Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse Read online

  I imagined thousands of frogs. “Gosh, I never knew there was so much wildlife in America. I knew there were ranches and cowboys, but I thought the rest of it was all very new and modern.”

  The Millers laughed.

  “Not Virginia; it's tough,” Pete replied, laughing at me with his grey eyes. “Why, there're wildcats and bears in the mountains.”

  “And deer and grey foxes,” Wendy added.

  “Not forgetting the wild horse we hope to show you today,” Phil said.

  Frances was quiet with a long, easy stride. Her long ears flopped backwards and forwards as she walked.

  “Do you mind jumping a wall?” Wendy asked.

  “Not a bit,” I replied.

  “I'd love to,” Angus said.

  I just had time to grab Frances's mane before we were cantering towards the one-metre wall which ran along one side of the dirt road. Frances took off rather late and I lost both stirrups and ended up by her ears. The bay mare refused, but jumped it easily when Angus tried a second time.

  We cantered on across marshy land intersected by little streams. Here the frogs' singing was much louder and at intervals I saw their heads sticking out through the grass. There were Hereford cattle grazing in the fields, and in the distance we could see tractors and men carting corn.

  Frances was going beautifully, and I felt like singing as we left the flat land behind, jumped some rails in single file, and cantered up a gently sloping hill. I think Angus was finding the bay mare rather strong. He was crouched over her withers, and each time she snatched at the reins he seemed to tip a little farther forward.

  When we reached the edge of the mountains, the Millers halted their horses and turned them round.

  “See down there: there's your house,” Phil told us, pointing.

  The valley lay before us, parched and sunlit. There were cattle and stone walls, white houses, shabby wooden shacks and farms, and, farther away, the long, straight line of the highway. Our own house looked very small standing alone at the end of the dirt road.

  “Nice view, huh?” inquired Wendy.

  “You wait until we reach the view pole. Then you'll really be seeing something,” Phil said.

  Now we turned again and followed a trail. At first it was wide and grassy with trees on each side; but gradually it narrowed and there were boulders, and it twisted and turned, and low branches scraped our heads. The going became steadily worse and at one time we seemed to be riding up the bed of a stream, and twice we had to leave the path because of fallen trees. All the time we climbed up and up, and the horses sweated and the sun beat hot on our backs. We rode with long, slack reins, and our shirts stuck to our backs. Eventually Pete said, “Not much farther. My, it's hot.”

  We came to a clearing and there was a crash as a herd of deer disappeared in the undergrowth. There was a view on each side of us now, but the Millers wouldn't stop for us to look at it. “Wait till you get to the view pole,” they said. We left the clearing and followed another rocky, winding path.

  We passed a spring, and Wendy said, “This is an old Indian trail, as old as the mountains, I guess. It stretches all across Virginia right into Georgia.”

  I imagined Indians passing silently along the trail. “This part's got quite a history,” Phil said.

  We took down some rails and then we were on a wide grass track. “We've reached the gas line,” Wendy told us.

  “This is the way our gas comes,” Peter explained.

  “It must have taken years to build it,” Angus said.

  “It goes down almost to the river,” Wendy added.

  Presently we left the gas line and came to a sandy road.

  “This eventually takes you to the National Parks,” Phil told us.

  Wendy, who was leading, turned off the path on to a narrow trail. “We've nearly made it,” she said. “Be ready for the finest view in the whole of the United States of America.”

  We climbed a little hill and there we drew rein. We sat limply on our sweating horses. We seemed to have reached the top of the world.

  Below us, on all sides, stretched miles and miles of America. There were farms and villages, townships and towns, highways and dirt roads. There were railway lines running haphazardly across the landscape; the Potomac river gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Beyond it all were more mountains, blue and faint in the distance.

  “You like it, huh?” Wendy asked.

  “It's wonderful,” I gasped, almost speechless. “Absolutely terrific.”

  “With binoculars you can see the White House and the National Monument from here on a fine day,” Phil told us, with pride in his voice.

