But the loudspeaker was blasting the news for those who couldn’t see. All the kids had to manage with only pinstripes of viewing between 80,000 human legs as close together as a picket fence. “Forty thousand visitors today!” a firefighter reported.
Chris and Pam were glad they were taller than most of the other kids. “It’s a lucky thing we’re ten and seven years tall,” Pam said.
Slowly the roundup men and the parents watching spread out to give more room for the kids to pin down their selections for tomorrow’s auction.
“Mom! I’ve found three!” Pam was breathless with excitement. “How am I ever going to make up my mind?”
Sandy laughed. “It won’t be easy. Even for me.”
“Women!” Chris nearly choked on his gum. “Me? I’d just buy that little red colt, and we could get home in no time to see how my boa is doing.”
Pam slithered in mockery.
Chris tried not to notice.
Pam said, “I want to do more than just look; I want to examine every single colt.”
Sandy agreed. “And before we leave I intend to see every one of Misty’s family.”
“You said she was dead.” This was Chris.
“She is! But not really. She lives on in her colts and grandcolts. Stormy, her third colt, is still very much alive.”
“I heard that Misty is stuffed and mounted for everyone to see.” This was Pam.
Chris looked scornful. “Who wants to see a stuffed horse with shiny eyes that can’t even see?”
Sandy agreed with Chris. “Not I!” she said. “But I need to see her offspring. Perhaps there’s one that’s . . .”
“That’s what?” came in chorus.
“A living likeness.”
Chapter 5
PONIES FOR SALE
At the carnival grounds on Chincoteague the pony pens swirled with action. In the big pen stallions were rounding up their mares, trying to keep them separated from other families; the mares were asking for trouble and trying to sneak away. A small pen held hungry foals, crying for their mothers and suckling any object within reach.
Pam was running between the pens, offering candy to the big ponies, who lipped them eagerly, in remembrance of other Pony Pennings when visitors had emptied their pockets of sweets. Pam giggled at the tickly feeling of pony lips on her hand. At the smaller pen, colts and fillies reached for the grasses offered, sniffed at them, then dropped them to earth untasted.
Chris kicked a fence post. “I want to go home,” he said. “I hate this! If the firefighters own the ponies, why don’t they feed ’em! How can they be so mean to hungry babies? I know what it means to be hungry.”
Pam began crying louder than the foals.
“Pam! Chris!” Sandy’s voice was firm. “Stop worrying! Don’t you remember in the book when Paul and Maureen were upset by this very sight, they went to see the fire chief, and he said, ‘Colts have got to grow up sometime. Their mothers can’t tell a colt in so many words to go rustle his own living. They just kick him away, gentle-like at first. But sometimes they have to get a bit rough, especially when they’ll be birthing a new foal in a few months.’”
Pam stopped crying. “I remember now,” she said, “how the fire chief puffed up in pride at his parting words to Paul and Maureen. ‘Separating the little ones from their mothers for only one night,’ he said, ‘why, that’s the kindest way we know how to wean ’em.’”
A gathering of parents and kids were listening in. Chris and Pam reddened in embarrassment at the attention.
“Now,” Sandy said, on a happy note, “let’s take another look at the babies to make sure of our choices at the auction tomorrow.”
“I still want the little red one,” Chris said. “Now we can go home and . . .”
“Just a minute, little brother. It’s my birthday, too, you know. I’ve decided to get that little circus-lookin’ filly. No, I guess I want the black-and-white one . . .”
“Women!” Chris sulked.
Sandy looked at her watch. “Heavens! It’s two minutes to two. If we hurry,” she said, “we can catch the first showing of the movie.”
“What movie?”
“The movie Misty, of course.”
All about them the fence rails suddenly emptied, and a surge of moms, dads, and children headed for Roxy’s, where already a waiting line curved around the theater.
“It’s just like Mann’s Chinese Theater!” A youngster, wearing a T-shirt spelling Hollywood, California, pointed to a hoofprint in the cement. “Why, it’s Misty’s hoof,” she squealed.
