Wild Thing (4 page)

I spotted the other auction horses crammed into the paddock, but no Wild Thing. The south pasture lay empty. So did the north pasture. I checked the stable.

Panic seeped into me.
What if they never caught up to the Arabian? What if she ran into a car the same way that frightened dog ran into my bike?

From outside the stable came a squeal that shuddered through me as if I’d made it myself. Horses only make that high-pitched whine out of pure terror.

And I knew in my bones the cry came from Wild Thing.

In spite of the heat, I shivered as I raced through the stable toward the horrible cry.

In a corner of the training pen stood the proud Arabian, tied short to a post as thick as a telephone pole. A black hood covered her head.

“Keep away from Wild Thing!” somebody yelled behind me.

I didn’t turn. I couldn’t breathe.

She’d been rigged so she couldn’t put her hind leg down. A chain ran from the pole, through the D ring of her halter, all the way back to her right hind leg.

I saw the mare’s leg twitch backward, as if to kick at the contraption. Her head bobbed, and she winced as the chain’s roping action tugged the halter, inflicting pain.

“I said keep away!” Richard shouted.

I wheeled on him. “How could you . . . ?” I spit out the words, fighting back tears that burned in my throat. “How could you do that?”

“Are you kidding?” Richard said. “That horse is crazy!”

The mare snorted and tried to rear, but her forelegs were hobbled together—with two leather bracelets connected by a short chain.

Richard scurried back. “We’re not hurting the horse. It’s what Dad calls ‘self-inflicted pain.’ If the stupid horse doesn’t act up, she’s fine.”

I’d heard all about that kind of horse-breaking. My mom had had a reputation as a horse gentler. She believed in loving horses—not breaking their spirits.

“You
and
your dad should just—!” I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself. Richard Spidell would as soon fire me as spit. Then where would that leave Wild Thing?

I took a deep breath and counted to four.

“Um . . . Richard, why the hood? She’s got to hate total darkness. It’ll just make her wilder.”

“I tried to put her in blinders instead. Look what I got for my trouble.” He lifted his T-shirt to show me the faint outline of two teeth marks just above his waist.

I tried not to smile.
Way to go, Wild Thing!

I glanced at Richard, who’s nearly six feet tall and a junior in high school. Lizzy says he looks like a Wild West movie star, but I don’t see it. Lizzy also says
I
look like Annie Oakley, the famous Wild West cowgirl.

“Dad left me in charge of Wild Thing after six of us got her hobbled,” Richard griped. He frowned at the mare as she hopped on three legs to keep her balance.

“How am I supposed to get that wild beast into a stall?” he whined. “And Dad expects
me
to find out how old she is? That auctioneer sold her blind-age. Nobody could get near her mouth.”

I could feel Wild Thing’s fear. I had to do something. “Richard,” I said, trying to sound as people-friendly as my sister does, “if you get that sack off her head, she’ll calm down. She needs to see what she’s up against. I could help.”

He snorted a laugh. “You?”

I forced a casual smile. “I’ve always had this weird connection with horses.” Mom used to say I connected because I had good horse sense. Dad used to say he wished I had people sense.

Richard took off his cowboy hat and frowned. “You get hurt, they’ll blame me.”

“I won’t get hurt,” I said, trying not to sound excited. “And if I do, I’ll say you tried to stop me.”

Richard twisted his lips. I could tell he didn’t think I could do it, but he was out of options.

“And,” I added, “I’ll find out how old she is.”

That clinched it. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody was around. “Okay. But be careful! That mare’s a hothead.”

The Arabian was no hothead. I hated that she’d gotten the name Wild Thing. I slipped through the gate, checking to make sure Richard didn’t try to come in after me. He didn’t.

The smell of fear nearly gagged me, but I knew most humans couldn’t even smell it. She smelled me, too, her nostrils flaring beneath the black mask. She tried to paw, but the hobbles at her forelegs made her stumble.

“Easy, girl,” I said, my heart twitching like her skin. “It’s just me, Winnie. Remember?”

She snorted.

I moved to her head, shuffling in the dust so she’d hear me approach. I kept up a slow stream of nonsense: “Now isn’t this a fine mess they’ve put you into. We’ll have to see what we can do to train these silly humans.”

Inches from her head, I blew at her nostrils. It’s an old Native American trick Mom taught me, a horse-to-horse greeting. I waited for her to return the favor. Her neck arched, the tendons and muscles quivering.

“Careful!” Richard shouted.

I ignored him and hoped the mare would too. I blew again.

This time she snorted her greeting.

“So you
are
glad to see me,” I said, edging my hand up until I could get a good hold on the black silk hood. I eased it up and off. “Let there be light,” I said, knowing it was a Bible verse, feeling it was a prayer.

The mare whinnied and tried to buck. But the back hobble wouldn’t let her, and the chain jerked her head.

Blaming me for the pain, she bared her teeth, flattened her ears back, and tried to bite. I jumped out of the way just in time.

“That’s enough!” Richard yelled. “She’ll kill you!”

“I’m fine,” I called back. “I know her age—at least four, maybe five.”

Thanks to her biting maneuver, I’d gotten a good look at her teeth. I hadn’t had time to count and see if she had all 36 teeth, but her milk teeth were gone.

