Traveller (6 page)

Well, then the two of ‘em got to talking, a whole lot more'n I could understand, and while they was at it I natcherly took a look at this stranger and set in to sizing him up. First off, he was an old man, older'n any other soldier I'd seed yet. I figured he was older'n Andy back home. He didn't have no beard—no, Tom, not then he didn't—jest a gray mustache. He was very quiet and sure of hisself, as if he was used to being the boss, but used to people liking him, too. Evidently he didn't aim to go shouting or finding fault, or making trouble for ordinary fellas like Jim. I found myself liking his style.

He was dressed in gray, like all the other soldiers, and he was wearing a big black hat with a broad brim to it. After a while he took my bridle and began talking to me.

Now during this time on the mountain, I'd got pretty well used to strangers doing that. I was a horse folks noticed, you see. Mostly I jest waited till they'd finished. But this man was different. I don't rightly know jest how to put it, but it seemed like he
was
a horse hisself. I felt he understood me through and through, and knowed everything I had to tell him. He knowed I was homesick and bewildered, and strung-up with being in a strange place and not knowing what the heck was s'posed to be happening on this durned mountain. He knowed I got along well with Jim and he knowed I didn't like his own horse. He was as good as telling me
he
didn't like him neither—figured he was a troublesome fella. I thought, I wish
I
was his horse; I'd do for him better'n that pest over there. And jest as I'd got to thinking that way, he nodded to Jim, put his foot in the stirrup, mounted me and off we went along the track.

We hadn't gone twenty yards ‘fore all the uneasiness was gone out of me. I hadn't even realized, till then, how tight-up I'd been all along, ever since we'd come to that there mountain. How could you relax and respond to your rider when you was wet through an' hungry all the time, in a strange place where the ground was a bog and you had no idea what was going to happen next? But this man on my back, he
knowed
all this, and he was as good as telling me to take it easy, ‘cause he had everything in hand. I understood then that he must be the boss of the whole place. Whatever we was doing there, he was the one setting it up.

Every signal from me, this man seemed to understand it. Jest the feel of his hands and the tone of his voice made you want to give him your best. I began to feel kind of—well, merry and alert—I'd forgotten what it felt like—and I broke into my buck-trot. The man liked this—I could feel he did. Somehow or other, I was cheering him up. Poor fella, I thought, he hasn't ridden a decent horse for months, and he's sure been missing it. I'll show him!

We didn't gallop, though. Soon's I lit out, he turned me back. But the way he did it, it was like he was apologizing. “I know you'd like to gallop,” his hands and knees was saying. “I'd like it, too, only right now we don't have the time. But it's sure been a pleasure meeting you.”

We came back to the others. He hadn't changed jest that morning for me; he'd changed my life, even if I never seed him again. I hadn't knowed there could be a horseman like that—a horseman who knowed what you was feeling nigh on ‘fore you felt it yourself. Sure, Jim was a good horseman, but this man—well, like I said, he was a horse who'd somehow been turned into a man. Leastways, he spoke horse language. You remember, Tom, I told you how when Andy first rode me I could feel his reliability and experience? Well, what was pouring out of this man, jest like water into a trough, was fellow-feeling for me and for every animal in the world. Come to think of it, now that I'm telling you ‘bout that first meeting of ours, maybe I don't really blame you so much for that business of miaowling in the rain and climbing up the crutch. Jest come natchral, I ‘spect.

Well, the General got off my back, patted my neck and gave me a heap of praise.

“Good horse, General?” says the black-haired young man who's holding his own for him.

“Yes, indeed,” says the General, and then he turned to Jim an' talked some more. The way I figured it, he was asking Jim whether he could have me for his own horse, and of course Jim was saying no he couldn't, though it was all very friendly. But then I thought—best as I could understand it—Jim was saying maybe he could fix it up. I lost track of the talk; but somehow, as the General and his ‘uns rode away, I got a hunch I hadn't seed the last of him. He didn't know it—Jim didn't know it—but I
did
.

The next day I got another surprise. Jim rode me right down through the woods to a camp of soldiers where we'd never been before. This was a horse outfit—any number of horses—but that warn't the surprise. The surprise was that the first man I seed was Captain Joe, the soldier who'd come to the meadow back home and tried me out. So that was it! He
had
bought me, and now the time had come for Jim to turn me over to Joe.

