Gift Horse (2 page)

S
am and Dad were halfway to the auction ring when the noise of hooves striking metal made them search for the commotion.

Sam found the source of all the noise. It was coming from a white trailer freckled with rust.

“It's them again,” Sam said.

Dad looked in the direction she pointed. His boots stopped as he watched the shorter of two men pound his palms against the side of the horse trailer. The taller man opened the back of the trailer, then jerked on a rope that wrenched a huge brown head around at a strained and awkward angle.

Dad took a breath, sounding as if he was about to speak, then shook his head. Sam was pretty sure she
could read his mind.
None of our business
, he seemed to be thinking, as he kept striding across the parking lot.

“C'mon, you big oaf,” said the man yanking the rope.

Sam's feet froze where she stood. The man kept pulling the horse's head around as if ordering him to do a U-turn in the trailer. What was the guy thinking? A horse one-half that size couldn't have done it.

Sam couldn't see the horse very well, but she heard him stamp, then blow through his nostrils. Instantly, she comprehended the message the horse was sending the man. Patiently, the big bay told the man he heard the order. He understood the order, too. Now, he stood and waited for the man to figure out he was asking the impossible.

But neither of the men seemed to understand.

“Back outta there! Back on out!” bellowed the man pounding on the side of the trailer. “Hurry up, we're gonna be late.” Then, he switched from pounding flat-handed to using his fist on the side of the trailer.

Still, the big horse just flicked his tail, waiting to be understood.

“Dad.” Without taking her eyes from the disturbing scene, Sam appealed to her father. “Do something.”

She heard Dad sigh, but she couldn't understand what he was muttering as he strode back. For sure, his sentence included the phrase “puny-minded.”
And she was pretty sure he wasn't describing the horse.

“I don't think they know what they're doing,” Sam whispered.

Dad's frown said he thought her appraisal of the two men was too kind, but he only nodded, then called, “Can ya use a hand with that horse?”

Flushed and speechless, the man at the end of the rope faltered and looked back at Dad. The other one strutted up, talking.

“Sure, if you've got experience with stubborn, willful mules,” he crowed.

“Big mules,” the taller one repeated.

They introduced themselves as Mike and Ike Sampson and took turns shaking Dad's hand.

Up close, they looked even more like twins. They both had ill-tempered red faces, black hair, and black eyebrows that slanted toward the bridges of their noses. To Sam, they smelled dirty. Not like sweat, she thought, more like their clothes needed washing.

“Our old man died and we got the ranch, taxes and all,” said the short one.

Sam was pretty sure he was the one called Mike, but she wondered what his comment had to do with the draft horse.

“Lotsa taxes,” Ike echoed.

Mike did the thinking for this pair, Sam thought. It was kind of creepy that neither sounded particularly sad over their father's death.

“Fella who's running the spread for us now brought in his own stock,” Mike said with a short bark of a laugh.

Ike joined in, chuckling. “We sold off all Dad's stock, 'cause he brought his own.”

“Told us to get rid of everything with hair,” Mike said.

“Everything with hair,” Ike put in.

Sam made fists of impatience. Didn't Ike get bored, never having a thought of his own? Just then, he handed the lead rope to Dad.

Dad moved to the left side of the trailer so that the horse wouldn't back over him. Then he bent from the waist, keeping his hand level with the animal's fetlocks. For the first time, Sam noticed the clumps of hair matted above the horse's hooves. She was pretty sure they were typical of draft horses and called “feathers,” but the big bay was so dirty, there was nothing feathery about them.

As Dad bent, the big horse relaxed. He knew he wasn't being asked to turn, but to back. When the look-alike men kept chuckling, though, the horse stayed where he was. The men seemed to be watching Dad for a sign of amusement.

Dad wasn't listening to them. He was talking to the horse.

“Okay, pardner, time to come out and see what's goin' on,” Dad said. He clucked his tongue and tapped his index finger against the rope, signaling the
horse it was okay to back out. “When ya get out here, you'll see lotsa trucks and cars. You'll smell cattle, horses, maybe a few sheep or goats.”

