Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse Read online

  I asked Joe for the time and he replied, “Two o'clock.” That meant that Angus had been lying for more than two hours soaked to the skin in the ravine.

  Soon we reached a place where the tractor could go no farther.

  “What now?” the men asked.

  I wished that we had brought a stretcher of some sort; an old gate or a hurdle would have done. “We'd better take the strongest horse rug and carry him back in that,” I replied.

  We left the tractor and I led the way. The men followed with the horse rug. It was very hot. The sky was quite cloudless and it was difficult to realise that there had just been a storm. Several times I took a wrong path and we had to turn back. Fortunately, the hoofprints Frances had made coming down were still visible.

  At last we reached the bottom of the ravine.

  “He's halfway up. Only a little way now,” I cried to the men.

  I wondered how we would find Angus as I struggled up the ravine, slipping and sliding on the boulders. Supposing he had regained consciousness, I thought suddenly, and started to find his own way home? The men were puffing behind. My legs felt horribly weak. I started to run. Supposing he's dead, I thought.

  Angus was still lying there on his side, just as I had left him. In spite of the sun, his face looked purple with cold.

  “He's quite a little guy then,” George said.

  “He looks real bad. How long has he been lying here?” Joe asked.

  “Hours and hours,” I muttered, noticing that Angus still breathed. “That's why I wanted you to hurry.” I felt like crying again. I think I was nearly exhausted.

  We rolled Angus carefully in the horse rug. Then we started back down the ravine.

  “Do you think they'll take him straight to hospital?” I asked the men.

  “I guess so. He look s real bad to me,” Joe replied.

  “Lying up there in the rain won't have done him a lot of good,” George said.

  We came to the tractor and laid Angus carefully on the drag. I covered him with coats and wondered if he should have some brandy. Then George started the engine and we began our journey down. Joe and I eased the drag over the rocks and held Angus. Even so, it was a horribly bumpy journey. We didn't talk much. I think the men were really upset now that they had seen Angus.

  We came at last to the valley, and the Millers' romantic house basking in the sunshine. We could see a black car parked alongside the convertible. “That'll be Doc,” George said.

  Then I saw another car and I couldn't believe my eyes, because it should have been in Washington. It was our car, and nearby was an anxious crowd staring towards the mountains. I ran forward and opened the last gate, and Dad and Mum ran to meet me.

  “How badly is he hurt?” they cried.

  The doctor came forward and started to examine Angus. Mum explained that she and Dad had rung Mountain Farm several times between twelve and two; getting no reply they had become anxious and telephoned the Millers. Annie, the cook, had answered and told them about the accident.

  “After that we came here just as fast as we could,” Mum finished.

  The doctor stood up. “As far as I can judge there are no bones broken. But I'd like to get him to hospital under observation. I can take him in my automobile, I guess. I don't think we need an ambulance,” he said.

  “You'd better stay here, Jean,” Dad said. “Annie says she'll look after you till the Millers get back. We'll fetch you just as soon as we're through with the hospital.” They lifted Angus into the doctor's car, and wrapped him in rugs.

  “We'll ring you as soon as there's any news,” Mum said.

  “Don't worry. He'll make out all right,” the doctor said, patting me on the head.

  Dad thanked George and Joe. Annie appeared and invited me in for a “real hot” cup of coffee and some food.

  No one asked why Angus and I were riding in the mountains, instead of within half a mile of Mountain Farm.

  The cars drove away. The men returned to their work. Suddenly everything was very still. I followed Annie into the kitchen.

  5

  The Millers' kitchen was large with windows on both sides; the floor was tiled, there was an open fireplace, a long table, and plenty of cupboards, as well as two sinks, numerous electrical gadgets and a huge dishwasher.

  Annie sat me down at the kitchen table and fetched coffee, and put steak under the grill and corn on the cob on to cook.

  “I’m going to give you a proper meal. You must be real hungry,” she said.

