“That land should be mine,” he growled aloud. “Those bastards cut me out. They’ll pay one day, and they won’t even know what hit them.”
“Hi, Mousie.”
“Mom! I was just thinking about you! How are you?”
“Great. How was the exam?”
“I think I aced it.”
“Congratulations!”
“Well, it hasn’t been marked yet. I’m just heading out, Mom. Can I call you back?”
“No, no. Just let me ask you one question. You got an invitation in the mail regarding the Grand Invitational. It’s been sitting here for a couple of weeks and I keep forgetting about it. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Mom, I won’t be around. It’s in June, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Sunday, June 26.”
“I start my job at the Royal Ontario Museum. I won’t have time. Do you mind declining for me?”
“Not at all, honey, I thought you might be too busy. What about Abby?”
“Abby?”
“Well, Mousie, she’s been coming here to ride him four times a week. They’re getting along famously, doing all the courses you set out, and doing them well.”
Hilary didn’t reply.
“Mousie?”
“I can’t believe you’d think that.”
“Think what?”
“That Abby could ride him as well as me.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“But you think she should be entered in the Invitational. Wasn’t the letter addressed to me?”
“Yes, it was, but it’s the horse that qualifies in this show. Mousie? What’s wrong? You sound . . . jealous.”
There was a long pause on the line. Hilary sighed and said, “You’re right. I’m jealous. Isn’t it silly? I can’t believe this. I’m not just a little jealous, I’m a lot jealous. I thought I’d gotten over this, but I obviously haven’t. I guess I secretly liked being the only one who could ride Dancer.”
“Look, I’ll decline. Let’s forget I ever mentioned it, and honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, and obviously I—”
“Wait, Mom. I have to get over this. Do you think Abby could do it?”
“Why don’t you judge for yourself? Come home this weekend.”
“When’s the deadline for registration?”
“Let me check the invitation. It doesn’t say anything about a deadline. It says that replies would be appreciated by May 23. That’s the end of this week.”
“Mom, why don’t we let Abby decide. Does she come to ride today?”
“Yes. She should be here any minute.”
“Ask her what she wants to do, and we’ll go with it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Mousie?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“I’m proud of you.”
Hilary hung up the phone, glad that her mother couldn’t see the tears falling down her cheeks. She wouldn’t be so proud if she knew how much it hurt. She shook her head, unable to put her emotions into words. Rubbing her forehead with her fingers, she started to laugh.
“What an idiot I am!” she exclaimed to her empty room. “What a silly, ridiculous, jealous idiot! I have to let go, like Gran said, because it’s good for Dancer. Of course Abby can do it.”
Dancer didn’t come to greet Abby when she rode her bike up the lane. This was interesting. Maybe he was grazing in the back field, Abby speculated. Maybe he didn’t feel like working today.
She rested her bike at the side of the barn and called for him. “Dancer! Come on! Dancer!” No Dancer. Abby went into the barn and put some grain in a feed bucket. She came out and shook it so he could hear the food rattling.
“Dancer! Dancer!”
Hooves thundered toward the barn. Abby smiled to herself. When in doubt, offer food. Horses can never resist food, her father always said.
Henry, with ears pricked expectantly, wheeled around the fenceline as fast as his overweight body could run, sliding to a halt at her side. Without even bothering to acknowledge her presence, he stuck his nose into the pail and began to eat.
“Nice to see you, too, Henry, but you’re not going out today. Saturday and Sunday are your days with Lucy. Where’s Dancer?” His noisy crunching was the only response Abby got. “You know, Henry, I’m getting a little worried.”
Abby fondly patted his forehead and rubbed his ears. She put the bucket on the ground so Henry could finish his snack then ran to the James’ house and knocked on the door.
“Abby! I was just on the phone with Mousie. We were talking about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Mousie wants me to ask you if you’d like to enter Dancer in the Grand Invitational. It’s entirely up to you.”
“Really? That’s super! I mean, really, really great! I’d love to take him! But Mrs. James, do you know where Dancer is?”
