Ghost Rider

Jantallian

"I knew it was a mistake to buy a horse called Ghost!"

From where he was lying on the cold, hard earth, Jess Harper regarded the flea-bitten grey mustang with a mixture of disgust and determination not to be beaten. It was the fourth time that animal had deposited him on the ground in as many hours. At this rate, he was never going to get home and right now, on a cold, bleak winter afternoon and half way across a mountain chain, all he wanted was to see the lights of the relay station and feel the comfort of a good fire and have someone put a welcome cup of coffee into his hand. He cursed himself for a sentimental fool, who made a bad bargain over an unreliable horse, just because he couldn't bear to see an animal ill-treated. Right now, as he felt his bruises and shivered with cold, he was paying for it in more than money. Back then, it had just seemed like a good idea to acquire a spirited mount and get home as fast as he could.

Home had been uppermost in his mind when he had concluded the deal for another twenty army remounts and found that he had just missed the midday stage back from Cheyenne and that the afternoon stage had been cancelled. The last thing he wanted was to spend another night in a hotel. For one thing it cost money and for another it would lose a day's work, which would rile Slim Sherman – even with the new deal, his boss would be worrying about economics - and for yet another, he hated cold, soulless hotel rooms and their loneliness. He was determined to get home somehow that day, but to do that, he needed good horse. A visit to the bank assured him that he had enough money of his own to buy one and, in a moment of irrational enthusiasm, he set off to the Livery Stables to see what he could find. The fact that the horse might just be more expensive than the hotel room did not cross his mind.

He was looking for something fresh and lively, with plenty of stamina for a hard ride back to Laramie. Predictably, most of the horses in the stables were there because they'd already been hard-ridden and were being rested overnight. Overnighting was something Jess was hell-bent on avoiding - even the lure of a saloon and winning something at poker held no attraction compared with making it back to the relay station. For some reason, he was profoundly uneasy, almost as if he expected the ranch to have vanished or been swept away by the biting wind or buried under an avalanche of early snow. He just had to get back where he belonged.

At that moment, a horse's shrill neigh split the air – more than a neigh, a scream almost. A scream of anger and defiance and independence that struck deep into something Jess hid inside himself. The animal sounded desperate to get away, just as desperate as he was. Jess turned on his heel and strode out of the stable, already tensed for battle, although he did not know what with.

In the corral, a grey horse was rearing and dancing, trying to avoid the lash of the whip with which a man was belabouring it. It was a big, raw-boned animal, too thin for its size but still showing traces of what had once been good muscles and strong tendons. It was striking out with broad, wicked hooves and its strong, yellow teeth snapped as viciously as if it had been a carnivore. In the fierce, ugly head, mad eyes flashed defiance at the world and particularly at its owner. Or at least, that was what Jess presumed the little man on the other end of the halter-rope was. He was a very little man, bent and gnarled like a gnome, but obviously strong enough to hold that wild creature at bay and ply the whip mercilessly.

He did not do so for very long, because Jess, with typical recklessness, wrenched it from him, flinging it away with one hand and grabbing the rope with the other. Instead of pulling against the horse, he moved smoothly towards it, keeping his empty hands low and uttering soothing nonsense as he did so: "Easy, there, big fella, easy now, calm down! Ain't no-one gonna hurt y' now. Easy, boy!"

The mustang baulked, dug his front hooves deep into the earth and snaked his head low and menacing, bringing a concerted gasp from the spectators who had gathered at the rail to witness the unusual spectacle of 'horse eats man'. Jess kept quite still, never taking his eyes from the horse's. The grey flung his head up again and snorted. It might have been derision – or maybe acknowledgement of a kindred spirit. The lead between them hung slack and, if he wanted to, the horse could have had Jess for dinner without any trouble. He was shifting threateningly from hoof to hoof, stamping and trampling the dusty earth as he would obviously have liked to trample a human being.

Jess just remained motionless and kept on murmuring quietly and soothingly. Slowly the grey lowered his head and stood still. He gave a final, soft snort and Jess let the rope go altogether, so that it trailed in the dust. The horse went on standing, as any well-trained mount would do, but somehow it didn't look like that. It looked as though, for the moment, he had decided to give this human the benefit of the doubt.

