Lucky Horse (7 page)

He arched his neck to be petted, just as he had before. She giggled as she scratched him behind his ears. “You’re being very naughty to take a nighttime jaunt like this. Now I’ve got to figure out a way to get you back.”

The roan nodded as if to agree. Carole laughed again. This was a mischievous horse, but he was gentle
and affectionate, too. He was wearing the same halter he’d had on earlier. If she could just find some rope, she could lead him back to his paddock in the trees.

She turned and walked over to the mass of camping equipment that was stacked behind their tent. Surely in all this high-tech stuff there would be a rope. As she felt along the table they’d set up for dinner, her fingers curled around a long piece of twine that her father had used to tie some equipment together.

“This should work,” she whispered.

She grabbed her flashlight from the table and hurried back to the horse, tying one end of the twine to his halter. It was the thinnest lead rope she’d ever used, but it would have to do.

“Come on, boy,” she said, clucking gently. “Let’s go back home.”

She led the horse back in the direction he’d come from. Though her flashlight gave out a bright light, the thick trees made it especially hard to see. When she shined her light toward the ground, she got thunked in the head by a low branch. When she shined her light up at the trees, she stumbled over rocks and gnarled roots. The horse walked calmly beside her, never missing one step.

“It must be nice to have eyes that can see in the dark,” Carole grumbled as a prickly shrub grabbed at her arm.

When she nearly tripped over an old rotten log, she gave up.

“Okay,” she said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but I think it’s the only way I’m going to get you home without killing myself.”

She stopped the horse, climbed on the log, then hoisted herself onto his back. The roan stood still, calm and willing.

“Okay,” Carole said, holding one end of the rope and the horse’s mane. “I know you know the way. Let’s go home.”

In just a few moments the roan had picked his way through the forest, back to his camp. The Loftins’ green tent was dark, its flaps down. Apparently they were still asleep, unaware that one of their horses had wandered in the night.

No need to wake them up, either
, thought Carole as she slid off the roan’s back and led him to his paddock. One of the top nylon ropes that made the fence had come loose, allowing him an easy jump to freedom. The other horse watched with interest as she led the roan back over the collapsed rope and into his makeshift home.

“Now, you guys behave yourselves for the rest of the night,” she whispered as she retied the rope securely to the tree. She pointed her finger at the roan. “And no more midnight rambles for you!”

He looked so serious that she had to laugh. He was
a great horse and would probably be a lot of fun to own. “Bye now,” she called. She clicked her flashlight back on and walked carefully up the trail to her own campsite, wishing she had a horse with night vision on her return journey.

“Y
OU WON
’
T BELIEVE
what happened last night, Dad,” Carole said as she followed her father out of the tent and into the bright morning light.

“What?”

“One of those horses I met yesterday escaped from his paddock and came over here. I woke up and had to take him back to his campsite.”

“Really?” Colonel Hanson’s eyes grew wide. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have helped.”

“You were sleeping so soundly. It just didn’t seem like that big a deal. I tied a rope to his halter and started leading him, although I wound up having to ride him through the dark trees.”

Colonel Hanson shook his head. “I didn’t even know horses could be ridden through the forest at night. Maybe it’s just as well you took care of it. How about I fire up the cookstove and make breakfast? We can celebrate Carole Hanson’s famous horse rescue with a big stack of pancakes.”

Carole grinned. “Sounds great to me! I’ll go wash up in the creek while you cook.”

Carole tidied up their tent, wincing as her father
crashed around among the boxes of cooking equipment outside.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” she called.

“No, I’m fine. You go on down to the creek and wash up. I’ll have the pancakes done by the time you get back.”

“Okay.” She took a small toiletry kit and a towel down to the little creek that ran close to their tent. A chorus of yellow warblers serenaded her as she splashed the cold creek water on her face. By the time she had finished brushing her teeth and combing her hair, her stomach was growling, so she packed up her things and hurried back to their tent.

She found her father standing in the middle of the equipment, a frazzled look on his face. “Is it pancakes yet, Dad?” she called.

“Uh, not quite,” Colonel Hanson answered, his mouth pulled down in a puzzled frown.

