In The Lady in White, Mogi is working as a cowboy over the summer vacation on one of the largest ranches in New Mexico when hundreds of cattle start mysteriously dying there. Trying to understand the cause, he finds himself embroiled in the life of a boy who was kidnapped by Comanche Indians in 1871. In this seventh book of the exciting Mogi Franklin Mysteries, Mogi comes face-to-face with the ghost of the boy's mother, and must face the reality of the past to save the ranch from the enemies of the present.
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Mogi turned his horse towards the man in the distance, gave more rein, leaned forward slightly, and lightly touched his spurs to the horse's flanks.
The man turned and rode away, slowly at first but then at a fast lope. Mogi judged how fast to run his horse to keep up. It was surprising; usually other riders would wait for you to join them.
The country was rough but familiar. They were headed for the S curves of the Canadian River. For pushing his horse as hard as he was, Mogi had not gotten any closer but watched as the rider ahead sailed over the ground ahead of him.
It suddenly occurred to Mogi why the way the man sat on his horse seemed to be different–he had no saddle. That was strange enough but as the man drew close to the river, he had slowed to follow the winding trail and Mogi had a clearer view.
Mogi was looking at an Indian. Not an Indian like today, but from a hundred and fifty years ago. Cheesy western movies had them made up like clowns, but Mogi had seen the paintings of Remington and Russell, and this man looked like he had just stepped out of one of their pictures.
The man turned and his horse jumped to a gallop. Mogi shivered in his saddle, then spurred his horse on.
The trail was not well-traveled and not well-suited to a horse, but the man kept pushing ahead and Mogi followed as best he could.
Up, up, then to a side canyon, then up more, threading their way between boulders, outcroppings, and juniper trees. The trail was now not much more than a faint path. The Indian knew the way, still distant enough from Mogi for him to not even consider yelling or shouting at the man.
Mogi couldn't follow at the same speed and would lose sight of the man, then finish a section of the trail and find the man ahead, waiting.
Around two more curves and through a hardly-seen opening in an oak thicket, Mogi rode over a rocky ridge into a patchy forest of pine trees.
He was on top of the mesa. He had not focused on anything behind him but now looked out across the huge canyon of the wilderness. It consumed the horizon.
He brought the horse to a walk, letting him rest from the effort of the last few minutes, and looked for the man who had brought him here.
There was nothing ahead of him. The Indian on the horse was gone.