Ethan Whitehorse's Arc

Chapter 4 of 3

Catherine studied the notice by lamplight at the kitchen table. Ethan watched her mouth for the words she read aloud. Stolen. Black mustang. Reward. Her face went pale. She looked toward the far corral, where their own black horse stood in the dark. "If they see him and think he's theirs," she said slowly, "they'll call me a thief." Ethan understood. Guessing wrong could ruin her. He had to know the truth before the two men arrived. He took the paper outside at first light and walked to the corral. The drawing showed a white blaze and one white sock. Ethan pressed the paper against the rail and compared. Their mustang had no blaze. No white sock. The marks did not match. But a drawing could lie, and a brand could be hidden. He needed proof no one could argue with. He led the horse into the round pen and ran his hands along its shoulder, then its flank, the way his grandmother Mary had taught him through her sketchpad. He found the brand under a patch of dust. He wiped it clean. It was the Whitehorse mark, old and healed for years. Not the fresh brand on the notice. This horse had been theirs since before it was foaled. A shadow crossed the fence. Ethan turned. A woman in a wide straw hat stood watching, boots caked with mud. She was the new farmhand his mother had hired that week to help through the dry season. She smiled and stepped closer. "Handsome animal," she said. Ethan read her lips. Her hands, he noticed, were smooth. Too smooth for someone who claimed she'd worked land all her life. He said nothing and kept his body between her and the horse. Hooves sounded on the road. Ethan felt them before he saw the dust. Two riders. He blew the whistle three times. Catherine came running from the porch of the ranch house. Behind her walked Henry, his uncle, wiping coffee from his mouth. Ethan did not fully trust Henry. But Henry knew the law of deeds and brands, and right now that mattered more than trust. The two men reined up at the fence. They pointed at the black horse and shouted words Ethan could not catch. He shoved the notice into Henry's hands and pulled the horse's shoulder toward the light. Henry looked at the drawing. Then the brand. Then the men. "This one's blaze is missing," Henry said, slow and steady. "And this brand's older than that reward. You're chasing dust, friends. Your horse ain't here." He held the notice up so all could see. The men argued, but the marks spoke plainer than they did. They cursed, wheeled their horses, and rode off toward town. Catherine let out a shaking breath and gripped Ethan's shoulder. The horse was theirs, proven and safe. But Ethan looked back at the farmhand. She had slipped away during the noise. He had cleared his mother's name. Now he had a new question. Who was the woman with clean hands, and why had she come to their farm?