Wild Horses (12 page)

“That was a pretty neat piece of luck,” a voice said.

She looked up and all around. The voice had belonged to a stranger, not to Matt or Lisa or Lennie Goodman. Bob Tyson then? She tried to match the drifter’s low, mean tones with the voice she’d just heard.

“You could say that horse just saved your life.”

A figure was walking toward her as she slid quietly from the stallion’s back. She could see a man’s legs as she crouched beside the horse; legs in jeans and cowboy boots.

“I guess that evens things up. You dig him out from under a heap of rocks. He saves you from drowning.” The voice was light, even amused. The booted feet came to a halt a few yards from them. “Kinda neat, like I said.”

Kirstie stood up and stepped to one side of the stallion. She shivered and dripped as she came face to face with the one witness to the stallion’s courage.

“Art Fischer.” The man held out a hand for her to shake. “I would’a helped too, only I was too far off.”

She stared at the hand, then the checkered padded jacket. She looked up at a pair of brown eyes in a smiling face; smiling as if she hadn’t nearly drowned back there.

“You saw me yesterday by Hummingbird Rock,” he reminded her. “Horseshoe Creek, remember?”

The man with the fishing rod! “Yep.” She nodded hard, sensing the black horse turn away from her and toward the man. “We thought you were Bob Tyson…that is, Lisa…she heard a noise…Were you watching us?”

It was the man’s turn to nod. The smile seemed to stay on his face, around his eyes, even though it had faded from his lips. “Tyson moved on,” he told Kirstie.

“When?” The news was slow to sink in through the questions flying round inside her head.

“Midday. He gave up on the gray mare he wanted once the Forest Guards got on his case. Didn’t stop to say too many good-byes before he packed up his trailer and left.” Art Fischer watched and waited for the horse to leave Kirstie’s side. He studied the injured leg as he limped slowly toward him.

“You told Smiley Gilpin?” Kirstie frowned. Slowly she puzzled out what had happened.

Art gave another slight nod. Gently he greeted the stallion by rubbing his long nose with the back of his hand.

“He lets you get pretty friendly, doesn’t he?” She noticed that the stallion had no fear around Art.

“I guess.”

“You wouldn’t say he was a wild horse to look… at…him now…” Kirstie slowed down and tailed off. The stallion nuzzled Art’s hand, then pushed at his chest with his dark muzzle. “How come?”

Letting her work out the answer for herself, Art scratched the stallion’s forehead and ran an expert hand along the animal’s neck and across his shoulder. Then he stooped to examine the injured knee.

Kirstie watched the man inspect the wound to check that the swelling was down and the horse was able to bend the joint. She saw him reach into his jacket pocket and take out a tub of white cream. He unscrewed the lid, dipped in his fingertips, and gently began to smear ointment onto the jagged cut.

“Art is the mystery healer!” Kirstie told Lisa.

Together she and the quiet stranger had made their way along the ledge behind the waterfall into Dead Man’s Canyon.

Lisa stared as if she was seeing a ghost. “We never thought you’d make it out of there!”

“Well, I did, thanks to the stallion. And listen, Art’s the one who led him into the clearing first of all; not Bob Tyson!” Kirstie was dripping wet and shaking all over. “Art’s been taking care of him ever since the landslide. Isn’t that great?”

Matt stepped forward to sling his jacket around her shoulders. “Save it for later,” he said quietly. He squeezed her gently and kept one arm around her while she went on regardless.

“Tyson wasn’t the only one who knows all the old stuff about horses. Art here picked it up from his grandpa when he was a little kid. His folks had a ranch over by Aspen Falls before they built the Interstate highway there. Then they moved away to Colorado Springs, but Art didn’t like the city. He lives in a trailer up at Eden Lake. That’s where he first saw the wild horses …”

“Whoa!” Art Fischer stopped staring at his wet boots, looked up, and spoke for the first time. “I didn’t reckon on you telling them my whole life story.”

“But it’s amazing! You taught yourself the medicine stuff by working alongside your grandpa. And you’ve remembered all of it!” Art had explained everything in answer to her breathless questions in the clearing. Then, once he was satisfied that the unexpected swim hadn’t done the horse too much harm, they’d left him in peace and quickly come back to the canyon.

“I guess. But no way do I want folks knocking on my door pestering me with damn fool questions,” he protested. “I got a quiet life up by the lake, and that’s the way I like it.”

Kirstie bit her lip and blushed. “You’re not mad at me?” To her, Art was her new hero. He might not look or sound like one, with his faded clothes, his shy way of hanging his head, and his quiet, funny voice, but what he’d done for the black stallion made him number one in her eyes.

He smiled now and shook his head.

But, as if in answer to Art’s fears that his privacy was about to be invaded, the sound of Lennie Goodman’s bulldozer rumbling up Meltwater Trail broke the silence of the mountain. And up on the ridge, a group of trail riders appeared with Hadley at their head. The line strung out along the cliff edge, staring down at the small group standing in the canyon.

