Red Outlaw

Springtime

Red was now a big, strong yearling. He reached a mind boggling height of almost 17 hands already, towering over the other colts.

Copper decided it was time to move on as soon as the sun poked it's head over the ground one day. She musta thought they waited too long, or somethin', cause she start off like a coyote after a lame bird. Her belly swayed beneath her like it did last spring, heavy with pregnancy.

Red tagged along at her flank, bending down to get some milk. She snapped at him real hard, but let him stay beside her. She still licked his poll once in a while, like she used to, but she was more reserved. Red was too old (and too big) for mothering.

They walked for hours, but Red wasn't tired anymore. He was gainin' stamina, and while he was still disproportionate like a yearling should be, he was absurdly huge. The other colts averaged 13-14 hands at this time. He had that at six months, easily.

After hours of concentrating on walking (for once, not annoying the entire herd like usual) they could see the treeline. Red remembered where they was goin' when he seen it. The meadow.

The other herds walked alongside them, the stallions trailing behind uneasily. They already started to size eachother up, all hopin' to claim the prime real-estate. All hopin' to provide a good summer for their harems.

After a few minutes of walkin', the pace got faster. Nightshade was sweatin' in the cold, and without warning, he jumped into a dead sprint. Chaos broke loose.

There was mares and stallions, all mixed up with the yearlings, all whinnying to find their mamas, every horse runnin' but none knowin' why. And Nightshade started the stampede. They trampled everything in their path.

As they ran, Nightshade worked hard to keep the mares somewhat organized. He'd sprint up one side and bunch it close, then fall behind and bunch the yearlings up, and then to the other side where the other mares were, and repeat. A tiring process, but necessary. The duller stallions lost a few mares by him, and the herd picked up a black and white paint named Spot, and her red dun filly Scarlet, who refused to leave her side.

They made it to the treeline somehow still entirely intact, at which point Nightshade funneled them in. Once he made sure they was all safe inside, he whirled around to face any challengers that come his way. Red watched eagerly, drinking in all the knowledge his pa was unknowingly passing down to him.

A grey stallion approached him, neck bowed. They blew into eachother's nostrils, evry muscle tense. Nightshade wasn't about to let his opponent make the first move. In an instant, the stallion lunged for his challenger's neck and bit it severely, refusing to let go as the grey bucked and reared, fighting to get free.

He left with a broken body and shattered dignity.

The next challenger didn't bother with formalities. The chestnut barreled towards Nightshade with his head down and teeth bared, but Nightshade sidestepped and he skidded into the dirt. Taking advantage of his position, Nightshade pummeled his opponent into the ground. Survival of the fittest.

No more challengers approached that hour. 'Cept Spot's stallion who snuck around while he fought and stoled her back. For then it was settled that Nightshade was the head hoss around these parts.

The meadow wasn't at all as Red remembered. The grass was short, the stream was icy, and the forest only had little buds for leaves. None of the places looked as fun to play in as they used to be. But Red was just figgerin' out his strength - he didn't get pushed around by nobody no more.

Gradually, the new green grass poked up from the dead stuff and started to grow. The horses ate it down as fast as it shot up. The leaves on the trees was gettin' bigger, and one by one - the mares would disappear into the forest.