Free Hoofbeats of Danger by Holly Hughes Page A

lines. ’Course, I insisted she hadn’t been hit. But he didn’t believe me. He thought I just hadn’t noticed the wound.” He hung his head. “You know, Annie, those braves didn’t really shoot any arrows at me at all. They just shouted from afar. I guess I exaggerated when I told the story later. I was just making up a brag—trying to look like a hero.”
    Annie frowned. “Your stories are always right entertaining, Billy,” she said, “but it looks like this one’s backfired. It could even lead to bloodshed.”
    Suddenly they both noticed that Magpie was standing still and swaying dizzily. Annie gave a gentle tug to the rope around the mare’s neck. Magpie grunted and skittered a few steps, and then Annie began to pace her up and down along the creek bank, leading her by the rope. Magpie followed, trembling and wheezing roughly.
    Keeping a watchful eye on her, Annie considered what they knew about Magpie’s wound. “All right, we know for certain Magpie wasn’t shot by an Indian arrow yesterday afternoon. But how do you explain this wound on her flank now? She was inside the barn from the time I finished grooming her to the time she started acting up.”
    â€œShe was out in the corral during the night,” Billy pointed out. “But it ain’t likely any Blackfeet crept up in the night and shot her then. Not in a rainstorm, with a dozen people staying at the station.”
    â€œEven if they did, it wasn’t the thing that made her go loco,” Annie reminded him. “She was already acting crazy by then.”
    Annie watched another spasm grip the weary mustang, her own body shuddering in sympathy.
    â€œI didn’t have a chance to check out the wound this morning before she ran off,” Billy said. He cautiously came closer to Magpie and peered at the wound. Then he gave Annie a grim look. “That’s no arrow wound, Annie. Look at it yourself.”
    Annie held out her open hand until Magpie nuzzled it, her hot breath warming Annie’s palm. Then Annie gently ran her hand along Magpie’s side, moving cautiously to her sore flank. She delicately fingered the wound. Magpie flinched from her touch.
    â€œIt isn’t deep enough for an arrow wound,” Billy pointed out, “and the edges are too clean. They were cut with something sharper—a knife, maybe.”
    Annie saw that Billy was right. “But why? Who would take a knife to a horse like that?”
    â€œIt had to have happened in the barn yesterday, sometime after you groomed her,” Billy said somberly. “But before she went crazy—nobody could have got near her then. That means it must have been somebody from the stagecoach. Or somebody from the station, Annie.”
    Before Annie could reply, Magpie made a strangled wheeze as another spasm shook her. Annie swallowed hard. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed. “Oh, Billy, what if she gets worse? What if … what if she dies?” Her eyes welled with tears and her mouth began to tremble.
    Billy reached over to give Annie’s shoulder a squeeze. “As long as she’s got strength enough to keep walking, she’s got a chance. And as long as we can keep her here, away from folks who’d like to shoot her—”
    The image of her father crumpling to the ground flashed into Annie’s mind. She shut her eyes tightly.
    Billy sighed and went on. “My guess is that somebody planned that cut to look like an arrow wound. Maybe he overheard me last night bragging about being attacked—that could have planted the idea in his brain.”
    Annie pressed a weary hand to her forehead. “But why? What purpose would it serve?”
    Billy shrugged. “It would sure enough make the Indians look bad. Maybe it’s someone who hates Indians. Or somebody who’s bent on stirring up trouble between the Indians and the Overland.” He snapped his fingers.