Dark Horse Read Online Free PDF Page A

playing fair today.
    Sarah remembered she had matches and a lighter, a torch, a set of thermals in her saddlebag. She turned and saw she still had her bedroll, the backpack of food and water, and the gun. She was wearing a rainproof coat and sturdy footwear. She wasn’t injured. She remembered her phone and searched her pockets for it, found it, checked to see that it worked and how much battery life remained. Eighty-five per cent. Her hands were shaking. Reception from here was usually pretty good, but all she had was No Service showing. The weather was affecting things. At least she had plenty of battery life.
    Tansy began moving forward again. Her foot placement was considered, as though she’d become suspicious that the entire mountain was booby-trapped. They approached the fork in the track. To the right was the old logging route, which led off onto a clear-felled plateau. The plateau was as far as the loggers had come, from this point on the wilderness had been too rugged for their machinery. On the left was the road to Hangman’s Hut. Tansy slowed to a stop again. Perhaps she was allowing time for Sarah’s instincts, the human need to take stock and think through a situation. Or maybe the horse was confused; this was where they usually got to rest.
    On a different day, with a group of mildly adventurous types in tow, Sarah would have taken the plateau route, and there the Devil Mountain Rides food truck would be, set up and offering salad rolls and hot soups, cakes and slices, in the perfect position to take in the view. No such luxuries today. Sarah steered Tansy around in circles, searching for phone reception. Tansy pinned her ears and swung her rump in the direction of the river, refusing to so much as face that way.
    When the thunder roll struck a particularly low and guttural note, Sarah gave up searching for phone coverage. The thunder telling her to quit stalling. She had to concentrate on shelter. Sarah turned the phone off and stored it in her jacket pocket. She zipped up her coat.
    Sarah cleared her mind, starting with a blank slate and then trying to visualise the mountainside and its creeks and tracks. Spinners Creek all but enclosed this end of the mountain range. Those places where it didn’t form an effective border, wrapping around, separating the top half of the mountain from the bottom half, something else did – Ten Tower Heights, Swingers Bluff, Dizzy View Gap. Normal annual flooding alone could cut off the top section of the mountain, who knew what the volume of water she’d just seen moving down Spinners Creek could do. Shallow creek-bed crossings would be metres underwater. The suspension bridge further downstream would be destroyed, as would the bush-pole bridge upstream of the main bridge. They were cut off. Sarah didn’t need to think too long or hard to know that they were trapped.
    She leaned down to stroke Tansy’s neck. The mare was shaking. Sarah’s responsibility for Tansy coursed through her, blunting the fear she was feeling.
    ‘Don’t be frightened.’
    They took the path to Hangman’s Hut. The road had been graded and levelled. Sarah guessed it had been improved to assist vehicle access during the hut restoration. Workmen’s tyre marks were still visible in the freshly gravelled road. The marks were older, though, than those she’d followed up the main track.
    Sarah looked over her shoulder. She saw that the more recent wheel marks turned off at the fork, in the direction of the plateau. It would be wasting valuable time, though, to go in search of a vehicle that may or may not be on the mountain.
    Night fell in that moment. It was only midday. Sarah pulled the hood of her coat over her cap. She tightened the drawstrings around her face. The clouds didn’t open so much as simply lower to the ground and pound the earth with water. Chicken Little was right: the sky had fallen. Sarah and Tansy continued up the track, water streaming down their bodies. Sarah was wet