to an end. He was returning to the flock after a long jaunt, when,
not far to his right, there appeared a moving figure, wound in a
blanket and topped with white. It was not unlike a yucca, crowned by
a cream-coloured bloom. Now, in a new posture, it was not unlike a
stumpy saguaro with one outspread branch. The curiosity of his kind
impelled him to halt. As he did so, placing his forefeet on a rock, the
better to see, he caught the familiar scent of the Boy, and saw that
the latter was holding out toward him a long, strange something upon
which the light glinted. The next moment there was a puff of smoke--a
report--and Little Watcher fell to the sand.
He lay flat upon his side for a short space, his tail limp and thin,
his eyes closed. Then, striving to rise, he found himself able only to
control his forelegs, for his hinder ones would not obey his will, and
at the small of his back was a spot that stung. This he could reach,
and he alternately snapped round at it with a doleful cry or licked it
tenderly.
It was early morning then, and he did not mind the heat. But later, as
the sun mounted and burned the sand, he pulled himself along to some
spiny buck brush, and spent the rest of the day in its meagre shade. He
knew the flock was not far, for their rank odour was borne to him on
the wind. And so, the sun gone, leaving only great strokes of orange
upon the sky and a fire-edged hill where its last light rested, he took
his way toward home, dragging his hind quarters.
Twilight was yet on the desert as he came in sight of the goats. There
they went, trailing across the purple levels to the long, black,
wavering line of cottonwoods, behind them, two herders. Faster he
pulled himself along, giving a quick little bark, now and then, that
ended in a howl. But he was not able to cross the summit of the ridge
from which he looked. And so he dropped down upon a red-black stretch
of glassy lava. For hours thirst had cruelly assailed him. As often in
times past he had drunk from rain-filled pockets in the sandstone, he
now licked feverishly at the still blistering rock.
There night found him. Between his lappings, he lay flat, being too
hurt and weary to hold himself up. His muzzle was toward the flock and
he could see the place of its lying down. For there burned the evening
fire, a dot of light on a vast sheet of blackness. He shivered, giving
puppy-like barks, as when, a whelp, he tagged his foster mother, the
she-goat; he lifted his muzzle to the stars and mourned.
Behind him, other cries answered--faintly, against the wind. He perked
his ears, listening.
_Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_--the running cry of prairie wolves on a
scent!
He looked down upon the level, where sparks were flying up from the Old
Woman’s fire. Once more, rallying all his strength, he tried to make
headway toward the goats. Once more, he could not cross the ridge. He
whined helplessly.
Nearer and nearer sounded the coyote cries behind, dulling a little as
the pack descended into a draw, redoubling in strength when they came
out upon higher ground.
And now they were so near that Little Watcher could hear their short
pantings as they loped forward. And now he could see them coming his
way through the dark. With a growl, he sat up, ears laid back, hair on
end.
_Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_
Up from behind the pine-covered Tunichas rose the moon--full, white,
spreading a day-like radiance upon the great slopes and levels of the
desert.
From the brush shelter among the cottonwoods, the Old Woman and the
Boy lifted their eyes to look, and saw, silhouetted against it, at the
summit of the lava stretch, a lone coyote, seemingly seated upon its
haunches.
The squaw got to her feet, wristlets and chains tinkling, and leaned to
peer among the goats. The Boy sprang up, too, his gaze toward the ridge
top.
“Little Watcher!” he called anxiously; “Little Watcher!”
Then into the moonlight on the distant summit they saw other wolf
forms race; and as these centred to where the lone coyote sat, saw him
struggle forward to meet them. And through the desert night, there came
a shrill yelp of defiance--then a wrangle of exultant cries.
MISSY AND I
It all happened after Missy and I arrived from San Francisco. I was
taken to Hart’s (which, as you must know, is one of the most perfectly
appointed boarding-places for horses in New York) and given a roomy
box-stall toward the front of the stable. Across from me was another
box, just as large and loose. In it was a stylish black gelding with
docked tail and hogged mane. That was Thunderbolt.
I was very car-stiff. For though I came by express on the same train
with Missy, it had taken six days. My first day at Hart’s, as she was
in my stall, petting me and giving me nice bites of carrot (it was
a Wednesday, Wednesday being my day for carrots), a man came down
the row of stalls with Martin, the head-groom. As he turned to open
Thunderbolt’s box, he looked at me--or Missy--(his look was admiring,
anyway) and raised his hat. That was Thunderbolt’s master.
Missy bowed back, sweetly, but gravely, and went on feeding me.
