Part 8

Once more Little Watcher rose--his body rigid, his head stretched out, his brush on a stiff line with his back, and from crest to tail his hair stood up belligerently. Then, with a shrill yelp of defiance he leaped forward and caught the other by the throat.

His fangs were sharp, his hold was a vise. One rending pull, and the strange coyote pitched end for end between his fellows. They smelled the warm blood--and leaped upon him with a wrangle of exultant cries.

Out of her hogan rushed the Old Woman waving a pine torch above her head and shrieking to scare the intruders. They ran to a safe distance, from where they stopped to look round. The Old Woman did not follow them nor trouble to wake the Boy. When she had gone among the goats to see that none was hurt or missing, she dragged the dead coyote some rods away, and returned to give Little Watcher a caress.

But there was no rest for Little Watcher. Still bristled, he stayed inside the corral, now skirting the goats on fleet foot, now pausing beside his black foster mother, but always licking his chops and mumbling crossly.

It was then the season that follows the first rains. A haze of green lay on the desert--a haze touched here by the yellow of sunflower and marigold masses, there by the purple of the larkspur’s slender wand, again by a fleck of gleaming alkali.

But all too soon that haze was gone again, melting away with the hot kiss of the sun. Greasewood and mesquite showed the only verdure now, and the flock found the picking poor.

So, one dawn, a burro was loaded with blankets, the cooking pottery, and some water bottles filled at the precious spring. Then the squaw said farewell to the Boy, who stayed to tend orchard and corn strips, and drove her bearded company out of the cedar corral. Soon she was well on her way, and the grey and the red sandstone ribbons of the mesa precipice were blending and fading behind her.

Finally, when more than a score of camps had been pitched and broken, the goats were stopped near the cottonwood-lined bed of a dry stream. Here the burro was unloaded, the Old Woman made a sun shelter of boughs on the bare gravel of the arroyo, and dug for, and found, water.

Grazing was good, and the goats fattened. So did Little Watcher, who fared well on the daily spoil of the squaw’s snares. Here, too, almost in the shadow of the wooded Tunicha Mountains, was peace--for a period.

Each night the goats were driven in to the line of cottonwoods, where, bunched together, they lay down. On one side of them was the shelter of boughs, where the Old Woman slept, rousing occasionally to put a length of mesquite root upon her torch fire; on the opposite side, close to his picketed foster mother, dozed Little Watcher, flat upon his belly, his hind legs stretched out straight with his tail, his muzzle on his forepaws. But, like the squaw, he waked now and again, and listened--head high, ears upright and moving, amber eyes glowing in the dark. And he often heard what the other did not--the far-off staccato _yip! yip! yip!_ of the prairie wolf on a scent.

Then, for a second time during his term of guarding, enemies appeared--boldly, in broad daylight, when the Old Woman was away looking to her traps. It was now the season when the coyote runs in pairs. And but two appeared, out of a patch of cactus to the mountain side of the goats. From the cacti, they came darting down upon the nearest of the flock--Little Watcher’s black foster mother.

But before they could reach her, a streak of tawny grey shot between. And as the she-goat scrambled up, bleating in terror, to join the herd, Little Watcher, all bristled from crest to tail, met the male of the coyote pair and buried his teeth in his flank.

They fought furiously, rolling over and over, sending the sand into the air, tearing up the greasewood, mingling their cries of pain and rage. From the edge of the cactus patch, the female watched them, rather indifferently, however, and with frequent hungry glances in the direction of the goats.

The gaunt stranger was no match for the guardian of the flock. Very soon the battle was over. Then Little Watcher looked up, and at the female. There she was at the summit of the gentle rise, apparently waiting, and turning her head prettily this way and that. Little Watcher loped toward her. She let him come close, then wheeled and sped away through the cacti. He followed.

He was back before nightfall, and lay down at the feet of the aged Navajo, his eyes furtive, as if he were conscious of neglected duty, his tongue lolling with a long, hard run. Alternately scolding and caressing him, the Old Woman gave him a few laps from her gourd shell, and presently he sought out his foster mother and rested beside her until the goats sought the cottonwoods.

