Oakwood Grange

Chapter 2

        

Sandstone splintered as a hoof smashed down mere inches from Mae's face.

She winced as bits of gravel peppered her, the nearby rocks now crunching from the horse's weight. Then some of the ground gave way and sent the poor beast toppling.

Everything happened in a blink. Gasping, Mae rose to her knees just as the horse fell next to her. "Stormy!" Coughing from the dust, she crawled to try to lend a hand but quickly drew away again.

The horse thrashed wildly, whinnying, horseshoes kicking up dirt as he struggled for a foothold. He could not stand, it seemed, and every time he tried he quickly tumbled back to where he'd started.

Helpless, Mae knelt in the grass a couple yards away. She wanted to help somehow but there was nothing she could do. Finally the horse gave up and stilled himself.

"Mae!" Her father's strong hands gripped her shoulders. "Mae—" he said, "are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm all right," said Mae, "but Stormy . . . I think he needs help getting up."

Slowly, Mae's father stood and walked toward the horse.

Mae got up and followed him, swatting dirt and dried grass from her calico. "I think he hurt his leg," she said. "I saw him step wrong on some rocks there." She pointed to the pile of loose sandstone where she'd fallen.

Her father said nothing. He crouched to prod the horse's foreleg. The horse jerked at his touch. A quiet minute passed, and then the man muttered one word: "Broken."

"Broken . . . ?"

Mae glanced at the leg again. She wanted to ask her father what they could do to fix it, but he'd already turned from her to walk back to their cabin, his suspenders slumped as if he bore a great weight on his shoulders.

The horse snorted into the dust. Mae scratched him behind the ears, saying, "It's all right, boy—you just rest a bit. Pa's smart about this kind of thing. He drove cattle on the California Trail. He'll know how to help you."

The man returned from the doorway of the cabin. The brim of his hat was low and something in his hand now glinted with a flash of bright red sunlight.

No!

As soon as she saw the rifle Mae knew exactly what her father planned to do with it. "Stormy . . . ," she said quickly, "Stormy, you have to get up!" Dainty fingers raced to unravel the thick, coarse hauling rope from the harness. She pulled a length free and slapped it hard across the horse's flank.

"Up!"

The horse stirred but would not rise.

Mae snapped the rope again. Then she heaved herself against the horse's hips, pushing him with all her strength. It did no good. Stormy was seven times her size and weighed nearly a ton. She may as well have tried to push a boulder.

"Let him be, Mae."

"No," she said, not bothering to meet her father's eye. She gave the horse another push. "I ain't gonna let you shoot him."

"Can't heal a broken leg. The longer we put it off, the more he's gonna suffer."

Mae cried and pulled the lead line of the halter. The horse's gray-white face blurred through her tears. She pulled and pulled but still he would not budge. She flung her arms around his neck and began to sob.

Suddenly the horse moved. Mae felt his body shift and slowly rise beneath her. She stepped away to give him space and smiled as he grunted and stood up again.

"That's it, boy!" she said, and, sniffling, wiped the long sleeve of her dress across her face. "Good boy, Stormy. C'mon now . . ."

The horse stood for a moment with his hind legs splayed as if he were a newborn foal. Then he limped toward Mae, his left hoof bent and jerking with each step.

Mae heard the rifle click. She spun to see her father aiming its barrel at the horse.

Shocked, Mae flew at him, her small fist thumping on the man's broad chest. "You can't! You can't!" she shouted. "He's walking, ain't he? You can't just kill him!"

"Mae, step aside," said her father, leveling the rifle again.

"No!" she answered hotly. "It ain't right! You didn't need to cut that oak down but you did—and now you want to shoot poor Stormy when it's your fault he's hurt!" She scowled and planted her hands against her hips. "I won't let you."

Her father swept her aside and shouldered the rifle.

Mae broke down then, crying horribly. She tugged the flannel of her father's shirt and pleaded, "But he's a good horse. He doesn't deserve to die! Mom wouldn't have let you. . . ."

The man's face softened like he'd just been punched. Kneeling, he set the rifle's stock down. He took Mae's small hand in his big one.

"It ain't a matter of deserving," he said. "Look there—you see how Stormy's limping now? His leg bone is cracked, and all it's gonna do is fester and then rot that leg out sure as driftwood in a marsh. I've seen it happen, doe. Soon he won't be able to stand at all—he'll just lie on the ground in pain all day, prey for ants and rats and anything else that wants to crawl up and start chewing on him. You don't want that for ol' Stormy, do you?"

"No. . . . But I don't want you shooting him either."

"Mae—"

"Well I don't! Please, Pa . . . can't you give him the night at least? You can't well bury him in the dark, and—and I just couldn't bear the thought of coyotes fighting over him in the dirt here. Please—let me take him to the barn. I'll make him comfortable there, and I'll bring him water and fresh hay and apples. In the morning—" Mae choked back another sob.

The man's eyes were blue and cool and sharp, hinting at the steel of character behind them. For a long time he didn't speak, and Mae knew he was thinking carefully about her words. He looked at the horse again, and then toward the bloody sun now rolling out of sight beyond the western mountains.

"We'll give him the night," he said.