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[Illustration: By one desperate leap he shook himself clear. (Page 263.)]
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HORSES NINE
STORIES OF HARNESS AND SADDLE
BY
SEWELL FORD
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1905
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Copyright, 1903, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published, March, 1903
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TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
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CONTENTS
Page
SKIPPER 1
Being the Biography of a Blue-Ribboner.
CALICO 31
Who Travelled with a Round Top.
OLD SILVER 67
A Story of the Gray Horse Truck.
BLUE BLAZES 95
And the Marring of Him.
CHIEFTAIN 125
A Story of the Heavy Draught Service.
BARNACLES 157
Who Mutinied for Good Cause.
BLACK EAGLE 181
Who Once Ruled the Ranges.
BONFIRE 215
Broken for the House of Jerry.
PASHA 241
The Son of Selim.
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[Illustration]
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ILLUSTRATIONS
By Frederic Dorr Steele and L. Maynard Dixon
By one desperate leap he shook himself clear Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
There were many heavy wagons 6
For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart 24
He would do his best to steady them down to the work 130
Then let him snake a truck down West Street 144
"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground 266
Mr. Dave kept his seat more by force of
muscular habit than anything else 268
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SKIPPER
BEING THE BIOGRAPHY OF A BLUE-RIBBONER
At the age of six Skipper went on the force. Clean of limb and sound of
wind he was, with not a blemish from the tip of his black tail to the
end of his crinkly forelock. He had been broken to saddle by a Green
Mountain boy who knew more of horse nature than of the trashy things
writ in books. He gave Skipper kind words and an occasional friendly pat
on the flank. So Skipper's disposition was sweet and his nature a
trusting one.
This is why Skipper learned so soon the ways of the city. The first time
he saw one of those little wheeled houses, all windows and full of
people, come rushing down the street with a fearful whirr and clank of
bell, he wanted to bolt. But the man on his back spoke in an easy, calm
voice, saying, "So-o-o! There, me b'y. Aisy wid ye. So-o-o!" which was
excellent advice, for the queer contrivance whizzed by and did him no
harm. In a week he could watch one without even pricking up his ears.
It was strange work Skipper had been brought to the city to do. As a
colt he had seen horses dragging ploughs, pulling big loads of hay, and
hitched to many kinds of vehicles. He himself had drawn a light buggy
and thought it good fun, though you did have to keep your heels down and
trot instead of canter. He had liked best to lope off with the boy on
his back, down to the Corners, where the store was.
But here there were no ploughs, nor hay-carts, nor mowing-machines.
There were many heavy wagons, it was true, but these were all drawn by
stocky Percherons and big Western grays or stout Canada blacks who
seemed fully equal to the task.
Also there were carriages--my, what shiny carriages! And what smart,
sleek-looking horses drew them! And how high they did hold their heads
and how they did throw their feet about--just as if they were dancing on
eggs.
"Proud, stuck-up things," thought Skipper.
It was clear that none of this work was for him. Early on the first
morning of his service men in brass-buttoned blue coats came to the
stable to feed and rub down the horses. Skipper's man had two names. One
was Officer Martin; at least that was the one to which he answered when
the man with the cap called the roll before they rode out for duty. The
other name was "Reddy." That was what the rest of the men in blue coats
called him. Skipper noticed that he had red hair and concluded that
"Reddy" must be his real name.
As for Skipper's name, it was written on the tag tied to the halter
which he wore when he came to the city. Skipper heard him read it. The
boy on the farm had done that, and Skipper was glad, for he liked the
name.
There was much to learn in those first few weeks, and Skipper learned it
quickly. He came to know that at inspection, which began the day, you
must stand with your nose just on a line with that of the horse on
either side. If you didn't you felt the bit or the spurs. He mastered
the meaning of "right dress," "left dress," "forward," "fours right,"
and a lot of other things. Some of them were very strange.
[Illustration: There were many heavy wagons.]
Now on the farm they had said, "Whoa, boy," and "Gid a-a-ap." Here they
said, "Halt" and "Forward!" But "Reddy" used none of these terms. He
pressed with his knees on your withers, loosened the reins, and made a
queer little chirrup when he wanted you to gallop. He let you know when
he wanted you to stop, by the lightest pressure on the bit.
It was a lazy work, though. Sometimes when Skipper was just aching for a
brisk canter he had to pace soberly through the park driveways--for
Skipper, although I don't believe I mentioned it before, was part and
parcel of the mounted police force. But there, you could know that by
the yellow letters on his saddle blanket.
For half an hour at a time he would stand, just on the edge of the
roadway and at an exact right angle with it, motionless as the horse
ridden by the bronze soldier up near the Mall. "Reddy" would sit as
still in the saddle, too. It was hard for Skipper to stand there and see
those mincing cobs go by, their pad-housings all a-glitter, crests on
their blinders, jingling their pole-chains and switching their absurd
little stubs of tails. But it was still more tantalizing to watch the
saddle-horses canter past in the soft bridle path on the other side of
the roadway. But then, when you are on the force you must do your duty.
One afternoon as Skipper was standing post like this he caught a new
note that rose above the hum of the park traffic. It was the quick,
nervous beat of hoofs which rang sharply on the hard macadam. There were
screams, too. It was a runaway. Skipper knew this even before he saw the
bell-like nostrils, the straining eyes, and the foam-flecked lips of
the horse, or the scared man in the carriage behind. It was a case of
broken rein.
