two steps; unsteady because of the dangerous current, the palomino emerged from the creek. Three steps. The bed of the stream was strewn with hidden rocks. Lucky staggered. On the black ledge, Rocky reared up, wheeled away, came closer to the spot where Lucky was headed.
Breathless now with the effort of hanging on, dizzy from the rush and swirl of the current, Kirstie willed her horse forward. He rose out of the creek onto the grassy bank.
“Good boy, you made it!” There was a split-second when she leaned forward to pat him. A moment when he lifted his first hoof and planted it on the reedy, squelching surface. The hoof sank into mud. It vanished. The soil oozed and sucked it under. Lucky tipped forward, lifted his other front leg, planted it on the bank. It, too, sank knee-deep.
The horse was up to his knees in soft gray mud. He sank quickly to his shoulders, throwing Kirstie forward out of the saddle, over his head, and onto the bank. She let go of the reins, rolled away, felt the mud suck at her, kept on rolling until she could reach out and catch at the stirrup of the saddle Rocky was still wearing. The mustang stood just close enough, at the very edge of the treacherous swamp. He held firm as she rolled and caught the stirrup. Rocky took her weight and dragged her clear.
But Lisa was crying out a warning that Lucky was still sinking. She crouched on the far bank, ignoring two figures who’d ridden across the flat meadow from the direction of Eden Lake and were flinging themselves out of their saddles at the water’s edge. “Kirstie, get a rope around Lucky’s neck, quick as you can! He’s going under! For God’s sake, do it!”
Without thinking, Kirstie staggered to her feet and unhitched the lead rope coiled and hitched to the side of Rocky’s saddle. As she ran back to the edge of the swamp, she tied a noose in one end. Then she aimed the rope and threw.
Eight or ten feet away, the palomino strove to keep his head and shoulders clear of the mud, which sucked and oozed at him, dragging him down. His eyes rolled wildly, he lashed his head from side to side, but his feet found nothing solid and his struggles only made him sink more quickly.
The noose landed wide of the palomino. Kirstie groaned and drew the rope back, gathered it, and aimed again. This time, it snaked through the air and over Lucky’s head.
“Neat!” a voice called from the far bank.
Kirstie glanced up, had time to recognize Hadley and Charlie as the figures who had raced across the meadow. Now Hadley was yelling instructions.
“Tighten the rope!”
She nodded and stepped back until it was taut.
“OK, now tie the end around Rocky’s saddle horn!” The wrangler gave smooth, clear orders. “Done that?”
With trembling, muddy fingers, she did as she was told.
“So, take the bay’s reins and lead him!”
She nodded, seeing what the plan was. Rocky was to take the strain of the rope attached to Lucky. He was to walk away from the bank, accepting the weight, easing the palomino clear. But could he,
would
he do it?
She took the reins. “Walk on, Rocky!” she murmured.
Back in the muddy swamp, Lucky had stopped fighting. He lay helpless, covered in mud and unrecognizable, waiting for rescue.
“Easy, boy!” Kirstie breathed instructions at the strong bay horse. “I know you warned us not to cross the creek, and you were right. So now it’s up to you to save Lucky. Come on, Rocky, pull!”
The mustang understood exactly what was needed. He turned his back on the creek and took the strain. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to heave. There was a dead weight behind, and silence from the spectators on the opposite bank. The only sound was of mud sucking and oozing around Lucky’s exhausted body as Rocky pulled on the rope.
Seconds ticked by. The wet rope creaked. Nothing moved.
“It’s no good! It’s too tight around Lucky’s neck!” Kirstie cried. She realized that the noose would cut into him and choke
Breathless now with the effort of hanging on, dizzy from the rush and swirl of the current, Kirstie willed her horse forward. He rose out of the creek onto the grassy bank.
“Good boy, you made it!” There was a split-second when she leaned forward to pat him. A moment when he lifted his first hoof and planted it on the reedy, squelching surface. The hoof sank into mud. It vanished. The soil oozed and sucked it under. Lucky tipped forward, lifted his other front leg, planted it on the bank. It, too, sank knee-deep.
The horse was up to his knees in soft gray mud. He sank quickly to his shoulders, throwing Kirstie forward out of the saddle, over his head, and onto the bank. She let go of the reins, rolled away, felt the mud suck at her, kept on rolling until she could reach out and catch at the stirrup of the saddle Rocky was still wearing. The mustang stood just close enough, at the very edge of the treacherous swamp. He held firm as she rolled and caught the stirrup. Rocky took her weight and dragged her clear.
But Lisa was crying out a warning that Lucky was still sinking. She crouched on the far bank, ignoring two figures who’d ridden across the flat meadow from the direction of Eden Lake and were flinging themselves out of their saddles at the water’s edge. “Kirstie, get a rope around Lucky’s neck, quick as you can! He’s going under! For God’s sake, do it!”
Without thinking, Kirstie staggered to her feet and unhitched the lead rope coiled and hitched to the side of Rocky’s saddle. As she ran back to the edge of the swamp, she tied a noose in one end. Then she aimed the rope and threw.
Eight or ten feet away, the palomino strove to keep his head and shoulders clear of the mud, which sucked and oozed at him, dragging him down. His eyes rolled wildly, he lashed his head from side to side, but his feet found nothing solid and his struggles only made him sink more quickly.
The noose landed wide of the palomino. Kirstie groaned and drew the rope back, gathered it, and aimed again. This time, it snaked through the air and over Lucky’s head.
“Neat!” a voice called from the far bank.
Kirstie glanced up, had time to recognize Hadley and Charlie as the figures who had raced across the meadow. Now Hadley was yelling instructions.
“Tighten the rope!”
She nodded and stepped back until it was taut.
“OK, now tie the end around Rocky’s saddle horn!” The wrangler gave smooth, clear orders. “Done that?”
With trembling, muddy fingers, she did as she was told.
“So, take the bay’s reins and lead him!”
She nodded, seeing what the plan was. Rocky was to take the strain of the rope attached to Lucky. He was to walk away from the bank, accepting the weight, easing the palomino clear. But could he,
would
he do it?
She took the reins. “Walk on, Rocky!” she murmured.
Back in the muddy swamp, Lucky had stopped fighting. He lay helpless, covered in mud and unrecognizable, waiting for rescue.
“Easy, boy!” Kirstie breathed instructions at the strong bay horse. “I know you warned us not to cross the creek, and you were right. So now it’s up to you to save Lucky. Come on, Rocky, pull!”
The mustang understood exactly what was needed. He turned his back on the creek and took the strain. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to heave. There was a dead weight behind, and silence from the spectators on the opposite bank. The only sound was of mud sucking and oozing around Lucky’s exhausted body as Rocky pulled on the rope.
Seconds ticked by. The wet rope creaked. Nothing moved.
“It’s no good! It’s too tight around Lucky’s neck!” Kirstie cried. She realized that the noose would cut into him and choke
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