at 
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 SEWELL FORD
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 JUST HORSES
 
 BY SEWELL FORD 
 
 HONK, HONK!! 
 CHERUB DEVINE 
 SHORTY McCABE 
 SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY 
 HORSES NINE 
 TRUEGATE OF MOGADOR
 
 1 ISN T HE A DEAR ? "
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 by 
 
 SEWELL FORD 
 
 Illustrated 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 NEW YORK MCMX
 
 Copyright 1910 by 
 Mitchell Kennerky
 
 35 // 
 
 if- __^ r x / 
 
 ~ <f 
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Jerry 1 l 
 
 Keno: A Cayuse Known to Fame 39 
 
 The Life of the Crowded Way 73 
 
 The Story of Pericles of Spread Eagle Battery 9 7 
 
 Fiddler 125 
 
 The Straying of Lucifer 155 
 
 Deacon: And How He Took Out the 
 
 Christmas Mail 183 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "Isn t he a dear?," Frontispiece 
 
 "I ll smash the face av ye" 6 
 
 The man played like a fiend 54 
 
 Deacon refused to budge 196
 
 JERRY
 
 JERRY 
 
 BORN to the tight trace and bred for 
 the long haul was Jerry. So there 
 was no nonsense about him. From square, 
 honest muzzle to solid rump he was 
 soundly built, fashioned for work and for 
 nothing else. 
 
 Yet, when he was first hooked into Mr. 
 P. Dolan s new single truck, a vehicle as 
 substantially built as Jerry himself, the 
 turnout was one in which pride might be 
 taken. Mr. P. Dolan, although little 
 given to vain thoughts, certainly viewed it 
 with satisfaction. As for the truck, it was 
 the best that money could buy. Mr. P. 
 Dolan had seen it at the factory before 
 the paint and varnish had gone on. He 
 [11]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 knew that neither in spoke or felloe, hub 
 or axle, shaft or whiffle-tree, was there 
 knot or flaw. And now, shining in red and 
 gold, with never a scratch or dent to be 
 seen, with his name and license number 
 boldly lettered on the sideboards, the truck 
 stood for two-thirds of his entire capital. 
 
 Representing the other third was Jerry. 
 No discredit to the new truck was Jerry. 
 Did every angle and surface of the truck 
 give back the sunshine; well, look at the 
 polished surface of Jerry s rounded quar 
 ters, look at his shining hoofs, note the 
 brightness of his big, wide-set eyes. Mr. 
 P. Dolan decided that chestnut red with 
 black points was the ideal color combina 
 tion for a truck horse. 
 
 " Looks like him an the truck wor made 
 fer aich other," he said. 
 
 " Sure, ye ll not be after haulin dirthy 
 boxes and bar ls in that purthy wagon, will 
 [12]
 
 JERRY 
 
 ye, Pat? " asked the boarding stable boss. 
 
 "I ll load nawthin but ostrich feathers 
 an plush-covered par-r-rlor sets the day," 
 said Pat. 
 
 Of course Pat forgot all about this 
 pleasantry when once he reached the down 
 town cigar store where hung his order 
 slate. It was mighty fine, to be sure, this 
 driving a branfire new outfit, but Pat did 
 not lose sight of the fact that all this mag 
 nificence had cost the savings of four long, 
 work-filled years, three as a hired driver, 
 and one as the boss of a hired cart and horse. 
 Now he was not only his own master, but 
 he was full proprietor of his outfit. He 
 figured that Monday s receipts should pay 
 for Jerry s stable board, leaving the rest 
 of the week clear for profit making. You 
 can imagine that Mr. P. Dolan refused no 
 commissions. " General Trucking " was 
 the legend painted on his order slate, and 
 [13]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 that meant handling any kind of load, 
 from ill-smelling barrels of ice-packed fish 
 on the Fall River pier, to cases of artificial 
 flowers picked up from the sweat shop 
 factories along South Fifth Avenue. 
 
 You may imagine, too, that Pat hooked 
 up early in the morning, and that he un 
 hooked only when the last load had been 
 delivered. A full slate was w T hat he 
 wanted. He fretted only when he was 
 compelled to sit idly on the truck-tail wait 
 ing for work. 
 
 Of idleness, however, there was no great 
 amount. The new outfit seemed to bring 
 orders. Shipping clerks looked with par 
 tial eye on the spick and span rig of Mr. 
 P. Dolan. Often they watched approv 
 ingly as Jerry, his chestnut coat glistening 
 from the morning rub down, the great 
 muscles knotting and flexing on his solid, 
 shaggy fetlocked legs, came pounding
 
 JERRY 
 
 noisily up the street and backed with pon 
 derous accuracy to the curb. 
 
 It was a fine sight, too, when some four 
 tons of assorted merchandise had been 
 piled on the truck, to see Jerry dig in his 
 toe calks, throw his sixteen hundred 
 pounds into the collar and swing the truck 
 down the street with a high head-toss, as 
 much as to say, " Pooh! This is nothing 
 for me, nothing at all." 
 
 Even at the end of a hard day, during 
 which Pat and Jerry had moved perhaps a 
 dozen tons of local freight to different 
 parts of the city, the big chestnut would 
 finish in as good shape, apparently, as he 
 had started; while Mr. P. Dolan, in the 
 fresh vigor of his early thirties, broad of 
 back and deep of chest, needed only some 
 trifling refreshment say two or three 
 pounds of corned beef and potatoes and a 
 pitcher of beer to feel like beginning it 
 [15]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 all over again. After supper Pat would 
 fill his pipe, put his heels on the kitchen 
 table and recount to Bridget and the chil 
 dren the number of loads, the weight of 
 them and the estimated profits of the day s 
 business. Before ten o clock he would be 
 asleep ; dreaming, perhaps, of a long pro 
 cession of single and double trucks, each 
 bearing the name, in big gold letters, of P. 
 Dolan. 
 
 Dreams of neither past nor future had 
 Jerry. He lived each day as it came, ex 
 ulting and glorying, after the manner of 
 his kind, in the magnificent strength that 
 lay in his pliant muscles. You should have 
 seen him, when the truck was light, rat 
 tling down through the tangled swirl of 
 Broadway traffic, arching his neck, switch 
 ing his long black tail, and taking fancy 
 steps that were prompted by the pure joy 
 of living. Pat, standing on the truck 
 [16]
 
 JERRY 
 
 floor, with his feet planted wide, his 
 thumbs together and pointing up which 
 is the way your true truckman drives, you 
 know had his hands full in keeping 
 Jerry from ramming the shafts through 
 the windows of cabs and street cars. A 
 load made but little difference. Jerry took 
 fewer fancy steps then, but he always 
 seemed to have a reserve fund of energy. 
 Never, in those days, did he come in fully 
 blown; never did he stand, as you may 
 sometimes see horses standing, with heads 
 lowered and flanks heaving like hard 
 pumped bellows. 
 
 Pat s pride in his big horse took tangi 
 ble form. To the practiced eye it was re 
 vealed in the number of utterly superflu 
 ous bone rings decorating the harness, in 
 the fox-tail dangling from the martingale, 
 and in the gorgeous red leather rosettes on 
 the bridle. One might see it in the ribbons 
 [17]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 braided into the plaits of Jerry s heavy 
 black mane and forelock. Pat wore a can 
 vas apron and tied burlap bagging around 
 his shoes in winter, but for Jerry he 
 bought the best wool blankets and thick 
 chest pads. 
 
 It was not until the year of Pat s 
 branching out in business that there came 
 a change. Just in the middle of a boom 
 season he contracted to do all the trucking 
 for a big firm down in the wholesale dry 
 goods district. Now packing cases, such 
 as cotton goods are shipped in, are tre 
 mendously weighty for their size. You 
 can pile five tons on a truck and not half 
 try. It was really double team work that 
 Jerry did that year. 
 
 " Ought to have another horse for that 
 load, Dolan," they often told Pat. 
 
 " Oh, Jerry s good for it, eh, boy? " Pat 
 would say, slapping the big chestnut s 
 sleek rump. [ 18 ]
 
 JERRY 
 
 And Jerry was. But no longer did Pat 
 seem to have time for those little atten 
 tions which Jerry liked so much. There 
 were fewer friendly exchanges of confi 
 dences between them. The morning 
 grooming was brief and less thorough. 
 There was no lack of oats, though. Jerry 
 had his twelve quarts regularly, and some 
 times it was even more. 
 
 You git it all back in work," ex 
 plained Pat. 
 
 For Mr. P. Dolan had fixed his eyes on 
 wealth. No more did he merely dream of 
 that long procession of single and double 
 trucks. The picture was in his mind all 
 day and every day. He had a new con 
 tract. He had put on another truck, noth 
 ing fancy this time. Although the work 
 was more than doubled, Jerry and one 
 other horse did it all. 
 
 " Next year," promised Pat, " we ll go 
 out double." [ 19 ]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Then came that which the city folks 
 were pleased to call a blizzard. Actually 
 it was nothing but a big snowfall. Over 
 the city it spread, a good three feet of it. 
 The street cleaning department, being wo- 
 fully inefficient and wholly corrupt as to 
 management, merely nibbled at the mass 
 of it and waited hopefully for rain. The 
 paving in the middle of the main arteries 
 was bared, but the tributary streets were 
 left hub deep with the discolored slush that 
 had once been snow. 
 
 It was just in the holiday season, too, 
 when the wharves were heaped with in 
 bound merchandise and the store rooms of 
 the wholesale houses were choked with 
 bales and boxes bound out on rush orders. 
 Shipping clerks pleaded and threatened, 
 railroad men fumed and levied storage 
 charges, steamboat officials clamored, driv 
 ers promised and protested, and everyone 
 [20]
 
 JERRY 
 
 swore between times at everyone else. 
 
 Through it all Jerry did his noble best. 
 With but half loads on the truck he 
 tugged heroically to drag the wheels 
 through the miry streets, he slipped and 
 slid and skated about on his balled hoofs, 
 he fought his way through street jams, he 
 strained every nerve and muscle from five 
 in the morning until late at night. 
 
 A whole week of this he had been 
 through when one day the thaw set in. 
 The winter sun climbed as high as it could 
 and shone dazzlingly on the snow-clogged 
 city. The mealy mire softened to a mush- 
 like consistency. It clung to wheel rims like 
 so much glue. Pat was tons behind hand 
 with his deliveries. The shipping clerks 
 were frantic. Why couldn t he deliver 
 their stuff? What was the matter with 
 him and with his old plugs ? 
 
 Seldom before had Pat used a whip on 
 [21]
 
 Jerry. The big chestnut had needed no 
 such spur. But that day Pat swung the 
 lash hard and often. Stung more by the 
 injustice of the cuts than by the pain, 
 Jerry jumped vainly in the traces until his 
 splendid muscles stood out like knotted 
 cables. Still Pat urged him on, yanked 
 his head viciously this way and that, until 
 the great chestnut, that had never known 
 exhaustion, was almost ready to drop be 
 tween the shafts. 
 
 It was long after nine o clock that night 
 before Jerry got his supper and was 
 bedded down, but before daylight next 
 morning he was hooked in again. He was 
 in bad shape, too, for beginning such an 
 other day. One hind leg was so badly 
 sprained that he walked with a limp, and 
 not a muscle of him but was lame and sore. 
 Both forelegs were barked, too, where the 
 toe calks had bitten. 
 
 [22]
 
 JERRY 
 
 Worst of all, though, was the queer 
 feeling in his eyes. They seemed to be 
 burning in the sockets, and they ached 
 how they did ache! Away back into his 
 head the pains seemed to shoot, as if some 
 one were jabbing in hot needles. Also 
 there were green and red and purple spots 
 dancing before him. What did they 
 mean? Only once before, when his wolf 
 teeth had grown too long, had Jerry ever 
 known anything like it. But this was 
 many times worse. He could hardly see 
 for the jumping, sliding, floating spots of 
 brilliant color. 
 
 Yet he buckled to the work with dogged 
 vigor, thrusting his galled shoulders 
 against the collar, plunging at haphazard 
 through jams, hitting a hub here, locking 
 wheels there, backing with desperate en 
 ergy out of snarls, scraping the fenders 
 of stalled street-cars, but keeping the load 
 [23]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 ever on the move. And ever Pat urged 
 him on, now with an old-time chirrup of 
 encouragement, now with oath and whip 
 stroke. 
 
 Killing work it was. The day finished 
 many an unsound horse, spoiled many a 
 good one. But what would you? Com 
 merce waited. The captains of trade thun 
 dered their orders over phones from be 
 hind the ramparts of roller-top desks. 
 Move the goods! Fill the orders! Clear 
 the wharves! Fill the cars! 
 
 Noon found Jerry and the piled-up 
 truck moving at funeral pace in the thick 
 of a jam that stretched from Pier A to 
 Canal Street. There was neither time nor 
 opportunity for eating. Jerry did not care. 
 He had other things to think of than the 
 full nosebag swung under the seat. There 
 were the color spots, for instance. They 
 were dancing thicker and faster. Then 
 [24]
 
 JERRY 
 
 there were his bruised muscles. It was like 
 tearing them apart every time he strained 
 in the traces to start the mired wheels. 
 And when the age-long day was done 
 at last, he limped broken and spiritless 
 to his stall, his great bulk an aching 
 mass of dumb, helpless, unenlightened 
 misery. 
 
 " Niver mind, old bye, termorrer s Sun 
 day," said Pat, " and on Monday we ll go 
 out double." 
 
 But Pat s sympathy was late in coming. 
 The mischief had been done. When on 
 Monday morning Jerry was led out, stiff 
 and sore, to be hooked up to a pole with a 
 hired mate, he acted queerly. He could 
 not find the water trough at the end of the 
 stable until a hostler led him to it. On his 
 way back he ran into a post, whereupon 
 the hostler hit him with a shovel. 
 
 "Aisy, there, aisy with that, now!" 
 [25]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 warned Pat. " Raise yer hand to that 
 horse agin an I ll smash the face av ye." 
 
 Then tend to yer fool plug yerself," 
 retorted the hostler. " He s blind as a 
 bat." 
 
 Although this charge Pat profanely 
 denied, it was more than half true. Jerry 
 himself was slow to believe the thing. 
 There were no more dancing spots to 
 bother him, but instead there seemed to 
 have fallen a cloud upon things. Perhaps 
 it would be better when he got out in the 
 street. But in the broad daylight the cloud 
 remained. Everything was vague, indis 
 tinct. Barely could he distinguish the out 
 lines of his new mate on the other side of 
 the pole. As for distant things, they were 
 all merged into one blurred mass. What 
 could it mean? 
 
 " Got a bit av a cold in yer eyes, eh? " 
 said Pat after a hasty examination. 
 [26]
 
 I LL SMASH THE FACE AV YE."
 
 JERRY 
 
 Although the rain had come overnight 
 and the streets had been left almost clear, 
 Jerry proved an awkward horse that day. 
 The things which he usually avoided 
 holes in the worn asphalt, car rails, man 
 hole covers and the like he struck blun 
 deringly with his hoofs. Time after time 
 did a quick pull on the reins save him from 
 sliding on his knees. 
 
 All this Jerry did not understand. Why 
 could he not see where he was going? 
 What was the matter with his eyes? If 
 someone would only wipe them clear he 
 would be all right once more. 
 
 But never again was Jerry to see 
 clearly. Day by day things grew more 
 blurred, day by day the cloud thickened. 
 At the end of two weeks he was con 
 scious only of a faint glimmer, and this in 
 the brightest sunlight. A month passed, 
 and then, one day, the cloud closed in to 
 [27]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 shut out even this spark of comfort. 
 Jerry was left in absolute, total darkness. 
 
 Mr. P. Dolan, when he saw the opaque, 
 blue film that covered Jerry s eyes, when 
 he had waved his cap before Jerry s nose 
 without making the big chestnut dodge, 
 when he was fully convinced that Jerry 
 was wholly blind w r ell, Mr. P. Dolan 
 made pretense of buckling a throat strap, 
 but really he was using his coat sleeve to 
 wipe something from his own red, rough 
 ened cheek. Very gently did he speak to 
 Jerry all that week, often did he pat Jer 
 ry s powerful neck, long did he stand 
 looking silently and remorsefully at Jer 
 ry s staring but sightless eyes. 
 
 " I feel worse than a low-down, miser 
 able thafe whin I luk at him," he confided 
 brokenly to Bridget. " Sure, twas me as 
 did it; an him such a fine, willin beast! " 
 
 " But didn t ye see the vet rinnery man; 
 [28]
 
 JERRY 
 
 what had he to say? " asked Mrs. Dolan. 
 
 " Said it wor no use tinkerin with the 
 eyes av a horse that had been worked blind 
 worked blind, Bridget ! And it wor me 
 that did it!" 
 
 Meanwhile Jerry was acquiring the wis 
 dom of the blind. He was learning to step 
 high, to hold himself in readiness to re 
 cover from a slip or stumble, to feel the 
 pole, to translate the message sent along 
 the lines from driving hands to bits. 
 Slowly, little by little, he developed that 
 acuteness of hearing by which the ears are 
 made to do the work of the eyes. You 
 might have seen him swinging them his 
 ears, you know one forward, the other 
 back, to catch the individual sounds which 
 go to make up the growling, murmuring 
 chorus of the crowded streets. 
 
 He had grown stable wise, too. Turned 
 loose in the morning, he could find his w r ay 
 [29]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 down the whole length of the building to 
 the drinking trough and return without 
 making a single false step. At night he 
 would walk from the pole straight to his 
 own stall, picking it out from near the cen 
 ter of a row of fifteen others exactly 
 like it. 
 
 To see him find his way around you d 
 never guess he had two blue ones," was 
 the way in which the stable boss expressed 
 his appreciation. 
 
 Yet all this necessity for constant alert 
 ness was a strain on the nerves of Jerry. 
 It wore sadly on his energy and spirits. 
 He became fretful and nervous. In spite 
 of generous feeding he lost flesh and 
 failed in muscle. 
 
