Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse Read online

  “Damn!” I said again.

  “Personally, I think it's entirely Wendy's fault. After all, she was supposed to look after us,” Angus exclaimed angrily.

  The ploughed earth was dry and powdery. The sun had moved considerably since morning. “I guess it's about two o'clock,” I said.

  We ate our sandwiches. We jumped a wall and found ourselves riding across grass again.

  “Americans don't think. That's the trouble,” Angus said.

  “You mean that Wendy didn't think far enough to remember that we were on young horses?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” Angus replied.

  “I suppose she'll guess that we're heading for the truck. There's not much else we could do,” I said.

  We rode through a gateway into another grass field. We saw a stream and a wood, but they weren't the ones we knew. We jumped some rails and found to our horror that we were back in the ploughed field. An awful feeling of helplessness assailed us.

  “We're just riding in circles,” Angus cried desperately.

  I saw us still riding aimlessly at midnight. Oh, why did we ever go hunting? I thought miserably. We might have known everything would go wrong.

  “What do we do now?” asked Angus, and there was anger as well as despair in his voice.

  “Let's see what the horses think,” I suggested. I dropped Frances's reins and prayed that she would know the way home, but she only ate the grass which grew at the edge of the field. There was a feeling of late afternoon which hung heavily in the air.

  “We might as well give up and die,” Angus said.

  “Don't be so defeatist,” I replied. “I wish we had a compass.”

  “Well, we haven't, so that's that,” Angus replied.

  “There's no need to be so cross,” I said.

  “I'm not, I'm just thinking of the row we're going to get into when we eventually return home,” Angus answered.

  “Well, this time it really isn't our fault,” I replied, wondering how long Wendy would keep the truck waiting for us.

  “This just wouldn't happen, hunting in England. A crowd of foot followers would have set us on the right road hours ago,” Angus said.

  “We'd better try again,” I answered.

  The horses were bored now as well as tired. I think they knew that we were lost. We rode on and on, and afternoon turned to evening; and then at last we reached a road. Angus gave a feeble cheer and the horses pricked their ears.

  “Which way do we turn?” Angus asked.

  Neither of us had ever seen the road before, but Frances seemed to know it. She turned left in a very definite manner and Angus said, “Thank goodness someone seems to know the way.”

  The road was narrow. It wandered between wood fences and past a few farms standing at the end of long drives.

  We started to think about the wild horse as we followed the strange road. I thought of hunting him across the vast, well-fenced and little-wooded Virginian countryside. Then I remembered the approaching round-up and all my hopes and dreams seemed to die. I remembered that the Virginians would shoot him if they couldn't catch him, and there just didn't seem any point in hoping any more.

  The shadows lengthened across the unknown road and Frances stumbled with weariness.

  “I'm going to dismount and walk,” I told Angus. He dismounted too and we walked steadily along the road in to the gathering dusk.

  “If only they weren't going to shoot him,” said Angus at last.

  I saw the palomino falling as the bullet hit him and heard the cries of his pursuers. Then I remembered the Virginians' renowned love of horses, the stud-farms scattered across Virginia, and I knew that the palomino had a chance.

  “I don't believe they'll shoot him, not when the moment comes,” I said. “They're too fond of horses. It would be different if he was old, or diseased or in pain.”

  “I hope you're right,” Angus said.

  We started to worry about Wendy. We wondered if she would be waiting for us, or would she have returned home and told everyone we were lost? Or was she still hunting across the dusky fields? We both hoped that she was still hunting or hacking home like us.

  We came at last to a road which met our road at right angles, and once again Frances knew the way. It was very nearly dark by now. I thought of the tea waiting for us in Mountain Farm, of warm welcoming lights and a hot bath. Frances started to hurry. Perhaps we're getting near, I thought, peering into the dusk.

