and saw Art prepare to release the stallion.

  He turned to Kirstie. “Say good-bye?”

  She nodded and went forward, feeling tears prick her eyelids. A happy-sad good-bye. A good good-bye to a horse whose life she’d helped to save—and who had helped to save hers too. She reached out with a trembling hand to stroke his lovely face.

  The stallion bowed his head.

  Then Art led him toward the cleared exit. He loosened the halter rope and slipped it off.

  “Bye,” Lisa whispered.

  Kirstie stood silent.

  Then Art tapped the horse’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. He clicked with his tongue.

  The stallion stepped forward, hesitated, looked back at them.

  From up above, high on Miners’ Ridge, a horse whinnied. It was the gray mare, standing in the morning sun, her white mane bright. Behind her, in the shadows of the ponderosa pines, the wild herd waited.

  The black horse looked up. He pawed the earth with one front hoof, stretched out his magnificent head, and called back.

  Then he reared and whirled. He was gone; out through the narrow gap cleared by the machine, up onto the trail that led to the ridge. He loped with the wind in his black mane and tail, dark against the red rocks, the tall green trees; like a shadow, like a dream …

  He was gone.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born and brought up in Harrogate, Yorkshire, Jenny Oldfield went on to study English at Birmingham University, where she did research on the Brontë novels and on children’s literature. She then worked as a teacher before deciding to concentrate on writing. She writes novels for both children and adults and, when she can escape from her desk, likes to spend time outdoors. She loves the countryside and enjoys walking, gardening, playing tennis, riding, and traveling with her two daughters, Kate and Eve.