 As for Mr. P. Dolan, the early sharp 
 ness of his grief had become dulled. The 
 sightless eyes of Jerry no longer troubled 
 him greatly. And he had his dream of 
 [30]
 
 JERRY 
 
 wealth to occupy his mind. Four double 
 trucks carried the name of P. Dolan now, 
 and he had given up the actual work of 
 driving. 
 
 The new man put in charge of Jerry s 
 team was a driver who had small sympathy 
 for a horse that could not see. So those 
 were sad days for Jerry. It was hard 
 enough to go stumbling about the streets 
 as one traveling in the dark, to wonder 
 vaguely what all the noises meant, without 
 the added hardship of having to depend 
 upon a heedless driver who would allow 
 you to step into a hole and then lash you 
 for it. No more ribbons were braided into 
 Jerry s mane and forelock. No kindly 
 pats or soft words did he get. There were 
 only harsh oaths, hard work, rough hand 
 ling and a cuff or a kick at the end of the 
 day. The new driver hated him thor 
 oughly, and said so. 
 
 [31]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 It ended in Jerry s being sold. He was 
 turned out of the old stable where he had 
 lived so long and where alone he knew his 
 way about, he was barred from the old 
 stall which had become so familiar, he was 
 cast adrift among strange owners who 
 knew little or nothing of the ways of blind 
 horses. 
 
 What use to follow him through buffets 
 and misfortunes? The recital would be 
 drear and unprofitable. Let us look only 
 to the end to which he came. That, at 
 least, was not commonplace. 
 
 
 
 Out towards the head of a North River 
 pier, picking his way through a lane be 
 tween bales and barrels, came a broad- 
 shouldered man, whose every movement 
 was aggressive of prosperity and success. 
 He W 7 ore a cream white Melton driving 
 coat resplendent with a double row of 
 [32]
 
 JERRY, 
 
 huge pearl buttons. He smoked a fat 
 black cigar. One of his stubby fingers was 
 burdened by a three-karat diamond. The 
 red and white stripes of his shirt front and 
 cuffs were half an inch wide. 
 
 This was Mr. P. Dolan, whose trucks 
 might be seen in any part of the city. He 
 had come out on the pier to make an esti 
 mate on the cost of moving a small moun 
 tain of mixed freight. 
 
 At the utmost edge of the pier, crouch 
 ing on hands and knees as if he meant 
 to throw himself over, was the ragged fig 
 ure of an old man, a greasy old man, with 
 long, unkempt beard. 
 
 " Come out o that, ye old fool," roared 
 Mr. P. Dolan, imperiously. "Don t ye 
 jump! " 
 
 The old man took no notice. He rocked 
 back and forth and moaned something in 
 whining monotone. Evidently his folly 
 [33]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 was not self-destruction. A lounging 
 longshoreman enlightened Mr. P. Dolan. 
 
 The old Ginney lost his horse, that s 
 all; a blind old skate that used to pull his 
 pedlar s cart for him." 
 
 " Blind, was he," asked Mr. P. Dolan. 
 "What color?" 
 
 " Red, sor; red an black." 
 
 With a white stocking on the off hind 
 leg?" 
 
 " I belave he had, sor, an he called him 
 Jerry. The old skate got loose from the 
 stable up the street and jumped off n the 
 dock jess a-purpose. Must ave done it on 
 purpose, fer he walked clean out to the 
 string piece, stopped a minnit , an then 
 jumped. I seen him. Guess he got tired 
 of bein blind an w r orkin fer a Ginney." 
 
 Mr. P. Dolan flushed guiltily. Then he 
 walked out to the pier head and stopped 
 beside the moaning, crouching figure. To- 
 [34]
 
 JERRY 
 
 gether they stared down into the black 
 water that swirled and sucked about the 
 spiles. 
 
 " Old Jerry, eh? " he muttered. " It s 
 too cussed bad! He and I started the 
 business together, an now he s well, he s 
 done for. I wish I wish 
 
 Whatever it was that Mr. P. Dolan 
 wished, he did not express it. He broke 
 off abruptly, fished a roll of money from 
 his pocket, peeled off a yellow-backed 
 bank note and thrust it into the crooked 
 fingers of the amazed old pedlar. Then 
 he turned quickly, and, with his square 
 chin sunk on his red and white striped shirt 
 bosom, walked away. 
 
 [35]
 
 KENO: 
 
 A CAYUSE KNOWN TO FAME
 
 KENO: 
 
 A CAYUSE KNOWN TO FAME 
 
 FROM the very beginning the fates 
 seemed to have marked Keno for the 
 unusual. The first real crisis in his career 
 turned on the character and complexion of 
 two cards which Arkansas Pete skinned 
 quite ostentatiously from the top of the 
 pack and slid across a barrel-head to the 
 expectant fingers of Sokalee Smith. 
 
 Had either one of those cards been the 
 queen of clubs this record might have been 
 far different; in fact, might never have 
 seen the light. But neither was. A measly 
 little trey of hearts was one, the other an 
 utterly futile ace of spades. Yet Sokalee 
 Smith, with a grunt of satisfaction in- 
 [39]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 tended to deceive, slipped them both into 
 the royal company of the three queens 
 which had come in the deal and bet his 
 hand just as if it contained the coveted 
 quartette. Something told him that 
 Arkansas Pete was backing two pairs. In 
 stinct, you know, is a poor mentor when 
 the game is draw and the cards are run 
 ning against you. It was in this case. But 
 Sokalee Smith had lost seven dollars sil 
 ver, he had lost his rifle, he had lost his 
 fringed buckskin shirt, he had lost his em 
 broidered moccasins. Now Arkansas Pete 
 had signified his willingness to bet the 
 whole outfit against Sokalee s sole remain 
 ing possession, which was Keno, the pinto- 
 marked hunting pony tied to the horse-rail 
 over in front of the Agency office. 
 
 Sokalee looked out through the dingy 
 windows of the Palace Hotel and scowled. 
 Then he looked longingly at his lost prop- 
 [40]
 
 KENO 
 
 erty, all piled carelessly on the floor by the 
 gun-hand side of Arkansas Pete. His 
 gaze also included the neat little pile of sil 
 ver dollars on Pete s side of the barrel 
 head, and well, Sokalee put his trust in 
 that incomplete quartette, whereupon 
 Keno, his pinto hunting pony, was to him 
 irretrievably, irrevocably lost. 
 
 You may, lacking judgment, credit a 
 Crow Indian with as many fine feelings 
 and tender sentiments as you please. 
 There s no law against it, east of the Big 
 Muddy. But even a Beacon Hill humani 
 tarian should know that a mixed-blood, 
 such as Sokalee Smith, made up of three- 
 quarters laziness to one-quarter vice, has 
 within him no room for other traits. Still, 
 something very like remorse troubled 
 Sokalee Smith during his sober moments 
 for days afterward. 
 
 As for Keno, if he did not welcome the 
 [41]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 change of owners, he was utterly indiffer 
 ent. True, he owed to Sokalee his train 
 ing. That was no slight thing, either ; for, 
 in a country of horsemen born and bred 
 to the business, there was none better than 
 this same Sokalee Smith. It was the one 
 useful thing he could do well. So, when 
 at the age of two, the scraggly, long- 
 legged, unpromising pinto cayuse came 
 into the possession of Sokalee, there was 
 begun for the colt the most thorough 
 course in horse education that a Crow can 
 give. 
 
 Hour after hour, day after day, month 
 after month, Keno was manoeuvred over 
 the Reservation until he reached that acme 
 of wisdom at which he understood, merely 
 from the pressure of the rider s knees on 
 his withers, when to break into a gallop, 
 which way to swerve and when to come to 
 a full stop. Mere bridle wisdom he de- 
 [42]
 
 KENO 
 
 spised. With not even a rawhide throat- 
 strap and no sign of bridle or girth, he 
 would tear through the Reservation vil 
 lage at top speed; on his back, Sokalee 
 sitting in all sorts of reckless attitudes, 
 wasting good cartridges on the empty air, 
 and between salvos proclaiming in maud 
 lin tones his utter wickedness and un 
 matched courage. 
 
 It is no nice thing to say of him, but 
 Keno liked it all. So far as he could, lack 
 ing the savage dare-deviltry and the alco 
 holic inspiration, the scraggly cayuse en 
 tered into the spirit of these unholy revels. 
 With neck stretched out, ears flattened, 
 nostrils belled, he would of his own accord 
 put every ounce of muscle, lavish all his 
 energy, on one of these spectacular dashes, 
 at which the startled squaws looked 
 askance and with mutterings as they scut 
 tled for safety. 
 
 [43]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 The long hunting trips up among the 
 buttes, after red deer and antelope, Keno 
 liked well, too. He had no fault to find 
 with the hard rides to and from the 
 Agency, when he sometimes carried his 
 hulking master as many as seventy miles 
 in a single day. It was better than being a 
 squaw horse, dragging a lot of laden poles 
 about. 
 
 And for service such as this Keno got 
 no other recompense than the privilege of 
 finding his own fodder. In summer this 
 was not difficult, for the buffalo grass 
 grew rich and juicy in the swales. In win 
 ter, of course, one never did get enough. 
 One must paw and nose away the snow to 
 crop the hardy bunch grass underneath. 
 If the snow was deep, one took food and 
 drink at the same time. For want of any 
 thing else, one could always browse cot- 
 tonwood twigs. Keno had made many a
 
 KENO 
 
 meal on them. It was not a sustaining 
 diet, and it puckered the mouth, but it was 
 far better than nothing. 
 
 Of currying and stabling Keno had ab 
 solutely no knowledge. He slept in the 
 open, wherever he was picketed. In bliz 
 zard weather Indian ponies learn to forget 
 all enmities and make common cause by 
 crowding into a close bunch, head to head, 
 until the Norther has passed. To be sure, 
 you are terribly cold and often most wo- 
 fully empty before it is safe to stir about. 
 But what else is to be done? One winter 
 of this sort, of course, would finish a sta 
 ble-bred horse. Keno, while he did not 
 grow fat on it, developed into a well-mus 
 cled little beast, sound of wind, with well- 
 sloped shoulders, finely arched ribs, but 
 otherwise as disreputable to look at as one 
 could imagine. For one thing, his pinto 
 markings, small oval splotches of reddish- 
 [45]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 brown on a white background, did not 
 make a color pleasing to the eye. A white 
 jaw blaze that straggled down one side of 
 his throat was no beauty mark. 
 
 But Arkansas Pete was no connoisseur 
 of horse coats. He had heard that Soka- 
 lee Smith owned the fastest cayuse on the 
 Reservation, and, in his sinful way, he was 
 glad the pony was now his. No time did 
 he lose in taking possession of his new 
 mount. In less than half an hour after 
 Sokalee had made that fruitless two-card 
 draw, Keno, a heavy Mexican saddle on 
 his back, and Arkansas Pete s one hun 
 dred and eighty pounds on top of that, 
 was loping south at his best gait, his colt 
 days behind him and all his surprising fu 
 ture ahead. 
 
 Without dwelling on the details of the 
 ensuing months, it may be mentioned that 
 Keno found them varied and full of di- 
 [46]
 
 KENO 
 
 verse activities. Also he knew numerous 
 owners, for the luck of Arkansas Pete did 
 not abide. Keno s next engagement was 
 on the X bar C ranch. There he learned 
 the use of the noosed rope, the ways of 
 cow-punchers and the vagaries of herded 
 long-horns. There, for the first and only 
 period of his life, Keno was a useful mem 
 ber of society. 
 
 But his very proficiency as a cow-pony 
 brought a change of condition that landed 
 Keno, with some dozen other short horses, 
 on a big ranch down in the Panhandle 
 country. 
 
 Here began a new and curious exist 
 ence. For many days Keno could not fig 
 ure it out at all. There were no steers to 
 rope, no work to be done. Yet every morn 
 ing he was saddled and ridden out on a 
 smooth field with a lot of other ponies. At 
 first they did nothing but canter aimlessly 
 [47]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 about, sometimes in circling squads, again 
 scattering to different quarters only to be 
 whirled suddenly and rushed together in 
 one confused clump. 
 
 Next the riders brought out long-han 
 dled mallets and began to knock a small 
 wooden ball about. It seemed very silly to 
 Keno. Why couldn t they get up a race ? 
 After three or four days of this nonsense 
 the ponies were one morning lined up in 
 two squads before some tall poles at oppo 
 site ends of the field. A bell w r as rung and 
 someone tossed out a ball. There was a 
 grand rush. Keno found himself in the 
 van. Just as they were about to meet the 
 opposing squad, Keno felt his rider swing 
 in the saddle and strike the ball. After the 
 bounding sphere he was urged, slam 
 through the ruck of pivoting, snorting, 
 shying ponies. 
 
 At last Keno knew what it was all 
 [48]
 
 KENO 
 
 about. The ball was, as you might put it, 
 a steer to be cut out. Your business was 
 to follow it so that your rider could whack 
 it with his stick. Good ! There was some 
 thing in that. Keno began to watch the 
 ball. In a few days he understood that 
 the scheme was to drive the ball between 
 those opposite posts and to keep the other 
 riders from driving it back. 
 
 Certainly it was novel work. There was 
 fun in it, too. Of course, the sticks some 
 times rapped your shins, but you didn t 
 mind that wiien once you were interested 
 in the game. Nor did you mind the crowd 
 ing and jostling after you got used to it. 
 One learned to turn almost in one s tracks 
 at the slightest tug on the bits, to dash off 
 at top speed when you were given free rein, 
 and to swerve to right or left with the 
 swaying of your rider s body. 
 
 Very quickly did Keno pick up knowl- 
 [49]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 edge of these things, partly because of the 
 early training he had received from Soka- 
 lee Smith, partly because of his experience 
 as a cutting-out pony. It was not so with 
 all the horses, however. Some of them 
 stubbornly refused to be forced into a 
 skirmish, some never seemed to under 
 stand the importance of following the 
 ball. 
 
 Reward for Keno s aptitude came one 
 April day when, with his shaggy coat 
 clipped until you could see every ridged 
 muscle of his lithe legs, his tail banged to a 
 scant fourteen inches, and his mane and 
 forelock hogged to most artistic brevity, 
 he was led into San Antonio and shipped 
 North in a palace stock-car with others of 
 his kind, to fill a rush order from Myopia 
 and Meadowbrook clubmen. For Keno, 
 the shaggy cayuse that Sokalee Smith had 
 put up to back his faith in three queens, 
 [50]
 
 KENO 
 
 was now become one of those sporty 
 equine aristocrats, a polo pony. 
 
 When he was taken out for his first big 
 game, no one who had known Keno as an 
 Indian cayuse, or as a cow-pony, would 
 have recognized him, unless by the pecu 
 liar throat blaze or the pinto markings. 
 Keno hardly knew himself. On his fore 
 legs were elastic knee boots, on his back 
 was a light-weight English saddle, and 
 thrown over his shoulders, a gaudy field 
 blanket with monograms in the corners. 
 
 With high disdain Keno regarded his 
 new master. That slim-legged, smooth 
 faced, dandified chap ride ? Keno guessed 
 not. It would take about three jumps to 
 send that fellow flying. Keno was used to 
 a full-grown man rider, he was; a man 
 with whiskers on his face, a red bandanna 
 knotted about his throat, and sheepskin 
 chaps on his legs. Look at those yellow 
 [51]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 boots, and those tight trousers, and that 
 French flannel shirt! That fellow play 
 polo? Keno snorted derisively. 
 
 Pricking his ears forward at every new 
 sight and sound, Keno stood dazed and 
 bewildered. Suddenly, from the far-end 
 of the field, came a crash of music that set 
 him dancing at such a rate that the groom 
 who held his bridle called for help. It was 
 Keno s first introduction to a band, and it 
 moved him to action. 
 
 When the music stopped, a bugle was 
 blown and two sets of ponies were ridden 
 prancingly into the field. The united ef 
 forts of three stable-boys kept Keno from 
 jumping that whitewashed boundary. He 
 saw the goal flags snapping, he saw the 
 sticks, he watched the line-up, and he knew 
 what was coming. He wanted to be in it. 
 They had another seance with him when 
 the gong was rung, and the ball was put 
 in play. [ 52 ]
 
 KENO 
 
 " Hi say, Ennery, e knows the gyme, 
 orl right," commented a groom who had 
 watched Keno s antics. 
 
 Too bloomiii well," answered the per 
 spiring stable-boy at Keno s head. 
 
 An age it seemed, but at last Keno s 
 turn came. Sliding from a knee-barked, 
 lathered, wind-blown mount, the slim- 
 legged man jerked a thumb toward the 
 pinto pony. 
 
 "I ll try the green one next period. 
 Have him ready." 
 
 Barely had the new master touched the 
 pigskin before Keno began to jump stiff- 
 legged. The man was still in the saddle 
 after the third jump, so Keno concluded 
 that he could ride. Inside of five minutes 
 Keno had decided that his new master 
 could play polo. And such playing ! Keno 
 would not have believed the fellow had it 
 in him. Back-hand strokes on the off or 
 [53]
 
 JUST, HORSES 
 
 near side, dribbling on the jump; clean, 
 fair smashes for goal; close, hot work in 
 scrimmage why, the man played like a 
 fiend. No cow-puncher down on the 
 Texas ranch could handle a mallet like 
 that, no, sir! Nor could one of them hit a 
 ball so far or so true. 
 
 Keno found himself straining every 
 nerve to know and do the will of his new 
 master. Never before had he handled his 
 legs so neatly, never had he shown such 
 bursts of speed. There was one long run 
 down the boards, with the whole field tear 
 ing behind, that fairly set Keno wild, and 
 when his rider, with a quick forehand 
 drive, sent the ball flying between the 
 posts, Keno knew that he had found a 
 worthy master. 
 
 And at the finish of the game, as Keno 
 watched him stride off to the tea-house to 
 be congratulated on winning six straight 
 [54]
 
 THE MAN PLAYED LIKE A FIEND
 
 KENO 
 
 goals, he was prouder of him than he had 
 been of Sokalee Smith when Sokalee 
 " shot up " the Agency, even prouder than 
 he had been when he helped " Buck " Mas 
 ters w r in a steer-roping match down at the 
 Albuquerque fair. 
 
