HORSE-LAUGH

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

his story is basically true. The main event took place one day this Summer. My neighbors and myself are all grain farmers. Almost all have cattle and some a head or two of horses. Horses are scarce round these parts nowadays as hundreds of them in the last twenty years have met untimely ends showing up again as hamburgers to an unsuspecting public.

Now take my neighbor Clarney whose farm adjoins mine on the east side. Not that this story is about him, he might not like such publicity. However an old gray mare he had last Fall ushers in part 1. The old gray mare used to take Terry and Heather to school in turn, the other would ride the bike. They would come past my place going and coming - clipperty clop. The mare was foundered, I think, and unless she was speeded up to armchair gait she was so rough the rider could see half a dozen setting suns all at once.

I could see Terry's head lolling around like a lifeless puppet and just before stark tragedy was about to happen the mare gained her stride. I hate to dwell on this topic too long as I am already feeling dizzy, but artificial teeth were better left at home gnashing in a glass of cold water.

Alas, one day last Fall it happened and the old gray mare went the way of all flesh and my son John (that is his Christian name, honest!) had the dubious honor of hauling the carcass out of the barn's main thoroughfare with tractor and log chain. Well, lots of horses round these parts have made the last journey the same way, hind feet first. It was a cold and bleak day.

Now, a replacement had to be looked for to remedy this sad loss and come next Spring grief had given way to expectancy when Clarney made a dicker deal with a farmer a few miles S.W. This new addition was a two-year-old colt and he had inherited all the sins of his forefathers, all the shady ones. From a distance you would say he was real black and you would be right but it was his character you saw. He was just a common or garden dark bay with the usual standard accessories - four legs, two ears, a tail and a roving disposition. He didn't stay around long, the locality didn't measure up with his sheltered upbringing and anyway who wants to be dumped in a horseless dump like this? So he headed back home straight as the crow flies, without so much as by your leave, and when Helen arose one morning (she was the first one up sometimes) there was nothing on the place but the cows and the dog. Of course the kids were there, I've never seen them anywhere else but all over the place. That horse was pining for his mate and another thing he just hated cows. He showed his teeth like a cur every time he saw one. I'll say he's toothy.

Clarney went right back after him threatening reprisals and Skinny backtracked on the end of a rope tied to a mare's tail. A tale of degradation.

Although so young he was easy to lead and if he was frustrated he didn't show it. He stayed around after that hemmed in by a tight three-wire fence and the smart detective work of Clarney's kids. But his bad blood kept oozing out. Every time the cows and steers settled down contentedly to chew their cuds: Fat Skinny would take a nip at the nearest rear end. He was absolutely impartial, I admit, and whether male or female didn't seem to matter. But he was decidedly off beam, I reckon. Things went along like this for quite a while till Clarey, mildly prodded by Helen and his own amiable temper receding, grabbed him and shut him up in a small enclosure.

"Chase those cows from here if you can, you cantankerous son of a gun" was his parting shot as he fastened the gate, looking the colt straight in one eye. Listen to the big noise, the other eye seemed to say.

That settled that, kind of straightened out one kink, but he still had an annoying habit at the water trough of clearing the field while he drank his fill. One swish of his tail was enough. It was really funny. He would single out one unfortunate steak on the hoof then, ears throttled back, he would charge and I tell you he did a real culling job. Trouble was, the rest had closed in behind him, all guzzling and barging around. By the time Skinny returned from his little jaunt and saw all his efforts wasted he was all set to start in again. So now he has the privilege of drinking all by himself. In the barn of course he would always sample the cows' chop boxes if by expert know-how he found himself in there first. His own was real good but this always gave him that extra ZEST and wouldn't he be a nit-wit to pass up such an opportunity? Lead him in from the pasture when he's feeling good and all at once, abracadabra, you are minus your topper as Skinny snitches it along with a tuft of hair - maybe. Then he sidles sideways as if to murmur in a most apologetic manner, "Sir, your pardon."

"Please don't mention it," you beam as you retrieve your hat.

He was broken to ride and the kids rode him now and again. As long as nothing went wrong, he was as trustworthy as the Banque du Canada.

Robert, Clarney's nephew, was around one hot and windy day. About 17 years of age, tall and real narrow of girth, he was well acquainted with farm work and quite happy doing it. He was still schooling, polishing up his education, you understand, but he helped out during holiday time.

Skinny was the object of his affections, sort of love at first sight - it didn't last.