“Is he not in the field?”
“No. I called him and he didn’t come. Henry did, but there’s no sign of Dancer.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Abby. Dancer sometimes disappears for an hour or so. He always has. Why don’t you get Henry’s tack soaped and oiled. He’ll be back before you know it.”
“But since I started riding him, he’s always come to meet me.”
Christine smiled at the concerned young woman. “He’s an unusual fellow, Abby. If he’s not back by the time the tack is done, come and get me and we’ll go looking. Okay?”
Abby could see that Christine wasn’t worried. “Okay, Mrs. James. Thanks.” She slowly walked to the tack room, the joy of being asked to enter Dancer in the Invitational totally eclipsed by worry. She felt trouble in her bones. And where did Cody go? If there was trouble, Cody would know. Maybe Mrs. James was right. Maybe Dancer would show up and everything would be fine.
Cody loped along the ridge of Robert Wick’s high field above Saddle Creek. Nose high, he smelled the fear in the air. It was unmistakable. He would find the source. The wind changed direction slightly and Cody veered with it. He was distracted by another scent. Human. Male. From up the hill, and not close. He stopped, and put his nose to the ground. Horse scent. It was the trail of the Good Horse, the horse who’d saved him from the wild coyotes. The horse that his Abby rode at the other place.
Cody followed the trail, head down, running fast as the path led down into the meadow along the woods. The fear smell was getting stronger, but his ears could pick up no sounds of distress. He ran faster, following the trail and the fear.
The man scent again. In the air, not close, but not far. The man-den up on the hill. Cody cast a sideways glance and there he was. The man. Outside the man-den covering both his eyes with a black thing, holding it up with his hands. Cody’s ruff went up. A deep growl tickled his throat. Bad Man.
The man suddenly moved fast. Cody crouched in the long grass and watched. The man dropped the black thing and picked up the long shiny stick that shot fire.
Cody waited until the man was looking the other way, then ducked into the woods. The man was coming down the hill. Cody tried to understand what was happening. He smelled fear, he smelled the Good Horse, and the Bad Man was coming.
Cody shot off through the woods, running for safety. He would be out of the trees and onto the road in no time, and off to rejoin Abby at the other place.
But the scent of fear. There it was again. Very, very strong. Cody stopped running and started to shake. He must help. He spun around and followed the scent. Suddenly, just beyond, he heard a scrambling noise, followed by a series of frantic thrashes.
His nose and ears brought him to the edge of a deep pit, dug right in the middle of the path through the woods. He looked down.
The Good Horse!
9
THE BEAR PIT
ABBY DECIDED TO CLEAN all the tack. She hung the dirty leather bridles, girths, and martingales on the hook that hung from the ceiling in the tack room. She put some warm water in a bucket, opened the large
container of saddle soap, and took a clean sponge off the shelf.
Abby took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Please, please, please, let Dancer be all right. And please, please, please, let Cody’s little coyote face peek around the tack room door, proving that everything is as it should be. Cody’s clash with the leg-hold trap and the pack of wild coyotes was too recent. A sense of foreboding grew in Abby’s chest.
She wet the sponge and rubbed it into the saddle soap, creating a thick lather at the top of the container. With speed that came from long practice, she scrubbed the leather with the soapy sponge, then wiped it thoroughly. After soaping and wiping the bridles and saddles, she threw out the water, rinsed out the sponge, packed up the soap, and opened the big jug of saddle oil.
Abby could barely contain herself. Her hands were shaking as she soaked the oil rag with neat’s-foot oil and rubbed it into the leather saddles. As she completed each one, she felt more anxious. Cody was not to be seen, and Dancer had not returned.
Owens threw down his binoculars and, double-barrelled shotgun in hand, began striding down his lawn. A grim smile transformed his rugged face into a sinister mask. The horrendous crash of underbrush had been music to his ears. He’d fooled him. The mighty Dancer had been outwitted by a few branches cleverly placed over a gaping hole in the earth, littered at the bottom with jagged boulders.
