Chapter One
The Trade
“Someone has to stay home to give Colonel Flesher that Jersey calf,” said
Mr. Meadows. “Since we are the only men around the place, it looks as if
you’re elected.”
“O.K. I’ll stay. I don’t mind,” Jim answered cheerfully, if not too
accurately. He did mind very much.
“I’m sure everything will be safe with you,” continued Mr. Meadows as he
climbed in the car.
“Oh, I’ll take care of things,” said Jim nonchalantly.
He watched the car drive off. His father, mother and sister Jean were all
going into town for the afternoon while he stayed at home alone. He felt
rather proud that his father had called him a man, but that didn’t make
up for the disappointment of not going with them. He went over to sit on
the edge of the front porch, where he forlornly kicked his heels against
the lattice work. It was a beautiful spring day with a warm sun shining,
but Jim was in no mood to appreciate the wonders of nature. His small
brown face looked very mournful as he sat there feeling sorry for
himself. Something exciting was certain to happen in town, and he would
miss it. He wondered how long the family had been gone now. Jumping up,
he ran inside the house and returned with a large gold watch.
“Quarter past one,” he said aloud. Doubtfully, he held the watch to his
ear.
“Ticktock, ticktock,” came the answer.
It seemed impossible that it was only a quarter past one; it would be
almost four hours before the family returned. Although it was a form of
treason to doubt that watch, Jim peered through the kitchen door to
compare it with the kitchen clock. The watch was right. It promised to be
a long dismal afternoon.
To pass away the time he polished the gold case with his big red
bandanna. The watch was his most prized possession; his father had given
it to him on his twelfth birthday, almost eight months before. He wore it
only on special occasions or when he was feeling sad, like today.
Carefully he unscrewed the back and looked at the shiny works. The
balance wheel was going back and forth quietly and faithfully. Jim
polished the inside of the back cover and reread the inscription for the
hundredth time. “To James Meadows from Elizabeth, June 7, 1884.” Over
sixty years ago his grandmother had given that watch to his grandfather
and it was still bright and shiny, and kept perfect time.
“I wish it would run a little faster this afternoon though,” said Jim, as
he placed the watch in his overall watch pocket.
Feeling a tiny bit more cheerful, he walked toward the orchard fence. A
gentle breeze was blowing toward him, bringing the delicate scent of
apple blossoms. He leaned on the fence, inhaling deeply and gazing at the
riot of blossoms in the orchard. When it is spring in southern Missouri,
one must have a very deep sorrow to remain downhearted long. Jim, being
young and normally very healthy, was recovering his spirits rapidly. He
wrinkled his short nose and after inhaling the odor of apple blossoms
again, decided that he would go closer to the trees. Now that no one was
about he might even break off a sprig of blossoms. Having a healthy fear
of appearing a sissy, he would never think of doing such a thing if his
sister Jean were present. Flowers were for girls as far as he was
concerned.
He was halfway across the orchard when he remembered the bull. The big
red bull was Mr. Meadows’ pride and joy but Jim’s pet abomination. He was
afraid of it and very reasonably so, as it was a mean-tempered animal.
Feeling rather panicky, Jim turned to hurry back toward the gate. It was
too late. Unnoticed, the bull had slipped behind him and was now blocking
the way. The big animal was standing very quietly, looking straight at
Jim. There was a wicked look in the bloodshot eyes that indicated plainly
that he had no intention of remaining quiet long.
With a sinking sensation in his stomach, Jim looked around frantically,
trying to figure which fence was the closest. It was rather a tossup as
to distance. Choosing the fence bordering the road as being the easiest
to climb, he began backing cautiously toward it, keeping his eyes on the
hostile bull.
As Jim made up his mind which way to move, so did the bull. He snorted
several times, pawed the ground ferociously, lowered his head and charged
toward the boy. The powerful feet dug into the soft ground as the big
body gathered speed in a ponderous rush. Jim knew he would never make the
fence in time. He was frightened, but not too frightened to think. Once
the huge bull was up to top speed he couldn’t change direction quickly.
As the thundering feet drew dangerously close, the boy darted quickly to
the right and ducked behind the nearest apple tree. The bull swerved and
roared by like an avalanche.
Jim was safe for a moment, but he knew he would not have long to wait
until the bull charged again. The animal had turned around and was pawing
and snorting. Reluctantly Jim gave up all ideas of reaching the fence. He
grabbed the lowest branch of the apple tree and swung his stocky body
upward. He was just in time, for the bull rushed underneath him like an
express train.
Giving a whistle of relief, the boy climbed higher. Finding what appeared
to be a comfortable perch, he settled down to consider the situation.
Apparently he would simply just have to sit there and hope the bull would
forget him. The bull decided to play a waiting game too. He pawed and
snorted for a time and then calmed down. Although he grazed quietly, he
showed no signs of leaving the vicinity. Just as Jim would begin to grow
hopeful, the animal would lift his head and gaze balefully up into the
tree. This began to appear very one-sided to Jim after a few minutes.
While the bull could amble around at his ease, the most Jim could move
was a few inches. What had appeared a comfortable seat began to grow very
irksome.
He shifted around trying to find a soft spot. It was impossible. One spot
was as bad as another. There was a limit as to how long one could sit
comfortably in an apple tree. Now Jim grew really sorry for himself. How
he wished he could have gone into town with his family. That was the most
exciting event of the week. First they took the cream to the Springdale
Creamery, where he could walk around inhaling the clean smell of steam
and butter. It was fascinating to watch the huge revolving churns. He
supposed today would be one of those times when Mr. Slemak would offer
everyone a drink of cold buttermilk.
The grocery store was fun too. Probably Jean was sampling the cookies
now. When his father paid the grocery bill there was always a bag of
candy for both him and Jean. He hoped Mr. Higgins wouldn’t forget him
just because he wasn’t along. Jim sighed miserably. Instead of smelling
the odor of newly ground coffee, here he was up in a tree smelling apple
blossoms. The scent which was so wonderful before was getting rather
tiresome now.
“What a mess!” he said to himself. He looked down at the bull, his anger
mounting. “Go away, you big dope!”
That did no good either. Jim remained uncomfortably in the tree. To make
matters worse, bees began to buzz around entirely too close to his head.
Holding on to the tree with one hand and swatting at bees with the other
was not pleasant exercise. Suddenly he remembered he hadn’t closed the
orchard gate behind him. If the bull did wander away, he would be
perverse enough to head straight for the gate. The yard gate was open
too, so the way onto the road was clear. Once he was out on the road
there was no telling where the animal might stray. Now Jim was torn
between hoping the bull would go away and wanting him to stay. Either
way, he decided he was in a pickle. His parents would either come home to
find him trapped in the apple tree or else would find the bull loose and
strayed to parts unknown.
The thought of Colonel Flesher came like a ray of light. The stock buyer
was supposed to arrive about three o’clock. If the bull were still
standing guard beneath the tree, the colonel could come to the rescue and
all would be well. Jim shifted his perch slightly and hoped the stock
buyer would arrive soon. It seemed as if he had been in the tree for
hours. He reached in his pocket but his hand found nothing. With a
horrible sinking feeling he realized his precious watch was gone. It must
have bounced out of his pocket while he was racing for the tree. With an
effort he kept back the tears. He looked back along his recent path,
hoping to catch the glint of gold. There was nothing in sight but the new
green grass. If the bull had trampled on it during his mad rush, the
watch was probably broken and buried in the soft earth. Completely
dejected now, Jim sat in the tree and mourned. It was certainly a
heartbreaking day.
He was so deep in his misery that he did not notice a strange cavalcade
coming over the hill until the creaking of wagon wheels and the neighing
of a horse caused him to look up in surprise. The procession, which was
nearing the yard gate, was so unusual and interesting that Jim forgot his
woes and stared in excited curiosity. First there was the oddest wagon he
had ever seen. It was a large wagon with a sort of house built on the
chassis. The house had a flat roof which stuck out in front and overhung
the driver’s seat, and the board sides contained two small windows.
Initially Jim thought it was a ranch chuck wagon, for he had been reading
Western stories; but then he changed his mind and decided it was more
like a circus wagon or like the wagons he had seen in the movies used by
traveling road troupes in the old days.
[Illustration: Caravan of horse trader]
Seated on the high driver’s seat was an old man in a sombrero, whistling
cheerfully and clucking to a team of huge black horses. The team was
ambling along slowly, drawing the wagon with effortless ease. But what
attracted Jim’s gaze most was the procession following the wagon. Strung
out behind were at least twenty horses of all sizes and colors—big gray
Percherons, medium-sized brown horses, sorrels, some dark bays, light
grays and a few whites. Jim looked at each horse in turn until finally he
came to the last in the string—a lean little mouse-colored horse whose
small body contrasted oddly with the other broad-rumped work horses.