"An' jest wot d'yer think yer doin', mister?" the animal's owner demanded truculently.

"Tryin' hard not to use this on you!" Jess retorted, giving the fallen whip a vicious kick that send it spinning under the rails. As an opening gambit for concluding a sharp deal, this left a lot to be desired. It was not, therefore, surprising that, when he followed this up with a jerk of his head in the direction of the horse and the query "How much?", the gnome spat in the dust and said contemptuously, "More'n a saddle-tramp like you is carryin'!"

It was some time since Jess had been called a saddle-tramp and it brought all the old skills and cunning straight to the top of his mind. "You think after that performance anyone but a saddle-tramp's gonna take him on?" he enquired.

"Tha's a highly trained mount, that is!" the old man asserted. "Highly bred too, ain't just any ol' mustang!"

"You're kiddin'!" For some reason, Jess turned and looked over his shoulder at the grey. The debate on the sale was taking place in the arena of the corral and at this point the animal just decided to join in. There was a rapid thud of hooves, Jess was knocked sideways in the rush and the gnome let out a scream. The horse had seized his arm in its formidable teeth and was shaking him furiously.

To the end of his days, Jess could not make out why he did what he did next. He picked himself up, strolled quietly over to the horse and laid a hand on its neck. "Give over, guerrero! That's enough!"

The grey gave another piercing snort, but let the man go. It stood looming over the rest of the negotiations.

"Y' kin 'ave 'im!" the man yelled, " 'E's nothin' but trouble. Jest take 'im and go!"

"No way!" For some reason, Jess was absolutely convinced that he had to buy this horse legally and leave town entitled to own and ride him. "I'll give you twenty dollars – and for that, you can sling in the harness too!"

"Done" The old man did not even trouble to negotiate.

Jess counted out the money, but held it just out of reach. "Papers?"

"Here!" A grubby, much-folded piece of paper was thrust into his hand. It described the mustang all right and even gave his name, 'Ghost'. There was no brand to confirm the horse's origin, so Jess appealed to the crowd. "You've seen this sale. You know it's legal."

There was a murmur of assent. It would have to do. Jess took the paper and refolded it along the worn, dirty creases; it looked as if it had changed hands many times and was about to fall apart, but it too would have to do. Then he handed over the money. The gnome was all for making a quick exit, but Jess caught him by the collar. "You saddle him! I'll be back when I've got my gear."

He actually didn't have anything to collect bar his heavy winter jacket, which he'd left in the office of the friendly local marshal. But he figured the gnome should earn his money by saddling the horse – and, for some reason he could not fathom, Jess did not want the grey to associate him with the harness.

When he got back to the Livery Stable, the horse was saddled and tied to the rail. There was no sign of the gnome. Jess bought a small sack of oats from the owner of the Livery Stable – given the gnome's behaviour and attitude, he figured the horse would be hungry – and took the time to give the animal a couple of handfuls. Then he tucked away the ownership paper safely in an inner pocket, buttoned up his jacket to his chin and hopped into the saddle of his new mount. The harness left a great deal to be desired. If it had ever been cleaned, it was a very long time ago. The leather was grey and greasy, the metalwork tarnished and in places the whole affair looked as if it was growing some kind of man-eating mould. Jess just hoped the straps and fastenings would hold out as far as Laramie. This was not to be.

His first fall came about half way along the road north from Cheyenne. They had been proceeding at a steady lope. Despite his apparent thinness, the mustang had plenty of stamina and could keep up a good pace without the fuss and struggle that might have been expected after his previous performance. It therefore took Jess completely by surprise when the horse suddenly swerved off the main road and high-tailed it up onto a side track leading over the mountains. Jess, who had been dreaming that he was safe at home beside the fire, continued in the direction of Laramie, measuring his length painfully along the junction between the trail and the road.

