Bred of the Desert by Charles Marcus Horton (the lemonade war series .txt) 📕

his reddened eyes and inflamed nostrils! And–But what was this? From the corral had come a shrill nicker, the voice of the aged mare. But that was not it! With the outcry, seemingly an answer to the black’s maddened outcry, the black dropped to all-fours again, turning quick ears and eyes in the direction of the sound! What manner of horse was this, anyway? Never before had he seen such a horse! He felt himself go limp.

There is a call in nature that sounds for life against death. It is a call put forth in innumerable different tongues around the world, and it sounds somewhere every second of the day and darkness–through jungles, across swamps, down mountains, over plains, out of valleys. It is a cry of warning, a cry to disarm foes. It is an outcry of good as against evil–the squawk of a hen to her chicks, the bleat of a sheep to her lambs, the grunt of a sow to her sucklings, the bellow of a cow to her calf, the purr of a cat to her kittens, the whine of a dog to her puppies, the drum of a partridge to her young. A cry from the heart to the heart, an appeal of flesh to its own flesh, it is the world-old mother-call.

And the horse heard this call. He probably did not recognize in it a call of the mother-heart, any more than it was possible for the aged mare to recognize in his outcry the voice of her own flesh. What he did hear, no doubt, was the voice of a friend, one who understood and pitied, and would help if it could help. At any rate, he stood very still, seemingly grateful for the evidence of a champion, seemingly anxious that it sound again. But it did not sound again. Yet he made no further effort to give battle. He held to his attitude of intent listening, ears cocked forward and eyes straining and tail at rest, until Felipe, stung into action by an idea wrought out of all this, hastened out from behind the cart and away in the direction of the corral. At sight of him the horse became restless again, squaring himself once more to the mare, stamping his feet and champing his bit nervously. He seemed to lose all recollection of the outcry, all the peace it had engendered within him. Of such are the kingdom of the dumb.

Possessed by his idea, an idea so brilliant that he himself marveled, Felipe was not long in putting it to test. He hurriedly bridled the aged mare and led her out into the trail. He placed her alongside the black–for reasons which, had the compadre Franke been present, Felipe might have suggested with a crafty wink–then hastily began to unhitch the team-mate. And it was just here that he proved his foresight. In the work of unhitching the mate, he should have encountered, and had expected, trouble from the black. But he did not. The mare sounded another friendly nicker when arranged beside him, and the black, pricking up his ears sharply, turned to her and proceeded to establish his friendship by licking her. So Felipe did not meet with difficulty from that direction; nor did he have trouble in the direction of the team-mate herself. She seemed glad to be relieved from her unsuccessful task, and Felipe, glad to relieve her in the light of his brilliant idea, led her off to one side quickly, then returned and swung the old mare into her place. He hitched her up, picked up the reins and whip, and set about with his test.

“We see now,” he began, his voice quiet and encouraging. “Maybe you work wit’ thee old woman! We see!” And he gave a low command.

With the command Pat started forward, urged to it by the aged mare–pulling more than his share of the load. Perhaps it was due to her presence; perhaps to the note of kindness in Felipe’s voice. At any rate, he moved, and he moved forward, and he moved with a steady pull. Yet he did not proceed far. Though he did not stop through rebellion. It was simply to renew his attentions to the old mare. He began to caress her as if he really recognized in this rack of an animal his own lost mother. But recognition, of course, was impossible. Long before, the only source of recognition, appeal made through digestive organs, had disappeared. Nevertheless, he lavished upon her unwonted affection until Felipe gently but firmly urged him forward again. Then again he proceeded, pulling all of the load this time, bringing about a slack in the traces of the mare and a consequent bumping of her hind legs against the cart which seemed to awaken some of her dying spirit.

Up and down the trail they moved, the mare sedately, the horse actively, prancing gaily, appearing to take gleeful pleasure in his task, until Felipe, kindled with elation and pride, decided to drive on into the settlement and there become the object of covetous eyes. Therefore he urged the team forward to a point in front of the general store, where in lordly composure sat Pedro, occupying his customary seat on an empty keg on the porch. At sight of him Felipe’s joy leaped to the heavens, and he pulled up the team, ostensibly to adjust a forward buckle, but in reality to afford Pedro an uninterrupted view of the beautiful black. Moving forward to the head of the horses, he watched out of the tail of his eye Pedro’s lazy survey of the team.

“Where you got thot horse?” inquired Pedro, after a long moment, as he slowly removed a cigarette from between his lips. “I mean,” he added, “where you haf steal thot caballo?”