The fascinating cavalcade drew still nearer until it reached the gate.
The driver gave a slight tug on one rein and the wagon started turning.
Jim was so interested and delighted that he almost lost his seat in the
tree. The strange wagon and all those horses were coming in their yard!
Almost doubting his eyes, he saw the vehicle progress down the lane and
come to a halt, the long string of horses bunching up behind the wagon
until they too finally stopped. The old man climbed down from his high
perch and looked around inquisitively. Seeing no one in the yard he
started toward the house.
“There’s nobody home but me,” shouted Jim loudly.
The stranger turned around to look toward the orchard, and Jim got his
first good view of the visitor. He was a tall stringy individual with a
long gray handle-bar mustache that drooped from his upper lip and hid
much of the lower part of his face. He was obviously a very old man, but
there was nothing old about his movements nor the way his bright eyes
searched in the direction from which the voice had come. He looked
puzzled, for all he could see was apple blossoms.
“And where are you?” he asked.
“I’m up here in a tree,” said Jim, poking his black thatched head as far
through its frame of apple blossoms as he dared. “The bull won’t let me
climb down.”
“Treed are you?” asked the man, laughing at what Jim didn’t think was a
funny situation. “Just how mean is that bull?”
“Dad handles him without any trouble,” replied Jim. “Once in a while he
has to hit him on the nose with a stick.”
“Be with you in a minute.” The stranger hunted around until he found a
big piece of wood for a club.
The bull decided he wasn’t quite so ferocious when he saw a determined
man approaching with a sizable club. He gave a few disgruntled snorts and
then ambled off to the far end of the orchard. Thankfully Jim climbed
down from his uncomfortable haven.
“Thanks, Mister,” he said with feeling. “Now I’ve got to find my watch.”
He hurried back along the path of his recent flight from the bull,
searching the ground anxiously. About thirty feet from the tree he found
his watch, lying bright and shining in the sun. He picked it up and held
it to his ear. It was ticking away merrily. With a huge sigh of relief,
Jim put the watch in his pocket.
“You really got me out of a mess,” he said, as they walked toward the
gate. “I was trapped in that tree, the orchard gate was open, and my
watch was lying on the ground.”
“That looks like a pretty good watch to be carrying around in your
overalls.”
“It’s about the best watch in the world I guess,” said Jim proudly. “I
don’t usually carry it every day.”
“Now you can do me a good turn,” said the stranger as they went out of
the gate, fastening it this time. “I’d like to water my horses.”
“Sure, bring them over to the tank.”
Jim pumped more water into the big cement tank while the man led his
horses over to drink. First he watered the team he was driving and then
started with the string of horses behind the wagon.
“How come you’ve got so many horses?” asked Jim, his curiosity getting
the better of his manners.
“I’m a horse trader. Not many traveling horse traders left any more. I
usually have a lot more horses than these, but I sold fourteen
yesterday.”
“Gee,” said Jim, “it must be a lot of fun to have so many horses.”
“It is if you like horses. It’s a lot of work too. Most people find two
or three too much to take care of the way they should.”
“Do you live in that wagon?” asked Jim.
“All but about three months of the year,” replied the horse trader. “Now
let me ask a question. When’s your pa going to be home?”
“About five o’clock, I ’spect,” Jim informed him. He looked at his watch.
It was not quite three. He hadn’t been in that tree nearly so long as he
had thought.
“Think your pa will want to trade or buy any horses?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Jim. “We’ve got two teams that are pretty
good.”
The old man led the last horse to the trough for a drink. It was the
small brown horse that Jim had noticed at the end of the string. It
wasn’t an impressive horse at all. It was very thin, the hip bones making
big bumps as if they were trying to push their way through the poor
horse’s hide. There was an ugly, partially healed sore on his back, and
he limped slightly on his right foreleg. His coat was a shaggy lusterless
gray-brown. It was hard to tell what either the tail or mane was like as
both were so matted with cockleburs and bits of weed. Lastly, the little
horse didn’t hold his head as he should, but kept it cocked to one side
as if he were looking at something very odd and interesting. To most
horse fanciers this odd position of the head would have been the crowning
defect of the long list, but it was just this feature that attracted Jim.
The pony seemed to be looking at him quizzically. As Jim looked closer he
was certain he saw a twinkle in the horse’s eye as if the animal were
trying to share some sort of joke with him.
Jim stopped pumping water and moved closer to the little horse. He was so
painfully thin and that sore looked so tender that Jim felt a surge of
sympathy. He wished the horse could stay there and rest. The object of
Jim’s compassion lifted his muzzle from the trough, shook his head, and
snorted until he had blown the water from his nostrils. Then he looked
squarely at the boy and winked. This time Jim was certain the horse
grinned too. It was very plain what the pony meant. He seemed to say:
“Thanks for the water and your kindness. I’m rather deceiving in
appearance and am in much better shape than most people would think.”
Walking around to look at the horse from the other side, Jim spied a mark
on the pony’s left shoulder. It was an _H_ lying on its side like this:
[Illustration: Letter H lying on its side]
“That’s a brand, isn’t it?” asked the boy excitedly.
“Yep. I reckon that is the lazy-_H_ brand.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Well, this is a Western mustang. The man I bought him from said a
carload of cow ponies was shipped in from Texas a couple of years ago. He
picked up this feller at the sale.”
“A real Texas mustang,” said Jim, reverently.
“He’s a bit small even for a Western cow pony,” said the trader, sitting
down on the edge of the water tank. “In fact there’s a lot of things
about this horse that are different from most mustangs.”
“What?”
“Well,” drawled the old man, filling his pipe, “I’m in no hurry to get up
on that jolting seat again. Just set here awhile and I’ll tell you a
little about Western horses, specially this one.”
“Swell,” said Jim enthusiastically. “Can I hold the horse?”
The old man passed over the halter rope and Jim sat happily on the well
platform holding on to the end of the tether. The horse looked at both of
them for a moment and then calmly started to crop the grass.
“Western horses usually run pretty wild for three years or so,” began the
old man. “Then they’re broken for riding. They break Western horses quick
and rough and most of them buck every time they’re saddled. A ranch horse
is worked only four or five months a year and then only three or four
days a week. Most of them, except the favorites, never get to know a man
real well and so usually they don’t show much affection.” He paused to
relight his corn-cob pipe. Reflectively he gazed on the glowing coal and
drew on the pipe stem noisily while Jim waited impatiently.
“This little feller is different. Plenty of spirit, but about as gentle a
horse as I’ve ever seen. Gentle, that is, if he likes you. In the five
days I’ve had him I can tell he’d develop a real likin’ for anybody that
treated him at all reasonable.”
“I’ll bet he would,” agreed Jim, looking at the horse.
“He’s a good horse, but I don’t know just what I’ll do with him. He’s not
a work horse—too small for heavy work. He’s really a saddle horse and
people in these parts don’t go much for saddle horses unless they’re rich
people. Then they want something fancy like a Kentucky saddle horse. But
I felt sorry for this critter and I bought him.”
“Felt sorry for him? Why?” asked Jim with great interest.
“He was bein’ mistreated. You can’t be a horse trader for fifty years
without becomin’ real fond of horses. It gets you mad to see anyone treat
an animal mean. So I picked up this pony mainly to get him away from the
skunk that owned him. Look how thin the horse is. Why I’d bet money he
hasn’t had a feedin’ of grain in the two years that man had him. Of
course, these Westerns are tough. They run wild all winter and find feed
where other breeds would starve. But this pony was turned out in a field
where there wasn’t enough grass. Nothing to eat except straw. That
strawstack was all the shelter he had too. You can tell from that long
shaggy hair that he was out all winter. It will take a lot of curryin’
and plenty of oats to get that coat in shape.”
“You mean he was out in the snow and everything?” asked Jim.
“The snow isn’t so bad. He’s probably used to that. But when horses run
loose in the winter out West, they don’t have nothin’ else to do but hunt
for feed. This horse has been rode all winter too. See those saddle
galls?” said the trader, pointing. “They’re recent. A horse can’t do much
work on a diet of straw and then stay outside in the cold to boot. He
needs a layer of fat to keep him warm.”
“How did he get those saddle sores?” inquired Jim.
“Been saddled wrong.”
“They look awful sore.”