To his total surprise, the horse stopped about a hundred feet up the trail he had chosen and stood quiet, apparently waiting for Jess to mount up again. Jess scrambled to his feet, picked up his hat and beat the dust of the fall off his body.

"You ungrateful sidewinder! What was all that about?" He limped up to the horse and tried to grab the reins in order to proceed in a northerly direction by the straight and narrow highway. The horse dodged his grasp, moving some twenty or so paces further up the track. Jess groaned and made another attempt to catch his mount. The grey moved another twenty paces up the track.

After this had gone on for some dozen manoeuvres, Jess was a quarter of a mile from the main highway, highly irritable, but reflecting that the horse might have some sense because this trail was actually shorter than the stage road. When he came to this conclusion, he finally managed to catch the grey and mount again.

"Ok, you win!" he growled. "Let's take the short cut. I just wanna get home, that's all!"

Things proceeded peacefully for another five miles or so. The day was wearing on and the light fading in the late afternoon, but they were devouring the distance that separated them from home. The mustang kept up his mile-eating lope and Jess relaxed into the saddle, soothed and rocked by the smooth, swaying pace of this powerful mount. It was a considerable shock, therefore, when, for no apparent reason, the horse suddenly dug in all four hooves and skidded to a halt. Jess and the saddle parted company with him, hitting the ground with some force, which momentarily winded Jess and completed the demise of the already ancient saddle. The horse snorted and shook his head, almost as if he were laughing.

Jess glared up at it. The horse stared back at him as if daring him – or maybe inviting him – to do something. It watched intently as he staggered to his feet, feeling his ribs and hoping that nothing was broken and the pain was just due to all his breath having been slammed out of him. The saddle was beyond repair – the cinch had parted from the buckle, one stirrup was missing, the tree was broken and stuffing was leaking from various gaping cracks in the leather. Jess picked it up gloomily. The grey snorted again as if expressing his opinion of this human artefact.

"Ok, so you got somethin' against saddles? We can do without it. But I'm gonna get home and you're gonna take me!" Jess tossed the saddle into a nearby gulley, then seized a handful of mane and vaulted back onto his erstwhile mount.

Without the saddle, the horse seemed surprisingly to be somehow less skinny and underfed. Sleek, warm muscles moved sinuously beneath Jess's legs and the broad shoulders in front of him thrust like pistons as the mustang broke into that steady canter without being asked. The twist of mane in his hand was long and thick – in the gathering dusk, it seemed to glimmer as if touched by starlight. Funny, he could have sworn the horse had had a dirty, straggly grey mane when he bought it …

The grey was easy to ride without a saddle, his broad back almost as comfortable as that armchair Jess had been dreaming about. But he was determined not to get caught off guard again and paid proper attention to what his mount was doing for the next five miles – until, nonetheless, it successfully unseated him once more.

If Jess was likely to get a complex about being thrown by this particular mount, he would have had to admit that there was no way he could have stayed on during a vertical rear when he was riding bareback. Especially as there was absolutely no warning whatsoever that the horse was going to do anything of the kind. One moment he was thundering up the trail, the next he was bolt upright on his hind-legs, pawing the air and showing no sign of coming down until Jess slid ignominiously over his tail. His rider did not even both to look round for rattlesnakes, pigs or strange-shaped rocks which were the usual cause of such behaviour. He got the picture. The horse had decide he was going to dismount periodically. It was a pity it could not have told him when it wanted him to get off. It would have saved a lot of bruises!

This time, however, Jess had the presence of mind to keep hold of one of the reins. It did him little good. The grey swung round towards him, dug in his hooves once again for a tug of war and flung himself backwards in another half-rear. The bridle snapped into little pieces, leaving only the bit in his mouth. The animal loomed over Jess, just as he had done during the negotiations in the corral. He seemed to be calculating something. Then he spat out the bit, hitting Jess accurately and painfully across the mouth. If a horse could smirk, this one appeared to be smirking.

Fortunately the blow from the flying piece of metal did not actually knock Jess out. Wavering dizzily on his feet, he wiped the blood from his split lip and counted his teeth. Then he said between them: "Ok, so you don't like bridles either. What makes y' think we need one? But I'm gonna get where I belong and you're gonna take me!"

