by Betsy Byars
“Huh!” she said and drove off in a cloud of dust.
To Get a Colt
WHEN CHARLES GOT HOME from school that day I was waiting for him by the truck. I said, “Put your books down and get in. We got an errand to do.”
Charles set his books on the edge of the porch and got in the truck. “Where are we going?”
“To get a colt.”
He didn’t answer, just looked straight ahead at the road. I had offered Charles one of the other colts after Alado was lost, but he had said no. And I had sold the colts about a week ago.
“Why are you getting another colt?” he asked. “What kind is it?”
“Palomino.”
He looked at me when I said that. “Palomino?” he asked in a funny voice. For a long time we had been real careful what we said to each other. Never once had we mentioned Alado. Even the word “Palomino” was out. Still, the colt had always been right beneath the surface of both our minds. Now it was out in the open.
“Palomino,” I said again.
“Where is it?”
“Over at Mrs. Minney’s. It got up on her roof last night, and she came over this morning all upset about it.” I said this with a real straight face, and he looked at me and didn’t say anything. “What she figured happened”—I went on—“was that the colt kind of got blown over from the mesa, carried by his wings, and—”
When he heard that, he grabbed me by the arm. “Is it our colt? Is it Alado?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Coot, is that the real truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t kid me, Uncle Coot. Is that the real honest truth?”
“Yeah, it is the real honest truth.”
“I don’t believe you.”
We went on like that all the way to Mrs. Minney’s. Finally, when we drove up in the yard and Charles saw Mrs. Minney standing there waiting for us with her hands on her hips, he began to believe.
“Where’s the colt?” he asked. He got out of the truck so fast he went down on his knees in the dust. He scrambled up and stood there. He looked like he’d stopped breathing.
“He’s in the barn, young man, but I want to tell you one thing before we get him, the same thing I told your uncle. A colt is to be taken care of and not allowed to fly over people’s houses in the dead of night.”
“Yes’m. Can I—”
“If you can’t take care of a colt, you don’t deserve to have one.”
“No’m, can I see him now?”
She gave both of us a good long look and then she said, “Come on,” and led the way into the barn.
Alado was in the back stall, standing quietly, but as soon as he saw us, he started moving around. I said, “Stay back, Charles,” because a colt can injure himself real easy in the first year of his life. You even have to be careful of a nail sticking out of the stall because a colt will just go wild sometimes. “Let’s stay back.” I took Charles by the arm and held him, because he was bent on running right into the stall and throwing himself on the colt.
He stayed but he didn’t like it. We waited a bit, the three of us, while I talked to the colt and gradually we moved closer.
I had been feeling mighty good up until this point, but I got solemn fast. The colt was the sorriest sight I had seen in a long time, thin and shaky in the legs, and I could count all his ribs. It worried me. I’d seen it happen before. Colts that have a bad first year never make it up sometimes. They never recover the growth they’ve lost. You can sometimes spot a colt that’s been neglected just by its shape, even when it gets older.
I took the halter I’d brought with me and stepped closer. We had been putting a halter on Alado from the time he was two weeks old. Now he shied and jumped backwards. I calmed him finally and got the halter on and led him out into the yard.
There’s a way to lead a colt—you keep his shoulder against your leg or hip and never pull him behind you like a toy. Alado wouldn’t stay with me though; he kept pulling away and shying, and it took us a while to get him in the trailer.
Just when we were ready to drive off, Mrs. Minney came to where I was standing by the truck. I said, “You don’t have to say another word, Mrs. Minney. I am going to take the best care of this colt you ever saw,” because I thought she was going to light into me again about the way we’d treated Alado.
Instead she shook her head and said, “You know, it’s a funny thing, Mr. Cutter, but I thought I saw another animal with Alado last night up on the mesa. Could that be possible?”
“Another animal? I don’t think so.”
“But Mr. Minney got the same impression.”
“Another animal with the colt?”
“Either with him or after him,” she said. “We couldn’t tell which.”
Right then Charles called from the back of the truck. “Come on, Uncle Coot, Alado’s getting restless.”
“I’ll be right there, Charles.” I turned back to Mrs. Minney. “What kind of animal was it?”
“Mr. Cutter, I’ve told you all I know.”
“Could it have been another horse?”
She shook her head. “Not big enough.”
“A coyote?”
“I never saw a coyote. Now, Mr. Cutter, that is all I know.”
“Are you coming, Uncle Coot?” Charles called.
“Right away.” I got in the truck and backed around. On the way home I gave some thought to what Mrs. Minney had said, but when we got the colt in the corral, I forgot everything but his condition. He was pitiful, gaunt as a rail.
“He looks so bad,” Charles said, leaning over the fence.
“I know.” Alado was standing on the far side of the corral now. His energy, every bit of it, was gone. His wings had a droopy look to them as if they were too heavy to hold to his sides. His head was turned to the ground.
“Will he ever get strong again?” Charles asked. I knew it hurt him to see the colt in such a poor condition. It sure hurt me.
