by Terri Farley
Sam glared at Jake. “No, but I’ll call her Monday. Anyway, here’s part two. You and I will find that stallion.”
“Super.” Jake grabbed his hat off her lap. “I’m sure the idea hasn’t crossed anybody else’s mind.”
“Jake, why are you giving me a hard time?”
“I’m not, Sam. Just trying to offer a little common sense. Besides, I’m surprised you want him caught. You’re the one who convinced Brynna to let him go.” Jake gave a disappointed shrug. “Guess it is a lot of money.”
“Do you think I’d sell him out for money?” Sam crumpled the cardboard french fry container.
Insulted and angry, she stormed down the sidewalk to a trash barrel. When Jake didn’t come after her, she walked back.
“I wouldn’t sell you out for money,” she told him. “And you deserve it.”
Jake considered her words as if she’d spoken in another language. “I don’t know what that means,” Jake said.
“Never mind.” Sam sighed. “The point is, the stallion Slocum wants isn’t the Phantom. It’s Hammer.”
Once Jake pledged silence, Sam told him about the blue roan she’d seen running along the pasture fence at River Bend. She described Hammer’s attempt to take the Phantom’s mares, too.
“He’s the one,” she said.
“You’re probably right, but Slocum won’t go for it. He’s wanted the Phantom ever since he heard about him. This is just another way to get him.”
Sam placed her hands on her knees and frowned down at the sidewalk between her shoes. Slocum had convinced himself the Phantom had Hotspot, but she had to prove him wrong. Just next to her shoe, a red ant scuttled along the hot concrete, carrying a piece of straw ten times longer than his body. If he could do that, she could do this.
“Got it,” she said, smiling at Jake. “We catch them both. We track, then camp out as long as we have to, or use relays of horses to chase them. If Hotspot and Hammer are together, he’s the thief, right? Slocum would have no choice but to believe us.” Sam rubbed her hands together. “Then, I’ll give Dad the ten thousand dollars and he won’t have to worry about money for a while, and he’ll be so grateful, he won’t even consider grounding me again.”
Sam sighed with pleasure. She held her face up to the sunlight and basked. She imagined plunking down the money for the beautiful bridle and helping Jake buckle it onto Witch’s shining black head. Then she realized that even for Jake, he’d been quiet too long.
Sure enough, when she looked over, Jake was smirking.
“What?” Sam demanded.
“I just noticed this little problem you have,” he said.
“Oh, really?”
“Yep. For a girl in honors English, you have this weird little sentence structure defect.”
“Defect?”
“Sam”—Jake sounded sympathetic—“I’m not sure what else to call it. All along, while you’re talking about stalking the stallion and catching the stallion and dragging the stallion and Hotspot back to Slocum, you’re saying we. Then, when you reach the part about spending the reward money, all of a sudden, it’s you.”
Jake planted his hat on his head before striding to Gram’s Buick.
Sam sighed. Had she really hurt Jake’s feelings, or was he teasing? Sometimes she just couldn’t tell.
This time, it might be better to give in, because Jake was right. She had forgotten about splitting the reward money.
Sam jogged to catch up with him. “Jake, of course we’ll share. I’m sorry I forgot.”
“Just thought I’d mention it,” he said. “’Cause I’ve got my eye on something a mite more stylish than this”—he patted the top of Gram’s Buick—“and five thousand dollars would make a mighty nice down payment.”
She had Jake on her side, Sam thought as they drove toward home. Now, only two barriers stood between her and that $10,000: Dad and Gram.
Sam thought of the ant. Of course, she could convince Gram and Dad that the money was worth the puny risk, but just in case she was wrong, she’d wait until tomorrow to ask.
It was a good thing she was sleeping in the barn, so she wouldn’t be tempted to ask too soon.
Chapter Twelve
IN SAM’S DREAM, the barn collapsed. Boards groaned, broke, and rained down in dagger-sharp splinters, making the horses scream.
Her eyes opened to the interior of the dark barn. Sam yelped as Buddy, struggling to her feet, stepped on her arm. By the glow of the barn’s night-light, the calf stumbled away from Sam’s sleeping bag and stared, trembling, at the barn door.
