by Terri Farley
Although the Ford truck was a fairly new model, it was painted a muddy yellow that didn’t shine, even in full sunlight. Hitched on behind was a gray stock trailer. An orange stripe, probably reflective, had been painted on its side. It was big enough to carry at least a dozen animals.
Sam didn’t know how they’d driven the truck up the mountain or how they’d get it back down again, but the men set to work with an ease indicating they’d done this many times before.
How many horses had they kidnapped off the range, and where had they taken them?
Sam didn’t know the man on the horse had returned until he climbed into the pen with the mustangs. He moved like a cowboy, but he must be a crazy one.
Quickly, she saw he had nothing to fear. With each step he took, the frightened horses scattered.
He carried a thick-handled black bullwhip. Seeing this, the buckskin left her food and joined the other horses. Her shrill neighing began. Sam recognized it as the sound that had floated down the mountain as she and Jen had waited for the bus yesterday.
This close, the piercing sound hardly seemed equine.
Mustangs were usually silent, and the BLM freeze brand on her neck proved the buckskin was a mustang. But someone had taught her to scream.
The men on the outside dropped one panel of the corral. All four horses bolted for the opening. When they saw they were stampeding toward the truck ramp, they shied and turned back. But the man with the whip left them no choice.
The lash snaked outward, popping in their faces. The mustangs stopped, sliding back on their haunches, then wheeled toward the ramp.
That quickly, the animals were conquered. Heads low, their mouths made submissive chewing movements. In the language of wild horses, they begged for mercy.
The man only cracked his whip again.
Although frightened by the hollow pounding of their hooves on the ramp, the horses went. They didn’t know what lay before them, but they fled the whip.
The buckskin was last. Her legs and body trembled so much, Sam feared she would collapse.
Gathering her courage, the buckskin leaped toward the ramp. As she did, the man in camouflage got a foothold on the metal fence, swung up, and leaned toward her. Before the buckskin could swerve away, he grabbed at the red bandanna around her neck and tugged it up to cover her eyes.
She stopped, standing still as the man laughed.
“She done it again,” he said, laughing. “Never quite figures out she’s not goin’ with ’em, does she?”
His cruelty almost made Sam burst from her hiding place. Now she understood. The buckskin mare had been starved and used to lure wild mustangs into this trap many times before.
Each time the wild ones were loaded into the truck, the buckskin thought she’d escape. Each time, she was left behind in darkness.
Sam swallowed hard, making the mare a silent promise. As soon as the men left, she’d free her.
The man in camouflage stowed the rifle on a gun rack inside the truck cab. That made Sam’s determination more solid. She’d been quick and agile when she played basketball for her middle school team. Without that gun to fear, she could outmaneuver those men and release the buckskin.
Yes, she might be stealing, but Sam didn’t care. She’d just figured out where the rustlers took the wild horses.
Only one kind of business purchased mustangs by the pound—the kind that made them into horse meat.
The mud-yellow truck swayed from side to side, gears grinding, engine laboring. The horses inside couldn’t possibly stay on their feet. The truck’s engine made a weird pinging sound as it slogged down the back side of the mountain, safe from eyes that might have seen it go down the front side, toward the highway.
Though Sam had watched all three men climb into the truck, she still didn’t move. Where was the horse the cowboy had ridden? Where had he gotten that whip? Was someone else still around?
She could climb back on Ace and ride fast, back the way she’d come. She glanced at her watch and was amazed to see it was only seven o’clock. She could get home and report the men to Brynna Olson at the BLM and still save the mare.
Unless they delivered the horses to someone nearby and returned to collect the abused buckskin who did her job so well.
Sam had started to sip from her canteen when she noticed the buckskin had no water. The corral was empty of anything but the plastic grain bucket.
“That does it,” she muttered to Ace. “You’ve got a new friend, boy.”
After all the commotion, it wouldn’t be fair to trust Ace to ground-tying. If he had any sense at all, he’d head for home. And she couldn’t let him. Sam knotted the reins around a thick piece of brush, then surveyed the area one last time. Nothing moved except the buckskin mare.
