Katie and the Mustang #1 (5 page)

Mr. Stevens and a man I didn’t know were standing in front of the Mustang’s stall. He was as far away from them as he could get, switching his tail back and forth, nostrils flared.

“I’m not sure what to do, Mr. Harris,” Mr. Stevens was saying.

The man glanced at me as I set down the bucket. “Morning, young lady.”

I nodded politely and reached for the door handle. “You can leave it open, Katie,” Mr. Stevens said.

I hesitated. He was still looking at me, so I spoke up. “Tiger is full of vinegar this morning, and she’ll scare him.” I gestured toward the Mustang.

Mr. Stevens shook his head. “
Everything
spooks him. Leave the door open.”

I nodded and went to Betsy’s stall. Maybe, if I hurried, I could meet Tiger on the path, and the prospect of warm milk would lure her back down to the house. I gave Betsy her corn and got to work. The milk smelled sweet; the morning was chilly enough that it steamed in the bucket.

I was nearly finished when I heard the stallion squeal. I stood up, expecting to see Tiger in the barn, drinking from his bucket. But that wasn’t it at all. Mr. Harris had gone into his stall.

“Be careful of him,” Mr. Stevens warned.

Mr. Harris nodded. “I will.” He took a half step forward. “I just want to see how—”

He didn’t finish his sentence because the Mustang reared, striking out. Mr. Harris stumbled backward, feeling behind himself for the gate latch. A second later, he was out of the stall, raking his hand through his hair, laughing nervously.

“See what I mean?” Mr. Stevens said as the stallion whirled in a circle, then kicked at the side of the stall. The crash of his hooves made me flinch. Betsy shifted. I rebalanced the one-legged stool and finished milking.

When I carried the full milk bucket past the stalls, Mr. Stevens and Mr. Harris were still standing there, hands on their hips, looking at the stallion. “I have no idea what do with him,” Mr. Stevens was saying.

“I know a man who might could help.” I heard Mr. Harris’s answer just as I went out the door. “A Mr. Barrett. He’s a good hand with horses.”

Mr. Harris’s voice faded as I started back to the house. I intercepted Tiger, on her way back up the hill. She smelled the milk and made a quick turn to follow me. I poured her saucer full before I went in.

“Is that you, Katie?” Mrs. Stevens shouted from the kitchen when she heard the back door open.

“Yes, ma’am,” I called back.

“Come give me a hand with the wash water!”

I sighed. Her voice was shrill. I was pretty sure I hadn’t done anything to upset her. Mr. Stevens might have been mean to her—or maybe she was upset because she had to start spring cleaning early because his cousin was coming to visit. I sighed. It didn’t matter what she was upset about. She would end up scolding
me
.

It was odd how much I hoped to hear the footfalls of the little one with the long mane. I also longed for the sky, to be outside this strange den. I watched the other horses—draped with metal and ropes—as they walked out into the sunlight, and wished I could gallop past them, then run on, away from the sunrise, toward my home
.

T
he spring cleaning was even worse than usual. The first day, we scrubbed the grease out of every part of the kitchen. For a year, meat drippings had spattered the hearthstones, the floor planks, and the wall beside the woodstove.

By the third day, I was too tired to eat much supper. Mrs. Stevens looked at me across the table. “Maybe you should go on to bed now.”

I looked outside. It was barely dark.

Mr. Stevens cleared his throat. His wife turned
to look at him. “I might hire someone to break the horse.”

Mrs. Stevens made a little clucking sound. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better just to sell him?”

“To who?” Mr. Stevens exploded. “Who’s going to buy a wild stallion that can’t be used as a saddle horse or a plow horse?”

Mrs. Stevens ducked her head, and I knew what she was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. Mr. Stevens had been foolish enough to buy him. I covered my mouth with my napkin.

“It’s some kind of weed they feed the Mustangs,” he added. “It makes them feel sick without killing them, so they are calm for a day or two—long enough for the horse trader to leave town.”

