Banjo
Page 2
Air in.
Air out.
Long, deep breaths.
Could she really do what she’d promised in her flyer?
4-H demonstration. Thirteen-year-old girl will put a saddle on any horse anyone brings her, broke or not. Just don’t bring a biter…she might bite back.
She’d put that last part in as a joke.
I can do this, I can do this.
But Meg had a secret—she had yet to put a saddle, or even a halter, on one of her own horses, a half-wild mustang she called Amigo.
She turned back to look at the people in the bleachers.
She smiled, seeing her brothers looking so serious. Even though her mom had to drag them out of bed, Meg didn’t care. Jacob, seventeen, and Jeremy, fifteen, were giving her their full attention.
Mom waved, and Meg lifted her chin.
“Learn by doing,” Meg whispered. The 4-H slogan. She and Josie had learned most of their life skills at 4-H—head, heart, hands, and health.
She’d tacked flyers up all over town and even put a few up over in Bend, Redmond, and Prineville, and at the store in Camp Sherman. Sisters was only about ten blocks long, but in the summer it was crammed with tourists and cars and RVs. Maybe that’s why so many people were here today—around fifty. She’d expected ten to fifteen.
Meg tapped the small wireless microphone clipped to her shirt.
“Thank you for coming to my demonstration,” she said, hands trembling.
Jeez! Get hold of yourself.
“My name is Meg Harris. Today I’m going to show how anyone with a little patience can put a saddle on a difficult horse.”
As the crowd waited, her heart thumped; she could actually feel it thundering in her ears.
“So…uh…did anyone…bring a horse? I mean…an ornery one?”
People laughed, turning to see if there were any takers.
Meg stood straight, smiling. Her amplified voice made her feel bigger than she was.
“Heck, yeah,” a man in a tan hat called. “I’m just not so sure I should turn him loose on you. He’s a real doozy. You could sooner saddle a jackrabbit.”
Louder laughter.
Now Meg grinned. “Bring him on in.”
The man went out to his trailer and returned with a bug-eyed gray horse. The gray tossed its head and pranced when the man led it into the area. Not a big horse, but skittish.
“Are you really thirteen, miss?” the man said. “You look awful young.”
“I’ll be fourteen in seven months.”
He rubbed his chin.
“I can handle him,” Meg said, trying not to let the nervous horse make her nervous.
The man leaned into her microphone. “If you can get a saddle on this volcano, I’ll eat my hat.”
He lifted his Stetson as everyone cheered and hooted.
The noise made the gray rear up. He crow hopped sideways, and the man slapped its flank with the end of the lead rope to keep him in line.
He looked at Meg. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t.”
He shook his head. “You’re one brave girl.”
“Call me Meg,” she said, and reached for the lead.
The man in the tan hat walked away, leaving Meg with the gray horse. “My daughter rode him for about a month,” he said over his shoulder. “Then she went off to college. He ain’t been saddled in three years.”
He let himself out of the arena and leaned his arms on the rail to watch. “His name’s Mr. Gray Hat,” he called. “Should’ve called him Mr. Gray Wolverine.”
4
After the shooting, Danny slept in the hay shed, where Banjo usually slept.
At daylight, he opened his eyes and bolted up.
Still no Banjo.
He grabbed his sleeping bag and hurried into the house to check the time. Seven o’clock. He’d overslept by two hours.
He had chores…but something was very wrong.
He had to search for Banjo.
Next to his bed sat a wooden chair and a night table with a lamp and a clock inside a silver horseshoe. The top of his dresser was lost under a herd of trophies and ribbons and junior rodeo belt buckle awards. His walls were covered with rodeo posters.
Where are you, Banjo?
He changed into his jeans and pulled on his boots and a white T-shirt.
He quickly brushed his teeth and ran wet fingers through his hair, then looked out the window. Dad was striding toward the barn.
Danny grabbed his hat, ran to the kitchen, took a long gulp of orange juice from the container in the fridge, and headed out the door.
“Banjo!” he called, running toward the pastures.
Dad poked his head out of the barn. “Whoa, slow down there. What’s up?”
“Have you seen Banjo? He’s missing.”
Dad turned to look back. “That’s odd. He should be following me around like always.” He frowned. “Tyrell told me what happened last night, before he took off for work.”
Danny squinted out toward the trees.
Dad followed his gaze. “Maybe he’s sick and holed up somewhere. Dogs do that.”
“Yeah…maybe.”
“Listen, I’ve got to run a load over to Portland today. Be back sometime tonight.”
“All right.”
“How’s about riding the fence this morning? Make sure everything’s as it should be. You might scrub out the water trough in the east pasture, too. Oh, and set out that new salt lick I got, would you?”
“I can do that.”
Dad put his hand on Danny’s shoulder and squeezed. “Gotta go. See you tonight.”
Danny watched his father drive off, then put his hat on and headed into the barn. He set the new salt lick near the water trough, then grabbed a hand-tied halter off its hook in the tack room and went out to the practice pen. There was a shady spot by the fence where Banjo sometimes slept during the day.
