Rodeo Rocky by Jenny Oldfield

stepping toward the silver motor home and climbing up into the cab as Lisa arrived. He was turning on the engine. The giant vehicle was starting to move out of the park.
    “Lisa, watch out for Lucky!” Kirstie yelled. Her voice was drowned by the engine.
    And now she had other things to worry about. The motor home crawled through the exit, beneath the overhead sign that Lennie Goodman had erected only that spring. Thirty feet long, reflecting the sun’s rays, engine growling, it advanced onto the road.
    “For crying out loud!” she muttered. Didn’t the driver have enough sense to wait until she and Rocky had ridden by? Though broader than the steep mountain trails, the road couldn’t take both motor home and horse. And anyway, Rocky was beginning to act up.
    He saw the square front of the tall cab, the gleaming metal grille, the flash of sunlight reflected on glass, the movement of passengers inside. For a few moments, Rocky stood stock-still.
    Kirstie tightened the reins. “Back up!” she whispered. If Rocky would pull back a few feet, she could guide him up a side track, out of the way of the slowly advancing motor home. “Come on, Rocky, let’s get out of here!”
    No way was the driver going to stop, she realized. Maybe he thought he had the right of way in his huge motor home and expected a mere horse and rider to automatically give way. Or maybe he just didn’t realize he was giving her a problem. In any case, he kept right on coming.
    She felt the mustang flinch. Instead of backing to safety, he chose to advance with edgy, uneven strides. Kirstie pulled on the reins. “Come on, Rocky, what’s going on?” Why wouldn’t he do as he was told?
    He stopped. His head was up, ears flat; the old, angry signs. And every muscle was tense, every nerve on edge as he skittered across the dirt road, defying the oncoming driver.
    The man at the wheel must have seen the horse by now. He was a hundred yards away and still creeping forward. Either he was mean or stupid. “Stop!” Grasping the reins in one hand, Kirstie made a firm signal with the other.
    No response. The giant vehicle kept on coming. There was a roar, a cloud of black fumes from the exhaust, a swing off the road into the gravel and brushwood, as if the driver had momentarily lost control. A screech of brakes, the churn of loose stones under the massive wheels; the inexperienced driver fought to bring the tilting motor home back onto the level ground.
    “Easy, boy!” Kirstie knew deep down that she was losing him. He was ignoring her voice, the touch of the reins. His muscles were bunched, his head straining. Still she tried to get him back.
    But it was no good. With a toss of his head, Rocky rested back deep on his haunches, then threw himself forward in a terrific buck. Kirstie flew with him in a high arc, grabbing the saddle horn as she went, legs flying from the stirrups, head jerked back in a sudden whiplash movement. Her hat flew off, her hair fell loose as she clung to the saddle and felt Rocky’s back feet land with a thudding jolt.
    It was then, much too late, that the driver must have realized she was in deep trouble. He put his foot on the brake and trundled to a halt. The motor home hissed, spouted out blue smoke, then sat motionless astride the road.

    With Kirstie still clinging tight, trying to slide her feet back into the stirrups and regain hold of the reins, Rocky arched his back and stamped his feet. A huge fear had him in its grip. His head went up again, his mane whipping against her arms. Then he reared and twisted, throwing her back and sideways. She held on, felt the bunched fury of his muscles.
    Then there were footsteps running down the road, two figures appeared from behind the stationary motor home. Kirstie glimpsed Lisa and Lennie Goodman coming to help. But Rocky spun away, rearing once, twice, three times. She was flung backward and forward, biting her tongue hard as her jaw fell open, then snapped shut with the violent