Jumper

by Michele Bossley

  The red chestnut mare bolted suddenly, right into the stallion’s path. He reared to avoid hitting her, clouds of dust billowing up as he twisted and plunged sideways. She streaked away from him across the prairie. Distracted from his goal of cutting me to pieces, the stallion shot after his runaway mare at a furious gallop. She squealed as he sank his teeth into her flank and turned her back toward the band.

  I pushed upward on the wire with all my strength. There was a ripping noise as the cloth finally gave way and I rolled to safety on the other side of the fence.

  Sort of.

  Grandpa was striding toward me, outraged disbelief on his face. “Reese!” he shouted. I cringed as he grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. “What were you thinking!” he bellowed. “You could have been killed!” Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped me in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. I could feel Grandpa’s heart hammering against his ribs, and instantly I knew that he had been really scared.

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I said, my voice muffled in his shirt.

  Grandpa released me and swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, but I realized as I did that at least half a dozen places on my body stung badly, my shirt was torn to ribbons and stained with dirt and my own blood, and my hands were red with welts from the wire. “It hurts a bit,” I admitted.

  “I have some iodine that I keep in the truck. I’ll paint you up, and that’ll hold you till we get home.” Grandpa headed back in the direction of the truck.

  As I hobbled after him, I glanced back at the herd of mustangs. The chestnut mare had managed to evade any more punishment from the stallion, and once she was back in the band, he seemed satisfied. The stallion was moving the herd up the gully and over the ridge, deeper into the military’s land.

  Grandpa rummaged in the glove compartment and found an ancient bottle of iodine. I set my teeth as he dabbed it on the worst of the scratches.

  “This is gonna hurt,” Grandpa warned. I nearly howled as he painted the deep cut on my lower back where the barbed wire had caught in my now-tattered jeans.

  “Why do you suppose she did that?” I gasped through the stinging pain.

  “Who did what?” Grandpa said, capping the bottle. “All done.”

  “The mare. Running past the stallion like that. She probably saved my life.”

  “I know,” Grandpa said soberly. “For one terrible minute I thought you wouldn’t make it. I was trying to get there first, but I’m no match for a charging stallion.” Grandpa paused.

  I didn’t want to think about it anymore. “Let’s go home,” I said.

  chapter six

  “Next rider in the ring, number 81, Taylor Jennings on Fraggle Rock.” The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

  I peeked into the arena. It was similar to ours, but Greenbriar’s jumps had all been decorated with pots of silk flowers for the competition. It looked colorful and festive—a lot different from the usual training ring.

  I adjusted my paper number carefully so it wouldn’t rip. It was tied with narrow, dark colored string over my riding jacket. I was used to the uniform riders used for shows now, but I still remembered how I felt when I went to my first jumping competition. Everyone looked so different. We always wore beige breeches and high, polished boots, but the tailored dark jackets, white blouses and velvet helmets made the riders seem so formal and impressive—I could hardly believe it was us.

  Just outside the ring, Kayla was finishing the complicated job of plaiting Twilight’s mane. His coat shone. Even his hooves were polished. Kayla herself looked sophisticated with her glossy, blond hair pulled back in a low knot at her neck. Her jacket fitted perfectly, and a chunky gold pin held her collar closed.

  I tugged self-consciously at the sleeves of my own jacket, which were getting too short. My hair was French-braided into two pigtails behind my ears, but curly wisps were escaping everywhere. I looked like a mad scientist, but I didn’t have time to redo the braids. I just stuffed my helmet on and went to the stall where they’d put Boots. She was still blanketed, but I’d brought my saddle with me, along with the big plastic container with all my riding stuff. It was right where I left it, outside the stall, but when I began to tack up, I noticed my martingale was missing. I shuffled the saddle blanket to one side, picked up my gloves, brushes, the bridle—but no martingale.

  I couldn’t ride without it. A martingale helps the rider control the horse by limiting how high the horse can lift his head, and it was important. I knew I’d brought it. I’d double-checked all my equipment at home.

