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he finally allowed me to touch him. He whinnied just a bit, and I patted him gingerly, trying to make him know me; then, when he was still, I took a closer look at his leg. There was a bad tear along his right foreleg, and there were scratches from the branches that had ripped along his sleek white coat. The scratches I knew would heal, but I wasn’t sure about the leg. The way Ghost Wind had pulled back, I feared a ligament might be torn or even his leg fractured.
    â€œHe all right?” asked Mitchell, on his feet now.
    Without looking at him, I shook my head. “Don’t know. We got to get him back to the barn.”
    â€œYour daddy’s gonna kill me,” he said solemnly, yet with no fear in his voice, just a voice of matter of fact. “Course now, my daddy get t’ me first, he’ll do it. Don’t blame him this time if he do, though, ’cause he’s gonna lose his job sure once your daddy see that horse.”
    I just looked at Mitchell and took the reins. “Come on. Let’s get him back.”
    Mitchell nodded and, for the first time, followed my lead.
    Â 
    Willie Thomas was waiting for us when we got back to the barn. “Ah, Lord, what done happened?” he asked, rushing over to the limping stallion. Willie stooped and examined the stallion’s foreleg, then straightened and glared accusingly at Mitchell. “Boy, you got somethin’ t’ do wit’ this?”
    Mitchell looked at him sulkily. “You’d think I did even if I ain’t.”
    â€œYou tell me, boy! You been on this stallion?”
    â€œAnd so what if I was?”
    Willie Thomas hauled off and slapped Mitchell across the face with the back of his hand. “Don’t ya get smart wit’ me!” Mitchell turned his head at the impact, but he didn’t fall back. It was as if he had already braced himself for the attack. “You done had somethin’ t’ do wit’ this here stallion bein’ cut up, I knows it!” Willie raved on. “You had somethin’ t’ do wit’ it, I gets the blame, and I lose my good job! Tell me what ya done!”
    Mitchell stared coldly at his daddy. He said nothing. I stared at them both, fearful of what was to come. Next thing, Willie Thomas pulled a whip from the barn wall. It was then that my daddy came riding up on one of his mares. He took one look at Willie Thomas holding the whip, another at Mitchell and me, then his eyes settled on Ghost Wind. He dismounted and walked over to the stallion. Unlike Willie, he didn’t inspect the stallion’s leg. He just glanced at it, then turned to face the three of us. “So, what’s happened to my horse?”
    None of us spoke right up. I knew that was because we all had the same fear. My daddy’s voice was soft, but we knew his mind. That was his prized horse standing there bleeding, and we knew he wasn’t about to take that lightly.
    â€œI asked a question,” said my daddy, and his voice was still low. “I expect an answer.” He looked straight at Mitchell’s daddy. “Willie?”
    Willie Thomas eyed his son, then cleared his throat. “W-well, now, Mister Edward,” he began, not looking at my daddy but at Ghost Wind instead, “th-these here two boys jus’ done brought this here stallion from them woods yonder, and they done brung him back all torn up like this. Seem like t’ me Mitchell, he done rode this horse knowin’ he ain’t s’pose t’, and I done told him that time and time again—”
    My daddy cut him off. “How bad is he hurt?”
    Willie Thomas now looked at my daddy. “Muscle all torn up on this leg here,” he said, moving toward the stallion’s right foreleg. “Don’t know if it’ll heal or not. Now, I can tend t’ it, but I can’t go lyin’ and sayin’ it’ll heal like it’s s’pose t’.”
    â€œWhat