Wild Horses (3 page)

“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 strained 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.

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.

He 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.

“Good boy!” she soothed. Amazingly, a sixth sense must have told the wild creature that she was offering him his only chance of survival. He kept his head up, watching her as she strapped the wound, but he didn’t resist.

Kirstie worked quickly. When one length of torn shirt was used up, she began another. At first, blood seeped quickly through each layer, but then the tight padding began to take effect. Soon, the bleeding eased and she was able to secure the bandage in a tight knot.

Taking a deep breath, she sat back on her haunches. Now it was important to get the stallion on his feet. If he stayed down until help arrived, he would lose heart. He had to get up under his own steam. Yet how was she going to help him stand? She looked round, searching for the right idea.

The herd was still milling around in the gully. Lucky was waiting nearby. If she borrowed his head collar and halter rope, which the Half Moon horses sometimes wore under their bits and bridles, she might have the solution.

So she slipped quickly to where Lucky stood and, with hasty fingers, fumbled with the wet straps and buckles. At last she slid the head collar off and unhitched the halter rope from the side of the saddle horn. Then she ran back to the black stallion.

“Now trust me,” she urged, offering him the head collar. Of course, he’d never seen anything like this before. Would he take it quietly or resist?

The horse’s head drew back from the contraption. Through his pain and confusion, a deep instinct told him that the head collar was not to be trusted. This was a trap.

“Not for long!” Kirstie whispered. “I promise!”