How the sight made Skipper's blood tingle! Wouldn't he just like to show
that crazy roan what real running was! But what was Reddy going to do?
He felt him gather up the reins. He felt his knees tighten. What! Yes,
it must be so. Reddy was actually going to try a brush with the runaway.
What fun!
Skipper pranced out into the roadway and gathered himself for the sport.
Before he could get into full swing, however, the roan had shot past
with a snort of challenge which could not be misunderstood.
"Oho! You will, eh?" thought Skipper. "Well now, we'll see about that."
Ah, a free rein! That is--almost free. And a touch of the spurs! No need
for that, Reddy. How the carriages scatter! Skipper caught hasty
glimpses of smart hackneys drawn up trembling by the roadside, of women
who tumbled from bicycles into the bushes, and of men who ran and
shouted and waved their hats.
"Just as though that little roan wasn't scared enough already," thought
Skipper.
But she did run well; Skipper had to admit that. She had a lead of fifty
yards before he could strike his best gait. Then for a few moments he
could not seem to gain an inch. But the mare was blowing herself and
Skipper was taking it coolly. He was putting the pent-up energy of weeks
into his strides. Once he saw he was overhauling her he steadied to the
work.
Just as Skipper was about to forge ahead, Reddy did a queer thing. With
his right hand he grabbed the roan with a nose-pinch grip, and with the
left he pulled in on the reins. It was a great disappointment to
Skipper, for he had counted on showing the roan his heels. Skipper knew,
after two or three experiences of this kind, that this was the usual
thing.
Those were glorious runs, though. Skipper wished they would come more
often. Sometimes there would be two and even three in a day. Then a
fortnight or so would pass without a single runaway on Skipper's beat.
But duty is duty.
During the early morning hours, when there were few people in the park,
Skipper's education progressed. He learned to pace around in a circle,
lifting each forefoot with a sway of the body and a pawing movement
which was quite rhythmical. He learned to box with his nose. He learned
to walk sedately behind Reddy and to pick up a glove, dropped apparently
by accident. There was always a sugar-plum or a sweet cracker in the
glove, which he got when Reddy stopped and Skipper, poking his nose over
his shoulder, let the glove fall into his hands.
As he became more accomplished he noticed that "Reddy" took more pains
with his toilet. Every morning Skipper's coat was curried and brushed
and rubbed with chamois until it shone almost as if it had been
varnished. His fetlocks were carefully trimmed, a ribbon braided into
his forelock, and his hoofs polished as brightly as Reddy's boots. Then
there were apples and carrots and other delicacies which Reddy brought
him.
So it happened that one morning Skipper heard the Sergeant tell Reddy
that he had been detailed for the Horse Show squad. Reddy had saluted
and said nothing at the time, but when they were once out on post he
told Skipper all about it.
"Sure an' it's app'arin' before all the swells in town you'll be, me
b'y. Phat do ye think of that, eh? An' mebbe ye'll be gettin' a blue
ribbon, Skipper, me lad; an' mebbe Mr. Patrick Martin will have a
roundsman's berth an' chevrons on his sleeves afore the year's out."
The Horse Show was all that Reddy had promised, and more. The light
almost dazzled Skipper. The sounds and the smells confused him. But he
felt Reddy on his back, heard him chirrup softly, and soon felt at ease
on the tanbark.
Then there was a great crash of noise and Skipper, with some fifty of
his friends on the force, began to move around the circle. First it was
fours abreast, then by twos, and then a rush to troop front, when, in a
long line, they swept around as if they had been harnessed to a beam by
traces of equal length.
After some more evolutions a half-dozen were picked out and put through
their paces. Skipper was one of these. Then three of the six were sent
to join the rest of the squad. Only Skipper and two others remained in
the centre of the ring. Men in queer clothes, wearing tall black hats,
showing much white shirt-front and carrying long whips, came and looked
them over carefully.
Skipper showed these men how he could waltz in time to the music, and
the people who banked the circle as far up as Skipper could see shouted
and clapped their hands until it seemed as if a thunderstorm had broken
loose. At last one of the men in tall hats tied a blue ribbon on
Skipper's bridle.
When Reddy got him into the stable, he fed him four big red apples, one
after the other. Next day Skipper knew that he was a famous horse. Reddy
showed him their pictures in the paper.
For a whole year Skipper was the pride of the force. He was shown to
visitors at the stables. He was patted on the nose by the Mayor. The
Chief, who was a bigger man than the Mayor, came up especially to look
at him. In the park Skipper did his tricks every day for ladies in fine
dress who exclaimed, "How perfectly wonderful!" as well as for pretty
nurse-maids who giggled and said, "Now did you ever see the likes o'
that, Norah?"
And then came the spavin. Ah, but that was the beginning of the end!
Were you ever spavined? If so, you know all about it. If you haven't,
there's no use trying to tell you. Rheumatism? Well, that may be bad;
but a spavin is worse.
For three weeks Reddy rubbed the lump on the hock with stuff from a
brown bottle, and hid it from the inspector. Then, one black morning,
the lump was discovered. That day Skipper did not go out on post. Reddy
came into the stall, put his arm around his neck and said "Good-by" in a
voice that Skipper had never heard him use before. Something had made it
thick and husky. Very sadly Skipper saw him saddle one of the newcomers
and go out for duty.
