AN ENEMY
There was water in the grove, and the men made camp at the edge of the
trees. "The Doc," which was what the rangers early had affectionately
nicknamed Stephen, was suffering a compound fracture of the left arm,
together with numerous bruises and scratches about the head and face. He
had had a nasty fall. His horse had stumbled and almost instantly died
as the result of the big cattle-rustler's shots. The men set and
splinted Stephen's arm as best they could, and they bandaged his head
with rare skill; but it was deemed advisable for him to remain quiet for
a time.
So Stephen lay listlessly smiling at the bantering of the men, too sick
at heart really to take interest in any living thing. His arm pained
him, and his head ached, while throughout his body he was sore and stiff
and well-nigh incapable of moving. But not once following the first
complete collapse did he let go of himself, although when the men set
his arm it seemed that he must. Somehow he was contented that everything
was as it was. True, he was hurt. But also he had found Pat, had
recovered the horse for Helen, and the horse now was within sound of his
voice, did he but care to lift it. His physical hurts would get well,
his spiritual hurts never without the recovery of the horse. And now he
had the horse.
One morning it became apparent that their food-supplies would soon need
replenishing. So it was decided to break camp for the nearest town, a
Mexican settlement some eighty miles to the southwest. Stephen had been
walking about somewhat cheerfully for three or four days, and his
condition was such that he could ride forward slowly without danger to
his arm. So they broke camp, utilizing the sorrel as a pack-horse--there
now were two extra saddles and bridles--and set out, Stephen, of course,
mounted upon Pat.
Once more Pat found himself following an unmarked and desolate trail.
Moving always at a walk now instead of the conventional fox-trot, he
found his service, save for this and one other thing, identical with
that under his previous masters. The single other difference was that
instead of irritating silence, these men unwittingly soothed him with
their talk and swift exchange of jokes. Thus the hours passed, until
noon came, when, with his bridle and saddle removed, and pungent odors
of savory cooking tickling his nostrils, he received the privilege of
grazing over the whole desert unhobbled and untethered. But this,
liberal as it seemed, brought him nothing of the nourishment his soul
craved. After an hour or two of lazy wandering, while the men passed the
time at cards, he was sent forward again along the ever-mysterious
trail. And thus he moved, through the long hot afternoon, the cool and
lingering twilight, on to a night camp where once more he was turned
loose with the other horses to glean as best he might life-giving
sustenance from the scant herbage. But it was drearily monotonous.
Throughout it all, however, there was one who kept his interest alive.
It was the white horse. In the camp holding himself aloof, as if
superciliously refraining from close contact, on the trail this horse
took to revealing his antagonism. He would stand a short way from him
while they grazed, lay back his ears and whisk his tail, and, whenever
the chance came, he would snap viciously at the other horses. Pat
understood the meaning of all this, and held himself ready to resist
attack, yet he simply looked at the horse with a kind of amused
speculation. Nor at any time did he feel grave apprehension. That he did
not take the horse seriously lay in the fact that after drawing near in
this fashion and bristling nastily the white horse would quickly draw
away again, steadily and craftily, and then fall to worrying one of the
other horses, usually one of smaller size that quite obviously feared
him.
There came the time when the white did not confine his threatenings to
the grazing-periods. He became aggressive on the march. Though less free
to give battle here, which was possibly his reason, he would frequently
jockey close, and either flash his head around with teeth snapping, or
else, as if to make Pat feel inferiority, would plunge forward to a
point immediately in front, and in this position fling back choking dust
or gravel. At such times the round-faced man, the white's master, would
drag him away mightily, or, if he was not quick enough, then the sorrel,
drowsing along behind on a lead-rope, would unconsciously offer
resistance. But it was all very disagreeable, and Pat, while finding
that it broke up the monotony of the journey, yet at length found
himself also becoming irritated.
He finally gave way to it. It was his nature to brood over annoyances
and sometimes to heap grains of injustice into mountains of woes. He
fell to thinking of his general lot, his misfortunes, the lack of proper
food, the occasional lack of water, until he became sullen and peevish.
