by P. C. Cast
Several teams to the right of Clayton and Bard, River spotted Jonathan and his big sorrel stallion, Red. Jonathan tipped his head respectfully to her, and River returned the gesture. Red was a powerful contender, and a well-respected Herd Magenti stallion; they would be tough to beat if Red’s stamina held over the fifty miles of the race.
Another strong team from Herd Magenti was Kaleb and his stallion, Pharaoh. She spotted them near the edge of the line of stallions, easy to identify because of Pharaoh’s distinctive buckskin markings. The stallion looked great—in perfect flesh. He was well known as one of the toughest horses in the Herd—and was especially good at being able to speed up and over hills and ridges.
But so is Ghost, River thought. And Pharaoh hadn’t had to survive on his own in those hills for a winter by himself.
Green ribbons caught River’s gaze. From Virides, the Herd well known for the fastest horses on the Plains of the Wind Riders, River recognized Regis and his blond stallion, Hobbs. Hobbs was pawing the earth restlessly and blowing through his nose.
Good. He’ll wear himself out. River dismissed him. A stallion’s reputation—or their Herd’s reputation—didn’t matter during the Run, especially if a fast stallion wore himself out before the fifty miles even began.
Then everyone’s attention shifted as Echo galloped into the Choosing Theater carrying Dawn. The aging mare looked spectacular, dressed in purple ribbons embroidered with her silver-white mane. River was filled with pride as her mother sat her mare, straight and strong, looking every bit like the magnificent Lead Mare Rider she had been for a decade. She carried their purple standard, which waved gracefully in the gentle summer breeze.
The cheer that greeted her was deafening, and River joined in enthusiastically. Then every stallion in the theater neighed a greeting—showing the ultimate respect to a beloved Mare Rider.
Smiling, Dawn raised her hand as Echo faced the line of stallions and their Riders.
“Greetings, guests, Riders, and their stallions!”
The crowd cheered again, but quieted quickly.
“As you all know, today’s Run is unusual, which is why I am addressing you and opening the race instead of the Lead Mare Rider of our Herd Magenti. For the first time in Herd history a Lead Mare Rider will race with the stallions on an unbonded horse.” Dawn paused for the smattering of applause and murmuring from the viewing stands. “So, my daughter River, Herd Magenti’s current Lead Mare Rider, asked me to open the race for her, which I am proud to do.”
River took a good grip of Ghost’s mane. Her mother would give the signal to begin soon, and she knew exactly what Ghost had decided to do. The stallion was determined to take the lead early to show everyone in the huge crowd that he was strong enough to win the Run—from beginning to end.
“You know the rules. Follow the fifty-mile course, which is marked clearly. Riders and their stallions will have several choices to make today. The most conservative choice is always marked by the purple flags. When you see a black flag it will mark a shortcut, but those trails are always more difficult. So, choose wisely, Riders. When you see the shortcut marked by double black flags, that will signify the last one. When the shortcut course joins the main track again it will lead into the valley and the five-mile stretch that is the conclusion of the Run. The finish will be at the base of the Rock Mountains at the end of Foal Valley. The first team to pass beneath the Magenti standard before dusk wins.
“I am pleased to see so many strong teams competing. It honors my daughter and her mare, as well as Herd Magenti. Race safely and”—Dawn paused long enough to catch River’s gaze—“may a mare’s luck be with you!”
Echo whirled around and trotted several yards to the middle of the Choosing Theater. Dawn raised the purple flag, and then with a sharp motion she waved it back and forth above her head, signaling the beginning of the Stallion Run.
Ghost surged forward. River leaned low against his neck, lifting a little in her stirrups so that she remained still on his back—doing her best to balance perfectly.
Within six strides Ghost had pulled ahead of every stallion except Bard and Hobbs. The three stallions were running neck and neck.
“Faster!” River shouted, and Ghost’s stride stretched out so that within ten strides he had taken the lead, and as they thundered from the Choosing Theater out onto the grassy plain surrounding it, Ghost was leading Hobbs and Bard by two lengths—then three—then four.
