A Good Horse

by Jane Smiley

  “What do you mean, ‘at least’?”

  “I mean that we get it all. Normally, there would be commissions to Jane and maybe Colonel Hawkins, and they would come out of our money, but there’s none of that.”

  The good thing was that in my two days and one night at the Goldmans’ house, I had gotten used to it, so when I gave Black George one last brushing, all over, from ears to tail, and then rubbed him down with the chamois, I felt a little separated from him, as if he had already gone and only his ghost were here. I suppose that’s what Daddy meant when he talked about accepting the will of the Lord—you have had some feelings, and you knew you had them, but you put them in a box and you put the box away. I guess that was what everyone meant by growing up, too.

  In the end, though, it was Colonel Hawkins and Rodney who showed up. Sophia and her father were “otherwise detained” and couldn’t make it. The two men didn’t come into the house for tea, but they did look around. They even asked if they could walk over to the gelding pasture and the mare pasture and have a look at the horses—“You needn’t get them out, but Jane speaks so highly …” So they strolled over to the fence and looked at everyone. I was sorry Lester was gone—Lincoln and Jefferson looked like what they were, regular horses who would work for a living at regular jobs. Rodney said, “Is that the colt?”

  And Daddy said, “Yes, that’s Abby’s colt.”

  Of the mares, Colonel Hawkins liked Happy. He said she was “athletic-looking.”

  “Born cow horse,” said Daddy. “Bossy as the day is long.”

  Colonel Hawkins laughed.

  I could see that they knew they were getting our best horse, and no one else even came close.

  They looked Black George over, and Rodney bandaged his legs for the trip. They had brought their own light blanket, green with a rose embroidered on it and ROR in curly letters beneath that. I guessed that stood for “Something Something Rosebury.” Leather halter, leather lead line with a brass chain between the hook and the leather. Beautiful trailer, brand-new white truck. The rose and the ROR were painted on the trailer, too. Sure enough, Black George was going to live like a king. I kissed him on the cheek and patted him on the neck, and Rodney loaded him into the trailer and lifted up the ramp, then he got into the passenger’s side of the truck. The colonel and Rodney were already talking to each other by the time they pulled away. They didn’t even wave good-bye.

  On Monday, Gloria and Stella were a little stiff with me. When I said to Stella, “Oh, those are nice loafers,” she said, “Well, they aren’t Bass Weejuns.” Then I remembered that Alexis wore Bass Weejuns. When I asked Gloria what she did over the weekend, she said, “I can’t really remember.” But she thawed out by lunchtime and wanted to know all about the Adverbs game. I also told her about the bathroom. She said, “Their mom let them do that?”

  “Yeah. Basically, they do whatever they want to.”

  Gloria thought for a moment and said, “Yes, they do. I see that.” She sighed, then suggested, “Well, maybe they’ll come to a bad end.” We laughed. At first, I felt sorry about laughing at Alexis and Barbara, and then I thought, well, they would laugh at that, too.

  As for Alexis and Barbara, they were friendly, but they weren’t my new best friends or anything. They still bustled down the hall in the morning rather than huddle with other kids around their lockers. They still sat at their own table for lunch and didn’t invite others to sit there, though they were perfectly nice if anyone did. In fact, one of the amazing things about the Goldman twins was that they didn’t change—they were always themselves. Now that I’d been to their house, I saw that that was the way the whole Goldman family was. Maybe if you always did what you wanted to do, then you always were who you wanted to be.

  At home, I missed Black George. There was a big hole in the gelding pasture, and it was in the shape of Black George. With Lester gone, too, there were only Jefferson and Lincoln and Jack. Daddy also thought he had a buyer for Sprinkles, and maybe one for Effie, so with all this new money, he was planning to go back to Oklahoma before the winter set in and see what he could find. He said, “Colonel Hawkins is right—there are plenty of good horses back there if you have a good eye and can spend the time looking for them.”

  “Black Georges are pretty few and far between,” said Mom, but she was in a good mood, too. She said, “People know who we are now. That can’t be bad.”