Before Reddy came back Skipper was led away. He was taken to a big
building where there were horses of every kind--except the right kind.
Each one had his own peculiar "out," although you couldn't always tell
what it was at first glance.
But Skipper did not stay here long. He was led into a big ring before a
lot of men. A man on a box shouted out a number, and began to talk very
fast. Skipper gathered that he was talking about him. Skipper learned
that he was still only six years old, and that he had been owned as a
saddle-horse by a lady who was about to sail for Europe and was closing
out her stable. This was news to Skipper. He wished Reddy could hear it.
The man talked very nicely about Skipper. He said he was kind, gentle,
sound in wind and limb, and was not only trained to the saddle but would
work either single or double. The man wanted to know how much the
gentlemen were willing to pay for a bay gelding of this description.
Someone on the outer edge of the crowd said, "Ten dollars."
At this the man on the box grew quite indignant. He asked if the other
man wouldn't like a silver-mounted harness and a lap-robe thrown in.
"Fifteen," said another man.
Somebody else said "Twenty," another man said, "Twenty-five," and still
another, "Thirty." Then there was a hitch. The man on the box began to
talk very fast indeed:
"Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--do I hear the five?
Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--will you make it five?"
"Thirty-five," said a red-faced man who had pushed his way to the front
and was looking Skipper over sharply.
The man on the box said "Thutty-five" a good many times and asked if he
"heard forty." Evidently he did not, for he stopped and said very slowly
and distinctly, looking expectantly around: "Are you all done?
Thirty-five--once. Thirty-five--twice. Third--and last call--sold, for
thirty-five dollars!"
When Skipper heard this he hung his head. When you have been a $250
blue-ribboner and the pride of the force it is sad to be "knocked down"
for thirty-five.
The next year of Skipper's life was a dark one. We will not linger over
it. The red-faced man who led him away was a grocer. He put Skipper in
the shafts of a heavy wagon very early every morning and drove him a
long ways through the city to a big down-town market where men in long
frocks shouted and handled boxes and barrels. When the wagon was heavily
loaded the red-faced man drove him back to the store. Then a tow-haired
boy, who jerked viciously on the lines and was fond of using the whip,
drove him recklessly about the streets and avenues.
But one day the tow-haired boy pulled the near rein too hard while
rounding a corner and a wheel was smashed against a lamp-post. The
tow-haired boy was sent head first into an ash-barrel, and Skipper,
rather startled at the occurrence, took a little run down the avenue,
strewing the pavement with eggs, sugar, canned corn, celery, and other
assorted groceries.
Perhaps this was why the grocer sold him. Skipper pulled a cart through
the flat-house district for a while after that. On the seat of the cart
sat a leather-lunged man who roared: "A-a-a-a-puls! Nice a-a-a-a-puls! A
who-o-ole lot fer a quarter!"
Skipper felt this disgrace keenly. Even the cab-horses, on whom he used
to look with disdain, eyed him scornfully. Skipper stood it as long as
possible and then one day, while the apple fakir was standing on the
back step of the cart shouting things at a woman who was leaning half
way out of a fourth-story window, he bolted. He distributed that load of
apples over four blocks, much to the profit of the street children, and
he wrecked the wagon on a hydrant. For this the fakir beat him with a
piece of the wreckage until a blue-coated officer threatened to arrest
him. Next day Skipper was sold again.
Skipper looked over his new owner without joy. The man was evil of face.
His long whiskers and hair were unkempt and sun-bleached, like the tip
end of a pastured cow's tail. His clothes were greasy. His voice was
like the grunt of a pig. Skipper wondered to what use this man would put
him. He feared the worst.
Far up through the city the man took him and out on a broad avenue where
there were many open spaces, most of them fenced in by huge bill-boards.
Behind one of these sign-plastered barriers Skipper found his new home.
The bottom of the lot was more than twenty feet below the street-level.
In the centre of a waste of rocks, ash-heaps, and dead weeds tottered a
group of shanties, strangely made of odds and ends. The walls were
partly of mud-chinked rocks and partly of wood. The roofs were patched
with strips of rusty tin held in place by stones.
Into one of these shanties, just tall enough for Skipper to enter and no
more, the horse that had been the pride of the mounted park police was
driven with a kick as a greeting. Skipper noted first that there was no
feed-box and no hayrack. Then he saw, or rather felt--for the only light
came through cracks in the walls--that there was no floor. His nostrils
told him that the drainage was bad. Skipper sighed as he thought of the
clean, sweet straw which Reddy used to change in his stall every night.
But when you have a lump on your leg--a lump that throbs, throbs, throbs
with pain, whether you stand still or lie down--you do not think much on
other things.
Supper was late in coming to Skipper that night. He was almost starved
when it was served. And such a supper! What do you think? Hay? Yes, but
marsh hay; the dry, tasteless stuff they use for bedding in cheap
stables. A ton of it wouldn't make a pound of good flesh. Oats? Not a
sign of an oat! But with the hay there were a few potato-peelings.
Skipper nosed them out and nibbled the marsh hay. The rest he pawed back
under him, for the whole had been thrown at his feet. Then he dropped on
the ill-smelling ground and went to sleep to dream that he had been
turned into a forty-acre field of clover, while a dozen brass bands
played a waltz and multitudes of people looked on and cheered.
