Wild Horses Read online

  The rocks to either side rose sheer and blocked what was left of the sun. The shadows closed in.

  And then she saw.

  Lucky stopped dead. And Kirstie discovered what it was that had made him so eager to push ahead.

  A herd of horses had gathered at the far end of the canyon. Horses without head collars, their manes tangled, heads up, tails swishing a warning to the intruders. Beautiful sorrels, dazzling grays, paints, and Appaloosas. Horses that had never been broken to wear bridle or bit.

  Wild horses. And at their head, watching every move that Kirstie and Lucky made, was their leader. Taller than the rest, with a proud, arched neck and flaring nostrils, the black stallion kept guard.

  “Easy!” Kirstie whispered to Lucky. The wild horses had penned themselves into a dead end where the walls of the canyon finally met. The only way out was by a steep trail to her right, up onto Miners’ Ridge.

  The horse was perfect and proud, strong and fierce as he pawed at the ground to warn them away from his herd. His black coat shone, his mane fell forward over his long, wild face.

  Holding her breath and not daring to move, Kirstie stared in silence at the beautiful black stallion.

  Unflinching under her gaze, the proud horse stared back as the dark clouds rolled toward them, and in the distance, over Eagle’s Peak, forked lightning flashed.

  2

  The stallion stared back at Kirstie and Lucky. His herd milled restlessly in the stony gully where Dead Man’s Canyon came to an abrupt end. Sheer red-brown cliffs towered above them, trapping them. He studied the two possible escape routes; the trail which Kirstie had travelled, or the steep track up the cliffs to Miners’ Ridge.

  Striking the rocky earth with his front hoof, the stallion tossed his head. He swung angrily toward Lucky, then turned his head and trotted back, corralling his herd deeper into the impassable gully.

  “Easy!” Kirstie breathed. Behind her, Charlie calmed the other trail horses and their uneasy riders. She could feel Lucky’s flanks quiver, saw his ears flatten against his neck. A rumble of thunder rolled overhead, setting the palomino’s ears still further back. He stepped sideways, tugging at the reins in fright.

  Then there was more lightning, this time just above them. A great, forked flash of it tearing through the dark clouds. And drops of cold rain, large and slow at first, spattering onto the rocks and the trapped horses.

  Lucky flinched at the electric flash. Thirty yards from where he and Kirstie stood, the black stallion reared. He went up onto his hind legs, his front feet flailing, head back, teeth bared. Another blinding flash, and this time the thunder rolled across the ridge with a clatter and a crack. A wind drove the clouds down the snow-topped mountain in a torrent of icy, hard rain.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here!” Kirstie decided to veer away from the hostile stallion and his frightened herd. In the flashing lightning and crashing thunder, it must have seemed to them that she and Lucky were blocking their escape. So she reined Lucky to the left, hoping to leave the way clear for the wild horses to reach the track onto the ridge.

  But then, before the stallion could pick up her good intention, there was the sound of more hooves drumming behind them. A blurred shape appeared in the rain at the mouth of the canyon; a man on horseback galloping at full speed.

  Surprised, holding Lucky on a tight rein, Kirstie peered through the sheet of rain. She made out the heavy figure of Ronnie Vernon on Silver Flash. The horse was out of control, no doubt spooked by his clumsy rider and by the storm into stampeding ahead of the rest of the group. Clinging to the saddle horn, his jacket flying open, hatless and soaked, Vernon careered toward her.

  For a few stunned seconds, Kirstie thought they were headed for a collision. Rapidly she sidestepped Lucky out of the runaway horse’s path, heard the wild stallion whinny from the depths of the gully. Lucky whirled on the spot, testing her balance to the limit.

  Then Silver Flash made a decision of her own. She’d spotted the track onto Miners’ Ridge. It was a trail she knew well, so she headed for it, regardless of her rider. It was her only way out of this echoing, dark, storm-torn place and she took it.

  Steadying Lucky, Kirstie stared after them. Silver Flash’s hooves drummed up the narrow track, setting small stones rolling. It was the route she’d wanted the mare to use, but now the wild herd cowered at the far end of the canyon once more, away from the falling stones. Meanwhile, the rain bounced off the rocks and formed muddy brown streams in the dirt channels, loosening more stones.

