Sea Star: Orphan of Chincoteague

by Marguerite Henry

  Mr. Jacobs was standing close to the cameraman, his eyes darting nervously from the oncoming ponies to the overcast sky. He nodded to Paul that he understood. If the plan worked, the ponies would break up in two bunches around the camera. He would get a closeup of the wildest scene of the roundup.

  And suddenly the sun struck through the clouds like a powerful searchlight. Manes, tails, sweating bodies were highlighted with red and gold.

  “Now! Now!” Paul heard himself yelling. “This is it!” Why was that cameraman so slow? What was he waiting for? Was there ever a sight so wild? It was wilder than thunder and lightning. Wilder than wind.

  He clenched his hands behind him to keep from knocking the camera over. This man Winter was as cold as his name. Paul hated him. He had given up going on the roundup for him, for a man who stood frozen. A man who waited, waited, waited, when all around him the wild things were blowing and screaming.

  And just when he could stand the delay no longer came the clicking, clicking sound of the camera close in his ear. Mr. Winter was grinding now. And just in time. The ponies were plunging at him, their eyes white ringed, their nostrils dilated until the red lining showed like blood. Now they were splitting in two bunches, swerving around the camera, coming so close that their tails whisked it.

  Paul drew a long breath of relief as he turned to look at Mr. Jacobs.

  “He knows just when,” laughed Mr. Jacobs weakly.

  Chapter 6

  HORSE-DOCTOR PAUL

  THE PONIES began to slacken their pace. They were coming to the sweetest grass on Assateague. The roundup men, almost as blown as the horses, drew rein.

  Suddenly Paul forgot the cameramen; he was a horseman now. “Look!” A choked cry escaped him. “A mare’s hurt, terrible hurt. Look at her limp. Her colt can outrun her.”

  He raced across the wiry grass to the men resting their mounts. “What’s the matter of her, Mr. Wimbrow?” he called anxiously.

  Mr. Wimbrow took off his fisherman’s cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Heel string’s cut,” he said tiredly. “Likely she cut it on an oyster shell.”

  The mare tucked her forelegs beneath her and lay down to rest, as if she knew the roundup was only half over. She was a pinto with splashy black and white markings. She might have been beautiful, but now she was just a crippled captive. A captive who seemed content to rest while her puzzled colt and stallion watched over her.

  “You going to swim her across the channel?” Paul asked.

  “Reckon we will,” Mr. Wimbrow said. “The salt water will clean the cut better’n any man-made medicine.”

  Paul nodded. If Wilbur Wimbrow thought swimming wouldn’t hurt the mare, it wouldn’t. He turned to study the milling mob of ponies, watching the stallions gather in their own families. Every now and then a mare would break away, and the stallion would herd her back into his band with galloping hooves and bared teeth. At last they were all neatly grouped like classes in school.

  “I hanker to see the Phantom,” Paul thought aloud, “but I hope I don’t!” He wondered at himself. One time he had so wanted to capture her. Now he so wanted her to remain free. He could not bring himself to ask the men if she had been caught. From one bunch of ponies to another he went. There were blacks and chestnuts and bays and pintos, but nowhere among them was Misty’s beautiful wild mother with the white map on her withers.

  “She didn’t get caught!” he whispered with a fierce gladness. He wanted to throw back his head and whinny his relief to the whole wide world.

  Instead, he belly-flopped in the grass, laughing softly to himself. The sun poured down on his back, warmed him through. All around, the wild creatures were grazing, their legs scissor blades, opening and closing, opening and closing, as they moved from one delicious clump of grass to another. Paul felt strangely comforted. Out here on Assateague, with the wild things so near, he could push aside unhappy thoughts. Maybe Friday would never come. He pulled a blade of grass and slid it between his teeth, savoring the salty taste. For a long time he lay quite still, lulled by the wind and the waves and the pleasant sound of the ponies cropping the grasses. It was not until he heard boats starting up their motors that he went back to the cameramen.

  “The tide’s ebbing bare,” he told them. “The men’ll be driving the ponies into the water soon. They’re going to need all the boats to make a kind of causeway for the ponies to swim from Assateague to Chincoteague.”

  He dug up his shirt, shook it free of sand, and pulled it over his head. Then he waded out to Joe Selby’s boat.