  “And that's fifty miles away,” Pete added.

  We turned our horses and looked south, west, east and north, and on all sides the view was just as vast and breath-taking.

  “It's great. I wish I had a camera,” Angus said.

  I was gazing at the view on the north side as he spoke, and suddenly I saw something moving, not very far away. It was moving at a great speed and, as I watched, I realised that below us was a horse galloping riderless and alone. He moved beautifully with tremendous grace. His mane was windswept and his tail streamed behind him like a pennant in the breeze. He looked like something out of another world – beautiful, powerful and alone.

  “Look,” I cried, pointing, “there's your wild horse.” I felt terribly excited. He looked so beautiful alone in the valley.

  It was ages before the others saw the wild horse. Then Phil said, “Yeah, there he goes. I wonder what happened to the two mares he had with him.”

  “Boy! Doesn't he look great? Wouldn't it be swell to own a nag like that?” Wendy cried.

  Pete sat silent, his face set and determined. He obviously meant to catch that horse if it was the last thing he did on earth.

  Angus's eyes were shining. “Isn't he wonderful, Jean?” he asked. “Just like a phantom horse.”

  “Has he got a name?” I asked.

  “Plenty. Some folks call him one thing, some another, but they're all bad,” Phil replied, turning his dun. “Come on, let's go. And I shouldn't worship that horse, Jean,” he added. “He's no saint.”

  We rode back along the sandy road; Angus and I were full of the horse we had just seen. He was obviously a horse in a million, and I think that at that moment we were both determined that eventually he should be ours. How we would catch him when dozens of Virginians had failed was a question we didn't ask ourselves. Somehow, sometime, we would tame him and then he would be ours for ever.

  “Pity he was so far away,” Phil said presently. “But maybe you'll see him nearer soon. He's a great horse.”

  We reached the gas line and now the sun was directly overhead. Frances felt weary. She obviously wasn't very fit and the long canter at the beginning had tired her. We rode with slack reins all the way down to the valley.

  “We'll take you home,” Wendy said. “That is, if you won't come back with us and eat whatever's going.”

  “I don't think we'd better. Our parents expect us,” I replied, remembering Dad's injunction about returning by one.

  “It's been a lovely ride,” Angus said. “Really great.”

  “You're very polite and English,' Phil replied with a grin.

  We jumped the wall again and I got left behind and jumped with the old-fashioned hunting seat. The bay mare cleared it beautifully this time, and Angus looked very pleased and patted her for ages.

  “I guess we'll leave you now,” Phil said.

  “Well, thanks for a lovely ride,” I replied.

  “You're welcome. We'll be seeing you,” the Millers said. They turned their horses, jumped the wall again and disappeared across the valley.

  “You know, we never thanked them for lending us the horses; not properly anyway,” I said.

  “I shouldn't worry. I don't think Americans say thank you as much as we do. Didn't you see them grinning about me being polite?” Angus replied.

  We unsaddled the horses a
nd then we walked them into the stable. We watered them and, finding that oats had been provided as well as everything else, we gave them each a feed.

  I felt very stiff; my legs didn't seem to belong to me any more. I hadn't ridden since Easter.

  Mum had cooked lunch. There was sweet-corn, sweet potatoes and ham, followed by what we call over-stewed apples, and the Millers call applesauce. As Angus and I ate, we told our parents about our ride and about seeing the wild horse.

  3

  Angus and I spent our first afternoon in Virginia grooming the horses and helping our parents unpack. Most of the time our thoughts were with the wild horse and we were hopelessly forgetful. I put the butter in the bread-bin and a pile of books in the kitchen cupboard. Angus couldn't remember where he had put anything and dropped a bottle of tomato sauce. Altogether, we weren't very popular with Mum and Dad.

  After tea, which we made ourselves, we turned the horses out in the paddock. It was much cooler. The mountains were clear of mist, and Angus and I spent some time trying to work out where we had ridden in the morning. There was no sign of the wild horse.

