So, early one morning, after I had nursed and Mama had her fill from the stream, we set off, making our way back to the place where the mustangs roamed free. We trotted along at a good pace, and I was happy to leap ahead and run, though I was careful not to go too far. Like I said, I was smart, and I had learned my lesson.
Only thing was, Mama went on too far and too long. My legs were strong, but I sure got awful tired, and there were times when I lagged behind. But my mama didn’t even wait for me, so I had to drag myself along. I got mad at her sometimes, and once, I came close to nipping her on the flank when I finally caught up to her. But I didn’t. I was smarter than that.
The sun had come up and gone down and come up again before Mama finally slowed. We were at the top of a ravine, and before us, I could see all the way down to a vast, flat plain. There were pits and holes and rocks between us and the plain. Mama stopped and looked below.
I did, too. And I saw something that I will never, ever, ever forget.
On the floor of the plain were mustangs—horses for as far as I could see. They were all in motion, not galloping or racing along, just moving, flowing the way the stream flowed.
Mama? I said.
Mustangs. Our herd, she answered.
I don’t know what I had thought I would see, but I sure hadn’t thought of this. I knew they were our kind. I knew for sure the difference between a herd of wolves and a herd of mustangs by now. Still, I was shaking, I was so afraid. There were so, so many. There was much noise and trampling of feet. And dust. The mustangs were all different sizes and different colors—colts and fillies and mares and stallions—just a flowing, moving mass of mustangs for as far as I could see.
Several young horses, smaller than the rest, were nipping and pushing at one another. Were they playing? Or were they mean and bad? Would they nip and push at me, too?
Suddenly, I didn’t feel so sure of myself, and I moved closer to Mama.
Mama? I said again. Let’s go back to the meadow.
Mama ignored me. Her ears were pricked forward, and I could feel her excitement.
Come, she murmured. Come.
She began trotting down the hill, stones and rocks clattering under her hooves. I followed, real unhappy with what I was seeing. One horse, a huge black stallion, was galloping along the edge of the herd, his tail high in the air. As we came to a halt at the base of the hill, he stopped. He turned and looked at us, his head stretched toward us, ears pressed forward.
Mama lifted her head and whinnied softly, greeting him. The stallion trotted toward us. Closer he came, and closer, till he stopped right in front of us.
I moved behind Mama.
The stallion’s ears pricked forward, and his head came up, sniffing, his nostrils widening, breathing in and out hard. He was black with white cloud patches, just like mine, and wild and beautiful and fierce-looking. And very, very scary—the biggest creature I had ever seen, bigger than the wolves, far bigger than my mama.
Mama and the stallion nosed one another for a long time. I could tell that Mama was happy to see him and not at all afraid. She made little nickering sounds and he made sounds back, and I heard my name—Black Cloud. They circled one another, nose to tail. Then the enormous stallion turned to face me.
Mama nudged me toward him. Your sire, she said. Courage. All is well.
I tried to make myself disappear. I closed my eyes. I held my breath. I kept my body still, wishing I could even still my crazy heartbeat.
The stallion—my sire—circled me, not touching me, just circling round and round, sniffing and breathing hard. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my flanks.
I felt Mama’s message inside of me: Courage. All is well. I’d always trusted her before, but now I wasn’t so sure.
After a moment, the stallion pushed his nose against my flanks, and I trembled even more, my legs wobbling almost as bad as when I had first been born. He lingered over the wound on my hind leg. Did he know it was a wolf attack? Had Mama told him that I had disobeyed?
Once again, he came full circle till we were face to face. I forced myself to open my eyes.
He was so huge. He lowered his head to mine. I made myself look into his eyes. What I saw made me feel not so afraid. Well, a little bit not so afraid. His eyes were wide and dark, as black as the night. There was strength. And fierceness. But there was something else, too, something that said all was well, just as Mama had said. He looked into my eyes for a long time, and I did my best not to look away. Then he spoke.
Black Cloud, he said. Black Cloud. It suits you well.
Instinct told me what to do. I lowered my eyes from his, down to his shoulder, telling him that I knew he was my elder, my sire.
He turned and trotted off, once more to patrol the edge of the herd, while I turned back to Mama.
Come, Mama said. Come, Black Cloud. We are home.
The Ways of the Herd
Home.
In the days that followed, I learned a lot about my home and the herd and mustangs. I also learned even more about my mama. Once again, I liked everything that I learned. I discovered that it was the mares who made all the decisions for the herd—and that my mama was the lead mare! Mama didn’t just tell me what to do. She told the entire herd what to do. There were many different family groups in the herd, but they all followed my mama.
Stallions were different. They didn’t lead. They did other things, like patrol the herd for predators. I noticed something else, too—they fought a lot among themselves, even my sire. They didn’t pick on the young horses or the mares. They fought only with one another, or sometimes with a half-grown stallion, which seemed awful silly to me. It was as though they all wanted to control certain families or mares, showing off, I always thought.
My mama didn’t bother with the stallions much. She had more important things to do. When she said it was time to move, the herd moved, flowing in long, long lines behind her. When she said we should stop and rest awhile, we stopped. And if Mama sensed predators, she held back while the stallions chased or fought the wolves or cougars.