In the morning more salt hay was thrown to him and water was brought in
a dirty pail. Then, without a stroke of brush or curry-comb he was led
out. When he saw the wagon to which he was to be hitched Skipper hung
his head. He had reached the bottom. It was unpainted and rickety as to
body and frame, the wheels were unmated and dished, while the shafts
were spliced and wound with wire.
But worst of all was the string of bells suspended from two uprights
above the seat. When Skipper saw these he knew he had fallen low indeed.
He had become the horse of a wandering junkman. The next step in his
career, as he well knew, would be the glue factory and the boneyard.
Now when a horse has lived for twenty years or so, it is sad enough to
face these things. But at eight years to see the glue factory close at
hand is enough to make a horse wish he had never been foaled.
For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart, with its hateful
jangle of bells, about the city streets and suburban roads while the man
with the faded hair roared through his matted beard: "Buy o-o-o-o-olt
ra-a-a-a-ags! Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Olt boddles! Olt copper! Olt
iron! Vaste baber!"
[Illustration: For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart.]
The lump on Skipper's hock kept growing bigger and bigger. It seemed as
if the darts of pain shot from hoof to flank with every step. Big
hollows came over his eyes. You could see his ribs as plainly as the
hoops on a pork-barrel. Yet six days in the week he went on long trips
and brought back heavy loads of junk. On Sunday he hauled the junkman
and his family about the city.
Once the junkman tried to drive Skipper into one of the Park entrances.
Then for the first time in his life Skipper balked. The junkman pounded
and used such language as you might expect from a junkman, but all to no
use. Skipper took the beating with lowered head, but go through the gate
he would not. So the junkman gave it up, although he seemed very
anxious to join the line of gay carriages which were rolling in.
Soon after this there came a break in the daily routine. One morning
Skipper was not led out as usual. In fact, no one came near him, and he
could hear no voices in the nearby shanty. Skipper decided that he
would take a day off himself. By backing against the door he readily
pushed it open, for the staple was insecure.
Once at liberty, he climbed the roadway that led out of the lot. It was
late in the fall, but there was still short sweet winter grass to be
found along the gutters. For a while he nibbled at this hungrily. Then a
queer idea came to Skipper. Perhaps the passing of a smartly groomed
saddle-horse was responsible.
At any rate, Skipper left off nibbling grass. He hobbled out to the edge
of the road, turned so as to face the opposite side, and held up his
head. There he stood just as he used to stand when he was the pride of
the mounted squad. He was on post once more.
Few people were passing, and none seemed to notice him. Yet he was an
odd figure. His coat was shaggy and weather-stained. It looked patched
and faded. The spavined hock caused one hind quarter to sag somewhat,
but aside from that his pose was strictly according to the regulations.
Skipper had been playing at standing post for a half-hour, when a
trotting dandy who sported ankle-boots and toe-weights, pulled up before
him. He was drawing a light, bicycle-wheeled road-wagon in which were
two men.
"Queer?" one of the men was saying. "Can't say I see anything queer
about it, Captain. Some old plug that's got away from a squatter; that's
all I see in it."
"Well, let's have a look," said the other. He stared hard at Skipper for
a moment and then, in a loud, sharp tone, said:
"'Ten-shun! Right dress!"
Skipper pricked up his ears, raised his head, and side-stepped stiffly.
The trotting dandy turned and looked curiously at him.
"Forward!" said the man in the wagon. Skipper hobbled out into the road.
"Right wheel! Halt! I thought so," said the man, as Skipper obeyed the
orders. "That fellow has been on the force. He was standing post. Looks
mighty familiar, too--white stockings on two forelegs, white star on
forehead. Now I wonder if that can be--here, hold the reins a minute."
Going up to Skipper the man patted his nose once or twice, and then
pushed his muzzle to one side. Skipper ducked and countered. He had not
forgotten his boxing trick. The man turned his back and began to pace
down the road. Skipper followed and picked up a riding-glove which the
man dropped.
"Doyle," said the man, as he walked back to the wagon, "two years ago
that was the finest horse on the force--took the blue ribbon at the
Garden. Alderman Martin would give $1,000 for him as he stands. He has
hunted the State for him. You remember Martin--Reddy Martin--who used to
be on the mounted squad! Didn't you hear? An old uncle who made a
fortune as a building contractor died about a year ago and left the
whole pile to Reddy. He's got a fine country place up in Westchester and
is in the city government. Just elected this fall. But he isn't happy
because he can't find his old horse--and here's the horse."
Next day an astonished junkman stood before an empty shanty which served
as a stable and feasted his eyes on a fifty-dollar bank-note.
* * * * *
If you are ever up in Westchester County be sure to visit the stables of
Alderman P. Sarsfield Martin. Ask to see that oak-panelled box-stall
with the stained-glass windows and the porcelain feed-box. You will
notice a polished brass name-plate on the door bearing this inscription:
SKIPPER.
You may meet the Alderman himself, wearing an English-made riding-suit,
loping comfortably along on a sleek bay gelding with two white forelegs
and a white star on his forehead. Yes, high-priced veterinaries can cure
spavin--Alderman Martin says so.
