by Janet Dailey
“No shooting, Don. We’re going to catch the stallion.”
“What?!!” Stunned, Don turned away from the mountain meadow to stare at Holt. He was at the picket line, untying his prancing horse. Holt’s concession amounted to an about-face as far as Don was concerned, but it didn’t soften Guy’s expression, his blue eyes still icy with bitter anger. “But you said—” Don started to protest, his legs slowly moving him toward his saddled horse.
“We may not have intended to use the mares for decoys”—Holt swung into his saddle—“but that’s what they’ve become. We’ll have a better chance to rope that white stud.”
An angry squeal reverberated across the walls of the canyon. Diana turned to see the white stallion lashing out with his hind feet at the staked mare. The vicious kick missed by inches as the mare sidestepped and struggled wildly to be free. The rope that held her became tangled in her hind feet and the mare went down.
The snapping, biting attack from the stallion could not bring the mare to her feet, not with the binding rope around her legs. Screaming in anger, the stallion switched to another mare and sent her galloping to the end of her rope.
The wild commotion had excited all the horses. Holt’s mount was almost cantering in place, straining at the bit, neck arched unnaturally high. At the edge of the camp circle, he waited for Don, who was having difficulty mounting his horse. Holt untied the lariat on his saddle and began shaking out the loop.
“Are you coming?” He shot the question at Guy.
After a stony silence came the cold and condemning reply. “You don’t need me. Not you.”
“You’re my son. I’ve always needed you.” The instant that was said, Holt glanced over his shoulder to see what was keeping Don. He didn’t make any further attempt to persuade Guy to help them.
Diana wanted to scream at Guy to go with Holt. It could be essential to have three riders to rope the white mustang. But the time when Guy would listen to any of her arguments was over. That left only one alternative.
“I’ll go with you.” She started toward the picket line.
“God, no!!” It was an explosive refusal that halted her immediately. “Stay here,” Holt added in a less violent tone, “where I know you’re safe!”
The argument she had been inclined to offer died on her lips. It had been years since she had done any roping. Diana realized her ineptitude could prove to be more of a hindrance than a help. She turned away from the picket line in mute acceptance of Holt’s decision.
Finally in the saddle, Don joined Holt, his fractious horse plunging with nervous excitement. He, too, shook out his lariat, all business now. Any indecision or doubt he expressed at Holt’s announcement had vanished. His entire concentration was on the task at hand.
“How do you want to handle it?” he asked Holt.
“The stallion’s going to determine that. Chances are he is going to charge one of us when we approach. If it’s me, you throw the first loop. We’ll try to stretch him between us. Don’t miss,” Holt warned. “Ready?” Don nodded, pulling his hat down low on his forehead and shifting the saddle to be sure his cinch was tight and the saddle wouldn’t slip. “Let’s keep some distance between us so the stallion has to make a choice.”
With pressure relaxed on the reins, the horses bounded forward together. There was chaos in the desert meadow. The stallion’s rage at the mare’s inability to obey his commands made Diana tremble. She cast a despairing look at Guy, standing a few feet away, like an observer, showing no emotion.
The space widened between the two riders as they approached the grassy area. They kept to the open, not wanting to become entangled at a critical moment with any of the ropes tethering the mares. The white stallion saw them coming, tossing and shaking his long mane in a flash of temper. Diana held her breath, knowing that any second the wild horse would cease to threaten. He would rush out to meet his enemy.
His shrill whistle of challenge shivered over her nerve endings. Seeming to catapult himself forward, the stallion charged. Diana’s heart rocketed in fear, the image of Rube’s horse going down with him flashing in her mind’s eye. Lightning-swift, the horse bore down on Don.
Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw Holt’s loop snake through the air. His aim was true and the rope circled the white neck. He made a quick dally around the saddle horn and braced himself for the moment when fifteen hundred pounds of charging dynamite hit the end of the rope. Don was waiting for that second, too, his loop lazily circling the air above his head, seemingly oblivious to the danger of the onrushing stallion.
That moment never came. The instant the stallion felt the first tightening of the rope around his neck, he seemed to change directions in mid-stride. Whirling, the white fury charged at Holt, neck stretched flat, mighty jaws open. A cry of alarm tore from Diana’s throat, drowning out Holt’s shout to Don.
Spurring his horse, Don started to chase the stallion, tossing his loop. As it started to settle on the white head, the stallion swerved the fraction necessary to duck it. While Don swiftly gathered in the empty rope, Holt was trying to reel in the slack of his and keep his horse out of the path of the stallion.
Diana wanted to shut her eyes. It was becoming a nightmare. Her fingernails had dug into her palms until they were bleeding. Tears began stinging her eyes and she blinked them away, fighting through the blur to see what was going on.
The stallion was twisting and turning, relentlessly pursuing Holt. A striking hoof hit Holt’s gelding in the shoulder. His mount staggered under the blow, recovered, and eluded the next charge of the stallion. But Holt’s success in keeping out of reach of the stallion’s jaw and hooves was the source of Don’s failure. He couldn’t find a clear opening to cast his loop. If Holt and his horse weren’t in the way, then the stallion was switching directions to follow them and Don’s rope was catching air.
The stallion’s jaws ripped a chunk of flesh from the flank of Holt’s mount and the neigh of pain made Diana’s blood run cold. Don tried to maneuver himself into a better position, swinging around the horse and rider. A mare plunged frantically out of his way to the right.
“Look out!” Diana screamed the warning, but it was too late.
Don had unknowingly ridden too close. His horse’s feet became entangled in the rope holding one of the mares. It went down heavily, trapping Don beneath. The horse tried to struggle to its feet while Don strained to pull his leg free.
