Third-Time Lucky

by Jenny Oldfield

  Coming back from the gas station shop with ice cream and candy bars, Matt raised his eyebrows at her, kidding her as usual. “Talk about weird!”

  “We’ll ignore that!” Kirstie told Lucky. She checked his leg bandages, his head collar, his hay net. “All we need to think about is Rainbow Mountain and persuading Zak Stone to make you better, OK?”

  In Montana you could see forever. Matt and Kirstie drove Lucky over the border early on Thursday morning. Hawks wheeled in the vast expanse of blue sky. The land to either side of the dirt road was dry, the grass brittle and dotted here and there with old red barns.

  They’d broken camp at dawn, kicked earth over their still smoldering campfire, and washed in the cold clear water of a nearby stream. Kirstie had groomed Lucky, trying not to notice the dull, lifeless condition of his once beautiful golden coat. She’d forced a little more feed on him, knowing how difficult it must be for him to chew and swallow when she heard the choked struggling intake of air into his lungs and the noisy, coughing exhalation. “Soon!” she’d whispered as she’d bolted the ramp into position, ready for the final leg of the journey. “Trust me!”

  She spent the morning in the passenger seat, tracing their way through the backcountry of southern Montana, shoulders hunched over the creased map. By eleven o’clock they’d passed through a couple of ghost towns—empty wooden houses with boarded-up windows, defunct fuel pumps by the roadside, a rusting, overgrown railway line that stopped in the middle of nowhere. Still the birds circled overhead, while watery clouds were dragged across the blue sky by a wind from the east. By midday, the rain set in.

  “Wentworth County.” Matt read the sign by the side of the road.

  Kirstie looked up from the map, through the greasy, insect-stained windshield. The wipers weren’t doing a good job on the drizzle, but she could still make out hills like soft green pincushions in the distance, a change from the unbroken plains they’d been traveling through all morning. “The next place should be Bear Claw Creek, I guess.”

  Matt worked his stiff shoulders up and down. “I reckon that’s where we stop to ask a few questions.”

  If the map was right, Bear Claw Creek was the last town before Rainbow Mountain and the only place where Kirstie and Matt would be likely to get information on Zak Stone. Suddenly, after the long, semi-dazed hours in the truck, Kirstie found herself sitting forward on the edge of her seat.

  She noticed a covered wooden bridge over a creek to their left, two haystacks perched on the low horizon. Beyond them there was a farm with white specks moving about in the yard, geese perhaps. Then, on the dirt road ahead, were two cowboys on horseback, well used ropes looped around their saddle horns, weathered chaps flapping wetly against their horses’ flanks.

  As Matt passed the two riders, he leaned out of his window. “Bear Claw Creek?” he asked.

  “Right up ahead,” came the low, slow reply. “’Bout a mile. You can’t hardly miss it!”

  “… Yeah, there!” After a minute or two, Kirstie was able to point to two rows of houses lining the road. They looked dark and dismal through the misty rain, an impression made worse by a couple of old trucks without wheels dumped at the fringe of the town and a steel grain silo towering behind. The buildings dribbled on for a few hundred yards until Matt drove into the town center, a crossroads with telegraph wires looped overhead, a general store, a gas station, and an old cinema.

  As he pulled over to the right and coasted into the gas station, Kirstie bit back her disappointment. This was nothing like the place she’d pictured. For miles of blue sky, read gray rain clouds. For pretty farms on green hillsides, read a run-down hick town in the middle of nowhere.

  “Hey.” Matt greeted the young woman who came out to serve gas.

  Dark-haired, heavily built, and scowling, she nodded back.

  “Which way to Rainbow Mountain?”

  The woman jerked her thumb toward the range of pincushion hills.

  “Can you tell us where Zak Stone hangs out?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Matt introduced himself and Kirstie and explained their business.

  “Sure, I know where he hangs out.” The woman’s brows practically knitted together with suspicion. “His place is Thunder Lodge. But no way will he see you.”

  Matt dipped his head to one side. “How come?”

  “He don’t see no one. He gave up horse doctoring way back.”

