Bred of the Desert Part 3

Never was there a colt more astonished than this one. Dazed, trembling, he regained his feet and looked at the mare, looked hard. Then casting solicitous eyes in the direction of the saddle-horse, he stepped in alongside. But here he met with even more painful objections. The horse reached around and bit him sharply in the neck. It hurt, hurt awfully, but he persisted, only to receive another sharp bite, this time more savage. Sounding a baby whimper of despair, he ran back to the door and out into the motherless corral.

He made for the corner nearest the house. But he did not stand still. He c.o.c.ked his ears, pawed the ground, turned again and again, swallowed frequently. And presently he set out once more in search of his mother; though this time he wisely kept out of the stable. He held close to the fence, following it around and around, pausing now and again with eyes strained between the boards. 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt; 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt. 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed from view, long after the sound of the mare's paddling feet had died away, he stood there, ears c.o.c.ked, eyes wide, tail motionless, in an att.i.tude 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 dread monotony of it all. Nothing happened, n.o.body came to caress him, no one paid him the least attention. A forlorn colt, a lonely colt, doubly so for lack of a mother, he spent long days in moody contemplation of an existence that irked.

One day, however, came something of interest into the monotony of his life. Evidently tiring of attending each horse in turn in the stalls, Miguel built a general box for feed in one corner of the inclosure, and then, by dint of loud swearing and the free use of a pitchfork, instructed the colt to feed from it with the others. Not that Pat required instruction as to the feeding itself--he was too much alive to need driving in that respect. But he did show nervous timidity at feeding with the other horses, and so Miguel cheerfully went to the urging with fork and tongue. But only the one time. Soon the colt took to burying his nose in the box along with the others, and would wriggle his tail with a vigor that seemed to tell of his grat.i.tude at being accepted as part of the great establishment and its devices. And then another thing. With this change in his method of feeding, he soon came to reveal steadily increasing courage and independence. Oftentimes he would be the first to reach the box, and, what was more to the point, would hold his position against the other horses--hold it against rough shouldering from the family horse, savage nipping from the saddler, even vigorous cursing and flaying from the swarthy hostler.

With the approach of winter he revealed his courage and temerity further. Of his own volition one night he abruptly changed his sleeping-quarters. Since the memorable occasion when the mare had kicked him out of her stall he had sought out a stall by himself with the coming of night, and there spent the hours in fear-broken sleep. But this night, and every night thereafter, saw him boldly approaching the mare and crowding in beside her in her stall, where, in the contact with her warm body and in her silent presence, he found much that was soothing and comfortable. Which, too, marked the beginning of a new friendship, one that steadily ripened with the pa.s.sing winter and, by the time spring again descended into the valley, was an attachment close almost as that between mother and offspring. When in his playful moments, rare indeed now for one of his age, he would inadvertently plunge into her, or stumble over a water-pail, she would nicker grave disapproval, or else chide him more generously by licking his neck and withers a long time in genuine affection.

Thus the colt changed in both spirit and physique. And the more he changed, and the larger he grew, the greater source of trouble he became to the Mexican. Before, he had feared the man. Now he felt only a kind of hatred, and this lent courage to make of himself a frequent source of annoyance.

With the return of warm weather he resumed his old place in his favorite corner. He did this through both habit and a desire to warm himself in the sun's rays. And it was all innocent enough--this thing. Yet, innocent though it was, more than once, in pa.s.sing, the Mexican struck him with whatever happened to be in his hands. At such times, whimpering with pain, he would dart to an opposite corner, there to stand in trembling fear, until, his courage returning, and his hatred for the man upholding him, he would return and defiantly resume his day-dreaming in the corner. This happened for perhaps a dozen times before he openly rebelled. And when he did rebel--when the Mexican struck him sharply across the nose--he whipped around his head like lightning and, still only half awake, sank his teeth savagely into the man's shoulder.

Followed a string of oaths and sudden appearance of a club, which might have proved serious but for the Judge's timely call for the horse and phaeton. Whereupon the Mexican slunk off into the stable. But as he went Pat saw the gleam in his black eyes, and knew that some day punishment most dire and cruel would descend upon him.

He pa.s.sed through his second summer, that period of trial and sickness for many infants, in perfect health. In perfect health also he pa.s.sed through the autumn and on into his second winter. Growing ever stronger with the pa.s.sing seasons, he came to reveal still further his wonderful vitality, and to reveal it in many ways. Often he would take the initiative against the Mexican, kicking at him without due cause, refusing always to get out of his way, once nipping him sharply as he hurried past under pressing orders from the house. Also, having grown to a size equal to the brown saddler, he began to reveal his antipathy for this animal. Not only would he shoulder him away from the feed-box, but he would kick and snap at him, and once he tipped over the water-pail for no other reason, seemingly, than to deprive the saddler of water.

The result of all this was that, with the pa.s.sing seasons, both the Mexican and the saddler showed increasing respect for him, and the former went to every precaution to avoid a serious encounter.

But it was bound to come in spite of all his efforts to avoid it.

Fighting spring flies in the stable one morning, Pat was aroused by a familiar sound in the corral. It was the sound which usually accompanied feeding, and, whirling, he plunged eagerly toward the door. As he did so the Mexican, about to enter the stable, appeared on the threshold. Pat saw him too late. He crashed headlong into the Mexican and sent him reeling out into the inclosure. From that moment it was to the death.