The change showed in sudden starts at unusual sounds which brought sharp
protests from his young master, and then he began to refuse to eat. This
was grave, and he knew it. But he could not or would not help it; he
never knew quite which it was. But he did not eat. Instead of moving
about with the other horses, nose to ground, mouthing the bunch-grass,
he would mope by himself well away from the other horses, standing with
head hanging and ears inert, all in motionless silence. As the
water-holes became farther apart, and the grazing worse yet, he did this
more and more, until the white horse, evidently seeing his lack of
spirit, became a source of downright aggravation, frequently taking
lightning nips at him. At such times Pat would lift his head and hold
himself erect and vigilant during the grazing-period, but he brooded,
none the less, and as persistently refused to eat.
This was not lost upon Stephen or the rangers, neither his refusing to
eat nor the white's antagonism. They spent hours discussing both. Having
found in Pat none of the regular symptoms of disease, yet aware that
something grave was the matter, the rangers fell to discussing Pat's
condition with much earnestness, frequently interrupting their arguments
on the one subject to declare that the white horse, provided Pat held
out and healed up against his complaint, would get a fight such as was
never before witnessed in the desert. That they were evenly matched both
as to build and strength was recognized; that Pat was possessed of a
reserve that told of finer courage all agreed. Yet in this last lurked
opportunities for argument; and argue they did, sometimes long into the
night, the little man known as the Professor and the rangy individual
with the scrubby beard showing the greatest vehemence. Yet despite all
their arguments, to which Stephen invariably listened in smiling
silence, none as yet had offered good reason for the villainous attitude
of the white toward the peaceful Pat.
"_I_ know!" suddenly declared the man with the scrubby beard one
evening, after the tin dishes had been cleared away. "It's jealousy!" He
narrowed his eyes out through the darkness in the direction of the
horses. "Who ever 'u'd believe old Tom out there 'u'd show jealousy? I
see it, though, the first day. You recollect we made a heap of the
black, kind of petting him up some, and Tom, bein', as he sure is, an
intelligent hoss, I reckon he figured it out that he'd played the game
and been faithful all along, and then to see himself set back that way
by a complete stranger, it jest nachelly made him sore. Same as it would
you or me, mebbe, if we was informed polite and all that from
headquarters that they was a new man comin' to jine us that was the pure
quill whichever way you looked at him. Old Tom is bein' et up with
jealousy, I'm regretful to say."
"Animiles feels things a heap more'n humans does," put in the little man
known as the Professor. "But they're more reserved in showin' 'em out.
Yit when they do show 'em out, they're a lot less polite about it than
humans."
"Nachelly," snapped the lean man, glaring savagely across the fire at
the other. "But that ain't tellin' us what ails the black," he went on,
dropping the subject of the white and taking up with the symptoms of the
black, evidently through perverseness. "He's solemn and dumpish," he
declared, thoughtfully, "like he might have distemper. But he 'ain't got
distemper. And his teeth ain't sharp, yet he don't eat at all. And I
can't see anything the matter with his insides."
"Did you look?" inquired the Professor, innocently, but with a quick
wink at Stephen.
"Yes, I--" began the lean man, only to check himself with an angry
snort. Then he shifted the topic again, reverting to the case of old
Tom. "That white hoss'll about push that matter to a finish," he
declared. "See if what I say don't pan out! Tom he'll just about obey
that law o' nature which animals has knowed from long before the ark,
but which us humans is just gettin' a hold on. He'll remove the
cause--old Tom will--or get himself removed. He ain't nobody's fool--nor
never was!" And he rested his eyes significantly upon the Professor.
The Professor was busy, however. He had pulled a deck of cards from his
hip pocket, and now was riffling them with pointed interest. Directly he
began to deal them around, carefully overlooking the lean man as he did
so. But the latter, dropping over upon one elbow, permitted the game to
proceed without offering objection to the oversight, a peculiar one,
since he was in the full glare of the fire.
That argument was closed.
But next morning Pat received unexpected attention. His young master
approached him, looped a rope around his neck, and gave the end to the
large man, who mounted the white. Then the lean man bridled and saddled
the sorrel for the young man, who evidently was unable conveniently to
do these things with his one hand. After this he loaded Pat with the
extra saddles and bridles, and thus they set out. It was a not
unfavorable change, and Pat, while harboring mixed emotions, since he
now was trailing along behind the white, yet found himself in a lighter
mood. Feeling little jealousy of the white, however, he soon forgot the
changed relations, finding in his own position a new viewpoint upon the
cavalcade which was interesting. For now he could survey the whole
squad, five horses of varied size and action, and this, as he studied
the individual gait of each, was not without its pleasure. Also, being,
as he was, free from the weight of a man, he felt an airy lightness that
was positively refreshing. And finally, since he was out of reach of the
nagging white, this blessing alone made him grateful. So he followed
along, working yet not working, with a feeling of complete composure
such as had not been his for many a day.