I did not know he was Thunderbolt’s master then. But later, before
Peter, one of the under-grooms, took me out for an airing (I was not
fit, Missy said, to be ridden--but I noticed Peter rode me when he got
me out of sight of the stable), I nickered over to Thunderbolt to ask
him who his visitor was.
“That is my master,” said he, putting his head over the side of his
box. “And he is one of the best masters I have ever had.”
I gave a good horse laugh at that. “_One_ of the best,” I said.
For I had never belonged to anyone but Missy, and _I_ think that a
first-class animal doesn’t keep changing quarters.
Thunderbolt put back his ears. “That is what I said,” he went on, “and
I’m not going to turn a hair over it, either. A change of monogram can
happen to _anybody_.”
“Of course,” said I, taking particular pains to show mine. It was on my
best dress-blanket, which Peter was putting on, and which was made to
order for me in Missy’s father’s woolen mills. “But how did it happen
that you--eh----”
Thunderbolt’s eyes showed a rim of white--a bad-temper sign that
no thoroughbred (and no part thoroughbred) allows himself to make.
“‘You’re as silly as a filly,’” he quoted. “A horse may just be off his
oats a little--that was my case--or home-sick.”
“_I_ can understand _that_.”
“Any crow-bait could. But now that I’m here----”
“Lucky nag!” said I.
“Bet your bridle!” returned Thunderbolt. “My master comes in with his
pockets fairly sticking out with good things. Have you noticed?”
“No, but I will,” I promised.
And I did. The very next morning, here came Thunderbolt’s master again.
I put my nose out when I saw him. He stopped and smoothed my neck.
And, meanwhile, I found a pocket jammed with grass.
As Thunderbolt saw the grass disappear, he laid back his ears. “The
Dealers take you!” he grumbled.
“Don’t get ugly,” I said. “I’ll divide my tidbits with you. To-day I’ll
get an apple.”
“How do you know?” he snorted. He was careful to appear on his best
behaviour, however, for his master was looking at his hoofs.
“Monday, sweet biscuit,” I began; “Tuesday, sugar; Wednesday, carrots;
Thursday, an apple; Friday, cracked corn; Saturday, stale bread and
molasses; Sunday, marshmallows.”
“What are marshmallows?” asked Thunderbolt. “Do they grow in a meadow?”
“They don’t,” I answered. “They come in Missy’s handkerchief. As near
as I can make out, they are sweet chunks of bran mash.”
We stopped talking then, for Missy came, dressed for a canter. She
didn’t see Thunderbolt’s master at first, for he was still stooping
over. And after I had a bite of apple, she held out a piece to
Thunderbolt.
“You pretty fellow!” she said.
At that, up popped Thunderbolt’s master. And they bowed, and said
good-morning, and he pointed out Thunderbolt’s good points--deep chest
and bold eye, and Missy followed with mine--tapering ears, broad
forehead set with a star, and long, arched neck. So it was quite a bit
before I was ready to go out. Thunderbolt’s master put Missy up and
drove his trap beside us so that they could chat all the way to the
Park.
“_Did_ you notice?” asked Thunderbolt when we were both in again and
John and Peter were grooming us.
“Did I notice what?” I asked, licking my salt.
“You haven’t good horse sense,” declared Thunderbolt. “A flea-bitten
screw with cockled hocks would see more. _Didn’t_ you notice how nice
my master was to your Missy?”
I fairly pawed with delight. “Of course I noticed it,” I answered.
And until the next apple-day I was careful to do my part. I nosed
Thunderbolt’s master when he came in, I picked up my feet in my best
style when I went out beside his trap, and I pranced. And when Missy
wanted to turn me into the bridle-path, I passaged and champed.
Thunderbolt’s master and Missy spent an hour in our boxes every day.
They fed us dainties and talked to each other, and he was especially
kind to me, patting me a lot and praising me. And I saw--well, I can
see farther than my muzzle--and I was as happy as a Grand Prix winner.
And then one day--something seemed wrong with Missy. She arrived
earlier than usual, and had nothing for me. When she entered my stall,
she threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered,
so sadly. And I saw she had a letter crumpled up in one hand.
When Peter took off my sheet, she stepped back and looked me over. “You
_dear_ darling!” she said, just as if she were going to cry. “Peter,
_isn’t_ he beautiful? I’ve had him ever since he was a colt.” And she
laid her pretty cheek against me.
“Oi never seen a foiner, miss,” said Peter. “Up-headed, an’ wid a mouth
that ud drive on a t’read.”
Thunderbolt’s master came in then, and when he’d said good-morning
he sent Peter away for something and stepped over into my box. Missy
turned away from him, and he couldn’t help but see that she wasn’t
acting as usual. But I don’t believe he understood it any better than I
did. For he looked puzzled, and then he raised his hat again.