CALICO
WHO TRAVELLED WITH A ROUND TOP
Something there was about Calico's markings which stuck in one's mind,
as does a haunting memory, intangible but unforgotten. Surely the
pattern was obtrusive enough to halt attention; yet its vagaries were so
unexpected, so surprising that, even as you looked, you might hesitate
at declaring whether it was his withers or his flanks which were
carrot-red and if he had four white stockings or only three. It was
safer simply to say that he was white where he was not red and red where
he was not white. Moreover, his was a vivid coat.
Altogether Calico was a horse to be remarked and to be remembered.
Yet--and again yet--Calico was not wholly to blame for his many faults.
Farm breeding, which was more or less responsible for his bizarre
appearance, should also bear the burden of his failings. As a colt he
had been the marvel of the county, from Orono to Hermon Centre. He had
been petted, teased, humored, exhibited, coddled, fooled
with--everything save properly trained and broken.
So he grew up a trace shirker and a halter-puller, with disposition,
temperament, and general behavior as uneven as his coloring.
"The most good-fer-nothin' animal I ever wasted grain on!" declared
Uncle Enoch.
For the better part of four unproductive years had the life of Calico
run to commonplaces. Then, early one June morning, came an hour big
with events. Being the nigh horse in Uncle Enoch's pair, Calico caught
first glimpse of the weird procession which met them as they turned into
the Bangor road at Sherburne's Corners.
Now it was Calico's habit to be on the watch for unusual sights, and
when he saw them to stick his ears forward, throw his head up, snort
nervously and crowd against the pole. Generally he got one leg over a
trace. There was a white bowlder at the top of Poorhouse Hill which
Calico never passed without going through some of these manoeuvres.
"Hi-i-ish there! So-o-o! Dern yer crazy-quilt hide. Body'd think yer
never see that stun afore in yer life. Gee-long a-a-ap!" Uncle Enoch
would growl, accenting his words by jerking the lines.
A scarecrow in the middle of a cornfield, an auction bill tacked to a
stump, an old hat stuffing a vacant pane and proclaiming the
shiftlessness of the Aroostook Billingses, would serve when nothing else
offered excuse for skittishness. Even sober Old Jeff, the off horse,
sometimes caught the infection for a moment. He would prick up his ears
and look inquiringly at the suspected object, but so soon as he saw what
it was down went his head sheepishly, as if he was ashamed of having
again been tricked.
This morning, however, it was no false alarm. When Old Jeff was roused
out of his accustomed jog by Calico's nervous snorts he looked up to see
such a spectacle as he had never beheld in all his goings and comings up
and down the Bangor road. Looming out of the mist was a six-horse team
hitched to the most foreign-looking rig one could well imagine. It had
something of the look of a preposterous hay-cart, with the ends of
blue-painted poles sticking out in front and trailing behind. Following
this was a great, white-swathed wheeled box drawn by four horses. It was
certainly a curious affair, whatever it was, but neither Calico nor Old
Jeff gave it much heed, nor did they waste a glance on the distant tail
of the procession, for behind the wheeled box was a thing which held
their gaze.
In the gray four o'clock light it seemed like an enormous cow that
rolled menacingly forward; not as a cow walks, however, but with a
swaying, heaving motion like nothing commonly seen on a Maine highway.
Instinctively both horses thrust their muzzles toward the thing and
sniffed. Without doubt Old Jeff was frightened. Perhaps not for nine
generations had any of his ancestors caught a whiff of that peculiarly
terrifying scent of which every horse inherits knowledge and dread.
As for Calico, he had no need of such spur as inherited terror. He had
fearsomeness enough of his own to send him rearing and pawing the air
until the whiffle-trees rapped his knees. Old Jeff did not rear. He
stared and snorted and trembled. When he felt his mate spring forward in
the traces he went with him, ready to do anything in order to get away
from that heaving, swaying thing which was coming toward them.
"Whoa, ye pesky fools! Whoa, dod rot ye!" Uncle Enoch, wakened from the
half doze which he had been taking on the wagon-seat, now began to saw
on the lines. His shouts seemed to have aroused the heaving thing, for
it answered with a horrid, soul-chilling noise.
By this time Calico was leaping frantically, snorting at every jump and
forcing Old Jeff to keep pace. They were at the top of a long grade and
down the slope the loaded wagon rattled easily behind them. Uncle Enoch
did his best. With feet well braced he tugged at the lines and shouted,
all to no purpose. Never before had Calico and Old Jeff met a circus on
the move. Neither had they previously come into such close quarters with
an elephant. One does not expect such things on the Bangor road. At
least they did not. They proposed to get away from such terrors in the
shortest possible time.
Now the public ways of Maine are seldom macadamized. In places they are
laid out straight across and over the granite backbone of the
continent. The Bangor road is thus constructed in spots. This slope was
one of the spots where the bare ledge, with here and there six-inch
shelves and eroded gullies, offered a somewhat uneven surface to the
wheels. A well built Studebaker will stand a lot of this kind of
banging, but it is not wholly indestructible. So it happened that
half-way down the hill the left hind axle snapped at the hub. Thereupon
some two hundred dozen ears of early green-corn were strewn along the
flinty face of the highway, while Uncle Enoch was hurled, seat and all,
accompanied by four dozen eggs and ten pounds of Aunt Henrietta's best
butter, into the ditch.
When the circus caravan overtook him Uncle Enoch had captured the
runaways and was leading them back to where the wrecked wagon lay by the
roadside. More or less butter was mixed with the sandy chin whiskers and
an inartistic yellow smooch down the front of his coat showed that the
eggs had followed him.
