He could see them as soon as he reached the gate to their paddock. One of them – it must be Thunder – was glowing white in the moonlight. The man slumped against the gate. He’d go down there in a minute, as soon as he caught his breath. He watched them with fatigue-clouded eyes, four dark dots and one white, grazing beside some moonlit willows. They were so far away, but at least he’d be able to ride back. He bent to climb through the fence, straightened on the other side, and started to walk. The dots bobbed closer, slowly taking on pony shape – and then they saw him. A snort rolled toward him. No! They couldn’t run away! “Thunder,” he called. “Come here. Oats, boy.” He’d deal with the pony’s disappointment later. The ponies stood, stock still, for a long moment, then one of them whinnied. A distant answering whinny came from behind him. The man spun around. Another pony was off in the woods somewhere. Strange! He heard the ponies behind him break into a trot and turned back.