“Are you sure?” Richard asked.

“I’m sure,” I said. “She has her lateral permanent incisors, which they get at four years. Okay? And I saw her corner incisors. They come down about a year later in mares. I’d say she’s five.”

No way was I going to cram her into a Spidell stall, where she’d become one of the cogs in their horse factory. I had to convince Richard to turn her out in the pasture.

“Richard,” I said, “I’d be afraid to take her into the stalls. She might kick her way out. How about the south pasture?”

Richard didn’t like the idea. But finally he gave up.

I reached for the back hobble to unhook the chain. Wild Thing’s ears went back, and her neck craned around. She was thinking about biting me.

“No thanks,” I said, politely pressing her head back around.

Again I squatted to unhook the hobble. And again came the head, ears flat back in fighting mode.

“No thanks,” I said, reaching up and gently pressing her head back. Seven or eight more times Wild Thing reached her head around. Each time, I played along and pressed her head back gently.

Richard sighed loudly, letting me know he wasn’t enjoying this.

Patience is a horsewoman’s best friend,
I thought, remembering one of Mom’s favorite lines.

Finally when I reached for her hind hoof, the mare sighed and didn’t object. I unfastened the back hobble and the front straps with no problem.

Wild Thing’s halter, though, was hopelessly tangled in the lead chain. While I ran one hand under her mane to her crest, I unbuckled the halter with the other. Gently clutching a handful of her poll, the top lock of hair at the highest part of the mane, I let the halter slip off.

“She’ll run away!” Richard shouted.

“Easy, girl,” I said, ignoring Richard. With my left hand at her poll, I wrapped my right hand across the bridge of her nose, above the nostrils.

Standing at her shoulder, I took a step forward. She moved out with me. Her eyes showed too much white, and she still smelled of fear, but she followed me to the pasture. I made sure we were well into the pasture before I took my hands away.

The mare bolted, twisted in midair, and took off at a dead gallop, her tail high as freedom’s flag.

Richard let me out, then double-checked the gate latch. “I don’t know how you did it, but you did. Good job!”

Job!
There would never be a better time to hit Richard up for what I really needed now—a real job.

“You think I did a good job?” I asked. We leaned on the gate and looked out to where Wild Thing pranced against the dusk, the orange-gray clouds swirling in the sky behind her.

“Unless you were just making that up about her age,” he said.

“No, she’s about five.”

“Great.” He put his hat back on.

I plunged in. “The reason I’m asking if you like the
job
I did is because I need one.”

“You already have a job here, Winnie.”

“Mucking stalls. I want to help with the horses, Richard. I need the money. I could train Wild Thing
and
keep the mucking job.”

Richard scraped his snakeskin boots on the bottom rung of the gate. “I just hire stablehands. Dad hires trainers.”

“But you could put in a good word for me!” I insisted. “Tell him how I handled Wild Thing?”

“Maybe.” He tucked in his checkered shirt. “Dad’s set on making a profit off that horse.”

“Then you’ll—?” I started.

“There you are!” Spider Spidell shouted. People call Richard’s dad Spider because his arms reach all over Ashland with his businesses. But he reminded me more of a blue jay than a spider. A stubborn rim of dark hair clung to his otherwise bald head, sticking out in a point in back, like a jay’s. Thick, dark eyebrows met in angry peaks above tiny eyes.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” he shouted again, even though he’d stormed up to within inches of us.

Then Mr. Spidell seemed to notice me for the first time. Transforming into a kindly stable owner, he stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Are you boarding your horse with us?”

“Winnie works for us, Dad,” Richard explained. “She cleans the stalls twice a day.”

“Ah,” he said, dropping the nice-man routine and loosening his tie. “Those buyers left without seeing that Arabian. They lost interest when I couldn’t even tell them how old she is.”

“But I can tell you, Dad!” Richard said eagerly. “She’s five. Well, almost five anyway.”

His dad frowned at him. “It’s rare for such a young Arabian to be so white already. Are you making this up?”

Richard licked his lips. “Her . . . um . . . teeth . . .”

“Her lateral incisors are all the way in, and the corner ones are just about to size,” I said.

“Yeah,” Richard agreed.

“Hmm . . . then she
is
about five,” Mr. Spidell commented. “And white like that . . . that’s good. Nice work, Richard.”

Richard smiled nervously.

I gritted my teeth, waiting for him to tell his dad about me.

“So where is the beast?” Mr. Spidell asked. “I didn’t see her in the stalls.”

“I thought she’d do better if we let her run in the pasture,” Richard said.

You
thought she should run in the pasture?
I didn’t like the way this was going.
Come on! Tell him about me, Richard!

“You’re probably right,” his dad said, staring out at the Arabian. “She’s a beauty though, isn’t she? But how on earth did you get her out here all by yourself?”

Yeah, Richard,
I thought, trying to get his attention.
How did you get her out here? Tell him! Tell him he needs to hire me!

“Ah,” Richard said, turning his back on me, “it wasn’t that hard.”

Richard’s dad put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, boy.”

I stared numbly after them as they walked toward the stable. Richard didn’t give me so much as a glance over his shoulder.

So much for my “good job.” Thanks a lot, Richard.