Chapter 35

• Ricky’s cattle pony broke from its lope into a steady, measured dog-trot, the rhythm of its hooves echoing like a heartbeat through the vast openness of the high country. Every now and then, the pony would toss its head high and jerk its ears back as though attempting to dislodge a persistent fly_ or perhaps something more intangible. For it was not mere flies that troubled the animal but the peculiar, almost otherworldly whistling emanating from its master. In all the long years spent riding across unforgiving lands, Ricky had come to know that his rider’s only consistent sound was a harsh, grunted curse; this lilting, eerie melody was as foreign as it was unsettling. It stirred in the mustang a deep, disquieting unease, as if the very spirit of the wilderness was restless in its presence.
• Ricky himself could not say what meaning lay hidden in that music. To him, it conjured images of raw, unbridled life and the glorious, inevitable approach of death. He remembered_ almost in a fevered dream_ how Jack Mercer, delirious from fever and battle alike, had whistled that same air, a tune that carried with it the ghost of a man who had once ridden with wild abandon. In those moments, Ricky felt as though Jack’s spirit traveled right beside him, infusing him with an untamed strength that made every step forward a defiant act against fate itself.
• As Ricky guided his pony into a wide, level tract of country, his keen eyes caught sight of a rider approaching from the opposite direction. At first, the stranger swung his mount far to one side, as if eager to pass unnoticed_ a phantom drifting through the early morning haze. Ricky allowed himself a soft chuckle at the subtlety, a brief relief amid the harsh demands of frontier life. Yet the chuckle vanished as swiftly as the stranger shifted direction, now riding directly toward him with an intensity that brooked no delay.