 Also, Keno was proud of himself. Did 
 a cow-pony ever fall into such luck be 
 fore? Why, he was overwhelmed with 
 luxuries and attentions. How good it was 
 to be washed and scraped and rubbed and 
 polished after a hard- fought game. How 
 thoroughly comfortable one felt, covered 
 with warm blankets and standing in a 
 light, roomy box-stall, carpeted with clean 
 straw. Rich clover hay, a whole measure 
 of oats, and a bucket of clear water it 
 was fare fit for a king of horses ! There 
 was even a piece of rock-salt in his feed- 
 box. It all seemed too good to be true. 
 Surely, it could not last. 
 [55]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 But last it did; not months merely, but 
 years. And in those years Keno learned 
 the game of polo, learned all its ins and 
 outs, its tricks of skill, its feats of daring ; 
 learned it as few ponies, before or since, 
 have done. For was not his master the 
 crack No. 2 man of America s best team, 
 and was not Keno the pick of his master s 
 stables? Was it not Keno who was care 
 fully rounded into form for the big 
 tournaments, and was he not saved for the 
 critical periods? Did he not have a hand 
 in winning nearly a score of cups? And 
 last, was not Keno one of the select few 
 taken clear across the ocean to try for a 
 Hurlingham trophy against the flower of 
 all England? To be sure, they did not 
 get the cup, but they did compel the re 
 spect of the Britishers, and Keno had the 
 personal satisfaction of beating out, in a 
 run for the ball, a half-blood Arab mare 
 [56]
 
 KENO 
 
 that had fetched two hundred guineas on 
 the block at Tattersalls! 
 
 In the ordinary course of events Keno 
 would have rusted out, gone stale, or bro 
 ken a leg-bone in stopping a hard-swung 
 mallet. But it was the extraordinary 
 which the Fates seemed to have allotted to 
 Keno. Thus it happened that, at the very 
 climax of his polo career, Keno left the 
 turfed arena for the public boards. 
 
 It all came about as the result of an im 
 promptu reception given to Keno at the 
 end of a big game in which he had distin 
 guished himself. Some two dozen elab 
 orately dressed ladies patted various parts 
 of Keno s shining coat and asked each 
 other unanimously: "Isn t he a dear?" 
 One of the ladies, who wore a striking 
 green and white gown, and who talked in 
 soft, gurgling, musical tones, went still 
 farther. She rubbed her cheek against 
 [57]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Keno s blazed nose, smoothed his ears, 
 looked into his big, keen eyes, and declared 
 him to be the most intelligent horse she 
 had ever seen. 
 
 " He looks just as though he could 
 talk if he wanted to," she gurgled. " Oh, 
 if only I had such a horse for my new 
 piece; there s to be a horse in it, you 
 know." 
 
 " Allow me to present Keno," said the 
 pinto s gallant owner. 
 
 " Oh, really, I couldn t think " 
 
 " I shall feel hurt if you don t accept." 
 
 Thus it was settled. No more did Keno 
 
 follow the flying ball. Instead, he was 
 
 taken off to a city boarding-stable where 
 
 he remained in fretful idleness until the 
 
 rehearsals began. Then, in a curious, big, 
 
 barnlike place, from which one looked out 
 
 on an immense sweep of cloth-draped 
 
 seats, Keno was drilled for his part. 
 
 [58]
 
 KENO 
 
 It was not much that he had to do. All 
 that was expected of him was to stand 
 around while a lot of folks talked until, at 
 the proper moment, the gurgling-voiced 
 lady made a rush for him, climbed more or 
 less gracefully on his back and exclaimed : 
 " Now to the rescue ! " Then Keno would 
 dash some forty feet across the stage, run 
 up a twenty- foot incline, turn sharply 
 around the corner of a canvas mountain 
 peak and it was all over. 
 
 Keno regarded it as the most absurd 
 performance in which he had ever figured. 
 After the opening night, however, Keno 
 was somewhat better satisfied. When he 
 was allowed to walk out on the stage he 
 was surprised to find the great building, 
 which he had always seen dark and empty, 
 ablaze with light and crowded to the doors. 
 There was music, too. Keno heard a hum 
 of surprise and admiration as he showed 
 [59]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 himself. And when his mistress, with her 
 " Now to the rescue! " flung herself into 
 the saddle and he made his brief run up 
 the incline there broke loose such a storm 
 of applause that Keno wondered what 
 could have happened. 
 
 It was not long before he understood 
 that the noise was all in his honor. He 
 came to look forward to the moment 
 when, by merely appearing from behind 
 the wings, he could rouse that appreciative 
 hum, and the thrill which he felt when he 
 heard the storm of applause rising from 
 the galleries, was something very fine, in 
 deed. As for petting and coddling, Keno 
 never dreamed that a pony could get so 
 much of it. In the boarding-stable he was 
 a privileged character, a personage. 
 
 " That s Miss Allstar s pony," the sta 
 blemen would say to visitors. Yes, he s 
 the one she uses in the show. Seen him do 
 [60]
 
 KENO 
 
 his act ? Clever little beast he is, and know 
 ing say, there ain t a thing that little 
 devil don t know." 
 
 The stage folks, from the soubrette to 
 the first old lady, rendered to Keno un 
 ceasing homage. They brought him ap 
 ples and peanuts and high-priced confec 
 tionery. They even offered him bunches 
 of cut roses to browse. He came to have a 
 nice discrimination in the quality of choco 
 late bonbons and fruits glace. His bits 
 were of solid silver. He wore a silken 
 girth strap. Fresh ribbon rosettes dan 
 gled under each ear. 
 
 Little by little the fame of Keno spread 
 abroad. His name figured in the cast of 
 characters. His photograph was dis 
 played in the lobby. The manager had 
 made for him a three-sheet poster. Per 
 haps this appealed strongest to Keno. 
 Miss Allstar had one pasted in his box- 
 [61]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 stall, where he could see, at any time of 
 day, the flattering presentment of him 
 self. She declared that Keno would gaze 
 admiringly at it for hours on end. 
 
 But I know how it is," she confessed. 
 " I did the same with the first lithograph 
 of myself ; and a most wretched wood-cut 
 it was, too." 
 
 Did the vanity of Keno grow with his 
 fame? They say it did. Miss Allstar is 
 most positive, and she knew him best. He 
 was no longer content to await his cue half 
 hidden in the wings. Gradually he would 
 edge toward the centre of the stage. You 
 could see him prick forward his ears, as if 
 to listen for that murmur of appreciation 
 which he knew was his due. When the 
 house was light and the applause thin, he 
 would sulk for hours afterward; but a 
 holiday audience, with its big crowd of 
 noisy children, put him in angelic humor. 
 [62]
 
 KENO 
 
 Perhaps the high tide of his glory came 
 when, at a reception given in his honor at 
 Miss Allstar s city home, he was presented 
 to all the great personages of the stage. 
 It was Keno s first appearance in a draw 
 ing room, but you would never have 
 guessed it. He behaved as if he had at 
 tended afternoon teas all his life. Soka- 
 lee Smith would have stared his eyes out 
 could he have seen his pinto cayuse in that 
 company. Under a bower of roses and 
 smilax stood Keno, with a Daghestan rug 
 under his hoofs. Occasionally he nibbled 
 at a huge bunch of sweet clover set in a 
 Satsuma vase. Considering that it was 
 mid-winter, the clover represented more 
 or less luxury. Miss Allstar had sent to 
 Florida for it. 
 
 But Keno betrayed no ill-bred astonish 
 ment at anything, taking it all as a mat 
 ter of course. With polite condescension 
 [63]
 
 JUST, HORSES 
 
 he allowed a managerial autocrat to feed 
 him sugar plums, and for a prima donna 
 he drank Russian tea from a Haviland 
 cup. To be sure, he frightened a Swiss 
 maid almost into convulsions by chewing 
 one of her apron strings, and he disturbed 
 the haughty dignity of the English butler 
 by sniffing the white-stockinged calves of 
 that sedate individual. Otherwise, Keno 
 acted very much as matinee idols usually 
 do on such occasions, and trotted back to 
 his stable, after it was all over, with high 
 held head. 
 
 Could this pampered, blase, finicky 
 pony be Keno, the Indian cayuse, that had 
 roamed the Reservation, that had worked 
 with the X bar C outfit, that had taken 
 delight in the wild scrimmages of the polo 
 field? No one would have guessed as 
 much. 
 
 But the higher one climbs, you know, 
 [64]
 
 KENO 
 
 the greater one s pride, the more disas 
 trous the fall. With the end of January 
 it was concluded that Miss Allstar s 
 piece had about finished its Broadway 
 run. Rehearsals for a new one were 
 started. 
 
 " Oh, dear," pouted Miss Allstar, when 
 she had finished reading her new lines, 
 " you haven t made a part for my darling 
 Keno." 
 
 The great playwright shrugged his 
 shoulders and scowled. 
 
 " Couldn t you write him in some 
 where? " she pleaded. 
 
 " No, madam, I could not," snapped 
 the G. P. wrathfully. " I m not con 
 structing a zoo." 
 
 Then Miss Allstar wept. She indulged 
 in tragedy business. She appealed to the 
 manager, threatened to throw up her part, 
 to break her contract. 
 L65]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 " It is a shame; but just think of the 
 gorgeous gowns you are to wear. It s 
 going to cost me a fortune to dress your 
 part," suggested the manager. He was a 
 diplomat, of course. If he hadn t been 
 he would have been in other business. 
 
 Miss Allstar did think of the gorgeous 
 gowns. And she forgot the slight to 
 Keno. So, when the old piece was finally 
 taken off and the new one put on, Keno 
 was sent from the expensive city stable to 
 Miss Allstar s country house, where he 
 had for human company an Irish stable 
 man who held in contempt all things 
 theatrical, and a Cockney groom who 
 drank gin. 
 
 Why he should be thus banished, Keno 
 could not at all comprehend. Never in 
 all his varied career had he known such 
 isolated monotony. One day was exactly 
 like another, and each was an age long. 
 [66]
 
 KENO 
 
 The only break came in the forenoon, 
 when he was trotted up and down the road 
 by the Cockney groom for a half-hour s 
 exercise. The rest of the day was spent 
 in stall-standing, wearily looking out of a 
 little grated window, waiting, waiting, 
 waiting for what? 
 
 During the first week or two Keno kept 
 hoping that it was merely a temporary 
 rest. To-morrow, perhaps, he would be 
 sent for. Then he would know again the 
 hum of the theatre, sniff the excitement of 
 the play, hear once more the thunders of 
 applause. But week after week dragged 
 on and no such summons came. Keno had 
 left the public boards forever. He had 
 been put on the shelf. Already his name 
 was forgotten. 
 
 Keno began to refuse the oats and hay 
 which were put in his crib. His ribs began 
 to show through his once nicely rounded 
 [67]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 barrel. His quarters lost their plumpness. 
 If you had watched him, as he stood there, 
 alone, in the still, empty stable, you might 
 have seen great salty drops slip from the 
 corners of his big, sad, intelligent eyes. 
 Was it grief, or was it only a touch of in 
 fluenza ? 
 
 One night in April, when the end of the 
 show-season was in sight, a telegram was 
 brought to Miss Allstar in her dressing- 
 room. It was signed, " Murphy," and 
 read: " Your pony bad off. Shall I get 
 horse-doctor? " 
 
 With the best veterinary surgeon to be 
 found in the city Miss Allstar hurried to 
 the stall where Keno, a sorry shadow of 
 his former self, lay with drooping head 
 and a look of mournful reproach in his 
 dull eyes. The learned V. S. used all his 
 skill. He hoisted the limp, wasted form 
 in slings, he forced hot mixtures down 
 [68]
 
 , KENO 
 
 Keno s throat, he wound bandages and 
 applied poultices. 
 
 But he had come too late. All his work 
 was in vain. With that reproachful look 
 still in his big eyes, the vital spark that had 
 once burned so brightly in the noble little 
 pony, flickered feebly for a time, and then 
 went out. 
 
 " Mighty curious, too," said the puzzled 
 veterinary. ; Wasn t anything particu 
 lar ailing with him, that I could see; he 
 just didn t seem to have any spirit left." 
 
 Miss Allstar was sobbing into the folds 
 of a horse blanket. " It it s (sniff) a-all 
 (snuffle) m-m-my fault. Po-o-o-or Keno! 
 I b-b-bub-broke your heart, didn t I? " 
 
 Whereupon the heartless veterinary 
 surgeon muttered something about " fool 
 women," packed up his bottles and left. 
 Miss Allstar heard, but she said she didn t 
 care. To this day she declares that Keno 
 [69]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 died from a broken heart and from noth 
 ing else, and that the great playwright 
 who was really to blame, is a sinful, soul 
 less wretch ! 
 
 [70]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE 
 CROWDED WAY
 
 THE LIFE OF THE 
 CROWDED WAY 
 
 ONE begins, of course, on a farm. 
 It may be a very ordinary sort of 
 farm, where they raise hogs and corn as 
 well as horses, a farm where you are bro 
 ken and trained by a Danish-born ex-her 
 ring fisherman, for example. Or it may 
 be that you start on a fancy stock farm, 
 where they breed to the line, where they 
 give you as much care as if you were an 
 heir to a throne, where there are box stalls, 
 velvety paddocks, Yankee trainers, Cock 
 ney grooms, balanced rations, and all that. 
 But start any way you may, if you 
 come up fit, if you are the cream of the 
 get, the chances are nine to one that, when 
 [73]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 you are two, or three, or four, you will 
 leave the pasture with its sweet grass and 
 soft brook water, you will quit forever the 
 yielding 1 dirt roads of the country, and 
 you w r ill be sent to do your work in the 
 crowded ways of the city. 
 
 Your nerves will be tested and your 
 temper tried before you are city broken; 
 but if you come to it young, if the thing 
 is done properly, and if you ve any sense 
 of your own, it will soon be over with. 
 
 True, it is tough, at times. If you are, 
 for instance, a high-strung coach, fresh 
 from a Michigan stud farm, and find 
 yourself with your tail sewed up in red 
 flannel and a tag on your bridle, abruptly 
 shunted out, car sick and nervous, into the 
 din and clamor of the crowded ways, you 
 will probably make a mess of things. 
 You will hear whirring sounds, clangs of 
 gongs, shouts of men. You will dodge 
 [74]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 and rear and try to squat on your 
 haunches. Then, just as likely as not, 
 some fool car hostler will slap you across 
 the face with a rope halter or kick you in 
 the ribs. That will be his way of teach 
 ing you manners. It s a poor way, of 
 course. Your head will buzz, your bones 
 will ache, and you will be on the verge of 
 panic. You w r ill wish in vain that you 
 were safely back in paddock or pasture, 
 kicking the turf and practicing your colt 
 antics. 
 
 Almost before you know it, however, 
 you will be in the hands of men who un 
 derstand you and know what you need. 
 Then, before you have had time to eat 
 your head off, you will be set to work do 
 ing some one of the thousands of things 
 still left for horses to do. 
 
 For a week or so you will have a tremen 
 dously uncomfortable time of it. You 
 [75]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 will worry your driver a lot, and you will 
 be of precious little use to any one. Then, 
 gradually, you will learn many things. 
 You will come to know that the strange 
 devices which move about the streets are 
 not designed expressly to do you harm. 
 Those terrifying red and black affairs 
 with fat low wheels and big, glaring eyes, 
 things which go pop-pop-pop and occa 
 sionally snort weirdly, they will do you no 
 injury, in spite of their ferocious aspect 
 and the fantastic garb of the folks who 
 ride in them. At first you will start and 
 prance when they shoot past, but you 
 will be surprised to see how quickly 
 you will get over that. Other horses, you 
 will notice, pay them no heed. Your mate, 
 if you are working double, will give them 
 not even a glance. In less than a fort 
 night you will not twitch a muscle 
 when a big, vermilion-colored touring 
 [76]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 car, with a bear-skin-coated, blue-gog 
 gled, leather-capped chauffeur puffs by 
 your nose. You will learn to know 
 the ring of a cable-car gong, the rat 
 tle of an ambulance, the overhead roar 
 of the elevated cars, the shrill whir of the 
 trolley wire, and the other major notes 
 that go to make up the thundering chorus 
 of the city streets. You will be able to 
 distinguish but this will only come in 
 time the warning clang-clang of fire ap 
 paratus, and you will hug the curb when 
 you hear it. 
 
 Your first trip across a big bridge will 
 make you prick your ears and set your 
 flanks aquiver. One moment you are on 
 solid pavement, with the thronged side 
 walks and towering buildings shutting in 
 on either hand; a moment later, and 
 your hoofs are stamping hollow notes 
 from splintered planks, which seem to 
 [77]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 give and sway and vibrate in a most 
 alarming fashion. Peering out beyond 
 the blinders, you see that you are up in the 
 air. With ears pointed, nostrils blowing, 
 you turn and look. You crowd against 
 the pole and dance a bit. But you get 
 over safe, and when you have crossed half 
 a dozen times you forget all your fears. It 
 is much the same in traveling on ferry 
 boats. 
 
 In the end you come to see that you 
 have your place in all this tangle and din, 
 to feel that you have certain rights of way, 
 and that you need have no care other than 
 to keep your head and handle your feet. 
 This last is no easy thing to learn. You 
 know this after you have barked your 
 knees over manhole covers and strained 
 your thighs with side slips on flat car 
 rails or greasy asphalt. You plant your 
 caulks with care, and you acquire the 
 [78]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 knack of finding a toe hold. You learn to 
 throw your weight on the collar when you 
 see a sharply tilted ferry bridgeway, and 
 to settle on the backing straps when a hel- 
 meted policeman grabs your bits in the 
 thick of a street jam. 
 
 Such wisdom as this, and much more 
 besides, you must get before you are city 
 broken. But when you have it, when you 
 know the rules of the road, then you go 
 about in the crowded ways, doing as best 
 you can the thing which you were bred to 
 do. 
 