But thereafter he often left his charges to go bounding away toward the mountains, and not even the proffering of food could tempt him to stay. Sometimes of a night he would rise and sneak off. Sometimes of a morning he would trot to the top of a near-by rise, stop, look round upon the goats, give a troubled whine--and disappear.

Then, one day, as suddenly as these excursions had begun, they came to an end. He was returning to the flock after a long jaunt, when, not far to his right, there appeared a moving figure, wound in a blanket and topped with white. It was not unlike a yucca, crowned by a cream-coloured bloom. Now, in a new posture, it was not unlike a stumpy saguaro with one outspread branch. The curiosity of his kind impelled him to halt. As he did so, placing his forefeet on a rock, the better to see, he caught the familiar scent of the Boy, and saw that the latter was holding out toward him a long, strange something upon which the light glinted. The next moment there was a puff of smoke--a report--and Little Watcher fell to the sand.

He lay flat upon his side for a short space, his tail limp and thin, his eyes closed. Then, striving to rise, he found himself able only to control his forelegs, for his hinder ones would not obey his will, and at the small of his back was a spot that stung. This he could reach, and he alternately snapped round at it with a doleful cry or licked it tenderly.

It was early morning then, and he did not mind the heat. But later, as the sun mounted and burned the sand, he pulled himself along to some spiny buck brush, and spent the rest of the day in its meagre shade. He knew the flock was not far, for their rank odour was borne to him on the wind. And so, the sun gone, leaving only great strokes of orange upon the sky and a fire-edged hill where its last light rested, he took his way toward home, dragging his hind quarters.

Twilight was yet on the desert as he came in sight of the goats. There they went, trailing across the purple levels to the long, black, wavering line of cottonwoods, behind them, two herders. Faster he pulled himself along, giving a quick little bark, now and then, that ended in a howl. But he was not able to cross the summit of the ridge from which he looked. And so he dropped down upon a red-black stretch of glassy lava. For hours thirst had cruelly assailed him. As often in times past he had drunk from rain-filled pockets in the sandstone, he now licked feverishly at the still blistering rock.

There night found him. Between his lappings, he lay flat, being too hurt and weary to hold himself up. His muzzle was toward the flock and he could see the place of its lying down. For there burned the evening fire, a dot of light on a vast sheet of blackness. He shivered, giving puppy-like barks, as when, a whelp, he tagged his foster mother, the she-goat; he lifted his muzzle to the stars and mourned.

Behind him, other cries answered--faintly, against the wind. He perked his ears, listening.

_Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_--the running cry of prairie wolves on a scent!

He looked down upon the level, where sparks were flying up from the Old Woman’s fire. Once more, rallying all his strength, he tried to make headway toward the goats. Once more, he could not cross the ridge. He whined helplessly.

Nearer and nearer sounded the coyote cries behind, dulling a little as the pack descended into a draw, redoubling in strength when they came out upon higher ground.

And now they were so near that Little Watcher could hear their short pantings as they loped forward. And now he could see them coming his way through the dark. With a growl, he sat up, ears laid back, hair on end.

_Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_

Up from behind the pine-covered Tunichas rose the moon--full, white, spreading a day-like radiance upon the great slopes and levels of the desert.

From the brush shelter among the cottonwoods, the Old Woman and the Boy lifted their eyes to look, and saw, silhouetted against it, at the summit of the lava stretch, a lone coyote, seemingly seated upon its haunches.

The squaw got to her feet, wristlets and chains tinkling, and leaned to peer among the goats. The Boy sprang up, too, his gaze toward the ridge top.

“Little Watcher!” he called anxiously; “Little Watcher!”

Then into the moonlight on the distant summit they saw other wolf forms race; and as these centred to where the lone coyote sat, saw him struggle forward to meet them. And through the desert night, there came a shrill yelp of defiance--then a wrangle of exultant cries.

MISSY AND I

It all happened after Missy and I arrived from San Francisco. I was taken to Hart’s (which, as you must know, is one of the most perfectly appointed boarding-places for horses in New York) and given a roomy box-stall toward the front of the stable. Across from me was another box, just as large and loose. In it was a stylish black gelding with docked tail and hogged mane. That was Thunderbolt.

