smear ointment onto the jagged cut.
“Art is the mystery healer!” Kirstie told Lisa.
Together she and the quiet stranger had made their way along the ledge behind the waterfall into Dead Man’s Canyon.
Lisa stared as if she was seeing a ghost. “We never thought you’d make it out of there!”
“Well, I did, thanks to the stallion. And listen, Art’s the one who led him into the clearing first of all; not Bob Tyson!” Kirstie was dripping wet and shaking all over. “Art’s been taking care of him ever since the landslide. Isn’t that great?”
Matt stepped forward to sling his jacket around her shoulders. “Save it for later,” he said quietly. He squeezed her gently and kept one arm around her while she went on regardless.
“Tyson wasn’t the only one who knows all the old stuff about horses. Art here picked it up from his grandpa when he was a little kid. His folks had a ranch over by Aspen Falls before they built the Interstate highway there. Then they moved away to Colorado Springs, but Art didn’t like the city. He lives in a trailer up at Eden Lake. That’s where he first saw the wild horses …”
“Whoa!” Art Fischer stopped staring at his wet boots, looked up, and spoke for the first time. “I didn’t reckon on you telling them my whole life story.”
“But it’s amazing! You taught yourself the medicine stuff by working alongside your grandpa. And you’ve remembered all of it!” Art had explained everything in answer to her breathless questions in the clearing. Then, once he was satisfied that the unexpected swim hadn’t done the horse too much harm, they’d left him in peace and quickly come back to the canyon.
“I guess. But no way do I want folks knocking on my door pestering me with damn fool questions,” he protested. “I got a quiet life up by the lake, and that’s the way I like it.”
Kirstie bit her lip and blushed. “You’re not mad at me?” To her, Art was her new hero. He might not look or sound like one, with his faded clothes, his shy way of hanging his head, and his quiet, funny voice, but what he’d done for the black stallion made him number one in her eyes.
He smiled now and shook his head.
But, as if in answer to Art’s fears that his privacy was about to be invaded, the sound of Lennie Goodman’s bulldozer rumbling up Meltwater Trail broke the silence of the mountain. And up on the ridge, a group of trail riders appeared with Hadley at their head. The line strung out along the cliff edge, staring down at the small group standing in the canyon.
“Hey, Art!” Hadley stood up in his stirrups and hollered. “How are y’all?”
“Hey!” Art answered. He turned his head away from the onlookers, ducked his head, and shrugged.
Kirstie stared from one to the other; the old wrangler on the ridge riding Yukon, her new friend standing by her side. “You know him?” Cupping her hands to her mouth, she yelled up at Hadley.
“Sure I know him. He’s Fenney Fischer’s boy from Aspen Falls.”
“How come you didn’t tell us?” she cried.
And back came the slow, inevitable answer, as Hadley led the riders on along the ridge: “How come you never asked?”
“I got a real nice site at Lone Elm,” Lennie told Art later that same evening. The bulldozer had shifted tons of rock and earth, and the entrance to Dead Man’s Canyon was clear at last. “It’s got running water, I can connect you up to the electricity generator, no problem.”
Art listened and smiled.
Lisa’s grandpa described the advantages of moving down from lonely Eden Lake to the comforts of an official trailer park. “Hot showers, a grocery store right on site, folks to get along with on a long winter’s night.”
Kirstie raised her eyebrows at Lisa, slipped an arm through hers, and wandered away from the group. She was happy that the blocked entrance had been cleared, glad that Matt had contacted their mom on the radio, and that Sandy and Hadley had made it to the
“Art is the mystery healer!” Kirstie told Lisa.
Together she and the quiet stranger had made their way along the ledge behind the waterfall into Dead Man’s Canyon.
Lisa stared as if she was seeing a ghost. “We never thought you’d make it out of there!”
“Well, I did, thanks to the stallion. And listen, Art’s the one who led him into the clearing first of all; not Bob Tyson!” Kirstie was dripping wet and shaking all over. “Art’s been taking care of him ever since the landslide. Isn’t that great?”
Matt stepped forward to sling his jacket around her shoulders. “Save it for later,” he said quietly. He squeezed her gently and kept one arm around her while she went on regardless.
“Tyson wasn’t the only one who knows all the old stuff about horses. Art here picked it up from his grandpa when he was a little kid. His folks had a ranch over by Aspen Falls before they built the Interstate highway there. Then they moved away to Colorado Springs, but Art didn’t like the city. He lives in a trailer up at Eden Lake. That’s where he first saw the wild horses …”
“Whoa!” Art Fischer stopped staring at his wet boots, looked up, and spoke for the first time. “I didn’t reckon on you telling them my whole life story.”
“But it’s amazing! You taught yourself the medicine stuff by working alongside your grandpa. And you’ve remembered all of it!” Art had explained everything in answer to her breathless questions in the clearing. Then, once he was satisfied that the unexpected swim hadn’t done the horse too much harm, they’d left him in peace and quickly come back to the canyon.
“I guess. But no way do I want folks knocking on my door pestering me with damn fool questions,” he protested. “I got a quiet life up by the lake, and that’s the way I like it.”
Kirstie bit her lip and blushed. “You’re not mad at me?” To her, Art was her new hero. He might not look or sound like one, with his faded clothes, his shy way of hanging his head, and his quiet, funny voice, but what he’d done for the black stallion made him number one in her eyes.
He smiled now and shook his head.
But, as if in answer to Art’s fears that his privacy was about to be invaded, the sound of Lennie Goodman’s bulldozer rumbling up Meltwater Trail broke the silence of the mountain. And up on the ridge, a group of trail riders appeared with Hadley at their head. The line strung out along the cliff edge, staring down at the small group standing in the canyon.
“Hey, Art!” Hadley stood up in his stirrups and hollered. “How are y’all?”
“Hey!” Art answered. He turned his head away from the onlookers, ducked his head, and shrugged.
Kirstie stared from one to the other; the old wrangler on the ridge riding Yukon, her new friend standing by her side. “You know him?” Cupping her hands to her mouth, she yelled up at Hadley.
“Sure I know him. He’s Fenney Fischer’s boy from Aspen Falls.”
“How come you didn’t tell us?” she cried.
And back came the slow, inevitable answer, as Hadley led the riders on along the ridge: “How come you never asked?”
“I got a real nice site at Lone Elm,” Lennie told Art later that same evening. The bulldozer had shifted tons of rock and earth, and the entrance to Dead Man’s Canyon was clear at last. “It’s got running water, I can connect you up to the electricity generator, no problem.”
Art listened and smiled.
Lisa’s grandpa described the advantages of moving down from lonely Eden Lake to the comforts of an official trailer park. “Hot showers, a grocery store right on site, folks to get along with on a long winter’s night.”
Kirstie raised her eyebrows at Lisa, slipped an arm through hers, and wandered away from the group. She was happy that the blocked entrance had been cleared, glad that Matt had contacted their mom on the radio, and that Sandy and Hadley had made it to the
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