  But I could see nothing familiar about the road and the trees on each side were strange to us, so was the faint outline of the valley below. The bay mare was tired. I could see it by the droop of her head and in the way she walked. The road obviously meant nothing to her. Angus and I were tired too, too tired to talk. We ought to find a telephone, I thought. I imagined ringing up Mountain Farm and Dad answering. I wondered why we hadn't thought of it before. I started looking for a house; but for ages we only passed wooden shacks with unkempt gardens.

  Frances still hurried. She seemed suddenly tireless. A car passed with blazing headlights and our horses cringed and blinked. There were lights ahead which showed us a house silhouetted against the dark sky. We came to a drive and, with a sudden rush, Frances swung down it as though it was home.

  “Where are you going?” yelled Angus, while I felt quite sick with disappointment. So this was where Frances had been leading us, I thought, not to Mountain Farm; nor the Millers' place, but to a strange house, standing near an unknown road. I suddenly felt twice as weary. I couldn't see how we were ever to reach home, our parents could wait all night for us and still we wouldn't arrive. It must be one of Frances's previous homes, I thought, staring furiously at the house ahead. I could hear Angus calling to me, “Where are you going, Jean? What are you doing?”

  “There may be a telephone,” I yelled back into the darkness.

  Frances hurried along the drive and turned left towards the dim outline of a building, which I guessed was the stable. A horse whinnied, and the bay mare raised her head and answered. The stable was in darkness. We could just see three heads gazing at us over doors as we turned towards the house. There were lights in the kitchen and a woman opened the back door when we knocked. I explained our plight and she disappeared in search of someone.

  “What are you going to do if they won't let us?” Angus asked.

  “Find out where we are,” I replied.

  The woman returned with a lean little man in riding-clothes and a checked waistcoat.

  He said, “Hi!” and then, “Gee, if it isn't Frances.”

  “We're trying to get home. She brought us here,” I explained.

  “I traded her with Charlie Miller over the other side – must be three years ago now,” he said. “I traded her for the heck of a horse.”

  “Please may we use your phone?” I asked.

  “He jumped real good, that horse. I sold him to a dealer in New York. I can't remember his name right now. Sure, you can use the phone,” he added, as though he'd only just thought of it. “Do come inside.”

  The walls were hung with photographs of horses. There was a collection of hunting whips and polo sticks in the hall. The house smelled of cooking, leather and saddle soap.

  The telephone was in a small front room where there were whisky and beer bottles and a dozen or more glasses and tumblers. There were magazines and a couple of books on riding lying on the table in the centre of the room.

  Fortunately, I knew the number of Mountain Farm. But before I could ring, the owner of the house talked. He wanted to know where we came from, which pack we'd been hunting with, how we'd come by Frances. He told me that we were roughly fifteen miles from Mountain Farm, that we'd better leave the horses with him and be fetched by car, and that his name was Jim Blackburn, and that his parents were Irish. Then he left the room and I used the phone.

  I said, “It's Jean here. I'm terribly sorry, we got lost. We're fifteen miles from home and the horses are very tired. We don't know where Wendy is.”

/>   “Thank goodness you've rung up. Wendy's just got back. We were just about to send out a search party. Where exactly are you?” Mum asked, sounding relieved.

  “At Jim Blackburn's place – he knows Mr Miller,” I replied. “He said he'll put up the horses for the night.”

  “That's very handsome of him. But it still doesn't tell me where you are,” Mum answered.

  “Hang on. I'll find out,” I said. I found Jim Blackburn talking to Angus. They'd removed the horses' saddles. The woman was making coffee in the kitchen. I asked Jim Blackburn to come and talk to Mum, only by that time it had become Dad.

  “Are they furious?” Angus asked, when Jim Blackburn had finished directing Dad and we were leading the horses to two loose boxes which were conveniently empty.

  “No, I don't think so,” I replied. “I think that Mum was just pleased to know that we were still in the land of the living.”

  We bedded down the boxes and fed and watered Frances and the bay mare. Then Jim Blackburn took us indoors and gave us each a mug of coffee with a dash of whisky, and the woman – who was very kind and called May – put a plate of scrambled eggs and a loaf of fresh bread in front of us.