  I felt in a daze and very miserable. I don't think there's anything quite as bad as a really guilty conscience. I knew that soon the Millers would be home and then I should have to confess to losing Easter as well as the bay mare. Sometime I should have to tell my parents a dismal tale of stupidity and broken promises. To me at that moment the future looked horribly black, even supposing Angus wasn't seriously hurt.

  Annie was very kind. She offered me more coffee, and cake. She turned the radio on and we listened to pop music until the steak and corn were cooked. When I started to eat, I found that I was ravenous. Annie left me and started to iron in the laundry. Outside, the sun had shifted to the west. I could see a lake, the Millers' long drive and the Hereford cattle coming down from the mountains. I decided that Angus must have reached the hospital, and I imagined bustling nurses and doctors in white coats. Then a car door banged and Annie hurried outside. I guessed the Millers had returned, and suddenly I couldn't eat any more.

  But it was a long time before anyone came into the kitchen; not until I had washed up my coffee cup, and the plate, knife and fork I had used. I had made friends with a smiling Dalmatian by then, but I felt quite sick with apprehension.

  The Millers all came in together and I knew instinctively that they had been told about the accident.

  “Hello, Jean, it's good to see you,” they said. They were all rather well-dressed. Mrs Miller and Wendy were in summer dresses. Phil and Pete were in suits. Mr Miller wore a checked coat and grey trousers. It was the first time I had seen them in anything but jeans. Looking back, I suppose I must have looked a pitiful figure in comparison. My face was tear-stained and my hand had bled all over the tee-shirt I had chosen that carefree morning.

  “We're so upset to hear about Angus. But don't worry, Jean, I'm sure he'll make out all right,” Mrs Miller said reassuringly.

  “It's wonderful what people get over. You think they're gonners and the next moment you meet them riding like the devil as though nothing had ever happened,” Mr Miller told me.

  “You're sharing my room,” Wendy said, and she sounded pleased.

  “But am I staying?” I asked. I felt very confused. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and I wanted to confess about Easter.

  “Of course you are. You're staying just as long as Angus is in hospital,” Mr Miller replied.

  I wasn't sure that I wanted to stay. I wanted to talk to Mum and Dad about the accident, and visit Angus in hospital, and sleep in my own bed at Mountain Farm.

  “And we're all delighted to have you,” said Phil, smiling.

  “Come and see our room. I'm sure you'll love it,” Wendy told me.

  “Dad's going to ring up soon. And I've lost Easter.” I confessed with a rush. “He's got all his tack on – that's the awful part.”

  I felt like crying. The Millers didn't seem to realise how dreadful the day had been. They were cheerful and kind; but I wanted someone who would say that everything hadn't been my fault, that no one could have done more than I had, that they were certain Angus would soon recover and that Easter would come home.

  “Don't you worry about that. Easter can look after himself,” Mr Miller replied, patting me on the back.

  “We'll start thinking about him tomorrow,” Mrs Miller said.

  “But shouldn't we look for him? He might get hung up or something,” I said.

  The Millers laughed. “Not him. It's not the first time he's spent a night on the mountains,” Wendy answered.

/>   Then the telephone rang. “That's for me,” I cried, running into a spacious hall hung with sporting prints.

  “It's in the room on the right,” Phil called.

  I found the telephone, but it wasn't Dad. A voice said, “Is Mr Miller there?”

  “Yes, I'll fetch him,” I replied, and fled back to the kitchen.

  I was terribly disappointed. Wendy took me to her room which, like the kitchen, had windows on both sides.

  There were two beds, lots of furniture, a television set and a radio. The beds had bright bedspreads and the curtains were made of checked cotton cloth.

  “How do you like it?” Wendy asked.

  “It's lovely,” I replied, and then I sat down on the nearest bed and started to cry.

  Wendy didn't know what to do. She shut all the windows and turned over some papers on a desk. She put away a pair of jeans which were lying on the floor. Then she said, “Don't worry, Jean. I know your brother's going to be all right. Of course he is,” but she didn't sound at all certain.