  We ate scrambled eggs and spinach for supper, followed by peaches picked off the tree on the lawn.

  I think I fell asleep that night as soon as my head touched the pillow. The last thing I can remember hearing was the frogs singing; then I was woken by the sound of hoofs and I leaped from my bed and rushed to the window. A large moon lit up the mountains. The paddock was a mixture of light and shadow. Frances and the bay mare were standing alert in the moonlight, with heads high and pricked ears. I followed their gaze and saw a horse coming across the valley. He was moving so gracefully, with incredible ease. He looked very beautiful in the moonlight. I had no doubts as to his identity.

  I dashed into Angus's room. As usual he was half-buried under the bedclothes. “Wake up, wake up,” I shouted into his ear. “The wild horse is here.”

  Angus sat up with a start; his dark hair on end, his eyes stupid with sleep. “What horse? Which horse?” he demanded. “I was dreaming of home. What are you doing roaming about in the middle of the night?”

  I could have screamed with exasperation. In another moment the wild horse might have vanished and we would have done nothing but gibber in a bedroom. “It's the wild horse,” I repeated. “He's here in the paddock.”

  “You mean he's here?” yelled Angus, coming to life at last, and leaping from his bed. “Fantastic. Quick, there's no time to waste!”

  “Shh. We don't want to wake up the whole house,” I said, before tearing back to my own room and struggling into jeans and a tee-shirt.

  I ran into Angus at the top of the stairs, hitting my hip a violent blow on the banisters.

  “Do look where you're going,” cried Angus.

  “What about you?” I asked, nursing my hip. “It takes two to make a collision.”

  “Shh, there's Dad coughing. Do come on,” Angus hissed, as though I had started the argument.

  We tore downstairs, through the kitchen and out into the bright moonlight. We made no plans. We ran straight to the paddock. For a moment we were thunderstruck. There, standing in our own paddock, was the wild horse. He was “talking” politely to Frances and the bay mare. I noticed that his shoulder was long and sloping and his hocks low to the ground.

  “I'm going to get some oats and a halter. You never know, it might work,” said Angus quietly.

  “He must have jumped in,” I said.

  I could hear the frogs, and somewhere a cow was bellowing. Otherwise, everything was miraculously still.

  Angus returned with oats in a bucket, and a halter concealed behind his back. We climbed the gate into the paddock with fast-beating hearts. It seemed that our great chance had come.

  Oh patient eyes, courageous hearts, I thought, looking at the gold and flaxen horse before us.

  “If only …” began Angus. Then the horse turned and saw us. He looked us up and down, but only for one split second; the next moment he was galloping away across the paddock followed by the two mares. I felt a wild impulse to run after him, but restrained myself.

  “Why didn't you rattle the oats?” I asked Angus angrily.

  “It's a bit late to say that now,” Angus retorted. “Here, you have them this time.”

  I took the oats; but as we watched the wild horse galloping straight towards the wall, which was all that stood between him and freedom, I knew there wasn't going to be another time. I felt sick with disappointment as I saw him prick his ears and lengthen his stride.

  “He's going to jump,” Angus cried, and started to run.

  Another second and the palomino was in the air and jumping alongside was the bay mare. Angus gave a cry of anguish. Frances refused and then neighed frantically. The wild horse didn't look back, but cantered on towards the mountains, followed by the bay mare. For a time, Angus and I ran desperately after them, but when our legs were aching and our hearts pounding, and the horses were dots in the distance, we stopped and Angus said, “Brilliant! What are we to do now?”

  “We've only got one horse left,” I replied. “What will the Millers say?”

  “Well, it isn't our fault. We did what we could,” Angus said.

  We turned dismally for home. The sound of the frogs was louder than ever, but the cow had stopped bellowing. Somewhere far away a dog barked. I saw us sharing Frances for the rest of the holidays, arguing about turns, riding and walking together across the hot, sun-baked Virginian countryside.

  “Of all the bad luck! Why does it have to happen to us?” Angus exclaimed angrily.

