Katie and the Mustang, Book 4 by Kathleen Duey Read Free Book Online Page B

me.
    They were the best shoes I had ever owned, soft enough that I could still feel the ground, but strong enough to dull the rocks’ edges.
    The days were hot and dusty. I practiced riding Genevieve every evening that Miss Liddy would let me. I got better, a tiny bit each time, at holding the erect posture that made her riding so beautiful.
    We crossed creeks and rivers, none so big as to be very dangerous, which was such a relief. I had heard the men talking about the Columbia River, which we’d have to cross some way or another toward the end. They compared it to the Missouri in size, but rougher, with circular currents and no ferry boats except tied-together Indian canoes. I tried not to think about it.
    After one river crossing—no one seemed to know the name of the river—we passed a cutoff trail, a pair of shallow-rutted tracks, heading south into the California country. It was a faint trail compared to the one we were on. I saw Mr. Silas staring down it as we rolled past.
    The oxen plodded slowly forward in the midday heat, and I spotted wagons in the distance. Some had turned off for California. They were headed southwest, raising so much dust that I couldn’t see how many there were.
    I hadn’t met anyone who was going to California and I wasn’t sure what drew them there instead of Oregon. There must be some reason.
    I suddenly thought about my uncle Jack. Maybe he had started out for Oregon and had gone to California instead. Maybe that’s where his family was—hundreds of miles south. Would he have gone to join up and fight in the war?
    The thought made my skin prickle. I didn’t think he would have done that without letting my mother know, but I had to admit it was possible. It would explain the returned letter at Fort Laramie.
    My eyes filled with tears. How was I supposed to know what to do? How was I supposed to find him? I stepped back and hid behind the Mustang as we walked closer to the wagons so no one would see me crying.
    I had been so sure that I would find my uncle Jack in Oregon country and I still thought I would be able to. But the truth was, back home in Iowa, I had never realized how big the Oregon country was—and I had never once imagined or understood how hard or how long the journey would be.
    There was an enormous difference between thinking about walking two thousand miles and actually walking each mile, one by one.
    As always, the Mustang kept turning to nuzzle at my face and shoulder when he heard me sniffling, trying to hold back the tears.
    I tried, but the tears came anyway and rolled down my cheeks. Hurrying, I led the Mustang even farther away from the wagons and found a swath of good grass off the trail.
    I stopped, and he dropped his head to graze. I stood so the Mustang was between me and the wagons and gave up on fighting the tears. I just wanted my family back. I wanted to see my mother and my father. I wanted to play with my beautiful little sister. I leaned against the Mustang’s shoulder and just plain sobbed. As he had since the beginning, the Mustang stood still, reaching around to touch me with the velvet-soft skin of his muzzle, nudging at my shoulder.
    I didn’t start after the wagons until I was finished crying. I didn’t want Mrs. Kyler to see me coming undone. She had enough to worry about with her own big family.
    As we got close to the end of the wagon line, the Mustang lifted his head suddenly and drew in a long, shuddery breath. I let out the lead rope to allow him to shake his mane and prance a little to one side.
    â€œDo you smell something?” I asked him. “Is there something dangerous up ahead?”
    He shook his mane again. Then he danced a half circle and I had to follow him.
    I held the lead rope without pulling on it. Something was really upsetting him. “What is it?”
    He stamped a back hoof, hard. Then he whinnied, a high, squealing call.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked him again.