Katie and the Mustang #1 (10 page)

As I ran, I heard adult voices, calling the girls’ names, getting louder, but I kept my eyes on the Mustang. He was so scared, so trapped in the stall, I had no idea what he would do. He pawed at the ground, his nostrils flared wide.

“Get back from that horse!” Mr. Stevens shouted
as he ran through the open door. Just behind him was a younger man, his face twisted with worry. But I was closest, already reaching up just as the Mustang reared again.

I dragged Ruth off the stall gate. I heard her dress tearing, but I couldn’t help it. The Mustang rushed the gate, his chest slamming against it, straining my makeshift repair on the latch—but Ruth was safe now, well out of reach. I set her down, and she ran to her father, crying hard.

Mr. Stevens strode to the tack room and came back brandishing the whip. He snapped it in the air, and the stallion retreated to the back wall.

“Wait!” I shouted at him. “Wait! I’ve been working with him and—”

The sound of the whip cut me off. Mr. Stevens’s face was red, and his arm jerked up and down like a man working a pump handle. It was awful. The stallion squealed and shrieked, enraged, plunging in circles, trying to get away from the sting of the whip.

Ruth was pleading for Mr. Stevens to stop by the time he finally lowered the whip—we all were. I could only stand there, trembling, staring at the bloody welts on the stallion’s face and neck.

“She scared him,” I said, turning, my teeth clenched together. “I know she didn’t mean to, but it wasn’t his fault. She climbed up without asking, and all the shouting and crying scared him.”

The Mustang had turned and stood facing the wall, his head angled just enough to see, his back hooves ready to smash anyone who came close.

“I’m so sorry,” Ruth was saying over and over again. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble!”

Mrs. McCarty took Ruth into her arms and spoke to her quietly while her father walked toward me. “We don’t have any horses the girls can’t pet,” he said quietly. “Thank you so much for pulling her back.”

I looked at him. I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t think, and I didn’t want to talk. I wanted them all to leave so I could take care of the Mustang, apologize to him, calm him down.

“I think it’s best if we go look at the fields now,” Mr. McCarty was saying. He lifted Ruth to his hip. Mrs. McCarty smiled at me, a tiny, unsure smile that faded when I didn’t answer it.

Mr. Stevens turned on his heel before I could react, and the McCarty family followed him out the door.

“The horse is vicious,” Mr. Stevens was saying over his shoulder. “I bought him from a crooked dealer.”

I turned to the Mustang’s stall and stood looking at him, tears streaming down my cheeks. I was desperate to explain to Mr. Stevens, to prove to him that the Mustang wasn’t dangerous if no one startled him. And he could get used to more people; I knew he would. It would take longer now. He needed time and trust—not someone coming at him with a whip.

I did not mean to hurt the young one, only to scare it away. The older male with the stinging stick can be glad there was stout wood between us. If there had not been, he would have had to answer an honest challenge, or try to run
.

T
he McCartys walked every inch of the farm with Mr. Stevens that day. The two men strode around, picking up handfuls of the good, dark earth, peering down into the well, talking. Mrs. Stevens stayed in the house. Mrs. McCarty trailed along after the men, walking more slowly with her daughters holding her hands. I milked, then stayed in the barn for a while. The Mustang was pacing his stall, and he flattened his ears and tensed if I came close.

I finally took the milk to the house and got a soft cotton rag from the pantry and wet it in the
basin. I ran back out to the barn. If Mrs. Stevens heard me come in—or go out again—she didn’t shout at me for once.

It took a long time for the stallion to come to the front of the stall. He allowed me to touch the cool water to the whip welts, and, after a long time, he nuzzled my shoulder over the gate.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I told him over and over. “It wasn’t your fault; it was mine. If I hadn’t been crying, trying to hide it, I would have seen her in time.” It was true, but he seemed to forgive me, and he still seemed to trust me. I was so relieved.