  Everything was working according to plan. The boats, spitting and sputtering, were lining up to form a sea lane across the channel. On the beach the roundup men were closing in, drawing a tight circle around the ponies. A sudden explosion of lusty yells, and now the animals were plunging into the sea! Men’s cries mingled with the screaming of ponies and the wild clatter of birds overhead. The channel was boiling with noise.

  Paul’s eyes and ears sharpened. He felt he belonged neither to the roundup men nor to the cameramen. He was an excited onlooker, like the visitors from Norfolk, from Washington, from Philadelphia. He watched the hurt mare and her colt stumble into the foam. The water seemed to revive the mare.

  “Look at her colt!” he laughed aloud. “He’s getting a free ride!”

  Sure enough, the colt’s muzzle was anchored firmly on his mother’s back. It seemed to comfort the mare, to give her new strength.

  Four or five tow-headed boys were swimming alongside the ponies. They wanted to be ready in case a foal needed life-saving. They remembered how Paul had rescued the drowning baby Misty. But this year the colts were expert as swimmers in a water carnival, and not one needed help.

  The first ponies were scrambling up the beach at Chincoteague now, their coats curried by the water and the noonday sun. The blacks were no longer shaggy and dusty but took on the shininess of satin, and the chestnuts glistened like burnished copper.

  “Slick as moles!” Paul laughed to himself.

  He wanted to get to them quickly, eager as any sightseer. “Let’s put in to shore,” he yelled to Joe Selby.

  The scow with the roundup men was landing alongside them. Wilbur Wimbrow’s arm went up, signaling for Paul to come.

  The boy welcomed an excuse to be with the horsemen. “They need me,” he said to Mr. Jacobs as he leaped over the side of the boat.

  “That hurt mare’s got to have some first aid,” Mr. Wimbrow told Paul. “Your fingers are fine as a mother-woman’s. Us men’ll hold her quiet while you lay these cigarettes in her cut. The tobacco’ll burn it clean.”

  He handed two cigarettes to Paul and took the bandanna handkerchief from around his neck. “You can use this for a bandage,” he said. “It’ll stay the blood.”

  Grandpa Beebe, gathering his rope, stepped up behind Mr. Wimbrow. “Leave me rope the hurt mare fer ye,” he said.

  Mr. Wimbrow was glad of fresh hands to help. “After we doctor her,” he told Grandpa, “I’d like it if Paul and Maureen’d lead her over to my place. If she’s driven to the pony pens along with the mob, she’s liable to get tromped on.”

  “Better off by herself,” Grandpa agreed. “What you want done with her colt?”

  “We’ll drive him to the Pony Penning Grounds with the others. He’s big enough to be sold with the other colts.”

  Grandpa Beebe easily roped the mare. Then he talked to her in the voice he saved for wild things. “Easy there. Easy, girl. Ye’re not hurted bad.”

  The crowds closed in to watch.

  “Why don’t they shoot her?” asked a well-meaning visitor wearing Oxford glasses.

  “Why!” barked Grandpa. “For the same reason yer family didn’t aim a gun at ye when ye lost yer nacheral sight.”

  The people cheered for Grandpa and pressed in closer.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Wimbrow nodded to Paul. “We got her.”

  Paul tore the paper from the cigarettes. He picked up the hurt leg, bending
it at the knee. Gently but firmly he laid the tobacco in the cut. It was good to be helping, not just watching. Now he knew how good Grandma must feel when she took care of a sick neighbor. Maybe he and Maureen would both be horse doctors when they grew up. Maybe they would live in the old lighthouse on Assateague. Then they could see whenever a wild creature was hurt. All these thoughts spun around in his mind as he tied the bandanna securely.

  “Paul, you leg up on Trinket now,” Mr. Wimbrow said. He beckoned to Maureen, who was mounted on Watch Eyes and holding Trinket for Paul. “Then you two lead the mare down behind Old Dominion Lodge so’s she can’t see her colt go off without her.”

  Grandpa and Mr. Wimbrow tied a connecting rein between the hurt mare and Trinket and Watch Eyes. Then they faced her out to sea while the roundup men roped her colt and headed for the Pony Penning Grounds. A little moment and it was over. The trembling of the mare quieted. Her neighing became no more than a whimper. She limped numbly along between Watch Eyes and Trinket.

