Free Wilderness Run by Maria Hummel Page A

distance the rest of them could not yet see. Only in the saddle did the captain acquire the grandeur appropriate for an officer, his bowlegs fitting perfectly to the contours of the horse, his hands graceful as a conductor’s with the reins.
    â€œHe won’t tell us how he’s going to break him,” Davey informed Laurence, his lower lip bulging around a plug of tobacco. “Just a pond, a tree, a knife, and a rope, he says.”
    â€œWhere’s the horse?”
    The captain pointed to a corner where a well-muscled bay stallion was eyeing the fence as if considering jumping it.
    â€œFurlough’s a reb stallion escaped from their camps,” Davey explained, and spat. “He went crazy after a bullet almost hit him in the eye, and he won’t let a man near now. You won’t get close enough to ride him,” he warned Addison.
    Addison grinned and took the rope from the captain, motioning for him to keep the knife. “I’m not gonna ride him. But I may need your help heading him off, Cap.”
    â€œSartainly, sar.” The captain made an exaggerated salute.
    â€œLindsey, you should stay clear,” warned Addison. “Furlough’s liable to kick.”
    Nodding, Laurence stood his ground while the other two men approached the stallion cautiously, their legs bent at the knees, arms flung back. As soon as the horse smelled them coming, he wheeled and began charging toward the corner above the pond. Addison tied a lasso while Davey slid to the east, blocking Furlough’s exit.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Laurence saw Pike come up to the rail fence to view the proceedings, his intent face propped up by the highest rail, arms looped over and dangling like a criminal in the stocks. Laurence was used to the boy following him now, and he ignored him, knowing Pike would prefer it that way.
    A light wind riffled the manes of the horses, carrying with it the percussion of clicks and whistles Addison was making to soothe the stallion, and, softer, below that sound, Furlough’s breath wheezing in and out of his lungs. He was a gigantic beauty of a stallion, the kind the poet described in Laurence’s book: “limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, eyes well apart and full of sparkling wickedness.” Addison’s noises had little effect on him at first, but after a minute, Furlough dipped his head to nip at an invisible tuft of timothy. When he raised it again, a graceful, looping lasso fell about his neck.
    The pasture exploded. Furlough reared up with an angry scream. Sod flew from his muddy hooves, falling to the earth. Addison began edging toward one of the trees near the pond, nearly pulled off his feet by Furlough with each step he took. The horseman’s mouth opened and, after a moment, his cry emerged, a high hyah, hyah, hyah.
    At every call, the horse’s hooves kicked up, narrowly missing Addison’s head, and every time they came down, he ducked at precisely the right moment to avoid being crushed. The horse seemed irritated by this and rose higher, descending with greater force. But Addison stayed calm, and when Furlough was finally between him and the water, he swiftly knotted the rope around a tree trunk and took the flashing knife from Captain Davey. Furlough reared again. His dark body heaved high as the doorway of a barn, and at the moment it reached its zenith, Addison stepped forward and cut the rope.
    Loosed suddenly from the cord that held him earthward, the horse flopped backward and into the water, flinging up a white wall that showered Addison from head to foot. He tossed the knife to the grass and waited as the pond closed over the stallion. Sunlight bled across the surface, and then the water parted, streaming over the horse’s head. After a moment, Furlough emerged with a loud whinny and stood, struggling like a newborn colt on legs rickety with shock. When Addison waded in and grabbed the rope, the horse shied