Trickster (2 page)

“He’s probably at the stables wondering where we are,” I suggest.

“No way,” Maggie says. “You know Mr. Quinn. He’s not the kind of guy to stand around waiting for anything. He said he’d call when he got back.”

“We’ll be patient a little longer,” Dr. Mac says as she comes out from behind the counter. “I imagine you’re excited about riding again, David.”

“Don’t get him started,” Brenna warns.

I have to grin. “Excited? Try excited times a million! Thanks, Dr. Mac—you know, for talking to Mr. Quinn for me.”

Dr. Mac rolls down the sleeves of her shirt and buttons the cuffs. “He didn’t take too much convincing. He told me you were one of the best young riders he had ever seen. I hear that you can even ride bareback.”

He told her that? “A little. Mr. Quinn taught me. He was teaching me how to jump, too, when I, uh, took that little side trip.”

“That’s in the past,” Dr. Mac says firmly. “Use
your head, be responsible, and Mr. Quinn will be glad to have you around.”

Brenna squints and peers out the front window. “Excuse me, Dr. Mac?” she says.

“What, Brenna?” Dr. Mac answers.

“Does Mr. Quinn drive a blue pickup truck with a big dent in the side?”

“A blue truck, yes. But I don’t recall a dent.”

Brenna points toward the parking lot. “Then someone else just pulled in towing a horse trailer.”

I race to the door. “It looks like they were in an accident!”

The truck and horse trailer are a mess. There is a long crease running down the side of the truck and along the side of the shiny silver horse trailer. The small glass window on one side of the trailer is smashed to bits, and the fender over the wheel is just about flattened.

I open the door and run outside. Mr. Quinn is already out of his truck. He looks worried.

The horse in the trailer neighs, a high-pitched scream for help. It sounds freaked out, or hurt, or both. Loud bangs rattle the trailer. The horse is kicking the walls of the trailer—hard.

“Get the doc!” Mr. Quinn shouts.

W
e got hit on the turnpike,” Lucas Quinn explains to Dr. Mac. “A car swerved, clipped the side of my truck, and got the trailer, too. Darn fool took off. Didn’t stick around to see what happened.”

“At least the trailer didn’t flip over,” Dr. Mac says.

“It leaned pretty hard, though. Knocked the horse around.”

We hear more loud bangs from inside the trailer. The horse sounds like he’s about to burst through the walls. He’s whinnying loudly.

“We have to get him out,” Dr. Mac says. “He’s
panicking. Did you unload him after the accident?”

Mr. Quinn shakes his head. “No, I checked and he seemed fine. I wanted to take him straight home, but then he started to tear it up in there. So I decided to come straight here. He’s going to need a sedative. You’d better take a look at him.”

“I bet he feels trapped,” I say. Both adults turn and look at me. “He might be afraid something else is going to hit him, the way the car did.”

BANG! BANG
! I hope the walls of that trailer are stronger than they look.

Dr. Mac points to the far side of the house. “Back the trailer up to the gate over there,” she says. “We’ll unload him into the backyard, where it’s fenced. He’ll feel better if he can walk on grass instead of the driveway.”

Mr. Quinn gets in the truck and carefully maneuvers the trailer backward. It rocks back and forth as the horse shifts nervously, snorting and stamping his hooves. When the end of the trailer is up against the gate, Mr. Quinn cuts the engine and gets out of the truck again.

Dr. Mac glances at the five of us. “You all go
through the house and wait on the deck. Horses are unpredictable, and I don’t want you too close. If he’s spooked or in a lot of pain, he may lash out with his hooves and cause some real damage.”

“You mean we can’t watch?” Brenna asks.

“You can watch, but you have to stay on the deck.”

By the time we sprint through the house to the deck, Dr. Mac and Mr. Quinn are in the backyard. Dr. Mac’s cat, Socrates, joins us to watch the show. He climbs onto the wicker rocking chair near Sunita.

“I’ve untied his halter from the ropes in the trailer,” Mr. Quinn tells Dr. Mac. “As soon as we open the back gate, he’s free to come out.”

“What do you think the horse will do?” Sunita whispers to me.

“He’s going to come out of there like he was shot from a cannon,” I reply.

“Let’s do it,” Dr. Mac says.

Mr. Quinn unlocks the back gate, lowers the loading ramp, then quickly gets out of the way.

The scared horse stops stomping and whinnying for a second, then he cautiously backs out of
the trailer. As soon as his hooves touch the grass, he twists in the air and gallops at full speed to the end of the yard—
awesome
!

His coat is chestnut, a rich brown color, and his mane looks like someone combed fudge through it. Powerful leg muscles ripple under his shiny coat as he runs, and his black hooves shine in the sun.

I really want to shout at the top of my lungs. This is the most amazing horse I have ever seen! But I bite the inside of my mouth to keep quiet. No sense making the doc and Mr. Quinn angry at me. “I’m going to ride that horse,” I vow under my breath.

