proudly. “I’ve handled all kinds of horses, from big work teams to race
horses. The last few years I’ve been training race horses. I was working
for Mr. Medway and we had his horses at Churchill Downs just outside
Louisville. Last Monday—it seems like a year—I was walking along outside
the stables when I saw a jockey named Willie Fry in one of the stalls. I
don’t suppose you know much about the things people do to horses now and
then at race tracks, but this jockey was doping a horse. You can dope a
horse several ways—you can give him something to make him slow and dopey
so he can’t run well or you can give him a shot to make him all hopped
up.”
“What’s that?” asked Jim, so interested that he forgot about the unloaded
rifle.
“It’s just like a man taking snow-cocaine, any kind of dope. It makes him
think he can do anything. Well, the same thing happens to a horse. A
horse that’s hopped up can run much better than he would normally. It’s
bad on his heart, bad all over for that matter. He’s apt to strain
himself and be ruined. Sometimes a horse can run so hard he may go
blind.”
“Was he giving a horse that kind of dope?” asked Jim, full of
indignation.
“No, this was the night before the race and he was doping a horse to make
him sick and slow. Judges can usually tell a horse that’s hopped up, but
it’s hard to tell when a horse has been given something to make him sick
or is just naturally not up to form. Well, I hate to see a horse doped or
mistreated in any way. What made me even madder was that Willie was
doping _my_ horse. Redwing was the horse, and she was a sure bet to win
the next day. I had most of the money I’d saved all summer on that race.”
“Why didn’t he want her to win?” asked Jim, puzzled.
“Well, there could have been several reasons. One—he was riding a horse
that was the second favorite, but he knew as well as I did that he didn’t
have a chance against Redwing. Then he could have been paid by the
bookies—they are the men that take bets on the race—to fix it so the
favorite couldn’t win. That way they could clean up, not only on not
having to pay off on any money on Redwing, but by putting money up
themselves on Willie’s horse. Anyhow, I was really mad. I jumped on
Willie and he started to fight. He pulled a knife on me and so I grabbed
a bottle that was handy. I hit him over the head, and he dropped like a
sack. Blood started running down his face. I was really scared. I felt
his pulse and couldn’t feel a thing. So I lit out of there and I’ve been
hiding ever since.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police and tell them what happened?” asked Jim.
“I was too scared to think straight and then there were a couple of
things against me. No one saw Willie doping the horse, or the fight, so
it would have been just my word about what happened. Then the worst thing
was that Willie and I had been in a fight the day before over a girl. I
warned him to stay away from the girl I was going to marry. The police
would play that up big and I wouldn’t have a chance.”
“You sure are in a tough spot,” sympathized Jim. “It’s even worse that
you ran away.”
“I know it is,” said the man mournfully. “That’s why I was so scared when
I was on that train and when you came hunting for me. I figured that
everyone had seen the newspapers and was searching for me.”
“What were you planning on doing, just staying here?” asked Jim.
“Well, when I first got here I thought that brush hut and fireplace had
been built by some hunters. The place didn’t seem much used, and it
wasn’t hunting season; so I thought I’d stay until things sort of quieted
down. That is, if I could figure out some way to eat. Then about noon
today I noticed those jumping bars for a horse. That and the way that
little horse brought me here made me think that someone was using the
place for something. So I decided I’d better move on. I turned the horse
loose and figured I’d leave when it was night. I didn’t think whoever
owned the horse would be back inside of an hour. I was wrong. You showed
up and caught me asleep.”
“Haven’t you had anything to eat since I saw you jump off the train?”
asked Jim solicitously.
“I had two sandwiches that I had in my pocket,” said the man. “I picked
them up the night before in a diner near a freight yard. But that’s all.
I sure am hungry.”
“I think maybe I could get you something to eat,” said Jim, considering.
“I knew you would believe the truth when you heard it,” said the
stranger. “You’re not going to turn me over to the law?”
“I believe you. I don’t blame you a bit,” said Jim. “Since I’m going to
trust you, I may as well put this gun down. I am pretty relieved anyhow,
because I forgot to load it.”
The man stared at Jim in amazement. “Captured by a boy with an unloaded
rifle! I’m certainly a desperate criminal.”
Jim grinned. “I think you better stay right here for a while,” he said,
taking charge. “I can feed you here and you are better hidden than at any
place I can think of.”
“You found me,” pointed out the late captive dubiously.
“Well naturally,” said Jim scornfully. “This is my secret headquarters.
No one else knows about it though. Besides, you haven’t seen half of it
yet. If you’ll promise never to tell, I’ll show you everything.”
“You have the sacred word of Timothy Dinwiddie,” said the man solemnly.
“Follow me.”
Jim led the way to the hidden cave. He paused just outside the entrance.
“Don’t let anybody ever see you enter here.” He pushed back the bush
covering the cave mouth. “I keep a flash light hanging here just inside
the door.”
Timothy followed the boy inside. He stood with mouth open as he followed
the flash-light beam around the walls. There were several rows of
cans—baked beans, vegetables, shoestring potatoes, chow mein, corned beef
and everything possible to preserve.
“Food! Beautiful, beautiful food!” said Timothy in rapture. “This is the
most wonderful sight I’ve seen since a horse I picked won the Kentucky
Derby about ten years ago.”
“Pick out what you want,” said Jim, very proud of his stock of
provisions. He was gratified that they were proving so handy.
In a few minutes the two had a fire going. Baked beans were warming in a
pot while some weiners were simmering in a frying pan. The coffee began
to boil while Jim was opening a can of peaches. Timothy sniffed the
appetizing odors hungrily and put more wood in the fireplace. He finally
decided everything was warm enough and dished out a huge portion. Jim
wasn’t hungry, but the enjoyment he received from watching Timothy devour
the food more than repaid him for all the trouble and expense he had
undergone in collecting his stock. After finishing the first helping,
Timothy filled his plate again. He ate everything down to the last bean.
Then he and Jim had a cup of coffee together.
“That was certainly the finest banquet I ever ate,” said Timothy leaning
back in satisfaction. “You really got a well-stocked kitchen here. And
that cave is about the trickiest hiding place I ever laid eyes on.”
“It is pretty good,” said Jim glowing with pride. “I just laid in that
food in case I might need it sometime.”
“I’m certainly glad you did. It saved me from starvation.”
“I get to town quite often,” observed Jim. “You look the stock over, and
anything you need or that gets low I’ll pick up at the grocery store.”
“Look, Jim,” said Timothy, reaching in his pocket. “I got about thirty
dollars. You better take twenty to buy groceries.”
“I don’t want your money,” protested Jim. When he decided to be friends
with anyone he made no reservations. “You may need it.”
“You are the one that needs it. You can’t feed a hungry man like me for
nothing.” Timothy shoved the twenty-dollar bill in Jim’s shirt pocket.
“When you go to town, would you buy any Louisville paper you can find for
the last week. I’d like to know what they are saying about me.”
“I know I can get the recent ones,” said Jim. “I’ll be back tomorrow
afternoon. Right now I better get home before my folks, because I left a
note saying I was hunting for the man that stole Ticktock.”
Jim rode home bursting with excitement. He wished there was someone to
whom he could tell his exciting tale, but such a course was out of the
question. Others might not realize, as he did, that Timothy was the
victim of a bad break. Anyone who would try to dope a horse deserved to
be hit on the head, he decided. He had to guard the secret of Timothy
very closely, because if the police found him they might hang him. He
guessed that’s what they did with murderers.
The family had not returned when Jim arrived. He destroyed his note and
then began grooming Ticktock. He was busily at work when the Meadows’ car
drove in the lane. Feeling full of mystery and importance, he hailed his
parents.
“Ticktock came back!”
“So I see,” said Mr. Meadows. “How’d it happen?”
“He just came trotting up the road. Got loose I guess.” The explanation
seemed so tame compared to the story he could have told, but he held
himself sternly in check.
The family gathered around to welcome the mustang back. Mrs. Meadows was
very relieved, as she had worried over her son’s evident grief. Jean was
overjoyed. She was becoming almost as fond of the pony as was Jim. In the
general excitement, everyone talked at once and neither the father nor
mother noticed anything unusual in Jim’s behavior. Jean, however, wasn’t
to be deceived. She sensed that her brother was acting a little too
mysterious and self-satisfied to know as little as he did. She said
nothing, but watched him narrowly.
On Monday Jim made some excuse and went to town early. At the local
store, which sold newspapers, he was able to get Louisville papers from
the preceding Friday through Monday. He was very conscious of his
exciting new rôle of helping a hunted man and played the part with all
his usual intensity. Afraid that it might look suspicious to hunt through
the papers while in town, he stuffed them in one of the saddlebags
without even a glance. While walking down the street he met Constable
Whittaker, to whom he gave a very cordial greeting. He grinned to
himself. Constable Whittaker represented the only forces of law and order
Jim had ever known. Being a conspirator who was outwitting Whittaker was
rare fun.