“They were, but they’re healing now that I’m givin’ them a little
attention. If nobody rides him for a while, they’ll clear up all right.”
“He’s lame too,” pointed out Jim.
“Yep, nail in his foot. The owner just pulled the nail out—nothin’ else.
I was sort of takin’ a chance buyin’ the horse at all. He might have
developed lockjaw. Once a horse gets lockjaw you might as well shoot him.
But I pared out the hoof, soaked his foot in a lysol solution, and worked
some iodine into the puncture. I’ve given him a couple of treatments
since and he’s out of danger now. In a week you’d never know he’d stepped
on a nail.”
The long story of the mustang’s mistreatment and ills had aroused Jim’s
sympathy. He looked at the horse with even greater interest than before.
Several times the little horse raised his head and appeared to give the
boy a good-natured nod. The fact that the pony was still gentle and
apparently in high good humor after all he had been through particularly
appealed to the boy.
“How much would you sell that horse for?” he asked impulsively.
“Well, I reckon he’s worth about forty dollars,” said the old trader
appraisingly.
“Gee,” said Jim sorrowfully. “I guess he’s worth that all right but I
only got three bucks.”
“I’m afraid three dollars would be a mite too cheap,” said the man
laughing. “I know he looks like three dollars now, but he’ll shape up.
Feed him properly and take care of him and you’d be surprised at the
improvement. I haven’t had time to work on his coat or tail but a few
weeks would do a lot.”
“How old is he?”
“Six years, I figure. He’s a good sound horse. You take a good look and
you’ll see that he has his better points.”
It was true. On closer inspection the first bad impression began to fade.
The pony had a short barrel, straight unblemished legs, and a deep chest.
Aside from their extreme thinness, his hind quarters were well
proportioned. Both eyes were bright, clear and alert.
“He sure looks like a good horse to me,” said Jim truthfully. He knew
nothing about the finer points of horses, but the little mustang appealed
to him. He liked the horse and that settled the matter. Naturally he was
a fine animal.
“He is a good horse. No fancy gaited animal but just a good sturdy ridin’
horse. Some of these days I’ll find someone who’ll appreciate him and
take good care of him.”
“I’d appreciate him,” thought Jim enviously. “And I’d take awfully good
care of him.”
Apparently the horse read Jim’s thoughts, for he raised his head, cocked
it even farther to one side, and stared straight at the boy. It was a
friendly look that clearly said, “Yes, I know, Jim; we’d be good
friends.”
Sorrowfully the boy watched the old trader tie the mustang to the end of
the string and then climb up on his wagon. How he would like to own that
horse. A real mustang with a brand. He and that pony certainly could have
fun together.
The wagon turned around and started down the lane. Jim felt as sad and
lonely as if his best friend were departing forever. If only he could
have gone to town. Then he would not have seen the little mustang and
wanted him so. He pulled out his watch. Three-thirty. Time had passed
rapidly enough while he was looking at the mustang. Now it would drag
again. Suddenly he looked at the watch as if he were seeing it for the
first time. His grandfather’s watch—his most prized possession. He
couldn’t possibly part with it. He raised his eyes and saw the mustang
going out the gate. Headlong he ran after the wagon.
“Hey, Mister! Wait a minute please!”
The horse trader heard the frantic cry and pulled his team to a halt. He
looked down inquiringly as Jimmy rushed up beside him.
“Would you trade that mustang for my watch?” Jim asked in a rush of
words, as though afraid that if he hesitated he would lose his nerve.
“Well, I might now,” answered the old man. “What kind of a watch is it?”
“Here it is,” said Jim, pulling out his precious watch. He stood on
tiptoe to hand it up to the trader.
The old man examined the watch carefully while Jim watched nervously. The
trader held the watch to his ear, removed the back and inspected the
shiny works.
“Look, son,” he said finally, “this is _your_ watch, isn’t it? Not your
father’s?”
“It’s mine, really mine,” said Jim in desperate eagerness to be believed.
“It was given to me on my birthday.”
“How about it? Would your father and mother be mad if you traded it for a
horse?”
“I don’t see why. It’s my watch,” protested Jim. The thought made him a
little uneasy. He wondered if they would care. His resolution began to
waver. Then he looked at the mustang and his doubts vanished. How he’d
like to have that horse!
“Well,” drawled the old man slowly, “I got my doubts about how this is
goin’ to set with your pa. But I know you want the horse more than you do
the watch. It wouldn’t be an uneven trade either. This is a good watch
but not an awful expensive one.”
“Then I can have the horse?” asked Jim in eager anticipation.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want. I hate to be the cause of any
trouble though. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll be back by here in about
three, four months. You tell your father that. My name’s Ned Evarts—Old
Ned Evarts. In fifty years of horse tradin’ no one has ever accused me of
tellin’ a lie. When I come back I’ll still have the watch. If you’re not
satisfied with the horse, we’ll trade back.”
“That sounds fair,” said Jim judiciously.
The trader reached inside the wagon and pulled out a bridle.
“Here’s the bridle I got with the horse,” he said, climbing down from the
wagon. “You’ll need a bridle, so I’ll throw that in. Now the horse has on
a rope halter. It doesn’t look like much but it’s sturdy. You can have
that too if you want.”
“Thanks, Mister,” said Jim, beginning to be overwhelmed by all his new
property.
“Now I’ll tell you something,” said the old man. “There is such a thing
as an honest horse trader even if people don’t think so. A trader that
deals square will tell a man about any defects that he knows of inside
the horse. About his wind, whether he has the heaves, and things like
that. Anything that shows outside the horse, it’s up to the buyer to see.
If he can’t tell what he’s buyin’, it’s his tough luck.”
“This horse looks all right to me,” said Jim, stoutly defending his new
property.
“He is,” said the trader. “Since you’re a young feller and haven’t had
much experience tradin’, I’d tell you if anything was wrong. This mustang
hasn’t any defects we haven’t already talked about. There’s that saddle
sore, the lame foreleg, he’s pretty lean, and his coat needs a lot of
work. Other than that he’s sound. Now I want you to take notice of the
way he holds his head. It’s kinda cockeyed. Now lots of folks would look
at him and figure him to be a mean horse. He isn’t. That horse isn’t a
bit mean; he’s been mistreated and he’s a little worried about whom to
trust. You be good to him and he’ll be as gentle as can be.”
“He’ll like me,” said Jim confidently.
“I think he will. One other thing—that mustang is a smart critter. Horses
are like people; some are just naturally dumb and others are smart. I’ve
been handling the animals so long I’ve kinda got a sixth sense about ’em.
Now this little feller is one of the smartest I’ve ever run across.”
Evarts untied the mustang from the end of the string and handed the rope
to Jim.
“Well, he’s your horse. Good luck.”
“Good-by,” said Jim as the trader climbed back on the wagon. “That’s a
good watch too.”
Jim watched the wagon, with its trailing string of horses, move off down
the road. He felt a twinge of pain as he thought of his beloved watch
slowly moving into the distance. Then he felt a tug on the rope he held.
The horse was looking at him quizzically.
“No, I’m not sorry I traded,” said Jim, as if in answer to a question.
“But I’m going to miss that watch. I know what I’m going to do. I’ll call
you ‘Ticktock’ after my watch.”
Chapter Two
The Reception
After tying Ticktock to the orchard fence, Jim stepped back and regarded
his property with admiration. Ownership had caused the mustang to take on
new beauty in the eyes of the boy. There were so many things to be done
that Jim was uncertain where to start. He had to feed the pony, comb out
his mane and tail, give him a good grooming and do something about that
saddle sore. After much thought, Jim finally decided the most important
and most enjoyable thing to do was to win his horse’s confidence. He ran
happily into the house and down the cellar stairs. There were still a few
apples left, he knew from frequent trips to the barrel.
“Here you are, Ticktock,” he said, returning with an apple. “It’s a
winesap and no worms in it either.”
Cutting the apple in half, he carefully removed the core and offered
one-half in his outstretched hand. Ticktock moved forward cautiously.
After a few moments of doubtful sniffing, he picked the apple delicately
from the boy’s outstretched palm. He ate it with obvious relish.
“Liked it, didn’t you?” asked Jim, getting more pleasure than if he had
eaten the apple himself.
Ticktock didn’t reply. He stuck his head forward and sniffed at Jim’s
other hand.
“Say, you’re pretty smart,” said Jim admiringly, as he gave the pony the
remainder of the apple. “You know there’s two halves to an apple.”