  “Everything all right?” said Kayla’s voice at my elbow.

  I whirled, startling Boots. “No. Not really,” I answered bluntly. “My martingale is missing.”

  “Oh. Well, Laurel said to tell you to hurry up. Our class is starting in ten minutes.”

  I felt a flash of annoyance. “Great. Except that I can’t ride without a martingale. Have you seen it anywhere?”

  Kayla caught my tone and stared at me, unblinking. “No. Why would I?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to make sure that I can’t compete.”

  Kayla smirked. “Why would I bother? You hardly have a chance riding this horse. I wouldn’t waste my time.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

  My face flamed. Why had I said that? Kayla and I definitely weren’t friends, but I had no reason to think she would cheat. Besides, she was right. If she was going to risk sabotaging my equipment, it would be smarter to do it for a competition that I might actually win.

  I quickly threw the saddle blanket on Boots, then put the saddle on and tightened the girth. I rummaged in the container for my hoof pick, and it was when I tossed aside my spare coat—the one I wear over my riding jacket in the stable after I compete—that the martingale fell out. It had gotten hooked inside somehow, and when I had crumpled the jacket up and shoved it inside the container, I guess I hadn’t noticed it.

  Now I really felt bad. My spirits low, I picked out Boots’s hooves and finished tacking up. Laurel came striding up the corridor.

  “Reese, come on! Your class is starting,” she called.

  I led Boots toward the ring. Kayla was mounted on Twilight, trying to keep him calm. She leaned down and patted his neck, whispering something.

  I walked toward her. “I found the martingale,” I said.

  Kayla frowned. “Good for you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I looked at her steadily. “I shouldn’t have made it sound like you took it. Good luck out there.” I turned Boots around, went to my place in line and mounted up. I could feel Kayla staring after me, and I wouldn’t have put it past her to have her mouth open in surprise. I didn’t think we’d ever said anything nice to one another. I wasn’t really sure why. Sometimes people just don’t connect.

  Boots shifted under my weight. I leaned forward. “You’ll do great. Just listen to me, okay?” She flicked her ears in my direction.

  The wait took forever. I couldn’t see how Kayla did, but she slid off Twilight when it was over, her face beaming and flushed with exertion. Laurel stopped her and gave her some instructions for the next round, gesturing emphatically with her hands. Kayla nodded, then led Twilight away.

  There were two more riders in front of me. Then one more. I took a deep breath.

  “Next rider in the ring, number 64, Reese Drayton on Puss ‘N’ Boots.”

  I nudged Boots forward and began to canter her toward the first jump. I was desperately trying to remember the order of the course. That’s one of the challenges—they change the order of the jumps at every competition, so you always have to memorize a new sequence. If you forget and take a jump out of turn, you are eliminated.

  We were approaching the first jump. I counted the strides under my breath. One... two...three...I gave Boots the signal, but she took off a little late. I heard the soft clunk of her back hooves hitting the poles. I dared not look behind to see if the pole fell.

  Inste
ad, I focused on the next jump. Boots fought for her head, shaking it irritably as I held her under control. Her canter was rough— I could feel it jolting beneath me. I let her have a looser rein and used my legs more, trying to smooth her out, but she still pranced, dodging away from the floral arrangement set up at the far end of the ring as we circled toward jump number two. I urged her forward, but I could tell before we even got there that her heart wasn’t in it. She stopped short a few feet away, nearly shooting me over her head. I hung on, feeling the blood rush to my face. The refusal would mean I would lose points. If she did it again, I’d be disqualified.

  In Novice, it was okay for your trainer to instruct you during your ride, and I heard Laurel’s voice, a thin call from the other end of the ring. “Reese, use the crop!”

  I gritted my teeth and gripped the whip in my fist. “Darn mule,” I whispered. I tapped Boots sharply on the flank with my crop, and she leapt forward, her canter smooth and quick. I turned her toward jump number three. She took it with ease, which made me madder. She could have jumped the other two if she’d wanted to—she was just showing me who was boss.