After buying a few groceries at the store, Jim completed his errands by
purchasing a quart of ice cream and some cigarettes. They were to be a
surprise for Timothy. He didn’t know if the fugitive smoked, but he
suspected that he did. He was rather nervous while buying the cigarettes,
as he knew they were not supposed to be sold to anyone under twenty-one.
However, he had occasionally purchased them for his father.
“They are for a client of mine,” he said casually to the druggist, who
didn’t think of doubting Jim’s motives.
The ice cream was carefully packed so that it was still in good condition
when Jim arrived at the hide-out.
“You certainly are the answer to a man’s prayer,” said Timothy, dividing
the ice cream into two equal portions. “Ice cream and cigarettes! I
really was craving a smoke. You put those ravens in the Bible to shame,
Jim. Imagine a bird delivering a quart of ice cream! I prefer a boy with
a horse. It’s not so fancy, but it’s a good deal more satisfying to the
stomach.”
Jim produced the papers and together they went over each page of all four
editions. They made a hasty search first and then examined each article
thoroughly. Even the financial pages were searched. There was not a
single mention of Timothy Dinwiddie or his victim, Willie Fry.
“That’s funny,” said Timothy, scratching his head. “It happened on
Monday. You’d think there would still be some mention of the business on
Thursday. I might not be so important as I thought, but Willie Fry was a
well-known jockey.”
“Maybe they’re keeping quiet on purpose,” suggested Jim, who had read his
share of mystery stories.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Timothy nervously.
“Sometimes the police keep very quiet in order not to let a criminal know
they are hot on his trail,” Jim said ominously.
“I hope that’s not what’s happened,” Timothy said fervently. He looked
apprehensively around at the woods.
“Well, I’ll go to the newspaper office. The editor and I are pals. He may
have the old papers. I’ll think up some story and get the missing ones
from Monday on,” said Jim. “I can’t go tomorrow, as it might look
suspicious to be going to town too often. But Wednesday I’ll get them.
I’ll bring you some fresh eggs and milk too. Also, we got a lot of melons
if you want one.”
“Boy, oh boy,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “You think of everything.
I’m glad you’re not a cop.”
Chapter Twelve
Jean’s Ride
The rest of the week went by without further news. Jim was unable to get
the Tuesday morning paper, the one most likely to contain news of the
murder. They searched all the others, but with no success. Timothy and he
were still completely in the dark as to what efforts the police were
making. They could only make guesses.
Jim was enjoying himself however. He was playing an important part in a
serious and exciting game. He kept Timothy well supplied with food,
reveling in his mysterious errands. While at home, time hung very heavily
on his hands. He felt that he should be doing something. He was bothered
about Jean. He was not going to underestimate her again, and he knew she
was watching him carefully. Also, her birthday was approaching. She
mentioned the matter several times; so he knew she had not forgotten the
promise he had made. While he supposed Timothy could hide elsewhere on
that day, it would be difficult to remove all traces of his recent
occupancy. Also, part of the safety of the hide-out would be destroyed
once Jean knew the way.
Before it had been merely a matter of personal pride that kept Jim from
telling Jean. Now it was a serious matter—a man’s life was involved.
To cover up his nervousness and unrest, Jim began teaching Ticktock a few
new tricks. He had long since taught the mustang to stand quietly in one
spot when his reins were dangling, not to crop grass while a rider was in
the saddle, and various other accomplishments of a good riding horse. Now
he tried a new idea. He enlisted the aid of his sister for the
instruction.
Jim would go a few feet away from his sister and the horse, then Jean
would say, “Ticktock, go to Jim.” When the mustang did as he was told, he
would receive a piece of sugar or apple as a reward. The process would
then be reversed and the pony told to go to Jean. They gradually
lengthened the distance until finally Jean was some distance down the
road. Ticktock caught on rapidly, trotting back and forth between the two
carrying out his orders. In a few days he was thoroughly schooled.
Jim then began instructing Jean in riding. Much of his information had
been picked up only recently from Timothy, who had a vast store of
knowledge about horses and riding in general. The horse trainer had once
worked in a riding academy and had given riding lessons. Jim was an apt
pupil and followed his new teacher’s advice religiously. He seldom had to
be told twice. He learned the proper way to sit in the saddle, how to
hold the reins correctly and various do’s and don’ts of riding. For the
first time he heard of the art of posting.
All this information was passed on to Jean. Jim spoke in such an
authoritative manner that Jean knew he was not inventing his technical
terms or making up his riding lore. There had been a noticeable
improvement in his riding lately which she hadn’t failed to see. As a
detective, Jean put her brother to shame. She missed nothing. Aware that
Jim had not been visiting anyone she knew who was a riding expert, she
said nothing but continued to observe. She hadn’t missed the frequent
trips to town and other rides in the direction of Briggs Woods. As for
the milk and eggs that disappeared, she had noted that bit of information
down too. When Jim slipped away with a watermelon, she definitely decided
something very mysterious was taking place.
Jean considered the theory that someone was giving her brother riding
instruction and information for which he was paying in food. But why was
he so mysterious about it all. If he was openly taking lessons from
someone, he would be certain to talk about it, even boast somewhat. No,
there was more to the matter than was covered by such a simple
explanation. She was just as decisive as her brother and even though only
ten, when she made up her mind, she acted. So she devised a plan.
Jean had long since gotten over her timidity concerning Ticktock and had
ridden him occasionally before. Now she applied herself and obediently
followed Jim’s instructions. She began riding Ticktock daily around the
farm. Mr. Meadows was somewhat opposed to the idea, as he thought his
daughter was too young to be riding Ticktock. Although small for a
mustang and called a ranch pony, Ticktock was far from being any Shetland
pony. Any fall from his back would be a long distance for such a small
girl. Although he no longer had any worries about Jim and Ticktock, Mr.
Meadows still considered the mustang to be rather high-spirited and apt
to be vicious with anyone who didn’t know him too well. In spite of the
parental disapproval, Jean spent more time each day learning to ride on
the little horse.
Friday Jim had to help his father all day. At noon Jean asked to ride
Ticktock; so Jim saddled the horse and then went back to the field with
his father. After several hours of intermittent riding around the yard,
Jean decided that the time had come for action. Casually she went into
the house to find her mother.
“I think I’ll ride down the road a way,” she announced.
“Be careful,” warned her mother, who did not share her husband’s fears
about Ticktock.
“Sure. I may be gone a little while so don’t worry.”
As soon as she was out of sight of the house, Jean urged the mustang to a
faster pace and headed toward the woods. She knew the trail to the
hide-out began somewhere near the middle of the forest. It was very
gloomy in the heavy shade, but that just added to the excitement for her.
Resolutely she rode on.
Had Jean allowed Ticktock to have his head once they were in the forest,
he would have undoubtedly taken her straight to the hideaway, as he had
Timothy. The way was old and familiar to him now. But Jean insisted on
directing the little horse. While she had taken quite a few peeks on her
blindfolded trip to the hide-out, she hadn’t seen quite enough. Jim had
circled and doubled back, which misled her too. The woods were confusing,
one trail or stream looking like another. She knew they had roughly
followed a stream for a distance, so she chose one and boldly plunged
into the woods.
It was difficult riding, trying to duck branches or push them out of the
way. Jean couldn’t tell too well where she was going, and after some
distance she began to be discouraged and tired. She was determined,
however. Any trouble was acceptable if she could only show up her brother
and find the hideaway. She was certain that if she found the place she
would also solve the mystery of why he was now taking away perishable
food.
Seeing nothing that looked familiar, Jean stopped for a few minutes to
rest and get her bearings. As she did so, she saw a tree loaded with
persimmons on the opposite bank of the stream. She dismounted and picked
a spot to cross. It was a tiny rivulet, but it had deep steep banks from
the spring floods. She walked upstream until she found a spot where she
could cross. Returning to the tree, she began climbing. She was reaching
out for a particularly large persimmon when she lost her balance and
fell. She landed on her back with a breath-taking thump and then tumbled
on down the bank of the stream. Her right foot hit a rock at the bottom
and doubled under her. There was a wrench and a horribly sharp pain. Her
scream of anguish brought Ticktock to the bank. He peered down at the
huddled heap at the bottom.