Still his composure did not last. The novelty wore off toward noon, and
he found himself morose and introspective again. Sounding the depths of
his grievances, he at length took to thinking of the white corral beside
the river. Not in many a day had he thought of the ranch. But he was
recalling it now, not through affection, not because it was home to him,
but because, brooding over his many discomforts in the open, he was
suddenly remembering that his life had not always been this--that he
knew actual comfort, knew what it was to have his wants gratified. And
recalling these facts, he naturally recalled that which had made them
possible--the little ranch in the valley. So he let his thoughts linger
there. Faint and elusive at first, those other days became finally quite
vivid, days of expectancy and gratification, days of sugar and quartered
apples, days of affection and love-talk from his pretty little mistress.
And how he missed them all! How he missed them--even the Mexican hostler
and the brown saddler and the old matronly horse--his mother by
adoption! But they were gone from him now, gone for all time out of his
life. Yet though he believed them gone, he continued to brood on them,
to live each day over again in his thoughts, till the men ahead
dismounted suddenly. Then he was glad to turn his attention to other
matters, things close around him. One of these was the coming of the
lean man with a pair of familiar objects in his hands--this after the
noonday meal.
"Well, my bucky," he began, turning critical eyes over Pat, "I been
studyin' your case a heap, and I've come to think I'm old Doctor Sow
himself. Your young man here is knocked out of all possible good," he
went on, as Stephen smilingly approached, "and so it occurred to me,
sir, as how you ain't sick no more'n I be. What ails you is you're an
aristocrat--something that's been knocked around unusual--what with them
rustlers and with us that's worse than rustlers--and got yourself all
mussed up and unfit! All you need is a cleanin'--that's what ails you!
You're just nice furniture--a piece o' Sheraton, mebbe--that's all over
sweepings, and I'm the he-maid that's going to dust you off. Hold still,
now."
So Pat, after taking a step toward Stephen, who now was stroking him
tenderly, held very still, not only under the soothing caress, but under
the operation--for such was the cleaning--since he was gritty beyond
belief. Also, after the operation he felt immeasurably better, and
better still when Stephen led him to a tiny stream and he had relieved
his thirst. But that was not all of joy. Turned loose with the other
horses, he fell to grazing eagerly, actually finding it good, and once
lifting a long and shrill nicker in gratitude for this change in his
condition. Nor did his delight stop here. With camp broken, and his
young master, instead of returning him to the lead-rope, bridling and
saddling him awkwardly with one hand, he set out along the trail at a
gait so brisk that it brought a startled exclamation from the young man,
who promptly pulled him down. But though he was forced to keep a slow
gait, yet frequently during the afternoon, conscious of his fresh coat
and the sense of buoyancy it gave him, he flung up his head and nickered
loud and joyfully. Also, with night once more descending, and the stars
twinkling in the blue-black heavens, and the sheen of a rising moon
flooding the desert, he moved about among the other horses with a vigor
that was almost insolence, seizing tufts of grass wherever he saw them,
heedless of others' rights.
Around the fire sat or sprawled the men. Two of them were industriously
mending, one a shirt, the other a bridle. The Professor and the man with
the scrubby beard were complacently smoking, while Stephen, glad to
stretch out after the day's ride with an arm that constantly distressed
him, was reclining upon a blanket, staring into the flames and conjuring
up in their leaping tongues numerous soothing pictures. As he sat there
the man with the beard suddenly addressed him.
"Doc," he drawled, removing his pipe from between whiskers that glinted
in the light of the fire, "now that you've got him, what are you
thinking of doing with that horse?"
"I'll take him back," replied Stephen, pleasantly.
The other was silent. "Shore!" he rejoined, after a moment. "But take
him back where?"
"Where he belongs."
There was further silence. "Excuse me!" finally exclaimed the other. "I
was thinking as mebbe you'd take him whence he came."
Stephen sat erect and looked at the other. He was smoking again
complacently.
"Whence come you?" asked Stephen, after a time.
The other slowly removed his pipe. Then he told him. Then Stephen spoke.
And then the man rose stiffly, crossed solemnly to him and shook hands
with him cordially.
