During visits to the mountain pond, Misty stayed close to Rocky and the two ate grass together in the shade. And just as Rocky had accepted Misty’s rider, Mamma Mia and the other wild horses also welcomed the girl.
Moxie would walk through the herd and offer apple slices and carrots to the Mustangs. At first the wild horses wouldn’t take the food, but they changed their minds after watching Misty snacking.
Once she’d handed out the treats, Moxie would play and cuddle with the little foals.
These were blissful summer days for Moxie Wyoming, and she wanted them to last forever.
~~~~~
Back at the barn one evening, Misty slurped from the glitter-covered water bucket in her stall. Moxie and Pickle sat squished in the big armchair in Moxie’s hangout, flipping through another big book about Mustangs.
“Misty?” Moxie called. The mare looked out from her stall toward Moxie and Pickle. “Did you know that some wild Mustangs descended from—I think that means, ‘comes from’—the horses brought to America by the Spanish, uh...” She sounded out the next word. “...con-quis-ta-dors, or explorers?”
Pickle’s eyes moved back and forth between Moxie and Misty as his best friend continued reading to the horse.
“And it says here that the word Mustang comes from the Spanish word mesteño. That means horse without an owner, or a stray. I guess like a stray dog.”
“Um, are you reading to that horse?” Pickle asked. “Isn’t that kinda weird?”
Embarrassed, Moxie quickly flipped through some pages. “I just talk to her the way I talk to Bunker or any of our animals. Don’t you talk to your animals?”
“Yeah. But I say things like ‘good girl’ or ‘supper-dupper time.’ I don’t read to them from books,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like Misty can understand you.”
Moxie quickly glanced at Misty, who winked.
Moxie turned her attention to Pickle and shrugged. “And it also says here that in 1971 the U.S. Congress called the Mustangs living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West. Did you know that, Pickle Turner?”
Before her best friend could answer, Moxie slammed shut the book. “That’s enough reading! Let’s make popcorn.”
Chapter Fifteen
Friday morning, Pickle, Bunker, and Pie, the barn cat, watched Moxie do her chores inside the chicken coop. The pecking chickens made Pickle nervous, and Bunker and Pie hated Rudy the rooster, so the three stood together outside the coop’s fence as Moxie filled up the feeder.
“Pickle, this bag of feed is soooo heavy,” Moxie fake-complained. “Come help me. Don’t be such a chicken!”
Moxie Wyoming laughed at her own joke, and Pickle fake-laughed, too, rolling his eyes. The barn cat scooted away, only to pop up on top of the chicken coop’s low roof.
Meanwhile, the rooster approached Bunker. The hair on the dog’s neck and back stood up, and his low growl through the fence warned Rudy, Don’t come any closer.
Watching the two, Pickle stepped back from the coop.
Rudy charged toward Bunker, who jumped up, barking and snarling. The rooster skidded to a stop right at the fence, flapping its wings and crowing. The cat screeched, jumped off the roof, and ran into the barn. Bunker, usually the world’s most cuddly, lovable dog, continued his loud barking and growling.
“Rudy, cut it out!” Moxie yelled at the rooster. “Bunker, cool it! Settle down,” she commanded her dog. While Rudy shifted his attention to some of the hens, Bunker stopped barking, looked at Moxie, and sat.
Pickle calmly folded his arms across his chest and said, “This is why I stay out here, while you’re in there feeding those birds!”
Moxie gave Pickle her usual funny stare.
The sound of a car coming to the ranch diverted their attention. The kids watched a highway patrol cruiser pull up to the house.
“Moxie,” Pickle said in a low voice. “That’s the officer we saw at the rodeo and then at Jubilee Days.”
“Quick, act busy,” Moxie said. “I still can’t figure him out. Is he helping those Jenkins guys, or up to something with the Curly T ranch?”
Pickle stepped into the coop and helped Moxie put away the bag of feed. “What if they’re all working together?”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too, since none of them likes Mustangs. Except we don’t really know about the officer. Anyway, I wonder what he wants,” Moxie whispered.
They grabbed baskets and gathered eggs. “Do you think those men told him we know about that corral?” Pickle asked, reaching under a hen for an egg. “Ouch! Did you see that? That hen got me!”
