“I didn’t count on no trade today,” he explained. “I’m meeting a boy down at the Capitol, but I’ll tell you what we can do. I’ll leave your saddle in the hay-box in case you come around here: if not there’ll be no harm done. You catch yourself a horse. Take oats to ’em—Blanco or the paint will come a-running for oats. Don’t let the fence down; just pick your pony.”
“Thanks, Tom,” she said. “I’ll be along.”
She changed quickly and walked over to the stable, avoiding the plaza with its crowd. Blanco fell for the oats: she led him out and tied him up while she went for the saddle. It was heavy: she had to rest twice while she carried it back to him. She slung the saddle over his back, cinched it up and then cinched it tighter as he let his breath out, and adjusted the bridle. The street had a more than Sunday quiet as she rode out toward Sunmount: everyone was downtown playing.
Following the trail up Ferdinand, she raced with the shadow of a cloud. There was a long smooth stretch that led up imperceptibly: she ran in the shadow until Blanco looked warm, then she took it easy for a while. The trail grew steeper and led through trees. She stopped to breathe the horse, turning him and looking back. Already they were far up and Santa Fé had begun to mark itself out in squares. She saw autos and trucks hurrying towards the centre of town to be lost among the higher buildings. Under the sun her face felt warm and salty; it was nice to be up here alone.
She pulled the rein: Blanco ducked obediently and started to climb again, stepping carefully in the loose rock. She stopped at intervals that grew shorter as Blanco breathed louder: the horse smell increased and so did the balsam scent. She let the reins fall slack, twisted around the horn of the saddle, while she tied her necktie around her hair to keep it from falling down. The air grew more clear and Blanco’s footsteps sounded doggedly musical. It was lovely.
At the really steep part of the ascent she paused and looked at her watch. It was too late to go on: already she had been out an hour and the sun was starting to fall. She knew that sun and how it gained momentum. She dismounted and lay down on the grass, holding Blanco’s bridle and looking up at the sky. Long ago the cloud she had raced had won and gone sailing away, but there were more. Their shadows crossed her face and went on. Behind them the sky was a deep blue that had lost its noon ferocity and mellowed. She stirred and rolled her head farther back until Blanco’s head appeared grotesquely in the way, calm and cowlike as he munched grass. A dribble of green froth barely missed her head. She rolled away.
“You pig.”
Blanco stamped and leaned down for another mouthful, nosing her shoulder out of his way.
“You’re a darling,” she said idly and comfortably. “Aren’t you an old darling?” He blinked a huge eye and went on chewing.
“We’ve got to go. Do you know that?” she asked. She stood up and looked down at the valley for a moment. It was streaked with yellow; patches of yellow flowers that were much more glaring now in the slanting light, unbleached. The sun was deepening to orange: Santa Fé was almost too small to be noticed except as part of a great scheme of colour. A breeze stirred the pine-branches and lifted her hair-ribbon. It smelled almost salty, as if those misty stretches beyond Jemez were indeed the sea.