  “Kirstie!” Charlie’s voice yelled from the mouth of the canyon. “Don’t let that rider go any further. It’s not safe!”

  “Too late!” she yelled back.

  Vernon and Silver Flash were fifty yards up the slope, now dislodging bigger stones that crashed over the edge of the track and landed on the canyon floor. One missed the black mare by less than a yard. She reared up and sideways as it crashed down, her wet mane straggled across a neck that was flecked with white spots of sweat.

  “Then look out for yourself and get out of there!” Charlie called. He’d ridden after Vernon as far as the mouth of Dead Man’s Canyon and taken in the scene through the sheet of rain; Kirstie and Lucky to one side, the wild herd at the far end, and the cliff track crumbling under Silver Flash’s hooves as Vernon rode her high onto the ridge.

  “What about the wild horses?” she cried.

  “Never mind them. Just get out as fast as you can!”

  Behind Charlie, Kirstie made out a huddle of riders. He was right; she had to get out quick. The sooner she and Lucky left the canyon, the easier it would be for the black mare to lead the herd out too. So she kicked Lucky into action. For some reason he wouldn’t go. She kicked again.

  “Get a move on!” Charlie shouted, his voice hoarse.

  “I can’t! Lucky won’t shift!”

  More rocks fell; bigger and louder, crowding the wild herd against the wall of the canyon. Overhead, Silver Flash was scrambling up the last stretch of track onto the ridge.

  Kirstie was soaked to the skin, rainwater running from her scalp, down her face, dripping through her shirt onto her shoulders and back, drenching her jeans. “Come on, Lucky, please!”

  Nothing. He stood like the statue of a horse in the eye of the storm.

  And then, as if in slow motion, the lines and contours around her changed shape. The actual land shifted. Only Lucky stayed still as every inch of rock tilted and slipped.

  “Landslide!” Charlie yelled, as if from a great distance. Then his voice was swallowed by the roar of falling rock.

  Landslide! The cliff face where Vernon had raced his horse onto the ridge was crumbling. Whole chunks of brown rock were breaking away and tumbling, caving in like sugar under a deluge of muddy water. Uprooted trees swayed and toppled in a din of snapping branches, a blur of green and brown.

  Gasping, almost crying, Kirstie pulled Lucky tight into the opposite cliff. No wonder the poor horse had refused to move. He’d sensed the landslide before she had and kept to the only safe place in the canyon.

  The rock fall gathered momentum. The cliff face cracked and disintegrated as a flash of lightning lit up the whole terrifying scene; horses cowering as rocks crumbled and crashed, the black stallion driving them back as they tried to make a crazy dash toward the disappearing cliff.

  Still Lucky was frozen with fear. If they stayed in this spot now, a tumbling rock would soon get them. Kirstie decided she must jump off and lead him out of danger.

  Throwing her leg over the back of the saddle, she slipped from Lucky’s back, grabbed the reins, and tried to move him out of danger. There was still time to do as Charlie had said and head for the mouth of the canyon. But they had to be quick. She tugged at the reins and sobbed. “Come on, Lucky, please!”

  Muscles locked, legs planted wide, he refused.

  And the rocks kept on coming. They were sliding in muddy heaps, piling up across the exit, blocking their way.

  Lucky straine
d back from the reins, eyes rolling. It was no good; Kirstie couldn’t shift him.

  Alone she could make it. If she dropped the reins and scrambled through the debris, she could get out of this death-trap. But it would mean leaving Lucky. She would rather die than do that. Really, she would rather die.

  Instead of abandoning her beloved horse to his fate, she dropped the reins and circled her arms around his neck. “OK,” she sighed. “You win. We wait here until it’s all over.”

  “You OK in there?” It was Charlie’s voice, muffled by the rockfall that blocked the entrance to Dead Man’s Canyon. Other anxious voices backed him up, demanding to know how Kirstie was.

  The silence after the shattering crash of rock against rock was eerie. All she could hear was the rain pattering down. Kirstie opened her eyes. “We’re fine!” she called back. All in one piece. No bones broken.

