Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 by Kathleen Duey

Author:Kathleen Duey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group

CHAPTER EIGHT

The two-leggeds brought another stallion close.

I was ready to fight. The little one stopped me. She is

wise. It is always better not to fight.

The sun blazed overhead.Every day brought more walking, more seed burrs in my dress hem, more miles of the shallow, warm-water Platte, more of the endless ocean of waving grass. We stayed on the south side, where the grazing was better. Most of the stock was holding weight. The Kylers lost one ox that just dropped in its traces. It took an hour to get the harness off and back the wagon away from the carcass so another ox could be harnessed in its place.

The day after that, it began to rain. It stormed for ten days off and on. Even when it let up and we could travel, we could still see thicker clouds to the northwest. The storms were noisy and windy, but it didn’t cool down much. The air got steamy and thick, and we saw sheets of purple-black rain hanging over the western horizon. For the first time since we had begun traveling beside it, the Platte began to rise.

“The river forks a few miles up, north and south,” Mr. Teal said one night. “We have to end up north of it to go on up into the Wyoming country and Fort Laramie. If we wait, we’ll have both forks to cross.”

A murmuring went through the men.

“You saying we should cross it now,” Mr. Kyler asked, “not wait for the water to go down?”

Mr. Teal nodded. “It ain’t that deep, and the bottom won’t have had time to wash out that much. If we wait, it could get worse for a week or more, not better.”

I listened to the men talking to one another in low voices. The river was high. I could hear it rushing past in the darkness beyond the wagon circle. Mr. Teal was the last one to say anything that was loud enough for me to hear. “Rise early and pack tight,” he shouted over the murmuring. “We cross tomorrow.

It rained again that night, a wild storm with lightning that cracked the sky, scaring the stock into milling around inside the wagon circle. I checked the Mustang four or five times—he wasn’t as spooked as the mares were. They were both pressed close to him, shivery in the wind and rain.

The next morning, Andrew took his stock out of the wagon circle early. I hurried to finish helping Mrs. Kyler, then ran to tie the lead to the Mustang’s halter. I led him off toward the back of the wagon train, as had become my habit. I headed toward the river, wanting to get a look at it. I came around the last wagon and saw a lot of the menfolk lined up, talking, staring out at the brown water.

I walked the Mustang past them, going slow, trying to overhear.

“Why in tarnation didn’t we cross a week ago while it was low?” Andrew Kyler was asking. Mr. McMahon was nodding, but I couldn’t hear what he said.

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