Ghost Horses by Gloria Skurzynski Page B

your fault as mine,” Ethan answered, still snorting with hilarity. “That’s why it’s so funny. You made it happen.”
    â€œMy fault? I wasn’t even near him!”
    â€œYou did the Ghost Dance.” Ethan’s mirth was starting to subside. “It’s really working.”
    â€œGhost Dance? What are you talking about?”
    â€œSure,” Ethan answered, now perfectly serious. “Think about all those creepy things that have been happening to your family. Not like your father slipping in the river right now—that’s nothing. But the rocks falling yesterday, and the mustang nearly stomping your sister last night. You said it was my fault. Maybe you’re right. But you helped.”
    â€œYou’re crazy!”
    Steven had waded up to them now. He’d heard what Ethan was saying, and asked him, “You think the Ghost Dance caused those accidents?”
    â€œDo I think?” Ethan didn’t answer that, but he said, “The Shoshone used to believe in it—a hundred years ago. Maybe some still do. They danced the Ghost Dance to make white people go away. What’s so great about it right now is”—Ethan began to laugh again, but it was not a pleasant sound as he pointed a finger at Jack—“like, what cracks me up is that Jack and Ashley danced the Ghost Dance, too, and it’s supposed to get rid of white people. Like them! You danced to get rid of yourselves.”
    Steven said nothing, but his jaw began to work, and his fist clenched slightly. He just stared at Ethan, who stared right back, his stone-person expression in place again. Finally Steven said, “The trail map shows a sandbar around the bend from here. I think it’s a good time for us to stop and eat.”
    So Steven was going to let it go. Again. Jack mulled it over, deciding that the superstition about the Ghost Dance wasn’t what bothered him—he didn’t believe in stuff like that. He didn’t think Ethan did, either, since Ethan wouldn’t answer either yes or no when Steven asked him straight out.
    It was Ethan’s attitude that made Jack burn. That kid had the biggest and baddest attitude Jack had ever come across. Jack was ready to spit out an insult, but Steven was giving him a don’t-make–a-big-deal-out-of-this look, so Jack had to hold it in. One more item to add to the long rap sheet of offenses by Ethan Ingawanup.
    Rocks aren’t the most comfortable things to sit on, but the air was warm, the sandwiches tasted great, and no one else was around. Just three guys—two blond, one Native American. Two fatherless, one lucky enough to have a father who cared so much, both about his own son and about all fatherless children, no matter what punky jerks they turned out to be.
    Above them, the rock walls were streaked with dark zebra stripes from minerals that had leached out of the surface over thousands of years. Since no one was talking—just chewing—it was quiet enough to hear the splashing of the Virgin River as it veered around the rocks that studded its bed, and the faint twitter of birds on the cliffs so high overhead, and another sound much fainter, so far away that Jack wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. Thunder, maybe, but far, far in the distance. It didn’t repeat, so he didn’t mention it to his father.
    â€œWhen you guys are finished,” Steven said, “we’ll hike up past Orderville Canyon. The water gets deeper there, and the walls get really close together, so it might be tricky to take pictures. I’m going to put away my camera for now.” He began sealing his dry bag around his camera and flash attachment.
    Heading north, they trekked back into the river again.
    Steven had been correct—just as they passed Orderville Canyon, which veered off to their right, the water did get deeper, and the current pushed harder against Jack’s legs. “Ow!” he