By this time Jim felt confident enough to begin stroking the mustang’s
head. Next he gently scratched the horse’s ears. He knew dogs liked their
ears scratched, so why not horses? Ticktock didn’t seem to mind, for he
stood patiently. Jim had progressed as far as the neck when there was an
interruption. Colonel Flesher drove in the yard in his little truck. The
fleshy stock buyer climbed out of his car and walked toward the boy.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” said Jim, glad to see the visitor. Now here
was a man who would appreciate the finer points of a beautiful horse.
“Come see my mustang.”
[Illustration: Selling a mustang]
“Mustang, eh?” asked Colonel Flesher jovially.
“Yep. A real Western. Isn’t he a beauty?”
Colonel Flesher looked at the little horse doubtfully. He pursed his lips
searching for the right thing to say. The boy’s enthusiasm left no doubt
as to what sort of answer was expected.
“Well, he’s a bit thin yet to be called a beauty,” he said, evading
nicely.
“He may be a little thin,” admitted Jim unwillingly, “but I’ll fix that
up in no time. He’s a Texas ranch horse.”
“That so?” asked the colonel, glad to be off the subject of the mustang’s
appearance. “Where’d you get him?”
“Traded a gold watch for him. I made a fine deal. He’s worth a lot more
than a gold watch, isn’t he?”
“Well, that all depends on the watch,” answered the stock buyer
cautiously. “There are all sorts of watches you know, some cheap, some
valuable.”
“I’ve never seen a watch that was worth half as much as this horse,” said
Jim hotly, realizing that Colonel Flesher wasn’t too enthusiastic about
Ticktock.
“Hm-m-m, well,” hedged the colonel, trying to be truthful and still not
hurt the boy’s feelings.
“You wait,” said Jim confidently. “Wait until I get him spruced up a bit;
then you’ll see. He’s probably the smartest horse in the whole state.”
“That could be true enough,” said the stock buyer, glad to find something
on which they could agree. “I’d like to spend more time looking at him,
son; but I’m in a big hurry. Can you tell me where the calf is that I
bought from your father?”
Jim led the calf out of the barn and over to the truck. The two carried a
small stock chute to the back of the truck. By dint of much pushing,
pulling and coaxing, the calf was finally loaded.
“Here’s the fifteen dollars for the calf,” said the colonel. “Thanks a
lot for helping me.”
Jim returned to his horse. Colonel Flesher’s lack of approval didn’t
bother him in the least. He shrugged his shoulders. After all the stock
buyer bought cows largely, and probably wasn’t able to see Ticktock’s
wonderful qualities. He went out to the barn for a curry comb and brush.
Now he hoped his family wouldn’t be back for hours. He had visions of the
mustang looking like a show horse by the time they returned.
Currying Ticktock turned out to be a much bigger job than Jim had
anticipated. After the first ten minutes he sadly conceded that it would
be a matter of weeks instead of hours before he could have the pony’s
coat sleek and glistening. He tried unsuccessfully to comb out a few
strands of the matted mane and gave up. Instead he started to work on a
shoulder—that looked easier. After twenty minutes of hard work, he was
resting his tired arms when the family drove in the yard. Jim ran
excitedly over to the car, jumping on the running board as the car
stopped.
Since the driver’s seat was on the side toward the orchard, Mr. Meadows
saw the mustang first.
“Where did that nag come from?” he inquired.
“Nag!” said Jim, astounded. “Why that’s a real Texas cow pony with a
brand and everything.”
“All right,” said Carl Meadows, grinning at his son. “Where did that real
Texas cow pony come from?”
“I traded for him,” said Jim proudly.
“You did what?”
“Traded for him.”
“Traded what?” asked Jim’s father.
“My gold watch. I got the horse, a halter and a bridle, all for my
watch.”
Mr. Meadows said nothing, but the grin vanished. Very slowly and grimly
he got out of the car and walked toward the horse. Mrs. Meadows and Jean
followed, all gathering in front of the mustang. Ticktock stopped grazing
and looked up inquiringly at his suddenly large audience.
“You traded your grandfather’s gold watch for _that_,” Mr. Meadows asked
finally, with a contemptuous wave of his hand toward the horse.
“Uh-uh.” Jim sensed that matters were rapidly becoming difficult, so he
tried to ease the situation as much as he could. “He’s the smartest horse
you ever saw.”
“I don’t know how smart the horse is,” said his father, “but I’m
beginning to have some doubts about you, Jim. I gave you that watch
because I thought you would take care of it and appreciate it.”
“But I did appreciate it!” cried Jim in a hurt voice.
“Not enough, apparently, to prevent you from trading it off for a
broken-down piece of horseflesh.”
“He isn’t broken-down,” replied Jim, coming to the defense of Ticktock.
“He’s a beautiful horse.”
“Well I’ll be—”
“Carl!” said Mrs. Meadows sharply.
“Well, it’s enough to make a man swear,” said Mr. Meadows. “Jim, who
palmed this crazy-looking nag off on you? I’m going to take it back and
get your watch back.”
“I don’t want to trade back,” cried Jim. “I want to keep Ticktock.”
“Who was it?” repeated his father. Mr. Meadows’ usually good-natured
expression was replaced by one of angry determination. Jim knew he had
best answer the question.
“A traveling horse trader named Ned Evarts,” he replied.
“A traveling horse trader!” shouted Mr. Meadows, grabbing his head in his
hands in despair. “That is the last straw. There’s no telling where the
rascal is now. Still, I’m so disgusted that I’ve half a mind to phone the
sheriff to see if the man can be located.”
“Don’t do that, Dad,” Jim pleaded. “He asked me if I was sure it would be
all right with you.”
“Well that is about as low a piece of swindling as I’ve ever
encountered,” said the older man, “taking advantage of a boy!”
“He wasn’t a swindler. Besides, he said he’d be back this fall and if I
wasn’t satisfied, he’d trade back.”
“Back this fall,” scoffed his father. “Why he’ll have that watch in the
first pawn shop he finds. He’s probably laughing now at how he got rid of
such a broken-down old plug.”
Miserable as he was, Jim was not going to let anyone make remarks about
Ticktock. “He isn’t broken-down and he isn’t old either. Only six years
old.”
“Six years old!” said Mr. Meadows scornfully. “Why he’s closer to
sixteen. Did you look at his teeth?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll show you something about your valuable horse!” said Carl
Meadows, advancing toward Ticktock.
The mustang had been watching and listening to the argument with
interest. He couldn’t understand the words, but there was little else
that he missed. The frequent looks of contempt that Carl Meadows had
given him hadn’t passed unnoticed. Ticktock was a horse of considerable
independence. He wanted people to like him, but if they didn’t, he wasted
little time in trying to win their favor. Affection was a two-way affair
with him. Mrs. Meadows and Jean were neutral and puzzled respectively, so
Ticktock reserved judgment on them. But the mustang definitely did not
like the tall man. When Mr. Meadows reached out confidently to open his
jaws, Ticktock promptly took a nip at one of the outstretched hands. It
wasn’t a savage bite—just a moderate bite, as the mustang didn’t hate the
strange man. He merely didn’t want to be handled by anyone who disliked
him. However, the nip was enough to take the skin off one finger and draw
blood.
Mr. Meadows jerked his arm back and really cursed this time. He shook the
injured hand and glared with hatred at the pony.
“That settles it. That mean-tempered beast has got to go. I won’t have a
vicious horse on my place. The next thing you know he will kill someone.”
Jim was very alarmed at the accident. He hadn’t expected outright
approval of his trade, but he certainly had not anticipated such violent
opposition. Now the biting had climaxed the situation. He felt sorry
about his father’s injured hand but somehow he knew how Ticktock felt and
was in sympathy with him too.
“He isn’t vicious, Dad. He’s just not used to you. Look here.”
Before his father could stop him, Jim stepped forward and took hold of
Ticktock’s muzzle. He opened the mustang’s mouth easily.
“Want to see his teeth?”
“No thank you. I’ve felt them; that’s enough.” Mr. Meadows was a very
tolerant man, but he was human and had a streak of stubbornness. He had
taken his stand and was not going to back down. “I’ve said all I’m going
to say about that horse. Come help me get the groceries out of the car.”
All through the chores Jim and his father maintained strict silence about
the mustang. Jim performed his routine work from habit, for his mind was
busy with its overwhelming burden of misery. After the chores he went
quietly in the house and washed for supper. During the meal he sat
abjectly staring at his plate, eating scarcely anything. Mr. Meadows
could not help noticing his son’s misery; but Jim’s father was angry and
determined, so he too sat in tight-lipped silence. Mrs. Meadows
maintained her stand of complete neutrality. That left only Jean, who had
forgotten the argument and just wondered why everyone was so silent.