Hopefully the wretched animal was now writhing in agony with a broken leg, or better yet, a broken neck. Owens would tell people that he had to put Dancer out of his misery, out of compassion for an injured beast in deathly pain. A mercy killing. Owens’ smile got broader. Now he would finish the stallion off, once and for all. Once Dancer was dead, he could get on with his life. He could put his mind to other things. Like procuring his privacy.
Owens’ valet came panting out of the mansion’s side entrance and called, “Mr. Owens! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”
Owens abruptly turned to glare at his quivering manservant.
“My apologies, Mr. Owens, but—”
“Walter,” said Owens quietly. He spoke softly but in such a menacing manner that Walter was struck dumb in mid-sentence. “Walter, I’m busy. Can you see that, Walter?”
“Y-yes s-sir,” he stammered. “But you were expecting Mrs. Casey, and you told me to inform you immedi—”
“Yes, I did, Walter. Good boy. Could you show her to the study and pour her a drink? I’ll be along shortly. I have a little business to take care of.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Owens, sir.”
“Samuel, darling!”
Owens turned his head and watched as Helena Casey floated across the lawn toward him. She was wearing a cream linen pant suit with a magenta scoop-necked blouse and matching pumps. Her blond hair was swept up in a glamorous French roll, and her teeth gleamed in her perfectly made-up face. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears. She took his breath away.
Owens found himself hiding the shotgun behind his back. “Walter, take this,” he ordered under his breath, shoving the weapon at the obedient man.
Dancer can stew in his own juice for a little while, Owens thought savagely, striding up to greet the vision in cream. I have bigger and more delectable fish to fry. Let the creature die slowly, he’s not going anywhere.
Cody began to dig. His right hind leg was still not strong so he put all his weight on the left, and furiously dug with his two front paws. He worked steadily, creating an ever-growing pile of earth behind him.
Dancer was on his back, surrounded by sharp rocks. The hole was deep and it narrowed at the bottom. Dancer’s legs were hidden by thick, leaf-covered broken branches with sharp points, and tangled in long, unyielding vines.
The mighty stallion lay there, stunned. The world was spinning in crazy circles. He couldn’t get his eyes focused. Where was he? His legs scrambled, but to no avail. His head was bleeding and his legs were badly scraped.
Cody dug. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The man was coming to hurt them. He must get the Good Horse out.
Dancer rested. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning.
He slept.
Twenty minutes passed. The pile of earth behind Cody had grown into a small hill. Cody stopped to rest, panting hard. His front paws were bleeding, his muscles spent. He listened intently. No man-noise. He sniffed the air keenly. No man-scent. He looked down at Dancer. The Good Horse wasn’t moving.
Cody slid down a little further. He grabbed a thick branch with his mouth and yanked on it, trying to lug it out of the hole to clear the way. The movement startled the horse, and he started thrashing.
Cody didn’t let go. He tugged and pulled and hauled the branch up. He went back for another. And another. And yet another.
Dancer’s head was beginning to clear. He realized that Abby’s coyote was helping him. He began to understand the animal’s plan. Dancer moved his front right leg. There was no pain. With his teeth he pulled on the vine that twisted around it, and removed it from his leg. He carefully tested his front left. It was sore, but it moved. His hips hurt when he moved his hind legs, but at least Dancer knew that once he could get himself righted, all four legs would support him.
Cody slid down the path he’d dug, into the pit. The steep wall was now a slope, and Cody thought that Dancer should be able to walk out. He sniffed at Dancer’s head. There was a lot of blood. Cody couldn’t understand why Dancer still lay there. He yipped.
Dancer flinched at the noise so close to his ears. He nickered, twisting his neck first to the left, then to the right.
Cody showed him how to get out. He bounded easily up the side of the hole, spun around, then stood looking down at him. He yipped again, and wagged his tail.