  “Not anymore,” I said. I held the reins lightly and used my legs for control. Boots went over the fourth and fifth fences with clean leaps, but on jump number six she balked at the last minute. I squeezed her hard and forced her over, but I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.

  I guided her around the final circle. She cantered swiftly toward the seventh jump. I tensed in the saddle, ready for the takeoff. One...two...three—!

  “Augh!” I squawked as Boots leaned back on her haunches and turned away from the jump. I managed to grab a knot of her mane and clenched my knees into her sides so hard I could hear her grunt, but it was the only thing that prevented me from flying off the horse and into the rails of the fence. As it was, I was so off balance that I slid sideways in the saddle, and it was an easy matter for Boots to give a bouncy little kick and throw me off into the dirt.

  I glared at her, then jumped up and snatched the reins before she could take off. The one thing I was not going to do was chase my horse around the ring with all these people watching. It was embarrassing enough to be disqualified—with that second refusal, Boots and I were now out—but to be bucked off and then have to catch this ornery animal...

  There was a smattering of encouraging applause as I led Boots over to the door into the stable. Laurel tried to stop me as I marched through the sympathetic stares of the other riders, but all I wanted to do was get away.

  I still had a second round to jump with Boots. I handed the reins to Laurel. “I quit. I’m not riding this horse.”

  Laurel stared at me. “You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, yes, I can,” I answered grimly. “It’s called voluntary withdrawal. I have no hope of placing in the ribbons, and I’m not going to risk another round like that.” I turned and walked away.

  I found my way to the washroom, where I locked the door and leaned against the wall. The tears came then, and I bawled my heart out for a horse of my own.

  chapter seven

  “This is it.” Grandpa braked on the side of the highway and turned down a dirt road.

  I held the crumpled sheet of paper—a notice Grandpa had copied from the bulletin board at the local grocery store—and reread the directions.

  “Okay. We’re supposed to take the second left and follow the road until we see a barn at the top of the hill,” I said.

  Grandpa drove around a big pothole, grinding the gears as he shifted down to get up the hill. “This truck’s seen better days,” he said.

  “As long as it can pull the trailer home,” I answered with a backward glance at the horse trailer that swayed behind us on the uneven road.

  “There’s the barn.” Grandpa pulled off the road and found a place to park on the grass. I stared with amazement at all the cars, trucks and trailers. They seemed to take up an entire field. I got out and slammed the truck door with a rusty clunk. People were streaming over the grass to a makeshift corral. Beyond the corral there was a huge fenced area where what looked like thousands of horses were bunched, their bodies steaming with sweat in the cold morning sun.

  “There are so many,” I said, shocked.

  “There were quite a few herds of horses running on the military land,” said a voice behind me. Grandpa and I turned to see Jim Bellamy, the rancher we’d seen that horrible rainy night at Spruce Meadows. The one who thought horses were useless unless you could make money from them. I wondered what he was doing here. All of these horses were unbroken and would need a lot of work. It seemed a little weird that he would want to buy one.

  “I heard that we’ve got about twelve hundred head up for auction today,” Bellamy said jovially.

  “Twelve hundred!” I sucked in my breath. How would I ever find the chestnut mare in this crowd?

  Grandpa seemed to read my mind. “Come on, Reese. Let’s go look for her. Nice to see you, Jim.”

  Bellamy waved his hand absently, surveying the nearest horses. Grandpa led me over to the fenced area, elbowing gently through other prospective horse buyers until we reached a spot where we could see. I peered anxiously at the milling bodies, trying to pick out a flash of red. Some of the horses looked terrified. Their eyes rolled, showing the whites. Several wheeled out of the crowd and circled, running along the fence, hunting for a way to escape. Dust puffed up under their hooves—already the ground had been pounded to dry dirt.

  “There!” Grandpa pointed. “Is that her?”