“Do you know,” he said, “it’s just occurred to me that I’ve been very
remiss. I’ve never even introduced myself properly to you. And I
haven’t the pleasure of your name, either.”
“If people are fond of horses----” began Missy. She fell to patting my
nose.
“My name is England,” went on Thunderbolt’s master, “Edward England.”
Instantly, I felt Missy’s fingers tighten, and I saw her face grow
white. “England!” she said under her breath; “Edward England!”
She was standing on my off side now, and Thunderbolt’s master could not
see her. “I presume it’s a name you’re not unfamiliar with,” he went
on again. “But don’t mistake me for dad. He’s been manipulating wool
lately, and the press keeps pretty close track of him.” And he laughed.
“Yes--I--I have heard,” answered Missy, slowly, and as Peter led me
toward the runway, she followed--without another word. She walked
unevenly, as a horse goes when he’s got the blind staggers.
I was sorry she hadn’t told him who _we_ were. For I must say that, on
the Coast, no family stands better than the Sanborns. But Missy was
changed--something had happened to her.
The very next day, something happened to _me_. Peter came down the
stalls with a strange groom behind him and stopped at my box. For the
swish of a tail, I didn’t think anything of that, for we often have
new grooms. But when Peter put on my halter, and then my hood and
dress-blanket, and the man took my leading-strap, I knew I was to be
taken away somewhere.
I felt so startled and excited that I am sure I misbehaved. But the
groom talked kindly to me, and Peter slapped me on the flank, and so I
tried to go quietly. I think the other horses knew I was leaving--that
strange groom gave them the hint. They looked around at me, and one
whinnied to ask me what was the matter. They were all stall boarders,
and of course I didn’t know them. And I was too unhappy to answer,
anyway. For Thunderbolt was out in the trap, and, if I was going, I
could not tell him good-bye.
“What if I’m _sold_?” I kept saying to myself as I went down the runway
and out to the street. “What if I’m _sold_?” I shivered, for all my
covering. “Oh, Missy, you _wouldn’t_ do that!”
Then another terrible thought: Is Missy going to get an auto? But that
couldn’t be--Missy _hates_ autos.
Soon enough, I found out what had happened. The strange groom led
me toward the Hudson, then north again--I am never mistaken in
directions--and, finally, into a good-sized stable that stood midway
of a block. Here, I was led upstairs--_and into a standing-stall_.
It made me cross, and I tried my hind shoes on the mats in short order
(a blooded horse is expected to be nervous and impatient at times).
But the place was clean and comfortable, and the double line of horses
were, I must say, a very decent lot--not show horses, but good of their
kind. All were fresh littered and well blanketed, and seemed contented
enough. “This is where I’m going to live, I guess,” I thought to
myself. Pretty soon I was sure of it. For here came Missy in her riding
clothes.
“It’s all very nice,” I heard her tell the strange groom. “And I want
you to give him every attention.” She opened one hand. There was a
green piece of paper in it, and he bobbed his head as he took it. Then
she opened her other hand--and there was some cracked corn. So it was
on a Friday that I came to my new quarters.
It was three days later before I saw Thunderbolt and his master. We all
met in the Park.
“They tell me Hector’s left Hart’s,” said Mr. England to Missy. “Now,
Miss Sanborn,--you see I’ve found out who you are--it really wasn’t
fair of you to go without letting me know about it. We’re both wool
people, you must remember.” He spoke jokingly; but he looked a little
worried.
Missy straightened in her stirrups (she rides cross-saddle) and
tightened my reins. I felt them tremble. “I’ve moved,” she said, “and
so, of course, Hector had to come nearer me.”
“I see--of course. Where are you now?”
“At Hawley’s, uptown--a nice stable.”
“Oh, yes.” (Mr. England looked hard at the dog’s head on the butt of
his whip.)
There was an awkward silence. Then, “Good-afternoon,” said Missy, and
went on.
It didn’t take me long to realise one thing about my new home. It was
not so good as the old; in the main comforts it was, but not in little
ones. We got two groomings instead of three; the litter was not deep,
as at Hart’s; we were not watered so often; there was no more briny
hay, and no flaxseed jelly. Several times, too, I saw delivery horses
coming up a runway from the basement, and being put to heavy wagons.
The horses on my floor, when they went out, were wickedly checked to
make them hold up their heads.
Their treatment of me was always the perfection of good stable
manners, and among the whole lot there was only one that especially
irritated me. He was a bay with black points, one of those under-sized,
jack-rabbity little nuisances called a Shetland.