Dancer threw his head forward and paddled his legs. No good. He couldn’t find a way to get his feet under him. He was like a turtle on its back. He was helpless.
Cody froze. Footsteps coming. Man steps.
He slid down beside Dancer and whined softly, pushing him urgently with his nose.
Dancer tried again.
The tack was cleaned and oiled. The time was up. Abby jumped on her bike and raced across to the farmhouse. She pounded on Christine’s kitchen door, opened it, and hollered, “Mrs. James! I’m going to look for Dancer! Bye!” and she sped down the lane.
Abby thought fast. If Cody isn’t here, he must be with Dancer, who must be in trouble. When Cody goes travelling, he takes the path past Wick Farm, Owens’ and the Caseys’. Abby headed north.
Christine rushed out of her office. “Abby, wait! I’m coming!” She threw open the kitchen door and looked outside. No sign of Abby. Christine grabbed her car keys and ran for the car, uncertain of where to go.
Cody whined with fear. The Bad Man was coming. He was already down the hill and entering the woods. Very soon he would be at the hole. Cody looked down into the hole. Dancer was still on his back, resting again. Maybe there was no hope.
Cody slid down the side and nudged Dancer. Get up get up get up! The exhausted, injured beast didn’t move.
Cody’s ears picked up another sound. His Abby’s spinning machine! He could hear it coming toward them. No! She must not come! The man would hurt her, too. Cody leapt up to the top and looked for her.
Suddenly, with a huge effort, the valiant stallion arched his back, leaning all his weight on his bloodied head. He tucked his hocks under him as best as he could. With one mighty thrust he propelled his body forward, shoulders finally breaking free from the boulders. He sat on his haunches like a dog. With his front feet on the ground, he wiggled his back end until he had it positioned properly over his hind legs. With another great effort, Dancer threw his weight up and forward. He stood.
Cody vibrated with impatience. Let’s go let’s go let’s go! His Abby was coming, and she shouldn’t be here when the man arrived. He listened. The man was getting very close, too close. Cody’s sharp ears knew he was only thirty seconds away if he continued to walk at the same pace. If he walked any faster, there was no time lef
t at all.
Dancer stood still, gathering his strength. His head was spinning and his eyes were out of focus. The cut on his head had been reopened by his efforts, and blood was running down his face.
Cody hopped from leg to leg. His senses told him to run from danger; his loyalty kept him with Dancer. Dancer, right-side up but deep in the hole, shook his head and snorted.
Now now now! urged Cody.
Abby came racing from the direction of the road and appeared around the trees, panting hard as she pedalled her bike along the bumpy path.
“Cody!” she called, comforted and elated to see him.
In the same instant, Samuel Owens came crashing through the woods from the other side, double-barrelled shotgun at his side.
Cody stood in the middle, high on the mound of dug-out earth. He threw back his head and howled.
Owens raised the shotgun defensively.
Abby screeched her brakes to a halt.
Christine had driven back and forth along the road twice now. She had little idea of what might be happening, but she wanted to be at hand, just in case.
Suddenly, off the road directly beside her, the unmistakable sound of a gun shattered the peace. The hair all over her body stood on end. She stopped breathing. Slowing the car, Christine pulled over to the side of the road. She put it in park and waited, trying to reason out a course of action and fearing the worst.
When the shotgun came up, Cody dove for Owens’ leg, throwing him off balance. The resounding roar momentarily deafened them all, but the buckshot flew harmlessly into the treetops.
Furiously, Owens began to hit Cody with the barrel of the gun. The coyote’s teeth were imbedded in Owens’ calf and he was not about to release his jaws. Owens aimed the gun, prepared to empty the remaining shot into the small grey animal. There were more cartridges in his pocket for Dancer.
Dancer was galvanized by the tremendous noise. He shook his head, clearing away the last remnants of dizziness. He gathered himself onto his powerful haunches and sprang up the side of the pit in one stride. He sized up the situation and took immediate action. His left hind leg shot out and thumped Owens sharply in the chest.
Stagestruck Page 11