going around that mare’s back end again without he looks at her ears first.”
They smiled at Charlie’s dilemma as they always did. Even at eight, Charlie had grown deep into the community.
From the beginning, relations with the pony were strained. For starters and much to the amusement of everyone in the store, Charlie had been told by his father that he was not to canter the pony until he had had her for at least six months. It was Charlie’s daddy’s way of having Charlie start his riding careerslowly. Of course, Charlie being Charlie, that didn’t work. He cantered everywhere from the beginning and as a result didn’t learn to post to the trot until he was eleven. But when the pony didn’t want to canter, which was nearly always, she had a way of jerking along at a gait that was technically a canter but was in fact a very rough way to ride indeed. Finally exasperation overtook Charlie’s pacifism toward horses and he cut a switch from a maple behind the barn. The next time the pony did her herky-jerky gait, he was ready and slapped her good behind the saddle with the switch. The results were deeply satisfying. Suddenly the pony was floating over the ground in a lovely canter that was completely comfortable to ride. It had taken Charlie until November to figure this out, so there had been a lot of rough riding in between.
Another problem was catching her up from the field. The field in this case was over a hundred acres, because when Silver Hill had ceased to be a real working farm, the cross fences were let go and the gates left open. As a result, the four original fields became one. There were groves of trees interspersed throughout the field along with two creeks. The whole thing had gone wild. The result was occasionally rented out for pasture, but even the outside fences were going bad, so most people didn’t think it was worth it to have to chase cows that even inside the fences had only broom sage to eat.
The morning after he got her home, Charlie turned the pony loose in the field. She disappeared for twodays. He walked and walked and called and called. The third day, as he crossed the first ridge, he saw her standing next to the creek at the foot of the hill. There were some small walnut trees growing next to the stream alongside a clump of multiflora rose and honeysuckle, long past blooming. She was standing with her back end to him, inside the tangle of vines, slowly swishing the late fall flies with her tail. Had it not been for the tail, he would have never seen her. Following Jimmy Price’s instructions, he rushed back to the barn and got an ear of corn. He circled around to get in front of her and whistled the horse-calling whistle and held out his hand with the corn. She raised her head, looked at him, and trotted off next to the creek on a path cut nearly a foot deep by hundreds of cattle hooves. Then she disappeared into a pine thicket at the head of the stream.
Charlie followed, calling her name. He’d never been in the thicket before. He walked the path carefully, looking down. The thicket consisted of cedars interspersed with field pine. Twenty-five feet in, it suddenly opened into a clearing with three large oaks in the middle. The clearing was more than an acre. It startled Charlie to break suddenly into the open after the prickers of the cedars and the twisting of the path. He looked up.
The pony was standing beneath one of the oaks, facing him, ears up, looking right at him, still almost white from the dry summer. She was surrounded completely by a sea of white, bleached bones. Dozensof bones. There must have been thirty cow skulls lying in the clearing. But not just cows’. Charlie recognized the elongated skulls of horses and mules, and wide horse hooves and the unmistakably round and narrow hooves of mules. They were scattered around haphazardly. Charlie recognized some of the other bones. The hipbones looked huge and circular and the long bones of the legs were easy to
They smiled at Charlie’s dilemma as they always did. Even at eight, Charlie had grown deep into the community.
From the beginning, relations with the pony were strained. For starters and much to the amusement of everyone in the store, Charlie had been told by his father that he was not to canter the pony until he had had her for at least six months. It was Charlie’s daddy’s way of having Charlie start his riding careerslowly. Of course, Charlie being Charlie, that didn’t work. He cantered everywhere from the beginning and as a result didn’t learn to post to the trot until he was eleven. But when the pony didn’t want to canter, which was nearly always, she had a way of jerking along at a gait that was technically a canter but was in fact a very rough way to ride indeed. Finally exasperation overtook Charlie’s pacifism toward horses and he cut a switch from a maple behind the barn. The next time the pony did her herky-jerky gait, he was ready and slapped her good behind the saddle with the switch. The results were deeply satisfying. Suddenly the pony was floating over the ground in a lovely canter that was completely comfortable to ride. It had taken Charlie until November to figure this out, so there had been a lot of rough riding in between.
Another problem was catching her up from the field. The field in this case was over a hundred acres, because when Silver Hill had ceased to be a real working farm, the cross fences were let go and the gates left open. As a result, the four original fields became one. There were groves of trees interspersed throughout the field along with two creeks. The whole thing had gone wild. The result was occasionally rented out for pasture, but even the outside fences were going bad, so most people didn’t think it was worth it to have to chase cows that even inside the fences had only broom sage to eat.
The morning after he got her home, Charlie turned the pony loose in the field. She disappeared for twodays. He walked and walked and called and called. The third day, as he crossed the first ridge, he saw her standing next to the creek at the foot of the hill. There were some small walnut trees growing next to the stream alongside a clump of multiflora rose and honeysuckle, long past blooming. She was standing with her back end to him, inside the tangle of vines, slowly swishing the late fall flies with her tail. Had it not been for the tail, he would have never seen her. Following Jimmy Price’s instructions, he rushed back to the barn and got an ear of corn. He circled around to get in front of her and whistled the horse-calling whistle and held out his hand with the corn. She raised her head, looked at him, and trotted off next to the creek on a path cut nearly a foot deep by hundreds of cattle hooves. Then she disappeared into a pine thicket at the head of the stream.
Charlie followed, calling her name. He’d never been in the thicket before. He walked the path carefully, looking down. The thicket consisted of cedars interspersed with field pine. Twenty-five feet in, it suddenly opened into a clearing with three large oaks in the middle. The clearing was more than an acre. It startled Charlie to break suddenly into the open after the prickers of the cedars and the twisting of the path. He looked up.
The pony was standing beneath one of the oaks, facing him, ears up, looking right at him, still almost white from the dry summer. She was surrounded completely by a sea of white, bleached bones. Dozensof bones. There must have been thirty cow skulls lying in the clearing. But not just cows’. Charlie recognized the elongated skulls of horses and mules, and wide horse hooves and the unmistakably round and narrow hooves of mules. They were scattered around haphazardly. Charlie recognized some of the other bones. The hipbones looked huge and circular and the long bones of the legs were easy to
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