“Hey, Art!” Hadley stood up in his stirrups and hollered. “How are y’all?”

“Hey!” Art answered. He turned his head away from the onlookers, ducked his head, and shrugged.

Kirstie stared from one to the other; the old wrangler on the ridge riding Yukon, her new friend standing by her side. “You know him?” Cupping her hands to her mouth, she yelled up at Hadley.

“Sure I know him. He’s Fenney Fischer’s boy from Aspen Falls.”

“How come you didn’t tell us?” she cried.

And back came the slow, inevitable answer, as Hadley led the riders on along the ridge: “How come you never asked?”

“I got a real nice site at Lone Elm,” Lennie told Art later that same evening. The bulldozer had shifted tons of rock and earth, and the entrance to Dead Man’s Canyon was clear at last. “It’s got running water, I can connect you up to the electricity generator, no problem.”

Art listened and smiled.

Lisa’s grandpa described the advantages of moving down from lonely Eden Lake to the comforts of an official trailer park. “Hot showers, a grocery store right on site, folks to get along with on a long winter’s night.”

Kirstie raised her eyebrows at Lisa, slipped an arm through hers, and wandered away from the group. She was happy that the blocked entrance had been cleared, glad that Matt had contacted their mom on the radio, and that Sandy and Hadley had made it to the canyon with a set of dry clothes for Kirstie and in time to see Lennie’s giant machine complete the job.

Now it was evening. The sun was setting, shadows creeping down the silent mountain.

“What do you reckon? Will Art take Grandpa’s vacant site?” Lisa asked as they strolled toward the waterfall.

“Nope.” Kirstie grinned. “Folks can come knocking too easy with their damn fool questions in a trailer park.”

Lisa glanced back at Art, standing now a little way apart from Matt and Sandy Scott, her grandpa, and Hadley. “He’s kinda shy.”

“Kinda.” She took a deep breath and gazed up at the sparkling, rushing water. Beyond the fall, beyond Miners’ Ridge and way past Eagle’s Peak in the far distance, the sun was disappearing from the sky. “He says dawn tomorrow we can let the stallion go free,” she told Lisa softly. “Do you want to be here?”

Tuesday sunrise. Before the guests at Half Moon Ranch were stirring, while Matt and Sandy, Hadley, and Charlie were bringing in the horses from the remuda, brushing them down, and saddling them up for the day’s rides, Kirstie rode out with Lisa to Dead Man’s Canyon.

Though the sun was just up and the air still sharp with an overnight frost, Art Fischer was there before them.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey, Art.” The girls dismounted and tied up Lucky and Cadillac.

Then they all three went along the ledge behind the fall to bring the black stallion out of the clearing.

He was grazing by the young aspen trees. When he saw them, he came quietly, curiously, taking his weight nicely on the left front leg, the limp almost gone. Kirstie and Lisa held their breaths, and as he came close, they gazed up into his deep brown eyes.

He scarcely noticed when Art quietly slipped a halter rope around his neck. It tightened. He pulled away once, then accepted it.

Art spoke gently to him, rubbing the back of his hand up and down his long face. “Easy, boy. Time for you to leave this place.”

The horse heard and followed the man along the bed of the stream, out of the clearing between the tall rocks of the dark gully. Not even the narrow ledge behind the waterfall spooked him. He just went straight along it, right after Art Fischer.

Lisa and Kirstie watched with silent awe the trust between horse and man.

“It’s magic!” Lisa breathed as they came out into the canyon and saw Art prepare to release the stallion.

He turned to Kirstie. “Say good-bye?”

She nodded and went forward, feeling tears prick her eyelids. A happy-sad good-bye. A good good-bye to a horse whose life she’d helped to save—and who had helped to save hers too. She reached out with a trembling hand to stroke his lovely face.

The stallion bowed his head.

Then Art led him toward the cleared exit. He loosened the halter rope and slipped it off.

“Bye,” Lisa whispered.

Kirstie stood silent.

Then Art tapped the horse’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. He clicked with his tongue.

The stallion stepped forward, hesitated, looked back at them.

From up above, high on Miners’ Ridge, a horse whinnied. It was the gray mare, standing in the morning sun, her white mane bright. Behind her, in the shadows of the ponderosa pines, the wild herd waited.

The black horse looked up. He pawed the earth with one front hoof, stretched out his magnificent head, and called back.

Then he reared and whirled. He was gone; out through the narrow gap cleared by the machine, up onto the trail that led to the ridge. He loped with the wind in his black mane and tail, dark against the red rocks, the tall green trees; like a shadow, like a dream …

He was gone.

Born and brought up in Harrogate, Yorkshire, Jenny Oldfield went on to study English at Birmingham University, where she did research on the Brontë novels and on children’s literature. She then worked as a teacher before deciding to concentrate on writing. She writes novels for both children and adults and, when she can escape from her desk, likes to spend time outdoors. She loves the countryside and enjoys walking, gardening, playing tennis, riding, and traveling with her two daughters, Kate and Eve.