MAURICE AND THE BAY MARE

The true horseman, born to it and bound to it by an inbred love of the animal, admires a spirited horse. Old Maurice, the groom, in the days before he had to turn to the less-glorious branch of the game, had experienced his share of thrills with lively thoroughbreds.

Maurice the groom sidled up to me, indecision in the flicker of his bright brown eyes—indecision, which held him, with one hand raised to the level of my shoulder affectionately, as though he wished to emphasize the appeal so evident in his attitude. A quaint smile touched the corner of his mouth and vanished. A stranger might have thought Maurice timorous—Maurice, who had in his day ridden many a steeplechase in Ireland.

“Why do you take the mare out?” he said and glanced about to make sure that the other grooms could not hear him. “Why not have one of the boys give her a half hour in the ring, first? She has stood up three days, sir. I’m begging your pardon for mentioning it, but we’ve both been hurted by horses before, sir, and, you know, it ain’t like when we were younger. Why do you take the risk?”

There was a fine deference in his manner and more—a solicitude that rather astonished me.

“Then the mare is in your string?” I asked.

“They fetched her up from the lower stable three days ago,” he replied.

I had forgotten that Maurice did not know the mare well. She had but recently arrived from Tennessee, and even more recently she had been transferred to his stable.

“I wouldn’t take the risk, sir,” he reiterated in a whisper.

I was about to say, “Oh, yes, you would!” but I could hardly resort to such a cheap acknowledgment of his kindness. To have overcome his usual diffidence and made any suggestion at all, had cost him an effort, evident in the heightened color of his clean-shaven, pink cheeks. He glanced toward the grooms. A quick light shone in his brown eyes when he again looked up at me.

“You’ll ride her, sir?”

This was not so much a question as a challenge. He had raised his voice a bit, evidently intending the other grooms should hear him. I thanked him and told him to get the mare ready. I wondered if she had developed some dangerous trick since he had been taking care of her. I was curious and, I admit, a trifle nervous.

Instantly Maurice’s manner changed. He nodded, shuffled to the stall, and led the mare out. Deftly he snapped the pillar reins in the halter ring. With brush and cloth he went over her from muzzle to hoof accompanying each stroke with a sibilant breath. The mare was spotless and sleek, yet Maurice’s old-country pride would not allow him to turn a horse out that did not shine like burnished copper. Even in the semidarkness of the runway, her coat glowed and shimmered like sunlight on water. When it came to “doing” horses, Maurice had no favorites. He was as impartial as a machine.

I could hear him talking to the mare.

“There, now! Be quiet, ye huzzy! ’Tis old Maurice that’s taking up your foot and not some murdering horseshoer, me lady! Be a good girl, now! ’Tis not I that would hurt you!”

Schooled to the pillar reins, yet resenting them, the mare stamped with haughty impatience.

Bridled and saddled, she was led out, her fine, glossy coat changing hue, as she moved, her head high, her ears sharply to the front. In her full eye glowed the courage of her breeding, not unmixed with mischief. Maurice made her pose and held down the right stirrup.

“She has ideas of her own, sir,” he said, as I mounted. “A light hand and firm is what she needs. Good luck, sir.”

Gently he let go of her head and stepped back. The mare quivered and bounded forward, tugging at the snaffle. She swept out of the yard and struck into a singlefoot—a gait natural to her, as natural as the high carriage of her head and tail. We swung into the bridle trail leading up the valley toward the hills.

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.

“But you know how it is. A man would be having a lot of friends, and what with the treating, and lending to them who would be forgetting to pay back, the money went. But I kept me good clothes, sir. I have some of them yet. Anyhow, one day I quit me job. I’ll not be telling you why, but it was not the fault of me boss, and maybe not so much me own fault. I bought a ticket and came West. One time I would be working on a ranch, but always I would be moving on. One good job I had taking care of fifty brood mares and their colts. But when the man sold out, I left. I worked in many places, sir, and always where there were horses. But I must always be moving on. Maybe it was me pride that kept me moving on. I was not always a groom. Anyhow, I kept me trunkful of good clothes against the day when I would have the job I was looking for. And I thought I had found it when I came to this city and went to work for a man I’ll not name, but maybe you’ll be knowing who he is without that.

“But it makes no difference. He gave me a string to do—mostly jumpers that he was getting ready for the winter show. And there was my work, and I knew how to do it. It was not long before I was taking some of them over the jumps, with him leaning on his cane and watching me. One day he called me into the office and tells me that he will be putting another groom on my string, and that I will be exercising the jumpers and getting them ready for the winter show. And he tells me that if I keep straight, I’ll be riding some of them over the jumps at the show. It was my chance. But it would have been better if I had never had that chance. You see, the man had in his stable some boarders and some school horses and some show horses, five-gaited and jumpers and the like. But what he cared for most was to buy and sell. He was not so much a horseman, sir, as a horse dealer, and there’s a bit of a difference.