The big horse took one step back, then another. He really was huge. Sam thought that if she put both arms out straight, they might be the same width as the big animal. Was he a Percheron? A Clydesdale?

“You're talking to him like he's got a brain,” Mike accused. “He can be one nasty bronc, I'll tell you that.”

Sam didn't believe it. The horse seemed absolutely gentle.

“He might not understand what I'm sayin',” Dad answered in the same soft voice. “But he knows I mean him no harm.”

“Huh!” Ike snorted. “Then you're the only one.”

Sam drew a quick breath. Finally the taller man had come up with an original thought, and it was cruel.

“Yeah, ol' Tinkerbell here's gonna be flyin' with the angels real soon.” Mike guffawed at his own cleverness.

“Flyin' right up to heaven,” Ike said.

For a second, Sam felt dismayed that the big horse was named Tinkerbell. It seemed like a mean joke of a name for such a strong, earthbound animal.

But then Ike's words replayed in her mind. Flyin' right up to heaven. A chill of disbelief spread from the nape of her neck, downward. Goose bumps coated
her arms. They were talking about killing the horse.

“Cattle were simple to get rid of. We sold 'em to a fella from Colton, California—” Mike broke off as the horse suddenly backed the rest of the way down the ramp, then shook his shaggy head.

Mane matted with mud, coat stiff with nervous sweat, he was still an amazing animal. His coat was dark brown, but he had short white socks on his forelegs and a light patch on the side of his neck. Sam couldn't help moving closer to get a better look.

My gosh, from where she stood, she was sure his shoulder was higher than her head. Over sixteen hands, for sure, she thought. He had to be seventeen hands high. He might be even taller.

Halter hardware jingled as the horse turned his head. Blinking, he took them all in.

Sam couldn't look away from the horse's eyes. They were twice as big as Ace's, but their expression reminded her of his. Beyond their curiosity, she saw something more. This woolly mammoth of a horse looked kind.

“Imagine feeding such a monster.” Mike gestured and the horse flinched away from him. He'd hurt that horse. Sam knew it. Her hands cramped back into fists, but before she could say anything, Dad noticed another problem.

“Some ceiling padding might be a good idea,” Dad said. He nodded inside the trailer. She was confused by Dad's comment until she saw a bright
trickle of blood dripping from the horse's poll.

“He's too tall for that trailer!” Sam snapped. “You crammed him in there and he didn't fit.”

The words burst out before she could stop them. She glanced at Dad. In the shade of his Stetson, she saw him raise an eyebrow. He didn't scold her, or even tell her to apologize, but he did give the men a suggestion.

“Sometimes a bandanna slipped under the halter, up there by his ears, will do the trick,” Dad said. “He would've shown off better in the auction ring.”

“Shoot.” Mike chuckled. “Whoever buys Tinkerbell's not gonna mind a little brain damage.”

Ike held his sides with laughter, but Sam involuntarily reached out to the horse. Welcoming the kindness, Tinkerbell extended his nose in her direction. She was a stranger to him, but someone, some time had been gentle with this horse, and he hadn't forgotten.

“Come here, boy.” Sam sighed. Before she could pet him, a pink tongue wider than her palm gave her fingers a quick lick. She felt her heart melt.

“Time to go,” Dad said.

“But Dad…,” Sam began. She crossed her arms, getting stubborn, but he didn't care.

“We'll talk later,” he promised, and his tone allowed no argument.

Okay, Sam thought. She'd let Dad delay the conversation, but she wouldn't let him sidestep it altogether. This was too important.

“Thanks for the help,” Mike said. Clearly, he hadn't noticed how hopeless Dad thought he was with horses.

Dad raised his hand in a dismissing motion, and kept walking.

“Things weren't gonna get any better,” Dad said. “And there's something I need to check.”

“What?” Sam insisted.

“I'll let ya know later,” Dad said.

Okay, Sam thought again. That made
two
things they'd talk about later. And later would come before they left this auction.