River was breathless at Ghost’s speed—and it seemed to be never-ending. He didn’t slow, even when they were out of view of the crowd. He didn’t slow, even after she tapped his neck, alerting him to the first of the purple flags that marked a turn to the left.
River gave Ghost his head. She trusted the stallion completely to know himself—to judge how long he could maintain his top speed. If Ghost was wrong, if he ran out of stamina and lost the race, that meant she had misjudged his ability to lead the Herd, and then he should be beaten.
Though not by Clayton and Bard. Never by them.
Ghost didn’t slow until River cued him that she’d spotted a black flag, signaling their first shortcut, and their first decision as a team. The stallion slowed to a gallop, then a smooth canter—and finally a trot.
River lifted in her stirrups, looking behind them. This section of the prairie was flat, and she could easily see that about one hundred yards behind them Hobbs was running second, his green ribbons streaming against his body. And behind Hobbs by only a few lengths was Bard. Spread out in a staggered line were half a dozen more stallions, led by Jonathan’s big sorrel stallion, Red.
She turned quickly, not wasting more time looking behind, to assess the shortcut. As with all of the teams competing from Herd Magenti, River and Ghost had an advantage over the Riders from outside Herds. This was their territory, and especially this close to the Rendezvous Site, they knew it well.
“I see what they’re doing here. The shortcut will take us through the cross timber line at the widest part of Weanling Creek, which means we’ll have to go down a steep bank, swim the creek, and climb another bank,” River reasoned aloud. Even though, unlike her Anjo, Ghost didn’t understand all of her words, she knew he caught some of what she said, and he for sure felt her emotions. “That’s nothing for you! We’re taking the shortcut!” River cued him with her knee, and without hesitation Ghost followed the black flags, entering the cross timber line shortly to begin the climb up to the steep, northernmost bank of Weanling Creek.
River had Ghost pause at the top of the bank long enough for her to look behind them. Between the trees she caught a flash of black and white.
“Bard took the shortcut. Don’t see Hobbs, though. Not surprising. He doesn’t know this territory well. Go!”
Ghost plunged down the steep bank as River leaned back, balancing him. She didn’t take the time to untie her saddle or hold the bags over her head—whatever got wet would just have to stay wet. The Stallion Run was a race. They would not be stopping.
She did kick out of the saddle to make swimming easier for Ghost, as the current was swift where the creek was this deep, then River easily slid astride before the stallion surged out of the creek and attacked the next bank. After the creek the course joined the purple-marked path again. The next time River looked back she saw Bard and Hobbs, with Red and Kaleb’s Pharaoh trailing them by several lengths in fourth and fifth place.
“It’s Bard in second and Hobbs in third,” River told the stallion. Ghost didn’t hesitate. He kicked into a ground-eating gallop, pulling well ahead of Bard and Hobbs again—slowing to a canter and then a trot only after he’d increased his lead by several more lengths.
That set the pattern for the very long day. Ghost never lost his lead. Bard and Hobbs changed positions frequently—as did Red and Pharaoh—until sometime after midday, when they topped a ridge and River could gaze out over the plains behind them. She could not see Pharaoh at all, though Red had pulled within just a few lengths of Bard and Hobbs.
&n
bsp; Ghost snorted and began to move down the ridge, but River cued him to stop. Quickly, she slid from his back and opened the saddlebags, taking out the water skin and an apple for herself, and several handfuls of the sticky molasses and grain mixture that would help maintain the stallion’s energy reserves.
“Here—you’ve pulled far enough ahead that you can eat this.” Ghost lipped the grain from her hands, and then drank his fill of water as she cupped that for him as well. River gulped some water and bit the apple, holding it with her teeth as she remounted so that she could eat as the stallion rested by falling into a steady trot—a pace he could maintain for miles and miles.
River marveled at Ghost’s strength. She’d grown up listening to stories of the greatest stallions in Herd history. Names like Eclipse, Admiral, Dancer, and Ruffian were as familiar to her as their tales of bravery, speed, and strength, but by the time the sun was halfway down its westerly trek to the horizon River was convinced that none of those legendary stallions had been any braver, stronger, or faster than Ghost.