[Illustration: Peering down at the huddled heap]
Jean lay moaning and crying for some minutes. The pain subsided a little,
so she sat up and dried her tears. She wanted nothing now but to get back
to Ticktock and go home. Cautiously she tried standing. The slightest
weight on her foot brought a yell of pain. She got back on her knees and
tried crawling up the bank. It was too steep, the soft ground caving in
and letting her slide back down to the bottom. If she had had the use of
both legs, she might have managed to scramble up to the top, but it was
impossible in her crippled state. Discouraged and frightened, she gave up
and began to cry.
No one could find her, she was certain. Ticktock couldn’t get down to
where she was and she couldn’t climb to him. She was tired, dirty, and
her ankle hurt. She looked at the injured member, which was swelling
rapidly. It was nearly twice as large as her left ankle. The sight
frightened her even more. Perhaps it was broken, and she would just have
to stay there and slowly starve.
Ticktock looked down solicitously. He knew something was wrong but didn’t
quite know what to do about it. He stepped closer to the bank to see
better, but it began to crumble. He moved back out of danger and waited
patiently. After Jean had cried herself out, she began to think calmly
once more. At least it was comforting to have Ticktock standing by, even
though she couldn’t use him.
Jean was a resourceful little girl who didn’t give up too easily. She
considered all possible ways out of her predicament and finally had an
idea. She would send Ticktock for help.
“Ticktock, go to Jim!” she ordered, sitting up. “Go on home to Jim!”
Ticktock hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Jean, as he knew she was in
trouble. Also, he had been taught to stand still while his reins were
dangling. He stirred indecisively.
“Go on, go home to Jim,” repeated Jean commandingly.
It was an order; so the mustang decided to obey. He started off. He went
a few paces and then looked around mournfully over his shoulder, hoping
his instructions would be changed. Jean simply repeated her words.
Reluctantly he went back through the woods and headed for home. He began
trotting down the road. Repeatedly he stepped on his reins and jerked his
head down savagely. Finally one sharp jerk broke them and he went rapidly
down the road with his broken reins trailing behind him on the ground.
Mrs. Meadows became alarmed about four-thirty at her daughter’s long
absence. Finally she could stand the worry no longer. She went to the big
dinner bell in the back yard and rang it vigorously. It was used to
summon her husband from the fields, and she knew he would come running at
once on hearing the bell ring at this unexpected hour of the day.
Mr. Meadows and Jim left their work and headed for the house immediately.
Jim’s mother had just finished explaining when Ticktock appeared over the
hill, riderless.
The little mustang was covered with sweat and dust. The farther he went
from Jean the more the pony realized something was decidedly amiss. His
only thought was to hurry home to Jim. Jim was his god and could solve
all things. He dashed into the yard and obediently slid to a halt in
front of the boy. He had carried out instructions.
Mr. Meadows looked at the lather-covered mustang with his broken reins.
“If that horse has thrown Jean and hurt her, I’ll kill him.”
Worried as he was, Jim did not fail to rise to the defense of his beloved
horse. “He wouldn’t throw Jean. Maybe she fell off and he came back for
me.”
“Well, I’m going to get the car and go back along the way he came,”
announced Carl Meadows decisively.
Jim tied a hasty knot in the reins and climbed up on Ticktock’s back.
“Take me to Jean,” he said. “Go to Jean.”
Ticktock was not indecisive this time. He turned around and started back
rapidly down the road. Mrs. Meadows and her husband got in the car and
started slowly after him, scanning the ditches on both sides. They passed
Jim and went on up the road. He shouted at them as they went by.
“You better wait at the corner and follow me. Ticktock will take us to
her.”
It was soon evident where the pony was heading. When the woods appeared
in view, Jim was certain of at least part of what had happened. Jean had
tried to find the hide-out. He felt positive about that. A thousand ideas
crowded into his mind. If she let Ticktock have his head, he would have
taken her to the clearing too. And Timothy was hiding there. Hearing a
horse approaching, he would naturally assume it to be Jim. And then
suddenly, if Jean appeared, what would have happened? He was positive
that Timothy would not have harmed his sister. Perhaps he might have
detained her though, afraid that she would spread an alarm. In that case,
what would he do? He would have to lead his parents to the hide-out and
betray Timothy.
There were other explanations too. Jean might have suddenly seen Timothy
and become alarmed. If she rode off rapidly through the trees, it would
have been the easiest thing in the world to have been knocked off by a
low branch. In that case she might be hurt badly. Everything looked
black. Jean might be hurt; Timothy might be turned over to the police; he
might be taken for aiding a criminal; and lastly Ticktock was once again
in Mr. Meadows’ bad graces.
So certain was Jim that Jean had gone to the hide-out that he tried to
pull Ticktock back onto the road when the little horse started off
through the woods before reaching the usual trail. The mustang, who knew
exactly what he was doing, was stubborn and insisted in turning off the
road.
“O.K., Ticktock,” said Jim finally. “You usually know where you’re
going.”
Jim waited for his parents to arrive in the car. They climbed out and
rather dubiously followed Jim into the woods. Every few yards they would
shout Jean’s name. When they had penetrated about half a mile into the
forest, they heard a weak answer. Jean had heard them. Ticktock kept
going forward confidently until he paused on top of the bank above the
injured girl.
Jean was a sorry-looking little girl. Her face was streaked with tears
and dirt while her clothes were torn, wet and muddy. But she was very
happy to be at last out of her predicament. She had been lonely and
frightened, waiting alone in the woods after Ticktock had gone.
“I tried to climb the persimmon tree and fell down here,” she explained.
“I couldn’t get up; so I sent Ticktock for help.”
Jim listened to the vindication of his faith in Ticktock in silence. He
was very relieved to find Jean and know that she wasn’t too badly hurt.
They were still too close to his hide-out to suit him though, and he
wouldn’t feel safe until they were clear of the woods. Also, this was
scarcely the time to point out how intelligently Ticktock had acted. His
parents were still too absorbed in Jean and the extent of her injuries.
Ticktock led the way back to the road while Mr. Meadows carried Jean in
his arms. When the little party reached the car, the others drove off,
leaving Jim to follow home alone.
Jim let the little pony take his time on the road back. He felt much
relieved but still uneasy. He wondered what Jean would say if they asked
her what she was doing in the woods. He felt rather guilty about her
mishap. After all, it was mainly his fault.
If he had shown her the way that first day, she would never have gone off
on her trip of exploration. It had been rather mean of him, considering
that she had found the cave, which was the most valuable feature of the
secret rendezvous. So if her leg were broken, he supposed that he was
really responsible.
The doctor was at the house by the time Jim arrived. He was busy with
Jean; so Jim rubbed Ticktock down and put him in the orchard.
“You’re a hero, old boy,” he said fondly. “You got me out of a pretty
ticklish mess by being so smart.”
“Just sprained badly,” the doctor was saying as Jim entered the house.
“She’d better stay in bed a day or two. That’s the only way I know of to
keep active children from moving around.”
Jean had her dinner in bed, rather enjoying being in the limelight. After
he had eaten, Jim got a chance to talk to his sister alone.
“I suppose you were looking for the hide-out,” he said hesitantly.
Jean nodded her head. “I haven’t told anybody though.”
“Good girl,” said Jim with a thankful sigh. “It was mean of me not to
show you before. As soon as you can get around I’ll take you there, even
if it isn’t your birthday.”
“I haven’t said anything about the milk and eggs you took either,” said
Jean calmly. “What are you feeding?”
Jim looked at his sister with hesitation. She certainly had shown that
she could keep a secret. She deserved to be in on the excitement, he
decided. Perhaps that would make up in some part for his having
indirectly caused her accident.
“Look, Jean,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ll tell you the whole
story....”
Chapter Thirteen
The Mystery Is Solved
The next morning Jim rode to Springdale for newspapers and supplies for
Timothy. Purchases were becoming rather difficult of late. Perhaps it was
merely his fancy, but he felt that the man in the store was beginning to
look at him curiously when he made his daily purchase of several
newspapers. As for cigarettes, Jim had bought what he felt was his limit
without exciting suspicion. He would have to think of some new solution
for Timothy’s tobacco problem. The last quart of milk purchased had
brought forth a comment from the clerk.
“Haven’t you got any cows on that farm?”
“Oh, sure,” replied Jim, with what he considered magnificent nonchalance.
“This is for a customer. I run errands of all sorts you know. Don’t need
a good rural delivery boy, do you?”
Feeling that he had allayed suspicion for the moment, Jim rode off toward
the hide-out. While the intrigue he was carrying on with Timothy was the
most exciting adventure in which he had ever taken part, he had to face
facts. Avoiding questions was bound to become increasingly more
difficult. Also, the end of summer vacation was not too far distant.