After supper Mr. Meadows went into the living room. Jim waited a few
minutes and then followed, determined to make another attempt to change
his father’s stand. Mr. Meadows had always been very reasonable before.
Jim’s mother left the dishes and went in the living room also, fearing a
peacemaker might be needed.
“Look, Dad,” said Jim, trying to approach the subject gradually, “there’s
an empty stall in the barn.”
“I said the horse was not going to stay,” said Mr. Meadows. “I simply
will not waste feed on a useless, mean-tempered horse.”
“He won’t use any feed,” Jim pointed out. “Just grass.”
“In the winter there is snow covering the grass,” said the older man
dryly.
“I’ll earn money this summer to feed him through the winter!” declared
Jim confidently. “Besides, I already have three dollars.”
He reached in his pocket to make certain he still had his precious three
dollars. His hand found the fifteen that Colonel Flesher had paid for the
calf. In the excitement he had forgotten to give the money to his father.
“Here’s the fifteen dollars Colonel Flesher gave me for the calf.”
Mr. Meadows pocketed the money. “It’s a good thing he didn’t come before
the horse trader, or you probably would have thrown in the fifteen
dollars with the watch.”
“I would not,” said Jim bitterly. He was now even more hurt than before.
“The money wasn’t mine but the watch was. You gave it to me.”
Everything seemed to mount up in Jim’s mind. He had felt like shedding
tears several times since his family’s return, but he was no crybaby and
had held them back. Now once again he began to choke up dangerously; so
he started to leave the room.
Mr. Meadows began to be somewhat sorry about his last words. He realized
that in his anger he had spoken rather hastily, and he saw his son was
deeply hurt.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” he said finally and rather awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have
said that. I know you would never be dishonest or trade off anything that
didn’t belong to you. I did give you the watch and it was your property.
It’s just that I attached a lot of sentiment to the watch and thought you
would too.”
Mrs. Meadows had been weighing the problem all evening. She hadn’t been
too favorably impressed by Ticktock, but she knew with a mother’s
instinct how precious the rawboned pony was to her son. Now that her
husband was in a slightly more softened mood she decided to strike.
“Carl, come in the kitchen a few minutes,” she said.
As Jim waited anxiously, he could hear low voices coming from the
kitchen. He knew his parents as well as they knew him and suspected that
his mother was coming to his rescue. When his parents returned to the
living room, Mrs. Meadows was looking determined and a trifle triumphant,
while her husband was embarrassedly trying to look indulgent. Jim sat up
expectantly.
“Your mother and I have talked over this matter,” announced Mr. Meadows.
“We’ve decided to arrive at a compromise with you. You can keep the horse
this summer providing he isn’t too mean and causes no trouble. But this
fall he goes. I will not feed him through the winter.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Jim and dashed out of the house.
When you are not quite thirteen a summer is a lifetime. The fall seemed a
million years away—a tiny cloud away over on the horizon. Why school
hadn’t even ended for the summer as yet. Jim went up to where Ticktock
stood, still tied to the orchard fence. He stroked the mustang’s head and
told him the good news.
“It’s all set, Ticktock. You can stay. We’ve got the whole summer
together. You’re going to get fat and really like it here. Now don’t mind
if Dad doesn’t seem to like you. He’s really an awful nice Dad. It’s just
that grown-ups don’t understand a lot of things. You sorta have to make
allowances for them. We’ll show everybody what a good horse you are. Only
if we’re going to make a good impression you can’t go around biting
people.”
The mustang took the good news very calmly.
“Come on, old boy; I’ll show you your new stall. It might rain tonight
and we don’t want you to catch cold.”
Chapter Three
The First Victory
The next few weeks were busy ones for Jim. School took most of the day,
while after school there were chores to do. Since Mr. Meadows maintained
his hostile attitude toward the mustang, Jim was very careful not to
shirk any of his farm work in order to spend additional time on Ticktock.
In spite of the full schedule, he managed to spend an hour or two on his
pony each day. He went over the pony’s coat for an exhausting hour every
evening and worked on the matted tail and mane. A few applications of
methylene blue to the saddle sores caused them to start healing, while
the remaining lameness quickly disappeared.
The first week-end Jim laboriously put in an entire new floor in
Ticktock’s stall. He carried fresh clay from a hill on the other side of
the farm and packed it firmly over the floor of the stall. He kept the
pony’s quarters scrupulously clean and filled with fresh straw for
bedding.
While Jim was at school, the little horse cropped busily at the spring
grass and waited for his master’s return. He sensed that Jim was the only
member of the family who was ready to lavish affection on him. Mr.
Meadows’ hostility was quite open and apparent. Jim’s mother, while at
least neutral, was seldom seen by the horse. As for Jean, Ticktock hadn’t
quite made up his mind. Jim’s little sister hadn’t decided whether to be
scornful of the horse or to like him as she did all the other animals
around the farm.
Under the circumstances it was not strange that the mustang welcomed Jim
home from school each afternoon, particularly since the reunion usually
meant an apple. The little pony had never had anyone really love him
before and he was quick to respond. Like most horses, the mustang had
always wanted to be close friends with some man. While the cow hands on
the range had treated him well, no one had ever singled him out for any
particular attention. He had been roped, saddled and worked. That was the
beginning and end of his ranch existence. Perhaps his very gentleness had
kept him from notice, as many cowboys preferred a rather wild and
unmanageable horse. Ticktock didn’t lack spirit. He simply didn’t see any
sense in bucking and kicking up a fuss.
It was three days before Jim ventured to ride his horse. He examined the
saddle sores and decided they were not too tender and that he could avoid
sitting on them. He put on the bridle for the first time and led Ticktock
up beside a small platform by the feed shed. Gingerly he climbed on the
pony’s bare back. Mrs. Meadows, unobserved, watched nervously from the
kitchen window. Secretly she thought the mustang looked somewhat
mean-tempered, but she kept silent. Her fears were unfounded, for the
pony stood calmly while Jim climbed awkwardly on his back. The horse
craned his head around as if to make certain his rider was firmly seated
and then stood waiting for orders.
Jim sat puzzled for a moment. He had ridden their broad-backed farm
horses many times, but this was different. He had heard somewhere you
never clicked to a saddle horse—and he wanted to do things right. You
said “giddap” to a work horse, but that sounded a little undignified for
a Western ranch horse. Finally he just pressed with his knees, lifted the
reins and said: “O.K., Ticktock, let’s go.” The pony seemed to
understand, for he started off at a brisk walk. Once outside the yard
gate, Jim gave another press of the knees and they were off at a trot. It
wasn’t a very comfortable trot, as jolting along bareback on a spine as
prominent as Ticktock’s still was, couldn’t possibly be anything but
painful. But Jim enjoyed every moment. As he was still being careful of
the pony’s tender foot, he rode him only a short distance down the road.
The return trip was made at a full gallop. Ticktock was not slow, so the
horse and rider made a triumphant entry into the yard.
As Jim slid off there was no doubt in his mind that Ticktock was the
fastest as well as the finest horse in the world.
After the first trial, Jim went for a daily ride, each one growing
longer. He led the horse into the yard, took the bridle over to the
platform, gave a shrill whistle, and Ticktock would trot up to be bridled
and mounted. Then they would go dashing off down the road, chasing
rustlers, carrying the mail, or acting out whatever happened to be the
current daydream.
Springdale no longer held any fascination for Jim. Saturdays were too
precious to be wasted in town. There were too many odd jobs to be done.
He repaired Ticktock’s feedbox, and built a rack for a bucket in one
corner of the stall. He wasn’t going to ask anyone to water his horse
when he was away, and he had no intention of letting the pony be thirsty.
The second Saturday after Ticktock’s arrival, Jim was lying on the front
porch resting from his labors. He munched on a cookie and gazed
contentedly at his horse. Ticktock was in the front yard grazing. The
regular pasture didn’t seem quite luxuriant enough to Jim. Besides he
planned to ride any moment now and wanted his horse near. The orchard
would have been the ideal spot but the bull was again occupying that
area. The boy thought about the bull and frowned.
Jim wasn’t the only one who disliked the bull, for Mrs. Meadows was very
nervous concerning the big red animal. She was also home this particular
Saturday. Her last words to her husband, before he and Jean left for
town, had been about the mean-tempered bull.
“Carl, I wish you’d see Colonel Flesher and sell that ugly brute. When I
stay home without you I’m always afraid that he’ll get loose.”