"Rather lively pair of yours; eh, mister?" commented a red-faced man who
dropped off the pole-wagon.
"Yes, ruther lively," assented Uncle Enoch, "'Specially when ye don't
want 'em to be. The off one's stiddy enough. It's this cantankerous
skewbald that started the tantrum. Whoa now, blame ye!" Calico's nose
was in the air again and he was snorting excitedly.
"Lemme hold him 'till old Ajax goes by," said the circus man.
"Thank ye. I'll swap him off fust chance I git, ef I don't fetch back
nuthin' but a boneyard skate," declared Uncle Enoch.
As Ajax lumbered by, the circus man eyed with interest the dancing
Calico. He noted with approval the coat of fantastic design, the springy
knees and the fine tail that rippled its white length almost to Calico's
heels.
"I'll do better'n that by you, mister," said he. "I've got a
fourteen-hundred pound Vermont Morgan, sound as a dollar, only eight
years old and ain't afraid o' nothin'. I'll swap him even for your
skewbald."
"Like to see him," said Uncle Enoch. "If he's half what ye say it's a
trade."
"Here he comes on the band-wagon team;" then, to the driver: "Hey, Bill,
pull up!"
In less than half an hour from the time Calico had bolted at sight of
the circus cavalcade he was part and parcel of it, and helping to pull
one of those mysterious sheeted wagons along in the wake of the
terrifying Ajax.
"The old party don't give you a very good send off," said the boss
hostler reflectively to Calico, "but I reckon you'll get used to Ajax
and the music-chariot before the season's over. Leastways, you're bound
to be an ornament to the grand entry."
Calico's life with the Grand Occidental began abruptly and vigorously.
The driver of the band-wagon knew his business. Even when half asleep
he could see loose traces. After Calico had heard the long lash whistle
about his ears a few times he concluded that it was best to do his share
of the pulling.
And what pulling it was! There were six horses of them, Calico being one
of the swings, but on an uphill grade that old chariot was the most
reluctant thing he had ever known. Uncle Enoch's stone-boat, which
Calico had once held to be merely a heart-breaking instrument of
torture, seemed light in retrospect. Often did he look reproachfully at
the monstrous combination of gilded wood and iron. Why need band-wagons
be made so exasperatingly heavy? The atrociously carved Pans on the
corners, with their scarred faces and broken pipes, were cumbersome
enough to make a load for one pair of horses, all by themselves. Calico
would think of them as he was straining up a long hill. He could almost
feel them pulling back on the traces in a sort of wooden stubbornness.
And when the team rattled the old chariot down a rough grade how he
hoped that two or three of the figures might be jolted off. But in the
morning, when the show lot was reached and the travelling wraps taken
off the wagons, there he would see the heavy shouldered Pans all in
their places as hideous and as permanent as ever.
It was a hard and bitter lesson which Calico learned, this matter of
keeping one's tugs tight. Uncle Enoch had spared the whip, but in the
heart of Broncho Bill, who drove the band-wagon, there was no leniency.
Ready and strong was his whip hand, and he knew how to make the blood
follow the lash. No effort did he waste on fat-padded flanks when he
was in earnest. He cut at the ears, where the skin is tender. He could
touch up the leaders as easily as he could the wheel-horses, and when he
aimed at the swings he never missed fire.
Travelling with a round top Calico found to be no sinecure. The Grand
Occidental, being a wagon show, moved wholly by road. The shortest jump
was fifteen miles, but often they did thirty between midnight and
morning; and thirty miles over country highways make no short jaunt when
you have a five-ton chariot behind you. The jump, however, was only the
beginning of the day's work. No sooner had you finished breakfast than
you were hooked in for the street parade, meaning from two to four miles
more.
You had a few hours for rest after that before the grand entry. Ah, that
grand entry! That was something to live for. No matter how bad the roads
or how hard the hills had been Calico forgot it all during those ten
delightful minutes when, with his heart beating time to the rat-tat-tat
of the snare drum, he swung prancingly around the yellow arena.
It all began in the dressing-tent with a period of confusion in which
horses were crowded together as thick as they could stand, while the
riders dressed and mounted in frantic haste, for to be late meant to be
fined. At last the ring-master clapped his hands as sign that all was in
readiness. There was a momentary hush. Then a bugle sounded, the flaps
were thrown back and to the crashing accompaniment of the band, the
seemingly chaotic mass unfolded into a double line as the horses broke
into a sharp gallop around the freshly dug ring.
The first time Calico did the grand entry he felt as though he had been
sucked into a whirlpool and was being carried around by some
irresistible force. So dazed was he by the music, by the hum of human
voices and by the unfamiliar sights, that he forgot to rear and kick. He
could only prance and snort. He went forward because the rider of the
outside horse dragged him along by the bridle rein. Around and around he
circled until he lost all sense of direction, and when he was finally
shunted out through the dressing-tent flaps he was so dizzy he could
scarcely stand.
