Constable Bidgood was taking notes in a little book rested on his knee.
'And the man's name was?' he asked.
Shelby chewed on her lip. 'I don't know,' she whispered.
'What about the number plate on the truck?'
Shelby shrugged.
'Any other things you can recall about the truck? Did it have something written on the side?'
Shelby shook her head. She tried to think of something useful to tell them. 'It was white. It had a cab at the front. There were windows on the sides . . .' She trailed off. That was all she'd noticed.
'What was he wearing?'
That she could remember. 'Blue jeans and a grey tee-shirt with a collar.'
The two police officers exchanged a glance.
'So, we're looking for a man in jeans and a tee-shirt driving a white truck with windows,' said Constable Bidgood.
Shelby blushed.
Sergeant Everard shifted on her feet and took a deep breath. 'Even if we could find him, I'm afraid there's not much we can do about this,' she began.
'Why not?' asked Shelby's mother.
'Well, Mrs Shaw, from what your daughter has said, she's entered into a verbal contract. It's not like the man came along in the middle of the night and took the horse. Your daughter agreed to an exchange, and actually led her horse onto his truck. It's not criminal. It's a civil matter.'
Shelby felt a lump wedge into her throat.
'But what about the phone calls?' protested Shelby's father. 'Hasn't he broken the contract by not answering?'
Sergeant Everard smiled. 'We'd need a much bigger police force if we had to arrest everyone who didn't answer their phone, Mr Shaw. My suggestion is that you wait the two weeks. From what your daughter has said, she's ended up with the better part of the deal.'
'In the meantime you might want to see a lawyer,' suggested Constable Bidgood, as he stood up. 'And I'd start scouting around to see what you can find out about this fellow. Ring that magazine of yours. They might have taken down more information.'
Shelby's father saw them to the door.
'I'm sorry we couldn't be more help,' Sergeant Everard said, looking Shelby in the eye.
Shelby felt her lip wobble and her eyes fill with tears. 'Thank you anyway,' she whispered.
After they left Shelby sat with her parents on the lounge.
'What were you thinking?' asked her father.
'I did try to tell you about it. It happened so quickly. He was nice. It all seemed like a dream come true. I thought I could see Blue tomorrow. The man said I could visit.'
Her mother rubbed her knee. 'It might still be OK. Perhaps he's just late paying his phone bill? Why don't we wait and see?'
Shelby shook her head. 'No, I want to see a lawyer today.'
Shelby's mother and father looked at each other. Her father rubbed his eyes. 'Shel, lawyers are very expensive and we're stretched as it is. I don't think you should panic. Didn't you say he had taken very good care of this Brat pony?'
'But that's not the point,' blurted Shelby. 'I don't know where Blue is! I want him back right now!'
'Honey, why don't you give it the two weeks? If this horse is as good as you say, then he'd be mad to let it go. If you're still unhappy in two weeks then we'll go to a lawyer to see if we can straighten it out.'
Shelby wanted to argue, but there was no point. Her parents had made up their minds. Besides, maybe they were right. Maybe it would turn out all right.
7 A Disturbing Idea
The next morning Shelby rode Brat up to the stables to visit Erin. Miss Anita was standing at the fence as she walked past the arena.
'That's a nice-looking pony,' Miss Anita said.
'Thank you. Her name is Maxshine Celtic Copper,' said Shelby, smiling. Saying a three-barrelled name was every bit as satisfying as she had dreamed it would be. She pulled up next to the fence and patted Brat on the shoulder.
'How does she go?'
'She's OK,' Shelby replied.
They'd had a sedate trip across the gully. Brat shied away from the slightest thing, so Shelby hadn't risked going any faster. Brat wasn't as sure-footed as Blue either. She'd never had to steer him along the trails. Brat seemed to always pick the most difficult way, stumbling over rocks and pressing up close to the bushes on the side of the trail so that Shelby constantly had her arms up moving branches out of the way.
'Can I have a ride?' Miss Anita asked, cocking her head towards the sandy arena. Miss Anita never would have asked to ride Blue. Shelby didn't think Miss Anita had ever even looked at him.