The grey tossed his beautiful head. The clear-cut lines of his Arab descent were evident and his large, dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and purpose. He snorted again and again it sounded like a laugh, this time a joyous appreciation of the freedom to run without saddle or bridle. Jess just made his flying leap aboard in time as the dappled haunches bunched for action and the horse took off at full speed.

It was a wild ride in the gathering dusk and the trail was rough, but the horse made nothing of it, sure-footed and agile in a way that even Jess's beloved Traveller would have found hard to equal. At first Jess was concentrating hard on keeping his weight balanced so as not to impede the horse's progress and to respond sensitively to the tremendous physical impulsion the animal was generating. Then, gradually, this became second nature and he found that he was instinctively working with every movement, impetus, swerve and jump of his racing mount.

This made it all the more of a shock when three violent bucks send him hurling groundwards once more. From where he was lying on the cold, hard earth, Jess regarded the dark-dappled stallion, tossing its silver mane and tail, with a mixture of disgust and sheer determination. "I knew it was a mistake to buy a horse called Ghost! But ghost or not, you're takin' me where I belong. After that, it's up to you."

Man and horse faced each other eyeball to eyeball. The stallion bared his teeth and gave a half-rear again. Jess folded his arms and glared at him. Then his expression softened and he shook his head. "You are somethin' else!" he whispered. "I don't know what, but you sure are beautiful."

It was true. The scrawny, flea-bitten grey that he had rescued, so long ago it seemed now, was actually a superbly fit and powerful stallion, its confirmation perfect, its silken coat rippling with grey and white dapples and its long mane and tail floating like silver streams in the moonlight. Its lineage could only be guessed at, but, whatever stock it had come from, Arab, thoroughbred and some tough wild horse blood were evident. The fine head and wide eyes showed the feelings of a creature that would not bow to captivity and servitude.

Jess sighed. He had still been standing firmly in the horse's way, but now he moved aside, so that the trail was clear. "Go on then, Ghost. That's where you belong." He flung his arms wide, embracing the wild, moonlit winter landscape around them. "I guess, after all, I'm prepared to walk the rest of the way."

The stallion raised a hind-leg and stamped. The up-flung head bowed and the nostrils flared in a long, deep breath. The horse slowly bent each foreleg, kneeling calmly on the frosty ground. Its ears were pricked so sharply towards Jess that they nearly met. Deep from its throat came the sound of a soft, rumbling wicker. The shining eyes never left his.

As if in a dream, Jess took a step, then another and a third, which finally brought him alongside the animal. His hand stretched out and his fingers caressed the velvet muzzle and ran up the narrow white blaze on that noble head. He pulled the pliant ears gently and scratched between them. "Are you sure, guerrero? You don't have to do this."

The muzzle butted him in the stomach as the horse nudged him towards its back.

"Ok. I guess you choose who rides you. Thanks."

Jess slid a leg reverently over the smooth back and eased himself onto the stallion. At once, Ghost rose up and tossed his head, giving that characteristic half-rear. Jess felt no need to hang on this time. He was utterly secure, looping the strands of silver mane round his right hand more for the contact than because he needed it to secure his seat. The stallion bunched all his muscles, then sprang away in a mighty leap that would have unseated many riders.

It was an even wilder ride through the star-bright sparkle of the mountain trail and yet the stallion showed no effort, no strain, and never the chance of a wrong-footing. The trail vanished as they leapt up the mountainside, leaving the known path far behind them. The stallion flowed and glided over the rough terrain as if he were galloping across a soft, grassy meadow. No matter how steep the scree or how narrow the pass or how deep the canyon, he galloped on unchecked, every pace, every hoof-fall assured and secure. And his confidence flowed through his rider. Jess was no longer a man riding a strange horse. He was one with the stallion and his breath-taking progress, united with the horse in a way that he had never dreamt of before. They were no longer two separate beings, but one unity, every muscle, every movement, every impetus, working as one, one being, one intent, driving them upward and onward over the sheer, star-lit mountain-face.