  That was a miracle in itself. After she’d thrown her arms around Lucky’s neck and waited, the rocks had kept on coming. She’d heard them bounce and splinter, split off in every direction then land with sickening thuds. But not one had touched them or even left a scratch.

  “How about Silver Flash?” Charlie asked.

  She stared up at the new shape of the cliff. It had jagged chasms, streams, and waterfalls where there had once been trees and a thin covering of earth. The fleeing horse and her novice rider were nowhere to be seen. “I don’t know!” she replied in a faint, scared voice.

  “Listen, Kirstie; we can’t get over this fall of rock to reach you! It’s too high, and pretty dangerous by the look of things.” Charlie sounded worried despite her assurance that she and Lucky were OK. “How is it on your side?”

  She took a deep breath and dragged her gaze away from the ragged, uneven ridge. Her eyes swept quickly down the altered rock-face, along the canyon to the narrow gully. It was difficult to make out shapes in the dust and drizzling rain, but there, at the far end, the herd of wild horses stood in petrified silence. “Not too bad,” she called to Charlie. “Except the trail up to the ridge has gone, so it looks like there’s no way out.”

  “OK.” Charlie obviously needed time to think it through.

  There was more silence. Then Kirstie noticed what she should have spotted straight away. She looked again, through the gloom at the group of ghostly horses. “There was a wild horse in here; a lead male!” she cried to the listeners beyond the landslide. “Charlie, the black stallion’s gone!”

  The shock tore into her. One moment he’d stood there, his black coat streaming with rain, wide-shouldered, deep-chested. His long tail had swung, his feet had stamped. He was protecting his herd. Next moment, the land fell away. Now he was gone.

  Had she imagined him? Was he a shadow against the red cliff, a figment of her imagination? Perhaps no real horse could ever have been so perfect.

  Kirstie laid a hand on Lucky’s neck. He dipped his head and nudged her forward. Then he too took a step across the rock-strewn canyon.

  The horses in the wild herd saw them move. They edged nervously away, around the rim of the gully, all looking gray and unreal through the rain. Ignoring them, Lucky put his head down and headed ten, fifteen yards toward a heap of newly-fallen rocks. Two uprooted pine trees had landed in the shape of a cross beside the unstable pile, their branches brushing the ground and making a green screen in front of the crumbled cliff face.

  Trust your horse. It was the golden rule at Half Moon Ranch. Lucky knew what he was doing. So Kirstie stepped after him, right up to the screen of broken branches and sharp pine needles, where the palomino had stopped. Pushing past him, she climbed up the heap and pushed the nearest branch to one side.

  Her heart lurched again. There, half-buried beneath the rockfall, was the stallion.

  Kirstie let out a gasp. Straightaway, before she could even think, she squatted down and began tearing at the fallen rocks with her hands, heaving them to one side, wrenching with all her might. The horse was motionless, eyes closed, head sunk awkwardly against a ledge, his front legs invisible, but his back legs and hindquarters clear of the landslide.

  If she could just move the rocks from his chest and shoulders … She tore away, grazing her hands so badly they bled. The scarlet trickles merged with the rain and mud, but she didn’t feel the cuts. All that mattered was freeing the stallion.

  He was unconscious, but still breathing. She could see his chest heave as she dragged a large rock free. But what about his legs? She went more carefully now, lifting the last rocks from around his girth until she uncovered the long, black front legs. Then she stopped and sat back on her haunches, staring down at a blood-soaked mess. The horse’s left knee had been crushed by a heavy rock.

  “Kirstie?” Charlie’s voice drifted over the barrier of boulders and mud.

  She swallowed hard, struggled to control her voice. “I’ve found him!”

  “The stallion? Is he hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bad?”

  “Pretty bad. Charlie, we need help!” Softly she put out a bleeding hand to touch the stallion. She stroked the soaked black coat, wiped away the dirt from around his mouth and nostrils.

  The horse opened his eyes. They flickered shut, then opened again. He lifted his head.

  “Easy!” she whispered.

  Lucky stepped back to give the wild creature space.

