Horse Trouble

by Bonnie Bryant

  May was wise and strong. At least that was how she always appeared. As a result, her classmates sometimes thought she was a little bossy. She knew an awful lot about horses and tended to lecture her friends. Being right wasn’t always enough. That was something Carole had learned long ago, and she had the feeling that it was May’s turn to learn it now.

  “Is it what Jessica said?” Carole asked May.

  May looked at Carole in surprise, totally unaware of the fact that Carole had heard the argument. Carole had a funny feeling then. There was one person who always seemed to be aware of what was going on among the young riders, even when they had no idea that she was aware of it at all, and that was Mrs. Reg. Now Carole and her friends were trying, in their own way, to replace Mrs. Reg, and Carole was finding that she was replacing her in more than one way. In her absence Carole was somehow becoming a person who knew what was going on.

  What would Mrs. Reg do if she were here, Carole wondered. In the first place, she wouldn’t let on that she knew what had happened. In the second place, she’d tell a story. Mrs. Reg had a story for every occasion. It was her way of telling the riders that she knew what was happening and of offering advice very indirectly. In fact, sometimes she was so indirect that it took the riders days to figure out what she was saying. They all enjoyed the challenge of untangling a tale Mrs. Reg had spun. But Mrs. Reg wasn’t here to spin the tale. On the other hand, Carole was.

  “There was a horse here once,” Carole began, not having the faintest idea where she was going. Mrs. Reg almost always started her stories that way, though, and Carole trusted she’d get some inspiration. “He was a feisty one, that horse.” Nice start, Carole told herself. May was feisty, too. Surely she’d be able to come up with something for May.

  “He used to like to play in the pasture all the time.” Carole could visualize this made-up pony, and she began to describe him for May. He was a bay with three white socks and a white blaze. His coat was a rich reddish-brown. He had a very smooth, supple walk, and he was the best jumper in the stable. That was a nice touch because May loved to jump horses.

  Carole’s story took on a life of its own. She added a mare who was the bay’s best friend, and they would spend their summer days in the field, prancing and playing in the sunshine. And when little boys and girls wanted to ride them, the two of them just loved it. They liked being friends with the boys and girls best of all—much better than with the grown-ups at the stable. But then one day, the mare was sold and the bay became terribly lonely. He wouldn’t eat the sweet grass in the field, and he lost a lot of weight. He even found he didn’t like the children so much. Until one day a new horse came to the stable, and he became friends with the new horse.

  Carole stopped her story there. She thought that was probably enough and that May would be comforted by the story as it stood. As it was with Mrs. Reg’s stories, May was going to have to do a little thinking about what, exactly, the story meant.

  May didn’t have to do any thinking at all. She decided right away. She gave Carole a great big hug.

  “Oh, Carole, I’m so sorry! But it’s going to be better soon. Don’t you worry.”

  She handed Carole the tissue she’d been using. She picked up her hard hat and thrust it on her head, snapping the strap efficiently.

  “See you later!” she said. “And I want there to be a smile on your face next time, too!”

  In an instant she was gone, leaving Carole alone with her thoughts. All of them revolved around what on earth May had made of the story she’d told. She’d obviously completely missed the point about how a new friend would come into her life. Somehow May had decided the story had to do with Carole, and she seemed to feel terribly sorry for Carole.

  So much for trying to be Mrs. Reg. Instead of comforting May and giving her some understanding of what had happened between herself and Jessica, Carole’s story had ended with May trying to comfort Carole. Carole scratched her head. The world didn’t seem to be in working order at all.

  On the other hand, something good had happened. May had been crying when Carole found her in the tack room. She’d been smiling by the time she’d left. It seemed that May had quite missed the point of Carole’s story, but she hadn’t been able to evade Carole’s purpose—that being to cheer her up. Carole smiled to herself. Maybe it wasn’t just exactly the way Mrs. Reg would have done it, but whatever it was she’d done, it had worked.

