Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 (6 page)

I let out a long, slow breath. I could picture his hands perfectly, the big fingers working tiny threads to tie his fishing flies or holding a Sidley's bottle to nursemaid an orphaned calf. But his face wouldn't come.

I started to picture my mother and sister, then excused myself and walked away from the fire into the darkness instead. What if I couldn't conjure up their images, either. What if they were all fading in my memories? I shivered, more scared by that thought than any talk about Indians could have made me. The night seemed too big, too dark.

I glanced back. Mr. Kyler was leaning forward at the waist to stare at the fire. He hadn't even noticed my leaving, I was pretty sure.

“I guess he has other things on his mind,” I told the Mustang when I found him. “Like Pa usually did.”

The Mustang sidled closer to me, nudging me gently with his muzzle. I hugged him hard, crying silently, knowing that no one would see. It was dark; there was no moon at all.

I knew there were lots of everyday things to be worrying about, but all I could do right then was miss my family worse than I ever had before.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

I
t was getting hot as spring faded into summer. The sun baked the treeless earth in a circle that extended to the horizon in every direction.

The week after Mr. Kyler had talked to me, I stayed within shouting distance of the wagons. Then one day we forded the Platte at about noon because the grass on the north side was tall and green. The oxen had had scant feed for a week, so Mr. Teal gave a long enough dinner break for people to unhitch and let their teams eat for a couple of hours. I led the Mustang a good distance away to stay clear of the oxen.

Just as the Mustang was getting settled, Mr. Kyler whistled between his teeth, a high shrill sound that made everyone look up at once. He pointed.

I saw something so strange it took me a few minutes to realize what I was seeing. I heard Mrs. Craggett make a startled sound and knew she had just figured it out as well.

What had looked at first like dark, plowed farm fields—where there should have been nothing but prairie grass—had inexplicably come alive with movement. They weren't farm fields at all.

It was a herd of bison—the buffalo we had all heard about. I led the Mustang at an angled trot, back toward the wagons. Everyone came in close, even though the huge animals were a good distance off.

We stared as they got nearer. They were huge, but that wasn't what scared me. I had seen farm bulls almost as big—Hiram's beautiful Ayrshire oxen had been as heavy, almost.

The amazing thing was how
many
buffalo there were. Imagine seeing a flock of sparrows big enough to turn the sky dark. It was like that. The buffalo darkened the ground, hiding the green of the grass with the deep brown of their bodies. I could smell them—a smell like cattle, but wilder, mixed the constant sweet odor of the endless grass.

The Mustang wasn't scared of the buffalo. But he kept an eye on them, and his ears ticked back and forth, listening to the low rumbling of their hooves on the earth.

For nearly two hours, we stood watching the buffalo herd pass us. A dust cloud arced above the heavy animals, coloring the sky a dusty rouge. When they were finally gone, like a brown storm, ebbing in the north, we started up again.

For a long time, no one said anything. Then everyone began to talk at once. When we crossed the ground the herd had walked, I stared. Their hooves had flattened the grass and pitted the topsoil.

The next day, we took another long dinner break for the same reason: deep grass. I tied the Mustang to the wagon, loosely, so he could graze while I helped Mrs. Kyler cook and serve the meal. Then we repacked the jockey box, and I started to leave.

“Katie, give me ten more minutes,” Mrs. Kyler said. “Help me spread the quilts out.” I nodded and walked with her to the back of the wagon. All the women would be taking this extra time to clean a little, I was sure. We rarely got a chance to do anything but the necessities.

Mrs. Kyler had nice quilts. She had made many of them, but some were old, from her mother and grandmother. We unfolded them and laid them out at the rear of the wagon, letting the tall grass support the cloth, fresh air passing beneath it.

“Mary? Katie?” Mr. Kyler said from behind us. We both turned. Instead of speaking, he pointed. I followed his gesture, wondering if he had spotted more buffalo. He hadn't. There was a line of Indians on the other side of the river. One of them lifted his hand in greeting.

I saw Mr. Teal mount, then spur his horse into a gallop, heading down the line of wagons. “Everyone stay calm and friendly. Pass the word,” he shouted. “They've got a buffalo haunch, it looks like. Maybe we can trade for a little fresh meat!”

I heard people calling out what he had said, like some kind of weird echo moving through the line. The word
buffalo
was repeated with as much amazement as any of the rest. I am not sure it had occurred to even one of the men to try to kill a buffalo when we had seen them. If it had, no one had risked stampeding the massive herd by shooting.

I stood as still as a stone, staring at the Indians, until Mr. Kyler nudged me.

“Katie, get that horse of yours around to the far side of the wagon. No sense showing him off.” He walked to the driver's bench and reached beneath it for his rifle. He leaned it up against the wheel, then stepped away from it.

I ran to untie the Mustang's rope, then glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Teal had reined in and was gesturing at the Indian men from our side of the river.

“Should we close up the wagon or—” Mrs. Kyler began.

“I think it'll be just fine, Mary,” Mr. Kyler said evenly. “We have anything we could trade for meat?”

Mrs. Kyler didn't answer, but I heard the wagon creak, and I knew she had climbed inside to rummage through her things. She came out with a pair of sewing scissors and some mirrors.

