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

But he could not find his mother. Finally, resorting to the one effort left to him that might bring result, he flung up his little head and sounded a piteous call–not once, but many times.

“Aunty,” declared the girl, rushing into the genial presence of the Mexican cook, “what shall I do about that colt? He must be hungry!”

The old woman nodded and smiled knowingly. Then she stepped into the pantry. She filled a long-necked bottle with milk and sugar and a dash of lime-water, and, placing the bottle in the girl’s hands, shoved her gently out the door and into the patio.

Racing across to the corral, Helen reached the colt with much-needed aid. He closed upon the bottle with an eagerness that seemed to tell he had known no other method of feeding. Also, he clung to it till the last drop was gone, which caused Helen to wonder when last the colt had fed. Then, as if by way of reward for this kindly attention, he tossed his head suddenly, striking the bottle out of her hands. This was play; and Helen, girlishly delighted, sprang toward him. He leaped away, however, and, coming to a stand at a safe distance, wriggled his ears at her mischievously. She sprang toward him again; but again he darted away. Whereupon she raced after him, pursuing him around the inclosure, the colt frisking before her, kicking up his heels and nickering shrilly, until, through breathlessness, she was forced to stop. Then the colt stopped, and after a time, having regarded her steadfastly, invitingly, he seemed to understand, for he quietly approached her. As he came close she stooped before him.

“Honey dear,” she began, eyes on a level with his own, “they have telephoned the city officials, and your case will be advertised to-morrow in the papers. But I do wish that I could keep you.” She peered into his slow-blinking eyes thoughtfully. “Brownie–my saddle-horse–is all stable-ridden, and I need a good saddler. And some day you would be grown, and I could–could take lots of comfort with you.” She was silent. “Anyway,” she concluded, rising and stroking him absently, “we’ll see. Though I hope–and I know it isn’t a bit right–that nothing comes of the advertisement; or, if something does come of it, that your rightful owner will prove willing to sell you after a time.” With this she picked up the bottle and left him.

And nothing did come of the advertisement. Felipe did not read the papers, and his knowledge of city affairs was such that he did not set up intelligent quest for the colt.

So the colt remained in the Richards’ corral. Regularly two and three times a day the girl came to feed him, and regularly as his reward each time he bunted the bottle out of her hand afterward. Also, between meals she spent much time in his society, and on these occasions relieved the tedium of his diet with loaf sugar, and, after a while, quartered apples. For these sweets he soon developed a passion, and he would watch her comings with a feverish anxiety that always brought a smile to her ready lips. And thus began, and thus went on, their friendship, a friendship that with the passing months ripened into strongest attachment, but which presently was to be interrupted for a long time.

Hint of this came to him gradually. From spending long periods with him every day his mistress, after each feeding now, took to hurrying away from him. Sometimes, so great was her haste to get back to the house, she actually ran out of the corral. It worried him, and he would follow her to the gate, and there stand with nose between the boards and eyes turned after her, whimpering softly. And finally, with his bottle displaced by more solid food, and the visits of his mistress becoming less frequent, he awoke to certain mysterious arrivals and departures in a buggy of a sharp-eyed woman all in black, and he came to feel, by reason of his super-animal instinct, that something of a very grave nature was about to happen to him. Then one morning late in August he experienced that which made his fears positive convictions, though precisely what it was he did not immediately know.

His mistress stepped into the corral with her usual briskness, and, walking deliberately past him, turned up an empty box in a far corner and sat down upon it, and called to him. From the instant of her entrance he had held himself back, but when she called him he rushed eagerly to her side. She placed her arms around his neck, drew his head down into her lap, and proceeded to unfold a story–later, tearful.

“It’s all settled,” she began, with a restful sigh. “We have discussed it for weeks, and I’ve had a dreadful time of it, and aunty–my Mexican aunty, you know–and my other aunty, my regular aunty–I have no mother–and everybody–got so excited I didn’t really know them for my own, and daddy flared up a little, and–and–” She paused and sighed again. “But finally they let me have my own way about it–though daddy called it ‘infant tommyrot’–and so here it is!” She tilted up his head and looked into his eyes. “You, sir,” she then went on–“you, sir, from this day and date–I reckon that is how daddy would say it–you, sir, from this day and date shall be known as Pat. Your name, sir, is Pat–P-a-t–Pat! I don’t know whether you like it or not, of course! But I do know that I like it, and under the circumstances I reckon that’s all that is necessary.” Then came the tears. “But that isn’t all, Pat dear,” she went on, tenderly. “I have something else to tell you, though it hurts dreadfully for me to do it. But–but I’m going away to school. I’m going East, to be gone a long time. I want to go, though,” she added, gazing soberly into his eyes; “yet I am afraid to leave you alone with Miguel. Miguel doesn’t like to have you around, and I know it, and I am afraid he will be cruel to you. But–but I’ve got to go now. The dressmaker has been coming for over a month; and–and I’m not even coming home for vacation. I am to visit relatives, or something, in New York–or somewhere–and the whole thing is arranged. But I–I don’t seem to want–to–to go away now!” Which was where the tears fell. “If things–things could only be–be put off! But I–I know they can’t!” She was silent, silent a long time, gazing off toward the distant mountains through tear-bedimmed eyes. “But when I do come back,” she concluded, finally, brightening, “you will have grown to a great size, Pat dear, and then we can go up on the mesa and ride and ride. Can’t we?” And she hugged him convulsively. “It will be glorious. Won’t it?”