Horses were screaming. It wasn’t just a nightmare. Sam huddled in her sleeping bag, afraid of any clawing thing that could so terrify the horses.
A low, guttural neigh vibrated through the night as hooves struck the small corral. A familiar whinny made Sam climb out of her sleeping bag and run toward the danger.
“Ace!” Sam struggled through the deep straw, past Buddy, and through the barn door.
Huge and light as a polar bear, a shape sideswiped Sam. She grabbed at air, then fell as the thing crashed into the fence.
Rocks stabbed Sam’s knees and she crossed her arms over her head, protecting herself, even as she begged her eyes to pierce the darkness and see what monster was scaring the horses.
Slats of woods crashed inward.
Sweetheart squealed. Heavy bodies rubbed against the fence. The low, guttural neigh mixed with Ace’s clear mustang call, and Sam knew.
Hammer! The blue roan had come for Sweetheart, but Ace wouldn’t let her go without a fight. Sam heard teeth clack. Ace’s slim shadow rose, and by the arch of his neck she guessed the gelding’s jaws closed in a savage bite on the stallion’s withers. Hammer wrenched loose and wheeled away. Hooves thudded on hide. A confusion of sounds came all at once, and then there was the sound of galloping.
They swept by, two horses running. A third fought free of cracking wood and launched an awkward jump over the downed fence rails.
“Ace, no! No!”
A starred forehead swung toward her. Ace slowed, hooves stuttering on the hard-packed ranch yard. The porch light flashed on, etching him in dark silhouette.
For an instant, hesitation made Ace beautiful. His body aimed for the mountains, but his head, with delicate, inquiring ears, turned toward her.
“Get inside!” Dad yelled from the porch.
His voice held a kind of command she’d never heard before. And his hands carried a rifle.
Sam ducked inside the barn. Heartbeat battering her ribs, she flattened herself beside the doorway. Dad rarely took the rifle from the locked gun case. All the commotion must have convinced him she was in danger.
But she wasn’t. And she must keep Ace safe.
“They’re gone!” she yelled, so Dad had to hear her. “It’s just Ace—and me!”
Outside the barn door, hooves tapped and circled. Then, just higher than Sam’s head, a black shadow swung in and snorted.
“Ace, here boy,” Sam reached up. Her hand grazed the flat fur of his cheek, and Ace lowered his head to nuzzle her.
Breath sweet with alfalfa, Ace’s lips moved over Sam’s face, then her neck. Then he nosed her hard, maybe irritated that she’d halted his headlong run into the mountains.
“You wouldn’t have liked it,” Sam told him. “Hammer would have hurt you if you’d tried to go with him and Sweetheart. You know that, don’t you, boy?”
Nearby, Sam heard the crunch of Dad’s boots. “Who’re you talking to, Samantha?”
“Ace.” Sam braced for the remark that she babied her horse, but the comment didn’t come. “The stallion—it wasn’t the Phantom. You could see that, couldn’t you?”
Dad shook his head. What did that mean?
“Is he all right?” Dad extended a hand toward Ace, but the gelding shied. “Let’s get some light on.”
“Hush, Buddy,” Sam told the bawling calf. Buddy stumbled along behind her.
“Dad, couldn’t you tell it wasn’t the Pha
ntom?”
Dad crossed to a light switch and the barn brightened, but he didn’t answer.
“Dad, did you see—?”
“Let’s help the horse who depends on you.”
Sam winced at Dad’s words.
Mustangs usually took care of themselves. But when Hammer attacked, Ace had been penned, unable to use speed to escape.
She haltered Ace and stood beside him, stroking his cheek while Dad examined him. Hammer’s teeth had slashed five rips on the gelding’s rump.
“Just when you were all healed up,” Sam said. She let Ace nibble her fingers, glad he couldn’t see the new injuries over the old scars.
“They don’t look bad,” Dad said. “We’ll clean them up and cover them with some antiseptic salve, and he’ll be fine. I’m more worried about this tenderness.”
Ace pulled away as Dad touched his chest.
“He was fighting to keep Sweetheart.”
“I heard him.” Dad straightened and kneaded the skin at the base of Ace’s ears. The gelding blew breath through his lips, relaxing. “He’s a good pony, this one.”
