Maurice and the bay mare

The trail was arched by wide-spreading branches of oaks and silver-mottled sycamores, and dappled with sunlight and shade. A gray squirrel scampered along a limb and leaped to a slender branch that bent and swayed above us. Yet the mare did not flinch, but swept on, her hoofs sounding a muffled rhythm on the soft earth. I marked squirrels off the tentative list of unpleasant possibilities. Round a wide bend in the trail the mare stepped on a slender, fallen branch. It snapped, and a piece of it flicked up and struck her, yet she did not flinch or play up. A vagrant wind, drifting along the afternoon hillside, scattered a heap of dead leaves piled beside the trail. The mare hesitated the least bit, then shook her head and went on. Fallen branches and dead leaves were scratched from the list. Farther along, a Mexican, clearing out brush, rose suddenly and stared at us. The mare stopped and snorted, not because she was actually frightened, but rather because she was indignant at being startled.

I scratched sudden Mexicans off the list. A horse would hardly be worth riding that would not be startled by such an apparition. A straight stretch offered, and I put the mare into a canter. She went collectedly, smoothly, and with fine restraint. My suspicions were rocked to sleep. I had begun to get the pace of the mare, to get in tune with her mood and manner of going. When such harmony is attained, riding becomes a superlative delight. But delights are ephemeral.

At the head of the valley are the gravel pits. And up toward the head of the valley a road crosses the bridle trail diagonally, a modern road, hard-surfaced and commercial. It is a highway for mammoth steel gravel trucks that, empty and loaded, go and come day and night. Their right of way is never disputed or ignored. What do they care about mere automobiles or even more insignificant horses and riders? These trucks are the clamoring juggernauts of civilization.

Shortly before we came within sight of this hazardous crossing, both the mare and I were aware of the heavy boom and roar of a motor. The mare stopped abruptly. I urged her on. She responded, going at a walk, but daintily, as though afraid of treacherous ground. I felt her grow tense. I surmised that she intended to whirl and run. The sound of the motor grew louder. I tried to take the mare on, that she might at least see what caused the noise, but she refused. Then, with the rattle and clash and clang of a drayload of iron pipe over cobbles, an empty gravel truck thundered past. The mare laid back her ears, whirled, and bolted.

It happened that I was fortunate enough to accompany her, but in a more or less impromptu manner. I had been told, often enough, that there are certain rules to observe in such cases: Use your legs; take a firm hold of the snaffle; don’t take hold too hard; give your horse his head; sit down and ride; let him see that you are not afraid of that which frightened him; speak to him quietly; keep him going on. These rules are all very well, but the difficulty seems to be that there are no two cases exactly alike. About all there was left to do was to sit down and try to ride. Also, there were branches and tree trunks to dodge. The mare was cutting turns, with a wild disregard of obstacles. She did not seem especially interested in taking me past them if she cleared them herself.

I had a vision of foliage whisking past, of a winding trail that swept dizzily underneath, and of a sharp pair of upstanding ears, ever pointed toward the south and the stables. By great good fortune, I managed to get the mare down to a reasonable gallop before we made the turn into the stable yard. We made it together, but I came along merely as a passenger, not a rider. She stopped at the entrance to the stable, drew a deep breath, and stood quietly, with ears pointed sharply to the front.

Maurice came up, a quizzical smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He stroked the mare’s neck.

“You’ll be taking her out again?” he asked.

I told him that I had dropped my whip, and thought I’d go back and get it.

“And don’t forget to pick up your hat, also,” he said. “I have known a gentle horse to shy at a hat in the road, him thinking, most like, that it was no place for a hat, anyhow.”

Again the mare went out of the yard, now, at a walk. Arrived at the memorable crossing, she sidled, but went on. And when we returned, about an hour later, it was evident that she had not forgotten the gravel truck. While she was doing her best to behave, she did not intend to be caught napping. Back at the stable, I sat down in Maurice’s old armchair, fetched from the tack room. Patiently he led the mare round and round the quadrangle, cooling her. He gave her a little water, then walked her again. Presently he fetched her up, took off her cooler, and went to work. Sponge, rag, brush, and water bucket--ten minutes, twenty minutes, and he was still at it. At last he led her to her stall, blanketed her, and gave her some hay.

Two of the grooms came from the stable, on their way to supper. Maurice puttered about, hanging up this tie rope and that halter, straightening the coolers on their racks, and tidying up the runway. Long shadows of early evening reached across the quadrangle. Quail called plaintively from the brushy hillside, west of the stable buildings. The sound of contented munching came from the stalls. Maurice fetched another chair from the tack room and sat down.

“Won’t you be late for supper?” I asked.

“It can wait. I’ll rest a bit.” He glanced at me, his head the least bit to one side, a twinkle of humor in his bright brown eyes. “The mare, now--and did you have a good ride?”

I nodded and tried to appear casual.

“’Twas good that you took her out the second time,” he said. “Good for the both of you.”

“It might have been worse,” I told him.

“And you need not be telling me that, sir. But you must have patience with her. She is young and green--a country girl, sir, with manners to learn and city ways and the like. She is not mean, nor is she a fool. It’s the wise head she has, and all the more reason for a man to be wise in the handling of her. You cannot fight her kind, nor can you let her be the boss. I would take her along at any gait, but I would not let her take me, when she had a mind to. ’Tis hard to explain, but if you have the feeling for a horse, ’tis but a matter of time and patience, and you’ll be riding as sweet a mare as ever I laid a brush to. You see, sir, I was not always a groom.”

I told him that he was a whole lot more than that, as far as I was concerned. Perhaps, because I meant it, Maurice felt inclined to talk intimately of his past or a portion of it.

“I was not always a groom,” he reiterated. “One time I had a little money put by and some good clothes.” He smiled wistfully. “I’ll not tell you about Ireland and the steeplechases and flat races I rode when I was a lad. And I was no more than a young man when I came to America. New York it was, where I worked for a gentleman, at his country place, a millionaire, sir, but that did not hinder him from being a fine horseman. I rode his hunters, trained them, and showed many a jumper of his at the Garden. Being a bit handy with the ribbons, there would be times when I would be driving his four-in-hand. He paid good wages. I put by a little money, thinking that maybe some day I would set up in the horse business, myself--in a small way, of course.