Sam kept pace with Dad, trying to maintain her stubborn determination. It was hard not to worry. Sourness gathered at the back of her throat and helplessness made her hands shake. Saving this horse might be impossible.

Even though the big bay was a healthy, sweet-natured horse, his owners didn't care if he died. No, it was worse than that. They assumed he would die. They were joking about it, treating him like old, scratched furniture that had belonged to their father. They couldn't wait to get rid of him.

Sam looked back over her shoulder. The huge horse was easy to spot. Gentle as a pet, he followed at the end of his lead rope, rambling toward a building marked
OFFICE
.

Sam swallowed hard. She'd give Dad a few more minutes of silence. While she did, she'd try to figure
out what detail about the big bay was tugging at her mind. Her eyes had noticed something that her mind hadn't made sense of yet. What was it?

“Some folks don't deserve what they've got,” Dad said, agreeing with her silence.

Sam made a small sound, but she didn't nod. That would only cause tears to overflow her eyelids and go spilling down her cheeks.

Just then a voice boomed over the microphone from the auction ring, announcing a group of six Hereford cows.

“We've got time to go check horses,” Dad said. “You take a look while I find Duke Fairchild. The auction manager,” he added, in case Sam had forgotten.

Sam felt a surge of pride. Dad trusted her to identify mustangs. Of course he'd double-check if she said she'd spotted one, but she'd come a long way from the days when he left her behind because she'd just be in the way. He didn't have to explain she'd become a useful member of the ranch team. He just treated her as one.

Sam moved to the corral fence.

If these were all the horses up for sale, it would be a short auction.

There were only four. A fat dun pony whuffled his lips across the dirt floor of the pen, while two ranch horses—one sorrel and one rusty-muzzled black—dozed nose-to-tail, as if they expected flies to show up
to plague them on this chilly afternoon. The fourth, a flashy honey-maned chestnut mare, seemed completely out of place. She moved like a gaited horse, maybe an American Saddlebred, but her prancing seemed frantic and her eyes rolled white. Although the mare was a beauty, Sam would bet she'd be trouble.

None of the horses resembled mustangs, although that was kind of a generalization, so Sam told herself to look more carefully.

Wild horses came in all shapes and sizes, depending on their territory and the domestic horses who'd joined the herds over the years.

Most of the Phantom's herd had the wide foreheads, delicate muzzles, and high-flung tails of Arabs and the muscled shoulders and hindquarters of running Quarter horses. The herds in southern Nevada tended to be smaller, with light bodies and pale coloring. Sam had read that the wild horses in Oregon's Kieger Mountains looked like their Spanish Barb ancestors, while one herd in northern California showed traits of the cold-blooded draft stock that had dragged tons of redwood trees out of the forests.

She searched these horses for freeze brands, because that was the only way she'd know for sure if they'd been taken off the range by the BLM. Even with thick winter coats, the mark stamped there by the BLM when the horse was captured should show a lighter patch of hair.

That's it! Sam heard her own gasp.

When she'd been studying Tinkerbell, she'd noticed his matted mane, muddy coat, low white socks, and a line of grayish hair on his neck. She'd dismissed it as his natural coloring, but what if it wasn't?

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the memory. The lighter hair had been high on his neck, right where BLM would have marked him.

Sam crossed all eight fingers then linked her thumbs together, hoping with all her might that Tinkerbell was a mustang.

S
am whirled away from the corral, eager to tell Dad her suspicion, and saw him coming toward her. Beside him, dressed in a Western-styled suit and highly polished boots, was a silver-haired man who looked like he must be Mr. Fairchild. He was leading Tinkerbell.

“You already figured it out,” Sam blurted. She approached slowly. Even though she wanted to run and dance around with excitement, she was afraid she'd startle Tinkerbell, so she didn't.

“Yeah,” Dad said, but his head inclined to one side. “But his papers are in order.”

“In order?”