“I’ll get rid of him this fall,” Mr. Meadows had said, laughing. “He’s
safe enough in the orchard and I’m certain there’s nothing you’ll want in
there today.”
Jim lay thinking about the time he had been trapped in the tree. He was
still angry about that and wished he could think of some way of evening
the score. Besides, that orchard would certainly make a nice private
pasture for the horse. Grazing in the yard was not too satisfactory. His
mother had objected at first on the grounds that Ticktock would eat or
trample her flowers. They had finally compromised by agreeing that the
mustang could graze on the strip between the drive and the orchard fence.
As Jim disliked tethering his horse, he had to watch carefully; but it
was worth it. The pony was near and each mouthful he ate was that much
less lawn to be mowed.
Jim was turning over the weighty problem of whether to go for a ride now
or to try arguing his mother out of another cookie, when he noticed the
bull coming through the orchard gate. Either the gate had been insecurely
fastened or else the latch had been broken. He jumped to his feet in
alarm.
“Mother, the bull’s loose!” he shouted.
His mother came through the door onto the porch just as Jim started down
the steps. She made a frantic grab and caught her son by his overall
suspenders. She pulled him, kicking and struggling, back to the center of
the porch.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
“Ticktock is in the yard,” pointed out Jim, almost beside himself with
fear for his precious horse.
“The bull won’t bother a horse,” Jim’s mother reassured him.
“He will too!” cried Jim. “I saw a movie of a bull-fight and bulls
sometimes kill horses.”
“Nevertheless, you are staying right here,” said Mrs. Meadows firmly. “If
anybody gets hurt, it is not going to be you. Besides, Ticktock is a
ranch pony. He can take care of himself.”
The bull took a long curious look at the mustang who continued to graze
peacefully. Ordinarily the bull stayed clear of the large work horses but
the pony looked small enough to intimidate. He gave several snorts and
began to paw with his front foot. Ticktock just went on grazing, ignoring
the bull completely. The big animal lowered his head and prepared to
rush. Jim squirmed and struggled in another attempt to get free but his
mother now had him by the arm and showed no intention of letting him go.
Jim wasn’t quite certain what he could do if he were free. All he could
think of was that his pony was in danger.
“He’s going to rush!” he shouted.
“You couldn’t stop him,” said his mother. She too began to wonder about
the mustang’s safety.
The bull lunged forward, gathering speed as he went. His short legs
worked furiously, like pistons in a racing engine. Just as he seemed
certain to smash into the pony’s side, Ticktock jerked his head up and
made a quick wheeling movement. The bull rushed past harmlessly.
“There!” said Mrs. Meadows, with a huge sigh of relief. “Ticktock can
take care of himself.”
“I guess he’s too smart for an old bull,” said Jim with more confidence
than he really felt.
The bull turned around and was pawing again. After his experience in the
orchard, Jim was well acquainted with the ugly animal’s tactics.
“Look out, Ticktock!” he shouted.
The mustang needed no warning. He was watching the bull with a quizzical
look. He seemed amazed, as if he couldn’t quite believe that a “cow
critter” could possibly be stupid enough to try any tricks on a smart
ranch pony like himself. He cocked his head and stood waiting as if he
were saying, “I’ll just wait and see if this is really true. Maybe I just
imagined that bull was rushing at me.”
[Illustration: Bull and pony fighting]
The bull rushed all right. He came ploughing across the yard like a
freight train, the driving hooves taking huge chunks out of the smooth
green sod. Ticktock calmly and neatly side-stepped. He decided this time
that he hadn’t been mistaken. The bull was actually trying to scare
_him_. The whole thing was ridiculous. As the bull came charging back the
third time the pony decided he had enough of such foolishness. He wheeled
sharply when the animal was a few feet away. As the bull roared past,
Ticktock lashed out sharply with both hind feet. Running the open range
as a colt had taught the mustang how to use his only weapons, his feet.
He had learned well, as the bull now discovered. Ticktock planted a firm
kick squarely on the fat side of the big red animal. The bull, almost
knocked over by the force of the blow, gave a loud bellow of pain and
surprise. Jim jumped up and down on the front porch, cheering as if at a
boxing match.
“Sock him, Ticktock; let him have it!”
By now Ticktock had his ears back and his teeth bared. He stood watching
the bull, willing to give him another lesson. The bull, however, needed
no more instruction. He promptly dropped all ideas regarding the little
pony, moving a respectful distance away. Snorting in baffled rage and
disappointment, he walked across the yard and began pawing furiously in
the flower beds.
“My flowers,” moaned Mrs. Meadows. “Now I know that bull is going to be
sold. I could kill him with my bare hands.”
“I’ll chase him out,” volunteered Jim.
“No you don’t. You are still staying here,” insisted Jim’s mother.
Jim gave a whistle. “Come here, Ticktock.”
The mustang trotted up to the porch. Jim climbed on confidently. He had
no bridle but he was long since past the point where he needed reins to
make his wishes known to the pony. He rode over to the nearest tree and
broke off a substantial switch.
“Come on, boy; after the bull.”
Ticktock went after the big animal. Cutting steers out of herds, chasing
back strays, and all such maneuvers were old routine with him. He needed
few directions; all he required was to know where Jim wanted the bull to
go. They turned the animal back and, after a few trys, chased him through
the orchard gate.
Once inside, Jim gave the defeated and lumbering bull a triumphant swat
with his switch. The big beast broke into a reluctant run. Shouting and
waving his arms like a wild cowboy, Jim chased the vanquished bull to the
far end of the orchard.
When finally there was no place farther to go, he relented. Returning, he
fastened the gate securely and slid off Ticktock.
“You’re the bravest and smartest horse in the world, Ticktock. I’m going
to get you something for a reward.”
Jim swaggered into the kitchen, trying to walk as he thought a bow-legged
cowboy would.
“Ticktock is really a smart horse, isn’t he, Mom?”
“He seems to be very intelligent,” admitted his mother.
“We can handle that bull all right,” boasted Jim. “Why we can chase him
all over.”
“I noticed you did,” said Mrs. Meadows dryly. “I don’t say he didn’t
deserve it this time, but don’t make a practice of chasing him. That bull
is going to be sold and there is no use running the fat off him.”
“Oh no, we won’t run him,” protested Jim. “But any time you want him
handled, just call on us.”
“All right,” laughed his mother. “Now go get the apple you were planning
on asking for. And you can have a cookie for yourself.”
“One down,” said Jim as he gave Ticktock his apple. “Mom’s all for you.
We’ll show the others too. You wait. If only you hadn’t taken that bite
at Dad.”
The mustang stopped munching long enough to grin.
Chapter Four
New Allies
By the time school was over for the summer, Ticktock had filled out
considerably. His hip bones no longer appeared as if they were about to
poke through his hide, his neck was less scrawny, and his backbone,
though visible, no longer resembled the ridgepole of a tent. Jim could
ride him bareback without the painful discomfort of the first few weeks.
While the daily grooming had improved the pony’s coat a good deal, there
were still patches that were far from satisfactory. Over all, the horse
presented a rather mottled appearance. As some of the snarls in the
pony’s tail proved too much for Jim’s patience, they had been removed by
means of scissors. The result was rather weird—some strands were long and
flowing while others were short and ragged. The mane was likewise
irregular. Jim couldn’t bring himself to clip the mane short, as all the
cowboys’ horses he had ever seen in the movies had long manes. So again
he had clipped where he couldn’t untangle, ending up with a mane that
resembled a comb with half the teeth missing. But at any rate the horse
was free of burrs.
There was no questioning the mustang’s health or vitality. He frisked
about like a colt, showing that his wiry constitution hadn’t suffered
permanently from his past mistreatment. Since to Jim the horse had
appeared beautiful in his original state, by now he was the embodiment of
all that was perfect in horseflesh. Ticktock ran to meet the boy each
time he appeared, even though it might be ten times a day. It had become
second nature to obey the boy’s whistle. The two were on a perfect basis
of friendship and understanding.
A few days after the summer vacation began, Jim hung on the orchard
fence, deep in thought. The summer was just beginning, but he hadn’t
forgotten his father’s decision the night he had traded for Ticktock.
Fall had to come someday and then the mustang would have to go. Mr.
Meadows had shown no signs of relenting toward the pony. He ignored the
mustang as much as possible and when he did have to notice the pony, his
eyes contained as much dislike as ever.