  “The awful part is we weren't supposed to ride farther than half a mile from the house,” I confessed. Then I told her the whole story.

  When I had finished Wendy said, “We all do silly things sometimes in our lives. You were just unlucky. Boy, when I think of some of the things I've done! Far worse things than riding farther than I was told. Honestly, Jean, I've got away with murder. Don't you know the saying, 'Who never makes mistakes never makes anything.' Dad is always quoting it.”

  As Wendy spoke, I decided that she was a great deal nicer than I had suspected. Then the telephone started to ring again.

  “That must be Dad,” I cried, leaping to my feet. I felt horribly weak as I ran downstairs. I didn't dare imagine what Dad might have to say.

  Mr Miller was speaking. “Yes, she's still here. We thought she might stay the night. Sure. No trouble at all. Hang on… Here, it's for you,” he said, passing the receiver over to me.

  “Hello, is that Jean?” Dad asked.

  I could hear my heart beating. “Yes,” I answered, and my voice came out very small. “How's Angus?”

  “Much better. He's conscious. He's to stay here for another twenty-four hours at least, but they can't find any broken bones or anything. At the moment he can't remember what exactly happened, but he's quite cheerful now and asking about you.”

  I felt immensely relieved; nothing mattered much now that I knew Angus was recovering.

  “Are you all right?” Dad continued. “Charlie has kindly said that you can stay with them.”

  “I'm quite all right, thank you. And very relieved about Angus,” I replied.

  “Here's Mum,” Dad said.

  “Hello, isn't it wonderful about Angus?” Mum asked. “We're terribly pleased. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, quite okay,” I said.

  “We're going to stay here overnight,” Mum told me. “We hope to bring Angus back quite soon but the doctor doesn't want him moved until he's got over the concussion. At present he's lying in a darkened room.”

  “I'm terribly sorry it happened,” I apologised.

  “We can't see how it did,” Mum replied cheerfully. “Never mind, you can explain it all later. The great thing is Angus is okay.” Mum chatted for a few minutes, then rang off.

  “Is he all right?” Mrs Miller asked.

  I told the Millers everything my parents had said. Then Phil introduced me to the dogs: Cop, the Dalmatian I had already met; Maggie, a little cairn; and Susie, a sweet fox-terrier with a large patch of black over one eye. They all seemed to belong to everyone. Pete had disappeared. Outside a breeze stirred the apple trees, which were scattered at intervals across the lawn. The sun was setting. A Jeep full of farmhands was disappearing along the drive.

  “Tomorrow we'll have a round-up. We can't miss the opportunity, having Jean here,” Mr Miller said.

  “But what about the horses? We haven't got enough to go round now,” Wendy replied. “Frances must rest tomorrow; she's dog-tired.”

  I thought of the bay mare and Easter roaming the mountains together.

  “What's wrong with old Pelican?” Mr Miller asked.

  “But he hasn't been ridden for such a heck of a long time,” Wendy replied.

  “It'll do him good to have some work,” Mr Miller answered.

  “Jean can have my mare. I don't mind riding Pelican,” Phil said.

  “I shall ride Sally,” Wendy told us.

  I couldn't see myself riding Phil's dun mare. But I didn't say anything. I felt I must ride who I was told, particularly since Angus and I were responsible for the loss of two horses already.

  The Millers were really kind. At dinner they gave me the best piece of the rib roast and afterwards, when everybody drank coffee, I was provided with a cup of tea. Pete gave me a large box of chocolates, which he had bought in the village while I was being introduced to the dogs. Phil presented me with one of his fountain-pens and Wendy showed me all her horsey books which weren't in my bedroom at Mountain Farm.

  After we had eaten, we all watched television in Wendy's room. I thought I wouldn't sleep, but when eventually I went to bed, sometime between eleven and twelve, I fell asleep immediately and didn't dream at all.

  Morning came bright and early in Wendy's room. A light breeze stirred the checked curtains, lazy clouds drifted across a blue sky. I could hear the men fetching the cows and the singing of the frogs in the lowland.