Going to school, doing his chores at home, and continuing the operation
of the Pony Express was going to make a very stiff schedule without the
added labor of having to administer to the wants of Timothy. Cold weather
would add further complications. How would Timothy heat the cave? Also,
there was the matter of money. While he was still operating on the
original twenty dollars that Timothy had given him, sooner or later the
money would be exhausted. Jim didn’t begrudge using some of his own money
to provide for his new friend, but if the proceeds of the Pony Express
were all used up for food, in time it would grow irksome. He could see
long years stretching ahead of him during which he would have to continue
the responsibility which he had assumed. The law didn’t forget quickly;
there was no way of knowing when Timothy would come out of hiding.
Unquestionably what was now a thrilling escapade would develop into a
burdensome chore as time passed.
Occupied with such worrisome thoughts, he arrived at the hide-out.
Timothy met him and was so cheerful that Jim soon forgot his forebodings.
He told the story of Jean’s mishap, and they both agreed that their
secret had come perilously close to being discovered.
“I had to tell Jean everything,” explained Jim. “It was only fair, and
she can be trusted.”
“You can’t keep a secret from a woman anyhow,” said Timothy sagely. “Once
they suspect anything is being kept from them, you haven’t got a chance.”
Together the two began their usual search through the papers for news
about Willie Fry or his assailant. There was nothing to be found; so
Timothy turned to the sport section to read the racing news. Suddenly he
let out a startled shout.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jim.
“Look here!” said Timothy excitedly. “Fireball won the fourth at Havre de
Grace and was ridden by Willie Fry!”
Jim examined the paper. Timothy was correct; Willie Fry had ridden in the
fourth race.
“There aren’t two jockeys named Willie Fry are there?” he asked.
“Never heard of any other except the rat I socked,” said Timothy. “I
don’t get this.”
“Maybe you didn’t kill him after all. Maybe you just knocked him out. He
probably came to and didn’t even notify the police. That’s why we haven’t
noticed anything in the papers.”
“Well, he didn’t have any pulse when I felt his wrist,” said Timothy
wonderingly.
“I think you need some lessons on how to feel pulses,” suggested Jim
dryly. “You were probably so excited that you couldn’t find his.” He
began to look casually over the remainder of the sporting news.
“Look! Here’s a little article about Willie Fry,” he said. “Listen!
‘Willie Fry, well-known jockey, was married yesterday to Miss Alvina
Morgan, of Baltimore, Md. Miss Morgan is well known to racing circles, as
she has accompanied the Roudcroft Stables string as cook to tracks
throughout the country. In addition to serving delicious food to the
Roudcroft personnel, Miss Morgan is famous for always having a welcome
cup of coffee for any jockey, trainer or trackman. Track people will be
happy to hear that the new Mrs. Fry will continue at her old post in the
trailer which serves as her kitchen. Coffee will still be on tap.
“‘Willie celebrated his wedding day by winning the fourth race at Havre
de Grace, riding Fireball. This was the first race ridden by Willie since
he was struck down by an unknown assailant at Churchill Downs several
weeks ago.’”
“See,” said Jim, as he finished reading. “You just knocked him out. He’s
probably just as anxious as you are to forget the whole thing. If he told
who hit him, you’d tell about his doping a horse.”
Timothy wasn’t listening, however, but was staring incredulously at Jim.
“Let me see the paper,” he said finally in a strained voice.
“Alvina married to Willie! I’d never have believed it.” Timothy shook his
head as if stunned. Slowly his disbelief turned to indignation. “Why two
weeks ago she was engaged to me! I spent a month’s wages on a diamond
ring for her. And now she marries Willie Fry!
“I guess I’m glad Willie Fry is all right,” went on Timothy calming down.
“Just sort of shakes your faith in human nature, though, a thing like
this does. Kind of a jolt to be sweet on a gal and have her turn around
two weeks after you’re gone and marry your worst enemy. Well, they can
have each other for my money. I wish them all the unhappiness in the
world. ’Spose I’m lucky to find out about Alvina in time. Just doesn’t
seem possible though that a woman who can bake an apple pie like Alvina
does would turn out to be so fickle.”
“Well, it sure makes things simpler,” said Jim happily. He could not be
bothered by such trivial matters as a broken heart. “Now I suppose you’ll
go get your old job back as trainer?”
“Not on your life!” said Timothy with great feeling. “I may not be hunted
by the law anymore, but my career at the tracks is ruined.”
“Why?” asked Jim, completely baffled.
“Why I’d be the laughingstock of every track in the country. Willie has
probably concocted some story about how he scared me away and now he’s
stolen my girl. Everyone in the racing business knew I was engaged to
Alvina. No siree, I can’t go back to the tracks now.”
“What’ll you do then?” asked Jim solicitously.
“Well, maybe I can get a job taking care of horses at some riding stable
or breeding farm,” said Timothy. “Somebody ought to need a good horse
handler.”
“I know where I can get you a job right around here,” said Jim, as a
sudden thought struck him. “It would be handling big Percherons though.
Do you know anything about them?”
[Illustration: Percheron draft team]
“Sure. I once handled a whole stable of them. One of the big trucking
firms in Milwaukee used to have some beautiful teams. They used them for
some of their deliveries as sort of advertising. You get six big prancing
Percherons pulling a wagon and it’s a beautiful sight.”
“Mr. Hernstadt raises Percherons, and he’s looking for a good man,” said
Jim. “I found one of his horses that had strayed; so I’m in good with
him. We’ll go see him and I’ll recommend you.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Timothy. “I look pretty ragged,
though, to be applying for a job.”
“I’ll ride in town and buy you a new shirt and overalls,” volunteered
Jim. “Then we’ll go see Mr. Hernstadt.”
Jim was back with the new clothes in slightly over an hour. After Timothy
had changed, they both mounted Ticktock and rode into town, where Timothy
had his hair cut. After eating lunch they set out for the Hernstadt farm.
“I certainly owe you a lot,” said Timothy as they approached their
destination. “Whether I get the job or not, you certainly have gone to a
lot of trouble for me. A guy that helps you when you’re in trouble is a
real friend.”
“I knew you weren’t a real crook,” said Jim, embarrassed by Timothy’s
gratitude. “The minute Ticktock liked you, I figured you could be
trusted.”
“I owe this little horse plenty too,” said Timothy. “After he has carried
double for so far, I’m not sure he’s going to like me anymore though.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hernstadt,” said Jim when they arrived. “This is
Timothy Dinwiddie, a friend of mine. He’s a very good horse trainer. I
remembered that you asked me to find you a good man to handle horses; so
I brought him over to see you. The Pony Express always gets its man.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Mr. Hernstadt, shaking hands with Timothy. “What
experience have you had?”
In a few minutes the two men were deep in horse talk, much of it far too
technical for Jim. It was apparent to the horse breeder, after a short
conversation, that Timothy definitely knew horses. The three of them made
a tour of the stables, Mr. Hernstadt explaining the various duties of the
job. Jim walked through the immaculate barns with their modern equipment,
his eyes wide with interest. Every convenience he saw he wanted for
Ticktock’s stall. They finally ended their tour at a small shed that
contained a forge, an anvil and complete blacksmithing equipment.
“It’s rather difficult to find a good blacksmith these days,” explained
Mr. Hernstadt. “Everyone uses tractors, and there isn’t enough business
to keep a good blacksmith going. I had so much trouble finding a man who
really knew how to shoe a horse that I bought this equipment to do it
myself. Ever shoe a horse?”
“Many a time,” said Timothy confidently. “You haven’t shown me anything
yet, Mr. Hernstadt, that I can’t handle.”
“I believe you. If you want to try the job for a month, I’ll be glad to
have you. There are nice quarters over that harness shed where you can
live. Come on and I’ll show you.”
The details of salary and duties were settled and Timothy declared his
intention of going to work immediately. He was very enthusiastic about
his new job, liking his employer, and admiring the horses and all the
modern equipment. Feeling very satisfied at the way matters had turned
out, Jim prepared to leave.
“What do I owe the Pony Express for finding me a good man to handle
horses?” Mr. Hernstadt asked Jim.
“Nothing at all,” answered Jim. “This comes under the heading of good
will. Employment service is a little out of our line. I was just doing
this as a favor to a friend.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said the farmer laughing.
“I’d like to do something for the Pony Express though,” said Timothy. “I
owe the firm a lot. If it’s all right with you Mr. Hernstadt, when I get
the time I’d like to use the blacksmith shop to shoe Ticktock.”
“Certainly, any time you like,” agreed Mr. Hernstadt cordially.
“Bring him over in about two weeks,” said Timothy. “By then I’ll know my
way around and be able to find the time. He needs reshoeing.”
“Thanks,” replied Jim. “I’ve been wondering where I was going to get him
shod.”
“I’ll float his teeth too,” said Timothy. “I was looking at them one day
and they could stand it.”
“What does ‘floating his teeth’ mean?” Jim inquired.
