Page 177 of Wind Rider

Another strong team from Herd Magenti was Kaleb and his stallion, Pharaoh. She spotted them near the edge of the line of stallions, easy to identify because of Pharaoh’s distinctive buckskin markings. The stallion looked great—in perfect flesh. He was well known as one of the toughest horses in the Herd—and was especially good at being able to speed up and over hills and ridges.

But so is Ghost,River thought.And Pharaoh hadn’t had to survive on his own in those hills for a winter by himself.

Green ribbons caught River’s gaze. From Virides, the Herd well known for the fastest horses on the Plains of the Wind Riders, River recognized Regis and his blond stallion, Hobbs. Hobbs was pawing the earth restlessly and blowing through his nose.

Good. He’ll wear himself out.River dismissed him. A stallion’s reputation—or their Herd’s reputation—didn’t matter during the Run, especially if a fast stallion wore himself out before the fifty miles even began.

Then everyone’s attention shifted as Echo galloped into the Choosing Theater carrying Dawn. The aging mare looked spectacular, dressed in purple ribbons embroidered with her silver-white mane. River was filled with pride as her mother sat her mare, straight and strong, looking every bit like the magnificent Lead Mare Rider she had been for a decade. She carried their purple standard, which waved gracefully in the gentle summer breeze.

The cheer that greeted her was deafening, and River joined in enthusiastically. Then every stallion in the theater neighed a greeting—showing the ultimate respect to a beloved Mare Rider.

Smiling, Dawn raised her hand as Echo faced the line of stallions and their Riders.

“Greetings, guests, Riders, and their stallions!”

The crowd cheered again, but quieted quickly.

“As you all know, today’s Run is unusual, which is why I am addressing you and opening the race instead of the Lead Mare Rider of our Herd Magenti. For the first time in Herd history a Lead Mare Rider will race with the stallions on an unbonded horse.” Dawn paused for the smattering of applause and murmuring from the viewing stands. “So, my daughter River, Herd Magenti’s current Lead Mare Rider, asked me to open the race for her, which I am proud to do.”

River took a good grip of Ghost’s mane. Her mother would give the signal to begin soon, and she knew exactly what Ghost had decided to do. The stallion was determined to take the lead early to show everyone in the huge crowd that he was strong enough to win the Run—from beginning to end.

“You know the rules. Follow the fifty-mile course, which is marked clearly. Riders and their stallions will have several choices to make today. The most conservative choice is always marked by the purple flags. When you see a black flag it will mark a shortcut, but those trails are always more difficult. So, choose wisely, Riders. When you see the shortcut marked by double black flags, that will signify the last one. When the shortcut course joins the main track again it will lead into the valley and the five-mile stretch that is the conclusion of the Run. The finish will be at the base of the Rock Mountains at the end of Foal Valley. The first team to pass beneath the Magenti standard before dusk wins.

“I am pleased to see so many strong teams competing. It honors my daughter and her mare, as well as Herd Magenti. Race safely and”—Dawn paused long enough to catch River’s gaze—“may a mare’s luck be with you!”

Echo whirled around and trotted several yards to the middle of the Choosing Theater. Dawn raised the purple flag, and then with a sharp motion she waved it back and forth above her head, signaling the beginning of the Stallion Run.

Ghost surged forward. River leaned low against his neck, lifting a littlein her stirrups so that she remained still on his back—doing her best to balance perfectly.

Within six strides Ghost had pulled ahead of every stallion except Bard and Hobbs. The three stallions were running neck and neck.

“Faster!” River shouted, and Ghost’s stride stretched out so that within ten strides he had taken the lead, and as they thundered from the Choosing Theater out onto the grassy plain surrounding it, Ghost was leading Hobbs and Bard by two lengths—then three—then four.

River was breathless at Ghost’s speed—and it seemed to be never-ending. He didn’t slow, even when they were out of view of the crowd. He didn’t slow, even after she tapped his neck, alerting him to the first of the purple flags that marked a turn to the left.

River gave Ghost his head. She trusted the stallion completely to know himself—to judge how long he could maintain his top speed. If Ghost was wrong, if he ran out of stamina and lost the race, that meant she had misjudged his ability to lead the Herd, and then heshouldbe beaten.

Though not by Clayton and Bard. Never by them.

Ghost didn’t slow until River cued him that she’d spotted a black flag, signaling their first shortcut, and their first decision as a team. The stallion slowed to a gallop, then a smooth canter—and finally a trot.

River lifted in her stirrups, looking behind them. This section of the prairie was flat, and she could easily see that about one hundred yards behind them Hobbs was running second, his green ribbons streaming against his body. And behind Hobbs by only a few lengths was Bard. Spread out in a staggered line were half a dozen more stallions, led by Jonathan’s big sorrel stallion, Red.

She turned quickly, not wasting more time looking behind, to assess the shortcut. As with all of the teams competing from Herd Magenti, River and Ghost had an advantage over the Riders from outside Herds. This was their territory, and especially this close to the Rendezvous Site, they knew it well.

“I see what they’re doing here. The shortcut will take us through the cross timber line at the widest part of Weanling Creek, which means we’ll have to go down a steep bank, swim the creek, and climb anotherbank,” River reasoned aloud. Even though, unlike her Anjo, Ghost didn’t understand all of her words, she knew he caught some of what she said, and he for sure felt her emotions. “That’s nothing for you! We’re taking the shortcut!” River cued him with her knee, and without hesitation Ghost followed the black flags, entering the cross timber line shortly to begin the climb up to the steep, northernmost bank of Weanling Creek.

River had Ghost pause at the top of the bank long enough for her to look behind them. Between the trees she caught a flash of black and white.

“Bard took the shortcut. Don’t see Hobbs, though. Not surprising. He doesn’t know this territory well. Go!”

Ghost plunged down the steep bank as River leaned back, balancing him. She didn’t take the time to untie her saddle or hold the bags over her head—whatever got wet would just have to stay wet. The Stallion Run was a race. They would not be stopping.

She did kick out of the saddle to make swimming easier for Ghost, as the current was swift where the creek was this deep, then River easily slid astride before the stallion surged out of the creek and attacked the next bank. After the creek the course joined the purple-marked path again. The next time River looked back she saw Bard and Hobbs, with Red and Kaleb’s Pharaoh trailing them by several lengths in fourth and fifth place.

“It’s Bard in second and Hobbs in third,” River told the stallion. Ghost didn’t hesitate. He kicked into a ground-eating gallop, pulling well ahead of Bard and Hobbs again—slowing to a canter and then a trot only after he’d increased his lead by several more lengths.

That set the pattern for the very long day. Ghost never lost his lead. Bard and Hobbs changed positions frequently—as did Red and Pharaoh—until sometime after midday, when they topped a ridge and River could gaze out over the plains behind them. She could not see Pharaoh at all, though Red had pulled within just a few lengths of Bard and Hobbs.