That didn’t mean the Run was easy for the stallion. His golden coat was frothed with white, and her saddle pad was drenched with his sweat and hers by the time she spotted the double black flags that marked the last shortcut.
“This is it! The sprint to the finish will be just after this shortcut meets the main course again!”
Ghost snorted wearily and automatically turned to take the shortcut—as they had chosen to take each one before then—but River pressed her heels into his flank to stop him.
“We can’t take this one! I recognize this place. This section of the cross timbers is filled with goathead thistle groves. It’s shorter, but I don’t know the way through it—Anjo and I have always avoided these groves. Unless you’ve been this way before it’ll slow us down—maybe even trap us like it did Luce and Blue during the Mare Test.”
Ghost hesitated, looking behind them, but the trees were too thick and it was impossible to see who was trailing them or how close they were. The stallion tossed his head fretfully.
“We have the lead. We can afford to take the longer way—but we can’t afford hesitation.”
Her words must have made sense to the stallion, because Ghost turned from the black flags to continue cantering on the original course. River stroked his sweat-soaked neck and murmured encouragement, and as soon as the trail climbed a rise she stood in her stirrups and looked behind them.
“Bard’s second. He’s almost at the shortcut. Hobbs is several lengths behind him, neck and neck with Red. Oh, I can see Pharaoh again, but he’s moving slow—only trotting—and Kaleb is running beside him. He must be injured.” She was just going to say that she was sorry Pharaoh was out of the competition when Bard disappeared between the black flags of the shortcut. “Ghost! Bard’s taking the shortcut!”
Her words worked like a goad on the stallion. He broke from his restful trot into a gallop, though he quickly seemed to think better of it and slowed to a more easily maintained canter. River leaned forward, riding low on his neck, as the mighty stallion’s hooves beat against the dirt track, pounding out a staccato rhythm.
It seemed to River to take forever for them to circle around the goathead grove, but finally she caught sight of the two black flags heralding the end of the shortcut—and the two purple flags that signified the main course of the race.
There was no sign of Bard and Clayton.
“Did they get that far ahead of us?” River stood in her stirrups, trying to see ahead of them, but they were at the edge of the cross timbers, and hadn’t reached the entrance to Foal Valley yet, so the path was still curving around trees and visibility was limited. “I can’t believe Clayton would’ve taken that shortcut if he didn’t already know the way through the goatheads. We have to catch him.”
Ghost didn’t need more encouragement. He lengthened his stride to a gallop and they wove expertly through the trees and scrub.
River was so utterly focused on guiding Ghost through the cross timbers that she didn’t notice Clayton and Bard until it was almost too late.
It was Ghost who noticed. His ears flattened against his head and he squealed a warning. Completely caught off guard, River glanced behind in time to see Bard leap from a hiding place behind a pile of scrub and thunder toward them. In Clayton’s hand was a noosed rope that he was twirling over his head. River could see that Clayton was aiming for Ghost’s rear hock—not surprising, as that was how he’d tripped him up so long ago—but there was something strange about the rope. It looked heavier, thicker than normal. However, there was no time for her to figure out what it was, or why—there was only time for her to act.
She yanked her lasso from around the horn of her sweat-soaked saddle and shook it out. Then she leaned close to Ghost’s neck, speaking into his flattened ears—hoping beyond hope the stallion would understand.
“Slow. Let them get closer. I’m going to cue you when to stop and turn.” River held her breath until Ghost began to slow. He must understand me—he must!
She glanced back once more. Bard was gaining on them—less than three lengths behind—now two lengths—now Clayton was leaning forward, his eyes glinting with intensity as he took aim at Ghost’s hock.
“Now!” River shouted into Ghost’s ear as she cued him to stop and turn to his left—away from Clayton and Bard.