'I can't pay you,' Shelby said.
Miss Anita shaded her eyes with her hand. 'It's a freebie. I've got ten minutes spare.'
Shelby slid off Brat and walked her through the arena gate. Miss Anita took the reins and vaulted on.
Miss Anita's legs were much longer than Shelby's, but instead of adjusting the stirrups, she flipped them over the front of the saddle so they settled against Brat's shoulders.
'All right, little lady, let's see what you can do,' Miss Anita said, gathering up the reins.
Shelby watched as Miss Anita took Brat through her paces around the arena. Brat looked even better once she got going. Her strides were bold and flowing, and she responded to everything Miss Anita asked of her. Shelby admired Miss Anita's riding too. She sat perfectly still, and her instructions to Brat were almost invisible.
'Very tidy,' said Miss Anita, wheeling Brat back to where Shelby was standing. 'Somebody's done a nice job with her.'
'Thank you,' said Shelby, and then she blushed. It sounded as though she was claiming to have trained the pony herself.
Miss Anita ran her hands down Brat's legs. 'I haven't heard of Maxshine before. Where does she come from?'
Shelby didn't want to get into the whole story, so she shrugged. 'Not sure.'
'Very tidy indeed,' Miss Anita murmured. She ran her hand across the pony's face. 'Interesting colouring,' she said. 'Almost dun, isn't she?'
'She's just dirty,' Shelby explained.
Miss Anita held out her hand. It was lightly coated in a layer of dark brown powder. 'Yes, I see what you mean. Better get her in a bath before Mrs Crook sees,' she said with a wink.
Shelby grinned.
'I'm sure you'll do well on her.'
'Thanks,' said Shelby. She led the pony down the laneway between the two stables and stopped outside Erin's yard. Bandit was tied to the rail with his saddle on. Erin popped her head out of the doorway. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Brat.
'Who's that?' she asked.
'Eye-catching brown pony for sale or swap,' Shelby replied, grinning.
'You're joking,' squealed Erin. She ran across the yard and threw her arms around Shelby's shoulders. 'How exciting! You've really hit the jackpot. She's gorgeous. Do you think they had a clue what they were swapping? I mean – no offence – but Blue was the ugliest creature.'
Shelby frowned. She loved Blue, despite his faults. 'We're having a trial. Actually, I'm thinking about swapping back.'
'No way! Are you serious? I mean, when the ad said royal quality, I thought it was an exaggeration, but this is a great horse – sooo good-looking.' Erin looked around and lowered her voice. 'I reckon she's better-looking than Ditto, don't you?' Erin walked all the way around Brat. 'Her feet are a bit long, though. You'll need to get them done before Pony Club on Saturday.'
Shelby inspected them and nodded. She'd only just had Blue's feet trimmed. She wondered what her mother would say when she asked for the farrier to come back again so soon.
'So, where do you want to go today?' Erin asked, tightening Bandit's girth.
Shelby tilted her head to the side as she thought about it. She wasn't sure that she wanted to go on a trail. If she had been riding Blue it would have been her first choice. That was what he was best at – scampering up and down the hills all day. What if Brat shied and Shelby came off? It would be best if they rode somewhere fenced – somewhere safe.
; 'Do you want to do some jumps?' she suggested.
'Cool,' said Erin.
They took the ponies over to the practice arena, where several jumps of multicoloured barrels and bars had been set up.
Brat was much more sensitive than Blue. At the slightest touch she'd veer off in another direction. She also jumped a little higher than Shelby expected and a couple of times Shelby lost her stirrup and landed in the saddle with a thump.
As Brat made another soaring leap that Shelby hadn't anticipated, she jerked the reins in an effort to keep her balance. Brat put her ears back and tossed her head in protest.
'I'm sorry, little one. We just have to get used to each other,' she said. She pulled up near the fence while she waited for Erin and Bandit to finish a round.
Shelby missed Blue terribly. Every time Brat skipped a beat she thought, Blue wouldn't have done that, but she had decided not to think about it. She was going to put it out of her mind for the next twelve days and twenty-two hours. She only hoped that he was safe, wherever he was.
