Читать книгу Fury and the White Mare - Albert G. Miller - Страница 5

Spring came early to the valley. In April, after Old Man Winter had retreated for good, the Broken Wheel Ranch hummed with activity. Jim Newton’s business was to capture and gentle wild horses, and sell them to cattlemen as working ponies and to rodeos as bucking stock. In preparation for the coming of the new herd of mustangs, Jim and a group of newly hired hands had built several new corrals and stocked the hayloft with feed. When all was ready, the riders set out for the roundup.

Catching the wild horses called for plenty of hard work and hard riding. Traps were built in selected spots, where the mustangs were watering. The traps, actually a series of corrals, were set up in canyons or deep draws, so that once the horses entered the chutes they found themselves at a dead end, unable to escape. After a day or two in the catch corrals, to get them accustomed to a fence, the animals were herded down to the BW and turned loose in the new enclosures.

Now, once again, Jim Newton was in business. The next step was to break the green broncs to saddle and bridle. When this exhausting work was completed, the new stock was ready for sale.

Jim and Pete had not seen the white mare during the roundup. Jim reasoned that she had either eluded them or run away to join another herd. During the breaking period, Fury was ever on the alert. Standing at the edge of his own corral, with his head held high and his nose searching the air, he seemed to be seeking a sign that the mare was among the newcomers. When it became obvious that she was nowhere in the vicinity, he became nervous and went off his feed.

Joey himself was uneasy during this period. “I had a hard time with Fury on the way home from school,” he told Jim one afternoon. “He didn’t want to be held down to a canter. All he wanted was to get back to the ranch in a big hurry.”

Jim nodded. “I think you’d better keep him in the barn at night, until he settles down. He might get ideas about breaking away again, as he did last February.”

“Yeah,” said Pete, coming in from the kitchen. “An’ put a padlock on the barn door. He’s a smart critter, but not smart enough to open a padlock with his nose.”

Joey looked out the window toward Fury’s corral. “I’m worried about him. Look at him. He’s just standing there at the fence, staring at the new horses.”

Jim looked out over Joey’s shoulder. “We might as well face the fact that he’ll never be happy until he has that white mare as a companion.”

Joey flushed. “I wish that darn white mare had never been born.”

“Well,” said Jim, “Fury senses that she’s up in the hills somewhere, so it’s a problem we can’t duck. If he doesn’t settle down pretty soon, we’ll have to ride up and look for her.”

“Jim! You mean you’d bring the mare down here to the ranch?”

“Yep, if we have to. If Fury had the mare to run with in the corral, it wouldn’t mean that he’d like you any the less.”

“But he’s my horse!” Joey cried. “I’m the one that broke him, and I’m the only one that can ride him!”

“That’s true. And those are the very reasons why you should want him calmed down and happy.”

Joey remained silent, but his face was clouded and angry.

Pete spoke up gaily. “Say, Joey, I tell you what. I’ll bake one of yer fav’rite pies fer supper—coc’nut custard. That oughta make you git over bein’ jealous, huh?”

Joey whirled around. “I’m not jealous!”

Pete raised his hand, hastily. “Okay, okay, so yer not. My mistake.” He made a low bow. “Pardon me, yer majesty.”

“Well, son,” said Jim. “Whatever your trouble is, it’s not doing you any good. So if we want peace around this ranch we’d better put our heads together and come up with something. What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” Joey said gloomily. “I just know that white mare would spoil everything.”

“All right, so you have nothing concrete to offer.” Jim turned to Pete. “What about you?”

The old foreman rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Wal, I offered a coc’nut custard pie an’ got jumped on. I dunno what else to say, ’cept what all three of us know already. Joey’s upset ’cause Fury’s upset. An’ Fury’s upset ’cause he’s got a hankerin’ fer the white mare. Jim, you want the mare here on the ranch, but Joey don’t. An’ that leaves us settin’ in a great big kettle of fish with our boots on.

