Riding wasn't a challenge for either of us. I'd ridden on our farm before I went to normal school. Mildred came from a ranch in eastern Oregon where she'd helped on cattle drives and real round-ups. She'd put that all behind her. Now she was determined to be a city girl for the rest of her life, if you can call Smithy's Corners the city.
Along the road we didn't encounter anything unusual, just silence and spitting rain. When we started up over that mountain on the old logging road, you better believe I flashed the light around constantly. We watched and listened and trembled. Every time a wet branch brushed us or dropped water on us, we yelped. Every time one of the horses stepped down on a real soggy place and the water splattered we shivered. When a sprig of kinnikinnick snagged a stirrup I jerked away.
All over the top of the hill there were dancing fingers of fog. They oozed and writhed along the ground like live beings. The whole place was so wet it was hard to breathe. I just knew one of those wisps of fog was solid enough to reach out and grab me. |