  “Yeah?” Matt was in no hurry to move on, despite a dig in his ribs from Kirstie. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Zak had a problem with the state authorities. They said he earned good money giving advice, mixing herbs, healing and all that stuff. Wanted to tax him plenty. Zak said he ain’t never earned a cent from working with folks’ horses. It was one big mess, I can tell you.” The woman was more forthcoming than perhaps she’d intended. She clammed up again now.

  “Real sorry.” Matt jumped down from the cab and asked for a full tank of fuel. When he climbed back in, he said the woman had given him detailed directions to Thunder Lodge.

  “How did you do that?” Kirstie demanded. She was taking deep breaths, wanting to reach their journey’s end, yet half-dreading it, staring at the low mountains as if they held a fascinating yet deadly secret.

  “Let’s say it was my natural charm!” For a few seconds Matt concentrated on getting them back on the road.

  The dusty trailer rattled over the rough ground, then settled into the muddy groove worn by other tires. He smiled tensely at Kirstie and flicked on the wipers. “Zak Stone’s place is two miles east, then take a left at a haystack, a right where the sign says Thunder Rock, then another left down a narrow culvert. Like the two cowboys and the lovely young lady at the gas station said, ‘You can’t hardly miss it!’”

  8

  The road ran out in a dead end. There was a thicket of willows and young aspens, a tall sluice box spilling water into a clear pool. The hills rose steeply to either side, cutting out the view of blue, distant mountains.

  “This is the culvert, I guess.” Matt climbed down from the cab to take a look around. They’d traveled ten miles on from Bear Claw Creek, following directions yet fearing more and more that the gas station woman had sent them on a wild goose chase. Then they’d spotted the old wooden sign to Thunder Rock and realized they were on the right track after all.

  Kirstie followed Matt past the pond, pushing willow branches aside, looking in vain for a cabin or any sign at all that this was the place where Zak Stone lived. “What happened to the road?” she asked.

  Matt shrugged. “What happened to electricity?” The overhead cables had run out long before the road, as had any other suggestion of civilization. “And the whole of the twentieth century! Man, I sure wouldn’t want to live here!”

  They listened to the wind in the aspen trees, went on searching for a track, a fence, a gate—anything that might lead to a house.

  “Hear that!” Kirstie held up a warning hand. There was movement up the hillside, beyond the trees. It could be deer or something heavier; maybe elk. Or maybe only her imagination. As she listened again, the woods fell silent.

  “C’mon.” Matt suggested a retreat to the trailer. “Maybe we can get back to the last cabin on the road and ask more questions.” He was already back tracking past the sluice box, stepping carefully around the muddy border of the pond.

  But Kirstie stayed behind, gazing into the dripping trees. The aspen leaves were like a green mosaic, shot through with splashes of yellow as the sun broke through the clouds. A white, warm mist covered the rocky ground, and then, as if by magic, the far-off mountain lived up to its name. “Rainbow!” she whispered.

  An arc of pure colors rose above the watery landscape, red shading to yellow, green to indigo and violet. It began behind the mountain and ended far off in the west, fading into bruised, blue clouds and more rain.

  Kirstie’s silence drew the animals from their rocky heights into the stand of aspens, their feet snapping brittle br
anches, their bodies brushing against wet leaves. Big creatures, their brown, black, and white bodies appearing and disappearing, their snorting breath and heavy, hollow tread familiar to her. There was a glimpse of black-and-white flank, of white mane and a dark, gleaming eye. Then the first horse came into full view.

  He was a pinto stallion, strong and proud, his head big and handsome, his shoulders broad, chest deep. Behind him came a sorrel mare, daintier, with a white blaze running the length of her face. She was leading and protecting a nervous bay foal only two or three months old, his dark mane dripping from the recent rain, his skinny legs covered in mud. None of the horses wore head collars, none were shod. Perhaps they were wild.

  Kirstie glanced over her shoulder. She wanted Matt to come back to share the sight of the silent, still creatures who had seen her and come to a wary halt. But he was out of sight past the pond, so she turned back again to study the horses.