Jim smothered a grin. “Does that mean you haven’t any other suggestions?”

“No, it don’t. Matter of fact, I been beatin’ my brains out fer the last three days, tryin’ to think of somethin’. An’ jest now in the kitchen I did think of somethin’.”

“You did?” said Joey eagerly. “What is it?”

Pete folded his arms. “Wal, first of all I want you to know I already made that coc’nut custard pie. Are you gonna eat it or ain’t you?”

“Sure I am,” Joey grinned. “Now tell us what you thought of.”

“I make the best danged coc’nut custard pie in the West,” Pete muttered, “an’ I ain’t gonna throw it out if I gotta swallow it whole, all by meself.”

Jim gave him a poke in the ribs. “Come on, Pete. Don’t keep us in suspense. What’s your plan?”

“Wal,” the old man began, “I been around horses fer a good many years. All kinds of horses—little runty ones an’ high-spirited ones like Fury. An’ I happen to know that high-spirited horses’re always happier with some kinda animal pal to run around with.”

Joey’s face fell. “There you go again with the white mare.”

“Rest yer tonsils!” Pete said sharply. “The white mare’s got nothin’ to do with it.” He glared at Joey and continued. “Jest the other day I seen in the paper about a champeen race horse that’s got a billy goat fer a mascot. Seems like this horse won’t even eat or sleep unless the goat’s right there in the stall with him.”

“That’s right,” said Jim. “I read that story in the paper.”

“Once, down in the Panhandle of Texas,” Pete went on, “I knew a stallion that had a hen fer a mascot. Him an’ that hen was closer’n five minutes to eleven. He wouldn’t even walk into his stall till the old biddy flew up and perched on his back.”

Joey smiled. “Are you kidding, Pete? Did you ever really see the hen on the stallion’s back?”

“Shore I seen her. Ev’ry mornin’, reg’lar as clockwork, she laid a brown egg in his mane. I hadda git up early ev’ry day to rescue the egg afore it got broke.” Pete wrinkled his nose. “Ever try to comb a busted egg outa a horse’s mane? It’s harder’n tryin’ to shake a collar button out of a gittar.”

Jim spoke up. “Then you’re suggesting that Joey should find some kind of an animal mascot for Fury, is that it?”

“Right. A goat, a hen, a cat, a dog, mebbe even a bullfrog fer all I know. Leastways, all Joey kin do is try to find some kinda little critter that Fury might dote on enough to simmer him down.”

“What do you think of the idea, Joey?” Jim asked.

“I think it’s great—if it works.”

“It’ll work,” Pete assured him. “But on’y if you find the right critter. If I was you, I’d saddle Fury an’ start lookin’.”

“I’ll take him over to Mr. Appleton’s farm,” Joey said, “and introduce him to Mrs. Appleton’s goat. If he likes the goat, maybe I can buy him with the money I’ve been saving for a new rifle.”

“Good idea,” said Jim, “but first you’ve got to go and clean out the stalls.”

“Sure, Jim, right away.”

After his chore was completed, Joey mounted Fury and rode down the valley to the Appleton farm. Explaining to the astonished Mrs. Appleton his reason for coming, he led Fury by the bridle to the far corner of the barnyard, where he found the goat standing on the roof of the henhouse. The goat took one look at Fury and lowered his horns. Fury took one look at the goat and bent his ears back.

“What’s the matter, Fury?” Joey asked. “Don’t you like this beautiful goat?”

Fury wiggled his nostrils and turned his head away.

“Gosh, I can’t say I blame you,” Joey said, trying not to breathe through his nose, “but I just thought you might like him.”

Mrs. Appleton came across the yard. “Well, Joey, how’d it go? Do Fury and Billy like each other?”

“Well, yes,” Joey fibbed, “but not well enough to live together. Have you got a nice friendly hen that we might try?”