I was very car-stiff. For though I came by express on the same train with Missy, it had taken six days. My first day at Hart’s, as she was in my stall, petting me and giving me nice bites of carrot (it was a Wednesday, Wednesday being my day for carrots), a man came down the row of stalls with Martin, the head-groom. As he turned to open Thunderbolt’s box, he looked at me--or Missy--(his look was admiring, anyway) and raised his hat. That was Thunderbolt’s master.

Missy bowed back, sweetly, but gravely, and went on feeding me.

I did not know he was Thunderbolt’s master then. But later, before Peter, one of the under-grooms, took me out for an airing (I was not fit, Missy said, to be ridden--but I noticed Peter rode me when he got me out of sight of the stable), I nickered over to Thunderbolt to ask him who his visitor was.

“That is my master,” said he, putting his head over the side of his box. “And he is one of the best masters I have ever had.”

I gave a good horse laugh at that. “_One_ of the best,” I said. For I had never belonged to anyone but Missy, and _I_ think that a first-class animal doesn’t keep changing quarters.

Thunderbolt put back his ears. “That is what I said,” he went on, “and I’m not going to turn a hair over it, either. A change of monogram can happen to _anybody_.”

“Of course,” said I, taking particular pains to show mine. It was on my best dress-blanket, which Peter was putting on, and which was made to order for me in Missy’s father’s woolen mills. “But how did it happen that you--eh----”

Thunderbolt’s eyes showed a rim of white--a bad-temper sign that no thoroughbred (and no part thoroughbred) allows himself to make. “‘You’re as silly as a filly,’” he quoted. “A horse may just be off his oats a little--that was my case--or home-sick.”

“_I_ can understand _that_.”

“Any crow-bait could. But now that I’m here----”

“Lucky nag!” said I.

“Bet your bridle!” returned Thunderbolt. “My master comes in with his pockets fairly sticking out with good things. Have you noticed?”

“No, but I will,” I promised.

And I did. The very next morning, here came Thunderbolt’s master again. I put my nose out when I saw him. He stopped and smoothed my neck. And, meanwhile, I found a pocket jammed with grass.

As Thunderbolt saw the grass disappear, he laid back his ears. “The Dealers take you!” he grumbled.

“Don’t get ugly,” I said. “I’ll divide my tidbits with you. To-day I’ll get an apple.”

“How do you know?” he snorted. He was careful to appear on his best behaviour, however, for his master was looking at his hoofs.

“Monday, sweet biscuit,” I began; “Tuesday, sugar; Wednesday, carrots; Thursday, an apple; Friday, cracked corn; Saturday, stale bread and molasses; Sunday, marshmallows.”

“What are marshmallows?” asked Thunderbolt. “Do they grow in a meadow?”

“They don’t,” I answered. “They come in Missy’s handkerchief. As near as I can make out, they are sweet chunks of bran mash.”

We stopped talking then, for Missy came, dressed for a canter. She didn’t see Thunderbolt’s master at first, for he was still stooping over. And after I had a bite of apple, she held out a piece to Thunderbolt.

“You pretty fellow!” she said.

At that, up popped Thunderbolt’s master. And they bowed, and said good-morning, and he pointed out Thunderbolt’s good points--deep chest and bold eye, and Missy followed with mine--tapering ears, broad forehead set with a star, and long, arched neck. So it was quite a bit before I was ready to go out. Thunderbolt’s master put Missy up and drove his trap beside us so that they could chat all the way to the Park.

“_Did_ you notice?” asked Thunderbolt when we were both in again and John and Peter were grooming us.

“Did I notice what?” I asked, licking my salt.

“You haven’t good horse sense,” declared Thunderbolt. “A flea-bitten screw with cockled hocks would see more. _Didn’t_ you notice how nice my master was to your Missy?”

I fairly pawed with delight. “Of course I noticed it,” I answered. And until the next apple-day I was careful to do my part. I nosed Thunderbolt’s master when he came in, I picked up my feet in my best style when I went out beside his trap, and I pranced. And when Missy wanted to turn me into the bridle-path, I passaged and champed.

Thunderbolt’s master and Missy spent an hour in our boxes every day. They fed us dainties and talked to each other, and he was especially kind to me, patting me a lot and praising me. And I saw--well, I can see farther than my muzzle--and I was as happy as a Grand Prix winner.