“Need some help?” Carole tossed her things inside the tent and went over to the solar cookstove. The grilling surface was red hot, sending rays of heat shimmering into the air.

“Well, I can’t seem to find the pancake recipe.” Her father scratched his head. “Or the pancake bowl, or even the pancake flipper. But I’ve got the syrup!” he announced.

“Maybe I can find the other stuff.” Carole got down on her hands and knees and began to sift through the
half-dozen boxes that lay piled behind their tent. In the first one she found the pancake flipper, then the set of collapsible bowls. She never did see a recipe, but she did find some pancake mix.

“Here,” she said. “All you need to do is add water to this.”

“Thanks!” Colonel Hanson grinned. “Now I’ll have these babies cooked in no time!”

He measured out enough pancake mix and began to stir everything together. “Okay. Now, if you’ll hand me the butter …”

“The butter?” Carole blinked.

“Yes. The butter. So the pancakes won’t stick to the griddle.”

“I don’t think we have any butter, Dad.” She checked the refrigerator to be sure, but she was right. They had coffee, orange juice, sodas, apples, jam, and pancake syrup, but not one stick of butter. “Sorry,” she said with a shrug. “I guess we forgot the butter.”

“Oh well,” said Colonel Hanson. “This grill is so hot we probably won’t need any. I’ll just pour these things on here and flip ’em real quick and they probably won’t stick at all.”

Carole didn’t say anything. She’d never seen a pancake cooked like that, but maybe her dad had some secret Marine Corps trick she didn’t know. She watched as he poured four circles of batter onto the sizzling stove top.

“Okay,” he said confidently. “Where’s the flipper?”

“Right here.” She handed it to him quickly.

Tiny bubbles were already forming on the first pancake. It was time to turn it over. Colonel Hanson scooted the flipper under one edge and gave a quick twist upward, but instead of flipping in midair, half of the blackened pancake just flopped over and collapsed across the raw side. It looked awful.

“Okay.” Colonel Hanson shook his head. “That one was just a test. Let’s go on to number two.”

He went to work on the other pancakes, trying to pry them up before they burned. The whole batch went the same way: Some flipped and then burned, others burned before they could be flipped. By the time he’d used up all the batter, he had a grand stack of three pancakes that looked vaguely edible.

Colonel Hanson looked sadly at the mound of charred pancakes. “I didn’t think pancakes would be quite so much trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Carole reassured him. “We’ve got lots of syrup. They’ll taste great.”

They divided the pancakes in half. Carole doused hers with syrup, and Colonel Hanson ate his with some blueberry jam.

“Mmm,” Colonel Hanson said, an odd look on his face. “Aren’t they good?”

Though Carole’s pancake tasted somewhere between burned toast and soggy cereal, she tried to
smile. “They’ve really got the flavor of the outdoors,” she said, forcing down the gummy, burned dough. “You know, Dad,” she said, changing the subject with a gulp, “I really loved looking at the stars last night. Those planets were unbelievable.”

“They were terrific, weren’t they?” Colonel Hanson laughed, trying hard to swallow his own pancake. “Want to go again tonight?”

“Sure,” Carole agreed eagerly. “But what are we going to do in the meantime?”

“Well, I was hoping we could get in some early-morning fishing, but since our pancake breakfast took a little longer than expected, I guess we could get in some late-morning fishing. I’ve got Colonel Cheatham’s collapsible canoe and paddle. Does that sound like fun?”

“Sure does.” Carole smiled, washing the last bite of her pancakes down with a big glass of milk.

By the time they got the dishes cleared away, it was nearly noon. Colonel Hanson eagerly accepted Carole’s offer to make sandwiches for the fishing trip. Without the solar cookstove to haul, they had only the collapsible boat, the folding paddles, and an enormous box of lures and tackle to take along. With her plain old cane pole slung over her shoulder, Carole helped her dad lug all the equipment to the creek.

“Uh, D-Dad?” Carole stammered when they came
to the bank of a small creek. “It looks awfully small for canoeing.”

“Well, sometimes they just seem that way.” Her father grinned. “Don’t worry. It’ll be great. Colonel Cheatham says these boats can float in a teaspoon of water.”

“But Dad …”

“Don’t worry, Carole,” her father said as he began to unfold the boat. “Trust me.”