  Carole made a mental note to herself to ask Mrs. Reg when she got back what she would have done. Then she changed her mind about it. She knew just what Mrs. Reg would do: She’d tell Carole a story about a horse at Pine Hollow, and then Carole would have to figure out what that was about. No, she decided, I’ll just let this whole episode pass.

  IT WAS TIME for Carole to get back to her charts. There, at least, she was confident. She could assign horses to riders, noting what she’d done, and everything would be right there in front of her. She headed for Mrs. Reg’s office, hoping this job would give her more satisfaction and success than a few of her more recent tasks.

  The young riders who were involved in the summer-camp program each had their horses assigned for the day. That took care of that. However, some of them came in only part-time, so their horses were now available for the noontime adult class. It took Carole a few minutes to sort out exactly what horses were available, and when she looked up from her chart, she found herself surrounded by six adult riders, all appearing to be none too patient.

  “Can I get my horse now?” one woman asked testily.

  “Of course,” Carole said. She smiled diplomatically at the woman.

  “I want the same one I rode last week,” the woman said.

  “And that was …?” Carole asked.

  “I can’t remember its name, but it was brown,” the woman informed Carole. This wasn’t very informative, however, since ninety percent of the horses at the stable were one shade or another of brown. All she’d eliminated, really, were Pepper, a dappled gray who had been retired to the pasture; Delilah, the palomino; and Patch, the piebald.

  “Bay or chestnut?” Carole asked, trying to narrow the field further.

  “What’s the difference?”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Patiently Carole explained to the woman that bays were brown with black tails and manes. Chestnuts were solid shades of brown, often reddish, sometimes almost a golden color.

  It took a few minutes, but they finally narrowed down the selection, and Carole assigned a horse to the woman. She thought it was the same horse the woman had ridden the week before, but she was quite confident that even if it wasn’t, the woman would never know the difference.

  “Next?”

  “I want a different horse from the last one I rode in class,” the next rider said. She smiled thinly at Carole, suggesting she didn’t mean the smile at all. “I had a lot of trouble with him, and I don’t want to spend the class time training your horse how to ride.”

  Carole didn’t like the sound of this. All horses could be troublesome from time to time, but the Pine Hollow horses were really well trained. She knew from experience that when horses misbehaved, usually it was the rider’s fault, not the horse’s. Horses were naturally competitive, including competition with their riders. If a rider didn’t establish who was in charge from the moment she got into the saddle, she was going to spend most of her time up there arguing with the horse about who was the boss. This woman who had wasted no time in establishing that she was going to be in charge of Carole’s decision-making had apparently been unable to do the same with a horse.

  “Who did you ride last time?” Carole asked.

  “Barq,” the woman answered.

  That was a surprise. Barq was a really good horse. He could be a handul, but he certainly wasn’t moody. Carole started to wonder what the woman had done to get off on the wrong foot with Barq, but then realized that wasn’t going to be productive. Her job was simply to give her a horse she would get along with.

  “Now,
don’t give me some old nag,” the woman said. “I had one of those once, and I spent the entire class kicking the old boy to get him to keep up with everybody else.”

  That would have been Pepper, Carole thought. Pepper didn’t much like to be kicked. It would have made him go slower, too. This woman wasn’t having any luck at all.

  “So give me a horse with some spirit that I won’t have trouble controlling. I’ve spoken with Max about my problems in this regard,” the woman said. “I just don’t intend to spend a lot of time riding at this stable if I can’t get a decent mount. There are other stables around here, you know.”

  Carole didn’t like the sound of this, and she didn’t feel comfortable being on the spot. She and her friends were trying to help Max and Mrs. Reg. If she made a mistake here and cost Pine Hollow a rider, that would hardly be considered helpful.

  “So what are you going to do?” the woman demanded.