“Well, I’ll be danged if ’tain’t,” a native Chincoteaguer exclaimed. He latched himself onto the little group, as friendly as a tour guide. “Y’see,” he said, “I been working over on the main for twenty-odd years, but truth is, I’m a native-borned Chincoteaguer.” A little audience began to gather in his spotlight. “Y’see a man could live here for nigh fifty year, but if he ain’t borned on the island, he’s allus a furriner. Come on into the theater. I’ll show you what I mean.”
What a relief getting away from the heat and mosquitoes and into the cushioned seats of the cool dark theater. The big screen opened with Paul Beebe running frantically to keep ahead of a stallion hot on his trail.
Their companion guffawed. “That’s the fierce Pied Piper, leader of the wild herd!” he stage-whispered to the entire audience. “Piper’s afeared Paul is trying to steal one of his mares.”
The audience was running with Paul, screaming, “Run! Run! Run!” Hands were clapping with the organ music gaining power until suddenly Pied Piper was lost to view and Paul came tumbling down to safety.
The hour and a half flew. Everyone emerged from the theater, surprised to see the sun still shining.
Chris looked pleased. “Now we can go home.”
“Not yet,” Sandy chided. “We’re off to the Chincoteague Pony Farm to see Misty’s descendants.”
The farm was on two-and-a-half acres of land on Maddox Boulevard, just minutes away from the theater. There were separate stalls for each of Misty’s descendants. The family went from one to the other, listening to recordings:
“Meet Stormy, Misty’s third foal, by Wings. She’s still a lively one.”
“Meet Cloudy; he’s Misty’s first grandson—out of Wisp O’ Mist by Lightning.”
What a contrast, these penned-up creatures, from the wild ponies of Assateague. Fame certainly had its price. A sadness came over Sandy that wouldn’t be pushed away. She waited her turn to approach Paul Merritt, the owner. An idea was beginning to form in Sandy’s mind of taking one of Misty’s family home to set it free on Stolen Hours Farm. She took a deep breath and another. Then she braved herself to speak.
“Mr. Merritt!” she began, as if she’d rehearsed the whole idea. “Would you be willing to sell me that pinto filly—the one over yonder being groomed by a nice young man?”
“That ‘nice young man’ is my son, Greg,” he said. “The filly’s name is Sunshine. Come meet her and Greg. Sunshine loves to be currycombed.”
There was no question about it. Sunshine was leaning against the brush as if she couldn’t get enough of the warm, scratchy feeling. Her eyes took no notice of the milling tourists. She seemed to be living in another time and place.
“Is she thinking of Assateague and her wild friends?” Pam asked of Greg.
“That’s probably the very case. She’s homesick,” Greg replied.
To Sandy’s amazement she found herself quite out of breath. “Could my children and I . . . that is, could we buy Sunshine and take her home? We have plenty of room in our trailer,” she added.
Mr. Merritt pursed his lips in thought and rolled his eyes heavenward. “At the auction tomorrow,” he said, “you might better find yourselves a little wild one to take home. Besides, I have to mull this over . . . You see, I got a lot of money invested in Sunshine. When Grandpa Beebe died, I took on all of Misty’s family, fed ’em and gave ’em a nice place to stay. I’ll mull a bit and g
ive you your answer after the auction tomorrow.
“Meanwhile, how would you folks like to step into our little museum and see Misty, Sunshine’s famous great-grandmother?”
“Does he mean the stuffed Misty?” whispered Pam.
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Merritt agreed with a note of pride.
Sandy apologized. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t make myself see the stuffed Misty. In my mind she’ll always be alive.”
Chris grabbed Pam’s hand and pulled her into the museum while Sandy took a step closer to Sunshine. “If tomorrow’s answer is ‘yes,’” she promised the mare, “you’ll never know a bit or bridle and you’ll run barefoot on our cool green pasture with a creek of fresh running water.”
Sunshine was not even listening, and Mr. Merritt was lost in the maze of visitors.