“My! what airs!” he exclaimed one day as he was passing me in his
governess’s cart. “I presume you’re much too fine to take hay-tea with
the rest of us.”
“Don’t class yourself with the others,” I answered. “You remind me of
nothing so much as a flea drawing a wash-basket.”
After that brush, he let me alone. And I tried to be contented at
Hawley’s. I must say that Missy was kinder than ever to me. On apple
days I got several, and on Saturdays a double quantity of stale bread
and molasses. So why kick?
But very soon my dainties began to dwindle, and often Missy gave me
none at all, so that I lost track of the days. And I noticed, when we
went out for our regular gallop, that Missy never hummed to herself
as we went along, or stopped to let me crop a little green, or nodded
pleasantly to the mounted police we passed. She rode slowly, with her
head down, or set me going at a run.
Then, when I had been at the new stable not more than two weeks, a
strange groom came down the stalls to me for a second time. Again my
hood and dress-blanket were put on, and I was led down and out. The
groom was a hang-dog looking fellow. Still, I went with a prancing
step. For I knew what it meant. I was going back to Martin and my
box-stall!
But I wasn’t. We turned north again, going up a cobbled street that
rang with clanging cars. Overhead, the Elevated roared and banged till
my ears ached. And everywhere, on sidewalks and in the street, herds of
noisy children shrieked and raced. My heart began to fail me. Under my
blanket, I broke out in a cold sweat.
Too soon I knew the worst. Down a crowded street we turned, going
eastward until I could see, ahead, a blur of green that was the
Park. Then I was led into a low, ill-smelling, steaming building,
around the door of which slouched a half-dozen rough-looking men, all
smoking--_smoking_, mind you, in a stable! They looked me over as the
groom brought me to a stand. And their eyes actually rolled at sight of
me. It was plain they were not used to seeing _my_ kind there.
They were not. _Down_ a runway I went, and into a cellar, where there
were fifty or so horses, all looking around and moving restlessly, as
if they wanted feed or water. And here I was led into a narrow stall
with little bedding--and _that_ bad--and a sour feed-box. Oh, what an
awful night I spent! My dress-blanket had been taken off, and my sheet
not put on. So the mosquitoes tormented me every minute. But I was not
the worst off. Near me were horses that had plucked manes and banged
tails, and no sheets. They couldn’t defend themselves, and rubbed from
side to side in their stalls in a very panic of pain. That terrible
banging, hour after hour, and the foul state of my stall kept me from
lying down. The groom had given me no water when he brought me in. And
until morning I suffered terribly.
I plucked up courage when I was groomed and watered, though I must say
I could not eat all of my oats. Somehow or other, my appetite was gone.
But Missy came, and we went out together. Not as I would have liked,
for my coat was not so shining as usual, and some of my mane hung over
the wrong side. And, worse than all, some straws were sticking in my
tail!
Missy noticed nothing, not even the howls of the children in the
street. In the Park she did not rein me to drink at the stone troughs
along the bridle-path, or to crop. But there was one thing that, more
than anything else, took the spirit out of me. Going south beside
the East Drive, I saw ahead of us--Thunderbolt coming! Instantly, I
neighed. Missy looked up, and then, as quick as she could, whirled me
and started back, circling the reservoir the other way. So I did not
have a chance to see my friend, or Mr. England. I went into the stable
with my head hanging.
Things went along that way for a week. Meanwhile, I was not so well
as usual. I caught a cold, for the stalls were hot and the air in the
street chilled me to the bones. And I coughed, and my throat got so
sore that I quidded my feed and splashed the water instead of drinking.
I think Missy saw how it was. For one day, as we were going along, I
felt a drop of water fall upon my withers--then another, and another.
The sun was shining, there were no clouds. I turned my head a little.
It was Missy--in tears!
I was so unhappy that I snapped at the next horse that went by.
But that morning ended happily, at least for me. Rounding a bend, we
came close to a drive. And there was Thunderbolt and his master. I was
so excited that I interfered.
They seemed as pleased as I at the meeting. But--Missy did not. Missy
was nervous--she telegraphed that down the reins.
“Miss Sanborn,” said Mr. England, half as if he were going to scold,
“you’ve been neglecting to ride lately.”
“Oh, no,” declared Missy; “I ride. But possibly not so long as usual.
You see, I’m--I’m very busy.”
“Doubling your painting lessons?”
“No--n--no.”
“Ah,” said Mr. England, watching her narrowly, I thought. That was
_all_ he said. Then Missy bowed, and we galloped away.
I had had no chance to gossip with Thunderbolt, for we were not
permitted to stand close or to touch noses. But I did notice that
he looked me over carefully--and then his upper lip curled like the
jockeys on my saddle.