“Afraid so,” confirmed the other man. He took
one hand from the bay's lead rope and extended it to Sam. “I'm Duke Fairchild, foreman of this outfit.” His blue eyes twinkled as if he'd made a joke.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said briefly. “But Dad, are you sure? Those two guys didn't have a clue about horses and he”—Sam gestured to Tinkerbell—“is a great horse. Even though everything here is unfamiliar, he isn't nervous. Look at his ears. He's just interested.”

Mr. Fairchild nodded. He watched Tinkerbell appreciatively and Sam got a feeling that if the horse hadn't been so dirty, the auction manager would have stroked him with appraising hands.

“You're right,” Dad said. “Those two didn't know a horse from a house cat, but they had documents showing the gelding as part of their father's estate. He got title to this horse five years ago from a rancher who adopted him out of the Susanville prison.”

“They had a sheaf of records thick as a dictionary,” Mr. Fairchild agreed. “They looked plenty genuine.”

“Plus, those two didn't seem the sort to be forgers,” Dad said.

Sam tried to think of a loophole. Some way to rescue the horse before he went up for sale.

“The prison?” she asked.

“You remember hearin' about it,” Dad said. “Or if you don't, Brynna can tell you. There are prisons where convicts work with mustangs, gentle 'em and
even train 'em to saddle before they're sold.”

Sam nodded. It sounded familiar, but it wasn't going to help her now.

As Mr. Fairchild turned the draft horse into the pen with the other horses, Sam noticed a man who was obviously interested in buying. He had wire-rimmed glasses, a shaved head—a rare choice in this part of Nevada—and he was so tall and skinny, Sam couldn't help staring.

When the gate clanged shut like a cell door, Sam jumped, but the thin man kept squinting at the horses and making notes on a tablet. His hands seemed to work automatically. While his eyes focused on Tinkerbell, his hand slid into his pocket and withdrew a calculator. His index finger pecked at the keys. He stopped, then glanced down. When he looked back up, his smile was brighter than the glint of winter sun on his bald head.

He jotted something down and underlined it. Twice.

Sam's mind raced. She couldn't spend another minute coming up with her own formula for saving Tinkerbell.

“Okay, Dad, here's what we'll do,” she began. Dad's head tilted back, and she read reluctance in his stance, but she kept talking. “The bids can't go very high. I'll use my own money to buy him, and I'll get him ready to sell.”

Mr. Fairchild coiled Tinkerbell's lead rope into a
neat loop and hung it on a fence post. All the while, he studied her with a half smile.

So far, so good, Sam thought. Dad was shaking his head, but Mr. Fairchild wasn't. And he was in charge of the sale.

“Look at him, Dad,” she went on. “He's gentle as a lamb and oblivious to scary noises.” As if to prove her point, a nearby group of Herefords bawled and bucked, protesting their loading into an unfamiliar cattle truck by their new owners.

In the horse pen, the chestnut whirled to the far side of the corral. The other horses followed, snorting.

“Probably deaf,” Dad grunted.

“Or cow-smart,” Mr. Fairchild suggested.

Sam's spirits soared, but Dad looked at the other man as if he were a traitor.

“Look at his conformation, Dad. He looks like a Percheron, doesn't he? What do you think, is he about seventeen hands tall?”

Dad shrugged. Sam noticed he wasn't saying yes to anything.

“He's big, but not fat. He's muscular, and that wide, deep chest…” Sam paused at the gelding's low nicker. He looked right at her and she imagined he was thanking her. “All his good points will show as soon as I get him washed and brushed and put him on better food.”

When Dad put his hands on his hips, Sam knew
he was still set on discouraging her. “There are at least three things wrong with your idea, Sam,” Dad said. “First, you've got no money to buy him. Second, even if you were, somehow, high bidder, you've got no way to haul him home. And third, who'd buy him? What use is there for big horses like that? Folks who farm use machinery, not draft animals.”

“I've heard,” Sam ventured quietly, “that they're really good for logging. They do less damage to the forest and they can get in places where machinery can't.”