"I knowed you was white the fust day I see you," he declared. Then he
waved a vague hand over the others. "They've all--all of 'em--traveled
that way. I was raised--"
A sudden shrill scream out in the darkness interrupted him. It was a
horse. The cry stirred the entire camp. The Professor arose, sauntered
out, whistling, whirled, and called back sharply. The others ran toward
him; the large man struck a match. The white horse was limping on three
legs. They bent over and examined the fourth. The match went out. All
straightened up. As they did so Pat sounded a shrill nicker.
"Busted!" exclaimed the large man, quietly. "Well, I'm a goat! That
black horse has kicked old Tom clear over the divide. I--I'm clean done!
Quick as lightning, too! No preambles; no circumlocutions; no nothing.
Just put it to him. Good Lord!" Then he regretfully drew a revolver. "I
reckon you boys better stand back."
A shot broke the quiet, and the desert shivered and was still again. The
white horse sank to the ground. Stephen walked to Pat, struck a match,
and looked him over critically. Pat was torn and bleeding in two places
along the neck, but otherwise he needed no attention. Stephen patted him
thoughtfully, gratefully, fighting the horror of what might have been
had this splendid horse weakened in the crisis. No wonder the little
girl in the valley worshiped him.
But he said nothing. After a time he returned to the fire and sat down
among a very sober group of men. Presently the man with the scrubby
beard broke the quiet. His voice sounded hollow and distressed.
"I knowed it," he declared. "Though I thought old Tom 'u'd done better."
He began to roll a cigarette. "Pore old Tom! He's killed; he's
dead--dead and gone." With the cigarette made, he snatched a brand from
the fire and lighted it. He fell to smoking in thoughtful silence, in
his eyes a look of unutterable sadness.
The Professor bestirred himself. "Tell me," he asked, lifting his gaze
to the heavens reflectively--"tell me, does any of you believe that
horses--any animiles--has souls?"
The lean man glanced at him. His eyes now had the look of one anxious to
express his views, but cautiously refused to be baited. Finally he made
answer.
"If you're askin' my opinion," he said, "I'll tell you that I know they
have." He was silent. "I know that animals has the same thing we've
got," he continued--"that thing we call the soul--but they've got it in
smaller proportions, so to speak. It's easy as falling off a bucking
bronc. Take old Tom out there. Take that Lady horse that got killed two
years ago by rustlers--take any horse, any dumb animal--and I'll show
you in fifteen different ways that they've got souls."
"How?"
The lean man glared. "Now 'how'!" he snapped. "You give me a mortal
pang. Why don't you never use your eyes once like other and more decent
folks? Get the habit. You'll see there ain't any difference between
animals and humans, only speech, and they've got that!"
The large man smiled. "Let's have it, Bob," he invited. "Where'll we
look for it first?"
The lean man showed an impatience born of contempt. "Well," he began,
tossing away his cigarette, "in desires, first, then in their power to
appreciate, and, finally, in their sense of the worth of things. They
have that, and don't you think they hain't. But they've got the others,
too. Animals like to eat and drink and play, don't they? You know that!
And they understand when you're good to 'em and when you're cussed mean.
You know that. And they know death when they see it, take it from me,
because they're as sensitive to loss of motion, or breathing, or animal
heat, as us humans--more so. They feel pain, for instance, more'n we do,
because, lackin' one of the five--or six, if you like--senses, their
other senses is keyed up higher'n our'n."
The Professor looked belligerent. "Get particular!" he demanded.
"I won't get particular," snapped the other. "S'pose you wrastle it out
for yourself--same as us humans." Evidently he was still bitter against
this man. "That Lady horse o' mine," he went on, his eyes twinkling,
addressing himself to the others, "she had it all sized about right. She
used to say to me, when I'd come close to her in the morning: 'Well, old
sock,' she'd say, throwin' her old ears forward, 'how are you this
mornin'?--You know,' she'd declare, 'I kind o' like you because you
understand me.' Then she'd about wipe her nose on me and go on. 'Wonder
why it is that so many of you don't! It's easy enough, our language,'
she'd p'int out, 'but most o' you two-legged critters don't seem to get
us. It's right funny! You appear to get 'most everything else--houses,
and land, and playin'-cards, and sich. But you don't never seem to get
us--that is, most o' you! Why, 'tain't nothin' but sign language,
neither--same as Injuns talkin' to whites. But I reckon you're idiots,
most o' you, and blind, you hairless animals, wearin' stuff stole offen
sheep, and your ugly white faces mostly smooth. You got the idee we
don't know nothin'--pity us, I s'pose, because we can't understand you.