Sandy gathered up her children. Stabs of hunger united them again, and they trooped into the Pony Pines Restaurant and ate a delicious supper of chicken potpie. The chef said, “Yer in luck, folks. Just three bowls left of Grandma Beebe’s special recipe.”
They ate in hungry silence, their minds reaching ahead for tomorrow’s auction.
Chapter 6
THE “SOLD” TAG
The auctioneer was a burly man with a rollicking voice. He stood on a high platform like some benevolent creature smiling down upon his flock of eager children and not-so-eager adults.
A ramp led from the pony pen where the volunteer firefighters lifted one thrashing pony at a time and carried it up the ramp to the platform. As the auctioneer spoke softly and stroked the frightened foals, he seemed to hypnotize them into standing up straight on their spindly legs. Then he’d steady them and with a triumphant smile turn to his audience.
“What am I offered for this young’un with the remarkable resemblance to Misty?” With his finger he traced the tiny map on the creature’s withers, and to the howling delight of the audience, the little fellow turned to suckle the man’s finger. The auctioneer didn’t mind a whit. “This proves that the little feller has brains, spirit, and a sharp appetite.”
The bids came fast.
“I’ll give you fifty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“One hundred even.”
A long pause. The offers grew in tens and twenties to reach $275, then stopped.
“S-o-l-d,” the auctioneer cried as a ponytailed youngster exploded from the audience with her father in tow to meet her prize and tie on the “sold” tag.
As Chris whistled excitedly, his red pony, with legs kicking wildly, was carried to the auctioneer.
Everyone strained to hear the conversation between the auctioneer and Little Red, but they couldn’t catch so much as a syllable. Again the charm worked. With scarcely any support from the firefighters, the little fellow wobbled to his feet.
“He’s just a baby,” the auctioneer pronounced, and made a pretense of looking at Red’s teeth.
“Bid, Mom, bid!” Chris was poking Sandy.
People wanted to hear more from the auctioneer, but Chris, in the highest voice he could muster, called out, “My mom offers twenty-five dollars.”
Sandy laughed and picked up her cue. “Make it fifty dollars,” she called out.
The man behind her raised his hand. “Stud colts usually sell for less than fillies. I offer $150.”
The bidding stopped abruptly at Sandy’s offer of $200. Chris had won his colt.
The auctioneer spoke directly to Chris. “What a great sire he’ll make!”
The crowd clapped and chanted, “We want a filly! We want a filly!” The bidding sharpened when Pam’s Pie, a splashy black-and-white pinto, was pushed up the ramp on her own four legs. She made a pretty little jump onto the platform to everyone’s delight. The bids came fast and finally stopped with Sandy’s offer of $375.
Instead of considering their missions accomplished, though, Sandy was saying to herself, “Chris at seven, Pam at ten, and I, their mom at thirty-five and the biggest kid of all—am I to be left out? No indeed!”
During the bidding her heart had latched onto a little spitfire of a three-week-old foal . . . a miniature model of the fierce Pied Piper they’d seen chasing Paul Beebe in the movie. There was such a dear feistiness about him that it challenged Sandy. He’d be like a precious patient that called for all the skills at a doctor’s command. But, at his tender age, would he be auctioned?
As the bidding opened, the fire chief appeared on the platform with the auctioneer and took joint command. The chief’s voice boomed out. “This is an unprecedented occasion and calls for a debate: Should anyone be allowed to buy so young a colt as this little Pied Piper?”
Pam reached for Sandy’s hand and squeezed it in sympathy.
“You are all horse lovers,” the chief continued. “I value your opinion as to whether this little feller should be sold . . .”
“Gads!” The “borned-Chincoteaguer” from the day before jumped into the fray. “To my mind ’twould be kinder to send him back to Assateague to be with his mama.”
There was a murmur of approval.
Next a very officious man faced the chief. “I’ve a string of young horses of my own, and I’m aware of how fragile they are. Stress can be a killer. This pony might not stand another swim across the channel.”
“Is it possible?” Sandy’s voice came clear. “Could we have the baby and his mother, too?”