After a few hours of fierce concentration Shelby was tired. 'I might take her home and give her a bath,' she said.
'Cool,' said Erin. 'I'm very proud of you, Shel, and jealous too! Brat is a beautiful horse. I think you've really progressed.'
Shelby thought that was a bit patronising coming from someone who'd only been riding for a year. Besides, she was exactly the same rider that she'd been the day before.
Shelby arrived back at the paddock midafternoon. The sun was hot on her shoulders and the air was dry. As she unsaddled the pony she could see that the saddle blanket was absolutely filthy – coated with brown grime. She laid it across the sliprail to take home for her mother to wash.
'You certainly do need a bath,' she said.
Brat was not happy to see the hose. She skipped around, rising up on her back legs and straining against the lead. Once she was wet through, Shelby started to scrub with shampoo. As she worked her way across Brat's shoulder she could see the suds on her fingers were a dirty, muddy colour.
'You mustn't have been washed in a year!' Shelby said.
Brat's face was worst of all. Shelby wet down a towel, squeezed shampoo on it and gave Brat's face a good long scrub. Brat seemed to enjoy it, rubbing her head up and down inside the towel. It was the first time that Brat had showed anything like affection and for brief moment Shelby forgot about Blue.
When Shelby pulled the towel away she saw that it was caked in coffee-coloured grime. Then she looked at Brat. What she saw confused her. Brat had grey patches around her eyes and straight down her nose.
'Hang on a second,' Shelby muttered. 'You've got a stripe.'
She rubbed again with the towel. It was murky and indistinct but it was there. Shelby sat on the grass, watching the pony dry. At first Shelby thought that she had been in the sun too long and wasn't seeing properly, but there was no doubt. Brat's face was a different colour; in fact, all over she was duller, much lighter and with a definite wide white stripe right down the middle of her face.
Shelby didn't know why the man had given her a brown horse that was actually a chestnut horse with a stripe, but she had an idea.
8 Like Grandpa's Hair
Shelby didn't tell her parents about Brat's peculiar change of colour. They hadn't seen the pony yet, so they wouldn't know the difference. They were both scared of horses, anyway. Whenever Shelby had asked either of her parents to hold Blue, they always clutched the very end of the rope nervously and told her to hurry.
When she walked into the house that afternoon, plonking the dirty saddle rug on the kitchen bench, she asked her mother whether she could call the farrier to have Brat's hooves attended to.
Her mother was sitting at the dining room table with a pair of Connor's school shorts on her lap and was threading a needle with grey cotton. 'Can it wait?' she asked.
Shelby's father was on the lounge room floor wrestling with her brothers. 'So does this new one pull a sulky?' he asked. 'Maybe you could get a milk run like they used to in the old days?'
Shelby ignored him. 'She's almost tripping over them. I have to get it done by Saturday or I won't be able to go to Pony Club.'
Her mother sighed. 'I suppose so.'
Shelby was very anxious to see the farrier. She had some questions for him. Fortunately, he was in the area the next day, and could drop by in the afternoon.
Erin rang in the morning to find out if Shelby wanted to ride, but the farrier's visit gave her a good excuse not to go. She didn't tell Erin about Brat's surprising new appearance. She wanted to know more first.
The farrier's name was Clint. He drove a big red ute with all his tools in the back. Shelby knew him quite well because he had come to see to Blue every six weeks for the past two years. Clint was a small wiry man with a broad leathery face that crinkled when he smiled. He could have been twenty-five or forty-five. Shelby couldn't tell.
'Hello, Shelly Shoes. Where's my best buddy Blue?' he asked, leaning his elbow out the window as he pulled up outside the paddock.
'He's . . . with a friend,' Shelby said.
'Who's this?' Clint asked, running his eyes over the pony.
'Her name is Brat. I'm looking after her for the time being,' Shelby said.
'Brat, eh? Sounds like fun for me,' Clint commented. He climbed out of his ute and strapped his leather apron around his waist.
'Can you tell me how old she is?' Shelby asked.
'Not a problem.'
