Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(63)

Robert Green took hold of the leads of two of the thoroughbreds and led them to the stream. The other two horses trailed behind. Ridley followed, rifle in hand.

The largest of the thoroughbreds, a black stallion, nudged up beside Green similar to how Ridley remembered Winston—his hunting dog as a boy—doing. He hadn’t thought of that ol’ dog in years, buried on the hill behind the house back home.

But it was how Robert Green leaned into the stallion that caused Ridley to study the scene. He’d never witnessed anything like it. Animal like that reacting toward a man this way. And he felt a disquiet inside himself, one he tried to dismiss. But couldn’t. He had a direct order. He had no choice but to do this. He couldn’t return without these thoroughbreds. And wouldn’t.

He followed Green back to where the horses had been.

Green turned to him. “You know anything ’bout horses, Lieutenant?”

“’Course I do.” Ridley heard the defensiveness in his own voice, for some unknown reason eager to prove himself to this man. He gathered the reins of two of the thoroughbreds, noting they were none too eager to follow him over the ridge. But finally, with firm insistence, they did.

“Blood horses like these,” Green said, coming down the hill behind him. “You gotta take special care with ’em, Lieutenant. They got high spirits, and they can—”

“I know about horses, Mr. Green.”

Green didn’t say anything, but his silence did.

“Lieutenant Cooper?”

His patience thinning, Ridley paused and looked back.

“If you got a mind to let me, sir, I go with you, a ways anyhow.” The man looked at the horses with fondness akin to what Ridley had felt for old Winston. “I go as far as the road runnin’ north of here, then I turn back. That rebel patrol . . . they catch me out in these woods—” He shook his head. “I be better off bein’ trampled by Olympus there.” He thumbed toward the black stallion. “Either way, I be dead.”

“If the Rebs catch either of us, Mr. Green, we’ll likely both be dead.”

Surprisingly, Green chuckled. “That’s God’s honest truth, sir. I’s thinkin’ they might just take to killin’ you ’fore they kill me.”

Ridley considered that possibility and found no comfort in it. But having Green along to help with these horses did have advantages. Finally, he nodded, and Green packed up the camp.

They were on their way inside of fifteen minutes.

Ridley was grateful—and also not—for the full moon. It gave them light, but did the same to anyone else in the woods. He led the way, reins to a dark bay stallion and a handsome chestnut in his grip. He glanced back at Robert Green every so often. “We’ll head north about a quarter mile to where I left my horse, then we’ll take the path over the next ridge. There’s a deer trail running through there that I followed a day or so back. Unless you know of a better way?”

“No, sir. That’s the best way. And fastest.”

The thoroughbreds were surefooted and grew easier to lead as they went, which Ridley knew better than to attribute to his own skill. “When I came into camp, Mr. Green, you looked about packed up, ready to move out. Where were you headed?”

“I got me some good hidin’ spots in these hills. I move around some. Mainly at night. Ain’t seen nobody for a while.”

Almost back to where Ridley had tethered his gelding, he heard the horse whinny, then felt a touch of relief when he found the mount as he’d left him. The gelding was a mite high-strung. Temperamental at times too, even obstinate, and Ridley wasn’t overly fond of the animal.

The thoroughbreds tossed their heads, as though hesitant to welcome the newcomer to their ranks, but Green quieted them with soothing whispers and a touch.

“May I, sir?”

Ridley glanced up to see Robert Green gesture to the gelding. Gathering what he was asking, Ridley granted permission with a nod.

Robert Green walked to within three feet of the gelding then stopped and stared. Just stared. The gelding stared back, its withers rippling. Then with an outstretched hand, Green closed the distance between them, moving slowly, patient as sunrise in winter, never breaking the stare. The horse suddenly blew out a breath and stomped. Green halted and lowered his arm.

Ridley watched, not knowing what the man was doing but about to tell him in no uncertain terms that they didn’t have time for this foolish—

“You’s a good boy,” Green said, his voice low and soft. “Little scared sometimes, I’m guessin’. But we all is. We all got somethin’ we afraid of . . . You ever talk to him?”

Ridley blinked. It took him a second to realize Green was speaking to him now and not the horse. “Beg pardon?”

“You ever talk to this horse, sir? Tell him what a fine boy he is? How grateful you are for what he done for you?”

Ridley stared at Robert Green, wondering now if the man was a mite touched in the head. And knowing he was wasting his time with the gelding.

“Horses are like women, Lieutenant. You gotta talk to ’em, let ’em see what’s inside you ’fore they can start to trust. You kin to that understandin’?”

Ridley started to admit he wasn’t, then decided his personal experience was none of this man’s business. “Mr. Green, I’m sure you mean well, sir, but we don’t have time for—”