Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 by Kathleen Duey

gathered to watch. The Indian man sat his horse easily and gracefully; he pivoted the horse so tightly that he had to half rear to spin around. At that instant his eyes met mine, and he smiled, gesturing at the Mustang.
    I was unsure what his gesture meant, and I had no idea what was rude and what was polite, but I didn’t want to offend him. It had been my fault, not his. I had been so eager to see, not to miss anything. I wanted to apologize, but I could only lift my hand and smile back at him.
    He held my eyes an instant longer, then he was turning again, shouting to his friends, leading the way as they rode out of our camp. The big bay sprang into a long-striding gallop that none of the other horses could match. The Indian man didn’t look back.
    My heart was going like a rabbit’s in the dog yard. I blushed at all the people staring at me. A few of the boys whistled through their teeth and clapped like I had meant to put on a show of some kind. The Mustang danced a little at the noise. Mr. Kyler shushed them.
    My knees shaking, I led the Mustang away from the wagons so he could settle down and graze again—and so I could watch the Indians ride away. I glanced back once to see the crowd breaking up, everyone going back to their work, only a few still watching me. After a few minutes, I thought to look for Grover among the ones still standing and talking about the Indians’ visit with Mr. Kyler. If he had been, he’d lost interest; he wasn’t there.
    That night it clouded over and started to rain. Lying under the wagon, I was glad the Mustang had the mares to stand close to for warmth. I was grateful that the Kylers were so good to me. And I wondered if the Indian men had made it home before the storm started.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    The two-leggeds brought another stallion close.
I was ready to fight. The little one stopped me. She is
wise. It is always better not to fight.
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    T he sun blazed overhead.Every day brought more walking, more seed burrs in my dress hem, more miles of the shallow, warm-water Platte, more of the endless ocean of waving grass. We stayed on the south side, where the grazing was better. Most of the stock was holding weight. The Kylers lost one ox that just dropped in its traces. It took an hour to get the harness off and back the wagon away from the carcass so another ox could be harnessed in its place.
    The day after that, it began to rain. It stormed for ten days off and on. Even when it let up and we could travel, we could still see thicker clouds to the northwest. The storms were noisy and windy, but it didn’t cool down much. The air got steamy and thick, and we saw sheets of purple-black rain hanging over the western horizon. For the first time since we had begun traveling beside it, the Platte began to rise.
    â€œThe river forks a few miles up, north and south,” Mr. Teal said one night. “We have to end up north of it to go on up into the Wyoming country and Fort Laramie. If we wait, we’ll have both forks to cross.”
    A murmuring went through the men.
    â€œYou saying we should cross it now,” Mr. Kyler asked, “not wait for the water to go down?”
    Mr. Teal nodded. “It ain’t that deep, and the bottom won’t have had time to wash out that much. If we wait, it could get worse for a week or more, not better.”
    I listened to the men talking to one another in low voices. The river was high. I could hear it rushing past in the darkness beyond the wagon circle. Mr. Teal was the last one to say anything that was loud enough for me to hear. “Rise early and pack tight,” he shouted over the murmuring. “We cross tomorrow.
    It rained again that night, a wild storm with lightning that cracked the sky, scaring the stock into milling around inside the wagon circle. I checked the Mustang four or five times—he wasn’t as spooked as the mares were. They were both pressed close to him, shivery