Part 5
Mateo saw Cinder’s ears lock toward the house. He had brought a halter and lead rope, intending to move the horse into an interior stall before the procession crossed the yard. Cinder usually lowered his head for him. This time he backed away until his hindquarters met the wall.
“Easy, viejo,” Mateo murmured. “I know.”
The horse’s nostrils widened. From outside came the scrape of shoes on frozen ground and the low murmur of people assembling. Six men lifted the casket from its stand in the front room. The pine handles gave a faint wooden complaint beneath the weight.
Cinder surged forward. Mateo got the halter over his nose but not behind his ears. The horse threw his head, pulling the strap through Mateo’s hands. Wes came from the tack room and slid the solid lower door shut while Mateo latched the top.
“Give him room,” Wes said. “He’ll hurt himself.”
They moved the other horses down the aisle and closed the stable’s outside doors. Cinder spun once inside the stall, struck the bedding, and stood with every muscle gathered beneath his coat. Mateo had seen frightened horses try to climb gates and trapped horses break their own legs. He had never seen Cinder watch a wall as if the wall were the only thing between him and an answer.
Outside, Ruth walked behind the casket with Hannah on one side and Luke on the other. The family plot lay a quarter mile from the house, where the south ridge rose above the cottonwoods. Eli’s parents’ stones could be seen from the porch in winter. The marked earth beside them remained unbroken, as Marie had required.
The wind had dropped. Without it, Ruth could hear separate sounds: gravel under boots, the click of someone’s rosary, a child being shushed, the breathing of the men carrying Eli. She did not hear the first impact inside the stable.
Wes did. The stall door jumped in its frame. He reached for the catch rope hanging on the post, but Cinder struck again before he could open it safely. One hinge tore halfway out of the old pine jamb.
“Back,” Mateo said.
They backed into the aisle. Cinder reared just high enough to bring both front hooves against the upper door. The latch plate split from the wood. Door, horse, and a burst of straw came into the aisle together.
Wes caught the end of the dragging halter strap and lost it at once. Cinder hit the closed outside doors with his shoulder. One door held. The other swung six inches, caught on its ground bolt, and shuddered. Mateo lunged for the bolt, trying to release it before the horse broke a shoulder. The instant it lifted, Cinder drove through the gap.
“Loose horse!” Wes shouted.
His warning reached the procession as an echo off the machine shed. People turned. At first Ruth saw only Mateo and Wes running from the stable. Then Cinder came around the corner, black coat flashing blue in the pale sun, broken halter hanging beneath his jaw.
The men carrying the casket stopped.
“Set it down,” Marie ordered. “Slowly.”
They lowered it to the grass beside Eli’s parents’ stones. A few mourners moved toward Cinder with their hands raised, the human instinct to become a wall. Mateo shouted at them to clear a path. Ruth knew the horse’s weaker left eye, knew how a crowd could close the safe half of his vision. She caught the sleeve of a man beside her and pulled him back.
“Move away,” she called. “Don’t trap him.”
The crowd opened unevenly. Cinder came through the space at a hard canter, then shortened his stride so abruptly that dirt slid beneath his front feet. He stopped beside the casket. Steam rose from his nostrils.
For one suspended second, nobody moved. Cinder lowered his head and drew his muzzle along the pine lid from Eli’s feet toward his chest. He breathed, lifted his head, and struck the ground.
“Mateo,” Marie said, barely above a whisper.
Mateo approached from Cinder’s right with the catch rope open. He did not look at the casket. “Come on, boy. Come with me.”
Cinder’s head snapped toward him, then back to the box. He pawed once, scraping the lid. A pale curl of pine lifted beneath his shoe.
Ruth took a step without deciding to.
Hannah caught her hand.
“Mom, no.”
“He wants Eli.”
“He could kill you.”
Cinder struck the lid again. This time the blow sounded through the wood like a hammer against a hollow door. People at the rear of the gathering began to retreat. Someone screamed when the horse brought his other front foot down and the casket shifted six inches across the grass.
Luke moved toward Mateo. “Throw me the rope.”
“Stay out of his blind side.”
The two men spread apart, looking for an angle that did not put either of them between Cinder and the casket. Wes circled behind with a second lead. They had nearly formed a loose triangle when Cinder reared.
He was not a young horse, but seventeen years of pasture had left power across his shoulders. His front hooves came down together near the center of the lid. Pine cracked. One of the carrying men ran. The movement broke whatever restraint remained in the crowd, and mourners scattered toward the cottonwoods and parked trucks.
Ruth stayed because Hannah’s fingers had locked through hers and Luke was still beside Mateo. She could see only the casket, the horse, and Marie crouched near its head, staring at the widening split.
Cinder struck once more. A board snapped along the grain, one end lifting sharply. The horse caught it with the edge of his hoof and tore it free from two screws. Mateo threw the rope. It fell across Cinder’s neck but did not tighten.
Then the horse stopped.
His sides worked hard from the run. He lowered his muzzle through the broken opening and inhaled. The crowd’s cries faded into the distance. Even Luke stood still.
At first Ruth thought the sound came from Cinder. It was high and ragged, hardly more than air snagging in a throat. The horse lifted his head. The sound came again from beneath him, inside the casket.
Marie’s face emptied of color. Hannah’s grip loosened.
From under the splintered lid, somebody was crying.
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