  “That’s the key,” said Daddy. “And Jane Slater knows who Abby is. There might be some of those horses out there who need a good rider to show what they can do.”

  Mom took some of the money and we went shopping—new raincoat, with a zip-out liner, so I could use it all winter, kind of an amber color with wooden buttons; two skirts, one a blue plaid and one a plain brown tweed; two long-sleeved blouses, one light blue and one white; and a Fair Isle sweater, “green heather,” which would go with both the skirts. On the way home, she handed me a fifty-dollar bill, something I had never seen before. She said, “You put this in your sock drawer, and when you start going to horse shows again, you can buy yourself some tall boots. You don’t have to put it in your savings account. Your dad will give you some for that. You’ve done a really good job.”

  My savings account was for the future.

  I said, “Why not get the boots now?”

  “Honey, you’ve grown three inches in the last year. No telling when that’s going to stop. You don’t want to outgrow them by the time you need them.”

  I looked at the fifty-dollar bill. It had Ulysses S. Grant on the front and the Capitol Building on the back, with some Latin writing in the seal and 50 in every corner, just so you wouldn’t forget how much it was worth. It also had “Fifty Dollars” written underneath the picture of the Capitol Building. It all looked good to me, like a pair of smooth black boots that would be comfortable and easy to pull on but would go all the way up to my knees like Sophia’s boots. But I didn’t put the bill in my sock drawer. I folded it up and put it in an envelope and taped it to the back of a picture of Jack that was hanging above my desk.

  By this time, it was almost Halloween, and Gloria decided to have a party—no trick-or-treating, just costumes and some games that her mom thought of, like bobbing for apples and pin the nose on the jack-o’-lantern. Mom helped me make a papier-mâché horse head, which I wore with Daddy’s black sweater, Mom’s black slacks, some papier-mâché hooves, and a tail we cut out of a piece of felt.

  When we first got there, we had to enter quietly in our costumes, and the ones who were already there had to guess who was coming in. The easiest one was probably me, and the hardest one was Stella, who had tacked elastic bands to tin cans, then made the legs of her pants extra long. When she stuck her feet in the bands, it made her six inches taller than she really was, and then she wore a mask and a wig that belonged to her aunt. She made it up Gloria’s walk and in the front door without falling down, and then she stood in the corner. We could not tell who she was for the longest time—until she finally laughed out loud, and we recognized her. After refreshments (pumpkin pie and chocolate ice cream), we went upstairs—the bedrooms had been made into a haunted house. The best one was in Gloria’s room, where you could see through a black lace curtain that there was a corpse in the bed with open eyes and green skin (this turned out to be the kid who lived next door and went to the high school). Whenever someone came into the room, the corpse moaned. We also gave out candy to the trick-or-treaters, so it was really fun.

  It was on the Monday after this party that Daddy heard from Raymond Matthews. Raymond Matthews was the son of Mr. Matthews who owned Wheatsheaf Ranch—he had gotten our number from the detective agency when he discovered that he was going to be doing business in our vicinity. Although Mr. Matthews was the owner of the ranch, Raymond Matthews was in charge of the racing division of the family businesses, and it had fallen to him to visit our place and have a look at the alleged Jaipur colt that we now had in our possession. Although he was leaving for Kentucky on We
dnesday, he had set aside some time to visit us on Tuesday afternoon, if that was convenient for Daddy.

  “I don’t know that it is convenient,” said Mom when he got off the phone.

  Daddy said, “I think we have to make it convenient. I think that was the tone of his voice underneath all the polite language.”

  As for me, I didn’t care if it was convenient or not. I thought it would be very convenient for Jack and me to have a little walk down to the crick and to see what was going on down there. I did not think it would be at all convenient for this Raymond Matthews to see how beautiful and long-legged Jack was or to look at the cowlick in his forelock.