They were not far from the range that encompassed the Sherman ranch when the whole momentum of their passage changed. Amazing as had been the stallion's progress over impossible terrain and insurmountable obstacles, now the power of his onward drive became something else. There was a smoothness in his hoof-beats, a rhythm in his pulsing muscles, an indefinable sense of lift and lightness that heralded a new development in this journey that he and Jess were taking together. They were no longer on the earth, but racing with raking strides up the sky itself.

Jess was not afraid. An utter sense of freedom possessed him – the universe was wide open, calling to the wildness in him, to the solitude that his spirit longed for. All his hatred of confinement, of being trapped and tied down, was racing through his body, driving his reckless joy. He flung back his head, drawing in great lungfuls of biting north wind that sang, intoxicating, in his blood. This was where he belonged.

Below him, the dark earth stretched away in an unending curve, mountains and rivers and forests and plains clearly etched by the silver starlight. Beyond them, somewhere at the edge of infinity, he was aware of the mighty roll and surge of the ocean. It was all empty, all open, all infused with the power and potential for life, as it had been created to be. There was no sign of human habitation, no trails, no bridges, no rail-roads, not a single bit of evidence that men had ever touched the land or tried to tame it.

And he too was untamed - mind, body and spirit at one with the feral liberty, the ungovernable wildness. He forgot the colour of lamplight … the warmth of fire … the smell of coffee … it was all gone with the gale that streamed through his long, flowing hair, whipping it out behind him. The starlight gilded the shifting curves of bare muscle and sinew as he moved in unison with the stallion. He was naked to the waist and yet revelling in the rush of the icy wind against his skin. His feet were bare too, tucked tightly against the cold, fluid hide, although his legs were covered with some kind of leather wrapping. The silver strands of the stallion's mane curled round the taut muscles of his forearms as he rested his hands lightly against the mighty neck. There was no need to hold on, for his mount held him, enthralled by the beauty and the power and the utter sovereignty of this wild flight.

Higher and higher they mounted as the stallion bore his rider across the heavens. The ecstatic gallop was silent as the whirling stars, for there is nothing for hooves to fall on in the sky. Yet faint at the edge of hearing, there was a sound. A sound that was gaining on them. At first Jess only perceived it as a sound. Then as a sound that he ought to be able to identify, but could not. Then it swept up to them, around them, submerging them in its savage music. It was the cry of hunting wolves.

White forms surged all around them and hurled ahead in an insane pursuit, surpassing even the speed of the stallion, who nevertheless followed hard on their heels. The race was on to search and find and rend their prey. Across the sky they quested, a boiling, rolling mass of dead-white bodies, that turned and tumbled and twisted. And as they did so, their red ears tossed and flickered like tongues of flame.

At this, something stirred deep in Jess, as deep as his longing and need to be free and unbound and alone. The stallion raced at the heels of the hunt, but, as the landscape blurred beneath them, he suddenly knew that almost immediately below him he ought to be able to see the lights of Laramie, even of the relay station - but there was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

And he would have given anything for one friendly light below. He would willingly exchange the blazing wolf-pack for a single soft flame of warmth. But the supernatural wind would bear to him no scent of coffee. And his heart cried out with longing.

The stallion seemed to pause in his headlong gallop, to stand rearing hugely against the star-scattered curtain of the night. A change was coming over it … it was becoming a creature of ice and wind and blazing stars, dissolving under him, streaming away across the face of the heavens. And he was drifting, floating, gliding … down … inexorably down …

. . . . .

"Jess?" Andy Sherman halted abruptly and dropped the bucket he was carrying as he made out the dark figure leaning against the corral fence. "Jess? Is that you?"

Of course it was him – Andy wasn't really in any doubt – he hoped. Jess often leaned on the fence in the evening, making much of Traveller and smoking quietly because Slim disapproved of it in the house and in front of Andy. But rarely at this late hour.