  “Make yourselves at home. I’m slipping back out to the barn to see that your hunters are comfortable,” Jim Blackburn said.

  Angus leaped to his feet and cried, “Can't we help?” But we were firmly told to stay where we were and eat what we were given. The eggs had been scrambled in a frying pan and were delicious. May found us butter and preserves and we ate vast quantities of bread. I didn't enjoy my coffee much; I don't like it anyway, and the whisky made it taste even worse than usual.

  “I hope Mum's rung up Wendy,” Angus said. “It must have been terrible for her waiting by the truck.”

  The kitchen was warm and cosy. I felt incapable and sleepy. May seemed far away by the old-fashioned stove; the mugs hanging on the dresser were just a blur. Soon I slept, sprawled across the table.

  I wakened to the sound of voices and a hand on my shoulder. “Jean, wake up. Come on, it's time to go home,” Mum was saying. I had a crick in my neck and my legs felt stiff and heavy. For a moment I couldn't think where I was. Then it all came back.

  “You've had a real good sleep,” May said, with a smile which showed perfect teeth.

  “It was that drop of whisky,” Jim Blackburn said.

  Mum seemed to be thanking everyone. I stood up and looked around the kitchen.

  “You've been asleep for ages,” Angus said. “We've just been looking at the horses; they seem quite happy.”

  I was still too sleepy to talk much. I remember shaking hands and saying thank you to May and Jim Blackburn in a kind of daze. Then I stumbled into the car and fell instantly asleep. In my dreams I heard the steady drone of Angus's voice explaining things to Mum.

  Tea was still laid in the kitchen at Mountain Farm, but I was too tired to eat. I remember seeing that the clock on the window ledge said nine o'clock and I asked Mum if someone had told Wendy what had happened.

  “Hours ago,” she replied. “Dad's over there now.”

  I remember falling into bed, feeling the pillow against my face and with it a wonderful sense of security. I remember hearing Angus say, “Well, I'm going to have a bath anyway,” and Mum saying “Shh.” Then once again I slept, and this time it was the dreamless sleep of complete exhaustion.

  10

  On Sunday Joe drove Wendy, Angus and me over to Jim Blackburn's place in the truck. It was rather awkward meeting Wendy. Mr Miller had been extremely angry when she returned without us and as a punishment she wasn't to ride for a week. We had learned this from Dad. As a result Angus and I felt horribly guilty. In a way we knew that we were responsible for the punishment. Fortunately, Wendy wasn’t a person to harbour a grievance. She grinned when we met and called, “Sorry I let you down yesterday. I feel awful about it.” After that we all blamed ourselves and set off in the truck in high spirits.

  Wendy told us that she too had finished up miles from home on a tired horse. She had hacked back to the truck hoping to find us impatiently waiting; instead she had been met by a furious Joe, who said it was past six and he had his cow to milk when he got back. Wendy had insisted on waiting for half an hour, hoping that we might still turn up. She hadn't thought of ringing up home. Her father had telephoned Mountain Farm on her return. Later they had asked Mr Smythe to ring up if we appeared at his place. Wendy hadn't been able to eat until after I had telephoned Mum and everyone knew that we were at Jim Blackburn's place on the other side of the valley.

  “I really think you had the worst time of all,” Angus said, when Wendy came to the end of her story. “At least our adventures were exciting.”

  “Our families have got together and none of us are to hunt again until the boys are back. As if they ever look after anyone,” Wendy told us.

  “We must get our horses clipped,” Angus replied. “That is, if we can still have them next holidays.”

  “That's just the heck of it. I just don't know what to say. You see, I'm too big to ride my little roan any more and Dad keeps saying we must have one of yours back,” answered Wendy. She sounded apologetic and embarrassed. I said nothing. I hated the idea of losing either the bay mare or Frances, but we obviously couldn't keep both horses when Wendy had nothing to ride.

  “Oh, well, perhaps we'll have caught the palomino by then. Anyway, don't worry, it won't be the first time we've managed with one mount between us, will it, Jean?” Angus said.