  “Paul,” said Maureen as they headed for Mr. Wimbrow’s house, “seems this mare’s got enough trouble without having her colt taken away from her too.”

  Paul was busy trying to hold Trinket to the slow pace of the mare.

  “ ’Course she’s got enough trouble,” he said at last, “but up to Mr. Wimbrow’s house she won’t be able to hear the colt whinkerin’ for her all night long.” He rode on in silence for a moment. Then he added, “Maybe it’s like a twitch.”

  “What’s like a twitch?”

  “Humpf,” snorted Paul. “You wanting to be a horse doctor and don’t even know what a twitch is.”

  “I do too know what a twitch is. It’s nothing but a piece of rope twisted around a horse’s nose to make him forget where his pain’s at.”

  “Well,” said Paul, “this mare’s foot probably hurts so bad she can’t fret about losing her colt.”

  Maureen nodded her head.

  Chapter 7

  THE BEST KIND OF WINKERS

  GRANDPA WAS already at home when Paul and Maureen arrived. He was trying to seem very happy.

  “Childern,” he shouted, “look-a-here. Ever see such a whopping big watermelon? And it’s frosty cold, asides.” He held it high to show that it was beaded with icy sweat. “Grandma says if we’re going to eat it in our hands we got to stay outside.” He winked happily.

  Grandma Beebe came out of the house with a pan of steaming water, a bar of brown soap, and washcloths. She set the pan on a bench in the shade. “Now,” she said brightly, “wash up good, and let the wind dry you off. I been making a plummy cake for the Ladies’ Auxiliary and my kitchen’s hot as a griddle. Out here it’s nice and cool.” She looked up at Paul and Maureen. “What’s the matter of you two? You glued to Watch Eyes and Trinket?” But she smiled as she said it.

  Paul and Maureen slid to their feet and led their mounts to the big shed.

  “Don’t let your ponies stomp on my biddies,” Grandma called after them.

  There was a chorus of neighing as the horses that had been left behind greeted the ones that had been away. Misty’s neigh was a high squeal of happiness. Paul and Maureen stopped to rough up her mane and stroke her nose. Then they hung up their bridles and joined Grandpa at the wash bench, while Misty tagged along.

  “There’s a letter come from Clarence Lee this morning,” Grandma was saying as she laid a red-checked cloth on the picnic table. “He’s in the college all right, studying to be a minister.”

  “A minister, eh?” Grandpa Beebe straightened up and planted his feet wide apart. “I’m a-danged,” he laughed softly. “To think I sired a minister! Why, I’m that proud I’m liable to go around with my chest stickin’ out like a pewter pigeon.”

  “You mean pouter pigeon, Clarence.”

  “Well, let’s not gibble-gabble. We got us a lot of watermelon to eat. And I’ve brung some new little carrots for Misty.”

  Grandma had made crab cakes and baked them in clam shells, and she had black-eyed peas and corn pone with wild honey. And Grandpa was all excited about the deep pink of his watermelon and the blackness of the seeds. “ ’Taint only something noble to look at,” he exclaimed, “but whoever tasted a melon so downright juicy and sweet?”

  Pony Ranch seemed to draw close about Paul and Maureen. They could not help feeling comforted by Grandpa’s and Grandma’s happiness.

  Maybe, if no one thought about Friday, it would never come. Maybe they could go on picnicking forever, with Misty coming to them and offering to shake hands until all the carrots were gone, and the chickens fighting over the watermelon rinds and rushing for each seed that was dropped.

  “I declare!” Grandma said, her eyes fixed on the whirling chickens. “It took me to be a grownup afore I figgered out why they call that shoal up north of here ‘Hens and Chickens.’ It’s plain as the nose on your face that they do it ’cause the water swirls and closes in like hens and chicks after a morsel to eat!”

  Grandpa clucked his tongue in admiration. “Ida! I never knowed the reason either!”

  When the picnic was over, Paul got up and stretched himself. He squinted at the sky between the pines and found the position of the sun. “They’re just about fixing to call the bronc-busting contest over at the Pony Penning Grounds,” he said to Grandpa. “Reckon I’ll ride.”

  Grandma caught her breath. “Don’t let him do it, Clarence,” she cried in alarm. “He’ll be killed outright.”

