by Kate Klimo
I held still as she reached up and picked at the knot that pulled my leg toward my shoulder.
After a few moments, she gave up. “The boys tied it too tight. I’ll go get help.”
She ran into the house. When she didn’t come back, I stopped waiting for her. But the warmth of her hug stayed with me.
Eventually, she did come, bringing a man who looked and sounded like Finn but smelled like smoke. It brought back memories of Bud’s blasting powder and the brush fires the old man used to set all too close to my paddock.
“If it isn’t the notorious Percheron, Cinders!” he said.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” she asked.
“She’s a good-looking animal, all right,” he said. “But some of the meanest horses I ever met were good-lookers. Give me an ugly plug with a good disposition any day.”
“Oh, Daddy, she’s got a sweet disposition!” she said. “She’ll be perfect.”
“Oh, she will, will she?” he said.
“You’ll see,” she said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Lizzy, my girl.”
“The first thing we have to do is free her leg. Please, Daddy?” she begged.
With a sigh, he set to work on the knot.
“Then we need to take her with us back to the fire station. We can’t leave her here another day. This is no place for a healthy young horse. She’s a workhorse, Daddy. She needs to work. She’ll feel better if she’s useful. Won’t you, Cinders?”
Just then, I felt the rope give way and my leg came free. Trembling and twitching, I lowered it to the ground.
“That leg is bound to be a little sore for a while,” Lizzy said. “You’ll need to regain your balance. Even though it hurts, put your weight on it to get the blood moving again.”
“Honey,” said the man, “I think we need to go and let Cinders get used to having four legs again.”
“No, Daddy. Cinders wants to show you what she can do, don’t you, Cinders?”
The man gave me a wide-eyed look. “Oh, she does, does she?”
“Please, Daddy?”
Sighing, the man began to put his hands on me. He knew his way around a horse. I responded as promptly and smoothly as my stiff leg would allow. All my moves came back to me in a sweet rush.
I backed up. I came forward. I moved from side to side. I turned in a circle on my hind legs. I turned on my forehand. When I was finished, I did the trick the Little Ones taught me just before they went away. I bent over my front legs and bowed.
Miss Lizzy clapped her hands.
“Did you see that, Daddy! She knows! She knows everything a horse ought to know—and more!”
Michael stood back and put his fists on his hips and frowned. “Somebody, somewhere, sometime put some serious training on you,” he said to me.
“Uncle Finn says she was trained to pull a plow and a wagon and a sled and everything. She’ll make a fine fire horse. With a name like Cinders, how could she not?”
“But what about that business back in DeKalb?” he said.
“That was an accident, Daddy. It wasn’t her fault. I know it.”
He eyed her closely. “You do, do you?”
“She told me so with her eyes, and horses’ eyes never lie, Daddy.”
The city came at me from every angle, dirty and noisy and rude, sending me skittering from side to side behind the wagon I was tied to.
Lizzy, neck craned, watched me with worried eyes.
“Stop the wagon, Daddy. I need to calm Cinders down.”
“It’s almost dark, and I told your mother I’d have you home early. It’s the first day of school tomorrow.”
“But you promised I could go with Cinders to the fire station!” she said.
“I know I did, but traffic was heavier than I thought and I need to get you home.”
“But she’ll be scared without me.”
“If she’s going to be a fire horse, she’ll have to get used to a lot worse, won’t she?”
Lizzy’s eyes said, I’m so sorry, Cinders!
And the look I returned said, Me too!
Michael turned onto a narrow street and pulled up before a small wooden house. A woman waited at the door. Lizzy ran back and hugged me hard.
“Be brave, Cinders!” she whispered. “I’ll come and visit as soon as Mother lets me.”
Then she ran into the house.
As we made our way down the narrow road, I craned my neck, eyes on the house. Finally, I found Lizzy, standing at one of the windows. I whickered. She waved sadly.
When we arrived at the fire station, more men smelling of smoke came pouring out of the big wooden building.