 Perhaps you are a big ton-weight Per- 
 cheron from out Iowa way. Then your 
 business will be the heavy haul. You will 
 wear a Boston backing-hitch rig, with 
 brass-tipped hame irons and half -inch 
 leather traces that an elephant couldn t 
 break. You may go out single on a Cus 
 tom House truck, but the chances are that 
 [79]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 you ll do your work in double harness ; or, 
 it may be, in a triple-breast team with a 
 brewer s wagon, or a beef or flour truck, 
 behind you. Long hours will be your lot. 
 You will be hooked up at five or six in the 
 morning, and you ll not stable until six 
 or seven o clock at night. You will need 
 all your weight, too, for they do pile the 
 freight on those big trucks. Cold weather 
 you ll not mind a bit. There ll be exercise 
 enough to keep you warm. But you ll 
 sweat when August comes, and at all sea 
 sons there will be plenty of work for your 
 big muscles to do. 
 
 Yet they ll treat you well in the heavy 
 draught service. They ll feed from eigh 
 teen to twenty- four quarts of good oats a 
 day, you ll always find a lump of rock 
 salt in your manger, they will curry you 
 good, look sharply after your feet, doctor 
 a shoulder gall the minute it shows, and 
 [80]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 give you two days resting swing a week. 
 Kind of them? Not a bit. It s business. 
 You cost a lot, you do, and you earn your 
 keep a dozen times over. 
 
 If you stand only fifteen two or three, 
 if you re blockily built, with a banged tail 
 and plenty of spring in knees and hock, 
 then there s an entirely different lot of 
 work cut out for you. You ll be mated 
 and hitched to something light and 
 shiny, something with rubber-tired wheels 
 and broadcloth cushions. It may be a 
 brougham or a park carriage. Or, if 
 you re big enough, you will work single in 
 a jiggly, two-wheeled trap or a private 
 hansom with nickel gig lamps. You ll 
 wear quarter blankets with somebody s 
 monogram or crest in the corner. You 
 may be overworked, but the chances are 
 that you ll be stall-weary oftener than 
 harness-tired. 
 
 [81]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Most likely you ll live on the second or 
 third floor of a big boarding stable along 
 with two or three hundred other horses. 
 If they feed you full rations, and the hos 
 tlers don t beat you with shovels, you ll be 
 lucky. Make friends with the hostlers 
 if you can. They re a cheap lot, those 
 you find in boarding stables, and 
 often they re wicked ugly on the sly. 
 If you must kick one, kick him hard. But 
 don t bite. Nothing gives a horse a bad 
 name quicker, and besides it isn t manners. 
 
 You ll look rather gay in your silver- 
 mounted harness, with perhaps a liveried 
 driver and footman on the box, and you ll 
 have a lot of fun jingling your pole- 
 chains and stepping high along the ave 
 nues and park drives. But three or four 
 years of this will take the ginger out of 
 you. You ll lose form and action. Your 
 knees and hocks will grow stiff from the 
 [82]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY, 
 
 long waits in the cold and the sudden 
 starts from the curb. 
 
 Then you will begin your visits to the 
 sales stable. You will not wear mono- 
 grammed quarter blankets and crested 
 rosettes after that. You ll pull public 
 hacks and grocers carts and milk wagons. 
 
 Now, with a stepper it s different. 
 They are the real horse aristocrats. 
 They come to town in style, traveling in 
 palace stock cars padded box stalls, you 
 know with their own stable grooms 
 sleeping at their heels. Those are the ones 
 that have registered sires out of Wild 
 Fire by Sir Brandon (2.10 1 /4). At the 
 big Garden sales you may see them. 
 They ll have their names, pedigree, and 
 owner s statement printed in a book, and 
 the bidding will start at two hundred with 
 fifty-a-clip better until the hammer falls. 
 And you ll hear the auctioneer saying 
 [83]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 things like this: "There, gentlemen, there s 
 as promising a little mare as you d wish to 
 draw rein over. As you see by our cata 
 logue, she s a Directum. Looks it, too, 
 don t she? A Directum, gentlemen! 
 Couldn t ask for any better blood than 
 that, could you? Now, if you want some 
 thing for matinee use or Speedway 
 brushes, here she is. Mouth like a kid 
 glove, disposition as sweet as new milk, 
 clean legs, and dead game, I ll promise 
 you. Trainer, just let out a few links of 
 chain lightning around the cinder track, 
 will you? That s it! Give her room, gen 
 tlemen. Stand back at the turn! How s 
 that for action ? Clean and clear, eh ? No 
 boots, you notice. There ! Now she warms 
 up to it. Hi! hi! Clear track! But you 
 should see her step a mile straight away. 
 Gentlemen, if that little mare can t knock 
 splints off fifteen I I ll eat her harness. 
 [84]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 She s a Directum, remember, and her 
 blood sister has a record of eleven and a 
 half. Whoa! That ll do. Now, what am 
 I offered? Two hundred? Fifty? Three 
 hundred, I have. And a quarter, now ? I 
 am bid three hundred and a quarter, gen 
 tlemen! Who ll make it ah, fifty! 
 Thank you. Three fifty, gentlemen!" 
 
 That s the way it goes when you re 
 from Palo Alto or Columbus, or Terre 
 Haute, or Lexington, Kentucky, and 
 promise speed. Suppose you make good? 
 Then you re in clover. You become the 
 pet of somebody at once. You go to a 
 private stable steam-heated, electric- 
 lighted, composition floors, sanitary 
 plumbing, and braided straw mats for 
 your box stall. You ll eat selected oats 
 and fancy hay. You ll be exercised in 
 double blankets and hood, and two or 
 three times a week, when the stock mar- 
 [85]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 ket s not too lively, you ll be taken out to 
 a sixty-pound spider-wheeled road wagon 
 for a jog up the Speedway or out on the 
 Lake drive. You ll win a brush or two, 
 and you ll feel so cocky that you d go to 
 the post with Lou Dillon or any other rec 
 ord-smasher as quick as you would tackle 
 a country trotter. And the man in driv 
 ing coat and dust goggles will be just as 
 bad. He ll begin looking up events and 
 talking knowingly with trainers, and at 
 the club he will throw out hints to the 
 effect that he might like to meet some 
 one on a track somewhere oh, quite 
 privately, you know, of course for a 
 little purse. 
 
 No, there s nothing much better than 
 being in the Gentlemen s Driving Class. 
 But, really, those swells have little to do 
 with the great work of the crowded ways 
 no more than have the hunters, who 
 [86]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 come to town during show week, or the 
 saddle horses, that live a sort of hothouse 
 existence in the riding academies and on 
 the park bridle-paths. 
 
 It s the common, every-day light 
 draught, such as are sold in carload lots 
 at the Chicago and Buffalo markets, that 
 do the real work of the city. They come 
 in from the West and East and South. 
 They are shipped in from Canada. They 
 haven t a number in any stud book. They 
 boast no registered sires. They are of any 
 and all breeds. They never see the inside 
 of the Garden. They are to be found at 
 the sales stables about the Bull s Head, 
 w r here their destinies are shuffled care 
 lessly at the rate of two to the minute on 
 busy days. 
 
 When they are young and sound and 
 well mated they are gobbled up by the big 
 concerns. The express companies use a 
 [87]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 lot of them. You re well taken care of in 
 an express stable, but the drivers get out 
 all that s in you. They want tight traces 
 and a lively pace, with a ton or two on the 
 axles. Wait until you ve been through 
 the holiday rush and you ll know what 
 work is. You ll be all right, though, so 
 long as your hoofs stand the pounding; 
 but the moment your feet go bad back you 
 travel to the sales stable. Then there s 
 trouble ahead. If you are lucky you ll go 
 out of town with some farmer, and six 
 months of dirt roads will put you in shape 
 again. But you re most liable to stay in 
 the city as a cheap horse. A delivery 
 wagon is the most probable thing. It s 
 not a pleasant prospect scatter-brained 
 youngsters for drivers, third-class board 
 ing stables, long hours, poor feed, and the 
 least possible care. 
 
 At this period you may expect almost 
 [88]
 
 any kind of work, from general carting to 
 pulling a Fifth Avenue stage. If you re 
 real skinny, have a spavined leg, and look 
 fit for crow bait, then you may be enlisted 
 into the service of Uncle Sam and haul a 
 mail wagon through the city. But, per 
 haps, some self-respecting junk collector 
 or fruit vender will buy you. He will feed 
 you enough to work on, at least. Or you 
 may be hooked up with another relic to a 
 moving van. 
 
 To be sure, there are a few snug berths, 
 even for mongrel light draughts in good 
 condition. There s the Fire Department. 
 If you happen to get on an engine or hose 
 wagon or ladder-truck team, and if your 
 nerves are sound, you are, barring acci 
 dents, well fixed for years to come. It s a 
 matter of nerves, however. If you ve got 
 too many you ll not last in that business. 
 If you get in the habit of listening for 
 [89]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 the jigger, and fussing every time you re 
 run under the collar, you ll fret the fat off 
 your ribs in no time at all. Then they ll 
 ship you back. But if you take things 
 easy in the house, put your last pound on 
 the traces when you get the word, and 
 don t get excited when bricks and copings 
 fall about you, you ll be taken as good 
 care of as a Speedway crack, and you ll 
 last as long as it is good for a horse to stay 
 in harness. 
 
 If you have clean legs, good wind, and 
 strong loins, there s one chance in a thou 
 sand that you ll be picked out for service 
 with the mounted police. Then you ll 
 wear a yellow-trimmed saddle blanket, 
 and carry a rider who will treat you as you 
 would like to be treated. During most of 
 your tour of duty you ll do nothing save 
 stand on a park roadway watching the 
 high-toned rigs go by, but once in a while 
 [90]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 you ll have a chance to show your speed in 
 rounding up a runaway. 
 
 You may start high or you may start 
 low, but mainly you will finish about the 
 same. There may be a few homes for 
 aged and disabled horses actually, there 
 are such places but their capacity is lim 
 ited, and for the great majority there 
 awaits the three-dollar knock-down with a 
 ride in White s hansom as an end to all 
 things. 
 
 You reach the three-dollar mark after 
 you ve been through a lot, which it is not 
 nice to think about. You hobble up to the 
 block with sprung knees, sunken eyes, 
 obvious ribs, and stiffened hocks. 
 
 " Here s a frame for you, gents, an ele 
 gant frame," shouts the auctioneer, and 
 the buyers smile at the ancient jibe. 
 Who wants the old skate? He s war 
 ranted to stand without hitching, gents." 
 [91]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 The " gents " laugh, and when the bidder 
 gets his three-dollar prize they roar. 
 
 That s your last sale, however. Some 
 where, perhaps on the very corner where 
 you once gave a driver an anxious moment 
 as you danced about and tried to tear 
 things loose, you drop. They take off the 
 harness and leave you. A policeman tele 
 phones to White White of the Dead 
 Horse Dock. Then you ride in the han 
 som. It isn t a hansom, of course. It s a 
 low-swung, four-wheeled, covered box 
 with a windlass that hauls you in. 
 
 But you re past caring. What if they 
 do take you to Barren Island? What if 
 your bones are worked up into toothbrush 
 handles, your hair into mattress stuffing, 
 and the rest of you into glue and fertili 
 zer? It s all in the running. You have 
 done your share of the city s endless toil 
 ing. It has used you up and you have 
 [92]
 
 THE CROWDED WAY 
 
 been cast aside. Well, the city does that 
 with men, too. But you have lived the life 
 of the crowded way lived it from top to 
 bottom and if that isn t worth while, 
 what is? 
 
 [93]
 
 THE STORY OF PER 
 ICLES OF SPREAD 
 EAGLE BATTERY
 
 THE STORY OF PER 
 ICLES OF SPREAD 
 EAGLE BATTERY 
 
 FEW horses achieve monuments or un 
 dying fame. With Pericles it was 
 different. Possibly you never heard of 
 Pericles not the old Grecian, you know 
 but Pericles of Spread Eagle Battery. 
 Pericles has a monument. Perhaps he 
 didn t achieve it. In a sense, it was thrust 
 upon him, as you shall learn. 
 
 Most war horses begin life prosaically 
 enough. This was the case with Pericles. 
 When Sumter was fired upon, Pericles 
 was stumping a six-acre lot on an Indiana 
 farm. It was neither a thrilling nor a 
 [97]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 glorious business, this stump pulling. 
 You waited until the chains were properly 
 fastened ; then as the word was given you, 
 you jumped ahead for all that was in you, 
 rammed your shoulders against the collar, 
 and dug in your toes as lively as you could. 
 Generally you were brought up all stand 
 ing, with a fine rattle of trace chains and 
 a snap of whiffletrees, because the stump 
 refused to budge. When they had dug 
 with spades and cut away more roots, you 
 tried it again, and you jerked the old 
 thing a rod or two before you could stop. 
 The six-acre lot was more than half 
 stumped when Pericles went to the front 
 with a volunteer cavalry regiment. His 
 business was to draw an ancient brass 
 three-pounder, of which the men of Com 
 pany K, who had made the contribution, 
 were immensely proud. They expected to 
 see it rout the enemy the first time it 
 [98]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 barked. You cannot imagine their deep 
 disgust when on being brigaded the brass 
 piece was lost in the shuffle. Pericles was 
 transferred to a regular battery. 
 
 It was all one to Pericles. When you 
 have been unceremoniously yanked from 
 the peaceful routine of stump pulling, 
 when you have had a branding iron used on 
 your left shoulder, when you have been 
 hustled aboard stock-cars, jostled and rat 
 tled and banged about for three or four 
 days, and finally have been ushered into 
 the wild turmoil of an army field head 
 quarters, you are not likely to notice 
 whether you are hooked to a brass three- 
 pounder or put in as nigh lead on a six- 
 horse team with a big siege-gun behind 
 you. It might have been a breaking plow 
 or a canal boat, for all Pericles knew. In 
 deed, it pulled like both together, when 
 the wheels mired, for the old six-pounder 
 [99]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 weighed almost a ton by itself, not to 
 mention the stout oak carriage and the 
 loaded limber-chest. 
 
 That which bothered Pericles most was 
 the man on his back. Pericles had been 
 ridden before, of course. Also he had 
 jumped heavy loads over bad going in a 
 hurry. It was the combination of being 
 ridden and driven at the same time, which 
 was new, as well as the sensation of hear 
 ing other horses pounding along behind 
 him. 
 
 Not all horses would have stood it, but 
 Pericles, strong of loin, heavy of shoul 
 der and well barreled, was built for just 
 such work. One soon gets used to things 
 too, when new experiences turn up, not 
 once a year, but every hour. You simply 
 had to get used to things in the Spread 
 Eagle Battery, for the brigade com 
 mander was a West-Pointer who knew the 
 [100]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 use of six-pounders and believed in keep 
 ing them hot on all possible occasions. 
 Never, though, could Pericles forget the 
 first time he went into action. The whole 
 morning he had been jumping and quiv 
 ering. What could all the rattling and 
 banging be about ? Why did the air smell 
 so queer? Where were they going, and 
 what were they about to do? 
 
 For hours they had been moving along 
 a densely crowded road, edging their way 
 past long lines of foot and horse. Sud 
 denly the bugles called high and clear. 
 Commands were sharply passed. He was 
 urged into a gallop. Through a fence 
 they went, across a field and straight to 
 ward a bare knoll which seemed to be in 
 the thick of the muss. 
 
 Things went whizzing over his head. 
 Other things pattered in the dust be 
 fore him. In the air above were noises 
 [101]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 shrieking, whining noises, and now 
 and then an ominous " R-r-r-r-ip 
 boo-m-m-m ! " It all was disturbing. 
 Pericles tried to stop and dance and snort, 
 but the long-legged man on his back dug 
 boot heels into his ribs and yelled tumultu- 
 ously. There was nothing to do except to 
 go ahead, and he did that with all the 
 mighty strength of his big muscles. The 
 other five horses did the same, and with a 
 slap-bang bumpety-bump that old gun 
 was snaked to the crest of the knoll. 
 Then, with a whirl which set his head spin 
 ning, they were turned, the gun unhooked 
 and the whole six of them galloped off 
 with the caisson down under the brow of 
 the hill, where they could stand in com 
 parative safety, watching the cannoneers 
 swarming about the pieces like so many 
 jumping- jacks. 
 
 It was there that Pericles began to get 
 [102]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 acquainted with the ways of Slat. Little- 
 field, the long-geared, smooth-tongued 
 driver of the lead team. Slat, was pat 
 ting his neck and talking to him in pe 
 culiarly soothing tones. 
 
 " So-o-o, there, old tamarack. Easy, 
 boy. Never you mind the Minie-balls; 
 they won t hurt you, less n one hits you, 
 and you ll never know about it if it does. 
 So-o-o-o, now, easy does it. Yes, that s a 
 four-pound shell coming this way miau- 
 ow-wow with the fuse fizzing. Bang! 
 There she goes, and never touched a hair 
 of us. The Johnnies ain t got the range, 
 nor they won t get it after the Spread 
 Eagle boys get to work. So-o-o, now. 
 You ll hear a heap bigger noise than that 
 in about two shakes. There goes the pow 
 der charge into our old Slabsides. Now 
 the wad. Ram her home, Seth ! And the 
 pill! Now, my boy, easy with you. It s 
 [103]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 a-comin , it s a-comin Whoa up, there ! 
 So-o-o-o ! You re ail- 
 But the rest was lost in a sudden tre 
 mendous roar which seemed to split the sky 
 and drop the pieces on his head. He reared 
 and pawed the air in blind panic. He 
 danced sidewise into his mate. He 
 plunged forward. There came another 
 roar and another. He could feel the earth 
 shake under his hoofs. A dense, gray, 
 pungent-smelling cloud drifted down 
 from the hilltop and enveloped him. He 
 breathed and ejected it in short, excited 
 snorts. 
 