  Wendy was still sleeping, one arm tangled in her red-brown hair. Birds were arguing in the apple trees on the lawn; the lake and streams shone silver and gold in the sunlight. I could hear Annie putting the kettle on to boil in the kitchen. Someone was running taps in the bathroom. I couldn't bear to stay in bed a moment longer. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs.

  I wandered outside. Secretly, I hoped that Easter would have returned, but there was no sign of him. Pete was catching the horses.

  “Hello, Jean,” he called. “You're up early. The others are still in bed.” Pete was unusually cheerful. “I'm crazy about the early morning. It's the finest part of the day. When I've finished with school and college I'm going to farm,” he told me.

  Pete whistled for the horses and they trotted across the paddock. He had the three dogs at his heels. We led the horses in with just our arms round their necks. When they were all in the stables, we gave them each a feed of oats.

  Pete said, “I bet Phil's mad. He hates roundups. I'm the only one who cares about them.”

  I was seeing Pete in a new light. He seemed a different person by himself. He hadn't Phil's glamorous good looks. I could imagine Phil being a film star, a dashing officer in uniform, a pilot, or a racing driver, but Pete cared more about things. I knew that Pete would rather die than part with an old favourite. He would hang on to a farm he loved obstinately in the face of extreme poverty. Money, I decided, would mean little to Pete, beyond new fences for his farm.

  We watched the horses eating. “I'm going to send my chestnut mare to stud. I think she should breed a nice foal,” Pete said.

  Pelican was a lean, grey horse with a walleye. He was heavily scarred, and he watched us warily out of his good eye as he munched his feed.

  “Pelican’s never been much good. He's too darned cunning,” Pete told me.

  We ate breakfast in the long dining-room where we had eaten supper the night before. There were waffles and bacon, loads of homemade bread and dairy butter. Phil hardly ate anything. Pete devoured nine waffles; Wendy ate mostly bread. I tried the waffles, eating them in the traditional manner with butter, syrup and bacon. Personally, I like them better without the bacon, which I didn't think mixed well with the syrup. As we ate we discussed the round-up. We were to start by riding to given spots in the mountains. There was some argument as to which horses we were to ride. I remained silent. I was now suddenly determined to ride Pelican. Once we had reached our given spots, we were to ride down, driving any cattle we met before us.

  “They're never much trou
ble till you reach the lower meadows, Jean. Then they're a heck of a lot,” Mr Miller told me.

  “We drive them all in and separate them afterwards in the loading pens,” Pete explained.

  “The men will all be waiting for you at the field gate,” Mr Miller said.

  We carried the breakfast things through to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher before hurrying to the stable yard. The horses had finished eating. I decided to take the bull by the horns. “I'm riding Pelican,” I stated firmly. “It's my fault you are two horses short. It's quite obvious that I'm the person who should ride him, and anyway, I'd just as soon ride him as the dun mare.” I said it with rather a rush and Phil began to laugh.

  “You sound as though you've made up your mind all right,” he said. “But you know he's a bit of a rogue, Jean, don't you?” Pete asked, and he sounded worried.

  “I don't care. I'm going to ride him,” I replied.

  Phil shrugged his shoulders. “When women make up their minds …” he said.

  “We don't want another accident,” Pete said.

  “Suits me all right. I'd much rather ride my dun,” Phil told us, whistling cheerfully.

  “What does Pelican do, anyway?” I asked Pete. “He doesn't look vicious.”

  “One never knows. I think he's nuts,” Pete replied.

  We collected our tack from the saddle room. I was given the choice of a gag and curb, or a pelham, but I turned them both down and chose a snaffle. I think the Millers were rather surprised. I explained that my hands weren't particularly good, and that I had often been told that difficult horses were happiest in snaffles. I refused the offer of a martingale. If Pelican's neck had been strong and heavy I don't know which bridle I would have chosen. But he didn't look like a puller. He looked more like a horse which would go behind his bit and rear.