For a horse accustomed to shy at his own shadow this was heroic
treatment. But it was successful. In a month you could not have startled
Calico with a pound of dynamite. He would placidly munch his oats within
three feet of the spot where a stake-gang swung the heavy sledges in
staccato time. He cared no more for flapping canvas than for the wagging
of a mule's ears. As for noises, when one has associated with a steam
calliope one ceases to mind anything in that line. Old Ajax, it was
true, remained a terror to Calico for weeks, but in the end the horse
lost much of his dread for the ancient pachyderm, although he never felt
wholly comfortable while those wicked little eyes were turned in his
direction. Hereditary instincts, you know, die hard.
During those four months in which the Grand Occidental flitted over the
New England circuit from Kenduskeag, Me., to Bennington, Vt., there came
upon Calico knowledge of many things. The farm-horse to whom Bangor's
market-square had been full of strange sights became, in comparison with
his former self, most sophisticated. He feared no noise save that
sinister whistle made by Broncho Bill's long lash. The roaring sputter
of gasoline flares was no more to him than the sound of a running
brook. He had learned that it was safe to kick a mere canvasman when you
felt like doing so, but that a real artist, such as a tumbler or a
trapeze man, was to be respected, and that the person of the ring-master
was most sacred. Also he acquired the knack of sleeping at odd times,
whenever opportunity offered and under any conditions.
When he had grown thus wise, and when he had ceased to stumble over
guy-ropes and tent-stakes, Calico received promotion. He was put in as
outside horse of the leading pair in the grand entry. He was decorated
with a white-braided cord bridle with silk rosettes and he wore between
his ears a feather pompon. All this was very fine and grand, but there
was so little of it.
After it was all over, when the crowds had gone, the top lowered and the
stakes pulled, he was hitched to the leaden-wheeled band-wagon to
strain and tug at the traces all through the last weary half of the
night. But when fame has started your way, be you horse or man, you
cannot escape. Just before the season closed Calico was put on the
sawdust. This was the way of it.
A ninety-foot top, you know, carries neither extra people nor spare
horses. The performers must double up their acts. No one is exempt save
the autocratic high-bar folk, who own their own apparatus and dictate
contracts. So with the horses. The teams that pull the pole-wagon, the
chariots and the other wheeled things which a circus needs, must also
figure in the grand entry and in the hippodrome races. Even the
ring-horses have their share of road-work in a wagon show.
To the dappled grays used by Mlle. Zaretti, who was a top-liner on the
bills, fell the lot of pulling the ticket-wagon, this being the
lightest work. It was Mlle. Zaretti's habit to ride one at the afternoon
show, the other in the evening. So when the nigh gray developed a
shoulder gall on the day that the off one went lame there arose an
emergency. Also there ensued trouble for the driver of the ticket-wagon.
First he was tongue lashed by Mademoiselle, then he was fined a week's
pay and threatened with discharge by the manager. But when the
increasing wrath of the Champion Lady Equestrienne of America led her to
demand his instant and painful annihilation the worm turned. The driver
profanely declared that he knew his business. He had travelled with Yank
Robinson, he had, and no female hair-grabber under canvas should call
him down more than once in the same day. There was more of this, added
merely for emphasis. Mlle. Zaretti saw the point. She had gone too far.
Whereupon she discreetly turned on her high French heels and meekly
asked the boss hostler for the most promising animal he had. The boss
picked out Calico.
No sooner was the top up that day than Calico's training began. Well it
was that he had learned obedience, for this was to be his one great
opportunity. Many a time had Calico circled around the banked ring's
outer circumference, but never had he been within it. Neither had he
worn before a broad pad. By dint of leading and coaxing he was made to
understand that his part of the act was to canter around the ring with
Mlle. Zaretti on his back, where she was to be allowed to go through as
many motions as she pleased.
For a green horse Calico conducted himself with much credit. He did not
stumble. He did not shy at the ring-master's whip. He did not try to
dodge the banners or the hoops after he found how harmless they were.
"Well, if I cut my act perhaps I can manage, but if I break my neck I
hope you'll murder that fool driver," was Mlle. Zaretti's verdict and
petition when the lesson ended.
Mlle. Zaretti's gyrations that afternoon and evening were somewhat tame
when you consider the manner in which she was billed. Calico did his
part with only a few excusable blunders, and she was so pleased that he
got the apples and sugarplums which usually rewarded the grays.
The galled shoulder healed, but the lame leg developed into an incurably
stiff joint. Three nights later Calico, to his great joy, left the
band-chariot team forever, to find himself on the light ticket-wagon and
regularly entered as a ring horse. Nor was this all. When the season
closed Mlle. Zaretti bought Calico at an exorbitant price. He was
shipped to a strange place, where they put him in a box-stall, fed him
with generous regularity and asked him to do absolutely nothing at all.
It was a month before Calico saw his mistress again. He had been taken
into a great barn-like structure which had many sky-lights and windows.
Here was an ideal ring, smooth and springy, with no hidden rocks or soft
spots such as one sometimes finds when on the road. Mlle. Zaretti no
longer wore her spangled pink dress. Instead she appeared in serviceable
knickerbockers and wore wooden-soled slippers on her feet. In the middle
of the ring a man who was turning himself into a human pin-wheel stopped
long enough to shout: "Hello, Kate; signed yet?"
"You bet," said Mlle. Zaretti. "Next spring I go out by rail with a
three topper. I'm going to do the real bareback act, too. No more broad
pads and wagon shows for Katie. Hey, Jim, rig up your Stokes' mechanic."