Something had to be done, decided Jim. Perhaps he could think of some way
to earn money. If he could get enough money to pay for Ticktock’s feed
for the winter, his father’s chief objection would be overcome. Then with
his mother on his side, Jim felt he might win a reprieve for his horse.
He thought over the possible ways of earning money. There weren’t many
jobs a boy could do on a farm that brought in cash. Certainly there was
plenty of work, but you did that anyway and didn’t expect pay. Now a boy
in town could deliver papers, cut the neighbors’ lawns and run errands.
Here on the farm it was different. Of course you could pick wild
blackberries and huckleberries and sell them, but it would be some time
before either were ripe and he couldn’t afford to wait. No, things were
tough. Now he knew why boys left the farm. Feeling discouraged he went
into the house to see if there was something to eat that would take his
mind off his troubles.
“Jimmy,” said Mrs. Meadows, as her son ambled into the kitchen, “You
won’t get that cake I promised. I forgot to get any vanilla extract when
I was in town.”
“Gee,” said Jim disappointedly. Things certainly were tough. He sat
thinking a few minutes.
“Look, Mom,” he said brightening, “I’ll just ride into town and get the
extract. It won’t take long.”
Mrs. Meadows looked at her son’s eager face for a moment and then gave
her permission. “All right. But you be careful of the cars when you get
in town. Motorists don’t expect cowboys on mustangs to ride through the
streets.”
“Anything else you need at the store?”
“How are you going to carry anything? You have to have your hands free
for the reins.”
“I’ll take a burlap bag, put the things in it and then hang it across
Ticktock’s back,” said Jim with decision. At least if this errand didn’t
earn any money it would prove to his mother that Ticktock was useful. And
then a cake wasn’t to be sneezed at.
Jim and Ticktock jogged contentedly into town, enjoying the warm
sunshine. Arriving at the town’s sleepy main street, Jim looked around
thoughtfully. Where would he tie Ticktock while he was in Mr. Higgins’
grocery store? Hitching posts had long since vanished in Springdale.
Finally he spied a fire plug. Sliding off the pony’s back, he looped the
reins over the plug. Perfect, he decided. He could use the fire plug to
climb back up on Ticktock when he returned.
Mrs. Meadows had made quite a list of groceries, so Jim was gone some
time. Also he made no effort to hurry away from the store, as it was his
first visit to town since he had acquired Ticktock. He stood by the
coffee grinder and inhaled the wonderful odor of freshly ground coffee
while Mr. Higgins served the two customers ahead of him. Finally he got
his groceries, carefully stowing them in the burlap bag so the weight
would be equally distributed between the two ends. He tied the bag but
stuck the bottle of extract in his shirt pocket for greater safety.
Carrying the bag of groceries over his shoulder, Jim returned to his
steed. The town constable, his star shining brightly on his blue denim
shirt, was standing by the fire plug eyeing the mustang with angry
disapproval.
“This your horse?” the constable asked as Jim approached.
“Sure is,” said Jim proudly.
“What do you mean tying him to a fire plug?” demanded Constable
Whittaker.
“I couldn’t find any other place to tie him,” explained Jim reasonably.
Robert Morgan, the younger of Springdale’s two lawyers, came strolling by
at this moment. He stopped to listen to the conversation and to examine
Jim’s horse.
“Well, you can’t tie him to a fire plug,” said the constable. “It’s
against the law.”
“Where will I tie him?” asked Jim. “I’m in town on business and I’ve
gotta leave my horse somewhere.”
“I don’t know where you’ll tie him, but fire plugs are out. Why I could
throw you in jail for this.” Whittaker fingered his star, looking at Jim
threateningly.
Jim began to be decidedly frightened. Desperately he tried to think of
something to say.
“Don’t believe you could, Whit,” said Robert Morgan with a grin as he
entered the argument. “I was reading the town ordinances last night. It’s
against the law to park a car within fifteen feet of a fire plug but I
don’t remember a word being mentioned about horses. You wouldn’t have a
leg to stand on in court.”
“Do you mean this kid can tie his nag to a fire plug and get away with
it?” demanded the big constable irritably.
Ticktock, in the meantime, had been watching the argument intently. He
hadn’t cared for the way Whittaker had glared at him during Jim’s
absence. The horse could sense when anyone disapproved of him and was
quick to reciprocate. He had about decided he didn’t like the constable
before any conversation started. During the argument he kept glancing
back and forth between Jim and the huge law officer. He had no idea what
it was all about but he could see that Jim was becoming frightened. As it
was quite plain that the constable was the cause of all the trouble,
Ticktock decided it was time to go into action. He edged around until his
hind quarters were close to the curb and pointed in the proper direction.
After looking over his shoulder to see if Whittaker were at the proper
range, Ticktock laid his ears back and a mean glint flickered in his
eyes.
“Look out!” yelled Morgan. He pulled Whittaker back just in time, as
Ticktock lashed out with his left hind leg.
“You not only haven’t a leg to stand on,” said Morgan, roaring with
laughter, “but you won’t be able to sit down for a week if you argue with
this boy while his horse is around!”
By this time there were a dozen onlookers present, all laughing at the
embarrassed constable. The latter, however, refused to join in the
merriment. He stood glaring at Ticktock.
“You leave that horse on the main street again and I’ll arrest him for
being a menace to the public health and safety,” the constable threatened
Jim angrily.
“I don’t think you can arrest a horse,” pointed out the persistent
Morgan, who was enjoying himself tormenting the law officer. “Besides,
you can’t quarter a horse in the town jail. It would be unsanitary.”
At this wisecrack the bystanders became hilarious. One man was busily
jotting down notes on the back of a letter.
“Nevertheless, don’t let me see this horse alone on the main street,”
warned Whittaker. He strode off, red and angry.
“Thanks a lot, Mister,” said Jim to the lawyer. He was glad the argument
was over.
“Robert Morgan is the name,” said the young attorney, extending his hand.
“I’m happy to have been of service. Any time you need any further legal
advice come to me.”
“I will,” promised Jim seriously. “But I’m not planning on getting into
trouble if I can help it. My father wouldn’t like it—and then I can’t
afford a lawyer.”
“There are no charges,” said Morgan laughing. “Just between you and me, I
wouldn’t tie your horse to the fire plug even if it is technically legal.
I just wanted to bluff Whittaker since he was trying to scare you.”
“Tell you what,” said the man who had been taking notes. “You can leave
your horse in back of my newspaper office whenever you want. You ride him
around there now and I’ll show you where you can tie him. Then I’d like
to get your name and a few details if you don’t mind.”
Jim rode Ticktock around to the alley to a small green plot in back of
the newspaper building. The editor and Robert Morgan were waiting for him
there.
“Tie him to that tree,” said the editor, “and come on inside for a
minute.”
Jim dismounted and followed his new friends inside. He looked curiously
at the presses and linotype machines. He would like to have examined the
machines more carefully but the two men went directly into a small office
with the label “Editor-in-Chief” written on the door.
“Have a chair,” offered the editor. “My name is Arnold, Bill Arnold.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Jim politely. “I’m Jim Meadows.”
“I just want to get down a few facts for the _Gazette_,” said Arnold.
“What is your horse’s name?”
“Ticktock.”
“That’s an odd name,” observed Arnold.
“I called him that because I traded my watch for him.”
The editor seemed genuinely interested, so Jim told him about the
mustang. The boy had been longing to find someone who really wanted to
hear about Ticktock’s merits, so he became very enthusiastic. He
described how he had traded for the pony and how quickly the horse had
learned. Very carefully he avoided mentioning that his father had been
angry and was not going to permit him to keep Ticktock permanently.
“Thank you very much,” said Arnold when he had finished taking notes.
“Watch for the _Gazette_ on Thursday. Ticktock will be in it. Now I think
we all ought to adjourn to the café and have some ice cream and a coke.”
Jim approved of that idea heartily, so the three went across the street
to the café. They joined a tall lanky man who was seated in a booth
drinking coffee.
“This is Doc Cornby,” said Arnold. “Doc, I want you to meet a young
horseman friend of mine, Jim Meadows.”
“How do you do, Jim,” said Dr. Cornby gravely, shaking hands.
“Bob has just been acting as legal counsel for Jim,” continued the
editor. “He saved Jim’s horse from the law and also the law from Jim’s
horse. For details read your local newspaper when it arrives on the
stands Thursday.”
“Doc is a good man to know,” said Morgan to Jim. “He’s the best as well
as the only veterinary in town. If there’s anything wrong with your
horse, call on him.”
“Oh, Ticktock’s healthy,” said Jim, “but I’ll remember in case anything
does happen.”