This would confirm Shelby's suspicions. Brat was perfect, but she must be much, much older than the man had said. She might have been closer to twenty, or even older. That's why she was greying around the face.
Clint took Brat's chin in his hand, squatting down so that he could get a good look inside her mouth.
'I'd say she's somewhere around eight or nine.' Clint ran his hand down Brat's face from forehead to lip, pausing to pass his fingers gently over her eyes. Then he stroked her down the neck. He stopped and ran his hand up, against the grain. He looked at Shelby with a raised eyebrow, and then turned on his heel to haul his tools out of the ute's tray.
'She couldn't be older?' Shelby asked.
'Well, it's not an exact science, but I don't think so.'
One by one, Clint lifted Brat's hooves, tucking them between his knees, and filed them down with his long rasp.
'She's got nice little feet. Not too flat, not too hollow. They're a bit long now but they've been well looked after not so long ago,' he commented. He tapped at the side of them with his rasp.
'So, who's your friend?' he asked, giving her a wink.
'I beg your pardon?'
'You're looking after this horse for a friend. Who's the friend?'
'Just this guy,' she answered.
'A boyfriend?'
'No!' Shelby blushed.
'You keep away from those bad boys, Shel, they're nothing but trouble.'
'What are you talking about?' she asked.
'Do you take me for a goose, Shelly Shoes?' he asked. 'I see five, maybe ten horses every day of the year. This is a grey horse. Grey, like clouds and Grandpa's hair. And there's only one reason that you dye a grey horse brown.'
Shelby's heart started to race. 'What do you mean?'
Clint cupped his hand over his mouth and whispered. 'Stolen!'
Shelby's mouth dropped open. 'Really? You think she's been dyed? How?'
Clint shrugged. 'Henna would do it – maybe Condy's crystals. These days you could pretty much use those hair dyes you get at the supermarket. You'd need a lot though. The face is the trickiest part. You can see he hasn't been able to do the eyelashes. The rest was probably done with a bit of boot polish. How did it come off?' He rubbed his fingers together. 'Was it grimy and slimy in your hands?'
Shelby nodded.
'That'd be my bet then,' Clint said. He picked up his rasp and dropped it into his toolbox. 'I never had you picked for a rustler, Shelly Shoes.'
'I didn't! I wasn't!' she protested.
>
'You're secret's safe with me,' he said, depositing the toolbox into the back of the ute.
'Stolen,' said Shelby, bewildered. 'Does it happen often?'
'Often enough,' replied Clint. 'Why do you think people still brand their horses?'
After Clint had gone Shelby had to sit down and think. She ran back over what the man had said. One phrase stuck with her. I've been calling her Brat. It was a funny way to say it – as though he'd only had her for a short time and had to make up a name to call her. Why hadn't she wondered about it at the time?
Then there was the fact that Miss Anita had never heard of Maxshine. She'd been judging, training and brokering in ponies for years. It must be another made-up name.
It made sense. Nobody would give up a horse like Brat for Blue. She loved him, but he was next to worthless in comparison. But what did that mean? Shelby ran through the scenarios.
Horse theft was definitely a criminal matter. She could call the police. Brat must have been reported missing. They would be able to find Brat's real owner and give her back.
What about Blue? The man had no incentive to bring him back now. Would this make him stolen too? How would the police track down the man who took him away? They didn't seem very confident when she had talked to them before. If he was a thief, he might be actually trying to hide. What if they couldn't find him? Would Shelby be left with no horse at all?
And where was Blue? He might be a brown horse too, by now.
She could see, running like a movie through her mind, Blue's face looking out at her anxiously as the truck door slammed shut. It sent a shiver of butterflies through her stomach.
She had visions of him tied up tight in some dingy shed, or squashed in a round yard with twenty or thirty other ponies – dirty, thirsty and distressed. It made her sick with worry.
When she got home, Shelby tried the man's telephone number one more time. It was still disconnected. She looked at the classifieds in the magazine. There was a number for placing ads. Shelby rang it and talked to a lady named Ruth.
'You have an ad in your latest magazine, but when I rang, the number had been disconnected,' she told the lady at the other end of the line.
For Sale Or Swap Page 4
