Chapter 28
Poppy’s conviction that Cloud was nearby started to waver when he didn’t immediately appear from behind the trees. When he still hadn’t showed after another ten minutes the fleeting elation she’d felt drained away to be replaced once again by nerves. Caroline gave her an encouraging smile from the log where she was stationed with Charlie. Poppy could see her brother was getting fidgety. Any minute now he’d realise he was hungry and then it would only be a matter of time before they had to abandon their rescue mission and head back home.
Just as she was about to admit defeat she heard the branches behind her rustle. Spinning around she almost cried out with relief when she saw Cloud’s familiar grey nose poking out from behind the russet and gold leaves of a beech tree. She looked over at Caroline and Charlie, pressing her finger to her lips. Charlie gave her the thumbs up and she could see Caroline crossing her fingers for luck.
Poppy started talking softly to Cloud, hoping he wouldn’t sense the nerves that were making her voice wobble. He emerged slowly from the trees and at once she could see that something was very wrong. His flanks were dark with sweat and he was trembling with fear. Yet he looked straight at her, his brown eyes locked on hers, as she held out the scoop filled with pony nuts. As he approached she realised with shock that Cloud was now so lame he couldn’t put any weight on his near hind leg.
“You poor, poor pony. What’s happened to you? Did you get caught up in the drift?” she crooned softly as he hobbled towards her. Still talking, she stretched out her arm. Cloud hesitated and Poppy thought for a moment that she’d lost him. But then, as if he’d made up his mind to trust her, he whickered, walked forward and started eating the nuts.
Poppy ran her hand along his neck and he leaned into her. She put the scoop on the floor and with one hand on Cloud’s neck slowly reached for the headcollar by her feet with the other. She put the leadrope around his neck while keeping up her monologue. Her fingers were shaking and she fumbled trying to undo the buckle of the headcollar. She glanced over at Caroline and Charlie, who were watching intently. The pounding in her ears almost drowned out the constant background rumble of quad bikes and neighing horses.
The buckle now undone, Poppy slowly edged the noseband over Cloud’s muzzle. His ears twitched back and forth but he didn’t pull away and as she pulled the strap over his poll with her left hand she felt a surge of triumph.
But just as she started to do up the buckle an explosion, as loud as the crack of a gunshot, pierced the air. Poppy jumped out of her skin, letting go of the headcollar, which slithered to the floor by her feet. Cloud half-reared in fright, turned in mid-air and fled back into the trees. Poppy sank to her knees, her head in her hands. Caroline and Charlie rushed over and Poppy felt Caroline’s arm around her shoulders.
“What was it?” she cried, tears running down her cheeks.
“It sounded like a quad bike backfiring. I’m so sorry, Poppy, but Cloud’s gone,” said Caroline.
“That’s it, then,” Poppy said, blinking back the tears. “It’s all my fault. I dropped the headcollar and now he’s going to get caught. I’ve failed him.”
“Don’t say that, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. No-one could have done any more than you.” Caroline held out her arms. “Come here.”
Poppy’s legs felt like jelly but she stood up and went to Caroline and they clung together, Poppy’s head tucked under Caroline’s chin, until Charlie started grumbling that he was starving.
Caroline stroked Poppy’s hair, lifted her chin and looked directly at her. “Don’t give up hope, angel. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but these things have a habit of working out in the end, you’ll see.”
Once Poppy would have let rip, accusing her stepmother of not understanding or getting it all wrong as usual. But things had changed - she no longer felt angry with Caroline. Instead she nodded mutely, misery descending as she thought how Cloud, with his poor damaged leg, would never escape being caught now.
“Would you like to see the last of the drift?” Caroline asked gently.
“No,” Poppy replied. “I think I’d just like to go home.”
Half a mile away the last few stragglers were being rounded up by two men on quad bikes. A small herd of ponies, led by an old bay stallion who had witnessed countless drifts during his long life on the moor, had been discovered grazing on the edge of the Riverdale wood. The herd, half a dozen mares and their yearlings and foals, followed the stallion, delicately picking a path through the gorse and bracken that marked the end of the wood and the beginning of the moor.
“I think this is probably the last of them,” shouted one of the quad bike riders, a middle-aged man whose close-cropped hair was flecked with grey.
His younger companion was about to agree when he saw another pony emerge from the wood. “Hold on - look what the cat’s just dragged in!”
The two men stopped revving their bikes and watched a dappled grey pony approach. He was limping badly, his head nodding in pain every time he took a step. His flanks were dark with sweat and his mane and tail were matted.
“Good grief!” exclaimed the older man. “He’s in a sorry state. I’m not sure he’s going to keep up with the rest of them. We might have to take it slowly.”
One of the mares whinnied and Cloud whickered in return. “He’s not a Dartmoor pony but they seem to know him alright,” said the younger rider.
“I wonder –” mused his companion. A couple of years ago, over a pint of beer, one of the old farm hands had told him about the Connemara pony that had killed Tory Wickens’ granddaughter at a local hunter trial. The pony had never been caught in the annual drift. Everyone had assumed it must have died during one of Dartmoor’s unforgiving winters. Apparently not.
The younger rider, itching to get home, started revving his bike and the grey pony hobbled over to join the rest of the herd.
“Come on! We’ll be here all night unless we get a move on,” he yelled. The older man nodded. He turned his quad bike and started driving the ponies towards Waterby. Although the grey pony was now surrounded by the herd he stuck out like a sore thumb. He stood a couple of hands higher than the native ponies and was obviously of a much finer build. He had a noble look about him.
The quad bike rider had the distinct feeling that if they managed to get this interloper to the village in one piece it was going to cause quite a stir.