By late afternoon, when the McCartys finally left, the Mustang seemed calm again, but I wasn’t. I watched Mr. Stevens and Mr. McCarty talking beside the wagon. Mr. McCarty nodded and extended his hand. Mr. Stevens took it firmly, and they shook—and I knew the farm had been sold.

When I finally went back into the house, it was nearly supper time. I found Mrs. Stevens in the kitchen, peering out the window, one hand hovering close to her face, even while she told me what to do. Her voice was quivering as though she might burst into tears.

I tried to think of something to say to make her feel better, but I knew there wasn’t anything, not really. And I was afraid that anything I said would only turn her worry into anger—at me.

I went about my evening chores without trying to talk to her. She walked around each room a dozen times, her hand falling on one thing, then another. I knew what she was doing. She was trying to decide what to try to take with her and what to leave behind.

Mr. Stevens ate his supper in silence again that night. Mrs. Stevens barely looked at him—then went to bed early. He was gone when I got up the next morning, and we didn’t see him all day.

That evening, Mrs. Stevens was quiet, but nervous as anything, turning to face the door every few minutes. I was anxious, too. Why hadn’t he told us anything? Maybe I had been wrong about the McCartys buying the farm. Were we going?

I milked Betsy that night and talked to the Mustang for a few minutes, then raced back to the house. I had poured the milk out to cool, but before I could wash the bucket, I heard the buggy coming. I set it aside and ran for the front room.

Mrs. Stevens was already at the window. In the dusk, we saw two farm wagons, not the buggy. Mr. Stevens jumped down from one. It wasn’t Midnight and Delia pulling it—it was a new team of dapple grays.

We heard him talking, and another man answered. I knew the voice. It was Hiram driving the second wagon—the buggy team pulling it. They both unhitched the horses and put them in the lower pasture. Mrs. Stevens finally moved away from the window and stirred the stew.

Mr. Stevens sat silently through dinner. Hiram kept shifting in his chair, like a man who would rather be somewhere else. Mr. Stevens finally finished his last bite of stew and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. Then he cleared his throat. I saw Mrs. Stevens go stiff out of the corner of my eye. I held my breath.

“They bought the farm,” he said evenly. He paused, then cleared his throat again. “Gleason and Peery want to travel together to St. Louis, and beyond. Themble, too. Dulin backed out. I think we may as well go with our neighbors. Hiram is joining us. We plan to leave Saturday at dawn.”

Mrs. Stevens covered her mouth with one hand.

Mr. Stevens nodded as though she had spoken. “We’ll take the two farm wagons. McCarty gave me an extra thirty dollars to pay for the iron stove and whatever else we can’t carry. I’ve sold the buggy team to Hiram. I used Gleason’s team to get the wagon home, but I want to use our oxen from here to Muscatine. No sense taking horses we won’t use.”

I blinked. Midnight and Delia belonged to Hiram now? Would he sell the Mustang, too? He had no idea how much I had worked with him, how much tamer he was now.

Mr. Stevens paused, and Mrs. Stevens didn’t say anything. Mr. Stevens reached inside his coat. “Here’s the list Barrett helped us write. We used the guidebooks, too.” He look proud, smoothing out the paper on the table. I could see it from where I sat.

It began with “Thirty pounds beans, each person.” The second entry was “Ten gills salt, per person,” and so on. It wasn’t all food I saw as he slid the paper toward his wife. There were entries for blankets, changes of clothing, how many pairs of shoes . . . it was a long list.

“If you can’t follow it exactly,” Mr. Stevens said, “come as close as you can and mark what we haven’t got.”

I stood up to lean forward so I could read the list better. “I don’t have four pairs of shoes,” I said quietly.

Mr. Stevens looked startled. “Well,” he began, then he shrugged and looked at Mrs. Stevens. “We’ll get some things in St. Louis.”

I glanced down at my dress. It was ragged, and it was too small for me. Mr. Stevens complained every time he had to buy me a new one. I had wondered a few times if having to buy new clothing now and then was part of the reason they didn’t want me to attend school.

“Go get some sleep, Katie,” Mr. Stevens was saying.