Holt was on his own. There would be no help from Don. Diana saw him unwind the rope dally from around his saddlehorn and throw the rope free. He stopped trying to elude the stallion and attempted to outrace him, break off the encounter. Before his horse could achieve Ml stride, the stallion was crashing into him and he went to the ground. Holt dived free of the saddle, rolled, and came up crouched on his feet. The stallion ignored the downed horse, just as he had done with Rube, and charged for the man on the ground.
“Help him!” Diana cried to Guy, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her blurring gaze slid to the rifle near his feet. “The stallion is going to kill Holt! You’ve got to stop him!”
Holt darted out of the way of the stallion’s first charge. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion on Guy’s face as he slowly bent and picked up the rifle. He simply held it in his hand and watched. Holt dodged the rearing, pounding hooves trying to beat him into the ground.
“For God’s sake, help him, Guy!”
Guy cocked the rifle, but he didn’t raise it to his shoulder. An iron-hard club of a hoof struck Holt to the ground. More pile-driving blows hit the ground as he escaped them by inches. Diana’s horror-widened eyes saw Holt clutching the upper part of his left arm as he tried to weave out of the stallion’s way.
“Guy, you’ve got to shoot!” She was pleading, begging.
Diana could see what he was thinking. If Holt were dead, she would turn to him, in his opinion, no longer bound by the Major’s wishes.
“You can’t let him die!” she whispered. Her head moved from side to si
de in helpless denial. “Guy, he’s your father. You can’t just let him die.”
For what seemed an eternity, Guy stared at her. God, couldn’t he see he was killing her, too? Diana cried silently. With a muffled sob, she turned away. Holt had somehow lost his footing and was stumbling to his knees, unable to check his fall because of his injured arm. Diana saw him trying to crawl out of the way of the tearing stallion with only one good arm to aid him.
“Holt!” It was a scream from her heart, filled with all the agony of love. She started to run to him.
With her first step, there was an explosion behind her. The white stallion staggered drunkenly onto all four feet, but, with jaws open, he went for Holt. A second shot and the mustang crumbled into a white heap on the ground.
Diana ran, her chest bursting with pain and fear. The wall of tears was so thick that she could hardly see where she was going. She had a vague image of Holt pushing to his knees, and relief soared on an eagle’s wing.
“Give me a hand!” a voice called out to her. “I can’t reach the rope to cut it!”
A blurry sideways glance recognized Don, still trapped by his fallen horse. She hesitated, then rushed over and took the knife from his hand. As Diana sawed the blade through the rope twisted around the gelding’s rear legs, she was distantly aware of Don muttering in frustration.
“The damned horse not only fell on my leg. He fell on my rifle, too. There wasn’t anything I could to to help Holt.”
“Are you hurt?” It was her voice, but Diana wasn’t aware of asking the question.
“Nothing’s broken.”
Diana stepped back the instant the rope was cut through and unconsciously jammed the knife blade in the sandy ground. She was already running toward Holt when thrashing legs kicked the horse to its feet. Don was following at a considerably slower pace, dragging his right leg.
Holt was resting on his knees, his right hand tightly gripping the upper part of his left arm. His head was tipped back, his face white with pain when she reached him.
“You’re alive! Thank God, you’re alive!” Her throbbing whisper was a prayer as her shaking fingers ran over his cheek and jaw in reassurance. “Your arm—”
He attempted a smile, warmth in the look he gave her. “My shoulder’s broken, but that’s all.” Holt started to move and winced. “Help me up.” Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Diana looped his right arm around her neck, taking as much of his weight as she could to help him to his feet. She flashed a concerned glance at his face and saw him staring at the white horse only a few feet away. “The stallion’s dead.”
“Yes.” For the first time Diana let herself glance at the equine shape. The milk-white coat was dusty and splattered with crimson. In death, the white stallion did not look like the mythical horse of classic form and beauty. His neck was too thick and heavily muscled, his barrel too long, his chest too narrow. He was a horse, possessing no qualities to set him apart from any other mustang except for his size and the fact that he paced, but never would again.
“Guy killed him,” Diana murmured. The first shot had hit the stallion in the chest and the second in the head, bringing instant death. Tears filled her eyes as she realized the full importance of what Guy had done. She looked up at Holt. “He saved your life, Holt. He killed the stallion to save you.”
Holt looked toward the camp. Diana turned and saw Guy standing where he had been, the rifle lowered. Although she couldn’t see his face, Diana knew he was watching them. Slowly, Guy turned away and walked to the picket line. He shoved the rifle in the scabbard and mounted. With one last glance in their direction, Guy paused, then kicked his horse into a canter and rode out of the canyon.
“He’s leaving. He won’t be coming back.”
At his flat statement, Diana lifted her gaze to Holt’s face. His features were chiseled in stone, revealing no more than his voice had, but there was a liquid silver sheen to his eyes.
“Maybe he’ll come back . . . someday.” She stared at the trailing cloud of dust.
JANET DAILEY is the author of scores of popular and uniquely American novels, including such bestsellers as Scrooge Wore Spurs, A Capital Holiday, The Glory Game, The Pride of Hannah Wade, and the phenomenal Calder saga, including the newest title in the series, Shifting Colder Wind. Her romantic fiction has also been featured in a story anthology, The Only Thing Better Than Chocolate. Since her first novel was published in 1975, Janet Dailey has become the bestselling female author in America, with more than 300,000,000 copies of her books in print. Her books have been published in seventeen languages and are sold in ninety countries. Janet Dailey’s careful research and her intimate knowledge of America have made her one of the best-loved authors in the country and around the world.
