The Fire Pony

by Rodman Philbrick

  Which is what it does to Showdown, I guess, because when we wander back to take a look, Joe’s all the way inside the stall with that crazy-acting Thoroughbred, and he’s stroking that horse real gentle and the horse is sighing and making little whinny noises like it wants to talk, and maybe it is talking, only you’d have to be Joe Dilly to understand.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Rick says. “It’s a miracle.”

  That’s what a lot of folks think, the first time they see Joe work a bad horse, but he says it ain’t no miracle, it’s just a gift he has, and he don’t understand it neither.

  So Joe Dilly gets hired on at the Bar None, and he’s in such a fine mood almost two weeks go by and he ain’t got in trouble yet.

  “This time it’ll be different,” he keeps telling me. “I can feel it. Must be I turned over a new leaf, because something about this place agrees with me.”

  “You mean we’re gonna stay put?” I ask.

  “For the time being,” Joe says. “Unless you’d rather we hit the road, see what’s over the next mountain.”

  “I like it here,” I say, maybe too quick, but Joe doesn’t mind, he’s in such a rare mood, almost like he was a different person. And for a while there I’m thinking maybe he really has shook loose of the crazies that got us run off that ranch in Montana, and kept us moving on from place to place, with maybe something catching up, like he’s always saying.

  ’Course I was wrong. Joe Dilly is Joe Dilly, even if he don’t act it on the outside.

  * * *

  The best thing about working the Bar None is they give us a little bunkhouse all to ourselves. I ask Rick if real cowboys used to sleep in this old bunkhouse and he says depends on what you mean by cowboys.

  “This never was a cattle ranch,” he says. “From the beginning, it was horses. When I was your age we rounded up herds of quarter horses, and some mustang, but we never did drive no cows.”

  He’s just being fussy, because the way I see it, you don’t have to herd cows to qualify as a cowboy, and I already seen Rick working them Arabians, and he’s good enough to be in a rodeo. He can’t calm a crazy horse like Joe Dilly can, but he sure can ride.

  Every morning there’s chores to be done, like always. Rick says even Hercules couldn’t muck out all the stalls on the Bar None, but I sure wish he’d give it a try — I’d be happy to watch him, and offer advice.

  Okay, the truth is that mucking out them stalls ain’t all that bad, but the chore I like best is helping Joe. There’s near about two hundred horses on the Bar None, and more always getting bought or sold or traded. Every day there’s some need to have their hooves trimmed up, or get new shoes fitted, so there’s more work than any one man can handle by himself.

  * * *

  One morning we’re out by the main corral, checking what horses need fixing, when Joe says, “The most important thing about a horse is does it feel right on its feet — without good feet, you ain’t got a good horse, period. You got to work a horse from the ground up.”

  He’s told me this lots of times before, but I don’t let on. You want to learn things, sometimes you got to keep your trap shut.

  “Pay attention now, Roy. You with me?”

  “I’m with you, Joe.”

  “Well that’s fine. Okay, you have to start by using your eyes. You watch that horse walking, and see does it have knock-knees, or bowlegs, or does it forge or scalp.”

  I already know some things. A horse that forges, the hind feet clip at the backs of the front feet, and if you don’t fix it, the horse will come up lame, or worse. Your scalping horse, that means the front hooves kind of click together as it walks, and you can fix that, too, if you know what you’re doing.

  “Let me take a look at that one,” Joe says, and he means this trail horse called Slow Hand.

  Slow Hand, he’s pretty friendly, and I manage to get a halter on him and bring him out of the corral. The first thing with a horse, I’ll walk it around some and Joe will study it and study it, and sometimes he ambles over and runs a hand along the shoulder or the cannon bone — just the touch will tell him what ails that horse.

  “You got him, do you?” he asks.

  “I got him,” I say.

  Slow Hand, he’s feeling frisky, pulling at the halter and jerking his head like they will, and Joe is crouched down in his leather apron, and you can tell he’s seeing something he don’t like.