“Well, we’ll do what we can,” I answered. “We’ll double his feed and put an egg in it and some butter. Before you know it, he’ll be stronger than Clay.”
“I hope so.” Charles turned. “I’ll go mix up some feed right now.” He left and started whistling halfway across the yard. I stood there staring at the colt. I thought as I looked at him how very vulnerable he was. What an easy prey. I thought about what Mrs. Minney had said. Something was either with him or after him. If something was after him, he was there for the taking.
A White Form in the Mesquite
I COULDN’T GET TO sleep that night, and so about midnight I went out on the porch, sat in a chair and put my feet up on the railing.
The Comanches called the month of September the Mexico Moon, and I always think of them late on a September night. They used to come through here on their way to Mexico to get horses. Every September they’d come when the nights were clear and mild. Their trail, a long pale ribbon from the buffalo plains down to Mexico, used to come right about where I was sitting.
While I was thinking about this I kept my eye on Alado over in the corral. His wings were still drooping, and the moonlight made them appear to be a load thrown over his shoulders. But then, I thought, maybe that’s what they were—a burden.
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and closed my eyes. The thing that kept flitting in and out of my mind was what Mrs. Minney had said that afternoon. Something was either with the colt or after him.
I couldn’t make sense of it either way. First of all there wasn’t much danger from animals around here any more. Years ago, a hundred and fifty or so, there were great grizzly bears in the mountains. They could travel forty miles a day, and meeting up with one meant death. Thirty years later, though, every one of them had been killed by hunters.
Even coyotes were scarce now. I remember my grandad telling me about the time he was out herding cattle, and coyotes kept pestering him and keeping him
awake. My grandad didn’t want to shoot because of the cattle, so he finally threw one of his boots at them. Next morning he found that the boot had landed in the banked embers of the campfire and been burned to a crisp. My grandad held the loss of that boot against the coyotes until he died.
A coyote was about the only thing I could think of that could be after the colt. Usually a coyote eats what it finds dead—gophers or jack rabbits, but it also kills stray sheep and calves on occasion. With the colt’s weakened condition it could kill him. I sat there for the best part of an hour, but I still couldn’t think of any animal that could be with the colt.
I dozed in my chair and awoke abruptly with my hands still folded over my chest. Something had awakened me, but I didn’t know what. I leaned forward. I realized suddenly that I couldn’t see the colt, and I got to my feet.
As I stood there I heard a high howling noise in the distance, and I felt a chill on the back of my neck. I went down the steps. “Alado!” I called.
I waited, listening. Suddenly the door slammed behind me, and Charles came rushing out. He almost ran me down. “What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing, Charles, but you better get my gun just in case.”
“Your gun? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Without another word he went into the house, came back with my rifle, and put it in my hands. I said, “Now, stay behind me.” We started walking toward the corral.
For a moment I couldn’t see Alado at all, and then in the distance I caught sight of him. He had jumped the fence somehow, and he was running. There was nothing limp or weak about him now. It was a nervous, frenzied run, and Charles and I started after him.
As we crossed the yard, I heard the howl again. “Is it a wolf, Uncle Coot?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?”
I had stopped thinking a long time ago. I said, “I’ll get Clay.”
Without taking time to saddle him I mounted and started after Alado, my rifle in front of me. Charles shouted, “Wait for me, Uncle Coot, take me with you.”
In the distance Alado was only a pale blur. The sound of the howling came again. “You wait here, Charles.” I jabbed my feet into Clay’s sides, and he set off in a gallop. He was a good range horse, quick and fast. You could turn him on a saddle blanket, and he was going like an arrow now, burning the earth.
He shortened the distance to the colt fast. We went out in front of Alado, circled and came back to head him off. Confused, Alado paused.
The howl came again—louder, closer. Alado threw up his head. Then he started forward, and I saw he was heading toward a mesquite thicket. I spun around and saw a low white form behind the mesquite.
I lifted my gun just in case. Alado moved between me and whatever was behind the mesquite. I waited. Alado whinnied and moved straight for the thicket.
I lowered my rifle. I knew Alado would not be running to meet danger. Slowly Clay and I moved closer. In the thicket ahead the white figure was crouched low. I knew now it couldn’t be a coyote or a wolf.
I slipped off Clay’s back and walked slowly toward the mesquite. I thought I knew now what it was. I whistled softly. “Here, boy.” I held my gun ready, the safety off, my finger on the trigger, just in case. “Here, boy.”
There was a pause. Alado was right at my side now, nervously marking time, moving as if he was being jockeyed for a race. He whinnied and tossed his head into the air. His mane brushed my hand.
“Here, boy,” I said, my eyes on the thicket. “Here!” I waited.
And then out of the thicket came the thinnest, puniest, sorriest-looking dog I ever saw in my life. He came out on his belly, crawling, his body as low to the ground as he could get it.
I knelt. “Come here, fellow.” The dog came within three feet of me and then thought better of it. He writhed with uncertainty. He twisted. He turned his back on me. He made two complete circles. I could feel his agony, his desperate wanting to come, and his fear.