The chief shook his head. “Sorry, but we can’t let the mother go. She’s needed as a brood mare.”
A tall, sunburned man stood up to his full six feet four inches. “I’m a veterinarian from over on the main.” Everyone quieted to catch his words. “My concern is that the little fellow, if returned to Assateague, might be infected by flies and mosquitoes, which this year have reached epidemic proportions.”
The auctioneer, who had remained quiet until then, addressed the fire chief. “Leonard,” he said, using the chief’s first name, “how about putting the situation to a vote?”
“Splendid!” the chief agreed. “Let’s hear applause from those who want the little lady to take the baby under her wing.”
There was a trickle of applause.
“Her children already have a Chincoteague pony apiece,” the chief continued, “so the Pied Piper . . . why, he’ll have a little herd of Chincoteaguers to make him feel at home.”
“Yea!” the kids shouted.
“And my mom’s a doctor,” Chris added. “She’ll take good care of him.”
Nobody else bid.
And the little Pied Piper belonged to Doctor Sandy Price, who tried to say thank you, but the voters were clapping with such vigor they couldn’t have heard her anyway. She gave a gift offering to the firefighters. Then, with “sold” tags tied securely about the necks of Chris’s Patches, Pam’s Pie, and Mom’s Pied Piper, they left to keep their appointment with Mr. Merritt at the Chincoteague Pony Farm.
Pam tugged at Sandy’s sleeve. “Mom, do you really want another pony?”
Sandy gulped out her happiness. “Of course I do . . . Sunshine is almost three. She can act as Pied Piper’s mother.”
“But she wouldn’t have any milk.”
“I know. We can buy milk, but Sunshine can mother him with nuzzlings and lickings with her washcloth of a tongue.”
They jostled through the friendly crowds going in and out of gift shops bearing copies of Misty of Chincoteague. There was a milling crowd, too, at the Chincoteague Pony Farm. But Mr. Merritt came right over, extending his hand. “I’ve been thinking about whether to let Sunshine go, and something tells me there might never be another family who would give her as good a home as you will.”
Even the wildest dreams can come true after all.
The rest of the day called for a burst of activity—Sandy’s family dashed up and down Main Street, getting health certificates, milk supplements, and extra buckets and shopping without luck for nursing bottles. They ended up with rubber gloves instead. That night they all took turns pricking tiny holes in the fing
ers of a whole box full of gloves, hoping that Pied Piper would suckle as happily as if he’d found his own mother.
It was almost midnight when they crawled into their beds, too tired to think about tomorrow’s problems. The whisper of the wind and the lapping of the waves on the shore were all the lullaby they needed.
Chapter 7
FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS!
The loading scene early the next morning was something to behold. “Psst! They must be professional truckers,” a passerby remarked about the trio. If the truth be known, it was the desperation to get little Piper home alive that fueled Chris’s, Pam’s, and Sandy’s strength.
They stowed hay, grain, buckets, lead ropes, and duffel bags in the truck bed. Then, one at a time, each animal climbed in. The foals balked at the prospect of climbing the ramp and being swallowed up by the giant maw of a tunnel. Only Sunshine seemed fearless. Almost daintily she tiptoed aboard. Her whole attitude said, “Climbing into trailers is old stuff for me.”
Pied Piper II came next. “He’s so little,” Sandy said. “Let’s take him way up front in the airy storage compartment.” The little guy followed meekly after Sunshine, but when he had to go past her into his own quarters he jammed on all four brakes.
With only a little puffing Sandy lifted him into place just as she’d seen the cowboy-firefighter move ponies at the auction.
“Mom!” gasped Pam. “How did you do that?”
“Love,” she replied with a wink.
Chris’s Patches had a mind of his own. He fought until both he and Chris were worn out. Finally Patches scrambled aboard with a snort that said, “Boy, you won this time, but just you wait, kid.”
Chris sneered in superiority at Pam as she began fastening a lead rope to Pie. “She’ll be a piece of cake,” he said. “Fillies are always easier to handle.”
Misty's Twilight Page 2