“Oh, I have hundreds of hens. Wait right here and I’ll bring one out to you.”

When Mrs. Appleton returned with the hen, Joey held it tightly and placed it on Fury’s back. Fury bucked and threw his head around. The hen took one look at the wide, frightened eyes, cackled furiously, and gave Joey a nasty peck on the hand.

“Ouch!” Joey yelped. “Here, Mrs. Appleton, please take your hen back. I don’t think she’d make a very good mascot for Fury.”

“It doesn’t seem so, does it?” The kindly woman glanced around the barnyard. “Let’s see now. Have you thought of a pig, Joey? I have a very sweet pig that might be just what you and Fury are looking for.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of a horse and a pig being friends, but we can see.”

“All right, just follow me. The pigpen’s right over here.”

“I’m not sure Jim would like having a pig in our barn,” Joey said, “but if Fury and the pig spark to each other maybe I can argue Jim into letting it come.”

When they arrived at the pen it was plain to see that Fury had no intention of accepting a pig as a mascot. The pig had similar feelings about the scheme, so Joey thanked Mrs. Appleton for her trouble and rode back to the ranch.

“Mebbe Fury’d like some wild animal,” Pete said, after Joey had related his disappointing experience. “If I was you, I’d ride into the woods on Saturday. You might find a raccoon’re somethin’ like that that’d take his fancy.”

“I doubt it,” Joey said, with a sigh. “But I guess it’s worth a try.”

When Saturday came, Joey had his usual morning ranch work to do before starting out on any mission of his own. As he was filling the big water trough just outside the barn, a small, covered truck chugged through the ranch gate. Looking up, Joey recognized the wheezing vehicle at once.

“Jim!” he shouted. “Look who’s coming! Doc Beemis!”

Jim appeared overhead at the door of the hayloft and waved his arm in greeting. Pete leaned out the kitchen window.

“Wal, I’ll be dadgummed,” Pete cried. “Where’s that ole fraud been all these months?”

As the truck clattered up the rise to the ranch house, Joey could read the lettering on one of the side panels:

THEY WHO SUFFER ACHE AND PAIN

NEED NEVER SUFFER MORE AGAIN!

Dr. Archibald P. Beemis Surgeon, Pharmacist, and Friend in Need

Joey had met Doc Beemis the previous summer, when Doc had stopped off at the BW to wash his socks and get rested up before continuing the long trip around his sales territory. Doc—a stout, elderly character with darting eyes, silver hair and a nose like a red mushroom—drove wherever the roads were passable, peddling patent medicines, nerve tonics, and “sure cures” for coughs, colds, chilblains, and “the heartaches and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”

Doc Beemis was a throwback to the traveling medicine peddler of the old West. He had a sure cure for everything, and even though he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, everyone welcomed him because of his geniality and endless store of tall tales.

As the truck crawled up the rise and shuddered to a stop before the ranch house, Jim slid down the feed-loading rope to the ground. Pete hurried from the house, wiping his hands on his apron.

Joey ran to the side of the truck. “Hello, Doc! Gosh, it’s great to see you again!”

Doc Beemis wiped his palm on the lapel of his black frock coat, leaned out, and extended his hand. “Joseph, my boy,” he said with a nasal twang, “I’m overjoyed to see you. And astonished as well, by the way you’ve grown since I last stopped at the Broken Wheel.”

“Welcome, Doc,” Jim said warmly.

“I thank you, James,” Doc said, glancing about. “I see you still possess the fairest horse ranch in the Western hemisphere.”

“Cut out the blarney, you ole scoundrel,” Pete said, “an’ shake hands with the real boss of the BW.”

“Peter,” said Doc loftily, “I’ll thank you to address me with a pinch of politeness and a modicum of decorum befitting my high professional status.”

“Bushwa!” Pete said. “Climb down outa that rattletrap an’ stretch yer drumsticks.”