The stallion performed perfectly. Ghost dug his back hooves into the ground and whirled to the left. It happened too fast for Clayton to correct Bard, and as they blazed past River threw her lasso. It settled around the unusually fat noose Clayton was still twirling over his head. River yanked and with a shout of surprise she pulled the rope out of Clayton’s hands.
River reeled in her lasso, gasping in shock as the rope Clayton had been twirling—had been aiming at Ghost’s vulnerable rear hock—reached her hand.
Clayton had wrapped the noose of his lasso in goathead thistle strands. Had he captured Ghost’s hock with it, one swift jerk of the rope would have been enough to sever the stallion’s tendon—laming him for life—and at the speed they’d been going there was little doubt that River would have been thrown or even been trapped beneath the massive horse. Either way, both Ghost and River might very well have been mortally wounded, and it would have appeared to whoever eventually found them that they’d taken the shortcut and tried to travel too quickly through the goathead grove.
“What happened to you? You used to have honor. You used to be decent!” River shouted at Clayton as her heart broke for the boy she’d once loved as a brother. He and Bard were only yards away from them. The two stallions were facing each other—both covered with white foam and breathing hard.
Instead of answering, Clayton dug his heels into Bard and shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”
The big black stallion sprinted ahead.
Ghost pranced in place, aching to chase them, but River held him still as she yanked open a saddlebag and pulled out the neatly rolled up blanket. She flipped it open, quickly and carefully wrapping it around the razor-tipped goathead noose, and shoved it back in the bag—and as she did so Hobbs and Red thundered past them just a few yards to their right.
“Got it! Now let’s win this race!”
Ghost squealed a challenge as he flew forward, tearing the earth as he pounded after the three stallions, weaving through the trees with such speed that River could only duck her head against low-hanging branches and hold on.
The cross timber line gave way to the mouth of the wide, lush Foal Valley bordering the Rock Mountains. As they entered the valley River could see, far in the distance, the colorful crowd that waited at the finish with purple flags streaming in a line clearly marking the end.
Bard was at least seven lengths ahead, with Hobbs and Red running together three or four lengths behind and gaining on him.
Ghost attacked the ground, stretching his stride to a seemingly impossible length. The wind whipped past River’s face, causing tears to cascade from her eyes, but she leaned low, calling encour
agement to the stallion.
Hobbs pulled away from Red and caught Bard first. There was a pause, and then Hobbs passed the laboring black stallion. River saw Clayton startle—he sat straight up, causing Bard’s stride to falter. Then Clayton reached up under his tunic, pulling a thick length of stick from his waistbelt, which he raised and began cruelly striking Bard across the rump.
River didn’t need to be bonded with Ghost to understand his reaction. The magnificent stallion bellowed with rage and he miraculously increased his speed, easily passing Red.
Then they were gaining on Bard. Clayton was still whipping the stallion, and the brave black was trying valiantly to increase his speed, but River could see that he was at the point of exhaustion, and as they drew alongside Bard, River kneed Ghost closer to Clayton.
Clayton looked at her then. His face was red with anger; his teeth were bared in a feral grimace.
For just an instant River met his gaze. Then, “Go, Ghost! Go!” she shouted, and the mighty stallion somehow found a reserve of strength and blazed ahead of Bard—and as he did River spat back at Clayton, hitting him in his scarlet face.
Then she turned her back on Clayton—and closed her mind to him forever as well.
She could hear the shouts of the watching crowd as she leaned low against Ghost’s neck, grasping his silver mane in both hands, urging him forward with faith and love and joy.
They caught Hobbs so quickly that she only had a moment to see Regis’s startled expression as Ghost blew past him—and then there was nothing before them except wide, flat valley and the cheers of their Herd.
Ghost didn’t slow. He found more strength—more speed—as if the cheers of his Herd had restored his exhausted body, and by the time he and River thundered across the finish line his lead had grown to thirty-one lengths.
River sat up, lifting her arms in victory while the Herd cheered. She cued Ghost to slow gently, guiding him into a wide circle that looped them past the entrance to the main Rock Mountain passage.