He didn’t exactly say. His interest was elsewhere, and, resisting her hugging, he began to nuzzle her hands for sweets. Whereupon she burst into laughter and forcibly hugged him again.

“I forgot,” she declared, regretfully. “You shall have them, though–right away!” Then she arose and left him–left him a very much mystified colt. But when she returned with what he sought he looked his delight, and closed over the sweets with an eagerness that forced her into sober reflection. “Pat,” she said, after a time, “I don’t think you care one single bit for me! All you care about, I’ll bet, is what I bring you to eat!” Then she began to stroke him. “Just the same,” she concluded, after a while, tenderly, “you’re the dearest colt that ever lived!” She dallied with him a moment longer, then abruptly left him, running back to the house.

The days which followed, however, were full of delight for him. Now that the mysterious activity in the house was over with, his mistress began to visit him again with more than frequent regularity. And with each visit she would remain with him a long time, caressing him, talking to him, as had been her wont in the earlier days of their friendship. But as against those earlier days he had changed. Possibly this was due to her absence. Instead of frisking about the inclosure now, as he had used to frisk–whirling madly from her in play–he would remain very still during her visits, standing motionless under her caresses and love-talk. Also, when she took herself off each time, instead of hurrying frantically after her to the gate, he would walk slowly, even sedately, into his corner, the one nearest the house, and there watch her soberly till she disappeared indoors. Then–further evidence of the change that had come upon him–he would lie down in the warm sunlight and there fight flies, although before he had been given to worrying the family horse or irritating the brown saddler–all with nervous playfulness.

And he was dozing in his corner that morning when his mistress came fluttering to him to say good-by. He slowly rose to his feet and blinked curiously at her.

“Pat dear,” she exclaimed, breathlessly, “I’m going now!” She flung her arms around his neck, held him tightly to her a moment, then stepped back. “You–you must be good while–while I’m gone!” And dashing away a persistent tear, she then hurriedly left him, speeding across the patio and stepping into the waiting phaeton.

He watched the vehicle roll out into the trail. And though he did not understand, though the seriousness of it all was denied him, he nevertheless remained close to the fence a long time; long after the phaeton had passed from view, long after the sound of the mare’s paddling feet had died away, he stood there, ears cocked, eyes wide, tail motionless, in an attitude of receptivity, spiritual absorption, as one flicked with unwelcome premonitions.

CHAPTER V
LONELINESS

Pat’s mistress was gone. He realized it from his continued disappointed watching for her at the fence; he realized it from the utter absence out of life of the sweets he had learned to love so well; and he realized it most of all from the change which rapidly came over the Mexican hostler. Though he did not know it, Miguel had been instructed, and in no mistakable language, to take good care of him, and, among other things, to keep him healthily supplied with sweets. But Miguel was not interested in colts, much less in anything that meant additional labor for him, and so Pat was made to suffer. Yet in this, as in all the other things, lay a wonderful good. He was made to know that he was not wholly a pampered thing–was made to feel the other side of life, the side of bitterness and disappointment, the side at times of actual want. And this continued denial of wants, of needs, occasionally, hardened him, as his earlier experiences had hardened him, toughened him for the struggles to come, brought to him that which is good for all youth–realization that life is not a mere span of days with sweets and comforts for the asking, but a time of struggle, a battle for supremacy, and it is only through the battle that one grows fit and ever more fit for the good of the All.

Not the least of his trials was great loneliness. One day was so very like another. Regularly each morning, after seeking out his favorite corner in the corral, he would see the sun step from the mountain-tops, ascend through a cool morning, pour down scorching midday rays, descend through a tense afternoon, and drop from view in the chill of evening. Always he would watch this thing, sometimes standing, other times reclining, but ever conscious of the