Wild Horses by Jenny Oldfield

fast-flowing Horseshoe Creek. Now they would have to wade across before they reached the canyon. Lucky had been heading for his usual crossing place when a figure standing on a rock in the middle of the stream brought him to a halt.
    It was a man with a fishing rod and canvas bag slung across his shoulder, obviously making his way down toward Five Mile Creek in the valley below. Nothing about him looked unusual or scary; he was medium height, with fair, short hair, wearing a padded jacket, jeans, and boots. But Sandy’s recent warning was fresh in Kirstie’s mind. What if this man, whom she’d never seen before, was one of the drifters they’d been talking about? Maybe he was Baxter or Art? Or maybe even the notorious Bob Tyson?
    The thought made Kirstie rein Lucky to the right and head off across country without waiting to greet the stranger. She felt her horse begin to blow as the hill grew steeper and they passed under the shadow of Hummingbird Rock, but she pushed him on until they were out of sight.
    Then she slowed. The detour was heading them toward Miners’ Ridge; she recognized the weird humps of grassed-over mine waste on the horizon. Knowing that the ridge would give her a good view down into the canyon, and finding that Lucky had soon got his second wind, she decided to carry on.
    They came onto the ridge as the sun began to turn the sky pink. The dark pines lined up in silhouette, tall and straight. And beneath the trees stood the horses.
    “Easy!” Kirstie breathed. Lucky gently slowed and stopped. The breeze lifted her hair and cooled her hot face as they stood gazing at the herd.
    They seemed like dream horses, still as statues under the trees. But the breeze reached them and swayed their long tails. One sorrel stamped and turned her head toward the onlookers, then turned to gaze again into the seemingly empty canyon.
    How long had they been waiting there, Kirstie wondered. Maybe hours. While shadows lengthened and the light drained from the hillsides, they’d been watching. She noticed a dappled gray mare standing apart from the rest, nearer to the sheer drop into Dead Man’s Canyon, her head forward, long ears pricked. The mare ignored Kirstie and Lucky, and gave a low snicker that rippled through the quiet air and was swallowed by the deep sides of the ravine.
    The still, silent horses listened for a reply.
    Kirstie shook her head. The mare had signalled to the black stallion below, but there had been no answer.
    Restless now, the herd broke up and began to mill around. Two foals cut away from their mothers and skittered on long, ungainly legs toward a stream that ran into a gully at a blocked entrance to an old mine. A young, strong blue roan stallion trotted a hundred yards along the ridge, and with a flick of his tail and a toss of his head, wheeled and came back.
    But the gray mare hadn’t given up. Standing at the brink, she gave another high whinny.
    It sent a shiver down Kirstie’s spine. The mare was demanding an answer from her injured mate.
    And this time it came. A loud, piercing cry broke from the depths of the canyon, echoing against the rocks, rising to where the herd had gathered. The black stallion had given his reply.

    Kirstie tied Lucky to a tree branch and climbed down the difficult but by now familiar route into the canyon. She carried a rope slung crossways across her shoulder, her mind fixed on carrying out her plan to set the stallion free.
    But she knew she must be quick if she hoped to crawl along the ledge behind the waterfall and into the clearing, because the light was fading. There was time to do it if everything went well. But the stallion might prove difficult to catch and lead out. In that case, she would have to leave him there for one more night and come back early tomorrow.
    What she hadn’t expected was to find him still in pain from his injury. But when she stood upright after her wet crawl behind the waterfall and stepped onto the grass, and discovered the