As Doc opened the door, something resembling a large ball of dirty wool leaped from the interior of the truck onto the front seat.

Pete jumped back, startled. “What the Sam Hill’s that thing?”

“This is man’s best friend,” Doc announced proudly.

Pete raised his eyebrows. “A dog?”

“Precisely. He is my companion, comforter, and canine friend. A noble descendant, in unbroken line, from the wild wolf of the lonely prairies. His name is Crosby.”

Joey laughed. “Crosby? That’s a funny name for a dog. Why do you call him Crosby?”

“Because he sings so beautifully,” Doc explained. “Listen carefully. He’ll give you a concert.” He turned to the dog, who was wriggling his rear end. “Sing, Crosby!” Doc commanded.

The dog threw his head back and emitted a series of mournful howls.

“Ah,” Doc said, smiling, “isn’t that delightful? Have you ever heard such perfect pitch, such pear-shaped tones?”

“He sounds like a rusty hinge that needs oil,” Pete said flatly.

“I think he’s just great,” Joey said.

As Doc Beemis climbed down from the truck, Crosby leaped from the seat and ran in happy circles. His black, beady eyes were almost covered by shaggy hair; his paws were enormous, and his tail was a tuft of wagging fur. One white ear stood up straight, and the other ear, which was brown, lay flat. When he had finished running, he bounded toward Joey, placed his giant paws on Joey’s shoulders, and licked his face with a long pink tongue.

“Crosby finds you delicious, Joseph,” Doc said.

Jim and Pete laughed, as Joey wrestled with the tremendous dog.

“How long can you stay with us, Doc?” Jim asked.

“Overnight, James,” said Doc, “if you don’t mind.”

“Fine. Stay as long as you like.”

“That’s kind of you, but I must get started early in the morning. Meanwhile, perhaps Peter will treat me to one of his magnificent meals, possibly two or three.”

“I shore will,” Pete said. “What’d you eat fer dinner last night?”

Doc’s eyes twinkled. “A thousand things—beans.”

“In that case we won’t have beans fer lunch,” Pete promised. “I’ll barbecue a mess of spareribs. An’ fer dessert, how about a nice dish of tapioca?”

Doc wrinkled his red nose. “Tapioca? Not for me, my friend. I’d rather ride into a west wind with a funnel in my mouth.”

Pete chuckled. “Okay, you big lummox. We’ll have chocolate ice cream instead. An’ I’ll cook us a big pot of my famous coffee.”

“Ah, sounds excellent. Are you brewing coffee in your usual way?”

“That’s right, I still use the ole cowboy recipe: Take one pound of coffee, wet it good with water, boil it over a hot fire fer thirty minutes, pitch a horseshoe in it an,’ if it sinks, throw in some more coffee.”

“Magnificent!” Doc said. “And one tiny spoonful of sugar, if you please.”

“Go inside and make yourself at home,” said Jim. “Meantime, we’ll finish our morning chores.”

“Wait a second,” Joey said. “Let’s see if I can get Crosby to sing for me.” He pushed the dog away and held him at arm’s length. “Sing, Crosby!” he ordered.

The shaggy dog made a few squeaks to warm up, then took a deep breath, and howled as before. From Fury’s corral came an answering whinny.

Everyone laughed but Doc Beemis. “Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “What in the world was that sound?”

“That was Fury,” Joey said. “I guess he liked Crosby’s voice.”

“Ah yes, Fury. A sensible horse, that stallion of yours. He appreciates fine music.”

Joey stayed outside with Crosby, who drank thirstily from the water trough. Fury had come to the near fence of his corral, and seemed to be watching the dog with great interest.

“Come on, Crosby,” Joey said. “I’ll take you over and introduce you to Fury.”

