The Devil Mare by Sharon Frame Gay

THE MUSTANG GALLOPED AROUND the corral in a fury. She snaked her neck and rushed at the cowboys on the fence.

Brewster called me over and pointed at the fiery black and white pinto. “This here’s the devil mare that’s been stealin’ our horses, Jess.”

His eyes narrowed. “I saw a horse like this years ago in Mexico. Looked just like her. Could’ve been her mother. Ran a herd without a stallion. There’s always a lead mare, but it’s rare not to have a stallion. Maybe he died. It makes no sense. This one here took over our pastures with her mustangs. Pushed our stock around. Lured several mares to join her. It ain’t natural. Damned mare fought with three of our best horses. I had to put one down.”

I was a fresh face at the ranch, green as springtime and humming with excitement. The horse was a legend around here. The cowboys said she was cursed and elusive as hell. We’d cornered the herd in a box canyon after chasing them for hours. Brewster culled out our stock and kept two wild yearlings. He freed the rest of the horses. They huddled on the far ridge, cryin’ out for their leader.

It was gettin’ dark. Brewster and the men rode back home for the night. They left me alone to guard the corral until morning.

“Stay here, Jess,” Brewster had ordered. “Build a fire and hunker down. Some stragglers might come in off the hills for her at dawn. If they wear our brand, capture them. Then put a bullet in that damned mare. This has to stop.”

My hands shook thinkin’ about it. I never killed nothin’ in my life. When the mare looked at me, it gave me the willies. It was as though she could read my mind.

The horse was a beauty. There was pride in the way she pranced around the enclosure, tail set high and neck arched. She pressed against the fence and whinnied across the valley.

I chewed on it all for a while, then settled in under a tree. All night long that devil mare kept me awake, screaming like a banshee and pacing. Her herd answered from the ridge. I have to tell you, it made my hair stand on end. It was like a bunch of witches plotting together to make mischief.

At dawn, two branded horses wandered close enough for me to rope ’em. The devil mare paced back and forth watchin’ with wary eyes.

I walked up to the railing with the rifle, and she stopped her racket. Then she trotted to the far side of the corral and lowered her head as if she knew she was gonna die. It was pitiful. My heart pounded. I raised my rifle, then lowered it. Tried again.

To this day, I’ll never understand what I did next. I swear that horse put some kind of spell on me. It was like I was dreamin’.

I mounted my gelding, Finn, and we entered the corral. The mare crow hopped and kicked, rushed at us, then dashed away. I reached for my lasso and swung. Caught her on the first try.

Beginner’s luck.

She bucked and snorted.

As though in a trance, I opened the gate and rode out. The mare skidded to a halt. We reached the end of the rope, but she just crouched in the pen, breathin’ heavy and tossing her head.

Then, like a lightning strike, she bolted out of the corral and raced past us. The rope ran out like a live wire. The jolt nearly tore the horn off the saddle, and it tipped me forward. It was all I could do to hang on. She stopped, spun around, and charged, baring her teeth.

She hit Finn in the shoulder, and we almost went down. Then she whirled and kicked. It caught me on the leg. Fire spread all the way to my belly. Finn stumbled over the rope. He fell on one knee but sprang back up.

Then that outlaw horse took off. I tapped Finn with my spurs, and we followed at a breakneck pace.

She thundered straight up into the hills, nimble as a goat. I held onto the horn with both hands prayin’ the rope wouldn’t unravel.

We ran for miles. Finn was lathered, but the mare hardly broke a sweat. She jumped over rocks and sage like a jackrabbit.

When the mare reached the top of the ridge, she stopped so fast Finn galloped past her. She let out a whinny. There was an answer down in a gully. She took off again, dragging us along.

In the gulch behind some scrub was a pinto foal about six months old. Her leg was caught between two rocks, the skin worn plumb off and bleeding. She had to belong to the devil mare. It was a mystery who the sire was.

I dismounted and inched my way over to the filly. The mare snorted and stomped. I worried she might kill me, but she let me near her baby. I gently pulled the rocks away. The filly limped over to her mother, and they touched muzzles.

You can call me a liar, but I am here to say that mare let me walk right up to her and take the lasso off her neck. She shook all over like gettin’ rid of a fly, then trotted away smooth as Sunday morning with her foal.

The devil mare gave me one last glance. Then they climbed over a slope and disappeared from Colorado for good.

I lost my job that day, but it was worth it.

SOME FOLKS SAID THAT mare was bewitched. A ghost horse. I believe it. Decades later, I swear we met again one night in Montana. We looked straight at each other in the moonlight. She nickered and tossed her head, then loped across the ridge, sparks flyin’ from her hooves.

—SHARON FRAME GAY is an award-winning author who grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. She has been internationally published in anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Typehouse, Fiction on the Web, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Crannog, Saddlebag Dispatches, Owl Hollow Press, 5-Star Publishing, and others. Her work has won awards at Women on Writing, Rope and Wire Magazine, Pen 2 Paper, and The Writing District. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, as well as nominations for the Peacemaker Award, Washington Science Fiction Association Award, and, Best of Fiction on the Web, and Best of the Net. A collection of her short stories, “Song of the Highway,” is available on Amazon. and you can follow all of her work on Facebook—Sharon Frame GayWriter—and on Twitter @sharonframegay.