The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(49)

We cantered until we reached the town limits, then slowed to a walk, past the welcome sign and onto the smooth asphalt.

From Nastas’s back, I could reach the lowest branches of the big elms, their leaves now turning a vivid gold. For all the notice we drew, a trail ride through town was nothing unusual.

We passed the Wild Rose and the general store, the gazebo, the library, the town hall and every door and shingle in between. We passed a cluster of boys huddled in an alley, fascinated by the contents of a small container.

“What’s in the cigar box, boys?” Olin called out.

The boys looked up guiltily. “It ain’t cigars, Mr. Farnsworth,” one said.

“I’m sure it ain’t. Best set it loose before long, or I’ll know why not.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys replied.

“How’d you know they had something in that box?” I asked him.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But I do know boys.”

I hadn’t seen this side of Morro before—I’d never ventured this far. The asphalt stopped at the town limits and the hardpan picked up again, veering left into the Mountain. But there was a narrow secondary road splintering off to the right.

I reined Nastas to a firm halt. Olin pulled up, then circled back and drew alongside me.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

The pull of the Mountain had grown more intense the closer we came, and now we were right at its feet. Resisting was taking real effort, and my head was throbbing as if the barometric pressure had plummeted.

“Are we going up there?” I asked warily. Nastas took several steps back.

Olin shrugged. “Figured to,” he said. “Trail’s good, and your mount knows it. You can trust ’im.”

Nastas pulled at the reins and snorted, his eyes wide now. “Whoa,” Olin murmured, and the horse steadied himself.

I gripped the reins tighter, staring at the fork in the road, struggling to steady myself, too.

“Courage,” Olin said softly, “is a kind of salvation.”

“What?”

“Somethin’ an old Greek said once. Long time ago.”

“Right.”

He shifted in the saddle to take in the Mountain with me. “It’s a far piece to the summit,” he said. “Ain’t never been myself, but I know some who trekked it. I don’t figure to go anywhere near that far today. Just up a ways.” He looked at me and smiled. “Then back down again.”

Nastas was motionless now, his ears pricked as if awaiting instructions. I stared at Olin, willing him to say something that would buck me up, too, but he only sat in his saddle as if he had all the time in the world for me to make up my mind.

I drew a deep breath and tapped Nastas with my boot heels.

We moved forward.

Olin led the way, taking the narrower road to the right—a wide dirt track with a low incline for a mile or so before it began to climb. As it climbed, it wound through thickening forest. Sunlight sifted through the trees, and I could hear birds, the rustle and snap of twigs, the distant rush of water.

If I’d been afraid that this Mountain would rear up and swallow me whole, it wasn’t happening. There were no bogeymen in these woods, no fires, earthquakes or floods. My nerves began to settle.

We leveled out again and Olin, still riding ahead, turned in the saddle and called back, “Let’s pick it up.”

“I’m game,” I replied shakily.

Then he was off at a canter, Kilchii on his long legs disappearing down the road. Nastas chewed his bit and bobbed his head, nearly pulling the reins from my hand.

“Okay, boy. Think you can take him?”

I tucked my legs and pressed, and Nastas lunged after them. Of the two, he was the smaller horse but not the slower, and he was eager to prove it. We drew up on them fast, Olin glancing at us as we overtook and passed them. Now the road ahead of us was wide-open.

Half a mile on I reined in and could hear Olin and Kilchii coming at a fast clip. They pulled up level, and Olin looked pleased.

Both horses had worked up a lather, so we set them at a walk to cool down. Nastas was still straining at the bit, snorting hard.

“He has more steam to blow off,” I said.

“We’ll set ’em loose up the road here,” said Olin.

We rode on in easy silence. After another mile the forest began to clear on the left, opening onto a broad meadow. As we neared I could see the meadow wasn’t empty, but held a small cabin, painted slate blue, with black shutters and white trim, a table and chairs on the porch.