Ghost Horses by Gloria Skurzynski Page B

take a bad picture of the Great White Throne, but he decided to wait until they were on their way back from wherever they were hiking. By then, the sun would be above the peak, not behind it and making a silhouette, the way it was now.
    â€œWant to see?” he asked Summer, offering her his camera. “Put your eye here, and you can tell what your picture will look like.”
    Summer held the camera, peering into the small square viewfinder until Ethan grabbed it from her to hand it back to Jack. Summer didn’t protest, but fell into step behind her brother.
    By the time they’d gone one mile past the footbridge, they’d climbed a thousand feet higher in elevation. Steven and the Landon kids were not even panting, although Jack’s throat felt as dry as dust. He kept glancing at Ethan, checking for a sign of weakness, but Ethan moved as effortlessly along the trail as if he were on a carpeted floor. Ahead of them loomed another monolith called Angels Landing.
    â€œAnyone want to quit?” Steven asked. “The trail guide says it gets a lot steeper from here on. Ethan, Summer—you guys OK?”
    Summer and Ethan eyed Ashley and Jack—maybe the Ingawanup kids were doing some checking of their own. Three of them answered all at once, “Let’s go.” “Don’t want to quit.” “No problem.” Ethan just stood, his head craned back, watching a small bird swoop through the sky like a silvery arrow searching for its mark.
    The trail guidebook was right—the climb got a whole lot steeper. At this elevation, autumn came a little earlier; it had tinted the leaves of the big-toothed maples, turning them close to the color of the red sandstone walls. As they got near the head of the canyon, Jack burst out, “What the heck is that up ahead?”
    Twenty-one separate switchbacks zigzagged up the face of the canyon, like a bolt of lightning carved into rock. Stone walls, the same color as the red sandstone, held the switchbacks in place to keep them from sliding down the sheer slope. Even the concrete that paved the trails had been dyed a ruddy color to blend with the canyon walls.
    Steven leafed through his guidebook and said, “They’re called Walters Wiggles.”
    â€œWalter’s what?” Ashley asked, giggling and swiveling her skinny hips from side to side. “Like this?”
    â€œYeah, Wiggles. It says they were carved out of the rock in 1926 by Park Service crews, then the trail was improved in the 1930s by young kids not much older than you guys, who belonged to the CCC—the Civilian Conservation Corps. That was during the Depression. The CCC gave paying jobs to kids who otherwise would have been broke, hungry, and homeless.”
    â€œWhew! Hauling out rocks on that steep trail? I think I’d rather starve,” Jack said.
    â€œNo you wouldn’t.” Ethan’s words had a hard edge. “You don’t know nothin’ about starving.”
    â€œI bet you don’t either,” Jack shot back.
    â€œBut my grandmother did. She knew about starving, and she taught us to be tough. She taught us to be brave.” Ethan grabbed Summer’s hand and hurried ahead of the Landons, moving fast up the switchback trail.
    â€œHey, you two, slow down,” Steven yelled. “It’s a big climb.”
    â€œLet them go,” Jack said, rubbing his calf to work out a cramp in his muscle, as he decided for the second time in two days that competing with Ethan in hill climbing just wasn’t worth the effort. “I’m getting kind of sick of him, anyway. Besides, we’ll catch up.”
    Summer and Ethan stood waiting for the Landons at the top of Walters Wiggles. Summer looked tired. Ethan was wearing his usual stony expression, yet in his eyes Jack detected a look of triumph. Jack wanted to gulp for air—it had been a hard climb for sure, and he was sweating—but he slowed his breathing to as