And Condors Danced Read Free

Carly was well practiced. It involved a quick push backward and then a daring leg over while balanced near the horse’s tail. By the time the Hamiltons’ sorrel mare trotted past with Mrs. Hamilton peering out and waving, Carly was seated properly with her skirt and pinafore down below her knees.
    In front of Greenwood, Aunt Mehitabel’s big house on the edge of town, Arthur pulled Comet to a stop, reached back for Carly’s hand, and swung her to the ground. The horse was fretting again, wanting to run, and the moment Arthur loosened the reins he leapt forward—and Carly remembered and yelled, “The cookies!”
    Arthur pulled up so sharply that Comet reared. His black mane flying, his hooves pawed the air before he came down to dance sideways across the road. Controlling the prancing horse with one hand, Arthur pulled the package of cookies from the saddlebag and tossed them to Carly with a grin. A moment later horse and rider were off toward town in a cloud of dust. Clutching the cookies in both arms, Carly watched and let her mind race with the racing horse.
    Arthur of the Pony Express—Arthur the handsome young Pony Express rider on his powerful dark steed pursued by a war party of Indians—Indians everywhere—but they’ll never catch him—not on his wonderful horse—the fastest horse in the whole world.
    It wasn’t until the dust cloud had entirely faded away that the dream faded too. Carly sighed deeply, gathered up imaginary reins, and galloped toward Greenwood.
    Carly Hartwick, Pony Express rider, galloped through dangerous Indian territory on her beautiful black stallion, her right hand holding the reins while her left clutched the mail pouch against her chest. The mail pouch smelled like molasses cookies.
    The smell reminded her of the cookies in her pocket. Pulling her spirited steed to a rearing, prancing stop, she glanced quickly around her. No Indians in sight. She dismounted and tied the reins to a nearby sagebrush—actually one of Woo Ying’s flowering plums, but in Indian territory it would most likely be sagebrush.
    Fishing in her pocket, the Pony Express rider found that her food ration for the long dangerous ride had been reduced to crumbs. No doubt struck by the arrow that had grazed her leg. A bad wound, but not fatal. She’d made it. The ride was over and the mail had gone through. Her mission had been accomplished.
    She limped, favoring the wounded leg, to the garden bench next to the petunia bed, sat down, and gave her full attention to the contents of her pocket. Nothing but crumbs, all right. She must have bounced on them while Comet was galloping. She sighed. After a moment she pulled her pinafore pocket up to her mouth and stuck her tongue in among the cookie crumbs. Suddenly she was the black stallion, enjoying his nosebag of oats at the Pony Express rest stop. She nickered contentedly and munched molasses-flavored oats.
    “You sick, Miss Carly?”
    Carly sat up with a start and pulled down her pinafore. It was only Woo Ying. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she said sternly. “You scared me.”
    “Missy sick?” Woo Ying asked again. “Why apron over face?”
    Carly giggled. “I’m fine,” she said, brushing cookie crumbs off her chin. “Look. I brought Auntie some cookies.”
    Woo Ying took the package and shook it gently. “You make?” he asked, and suddenly his wrinkled face became a mask of terror. “You try poison Woo Ying again?”
    Carly laughed. She laughed so hard she choked on cookie crumbs. Woo Ying was always teasing and lately his favorite tease was about the cake she’d baked for him and Aunt M. a few weeks ago. Woo Ying had been down with the lumbago and Aunt M. had been trying to cook, and making a mess of it as usual, so Carly had offered to make a lemon cake. Lemon cake was one of Nellie’s specialties and Carly had watched her make it many times. Hers would have been just as good as Nellie’s, too, if Aunt M. hadn’t been trying