  The stallion pulled away from Kirstie’s hand. His eyes rolled in fear at the human touch.

  “It’s OK,” she whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

  But he didn’t trust her. He lay on his side, kicking with his back legs, feebly at first, then more strongly as he regained consciousness. He wanted to be up, away from the pile of ugly rocks that had crashed down onto him, away from the girl with bleeding hands, her soaking hair plastered to her skull, her face smeared with mud.

  Kirstie held her breath. She wanted to help him onto his feet and he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he struggled alone. He got his back legs under him, ready to take his weight and shove. His head was raised. Now his knees bent and he should have rolled from his side onto them, then pushed up until he was standing. But his injured knee buckled under him. Once, twice, he tried but sank back.

  “Charlie, get help!” Kirstie stood up, took hold of Lucky’s reins, and together they ran toward the debris that blocked the entrance. “I don’t care how you get in here, just get help…please!”

  “OK. I’ll radio to base and take the whole group back to the ranch with me. You hang on, do what you can for him!” The wrangler took the only way out of the mess.

  “Don’t be long!” she pleaded.

  “About an hour and a half,” he promised. “Just hang on, OK?”

  Dragging breath into her lungs to stem the panic that almost choked her, she convinced him that she would be OK. “Go, Charlie!” she cried.

  An hour and a half before anyone came… Would her mom and Matt be back from Denver? Could they get the vet over from San Luis? If they did, would the wild stallion let him near? And were his injuries too bad to treat?

  Questions crowded into her head and jostled for answers. None came. Meanwhile, as the herd waited uneasily by the far cliff and Lucky stood patiently at a distance, Kirstie knew that it was up to her to calm the injured horse and stop the bleeding from his injured leg.

  She turned to face him, his life in her hands.

  3

  The stallion knew that he was helpless, his magnificent power stripped away by the crashing rocks. As Kirstie went cautiously toward him again, anxious not to distress him, his whole body quivered. His eyes rolled, his nostrils flared.

  Behind her, Lucky followed then came to a halt midway between the injured horse and the rest of the herd. His metal shoe struck bare rock and echoed through the canyon making the wild horses shy away in a tight huddle. Without their leader, trapped by the landslide, they turned and swung nervously this way and that.

  “Easy, boy!” Kirstie whispered as she approached the bleeding horse.

  H
e was struggling to raise himself, pawing at the ground with his front feet, reaching out his head and straining to take his weight on the injured knee.

  “Wait!” Kirstie drew near. She knew horses and some basic first aid, so she planned what to do. The first thing was that the wound needed to be strapped tight to stop the bleeding. If the stallion would let her get close enough. Breathing steady, reassuring words, she advanced step by step.

  The horse tossed his head, whipping his wet black mane back from his face. He watched her every move.

  If she looked him in the eye, he would see this as a threat, Kirstie knew. So she kept her gaze fixed on the wounded knee. She inched toward him, her eyes averted, murmuring encouragement.

  The stallion struggled again, every nerve straining against her approach.

  When eventually she was within a few inches of him, feeling his hot breath on her hand as she knelt and stretched out to touch him, slowly, slowly winning his trust, she decided on her next move.

  She was wearing a T-shirt under her denim shirt so, quickly and smoothly, she withdrew her hand and unbuttoned her top shirt. It was soaking wet from the rain, but once she had it off, she was able to pull hard at a seam and tear down the length of one side. Within a minute, the pale blue shirt was in strips, ready to use as a bandage around the stallion’s knee.

  The horse’s head was up, his eyes watchful, his body still quivering with tension and pain. The clink of a bridle and the sound of metal shoes shuffling over rocky ground in the background told Kirstie that Lucky was still wisely keeping a safe distance.

  “Here we go!” she breathed, taking one end of the makeshift bandage and edging forward on her knees. Luckily the stallion’s left leg was uppermost, the damaged knee clearly in view. Kirstie flinched as she saw the skin scraped back from the bony joint, the jagged, dirty wound, and the steady flow of blood on the wet rock where he lay. But she pressed on, determined to lay the bandage across the wound and slip the fabric under the leg so that she could begin winding it and strapping it tight.