  Carole had no idea. “I think we can solve your problem,” she said, stalling because she didn’t know what she was going to do. What this woman wanted was a perfect horse that didn’t require a perfect rider. She wanted a horse who was gentle and obedient, but who had spirit and was fun to ride. As far as Carole was concerned, that was a perfect description of only one horse—her own Starlight. It would mean she would miss a class, but she probably would have to do that anyway. Carole picked up the pencil, pleased with her solution to the problem. She was about to write in “Starlight” next to the woman’s name, but she realized that wasn’t a solution at all. For one thing, it was strictly against the rules to assign private horses to class riders—even her own horse. For another, it just wasn’t right. All of the horses at Pine Hollow were good horses, and if she assigned Starlight to this woman, she’d be saying that wasn’t so.

  The woman cleared her throat impatiently.

  “I think I have just the horse for you,” Carole said, mentally running through all the horses on the list to figure out what horse she’d give to the woman. Then she saw the answer.

  “His name is Patch. He’s a piebald.”

  “Piebald? You mean like a pinto? A Western horse?” She said the words with disdain.

  Carole could hardly believe her ears. Even the greenest rider should be aware of the fact that the color or markings of a horse had absolutely nothing to do with the quality of a horse. It should be the last consideration when choosing a horse. This woman was definitely difficult! Then Carole found the solution.

  “Did you know that Velvet’s horse in National Velvet was a piebald?” Carole asked. “That’s why she called him Pie.”

  “Really?” the woman asked. “The horse that won the race?” Carole nodded. The woman smiled then, and it seemed genuine. Carole had found the key. She wrote “Patch” next to the woman’s name and made a note on Patch’s section of the chart.

  “Next?” Carole said.

  The rest of the class turned out to be easier, and Carole was relieved. Assigning horses was a much bigger task than she’d ever thought. When the last of the lunchtime class was assigned, Carole sat back in Mrs. Reg’s chair and put her feet on the desk. She deserved a little relaxation as a reward for her brilliant piece of diplomacy.

  Her eyes lit on Mrs. Reg’s infamous list. What more was there for the girls to do? Then Carole spotted Mr. Jarvis’s name on the list. She looked at her watch. He was due at one o’clock, so that meant he’d be here any minute. Carole put her feet back down on the floor. She’d been telling herself all morning that she had to ask Max or Red just exactly what horse it was that Mr. Jarvis wanted. Now he’d be here in a minute, and she had no idea. Then she reminded herself that she’d just negotiated a very tricky settlement with a very fussy rider. If she could make that woman happy, she could surely make Mr. Jarvis happy.

  A car pulled up. That had to be Mr. Jarvis. He was the only rider expected at this time. A few minutes later, Mr. Jarvis entered Mrs. Reg’s office. He was surprised to see Carole at the desk.

  “Mrs. Reg, you’ve shrunk!” he teased.

  Carole immediately liked the man. She grinned and offered her hand. “I’m Carole Hanson,” she said. “Mrs. Reg is away for a couple of days, and my friends and I are trying to replace her, though of course that’s not an easy job. Anyway, you must be Mr. Jarvis. Mrs. Reg left us very specific instructions about you, sir, and said we had to have the right horse for you.”

  Carole was adopting the theory that the less sure she was about something, the more important it was to sound sure.

  “Well then, she told you about me and Patch, didn’t she?”

  “Patch?”

  “He’s the only horse at Pine Hollow that I’ll ever ride.”

  “Patch?”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “She probably didn’t tell you why, but it’s an old story. I won’t bore you with it—”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be bored,” Carole said, thinking that as long as the man was talking, she wouldn’t have to tell him about the woman in the lunchtime class who was already riding Patch and who would now never give him up.

  “It has to do with pintos,” the man said. “The first horse I ever rode was a pinto, and I decided then that I always wanted to ride them. I know a horse’s color has nothing to do with his quality”—and that put him a few steps above the woman who was now riding Patch—“but I’m very superstitious, and I simply can’t be on anything but a pinto.”

  “Interesting,” Carole said, though “interesting” wasn’t what she was actually thinking. “Bad news” was more like it. She stalled.