“Here, fellow, it’s all right.” Beside me Alado was quiet. I snapped my fingers. “Here.”
The dog untwisted. He looked at me, but he stayed where he was. I held out my hand. He took two steps and got close enough to smell my fingers. I could have grabbed him and pulled him to me, but I knew better. “It’s all right, boy.” He moved close enough to let me scratch his neck. I knew he wasn’t going away after that.
“Good boy.” I looked at Alado and down at the dog. The dog wasn’t much more than bones, worse-looking even than the colt. I didn’t know how and I probably never would, but he and Alado had somehow come together in the past month. The dog was probably the reason Alado was alive.
I rose after a minute, said, “Come, boy,” and started walking. The dog hesitated, but he couldn’t resist. Somebody a long time ago had probably said that to him. With his head down he slunk after me. Alado watched, and then he started after the dog.
We went along like that, Indian style, until we met Charles running toward us. He said, “What happened, Uncle Coot? Was there something out there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That.”
Charles came closer. “What is it? A dog?”
“Yeah.”
“But where’d it come from, Uncle Coot?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Mrs. Minney told me this afternoon that she’d seen another animal on the mesa with Alado. I guess that’s what it was.”
“But how did they get together?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced back at the colt and the dog. “I reckon we never will know exactly what happened. The way I figured it is that some time after the storm the colt found the dog or the dog found the colt and they survived together.”
“Maybe the dog was used to horses. Maybe he’d looked after calves or colts before,” Charles said. “Anyway, we have to keep him, Uncle Coot.”
I nodded. I’d decided that myself as soon as I saw Alado following the dog. I said, “I think at last we’re going to be able to train Alado.”
Charles glanced around. “With the dog?”
“Yeah. I may be wrong, but I’ve got the feeling I can get Alado to do what I want just by getting the dog to do it first.”
We walked on, and when we got back to the house Alado followed the dog right into the corral.
“See that?”
Charles nodded. He watched them a minute, and then he glanced at me and grinned. “Too bad you can’t teach the dog to fly.”
“Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Then I took a good easy breath, the first I’d drawn in months. “Well, we better feed the dog, I guess, and get to bed. Alado’ll be all right now.”
“I’ll feed him, Uncle Coot,” Charles said. He ran into the house.
I took one more look at the dog and the colt and I went in the house too. I fell asleep dreaming of the colt, not as he was, but as I wanted him to be, strong and sure and able to do anything.
$349 Worth of Snakes
FOR A WHILE IT seemed that my dream was going to come true, because throughout the winter Alado did get stronger and more sure of himself. Training him was easier with the dog, just as I’d hoped, and by spring Alado looked like a different animal. He was still wild, but there was a new certainty in his movements. I reckon he would have been like any yearling if it hadn’t been for the wings. And so when we rode over to the butte one Saturday in May, there wasn’t a thought in my mind of trouble.
There always have been a lot of snakes in this part of the country. My grandad told me that in 1926 some Mexican cotton pickers went after snakes one summer instead of cotton and five tons of snakes were turned in to the local dealers. My grandad said he made over thirty-nine dollars that year just in his spare time.
Snakes never worry me though. Generally a snake is a coward and a bluffer, and he’ll hiss and rattle and give you every warning in the world before he strikes. The last thing I would have expected trouble from that day was snakes.
&nb
sp; We had been riding for an hour or two, me in the lead, followed by Charles on Clay. Alado and the dog were trailing behind. The colt would step off to the side every now and then to investigate something or eat a little grass. Then he would run to catch up with us. A yearling is a beautiful frisky animal, and that was the way Alado was that day. Sometimes when you watch yearlings play and run you get the feeling that they think this is going to be their last free summer and they want to make the most of it.
Charles and I were over in the shadow of the butte, on the north side, and I heard a noise. It wasn’t the sound a snake makes, but more of a steady buzzing, like bees swarming. I knew that snakes are generally attracted to buttes because of the crevices between the rocks, but I still hadn’t thought about snakes.
I turned my horse toward the sound—I was curious—and Charles came with me. We rode slowly forward, coming up closer to the butte as we rode. Alado had left us and gone over into the brush, frisking and running on his own.
Since I was in the lead, I was the first to see what the noise was, and it stopped me cold. Dozens of rattlers were collected around a hole at the base of the butte. Since it was early May and hot, I figured the snakes were just coming out of their den because they were sluggish and didn’t seem to have much life to them. That’s the way snakes are when they first come out of hibernation.
“Well, did you ever see anything like that?” I asked Charles. I knew he hadn’t because this was the first time I’d seen it myself.
Charles pulled his horse up beside mine, and both horses whinnied and moved backwards as soon as they saw the snakes. Horses are afraid of snakes and never get close to them if they can help it. In the movies when you see a horse trampling a snake under its hoofs, it’s just a rubber snake. It looks real because the rubber snakes are built with a clock mechanism inside that causes the tongue to flick in and out. When they show a close-up of a real snake, they use fake horse legs. They never put the two together.
