LONELINESS
Pat's mistress was gone. He realized it from his continued disappointed
watching for her at the fence; he realized it from the utter absence out
of life of the sweets he had learned to love so well; and he realized it
most of all from the change which rapidly came over the Mexican hostler.
Though he did not know it, Miguel had been instructed, and in no
mistakable language, to take good care of him, and, among other things,
to keep him healthily supplied with sweets. But Miguel was not
interested in colts, much less in anything that meant additional labor
for him, and so Pat was made to suffer. Yet in this, as in all the other
things, lay a wonderful good. He was made to know that he was not wholly
a pampered thing--was made to feel the other side of life, the side of
bitterness and disappointment, the side at times of actual want. And
this continued denial of wants, of needs, occasionally, hardened him, as
his earlier experiences had hardened him, toughened him for the
struggles to come, brought to him that which is good for all
youth--realization that life is not a mere span of days with sweets and
comforts for the asking, but a time of struggle, a battle for supremacy,
and it is only through the battle that one grows fit and ever more fit
for the good of the All.
Not the least of his trials was great loneliness. One day was so very
like another. Regularly each morning, after seeking out his favorite
corner in the corral, he would see the sun step from the mountain-tops,
ascend through a cool morning, pour down scorching midday rays, descend
through a tense afternoon, and drop from view in the chill of evening.
Always he would watch this thing, sometimes standing, other times
reclining, but ever conscious of the dread monotony of it all. Nothing
happened, nobody came to caress him, no one paid him the least
attention. A forlorn colt, a lonely colt, doubly so for lack of a
mother, he spent long days in moody contemplation of an existence that
irked.
One day, however, came something of interest into the monotony of his
life. Evidently tiring of attending each horse in turn in the stalls,
Miguel built a general box for feed in one corner of the inclosure, and
then, by dint of loud swearing and the free use of a pitchfork,
instructed the colt to feed from it with the others. Not that Pat
required instruction as to the feeding itself--he was too much alive to
need driving in that respect. But he did show nervous timidity at
feeding with the other horses, and so Miguel cheerfully went to the
urging with fork and tongue. But only the one time. Soon the colt took
to burying his nose in the box along with the others, and would wriggle
his tail with a vigor that seemed to tell of his gratitude at being
accepted as part of the great establishment and its devices. And then
another thing. With this change in his method of feeding, he soon came
to reveal steadily increasing courage and independence. Oftentimes he
would be the first to reach the box, and, what was more to the point,
would hold his position against the other horses--hold it against rough
shouldering from the family horse, savage nipping from the saddler, even
vigorous cursing and flaying from the swarthy hostler.
With the approach of winter he revealed his courage and temerity
further. Of his own volition one night he abruptly changed his
sleeping-quarters. Since the memorable occasion when the mare had kicked
him out of her stall he had sought out a stall by himself with the
coming of night, and there spent the hours in fear-broken sleep. But
this night, and every night thereafter, saw him boldly approaching the
mare and crowding in beside her in her stall, where, in the contact with
her warm body and in her silent presence, he found much that was
soothing and comfortable. Which, too, marked the beginning of a new
friendship, one that steadily ripened with the passing winter and, by
the time spring again descended into the valley, was an attachment close
almost as that between mother and offspring. When in his playful
moments, rare indeed now for one of his age, he would inadvertently
plunge into her, or stumble over a water-pail, she would nicker grave
disapproval, or else chide him more generously by licking his neck and
withers a long time in genuine affection.
Thus the colt changed in both spirit and physique. And the more he
changed, and the larger he grew, the greater source of trouble he became
to the Mexican. Before, he had feared the man. Now he felt only a kind
of hatred, and this lent courage to make of himself a frequent source of
annoyance.
With the return of warm weather he resumed his old place in his favorite
corner. He did this through both habit and a desire to warm himself in
the sun's rays. And it was all innocent enough--this thing. Yet,
innocent though it was, more than once, in passing, the Mexican struck
him with whatever happened to be in his hands. At such times, whimpering
with pain, he would dart to an opposite corner, there to stand in
trembling fear, until, his courage returning, and his hatred for the man
upholding him, he would return and defiantly resume his day-dreaming in
the corner. This happened for perhaps a dozen times before he openly
rebelled. And when he did rebel--when the Mexican struck him sharply
across the nose--he whipped around his head like lightning and, still
only half awake, sank his teeth savagely into the man's shoulder.
Followed a string of oaths and sudden appearance of a club, which might
have proved serious but for the Judge's timely call for the horse and
phaeton. Whereupon the Mexican slunk off into the stable. But as he went
Pat saw the gleam in his black eyes, and knew that some day punishment
most dire and cruel would descend upon him.
He passed through his second summer, that period of trial and sickness
for many infants, in perfect health. In perfect health also he passed
through the autumn and on into his second winter. Growing ever stronger
with the passing seasons, he came to reveal still further his wonderful
vitality, and to reveal it in many ways. Often he would take the
initiative against the Mexican, kicking at him without due cause,
refusing always to get out of his way, once nipping him sharply as he
hurried past under pressing orders from the house. Also, having grown to
a size equal to the brown saddler, he began to reveal his antipathy for
this animal. Not only would he shoulder him away from the feed-box, but
he would kick and snap at him, and once he tipped over the water-pail
for no other reason, seemingly, than to deprive the saddler of water.
The result of all this was that, with the passing seasons, both the
Mexican and the saddler showed increasing respect for him, and the
former went to every precaution to avoid a serious encounter.
But it was bound to come in spite of all his efforts to avoid it.