He tried whistling.
Nothing.
“Where are you?”
In the west pasture, he found the steers and calves grazing. They looked up and stared at him.
Danny whistled. “Banjo! Here, boy!”
He kept walking.
Farther out, he spotted all four horses looking his way.
“Pete,” he called.
His horse perked his ears forward.
Danny took the halter and held it up, and Pete, his eleven-year-old gelding, started over, the three other horses trailing close behind.
Danny greeted each one, scratching their foreheads and running a hand down their smooth necks. One mare and three geldings made a peaceful combination.
Danny took a long look in every direction.
No dog.
“Have you guys seen Banjo?”
Pete blinked as Danny slipped the halter over his ears. Danny was proud of the work he’d done with his horse. They trusted each other. “Come on, Pete. We got chores to do and a dog to find.”
With the lead loose in his hands, Danny started back toward the barn. Pete bobbed off his right shoulder, following.
In the barn, Danny checked Pete’s feet, brushed him, saddled him, and led him outside. He climbed into the saddle and was about to head out to the north pasture when movement caught his eye. He stood in the stirrups to get a better look.
A white pickup was barreling up the drive, trailing an angry cloud of gray dust.
5
Meg clipped a long lead rope to Mr. Gray Hat.
The gray threw his head and danced away, then, at Meg’s urging, began circling the arena at a trot.
She let Mr. Gray Hat run on the long lead, allowing him to get comfortable with her and with his new situation.
She stood out in th
e middle, her eyes pinned on the horse.
In a few minutes, he seemed to become more fluid, almost relaxed. Meg knew then that this was a good horse. But three years of neglect had made him cranky.
She tugged on the lead. Mr. Gray Hat slid to a stop. He lowered his head and eyed her.
She approached slowly, her hand extended so the horse could smell her, like you’d come up on an unknown dog.
Mr. Gray Hat stood his ground. He blew and stretched his neck.
Meg inched closer.
The gray snorted and jerked away.
Meg pulled him back and again reached out.
This time he held, and Meg ran her hand over his nose, which he seemed to like. She stepped closer and gently rubbed his face and neck.
As if under some kind of spell, the horse dropped his head low, then lower still, his eyes half-closed. A lump rose in Meg’s throat. You poor thing. All you needed was for someone to pay attention to you.
The spectators were silent.
Meg slipped Mr. Gray Hat’s worn leather halter off and replaced it with the one in her back pocket. It was bright red and hand-tied. To this she attached the long lead, with two thin strips of cowhide on the end, called a popper.
Meg sent him around the arena in a clean, swift trot. When Mr. Gray Hat started to take off, Meg shook the rope sharply and spun his hindquarters away by tapping his flank with the popper.
The horse whirled around, stopped, and stood still, looking at her with surprise. For a moment his ears flattened back, a sign of anger.
But they didn’t stay there.
Meg whispered a few soft words and again held out her hand.
The man in the tan hat shook his head in disbelief as his horse walked toward her and stood, head down, as if shy.
Meg cooed, her voice falling softly from the speakers. “Easy, now. We’re doing fine. Yeah.”
Again, she sent him around the arena, this time at an easy trot, giving him less and less lead rope so he’d close in around the saddle and blanket standing upright in the middle.
Mr. Gray Hat circled and circled, until his curiosity got the best of him. He broke stride and moved in toward the saddle and blanket.
“There we go, now,” Meg whispered. “There we go.”
She waited, watching.
The horse quickly lost interest and looked up to stare at the crowd, as if remembering that they were there. This caused a sprinkle of laughter.
He looked back and stepped closer to the saddle and checked out the smell of it.
“This is where patience comes in,” Meg told the spectators in a low voice. “You have to let the horse have a say in the process.”
Mr. Gray Hat picked up the saddle blanket in his teeth and shook it.
The crowd roared with delight.
Meg smiled when she saw Josie standing and clapping.
“This horse has a sense of humor,” Meg said, taking the blanket back.
“And you, young lady, have a magic touch,” the man in the tan hat called out.
The gray looked over at him. More laughter.
“Okay, you little monkey,” Meg said. “Now you’re showing off.”
Meg grinned and looked toward her audience. “You don’t make a horse learn something, you let him learn it.”
She took the saddle blanket and rubbed it about Mr. Gray Hat’s shoulders and withers. He seemed almost content with all the attention.
He stood perfectly still as Meg placed the blanket on his back. She lifted the saddle up against her hip and without taking her eyes off his, or her hand off the lead, lightly swung it into place.
The gray scooted forward a step, and Meg wiggled the lead. He lifted his head but held still.
Then, whispering softly, Meg slipped around to the other side and caught up the cinch with one hand, loosened the latigo strap with the other, and gently drew it up firm about the belly.
When Mr. Gray Hat crow hopped to the side, Meg soothed him until he was still.
The gray was saddled.
The crowd stood and clapped and whistled.