“Things could get a little weird, Ace,” Sam whispered. “If they do, just think like a mustang, okay?”
She gave Ace a final pat and started toward the corral. Sam walked boldly, wondering how fast she could run back, untie Ace, vault onto his back, and escape if anyone hollered “Stop!”
The buckskin’s ears were a beautiful dark gold edged in black, and they swiveled to catch each one of Sam’s steps.
Sam paused outside the gate. The man who’d pulled the bandanna up to cover the mare’s eyes had done it with little fuss. Sam thought she could probably pull it down, except that the mare wasn’t anywhere near the fence.
The bolt on the fence clanged back. If anyone was around, he would come charging out now. Sam held her breath and listened. A shadow surprised her, until she realized it was a hawk sailing on updrafts around the snowy peak.
She left the gate ajar. Running in boots was next to impossible, but if someone appeared, she’d try sprinting back to Ace. She’d trust her life to his speed and surefootedness.
She should have been worrying about the mare.
Black forelegs thrashed through the air as the mare leaped toward Sam.
Like a cougar. The words flashed through Sam’s mind as she flung herself left, out of the buckskin’s path, and rolled in the dirt. Instinctively, her arms came up, shielding her head as the buckskin came even with her. Sam’s eyes were clamped shut, awaiting that awful slam of hooves on skull.
Darkness closed around her like a swarm of bees, but Sam didn’t pass out and the buckskin’s kick never came.
As the buckskin’s hooves retreated, Sam rolled and regained her feet. The buckskin was still blindfolded, but free.
Sam worried as she jogged back to Ace. The trail to the top had been a challenge with her eyes and Ace’s working overtime. How could the buckskin stampede down the hill sightless?
Breathing hard, Sam stabbed her thumb on the juniper as she jerked Ace’s reins loose. She glanced up to see the buckskin picking her way across the slick granite. Then she started down the twisting trail.
Instinct had kept the buckskin from following the scent of the Phantom’s herd over the cliff, but did she know where she was going?
Sam swung into the saddle. The gelding was eager, but with the buckskin just ahead of her, Sam kept Ace reined in.
“Easy, boy,” Sam said, leaning close to his neck. “You’re going to have to help me do this.”
They followed the mare at a distance, until she stopped at the wide spot in the trail where water seeped from a crack in the rock. Sam remembered this spot. They were almost down.
Still blindfolded, the mare lapped at the moisture.
Sam watched and waited, giving the buckskin a chance to drink.
The mare was tiny, thirteen hands or a little taller. Her black mane tangled down to her shoulder. Her ribs stood out with hollows in between.
Ace nickered, and there was something excited and hopeful in the way the little mare turned to him. She risked a step in his direction, slipped on hooves that hadn’t been trimmed in a long time, then took one more step and returned his inquiring nicker.
That’s it, Sam thought. She trusts Ace.
Sam remembered Brynna’s ta
le of her blind mustang, Penny, who followed her rider’s cues out of trust. And Sam remembered the Phantom, galloping down a hillside in the dark beside Ace, out of trust.
Sam would stay silent. Scary as it was, she’d leave the red blindfold in place and hope the mare followed Ace all the way home.
Sam kept her eyes on the horizon, on clouds like dandelion fluff against the blue sky. She didn’t glance toward the buckskin for fear the mare would sense it.
When Sam heard the rushing river and saw the soaring wood rectangle that marked the entrance to River Bend Ranch, she knew they’d reached the final tests.
The mare would hear her hooves clack on the wooden bridge. She’d scent strange horses and humans.
And Sam had her own test to pass: Dad.
In the months since she’d been home, Sam had hinted, suggested, and implied that she wanted to adopt another mustang. Each time, Dad refused. Animals needed to earn their feed, he insisted.
Sam thought of Strawberry, Banjo, Ace, and Tank, just a few of River Bend’s sensible, hardworking cow ponies. Then she thought of the buckskin. Even filled with expensive feed, she might remain skittish and nervy. But one thing weighed in the mare’s favor: Dad wouldn’t have been able to leave her behind, either.