You see, sir, he would be buying a sick horse, or a lame one, or one with a bad temper, and doctoring them and patching them up and doping them till he had something that looked like a real horse. Then he would sell it. And he was clever at it. But it was not for me to say a word to anybody, although there was times when I felt like telling some nice young lady, who didn’t know horses at all, at all, to buy somewhere else, and not to buy something that looked pretty and went sound with a trainer up, and the horse gingered and primped and too scared to show lame. But it was not for me to speak. My work was to condition and train the jumpers, and that I did.

“Yes, the man I speak of was clever at buying and selling. But tell me, sir, what dealer has not been fooled at one time or another? Now, there are some dealers who will buy a horse and get fooled on him, and, finding it out, they will take their medicine. They are the kind that will try to get rid of the horse to some other dealer who is supposed to know his business. And there be dealers who would sell anything with a mane and tail to it, to anybody. And the man I speak of was that kind. And that is the great trouble with the horse business. Buying a bad one or a lame one discourages them as would spend their money, and you know, sir, ’tis the money of the amateur horseman that keeps the game going. And it is a queer game, at best. There be riders who will spoil the best horse money can buy, in a week, and say that the horse is no good and that they have been cheated. You have noticed, sir, that some rich people, who ride because it is the fashion, are always having trouble with their horses. And there be riders who will get along with most any

kind of a horse. But money never made a rider, sir, much less a horseman. The best money can do, in the way of lessons, is to make a natural rider a better one. And it is a poor stick of a man that cannot learn something from a horse.

“But I would be telling you about the man who would be buying and selling, and who would cheat his best friend. In every stable you will find, maybe, one or two horses that it would be best to shoot before they kill some one. The man I am telling you about had one—a big chestnut hunter, with a blaze and one white foot. He stood close to sixteen hands and had good bone and muscle. His powerful hind quarters had just the right drop to make him a good jumper. He was the type. I have seen many like him in Ireland, but not with his temper. I would be thinking his sire was a thoroughbred and his dam a range mare. You see, he was shipped down from Alberta, with a bunch of hunters, and sold at auction. The man I was working for bought him cheap.

“It was not long before the horse had a bad name. He crippled one boy, broke his leg, and he like to tore the shoulder off one of the grooms. He was sullen, sir. There would be days when he would behave like any decent animal, sir, and then, without warning, he would bite or strike or kick or rear and go over backward. A devil he was. But I paid little attention to him, being busy with my own string. And the grooms that knew him didn’t say much. They knew the old man wanted to get rid of him, and they were hoping he would, and that soon. You see, ’tis not so bad when a horse is honestly mean and shows it. But this one was sullen and tricky. I have seen one of the boys put him over two or three jumps and bring him in with never a wrong move. And I have seen him rear and come over back before he was scarce out of the stable. Just tricky, sir.”

“I had been working on my own string, and I was bringing in one of my horses, when the old man told me to put a saddle on the blaze-face gelding and take him over two or three jumps. I wondered what the old man was up to, till I saw a young fellow with him—one of them kind that dresses horsy and tries to make himself believe that he has a right to be wearing them kind of clothes. As I brought the gelding out, I heard the old man telling the young fellow that the gelding could jump anything up to six feet, and that anybody who knew his business could handle him. ‘He’s got plenty of life,’ says the old man, ‘but that’s what you want in a jumper. Go ahead, Maurice.’

Well, sir, that horse took the first jump as square and clean as any horse I ever sat on. I brought him back and was for taking him in before he got a chance to show his meanness, when the old man told me to take him over the first jump again. I was for leaving well enough alone, but it was not for me to say. So I turned him and put him at the jump again. And, before he got his stride, I knew that he intended to run wide or refuse. And, knowing that, I forced him, and it took all I had to keep him from running into the corner of the wing and crashing through. But I got him over and fetched him back, him plunging and fighting his head.

“‘He’s a good one,’ says the old man to the young fellow. ‘I admit it takes a man to handle him.’

“‘That don’t worry me any,’ says the young fellow. And then I knew he was no horseman at all, at all, and that it would be plain murder to sell him the horse. For, by the same token, any man who could tell one end of a horse from the other, could see that it was all I could do to put him over the jump the second time, and that he intended to run blind into the corner of the wing and not take off at all. I had him in the stable and was just turning him over to his groom, when the old man tells me to fetch him out again. I was afraid that the young fellow was going to try him, but it was not that. And, just as I came out, leading the gelding, the bookkeeper called the old man to the telephone. ‘Begging your pardon for asking,’ says I to the young fellow, ‘but was you thinking of buying this horse?’

“‘And suppose I was?’ says he, and he might just as well have gone on and said: ‘What business is it of yours?’ It was in his eye.

“‘He’s dangerous. I wouldn’t buy him,’ says I. And maybe I looked at the young fellow’s riding breeches and new boots a bit longer than was called for.

“‘Are you afraid of him?’ says he, smiling.

“‘I am,’ says I. ‘He’d kill a man if he got half a chance.’