Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse Read online

  We didn't bother to groom the horses. Pete helped me bridle Pelican. Then we led the horses out and mounted. Pelican felt tall and bony. I could feel him watching me with his good eye, and his ears were back.

  “Be careful, Jean. He reared here once,” Pete said.

  “I'm glad I chose this old plug. I love her,” Wendy told us, leaning forward and patting Sally.

  Pelican followed the other horses with short, uneasy steps. I gave him his head and hoped that nothing would go wrong. I didn't wish to be in hospital as well as Angus, and Pete's obvious anxiety made me wonder what Pelican had done in the past to earn himself such a bad name.

  It was a wonderful day. There were still clouds in the sky, and a light breeze fanned our faces as we rode across the valley. Pelican started to relax and the Millers ceased watching me anxiously. I felt like singing. I loved Virginia at that moment; the sound of hoofs on the hard track, and the lovely view of the dreaming mountains already turning red and green in places, but still romantic, wild and full of adventure. Mum has often complained that I never learn from bitter experience. She says that I'm an incurable adventurer and will come to a sticky end. I think she must be right, because I remember that at that moment I longed for an exciting chase through the mountains more than anything else, in spite of the awful things which had happened only the day before.

  When we came to the mountains we parted, each taking his own trail.

  “Be seeing you,” we called to one another, and, “Best of luck.”

  My trail was one of the loveliest; the ground was soft and green, the sun shone through the trees, lighting the undergrowth with gold. Pelican's stride became long and free.

  I sang loudly as I rode up and up into the mountains. I didn't feel like an exile; I felt terribly at home with the creak of leather, reins between my fingers, and Pelican's grey ears cocking backwards and forwards as he listened to my songs.

  6

  When I reached my turning point, I had already passed several cattle. The sun was much hotter and Pelican was sweating. I hoped that Angus wasn't too hot in the hospital; then I remembered that I was in America and every hospital was sure to have air-conditioning. I was sorry that he was missing the round-up, because it's the sort of thing he loves. I imagined him in a very clean bed eating grapes and reading magazines.

  Pelican was pleased to turn round and start back down the trail. We made several detours to collect cattle and soon we had a herd of five or six in front of us. Pelican was marvellous. He plunged willingly into the most awful clumps of brambles and was far handier than I had expected. I felt like a real cowboy as my herd gradually grew; I decided that some day I would take a job on a ranch and round up cattle from dawn to dusk. Later I was to learn that Jeeps have replaced horses to a large extent in the Wild West, and that being a cowboy is terribly exhausting, particularly in winter. But now, as my herd grew and grew, I was happy with my illusions and I whistled cheerfully as I rode down towards the valley.

  And then, quite suddenly, I heard hoofs. At first I thought it must be one of the Millers coming for help. Then a neigh echoed through the mountains and three horses came jumping the undergrowth – the bay mare, Easter and our phantom horse the palomino. Pelican threw up his head. The cattle stopped. Time seemed to stand still. Easter's saddle was half under his stomach; his martingale was dangling; his bridle had disappeared. They snorted when they saw the cattle, and sniffed the air. Easter looked peculiar without his bridle – like a person who wears spectacles suddenly appearing without them.

  Pelican whinnied and the three horses advanced slowly. I held my breath. I could hear Phil calling to his cattle in the valley. A grey squirrel crossed the trail. My herd started to move. The three horses looked at Pelican; they skirted the cattle and began to walk on towards the valley. I felt like cheering them. I now had a herd of cattle and three horses. If only they'd remain quiet and calm when we reached the open, I might have a chance, I decided. The palomino looked wonderful, leading us all. The sun shone on his gold coat, flaxen mane and tail; he walked with a long, effortless stride. The other horses had to jog to keep up with him and the cattle ambled behind, bellowing and mooing at intervals. I felt very happy and triumphant. I knew no one else could have collected a herd like mine, and the vicious Pelican was behaving beautifully.