I led the Mustang over the wagon tongue, trying not to make him trot. I didn't want to call attention to him.

“Here they come,” I heard Mr. Kyler say.

I positioned the Mustang close to the wagon, then inched forward, trying to see. He followed me, of course. I faced him, and he stopped. Turning back, I leaned out, just far enough to see that the Indian men were coming across the Platte now, galloping their horses. The man in front made a long, wavering cry as he came. His leather shirt had feathers tied into the fringe, and it looked fine and handsome as he rode.

I stared. I had never seen anyone ride like that in my whole life. It was as though the man and the horse had somehow joined in the middle and were one creature now. The man who had made the first gesture of greeting was the first one across. The last one was the man leading the packhorse that carried the meat.

The first man reined in, his big bay horse sliding to a halt in front of Mr. Teal. The others stopped a little ways off and waited, watching us with as much interest as we were watching them.

Mr. Teal sat his horse easily, smiling. After a moment, I could hear their voices, but the words were completely foreign to me. Mr. Teal didn't say much; he seemed to know only a little of the Indian man's language, but the few words he managed must have been the right ones.

The Indian man turned and said something to his friends. The man leading the packhorse came forward. Mr. Teal reached into his saddlebag and took out something I couldn't see clearly, just a flash of shiny metal as he leaned forward in his saddle to hand it to the Indian man.

“Looks like we won't need your scissors or the mirrors, Mary,” I heard Mr. Kyler say. “Put 'em where you can get them easier next time, though.”

“I will,” Mrs. Kyler said. “Aren't they wonderful?” she added.

I heard Mr. Kyler make a little sound of agreement. “You can't help but admire their riding. I wish I could talk with them.”

The Mustang nudged me from behind, and I stumbled forward, then scrambled back. I circled him, bringing him close against the wagon. Then I inched forward again, trying to see.

Two Indian men had dismounted and were carrying the meat to set it down in tall grass. They straightened and walked to rinse their hands in the river before they remounted.

They had more skin showing than I had ever seen in my life, but they walked as though they were wearing the finest suits and collars in the country. They were all fairly tall, it looked like, and most of them were handsome of feature, too.

In less than a minute, the two men who had carried the meat were back astride their horses, swinging up with more grace than I'd ever seen any person mount a horse.

They were gathering their reins, turning to talk to each other as they sat their horses, and I was sure they were about to go back across the river—but they didn't. Instead, the man who had traded with Mr. Teal started forward, toward us, and the men behind him followed his lead.

I heard a little gasp go through the women in the party, and saw more than one man back up, getting closer to the rifles that most of them had brought out. The Indian men had been nothing but polite, but they looked so different from what any of us were used to, it was hard not to be afraid of them.

The men walked their horses forward, staring at us just as we stared at them. They angled toward the gap between the Kylers' wagon and the McMahons', just in front of us.

I ducked back and led the Mustang along the back side of the wagon, intending to circle around and then watch the Indian men ride off. I had to swing wider than I wanted to because of Mrs. Kyler's quilts, and I found myself suddenly blundering right into the path of the first Indian man. He reined in his horse and scowled at me. Then his expression changed as he looked past me and saw the Mustang.

The Indian man's horse squealed and reared, and he pulled it around, getting control over it again. It made another high-pitched squealing sound and shook its head, prancing sideways.

The Mustang answered, his head coming up, his ears flat against his head.

“Katie, get out of the way!” Mr. Kyler shouted. “It's a stallion.”

The Indian shouted something, dragging at his rawhide rein as his horse struggled against it.

The Mustang pulled the rope out of my hands as he reared. I staggered back, almost falling.

The Indian man reached forward and grabbed his mount's ear, pulling it hard, but the stallion didn't even seem to notice.

“Katie, get out of the way; get back!” Mr. Kyler shouted. Mrs. Kyler screamed as the Indian's horse plunged forward, his ears flattened and his teeth bared.

The Mustang leapt to one side and galloped a few strides, then whirled back and faced the Indian's horse, his neck arched. The Indian man pulled his mount in another tight circle, but I knew it wasn't going to work. Unless we could get them farther apart, they were going to fight.

“No!” I shouted, running toward the Mustang, waving my hands to make him see me, to make him listen to me.

He reared and I slowed, then went forward again the instant his hooves were on the ground. He snorted and pawed at the earth, still looking past me.

I was shaking, terrified, but I started talking, louder than usual, trying to reason with the Mustang.

“There's no reason to fight,” I pleaded. “He isn't going to stay here, and he isn't going to get your mares. He's leaving. They just want to go.”

I heard the Indian's stallion squeal again and the heavy thudding of his hooves on the ground, but I didn't turn around. The Mustang was looking at me now, at
me
.

“You don't have to do anything but hold still,” I told him, hearing how foolish it sounded, but glad that he was listening to me now, his head a little lower. I reached out and took the lead rope in my hands, and the Mustang lowered his head to touch my cheek with his muzzle. I glanced back. The Indian man had managed to get his horse to turn aside. The horse's ears were still back, but he had stopped squealing.