  Daddy said, “ ‘Wherefore the law was our schoolmaster to bring us unto Christ, that we might be justified by faith.’ Our faith is that all of this will turn out for the best.” He patted me on the head, and I decided once again that I dared not pray. The rules were the rules, and they could easily go against you, if you understood them or if you didn’t. So the best thing to do was just not think about it. Daddy said, “Do you understand, Ruth Abigail?”

  I nodded.

  Mom gave me a kiss on the cheek and squeezed my hand.

  It was dark when I went out to the gelding pasture—cloudy night, no moon, chilly wind. It was November, after all, just that time of year when Pearl had been wandering around Oklahoma only a year ago. Just that time of year when Danny had moved out. I thought about myself, a year ago in seventh grade, and I seemed like such an idiot. Well, not an idiot, more like a dope. What did I know then? Not much, just to do as I was told, at home and at school. I never wondered whether doing as I was told made sense or worked out, or even why I was doing as I was told, I just did it.

  I climbed onto the gate of the gelding pasture and sat on the top rail, with my heels resting on the third rail down. Lincoln and Jefferson were under one of the trees, so much in the dark that I could hardly see the difference between them. They would be good horses all their lives, and well taken care of—they didn’t make trouble, they were pretty good-looking, and they weren’t nervous. They always did what they were told to do, and even Mom could ride them. That was a one hundred percent good thing, until you looked at Jack.

  Jack was not coming over to me because he was out in the middle of the pasture, where there was a little rise, and he was engaged in a project of his own—first he arched his neck and trotted in a semicircle, then he squealed and struck out, as if he had an enemy, then he reared up and galloped about three strides, then kicked out. Then he came back down to that snorty trot and turned the other way. It was like he was playing with an imaginary friend—a shadow on the grass or the ghost of Black George. He reared up again and walked two or three steps on his hind legs, then snorted and galloped forward. Jack was too young to do as he was told, and that was part of his beauty—who he was, how he was different from all other horses, showed up when he was not doing as he was told.

  Then I saw Rusty jump the fence. She didn’t jump it like a horse, she jumped it like a dog—that is, putting her forepaws on the top of the fence and pushing off—but even so, it was quite a jump, and I had never seen her do that before. Jack saw her, too, and reared up. Once she was over the fence, she crouched down for a moment, then crept toward Jack, her tail swinging slowly but silently. Jack stopped what he was doing and turned toward her, his ears pricked, his neck arched, and his tail up. At the very moment that he whinnied, she raced toward him, and I thought she was going to chase him again, the way she had that first time, but then a shape rose out of the grass and ran away, zigzagging in front of Jack for a moment, then skittering to his right. Rusty was on it in a heartbeat, bringing it down and then crouching over it, shaking it. Jack reared up, wheeled, and trotted away, tossing his head.

  I jumped down from the gate and walked toward Rusty, but slowly, remembering that, really, Rusty seemed like a nice dog, but we did not know her. I stopped a few steps back. She had dropped her prey. Now she walked away from it, over to me, wagging her tail. I said, “What is that, Rusty? What is that?”

  It was a bobcat—I could tell by the big ears with little tufts of hair at the tips and the short tail that it wasn’t one of the barn cats, though it was about the same size. It lay in the grass, its head twisted to one side, completely dead. Rusty had done a good job of that. It wasn’t full-grown—a full-grown bobcat is about twice the size of a house cat and four times tougher. If she had killed one of those, there would have been more of a fight, I thought.

  I looked around. Jack had moved off but was still staring at us. Right then, he put his nose to the ground and snuffled the grass for a second, then raised his head and snorted again. When I approached him, he backed up. Then I backed up, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you want a horse to come toward you, but he stood where he was. I watched him for a minute, then decided that I would just leave him alone. I headed for the gate. Rusty followed me. On the porch, she went over to her blanket and curled up on it, her nose facing out.

  Mom and Daddy were reading in the living room. Daddy said, “Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

  I said, “Rusty just killed a bobcat.”

  Both of them sat straight up. Mom said, “What?”

  “Rusty just killed a bobcat in the gelding pasture. She jumped the fence and went straight for it. You should come and see.”

  Mom put on a sweater and we went out.