“You’ve got to hold your basket in front of them while you reach in for the egg, so that they peck the basket instead of your hand, silly! Like this.” Moxie demonstrated.
“Hey, kids! How’s it going today?” the officer called out, walking in their direction. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” Anxious, the kids exited the chicken coop and shuffled toward him.
“I’m Officer Brown of the Wyoming Highway Patrol.” He reached out to shake their hands. Moxie took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, and firmly shook his hand, while Pickle tucked his hand in a pocket.
“Are your parents around?” he asked.
Thinking fast, she answered, “I’m Moxie Wyoming Woodson, and this is my best friend, Pickle Turner. My parents will be back any minute.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you.” He gave Moxie and Pickle a slight nod. “I’m kind of new around here, just transferred to this area a few months ago.” Moxie noticed his gaze sweep around the place, from the house to the barn to the chicken coop. It gave her the creeps.
The officer looked back at the kids. “I’m letting everybody know there will be some roadwork around here on Sunday morning and folks should avoid driving until noon, if possible.”
“You mean don’t drive out there?” Moxie pointed in the general direction of the highway.
“That’s right, but the work’s actually happening near the Deer Crossing turnoff,” Officer Brown said and got into his car. Moxie and Pickle looked at each other, remembering the secret corral down that road.
Moxie grabbed Pickle’s arm and ran up to the driver’s side, but left plenty of space between them and the car window. “Uh, Officer, you said on Sunday, not Saturday, right? I want to be sure I remember the right day.”
“Yes, young lady. The roadwork is on Sunday.” He smiled at them. “Well, I’ve got to get going,” he added.
“Yes, sir,” the kids said in unison.
The officer reached out of the car window to hand each of them a small magnet. “Also, here’s a new helpline for the public that we’ve added to our phones. Put it on your fridge. If you ever have any trouble, or you want to report anything strange...say you’re home by yourselves and need help, the highway patrol will come out as fast as possible.” He looked at the kids, smiled, and started the car engine. “It’s our new Good Neighbor program.”
“Thank you,” Moxie said, while Pickle smiled tight-lipped at the ground. “We’ll tell our parents.”
Officer Brown drove away, and the kids walked back to the chicken coop. “No way would I call that guy for help,” Moxie said under her breath.
“No way,” Pickle agreed.
“Do you think they’re really doing road work on Sunday, or is that the day of their roundup?” Moxie Wyoming said. “I wonder if Officer Brown is telling the truth or if it’s all a big fat lie.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was Saturday, and Moxie, her dad, and Pickle sat in the bleachers at the rodeo in Laramie. Pickle’s cousin, Sue, had just won the barrel racing event again.
Moxie was daydreaming about being a barrel racing champion like Sue when her father suddenly waved at a couple coming up the steps in their section of the bleachers. It was Sam and Jamie Bingham. Moxie and Pickle nudged each other.
“Mike, how are you doing?” Mr. Bingham’s face cracked a small smile. He looked over at Moxie and Pickle an
d eyed them a little suspiciously.
Moxie set her jaw firmly and looked back, while Pickle wilted a bit under the man’s hard gaze. The same way Jamie did, Moxie thought. He must be a really strict dad.
Moxie’s father stood up to shake hands with the leathery-skinned cowboy. “Hi Sam, Jamie.” Mr. Bingham’s daughter stood quietly behind her father, looking down.
Moxie’s dad continued. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Moxie Wyoming, and her best friend, Pickle Turner.” He signaled for Moxie and Pickle to stand up. “Kids, this is Mr. Bingham and his daughter, Jamie, from the Curly T Cattle Ranch.” They shook hands with the Binghams.
“Nice to meet you youngsters,” Mr. Bingham said, and Moxie thought his voice sounded particularly rough and unfriendly. “Did you and the kids catch much of the barrel racing?” he asked.
“All of it,” Moxie’s dad answered. “We saw some mighty fine riding and some beautiful horses.”
“My favorite horses are Mustangs,” Moxie piped up, staring hard at both Binghams.
“I’ve got no use for them,” Mr. Bingham muttered. “They’re a nuisance to our cattle.” He gestured toward Jamie and chuckled. “Although, my daughter here just isn’t tough enough about those wild nags.”