Of course it was Jess. Only his clothes had an starlit shimmer and his jacket was rimed with frost and there was ice dripping from the brim of his hat, though the early winter night was comparatively mild. The figure stirred and turned, his face was shadowed by his hat, featureless, inhuman, but something bright, elusive, ethereal, was shining out of his eyes – just for a moment.

Just for a moment, Andy felt a breath of something cold, starlit and powerful pressing against him, as if he was in the presence of a potent ghost, a wild spirit.

"Are you all right?" Andy reached out a tentative hand and touched the man – touched his friend on the arm. The arm was human enough, tough, lean muscle and strong, hard bone palpable even through the thickness of the cold jacket. The shadowed face lifted and looked towards the lamp-lit windows.

"Come inside," Andy invited, concerned at this silence and lack of greeting.

"Yeah … fire … and … coffee …" Jess's voice sounded resonant and deep as always, but as if he was speaking from very far off.

"Come on in!" Andy urged him. He helped the Texan towards the house, since his feet didn't seem to know where to go. The door opened on a familiar scene: Jonesy banking up the fire, the remains of supper still on the table and Slim already at his desk, working at the accounts. Andy steered Jess towards the first thing he'd talked about – the fire.

Slim sprang to his feet. The totally unexpected twenty four hours' delay in the return of his employee had worried him much more because something might have – probably had! – happened to Jess, than because it had meant lost working time. "Where have you –?" He stopped abruptly as Andy scowled and shook his head. Slim made himself contain all his concern, realising almost at once that the best thing he could do for Jess was to wait patiently. No doubt there was some explanation – maybe even a believable one this time.

Jonesy tossed on the last log and began to clear the table. "There ain't nothin' –" he began and then, catching sight of Andy's urgent drinking mime, hastily revised what he had been going to say: "- you'll be wantin' more'n a good hot coffee!"

He stumped off to the kitchen and returned swiftly with a steaming mug which he pressed into Jess's hands, where he stood huddled against the mantelpiece. "Coffee!" Jess sounded as if someone had just granted him a reprieve from the gallows. The other three tried to contain their amazement. Admittedly Jess more or less ran on neat caffeine, but tonight he made it sound like the elixir of life!

A long shudder ran through Jess's body as he breathed in the warm, rich, familiar scent. He raised the mug and drank hungrily – not as if he was thirsty, but as if he was starving for something that had been beyond his grasp. He drained the mug and held it out silently to Jonesy, who, knowing him well, had brought in the whole pot. After the second draught, Jess managed to croak out, "Thanks!"

Slim deemed that normality was returning, whatever had happened. He wandered over and tipped Jess's hat playfully over his face. "Jacket?" he suggested, holding out his hand. "You're dripping on the rug."

"Yeah." Jess flipped his hat across the room, landing it with his usual accuracy on a vacant peg and began to unbutton his jacket. They could see now that he had a split lip and the dark shadow of a new bruise across his mouth: as usual, he seemed to be ignoring this. As he shrugged out of his jacket, though, he checked through the pockets and his face changed. For a moment, that cold elusive brightness flickered in his eyes. The others watched him cautiously, not knowing what this might portend.

Jess slowly withdrew his fingers from the inside pocket of his jacket, where he had stowed the crumpled piece of paper giving him the ownership of a grey-ghost stallion.

In his hand were twenty crisp new dollar bills …

##########

NOTES:

Guerrero – Spanish for 'warrior'.

The legend of the Wild Hunt, on which this story is based, is common throughout northern Europe. The riders and hounds are usually black with red eyes, but in my own part of the world, the Welsh/Herefordshire borders, the leader of the Hunt was Gwynn ap Nudd, the "Lord of the Dead", who was followed by his pack of white hounds with blood-red ears. These red-eared hounds are also found in northern England, where they were known as Gabriel Hounds. Their appearance was a portent of doom. According to a 12th century account, the Wild Hunt, 'the household of Herlethingus', were seen off by the local inhabitants of Herefordshire who challenged them with weapons: 'They, however, rose up into the air and vanished on a sudden.' I've just turned the hounds into those supreme hunters, the wolf pack, as befits the setting of the story.