Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

“I found them,” retorts Karen.

The tramp still watches.

The sun is well up when they finish. Tom puts on his clean shirt and looks across the valley to the ranch, then looks at Karen.

“I’ll wash your shirt,” she says, “and mine. If you don’t come back by noon, though, I’m coming after you.

“All right,” he says, turning to leave. It is then that he sees the tramp sitting behind a rock at the mouth of the cave. He is almost hidden, but the sunlight catches his hand. Tom looks away, then goes back into the shed and tells Karen to put on her pack.

Soon both children are following the stream to the valley, the shadows of clouds dappling the fields below them.

“It gives me chills to think of that man,” Karen says as they stand on the last hill, looking down at the ranch. “What do you suppose he was doing there? Why was he watching us?”

“I don’t know,” Tom answers. “I didn’t have time to take a good look. I didn’t want him to know I saw him. All I really got a look at was his hand.”

“You couldn’t have been mistaken?”

“No. I saw enough to know there was a man there.”

“Well, shall we try the ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Or shall I stay here?”

“No. We’ll stay together.”

The tramp sees them now only as tiny specks down the valley.

Overhead, someone else watches the children. In the sky a great black crow glides silently, spiraling on a draft of air, watching them go down the road to the lane, and down the lane to the big front door. The crow caws loudly.

The ranch house is tall and square and white, with a deep porch that has two faded rockers on it. The door is solid and dark and the front windows heavily curtained. The whole place is strangely quiet. No dog barks, no chickens squawk. There is not a living thing in sight, not even a cat.

Tom knocks and waits. There is no answer. He knocks again.

“They’re all away somewhere,” Karen says finally. “Let’s go, Tom.”

“Go where?”

“On up the road, away from here. A ranch shouldn’t be so quiet. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it with that man around,” Tom says, glancing back at the hills. “I thought … well, I’d feel safer if we could sleep here, tonight, anyway. Listen, Karen, we can tell them we’re on a walking trip. People do do that. We can say we’d like to rest and earn our board for a few days, if they need help.”

“Tell who?”

“Well, they’re bound to be back. You can’t leave a ranch very long. There must be cows to milk, stock to feed.”

“It’s awfully quiet, Tom.”

Let’s go see.

They round the side of the house and head toward the barn. In the fields alfalfa and grain are growing, but the crops look weedy and are not well cared for. There is no stock in the corrals. The barn is dim and does not smell right. There are no cows in the stanchions, and the boxes farther on are empty.

The children gaze about them. “Let’s get out of here,” Karen says. “I don’t like it. It’s not natural.”

Tom is looking at the farm tractor, the harrow, and the plow. “These are used, Karen.”

“Well, of course! We saw crops. But no animals, Tom? On a ranch?”

Suddenly there is a loud banging at the back of the barn. Both children start. Karen takes Tom’s hand. “Let’s go, Tom.”

“Wait.” The banging comes again. Then a series of bangs, and a snort. “That’s a horse pawing his stall, Karen!”

CHAPTER 5

In the dimmest part of the barn the pawing starts again and the children hurry toward it. In a dark stall a small roan mare snorts and leaps away as the children look over the door. The mare wheels and lets her heels fly, her ears tight to her head. Then, as the children do not enter, she peers around at them, teeth bared, and turns to press herself against the wall, ears still flat, eyes wild.

“Phew,” Karen says. Both children’s nostrils wrinkle. The stall is wet and mucky. There is no straw and no feed, and the mare is very thin and bedraggled. The children can see where some hay has been dumped on the wet ground and she has eaten it, leaving only a few specks of grain in the mud. There is no water bucket in the stall, and the mare is gaunt from thirst as well as thin.

Tom has walked away and is looking in the next stall. There is another pony there, head down, thinner than the mare, every rib showing. He, too, is roan, and in the third stall a small gray mare stands and looks at the children hopefully, but when Tom opens the door she lays back her ears and leaps wildly at him. He slams the door in her face.

The children look at each other. Karen goes to find a grain room or some feed, Tom to find water and a bucket.

“The water first,” Tom says, bringing the bucket finally. “I’m afraid we’ll bloat them, otherwise.”

He hangs the bucket gingerly over the first mare’s stall, but she will not approach until he has leaned down and set it on the ground inside and backed away. Then she drinks all that he has given her.

“Let’s get them out of these wet stalls,” Tom says. “Probably have thrush. Did you find any feed?” “No. But there’s plenty in the fields.” “What kind of a place is this?” Tom says as he digs in an open trunk for a decent halter.

Karen looks at him. “She’s awful mean, Tom.” “I know. Open those stalls over there. They’re dry.”

Karen does as he says, then stands back to head the mare off if she should get loose. He opens the door and the mare lunges at him, teeth bared. He steps back, slapping her with the halter, then steps in and toward her again.

At this minute there is a loud roar as a truck drives up to the barn, the driver gunning the motor. Karen moves to the side of the barn and Tom closes the mare’s door. The children try to get out the back door, but it is bolted from outside. “There is a side door,” Tom whispers. They hurry around to it as the truck door slams, and open it and go through just as they hear voices.

Instead of the bright outdoors they are met with total darkness as they shut the door softly behind them.

They listen at the door, but can hear nothing. “I smell mice,” Karen whispers.

“And grain,” Tom says. “This is the grain room, Karen.”

“My gosh, I’ll bet there’re a million mice in here.”

“You didn’t mind that one in the shed.”

“Well, he could get out! I don’t like being shut in with them.”

“Stand still, they won’t hurt you.”

“All right. But you do the same. Don’t stir them up.”

Tom has his ear to the door. “Shhh,” he whispers.

The voices are nearer.

“Here, put these packages in the catch, Ed.” It is a gruff man’s voice. Then, shouting, “Get that truck in here, Tip.”

There is a mutter the children can’t make out, then the first voice again: “No, not till we’ve got those critters out of the truck. Then you’ll get the stuff.”

The second voice is louder this time. “… get us all in a mess with this, Charley! What’re you trying to prove?”

The truck starts up and the children hear it backing into the barn, stopping, finally, very close to them. “Open them stalls, Ed.”

“They are open.”

“Well, what the …”

“Come on, come on, ain’t got all night.” This is a new voice. It must be the one called Tip.

“Shut up and come on.” Charley’s voice again.

There is the sound of metal, then a thud. “Okay, tail gate’s down. Get a move on,” Tip says.

There is a good deal of stomping and banging, some cursing, and after a long time the children hear a stall door close, then the same sounds over again, and another door shut. “Okay, here’s your package. Now clear out of here,” Charley growls.