And then one day--something seemed wrong with Missy. She arrived earlier than usual, and had nothing for me. When she entered my stall, she threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she whispered, so sadly. And I saw she had a letter crumpled up in one hand.

When Peter took off my sheet, she stepped back and looked me over. “You _dear_ darling!” she said, just as if she were going to cry. “Peter, _isn’t_ he beautiful? I’ve had him ever since he was a colt.” And she laid her pretty cheek against me.

“Oi never seen a foiner, miss,” said Peter. “Up-headed, an’ wid a mouth that ud drive on a t’read.”

Thunderbolt’s master came in then, and when he’d said good-morning he sent Peter away for something and stepped over into my box. Missy turned away from him, and he couldn’t help but see that she wasn’t acting as usual. But I don’t believe he understood it any better than I did. For he looked puzzled, and then he raised his hat again.

“Do you know,” he said, “it’s just occurred to me that I’ve been very remiss. I’ve never even introduced myself properly to you. And I haven’t the pleasure of your name, either.”

“If people are fond of horses----” began Missy. She fell to patting my nose.

“My name is England,” went on Thunderbolt’s master, “Edward England.”

Instantly, I felt Missy’s fingers tighten, and I saw her face grow white. “England!” she said under her breath; “Edward England!”

She was standing on my off side now, and Thunderbolt’s master could not see her. “I presume it’s a name you’re not unfamiliar with,” he went on again. “But don’t mistake me for dad. He’s been manipulating wool lately, and the press keeps pretty close track of him.” And he laughed.

“Yes--I--I have heard,” answered Missy, slowly, and as Peter led me toward the runway, she followed--without another word. She walked unevenly, as a horse goes when he’s got the blind staggers.

I was sorry she hadn’t told him who _we_ were. For I must say that, on the Coast, no family stands better than the Sanborns. But Missy was changed--something had happened to her.

The very next day, something happened to _me_. Peter came down the stalls with a strange groom behind him and stopped at my box. For the swish of a tail, I didn’t think anything of that, for we often have new grooms. But when Peter put on my halter, and then my hood and dress-blanket, and the man took my leading-strap, I knew I was to be taken away somewhere.

I felt so startled and excited that I am sure I misbehaved. But the groom talked kindly to me, and Peter slapped me on the flank, and so I tried to go quietly. I think the other horses knew I was leaving--that strange groom gave them the hint. They looked around at me, and one whinnied to ask me what was the matter. They were all stall boarders, and of course I didn’t know them. And I was too unhappy to answer, anyway. For Thunderbolt was out in the trap, and, if I was going, I could not tell him good-bye.

“What if I’m _sold_?” I kept saying to myself as I went down the runway and out to the street. “What if I’m _sold_?” I shivered, for all my covering. “Oh, Missy, you _wouldn’t_ do that!”

Then another terrible thought: Is Missy going to get an auto? But that couldn’t be--Missy _hates_ autos.

Soon enough, I found out what had happened. The strange groom led me toward the Hudson, then north again--I am never mistaken in directions--and, finally, into a good-sized stable that stood midway of a block. Here, I was led upstairs--_and into a standing-stall_.

It made me cross, and I tried my hind shoes on the mats in short order (a blooded horse is expected to be nervous and impatient at times). But the place was clean and comfortable, and the double line of horses were, I must say, a very decent lot--not show horses, but good of their kind. All were fresh littered and well blanketed, and seemed contented enough. “This is where I’m going to live, I guess,” I thought to myself. Pretty soon I was sure of it. For here came Missy in her riding clothes.

“It’s all very nice,” I heard her tell the strange groom. “And I want you to give him every attention.” She opened one hand. There was a green piece of paper in it, and he bobbed his head as he took it. Then she opened her other hand--and there was some cracked corn. So it was on a Friday that I came to my new quarters.

It was three days later before I saw Thunderbolt and his master. We all met in the Park.

“They tell me Hector’s left Hart’s,” said Mr. England to Missy. “Now, Miss Sanborn,--you see I’ve found out who you are--it really wasn’t fair of you to go without letting me know about it. We’re both wool people, you must remember.” He spoke jokingly; but he looked a little worried.