The dog bounded gaily at Joey’s side, his jaws dripping with water. As they arrived at the corral, Fury bent his ears forward and leaned over the fence. Crosby made happy dog noises and rubbed his nose against Fury’s muzzle. Fury stepped back and cantered around the corral. Crosby, wriggling with joy, squeezed through the bars of the fence and ran beside him, leaping up playfully. Fury seemed pleased with his new friend. For a moment Joey watched them playing like a colt and a puppy, then raced back to the barn.

“Jim!” he shouted. “Fury’s found a mascot! Look at them out there!”

Jim shaded his eyes and watched the two animals chasing each other around the enclosure.

“They’re certainly having a fine time. Fury’s acting like a youngster.”

“They took to each other right away,” Joey said excitedly. “Jim, do you think we can have Crosby? He’ll make Fury forget that white mare in no time.”

“You may be right, but don’t get your hopes up before you ask Doc Beemis. Maybe Doc doesn’t want to part with him.”

“I’ll ask him. I’ll tell him I’ll buy Crosby—for cash.”

“Go to it,” Jim said. “And good luck.”

Doc Beemis was shaving in Pete’s bathroom when Joey ran in. Startled, Doc nicked his chin with the razor.

“Drat!” he exclaimed. “Don’t ever sneak up behind a man when he’s using a straight razor. You almost made me slice my jugular vein.”

“I’m sorry,” Joey said breathlessly, “but this is important. It’s about Crosby.”

Doc’s jaws dropped. “Good grief! Don’t tell me my dog has eaten one of the horses!”

“No. He loves horses, especially Fury.”

Joey told Doc about Fury’s need of a mascot, and finished by asking if he’d consider selling Crosby. The man seemed shocked at the idea.

“What? Do you have the audacity to suggest that I would part with my shaggy partner for mere gold?”

Joey hesitated. “Well, I know how you feel about Crosby. I’m sure you love him very much. But Fury loves him, too, and he loves Fury. So please, Doc, won’t you let me buy him?”

Doc Beemis dabbed at the cut on his chin before answering. “Joseph, my lad,” he said finally, “obviously you don’t realize the value of that noble animal. Crosby is descended from a long line of canine kings, beginning with a royal creature named Tomarctus, who roamed the world fifteen million years before you were born.”

“No kidding,” said Joey, amazed. “Is that the truth?”

“Naturally. I wouldn’t delude you for all the gold in Peter’s teeth. Through Crosby’s veins courses the blood of Canis Familiaris Intermedius, plus a few strains of the Alaskan Malamute, the Prussian Weimaraner, and that greatest dog of all, Bow-Wowis Snifferanimus. Do you honestly think you can afford to purchase such a priceless treasure?”

“Gosh, I guess not,” answered Joey glumly. “I had no idea Crosby was such a great dog.” He turned to leave. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Wait,” said Doc. “Don’t give up so easily. Even though Crosby is my four-footed companion of the open road, I wouldn’t stand in the way of his finding a good home, that is, if the price is right. What figure did you have in mind?”

Joey saw a ray of hope. “Well, I have nine dollars and forty-eight cents. Would that be enough?”

Doc thought for a moment. “You have that amount in cash?”

“Sure, I was saving up for a new rifle.”

Doc’s eyes glistened with sentiment. “It touches my heart, Joseph, that you would sacrifice a new rifle for a mere dog.”

“What do you mean a ‘mere’ dog? You just told me Crosby was a priceless treasure.”

“That’s true,” Doc said quickly, “I did, and it’s a fact. But there’s something about a boy yearning for a dog that twangs the strings of my heart. What was the exact amount you offered?”

“Nine dollars and forty-eight cents.”

“It’s a deal. Crosby’s yours.”

“Oh boy!” cried Joey, grabbing Doc’s arm.

“Drat!” said Doc. “Never seize a man’s arm when he’s holding a blade against his throat!”

“I’m sorry,” Joey said, running out of the bathroom. “Wait’ll I tell Jim and Pete I’ve got a mascot for Fury!”