  “Where?” I tried to see. At first there was nothing but a confused mix of gray and brown and black, but then I saw a bit of burnished red, and there she was. I looked closely—there could be more than one red chestnut—but as I watched her move with the same nimble grace I saw out on the prairie, I was sure. There was no room for her to jump, but I was sure that if she could, she’d leap that fence and go. Part of me wished she would. As much as I wanted her, I still wished she could run free.

  “That’s her,” I said, excited. She broke out of the pack, searching the wind, her nose high. Just like on the range, for a split second our eyes met and a warm humming filled me. This was my horse, I just knew it, and her name came to me in the same instant. I decided I’d name her Prairie Rose—Rosie for short—because of the wild land she came from. That was a good name for a show jumper. I could see us flying over jump after jump at Spruce Meadows. First-place ribbons would be hung all over her stall.

  “Okay. Let’s find out whether she’s numbered,” Grandpa said, bringing me back to reality.

  “Numbered?” I echoed.

  “The horses should be numbered for the auction.” Grandpa moved over toward a guy from the military base and asked him. The man looked at him blankly.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “No one can get near these horses—it’s been a flippin’ rodeo. The fellows will let them in the corral one at a time and get the bidding started. If you’ve got one in mind, you’ll have to pay attention.”

  Grandpa’s face turned red. “There’s twelve hundred horses here, man!” he sputtered.

  “Yeah. This here auction could take a while, eh?” The man grinned.

  Grandpa turned away in disgust. He looked at me, seemed on the verge of speaking, then stopped.

  “Please, Grandpa?” I said beseechingly.

  Grandpa reached out and ruffled my windblown hair. “We won’t leave without her,” he promised. “Let’s go sign in and find a good place to watch.”

  Grandpa signed his name on a registration list and received a card with big black numbers.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “To hold up when you bid so the auctioneer can see you. When we get that mare, they’ll write down my number. When I go to pay, they’ll match the number to my registration,” Grandpa explained. We were number twenty.

  When the auction began, it began in earnest. The auctioneer—a fat man with greasy black hair and a broad, smiling face—had a voice
so rich and rolling that his words flowed together like music. I almost had to stop myself from dancing to the rhythm, especially when two guys in black cowboy hats began pointing at the bidders and uttering short sharp yells at regular intervals. “Hargh!” or “Hup-hup!” they’d holler, pointing at the next bid in the crowd. At least, that’s what it sounded like to me. Maybe it was actually a word in the English language, but I couldn’t tell.

  Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. Even Grandpa was following what was going on with interest. I had no clue, but all I could think of was Rosie. My feet itched and I couldn’t keep my hands still. When would she be brought into the corral?

  When she was, it took me by surprise. I’d been daydreaming about competing on Rosie when Grandpa nudged me in the ribs.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “Now what a little beauty we have here!” shouted the auctioneer. “This little mare is around three years old, I’m told. Let’s start the bidding at one-fifty. What-am-I-bid? One fifty, one fifty, one fifty...”

  Grandpa lifted his card.

  “I’ve got one fifty. One seventy-five. One seventy-five, anyone give me one seventyfive. One seventy-five in the corner. I’ve got one seventy-five. Two hundred, two hundred, who’ll give me two hundred?” The auctioneer glanced at Grandpa. Grandpa nodded and lifted the card slightly again.

  “Hup-hup!” yelled a man in a black cowboy hat, pointing out a new bidder to the auctioneer. The auctioneer’s patter increased in speed until I could hardly make out any words. But the rhythm of the dance increased, and Grandpa was warring with two other bidders for my horse.

  Three hundred. Then three fifty. I began to get worried. I only had four hundred and ten dollars.

  Four hundred. One of the other bidders dropped out. Grandpa bid again.

  Four twenty-five. I looked at Grandpa in despair. He smiled and bid one last time. Four fifty.

  The auctioneer still prattled on, trying for five hundred. Grandpa wavered. The other bidder nodded and the auctioneer’s gavel came crashing down.