  “We'll have to catch him now,” I said.

  “But how, with only one horse between us, I can't imagine,” Angus replied.

  We didn't speak again until we reached the paddock. Frances was cantering up and down the wall neighing in a heart-broken way. Mum and Dad were standing in the yard with overcoats over their pyjamas.

  “Oh help! Why did they have to wake up?” asked Angus.

  “Just our luck,” I replied.

  “What is happening?” Dad called.

  Angus and I explained what had happened. Our parents were very nice and not at all angry, though they hate us dashing about in the middle of the night.

  We made tea in the kitchen and tried to decide what to do next. Dad said that we should see the sheriff and ask him to organise a really big round-up. Mum thought Frances should be used to tempt the bay mare home. We ate hunks of bread and butter, and the sun appeared with the first light of dawn in the east.

  “Perhaps the Millers will have a bright idea,” Dad said hopefully. “I suggest a return to bed. I'm due in Washington at ten o'clock.”

  Angus and I went back to bed with heavy hearts. I lay awake for ages, my head seething with pessimistic thoughts. I couldn't see how we would ever catch the wild horse. I wished that I was back in England with our own dear Moonlight and Mermaid to ride. I was much too hot in bed and being angry made me still hotter. I fell asleep at last to dream that the wild horse came into the kitchen and stole some cakes.

  The sun was shining through my window when I woke up. I knew at once that I had slept late. I had a headache and felt fuddled with sleep.

  I found Mum in the kitchen. Dad had already left for Washington. I made myself currant toast in the toaster and Mum boiled me an egg. Frances was standing desolately in the paddock, resting one hind leg. She obviously despaired of the bay mare's return. I started on my egg. Then the telephone rang.

  Mum said, “Go on eating, I'll answer it.”

  I wished that I had shirts like Wendy's to wear as I looked at the scorching day outside. I felt very cross and still rather sleepy.

  Mum returned. “It's the Millers for you,” she said.

  I suppose I shall have to explain about the bay mare, I thought, going reluctantly to the telephone.

  Wendy answered when I picked up the receiver. “Hiya, Jean. Is that you?” she asked.

  “Yes, hello,” I replied.

  “I hear
you've lost the bay mare – too bad,” Wendy continued. “That horse is getting to be a heck of a nuisance – time we did something.”

  She said it as though we just hadn't been trying to catch him up to now. “How did you know the mare had gone?” I asked.

  “One of the farm-hands saw her this morning. They were galloping across the valley together, jumping the streams like two-year-olds. Boy, it makes me mad. Anyway, you're going to have my little roan, and I'm going to ride one of the work-horses. We're coming right over,” Wendy finished.

  “We'll ride the work-horse. Why should you?” I said, but Wendy had already rung off.

  “They're coming right over,” I told Mum. “I'm going to wake Angus.”

  “It's going to be awfully hot for riding,” Mum said.

  I woke Angus and then I rushed outside to catch Frances. She was very pleased to see me and pushed her chestnut and white nose into the halter. I led her round to the stable and gave her a feed. Angus appeared munching currant loaf.

  “What's this about having another horse?” he asked. I told him about Wendy ringing up and about the work-horse. “I think the Millers are terribly generous. I expected them to be furious about the bay mare,” I finished.

  “Same here,” Angus replied.

  We groomed Frances and put on her tack.

  Then we heard hoofs. “Here they are,” Angus said.

  The Millers were in full force. “Hello. How're you doing?” they called.

  “Okay, thanks,” we replied, leading Frances out of the stable.

  “Here, you have my little roan, Jean,” Wendy said. “You're smaller than Angus.”

  “I’ll ride the work-horse,” I replied.

  Phil laughed. “You'd look mighty funny perched up there,” he said.

  I argued, but to no avail. Wendy had decided that she would ride the work-horse and nothing would change her decision.

  “We thought we'd just hack round quietly this morning and make plans. It's too hot to go far,” Phil said.