“That makes sense,” Mrs. Stevens agreed instantly. “He certainly looked tame that first morning.”

I thought about it. The Mustang had seemed more than tame. He had nearly stumbled going into the barn. If he had been rearing and fighting the rope, no one would have bought him.

“Liars and cheats are everywhere these days,” Mr. Stevens said. “I’ve been thinking about going west.”

Mrs. Stevens took in a breath so sharp that she coughed.

Mr. Stevens laughed quietly. “Calm down, wife. I met a man named Barrett. He’s the one who knew about the stinkweed. He’s here in Scott County talking to some of the neighbors about putting together a wagon party to travel with him. Mr. Harris is considering it. You’d be surprised how many are thinking about going.”

Mrs. Stevens glanced around the room, her gaze snagging on the newly scrubbed sideboard, hearth, floor planks, the walls we had washed that morning with scalding water and lye soap. Then she turned toward the little sitting room, and I saw her staring at her grandmother’s red rugs.

“Martha!” Mr. Stevens said firmly. “If anything comes of the idea, I’ll tell you. You know I won’t do it unless I’m convinced it’s the right thing. It’s getting late this year anyway. Next spring would be soon enough.”

Mrs. Stevens looked pale. “I can only hope you will consider my feelings in this matter.”

Mr. Stevens smiled and nodded, then answered as though he hadn’t heard her at all. “Barrett says
the Oregon country is full of deer and elk and other game,” he said. “There’s tall timber and farm soil so rich the crops jump up out of the ground.”

“Katie!” Mrs. Stevens snapped at me.

I jumped, startled.

She glared. “Why are you still here? I told you to get to bed!”

I stood up, barely hearing her angry voice and barely feeling my feet touch the floor. West! I wanted with all my heart to go west. I could find my uncle, and I knew he would take me in. He was my mother’s brother, after all. I nearly danced my way down the hall, tired as I was. A year. It would go by slowly, but it would go by. In a year, surely I would get a letter from my uncle. I would know where he lived.

I dreamed that night of forests and mountains and a blue ocean and a family who met me at the door of a neat little farmhouse and pulled me inside, laughing and smiling and glad to see me. I couldn’t really remember my uncle Jack’s face, but in the dream he was tall and handsome, and his daughters were nice and called me their new sister.

When I woke up, it took a few minutes for me
to remember where I was. I sat up in the pantry and rubbed my eyes. The roosters were just starting to crow. I sighed and rose to dress.

“Tiger followed me this morning,” I explained to the stallion the next day. It was chilly enough that my breath showed, hanging in the air. The instant I got the last word out, Tiger shot past me into the barn.

The stallion startled, tossing his head as she ran past. I heard a rustling in the spilled straw and knew she had found a mouse.

The Mustang pranced sideways in his stall, snapping his hooves up high, but he didn’t look scared—he just looked like a horse that wants to have a good gallop. I took down the bucket and walked to the last stall, stopping to pat Delia and Midnight on the way. Mr. Stevens wasn’t off as early as usual, so the buggy team was still warm and sleepy in their stalls. The plow team was out to pasture—Hiram was working up the valley somewhere for a few days.

I rubbed the mares’ foreheads and told them I had missed them, with Mr. Stevens gone so early every morning. They both nuzzled my neck and breathed their warm grassy breath down my collar.
I glanced back and saw the Mustang watching me.

Betsy was glad to see me, too, in her way. She bawled once, to let me know she hadn’t appreciated my taking time to talk to the horses. As I milked her, she chewed her corn and batted her thick lashes when she lifted her head to look at me. I milked her as fast as I could, then put away the stool. Through the open door, the sky was getting lighter, turning pinkish in the east. It was chilly, but the sharp winter bite had gone out of the cold.

“The Stevenses might go west,” I told the stallion. I shivered and pulled my jacket closer. “That’d mean I could find my uncle Jack.”

Tiger was back out in the barn aisle now, toying with the mouse she had caught. The Mustang watched her closely, looking back and forth between us. I set the milk bucket down.