  “Far from it,” I agreed.

  “I wish we could think of some way of stopping the beastly round-up,” Angus said. “If only we could get off school.”

  “I don't see what we could do then,” Wendy replied.

  “Jeopardise the whole expedition somehow,” Angus answered.

  “Hey, some of them happen to be friends of mine,” Wendy said.

  “I didn't say I was going to hurt anybody,” Angus replied.

  I still felt sleepy. I think Wendy did too; there were dark rings under her eyes anyway and she kept passing her hand across her face, as though to ward off sleep.

  It was another warm day. Jim Blackburn's place looked a haven of peace. A collie lay sunning himself in the stable yard; the horses were blinking and dreaming over their box doors. We found Jim Blackburn cleaning a bridle in a little room leading off the kitchen. He greeted us cheerfully and we all walked to the stables together. Frances and the bay mare looked tired. Their heads drooped and they were each resting one hind leg.

  “They're sound all right. I led them both out first thing this morning. The bay mare's a wee bit stiff though,” Jim Blackburn told us.

  We led the horses into the truck from a permanent loading ramp. Then I made the little speech Mum had suggested to me about paying for their board and lodging. But Jim Blackburn only laughed.

  “Forget it,” he said. “If I can't put up a couple of horses for a night without asking a fee, I'd better quit.”

  Joe was waiting. When he saw us he climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. We clambered into the back, just as it started with a jerk which sent us stumbling among the horses' legs. We all began to laugh when we were standing straight again. As we travelled home we discussed the wild horse. There seemed nothing we could do to stop the round-up.

  “We'll just have to sit through school in agony, I suppose,” Angus said, “imagining the palomino pitting his wits against a bunch of hard-hunting Virginian men.”

  “I'm going to suggest we have tomorrow off,” I replied. “It's worth trying, anyway.”

  “We won't get it. Why should we?” Angus asked.

  Finally, it was not until bedtime that I had the courage to ask if we might stay away from school the next day. The weekend guests had gone by then and a sudden peace had descended on Mountain Farm. We were sitting round a small fire in the dining-room. I asked with a sudden rush of words and Mum said, “Why on earth should you?”

  Dad said, “I do wish you
would speak more slowly, Jean.”

  Angus explained about the round-up. “It's really tremendously important to us that we should stop them,” he finished.

  “But what do you mean by stop?” Dad asked.

  “Find the wild horse before anyone else and drive him away from them,” Angus answered promptly. I hadn't thought as far as that. I suppose it had been in Angus's head for some time.

  “What a disgraceful idea. You really can't be so antisocial,” Dad said.

  “Don't you want us to catch the wild horse then?” I asked.

  “I don't much mind either way. But I'm definite about one thing – you are going to school tomorrow,” Dad replied.

  I shall never forget Monday. On our way to school we met horsemen approaching the mountains by truck and horse box, trailer and car. We also saw a few lone riders crossing the valley, and dogs and a couple of hounds. There seemed little chance for the wild horse against so many. There was one consolation: no one as far as we could see carried a shotgun or rifle. There was a breeze blowing and the air felt light and free.

  “What a wonderful morning for a round-up. I wish I was ten years younger,” Mr Miller said.

  “You're not so old. Let's have the radio on,” Wendy suggested.

  Mr Miller drove very fast, relying on his quick reactions and his brakes to save us should anything suddenly cross the road or dash out of a side turning.

  My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was sure with the most complete certainty that the palomino would be captive before nightfall. I wondered whether the Millers would ask for the bay mare or Frances for the holidays. The remaining one would be very lonely living alone at Mountain Farm, I decided.

  “Have you heard we're having a hunt breakfast on Christmas Day? The Jamesons are hunting. They've sent us an invitation,” Wendy said.

  “They always have an invitation meet on Christmas Day, and we thought it would be fun to give a hunt breakfast for everyone afterwards,” Mr Miller explained.

  “It will be a kind of farewell too. Because we're spending a week in New York after Christmas,” Wendy said.