Jamie glanced around, looking nervous.
“Don’t let her fool you,” her father said. “She’s always saying what she thinks I want to hear, that she doesn’t like them—you know, trying to please the old man.”
Jamie’s already poor posture got even more slouchy.
Mr. Bingham went on, “But she’s got a soft spot for those pests—”
Surprised by this news about Jamie, Moxie interrupted. “Mustangs are beautiful. How can you hate them?”
“That’s enough, squirt,” her father said softly. “Well, good to see you, Sam and Jamie. Enjoy the calf roping.”
Sam Bingham nodded, and he and his daughter continued climbing the bleacher steps. Moxie watched them sit down and wondered what to make of Jamie. Did she really like Mustangs, or was she a phony?
They waited for calf-roping to start, and Moxie’s eyes swept over the crowd milling around the corrals. Competitors checked out the bulls they would be riding after the calf roping, and fans gathered around, too.
Moxie’s gaze stopped when she came to two familiar cowboys—Jeb and Frank Jenkins. She gasped, and her dad and Pickle turned to her in curiosity.
“Why are your eyes so big?” Pickle asked.
“You all right?” her father asked. “Did you swallow something? Need to cough?”
“I’m okay, Dad, just got a tickle in my throat.” Moxie forced a fake cough. The two cowboys were talking to a bull rider. The rider wore a protective vest and was sitting on a fence. “I need to get some water,” she stammered. She coughed again, dramatically.
“Want me to come with you?” Pickle jumped up.
“Sure,” Moxie said. “Be right back, Dad.” She and Pickle quickly scooted away.
Dashing behind her, Pickle asked, “What’s up?”
“The bad guys are here.” Moxie Wyoming tugged on Pickle’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s see if they talk about their roundup.”
Down below, the two friends snaked behind the bleachers and over to the corrals on the side of the rodeo ring. They stayed low so that Moxie’s dad wouldn’t spot them.
The kids slipped down a path between corrals filled with bulls and horses and tried not to attract attention. Soon, they spotted the Jenkins brothers’ dusty-brown and gray-colored cowboy hats above the fences.
Moxie and Pickle could hear them talking to the bull rider, but couldn’t understand what they were saying. The kids tiptoed closer and hid behind barrels next to the fence.
“...so, Jake, we thought we’d round up these Mustangs early tomorrow,” Jeb said. “Most people are at church or sleepin’ on a Sunday morning.” Moxie and Pickle looked at each other and stayed quiet.
“Keep it down.” Frank looked around, checking to make sure no one else could hear their plan.
Whoa! What if Jeb and Frank catch us listening, Moxie wondered.
Behind the barrels, the kids looked at each other with fear in their eyes. They continued listening to the brothers describe the secret corral to hold the eighty Mustangs they’d found scattered around the Snowies. They told Jake they had already picked up thirty-five horses and had their eye on another herd of twenty led by a big palomino stallion.
I knew it, Moxie thought, getting angry. They want to capture Rocky’s herd! These guys are bad news.
“That’s still a lot of horses for the three of us to round up,” Jake said.
“We’ve got a couple of others helpin’ in the morning,” Frank answered.
Moxie wondered if Sam and Jamie Bingham were part of the Jenkins gang. Maybe Sam and Jamie were even the ones who’d tipped them off about Rocky’s herd in the first place. Big phonies, yep, that’s what they were.
“Whatcha gonna do with the horses once they’re in the corral?” Jake asked.
“We’ve got a guy over in Cheyenne we’re selling them to,” Jeb said. “He’ll trailer them out, and who knows what he’ll do with them—”
“Probably no good, but that’s his business, if you know what I mean.” Frank laughed in an ugly way.
Moxie snuck a look. She thought Frank was squinting straight at her and so she ducked, pulling Pickle with her until they were flat on the ground. She peeked out carefully, but he hadn’t seen her.
“What about people being nosy about a bunch of trailers?” Jake asked.
“We’ve got a special friend in the highway patrol keeping traffic out of the way Sunday morning.” Frank smirked. “So, don’t worry about that.”