“Those back teeth are called grinders,” explained Timothy. “They grind up
the grain and after a while they get sharp edges and points. Ticktock’s
aren’t so bad, as apparently he hasn’t had too much grain. Anyhow, unless
you file away those sharp edges, the horse can’t chew the way he should.
When the teeth get really bad a horse gets out of condition and sometimes
has colic. Filing down the teeth is called floating.”
“You weren’t wrong when you said he knew horses,” said Mr. Hernstadt to
Jim.
As soon as Jim reached home, he told his sister about the happy ending to
Timothy’s story. She was very pleased that the trainer was no longer a
fugitive from justice, but her pleasure seemed overshadowed by her worry
about Timothy’s broken heart.
“Don’t be silly,” said Jim, who couldn’t understand her concern. “Why
should he worry about a woman when he’s got twenty-three horses?”
Later that evening Jim sat contentedly in the living room reading a book
about the West in the days of the pioneers. He was deeply engrossed in a
running battle between a wagon train and the Indians when the clock
struck nine.
“Your bedtime, Jim,” said Mr. Meadows.
Jim was feeling too happy and satisfied with the world in general to put
up his usual fight against bed. He stood up obediently, and with his nose
still buried in the book, started to walk toward the stairs.
“Jim,” said Mr. Meadows, embarrassedly clearing his throat, “there’s
something I wanted to say.”
“Yes, Dad,” said Jim looking up in surprise at his father’s rather red
face.
“It’s about that horse of yours,” said Mr. Meadows lamely. “I guess I was
wrong about Ticktock. He’s a pretty smart horse, the way he led us to
where your sister was. I think we can find room and feed enough to keep
him permanently.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Jim. “That’s wonderful!”
His world was very full of happiness. Knowing how difficult it was for
his father to make such a speech as he had just heard, he was deeply
appreciative. Jim, like his father, was unable to act very demonstrative,
so having expressed his thanks, he hurried upstairs to bed. They
understood each other, he and his father. Although they didn’t say much,
each knew how the other felt.
Jim dropped off to sleep with a contented smile on his face. Ticktock was
his forever, Timothy was safe now, and the hide-out was still
undiscovered. It was a very satisfactory world.
Chapter Fourteen
The Fire
Ticktock also went to sleep that night with a contented grin on his face.
As a reward for having carried double for so many miles, and in general
celebration of the happy state of affairs, Jim had given him two apples
and an extra large portion of oats. It was a moderately cool night with
few flies to bother him; so the mustang dozed off while still munching on
his last mouthful of oats. He stood swaying dreamily on his feet, while
visions of sugar cubes, dew-drenched clover, and whole bins full of oats
floated through his brain. In the midst of his dream, the sweet odor of
clover slowly changed to a smell that was foreign and unpleasant. The
mustang stirred uneasily and shook his head in annoyance but the
disturbing odor persisted. Sleepily he opened his eyes and then snorted
in sudden alarm. The foreign smell was unmistakably smoke!
Mr. Meadows had completed the building of a new brooder house during the
day. The scraps of lumber, together with other refuse, had been dumped in
the incinerator and burned. The fire had been inspected just before dark
when everything had appeared to be burned with the exception of a few
small smoking embers. Unfortunately, the inspection had not been thorough
enough for there were a number of pieces of tar paper roofing in the back
of the incinerator. They smoldered harmlessly for several hours until the
night breeze shifted. Suddenly they burst into flame and burned as only
tar paper can burn. A shower of sparks went up into the night.
Straw collects in every barnyard and the Meadows’ yard was no exception.
There had been no rain for over a week; so the wisps of straw lying
around were ripe for burning. The wind had deposited a small pile of
loose straw against a lean-to which was built onto one end of the barn. A
spark landed in this pile and in a few minutes the straw was burning
merrily while the wind whipped the flames against the dry boards of the
lean-to, filling the interior with smoke. Since this shed joined one end
of the barn, smoke began to filter through the cracks into Ticktock’s
stall. The fire was just catching the shed when the horse had awakened
with his start of alarm.
Ticktock had been around many campfires with Jim, but he had always been
free to move a respectful distance away and to stand clear of the smoke.
This was a different situation, which was not at all to his liking. As
the smoke grew thicker he decided something was amiss. He snorted and
jerked his head as the acrid fumes began to tickle his nostrils and smart
his eyes. By twisting his neck he could see bright tongues of flame
through the cracks in the wall and he was inspired with fresh terror. The
smoke grew thicker until it interfered with his breathing. He moved
around as much as he was able in his confined stall, growing more
frightened each minute. He decided it was time to leave.
The pony tried backing out of his stall, but he came to the end of his
halter rope in a few feet. He pulled until his neck ached but still the
rope held. Then he moved forward until there was a small amount of slack
in the tether. He gave a violent toss of his head. There was a painful
wrench as the rope snapped taut. This method was no more successful than
the first, but there seemed no other course but to try again. The smoke
was growing thicker and there was no time to lose. The frightened pony
gave several more violent tugs until finally, after one particularly
desperate yank, the rope snapped. As he backed from the stall, Ticktock
could hear the uneasy stirrings of the other horses and cattle, who
although farther from the fire than he, were now awake and becoming
frightened too.
Freeing himself from the halter rope was only half the battle, for he
still had to get out of the barn. The door which was almost directly back
of his stall was the usual double barn door. The stock had been put in
the barn because it had looked very much like rain. However, the upper
halves of the doors had been left open, so that it wouldn’t become too
hot inside. Ticktock stuck his muzzle over the lower half to breathe
gratefully the fresh night air. A few deep breaths restored his energy
enough and calmed him sufficiently for him to consider the remainder of
his problem. There was not room enough to try to jump over the closed
part of the door. After surveying the situation appraisingly, the little
mustang turned around until his back feet were pointing toward the
opening. His motto had always been, “When in doubt—kick.” With no
hesitation he went into action. Kicking was one of his major
accomplishments; so three hefty blows were enough to break the door open.
If a horse can give a sigh of relief, he gave one when he bolted into the
open barnyard. Perhaps it was just a huge gulp of fresh air but it
sounded like a sigh of relief.
Once outside, Ticktock could see the burning shed clearly. He trotted to
the other side of the yard where he was in safety and then turned to look
over the situation again. It was only a matter of time until the barn
proper was on fire, trapping all the animals in it. He could hear the
movements of these animals who were rapidly growing frantic. Although he
personally was out of danger, Ticktock knew that something terrible was
happening. His own feelings when he had been in the barn were still fresh
enough in his mind to make him nervous. He thought the matter over. That
blazing shed was wrong. It didn’t fit into the proper scheme of things
around the farm. When anything was wrong, Ticktock had only one
thought—to go to Jim. Jim could solve everything. The mustang trotted
toward the fence separating the barnyard from the grounds around the
house. It was a formidably high board fence, higher than any he had ever
tried. Doubtfully he trotted back across the yard, knowing the sensible
thing to do was to keep away from the fire and forget that high fence.
The noise made by the trapped animals grew louder and more panicky. There
was a feeling of terrible urgency that told him he should go to Jim.
Dismissing his doubts, he started running toward the fence.
[Illustration: Jumping a fence]
The little horse made a magnificent leap, but the fence was too high for
him. His front legs cleared but his hind legs were a few sickening inches
short. His hooves hit the top of the boards with a resounding thud that
threw him off balance. He got over the fence but landed wrong. He felt a
terrible pain in his right foreleg as it crumpled beneath him. The night
was split with the heartbreaking scream of a horse in agony.
Jim sat bolt upright in bed at Ticktock’s first scream, alarmed and
confused. When the terrible piercing sound was repeated, he leaped out of
bed and tore down the hall, shouting as he went.
“Dad! Mom! The horses! Something’s happened to one of them!” He did not
say “Ticktock,” as the idea that the shrieking horse could be his beloved
pony was too terrible to admit, even to himself. He was filled with
hideous misgivings, though, as he raced down the stairs. When he opened
the front door he saw the fire.
“Fire! Fire!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Mr. Meadows did not
need the second alarm, as Jim’s first shout had been enough to jerk him
out of bed. He had pulled on his trousers and shoes and was starting down
the stairs when he heard the word “fire.”
Barefooted and in his pajamas, Jim raced toward the barn. Halfway there
he saw Ticktock. The little mustang was lying helplessly on his side,
screaming and kicking in terror and pain. Forgetting the fire, Jim raced
toward the stricken horse. He felt a sickening sense of calamity as he
approached Ticktock. He dreaded going nearer, yet he had to know what was
wrong. Then in the wavering light from the fire, he saw his worst fears
realized; Ticktock’s leg was hanging limp and useless, broken between the
fetlock and the knee.