Felipe winced. But he did not immediately retort. He carried out his bluff, unbuckling and buckling one of the straps, then mildly straightened up and faced the man.

“Pedro,” he began, tensely, “you haf know–José, Juan, Manuel, Francisco, Carlotta–all haf know–thot eet is only one t’ief in all thees place! And thot man–thot t’ief–is Pedro Garcia!”

Pedro grunted. “Where you haf steal thot horse?” he repeated, without show of anger. “You can give me thot horse,” he continued, placidly. “You haf owe me mooch money. I take thot horse for payment–everyt’ing. You give thot caballo to me.”

Felipe turned to the team. “I give you one keeck in thee belly!” he roared. Then he touched up the horses and started back toward the house. Gone was all elation, all pride, all gleeful consciousness of possession.

Gaining the clearing, he decided to try out the other horse with the black. He realized that the aged mare was unfit, even though in the last hour she had appeared greatly to improve, and he must accordingly match up a team. So he unhitched her and swung the mate into place. He met with disagreeable surprise, however. The black would not pull with this horse. Instead, he held himself quietly at rest, gazing about sleepily over the landscape, a trick of his, as Felipe had learned, when quietly rebelling. Felipe looked at him a moment, but did not try to force him with tongue or lash. For he was coming to understand this horse, and, concluding that sooner or later, under proper treatment, he would probably accept duty with any mate, determined to abandon work for the day. Whereupon he unhitched the horses and led them all back into the corral. Then he put up the bars and set out in the direction of the settlement.

Which ended Pat’s second great lesson at the hand of man. He was sore and somewhat stiff from the struggle, but he did not fret long over his condition, for he soon awoke to the presence of that beside him in the corral which caused him to forget himself completely. It was the worn-out structure of skin and bones who had befriended him in his hour of trial. He gazed at her a moment, then approached and fell to caressing her, showing in this attention his power to forget self–aches, sores, troubles–in his affection and gratitude toward all things warranting affection and gratitude.

CHAPTER X
THE STRANGER AGAIN

Meantime, Helen was becoming desperate over her loss. Unwilling to accept the theory of her household, which was that Pat had been stolen by a band of organized thieves and ere this was well out of the neighborhood and probably the county, she had held firmly to her original idea, viz., that the horse was in the possession of his rightful owners, and so could not be far out of the community. Therefore, the morning following his disappearance, having with sober reflection lightened within her the seriousness of it all, she had set out in confident search for him, mounted on her brown saddler. But though she had combed the town and the trails around the town, quietly interviewing all such teamsters and horsemen as might by any chance know something about it, yet in answer to her persistent inquiries all she had received was a blank shake of the head or an earnest expression of willingness to assist her. So, because she had continued her search for three days without success, inquiring and peering into every nook and corner of the community, she finally had come to regard her quest as hopeless, and to become more than ever an image of despair.

The evening of the fourth day there was a dance. It was one of the regular monthly affairs, and because Helen was a member of the committee she felt it her duty to attend. One of the young men, accompanied by his mother and sister, drove out for her, but she left the house with reluctance and a marked predisposition not to enjoy herself. But she forgot this when she presently beheld the young man from the East whom she had encountered on the mesa. He was standing close beside a rather frail little woman, undoubtedly his mother, who with the matrons of the town was seated near a fireplace watching the dancers. He was introduced. Later they sat out one of his numbers alone together in a corner behind some potted palms. In the course of their conversation Helen informed him of the disappearance of her horse, and asked him, as she asked everybody she met now, if he knew anything or had heard anything concerning the loss. The young man knew nothing of the great disappearance, however, though he did offer it as his belief that a horse of Pat’s obvious value could not long remain in obscurity. This was encouraging, and Helen felt herself become hopeful again. But when he offered his services in the search, as he did presently, she felt not only hopeful again, but somehow quite certain now that it would all be cleared up. For there was that in this young gentleman which caused confidence. What she told him, however, was that she was grateful for his offer, and should be greatly pleased to have him with her.

And thus it was that, on the morning of the fifth day, Helen Richards and Stephen Wainwright–the young man’s name–together with two of Helen’s close friends, were riding slowly across the mesa, alert for any combination in harness which might reveal the lost Pat. Helen and Stephen were well in the lead, and Helen had broken the silence by addressing Stephen as a native, recalling their first meeting. Whereupon the young man, smiling quietly, had wanted to know why; but after she had explained that it was because he had enlisted himself in the search for a horse, adding that in doing so he had conformed with one of the unwritten laws of the country, he still