  “Back that horse up,” he says.

  Easy to say, but you just try backing up a nine-hundred-pound animal when you’re as small as me! Joe don’t say nothing, he waits until I get the horse moving the way he wants, and then he nods and says, “That poor animal can’t feel his feet. Bet you a dollar some darn fool cut the frogs away.”

  Most people, they hear the word “frog,” they think it lives in a pond, but there’s part of a horse’s hoof they call a frog, and Joe is very particular about the way it gets trimmed. Sure enough, he lifts up the rear leg and checks the bottom of the hoof, and if I’d been fool enough to take the bet, he’d have my dollar by now.

  “Don’t you worry,” he says to Slow Hand. “We’ll fix you right up.” Then he strokes the horse, and pats it a certain way, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling off the old shoes and filing away at the hoof until he’s got it beveled the way he wants.

  A horse’s hoof, it’s like a great big toenail, only thicker and stronger, and you got to keep it trimmed right or the whole animal suffers. There’s a science to it, Joe says, and he’s teaching me a little bit at a time.

  “A horse thinks with its feet,” he says. He’s bending over, filing away at that hoof, and you can see how his hands are gentle and strong at the same time. “All them nerves connect up to the brain, of course, but it starts right here where the animal touches the ground. A good horse’ll feel a train coming long before you hear the whistle, and that’s a fact.”

  I’ve got Slow Hand by the halter, like you’re supposed to, but even if I wasn’t there to hold him steady, that horse wouldn’t move. Not with Joe Dilly working his feet.

  When Joe gets done, Slow Hand is like a brand-new horse, and he runs around that big corral showing off and demonstrating how good he feels. And Rick, he’s watching everything Joe does and he’s just as pleased as punch.

  “Where you been all my life?” he says to Joe. “One of these days I’m going to pull off these old boots and let you fit horseshoes to me.”

  “Sure,” says Joe. “Any time you like.”

  “One of these days,” Rick says, laughing. “But not today.”

  Right about then I notice this lady I never seen before, she’s coming out by the row of cabin houses where most of the Bar None ranch hands live with their families, and I swear, she’s looking right at me, like she knows exactly who I am.

  Joe says, “Who’s that?”

  “I forget her name,” Rick says, kind of uneasy all of a sudden. “Works for the county.”

  “Is that a fact?” says Joe. “What is she, a tax collector?”

  Before Rick can answer, the lady, she’s kind of Indian-looking with dark eyes and big silver earrings, anyhow she comes over and shakes Joe’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she says. “I’m Sally Red Dawn.”

  You never seen nobody less interested in making her acquaintance than Joe Dilly, but it’s too late to skedaddle, so he just says, “Is that a fact,” and then he sticks his hand back in his apron pocket.

  “Could I ask your name?” she says, kind of squinting at him.

  “Joe,” he says, like it’s worse than getting a tooth pulled to give out his name.

  “And who’s this?” she asks, turning to me.

  “That’s my brother Roy,” Joe says, only his voice is so quiet you can hardly hear him.

  “You live here, Roy?”

  “’Scuze me, ma’am,” says Joe. “But what business is it of yours?”

  The Indian lady, she gives him this real nice smile, and then she says, sweet as can be,
“I’m the county truant officer, didn’t you know? Now, why isn’t Roy in school, can you tell me that?”

  Joe Dilly don’t say nothing at first, but he’s got a look on his face that’ll freeze water, and that truant officer, she hightails it back to her car.

  Joe won’t let it go. He follows her to the car and when she’s inside with the windows rolled up and the door locked, he rears back and kicks the fender.

  “Don’t come back!” he yells, with his eyes like sparks of fire. “We won’t be here!”

  I’m in the bunkhouse, packing up our gear, when Joe comes sloping in, and he throws himself down on his bunk and kicks his boots off and heaves them at the wall, thunk thunk.

  “I done it now,” he says. “I bet you’re pretty disgusted with your big brother and his big mouth, am I right?”

  “I never said that,” I say.

