Katie and the Mustang #1 (11 page)

Mr. Stevens made an impatient sound. “The girl needs food and clothes and blankets and shoes, and
we haven’t money to spare, Hiram. The uncle never answered her letters—who knows if he’s even alive? And the horse is dangerous. He could have killed the McCarty girl.”

He was scared!
I wanted to scream.
He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone!
I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood, but I did not make a sound. I didn’t dare. The Mustang’s life depended on me now.

The sky smelled the same as it always had, a river of smells, twisting and flowing. My hooves felt light as moonlight on the earth. I had to slow my pace to follow, but I was glad to do that much for the little one
.

I
slipped down the hall to my pantry as soon as they had gone back to the kitchen. I sat on the edge of my pallet, thinking, shivering. I was scared to death, but I had no choice. I had to take the Mustang and leave, and I had to do it before morning. Even if Hiram refused to shoot the Mustang, Mr. Stevens would do it or hire someone else.

I heard Hiram leave for his shed. The lantern light went out. I counted to a thousand. Then I rose in the dark and lit one of my candle stubs.
Shivering and shaking, I used the pallet blanket to wrap my mother’s book, the rest of my candle stubs, and the little striker I used to light them. It was Mrs. Stevens’s striker and her blanket, and I made a vow I would send her the money to pay for both one day. I didn’t want to be beholden to Mr. Stevens for anything. I found a piece of twine in the back room and tied the bundle tight at each end. Then I pulled in a deep breath.

I was so nervous leaving the house that my hands were shaking. The back door opened easily and without squeaking, and I ran, light-footed with fear, to the lilac hedge. I used a stick to dig up the little packet that held my father’s silver shoe buckles. I slid it into the center of my blanket bundle, then crouched beneath the lilacs until I was sure no one had heard me leave the house.

Then I stood up and ran for the barn, slowing as I passed the dog yard to talk to them, letting them recognize my voice, then running on again.

When I saw lantern light shining from beneath the barn door, my stomach tightened. I thought Mr. Stevens had snuffed it. Maybe he had carried it out here? Was he going to shoot the Mustang
tonight? Maybe Hiram had told him he didn’t want to do it.

I sprinted up the hill and dropped my blanket bundle to jerk the door open, ready to shout, to scream, to fly at Mr. Stevens like a sparrow chases a hawk from its nesting tree. But it wasn’t Mr. Stevens.

It was Hiram. He was standing near the Mustang’s stall, and the Mustang had come within a few feet of him. Hiram took one look at my desperate face and nodded. “Mr. Stevens wants him shot.”

I took a step closer, explaining that I had overheard everything.

Hiram grimaced.

I stood up straight. “I’m going to take the Mustang away from here tonight.”

Hiram looked at me. “You are very brave.”

“I’m scared,” I told him. “I just don’t have a choice.”

Hiram shrugged. “But you can’t ride him; you can’t even lead him.”

I set my shoulders. “Yes, I can. Stand over there and watch.”

It took longer than usual, but I got the halter on the Mustang, then the rope. Hiram stood quietly,
watching me lead him up and down the aisle. The Mustang was jumpy, but he stayed with me.

“The farm wagons . . .” Hiram said slowly. “One of them, I bought. And the farm team. I paid Mr. Stevens for the mares. He expected to load some of his things on my wagon. But now . . .”

I stared at Hiram, beginning to hope.

“Katie,” he said slowly, “I don’t like a man who would trick a girl and shoot a good horse. I can talk to him—”

“No matter what he says,” I interrupted, “I won’t believe him.”

“Yes.” Hiram waved one hand and nodded slowly. “How do we know what is truth with him?” He reached out and patted the top of my head. “We could both leave tonight.”

I wanted to hug him, but I knew he wouldn’t want me to, and it would startle the Mustang. So I led the stallion closer and put out my hand. Hiram extended his, and we shook like two grown men making a bargain.

“We take only what is ours,” he said.

I nodded. Then I pointed at the halter. “That’s not mine, and neither is the blanket or the flint
striker I took. I thought I would send them payment when I could.”

Hiram nodded somberly. “You worked for them three years for nothing but scant food and willow switches. Will you work as hard on this long journey to the west?”

“Of course,” I promised.

“Then I can leave a coin or two in the shed for the halter and the blanket. Your work will pay me back.”

“Oh, thank you,” I breathed. Then I shivered. I pulled the hand-me-down jacket closer around my shoulders and decided that it, and my raggedy old dress, had been pay for my work, just like all the bowls of cold boiled oats. And the Mustang? Well, Mr. Stevens had decided to shoot him, so he wasn’t worth anything to him now anyway.

Hiram made his uneasy little sound, and I looked at him. “The horse? You think he will stay by you, follow a wagon?”

I nodded. It was true. It
had
to be true.

It took almost an hour to get the mares caught and hitched up and all of Hiram’s belongings stacked on the flat wooden wagon bed. He had
been thinking about going west for a long time. He had water barrels and a little steel-bladed wheat grinder and a bag of beans and a kettle and other things I couldn’t see well enough to identify in the dark.

We settled on my leading the stallion, walking just behind the wagon, so that he’d be less likely to bolt. Hiram tossed the dogs some hard bread rinds as we passed, so they didn’t bark much. I held my breath all the way down the road, anyway, waiting for the sound of the wheels to wake Mr. Stevens, but it didn’t. We made it.

We walked in silence that whole long night. Then, a half hour before sunrise, we passed my parents’ farm. I couldn’t see it in the dark, but I knew every inch of the place. I could imagine the house, the garden, the apple orchard my father had planted. And I knew exactly where the three little stones were that marked the graves. Hiram pulled the team to a halt. I heard him set the brake.

I walked the Mustang around the wagon and stood staring up the little farm road. I could see the shape of the house against the starry sky.

“I knew your folks a little,” Hiram said. “From
church and raising a barn once for the Peerys. Your father was very proud of you. I know he still is.” He paused, then said, “I would be.”

I felt tears flood my eyes. The Mustang touched the top of my head with his muzzle. I reached up to press my hand against his neck as I stared up the hill at my parents’ farm. My home.

“Good-bye,” I whispered, and my throat ached. I wanted to go up the road, to touch the graves, to run my fingers over the headstones, to sit and remember all the mornings I had awakened on this farm, all the times I had played with my sister in the loft, all the happy years at the beginning of my life.

But I knew I couldn’t—not without waking everyone who lived here now. They would ask questions; they would tell people we had passed; they might even feel they had to inform Mr. Stevens that I had taken his horse—and if they had dogs running loose, the Mustang might get away from me.

“Good-bye,” I whispered a second time, with my eyes closed. “I love you.”

“They’ll watch over you wherever you are, Katie,” Hiram said softly. “You can’t leave them behind—
they live in your heart. But you can tell the place good-bye.”

So I whispered it once more.

And after a long moment, we started off again. We walked at a steady pace, as we had all night. The sky turned from black to gray, then bloomed into roses as we walked on, heading away from the sun-rise, heading west.

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