Free Katie and the Mustang, Book 4 by Kathleen Duey Page B

of his men. No one stopped. We were all afraid to stop—we were racing the snow.
    The men coming from the rear of the line trotted past, then fell in beside Mr. Kyler, listening and talking.
    The men stopped when we did for noon dinner, the sun straight overhead. They had their own food, and I saw that Mrs. Kyler was relieved. We had little to offer besides smelly salt bacon.
    I led the Mustang close. “Do any of you gentlemen know a Mr. Jack Rose?” I asked quietly. They all glanced up, shook their heads, then looked back into their plates. My heart was beating wildly, as it always did when I asked that question.
    â€œYou get that horse from around here?” one of the men called after me.
    I turned, puzzled.
    â€œThere are wild ones in this country that look like that. Folks say they’re from the Spaniards’ horses that got set loose or lost a few hundred years ago.”
    â€œI brought him from Iowa,” I said, and watched the man’s brows lift. I didn’t want to explain anything to him. I didn’t want to talk at all. I crossed the little clearing where we’d stopped. I found some low, tough-bladed grass for the Mustang and he grazed while I swallowed my disappointment and tried to reason with myself. I would find someone who did know my uncle Jack eventually. I would. I had to. I shoved the thoughts aside and focused on what the man had said about the Mustang.
    â€œWas your great-great-great-great-granddaddy from Spain?” I asked him. The idea pleased me. It seemed fitting that a horse as wonderful as the Mustang had come from somewhere magical like Spain.
    As the Mustang grazed, one of the men drew a map in the dirt. Our menfolk crowded around, and I saw them nodding. They had decided something. I walked the Mustang back to the wagon and stood beside Mrs. Kyler.
    â€œWe’re going to Whitman Mission,” Mr. Kyler said, coming back once the men had ridden on. He climbed up onto the wagon and Mrs. Kyler handed him the reins. “This road bypasses the place, but we’ve decided to take an extra day to get there and back.”
    Mrs. Kyler looked astonished. “Why, if we don’t have to? Why not go straight on?”
    He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “They have crops. Carrots, potatoes, squash...”
    â€œSquash,” she echoed, and my mouth flooded with saliva.
    The Whitman Mission was a neat, tidy place, and the Whitmans had made a regular paradise out of it. There were Indians, polite men who seemed comfortable enough with the Whitmans, both Mr. and Mrs., and with us. They stared at the Mustang,though, so I kept back a little. One of the Indian men walked closer and pointed at the corrals, then back at the Mustang. I followed his gesture. Standing in the corral was a mare that could have been the Mustang’s dam. She had the same dark honey coat and a black mane that fell thick and heavy down her neck.
    I nodded, to let the Indian man know I understood and was glad to know there were horses like the Mustang here. I showed Andrew, and he bargained with the man who owned the mare, but she wasn’t for sale. “I’d buy that stallion from you,” the man said, spotting the Mustang. “We don’t see many of the wild ones and almost never a stallion. They never tame down unless you catch them as colts.”
    Andrew shook his head. “He’s not mine, but I can tell you he isn’t for sale.” The man shrugged and walked away.
    The Whitman Mission was like a well-tended garden. They had squash and apples and even some good wheat flour that they would have given to us as gifts—but most people gave them something in barter or a few coins.
    The fresh food tasted like heaven to me. Mrs. Kyler made the squash into a soup that lasted three days. She tied the lid tight onto the pot with twine every morning so it couldn’t slop much when the wagon lifted, then crashed down again as the wheels