  We reached the valley and I saw other herds approaching the allotted field. I could see that Pete and I were destined to meet quite soon. Everyone started to shout and cheer when they saw me. The palomino, Easter and the bay mare threw up their heads and I started to hurry the cattle. I didn't want to lose them, now that we were so near the field; most of all I didn't want to lose the three horses. Wendy was coming round the corner of the valley; her herd looked enormous with at least half a dozen young heifers, as well as young bulls, cows and calves. Mr and Mrs Miller, Joe and George were spread out by the field gate. The palomino broke into a canter, Easter and the bay mare followed. The cattle started to run awkwardly after them.

  “Take them slowly,” I heard Pete call. “You'll never get them in that way.”

  Then, quite suddenly, my herd was out of control. The palomino was leading it away from the gate and the people waiting in the valley. The three horses were galloping in front, their manes and tails flying, their hoofs leaving a trail of dust behind them. I knew I had to turn them. It was no good Pete yelling, “Take them slowly.” A few more minutes dallying and my herd would be lost. I pushed Pelican into a gallop, and there was dust in my eyes and my mouth; it stuck to my face and shirt, to Pelican's grey coat. It was everywhere and in the midst of it were my cattle galloping madly in pursuit of the three horses.

  I urged Pelican faster. His ears were back; he felt as though years had passed since he had last been asked to gallop. But he did his best, and soon we had passed the cattle and were gaining steadily on Easter. The palomino was outstripping us all.

  Then from another direction came Phil. His dun mare was dark with sweat; he carried a hunting whip and he was yelling, “Back, back. Get back.”

  I hoped he didn't mean me. I had no intention of turning back at that moment. I urged Pelican faster. I thought how lovely the palomino looked, and wondered whether he would look the same when he wasn't wild any more, when Angus and I had him standing in the stable at Mountain Farm. I was alongside Easter now. We had reached the low-lying land. I passed Easter; the ground was squelchy under Pelican's hoofs and I could hear the frogs singing endlessly. The cattle were no longer with us. Instead of dust, there was mud in my face, and flying stones. Phil was gaining; another moment and he was in front of the palomino. The horses turned and I turned too, almost colliding with Phil.

  “Great work,” he cried. “We'll have the darned horse yet.”

  Now we were galloping towards the gate and the waiting people. Pete had collected my cattle, making one gigantic herd. Wendy was moving slowly across the valley. I wondered who would have the wild horse if we caught him now. I didn't want to share him with the Millers. I wanted to have a horse of our own looking out of the loose boxes at Mountain Farm.

  Easter was already giving in. We had to keep driving him, otherwise he would have been trotting on his own behind the others.

  As we drew near the gate, Wendy and Pete left their herds to come to our assistance. Poor Pelican was nearly finished; he was almost gasping for breath.

  “Let them come in slowly. Gently does it,” Mr Miller called.

  We were nearly there. Phil's herd was already in the paddock. Charlie and Joe were smiling and gesticulating with large sticks.

  The bay mare and Easter broke into a trot.

  They looked exhausted; Easter's saddle was plastered with mud, his stirrups and leathers were missing.

  “Boy, if only we can get them all in,” Wendy shouted.

  Pete's face was grim and determined.

  “Come on now, let's see what you can do,” Charlie called.

  The palomino was eyeing the gate warily, and now no one spoke. The vital
moment had come. The three horses all slowed to a walk. Pete, Phil, Wendy and I edged closer. Back in the valley, Pete's herd was slowly returning to the mountains.

  We moved forward cautiously, and quite suddenly the bay mare took the lead and walked fearlessly into the paddock; Easter followed. We waited in silence for the palomino to follow. He stopped and gazed at the landscape; he stood very erect and sniffed the air. My heart seemed to stand still. Another moment and he might be ours. And then he made up his mind. He turned on his hocks and faced us, and Phil cried, “Get back, will you. Get back,” and cracked his whip. The men rushed forward with their sticks.

  Wendy screamed, “Quick. Do something,” though who she was addressing no one knew.

  The palomino ignored the cracking whip. He ran straight for the two men waving sticks; he lengthened his stride, took off and jumped over Joe with tremendous scope. Another second and he was galloping away towards the mountains and freedom.

  Mr Miller slammed the field gate. “Well, of all the doggone horses…!” he exclaimed. “One can't help liking him though.”

