Run Wild, Run Free by Nancy Morse

Author:Nancy Morse
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Nancy Morse
Published: 2013-12-14T11:00:00+00:00

The piebald. Always it began and ended with the piebald stallion. Hank would never forget the first time he saw him. It was the first summer they’d brought the wild mustangs in for adoption. There were about fifty of them, mostly mares and foals. Hank had to blink his eyes to be sure the horse was really there, but sure enough, there he was, moving from light to shadow, the most incredible colt he’d ever seen. He moved friskily around the corral, that incredible coloring of white against black acting as both camouflage and screaming declaration. But it was more than the colt’s satanic coloring that captured Hank’s attention. Those pink-rimmed eyes seemed always to be watching and waiting; for what, Hank never knew. He had plans for that colt. This one he’d keep for himself.

The winter was a bad one. During one particularly harsh blizzard, which dumped six feet of snow on the ground, several of Hank’s horses broke loose and got lost on the range, the piebald colt among them. When the deep snows melted later that spring, Hank rode solemnly over the range and shuddered when he found their carcasses—all except for the colt. The coyotes must have taken him, he figured.

The raids in the middle of the night began a few years later. The first happened while Hank was competing in Denver one summer. Word reached him that some of his brood mares had been stolen from the corral. But the news was far worse than that. Beth had somehow gotten in the path of the stampeding horses and been trampled to death.

No one knew who stole the horses, or why. In the wake of Beth’s death it didn’t seem to matter. Several weeks later, however, something happened that changed the course of Hank’s life even more dramatically.

He awoke one night out of a fitful sleep, eyes snapping open, fully alert. He got out of bed and went to the window. From the second story he had a clear view of the brood mares’ corral. A lone horse circled outside the corral at a measured gait. With the moon behind a cloud, Hank couldn’t see him clearly. The horse’s actions, however, were unmistakable. It approached the corral, turned its rear to it and kicked down the top post of a section of fence. As noiseless as the wind he moved among the herd, singling out certain mares and herding them out of the corral. When the last one was out, he rose on hind legs, front hooves thrashing the black night. In that moment the moon reappeared from behind the cloud.

The moonlight struck the horse’s coat, illuminating the pattern of black and white. Instant recognition seared Hank’s brain. His blood pumped with outrage. He raced to the corral in his underwear, rifle in hand, crying. “You! It was you who killed her!” Blinded by his rage, he fired at the stallion. Another time, with a cooler head, he would have hit him, but the stallion got away.

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