Katie and the Mustang, Book 2 (3 page)

Two days later Hiram bought us each a winter coat and a hat in a dry goods emporium in a little town called Des Moines. There were notices pinned up outside about Iowa becoming a state. I stared at them. My parents had signed petitions for statehood. They had wanted Iowa to be part of the United States.

“Is Oregon a state?” I asked Hiram as he led the way up the street toward a grocer's sign. He shook his head.

“No. It was French because of the trappers out there. Now it's English territory, but no one really has hold of it yet. That's the biggest reason people are going. The farmland is all there for the taking.”

I thought about what he had said as we got dried beans and flour and a bag of potatoes from a man in a dark little grocer's built onto the side of a livery stable.

After that, the Mustang was restless, so I stayed outside by the wagon while Hiram talked to a butcher across the street. The man had a deep voice that boomed out the doorway, and I overheard him talking about the bad winter they'd had, how the ground still wasn't warmed up and farmers weren't selling off hogs cheap. All this was to make sure that Hiram knew what a bargain he was getting.

I stood close to the Mustang, glaring at two boys who seemed fascinated by him. One held a rock in his hand, loosely, as though he always carried a rock, just in case he needed it. I wondered if there were a lot of snakes here. Or wolves. Or maybe other boys made fun of him. His ears were big and stuck out from his head a little more than most, and his hair looked like sun-bleached straw.

A farm wagon rolled past, and the Mustang whinnied to the horses. They answered him, and the farmer popped his whip above their backs to remind them of their work.

“Barrett said a man should take two hundred fifty pounds of bacon for every adult in his party and half that for each child,” Hiram grunted as he lifted the last of six paper-wrapped parcels into the wagon. “We have nearly that much now.”

“Mr. Barrett talked about water barrels, too,” I said, remembering.

Hiram nodded. “Yes. And medicines and spare clothing and two extra pairs of shoes and—”

“Do you have enough money for all that?” I asked him.

He shook his head, then tapped one finger against his temple. “Not enough. But what I have is better than money. I can always barter work if need be.”

The Mustang shifted uneasily, and I looked up to see the two boys had come back. They had brought friends, so now there were four of them. The original two stood up front; their friends hung back, watching.

Hiram followed my glance. “Do you boys have business with us?” he asked politely.

The boy with the rock didn't answer, but the other one did. “No sir, just looking at your horse. We never seen one that color.”

“Please stand back a little farther, gents,” Hiram requested, his voice mild. The boys in back sidled down the boardwalk. The other two didn't move. “He is a wild horse,” Hiram told them. “He is dangerous.”

The boy with the rock hefted it in his hand. “That's hard to believe. I've seen lots bigger horses.”

Hiram took a step toward them, and they took a step back. “I startled him once. His hoof struck the stall planks here.” Hiram patted an imaginary wall a few inches from his head.

I stared, wondering if he had ever told Mr. Stevens.

“If he's that mean, he should be shot,” the boy with the rock said.

I tried to catch Hiram's eye, but I couldn't. I didn't want these boys standing so close, talking like this. The one with the rock worried me.

“He's wild,” Hiram said, “not mean. He loves the girl. The rest of us had better stay back and be careful.”

“How'd she get a wild horse?” one of the boys asked.

Hiram didn't answer. He turned and bent to the task of straightening up the wagon so the bundles of salt bacon got their own place on the lowest layer. I could smell it. It wasn't all that fresh. It still made my mouth water. We'd had plain beans and biscuits for a long time.

Hiram began to whistle. All eyes shifted to me. “He's a Mustang,” I said, not knowing what else to say to them.

“From out west?” said a boy who hadn't spoken a word yet. He wasn't so hard and snippy as the boy with the rock. He sounded like he was really interested.

I nodded. “That's where we're going,” I said. “Oregon.”

“Just you and your pa?” the one with the rock demanded. “You'll never make it.”

The nicer boy elbowed him.“Don't mind Grover. His family is talking about going, and he doesn't want to.”

I had no idea what to say, so I didn't say anything. I just wanted them to go away and leave us alone.

“What did you name the Mustang?” the nicer boy asked me.

I was quiet again because I hadn't even thought about naming the Mustang—not once. It didn't seem like he needed a name. He wasn't really mine—or anyone else's.

“Who cares what some girl names her horse,” the boy with the rock said. Then he pivoted on one heel and turned, whipping a side-arm throw so hard that the stone knocked a chip out of a barrel in front of the dry goods store across the street. “I don't mind going,” he said, turning back. “I just hate leaving.”

His friends laughed, but it made perfect sense to me. I felt the same way. I didn't want to go back to the Stevenses, ever. But I would almost certainly never see my family's graves again, or anyone I knew. The thought scared me.

I tried to catch his eye, but he was already walking back and forth, toeing the dust, looking for another stone.

“Katie?” Hiram said from the driver's bench.

“I'm ready,” I said over my shoulder.

Hiram clucked at the team, and they started off.

I walked the Mustang after the wagon, glancing back every few seconds.

I saw the blond boy find another stone. He hefted it, then tossed it a few times, settling it into his hand. He waited until we were almost out of range, then he threw it. It hit close, sending up a little puff of dirt a foot away from the Mustang's heels.