 In fact, Pericles did most of the things 
 which green artillery horses usually do. 
 When it was over, when the distant bat 
 tery had ceased to answer, when the crack 
 and rattle of small arms could be heard 
 no longer, he stood, nerve-shaken, foam- 
 flecked, red-nostriled but thoroughly 
 [104]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 battle broken. Why, in less than a fort 
 night he would calmly crop the grass 
 forty yards behind the trail stakes while 
 Spread Eagle six-pounders barked them 
 selves hoarse. Nor was this all. For Slat. 
 Littlefield he had developed huge respect. 
 Who wouldn t? Wasn t he the smartest 
 team driver in the battery? 
 
 Couldn t he bring old Slabsides to the 
 front, unhook and get away with the lim 
 ber before any other gun was in position? 
 Was there a man in the regiment who 
 could yell louder, ride harder, work faster 
 or talk slicker than Slat. Littlefield? 
 Hadn t the senior Colonel said so himself? 
 Didn t the companies cheer as Slat, tore 
 past on his big gray, with two men on the 
 gun and five on the limber chest, to open 
 the ball? 
 
 Besides, Slat. Littlefield knew How to 
 take care of horses as well as how to Han- 
 [105]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 die them. Other drivers might miss con 
 nections with the quartermaster s wagons, 
 but Slat, always managed to have his 
 grain bags full. And who dressed the 
 saber slash in Pericles neck after Jeb. 
 Stuart s cavalry charged over the guns? 
 It was Slat. Who was it dug the spent 
 musket-ball out of Pericles rump, picked 
 the piece of shell from his shoulder and 
 bathed the hurts with liniment? Slat. 
 It was Slat, also who taught Pericles to 
 lie down when the chain shot and shrapnel 
 got to whistling too close overhead. 
 Other things did Slat, teach him during 
 the long months in permanent camp ; such 
 as the standing trot, which keeps one s 
 nerves quiet while waiting orders under 
 fire, the fancy pirouette, purely unessen 
 tial, and a burlesque " attention " pose 
 which never failed to make the inspection 
 officers grin. 
 
 [106]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 It was pure luck, of course; yet horses 
 came and horses went, lead mates, swings 
 and wheelers, but Pericles stayed in the 
 traces, hauling old Slabsides up and down 
 the Potomac and across Virginia, leading 
 Spread Eagle Battery into all sorts of 
 violent musses, and escaping with no more 
 than an occasional scratch. Slat. Little- 
 field stayed too, thwarting each attempted 
 promotion by some reckless, lawless 
 prank, earning alternately high praise 
 and the guard-house. 
 
 And when the business was finished, 
 when both had been mustered out of the 
 service, and Spread Eagle Battery was 
 only a proud memory, they drifted apart 
 as they had drifted together. 
 
 Pericles did not have even a farewell 
 
 pat on the neck from his old driver, for 
 
 Mr. Slattery Littlefield, suddenly released 
 
 from discipline, with eighteen months 
 
 [107]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 back pay in his pockets, was careening 
 riotously about the national Capital, gor 
 geously but irregularly arrayed in the 
 full-dress uniform of a cavalry Captain, 
 to the distinct annoyance of the provost s 
 guard. 
 
 As for Pericles, he netted the War De 
 partment some thirty-seven dollars, and 
 was returned to civil life as nigh horse on 
 a dirt wagon, beginning his humble share 
 in the work of reconstruction by helping 
 to excavate a cellar for a dry goods store 
 in a great metropolis. 
 
 However, one cannot spend four years 
 in the artillery, especially in such a battery 
 as the Spread Eagle, without being more 
 or less unfitted for the commonplaces of 
 civilian life. Pericles found it so; like 
 wise Slat. Littlefield. 
 
 Thus it happened that one day in the 
 early seventies there limped out before a 
 [108]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 crowd of auction buyers the sorry wreck 
 of a sixteen-hand gray horse. He was 
 knee-sprung and saddle-galled. You 
 could have dropped an egg into the hol 
 lows over his eyes. On his left shoulder 
 was an old army brand. 
 
 " Here you are, gents ! " called the auc 
 tioneer. " A four-legged hero of the late 
 unpleasantness. He s a little the worse 
 for wear, but he s still in the ring and 
 hasn t asked for a pension. Who wants a 
 vet? How much for a horse that helped 
 put down the rebellion? " 
 
 There was a laugh, but no bid. 
 
 What, not a patriot here? Can t any 
 of you gents use an ex-war horse? Will 
 you let a hero of Gettysburg go to the 
 glue factory? " 
 
 Ten dollars! " shouted some one. 
 
 "Sold!" promptly declared the auc 
 tioneer. "Ah, and to an old comrade!" 
 [109]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 he added as a man with a faded-blue cape- 
 coat over his arm came forward. 
 
 "Holy cats, it s old Pericles!" ex 
 claimed the bidder. 
 
 Perhaps Pericles did not remember his 
 old driver we know that he did, of 
 course, but there are some folks who sniff 
 at such things but at any rate Slat. Lit- 
 tlefield knew him, and did not regret the 
 impulse which had prompted the bid, al 
 though just at that moment Slat, had as 
 much use for a horse as an Eskimo has 
 for a palm-leaf fan. 
 
 Chance, which had sent him here and 
 there about the country, had led Mr. Lit- 
 tlefield to that horse auction. The jibes 
 of the auctioneer had done the rest. Al 
 though his entire capital was a ten-dollar 
 bill and a small wad of scrip, he promptly 
 paid the price, bought a second-hand bri 
 dle, mounted his purchase, and rode away 
 [110]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 just as if that was what he had intended 
 all along. Not until they were clear of 
 the city did he dismount and take stock 
 of the future. Seating himself on a rock, 
 he eyed the old gray critically. 
 
 " Well, Pericles, old boy," he said, " I 
 guess we re about a pair. Used you 
 rough, ain t they? Worked you some 
 harder n I did on the gun, eh? And they 
 was goin to send you to the glue factory ! 
 Not much, Pericles! You ve been too 
 good a horse for that. You deserve better 
 of your country. You ought to have a 
 home somewhere, a good home; and by 
 thunder, Slat. Littlefield will find you one 
 before he quits! 
 
 " But you need a rest, first, and some 
 fat on those old ribs. Suppose we take a 
 little jaunt together, you n me, some 
 thing like what we used to take when we 
 were promenadin up and down the Po- 
 [111]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 tomac, only more casual. Seeing it s 
 spring, we ll work north and have a look 
 at the country." 
 
 It was not a definite program, but it 
 suited Pericles, and Littlefield seemed to 
 enjoy it. 
 
 " Bless me, if it don t seem good to 
 throw a leg over a horse once more! " he 
 frequently remarked. 
 
 So up through New York State and 
 on into New England this picturesque 
 pair advanced, the gray old horse and the 
 long-legged rider who used a blue army 
 overcoat as a saddle-blanket. How Peri 
 cles did enjoy it! When one has been 
 bred for the drudgery of city hauling and 
 has known nothing else, it is not so bad. 
 But when one has galloped to bugle mu 
 sic, has stabled under the stars and be 
 tween the guns, and when one has 
 known such a driver as Slat. Littlefield, 
 [112]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 a dirt wagon becomes an abomination. 
 
 What a careless, happy-go-lucky trip 
 they made of it, stopping when there was 
 anything to pause for, moving on when 
 they pleased and at their own gait ! Occa 
 sionally, under the inspiration of one of 
 Slat. s old-time yells, Pericles shook out 
 his stiffness, threw up his head, and gal 
 loped at something like his old pace. 
 
 Early in their wanderings Littlefield 
 felt the need of a reasonable and logical 
 explanation of his errand. Groups of 
 loungers about the village stores were apt 
 to be curious. They seemed better satis- 
 fled if one told them a good yarn. So 
 there was evolved a bit of fiction intended 
 to please. 
 
 At first Pericles was merely " my old 
 
 Lieutenant s horse, that I m takin up into 
 
 Maine to be turned out to pasture." Then 
 
 it was a Captain who was sending his 
 
 [113]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 mount back to his old home. Next the 
 Captain became a Major. But at last, 
 determined to do the thing handsomely 
 while he was about it, Littlefield hit upon 
 the audacious fabrication to which he 
 stuck, except for little niceties of elabora 
 tion, until he almost believed it himself. 
 It ran something like this : 
 
 " Army horse? Yes, pardner, you re 
 right. There s Uncle Sam s mark on his 
 shoulder, plain enough. Cavalry? Well, 
 I should say so! Best cavalry horse in the 
 Union army, he was ; though you wouldn t 
 think it to look at him now, would you? 
 
 " Ever hear of Pericles? Well, ask any 
 man that ever rode with Sherman who 
 Pericles was. Yes, that s him, Sherman s 
 horse, the one that carried him all the way 
 from Atlanta to the sea. Thinks a heap 
 of him, the General does, more n he ever 
 thought of me, and I was body-guard to 
 [114]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 him for over a year. Pericles saved the 
 old man s neck a dozen times, I guess. 
 That s why he s sendin him by me, in 
 stead of lettin him be banged around in 
 stock-cars. Where? Oh, down Bangor 
 way. Cousin of the General s going to 
 take him and keep him in clover the rest of 
 his days. Battles? He s been in more of 
 em than he s got hairs in his tail. See that 
 old scar on his neck? Saber cut, down on 
 the Rapidan. Shouldn t wonder but he s 
 got half a pound or so of rebel lead in him 
 now. Yes, Pericles was a first-class horse. 
 Sherman thinks so, anyway." 
 
 Just how many thousands were treated 
 to a sight of " General Sherman s war 
 horse " during that summer would be a 
 subject of vain speculation. Usually the 
 story would spread over an entire village 
 in from ten to fifteen minutes, and Little- 
 field would be called upon to repeat the 
 [115]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 details to each fresh lot of curious ar 
 rivals. The results indicated that senti 
 ment was not dead, that patriotism still 
 burned. Pericles found himself quar 
 tered comfortably, fed generously and 
 made much of. Nor did Littlefield lack 
 entertainment. 
 
 Yet, somehow, or other, Pericles would 
 not enter into the spirit of the thing. 
 Whenever he found himself the center of 
 an open-mouthed, staring-eyed group of 
 men and boys, and Littlefield began the 
 familiar tale, Pericles would drop his head 
 sheepishly and appear as much unlike a 
 cavalry charger as possible. Almost one 
 might have thought that he understood 
 and was ashamed of being a party to such 
 deception. 
 
 Well, along in August something hap 
 pened which caused an abrupt change in 
 Littlefield s plans. It was a chance meet- 
 [116]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 ing with an old tent-mate who was bound 
 for some new gold fields that he vaguely 
 described as being " out in the Indian 
 lands." 
 
 " Better go along, Slat., " urged he. 
 " They re making rich strikes every day. 
 Oh, I ll stake you to tickets if you ll go." 
 
 Slat, glanced at Pericles and hesitated. 
 
 " Tell you what I ll do ," he said. "You 
 wait for me two days in Boston and I ll 
 go. How s that?" This suited. 
 
 " And now, Pericles," confided Little- 
 field when they were once more alone on 
 the road, " w r e ve got to find a home for 
 you, even if I have to swear you re one of 
 Pharaoh s original team." 
 
 But the Sherman story, remodeled to 
 suit the urgent need of the occasion, 
 proved to be all sufficient. When Miss 
 Arabella Pinkham heard it, heard how 
 General Sherman s old war-horse was 
 [117]
 
 doomed to wear out his noble soul as a 
 brick-yard drudge, she wept on Pericles 
 battle-scarred neck. 
 
 She was a spinster, was Miss Pinkham. 
 Some called her eccentric. But she was 
 sole heiress of the Pinkham estate, and 
 she had a way of doing about as she 
 pleased. Patriotism was her besetting vir 
 tue. Her ancestors had fought at Lex 
 ington, and she never permitted herself 
 to forget it. She herself had joined the 
 Abolition movement early in the fifties. 
 Besides, of all the Union heroes, Sherman 
 had been her idol. 
 
 " Oh, it would be a shameful thing! " 
 she protested. 
 
 " It s too blamed bad, I know," con 
 fessed Littlefield; "but I can t just help 
 it. I can t afford to feed him any longer. 
 I wrote to the General about having the 
 old horse he used to ride ; but I guess he s 
 [118]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 been too busy to answer, or else he never 
 got the letter at all. Anyway, when that 
 brick-yard man offered me fifty dollars 
 for Pericles if I d fetch him up there I 
 just had to say I d take it. But it s like 
 partin from a brother to let him go. 
 Now, if I could only find some one that 
 appreciated him for what he is and would 
 give him a good home I I d sell him for 
 well, forty dollars. Yes, I would, by 
 gum! " 
 
 " Oh, would you? " demanded Arabella. 
 
 :< Well, I would for forty-five, any 
 way." 
 
 He did, throwing in a most elaborate 
 and vivid description wholly new and 
 original of valorous deeds in which Peri 
 cles had assisted. Then, with the money 
 in his pocket, he hastened back to Boston. 
 Presumably he went after gold, for of 
 Slat. Littlefield, who drove the lead horses
 
 of Spread Eagle Battery, there is no 
 further record. 
 
 As to Pericles well, he had known 
 hard work and rough usage for many 
 years. He was ready for something dif 
 ferent. True, the devotion of Arabella 
 Ann Pinkham frequently translated it 
 self in odd and unexpected ways. It is 
 doubtful, for instance, if Pericles appre 
 ciated the cabbage-rose wall-paper with 
 which his stall was decorated, or the rag- 
 carpet rug under his forefeet. Possibly 
 there were lost on him the beauties of the 
 framed chromo of General Sherman, the 
 mirror above his feed-box and the dimity 
 curtains at the side window. 
 
 But the freedom of the big pasture in 
 summer, the heavy, quilted blankets in 
 winter and a diet of unheard-of dainties- 
 such as hot mince pie and molasses cookies 
 and custard pudding were all most ac- 
 [120]
 
 THE STORY OF PERICLES 
 
 ceptable. The petted buffs in the royal 
 mews of Buckingham never grew fatter 
 or lazier, never lumbered along with more 
 cumbrous dignity than did Pericles in his 
 last days. And when at the ripe age of 
 almost twenty he ceased to be, he was laid 
 at rest near the big lilac bush in the front 
 yard. 
 
 The monument was no afterthought. 
 It was all prepared, except for the cutting 
 of the date, two years before the sad 
 event. And there it stands now, a three- 
 ton block of New Hampshire granite. 
 On its one polished surface you may read 
 
 this: 
 
 In Memory of 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 The gallant steed who carried General 
 W. T. Sherman on his famous march 
 
 from Atlanta to the sea. 
 
 Erected by his last owner and loving 
 
 mistress, Arabella Ann Pinkham, 
 
 Sept. 21, 1875 
 
 [121]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 To be sure, Pericles never did anything 
 of the kind. Yet what of that? Did any 
 fancy charger better serve the country 
 than the nigh lead on Spread Eagle Bat 
 tery s Number One gun? If his last years 
 were made smooth for him, did he not 
 merit as much? As for the monument, 
 you have seen how it was, in a sense, thrust 
 upon him. Besides, who believes all that 
 folks write on monuments, anyway? 
 
 [ 122 ]
 
 FIDDLER
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 HAVING been the owner of Fiddler 
 for almost two weeks, Mr. Hiram 
 Proggins arrived somewhat abruptly at 
 the conclusion that he had made a mistake. 
 Either Fiddler was not the horse for him 
 or he was not the man for Fiddler. From 
 his perch on the grain-box Mr. Proggins 
 stared in dissatisfied contemplation at the 
 stall where Fiddler s white nose was sub 
 merged in the manger. Yes, a mistake 
 had been made. 
 
 Fiddler had known it all along. There 
 were horses, plenty of them, that would 
 have suited Hi Proggins. Some horses, 
 you know, don t care a clover-head who 
 own them. Fiddler was not of this kind. 
 [125]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 He could make distinctions, and very fine 
 ones, sometimes. The mere sight of Prog- 
 gins aroused his suspicions, and when 
 Fiddler first felt the touch of the new 
 owner s hands on the reins he was assured 
 by that subtle instinct common to every 
 good horse, that he and Mr. Proggins 
 were not in accord and never could be. 
 
 In the first place, Proggins was glum 
 and unsociable. Fiddler s chief traits 
 were cheerfulness and sociability. Also, 
 he had that which many scientific folks 
 will tell you no animal possesses a sense 
 of humor. Judging him by a full-face 
 view, you would never guess it. Fiddler 
 had a long head an abnormally long head 
 which gave to his frontal expression a 
 solemn, almost lugubrious cast. Perhaps 
 no horse ever carried about such a dole 
 ful face. It was grotesquely woebegone. 
 But view him from either side, get the 
 [126]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 effect of his parrot nose, note the sly hu 
 mor of his drooping eyelids, the merry 
 drollery lurking in the mouth corners, the 
 mischievous twitching of his pendant up 
 per lip, and you would find yourself grin 
 ning out of sheer sympathy with his jovial 
 mood. 
 
 Mr. Proggins, however, did not grin. 
 He never grinned. The face of Proggins 
 was not fashioned for such purpose. 
 Mainly it was whiskered not with a long, 
 benevolent beard, nor with an aristocratic 
 Vandyke. It bristled with a coarse, scrag 
 gy, untractable, sandy-hued growth that 
 suggested irritability of temper. As for 
 the eyes of Proggins, no one might know 
 what they expressed, for they were deeply 
 set under bushy brows and further hid 
 den by an overgrown pair of smoked 
 glasses. Those glasses puzzled Fiddler, 
 as well they might, for they gave to the 
 [127]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 unattractive face of Proggins a weird, 
 sinister expression. 
 