‘Fore he went away, Jim more or less cried on my neck. He went off without looking back, like he couldn't bear to. I never seed him again from that day to this. Like Zeb said, horses are forever parting. At the time, though, I didn't feel it like I should have, because Captain Joe began making sech a fuss over me. I was hungry as could be, and first thing off he gave me a real good feed—'bout the best I'd had since we come to the mountain. After that he jest natcherly couldn't resist showing me off to a whole passel of his friends. I spent that night on the picket lines with the other horses. It was nice to be back in a crowd of company again, even though every durned horse was wishing he was somewheres else. I remember there was a mare called Daffodil, an' she told me she'd been up and down this mountain country for somethin' like five months and felt ready to lie down and die on it.

During the rest of the time we spent on the mountain, I was ridden every day, sometimes by Captain Joe and sometimes by another fella— his brother, I reckon, ‘cause they was so much alike in their ways, as well as to smell and to look at. But although they was a couple of real nice fellas, and looked after me best as they could in that place and that weather, somehow I jest couldn't settle down with ‘em in the kind of way that ought to be between a horse and his master. It was partly the hard conditions, of course, and partly jest wanting to be back home, but the real thing was that every time a bunch of us horses was rode out to have a look round the mountain—which seemed to be our job— we'd often as not meet the General riding around. Even if he seed us some ways off, and we wouldn't natcherly have met, he'd still ride acrost to speak to Joe—or to his brother—whichever one was a-riding me.

“Ah, there's my colt,” he'd say, keeping his own horse up tight. “How's my colt making out?”

“Oh, jest fine, General, sir,” they'd answer. “Best horse in the Army, that's for sure.”

One day the General rode me again—not far; half a mile, maybe— and this time it left me with the feeling that I'd never be really happy again, on account of I didn't belong to him. Well, when you've had a taste—even if it's only a taste—of what's perfect, it's hard, ain't it, to settle for anything less? I jest had to keep telling myself that I mustn't go a-pining an' getting a lot of ideas ‘bove my way of life. The General had jest taken a fancy to me for a while, and that was all there was to it.

Only, somehow, it didn't altogether feel that way. I mean, it didn't feel like it was a passing notion to him, any more'n it was to me. For one thing, his own horse was so terrible. His name was Richmond, and the best I can say for Richmond is that sometime or other he must have been treated real bad. He hated most other horses, and any time there was other horses round he was liable to set up this dad-blamed squealing. Goodness knows why. It was enough to throw everyone into confusion, and yet the General never beat him, never cussed at him—jest kept on bringing him firmly to order. I hated to be near Richmond. He warn't fit to be a bossman's horse. Plain truth was, he did the General no credit. People liable to start thinking, Well, what you a General for and you can't get yourself a better horse'n that? Maybe you ain't a very good General, neither.

He had another horse, called Brown-Roan. Brown-Roan was better. But bless you, he'd no real spirit! Poor fella, he hadn't any courage in him—anyone could tell that. He was fit to do what he was told, but that was about all he was fit for. You see, Tom, a real horse ain't there jest to do what he's told. A real horse has got to be
part
of his man—to
want
to be part of his man. Once't they begin to fit together ‘zackly, the man ought to be free to forget ‘bout managing the horse all the time and get on with whatever he has to do. The horse jest
knows
what the man wants. There's hundreds of little ways a horse can tell. And there's hundreds of ways the man can tell ‘bout the horse, too, without really taking his mind off of what else he's doing. But it's got to be the right man and the right horse.

Now the General knowed all that, and he knowed I was the right horse and Brown-Roan warn't. Only Brown-Roan
didn't
know it, you see, because he'd never larned more'n half of what there is to know, and he reckoned it was all there was.

What it come down to was that the General would have liked me for his own, and by the time we was done on that mountain he'd made that pretty plain. For one thing, he never used my name. “How's my colt?” he used to say. “Nasty weather for the horses. Ain't got no saddle sores, I hope? Do you figure, Captain, maybe that girth might be a little tight?” And so on. And one day he said, “Look after my colt, because I'm going to need him later on.”