Few people ever have to face sudden stark tragedy. There is usually some
warning or preparation that makes the shock more bearable. Jim was not so
fortunate. Out of a happy sleep he had awakened to this. There was no
bottom to the depths of his despair. This was a tragedy beyond his most
horrible dreams. A terrible numbing agony swept over him, leaving him
nauseated, blinded and stricken. There was a huge leaden mass where his
heart and stomach had been. He shed no tears but threw himself in a
hopeless heap on the ground beside the horse. Not knowing what he was
doing, he took Ticktock’s head in his lap and began to stroke the
mustang’s forehead. He mumbled softly and unintelligibly to the
trembling, terror-stricken horse.
Mrs. Meadows, who had dressed by this time, came out into the yard
carrying Jim’s shoes, shirt and trousers. She had turned on the yard
light; so she saw the horse and boy immediately. There was no need to ask
what was wrong. The crumpled leg was only too evident. Tears of sympathy
and grief started to her eyes, both for the little horse and for her son.
She glanced hesitantly toward the fire, feeling she should rush to her
husband’s aid, but she knew what sickening grief was shaking her son. She
had to comfort him, if only for a moment. Saying nothing, she walked over
to put her hand on his shoulder. Jim looked up at her dumbly as if
struggling for recognition. Slowly he brought his mind out of its
numbness.
“Broken,” he said in a hopeless, tired voice. “Broken.”
“I know.”
“The fire,” he said slowly. “I ought to help.”
“No, you stay—” she started to say and then thought better. His help was
needed and anything that would take his mind off Ticktock would help.
“Yes, Jim, there are other horses that are trapped in the barn. You’d
better help.”
“You help carry water,” she warned him as he pulled on his clothes over
his pajamas. “Stay out of the barn unless your father tells you that you
can go in.”
Jean came out to drop beside Ticktock in sorrow almost as great as Jim’s.
While the girl comforted the pony, Jim and his mother rushed off to help
Mr. Meadows. With misgivings, Jim’s father permitted him to go into the
smoke-filled barn, for help was needed desperately. The terrorized
animals were threshing about in their stalls so violently that it was
dangerous work to get near them in the smoky interior to untie them.
Choking and blinded, Jim led out one cow, only to plunge back in again
after another. Mr. Meadows was racing in and out of the barn like a
madman, leading out the huge work horses. Mrs. Meadows ran back and forth
from the watering tank to the fire carrying water while anxiously trying
to keep tabs on both her husband and son to see that neither was gone too
long, perhaps lost and overcome by the smoke. Finally all the stock was
safely out in the yard and the two, coughing and sputtering, turned to
help Mrs. Meadows fight the still growing fire.
They carried water until they were at the point of exhaustion and the big
water tank was almost empty. Mr. Meadows was the only one strong enough
to throw water onto the roof of the lean-to, which by this time was
burning fiercely. He scorched his face and arms while his hair and
eyebrows became singed and frizzled. With his face blackened with soot,
he continued to fight the fire with the water that Jim and his mother
pantingly lugged to the scene. At last they began to make headway and the
boards no longer blazed but smoldered. The lean-to was almost destroyed,
while one end of the barn was badly scorched and charred. When finally
there were no more bright blazes but only embers, Mrs. Meadows turned to
her son.
“Go on back to your horse. We’ll finish here.”
Jim returned to his stricken mustang. During the fire, excitement had
replaced much of his grief, but now it returned with all its former
force. Dejectedly he sat down beside Jean to stroke the horse’s quivering
head. He was still dumbly patting Ticktock’s neck when Mr. Meadows came
to stand beside him some minutes later. Jim looked up at his blackened,
begrimed father.
“He broke his halter rope and kicked down the door,” said the older man.
“Why he jumped the fence into the yard we’ll never know. I guess horses
can do a lot more thinking than we realize. He may have wanted to warn
us. If that was his idea, he succeeded, although he had to break his leg
to do it. I suppose it’s small consolation, son, but your pony saved the
barn and all the other stock.”
Ticktock had calmed down somewhat now that Jim was stroking his head
again. He was still trembling, but he no longer tried to struggle
futilely to his feet. The pain, while not the first horrible jabbing
agony, was still present. He rolled his eyes in fright and only Jim’s
comforting hand kept him from writhing about on the ground. Mr. Meadows
knelt down, examining the leg carefully. He straightened up with a grim
expression on his face.
“It’s broken, son,” he said. “I suppose you know that. It’s pretty high;
so there isn’t a chance. You better go in the house and let me put him
out of his pain.”
“No!” cried Jim, coming suddenly out of his stupor. “You can’t shoot
him.”
“I don’t want to,” said his father gently. “But it’s the only thing we
can do. The only thing that’s fair to Ticktock.”
“Call Dr. Cornby,” said Jim with a faint glimmer of hope in his voice.
“Maybe he can fix it.”
“If the break were lower, there might be some possibility of saving him,”
said Mr. Meadows. “I hate to disappoint you Jim, but Dr. Cornby won’t be
able to do anything.”
“We can see,” said Jim with pleading insistence.
“I’ll go call the veterinarian,” said Mrs. Meadows. She went inside to
the telephone.
In a few minutes Jim’s mother was back. “There was no answer at Dr.
Cornby’s home, Jim. It’s eleven-thirty; so I suppose he will be home
before too long. In the meantime I have no idea where to reach him.”
“What day is it?” asked Jim with apparent irrelevance.
“Thursday, why?”
“He’s at the Springdale _Gazette_ office as usual,” said Jim whose mind
was functioning again with its old sharpness. “Call him there and tell
him how important it is.”
Dr. Cornby was very surprised when he was called to the telephone. He
listened carefully for a few minutes.
“Where is the leg broken?” he asked after Mrs. Meadows had explained what
had happened.
“About four inches below the knee,” replied Jim’s mother.
“That makes it tough,” he said. “Not much chance with the break there.”
“That’s what Carl said, but Dr. Cornby, you have to come out to see the
horse,” said Mrs. Meadows desperately. “Jim is absolutely heartbroken.
Even if you can’t do a thing, it will make him feel better. That’s really
why I want you to come, for Jim as much as the horse. I want him to know
that everything possible is being done.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Meadows,” said Cornby. “I’ll be right out. I owe that
boy of yours a good turn anyhow. Keep the horse as quiet as possible in
the meantime.”
“What’s happened?” asked the editor when Cornby hung up the receiver.
“There was a fire out at the Meadows’ place. That mustang kicked his way
out of the barn, jumped a fence, and woke up the family. The trouble is
he broke his leg in the process.”
“That kid’ll never get over this,” said Arnold sympathetically. “Any
chance of setting the horse’s leg?”
“I don’t know,” said Cornby, shaking his gray head slowly. “Depends on
what the break is like. It’s pretty high, which is bad. However, I’ve got
to see what I can do.”
The two men went to the veterinarian’s office, where the doctor got his
bag. After he had all his instruments carefully stowed, he pulled out a
heavy sack from the closet.
“What’s in that?” asked Arnold.
“Quick-setting plaster,” replied Cornby. “I hope we can use it. Otherwise
it’s this.” He pulled a forty-five from his desk drawer, examined it,
inserted a clip and stuck it in his pocket.
“Look,” said Arnold, “how about that new-fangled splint you used on your
dog? Wouldn’t something like that work?”
“Maybe, maybe not. That was a Stader splint, and it has been a godsend
for small animals and for men, too, for that matter. On horses, as yet,
it’s use is no more certain to effect a cure than a plaster cast.”
“Why not?” asked the editor as they got in the car.
“There’s the same difficulty as with all methods of setting a horse’s
leg. There’s simply too much weight for such small legs. There’s
experimentation going on all the time at colleges and veterinarian
schools. Every now and then you read an article that someone has
discovered a new method of repairing broken bones in horses, but the fact
remains that in most cases the horse is through. A plaster cast is still
the most widely used, and only in isolated cases is it successful. I hope
this is one of them.”
Chapter Fifteen
A Long Night
Jim was still sitting on the ground beside Ticktock when Dr. Cornby and
the editor arrived. The veterinarian wasted no time, but after a short
greeting to the family, immediately went to work. Using a flash light, he
made a careful examination of the broken leg. Jim watched every move with
painful anxiety. Hopefully he looked at Dr. Cornby’s face as the latter
stood up from his inspection.
“Can you fix it?” he asked. There was desperate pleading in his voice.
“I don’t know, Jim. It’s a clean break, no jagged edges, so we can try.
You can usually set a leg, but whether it will be successful is always a
gamble. Ticktock and you will play a much more important part in this
than I will. You have a much tougher job ahead of you than I have.”
“I’m willing to do anything,” answered Jim promptly.