  Joe rolls over and folds his arms under his chin. “Don’t need to say it,” he says. “You know why we got to keep moving, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “It ain’t just what they’ll do to me. They’ll take you back there, Roy. You want to go back to that foster home?”

  “I sure don’t.” Just thinking about it gives me a shiver.

  “The law catches up to us they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”

  “We’re all packed,” I say. “Go on and get the truck.”

  Joe is jamming his feet back into his boots when Rick comes into the bunkhouse. He’s got his hands in his pockets and you can tell he don’t quite know how to say whatever it is he wants to say. Finally he spits it out.

  “Hey, boys, what you up to?” he asks.

  “Packing up.”

  “I can see that,” he says. “You going someplace?”

  “Joe Dilly don’t like to hang around any one place for long,” I say.

  “That’s how it is,” Joe says. He’s not looking at Rick, he’s looking at his boots. “We got our reasons.”

  “I just now talked to Sally Red Dawn,” Rick says. “The lady you run off.”

  “Don’t matter,” says Joe. “We’re gone.”

  “Sally’s a good lady,” Rick says. “You ought to give her a chance, like she’s willing to give you a chance.”

  Joe sits up straight. He’s got this frozen look on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means she’ll mind her own business, for now. There’s only two more weeks of school, then summer vacation, and Sally said she’d check back with you in September, make sure you sign up Roy for school.”

  “She said that?” Joe asks.

  “I told her she caught you at a bad moment.”

  The way Joe looks at Rick, I’m afraid he’s going to throw a punch or something, but then his face lights up and he tosses his head back and he laughs. “That she did!” he says. “We both had us a bad moment, and that’s a fact.”

  “The point is,” Rick says, “there’s no reason to take off so quick. Stay for the summer. We got enough work to keep you both busy.”

  * * *

  I keep my trap shut and wait for Joe to make up his mind. The truth is, me and Joe been a lot of places, but I never felt so lowdown about leaving before. Partly I’m mad at Joe, even if he can’t help himself. This is all his fault, going crazy on that poor Sally Red Dawn when all she asked was a simple question. All I want him to do is give the Bar None a chance — maybe this time things can be different.

  Joe, he’s lying there on his back and staring up at the bare wood of the ceiling and you can tell he’s running stuff through his head, turning it over and thinking about it. Finally he says, “I guess you want to stay, huh?”

  “Only if you do, Joe.”

  He sits up and looks me right in the eye. “Just the summer, Roy. Come fall, we’ll be on our way.”

  I want to say something to him but I can’t, it’s like there’s something inside my throat that won’t let go, and so I just nod and start unpacking our gear.

  When I turn around Joe Dilly ain’t there. At first I think maybe he’s took off without me, but then I spot him leaning against the corral fence, watching them Arabians showing off their high-stepping ways.

  He’s not doing nothing, just watching. You can tell he’s worried about something, but I’m so happy we’re staying I just let it go.

  You can worry yourself to death, that’s what Joe Dilly says, only he can’t seem to take his own advice.

  Things go pretty good for a while. Rick don’t mention Sally Red Dawn again, and Joe, it’s like he never run her off.

  You can tell when Joe Dilly’s in a good mood, because he likes to whistle these stupid, boring old songs like “I’m Lookin’ Over a Four-Leaf Clover.” He’ll keep that one going until it drives you crazy, except he looks so happy and contented you’ll want him to whistle it forever.

  One day we’re in the main barn. I’m doing my chores and mucking out the stalls and Joe is working to get a halter on Showdown and teach him some manners. He’s whistling that “Four-Leaf Clover” song to beat the band when we hear this big truck come rumbling into the yard. Then this airhorn gives a blast that makes your knees rattle and Joe curses, because Showdown has shied away and now he won’t have nothing to do with that halter.

  I run outside to see what all the commotion is about, and there’s this shiny tractor-trailer truck pulled up to the main corral, and the trailer is loaded up with horses. They’re poking their heads out through the slats, trying to see what’s going on, and you can see the nervous way their eyes roll and their nostrils twitch.