In our herd, there were lots and lots of young colts and fillies who had been born that spring, some even younger than me. After I became less scared, I joined them, especially the ones in my own family group. We banded together and played. I realized now that what I had seen the first day was just them at play. Sometimes, we cavorted and leapt, racing one another, but never out of sight of our mamas. Sometimes, we even fought, just play-fighting, though, not trying to hurt one another.
Omar, one of the colts in our family group, showed me how to crow-hop, leaping and tumbling about. I made many friends among the colts and fillies, but I liked Omar best because he was the friendliest and most fun for play. We played until we were so tired we happily rested when our mamas said it was time for sleep.
Sometimes, one of the older mares came and circled us younger ones, nosing us back into the herd if we wandered too far. It was then that I stopped being afraid of the bigger mares, because I knew they were looking out for us. One day, Artis, an older mare in our family, punished me. She nipped at me, warning me that I was playing too rough with her filly, Abril. I held my nose close to the ground, telling her I hadn’t meant to hurt her filly. I wasn’t a troublemaker, I was telling her, just careless sometimes. And besides, I really liked Abril.
There was a real troublemaker among us, however, and it was the only thing about the herd and our family group that I didn’t like. He was a colt, also, but older than I, a yearling. His name was Sota. I soon discovered that it would be a good idea to stay away from Sota. It turned out that wasn’t so easy, though.
One day, while I was playing with Omar, Sota snuck up on me from behind. With no warning, he kicked out at me. It was a sharp, deep kick, and he caught me right in the leg where the wolf had latched on.
I yelped and whirled around, dizzy with pain. I knew it was Sota. But he had moseyed away and begun quietly grazing, as though he hadn’t done anything at al
l.
Another time, he raced right up and nipped me on the flank. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t even try. I knew I couldn’t win a fight with him. He was much bigger than me.
And another time, Sota kicked Omar, and Omar tried kicking back. But like me, Omar was too little to really hurt this bully.
And then, one morning, Sota attacked Abril, the pretty filly in our group. Sota clamped his teeth tightly on Abril’s neck and bit down.
Abril spun around and tumbled to her knees.
I watched as she struggled to her feet, injured and bleeding, one ear torn. She limped off, squealing, looking for her mama, Artis. I knew how badly she must hurt. I hadn’t forgotten how it felt when the wolves attacked. But this attack wasn’t a wolf—this was one of our own kind! It made me angry. But even more, it scared me. I hadn’t known that our own kind could be vicious.
So, just as Abril did, I ran for my mama. I wasn’t hurt. But I was plenty scared. I stayed with my mama for many moons. I didn’t tell Mama why I was clinging to her. I was being cowardly and I knew it, and I was afraid she’d scold me. I knew a mustang should be strong. I’d be strong soon, I was sure of it. I could tell how fast I was growing, and I could feel my strength. My legs didn’t wobble at all any longer, not even when I was tired out from playing and running.
Someday soon, I would fight Sota off, just the way my mama had fought off the wolves. I didn’t think I’d kill Sota, even if I could. But I would sure show him that he had to behave.
At least, that was what I told myself. I had told my mama I’d be the biggest, bravest mustang ever. Now I was older—and still scared. The entire time I stayed close to my mama, I knew I wasn’t big or brave. I was a coward.
And I didn’t like the feeling at all.
Ousting a Troublemaker
Seasons shifted. Nights became colder, and the days not so hot. And then snow came and winds blew, and then, just as suddenly, winds blew the snow away, and small shoots of green appeared, and it was spring again. It had been a whole year since I was born. I was a yearling. And I was still scared and timid. But as spring blossomed and green grass waved over the plains, I also became bored with myself. I was tired of being a scared little colt. Besides, I missed my friends. I could feel myself getting stronger every day, and so, after all that time of clinging close to my mama, I decided I’d go back. I was maturing, I could feel it. I even saw younger colts admiring me—how fast I could run, how nimble I was. And I was learning the way of the herd. I learned a lot from my mama. I decided that if Sota bothered me, I was strong enough now to fight him off. I had learned play-fighting with the other colts, but we never hurt one another. It scared me to think that I might have to fight Sota for real. But I would do it. I knew I could.
I thought I could.
And then, on the very morning that I decided to be brave again and join my friends, Mama did something that made my heart leap and be happy.
I was with my friends, playing beside Omar. Sota was behind me—I could sense and smell him, but he hadn’t bothered me. Yet. Suddenly, Mama appeared.
She shouldered me aside. She faced Sota. She squared her shoulders at him, charged him, and knocked him to the ground.
Because I’d been playing with Omar, I hadn’t seen what Sota had done. But knowing him, he’d been bullying somebody. I didn’t know if Mama was defending me. Maybe she’d known that whole long winter that Sota had been terrifying me, and that was why she had come along that morning. Or else maybe she’d just had enough of Sota, too.