  Without a sound, a tall, broad man dressed in faded denims had stepped out of the trees between her and the pinto. He blocked her way, looked down at her with a stern, suspicious gaze. His eyes were deep set in a wide, bony face, his long hair tied back, his mouth thin and displeased.

  Kirstie gasped and took a step away. She bit back a shout for help, knowing it would make her look dumb and scared. But truly her body was shaking and no words came to her aid as she stared up at the hostile man.

  “You lost your way.” His deep voice broke the silence. Behind him, the three horses drew nearer.

  She shook her head, even though it was a statement, not a question. Kirstie’s eyes latched onto a beaded leather sheath at the man’s waist containing a glittering blade.

  “Yeah, you did. The road goes nowhere.”

  “We came looking for Zak Stone.” She stole another glance at his face, saw no sign of softening, only a blank wall.

  “Zak Stone don’t want to be found.”

  Kirstie took a deep breath. This was obviously the man himself: part Native American, a hermit who shunned all visitors. “My horse is sick.”

  No reply.

  “Real sick. He could die.” Please! she implored with her wide gray eyes. She felt her bottom lip tremble as the man made as if to turn away.

  Then he paused. He narrowed his dark brown eyes. “That your horse in the trailer? The palomino?”

  “Yes!” He must have been secretly watching them as they drove into the culvert, then taken a look at Lucky as Matt and she explored on foot. This flashed through Kirstie’s mind as she seized the only chance she would get to secure Zak Stone’s help.

  “My brother goes to vet school.” She began slowly, then the words poured out. “He couldn’t help, so we called in our vet, Glen Woodford. It turns out there was a mix up over Lucky’s shots. We had a foal die on us last weekend; he caught an infection from a pony I rescued. We guess my horse got the same bug. Glen’s doing tests to find out. Only I didn’t wait; I decided to bring Lucky here!” Running out of breath and courage at the same time, Kirstie lowered her gaze.

  “You’re right—the horse is real sick.” Zak Stone let the pinto come and stand beside him, while the sorrel and the foal hung back. The man’s face had lost its hard, blank look and turned thoughtful. “The spirit is weak in him.”

  Kirstie sighed and slumped against the nearest tree, suddenly swamped by a sense of defeat.

  “But the light is there,” Stone went on. “Faded, like the rainbow when the sun goes, but still within him.”

  Kirstie shook her head. She was exhausted to the point of admitting defeat. “What does that mean?”

  He gazed at her, impassive again. “Your horse’s life is in the balance. But he doesn’t give in. He fights.”

  Then she would fight, too. Kirstie hadn’t brought Lucky through three states, across mountains and plains to end in doubt and failure.

  She drew herself up, met the piercing eye of the legendary horse doctor, spoke out at last. “Save him for me!”

  Not a question, a statement. No shadow of doubt. Trust this man, a voice said from deep inside, from her heart.

  “Wise men of the old nations had a different way of looking at life,” Zak Stone told Matt and Kirstie. He’d made himself known to her and agreed to help. Kirstie had run to fetch Matt and now they were unbolting the back of the trailer and letting down the ramp.

  “The British and the French came to our wide plains and scorned us, asking why we believed in Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery. ‘Where are the facts to support you in your belief? Where is the science? What is it but old superstition and nonsense?’” Zak spoke matter-of-factly, without resentment. “So the wise men of the tribes answered the ignorant questions with another question: ‘What is faith except belief without facts?’”

  Matt smiled at Kirstie. “What’s logic got to do with it, huh?”

  “Yeah, right!” Fumbling at the bolts, she helped lower the ramp and stepped inside the trailer. Lucky gazed at her, almost too weak to lift his head. The veins in his thin face stood out; his eyes were dull. “What did I tell you?” she said, going right up to him and cradling his head in the crook of her arm. “This is Rainbow Mountain. Didn’t I say I knew there was someone special here who could help?”

  “Bring him out, Kirstie.” Matt sounded anxious. “I’ve got a blanket out here to keep him warm. The sooner we get moving the more chance we have.”