“Did you come from the west somewhere?” I asked him. He tossed his mane and sidled uneasily back from the gate when I took a step forward. “Tell me,” I said in a gentle voice. “What’s it like?”

Tiger came to rub against my legs.

The stallion backed away.

“She can’t hurt you,” I told him. “Look.” I bent
to pick Tiger up, getting a tight hold on her legs.

The stallion snorted and danced sideways.

“Just come closer, and you’ll see she’s harmless,” I pleaded with him. “If you don’t settle down, Mr. Stevens is going to hire someone to teach you what for. Maybe, anyway
.
.
.” I added, just to be honest with him. “He doesn’t like spending money if he doesn’t have to.”

Tiger squirmed in my arms, and I scratched her behind her ears. She relaxed almost immediately, closing her eyes. The stallion turned his head, watching closely.

“See?” I reassured him. “Look at that. She’s gentle. She isn’t even that good a mouser.” The stallion took one step toward me, then stood like a statue for a long moment. Then he came forward again. I held Tiger still as he put his head over the stall. I held my breath as he sniffed at Tiger, then scented my hair, my cheek. The stallion tossed his head, then touched my cheek once more, his breath warm on my ear.

My heart was pounding as he moved toward the back of his stall again and stood watching me as I let Tiger jump to the ground. He was beginning
to trust me! “Thank you,” I breathed as I backed away. No horse had ever seemed so powerful to me, so dangerous, and yet he had touched my face as gently as a friend would have.

“I have to go or Mrs. Stevens will come looking for me,” I told him. “We empty the mattresses today and refill with them with the corn husks we dried last fall.” The stallion looked at me, his head high, his neck arched.

“Then I have to wash the windows,” I said. “It’ll be warm enough by midday to do that.”

I sighed, wondering what anyone would think if they heard me talking like this to a wild horse. “It’s market day, so at least Mr. Stevens will be gone most the afternoon. I hope so anyway.”

“
Katie?
“

“That’s Mrs. Stevens, wondering what’s taking so long,” I told him, backing away. I blew out the lantern and hung it up, then came back for the milk bucket. Tiger smelled the warm milk and trailed along behind me as I went down the path toward the house. That night, lying on my pallet, I thought about the Mustang. If I was careful not to startle him again, he would trust me more and
more each day. I went to sleep and dreamed of tall forests and the Mustang running through the trees.

The next morning, I milked Betsy so fast even she looked surprised. I heard the rooster crowing down in the coop as I stood and talked to the stallion again. This time, he stayed at the back of his stall until I picked up the bucket to leave. I was almost at the door when I heard him snort and paw the ground. I glanced back. He was at the front of the stall, reaching out, stretching his neck, looking right at me.

I hung the bucket from a branch on the ash tree just outside the barn door, then went back in. The stallion was still reaching over the stall gate.

“You’re not skinny anymore,” I told him. “I think you’re beautiful.”

He tossed his head and pawed at the dirt.

I took another step forward.

He shook his mane again, and I could see how matted it was. A currycomb might not be enough. It might have to be cut off. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I would never hurt you.” I reached out slowly, keeping my hand steady. I touched his cheek, for a long moment. Then I ran my hand down his neck
to his shoulder. He let me do it twice more, then whirled and went to stand by the back wall.

I stood looking at him, astonished. He had trusted me to touch him. My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden warm pressure against my leg. Before I could stop her, Tiger slipped between the stall rails and put her front paws up the edge of his water bucket.

I watched the stallion come forward, his head lowered, his ears flickering from back to front, curious, but ready to fight if he had to.

“Tiger? Kitty, kitty, come back,” I pleaded, but she was too busy lapping up the cool water to care if some silly horse came close to her.

“Katieeee!”

It was Mrs. Stevens, shouting from the porch. Any other day I would have shouted back to tell her I was coming, but I didn’t want to shout. Not now. The stallion took a step forward, then stopped, stretching out his long neck, his nostrils wide. His muzzle was within a few inches of the cat. She seemed not to notice him at all.