But I forgot his treatment. For soon I had worse luck than ever, and
much poorer care. For the third time, a strange groom came for me. I
knew better than to expect a return to a good stable. And I was right.
We went two blocks toward the Hudson, and through a wide gate leading
into a lot--a lot filled with wagons and little shacks of the kind that
Chinamen live in on the Coast. It took me a minute to realise what
was going to happen. “It _can’t_ be!” I said to myself. “Oh, Missy
_wouldn’t_!” But it happened. I was led into a dark stall in one of
those shanties!
There was a rough-coated lot in that yard, not society for a horse
like me. Some were scrawny and spindle-shanked, with dull eyes and
staring jackets. Some were stout and blocky--beer-jerking stock, but
not nearly as well kept as brewery horses. Some showed pedigree. But
these were poor, old, broken-down, mutilated things, badly used on
pedler’s wagons. The three in my shanty bolted their food as if they
never expected to get any more. It was all bloating stuff--chaff and
straw--and about as palatable as hoof-dressing. As for grooming, none
of us got any. It was just a jerk or two of the curry-comb, and it was
over. And this among a long-haired lot that looked as if they had never
known a blanket!
I could see, when Missy came, that _she_ didn’t like the place. And
on one of her visits I found out just how she felt. It made me decide
to put my best foot foremost, to act spirited even if I didn’t feel
like it, and to stop biting my crib. She came to my head, a sugar lump
in one hand. And as I took the dainty, she held me about the withers
with her pretty arms. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered. “You’re all
that’s left. I can’t do without you--I can’t! I _can’t_!”
_Dear_ Missy!
We didn’t see Thunderbolt or his master for weeks after that. Missy
avoided them. I knew it, and it added to my unhappiness. For I had seen
how Mr. England liked me--and Missy, too. And I missed the nice things
I always found in his pockets. And though I went out poorly groomed, I
wouldn’t have minded Thunderbolt’s snorting. I’ve got better blood in
me than he has any day. I know that by his cobby build.
Those were days when I often felt teardrops on my withers. And I
couldn’t help but see that Missy was faring no better than I. Then I
began to look and look and _look_ for Mr. England. “Missy’s not getting
all she needs to eat any more than I am,” I said to myself. And I was
determined that if ever Mr. England gave me an apple or a sweet cake
again, she was to have it.
Well, one day as we were posting along close to the West Drive, who
should I spy but Mr. England and Thunderbolt with the trap--Martin
on the rumble. I whinnied, and Missy gave me a smart rap for it that
made me fairly dance. But neither Martin nor Mr. England saw me. As for
Thunderbolt, if he did, he gave no sign, but stepped out with his high
knee-action, making a good pace uptown.
It may have been acting like a skate. Certainly, I had never treated
Missy that way before. But I decided to do it on the instant, and I
took the blow she gave me as an excuse. For, with the bits held so that
the curb-port couldn’t hurt me too much, I started to run with all my
might, being careful not to stumble and make Missy come a cropper. Out
upon the driveway I raced, and straight for Thunderbolt!
The clatter of my hoofs made both Mr. England and Martin glance back.
They saw Missy coming after, pulling me in with might and main, and
fairly standing in her stirrups. Mr. England gave Martin the reins and
sprang to the ground. The trap was turned squarely across the drive.
And I came bouncing into it, Mr. England catching at my bridle.
Missy dismounted, breathing hard.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “What possessed you, Hector? Oh,
there’s something the matter with the darling!”
At that Thunderbolt turned his head. “Overfeeding,” he snickered. The
hide-bound spavin!
“I think,” Mr. England was saying, “that you’d better not ride to the
stable. Martin will drive you home, and I’ll take charge of this chap.
He’s still excited.”
(I was only out of temper with Thunderbolt.)
But poor Missy! She lowered the nigh stirrup quick as a wink. “No, no,
it really isn’t necessary,” she said; “_Really it isn’t._ I wouldn’t
for the world let Hector think he’d scared me. It would spoil him. I
must ride him right away, and conquer him.” And she mounted.
Martin had turned the trap by now, for other vehicles were passing. But
Mr. England did not get up.
“You’re right, of course,” he answered. “If he thinks he beat you out,
he’ll only bully you every chance he gets after this. But still I must
insist on taking you to the stable. We’ll go slowly, and you put his
nose close behind the rumble and keep it there.”
I felt the reins tremble dreadfully. It wasn’t fear, either. Then Missy
bent over, speaking low.
“Mr. England,” she said earnestly, “not Martin. Won’t you send him home
with Thunderbolt? _Please._”