Free Runaway by Dandi Daley Mackall Page A

I watch Hank work with Lancelot. Then Popeye and I meet back in the truck, and I actually drive a few feet. Mastering the clutch and the gears is harder than I thought. The truck dies every few inches, but Popeye makes me hang in there. And by dusk, I’m able to make it out of first gear.
    * * *
    On Friday, when Hank goes for a ride on his horse and Popeye takes off for a volunteer firefighters’ meeting, I head straight for Blackfire’s stall. He’s not there, but I find him outside at the far end of the pasture, grazing with Lancelot.
    I try calling Blackfire in from the pasture. He lifts his head but doesn’t come. Snatching a handful of oats from the bin, I walk to the field, recalling Winnie’s advice: Don’t walk straight at him. Keep an eye on the other horses. Lower my eyes.
    When I get close, I hold out the handful of oats, still not looking at him head-on. He stretches his neck like a giraffe to reach the oats. I could grab his halter and hope he’ll let me lead him to the barn. But something inside tells me to try it the other way, to lead without a halter, as Winnie calls it.
    Slowly, I square off in front of him and look directly at him as I raise my arms to my sides. He stops chewing and stares back at me. Then he lowers his head.
    I turn, with my near shoulder moving forward. Then I look down, lower my arms, and walk toward the barn. Please, make him follow me! I’d say this is a wish, but I gave that up a long time ago. I think maybe it’s a prayer, but I know I don’t deserve to pray, because I only do it when I need something.
    I’m afraid to look back. Then behind me comes the gentle thud thump, thud thump of hoofbeats. Blackfire is actually following me. He moves in so close I can feel his breath on my neck.
    Only when we’re in his stall do I turn around. “Good boy.” I scratch his jaw where I know he likes it. “My good Blackfire.”
    I’d like to clean out his hooves, but I didn’t think far enough ahead. Hank has hoof picks in the tack box, but I don’t want to leave Blackfire and have him go back to the pasture. I could close him in the stall, but I don’t want him thinking every time he follows me he’ll end up trapped in a stall.
    If I could get him to the round pen, I could close him in there and go get the pick. Then even if he chose “flight,” he couldn’t go far.
    I repeat the same routine I did in the pasture. Again, Blackfire follows at my shoulder. He jumps a little when I unlatch the stall door leading into the barn, but he follows me out into the stallway, the aisle that runs in front of the stalls. He keeps trailing me all the way to the round pen area.
    I can’t even believe this is working so well. We’re about two feet from the pen’s gate. Then we’re home free.
    “Hank?” Guinevere’s shrill voice slices through the barn. Blackfire jerks to a dead stop.
    “Come on, Blackfire,” I coax, wishing I could tell Guinevere to shut up.
    But it’s too late. She walks into the barn, takes one look at me with Blackfire, and screams, “What are you doing with that horse? Get out of there!”
    Blackfire rears, paws the air, then takes off at a dead gallop.

Eleven
    Blackfire kicks up his heels as he runs down one stallway, hits a dead end, and races back.
    I’m so scared that it takes me a minute before I start after him.
    “Don’t get near that horse!” Guinevere shouts.
    “Just shut up!” I holler back. I shouldn’t shout either. It’s probably the last thing Blackfire needs. But I’m so angry at Guinevere, I can’t help it.
    She’s halfway up the ladder to the hayloft, staring down at me. “He could kill both of us!”
    I try to block out her screeching voice and focus on calming Blackfire. He’s trotting now, so I move to head him off. But he’s so quick. He pivots left and canters by me.
    Then I remember. I’m the leader. What would the lead horse do in a situation like this?
    Calling up everything Winnie wrote about body language and