Durned cat's gone to sleep again. Can't blame him. ‘Don't mean no harm. How much can you ‘spect a cat to understand, anyways? Take a rest in your dry straw, old soldier, you've seed many worse nights. Leastways, I know when I'm well off.

Tom, do you figure I've got the mumps? Do you happen to know what the mumps might be? Well, neither do I, ‘ceptin' I guess it must be some kind of a sickness. I ain't aiming to go sick, and I don't reckon it's likely, not if I didn't go sick with being three years and more in the Army. I'm s'prised Marse Robert would even let the idea come into his head.

No, Tom, he cert'nly
did
let it come into his head. It was this way. S'afternoon we started out on our ride as usual, and we was jest heading out of town along one of the quiet back streets, when we come up with two little girls was riding up and down on an old horse—jest passing the time, you know. I've seed them round afore now—and the horse, too. They belong to one of them fellas that helps Marse Robert with his commanding the country and speechifying and all the rest of it. Marse Robert pulls me up and offs with his hat to these little girls, and then he said if they liked to come long with us, he'd show ‘em a real fine ride.

‘Course, they was both as pleased as two foals loose in a meadow. I'll be starved if I was, though. I'd been reckoning the two of us was all set to light out on one of our twenty-milers in the country. ‘Stead, here's me dawdling ‘longside this old nag—his name's Frisky; can you beat that?—like a couple of baggage-train mules with double loads on. I guess I must have showed how I felt, cause after a bit this old Frisky sort o' huffles to me, “‘Tain't my fault, Mr. Traveller, sir.” ‘Course, I treated him friendly; Marse Robert wouldn't ‘spect anything else. But I couldn't help wondering what folks was going to think—me an' this poor old Frisky keeping company together in town, where there was plenty of other horses round to see us.

Anyways, I jest kept myself in step with Frisky best as I could, and we-all went out of town beyond the fairground. Well, it's real fine out that way, Tom, you know; the whole outlook kind of opens up towards the mountains. And of course the little girls was delighted— jest about set ‘em up for the afternoon. Marse Robert and me rode around with ‘em a goodish while. One of them had her face all tied up in a cloth, and Marse Robert says to her, “I hope you won't give Traveller the mumps. Whatever shall we do if Traveller gets the mumps?” ‘Fore we was done, we took ‘em home. Coming through town, I felt I jest had to put the best face on it I could, so I stepped out the same as if we was reviewing a big parade. When we got to their home, Marse Robert, he lifted ‘em both down and kissed them good-bye. “Oh, General Lee,” they said, “we'll never forget this afternoon!” Me neither, Tom, me neither. And I still don't know what the mumps are, ‘cepting I ain't got ‘em.

But I was telling you, warn't I, ‘bout that mountain in the rain? We quit at the end of the fall, and a good job, too, ‘fore every man and beast died of the weather. I know now, ‘course, that we was s'posed to be looking for Blue men, but I never seed none all the time we was there, and in them days I shouldn't have knowed ‘em if I had. I ‘spect they was afraid to try attacking us and we didn't figure on attacking them, on account of it was nigh on to impossible for horse or man to move in the wet.

Somehow I never really settled down with Joe and his brother. They was good ‘nuff masters and looked after me very well, but it warn't like me and Jim had been—no real fun, no games. I still felt homesick. And I don't think Joe's brother, the major, every really ‘preciated my buck-trot. It seems to come awful hard to some riders, and he hadn't been the one who tried me out and bought me. But there was another thing on top o' that. I couldn't get the recollection of the General out of my mind—the feel of his hands and knees. Whenever either of the brothers rode me, I always used to find myself thinking, I've knowed better'n this; I jest wish that there General would come back. The weather was bad, too, where we was—the winter'd come on, you see— and all of us horses spent a lot of time in stables. I felt all bottled up, and once't or twice't I found myself biting my crib again, out of sheer boredom. Some of the other horses was the same. There was one called Bandit, I remember, who got to weaving. That's when a horse stands with his legs apart, you know, Tom, and keeps shifting his weight from side to side. ‘May do that for hours. That sort of thing's catching, too. One horse gets to doing it and then the others take it up.