  “I think he's heavenly,” Mrs Miller said.

  George and Joe were talking together. I dismounted and loosened Pelican's girth. Somehow, everything seemed flat.

  “I don't believe we'll ever catch him,” Wendy said.

  “You were marvellous, Jean. I never knew the old horse had it in him,” Mr Miller told me, patting Pelican.

  “No one can give him a bad name any more,” Wendy said.

  I could see Mrs Miller laughing. “I don't know what you look like, Jean,” she said.

  “What about the rest of the cattle?” Pete asked.

  “They'll be back in the mountains by now,” Mr Miller replied.

  “Well, my mare's had more than enough,” Phil said, patting the dun's neck.

  “Poor old Sally's nearly all in. She was great though,” Wendy told me, kissing Sally's nose.

  “Let's break off until after lunch anyway,” Mr Miller suggested. “I guess we've all had enough.”

  We took the horses back to the stable. Joe appeared with Easter and said, “The saddle's all broke up. And he's lost his bridle altogether.”

  I felt horribly guilty. I felt Pete looking at me.

  “Never mind. Let's forget it,” he said.

  “I'm sorry. I'm really terribly sorry,” I apologised. I didn't know what else to say. I couldn't offer to buy another one because I hadn't any dollars.

  “Don't worry, Jean. It doesn't matter at all. We've got dozens of saddles just rotting in the tack room,” Wendy told me.

  “If you never spoil another saddle, Jean, you'll be doing all right,” Phil added.

  “There's the bridle, too,” I replied, taking off Pelican's tack.

  “It was only an old one made up of scraps. He's got his own special show one. So do stop worrying, Jean,” Wendy said.

  We turned out the horses so that they could roll and cool off slowly.

  “If we were posh we'd slosh them down and get going with sweat scrapers. But it's too much trouble,” Wendy told me.

  We wandered indoors and ate large helpings of ice cream from one of the freezers.

  “You never caught the wild horse, then?” Annie asked, and then she started chasing Phil round the kitchen table because he had spilt ice cream on the floor. Mrs Miller came in and said that we shouldn't be eating ice cream just before lunch, and told us all to wash our hands and faces.

  After we had tidied ourselves up, Wendy and I laid the dining-room table. There was cold rib roast, pineapple salad, corn, hot rolls and applesauce for lunch. After we had finished eating, we caught the horses and gave them feeds. Pete and Phil disappeared to help with the harvest, and Wendy and I spent the afternoon playing with the dogs and looking at Wendy's books. We didn't have tea, but at five o'clock Phil and Pete returned and we all drank Cokes and ate chocolate, bread and cheese, and some cookies which Annie had just made.

  “A few more days and we'll be through,” Pete said, referring to the harvest.

  “And I shan't be sorry,” Phil replied.

  “I wish Dad would let me drive one of the tractors. He knows I can,” Wendy said.

  “I'm going to fetch the rest of the cattle in now. Anyone like to help?” Pete asked.

  “I'll open the gate for you when they're down off the mountains,” Phil replied. “But I'm darned if I'm doing any more riding today.”

  “I'm going to read. I'm not halfway through the book Miss Saunders gave me to read during the vacation, and school starts in another two or three weeks,” Wendy replied.

  In spite of the exciting morning I wasn't at all tired. “I'd like to help,” I said.

  “That's fine. There's no one I would rather have,” Pete replied, his grey eyes looking at me seriously.

  “But who shall I ride? I'm sure Pelican's had enough,” I said.

  “You're welcome to my mare. She can go all day and she's still game at the end,” Phil told me.

  I thanked Phil, and then Pete and I collected tack from the saddle room. The dun mare was very sweet. She sniffed me all over and lowered her head so that I could put her bridle on. Pete gave me a leg up and then we set off together across the valley.

  Evening was in the air, and the mountains looked very remote and blue in the gathering dusk. I admired the landscape, and Pete said, “One day we must take you for a moonlight ride. That's really something. And you must come hunting.”

  “That'll be lovely,” I replied.

  “I wish we could catch that darned horse this evening,” Pete said. “I don't want to share him with Phil and Wendy, because we'd be fighting all the time. But I wouldn't mind going halves with you.”