  By this time, Jack was over under the trees with Lincoln and Jefferson. From the gate, you could see a dark patch in the grass, but you couldn’t see what it was until you got up to it. Rusty didn’t come with us. She went as far as the gate but sat down just inside the pasture and watched us. She didn’t look embarrassed or worried. She looked like she knew she had done a job that needed to be done.

  The dead bobcat was not in exactly the same position it had been when I left it. I said, “Jack must have moved it.”

  “What do you mean?” said Daddy.

  “It was bent the other way. I think Jack was sniffing it while we were in the house.”

  Mom said, “Don’t you wonder what sort of life those horses are living out here when we’re minding our own business in the house?”

  Daddy said, “He’s an inquisitive fellow, that’s for sure.”

  I said, “When I came out before, I thought he was just playing around, but I think the bobcat was crouched down, and he was—I don’t what he was doing, but he was excited. Rearing up and snorting. Lots of things. Then Rusty jumped the fence and went for it like an arrow. At first, I thought she was going for Jack again.”

  “Why would she kill a bobcat?” said Mom.

  “Protecting the place, probably,” said Dad. “I’ve really never seen a dog take her responsibilities so seriously.”

  Mom said, “She never looks twice at the barn cats. It’s like they don’t exist. I don’t think she would ever chase or kill one.”

  The way Jack had moved the bobcat showed how young the bobcat was. The others I’d seen walking here and there on the hillsides had huge hind legs, longer than the front legs, muscular and strong. Their hair, even from a distance, looked thick and rough, nothing you would want to pet. This one was neither as tall nor as brawny as those had been. Its hair was thick, but not ratty the way it would get as the cat aged. I didn’t feel much for the bobcat at the moment. Bobcats were mysterious and the opposite of friendly. When a bobcat looked at you, you never had the sense that it could ever feel anything for you.

  And then there were the other things about cats, even the barn cats. One of my worst memories was coming into the barn one day when I was really young, maybe five, and two of the barn cats had a mouse between them. The mouse was running back and forth. The cats never let it get away, but they also didn’t kill it. They cared about it when it moved, but when it crouched in terror, they forgot about it and licked their paws. Mom wouldn’t let me watch it for long, but a few minutes was long enough—I cried myself to sleep that night and hated the barn cats for weeks after
ward. Daddy just kept saying, “Cats are cats.”

  Well, dogs are dogs, too, and Rusty, for whatever reason, was a killer. It gave me a funny feeling, and I was sad when I went to bed.

  Farrier’s Tools

  Hoof Pick

  Horseshoes

  Chapter 14

  RAYMOND MATTHEWS SHOWED UP IN A WHITE CADILLAC. I HAD just gotten off the school bus and was about halfway to the house when this car started honking. It took me a minute or two to realize that I was supposed to run back and get the gate for whoever was there. I opened both sides and then stood there while he drove his long white car through. He didn’t wave, but he did lift one finger off the steering wheel as a thank-you. I got to the house just as Daddy was coming out to meet him, a big smile on his face. Raymond Matthews glanced at me but didn’t say anything. I stood there for a second, then went inside to change my clothes. It was pretty clear that they didn’t think this visit was any of my business, but I didn’t agree with that. As I was heading out the door, Mom came into the kitchen, and I heard her say, “Abby—” but by that time, I was halfway to the barn.

  I could see the two men by the gate to the gelding pasture. Daddy had the training halter in his hand and was just undoing the gate latch. I ran. As he was pushing open the gate, I came up to him and took the halter out of his hand, and said, “I’ll do it.”

  I knew he wouldn’t get on me with a stranger around. Raymond Matthews stepped back, like I was going to bump into him and get his suit and his shiny black shoes dirty. He was wearing a hat, too—not a Stetson, or even a straw hat, but a fancy black thing kind of down over one eye. I was sure he thought himself very handsome.

  Jack and Lincoln were eating the last of the noon hay. Jefferson was chewing a board of the fence, which he stopped doing when Daddy clapped his hands at him and said, “Hey!”