The veterinarian looked around appraisingly and then issued instructions.
A long lighting cord was found and stretched from the nearest socket to
furnish illumination at the pony’s side. The accident had occurred
beneath one of the large trees in the yard. Thoughtfully Dr. Cornby
looked up at a big limb almost directly overhead.
“If we had equipment, the best thing would be to move him out to his
stall in the barn, but we’d need a tow truck or a derrick to do it.
However, there is always the possibility of doing still more damage by
moving him and, also, the sooner we set the leg the better. We are lucky
in that we can raise him right here, but if we do, he’s going to be here
a long time. Now can you rig up some sort of padded frame like the side
of a stall so Ticktock can lean against it and rest?”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Meadows. “We can do anything that’s necessary.”
“O.K.,” said the veterinarian. “Mrs. Meadows, you are going to have a
horse cluttering up your back yard for some time.” She only smiled to
show her lack of concern, so he continued. “First, I need a good strong
block and tackle.”
The block and tackle was securely fastened to the limb overhead and then
Dr. Cornby produced a wide canvas bellyband to go under Ticktock’s body,
a breeching and a breast strap. He worked rapidly with only an occasional
comment.
“Got to put him out to keep him quiet,” he said, producing a jug of
liquid and a complicated appearing apparatus with a long tube. “This is
chloral hydrate which I am going to administer intravenously in the
jugular vein. Just as simple as giving plasma to a person.”
Ticktock gave a start of pain and terror as the vein was pierced but in a
few minutes his nervous trembling had ceased, his legs relaxed, and his
head drooped heavily in Jim’s lap.
“I’ll have to raise him to get at that leg,” said the doctor.
By dint of much pulling, pushing and lifting, the wide bellyband was
shoved beneath the mustang’s body and the ends hooked to the block and
tackle. Slowly and carefully the limp horse was raised. When the inert
body was clear of the ground, they readjusted its position and then
secured the breast strap and breech band in place to keep Ticktock from
sliding out of the sling. The injured animal was then raised until his
feet dangled clear of the ground by a few inches. A final adjustment was
made so that his hind feet were slightly lower than his fore feet. With
his head hanging limply downward, poor Ticktock certainly presented a
forlorn and pitiful sight.
In the meantime, Bill Arnold had been preparing the material for a
plaster cast. Dr. Cornby worked rapidly and soon had the leg set and
padded ready for it.
“I wish I had a fluoroscope or some means of taking an X ray to see if I
have that bone in exact apposition,” he said as he worked. “I have to go
by touch entirely, but I think I’ve got it right.”
After the plaster cast had been applied and was hardening, the
veterinarian sat down to relax for a few minutes. He lighted his pipe and
drew in the smoke gratefully. Jim gave a big sigh of relief and looked
hopefully at Dr. Cornby. He had been afraid to utter a sound while the
doctor had been working, but now he felt he could talk.
“He’s going to be all right now, isn’t he, Doctor?” he asked anxiously.
“I wish I could say yes definitely, but I can’t, Jim. The battle has only
begun. Only the simple part is over. I’m not going to kid you but tell
you just what can and does happen in most cases.”
“O.K.,” said Jim grimly.
“A horse has one of the most sensitive nervous systems of all animals,
which is the one thing that makes matters so difficult when they have an
accident. They are particularly susceptible to any pain, which makes them
writhe around, kick and do everything they shouldn’t when they have a
broken bone. On the other hand, you can’t keep them quiet by keeping them
under dope because their nervous system just won’t stand it for any
length of time. That’s why a race horse seldom recovers from a broken
leg—he’s such a nervous animal he won’t keep still.”
“Ticktock’s not nervous,” said Jim promptly.
“No, he’s a rather calm little pony, but on the other hand, he’s no
placid cow. I’ve seen times when he acted pretty spirited; so it won’t be
beer and skittles keeping him quiet. And you’ve got to do it. Now you
notice how sloping a horse’s leg is. It’s difficult to keep a plaster
cast in place—if the break were above the knee it would be next to
impossible. The muscles in the leg are very powerful and if the horse
starts moving, the contraction of those muscles is enough to pull the
bones out of apposition, by that I mean out of line, and then he’s done
for.”
“I’ll keep him quiet,” said Jim with determination. “I’ll stay right here
beside Ticktock all the time.”
“It’ll be a long vigil,” said Dr. Cornby smiling sympathetically. “He’s
going to be in that sling at least six weeks. Of course, the first two
weeks are the most important. After that the bone has begun to knit and
won’t pull apart so easily. Now the next thing is to keep him happy and
eating. I don’t know how to tell you to do this. You know the horse and
will have to figure it out for yourself. I’ve known some horses that
would absolutely refuse to eat anything when they were in pain. In one
case I tried feeding a horse through a tube to keep him alive. Now
Ticktock shouldn’t be in pain after this, but he’ll be nervous being in
that sling. You’ve got to keep him calm and happy enough to eat.”
Jim was not discouraged by this ominous warning. He felt confident that
he could keep the mustang quiet and contented. Ticktock would eat for
him.
“Now there’s one more problem,” said Dr. Cornby. “We’ll lower him in a
few minutes so that some of his weight is resting on his feet. I think
the way we have him set most of it will be on his hind feet. Each day
we’ll put more weight on his feet until finally the sling will just be
there to keep him from lying down and for him to use when he wants to
rest. Now some horses never lie down to sleep. I’ve had farmers tell me
that some of their horses have stood as long as a couple of years without
lying down other than to roll when they were in the pasture. Still
there’s danger when you force a horse to stand for six weeks in a sling
that he might get laminitis, or founder.”
“What’s that?” asked Arnold.
“It’s the same thing that happens when a horse is overworked, allowed to
drink all the water he wants and then stand. The blood vessels in the
feet are injured. The blood from the arteries passes through tiny blood
vessels, called capillaries, into the veins and back to the heart. These
little blood vessels are permanently damaged and the coffin joint, inside
the hoof, suffers and drops out of position. The sole of the foot also
drops. You can help mild cases of founder, but the horse is never up to
much except very light work. Even if he recovers he is usually lame until
his blood warms up.”
“What can we do to prevent it?” asked Mr. Meadows while Jim listened
anxiously.
“Well, building that padded barricade will give him a chance to lean
against it and rest. Also, it helps to groom the horse and massage his
legs. Don’t touch the broken leg at all for a few days though. Beyond
that there isn’t much that can be done but hope for the best.”
The veterinarian waited until Ticktock awoke, and then lowered him until
his feet touched the ground lightly. At first the pony was very groggy
and dopey, but as his head cleared he started to struggle. He could not
understand why he was hanging in the air and was unable to walk.
“There, there, old boy. You’re all right now,” said Jim consolingly,
patting the mustang on the head.
There was nothing further that Dr. Cornby could do. As it was after three
o’clock in the morning, he and the editor prepared to leave. As Dr.
Cornby wearily packed his bag, Jim awkwardly tried to express his thanks.
He was so grateful that he could find no words adequate to convey the
depth of his feeling.
“I know how you feel, Jim,” said Dr. Cornby. “Just forget about it and
save all your energies for the days ahead. You’re going to need all
you’ve got.”
Jim firmly refused to leave his pony’s side, insisting that he was going
to sit up the remainder of the night beside the injured animal. “He might
want some water,” he said, “or he might get scared and start kicking.”
[Illustration: Horse in a sling]
“All right,” said Mr. Meadows who had volunteered to spend the night on
watch beside Ticktock. “We’ll bring out some blankets and fix up a place
where you can lie down if you want to.”
Dawn found Jim leaning back against the tree asleep with a blanket around
his shoulders. Ticktock dozed quietly in his sling, apparently
comfortable and contented. Mrs. Meadows discovered them still in deep
slumber when she came out to call Jim for breakfast. She looked down
fondly at her son’s drawn, tired face, hating to awaken him. Reaching
down, she shook his shoulder gently.
“Jim, Jim,” she said softly. “Come in and have some breakfast.”
Jim was ravenous. He looked at Ticktock, who still slept peacefully; so
he decided to go in to breakfast. However, as he started toward the house
the mustang awoke and stirred restively. No amount of persuasion could
have made Jim leave then, so his breakfast was served in the yard. He sat
under the big tree hungrily devouring bacon and eggs, sleepy and tired,
but happy. He then fed Ticktock, lovingly holding a bucket for the horse
to eat and drink. He refused to go more than a few feet from the mustang,
chasing away every fly and fussing over Ticktock as if he were a tiny
baby. Jean brought apples and choice bits of clover to offer. The pony,
instead of refusing to eat, accepted everything until Mr. Meadows became
alarmed over Ticktock’s large appetite.