 This was unfortunate. Proggins was 
 not a bad fellow. He was simply an un 
 successful inventor whose disposition had 
 been somewhat soured. Chiefly this was 
 due to misdirected effort, for Proggins 
 had inventive genius of no mean order. 
 But he misused it. Was there anything 
 along impossible or impractical lines, 
 Proggins thought of it and straightway 
 set himself the task of inventing it. He 
 invented a mattress that would turn itself 
 over once in ten days, provided that you 
 wound up the weights and set the clock 
 work properly. The fact that the great 
 American public did not yearn for a self- 
 turning mattress embittered the mind of 
 Proggins. A lawn-mower that could be 
 converted into a feed-cutter, a hand-culti 
 vator, a churn, or a coffee-grinder was an-
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 other ingenious boon that the public de 
 clined to appreciate. 
 
 The two or three inventions which had 
 proved of real value brought him meagre 
 returns because manufacturers agents 
 had juggled the patent rights to that end. 
 But always and endlessly, despite fail 
 ure and reverses, were Proggins s best 
 thoughts, most of his income, and the 
 greater part of his time devoted to the 
 construction of a perpetual-motion ma 
 chine, which seemed doomed to be per 
 petually motionless. 
 
 It was this unoriginal folly that had 
 estranged kin and friends, that had 
 caused Proggins to leave town and seek 
 the seclusion of a ten-acre farm off the 
 County House Road. There, in un- 
 painted, ramshackle buildings huddled 
 among unpruned trees and surrounded by 
 untilled fields, Proggins lived like a 
 [129]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 hermit, working at vain things, dreaming 
 vain dreams, and cherishing resentment 
 against a careless world. 
 
 About once a week Proggins reluctant 
 ly tramped into the nearest town for sup 
 plies and material. With the purpose of 
 making these trips still more infrequent, 
 he decided to buy a horse. Unluckily for 
 both, Fiddler chanced to be the animal 
 which fate and an unsympathetic horse- 
 dealer picked out to share his lot. 
 
 When you have pulled a post-cart over 
 a suburban mail route for some five years 
 you come to know a lot of folks and a lot 
 of folks come to know you. When you 
 are watched for every day by several hun 
 dred persons, when you establish intimate 
 relations with a whole neighborhood, then 
 your work ceases to be mere drudgery. 
 Fiddler had found it so. He liked to see 
 them, the women and children, and some- 
 [130]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 times the men, standing at the gate watch 
 ing for him. They seemed glad to have 
 him stop, even though he left nothing 
 more than the weekly paper or a patent- 
 medicine almanac. They brought him 
 things to eat, bunches of clover whose 
 honey-laden tops were deliciously sweet, 
 red summer apples, and on baking-days 
 fresh crullers and ginger cookies. He 
 liked his driver, too a jolly chap who 
 whistled and sang as Fiddler jogged 
 along the highway. 
 
 Changes, however, are bound to come. 
 The driver was promoted to the railway 
 division, and the new postman had a horse 
 of his own. So Fiddler went to the horse- 
 trader, and from there to the Proggins 
 farm. Sadly did Fiddler miss his friends 
 on the mail route. Here was only this 
 glum-visaged man with bristling whiskers 
 and queer-looking eyes. He neither 
 [131]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 looked nor acted friendly. But Fiddler 
 was bound to make the best of things. In 
 a dozen ways he tried to be sociable. He 
 had a trick of upsetting the grain-meas 
 ure by an unexpected lift of his long nose 
 when he was being fed. The postman 
 had enjoyed it heartily, and every meal 
 time they made quite a game of it. But 
 Proggins rapped him sharply with a stick 
 he carried, and refused to enter into the 
 spirit of the joke. He wanted none of 
 Fiddler s good-natured nosings and plain 
 ly showed it. 
 
 It was clear, too, that he was afraid of 
 the horse, approaching head or heels with 
 much caution. Fiddler, who had never 
 kicked or used his teeth on any one in all 
 his life, came to enjoy lifting a threaten 
 ing hoof or laying back his ears, just for 
 the fun of seeing Mr. Proggins dance out 
 of his way. 
 
 [132]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 What was the matter with the man, 
 anyway? Fiddler could not make out. 
 Then there remained the mystery of those 
 smoked glasses. So Fiddler got into the 
 habit of watching his master closely as 
 long as he could keep Proggins within 
 range of his eyes. His were big, round 
 eyes, too, deep and full and strikingly hu 
 man in their expression. Fiddler could 
 stare out of them in such a questioning 
 way that one was almost moved to ask, 
 Well, old fellow, what s up ; what do 
 you want to say? " 
 
 Hi Proggins was not so moved. To 
 him this stare of Fiddler s was intensely 
 disconcerting. Whenever he was at work 
 about the barn he might be certain that 
 those big, round eyes were following him. 
 Fiddler would even crane his neck to 
 watch Proggins shake out the bedding or 
 when he was fastening the traces behind 
 [133]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 him. This Mr. Proggins interpreted as 
 an evidence that the horse was only wait 
 ing for a chance to play him some evil 
 prank. Naturally he grew to dislike Fid 
 dler as well as to fear him. 
 
 Once he had Fiddler safely harnessed 
 and had climbed up on the wagon out of 
 rangeof hisblindered eyes,Mr.Proggins s 
 mind was at peace. Sitting humped over 
 on the seat, his thoughts dwelling on some 
 new obstacle presented by the intricate 
 contrivance in his workshop, Proggins 
 would allow Fiddler to jog along wholly 
 unguided for half an hour at a time. 
 
 Then it was that Fiddler tasted happi 
 ness. Hungry for the sight of horses and 
 men, he improved each trip to town by 
 giving full play to his sociable impulses. 
 He whinnied friendly greetings to every 
 passing team, and often left the road al 
 together just to rub noses with a pastured 
 [134]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 horse. Could he overtake a carriage, he 
 would follow it doggedly, if possible with 
 nose on the seat-back. In this way he 
 frightened several old ladies, who roused 
 the absent-minded Proggins from his 
 day-dreams to scold him soundly for his 
 impertinence. 
 
 Arrived in town, it was Fiddler s de 
 light to stop before the court-house or 
 town hall or wherever was the biggest 
 crowd, much to the disgust of Proggins, 
 who wished to come in contact with as few 
 persons as possible. 
 
 But Fiddler was bent on being sociable 
 when opportunity offered. Twice he 
 forced his way into funeral processions, 
 where he was not at all wanted. Was 
 there a crowd about a travelling fakir s 
 wagon in the market square, Fiddler, if 
 not closely watched, would push into the 
 thickest of it. On one occasion he fol- 
 [135]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 lowed a stream of carriages into the fair 
 grounds, and Proggins was brought to 
 his senses by an indignant ticket-collector 
 who charged him with being a beat. 
 
 It was always Proggins who was 
 blamed for intrusiveness. No one ever 
 seemed to suspect Fiddler. Even Prog 
 gins himself, unwilling to credit the horse 
 with anything more than brute instincts, 
 was not suspicious. He was puzzled, how 
 ever, when one Sunday, after starting for 
 town under the impression that it was Sat 
 urday, he woke from a brown study to 
 find himself in the carriage shed of the 
 Calvary Baptist Church just as the morn 
 ing service was concluding. Proggins, 
 who particularly disapproved of churches 
 and church-going, had the humiliation of 
 being compelled to drive home in the 
 midst of the Sunday procession. Some 
 say Fiddler wore a broad grin, but prob- 
 [136]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 ably it was nothing more than his normal 
 expression. 
 
 From that day, however, Fiddler was 
 no longer trusted to find his way into 
 town and back. At cost of much mental 
 effort Proggins did the guiding and 
 avoided places where he had no wish to go. 
 Fiddler had to submit, although he eyed 
 longingly every group and gathering. 
 
 As Proggins s dislike for the horse 
 deepened, he began to dread the three 
 visits which he must make every day to 
 Fiddler s stall with feed and water. The 
 persistence with which he was followed 
 about by the searching stare of inquiry 
 disturbed and upset his mind. But Prog- 
 gins was not an inventor for nothing. 
 Resolutely suspending his tinkering on 
 the perpetual-motion machine, for nearly 
 a week he measured and hammered and 
 worked about the barn. Fiddler watched 
 [137]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 and wondered, but he could make nothing 
 of it. 
 
 Then one morning Proggins did not 
 come to the barn at all. Yet the water- 
 bucket in the manger was mysteriously 
 filled, the usual two quarts of grain mirac 
 ulously appeared without a sign of hands, 
 and a big forkful of hay was noiselessly 
 pitched down from the loft. At noon and 
 again at night the phenomenon was re 
 peated, and without sight or sound of 
 Proggins. Fiddler stared and listened, 
 but solve the puzzle he could not. 
 
 Still, considering the genius of Prog 
 gins, the thing was no great marvel. He 
 had simply built a series of troughs from 
 the pump to the water-bucket, hoisted the 
 grain-box into the loft, and dropped a 
 chute with a string-regulated slide into 
 the manger, and contrived an automatic 
 hay- fork. This last, it must be admitted, 
 [138]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 / 
 
 was really a clever device. The whole 
 arrangement worked perfectly. 
 
 The result was that Fiddler s isolation 
 was complete. The lonely monotony of 
 stall-standing was now unbroken even by 
 the brief visits of the unsociable Prog- 
 gins. It was the most absolute solitude 
 which Fiddler had ever experienced. The 
 farm was a lonesome place at best, and 
 the silence that hung about it like a pall 
 was almost unbroken. In barnyard or 
 pasture were no lowing cows, not a hen 
 cackled cheerfully; there was not even a 
 dog or cat about the place. The only 
 sound to be heard was the muffled ham 
 mering of Proggins in his distant work 
 shop. 
 
 And Fiddler didn t like it. He soon be 
 came tired of being fed and watered by 
 machinery. He wanted to see some one, 
 even if it were only Proggins. So he re- 
 [139]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 volted. He backed against the barn door 
 until the rusty latch gave way. Then he 
 walked out into the barn-yard and began 
 to hunt for company. 
 
 Thus it was that Proggins, conscious 
 of some unusual presence, looked up from 
 his work to see the solemn face of Fid 
 dler framed in the open window and those 
 big, curious eyes fixed upon him with dis 
 concerting stare. 
 
 "Get out of here, you beast!" Prog- 
 gins fairly shrieked. " Get out, you long- 
 faced son of Satan!" and he waved a 
 hammer threateningly. Arming himself 
 with a long pole, he undertook to drive 
 Fiddler back into the stable. But the 
 horse was enjoying his liberty too well to 
 go tamely back into the hateful stall. A 
 merry chase they had of it, through the 
 neglected orchard, about the weed-grown 
 garden, into the road, and back again. 
 [HO]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 Then Proggins had an inspiration. He 
 would drive Fiddler down to the high 
 way and lose him. That would end the 
 business, would rid him of this trouble 
 some animal. As for Fiddler, he seemed 
 glad enough to go, and Proggins saw him 
 disappear over a hill with a sense of 
 thankfulness. Two hours later, however, 
 a boy from a neighboring farm led Fid 
 dler back in triumph and demanded a dol 
 lar. Proggins grumbled, but paid the re 
 ward and put a new latch on the barn 
 door. 
 
 This was the beginning of a game 
 which progressed from day to day. Fid 
 dler s part was to find the weak spots in 
 the old barn and to go through them. 
 Proggins undertook to repair the breaks 
 and to thwart new attempts. It was a 
 spirited contest. 
 
 At first Proggins tried to gain an ad- 
 [141]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 vantage by putting a halter on Fiddler 
 and tying him to a stout stanchion. Fid 
 dler promptly gnawed through the halter 
 rope and declined to allow a repetition of 
 the handicap. His outbreaks were bold 
 and ingenious. Once he forced the door 
 of the cow-shed. Another time he backed 
 through the side of the barn, ripping off 
 two loosened boards. And after each es 
 cape he went straight to the window of 
 the workshop, as if to taunt the defeated 
 Proggins and challenge him to another 
 prance through the orchard. 
 
 Having endured this sort of thing for 
 several days, Proggins became desperate. 
 He had reached what he believed to be 
 a critical stage in his life-work. At any 
 moment he expected to see the various 
 wheels of his machine start into endless 
 motion, and he was working with feverish 
 enthusiasm. But apply himself he could 
 [142]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 not with that long, white, solemn face 
 leering at intervals through his window 
 and that disturbing stare following his 
 every movement. 
 
 You ve done it again, have you? " he 
 growled, as Fiddler made his last appear 
 ance. Want to drive me crazy, don t 
 you, you four-legged old Slippery Jack? 
 But I ll fix you, I ll fix you this time." 
 Here Mr. Proggins shook a futile fist, 
 while every wiry hair of his sandy whisk 
 ers bristled with anger. "I ll fasten you 
 up now, you blamed old white hoodoo, so 
 you can t get out. I ll do it if I have to 
 build the whole darned barn over with 
 walls a foot thick." 
 
 With this threat Mr. Proggins impetu 
 ously grabbed his hat and started on foot 
 for the nearest sawmill to order a load of 
 lumber. 
 
 Reproachfully Fiddler watched the 
 [143]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 bent form of Proggins dash down to 
 wards the County House Road. Then 
 he stuck his long head into the open door 
 of the workshop and sniffed curiously 
 about. Next to the window was a car 
 penter s bench littered with tools and 
 shavings and odd pieces of machinery. 
 On the other side of the door was a hand- 
 forge, a coffee-pot, and a frying-pan 
 resting on the gray coals. 
 
 The rest of the room was largely occu 
 pied by a huge, flimsy-looking affair that 
 suggested the combination of a grand 
 father s clock with a threshing-machine. 
 It had wheels and weights and arms and 
 levers and ropes and springs and pulleys. 
 Such a contraption Fiddler had never 
 seen before, and it attracted him. Cau 
 tiously he approached the thing, stepping 
 carefully over the creaking floor boards, 
 his neck stretched out, ears pricked for- 
 [ 144]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 ward, nostrils expanding and contracting, 
 and pendant upper lip working tenta 
 tively. 
 
 All might have ended well and no mis 
 chief done had not Fiddler planted one 
 of his hind feet on a saw. The thin steel 
 snapped with a sharp report. Fiddler 
 snorted in alarm and jerked upwards his 
 long nose, striking a projecting lever. 
 There ensued a whirring of wheels, a 
 creaking of pulleys, a confused buzz of 
 cogs. The thing was alive, then? It was 
 some monstrous insect! 
 
 Fiddler reared in fright. His head 
 struck the ceiling, and down he came with 
 a grand crash. The machine toppled to 
 wards him, and the next that he knew he 
 was hopelessly mixed up in the thing. So 
 he went plunging madly about, his 
 legs twined and tangled with ropes 
 and springs, his iron-shod hoofs smash- 
 [145]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 ing and bending parts at every jump. 
 
 This is how it really happened. Mr. 
 Proggins s theory that Fiddler deliber 
 ately attacked the machine with malicious 
 intent is wholly absurd. Yet he thoroughly 
 believed it at the time. Perhaps he does still. 
 It is true that when he returned at the end 
 of half an hour, having determined to 
 make Fiddler haul the lumber for his own 
 undoing, he found the old white horse 
 dancing frantically on the ruin of the 
 wrecked machine. 
 
 " I ve had a mighty lot of hard luck in 
 my day," said Proggins, " but I guess 
 that was about the hardest knock I ever 
 got. I was more scared than mad, though 
 I m not superstitious; but if ever a horse 
 was possessed of the devil it was that old 
 Fiddler. I don t want to see anything 
 like it again. Heard folks tell about their 
 blood running cold, haven t you? Well, 
 [146]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 mine did when I saw the antics of that 
 four-legged demon. And that grin of 
 his ! His jaws were shut tight, but his lips 
 were drawn up until you could see his 
 teeth way back to his ears. 
 
 " But his eyes were the worst. They 
 just blazed with deviltry. He had that 
 coffin-shaped head of his up in the air, 
 and he was switching his old white tail 
 and rampaging about that shop as though 
 he meant to make match-wood of the 
 whole business which he come pretty 
 near doing. 
 
 " I couldn t swear and I couldn t cry, 
 though I wanted to do both at once. I 
 just stood there with my eyes sticking out 
 and my hair standing up until, all of a 
 sudden, he looks up and sees me. Then 
 he charged through the door at me like a 
 setter going after a rabbit. I yelled and 
 made a dive for the old smoke-house. As 
 [147]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 I jumped in I slammed the door after me 
 and climbed up on the top beams. 
 
 " Guess I must have roosted there 
 nearly three hours before I dared to come 
 down. I heard Fiddler stamping in his 
 stall as he used to when he wanted his 
 feed. I tiptoed out until I could get hold 
 of the grain-box string, and I pulled that 
 two or three times. The grain quieted 
 him, and while he was eating I slipped 
 around and shut the barn door, bracing it 
 with half a dozen fence rails. Then I 
 walked over and took the night train to 
 the city, where I hunted up a man who 
 makes a business of training vicious 
 horses. I paid him twenty-five dollars to 
 come out and take Fiddler away. And 
 what do you think? That contrary old 
 beast whinnied as if he was glad to see us, 
 and followed the man off as meekly as a 
 mooley cow. Blast his old white hide! " 
 [148]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 Curiously enough, the smashing of the 
 perpetual-motion machine proved to be 
 the making of Proggins. Quite too dis 
 couraged to begin a new one, he aban 
 doned the whole scheme and out of sheer 
 irony applied his genius to the fashioning 
 of a patent stopper for tomato-ketchup 
 bottles. In less than six months he had 
 more money than he knew what to do with. 
 
 Nor did Fiddler pass into oblivion. Far 
 from it. Some time or other you will 
 probably arrive at one of the great rail 
 road terminals in Jersey City. Should 
 you chance to hit upon the right one, you 
 may see, moving with leisurely steps and 
 solemn dignity through the inbound and 
 outgoing throngs, an old white horse with 
 an abnormally long head. 
 
 It will be Fiddler. His business is to 
 haul baggage-vans back and forth along 
 the platforms. Surely, you will say, he 
 [149]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 cannot lack for society. Nor does he. 
 Every hour of the day folks are shunted 
 in from the far corners of the world to 
 meet him. Men from all lands brush his 
 flanks and carry away on their coat 
 sleeves white hairs from his sleek quar 
 ters. 
 
