Herbert Quagmire lets out one insincere guffaw. “Ha! Not on your life, girlie! I already thunk of that. It’s part of my moneymaking scheme. My boy Rollo here will drive this here tractor. And you, little lady, can drive the plow behind the nag. Rollo says he taught you how to plow.”
“What about my other chores? And the housework and cooking and—?” Lena asks.
“You’ll just have to work faster, girl,” Herbert answers.
“Yeah,” Rollo agrees. “Can I drive it now, Daddy? Can I? Huh? Can I?”
I want to protest. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than to have Lena as a driver instead of Round Rollo. But I am too worried about my friend to contemplate such a thing. Already, they’re working her fingers to the bone. And now she has to do the plowing too?
“Well, you better get to it, gal,” Herbert Quagmire says. “You and that nag won’t be as fast as my brand-new tractor.” He checks the newer, shiny plow, which is attached to the rear of the new tractor.
Lena starts to drive me, then stops. “Rollo, did you have your eyes shut when you harnessed poor Fred?”
Rollo doesn’t even turn around. He’s too busy climbing up on the tractor.
Lena adjusts the straps of the harness until they’re perfect. We set out, and the plow is so much easier to pull now.
Meanwhile, Herbert shouts orders to his son, who can’t seem to get the contraption started.
When we’re out of earshot of the Quagmire males, Lena starts humming. It’s a lovely tune, and my tail swishes in time with the music.
After a while, we’re both swaying and sashaying. If it weren’t for the fact that Lena will be overworked now, I would be truly happy knowing I am to spend days, as well as nights, with my friend.
All of a sudden, Lena screams. She reins me hard to the left.
I bolt. Just in time, I dodge the green monster as Round Rollo races within inches of us, spraying dirt onto Lena and me and whooping as he passes by.
“Yeehaw!” Rollo hollers, as if he’s riding a bronco. He might as well be. The tractor bucks and jumps under him. He swerves across the field, his plow banging behind the tractor, destroying our neatly plowed rows.
Something tells me Herbert Quagmire’s moneymaking scheme is destined to fail.
7
Tractor Tragedy
Over the next weeks, Lena and I dance in the field as we plow. But we rarely have time to dance at night. Often, Lena is still doing chores at midnight. I worry about her. If I could speak human, I would have a few choice words for Herbert Quagmire.
Then one evening after Lena and I have plowed our section, she returns me to the barn, bids me good-bye, and heads in for her domestic chores.
No sooner has Lena left than Rollo appears. “Out!” he shouts, yanking at my halter. “You’ve got work to do.”
He drags me back to the field and puts the harness back on. “Tonight you’re pulling my plow and the tractor.”
At first, I think Rollo must be joking. But I should know better. And sure enough, he hitches me to the tractor that’s hitched to the plow. Then he climbs onto the seat, puts his feet up, and opens his comic book.
Rollo cracks his whip. I lean into the harness. It slips up to my neck because it’s too loose, and I’m already foamy with sweat from plowing all day. The straps around my stomach are too tight, so I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
“Get a move on!” Rollo shouts. He smacks my rump with both reins. “It’s hot as blazes out here. I don’t have all day.”
I manage a step, then another. The tractor creeps forward, pulling the plow behind it. I cannot imagine why Rollo is making me pull his tractor. If the thing is broken, couldn’t he simply force me to pull his plow to finish the field? Has the boy not thought of this? I have never heard of a horse pulling a tractor.
I take another step. And another. Never have I pulled anything even half the weight of this load. I feel strain and pain in muscles and tendons I didn’t realize I had. My legs feel like trees stuck in quicksand.
I can’t trust my vision. Waves of nausea pass through me, and my eyes blur. I think I see Lena far away, running toward us. But perhaps it is my imagination.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, I hear a crackling, screeching sound. It takes me a moment to realize that the sound is an attempt at singing. The human voice is the worst I’ve ever heard, more off-key than a billy goat, harsher than the oink of the foulest pig. This singing is coming from Round Rollo. Now I understand what Lena meant when she told me once that Rollo “can’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on.”
