Flame And The Wild Herd

Truth Or Dare

The waters sprang upon him, as though they had been creeping after him the whole time. Flame gasped – in the few seconds that followed, he had many thoughts. What should he do? He knew he probably wouldn’t make it with a jump – he hadn’t had a good run-up. He would either have to stop or wade through, which would be far too slow. But then he would have to face the truth – that he would never see his mares again. He could try to make the jump – but this was very risky. If he didn’t clear it, he would plunge into the icy waters, sustaining serious injuries. Face the truth or do the dare? Truth or Dare? Flame thought on this for no more than a nanosecond. Since when had he gone down without a fight? Dare it was!

Flame gathered himself together, knowing he only had a few strides left. He felt himself bunch up, and then he was up, over, stretching himself out as far as he could, straining to reach the other bank. The waters gurgled and splashed beneath him, wetting his legs with the finest of spray. His neck stretched to the fullest it could, his legs spread out as though lying down flat. The only thing that was on Flame’s mind was his hooves hitting the other side, making his getaway . . .

To his relief, his hooves touched firm ground. He scrambled away from the rushing waters, and looked back. The saddlehorses were staying on the other side, standing, not chasing him. "Aw, c’mon, a li’l water won’t ‘urt the dumb brutes, will it?!" yelled the man seated on the familiar iron grey, slamming his boots into the horse’s sides, digging his shiny spurs into the muscular horse’s soft, fleshy flanks. But one of the chestnuts cut across his path, guided by his grim-faced rider. "Now then, McDawson, ‘e’s just one of ‘em darn mustangs. Is the poor brute really worth this?!"

The grey’s rider said nothing, but muttered under his breath. "Heel!" he growled at one of the dogs, who was trying to wade across the flowing creek. "No use wadin’," another added. "Me ‘orse, ‘e’s a blood’orse. Precious cargo. ‘E runs like the wind, alright, but ‘e’s no ‘orse for this sort of bushwackin’!" The iron grey’s rider sighed and agreed. "Methinks ya may be right!" he replied. He turned his horse, swearing at the proud, regal stallion, and left for camp. The others all followed.