Gloria Skurzynski - Mysteries In Our National Parks - Ghost Horses - A Mystery in Zion National Park

Text copyright © 2000

Gloria Skurzynski and Alane Ferguson

All rights reserved.

Reproduction of the whole or any part of the contents is prohibited without written permission from the National Geographic Society, 1145 17th Street N.W. Washington, D.C. 20036.

Cover illustration and design by Matthew Frey, Wood Ronsaville Harlin, Inc.

Photo insert credits: Indian dancer, James Amos; wild mustangs,

© John Eastcott/Yva Momatiuk; water trap, courtesy Bureau of Land Management; Angels Landing, Jamal D. Green; The Narrows, Frank Jensen

Endsheet maps by Carl Mehler, Director of Maps; Thomas L. Gray, Gregory Ugiansky, and Martin S. Walz, Map Research and Production

Running horse art by Stuart Armstrong

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living persons or events other than descriptions of natural phenomena is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Catalog Number 00-027730

ISBN: 978-1-4263-0969-4

Version: 2017-07-07

The authors want to thank Denny Davies,

Chief Naturalist, Zion National Park;

Donald A. Falvey, Superintendent, Zion National

Park; Tom Haraden, Assistant Chief Naturalist,

Zion National Park; and Gus Warr, Wild Horse

and Burro Specialist at the Cedar City Field

Office, Bureau of Land Management.

Our very special thanks go to our patient

friend and fellow writer Lyman Hafen, Executive

Director of the Zion Natural History Association,

and to Art Tait, Cedar City Field Office Manager,

Bureau of Land Management, who introduced us

to Mariah and who spent so many hours driving

us across the Chloride rangeland to educate

us about wild mustangs.

For Kristin and Matt

We wish you a lifetime of happiness.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Afterword

About the Authors

A rough branch drilled into his chest, like a skeleton’s finger, but the man knew he couldn’t change his position. Even the smallest flicker of movement would let them know he was there, and the man had spent too much time setting the trap to tip them off now. Behind him he heard the rustling of flanks against juniper trees. He held his breath when he saw it—a flash of silvery white, so pale it seemed as if a piece of moon had dropped from the desert sky. A Ghost Horse.

As he watched it move closer to his trap, the man tried not to think of the strange stories he’d heard, tales of white horses that whinnied a language of their own, caught between this world and the next. The mustang, ghostly white, stepped inside the trap. The man leaped out of the blind and slammed the gate shut. He had his prize.

Again and again the mustang hurled itself against the rails, rearing up before slamming into them in an explosion of sound. It gave a strange, ghostly cry that echoed back from the hills. Then he heard the pounding of hoofs. Frightened, the man turned and ran.

War cries cut the air in quick, high-pitched bursts until Jack’s ears rang with the sound. In front of him, 200 Native Americans from dozens of tribes danced through the arena, some with spears in their hands, others clutching eagle feathers as they swirled and pulsated in a dizzying, rainbow-hued parade. Jack had never before been to a powwow. He wished he could go out there and dance to the pounding of the drums instead of just sitting with his sister, Ashley, on hard bleachers.

“Isn’t this great, Jack?” Ashley enthused.

“Yeah. Great.” He meant it. It just wasn’t cool to sound as gushy as his sister.

There was so much motion and color that Jack had to keep switching his gaze, from the gate where more and more dancers swept in, to the far side of the grounds, where horses pawed and snorted, held in check by wildly dressed warriors. The Indian riders looked strong and fierce, with their faces painted and their headdresses bristling with feathers that made them seem larger than life. One carried a yellow shield decorated with buffalo images and red feathers. Another, wearing a black vest and beaded armbands, swung a war club above his head; yet another raised a spear as he galloped his horse in tight circles. How would it feel, Jack wondered, to be a part of something that had been passed down from one generation to another, so far back that no one could remember where it began? To know about your ancestors—unlike Jack, who didn’t even know the name of his own grandfather.

“Can you see Ethan or Summer?” Ashley asked, straining to catch a glimpse of their new foster children in the crowd of dancers.

“Right over there. On the other side of the circle, by the sign that says Eastern Shoshone Indian Days.”

Shading her eyes, his sister strained to see. With her own dark hair braided into long ropes and her end-of-summer tan, Ashley could have fit right in with the rest of the dancers. Jack, whose hair was blond and straight like his father’s, felt a little bit out of place, since there were almost no other Anglos sitting close by.

“I still don’t see them,” Ashley pressed. “Where are they?”

“Ethan’s next to the chief with the humongous headdress. Summer’s in the middle of the circle next to the lady in the buckskin. See where Dad’s standing underneath the sign taking pictures?” Jack pointed. “They just went past him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ashley nodded. “There they are. Wow, Ethan’s dancing like crazy. Look at him go!”

Dressed in a bright blue vest and chaps edged with an eight-inch fringe, Ethan Ingawanup whirled in circles so fast that the fringe stood straight out from his body. A wheel of feathers three-quarters as tall as Ethan was attached to his back, like a fanned-out peacock’s tail. His feet moved as though they had a life of their own, furiously beating against the dirt so that it churned up in tiny puffs. Twenty-three different tribes were taking part in the Shoshone Indian Days celebration, all dressed in ceremonial regalia. Each footfall of the dancers hit the ground like a hammer blow timed to the beat of the drums. One dancer, half his face painted in a white mask, spun in front of Jack. The bronze skin of his naked torso rippled with muscle as he moved close to the earth before reaching for the sky, up and down, like a bird soaring and diving through the air.

Summer, Ethan’s younger sister, danced in the inner circle. Her dress was encrusted with silvery, cone-shaped jingle bells that made a tinkling sound as she moved in tiny, mincing steps.

“I’d like to dance like that,” Ashley said. “But I’d rather do the dance Ethan is doing, because Summer’s hardly moving. Wouldn’t you like to learn that warrior dance?”

“Maybe. Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you think Ethan would teach us?”

“I doubt it,” Jack muttered.

Ashley’s dark eyebrows edged up her forehead as she asked, “What’s your problem, Jack? You’re acting like you don’t like Ethan.”

Jack just shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it with his sister, even though he knew her well enough to figure she wouldn’t drop the subject. He took a swig of Coke from his can and tried to get back into the spell of the dancing, until he felt a tug on his arm.