Sam realized she'd been holding her breath while Dad made what was, for him, a very long speech. Every second, she expected Mr. Fairchild to nod and say, “Your dad's got a point.” But Mr. Fairchild didn't do that. He just turned to Sam, waiting for her response.

“This is what I'd do,” she said, wishing for a drink of water to ease her tight throat. “I'd use my college money—” Sam held up a hand to stop Dad's protest. “Only the part from the reward.”

“I remember hearing about that,” Mr. Fairchild said. His smile crinkled the skin around his blue eyes. “You identified that stallion who'd been stealing mares from local ranchers, right? Good work.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, watching Dad.

He was looking up a little, as if adding and subtracting in his mind. Sam knew there was money to spare. Even though she'd earned the reward at the
beginning of the school year, she'd only spent a little on a present for her friend Jake, and a little more on improving River Bend's well pump. What was left should be more than enough to buy Tinkerbell.

“As soon as I sell him, I'll put the money right back in my account,” Sam promised. “I bet it will be a lot more than I take out.”

“And how are you planning to get him to River Bend?” Dad asked.

For a second, Sam was stumped. They only had Dad's pickup truck and no one would be foolish enough to put Tinkerbell in the bed and actually try to drive. And Mike and Ike had proven Tinkerbell was too tall for a normal horse trailer.

“My horse van might be available,” Mr. Fairchild said.

“Duke, what are you thinkin'?” Dad asked.

In spite of his silver-gray hair, Mr. Fairchild looked young as he turned his wide blue eyes on Dad. “I'm just saying I keep it on hand for customers who need it. Obliging customers is good business.”

Before she lost her advantage, Sam rushed on.

“As for a buyer, I probably wouldn't talk to a farmer, because I don't know any. But think of using him as a roping horse, Dad. He's even bigger than Tank, and haven't I heard you say Tank is like an anchor when you rope from him?” Sam took a breath. Now that she'd started, a dozen pictures of Tinkerbell in action flashed across her imagination.
“Or he could be used for clearing brush, or someone might be looking for a heavy hunter…”

“Or a circus horse,” Dad said sarcastically. “But that's all pretty unlikely, hon.”

A slapping sound made the three of them look at the man with the shaved head. Sam had forgotten all about him, but he'd closed his notebook and fallen into step with Mr. Fairchild as they headed toward the small arena where the horses would be displayed for auction.

“How about a private bid of three thousand dollars to take the whole lot off your hands?” he asked Mr. Fairchild. “It'll save you time trying to get them down the chute and into the ring. You could be home having dinner before you know it.”

Mr. Fairchild shook his head and Sam almost applauded. She was just a kid, but even she could see that the man had no concern for Mr. Fairchild's dinner.

“Don't be greedy, Baldy,” Mr. Fairchild said. “I've got to give folks their fair chance to bid on these animals.”

The bald man glanced pointedly at the men striding toward the parking lot and the trucks driving away from the auction yards. Dusk was falling and it looked like most people were on their way home.

Why wasn't “Baldy” going home? Sam wondered. And why would he bid on a show horse, a draft horse, a pony, and two old ranch horses? They were all so
different. She supposed he might have a riding stable near Reno, where tourists rented horses by the hour. At least, that's what she hoped.

“How about six hundred on the big boy?” Baldy jerked his thumb toward Tinkerbell.

“Sounds mighty appealing,” Mr. Fairchild said. “You might try that bid again in the ring.”

The bald man was looking smug, as if he'd already won, when Mr. Fairchild introduced him to Sam and her dad.

“This is Baldy Harris,” Mr. Fairchild said. “He buys for Dagdown Packing Company.”

If Dad had straightened in shock or Baldy had looked self-conscious, Sam might have known immediately what that meant. In fact, it took a few seconds for her to realize Baldy bought horses for a slaughterhouse. And he wanted Tinkerbell.

As a microphone-magnified voice boomed over the auction yards, announcing the horse sale was about to begin, Sam grabbed Dad's hand. She clung to it as they found a seat in the almost empty bleachers. She held tighter still when the fat dun pony trotted into the ring with a rider.

