Authors: Robert Ashcom
“One time when she was a foal,” Matthew said, “she was running in the pasture. You know that growed-up pasture behind old man Waits’s house? It was worse then. But there was grass in it, and the mare needed to eat to raise her foal. There was a lot of black locust in that field. Leonard saw it happen. Saw her slip and run right into a tree with locust stobs sticking out all over it. And drove one right into her eye. And her swinging her head back and forth in pain. Leonard’s daddy wanted to put her down. Said it would just get infected and cost money. But Leonard nursed her back without no veterinary. She growed up and they named her Bat and she been working ever since. That’s all. That’s what happened.”
There was silence.
“You never told me.”
“You never did ask. How can I tell you what you don’t ask?” He paused. “Now Charlie,” said Matthew talking his slowest, “you listen to me. You might go through your whole life and never again meet nobody like Clarence Flint. But if you do, there’s one damn sure thing, you’ll know who he is and shun him. You never did think Leonard was like Clarence, did you?”
There was silence.
Then Charlie slowly shook his head. He looked worn out from the tension of the story. The old mule stirred. Charlie turned to look at her. The boy had stopped shaking and even though his back was to
him, Matthew felt him smile. It was a mild evening. Abruptly the old mule flopped her comic ears forward and lowered her head. Charlie walked up to her and stared at her blind, milky eye.
“That scar always been there,” said Matthew. “You just ain’t ever seen it before. But then again, I reckon you ain’t ever had the need before.”
She came from the Price family’s little hardpan farm, five ridges back from the barn at the Corn House. She was gray, flea-bitten gray, which meant she was white with little black specks scattered over her body. And because of our red-clay soil, what you actually saw varied from light pink in the summer to reddish brown in the winter. The shade of red was governed by rainfall. In times of drought or summer heat, when her coat was short, she was almost her natural color, almost white. In the winter, with a long coat and rain, she would turn the vivid color of the soil and stay that way for months. In the beginning, Mr. Lewis tried to get Charlie to groom the little mare regularly. The idea was to keep her looking clean, not reddish brown or pink. The effort was, of course, a failure. Hot water
and soap wouldn’t have done it, let alone what Charlie’s daddy called elbow grease. She was indivisible from the land. Her name was Tricksey.
Everyone agreed the name was awful. Charlie wanted to rename her Fleet Foot because it fit with his ideas about what he was going to do with her. But it didn’t stick. She came Tricksey and many years later she died Tricksey. Almost immediately Charlie began referring to her as “the pony.” And that is what she became in everyday use.
The purchase of the pony was the result of the promise given during the summer. His father had meant it when he agreed that in the fall Charlie would get a pony, when horses and ponies were for sale at the right price because cold weather meant hay and feed and not everyone could carry livestock over the winter.
Charlie had seen Jimmy Price riding her around the village and announced he thought she would do just fine. Jimmy had even let Charlie try her in the lot behind the store. Jimmy was an accepted authority on horses because he had that mare named Princess, who would lie down and roll over on command. Tricksey was no Princess, but Jimmy held out the vague hope that she might be taught to at least lie down. Tricksey did respond to Charlie by doing more or less what he wanted. She circled obediently around the lot, stopping and going forward on command. Also, she was short enough that he could climb on her from the ground. So Charlie fastened his desire on Tricksey.
Matthew couldn’t see any reason why not. Everyone knew the Price family. Old Aaron Price was a blacksmith—mainly horseshoeing, not ironwork—whose family had been around nearly as long as the Jameses, so you knew who you were buying from.
The negotiation for her purchase was complex. Messages were sent via Jimmy. In the beginning, Aaron didn’t really want to sell her. It wasn’t that he needed her. He didn’t, but he collected horses the way Luke Henry collected hounds. He must have had ten horses and ponies on the twenty-five-acre hardpan red-clay plot that he called a farm. In addition to shoeing, he was a part-time horse trader who didn’t really trade horses very often because he seemed to like them all and want to keep them.
The Price’s house and barns were made of logs, the fences of field-pine poles. The place looked like something out of old times, like a little fortified compound. There was no plumbing, and water was dipped from the dug well right behind the kitchen. There were three cows and three steers and the usual hog pen over the hill behind the house. Add the money from Aaron’s shoeing, and they were self-sufficient.