Finishing his ice cream, Jim thanked the editor and got up to leave.
“Look,” said Morgan suddenly, “Let’s hire Jim to distribute the bills
about the Co-op. He could take them around on his horse.”
“Good idea,” approved the editor. “Do you know the countryside pretty
well, Jim?”
“Why sure,” said Jim. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Well, we will give you a dollar and a half a day. The idea is to deliver
bills advertising the new Farmer’s Co-operative that we are forming. We
want to put a circular in the hands of every farmer within a radius of
ten miles. I have a big map at my office on which we can mark out the
territory. Want the job?”
“I sure do,” said Jim enthusiastically.
“You be at the office tomorrow morning at nine or so. The circulars will
be printed by then and we can get started.”
Jim said nothing at home about his day’s adventures, other than to
mention that he had a job for the next few days. The following morning he
hurried through his chores, gave Ticktock a hasty grooming, and then
rushed into the house to change into clean overalls. His mother had
prepared a lunch, which was ready for him, packed in a brown paper bag.
Jim looked inside to make certain he would have enough. Riding all day
would not ruin his appetite. There were three thick sandwiches, two
pieces of cake and two apples. It would do, he decided after some
consideration.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said. “Ticktock and I’ll be home in time for supper.”
“All right, cowboy,” smiled his mother. “Don’t get lost now.”
“Get lost!” snorted Jim indignantly. “Why even if I did, Ticktock would
be able to find the way back.”
He went outside in high spirits, opened the orchard gate and whistled. It
was no longer an orchard in his mind but a corral which was the private
domain of the mustang. Of course, the bull was often there but Jim and
Ticktock ignored that animal as being beneath their notice.
The pony trotted over to the feed shed for his bridle. As Jim put his
paper lunch bag inside the burlap sack, he thought longingly how handy a
saddle would be. You could tie things such as your lunch to the saddle
horn or, even better, get your mother to make some canvas bags to fasten
behind the cantle. The way it was now, you had to have equal weights in
both ends of the burlap bag to make it lie across the mustang’s back.
Even then it was always sliding off. Well, decided Jim, that was one of
the problems of life. He did not have a saddle, but he did have a
wonderful horse—which was the important thing.
While he was debating what to put in the bag to balance his lunch, he
realized suddenly that he had nothing for the horse to eat. There would
be plenty of green grass and clover by the roadside, no doubt, but they
would be on the move most of the time with few pauses for Ticktock to
crop. Also a horse needed something solid when he was on the go all day.
Feeling rather guilty, Jim went to the corn-crib and picked out six
choice ears of corn. He would tell his father that night, he decided.
After the remark Mr. Meadows had made about having no feed to waste on
Ticktock, Jim felt rather underhanded in giving the pony any grain. He
would offer to pay for the corn, now that he was earning money.
The Springdale _Gazette_ was being run through the presses when Jim
arrived in town. He hung around the shop watching the machinery with
absorption. The inky smell and the activity of the print shop fascinated
him. It must be fun to write things and then see your words appear in
print. When Bill Arnold finally found a free minute and motioned for Jim
to follow him into the office, the boy went with reluctance. Perhaps he
could manage to be both an editor and a rancher when he grew older.
The editor and Jim went over the area to be covered. Arnold outlined the
region on a huge county map which hung on the office wall. Jim made a
rough sketch, took a huge bundle of bills and started off to work. As he
jogged out of town with the bills in two bundles hanging over Ticktock’s
back, he again found himself longing for the convenience of a saddle.
It was pleasant riding in the warm June sun along the country roads.
There were flowers by the roadside, the fields were a bright green, and
the air was filled with the heady scent of the rich earth and its new
blanket of growing life. Birds sang in the trees while quail scurried
across the road or took off in their short plummeting flights. Jim felt
like taking off his shoes and wiggling his bare toes in the fertile
ground.
It was fun delivering the bills. He and Ticktock developed a system after
the first few farms. They would jog along at a comfortable easy pace
until they reached the lane leading from the road. Then they would break
into a mad gallop, dashing into the farmyard as if on a mission of life
and death. Most of the men were in the fields working, but such tactics
invariably brought at least the woman of the house out on the porch to
learn the cause of the excitement. If there were any children present,
they crowded around to stare at Jim and Ticktock. Jim felt proud and
important, particularly if there were boys about his age. He would hand
his circular to the woman with a flourish.
“Be sure to read that carefully,” he told each one. “It’s very
important.”
He was usually able to deliver the bill to someone without dismounting.
After he made his short speech, he would wheel Ticktock quickly and
gallop furiously out the lane, knowing that the envious eyes of the
children were following him. As soon as they were well out of sight,
Ticktock would lapse into a pleasant ambling walk until they reached the
next farm. The mustang seemed to enjoy the game as much as his master.
Each time he resumed his walk after a spectacular delivery he would turn
his head around to grin at Jim as if saying, “We certainly put on a show
that time, didn’t we?”
[Illustration: Galloping back to the farm]
The first day passed rapidly. The second morning Jim was stiff from
riding all the previous day, but the soreness soon wore off. Noon found
the two near Briggs Woods, a heavily wooded area about six miles from
home. Jim’s route was such that the shortest way took him along the one
road leading through the center of the forest. It was lonely and silent
once the high trees closed behind him, but the semi-gloom appealed to the
boy. He stopped beside a small stream in the middle of the forest to eat
his lunch. As he munched his sandwiches he could see narrow trails which
led back into the trees and hinted of mystery and excitement. There must
be pools in the depths of the woods, decided Jim, for the air was filled
with the croaking of frogs. A turtledove was giving its plaintive,
mournful coo in the distance and there were rustling sounds in the
underbrush that hinted of wild animals passing near by on their
mysterious errands. Jim inhaled deeply of the odor of pine needles and
moulding leaves. This would be a secret rendezvous belonging to him and
Ticktock. When he had finished this job, they would explore the forest
together until they knew it well. Somewhere, back up one of these little
winding trails, they would find a perfect spot for a hidden camp.
After lingering so long in the woods, Jim was late in covering the area
he had mapped out for the day. He delivered the last bill and turned
Ticktock impatiently in the direction which he thought home to be. After
going several miles, he not only recognized no landmarks, but the farms
looked increasingly unfamiliar. He stopped and puzzled over his map. That
didn’t help a great deal. He made a grimace and unsuccessfully tried to
figure out his bearings from the rapidly setting sun. Very crestfallen,
he had to admit that he was lost.
Knowing that he could stop in at any farmhouse and ask directions, Jim
was not worried. However, he felt that to do so was to admit defeat. He
and Ticktock were a self-reliant team, and it would hurt his pride to
admit that they couldn’t handle any situation. Also he knew these
Missouri farm women. They were kind—too kind to suit his purposes. They
would give him very complete directions and then insist that he have
something to eat. That would be fine, for he certainly was hungry, but
matters wouldn’t stop there. They would promptly call his parents to keep
them from worrying. That was the last thing Jim wanted. Not only had he
boasted to his mother about not getting lost, but both she and his father
might forbid his delivering circulars again the following day if they
were afraid of his losing his way. No, there had to be a better way out.
Ticktock looked around at his rider with a question in his eyes. He was
hungry too and couldn’t quite understand what they were waiting for.
“O.K., boy,” said Jim suddenly. “You figure it out. Take us home.” He let
the reins go loose.
Ticktock set out confidently at a brisk trot. He turned right at the
first corner without hesitation. He was going somewhere, there was no
doubt of that. Jim hoped that it was in the right direction. After three
or four miles, Jim’s confidence in Ticktock was justified, for the
countryside began to look familiar.
“You’re the smartest horse in the world,” said Jim, patting Ticktock
fondly on the neck. “There’s nothing we can’t do. We’ll really explore
that woods now. At least _you_ won’t get lost.”
Mr. Meadows was reading the _Gazette_ when Jim arrived. The boy rushed in
the house full of the news of this fresh evidence of the mustang’s
brilliance.
“I didn’t mean to be late to help with the chores,” he explained, “but
after I got ready to come home I was all twisted up in my directions and
was going to ask the way, but instead I just let Ticktock go and he
brought us right home.”
“I have to admit that nag seems to have a sense of responsibility where
you are concerned,” said Mr. Meadows dryly. “But where others are
involved he seems to have a streak of meanness. I warn you to watch him
closely, because if he causes any trouble, away he goes. Here, read
this.”
With these ominous words Mr. Meadows handed Jim the _Gazette_, pointing
to an article on the front page. Puzzled, Jim started to read.