The Mexican painfully gained his feet and, swearing a mighty vengeance, caught up a heavy shovel. Pat saw what was coming and, dashing out into the corral, sought protection behind the feed-box. But the infuriated man hunted him out, dealing upon his quivering back blow after blow, until, stung beyond all caution, Pat sprang for the object of his suffering. But the man leaped aside, delivering as he did so another vicious blow, this time across Pat's nose--most tender of places. Dazed, trembling, raging with the spirit of battle, he surveyed the man a moment, and then, with an unnatural outcry, half nicker, half roar, he hurtled himself upon his enemy, striking him down. But he did not stop here. When the man attempted to rise he struck him down again, and a third time. Then, seeing the man lying motionless, he uttered another outcry, different from the other, a whimpering, baby outcry, and, whirling away from the scene, hurried across the corral and into the stable, where he sought out the family horse and, still whimpering babyishly, stood very close beside her, seeking her sympathy and encouragement.

This closed the feud for all time. Miguel was not seriously hurt. But he had learned something, even as Pat had learned something, and thereafter there existed tacit understanding between them.

The seasons pa.s.sed, and the third year came, and with it the beginning of the end of Pat's loneliness. One morning late in June he was aroused by the voice of the Mexican, who, with brushes and currycomb in hand, had come to clean him. Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though wallowing but little, leaving that form of exercise to the older horses, he nevertheless was gritty with sand from swirling spring winds. So he stood very still under the hostler's vigorous attention. But Miguel's ambition did not stop here. He turned to the other horses and curried and brushed them also, working till the perspiration streamed from him.

But this was not the end. He set to work in the stable, and sc.r.a.ped and cleaned to the last corner, and rubbed and scoured to the smallest harness buckle. It was all very unusual, and Pat, standing attentive throughout it all, revealed marked interest and something of surprise.

Soon he was to know the reason.

Along toward noon, as he was feeding at the box, he saw a very dignified young woman leave the house, cross the _patio_ in his direction, and come to a stop immediately outside the fence. Though the feed-box always held his interest above all other things, and though it was strongly attracting him now, he nevertheless could not resist the attention with which this young woman regarded him. He returned her gaze steadily, wondering who she was and what she meant to do. He soon found out, for presently she set out along the fence and came to a stop directly in front of him. She did more. She held out a hand and sounded a single word softly.

"Pat!" she called.

And now something took place inside the colt. With the word, far back in his brain, in the remotest of cells, there came an effort for freedom.

It was a grim struggle, no doubt, for the thing must fight its way against almost all other thoughts and scenes and persons in his memory.

But at length this vague memory gained momentum and dominance. And now he understood. The young woman outside the fence was his little mistress of early days! Lifting his head, he gave off a shrill and protracted nicker of greeting.

Helen dropped her hand. "Bless you!" she cried, and sped along the fence, opened the gate, and ran inside. "You do know me, don't you?" she burst out, and, hurrying to his side, hugged him convulsively. "And I'm so glad, Pat!" she went on. "It--it has been a long three years!" She stepped back and looked him over admiringly. "And you have grown so!

Dear, oh, dear! Three years!" Again she stepped close and hugged him. "I am so proud of you, Pat!"

All this love-talk, this caressing and hugging, was as the lifting of a veil to Pat. Within him all that had lain dormant for three years--affection, desires, life itself--now pressed eagerly to the surface. And though his mistress did not look the same to him--though he found himself gazing down now instead of up to engage her eyes--yet, as if she had been gone but a day, he suddenly nuzzled her hand for loaf sugar and quartered apples. Then as suddenly he regretted this. For she had left him--was running across the corral. Frantically he rushed after her and, with a shrill cry of protest, saw her enter the house. But soon she appeared again, and when close, and he saw the familiar sweets in her hand, he nickered again, this time in sheer delight. And if he had doubted his good fortune before, now, with his mouth dripping luscious juices, he knew positively that he had come into his own again.

Sometime during the feast Helen noticed a scar across his nose. "Why, Pat!" she exclaimed. "How ever did you get that?"

But Pat did not say. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, in this happiest of moments, he would have descended to such commonplaces. But it was no commonplace to Helen, and she promptly sought out the Mexican. Yet Miguel declared that he knew nothing of the scar. He had been very watchful of the colt, he lied, cheerfully, and the scar was as much a mystery to him as it was to her. Whereupon Helen decided that Pat had brought it about through some prank, and, after returning to him and indulging in further caresses and love-talk, reluctantly took leave of him, returning to the house, there to begin unpacking her numerous trunks.

Thus their friendship was renewed. Pat was older by three years, as the girl was older by three years. But each was much older than that in point of development. Where before had been baby affection in him and girl affection in her, now was a thing of greater worth and more lasting quality--affection of a grown horse and a grown woman. In the days which followed this was brought out in many ways. The colt did not once frisk and play about the inclosure, a trait she remembered best; yet she did not wish it. She preferred him as he was, finding in his mature conduct something that enhanced his beauty; and rare beauty it was, as she frequently noted in running proud eyes over his lines, and in noting it came more and more to feel not alone great pride for him, but a sure love as well--not the love woman gives to man, of course, but the love she can give, and does give, without stint, to all dumb animals.

CHAPTER VI