  “Also,” the man went on, “I’m an artist. I paint with oils. It seems only right that a painter should ride painted ponies, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Carole said. “It makes complete sense to me.” It didn’t make any sense at all. By that same logic, since she was still in school, she should want to ride only horses who hadn’t finished their schooling! Still Mr. Jarvis was apparently a good customer. Carole wanted to keep him happy. Then a thought occurred to her. Maybe, just maybe.

  She scratched her head thoughtfully and considered the idea that had popped into her head. It was a Stevie Lake idea, if there ever had been one, and it was a gamble, but it seemed the only possibility. Carole wanted to please this nice, if slightly strange, man. Perhaps she could do it.

  “I have to tell you that Patch is being ridden now,” Carole said.

  The man began to say something that Carole didn’t think she wanted to hear, so she went on talking herself.

  “Patch may be our only pinto, but he’s not the only horse here that you will like. You go change into your riding clothes and wait for me by the door. Let me tack up another horse for you. I’ll bring him to the good-luck horseshoe, and we’ll meet you there.”

  “I only ride pintos!” the man said.

  “I know,” Carole said. “I know. And I think you’ll find this one quite satisfactory.”

  Without further ado, she rose from the desk and went to the stalls, sending Mr. Jarvis to the locker area.

  Carole picked up some tack and went to the horse she’d assigned to Mr. Jarvis. “Piebald” was one of the English terms for black-and-white-patched horses, and “skewbald” horses had brown patches instead of black. In Spanish both of these were known as “pintos.” Another English name for a pinto was “paint” or “painted horse.” Now Pine Hollow had only one pinto, but as of the previous afternoon, they did have another painted horse. The colors weren’t black and white—they were red and white.

  “Hi there, Diablo,” Carole said, patting him affectionately. She gave him a carrot, too, just to show that there were no hard feelings about the little chase they’d had in the field. He didn’t seem to be harboring any grudges.

  Carole inspected the paint job. She and Stevie and Lisa had been working at it quite unsuccessfully. It was going to take a lot of brushing to get it all out. Eventually the hairs would grow out and Diablo would be his same old dark brown, but for now, and for so
me time to come, he was decidedly brown, red, and white.

  She tacked him up and led him to the door of the stable, where she found Mr. Jarvis waiting.

  “I only—”

  “It’s a paint,” she said, cutting off his words of protest. “I promise. And he’s a terrific horse.”

  When she drew up to him, she made sure that she walked Diablo far enough into the sunlight for his very special red and white markings to be distinctly visible.

  Mr. Jarvis looked. Then he looked again. He was about to speak, but he stopped himself. Carole held her tongue. That’s just what Stevie would have done.

  “Well, I never—” Mr. Jarvis said. But he wasn’t angry, he was smiling. Then he laughed. “I guess if there’s more than one way to skin a cat, there’s got to be more than one way to paint a horse! All right. You win. I’ll try this fellow. What’s his name?”

  “Diablo,” Carole said. “He’s a great horse, but be nice to him. He had kind of a rough day yesterday.”

  “At the beauty parlor?” Mr. Jarvis joked.

  “Sort of,” Carole conceded.

  Mr. Jarvis took the reins from Carole and mounted Diablo. He brushed the good-luck horseshoe with his hand. He sat pensively in the saddle for a few minutes, trying to get the feel of the horse beneath him. He leaned forward and patted Diablo’s neck. Then he turned to Carole.

  “I noticed the new paint job on the front of the stable as I came in,” he said. “I told myself it was nice of you to paint the place just for me. I didn’t realize at the time how true that was.”

  Carole saluted him in her best Marine Corps style. “We always try to please our customers, sir,” she said.

  “I can tell,” he said. Then he signaled Diablo to head for the trails. Off they went, painter and painted pony together.

  “IF ONE MORE person tells me that they want a gentle horse with some spirit, I think I’m going to scream,” Carole said to her friends when they were all safely hidden in the hayloft above the stalls at Pine Hollow. They were having an impromptu Saddle Club meeting. They really needed one another.