Myrton Ikard's Arc

Chapter 7 of 10

Myrton stood on his porch as the sun dropped behind the ridge. The mustang hadn't returned in five days. He pulled off his hat and turned it in his hands. His chest felt heavy, like something was pressing down on it. He walked inside and sat at his kitchen table. The registry papers lay there, half-filled. They felt like a lie now. He needed to get out of the house. Myrton grabbed his keys and drove into town. Main Street was quiet, just a few trucks parked outside the feed store. He walked past the empty shops until he reached the old wooden monument in the center square. The carved horse reared up on its hind legs, weathered by years of desert wind. He'd seen it a hundred times but never really stopped to look. The paint had faded to browns and tans, worn down by sand. Someone had stacked rocks beneath it to hold it steady. A metal plate at the base told the story of a wild stallion that had been trained for racing forty years ago. That horse had won championships across three states. Myrton reached out and touched the rough wood. The carving reminded him that wild horses could become something great. They just needed time and the right person to believe in them. Back at his truck, Myrton felt the weight in his chest lift a little. The mustang would return or he wouldn't. Either way, Myrton knew what he was working toward. He drove home as the stars came out, ready to wait as long as it took. The next morning, Myrton saddled his mare and rode out past the property line. He followed the ridge trail where the mustang's tracks had led before. Two hours in, he found what he was looking for. A rock overhang jutted out from the cliff face, creating a wide shelter underneath. The ground was smooth and dry, protected from wind and rain. Fresh droppings dotted the sand near the entrance. The mustang had been here, maybe yesterday. Myrton dismounted and walked under the overhang. He could see why wild horses chose this spot. It kept them safe during storms and gave them a view of everything below. He stood in the cool shade and watched a hawk circle overhead. The stallion hadn't left the area. He was just being careful, the way wild things had to be. Myrton climbed back on his mare and turned toward home. The wait would be long, but now he knew where the mustang sheltered. That was enough for today. That evening, Myrton stopped at the bunkhouse on his way back through town. The dark wood sign hung above the door, letters carved deep into the grain. Inside, three ranchers sat at a long table eating stew. They nodded as Myrton took a seat. The owner brought him a bowl without asking. One of the ranchers, an older man with sun-damaged skin, asked how the mustang work was going. Myrton told him about the five-day absence and the shelter he'd found that morning. The man grunted and said his first wild horse had stayed away for two weeks before coming back. Another rancher mentioned a mare that took three months to trust him enough to eat from his hand. They didn't offer solutions, just facts from their own years of work. Myrton finished his stew and thanked them. Walking back to his truck, he felt steadier. Other people had done this. It took time, but it could be done. He drove home under a clear sky, his doubt replaced by something harder to shake loose.