Jim, a stout man who wore his suspenders outside a blue sweater and
talked huskily, arranged a swinging derrick-arm, the purpose of which,
it developed, was to keep Mlle. Zaretti off the ground whenever she
missed her footing on Calico's back. There was a broad leather belt
around her waist and to this was fastened a rope. Very often was this
needed during those first three weeks of practice, for, true to her
word, Mlle. Zaretti no longer strapped on Calico's back the broad pad to
which he had been accustomed. At first the wooden-soles hurt and made
him flinch, but in time the skin became toughened and he minded them not
at all, although Mlle. Zaretti was no featherweight.
Long before the snow was gone Mlle. Zaretti had discarded the
derrick-arm. Urging Calico to his best speed she would grasp the cinch
handles and with one light bound land on his well-resined back. Then, as
he circled around in an even, rythmical lope, she would jump the banners
and dive through the hoops. It was more or less fun for Calico, but it
all seemed so utterly useless. There were no crowds to see and applaud.
He missed the music and the cheering.
At last there came a change. Calico and his mistress took a journey.
They arrived in the biggest city Calico had ever seen, and one
afternoon, to the accompaniment of such a crash of music and such a
chorus of "HI! HI! HI's!" as he had never before heard, they burst into
a great arena where were not only one ring but three, and about them,
tier on tier as far up as one could see, the eager faces and gay
clothes of a vast multitude of spectators. Calico, as you will guess,
had become a factor in "The Grandest Aggregation."
If Calico had longed for music and applause his wishes were surely
answered, for, although Mlle. Zaretti had jumped from a wagon-show to a
three-ring combination that began its season with an indoor March
opening, she was still a top-liner. That is, she had a feature act.
Thus it was that just as the Japanese jugglers finished tossing each
other on their toes in the upper ring and while the property helpers
were making ready the lower one for the elephants, in the centre ring
Mlle. Zaretti and Calico alone held the attention of great audiences.
"Mem-zelle Zar-ret-ti! Champ-i-on la-dy bare-back ri-der of the
wor-r-r-r-ld, on her beaut-i-ful Ar-a-bian steed!"
That was the manner in which the megaphone announcer heralded their
appearance. Then followed a rattle of drums and a tooting of horns,
ending in one tremendous bang as Calico, lifting his feet so high and so
daintily you might have thought he was stepping over a row of china
vases, and bowing his head so low that his neck arched almost double,
came mincing into the arena. In his mouth he champed solid silver bits,
and his polished hoofs were rimmed with nickel-plated shoes. The heavy
bridle reins were covered with the finest white kid, as was the
surcingle which completed his trappings.
Rather stout had Calico become in these halcyon days. His back and
flanks were like the surface of a well-upholstered sofa. His coat of
motley told its own story of daily rubbings and good feeding. The white
was dazzlingly white and the carrot-red patches glowed like the inside
of a well-burnished copper kettle. So shiny was he that you could see
reflected on his sides the black, gold-spangled tights and fluffy black
skirts worn by Mlle. Zaretti, who poised on his back as lightly as if
she had been an ostrich-plume dropped on a snow-bank and who smilingly
kissed her finger-tips to the craning-necked tiers of spectators with
charming indiscrimination and admirable impartiality.
You may imagine that this picture was not without its effect. Never did
it fail to draw forth a mighty volume of "Ohs!" and "Ah-h-h-hs!"
especially at the afternoon performances, when the youngsters were out
in force. And how Calico did relish this hum of admiration! Perhaps
Mlle. Zaretti thought some of it was meant for her. No such idea had
Calico.
You could see this by the way in which he tossed his head and pawed
haughtily as he waited for the band to strike up his music. Oh, yes,
_his_ music. You must know that by this time the horse that had once
pulled the stone-boat on Uncle Enoch's farm, and had later learned the
hard lesson of obedience under Broncho Bill's lash had now become an
equine personage. He had his grooms and his box-stall. He had whims
which must be humored. One of these had to do with the music which
played him through his act. He had discovered that the Blue Danube waltz
was exactly to his liking, and to no other tune would he consent to do
his best. Sulking was one of his new accomplishments.
As for Mlle. Zaretti, she affected no such frills, but she was ever
ready to defend those of her horse. A hard-working, frugal, ambitious
young person was Mlle. Zaretti, whose few extravagances were mostly on
Calico's account. For him she demanded the Blue Danube waltz in the face
of the band-master's grumblings.
When the Grandest Aggregation finally took the road the satisfaction of
Calico was complete. He was under canvas once more. No band-wagon work
wearied his nights. He even enjoyed the street parade. In the evening,
when his act was over, he left the tents, glowing huge and brilliant
against the night, and jogged quietly off to his padded car-stall, where
were to be had a full two hours' rest before No. 2 train pulled out.
In the gray of the morning he would wake to contentedly look out through
his grated window at the flying landscape, remembering with a sigh of
satisfaction that no longer was he routed out at cockcrow to be driven
afield. Later he could see the curious crowds in the railroad yards as
the long lines of cars were shunted back and forth. As he lazily
munched his breakfast oats he watched the draught horses patiently drag
the huge chariots across the tracks and off to the show lot where _he_
was not due for hours.
A life of mild exertion, enjoyable excitement, changing scenes, and
considerate treatment was his. No wonder the fat stuck to Calico's ribs.
No wonder his eyes beamed contentment. Such are the sweets of high
achievement.
* * * * *