Let’s see how far we can take this. Meg put a foot into the stirrup and climbed into the saddle.
Mr. Gray Hat sidestepped, then backed away and reared up on his hind legs. Meg leaned forward so she wouldn’t be thrown off the back, grabbing his mane and the saddle horn. “Easy, boy, easy.”
Mr. Gray Hat bucked once and broke into a stiff-legged trot. Meg rode him around the arena, and as she did, he settled into a smooth and fluid lope.
After two laps, she reined him in near the stands. The gray pranced with his head high, skittish but responsive to Meg’s hand.
She’d done it.
“This isn’t magic,” she told the crowd. “Anyone can do it if they’re willing to take the time. You just have to learn the horse’s way of talking to you. Simple horse language. Nobody, and no horse, likes to be bullied or forced into doing something, right?”
She looked over to the man in the tan hat. “Now, come on out here, mister, and eat your hat.”
The audience roared as he hunched out into the arena, the brim of his hat in his teeth.
6
The white truck coming up the drive braked hard between the house and the barn. It was Mr. Brodie, their neighbor.
Danny nudged Pete across the pen to the fence.
Mr. Brodie got out and started for the house, dust from his abrupt stop churning around him.
“Over here,” Danny called.
Mr. Brodie turned and strode over in his coveralls and sweat-stained straw hat.
Looking down from atop Pete, Danny was about to say hello, but the pinched look on Mr. Brodie’s face stopped him.
Danny hunched forward, his forearms resting on the saddle horn. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brodie, but Dad’s not home.”
Mr. Brodie’s usual way was to spend a minute or two small talking before he got to his business.
But not today. “We got a problem, you and me.”
“We do?”
“It’s your dog.”
Danny froze, then glanced over at the truck and saw the rifle in the window rack. It would only be there if he were going hunting. It wasn’t hunting season. A wave of terror ran through him.
Danny dismounted and stood holding the reins, the two of them separated by the fence. “What’s the problem?”
“Thought you’d of trained that dog by now, Danny. But he ain’t trained at all. Him and a pack of dogs was over to my place in the middle of the night, trying to take down my sheep. My boys heard ’em and ran out and chased ’em off with a rifle. Billy winged one of ’em. Said it might have been that dog of yours.”
Danny’s legs weakened. He leaned against Pete.
Mr. Brodie glared, his eyes like small brown marbles.
“Banjo doesn’t chase sheep, Mr. Brodie.”
“I told you when you got him feral dogs can’t be trusted, even if they’s been domesticated. And now he’s gone back to his old ways. I can’t have dogs taking down my livestock. He’s got to go. Now.”
Danny balled his fists to hide his trembling fingers. “Banjo isn’t a wild dog.” It was all he could think of to say.
“My boys could have shot him dead, but because it was your dog, they didn’t. Out of courtesy. Now we got to decide what you’re going to do about it.”
“How…how could they tell it was my dog? It was dark.”
Mr. Brodie squinted. Danny thought he might be thinking about saying how flat-out rude he was for a boy his age.
“You’ll know when he comes home with a flesh wound. I won’t put up with it no longer. I’ve had three attacks in two years.”
“Those were coyotes.”
“Dogs ain’t no diff’rent. You got to put that wild one of yours down.”
“Oh, I mean ever word.”
“Well…I…no, sir…nobody’s shooting my dog.”
“You sure your daddy ain’t here?”
“Yes.”
“When’s he back?”
Danny stared at Mr. Brodie. This isn’t happening.
Mr. Brodie glared, then grunted and headed to his truck. “This ain’t over.”
Danny clenched and released his fists as the truck drove off.
His mind whirled as he headed over toward the barn with Pete.
Mr. Brodie would come back. And Danny knew Dad would have to agree with him. They’d been neighbors for all of Danny’s life, and each of them had had trouble with coyotes and wild dogs. When you saw them attacking your livestock, you shot them. And the law had no problem with it.
Danny remembered what Dad had told him and Tyrell seven years ago, when he’d first brought Banjo home. One thing you boys need to keep in mind is that this dog came from the wild. The guy I got him from thinks he was once domestic, but still, we don’t know how he’s going to act around the horses. I’m trusting you to keep a close eye on him. If he shows the slightest urge to worry the livestock, I need to know.
Maybe he was wild once, Danny thought. But Banjo’s a good dog, and he’s never chased their sheep.
If he shows the slightest urge to worry the livestock, I need to know.
If what Mr. Brodie said was true, he’d have to give Banjo up.
Danny staggered and leaned against Pete.
Find Banjo.
Must find Banjo.
7
Meg Harris’s home sat at the back of an open field with towering ponderosa pines on both sides of a long gravel drive. A rust-red barn on the left, a house on the right.
Alone in a pen behind the barn, a five-year-old bay mustang with a black mane lifted its head as Meg and her family drove in after Meg’s 4-H demonstration. The horse had white socks on three legs and a ragged, off-center white blaze that shot down his forehead like a drunken lightning bolt.
His name was Amigo.