 And Fiddler appears to enjoy it all im 
 mensely. On his solemn old white face 
 sits contentment. In the midst of train- 
 shed riot he is thoroughly at home. You 
 may see him stand serene and tranquil as 
 a big six-driver camel-back dragging the 
 Chicago Limited slows down with a 
 screech of brake-shoes from its mile-a- 
 minute run and comes to a hard-breath 
 ing stop not ten inches from his nose. 
 
 "Hello, old Whitey!" the engineer 
 will sing out, leaning from his cab to 
 smooth Fiddler s ears. We re back 
 again, you see." 
 
 [150]
 
 FIDDLER 
 
 Perhaps no mere traveller was ever 
 more surprised at meeting Fiddler on the 
 station platform than the occupant of a 
 Pullman section who alighted one day 
 from the Washington express. The col 
 ored porter who followed him with his 
 hand-baggage seemed to think him a per 
 sonage, but you or I would have needed 
 but one glance at those smoked glasses 
 and sandy whiskers before exclaiming, 
 "Proggins!" 
 
 The first sight of Fiddler made him 
 gasp; and no wonder, for as he stepped 
 from the train he found himself con 
 fronted with that unforgettable white 
 face. Under his whiskers Proggins 
 turned pale, and had it not been for peril 
 ling the deep respect which his dollar tip 
 had evoked from the porter he would have 
 climbed back into the car and shut the 
 door. Edging around Fiddler and well
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 to the rear, Proggins addressed the man 
 in charge of the baggage-van. 
 
 " Nice horse you have there, eh? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; he s all right, old Fiddler is. 
 And knowin Say, he knows more n 
 lots of people, he does." 
 
 Yes," assented Proggins, " I should 
 judge so." 
 
 As he moved down the piatform to 
 ward the ferry-boat, Mr. Hiram Prog 
 gins turned to take a last look at the old 
 horse. Fiddler, too, had swung about and 
 presented his profile. It wore a sardonic 
 grin. And Proggins, who had learned 
 how, grinned responsively. 
 
 [152]
 
 THE STRAYING OF 
 LUCIFER 
 
 IT was not that Lucifer meant to in 
 trude. A better-mannered horse you 
 never knew. But when one has been tied 
 in the woods for many hours one comes to 
 w r ant water very much indeed, and then, 
 if one breaks a halter and goes seeking a 
 drink, quite naturally he is liable to over 
 look some of the little niceties of behavior. 
 Lucifer did. There happened to be a 
 door between him and the water which he 
 could sniff so plainly. The door was 
 latched, too, but this troubled him only for 
 a moment. He was trying it with his 
 nose, finding out how the thing worked, 
 when someone inside called sharply: 
 [155]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 " Come in, come in! " Just then Lucifer 
 hit upon the combination, lifted the little 
 iron finger-piece, pushed with his head 
 and answered the invitation by squeezing 
 himself through the narrow doorway. 
 Possibly the sharp-faced, angular old 
 woman who sat at the window shelling 
 peas was unprepared for such a visitor. 
 Yet she needn t have screamed so. Luci 
 fer didn t bite or kick, save under extreme 
 provocation, and his bearing was most 
 friendly. She ought to have known that 
 by the way he held his ears. But she 
 waved her apron at him and shrieked 
 piercingly. 
 
 Lucifer, however, was thirsty, and there 
 on the bench was the water-bucket. Mere 
 ly glancing at the old woman, he walked 
 over and plunged his muzzle into the 
 clear, cool well water. Didn t it taste 
 good, though! 
 
 [156]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 Not until he had touched bottom did he 
 look up. A girl had come in; a tall, slim 
 girl, who wore a checked apron and a long 
 braid of brick-red hair that hung down her 
 back. She was talking soothingly to the 
 old woman. 
 
 " He won t hurt you, Aunt Phemie. 
 He was thirsty, that s all. But, oh, isn t 
 he a beauty! Isn t he, Auntie? " 
 
 Now this was sensible. Perhaps Luci 
 fer did not catch the full meaning of the 
 words, but he liked the tones of the girl s 
 voice. They were low, calm, pleasant 
 tones with no fear in them. This much 
 he understood very well. 
 
 And Lucifer was a beauty, to be sure. 
 His coat was a pure, snowy, dazzling 
 white with a kind of satiny sheen to it. 
 From his plume-like forelock, that rip 
 pled half way down to his nose, to the end 
 of the silky tail falling almost to his heels, 
 [157]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 there was not spot or fleck of color. There 
 were sixteen hundred pounds of him, too ; 
 not mere bulk, for most of it was supple, 
 closely packed muscle under perfect con 
 trol. 
 
 Of all these things Lucifer had knowl 
 edge, in his own way one could see that 
 by the way he carried himself: but it did 
 not prevent him from appreciating the 
 good points of others. Hence he eyed the 
 girl approvingly and stood quite still, 
 gazing about the room. In all his some 
 what varied career he had never before 
 been in a farm-house kitchen. 
 
 "Shoo, shoo!" exploded the old 
 woman. 
 
 "Oh, Auntie, don t! Let s see what 
 he ll do. Does the nice horsey want a 
 radish? Does urns? " 
 
 Now, as everyone know r s, babies and all 
 animals understand that sort of talk per- 
 [158]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 fectly. Lucifer made his best bow to the 
 red-haired girl and went through the mo 
 tion of pawing with one foreleg. 
 
 "Did you see, Auntie? Did you see 
 him beg? Well, urns shall have a radish, 
 so urns shall! " 
 
 And in spite of the old woman s pro 
 tests the girl held out one of the red-and- 
 white things to him. Stepping gingerly 
 across the creaking floor boards, Lucifer 
 picked it from her palm in his daintiest 
 fashion. It tasted good, so he begged for 
 more, and got them. Then he was fed a 
 lot of peapods in a basin. 
 
 " Now, sir, we ll have to go outdoors. 
 Auntie s afraid of you," said the girl at 
 last, fearlessly taking him by the fore 
 lock and leading the way. Meekly Luci 
 fer followed, and the two tramped out 
 into the back-yard, to the great relief of 
 Aunt Euphemia Penny, who regarded 
 [159]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Lucifer s unheralded appearance before 
 her as a thrilling and mysterious event. It 
 was unusual. 
 
 Where on earth did the beast come 
 from, Jerry? " As if Mrs. Penny 
 thought that Jerry her real name was 
 Geraldine, you know could answer. Yet 
 Jerry did think she knew. 
 
 " Aunt Phemie would scold me if I 
 told her," reflected Jerry, " or perhaps 
 send me to bed without supper, but I be 
 lieve I just wished him here. Don t I al 
 ways say: 
 
 Star light, star bright, 
 First star I ve seen to-night, 
 I wish I may, I wish I might, 
 Have the wish I wish to-night ? 
 
 And haven t I always wished for a horse? 
 But I never dreamed I d get such a lovely 
 one as you. Oh, you great, white dar 
 ling!" 
 
 [160]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 Then Miss Jerry would reach up on 
 tip-toes and put her slim arms about Luci 
 fer s big, sleek neck and lay her red hair 
 and soft, freckled cheek against his white 
 nose. 
 
 From the first Lucifer liked it, al 
 though never before had he made friends 
 with any wearer of skirts. They were so 
 apt to giggle or scream, and either pro 
 ceeding is jarring to sensitive nerves. But 
 this red-haired girl did nothing of the 
 sort. She was quiet and gentle, but whol 
 ly unafraid. Best of all, she seemed to 
 understand him thoroughly, and he had 
 known but few men of whom as much 
 could be said. 
 
 Had it not been for Miss Jerry, 
 though, life on the Penny farm would 
 have been dull, indeed. The old barn had 
 no other occupants than himself, unless 
 you counted the hens which cackled in the 
 [161]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 mows or the swallows darting among the 
 roof beams. In the fields back of the barn 
 was not even a cow. 
 
 But Miss Jerry proved to be company 
 enough. Never had Lucifer found any 
 one who had a keener appreciation for his 
 talents. At first, to be sure, she did not 
 know how to play her part, but little by 
 little she learned. How cleverly, for in 
 stance, did she pick up the handkerchief 
 trick after Lucifer had dropped a hint or 
 two. She had led him into the barnyard 
 and turned him loose. At once Lucifer 
 began the three-legged trot. 
 
 Why, you beauty, you re lame, aren t 
 you?" 
 
 That was exactly what she should have 
 said, of course. The next thing to do was 
 to limp up to her and hold out the stiff 
 foreleg. There, however, Jerry w r as at a 
 loss how to proceed until he took one of 
 [162]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 her sunbonnet-strings in his teethi and 
 tugged at it. 
 
 " Shall I bind up the poor leg? Is 
 that it?" 
 
 It was, although Lucifer could only 
 look sorrowful. But, as you have seen, 
 Miss Jerry was a peculiarly gifted young 
 person. Off came the bonnet-string with 
 a rip and around the foreleg it went. 
 Having bowed his thanks Lucifer can 
 tered around the barnyard to show how 
 complete was the cure. 
 
 How she did laugh at that and clap 
 her hands! From then on she seemed to 
 understand the game perfectly, even to 
 the giving of mock scoldings when he 
 would pull the bandage off with his teeth 
 and trot humbly back to her, the bonnet- 
 string dangling from his mouth. 
 
 : Isn t he wonderful, Auntie!" Miss 
 Jerry would exclaim. : Where do you 
 [163]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 suppose he ever learned so much?" 
 : It s all very fine," retorted Aunt 
 Phemie, " but when he s eat up all that 
 hay, where s more to come from? An 
 who s to pay for that bag of oats? Who 
 does he belong to, an why don t they come 
 and git him, that s what I d like to 
 know?" 
 
 " I hope he doesn t belong to anybody 
 but just me. I know he don t want to," 
 declared Miss Jerry. " And as for buy 
 ing his oats, I can do that by selling some 
 of my chickens. I d rather have him than 
 anj r thing else in the world." 
 
 Not until he had thrown her once or 
 twice did Lucifer learn that Miss Jerry 
 could not stay on his back unless he went 
 very carefully. But it was only a matter 
 of two or three weeks before she got the 
 knack. Then what fun they did have 
 tearing about the fields, Lucifer with his 
 [164]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 head up, ears forward, nostrils wide ; Miss 
 Jerry clinging to his long mane and ut 
 tering wild little cries of delight. When 
 he was quite sure of her he began teaching 
 her how to take jumps; low ones first, over 
 narrow ditches and broken fences, higher 
 and longer ones later, until she was per 
 fect in the art. 
 
 Those were the finest runs Lucifer had 
 ever known, for, with no bits in his mouth 
 to bother him, no tugging of his head this 
 way or that, he was the real master of the 
 sport. Early in the morning, sometimes 
 before the sun got up, was the time when 
 she came out to join him in these wild, 
 free gallops. It was then, too, that he 
 was keenest for a run. He did not know, 
 of course, why it was that Miss Jerry 
 would ride at no other time, or why she 
 stole down before Aunt Phemie was 
 awake, to don in the barn a pair of loose- 
 [165]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 fitting overalls which she had walked five 
 miles to buy for this purpose. Lucifer 
 only knew that Miss Jerry was fast learn 
 ing to be the best rider he had ever carried 
 on his back, and that she was the most 
 companionable human he had ever known. 
 
 So Lucifer was content, and the Sum 
 mer waxed and waned joyously. 
 
 Miss Jerry, however, was not so easily 
 satisfied. She, too, had known other 
 things than the quiet humdrum of the 
 Penny farm. The memories were rather 
 vague, for they were of early childhood, 
 but once she had lived among different 
 scenes. There had been great tents and 
 many horses and wagons. Her mama was 
 with her then, a beautiful creature, all 
 pink-and-white, whom she sometimes saw 
 in a spangled dress with short fluffy 
 skirts. And they were always going 
 somewhere. She remembered waking in 
 [166]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 the night and peering out through curtains 
 to see the black trees go by, always the 
 black trees, with the bright stars overhead 
 and the noise of hoof -falls and creaking 
 axles to lull her to sleep again. 
 
 She could recall glimpses into the big 
 tents where many lights burned high in 
 the air, where people shouted and wiiips 
 cracked and horses pranced around a yel 
 low ring. A big man with a prickly black 
 moustache had held her in his arms and 
 said: " See, little one, see mama on the 
 pretty horse!" Whereupon she had 
 looked, then put her hands over her eyes 
 and cried; for there were, oh, so many, 
 many people out there and the lights were 
 so bright and the horses danced about so, 
 and she was afraid that something would 
 happen to her beautiful mama. 
 
 In the end, too, something did happen. 
 At least, she went to sleep one night and 
 [167]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 in the morning her mama was not with 
 her, and the man with the prickly mous 
 tache cried as he kissed her and gave her 
 to a strange woman, who took her to 
 Aunt Euphemia, with whom she had been 
 ever since. 
 
 This was all she knew about that other 
 life, or was ever likely to learn, for Aunt 
 Phemie would tell her nothing. 
 
 " The less you know about it the bet 
 ter," she had once replied. 
 
 As she grew up into a tall, slender girl 
 she developed one passion, and that was 
 for horses. Hour after hour she would 
 stand at the front gate watching for them 
 to go by. Most of them were farm- 
 horses, staid, sober-eyed plodders weary 
 with hard work. These she pitied. Occa 
 sionally a trotter in a gig passed and she 
 stared admiringly. But a saddle-horse 
 roused her enthusiasm as did nothing else. 
 [168]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 Some of the riders must have thought her 
 crazy, the red-haired girl with the blue 
 eyes, who laughed and clapped her hands 
 as they cantered by. 
 
 Then the big white horse had come so 
 mysteriously, to the delight of her very 
 soul. 
 
 Perhaps you will understand now why 
 it was that Miss Jerry got into her head 
 the very queer notion which she put into 
 practice one night late in September. For 
 weeks she had planned it. On two even 
 ings she had stolen downstairs after Aunt 
 Phemie had gone to bed. But at the last 
 moment her courage had failed her and 
 she had crept back to her room. The third 
 time she had shut her lips tightly and said 
 to herself, " I will do it, I will." 
 
 Lucifer was just taking his second af 
 ter-supper nap when she roused him by 
 coming into the stable. Sleepily he 
 [169]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 watched her as she stood in the patch of 
 moonlight that fell through the open 
 door. She had her red hair fastened atop 
 her head under an old slouch hat and she 
 was putting on the loose overalls. Then 
 Lucifer understood that there were pros 
 pects of a gallop. 
 
 But this time, instead of taking him 
 out into the fields, she led him quietly 
 past the house and through the front 
 gate, making him keep on the grass until 
 they were in the road. 
 
 " Now, my beauty," she whispered 
 tensely in his ear, " we ll go to town and 
 show them how to ride; won t we, eh? " 
 
 Go to town they did. Lucifer saw the 
 lights in the distance and made for them 
 willingly. He rejoiced to feel again the 
 hard road under him, to hear his hoofs 
 beat out the quick, blood-stirring k lar- 
 rup! k larrup! k larrup! of his running 
 [170]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 song. He threw up his head, snorted 
 gleefully and struck into a long, swing 
 ing lope that laid the stretches of high 
 way behind him in fine style. On his back, 
 riding as lightly as a cork on a wave- 
 crest, Miss Jerry cooed tenderly to him, 
 now and then guiding him to the right or 
 left by a pat on his neck, as she had long 
 since learned how to do. 
 
 It was great fun. They could watch 
 the folks run to their windows and peer 
 out into the moonlight to see who rode at 
 such a pace. Nor was the speed checked 
 when they reached the broad main street 
 of the town, where the houses sat snugly 
 behind their little squares of green, where 
 there were street lights and carriages and 
 boys and girls who laughed on the side 
 walks. Many eyes stared after the big 
 white horse and his boyish rider as they 
 clattered recklessly on. 
 [171]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 Sure enough, Miss Jerry was showing 
 the town folks how to ride. There it 
 might have ended and no harm done 
 but for an incident on which she had not 
 counted. How was she to know that they 
 were to meet the town s brass band es 
 corting home the fire department from a 
 country muster? That is precisely what 
 happened. Turning a corner, they ran 
 almost full tilt into the head of the pro 
 cession. Just at that moment, too, the 
 rat-tat-rat, tat, tat! marching tap of the 
 snare-drum was changed to a full-vol- 
 umed blare as the brasses brayed out: 
 
 " When-you-hear the bells go ding-ling- 
 ling, 
 Bow-down-low, and sweetly we will 
 
 sing. 
 And when-the-verse am through, the 
 
 chorus all join in; 
 
 There ll be a hot time in the old town to 
 night, 
 
 Mah Ba-a-a-by!" 
 
 [172]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 Miss Jerry should have fainted, or 
 gone into hysterics, at least. But she 
 didn t. She simply cast one startled, fright 
 ened glance at the band, at the lines of scar- 
 let-shirted firemen, at the crowded street 
 beyond. Then she drew in her breath with 
 a quick little gasp, shut her lips very 
 tight, pressed her knees into Lucifer s 
 quivering shoulders, twisted her left hand 
 into the strands of his mane and struck 
 him smartly on the neck with her right. 
 
 But Lucifer needed no guiding then. 
 What, with a band playing " A Hot 
 Time" almost under his nose! Not he. 
 Why that was his tune, his the one 
 they always played him on wdth. For 
 getting his rider, forgetting everything 
 save that the swinging music was throb 
 bing in his head and sending little thrills 
 clear down to his rudimentary toes, Luci 
 fer reared his great bulk until his fore- 
 [173]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 hoofs topped the six-foot band-leader s 
 bearskin by many inches, pivoted grand 
 ly about on bent haunches, came down 
 with a stamp that made the sparks fly 
 from the macadam, swayed his head once 
 or twice until he got the time, and then, 
 neck arched, head tossing, forelegs paw 
 ing, tail waving like a silken banner and 
 every motion perfectly attuned to the 
 throbbing metre of the quickstep, he 
 pranced and curvetted up the street at the 
 head of the column. 
 