I looked up at him. It was barely seven o’clock. I usually stayed up as late as they did—another hour at least.

He scowled. “Do as I say.”

I stepped back from the table. I longed to stay up and hear about the journey. I glanced at Hiram. “I’m glad you’re going,” I told him.

He smiled at me and nodded.

“Katie!” Mrs. Stevens had raised her voice to the screechy pitch that made my teeth clench.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and turned to go down the hallway. A movement caught my eye, and I glanced back. Hiram was staring at me. I smiled a little to let him know it was all right. I was used to them talking to me like this. It was worse when they were upset with each other.

I could hear Mr. Stevens start talking again—in a low voice—as soon as I opened my pantry doors. I lay on my pallet without undressing; I didn’t even take off my shoes. I left the door ajar. I tried to listen, but I couldn’t understand a word—they were talking too quietly.

I lay still for a long time, wishing I could slip out to the barn. I wanted to let the Mustang gallop, and I wanted to practice with the halter one more time. When I showed Mr. Stevens, I didn’t want anything to go wrong.

I smiled in the dark. The truth was that I just wanted to tell someone the grand news. I was going west! My uncle Jack would be proud of me, proud of the Mustang. He would tell his friends to come
over and see the amazing wild horse that his niece had tamed. His daughters would be a little jealous, but I would be so nice to them that they would understand how much it meant to me, how grateful I was and . . .

And I remembered the milk bucket. I had left it sitting just inside the back door, dirty. Mrs. Stevens was death on sour milk in the bucket on a normal day. Now she would likely willow-switch me. I stood up, glad I hadn’t undressed. The voices in the kitchen had stilled. They had probably gone to bed.

I could wash the bucket without anyone hearing me, I was nearly certain. And even if they did hear, it would be better to admit I had forgotten it than to have Mrs. Stevens find it dirty.

I opened the pantry doors, then sat on my clotheshorse chair long enough to slide off my shoes and stockings. If I was barefoot, there was little chance they would hear me.

I went back up the hall, but instead of turning right into the kitchen, I stood silent, listening. They were in bed. I took another step and froze as I heard Mr. Stevens’s voice.

“Martha, there are seven Scott County families going. Two want to drive their teams all the way to Independence. The others have arranged steamship passage to St. Louis as I have done.”

He went on, and I heard him mention her rugs. I ran down the short hall to the back door while he was still talking. In the little bit of slanted light that shone into the hall from the kitchen, I lifted the bucket, careful not to let the metal bale clack on the wood. The basin was nice and full. I turned the bucket in a circle, using a rag to scrub the inside. Then I lifted it slowly, careful not to splash.

Relieved that I had managed to do the chore without being heard, I slid the bucket gently onto the table and turned to go back to bed.

Footsteps in the kitchen made me hesitate. Long shadows appeared on the hallway wall, and I ducked back to hide behind the table that held the basin.

“I want to talk to you,” Mr. Stevens was saying quietly, “now that Martha has gone to bed.”

I held my breath. They were coming down the hall, headed for the back door. They walked past me, then stopped.

“I haven’t told Martha yet,” Mr. Stevens whispered, “but I’m going to leave the girl in St. Louis. They have orphan homes there, lots of them.”

My heart stopped beating, then started again, slowly, painfully.

Hiram didn’t answer.

“And we may as well shoot the horse,” Mr. Stevens added. “I can’t sell it. Harris told everyone it attacked him, and the McCartys’ story won’t help. You can do it tomorrow. I’ll take Martha and the girl with me to town to buy provisions.”

He paused, and I could hear Hiram making his uneasy yes-no-maybe-so sound. I sank back against the wall, my dream of going west dissolving. An orphan home. The stallion dead. I pressed my lips together, holding back tears.

I could not let them hear me. I dared not. If Mr. Stevens knew I had overheard . . .

“The girl would do fine on the journey west, I think, and you can leave her with her uncle in Oregon,” Hiram said. “The horse will gentle down, too, with travel and open air.”