The lane into the compound was solid red clay, between banks that were nearly as high as the cab of Matthew’s old black pickup. Charles Lewis wondered aloud how the Prices got in and out in bad weather.
“They leave their truck out to the hard road and walk,” said Matthew. “No way on earth you going to get a truck up this lane if it’s wet.”
Aaron was trying to retire. That meant he wanted Jimmy to take up the slack of the shoeing so Aaron could sit on the porch and chew, take a pull at the jug every once in a while, and look out at the stock—and maybe buy and sell some horses. Jimmy didn’t necessarily mind the work. It was just that he liked all kinds of other things as well—horse shows in the spring and summer and livestock sales in the winter, and just plain wandering around the countryside visiting with people. But Jimmy had real talent. At sixteen, he was already a master horseshoer. His work was in demand.
Aaron was sitting on the front porch. As Charles and Matthew and Charlie approached, he spat over the porch rail and smiled his nearly toothless grin and said come on up and have a seat. Matthew did the talking while Charles looked bored and Charlie fidgeted.
Finally Aaron summed it up. “Well, Matthew, I never did really want to sell that little mare and $150 don’t sound like enough, but”—here he spat conclusively over the rail—“I’ll think on it and let you know.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lewis. Charlie, you sure are growing like a weed. That little mare
would
suit you …”
Back in the truck Charlie talked a mile a minute as if to make up for the time lost while Matthew and old Aaron hemmed and hawed.
“When can I take her home, Matthew?”
“Don’t you go getting all hotted up over it, Charlie. That old man don’t do nothing in a hurry.”
“How long? A week?”
“Do you think he’ll sell her at all?” Charles asked. “Mr. Price didn’t seem anxious to me.”
“Don’t you be fooled by that, Mr. Lewis,” Matthew replied. “You can bet your life Miz Price was back in the kitchen listening, and no sooner we was gone she come at him about getting rid of that pony cause they had bills to pay and how he didn’t need her nohow … No, he’ll let her go. We just might have to wait a week or two.”
Two days later the Price’s log house caught fire and burned to the ground along with the main barn, which was only forty feet from the back door. Everyone got out, people and livestock. The three older boys had already moved out and were starting families, so at the time of the fire only Jimmy and Aaron and the old lady were at home. The community rallied round. The three humans moved into the vacant cottage at the back of Mill Creek Farm. The cows and steers were sold and the horses split up between Silver Hill and Mill Creek. Much to Charlie’s disgust, Tricksey—because she was a mare and the mares were kept together—went to Mill Creek.
And then, just like out of the Bible, Aaron had a heart attack and, the day after that, died. Everyone said it was the strain of losing the place where he had lived all his life.
Whatever the reason, Mrs. Price was now in charge. She was an old-fashioned lady who was tall and up-right
and wore long dresses and a sun bonnet, summer and winter. She had put up with Aaron and Jimmy’s horse foolishness for years, but the morning after the funeral, she marched into the post office and told Mr. Dudley that the horses were for sale—cheap. And please tell Matthew when you see him to come and get that pony mare, and $150 was just fine. This scene was watched with interest by everyone in the store/post office. Normally Mrs. Price only came into the store to buy groceries. The rest of the time she sat in the truck while Jimmy and Aaron stood around inside and talked.
But not now. It was as if she had been waiting all her life to step into this situation. Within two days the horses were sold except Princess. Mrs. Price had made arrangements with a cousin to rent a house in a village ten miles north of us. Jimmy suddenly had a new outlook on life because his mama told him if he didn’t spend his time shoeing horses, Princess would go somewhere else along with the rest of the useless horses. She meant it. And Jimmy knew it.
So the deal was struck for Tricksey. And for another fifty dollars, a flat English saddle and a bridle were thrown in. The money was delivered. All that was left was to get the pony home from the back pasture at Mill Creek. Of course, Charlie wanted to ride her home but Gretchen put her foot down. After all, the boy really knew nothing about riding. She just would-n’t hear of it. Matthew had not been on a horse since he was a little boy. And, anyway, he was too big for
that pony. Or so he said.