For nearly an hour now, the buckskin had followed Ace. He seemed to understand his responsibility. If the mare lagged behind, Ace shortened his stride. If she kept pace a quarter mile to the gelding’s right, Ace’s ears swiveled in her direction. Once, she’d come so close that her skeletal barrel had bumped Sam’s stirrup.
Sympathy had welled up in Sam, but she stayed quiet. Words wouldn’t comfort a horse who’d received only pain from humans.
Almost there, she thought. Little horse, you’re almost safe.
Gram must have glimpsed them from the kitchen window, because she was standing on the front porch as they rode up. A breeze blew Gram’s denim skirt against her legs and picked at the gray hair pinned into a tidy bun. She wiped her hands on her blue apron, watching Sam, Ace, and the buckskin clatter over the bridge and into the ranch yard.
Gram smiled, and Sam knew that look on her face. Gram was wishing she could tell Mom all about it. Even though Sam’s mom was dead, Gram said she talked to her daughter-in-law in prayers, every night.
The buckskin hesitated when a tide of horses gathered at the fence of the ten-acre pasture. The sound of those hooves, without being able to see if the other horses were welcoming or rejecting her, must have frightened the mare. But she stayed next to Ace until he stopped near the round corral.
Jake was inside gentling a horse for a neighbor, but the gate hinges squeaked. Any second now, Jake would appear, wondering what she’d done this time.
Jake was sixteen, older than Sam by three years. Right now, he looked even older. Shoshone black hair tied back with a leather thong, fringed chinks buckled over his jeans, Jake took in all there was to know in a single glance.
Raising his brown eyes to Sam’s, he nodded, assuring her that he wouldn’t frighten the mare by speaking.
He didn’t, until she’d ridden Ace to the barn, stripped him of saddle and bridle, and turned both horses into the barn corral with Gram’s gentle paint, Sweetheart.
Exhausted and finally drinking from her canteen, Sam watched the buckskin. Clearly, she was familiar with corrals. She didn’t fling herself against the rails as some wild ones did.
Still blindfolded, the mare stood sandwiched between Ace and Sweetheart. Heedless of the hot day, the buckskin let the two horses press against her. At last, she dozed in the security of her new herd.
As Sam walked back toward the house, Jake met her halfway. She almost wished he hadn’t. He wore the same lazy tomcat smile he’d taunted her with when she was a tagalong kid.
“What?” she demanded.
“Brat,” Jake began.
“Stop calling me that. And stop laughing.”
Sam tilted her canteen to take a long drink of water.
Once her mouth was full, Jake continued.
“I just can’t wait to hear what Wyatt says when he finds out his daughter is a for-real horse thief.”
Chapter Three
“I’M NOT A horse thief!”
“Um-hmm,” Jake said. “That freeze brand and bandanna probably don’t mean a thing. Her owner just gave her to you.”
“No,” Sam admitted. “But I didn’t steal her. Exactly. If you’d seen what they were doing to her—”
“The owner was right there?” Jake’s brown eyes widened. “You mean we’re not talking burglary but outright robbery?”
“Of course not,” Sam said, but she wasn’t sure. “I just, well, there was nothing else I could do.”
“Tell it to the judge.” Jake turned back toward the round corral.
“Hey!” Frustrated, Sam gave Jake’s retreating back a flat-handed push. “You can’t just walk away.”
“Bet me,” Jake said, and kept walking.
“If you opened your eyes and looked at her, you’d see that mare is starved, dehydrated, and—” Sam searched for words to explain the horse’s terror. “And she’s an emotional mess.”
When he turned back around, Jake’s face was shadowed by his black Stetson. “I’ll help you get that rag off her head,” Jake said, but Sam could tell his sympathies were for the horse, not her.
“I don’t want your help,” Sam blurted. “I want you to admit I didn’t steal that mare. I rescued her.”
“Whatever,” Jake muttered. His spurs rang as he led the way back to the barn corral.