The sound is truly horrible … and yet … it is music. I latch on to that thought and listen, not to the sounds coming from the boy’s mouth, but to the beat beneath those screeches.
Yes. I hear music. Fast and syncopated, a type of jostling jive.
I shut my eyes and add my own music to that beat. And soon I feel it in my deadened legs. My tail swishes. My hooves lift. Back and forth I sway, until I am dancing. I pretend Lena and I are at the hoedown. I let myself go, jerking right, swinging left. I am light as Lena. I can almost feel her twirling on my back as I spin and spin.
“Help! Help!”
Rollo’s cries break through the music in my head. I wonder why he would be shouting for help.
“Oh, Fred, stop!”
I recognize Lena’s voice. So I stop.
Lena races up to me. She throws her arms around my neck, and I feel her little body shake. She is crying.
And then I see why. Herbert Quagmire’s new green tractor is toppled onto its side. It lies in the dirt, half buried.
Rollo crawls out from underneath the tractor. Covered with dirt, he’s cursing in a language I haven’t heard since my final day at the Bar B Q Ranch. “You sorry excuse for a plow horse! Now you’ve really gone and done it!”
Had I? Did I turn over the tractor?
“What in tarnation were you thinking, Rollo?” Lena shouts. Hands on hips, she glares at her cousin, who manages to stumble to his feet. “Why on earth did you hitch poor Fred to the tractor?”
“I had to!” Rollo cries. “If I just hitched Fred to my plow, Daddy would take one look at the field and know I didn’t use his tractor. I need them tractor tire tracks in the field in front of my plow. I got this all thought through, and all I wanted was—”
Lena’s fists raise as if she intends to use them. “So why, for the love of Pete, didn’t you just use your blamed tractor?”
Rollo has lost one boot, but he doesn’t appear to notice. “Because the tractor is out of gas!”
“So go buy gas, you numskull!” Lena shouts.
Rollo rolls his eyes like Lena is the numskull for suggesting the obvious. “I couldn’t buy gas! I’m out of cash.”
“Roll those eyes at me one more time, and I’ll roll that head of yours!” Lena snaps. “Besides, I know for a fact your daddy gives you plenty of gas money.”
“Yeah? Well, I bought these here comic books with it. So I had the idea of getting Fred to pull the tractor and—”
Lena cuts her cousin off in midsentence. “You had an idea? If you ever had an idea, it would die of loneliness!”
“Oh yeah? Well, you’re the one’s gonna die of loneliness. Once my daddy sees what this crazy horse done did to his new tractor, he’ll send ol’ Fred to the glue factory!”
I gulp. I have heard of very old horses being sold for dog food and their hooves used to make glue. These were no idle rumors either.
“It isn’t Fred’s fault that tractor went cattywampus!” Lena cries. “It’s your fault! And your daddy’s going to be fit to be tied when he sees what you did.”
“The way I see it, Fred hitched himself up to the tractor and—”
Lena shakes her head. “That dog won’t hunt, Rollo. Even Uncle Herbert’s not going to believe Fred hitched himself up to that tractor. And everybody knows you couldn’t drive any worse if you was drunk with one eye shut.”
Rollo gets his evil grin, showing yell
ow teeth. “Then I’ll just tell Daddy that Fred went crazy for no reason and attacked his brand-new tractor.”
“You lie and your feet stink!” Lena shouts.
Rollo smirks again. “Who’s my daddy gonna believe? Me or Fred?”
Lena looks like she’s been hit in the stomach. I think we both know Rollo’s right. His father will believe him, and I’ll be turned into glue, way before my time.
“There he comes now.” Rollo waves as Herbert Quagmire steps out of his house and starts toward the field. “Daddy!” Rollo shouts, limping to meet his father.
Lena is crying hard now. “Oh, Fred.” She hugs me again. Then she springs into action. Still crying, she unbuckles my harness. “Rollo’s right. Uncle Herbert will blame you. Not Rollo.” She looks at her uncle, then back at me. “I reckon there’s only one thing left to do, Fred.”