 For a moment, when the firemen and 
 spectators saw the slim figure perched on 
 the back of the great white horse, with 
 neither saddle-pommel nor bridle-rein to 
 cling to, they held their breath and pre 
 pared to view disaster. One or two ran 
 forward to catch the rider as Lucifer 
 whirled himself about. 
 
 But there was no disaster. They saw 
 [174]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 the set lips relax into a smile of pure de 
 light, saw a slender hand snatch off the 
 slouch hat and wave it, saw a mass of 
 brick-red hair tumble over the blue-and- 
 white checked blouse and that was quite 
 enough to make them stare and keep their 
 mouths agape. 
 
 There were cheers and shoutings. Red 
 fire was burned and Roman candles sput 
 tered sparks about them, for the friends 
 of the firemen had planned to do the thing 
 in style. Miss Jerry heeded not, for she 
 had wholly and utterly abandoned herself 
 to the charm of motion and music, her 
 lithe figure swaying in graceful unison 
 with every movement of the big horse. 
 
 And what did Lucifer care for noise 
 or fireworks? Frighten him! Evidently 
 you didn t know Lucifer. No, there was 
 but one person in all that crowd who had 
 the least idea as to where this splendid 
 [175]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 white horse might have appeared from. 
 This individual was a short, stockily built, 
 seedily dressed man who ran along the 
 curb, apparently more excited than the 
 shouting small boys who ran with him. 
 
 " It s him! It s him! " he cried at in 
 tervals. No one disputed the statement. 
 Perhaps it was because no one heard. But 
 when at last the band ceased and the big 
 horse with its rider wheeled into a side 
 street and slipped away from the crowd, 
 the seedy man was close behind, following 
 silently on a bicycle contributed unwil 
 lingly by an astonished youth. Even Miss 
 Jerry was not aware of his presence as 
 she slid off Lucifer s back at the Penny 
 front gate. 
 
 It had "been a wild prank, to be sure. 
 She supposed she ought to feel fright 
 ened and sorry. But, oh, it had been glo 
 rious! The tumult of it still raced in her 
 [176]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 veins. She knew that she only hoped that 
 sometime it might be done all over again. 
 Meanwhile the seedy man was busy. 
 
 It was not long after this that a 
 badly written, wonderfully spelled letter 
 reached Professor T. Caleb Norton, Pro 
 prietor and Manager of The Colossal 
 Equine Paragon Company. And when 
 the Professor had puzzled it all out he 
 was most extravagantly pleased. 
 
 " Ime Buckle Slater" the epistle be 
 gan. " line the osslur you fired lass spring. 
 It was me tuck loosifur cos i was mad but 
 he got away an i loss trak of him til jess 
 now. Now i kno ware loosifur is safe an 
 sound. I doant want no reward if you 
 doant want to jug me fer oss stealin. All 
 i want is to be tuck bak with loosifur an 
 cal it skware. Duz it go. 
 
 BUCKIE SLATER." 
 
 " Does it? " asked the Professor of the 
 empty air. "I guess yes! Why, that 
 rascally Buckie is the best hostler in the 
 [177]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 bunch, and if he wa n t, just to get hold 
 of Lucifer once more I d hire the Old 
 Boy himself. Besides, there s a matter 
 of a five thousand dollar reward that 
 needn t trouble me any more. I ll go 
 after them myself." 
 
 Forty-eight hours later there was a 
 touching reunion between two men. One 
 was a big, grizzly moustached personage 
 who wore in his wide striped shirt-front a 
 diamond cluster about the size of a door 
 knob. This was Professor T. Caleb Nor 
 ton. The other was a chunky, seedy- 
 looking individual the Professor called 
 " Buckie." When there had been full 
 confession and free forgiveness the Pro 
 fessor was in a hurry to get to other busi 
 ness. 
 
 " No good going out there to-night," 
 protested Buckie. You got to stay over, 
 anyways. In the mornin we ll slip out 
 [178]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 before sunup an I ll show you suthin 
 worth seein ." 
 
 Being more or less persistent Buckle 
 carried the day. Also his programme was 
 followed, even to hiding themselves in an 
 old cow-shelter on a knoll commanding a 
 good view of the untilled Penny acres. 
 It was as much as Buckie could do, how 
 ever, to prevent the Professor from spoil 
 ing everything as soon as he caught sight 
 of Lucifer. 
 
 "Wait, Professor; just you wait and 
 see her ride." 
 
 "Huh! Who couldn t ride," snorted 
 the Professor, " with the best-trained 
 horse in America under em? " 
 
 " That s all right, but wait, I says. See, 
 she goes it bareback with not even a hal 
 ter strap on his nose. Look at there! 
 Talk about yer lady equestriennes! Ever 
 see one sit a boss like that afore? Now 
 [179]
 
 they re off fer keeps. Ain t that a pace, 
 though? Now watch em take that fence! 
 Whoop-e-e-e! How s that fer hurdlin , 
 eh, Professor? " 
 
 But the Professor s eyes were glued to 
 the small end of a pair of field-glasses. 
 Only the rising and falling of the door 
 knob cluster on his striped shirt-front be 
 trayed his emotion. At length he de 
 manded: " Say, Buckie, who in Sam 
 Hill s the girl that can ride like that, and 
 where d she learn? " Buckie chuckled. 
 
 " Learn ! She didn t have to learn. 
 Remember Clara Du Courcey, that used 
 to ride fer old John Robinson? " 
 
 It was very unexpected, extremely 
 abrupt. Mr. Buckie Slater could not 
 imagine what had happened when he 
 found the big fingers of the Professor 
 gripping him by the throat. 
 
 " What d ye mean, you pie-faced little 
 [180]
 
 THE STRAYING OF LUCIFER 
 
 runt?" the Professor was roaring at 
 him. 
 
 i_i_i_that s her girl," spluttered 
 the unhappy Buckle. 
 
 "Not little Jerry! Is it? By thunder, 
 I believe it must be! Bless her, she rides 
 like it don t she?" 
 
 This happened some seasons ago, but 
 The Colossal Equine Paragon Company, 
 " bigger and better than ever," if you be 
 lieve the four-sheet posters, is still on the 
 road. It has a Wild West feature and a 
 squad of " genuine Cossacks," but the star 
 act, the one that is billed heaviest and 
 about which the manager shouts himself 
 red of face and hoarse of voice, is the per 
 formance given by Lucifer, " whom the 
 management stands ready to back as the 
 most wonderfully trained horse in the 
 world," and " the beautiful Miss Geral- 
 [181]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 dine Du Courcey, the only lady horse- 
 trainer in America." 
 
 " It was bred in the bone, bred in the 
 bone," whines Aunt Euphemia Penny, 
 dolefully. 
 
 Professor T. Caleb Norton says prac 
 tically the same thing, o.Jy in a different 
 manner, as he points proudly to horse and 
 rider. " Good blood in em both, sir. It ll 
 show, blood will, every time." 
 
 [182]
 
 DEACON: 
 
 AND HOW HE TOOK OUT THE 
 CHRISTMAS MAIL
 
 AND HOW HE TOOK OUT THE 
 CHRISTMAS MAIL 
 
 MOST things Deacon took as they 
 came, and with great calmness of 
 spirit, for he was an even-tempered old 
 horse, whose disposition a dozen years, 
 filled with the usual allotment of equine 
 adversity, had thoroughly seasoned. Yet 
 now he was pawing and stamping as im 
 patiently as any four-year-old. At in 
 tervals he would stretch his neck, thrust 
 forward his old white nose, and indulge in 
 a complaining whinny. There was reason 
 for Deacon s restlessness. More than an 
 hour ago he should have been on the move, 
 but here he was still waiting in the post- 
 [185]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 office shed, and never a sign or word from 
 his driver. Deacon, you understand, 
 pulled Uncle Sam s mail over Rural Free 
 Delivery route No. 2, Havertown, P. O. 
 He had pulled it for three years, and he 
 was fairly well versed in the business. At 
 any rate, he knew that it was past his start 
 ing time. Long before had the sway-back 
 sorrel on route No. 1 taken the road. The 
 pert little bay mare on No. 3 had followed 
 a few minutes later. Yet here was Dea 
 con, with the heaviest and longest route of 
 them all, still standing idly in the shed. 
 
 No wonder Deacon was losing his tem 
 per. It was cold in the shed. The fag 
 end of a New England December usually 
 brings that condition. The wind, whist 
 ling through the roof cracks, sifted fine, 
 powdery snow, swept from the glistening 
 drifts outside, down on Deacon s back. 
 To add to other discomforts, his blanket 
 [186]
 
 DEACON 
 
 had slipped to one side, and he was stamp 
 ing on it. 
 
 Something out of the ordinary must 
 have happened, of course. But Deacon, 
 although he knew many things, had no 
 philosophy to console him. He was chilled 
 through, his muscles were numbed, and he 
 longed to get out and jog along over the 
 snowy roads, jingling his sleigh bells and 
 stopping now and then for a moment s 
 rest. 
 
 Inside, in the Havertown Postoffice, 
 were a number of men whose frame of 
 mind was worse than Deacon s. One of 
 them was the postmaster himself. In the 
 first place, the simultaneous arrival of a 
 three- foot snow fall and the bulk of the 
 Christmas mail was bad enough. Next 
 came the disabling of one of his best driv 
 ers, and the discovery that two substitute 
 carriers were out of town. Well, the post- 
 [187]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 master said things. Dan Sweeney, driver 
 of No. 2 route, was disabled beyond 
 doubt. There he was, sitting on a pile of 
 mail sacks, his back against a steam radia 
 tor, his face white and drawn out of shape 
 by twinges of rheumatism. He had 
 dragged himself down to the office, but 
 that was all he could do. Now, although 
 he should have been sent back to bed, he 
 was sorting the mail for his route. He 
 was not doing it in the w r ay he usually did 
 a glance, a flash of the hand and a reach 
 for another letter. It w r as a much slower 
 business, for now and then the pain would 
 grip him tight and make him stop. Yet 
 the sorting must be done, and very care 
 fully, too, for a man almost wholly new to 
 the work was to take it out. 
 
 The Christmas mail, too!" groaned 
 Dan. He had a conscience, Dan had, and 
 his heart was in his work. 
 [188]
 
 DEACON 
 
 It was sight of the great pile of pack 
 ages which made Danny groan deepest. 
 They were more to him than simply so 
 much fourth-class matter, these string- 
 tied boxes and bundles. They were in 
 vested with something besides the statute- 
 guarded sanctity of the United States 
 mail, for which Dan Sweeney had no light 
 respect. He knew that each one of them 
 carried not only merchandise, but a subtle 
 freightage of the goodly holiday spirit, 
 the joyful sentiment of Christmastide. 
 
 And to think, just because of this 
 plaguey rheumatism of his, many of them 
 might not be delivered until the holiday 
 was over with, when they would come lag 
 ging along, as stale as firecrackers on the 
 fifth of July ! So Danny groaned. There 
 was a red cardboard box, tied about with 
 fishing line that was something for the 
 Skinner boy, out on Joel s road, from his 
 [189]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 uncle in Nova Scotia. There was a big, 
 store-wrapped parcel, bearing a New 
 York postmark dolls, probably, for the 
 Allison twins from their wealthy aunt. 
 Well, if the twins got their dolls before 
 the day after Christmas they would be 
 lucky, for on an R. F. D. route you can 
 not deliver by street numbers. One must 
 know the folks. And the new man did not 
 know them. There!" said Danny at 
 last, to the office clerk who was to attempt 
 the task, " you stow the packages in just 
 that order and do your best to find where 
 they go. Old Deacon 11 take you over the 
 route all right if you give him his head. 
 He knows it like a book." 
 
 So the Christmas mail was finally 
 started out over route No. 2. Deacon 
 turned an inquiring eye on the new man, 
 as much as if to ask what was the matter 
 with Danny. But the office clerk, his per- 
 [190]
 
 DEACON 
 
 plexed mind filled with the many things he 
 had been told to remember, paid no heed to 
 the old white horse between the shafts. 
 Perhaps he should not be blamed. Dea 
 con was not handsome. He was chiefly re 
 markable for the soberness of his long 
 face, a characteristic which had earned him 
 his name. Somewhat stiff in the fore- 
 knees was Deacon, and his winter coat of 
 long white hair was a bit shabby to look at. 
 Yet for all this, any one who knew horses 
 could have told by the full, wide-set eyes, 
 by the square, honest muzzle, that Deacon 
 was no ordinary " fool " horse. In fact, 
 although wanting in beauty, and of un 
 certain pedigree, Deacon lacked neither 
 sense nor bottom. During the years that 
 he and Danny had carried the mail over 
 that route he had learned every turn and 
 corner, every mail box and stopping place 
 on it. 
 
 [191]
 
 No sooner had they reached Joel s road, 
 where the route began, than Deacon real 
 ized the inexperience of the new man. 
 Why, he was actually going to drive right 
 past the Powers place, and the Powerses 
 almost always had mail of some kind, even 
 if it wasn t more than a poultry magazine 
 or a seed catalogue. After one or two such 
 mistakes Deacon took charge of things 
 himself. From house to house he went, 
 stopping wherever he had been in the 
 habit of calling, waiting until the new car 
 rier found who lived there and had looked 
 through letters and parcels to see if he 
 had anything for them. 
 
 It was a long and tedious method. The 
 drifts, out on the open roads beyond the 
 city s edge, were wide and deep, but 
 through them Deacon plunged doggedly, 
 behind him, lurching and careening like a 
 ship at sea, the yellow-painted, glass- 
 [192]
 
 DEACON 
 
 fronted box on runners, the box that was 
 now so heavily laden with the material 
 symbols of the Christmas spirit. 
 
 The fact that every one along the route 
 knew Deacon as far as they could see him 
 was a help. They were generally on the 
 lookout for him, and on this day they were 
 watching closely, you may be sure. No 
 sooner did he come to a halt at a gate or a 
 post than some one, perhaps half a dozen 
 eager-eyed children, came running out to 
 see what he had brought. 
 
 All the forenoon and all the afternoon 
 this went on, but when the red sun went 
 down in the frosty west there still re 
 mained half a hundred letters and more 
 than a peck of packages to be delivered. 
 The new man was hungry and tired, but 
 he was no quitter. So he begged some hay 
 and oats for Deacon, borrowed a lantern, 
 and together they started to finish the 
 [193]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 route. As for Deacon, his old knees were 
 stiffer than ever, his big shoulder muscles 
 ached, his flanks heaved like a pair of 
 blacksmith s bellows, but he plunged on, 
 never skipping a single house, never hesi 
 tating at a roundabout half mile, doing his 
 whole duty quite as thoroughly as if there 
 had been some one behind to urge him on 
 instead of a cold-numbed clerk who no 
 longer even touched the reins. At last 
 only one letter was left, a thick, bulky one 
 in a blue waterproof envelope, bearing 
 a foreign postmark. " Josiah Braisted, 
 Esq.," was the address. 
 
 "Braisted, eh?" muttered the clerk. 
 " Wonder if the old horse knows where he 
 lives?" 
 
 Evidently Deacon did, for lie was plow 
 ing through a big drift, heading straight 
 out on the Boston road into the darkness. 
 Far ahead, on the top of a long hill, the 
 [194]
 
 DEACON 
 
 clerk could see the lights of a big house. 
 There were no other lights between. Miles 
 behind he could make out the glow of the 
 city. The clerk wished he could be back 
 there, where one could be warm again and 
 get something hot to eat. With numb fin 
 gers he pulled out his watch. Half -past 
 nine! Why, it would take them a good 
 two hours to drive back now! Braisted be 
 hanged! He could get his letter after 
 Christmas. 
 
 So he grabbed the reins and indicated 
 to Deacon a desire to turn around. But 
 Deacon would not turn. Pull on the rein 
 as he might, Deacon would only swing his 
 head about, keeping his legs moving 
 straight ahead. By much shouting and 
 sawing on the reins Deacon was stopped. 
 Then the new driver waded out to his 
 head, took him by the bits and tried to 
 point the horse the other way. Deacon 
 [195]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 refused to budge. Those lights on the top 
 of the long hill marked the end of the 
 route, and Deacon knew it. And to those 
 lights they went. " Josiah Braisted?" 
 asked the driver curtly of the young 
 woman who answered his ring. 
 
 " Oh, it s come; it s come! " she shouted 
 to some one within, as she held out her 
 hand eagerly for the letter. 
 
 Never before had he seen so much ex 
 citement caused by the delivery of a letter. 
 In a moment there were three or four per 
 sons in the front hall, all talking at once. 
 
 "Do you think it will save him, doc 
 tor? " asked the anxious faced old lady 
 who had followed the girl to the door. 
 
 : It will if anything will, I guess," an 
 swered a stout, bearded man. And he 
 mounted the stairs to see the patient in 
 the upper room. 
 
 Then they insisted that the half-frozen 
 [196]
 
 
 DEACON REFUSED TO BUDGE
 
 DEACON 
 
 clerk come inside and have something to 
 eat. Deacon? Oh, they would take care 
 of Deacon. They did all this and more. 
 It seemed that this letter had been long 
 expected, and was sadly needed, for it 
 came from a prodigal son to a very sick 
 father. It had its effect, too. 
 
 Of course the clerk told them of Dea 
 con s heroic stubbornness, of how the old 
 horse had insisted on going to the very end 
 of the route when he had tried to turn him 
 back. Josiah Braisted, Esq., heard the 
 story during his convalescence. 
 
 " I must tell my son about that when He 
 comes home," he would repeat as they told 
 him of the part Deacon played in the 
 story. We ought to do something for 
 that old horse," he said. 
 
 They did, too. The office clerk, who 
 will first show you a handsome gold watch, 
 tells the story best, always ending with, 
 [197]
 
 JUST HORSES 
 
 " And old Deacon, why, he lives out tHere 
 on the Braisted place like a thoroughbred. 
 He s in clover, he is." 
 
 " Well," Dan Sweeney will add, " it s no 
 more n he deserves. Old Deacon was a 
 mighty good horse in his day, and mighty 
 knowin ." 
 
 [198]
 
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