For Sale or Swap - Alyssa Brugman [24]
She ran on and on, up the hill and down the gentle slope on the other side. She splashed through a puddle and the muddy ground beyond it sucked at her boots. There was a flat slab of rock exposed out of the hillside, whittled away in layers like terraces. Shelby leaned forward, clambering up it. Her smooth boots slid, scattering small pebbles, and she grabbed at a nearby bush to steady herself. The sharp serrated leaves stuck into her raw palm.
At the top was a level sandy patch. Shelby looked down and could see the sharp arcs of hoof marks going every which way. Most were dry and worn but one set was fresh, uncovering the moist soil beneath. They were widely spaced and deep. Brat must have still been galloping when she reached this point.
Shelby stopped running and listened for the rumbling, clattering sound of Brat's hooves somewhere up ahead. All she could hear was the cicadas, and her own panting. She put her hand to her chest and her heart beat fast underneath it.
She started to run again, this time more slowly, every now and then skipping a step to rest her injured ankle. Here and there along the trail bare rock jutted out of the hillside. Water seeped from it, fed by natural springs, and formed puddles underneath. There the air smelt moist and coppery. Shelby splashed through the puddles. Her boots were soaked, rubbing uncomfortably against her skin.
She kept her eyes to the ground and followed Brat's hoof prints along the trail. From time to time Shelby would cross a flat section of rock, or a part of the trail that was deep with small gravelly stones, and here Brat's engraved hoof marks would be indistinct from all the others. Shelby would search on ahead until she found them again.
After a while it seemed to her that Brat might have slowed down. The prints were not as deep, nor so wide apart. Shelby reasoned that if she ran a little faster, she might just catch up. She made herself run, even though her ankle was screaming, her lungs were burning and she could feel a blister forming where her heel rubbed against the back of her boot. She comforted herself with the idea that when she finally caught up with Brat she could rest her aching feet.
When I catch you, I'm going to ride you home – lame or not. I don't care.
In the distance she heard the buzzing sound of a trail bike. She frowned. The trail bike and equestrian communities in her neighbourhood often disagreed about the space out here that they shared.
Further along, the trail branched off in a Y shape. Shelby stopped to catch her breath. The ground beneath her was gravel and she couldn't tell which tracks were Brat's.
Which way would she have gone? Shelby wondered. The left side wound down around the hillside, while the right curled away uphill. She knew if she followed the right-hand trail it would loop around in a loose figure eight, heading back towards the Pony Club grounds, and ending up at a T-intersection on Gully Way. The left-hand trail sloped downward for a way, and then snaked up the hillside, finishing on a dirt road near the cul-de-sac and Shelby's paddock.
She would have gone uphill just to make it that little bit more difficult, Shelby decided. She took another deep breath and jogged up the hill. About halfway up the incline she saw a round smudge in the dirt and smiled. She had been right, but she also had a sinking feeling. What if Brat hadn't slowed down and was now heading straight for the busy roadway?
About a hundred metres ahead the trail curved away to the right. There was a branch hanging down across the trail and it swung gently, although there wasn't