At any rate, once Sota got back to his feet, Mama went to work on him. Except for that one shove that knocked him down, she didn’t fight him, kicking and biting him the way stallions do. Instead, she did what all mares do—she circled out toward him, squaring her body up to his, fixing him with her eyes. She was ordering him out of the herd! She kept moving toward him, ordering him farther and farther away until she had forced him to retreat to a rocky ledge, all by himself. Then Mama returned to the herd.
Sota stayed out on that ledge. But not for long. Soon he began to inch his way closer, little by little.
Again, Mama turned and faced him. This time, she drove him even farther away, so far that he was on the other side of the ridge.
That sure made me feel relieved. Still, I knew Sota pretty well by now. I knew that he didn’t intend to stay out, no matter what Mama did. But Mama was smarter than Sota. Each time he crept back, she forced him farther away. Finally, she moved him so far out, I could barely see him. He was no more than a dot on the horizon.
It went on that way all day. And then, in the late afternoon, Sota got sneaky. He disappeared from the horizon. For a long time he was gone—and then I spotted him. He had made a wide circle about the herd. He had circled all the way round to the other side.
Omar and I were side by side, playing and crow-hopping some with Abril, but watching this all the time.
He thinks he’s clever, I said.
Won’t fool your mama, Abril answered.
He’s trying, though, Omar said.
Won’t work! I said.
I was right. Mama caught up with Sota. She turned her body and fixed her eyes on him, so fierce that he had to retreat. She drove him right back out beyond the ridge. I thought he was lucky that she didn’t nip him or kick at him. But that wasn’t the way of mares. Still, what she was doing to him was worse. Omar and I understood that. Abril understood it, too. If Mama didn’t allow Sota back in by dark, he’d be dead by morning. Nighttime was death time for lone creatures. Up on that ridge alone, he’d be set upon by wolves or cougars the minute the sun went down.
We had met up with cougars before, fast and ugly cats who circled us, longing for the foal who might wander from the herd. I had seen a stallion fight off a cougar one night. The stallion had killed the cougar with his swift heels. But the stallion had been terribly wounded. He limped and bled and couldn’t keep up and dropped back out of the herd the next day. I knew that stallion was dead by now. And if Mama didn’t let Sota back in, that would be his fate, too.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Mama. And Sota. I had known my mama was strong. I hadn’t realized how fierce she could be. Would she really let him die out there?
The sun was low in the sky when things began to change. It wasn’t Mama who changed. It was Sota. He seemed to decide that Mama had won and it would be smart to apologize before dark. He stayed away from the herd as ordered, far away on the ridge, no longer inching in. But as he trotted along, he bent his neck. He let his head hang low, really low, his eyes fixed on the ground, not looking up. He walked along the ridge for a long time that way. He kept his nose so low to the ground that I knew he had to be breathing in dirt and dust.
It was clear what he was doing. With his head low like that, he was apologizing.
Mama ignored him.
Sota tried harder. He began making chewing motions with his mouth, his tongue sliding in and out, his nose almost on the ground. He was showing that if he was eating, he wasn’t a threat. He was just a small, innocent horse. I’m sorry, he was saying. I know you’re in charge. I won’t do it again.
I sure hoped he meant it.
I looked toward my mama.
She didn’t relent, though. Not yet. She kept him out until the sun was almost below the hills. Only a faint light was left in the sky when finally, finally, Mama relented. She turned her shoulders slightly. She signaled with her eyes.
Sota lifted his head. Slowly, quietly, he moved toward the herd. It took a while, because he had been forced so far away. And when he trotted in among us, he was as quiet and docile as a newborn colt.
He came to Mama’s side. They stood together for a bit. I don’t know what they said between them, all of it with their eyes, their bodies. But surely, Sota was saying sorry.
After a while, Mama began to groom him. She licked and licked him. She gave him a really, really good grooming, while he stood still, docile, comfortable.
It was the way of the mares—she was t
elling him that he was forgiven.
The rest of us youngsters had watched this all day. I think we were all happy that Sota had been punished. But I was also glad that he had been allowed back in. He was a terrible bully. But I hated to think of him dead.
I knew one thing for certain, though: Mama would keep a good eye on him from now on. I was pretty sure that Sota hadn’t completely changed. But I also knew this: Sota knew what would happen if he tried bullying again.
After that day, things were better in the herd, better for us young ones who wanted to play free and safe from mean Sota. And better for everyone. There was no room in our family group, or anywhere in the herd, for a troublemaker. And Mama had just made that clear.
I was proud of my mama, proud of the way she had protected me—and all of us. With Mama in charge, all was well. Just as she had said.
Restless and Worried
Spring edged into summer, and once more, the days became hot. The ground was dry, with little water, and Mama kept us all on the move, looking for better grazing and better water holes. But I began to notice something. Mama and the other mares seemed anxious, worried, and restless. Even at night, Mama didn’t sleep much.
One night I woke, wanting to nuzzle close to her. Now that I was more than a year old, I was no longer nursing. Yet I liked being close. But that night when I awoke, she was gone.
I scrambled to my feet. Where was she? The other mares were circling, worrying with one another, restless, their ears laid back. But no Mama.
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