During the rest of the morning it was evident that Fury and Crosby were made for each other. The playful, shambling dog refused to leave Fury’s side, even when called to the house for lunch. In the end, Joey was obliged to carry a large plateful of food out to the corral, which he did happily.

“How do you like him, Fury?” Joey asked. “Isn’t he the greatest?”

Fury poked Crosby with his nose, then raised his head and gave a satisfied snort. Crosby answered by breaking into one of his mournful songs.

“I don’t think you’ll have to lock Fury in the barn any more at night,” said Jim at suppertime. “He’ll never run away as long as Crosby’s close by.”

Joey grinned. “Boy, I’m sure glad we got that settled. I was really worried.”

“Go on,” Pete said. “You wasn’t worried—you was plumb jealous. Come on now, Joey, admit it. Wasn’t you jealous?”

“Sure I was,” Joey confessed.

Doc Beemis leaned across the table and helped himself to a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes. “Then why aren’t you jealous of Crosby? He and Fury are thick as two thieves.”

“I know, but I don’t mind his liking a dog. A mare’s different.”

“Jealousy, the jaundice of the soul,” murmured Doc Beemis, as he drowned his pork chops in brown gravy.

“How’s that agin?” asked Pete.

“I was quoting John Dryden.”

Pete scowled. “Who’s he? One of yer customers?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” said Doc, cramming a forkful of meat into his mouth. “Kindly remain blissful, my ancient friend—and pass those delicious dumplings.”

After supper, when Joey went to the corral with a basinful of bones for Crosby, he found Fury and the dog still frisking together. As Crosby tackled the bones, Fury sidled up to Joey and nuzzled his cheek.

“Thanks,” Joey said. “I’m glad you still like me, too.”

Fury made a loving sound, deep down in his throat.

Back in the kitchen, while the men were “manicurin’ the goldern dishes,” as Pete put it, Jim asked Doc Beemis his plans for the summer.

“I’ll be touring the glorious West,” Doc answered, “selling my wares as usual. But as I travel, I plan to keep my eyes open for something I’ve been seeking for the past two years.”

“I kin guess what that’d be,” said Pete, with a chuckle. “A rich millionaire that you kin sell a truckload of them phony medicines to.”

Doc looked hurt. “I resent that remark. This year I’m offering a remarkable medical discovery called Swain’s Ointment, which will be a blessing to man, woman, and child.”

“Shore,” Pete scoffed, “as long as they don’t drink it.”

Jim was interested in Doc’s plan. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“A wife,” Doc said, gazing into space.

Pete howled with glee. “A wife? Now who in tarnation’d marry an old codger like you?”

“Scoff if you will, Peter, but it’s true. The time has come for me to cease wandering hither and yon. So what I seek now is a sensible woman who will comfort me in my declining years.”

“That’s great news,” Jim said. “I certainly hope you find her.”

“Thank you, James.” Doc lowered his voice. “By the way, where’s Joseph?”

“Out at the corral with Fury and Crosby.”

“Good,” said Doc, reaching into his pocket. “In the morning, after I’ve departed, I’d like you to give him this money.” He handed Jim nine dollars and forty-eight cents. “It’s the sum he paid for that flea-bitten mongrel of mine.”

“I don’t get it. Why should you return his money? He made a business deal with you.”

“True, but he got the worst of it. To be honest with you, that dog’s howling has driven me close to the loonybin. In fact, I would have paid the boy nine dollars and forty-eight cents to take the miserable mutt off my hands.”

“Okay,” Jim said. “Joey’ll be mighty happy to have both the dog and the money.”

“He shore will,” agreed Pete. He lay a hand on Doc’s shoulder. “We’re gonna miss you, you ole coot. When do you figger on drivin’ back this way?”

“In October—about six months from now—unless I find the woman of my dreams. In that happy event I’ll send you a wedding announcement.”

Early the next morning, when Doc Beemis drove away, Crosby didn’t even look up. He was too busy romping with Fury.