"Not a bad looking horse, Unk, only two years old, you say? Does he ride good?"

"As smooth as a hammock in a Pullman." (Mighty good commercial.) He swung himself up and Skinny strutted around doing his stuff, then like a statue he stood, imposing as a Palace Guard. Clarney trotted him to the barn and tied him up.

Robert was notably impressed, made his decision and a tale was told.

"Put the bridle on 'im again, Unk," he says in anticipation.

"Here you are, Neph," and Unk handed him the bridle, "put the bridle on, yourself; you put the bridle on, [in rising tones] I mean on the horse, of course!"

It was lost on Bob. He was too preoccupied. He took the open bridle and edged up alongside. "Here," he commanded with a show of authority, "take the bit," talking to Skinny's ears, the rest of his head was scouring the bottom of the manger.

With a mighty swish he came up and Bob momentarily retreated. He rallied to the attack and scraped the bit across Skinny's teeth, "Open up, you fool," but the horse shook his head, decidedly uncooperative.

"Bob," says Unk seeing he wasn't doing it right, "just shove in yer thumb tight behind his teeth and when he opens up (should he ever) just slip in the bit." Then he says, the urge overwhelming, "You could wait till he yawns but that would be too -"

"O.K., O.K." grunts Bob, cutting in and a little peeved. He didn't like the ribbing. At last the bit grated in. He led Skinny outside and in a jiffy the bay's back was draped by a pair of legs long and dangling. He took the salute and trotted past the house majestically like a newly crowned monarch on his invincible charger. This was going to be fun and wasn't he a great admirer of old English history, especially that about shining Knights? Real romantic. Across the road he clip-clopped and into the field and the wind hit him head on.

Then everything happened all at once and Bob's short dull span of life there and then took on new direction a s Skinny zoomed off like an unguided missile. Pursuing buckshot didn't have a chance. Whole streaks of daylight all at once appeared between Bob's seat and Skinny's rump as Bob almost lost contact with his mount. The dust churned and Skinny's head and tail were just a continuation of his backbone, east and west. Bob was riding the caboose at the moment. He swears he never saw so much country in so short a time before and, believe me, I am not quoting Winnie. A normal horse has four legs, one at each corner but this critter's were legion.

Bob's slick (slightly yellow) longish hair pointed in the direction he had just left. I don't know whether the wind or fright did it. His open red shirt snarled and whipped at his neck with the noise of a showman's rattle. As for his shirt. tails they were waiting for but one thing to happen and it did - bing - and his last button parted company. His shirt tails snapped together behind and now he was all decked out sails an' all. He tried to holler out something but the wind gagged him and he was totally incoherent. But he knew what had happened.

The bay, glancing back round the open bridle, saw the red flag suddenly whip above his head and that trail of blood scared the daylights right out of him and the faster he went the bloodier the trail. If he could but unship that monster towering above him all would be well.

Bob bounced and whizzed by in a flurry of dust and ruddy red. In between bounces he had a perfect view of Skinny's fleeing and streamlined anatomy and lucky for him his speed and that of the horse was constant. Bob's choice of a landing strip didn't agree with any of Skinny's ideas. They should have gotten together on it. Twice round a quarter section they went, Bob coming in second just by a neck. Too bad this event hadn't been advertised beforehand. Just when Bob figured Skinny had solved the No. 1 conundrum - Perpetual Motion - he went completely and decidedly haywire. He ran slam bang into the roadside ditch. From here on Bob lost his entire confidence in Skinny - he lost Skinny.

When the horse hit the ditch he staggered low accompanied by a miniature dust storm and flying dirt and the sudden loss of momentum worked like an ejection seat and in a split second Bob was catapulted from Skinny's back clear to the middle of the Queen's highway. Like a cat somehow he landed on his two feet with a grunt.

Skinny followed in quick succession, like it had all been rehearsed, his sides heaving like overworked bellows.

Lucky for Bob he wasn't hurt, otherwise this story wouldn't have been written, not in its present form.

"Praise be to Allah!" sighed Bob.

He was shaken up and still hanging on to the lines. He marveled at this and he was amazed how quiet the wind had become. A lot had happened in a few minutes and he would have preferred a different ending, one where he dismounted of his own free will. He wasn't wanted, he knew, but there was no need in overdoing it. Life is uncertain.

"If I could a got a free hand and me shirt neck buttoned up I'd be ridin' 'im yet." He gave Skinny a withering look. "Come on, you dope, you should be lassooed and hog-tied with rope."