I feel the weight of the harness drop from my aching limbs. I can’t stand to see Lena cry. And I have no idea what the “only one thing left to do” could possibly be.
“You have to run away,” she whispers.
Run away? Away from Lena?
“Go!” she shouts. “Run! Run fast! Run far! Don’t look back!”
I shake my head no. How can I leave the only friend I’ve ever had?
Tears stream down Lena’s sweet face. “I love you, Fred. You’re the best friend in the whole entire world. Now, don’t just sit there like a frog on a log. Run! Go! Skedaddle!” She shoos me, waves her arms, and keeps shouting for me to run and never come back.
Finally, with one long look at the best friend anyone could ever hope for, I take off at a trot. Then a canter. Then a full-out gallop.
I run away.
8
How Now, Brown Cows?
I run all night. Hearing Lena’s voice in my head, I don’t stop running until I cross into the next county, and the next, and the next.
On and on I journey, munching on weeds by the side of the road, stealing sips of pond water here and there. All that keeps me going is my mother’s song in my heart:
Dance, dance, dance, Federico!
Dance, dance, dance to your own special song.
Sway and spin. Let the music in.
And the world will dance along.
Dream your dreams, Federico!
Dream your dreams, and of course,
Soon you’ll shine like the stars above—
Federico the Dancing Horse!
I try not to think of Lena. It’s too painful. Yet when her face flashes before me in all its kindness and gentleness, I pray that she will come to realize and believe that she was born to dance. And I hope she will find the courage to dream her dream and the good fortune to see it come true.
For days I wander aimlessly. I walk for miles with no house, no human in sight. And very little water. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. The sun looms large overhead, blinding me. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.
I am about to give up, to lie down and go to sleep, when I see a fence. Whenever there’s a fence, there has to be something inside worth keeping in. I focus on the fence and head for it as the sun begins to drop in the sky.
Grass! I see grass on the other side of the fence. It must be a pasture of some sort. And there, perhaps a dozen horse-lengths inside the pasture, is a pond. Not a scum-floating pond either. A clear, sparkling-water pond.
The fence extends farther than the eye can see.
A song Lena and I danced to at our favorite church pops into my head: So high can’t get over it, so low can’t go under it, so wide can’t get around it. Gotta get through that fence. I’m unsure about the correct lyrics, but I am sure of one thing. I must get inside that pasture.
After another minute attempting to think when my brain is parched, I know I have to jump that fence. I admit I’ve never been much of a jumper. At one of the stables where I lived when I was a colt, they had lean, beautiful jumpers, who could sail over gates and fences in figure-eight patterns. It appeared to be such fun that I had to try it. And one day I broke loose from my stall and attempted the bar jump. I nearly broke my leg.
But this is not for fun. This is for survival.
I snort a time or two and paw the ground. Then I take a run at the fence and jump. Up, up I go.
My left forefoot catches the top rung and flings me back. I stumble and fall to the ground, rolling down, sliding down, down, and into a ditch.
I lie there until I catch my breath again. I ache all over, but I don’t think I’ve broken anything. I must get up. I must push myself onto my feet and try again.
It takes me three attempts to stand on my own four hooves once more. How am I ever going to make it over that fence? It looks bigger than it did the first time.
For a moment I simply stare at the fence as it seems to grow right before my eyes. My hooves are frozen to the ground, and my legs are shaking.
Then in my mind, I hear a humming. Lena’s voice echoes in my head, and one of her favorite melodies from Swan Lake resounds throughout my body as I remember. Lena used to twirl and swirl, then run on her tiptoes and jump. How high that little girl could leap into the air!
With Lena’s hum pounding in my head, I twirl, then swirl, then take off at a full gallop. Picturing Lena in the air, I jump as if to meet her there.
And I sail over that fence!
As soon as I land in the lush green grass, I take off for the pond. I think I hear a cry from somewhere nearby, but I don’t slow down until my muzzle is deep into that clear, refreshing water. I drink and drink and drink until I must come up for air.
“That’s the one!” cries a tiny voice. “He jumped right over me. He scared me.” The voice breaks off into crying.