  I felt stupidly embarrassed. I didn't like to explain that I wanted the horse to be Angus's and mine and no one else's. It would sound selfish, particularly when the Millers had been so kind to us. In the end I said nothing. We rode round the mountains in silence, and then took a trail which I had never seen before.

  I felt very high up on the dun mare. I think she was the tallest horse I had ever ridden. She carried her head rather too high and her stride was a bit short for a horse of nearly sixteen hands.

  We collected cattle as we rode. Pete seemed an old hand at rounding up. Soon we had a herd of twelve or more and we turned for home, taking a trail which I recognised. I told Pete how I wished to be a cowboy and he laughed and told me about the Jeeps and the cold winters out West. “Never mind, Jean, you can come and stay at my farm whenever you like and round up my cattle from dawn to dark,” he said.

  “That'll be great. Thank you very much,” I replied. But I still wanted to live on a ranch with covered wagons, and long trips into the West, and campfires. I shall just go on searching till I find a real ranch, I decided.

  The sun was setting as we came to the valley. Behind the mountains the sky was red and gold. I felt like a character in a book or a film as I looked at our herd, and the dun's long neck and large ears, and the Millers' white house with its windows lit up, and its pillars and the lake in front.

  We should have lassoes, I thought, and revolvers in holsters. We're not really dressed for the occasion. And our saddles were wrong too. Pete was whistling a tune I had never heard before. The dun mare walked with a swing. My life in England seemed far away and infinitely remote. Wendy and Phil were waiting by the field gate, whistling, talking and chewing grass.

  They didn't seem so tall now that I knew them better, though I still felt tiny whenever I stood beside them.

  “Looks as though you've got them all, Pete,” Phil bawled.

  The cattle weren't giving us much trouble, though they dodged a bit when they came to the gate. Then one of the calves separated from his mother and they both panicked. It took us nearly twenty minutes to get them together again.

  It was quite dark when Pete and I rode round to the stable yard. The other horses had all been turned out.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Pete asked.

  “Yes,
like anything. It was really great,” I replied.

  “I expect your brother will be okay tomorrow, and you'll be going back to Mountain Farm. We've really enjoyed having you here. I just wanted to tell you that,” Pete said, taking off his chestnut's saddle.

  “It's been fantastic. I've loved staying here,” I replied, and I realised suddenly how difficult tomorrow would be.

  I should have to face my parents and they doubtless would be furious with the way Angus and I had behaved. I knew we had no excuse to offer; we had deliberately disobeyed every instruction they had given us, at least that's the way they would see it, and it would be mostly true. I didn't think we would be able to make them realise how completely we had lost our heads when we had seen the palomino and the bay mare. They'd never understand, and anyway it was inexcusable not to turn back later when we had remembered. I expect we won't be allowed to ride for ages and ages, I thought gloomily, and I saw us hanging around Mountain Farm day after day with absolutely nothing to do.

  We fed the horses and put the tack away. “It's been a lovely day, I've enjoyed every moment of it. It's really been one of the niceest days I've ever spent,” I told Pete as we walked up to the house together.

  “I've enjoyed it too,” he said.

  Supper was waiting for us. The dining-room table was lit by candlelight. We ate freshwater fish cooked in wine, asparagus, hot rolls and peaches and ice cream. I felt quite stuffed when eventually I stopped eating.

  “Your father rang up. He'll be fetching you before he goes to Washington in the morning,” Mr Miller told me.

  “Right. I'll be ready. How's Angus?” I asked.

  “Fine. Full of life,” Mr Miller replied. “There's not a scratch on him.”

  After supper we all helped wash up; then Pete and I wandered down to the stable and turned out the two horses we had ridden.

  Wendy and I went to bed soon after that. The night was so very warm and I didn't sleep for hours. The moon rose round and red and shone on our two beds; the frogs sang incessantly; rooks cawed raucously and circled the large trees beyond the lawn. I thought of Angus in the hospital; of Mountain Farm empty, dreaming in the moonlight; of the friends I had left behind in England. I hoped that Moonlight and Mermaid were happy, and then, at last, I slept.