  This tall guy with a long narrow face and squinty eyes gets down from the cab of that truck. He’s wearing a faded denim jacket and pants tucked into his boots and a western shirt with fancy ivory buttons, and when he spots me he lifts his hat and gives me a little howdy-do nod. Underneath his hat his hair is flat white, but he don’t really look that old. Even with his eyes all squinty you can see how blue they are, and how quick he is to look things over.

  “There a horse ranch around here?” he says to me.

  “You’re on it,” I say. “This is the Bar None, and there ain’t no better horse ranch on the planet Earth.”

  The tall guy cracks a smile and says, “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  Rick comes running out, and he takes one look at the long trailer chock full of horses and he throws his hat up in the air and gives a whoop, like it’s Christmas morning and what he wants is right there under the tree.

  “Son of a bee!” he shouts. “You did it!” and then all the other ranch hands come running and pretty soon there’s a whole crowd of people gathered round, admiring that trailer full of horses.

  Before long I figure out that the tall guy driving the truck is Mr. Nick Jessup, who owns the Bar None. Mr. Jessup has been traveling to auctions all over, to places like Arizona and New Mexico and Colorado, and he finally picked up all the horses he bought and brought them on home.

  “We got mostly good solid Arabian broodmares, and just for the fun of it a real fine quarter horse,” he tells everybody. “Rodeo quality.”

  Joe Dilly has come up behind me and he’s standing there real quiet. Rick and the other hands, they set the ramp up so the horses can come down off the trailer, but Joe, he just keeps standing there, not saying nothing.

  Finally Rick looks over and he says, “Hey Nick, there he is, the man I was telling you about.”

  Joe stirs but still he don’t say nothing as Mr. Jessup comes over and takes off his hat with one hand and holds his other hand out to shake. “I want to thank you for what you’ve done with Showdown,” Mr. Jessup says. “That’s mighty fine work. Rick told me all about it.”

  Joe takes his hand and shakes it real solemn. “It’s nothing,” he says.

  Mr. Jessup, he grins and says, “All I know, it was a lucky day when you stopped by. Now who is this?” he asks, turning to me.

  There’s something about the way Mr. Jessup smiles that makes me like
him right away. But Joe, he’s acting tight and quiet like he does when he’s afraid I’ll talk too much, so I just tell Mr. Jessup my name and then I skedaddle back into the barn with Joe.

  I keep hoping he’ll whistle that “Four-Leaf Clover” song, but he stays quiet. It ain’t just his voice — even his face is quiet. And when Joe Dilly gets all clenched up like that, the best thing is to shut up and keep working. So I do.

  The way it turns out, with all the chores needed doing in the main barn, I never get back to check out the new horses until lunch break. What I do is take my sandwiches and sit up on this broken old feed wagon, which is high up enough so you get a good view of the corrals.

  Rick has got charge of the whole show, like you’d expect, and he’s put the new horses in a holding area, near enough to some of the older horses so they can get acquainted, and sniff each other, but still kept far enough apart so they can’t kick or tussle. Takes a while for horses to make friends with each other, just like with people.

  Most of what Mr. Jessup brought in are Arabian broodmares, like he mentioned. That means they’ll each have a baby horse once a year like clockwork, and the raising and selling of those foals is what keeps butter on the table at the Bar None — that’s what Rick says.

  I guess you already know how much I like them fine-looking Arabians, with their silky tails and pretty faces, but what has me curious is this new rodeo horse. They most always use quarter horses for rodeo work, and in case you don’t know, they call it a quarter horse because it runs real fast for the first quarter mile. After that, your average Thoroughbred is a whole lot faster, which is why they ended up breeding the quarter horse for working around the ranch. It has kind of short legs, but it’s real powerful and sure-footed and quick, and you can train it to do most anything, which is why it makes the best rodeo horse. Rick says, you put the brakes on a quarter horse, you better hold on, because that animal can stop on a dime.