#1 Blazing Courage by Kelly Milner Halls Page A

victorious. I smile.
    Jack leans back and tips his hat over his eyes, our bidding paddle on his lap. Wrangling this little cyclone could take a while, so he settles in for a catnap. But the Butcher isn’t resting. Her eyes follow the mud-caked Buckskin. Her number is in the air as she bids $30 for the stubborn little horse.
    â€œI hear forty,” says the auctioneer. A second person—I don’t see who—bids, just before the handler corners the horse and slips the halter back on her head. She bites him hard on the shoulder, then pulls back against the lead rope. In a panic, she rears up on her hind legs, fighting for her freedom. The Butcher smiles and raises her paddle.
    Silence fills the arena, as the auctioneer says, “Fifty? Do I hear fifty dollars? Anyone?”
    All eyes move to the next horse in line as the auctioneer raises his gavel to make it final—all eyes but mine. “Forty-five, once,” he calls. By the time he says, “Forty-five, twice,” I am on my feet, but I don’t know what to do to stop it. I lean forward, my eyes locked on the Butcher, willing her to disappear somehow.
    â€œFifty!” cries the auctioneer. I don’t see the paddle but relief washes over me, and I continue my death stare at the Butcher. Let her go , I think. Let her go .
    The auctioneer looks at the Butcher, asking if she wants to raise her bid, but she shakes her head no. I feel relief for the first time since the bidding began. “Take that,” I say under my breath. She sinks back in her chair, waiting for her next victim.
    The auctioneer slams the wooden gavel and shouts, “SOLD! A crazy little Mustang to bidder 1-2-0-6. Congratulations, Jack!”
    I spin like a top to face Jack. He’s smiling like a jack-o-lantern. “Only fourteen hands,” he says, “good thing you’re small.” We walk to the truck to prepare the trailer, and he continues. “Guess what? You can buy a cheap saddle now, too.”

CHAPTER TWO
    Going Home
    Jack lets me lead the little mare from the arena to the horse trailer, but he stays close. “She’s unpredictable,” he says. “Keep your wits about you.”
    Her nostrils flare as we move outside. The fresh air comforts her. But getting her into the trailer could be trouble. A sign of things to come, Jack says, but I don’t care. All I can do is stroke her black mane, her pink muzzle. I trace my fingers across the white patch on her face. It makes her eye seem electric brown. My own horse. I almost can’t believe it.
    â€œShe’s bald faced,” Jack says. “That’s what it’s called when most of a horse’s face is white, but its body isn’t.” Ugly name for a beautiful mark, I think. He takes the lead rope from me and tells me to step inside the front section of the trailer. He unwinds the lead rope to make it longer and hands me the lose end.
    â€œRemember,” he says. “Unpredictable.”
    I watch her, holding the lead in one hand, a bag of apple slices in the other. I see fear in her eyes, but not panic. She watches me, but she hasn’t yet taken a step inside the trailer. Forcing her could be suicide. As scared as she is, if anyone shoved from behind, she’d kick their teeth out. Worse, she could take a step in, rear up, and break her neck on the roof of the trailer.
    â€œSlow and easy,” Jack says as he walks to the back of the trailer. He hands one end of a long, thick rope to an auction aid and holds the other end himself. Jack moves to the right side of the trailer, the auction man moves to the left, and slowly they take up the slack until the rope is resting on the Buckskin’s haunches. As they pull tighter, the Buckskin feels pressure on her hips that urges her to move forward. But she is not happy about it, and her ears go back to prove it.
    â€œStart to pull her lead rope,” Jack says, trying not to yell. “And try to