Page 178 of Wind Rider

Ghost snorted and began to move down the ridge, but River cued him to stop. Quickly, she slid from his back and opened the saddlebags, taking out the water skin and an apple for herself, and several handfuls of the sticky molasses and grain mixture that would help maintain the stallion’s energy reserves.

“Here—you’ve pulled far enough ahead that you can eat this.” Ghost lipped the grain from her hands, and then drank his fill of water as she cupped that for him as well. River gulped some water and bit the apple, holding it with her teeth as she remounted so that she could eat as the stallion rested by falling into a steady trot—a pace he could maintain for miles and miles.

River marveled at Ghost’s strength. She’d grown up listening to stories of the greatest stallions in Herd history. Names like Eclipse, Admiral, Dancer, and Ruffian were as familiar to her as their tales of bravery, speed, and strength, but by the time the sun was halfway down its westerly trek to the horizon River was convinced that none of those legendary stallions had been any braver, stronger, or faster than Ghost.

That didn’t mean the Run was easy for the stallion. His golden coat was frothed with white, and her saddle pad was drenched with his sweat and hers by the time she spotted the double black flags that marked the last shortcut.

“This is it! The sprint to the finish will be just after this shortcut meets the main course again!”

Ghost snorted wearily and automatically turned to take the shortcut—as they had chosen to take each one before then—but River pressed her heels into his flank to stop him.

“We can’t take this one! I recognize this place. This section of the cross timbers is filled with goathead thistle groves. It’s shorter, but I don’t know the way through it—Anjo and I have always avoided these groves. Unless you’ve been this way before it’ll slow us down—maybe even trap us like it did Luce and Blue during the Mare Test.”

Ghost hesitated, looking behind them, but the trees were too thick and it was impossible to see who was trailing them or how close they were. The stallion tossed his head fretfully.

“We have the lead. We can afford to take the longer way—but we can’t afford hesitation.”

Her words must have made sense to the stallion, because Ghost turned from the black flags to continue cantering on the original course. River stroked his sweat-soaked neck and murmured encouragement, and as soon as the trail climbed a rise she stood in her stirrups and looked behind them.

“Bard’s second. He’s almost at the shortcut. Hobbs is several lengths behind him, neck and neck with Red. Oh, I can see Pharaoh again, but he’s moving slow—only trotting—and Kaleb is running beside him. He must be injured.” She was just going to say that she was sorry Pharaoh was out of the competition when Bard disappeared between the black flags of the shortcut. “Ghost! Bard’s taking the shortcut!”

Her words worked like a goad on the stallion. He broke from his restful trot into a gallop, though he quickly seemed to think better of it and slowed to a more easily maintained canter. River leaned forward, riding low on his neck, as the mighty stallion’s hooves beat against the dirt track, pounding out a staccato rhythm.

It seemed to River to take forever for them to circle around the goathead grove, but finally she caught sight of the two black flags heralding the end of the shortcut—and the two purple flags that signified the main course of the race.

There was no sign of Bard and Clayton.

“Did they get that far ahead of us?” River stood in her stirrups, trying to see ahead of them, but they were at the edge of the cross timbers, and hadn’t reached the entrance to Foal Valley yet, so the path was still curving around trees and visibility was limited. “I can’t believe Clayton would’ve taken that shortcut if he didn’t already know the way through the goatheads. We have to catch him.”

Ghost didn’t need more encouragement. He lengthened his stride to a gallop and they wove expertly through the trees and scrub.

River was so utterly focused on guiding Ghost through the cross timbers that she didn’t notice Clayton and Bard until it was almost too late.

It was Ghost who noticed. His ears flattened against his head and he squealed a warning. Completely caught off guard, River glanced behind in time to see Bard leap from a hiding place behind a pile of scrub andthunder toward them. In Clayton’s hand was a noosed rope that he was twirling over his head. River could see that Clayton was aiming for Ghost’s rear hock—not surprising, as that was how he’d tripped him up so long ago—but there was something strange about the rope. It looked heavier, thicker than normal. However, there was no time for her to figure out what it was, or why—there was only time for her to act.

She yanked her lasso from around the horn of her sweat-soaked saddle and shook it out. Then she leaned close to Ghost’s neck, speaking into his flattened ears—hoping beyond hope the stallion would understand.

“Slow. Let them get closer. I’m going to cue you when to stop and turn.” River held her breath until Ghost began to slow.He must understand me—he must!

She glanced back once more. Bard was gaining on them—less than three lengths behind—now two lengths—now Clayton was leaning forward, his eyes glinting with intensity as he took aim at Ghost’s hock.

“Now!” River shouted into Ghost’s ear as she cued him to stop and turn to his left—away from Clayton and Bard.

The stallion performed perfectly. Ghost dug his back hooves into the ground and whirled to the left. It happened too fast for Clayton to correct Bard, and as they blazed past River threw her lasso. It settled around the unusually fat noose Clayton was still twirling over his head. River yanked and with a shout of surprise she pulled the rope out of Clayton’s hands.

River reeled in her lasso, gasping in shock as the rope Clayton had been twirling—had been aiming at Ghost’s vulnerable rear hock—reached her hand.

Clayton had wrapped the noose of his lasso in goathead thistle strands. Had he captured Ghost’s hock with it, one swift jerk of the rope would have been enough to sever the stallion’s tendon—laming him for life—and at the speed they’d been going there was little doubt that River would have been thrown or even been trapped beneath the massive horse. Either way, both Ghost and River might very well have been mortally wounded, and it would have appeared to whoever eventually found them that they’d taken the shortcut and tried to travel too quickly through the goathead grove.

“What happened to you? You used to have honor. You used to be decent!” River shouted at Clayton as her heart broke for the boy she’d once loved as a brother. He and Bard were only yards away from them. The two stallions were facing each other—both covered with white foam and breathing hard.

Instead of answering, Clayton dug his heels into Bard and shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

The big black stallion sprinted ahead.

Ghost pranced in place, aching to chase them, but River held him still as she yanked open a saddlebag and pulled out the neatly rolled up blanket. She flipped it open, quickly and carefully wrapping it around the razor-tipped goathead noose, and shoved it back in the bag—and as she did so Hobbs and Red thundered past them just a few yards to their right.

“Got it! Now let’s win this race!”