“You hate it when I’m right,” Sam taunted, but Jake didn’t reply. Sometimes she thought he had a daily quota of words, and when they were used up, he just quit talking.
Jake approached the buckskin cautiously, coming through the shady barn to the corral. Sam blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, but Jake wasted no time. He set one boot on a fence rail, pushed himself up, and reached for the buckskin’s head.
The mare exploded. Her piercing scream accompanied an attack. She went for Jake with such fury that one foreleg got hung by the knee over the top rail.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s okay,” Sam heard herself babbling, but Jake stayed quiet, dodging the mare’s teeth as he freed her leg, then jumped down.
Jake would only snap at her if she asked if he was okay, so Sam watched the horse instead.
The buckskin ricocheted around the corral. She slammed against the fence, banged into Ace, bumped Sweetheart, then collided with the fence again.
The mare had been calm and napping just minutes ago. Sam could see it wasn’t captivity the buckskin feared, it was people.
Jake motioned Sam outside the barn, but he kept staring back toward the mare, trying to read her mind.
“I’m calling Brynna Olson,” Sam said. Jake nodded, eyes still on the horse. “To see who adopted her and everything. And—”
Sam’s heart sped up. How could she have put aside the safety of the other horses? “I’ll ask her where someone would take mustangs to sell them for—” She couldn’t swallow down the worry. “You know, to be made into dog food.”
“They’d take them out to the auction yards in Mineral,” Jake said. “But there’s a brand inspector there. If he thinks the horses are mustangs, he won’t let them go up for sale.”
“Are you sure?” Sam thought of the two mares and the beautiful black yearling.
“Yeah.” Jake sounded bored, but Sam could see he was just preoccupied, still staring at the buckskin. “When you get done, come back.”
“Why?” She’d had every intention of doing just that, but Sam didn’t like Jake bossing her around.
“She might let you take that blindfold off,” he said.
Sam felt dizzy, remembering the mare’s charge on the mountain, remembering she’d almost fainted from fear. But Jake never suggested she do something dangerous.
“Piece of cake,” Sam said, then hurried off to make that phone call, half hoping Gram would forbid her to leave
the house.
“I’ll dispatch two rangers the minute we hang up. One can check out the auction yards. The other can go up by Lost Canyon and determine who’s responsible.” Brynna Olson, director of Willow Springs Wild Horse Center, sounded crisp and businesslike.
She always did. Sam still had to look hard to see the kind woman inside that wrinkle-free government uniform.
Still, Brynna was awfully good at her work. With a few questions, she’d pried a lot of information from Sam’s weary brain. Now, Sam could clearly picture the three men: the freckle-faced one in camouflage, the white-haired one with the buggy eyes, and the cowboy who’d flicked the black whip with such easy cruelty.
The buckskin’s screams invaded the kitchen. Gram, who’d been sipping coffee and listening to Sam’s conversation, frowned.
“I’ll read that location back to you,” Brynna said. “Correct anything I might’ve taken down incorrectly.”
Brynna read Sam’s description of the trail into Lost Canyon. Of course, she’d copied it perfectly.
“You’ve got it,” Sam said, trying to block out the commotion coming from the barn pen.
“This evening when I drive out to talk with Wyatt,” Brynna said, “I’ll check the mare’s freeze mark and start tracking her owner. What else should I know?”
Sam bit her lip. So far, she hadn’t mentioned the Phantom or said it had been his herd driven toward the trap. The less folks thought about the stallion, the better. It couldn’t possibly matter.
“They were using her as a Judas horse,” Sam blurted. “They must have turned her loose farther down the mountain, then spooked the mustangs after her. She led them right into the trap, as if she knew there’d be food there. She’s half starved and dehydrated.”
“I’ll send a vet.”
Suddenly there was a ringing thump outside, as if the mare were trying to kick her way out of the barn corral.
“Send a big one,” Sam said. “She’s a fighter.”
It turned out Sam didn’t have to remove the buckskin’s blindfold. Sweetheart rubbed faces with her and accidentally peeled off the bandanna, and that’s when the mare had gone crazy all over again.