That left Charlie’s father, who quickly realized he was stuck with it. Sitting on the pony, his feet were only a foot from the ground. He had himself not sat on a horse or pony since he was a boy at camp. Matthew and Charlie watched as Charles made his way across the field, headed for the Corn House. Charles had one hand on the reins and the other on the top of his head holding down his hat as if in wind. But there was no wind. Just a late October afternoon with the leaves in full color and the air mild and dry.
“Hurry, Matthew!” Charlie said. “We need to be at home just as soon as he gets there.”
“There ain’t no hurry. It’ll take him an hour and even my old truck can make it in ten minutes. No hurry.”
They stood next to the white fence. Matthew leaned on the top board, his black hands resting lightly on the whitewashed oak. Charlie watched through the second board as the little mare and his father disappeared over the hill.
A young red-tailed hawk came across the woods from the steep hill behind them, lightly riding the air. He was young enough that his body was still white with dark spots. He whistled his harsh “keeeeer” and for a second halted his journey and looked down.
“Look, Matthew, he’s hunting. How can he do that? I mean just stop in midair like that.”
Before Matthew could answer, the hawk dove like a rock, falling into a clump of broom sage. He paused
and spread his wings. His red tail feathers were the color of the clay soil. When he rose up into the air again, he was clutching a vole with one foot. Then he was gone, over the hill and gone.
Hawks were coming back now that the number of people keeping chickens steadily declined. They were no longer shot on sight. Charlie took them for granted, while Matthew was always surprised to see one after the long years when there had been none. Gradually they were becoming part of the backdrop of our lives, the sound of their cry part of the rhythm of our world.
“How did he know where the vole was?” Charlie asked. “He just stopped all that way off the ground and then dove. How did he know, Matthew?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I just don’t know. When I growed up, they’d been shot out to where you never saw one. I never had a chance to watch when I was little. Maybe if there had of been a lot of them to look at, I might have seen how they did it. Maybe you can figure it out what with there being plenty to watch.” And then he said abruptly, “Let’s go. Time to be home and get ready for that pony.” Charlie’s mind turned away from the hawk’s eyesight and came back to the pony.
“Yes, let’s hurry. Come on!” and headed for the truck.
Everyone was lined up in the lane in front of the Corn House, when Mr. Lewis came over the hill at Silver Hill and started down the lane to home. First
there was Gretchen, looking slightly apprehensive but happy that Charlie would have a horse of his own. She thought of the pony as a horse because she had never been around them growing up, so a horse was a horse no matter what the size. Matthew and Charlie completed the human delegation, with Matthew standing between Charlie and his mother. Next was Bat the one-eyed mare mule, Charlie’s friend despite the fact that an eight-year-old boy seldom if ever had a mule for a friend—at least as far as any of us knew. And finally Brown, an amiable, longhaired mongrel dog of that color who belonged to a family in the village but spent most of his time on the road scavenging. One of his ears stood straight up and the other flopped over, as if he could understand questions and answers at the same time. He had a regular route and today was his day to be at the Corn House.
As Mr. Lewis came down the hill, obviously in some discomfort from the long, unaccustomed ride, Bat cocked her head, flopped her ears forward, and produced an appropriate bellow of welcome that frightened the pony, who whirled around, nearly leaving Charlie’s daddy behind, and started back the way she had come. It only took a couple of strides for Mr. Lewis to regain control, but it was typical. Over time, the pony was to gain some local fame for independence, and almost unloading Mr. Lewis before he had even got her home was her first shot. Charlie was beside himself with excitement.
“Get off, Daddy. Get off so I can ride.” This even
before Mr. Lewis had recovered from almost being ditched. Then he was down and Charlie was up, pulling at the stirrup leathers to make them a couple of feet shorter. But it didn’t work. There weren’t enough holes. Charlie tensed all over and looked up with something like panic in his eyes. Matthew said later that he had never seen a kid tie himself in such knots over a pony.
“Now what, Matthew? They won’t work. There aren’t enough holes.” Charlie, of course, turned to Matthew in this time of emergency.