The Horse Whisperer Read Free Page B

Grace, reining him in, getting control. Pilgrim settled back into a walk and Judith, still grinning, shook her head and turned to face the trail again. Gulliver walked on, thoroughly unconcerned by the antics behind him, his head moving up and down to the rhythm of his feet. Along the trail, every twenty yards or so, bright orange posters were pinned to the trees, threatening prosecution for anyone caught hunting, trapping or trespassing.
    At the crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys was a small, circular clearing where normally, if they approached quietly, they might find deer or wild turkey. Today however, when the girls rode out from the trees and into the sun, all they found was the bloody, severed wing of a bird. It lay almost exactly in the middle of the clearing like the mark of some savage compass and the girls stopped there and looked down at it.
    “What is it, a pheasant or something?” said Grace.
    “I guess. A former pheasant anyway. Part of a former pheasant.”
    Grace frowned. “How did it get here?”
    “I don’t know. A fox maybe.”
    “It couldn’t be, where are the tracks?”
    There weren’t any. Nor was there any sign of a struggle. It was as if the wing had flown there on its own. Judith shrugged.
    “Maybe somebody shot it.”
    “What, and the rest of it flew on with one wing?”
    They both pondered a moment. Then Judith nodded sagely. “A hawk. Dropped by a passing hawk.”
    Grace thought it over. “A hawk. Uh-huh. I’ll buy that.” They nudged the horses into a walk again.
    “Or a passing airplane.”
    Grace laughed. “That’s it,” she said. “It looks like the chicken they served on that flight to London last year. Only better.”
    Usually when they rode up here to the ridge they would give the horses a canter across the clearing and then loop back down to the stables by another trail. But the snow and the sun and the clear morning sky made both girls want more than that today. They decided to do something they had done only once before, a couple of years ago, when Grace still had Gypsy, her stocky little palomino pony. They would cross over into the next valley, cut down through the woods and come back around the hill the long way, beside Kinderhook Creek. It meant crossing a road or two, but Pilgrim seemed to have settled down and anyway, this early on a snowy Saturday morning, there would be nothing much about.
    As they left the clearing and passed again into the shade of the woods, Grace and Judith fell silent. There were hickories and poplars on this side of the ridge with no obvious trail among them and the girls had frequently to lower their heads to pass beneath the branches so that soon they and the horses were covered with a fine sprinkling of dislodged snow. They negotiated their way slowly down beside a stream. Crusts of ice overhung it, spreading jaggedly from the banks and allowing but a glimpse of the water that rushed darkly beneath. The slope grew ever steeper and the horses now moved with caution, taking care where they placed their feet. Once Gulliver slipped lurchingly on a hidden rock, but he righted himself without panic. The sun slanting down through the trees made crazed patternson the snow and lit the clouds of breath billowing from the horses’ nostrils. But neither girl paid heed, for they were concentrating too hard on the descent and their heads were filled only with the feel of the animals they rode.
    It was with relief that at last they saw the glint of Kinderhook Creek below them through the trees. The descent had been more difficult than either girl had expected and only now did they feel able to look at each other and grin.
    “Nice one, huh?” Judith said, gently bringing Gulliver to a stop. Grace laughed.
    “No problem.” She leaned forward and rubbed Pilgrim’s neck. “Didn’t these guys do well?”
    “They did great.”
    “I don’t remember it being steep like that.”
    “It wasn’t. I think we followed a different stream.