“Hey, is that smart, having him as the lookout?” Jake asked. “He’s a law enforcement officer, you know. I mean, he could turn on you and arrest all of us.”
“Don’t worry about Officer Brown.” Jeb leaned in as if he was telling them something secret. “Someone I know over by Rock Springs told me this cop is an okay guy.” He put one boot up on the first rung of the fence. “So, are you in, Jake? We’ll split the money from the sale of the horses.”
“I’m in.” Jake jumped down from the fence and shook their hands. “I can always count on you two to come up with a way to make some easy money.”
“Remember, we don’t want the sheriff to find out,” Frank advised. “So keep it quiet.”
Moxie and Pickle gulped and decided they’d better get out of there as quickly as possible. They stayed low and snuck back the same way they had come.
“They said their gang has six people,” Moxie said as they walked through the crowd.
“Jeb and Frank,” Pickle said. “And Jake and Clem. That’s four.”
“Want to bet who the other two gang members are?” Moxie asked. “How about Jamie and Mr. Bingham?”
“Yeah, they’re probably in on it, too,” Pickle answered, close on Moxie’s heels.
“Well, the Binghams are at the rodeo, too. We just saw them,” Moxie said. “They could have met up here with Jeb and Frank to go over their plan before the rodeo started.”
At the bottom of the bleachers, Moxie stopped. “I just remembered something...uh, go tell Dad I’m using the restroom, so he doesn’t come looking for me.”
“Okay, but whatcha gonna do, Moxie?” Pickle asked, sounding worried.
“I need to find someone. I mean, call someone for help,” Moxie said. “If only I had my own cell phone. Don’t tell Dad anything about those guys. Okay?” Moxie’s best friend nodded and went up the bleacher steps, glancing back with concern.
Moxie had to think fast. She thought about telling her father, but what if he went after those two creeps—Jeb with the nasty scar on his face and Frank with the crooked nose? She had no doubt those men were mean, and even without the rest of the gang, it would still be two against one. She didn’t like that at all.
She finally found a pay phone and dug some money out of her pocket. For a s
econd she thought about calling the new Good Neighbor helpline since she had memorized the number. But Officer Brown might get the call, and she didn’t trust him.
Pulling out the card she’d gotten from Miss Laramie Jubilee Days, she quickly dropped some coins into the phone’s slot and dialed the cell number.
“Uh, hi, Miss Hendricks?” Moxie whispered as soon as she heard the phone pick up, but it was voice mail. She waited for the beep to begin speaking. “Miss Hendricks, this is Moxie Wyoming Woodson. I met you with my friend Pickle at Laramie Jubilee Days.” Moxie tried to stay calm, but urgency filled her voice. “Anyway, I’ve got a hot tip, since you want to be a deputy and all, and you like Mustangs.”
The whole story came out in a rush, everything she had just heard Jeb and Frank say to Jake. “They’re breaking the law, aren’t they, Ms. Hendricks? Can’t you arrest them?”
Explaining directions to the corral, the girl talked fast, worried the voice mail would beep and stop recording. She then covered her mouth and the mouthpiece of the phone. “They didn’t see me at the rodeo and don’t know I’m calling you. I was real careful.”
Moxie looked around to make sure no one could overhear. “I heard them say some guy from Cheyenne is going to pick up the Mustangs tomorrow. The Jenkins guys said they’d split the money with the rest of the gang, even with that highway patrol guy, Clem Brown. He’s the lookout for them.”
Moxie got a tickle in her throat, a real one this time, and coughed. “Excuse me. I’m so not making this up, Miss Hendricks, promise. Please keep it a secret that it’s me calling you. I don’t want to get into trouble for being nosy. Okay, that’s it. Maybe you can help. Bye.” And she hung up the phone.
Moxie looked around and noticed Jeb and Frank Jenkins walking in her direction. She scurried up into the bleachers to sit as close as possible to her dad.
“What took so long?” Her dad squeezed her shoulder. “I almost sent the sheriff out looking for you.”
Moxie felt herself freeze up, stiff as a board.
A Wild Ride: The Adventures of Misty & Moxie Wyoming (Girl Detective & Her Horse Mystery Story Ages 6-8 & 9-12) Page 7