“Remember, he’s not going to get any exercise for a long time,” he
warned. “You’ll overfeed him if you don’t watch out.” Mr. Meadows sunk
two posts near Ticktock and between them nailed boards which were padded
to allow the mustang to rest against the structure comfortably.
The news traveled fast through the countryside and all morning there was
a string of visitors. Some came out of sympathy for Jim and others out of
pure curiosity. A horse with his leg in a plaster cast was quite an
attraction, particularly a famous horse like Ticktock. Jean sternly kept
all visitors at a respectful distance, afraid they would alarm the pony.
Shortly after noon Timothy came riding down the lane astride a huge
Percheron.
“Just heard about the accident,” he said to Jim. “It was certainly tough
luck. I thought I’d come see if there was anything I could do.”
He examined the injured leg with great interest. “Nice job—sure hope it
works.” He wasted no further words on condolence but promptly took charge
of the situation.
“While it’s good weather we better get things rigged up for rain,” he
said with authority. “We’ll fix him a regular stall right here. Roof to
shade him and a manger. It would be just as well not to have too much of
the yard in plain view—something might scare him.”
Together Timothy and Jim stretched a big canvas tarpaulin over Ticktock
and pegged the sides securely to the ground. They made a small manger out
of boxes and placed it where it was convenient for the mustang. Then they
spread straw on the ground around his feet and in a short time had him
appearing very comfortable in a tentlike stall. Timothy finished matters
by giving the little horse a thorough grooming. The trainer’s expert
touch and soothing voice kept the pony quiet and contented and for the
first time since the accident Jim was able to leave his side without a
feeling of alarm.
“I’ll come over about eight and spend the night with him,” said Timothy
firmly. “You’ve already had one tough night and need some sleep.”
So Timothy stayed beside the injured horse the second night while Jim
slept in his own bed with the soundness that comes of exhaustion.
Chapter Sixteen
The Convalescence
For two weeks Jim and Timothy alternated nights beside Ticktock. After
several days the mustang seemed resigned to remaining in one spot but
grew very spoiled. Unless someone were beside him, he wanted to move
about. Dr. Cornby came out daily to inspect Ticktock and check on
progress. Timothy proved invaluable, for each day he gave the horse a
thorough massage and grooming. His long experience with race horses
enabled him to keep the mustang’s muscles in trim in spite of his lack of
exercise. Each time Timothy finished his daily stint of several hours
rubbing and massaging, Jim gave mental thanks that he had made the right
decision that first day when he had met Timothy at the hideaway.
[Illustration: Horse in a sling]
During the day, Jean often spelled Jim in his vigil beside the pony.
School started during Ticktock’s last week in the sling, but the question
of whether Jim should go to school was not even raised—he stayed beside
his horse. When the day finally arrived to take Ticktock from the sling,
there was a large audience. Timothy, of course, was present, having
brought Mr. Hernstadt with him. Bill Arnold, the editor, was there to
report the big event for the Springdale _Gazette_. Dr. Cornby brought two
colleagues from neighboring towns who watched with professional interest.
Altogether there was a very attentive gallery as the veterinarian removed
the cast and gave the signal for Mr. Meadows to lower away slowly.
Ticktock gradually had been allowed to put more weight on his feet for
several weeks so at first when the sling was removed he noticed no
difference. Jim stood at his head, talking soothingly but watching
anxiously. Then he led Ticktock forward for a few tentative steps. The
mustang walked somewhat uncertainly, due to his long period of inaction,
but he did not seem to be limping or favoring his injured leg.
“I believe we’ve done it,” said Dr. Cornby jubilantly. “He seems to be
good as new, Jim!”
Jim threw his arms around his horse’s neck and hugged him in ecstasy.
“You’re all right now, Ticktock. You’re all well again.”
“I’d just lead him around for a few minutes a day at first, Jim. Don’t
let him run at all for six weeks and aside from when you’re exercising
him, keep him in the stall. You should wait at least three months before
you ride him.”
Jim led his horse out to the barn where he had his stall prepared. He
wanted to be alone with the pony for a few minutes. Tears of happiness
were welling up in his eyes—tears that he preferred no one see.
The following week Jim started to school. Ticktock progressed rapidly and
six weeks later was grazing contentedly in the orchard. He wondered
impatiently why Jim had not ridden him for so long, but otherwise he was
content. One day Mr. Meadows had just taken a reassuring look at the
mustang and was crossing the yard toward the house when Ticktock raised
his head and, looking down the road, whinnied. Mr. Meadows followed the
horse’s gaze with idle curiosity at first, and then stared in frank
puzzlement. Coming up the road was an odd-looking wagon followed by a
long string of horses. Had Jim been home, or Ticktock able to talk they
could have told Mr. Meadows that the old man on the driver’s seat was Ned
Evarts, the horse trader, but as it was, the farmer had to figure out the
mystery by himself. The strange procession came on up the road and turned
without hesitation into the lane. Mr. Meadows stared curiously at the
sombreroed driver and the odd assortment of horses. Due to the initial
resentment at Jim’s having traded the gold watch for Ticktock, the horse
trader and his unusual cavalcade had never been discussed much by Jim and
his father. It was only as the wagon stopped and the driver climbed down
that Mr. Meadows began to suspect the identity of his visitor.
“My name’s Evarts,” said the old man, introducing himself. “Are you
Meadows?”
“That’s right,” said Carl Meadows, shaking hands with Evarts.
“Last spring I swapped your son a horse. Still got him?”
“Sure have. He’s over there in the orchard,” replied Jim’s father.
“Yep, that’s him all right,” said the horse trader, shading his eyes from
the sun with one hand while he looked at Ticktock. “He’s lookin’ much
better than when I saw him last.”
“He’s been getting good care,” said Carl Meadows, grinning. “In fact he’s
practically been fed with a spoon lately.”
“When I traded with your boy I was a bit doubtful about the deal, as he
gave me a gold watch for the horse,” said Evarts. “I asked him if he was
sure it was all right, and he reckoned it was. Some days later I happened
to take the watch apart again and I noticed that engravin’ on the back.
While I ain’t doubtin’ that the watch belonged to your son, I figured you
might set a big store by it, seein’ it’s been in the family so long.
Anyhow I held onto it and if you’re a mind to trade back, I still have
the watch.”
“I’ve been wrong on so many counts concerning that horse it’s getting
kinda monotonous,” said Mr. Meadows almost to himself.
“What’s that?” asked Evarts.
“Nothing. No, I wouldn’t consider trading back,” said Mr. Meadows
stoutly. “I was a bit mad at the time, but Jim sure knew what he was
doing. Now I wouldn’t swap that mustang for your whole string. I’d like
to buy the watch though.”
“How about forty-five dollars?”
“Fair enough. I’ll buy it.”
“Made money on that horse after all,” said the old man, grinning as he
pocketed his money.
“I’m glad you did, because that mustang is just about the most valuable
horse in the country. Also the most famous in the state.”
“What’s he done?”
“Well, for one thing he’s just recovered from a broken leg. Had the
cannon bone broken and you’d never know it now.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged,” said Evarts in amazement, as he walked toward the
orchard fence. “How’d he break it?”
“The barn caught on fire one night and he broke out. He jumped the fence
and broke his leg when he landed. That’s what woke us. Must have saved me
a thousand dollars worth of stock. I had the barn insured against fire
but not the stock. That’s just one of the reasons why we wouldn’t part
with him.”
“Well, I’m sure pleased you’re satisfied with him. As I said, I was a bit
worried at the time, tradin’ with a boy.”
“I’ve quit worrying about Jim getting beat in a trade,” said Mr. Meadows
proudly. “He’s quite a businessman. I guess he made at least seventy-five
dollars with that horse during the summer.”
Mr. Meadows was still recounting Ticktock’s exploits when Jim returned
from school.
“Hi, Mr. Evarts!” he shouted as he came through the gate. “How do you
like the looks of my horse?”
“Wonderful. He looks like he’d found horse heaven.”
“Don’t mention that watch,” warned Mr. Meadows as Jim approached. “I’ll
surprise him on his birthday. Not very often you can give the same
present twice. Probably end up with an elephant this time.”
Ticktock came trotting up to the fence to welcome his master. He stuck
his nose over the top wire, begging for some tidbit. Surprisingly enough
it was Mr. Meadows who reached in his pocket and produced a sugar cube.
He held it in his outstretched palm. Ticktock could see plainly enough
that it was sugar, but he hesitated. Mr. Meadows had long since forgotten
his old hostility but the mustang remembered. However, he wasn’t the
horse to hold a grudge; so he looked inquiringly at Jim. Jim grinned and
nodded his head.
Ticktock reached out to take the sugar.
[Illustration: Horse behind fence]
[Illustration: Ticktock and Jim]