Out in the yard, the Buick’s engine roared to life and sped away. Sam looked at her watch. It was three o’clock in the morning and even Buddy had decided to go back to sleep.
“Where’s Gram going?”
“She’s going after Sweetheart.” Dad sighed. “But I think that stud will herd Sweetheart clear out of here.” Dad glanced after the Buick’s red taillights. “I told your Gram so, but she has other ideas.”
With two corral rails broken, it was safer to leave Ace inside. Dad whipped up a warm bran mash for the gelding and they left him in a box stall next to Buddy’s.
Since Dad had cooked for the horse, and Gram was still out searching for Sweetheart, it was only fair that Sam made breakfast. She watched Dad walk out to the road to get the Sunday paper. Letting the door slam behind her, Sam hurried to the kitchen and rubbed her hands together. Even if it didn’t measure up to Gram’s cooking, Sam knew she could have a meal ready when he returned.
She used packaged biscuit mix instead of measuring flour and baking powder, but the biscuits were already baking as she heated a skillet and broke two eggs into its center. Sam hummed and the eggs sputtered. She was well on her way to making fried eggs just the way Dad liked them, until she reached the flipping-over part. She ended up serving them scrambled, but Dad didn’t seem to notice.
“Good job, Sam,” he said, from behind the newspaper.
Yawning with satisfaction, Sam was just loading strawberry jam onto a biscuit when Dad gave a long whistle of amazement.
His eyes were on the Darton newspaper as he folded back pages to show her a large advertisement.
Sam put the biscuit down and stared. Slocum had gone one step further in his campaign against the Phantom.
“Is this advertisement the same as the posters you and Jake told me about?” Dad tapped the sketch of the Phantom.
Sam nodded. Exactly the same, except she’d bet the Darton paper went to hundreds, maybe a thousand subscribers.
“This just won’t do.” Dad sat back, frowning. “The range is gonna be crawling with bounty hunters trying to lasso every mustang out there.”
Sam decided the time was right to mention her plan.
“We should hop in the truck and get a head start,” Sam said. “Jake and I discussed it yesterday. He’s a great tracker, I’ve got pretty good horse sense and—” Sam checked Dad’s expression and saw he wasn’t going along with her. “At least that’s what you said, didn’t you—that I had good horse sense?”
“Pretty good,” Dad said. “But, Sam, it’s flat illegal.”
“Only the mustang part,” Sam contradicted him, then hurried to agree. “Probably BLM should know about this.”
“Probably they already do,” Dad said.
“Just in case they don’t, I thought I’d call Miss Olson, Monday, as soon as the BLM office opens.”
“Why wait?” Dad surprised Sam by opening a drawer and extracting a business card with a phone number inked on the back. A question flickered across Sam’s mind. Why did Dad have Brynna’s home telephone number? Was he considering the wild horse wrangler’s job after all? The answer didn’t matter today and, as it turned out, neither did having the number.
All day long, Brynna Olson’s telephone rang and rang, but no one answered.
Sam could remember one other time she’d seen Gram this cranky. That time, she’d been worried over Sam. This time, she feared for Sweetheart. Gram had found no sign of the horses, and she didn’t want to discuss her search. Instead, she instructed Sam to clean up the kitchen, do her outside chores, fold laundry, and finish her homework before riding with Jen.
Complaining would soak up valuable minutes, so Sam didn’t do it. Even more than she wanted to meet Jen, Sam longed to reach War Drum Flats. Because it was visible from the highway, the flats were an unlikely place for Hammer to keep his mares. Still, the pond provided fresh water and she’d seen him there before, challenging the Phantom.
At last, she had permission to go, but Dad talked her out of riding Ace.
“If you kept him to a walk, there’d be no problem.” Dad pointed out a swollen muscle under Ace’s sleek hide. “But you’ll want to gallop.”
Sam agreed, and even though Ace neighed his jealousy, Sam saddled Strawberry.
“It’s for your own good,” Sam called to Ace.
She was telling Ace the truth. The change in mounts made her nervous. Though she’d ridden almost every day since she’d returned from San Francisco, Sam still doubted her ability. That accident, two years ago, had shaken her confidence.
