Ghost Horses by Gloria Skurzynski Page A

Ethan’s; otherwise, Jack knew, she’d rip off her boots and give them to the Ingawanup kids. Ashley was like that.
    â€œWhat would you like to do, Ethan?” Steven wanted to know.
    â€œI don’t know. Stay in our room, I guess.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding,” Jack sputtered. “We’re in Zion! Look out the window—do you want to miss all this? Come on!”
    â€œGo without us. We’ll stay here.”
    Steven gave Jack a look, and then answered, “Ethan, we can’t leave you. We’ve all got to stick together. Summer, what would you like to do?”
    â€œShe wants to stay here with me,” Ethan said through tight lips. But Summer shook her head, her chin thrust out in a way that for once appeared stubborn. “No, Ethan. I spent my whole life on Wind River Reservation, and now I have a chance to see this park. I want to go.”
    â€œSummer, you know what Grandmother always said,” Ethan began hotly.
    â€œGrandmother would want us to see what the Great Spirit has made,” Summer countered.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œEthan, I did the Ghost Dance, even when I thought it was bad. You know I always do what you say. Now I’m asking you to come with me.” A beat later, she added, “Please.”
    Even though Ethan didn’t answer Summer, Jack could tell when he agreed to go. It was almost as if the Ingawanup brother and sister could speak to each other with only a flick of their eyes, a nod, that wasn’t really a nod and a glance that was no more than smoke. They would go. Relieved, Jack looked out across the lawn and into the rose-tipped peaks, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t let Ethan get the better of him on this hike. No matter how tired or thirsty he became, Jack decided he was going to stay at least one pace ahead of Ethan.
    â€œOK. I’m going.” Ethan stared at Jack while he said that through clenched jaws. For some unknown reason, he chose that moment to pull his long black hair into a ponytail, securing it with a rubber band. Was that supposed to mean something, like he was preparing for combat?
    They started out with granola bars and bottled water divided between Jack’s and Ashley’s backpacks. Jack kept his camera in a special flap in his pack; if the chocolate coating on the granola bars melted, he didn’t want it to smear his lens. His dad carried a much bigger pack filled with much better and considerably more expensive camera equipment. As a professional photographer, Steven was always eager to capture any outstanding shots he might come across.
    â€œWhere are we going, Dad?” Ashley asked when they were ready to leave.
    Steven unfolded a map and lowered it so all the kids could follow his finger as he traced a trail. “We’ll head up toward The Narrows. When we get here,”—he pointed to a spot called the Grotto—“we’ll cross a footbridge and get onto this West Rim trail. After that we’ll just hike as long as we want to, or until somebody gets too tired.”
    As they hiked along the trail paralleling the Virgin River, Ethan and Summer hung back behind the other three. Often, Steven turned and paused, waiting for the Ingawanup kids to catch up. After a mile they crossed a footbridge to the west side of the river. On that side, as on the east side, the Virgin’s placid flow had allowed cottonwoods and box elder trees to flourish, a startling green against the red rock. From the trail, they had a magnificent view of the Great White Throne, a megalith of Navajo sandstone that was white on the top half and red at the base. It towered above the peaks around it.
    â€œThat’s one of the best-known mountains in the United States,” Steven told them. “Its picture was on a postage stamp once. So now I’m going to take a picture of it, too.”
    While Steven set up his tripod, Jack pulled out his own camera. It would be hard to