Chapter 7
When I wake up in the morning, there is a horse in the next stall.
Coal-black coat and head tall enough to reach right over the wall separating his quarters from ours, which is exactly what he’s doing when I crack my eyes open to the sound of the mustang stomping his hoof in a clear sign of irritation.
To his credit, he’s doing it at a safe enough distance from me that I don’t end up with a horseshoe imprint somewhere on my body.
Although it doesn’t seem to be very effective, since his neighbor appears blissfully ignorant that he should entertain himself elsewhere.
I groan, sitting up on my bedroll before getting to my feet and stretching out after a nearly sleepless night spent on the hard ground. Far from comfortable, but seeing as how I’ve slept on and in worse, I can’t really complain.
“You might want to stay to your own,” I tell the new arrival, not wanting to seem like a turncoat by giving in to the urge to give him a pat on his great big nose.
“At least until after breakfast. He’s not real friendly until then.
” The mustang turns to look at me, his ears pinned with agitation, and I tack on, “Or really after.”
The other horse whickers in my direction but remains where he is, so I decide to try and intervene in their oncoming dispute by getting a rope on the mustang and leading him away to a small pasture outside, one of only two that doesn’t currently have other horses.
Here at least he will be able to graze in peace, or so I think until a young stablehand emerges a few minutes later.
“You have to put him there?” I ask as he leads the newcomer into the other pen right next to us, my tone coming out more annoyed than the situation probably warrants, but that damn horse is starting to remind me of the man I met last night.
Even if I can’t imagine anyone so dramatic as to dress head to toe in black and to ride an all-black horse as if they were one of the four horsemen come to Soldana.
“Sorry?” the boy asks me, understandably confused by my question, and God, unlike Maddock’s tagalong, this one really is a kid. No more than ten years old, and I wonder if he’s got kin nearby to look after him. “Mister, I’ve been given specific instructions to—”
“Never mind,” I mutter, waving him off with the hope that the horse will have far more pressing things to occupy his time than provoking my—the mustang once he’s free to roam. Plus, there’s other horses on his side of the pasture, so surely…
As soon as the stablehand slips the pricey-looking halter off his nose, the determined pest ambles right up to the adjoining fence and calls over to us as if we’re good friends meeting up on a Sunday outing.
“Guess we’ve both got problems to deal with today,” I tell the mustang, who appears as bewildered by this behavior as I am, opting to try to follow me back out of the pasture rather than to stay and make conversation.
“Try not to kill him,” I suggest, giving the horse a consolatory pat after closing the gate on him. Before I go, I wrap his lead rope several times around the adjoining fence post, tying it off in a secure, tight knot. “I’ll try to do the same.”