When Baldy plopped himself onto a bench two rows behind them, Sam squeezed Dad's hand as she hadn't done since she was a little kid. But then, she hadn't felt this scared and helpless for a long, long time.

Baldy bid a hundred dollars for the pony.

“One hundred dollars,” the auctioneer repeated. “Anyone plan to give Baldy a little competition? One hundred dollars, but say, folks, you do understand how an auction works, don't ya?”

A few men chuckled and Sam realized that if the auctioneer called Baldy by name, he must do a lot of business here. The idea made her sick. She couldn't help remembering what Dad had said about mustangs being sold for a nickel to fifty cents per pound.

“One-ten,” a woman's voice called out, and Sam turned to look. She was a middle-aged ranch woman. A mother, Sam would bet, trying to get that pony for her kids. Sam flashed her a supportive smile.

As the woman grinned back, Baldy raised the bid to one hundred twenty-five dollars.

How much did that pony weigh? Sam bit her bottom lip and shook her head. For once, she was glad to be bad in math. She didn't want to think like Baldy.

That lady was taking a long time to counter Baldy's bid. Sam twisted to look at her, but she'd bent to look inside her purse.

Have enough
, Sam thought.
Please have enough.

When the woman sat up, her lips were set in a hard line.

“One hundred thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents,” she called.

“Sold!”

Sam finally released Dad's hand to clap as the
woman walked past, smiling, to collect her pony. Sam wished she'd stay and buy the other horses, but at least she'd saved one.

“Okay,” Sam muttered, and noticed Dad was flexing his fingers. “Sorry, Dad,” she said.

“Don't give it a thought. This isn't a pretty business.”

The chestnut mare was up next, and she must have thought she'd entered a show ring. Flawlessly, she moved from a walk to a trot to a fluid canter. The rider's cues were invisible as she reversed, mane blowing like a golden flag. But as the mare passed, her eyes were terrified. She's performing her heart out, Sam thought.

“One hundred.”

Sam turned. This time the voice belonged to a rancher who reminded her of Dad. He was a little heavier and he wore a straw hat instead of a felt one, but the bid surprised her. He had to know the mare was no working horse.

Baldy bid five hundred dollars and there was silence, except for the graceful hooves striking the dirt floor as she cantered around once more.

“Going,” the auctioneer's voice warned.

“Dad, I can't believe it.” Sam gasped. “She's so beautiful.”

Sam tried not to cry, but it was such a pity.

At the sound of boots, Sam scanned the stands. The rancher in the straw hat was leaving. “Going…”

Over the microphone, a voice rang out again, but this time it didn't belong to the auctioneer.

“Five-fifty,” said Mr. Fairchild, crisply.

Without wanting to, Sam turned to look at Baldy. He met her eyes and shrugged. Sam turned back around, wishing she hadn't looked.

Out of respect for Mr. Fairchild, it seemed, no one else made another bid and the auctioneer declared the mare sold.

“He'll get more from her in a private sale,” Dad told Sam. “But he can't do it for all of 'em. You know that.”

“I know,” Sam said. And she did understand, but when the two old ranch horses, the bay and the black, were sold outright to Baldy, Sam still felt sick. Was this their reward for a lifetime of hard work?

And then came Tinkerbell.

The man who'd ridden the chestnut led Tinkerbell into the ring. He had to stretch to keep one hand on the rope clipped under the bay's chin, but the man had a knack with horses. Tinkerbell lifted his knees in a smooth trot. As the man ran to keep up, the big horse looked almost amused.

“Two hundred,” Baldy called out.

“Two-fifty,” said a young rancher in a plaid shirt. Unlike the others, he stood to make his bid.

“Three hundred,” Baldy drawled lazily.

“Four-fifty.” The young rancher had moved down the bleachers to stand beside the ring, as if
pure want could win the horse for him.

“Five hundred,” Baldy bid, then glanced at his notebook and, before the young rancher could make a counteroffer, added, “Oh shoot, make it six.”