Fighting spring flies in the stable one morning, Pat was aroused by a
familiar sound in the corral. It was the sound which usually accompanied
feeding, and, whirling, he plunged eagerly toward the door. As he did so
the Mexican, about to enter the stable, appeared on the threshold. Pat
saw him too late. He crashed headlong into the Mexican and sent him
reeling out into the inclosure. From that moment it was to the death.
The Mexican painfully gained his feet and, swearing a mighty vengeance,
caught up a heavy shovel. Pat saw what was coming and, dashing out into
the corral, sought protection behind the feed-box. But the infuriated
man hunted him out, dealing upon his quivering back blow after blow,
until, stung beyond all caution, Pat sprang for the object of his
suffering. But the man leaped aside, delivering as he did so another
vicious blow, this time across Pat's nose--most tender of places. Dazed,
trembling, raging with the spirit of battle, he surveyed the man a
moment, and then, with an unnatural outcry, half nicker, half roar, he
hurtled himself upon his enemy, striking him down. But he did not stop
here. When the man attempted to rise he struck him down again, and a
third time. Then, seeing the man lying motionless, he uttered another
outcry, different from the other, a whimpering, baby outcry, and,
whirling away from the scene, hurried across the corral and into the
stable, where he sought out the family horse and, still whimpering
babyishly, stood very close beside her, seeking her sympathy and
encouragement.
This closed the feud for all time. Miguel was not seriously hurt. But he
had learned something, even as Pat had learned something, and thereafter
there existed tacit understanding between them.
The seasons passed, and the third year came, and with it the beginning
of the end of Pat's loneliness. One morning late in June he was aroused
by the voice of the Mexican, who, with brushes and currycomb in hand,
had come to clean him. Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though
wallowing but little, leaving that form of exercise to the older horses,
he nevertheless was gritty with sand from swirling spring winds. So he
stood very still under the hostler's vigorous attention. But Miguel's
ambition did not stop here. He turned to the other horses and curried
and brushed them also, working till the perspiration streamed from him.
But this was not the end. He set to work in the stable, and scraped and
cleaned to the last corner, and rubbed and scoured to the smallest
harness buckle. It was all very unusual, and Pat, standing attentive
throughout it all, revealed marked interest and something of surprise.
Soon he was to know the reason.
Along toward noon, as he was feeding at the box, he saw a very dignified
young woman leave the house, cross the _patio_ in his direction,
and come to a stop immediately outside the fence. Though the feed-box
always held his interest above all other things, and though it was
strongly attracting him now, he nevertheless could not resist the
attention with which this young woman regarded him. He returned her gaze
steadily, wondering who she was and what she meant to do. He soon found
out, for presently she set out along the fence and came to a stop
directly in front of him. She did more. She held out a hand and sounded
a single word softly.
"Pat!" she called.
And now something took place inside the colt. With the word, far back in
his brain, in the remotest of cells, there came an effort for freedom.
It was a grim struggle, no doubt, for the thing must fight its way
against almost all other thoughts and scenes and persons in his memory.
But at length this vague memory gained momentum and dominance. And now
he understood. The young woman outside the fence was his little mistress
of early days! Lifting his head, he gave off a shrill and protracted
nicker of greeting.
Helen dropped her hand. "Bless you!" she cried, and sped along the
fence, opened the gate, and ran inside. "You do know me, don't you?" she
burst out, and, hurrying to his side, hugged him convulsively. "And I'm
so glad, Pat!" she went on. "It--it has been a long three years!" She
stepped back and looked him over admiringly. "And you have grown so!
Dear, oh, dear! Three years!" Again she stepped close and hugged him. "I
am so proud of you, Pat!"
All this love-talk, this caressing and hugging, was as the lifting of a
veil to Pat. Within him all that had lain dormant for three
years--affection, desires, life itself--now pressed eagerly to the
surface. And though his mistress did not look the same to him--though he
found himself gazing down now instead of up to engage her eyes--yet, as
if she had been gone but a day, he suddenly nuzzled her hand for loaf
sugar and quartered apples. Then as suddenly he regretted this. For she
had left him--was running across the corral. Frantically he rushed after
her and, with a shrill cry of protest, saw her enter the house. But soon
she appeared again, and when close, and he saw the familiar sweets in
her hand, he nickered again, this time in sheer delight. And if he had
doubted his good fortune before, now, with his mouth dripping luscious
juices, he knew positively that he had come into his own again.
Sometime during the feast Helen noticed a scar across his nose. "Why,
Pat!" she exclaimed. "How ever did you get that?"
But Pat did not say. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, in this happiest of
moments, he would have descended to such commonplaces. But it was no
commonplace to Helen, and she promptly sought out the Mexican. Yet
Miguel declared that he knew nothing of the scar. He had been very
watchful of the colt, he lied, cheerfully, and the scar was as much a
mystery to him as it was to her. Whereupon Helen decided that Pat had
brought it about through some prank, and, after returning to him and
indulging in further caresses and love-talk, reluctantly took leave of
him, returning to the house, there to begin unpacking her numerous
trunks.
Thus their friendship was renewed. Pat was older by three years, as the
girl was older by three years. But each was much older than that in
point of development. Where before had been baby affection in him and
girl affection in her, now was a thing of greater worth and more lasting
quality--affection of a grown horse and a grown woman. In the days which
followed this was brought out in many ways. The colt did not once frisk
and play about the inclosure, a trait she remembered best; yet she did
not wish it. She preferred him as he was, finding in his mature conduct
something that enhanced his beauty; and rare beauty it was, as she
frequently noted in running proud eyes over his lines, and in noting it
came more and more to feel not alone great pride for him, but a sure
love as well--not the love woman gives to man, of course, but the love
she can give, and does give, without stint, to all dumb animals.