  “No. No blanket, and take your time,” Zak advised. He looked like he never hurried or raised his voice.

  “Anyway, I have no choice.” She noticed that the stiffness in Lucky’s legs was worse, that the fetlock joints visible above the trailer bandages had swollen to twice their normal size. Given his weak condition, she knew that moving fast was beyond him.

  So she soothed and tempted him down the ramp, talking all the while, but shocked when she brought him into the daylight to see how lifeless his golden coat had turned, how thin he’d grown over the last four or five days. His tense jaw and arched back showed what a strain it was to make even the small amount of effort involved in walking out of the trailer.

  “There’s open grazing land behind the sluice box,” Zak told her, leading the way past the running water, down a grassy track between willow bushes. He’d taken in Lucky’s weakened state and said it was important for him to drink and rest for the remainder of the day.

  “What else?” Kirstie asked, as step by step she encouraged Lucky along the track. Ahead she saw a green meadow surrounded by trees and rocks, a natural enclosure where her horse would be safe. But she expected more action from Zak. “When do we start to heal him?”

  “We already started,” Zak replied. “We give him time to drink spring water, for the sun to shine on him, for the moon to rise and look down.”

  “Yeah, but …” She wondered about herbs and old native medicines, but Zak’s stern look had returned so she fell silent. Instead of bothering him with questions, she simply led Lucky into the middle of the meadow, released him from his head collar and stepped back.

  The horse doctor nodded. “The spirit of Thunder Rock will find him here,” he explained. “He’ll protect your horse from harm. Tomorrow, when Lucky is stronger, we’ll take him to the rock and talk to the spirit.”

  “You want me to leave him here?” Kirstie understood, but she hesitated. Lucky was sick and confused; surely he needed her to stay close.

  Zak looked at the panic in her eyes. “Trust the spirit,” he told her.

  Boy, this was hard! Lucky was so weak he could hardly stand. Every breath looked like it might be his last. Yet Zak Stone was saying walk away—leave him in this strange green prison. And she had to do it. If this was going to work, she must follow exactly what the guy said.

  “Kirstie?” Matt murmured. He stood on the track with Zak.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be close by,” she whispered to Lucky. “Call if you need me.”

  Thunder Lodge, where Zak Stone had lived for more than thirty years, was a small, two-roomed cabin at the foot of a sheer, over
hanging cliff. A stream ran by its door, feeding a small wooden water tower powered by a steam pump. There was a high woodpile in the porch and a small corral where the backwoods man would keep his pinto, his sorrel, and her foal during the long winter months.

  Inside, all was kept neat and clean. A plain table stood in the center of the main room on a floor covered by a red and black patterned rug. There was a sink with one tap, a wood-burning stove, a window without drapes overlooking the stream. The room, smelling of pine and woodsmoke, had no ornaments, no personal possessions except those few pots and pans which Zak used for cooking.

  He stood in the doorway with Matt and Kirstie, looking out at the setting sun. Lennie Goodman’s trailer, the only reminder of modern life, was parked by the sluice box out of sight.

  “So why did you break your rule and decide to help us?” Matt asked, going to sit on the porch step, his long legs stretched out, his boot tapping a rhythm on the grass. “The woman in Bear Claw Creek said no way would you do any more work with sick horses.”

  “Blame your sister.” Zak’s gaze didn’t flicker from the far horizon. “The girl would just about give up her life for that horse. Who am I to turn her away?”

  “So why stop the good work in the first place?” Curiosity drove Matt on. “If you have a gift, why not use it?”

  Zak shrugged. “Folks bothered me,” was all he said. Then he got to talking about the past. He said he did remember a guy from a ranch in Colorado and a pinto horse called Bandit. “Smart horse,” he murmured, nothing more.

  But when Matt asked him to go further back in time to tell them about his roots, he opened up willingly. He was part Sioux Indian, he confirmed. “My great-grandfather was a Teton, a buffalo hunter. His grandfather was brother to Red Cloud. He fought at Little Bighorn with Sitting Bull.”