She put down her fishing tackle and helped him. The little canvas-and-aluminum boat unfolded easily, as did both its paddles. Colonel Hanson pushed the canoe out into the water, where it bobbed, awaiting its passengers.

“See? Plenty of water to keep us afloat. Now, ladies first,” said Colonel Hanson with a bow.

“That’s okay, Dad.” Carole smiled. “I’ll let you go first.”

“Okay.” Colonel Hanson put his hands on either side of the boat and slowly crept forward. The little canoe wobbled for a moment, then floated easily on the water. “There. See? It’s great. Grab those paddles and climb aboard!”

Carole handed the paddles to her father and stepped into the boat just as he had. It wobbled beneath her until she crawled onto the seat.

“See?” Colonel Hanson said. “Easy, isn’t it?”

Carole nodded. “Where are we going?”

Colonel Hanson dipped his paddle into the water. “Let’s see if we can get close to that big tree. I bet some old bass is down in that dark water, just waiting to be caught.”

“Okay, Dad.” Carole dipped her paddle into the water on the other side of the canoe and made a single stroke. The canoe went forward for about ten seconds, then suddenly turned sideways. Colonel Hanson swayed to the left in his seat. The little boat gave a shudder, and the next thing Carole knew the canoe was over their heads and she was sitting on the creek bottom, under water.

She came up coughing and spewing water. Her father was on the other side of the canoe, water pouring from his fishing hat as if a bucket had overturned on his head.

“Are you all right, Carole?” her father cried.

“I’m fine,” she replied, starting to laugh. “The water’s just barely above my waist. But look at your hat!”

Colonel Hanson took the hat off and wrung it out like a rag. “What happened?” he asked. “We were doing so great!”

“I don’t know.” Carole wiped the water from her eyes. “Let’s get back on the bank and figure it out.”

Together they shoved the capsized canoe to the side of the creek. Carole’s once dry clothes now clung to her in a soggy mess, and she could feel mud squishing
inside her shoes. Walking back up the trail like this was going to feel awful!

They emptied the swamped canoe and dragged it onto the bank. Colonel Hanson hopped up on the bank and offered Carole his hand. “I’m sorry, honey. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Dad, I’m fine. Just a little damp.” Carole wrung the water out of her shirttail and eyed the soaked canoe. “You know, since I just have this cane pole, maybe I’ll let you fish from the canoe by yourself. I’m just as happy fishing from the bank, and I know how much you want to try that collapsible boat.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her father shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Maybe it’s meant for deeper water. Anyway, fishing from the bank has always been a more exciting way to catch fish.”

“Drier, too,” Carole added with a giggle.

They left the collapsible canoe in a waterlogged heap and squished over to the big tree. Carole carried her cane pole while her Dad took a graphite rod with a vast array of lures and flies. They sat on one of the huge tree roots that overhung the creek.

“What are you fishing with today?” Colonel Hanson asked as he opened his tackle box.

“A worm, I suppose,” Carole said. Worms were what she had always fished with. There was no reason to change now.

“You want me to find one for you and bait your hook?” Colonel Hanson asked.

“No thanks, Dad. I can do it.” Carole hopped off the root and dug around in the soft earth beneath the tree. In a moment she found several long, crawling worms.
Ugh
, she thought as she picked the longest one up.
I don’t remember them being quite this squirmy
. Carefully she grabbed her fishhook in one hand and held the worm in the other. She didn’t like the idea of having to thread the sharp hook through the worm’s body, but she didn’t want to admit that to her father. She wished she could close her eyes, but she didn’t dare do that if she wanted to avoid piercing her own thumb with the hook.
Yuck!
She thought.
This is really not as much fun as I remembered
. Taking a deep breath, she open her eyes wide and threaded the worm on the hook as quickly as she could. Then she swung her line out into the middle of the creek.

For the next several hours they fished, or in Carole’s case, drowned a helpless worm. Colonel Hanson spent most of his time either adjusting his line or changing his lures. By the time they ate their sandwiches, neither had had a single nibble, and by the time the mosquitoes came out for their own dinner in the late afternoon, Colonel Hanson was ready to call it quits.