Missy straightened in her stirrups (she rides cross-saddle) and tightened my reins. I felt them tremble. “I’ve moved,” she said, “and so, of course, Hector had to come nearer me.”

“I see--of course. Where are you now?”

“At Hawley’s, uptown--a nice stable.”

“Oh, yes.” (Mr. England looked hard at the dog’s head on the butt of his whip.)

There was an awkward silence. Then, “Good-afternoon,” said Missy, and went on.

It didn’t take me long to realise one thing about my new home. It was not so good as the old; in the main comforts it was, but not in little ones. We got two groomings instead of three; the litter was not deep, as at Hart’s; we were not watered so often; there was no more briny hay, and no flaxseed jelly. Several times, too, I saw delivery horses coming up a runway from the basement, and being put to heavy wagons. The horses on my floor, when they went out, were wickedly checked to make them hold up their heads.

Their treatment of me was always the perfection of good stable manners, and among the whole lot there was only one that especially irritated me. He was a bay with black points, one of those under-sized, jack-rabbity little nuisances called a Shetland.

“My! what airs!” he exclaimed one day as he was passing me in his governess’s cart. “I presume you’re much too fine to take hay-tea with the rest of us.”

“Don’t class yourself with the others,” I answered. “You remind me of nothing so much as a flea drawing a wash-basket.”

After that brush, he let me alone. And I tried to be contented at Hawley’s. I must say that Missy was kinder than ever to me. On apple days I got several, and on Saturdays a double quantity of stale bread and molasses. So why kick?

But very soon my dainties began to dwindle, and often Missy gave me none at all, so that I lost track of the days. And I noticed, when we went out for our regular gallop, that Missy never hummed to herself as we went along, or stopped to let me crop a little green, or nodded pleasantly to the mounted police we passed. She rode slowly, with her head down, or set me going at a run.

Then, when I had been at the new stable not more than two weeks, a strange groom came down the stalls to me for a second time. Again my hood and dress-blanket were put on, and I was led down and out. The groom was a hang-dog looking fellow. Still, I went with a prancing step. For I knew what it meant. I was going back to Martin and my box-stall!

But I wasn’t. We turned north again, going up a cobbled street that rang with clanging cars. Overhead, the Elevated roared and banged till my ears ached. And everywhere, on sidewalks and in the street, herds of noisy children shrieked and raced. My heart began to fail me. Under my blanket, I broke out in a cold sweat.

Too soon I knew the worst. Down a crowded street we turned, going eastward until I could see, ahead, a blur of green that was the Park. Then I was led into a low, ill-smelling, steaming building, around the door of which slouched a half-dozen rough-looking men, all smoking--_smoking_, mind you, in a stable! They looked me over as the groom brought me to a stand. And their eyes actually rolled at sight of me. It was plain they were not used to seeing _my_ kind there.

They were not. _Down_ a runway I went, and into a cellar, where there were fifty or so horses, all looking around and moving restlessly, as if they wanted feed or water. And here I was led into a narrow stall with little bedding--and _that_ bad--and a sour feed-box. Oh, what an awful night I spent! My dress-blanket had been taken off, and my sheet not put on. So the mosquitoes tormented me every minute. But I was not the worst off. Near me were horses that had plucked manes and banged tails, and no sheets. They couldn’t defend themselves, and rubbed from side to side in their stalls in a very panic of pain. That terrible banging, hour after hour, and the foul state of my stall kept me from lying down. The groom had given me no water when he brought me in. And until morning I suffered terribly.

I plucked up courage when I was groomed and watered, though I must say I could not eat all of my oats. Somehow or other, my appetite was gone. But Missy came, and we went out together. Not as I would have liked, for my coat was not so shining as usual, and some of my mane hung over the wrong side. And, worse than all, some straws were sticking in my tail!

Missy noticed nothing, not even the howls of the children in the street. In the Park she did not rein me to drink at the stone troughs along the bridle-path, or to crop. But there was one thing that, more than anything else, took the spirit out of me. Going south beside the East Drive, I saw ahead of us--Thunderbolt coming! Instantly, I neighed. Missy looked up, and then, as quick as she could, whirled me and started back, circling the reservoir the other way. So I did not have a chance to see my friend, or Mr. England. I went into the stable with my head hanging.