Katie and the Mustang, Book 4 by Kathleen Duey Page A

meaning to. The stallion was startled into rearing.
    I instinctively loosened my grip on the rope to keep from being dragged upward as I scrambled aside and waited for him to settle. But he didn’t. He pranced a little, then shook his mane and reared again.
    â€œEasy now. Just be easy,” I singsonged, scanning the woods upwind. I couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean much. “Come on. Let’s go.” I tugged gently at the rope, but he didn’t respond at all. “I’ll bring you back here in the morning,” I promised him. He refused to move.
    I was nervous. I couldn’t remember his ever acting like this. I had no idea how long it would take to gentle him into following me back, but I knew I shouldn’t have come this far out of sight without telling someone. Mrs. Kyler would worry. So would Grover, I was sure. I’d just been so upset that all I had wanted was to get away from everyone.
    â€œPlease,” I begged the Mustang, talking to him the way I always had. I explained that people would worry about us, that it was time to go back now.
    He tossed his head and nickered.
    It was only then that I heard a rustling sound and what sounded like footsteps in the trees below us. I held my breath and lifted my head. “Grover? Is that you?”
    The Mustang nickered again, and I pulled hard at the lead rope. He turned to look at me, then faced the wind and nickered once more. “Grover?” I called. It was then I heard an answer. It wasn’t meant for me, though. It was a whinny.
    Now that I knew what I was looking for, I spotted the mare. She was a honey-colored horse with a long dark mane and tail. She eased back into the trees just as I saw a deep sorrel pass farther down the hill. Peering through the branches, I could see three more mares, all sleek and fit.
    The Mustang shook his head hard and pulled at the rope. I tried to turn him toward me again. He dragged me forward a little ways. The mare whinnied again. He answered her.
    There was no squealing challenge this time. For whatever reason, these mares seemed to be without a stallion. I saw two more threading their way through the pines, a gray and a tall chestnut.
    The stallion turned, and I saw an expression in his eyes that had nothing to do with me. It was as though someone had lit a lantern inside him. I felt my eyes fill with tears. I might never find my home, but he had. This Oregon country was where he had been caught. All he needed was for me to take the halter off and let him go.
    I began to cry hard. Everything that mattered to me was gone, had been taken away, all at once. But I knew what was right. I loved the Mustang. He had been my friend when I had no other in all the world.
    My hands were shaking, and my vision was blurred with tears, but I knew what I had to do. I would not pay him back for his good heart by keeping him from his home.
    Choking back sobs, I unbuckled the halter and slid it off over his ears. He turned to nuzzle my cheek, then he shook his head and rubbed his muzzle on one extended foreleg, scratching, erasing the marks in his coat from the leather straps.
    He took a few steps, and I caught my breath. Then he stopped and looked back at me. “Good-bye,” I whispered to him. “Thank you.” He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes deep and kind.
    Then one of the mares whinnied. Involuntarily, I reached out as the Mustang whirled around, reared, then lunged into a canter down the slope. I lowered my arm slowly, my heart aching as I watched him disappear into the forest. The hoofbeats and nickering got louder, then faded slowly into silence.
    For a long time I stood, motionless, listening, feeling empty and scared and alone. I coiled up the lead rope and slung the halter over my shoulder and started back toward the wagons. It was the longest walk of my life. I stopped twice to weep, and I couldn’t help turning back, over and over, trying to spot him, to