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Peter Lundy has two joys in life: the rugged western plains where he has grown up and San Domingo, a Medicine Hat Stallion. The Indians believe such a horse is sacred — that neither bullet nor arrow can harm its rider. As they explore the prairie together, a bond forms between Peter and San Domingo that can never be broken. But Peter's father, Jethro Lundy, knows only one love: bargaining. He trades San Domingo for a thoroughbred. How can Peter ever forgive his father? His only ...
Peter Lundy has two joys in life: the rugged western plains where he has grown up and San Domingo, a Medicine Hat Stallion. The Indians believe such a horse is sacred — that neither bullet nor arrow can harm its rider. As they explore the prairie together, a bond forms between Peter and San Domingo that can never be broken. But Peter's father, Jethro Lundy, knows only one love: bargaining. He trades San Domingo for a thoroughbred. How can Peter ever forgive his father? His only choice is to leave home forever!
In Pre-Civil War Wyoming, a teenager's life is complicated when his strangely hostile father trades the boy's beloved horse to the Pony Express.
His name is Peter Lundy and he has just turned twelve, and he thought the letter he'd found was meant for him. It began, Dear, dear Peter...
There was no mistaking his mother's fine, round handwriting, and it was like her to plant surprises in secret, yet where he'd be sure to find them. Sometimes he came upon a picture she'd sketched, or a piece of rock candy, or a riddle. And one merry Christmas, she made an Indian headdress of magpie feathers and hung it on the hatrack without a word. He knew from the way the headband fitted that she intended it for him. He wore it for weeks, even to bed. But never before had there been a letter.
His mother was always inventing ways for him to enjoy himself. Every spring when he caught the quinsy sore throat, like now, she planned exciting things for him to do. Last year she taught him to slit-braid rawhide into quirts and headstalls.
And this year-this very night when he was still abed but practically well-she handed him her treasure chest with its gold harp, and gold key in the shape of a question mark. "Likely you'll laugh at my tomboy keepsakes," she said. "Some go 'way back to when I was eleven, twelve."
As Peter turned the key and lifted the lid, a curious feeling came over him. The treasure he saw might well have been his own-that is, if his father had permitted the hoarding of stones flecked pink and green, and a miniature nest that must have belonged to a hummer bird, and hairs from a horse's tail, and a blue-racer snakeskin. He was pleased to find a tiny exercise book with childish printing on the cover:
Historick Dates to Remember
Columbus landed in the New World 1492
First horses landed at Santo Domingo 1493
Funny, Peter thought, that his mother would care when or where the first horses landed. Or was it her schoolmaster who cared?
Rummaging deeper into the chest, he came upon a piece of oiled paper folder over several times. Gingerly he laid the paper open and found a coil of hair so silken he couldn't help stroking it with his fingertips. The color matched the gold of a California sorrel he'd once seen-not flaxen, like the mane or tail, but pure glinty gold. Now he spied a tag. In his mother's handwriting he read, Peter Lundy. His first haircut. November 13 1847. Age two years; eight months.
Peter laughed to himself, blushing for admiring his own baby hair! He looked around the room to see if anyone were watching. But Grandma Lundy was dozing in her rocker, the almanac forked over her head like a tepee to shut out the firelight. Baby Aileen slept too, while his mother foot-rocked the cradle and worked on his new shirt. He noticed that his mother's hair almost matched the lock he held, except that hers was coppered some by the firelight.
He tucked the curl back into the paper and placed it where he'd found it. He was about to close the chest when his eye fell upon a pocket in the lid, and edging out of it the letter.
His excitement mounted as he unfolded it and saw the pictures flying across the pages. It was like finding a book written just for him. He settled deeper into bed, squirming and pawing like a dog until the cornhusks made a snug nest around him. He pulled up the buffalo robe covering. Then, holding the pages aslant to catch the candlelight, he began again:
Dear, dear Peter...
He could hear his mother say the words with a bird-lilt to her voice. But as he read on, a nameless fear spread over him. This didn't sound like her at all. Why, she was forever humming or singing, until Pa said she made him jumpy. Could it be that her happiness was all make-believe? He read the disturbing sentence again, wondering how anyone who sang most all day could write:
There is nothing half so sad as living. I feel like one forsaken...
Was the letter planted on purpose? Did his mother figure that writing him about her feelings was easier than talking them out?
...Jethro, as you know, has never been the same since that terrifying experience.
Why did she say Jethro instead of your father? And what experience did he have?
Far out on the plain a coyote wailed his thin, quavering note. Usually the sound sent him off to sleep, like the wind of the prairie. But tonight the familiar howl chilled him.
Peter longed to cry out, "Ma! Oh, Ma! What was it that happened to Pa?" But his throat choked on the words. The woolen sock around his neck was suffocating him. Having the quinsy used to be cozy; he felt isolated and free of his father. Would the "terrifying experience" explain why Pa seldom spoke-or else burst into rages?
Posted April 22, 2014
Posted April 22, 2014
Posted April 22, 2014
A female scoundrel with brown hair and green eyes wakes upin the video. She is in her undergarments that are fashoined in red and grey. She is greeted by a handsome commander, chris.
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