I look up and see a small brown cow, a calf. The only white is on his forehead.
Several other cows step up beside the little fella. They’re mostly brown as well, except for one brown-and-white version.
One of the larger brown cows speaks. “Aw, will you stop your crying, Moony? I can’t hear myself think.”
“Yeah. Don’t have a cow!” The brown-and-white cow moos with laughter. Some of the other cows laugh too. “My son always milks it for all it’s worth.” She cracks up at her own joke.
I manage to smile along. I am quite the outsider here. “I apologize for scaring your little boy,” I say, making a slight bow. “I haven’t found a drink for days, I fear. And your pond was more than I could resist.”
“Mama,” the little one whines, “he doesn’t look like a cow.”
“He doesn’t seem like a cow horse either,” says one of the brown cows.
The pasture grows silent. And then from nowhere appear reinforcements. Dozens of cows poke up their furry heads and regard me with big cow eyes filled with suspicion.
“I assure you I mean you no harm,” I say.
They step closer.
I take a step back. While it is true that I am at least twice as big as any one of these cows, it is also true that I am vastly outnumbered.
The cows have me at fifty to one.
9
Home on the Range?
The brown-and-white cow steps up closer. “I’m Bessie, and this here’s my boy, Moony. This old cow is Jingles, my friend.”
When Jingles nods, the bell around her neck rings, making it evident where she got her name.
“No, sir. I reckon you’re more of a plow horse than a cow horse,” Bessie says.
“I have been known to pull a few plows in my past,” I admit. “Though I do not consider myself a plow horse. Others call me Fred, but I call myself Federico.”
“Well, Fred, welcome to the Lazy Roots and Wings Ranch. Let me ask you a question. What did one cow say to the other cow?”
I’m aware that this might be some sort of test or trick, so I take my time thinking of an appropriate answer.
But before I can hazard a guess, Bessie answers her own question. “What did one cow say to the other cow? Moo!”
This time I join the cows with
a big horse laugh. Every time Jingles laughs, her bell rings.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you wear that bell, Jingles?” I ask.
Jingles starts to answer, but Bessie beats her to it. “Because her horns are broken!” she says.
Everyone except Jingles laughs.
The sun has set, and I’m so tired I can barely graze. But the grass is tall and rich, so I do.
“Well, aren’t you the lawn-mooer!” Bessie declares.
I grin, my mouth full of long green grass. These are such nice cows that I wouldn’t mind spending time with them. The thought occurs to me that perhaps I could make my home among these kindly cows. “Do you think the owners of your ranch would mind if I spent some time with you here?” I inquire, once my mouth is no longer full.
“I don’t rightly know,” Jingles answers. “I’m afraid they wouldn’t have much use for a plow horse. And the head driver is a hard man.”
“You think he’s hard?” Bessie challenges. “You should have grown up on the ranch I was born to. Now, that was hard.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Were they so mean to you?”
“Not so much that exactly. It’s just that I grew up on the Lazy Double-Q, Williamson Bar-B-Bartholomew Ranch. That brand was a killer!”
I’m fairly confident from the laughter that Bessie is only joking about such a long brand.
Moony ventures up to me. “Good thing you’re laughing at my ma’s jokes, Mr. Fred. ’Cause if you don’t, she’ll cream you.”
Bessie explodes in laughter and pride at her son, who’s already following in her hoof-steps.
That night I nestle in with the cows, most of whom choose to sleep standing up, as I nearly always did at Quagmire Farms. But I am so tired, and they all seem so friendly, that I let myself lie down.
Moony stays close, and so does his mother.
“There you are, Bessie.” A big brown cow joins her. “Where’ve you been, girl?”
“To the mooo-vies, of course,” she answers.
The big cow doesn’t laugh, but eyes me up and down. “Where’s your bull?”
“Dozin’,” she says. “Bull-dozin’. Get it?” When Big Cow doesn’t laugh, Bessie whispers to me, “Don’t mind her. She’s just got herself a case of the mad cow disease.”
Dreams of a Dancing Horse Page 3