Lawzee! We understand you, all right. It's you 'at don't understand us.
And that's the hull trouble. You think we're just a lump o' common dirt,
with a little tincture o' movement added, just enough so as we can run
and drag your loads around for you. Wisht you could 'a' heard me and old
Tom last night, after you'd all turned in, talkin' on the subject o'
keepin' well and strong and serene o' mind. Sign language? Some. But
what of it, old whiskers? Don't every deef-and-dumb party get along with
few sounds and plenty of signs? You humans give me mortal distress!'
"And so on," concluded this lover of animals. "Thus Lady horse used to
talk to me every mornin', tryin' to make me see things some little
clearer. And that's all animals--if you happen to know the 'try me' on
their little old middle chamber work." He fell silent.
The others said nothing. Each sat smoking reflectively, gazing into the
dying flames, until one arose and prepared to turn in. Stephen was the
last except the Professor and the man with the scrubby beard. And
finally the Professor gained his feet and, with a glance at the last
figure remaining at the fire, took off his boots and rolled up in his
blanket. For a long moment he stared curiously at the other bowed in
thought.
"Ain't you goin' to turn in?" he finally inquired. "You ain't et up by
nothin', be you?"
The lean man slowly lifted his head. "I was thinkin'," he said, half to
himself, "of a--a kind of horse's prayer I once see in a harness-shop in
Albuquerque."
The other twisted himself under his blanket. "How did it go?" he asked,
encouragingly. "Let's all have it!"
The lean man arose. "'To thee, my master,' it started off," he began,
moving slowly toward his blanket. Suddenly he paused. "I--I don't just
seem to remember it all," he said, and sat down and pulled off one of
his boots. He held it in his hands absently.
The Professor urged him on. "Let her come," he said, his face now hidden
in the folds of his covering. "Shoot it--let's hear."
"'To thee, my master, I offer my prayer,'" presently continued the
other, turning reflective eyes toward the flickering coals. "'Feed me,
water me, care for me, and, when the--the day's work is done, provide me
with shelter and a clean, dry bed, and, when you can, a stall wide
enough for me to lie down in in comfort. Always be kind to me. Talk to
me--your voice often means as much to me as the reins. Pet me sometimes,
that I may serve you the more gladly and know that my services are
appreciated, and that I may learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins,
and do not whip me when going up-hill. And when I don't understand you,
what you want, do not strike or beat or kick me, but give me a chance to
understand you. And if I continue to fail to understand, see if
something is not wrong with my harness or feet.'"
The Professor's blanket stirred. "Go on!" he yelled. "Sounds all right.
Go ahead! Is that all?"
"I disremember the rest," replied the other. "Let's see!" He was silent.
"No," he finally blurted out, "I can't get it. It says something about
overloading, and a-hitching where water don't drop on him, and--Oh yes!
'I can't tell you when I'm thirsty,' it goes on, 'so give me cool, clean
water often. Never put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by
holdin' it a moment in your hands. And, remember, I try to carry you and
your burdens without a murmur, and I wait patiently for you long hours
of the day and night. Without power to choose my shoes or path, I
sometimes stumble and fall, but I stand always in readiness at any
moment to lose my life in your service. And this is important, and,
finally, O my master! when my useful strength is gone do not turn me out
to starve, or sell me to some cruel owner to be slowly tortured and
starved to death; but do thou, my master, take my life in the kindest
way, and your God will reward you here and hereafter. You will not
consider me irreverent, I know, if I ask all this in the name of Him Who
was born in a stable.'"
The Professor's blanket stirred again. "Go on," he demanded in muffled
tones. "Is that all?"
The lean man slipped off his second boot. "No," he replied, quietly,
"that ain't all."
"Well, go ahead. It's good. That horse must 'a' been a city horse; but
go on!"
"Only one more word, anyway," was the rejoinder. He was still holding
his boot.
"What is it?"
"Why"--the voice was solemn--"it's 'Amen.'"
"Aw, shucks!" came from the depths of the blanket.
The lean man turned his head. "Say, you!" he rasped, belligerently.
"What?"
For answer the boot sailed across the camp.
The Professor popped his head out of the blanket, drew it back suddenly,
popped it out again, all strongly suggestive of a turtle.
There was a hoarse laugh, then silence, but none of those men forgot the
Prayer of the Horse.