Free Red Feather Filly by Terri Farley

called, but then Dad tilted his head so that he could see inside the vehicle.
    â€œAnd be careful,” Dad aimed this at Sam and though she smiled and waved, she wished he hadn’t said it.
    All the same, neither Jake nor Mac mentioned it.
    Once Jake grumbled that he should have put in a ten-mile run to train for track today, but after that, they rode in silence down the dark highway. When their headlights flashed on a sign announcing their arrival on tribal lands Mac slowed down, cut the steering wheel hard left, and bounced onto a dirt road. After a few minutes of driving, Mac stopped the Scout to shift it into four-wheel-drive mode. It seemed to be a struggle.
    â€œSomething you’ll want to remember,” Mac said, grunting a little as some mechanical grinding happened inside the car, “is to baby this transmission.”
    Jake sat up a little straighter. “Yeah?”
    â€œYou’ll need to borrow it, I think, for the days before the race. For going back and forth to watch the horse.” He made a gesture with one hand as the truck bucked into gear. Then he drove on.
    Jake nodded. Because it was Jake who’d taught her much of what she knew about horses, Sam understood, too. Without instructing him to do it, Mac was hinting that Jake should watch the horse for a few days before trying to capture her. Once he knew her fears and habits and hiding places,catching her would be much easier.
    â€œThe horses are on fifty fenced acres of tribal land. Kind of shaped like an old-fashioned keyhole. We go in up here,” Mac gestured. “This entrance is for tribe only. And guests,” he added, smiling at Sam. “Those who get special licenses to fish here, go to the other end of the lake.”
    â€œIf it’s fenced, how do the horses get onto BLM land? I keep hearing about it,” Jake said.
    â€œMonument Lake is shallow and warm. If a horse should take it into her head to cross to the public area, she could escape.”
    It was nearly light when Mac crested a rise, turned the key off, and coasted to the right-hand shoulder of the road instead of following it downhill.
    Were they there? Did this mean he was sneaking up on the wild horses?
    He pointed past Jake, and Sam, in the backseat, scooted all the way to the passenger’s side of the truck. With her nose almost touching the window, she could see that the shoulder dropped off to thin air. Down below, Sam saw Monument Lake. They were directly above the lake’s western shore, so close she could see a gull preening on a boulder.
    Early morning mist veiled the lake’s surface, turning the turquoise water she remembered into a pale blue blur.
    But the blur wasn’t still. Off to the right it swirled and parted with some sort of movement. Sam heldher breath, afraid of fogging up the window and missing something.
    As she watched, wind rearranged the mist and showed a band of horses. Counting quickly, she made out ten. Endless ripples curved out from the heads lowered to drink, making waves for a flotilla of gulls not far off shore.
    On a slight rise of earth, one bay horse stood alone. He was their lookout, maybe the stallion, and he remained statue still. Only his mane moved on the breeze.
    The horses were small and lean, mostly shades of brown. There was a single dun, with rusty markings on his face and long legs. Was that the one Mac wanted for Jake? Or could it be the broad-chested sorrel raising her head with flared nostrils, studying the ridge where the car sat in silence?
    No. All at once, a black-and-white pinto splashed into the lake. One or two horses drew their muzzles from the water, annoyed. The gulls took wing, cutting white across the sky. The pinto pawed the lake’s surface and shook her variegated mane as water flew up at her face. Then she stared into the wind.
    â€œHer?” Jake asked. The word was little more than a breath, but Sam heard him.
    â€œHer,” Mac confirmed. “Yours for