  “There, there, Ida.” Grandpa’s voice was the same one he had used on the hurt mare. “He’ll not get killed. Leastaways, not outright,” he grinned. “Y’see, Ida, Paul and Maureen is like nervous hosses. They got to wear winkers to keep from seein’ things comin’ up from behind. My grandpap used to say”—and here Grandpa Beebe began rubbing the stubble in his ears as if he were enormously pleased with his memory—“he used to say, ‘Clarence, keepin’ busy is the best kind of winkers. If ye keep busy today, ye can’t see tomorrow comin’ up.’ That’s what he said.”

  Underneath his eyebrows Grandpa’s eyes had a merry gleam. “Go ’long, Paul. Pick out a tough pony and ride ’im till he’s dauncy. I’d sure give my last two teeth to trade places with ye.”

  Chapter 8

  A WILD ONE FOR WILD-PONY PAUL

  WHEN PAUL and Maureen rode into the Pony Penning Grounds, the loud-speaker was blasting at full strength. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jack Winter of New York City is making his way over to the chute.”

  “That’s the cameraman!” Paul told Maureen excitedly. “He’s going to ride in the contest!”

  They tied their mounts quickly, running to the corral just in time to see the young New Yorker come bolting out of the chute on a white spook of a horse. His hands were clutched in the horse’s mane, and he was gripping hard with his knees. But his feet were not locked around the pony’s barrel. He looked like a rider in the bareback class at a horse show.

  Paul was screaming at him, “Lock your feet around his belly. Lock your feet around . . . ”

  But his words thinned into nothing. The white spook had planted his forefeet in the earth and was lashing the sky with his heels. One second . . . two seconds . . . three seconds . . . four, five, six, barely seven seconds, and Mr. Winter was plummeting through space, then falling to earth with a thud.

  A bugle of triumph tore the stillness that followed. Then the freed animal went snaking around the corral until a roundup man roped him.

  Shakily Mr. Winter got to his feet, stumbled out the gate held open for him, and lost himself in the crowd.

  “Give a big hand to Mr. Winter, folks. That’s all he’ll get,” called the voice over the loud-speaker.

  The crowd responded with spirited applause.

  “Who’ll be next, folks? The ten dollars still stands. Who’s next?”

  Paul’s arm shot into the air, but no one saw it.

  The voice kept prodding. “How about Delbert Daisy?”

  People all around Paul and Maureen were making remarks. “Delbert trie
d it last year,” someone said. “He’s too smart to try again.”

  “I’m a cowboy from Texas,” a man with a ten gallon hat drawled, “but I be dogged if I’m ready to pick me a homestead. I’m a reg’lar bronc rider, used to a halter and a belly rope for anchor.”

  Another stranger agreed. “No siree! No thousand pounds of wild horseflesh under me without something to hold on to. Not me!”

  “Who’s next, folks? Who’s next?” the voice hammered.

  The crowds around the corral were banked solid. Paul could not wedge between them to climb the fence. He and Maureen finally wriggled underneath it.

  Inside the corral Paul’s hand went up again.

  This time everyone saw.

  “Look, everybody! Paul Beebe’s next,” the voice bawled out. “Ten dollars to Paul if he can stay aboard for thirty seconds. Stand back, Maureen. That’s his sister, folks. Stand flat against the fence, Maureen.”

  Maureen clutched at her throat. They were going to let her stay in the corral! She stood back as far as she could, leaning hard against the rails, with the people pressing against her on the other side.

  “Let out a wild one for Wild-Pony Paul!” came the voice.

  Paul was gone. He was climbing the fence of the chute, swinging his leg over an unbroken pony, gripping the strands of tangled mane as if they were reins.

  “Who’s he riding?” someone cried.

  There was a pause.

  Then the announcer’s voice cracked with excitement. “A wild one it is! Red Demon—a she-devil on hooves. Those aren’t her ears, folks, they’re horns!”

  A hush of expectation fell over the onlookers.

  “Be you ready, Paul?”

  A thin voice answered, “Turn ’er loose.”

  Every eye was riveted on the closed gate of the chute. Now it burst open and Red Demon, a chestnut with a blaze, shot out bucking and twisting. In a quick flash of seeing, her white-ringed eyes swept the corral. Suddenly she spied a tree at the far end. She hurtled toward it, not straight like a bullet, but in a tortuous, weaving line, calculating, deadly.