“Say hello to Cinders, lads, our new fire horse,” Michael told them.
I heard horses muttering from somewhere in the back. Two spotted dogs sniffed around my hooves.
“Dumpling’s stall is all cleaned out,” one of the men said.
My ears swiveled. There was that word stall. I vowed never to enter another stall as long as I lived.
Michael tugged on my lead rope. I planted my hooves and refused to move. Michael tugged harder.
In their stalls, the horses were gossiping about me. I tried not to listen. I wasn’t going to be staying, anyway. Without Lizzy, I had no business being in this place.
Another man said, “I thought we agreed we had enough horses for now.”
Michael said, “If, God forbid, something happens to Butch, we’ve got backup. Now, Joe, get behind her and push.”
“Is this horse even broke?” Joe asked.
Michael said, “Broke and trained. She just needs to adjust. I see now I should have let Lizzy stay. She’d get this horse moving, meek as a lamb.”
“Yeah, but Lizzy can’t live here, and now this meek lamb is our problem.”
“Keep pushing, Joe!” Michael said.
“Sakes alive, Michael Dolan! She’s a ton of horseflesh. If she doesn’t want to move, no amount of pushing will get her going. How much did we pay for her, may I ask?”
“She was free,” said Michael.
“Well, there you go. You get what you pay for,” said Joe.
“She’s a valuable animal, she is. Trained Percherons cost a fortune. Fetch a bucket of feed now and go stand in her stall, like a good lad,” said Michael.
Joe went to stand in the empty stall. He banged the bucket with the scoop. I smelled the oats, sweet and tangy, but I would not be bribed.
Instead of moving toward the bucket, I backed away from it, dragging Michael with me. I backed out of the fire station doors and into the middle of the street. I wanted to keep going all the way back to Second Chance Farm, where I had sweet grass and my own stream.
Outside, I found nothing familiar. Where was the soft darkness of the country night throbbing with the sound of crickets? The street was crammed with carts and wagons and people shouting and yelling. I was spooked nearly senseless.
“Get that stupid horse out of our way!” a voice rang out.
Another man hollered, “Hey! Isn’t that the horse that killed Old Man Muller last winter?”
“Man-Killer!” someone else shouted.
And soon they were all chanting, “Man-Killer! Man-Killer!”
To hear that name again brought me pain as if a whip were stinging my back. My front hooves came off the ground. I was warming up for a good rear.
Inside the fire station, the dogs were barking. Michael hollered, “Chief! Get out here!”
One of the spotted dogs came bounding out of the shadows.
“Make yourself useful, girl. Calm this horse down and drive her into her stall,” he said.
The dog walked up to me. Look, missy, she said. I don’t know how you do things where you come from. But here we don’t carry on this way. Any minute now, that bell is going to ring and we’ll be rushing off to do serious work. This is no place to throw silly tantrums.
I settled down and licked my lips. I suddenly knew that this little dog, more than all the boys smellin
g of smoke, was in charge here. I waited for my orders.
That’s more like it, she said. Now let’s get a move on. Coming up behind me, she snapped her jaws. I took a step forward.
Don’t stop now, she said to me.
With that little spotted dog on my tail, I trotted back into the fire station and, for better or for worse, into the stall.
The Maxwell Street fire station was a busy, noisy place. The same routine happened almost every day and even some nights. Sparky, which was the name of the dog who was in charge, would bark and dance around and then a loud bell would ring.
The doors of the stalls to either side of me would slide open and the horses would spring out. They trotted forward: the three white mares lining themselves up in front of one wagon, the black Percheron in front of the other. Harnesses and collars dropped down from the ceiling, already attached to the wagons’ traces. Boys came along and hooked up the harnesses and attached the reins.
While all this was happening, more boys came clomping down the stairs from somewhere up above. They jumped into their boots and clapped on their helmets. Then, together, horses, men, and the two dogs—Sparky and her mother, who was called Blaze—all dashed off to who knew where.