He danced sideways, half rearing, as he always did when something startled him. I jumped to one side and let out the long lead rope, letting him react to the unexpected spatter of sand that had come from nowhere. Only once he quieted and I was sure I had a good hold of him did I turn to glare at the boy.

He was laughing, half doubled over, and for an instant I hated him. There was no point in shouting an insult. The boy wouldn't care, and it might startle the Mustang again. So I just walked after the wagon with my back straight and my shoulders squared—but I was
furious
. What kind of boy would do such a thing? What if the Mustang had broken free, or I had gotten tangled in the rope and he had dragged me?

That night, the Mustang woke me even earlier than usual with his whuffling and pacing. I sighed and rubbed my eyes and got up in the dawn dusk. It was chilly, and I shivered into my shoes, then pulled on my new coat.

I slid out of the wagon bed, trying not to make the springs creak, and went to untie the tether rope. It wasn't light enough out to see my breath, but I knew it soon would be.

The instant the line loosened, the Mustang took off at a trot, headed toward the mares, pulling me along. I ran with him, half awake. “Slow down,” I whispered, laughing a little at how eager he was. Then, all in an instant, I stumbled over a hassock of prairie grass and sprawled on the ground. The air went out of my lungs in a whoosh, and for a second I lay still, unable to believe it had happened. I heard the hissing sound of the long tether line, dragging through the grass—then the hoofbeats of the Mustang, free at last, breaking into a gallop.

I scrambled to my feet and stood, shaking, unable to do anything but watch as he galloped straight past the mares and pounded off into the near dark until I could no longer see him at all. His hoofbeats faded to silence. I sank to my knees and pounded my fists on the ground. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have just let go of the rope like that?

I fought tears as I got back to my feet. I would go after him. I could ride one of the mares bareback. We didn't have a bridle, but I could use the head-stall from the harness and knot the reins shorter.

I turned and ran toward the wagon. I would have to wake Hiram, then get the harness bridle on one of the mares. By the time I was mounted, the Mustang would be miles away in the dawn dusk. In what direction? By the time it was light enough to see, he would be long gone. But Hiram would understand. I couldn't just let him go like this. I
couldn't
.

One of the mares nickered, and I slowed, turning, listening, afraid to hope. The mare nickered again. Then I heard the faint sound of hoofbeats—getting louder.

I stared into the gray light, hoping, my hands clasped together, as the Mustang galloped back into sight. He leaned into a long, sloping turn that brought him past me, then he slowed and veered toward the mares. He slid to a stop beside them and pranced in a circle.

I started toward him. “Stand easy,” I murmured over and over. “Stand easy. I won't hurt you; you know that.”

He was wary. Every time he moved away from me, I stopped. Finally, he dropped his head to graze. I approached him, talking quietly. He let me walk up and put my hand on his neck, then reach down to pick up the rope. I slowly gathered it into a coil. I was so grateful that he had come back that my knees felt weak.

“If you leave, who will I talk to?” I asked him, knowing that anyone who heard me talking to a horse like this would think I was touched. But it was true. I had no family anymore. Hiram was very kind to me, but he was not my father. “I don't want to be alone,” I whispered, and the Mustang lowered his head and touched my cheek, his breath still coming fast from the gallop. “I am so scared to be all alone,” I breathed. And I held on to the Mustang's mane and let myself cry hard—exactly the way I had back in the Stevenses' barn.

The Mustang did what he had done then. He stood still and let me lean against him. He was motionless for a long time, his head up, breathing in the scented air of dawn, touching the top of my head with his muzzle. When I stepped back, he began to graze again.

CHAPTER THREE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
he next night, I stood holding the tether line, letting the Mustang graze next to the mares as long as I could stay awake, then I tethered him near them—instead of near the wagon. I woke up worried, but he was still there, grazing peacefully with the wagon team.

“It's natural for a stallion to want a band of mares,” Hiram said that morning. “Mares and a batch of healthy foals to protect.”

Four nights later, I didn't tether the Mustang at all. I stayed awake, watching him sleep next to the mares. Three or four times there was some little sound, a rustling in the grass or an owl dropping down to catch a mouse.

The Mustang would open his eyes as though he hadn't been asleep at all. His head would lift, and he'd wait, listening and watching and scenting the night air. Then, when he was sure there was no danger, he would close his eyes again. Now that he had mares to watch over and protect, the Mustang was calmer. I didn't take his halter off because I was afraid he might not let me put it back on, but I untied the lead line. And every morning after that, he let me walk up to him while he stood calmly and tie it on again.

Twice we had to ford rivers. The Mustang followed the wagon across, steady even when the water was deep. The horses all had to swim a little way to get over the second one. The wagon slewed with the current, and Hiram shouted at me to hang on. For a long instant, I thought we were going to wash downstream, then the horses' hooves touched the bottom again, and the wheels began to turn. Hiram guided them up the muddy bank, keeping to the rutted tracks of wagons that had come before us.

“Too close,” he said to me on the far side. “Far too close to calamity for me.”

I jumped down from the wagon gate, my skirt soaked, my knees like rubber. We camped early and spread out our possessions and provisions on the grass to dry overnight.

A few days after the second river crossing, we saw another group of wagons behind us. The day after that, there were wagons behind us and in front of us. It made the Mustang skittish, but not as much as I had feared. He was getting used to the sound and sight of people more than he ever could have locked away in a barn. When he was most nervous, he would walk right next to me, so close that I could feel his breath on my neck.