Not that Sam questioned her skill at understanding horses. Each flicker of ears, each sidelong glance or movement of lips told her something. And Ace had helped her regain trust in her riding, but the fear of falling, far out on the empty plain, never left her. It was a secret she’d told no one.
Reins gripped tightly, Sam prepared to mount Strawberry. The mare stood just over fifteen hands tall. Now that Sam had brushed her, the mare looked almost pink.
Sam reminded herself how well she and Strawberry had done during the cattle drive, the day she’d let Ace rest by walking the trail riderless with the remuda.
Since fear telegraphed right down the reins to the horse’s mouth, Sam told herself she wasn’t afraid. She swung into the saddle and turned Strawberry toward the bridge.
“Be back before dark,” Dad called, and Sam was off.
Pine-spiced wind blew down from the ridge and across War Drum Flats.
Strawberry moved with stiff, tight steps, but Sam couldn’t tell why. A few sagebrush trembled as the wind blew past, but that shouldn’t spook the mare. No mustangs clustered at the pond. More disappointing, no silver stallion stood guard on the ridge. Strawberry pulled at the bit, indicating she wanted to stop and drink from the pond. The pond’s bank was muddy and marked with hoofprints. Apparently a few days of sunshine hadn’t been enough to bake it hard after the storm.
Sam scanned the landscape all around. She didn’t want to dismount, stand on the slick bank, and let Strawberry drink. She also didn’t want to ride to the water’s edge and lose contact with the mare’s mouth while Strawberry leaned down to drink.
What was making her edgy? A breeze moaned through the wind-twisted pines up on the ridge. Somewhere up there lay Lost Canyon.
In childhood stories, she’d heard that this pond was the site of one of the last Indian battles. She couldn’t recall details, but she thought Indians had swept down on cavalrymen as they watered their horses. The soldiers had been left afoot. The horses had been stolen and herded into Lost Canyon.
It was probably a myth. She could ask Jake about it, but he claimed not to care about his Native American heritage. Sam knew she’d have more luck asking his mom.
Anyway, nothing about the old story should make her nervous.
Strawberry sidestepped, stretched her neck toward the water, and gave a low w
hicker, asking how Sam could be so cruel.
“Oh all right, girl.” Still mounted, Sam let the mare walk into the water. “Jen should be along in a minute, anyway.”
Strawberry had taken two loud swallows when her head flew up. Too late, Sam tightened her grip on the reins.
On the ridge above them stood Hammer and Sweetheart. He sampled the wind, searching for the scent of a stallion that might interfere with his plan. His mane flapped as his head bobbed in satisfaction, and then he was running.
Hammer stampeded down the trail, nipping at Sweetheart’s heels as they came. By the time she saw what had frightened Strawberry, Sam was falling.
Sam grabbed at Strawberry’s mane as the mare lunged toward the other horses. Strawberry was drawn by the sight of Sweetheart, her pasture buddy, and put off by the bold stallion. Sam couldn’t predict Strawberry’s movements from one second to the next.
Sam had almost regained her seat when Strawberry slipped, clamored upright, then made for open ground. The mare’s serpentine gallop kept Sam from settling into the saddle. She sagged to the right.
Suddenly, Strawberry gave a seesawing buck, then another.
Sam grabbed for the horn, but it wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t be able to ride this out, especially if Hammer moved in close. Sam’s brain flashed a quick picture of arriving home on foot. Gram would forbid her to ride alone. Dad would shake his head in disappointment. Jake would treat her like a delicate girl.
Strawberry shambled to a stop, head turned in curiosity, then bolted a step.
Sam’s head snapped back on her neck, but she refused to surrender Strawberry to Hammer. It was time to act, but she didn’t know the right thing to do.
An experienced cowgirl would stay in the saddle, but if Strawberry bolted again, Sam knew she’d fall. Instead, Sam slid down Strawberry’s left side, keeping her body pressed close to the mare, gripping the reins. Once her feet hit the dirt, Sam gave a quick jerk on the reins. The mare wheeled around to face her and Sam felt a pulse of hope. She had Strawberry’s attention.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she told the mare, as the heavy-headed stallion approached.