While they were gone, peace and quiet settled over the fire station. I often dozed. But I woke up as soon as they came jogging back, tired and dirty and smelling strongly of smoke.
The first thing they would do was clean up. The men paid special attention to the horses. They hosed them down and soaped them up and even cleaned their teeth with a big wooden brush. The horses were then dried off and put away in their stalls with grain and hay.
But before very long, Sparky would bark and dance and the whole chain of events would start up all over again. It bothered me that, as many times as they did this, no one ever invited me to join in.
One morning, I was standing with my head in the back of my stall, sulking about this very thing.
Behind me, Sparky asked, Do you actually enjoy feeling sorry for yourself?
I sighed and ignored her.
Why am I even here? I wondered aloud.
You’re here to be a fire horse, said Sparky. Don’t worry. They’ll get around to training you one of these days. They’re giving you a chance to settle in. Say, is it true what they say? That you’re a man-killer?
Joints creaking, I turned around slowly.
I’m no man-killer! I said sadly.
Is that a fact? Well, suppose you tell me your side of the story, she said. I’m all ears and a dozen spots.
I drew myself up tall and began. I have to admit, it felt good to finally unburden myself. I explained what had happened the fateful night of the winter storm. I told her about the freezing trip home, the old man pitching forward over the dashboard, the sons bullying me and forcing me to step on him. I told her about all the things, bad and good, that had happened to me since then.
When I finished my tale, she said, I’ll tell you what I think. I think this fire station is as good a place as any for you to get a fresh start. If you give us a chance, we’ll give you one.
The next day, as if he knew I was ready, Michael came to my stall with lead rope and halter in hand.
“All right, then, Cinders,” he said. “Are you ready to learn how to be a fire horse and do my Lizzy proud?”
I stood back and let him halter me up and take me out.
When he was finished grooming me, he took me for a walk around the block.
The sights and sounds didn’t bother me nearly as much as they had when I first arrived. To begin with, it was daytime. Everything is less frightening in the sunlight. And, besides, I had spent the last few weeks in my stall getting used to these sounds.
Little children, sensing my ease, came up to pet me. Dogs sniffed at my hooves. Cats rubbed up against my feathered fetlocks.
When Michael returned me to the stable after our walk, the horse in the stall next to mine asked, Did you have a pleasant stroll?
I turned to the beautiful white Thoroughbred mare who, up until this moment, had all but ignored me. Oh, hello, I said to her. Yes, it’s good to get out and stretch my legs again.
I’ve got a feeling, said the identical Thoroughbred one stall down from the first, you’re going to be stretching those legs plenty in the next months. I’m Daisy, and the mare next to you is Maisy. The gal on my other side is Maybelle.
Maybelle, an exact copy of Daisy and Maisy, nodded to me. My pleasure, I’m sure.
We pull the Little Giant, said Maisy.
Which is to say the steam engine, said Daisy.
The most important piece of equipment in the fire station, said Maybelle.
Making us the most important horses here, said Daisy.
The black Percheron on my other side snorted, You stuck-up gals! What makes you think you’re so special? The steam engine might pump the water, but you can’t put a fire out without a hose. The name’s Butch. I pull the hose cart.
Pleased to meet you, Butch, I said.
Speaking for all of us, said Butch, I’m awfully glad you’ve come.
Maybelle said, We overheard you telling your troubles to Sparky. We know now you’re not a man-killer.
And I’m sure you’ll make a fine fire horse, said Maisy.
Welcome to the herd, said Butch.
—
The next day began with Sparky barking and the bell going off. For the first time, the door to my stall slid open. All the other stall doors stayed closed. No men came sliding down the pole to jump into their uniforms. That’s when I knew that my training had begun.
Michael and Sully, the hose cart foreman, each took one side of my halter and walked me out of the stall to stand in front of the hose cart. The next moment, a collar and harness dropped down from the ceiling onto my back.
I had seen this go on with the other horses, but I spooked when it first happened to me. I soon settled down and let the men fasten on the collar and harness. When they tried to put the blinkers on me, they discovered what Farmer Zeke had once learned: I do not need blinkers and I will not tolerate them. I shook my head until they slid down on my face. So there.
“It appears our gray lady doesn’t favor blinkers,” said Sully.
“So much the better,” said Michael.
They harnessed me up many times over. And when I could undergo it without a single twitch, Michael gave me a lump of sugar and said, “Good girl, Cindy!”
I smacked the sugar into my lips. Cindy! That was a much sweeter name than Man-Killer.
A few days later, I went through the same drill, but the boys added some steps. Once my collar was fastened, the boys led me, hose cart in tow, out the fire station door into the street.
Soon I could go through all the steps: exit the stall and trot up in front of the hose cart; hold still while the harness and collar were fastened; exit the fire station pulling the cart; get my lump of sugar and my “Good girl, Cindy!”
When I could do this quickly and smoothly, Michael laid a rope along the floor. The next time Sparky barked and the bell went off, there were no boys to guide me.
At first, I hesitated. Then I looked down and saw the rope laid out on the floor. Like a trail, it led from my stall to the front of the hose cart and then out the door.
Sparky said, You get the idea. Follow the rope.
I did exactly that and got an extra lump of sugar.
After that, Sully hitched me up to the hose cart and began to take me on runs through the city. Sparky always went with me to guide me and clear the way.
Following one of these runs, I asked Sparky a question that had been nagging at me for some time.
So, now that I’ve told you my big secret, can you tell me yours?
What secret? she asked, scratching a flea.
I notice that every time you dance around and bark, the bell rings, I said.
She chuckled. I don’t make it ring. I just know when it’s going to go off. I get a tingling feeling in my bones.
I
wondered if the tingling feeling came from her spots. I had spots, too. Would my own spots soon start to tingle in advance of the fire bell?
Do you think that maybe someday I’ll get that tingling feeling, too?
You never know, said Sparky.
The endless practice—getting all gussied up in harness with no real fire to go to—was beginning to bore me. I was eager to prove my worth to Michael and the boys, to Sparky, and to the other horses.
One day, Lizzy came to visit. She stood against the wall of the fire station, holding a shiny metal disk.
That thing in her hand is a watch, Sparky explained. It tells her how quickly you can get ready to go to a fire.
I wanted to show Lizzy just how fast I could be. When Sparky started barking and the bell rang, Lizzy clicked the watch, and out the stall door I charged.
I trotted forward smartly and stood in front of the hose cart. The collar and harness came down on me, and Sully buckled them into place. Lizzy jumped up and down and cheered. As I pulled the wagon out the fire station door, she clicked the watch again. Sparky barked with joy.
“Daddy! Come and see!” She held up the watch. “That’s forty-five seconds! A Maxwell Street record!”
Michael looked at the watch. “Well, I’ll be…,” he said. “You were right about Cinders, Lizzy.”
After they unhitched me and took off my harness, Lizzy groomed me. “I know you’re impatient. You want to get out and go. But my father says you need at least another six months of practice. That seems like forever to you. But that’s the way they do things on Maxwell Street.”
When she put me back in my stall, she gave me three horse cookies fresh from the oven. I gobbled them down, one right after another, and licked my lips.
Before she left, she hugged me and whispered, “Be patient, Cinders. Your day will come.”
As it turned out, I would not have long to wait.
The air in the fire station always smelled smoky. But by my second year there, it reeked of burning wood as well. There was almost always a fire breaking out somewhere in the city. The horses were scarcely cleaned up from the last fire when the bell went off calling them to the next one. Then out of the stalls they would spring. Down the stairs the men would pound. And off they’d go, returning hours later with faces and arms blackened with soot. I asked Butch one day, Are all Chicago summers this bad?