“What did you say?” Maggie asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

When the horse reaches the fence at the end of the yard, he wheels around and gallops toward us, his eyes wide with fear, his ears pinned back. He feels threatened. His gait is a little awkward. One of his hind legs must be bothering him.

The horse runs another lap, then slows down. His eyes relax. His ears come back to their normal, upright position. He’s feeling more comfortable.

Dr. Mac speaks softly. “David, go inside and bring out a big bucket of water. He needs a drink.”

“Out of the way, out of the way,” I tell the girls as I make my way to the sliding glass door. “Horse needs some water.”

Once inside, I cut through the kitchen to the clinic and grab a bucket out of the supply closet. I don’t want to miss a thing. I fill the bucket to the brim, then speed out the door again.

“Hey!” Zoe complains, as water from the bucket sloshes on her sneakers.

“Hay is for horses,” I say, pausing at the top of the steps.

“Shhhh!” warns Dr. Mac.

The horse is standing in the middle of the yard, breathing hard. I can see the sweat on his chest. His eyes and ears sweep across the yard, like he’s expecting something else to come along and scare him.

“Bring the water, David,” Mr. Quinn says, keeping his voice calm. “He’s settling down nicely.”

Slowly I walk down the steps. As I get to the bottom, the horse walks straight toward me.

“Don’t move,” Mr. Quinn tells me. If I hand the bucket to Mr. Quinn, it might startle the horse.

The horse does have a limp. It looks like it hurts him to put his full weight on his hind right foot. As he gets closer, I can see a dark red stream of blood and a cut about two inches long over his right hock.

“What’s his name?” I whisper.

“Trickster,” Mr. Quinn answers.

Trickster whinnies. The high-pitched sound makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like I just touched an electric wire. He stops in front of me, his nostrils flaring, trying to smell me.

I shift the bucket to my left arm and hold out my right hand.

“Hi, Trickster. I’m David.”

T
rickster stretches his neck. His eyes are warm and friendly. The short hairs of his muzzle tickle as he moves his nose over my hand and up my arm to pick up my scent. I can smell him. Man, it is so good to smell a horse again! For a second, it reminds me of how Dad and I smelled after we came home from the barn. But Dad’s not here. It’s just me and this magnificent horse.

“Want some water?” I ask, taking the last step toward him.

He looks me straight in the eye. Trickster is smart—I can see that right away. His eyes twinkle for an instant, then he plunges his muzzle
into the bucket. A wave of water soaks my shoes. I bet he did that on purpose.

He raises his muzzle out of the bucket, shakes his head once, and his long forelock flops over his eyes. I set the bucket on the ground and brush the hair to the center of his forehead. He shakes his head again so it flops back over his eyes. He likes his bangs in his eyes, just like me. I wonder if his mother ever gave him a hard time about getting a haircut.

“You goofball,” I say. He looks totally relaxed now. His ears are straight up, and he is breathing slower. His eyes scan the back of the house, taking in the clinic, the girls on the deck, and the fence line, but he doesn’t seem frightened.

Dr. Mac steps closer to Trickster so she can check him out. “Tell me about him,” she says to Mr. Quinn.

“He’s a chestnut gelding,” Mr. Quinn says.

A gelding is a male horse that has been neutered to prevent him from fathering any foals. Dad told me that.

“Five years old, fifteen hands high,” he replies, attaching a lead rope to Trickster’s halter.

The height of horses is measured in hands. One hand equals four inches. Fifteen hands
means that he is sixty inches tall at the withers, where his neck meets his back.

“His previous owners described him as a smart horse, very playful. That’s why they named him Trickster. I don’t think they appreciated how fast he’s going to be. I got a good deal on him.”

“OK, buddy, can I examine you now?” Dr. Mac asks as she pats Trickster’s strong jaw. “Stay right there, David. He seems to like you.”

Dr. Mac uses her stethoscope to listen to Trickster’s lungs and heart. “Heart rate is forty-five beats per minute. Respiratory is thirty. A little high, but not scary. I’d say he’s still nervous about being hit in the trailer. Did he eat this morning?”

“A grain mix and hay. He doesn’t need a special diet. Good thing, too. I already have enough fussy eaters for one barn.”

Dr. Mac murmurs to Trickster as she runs her hands over his back, feeling for swelling. He’s fine until she gets close to the cut over his right hock. Suddenly, his skin quivers and he snorts hard.

“That’s sore, isn’t it?” Dr. Mac asks him. She presses gently around the edges of the cut. “He’s bruised here. I can already feel the swelling. The
cut isn’t anything to worry about. We’ll treat it with an antiseptic spray, and it will heal on its own.”

“Do you think he injured the hip bone?” Mr. Quinn asks.

“Let me feel the leg first.” Dr. Mac goes down on one knee and runs her hands down the lower part of Trickster’s leg. I hope it’s not anything serious. I can already imagine what it will feel like to ride him.

“I want to see him walk,” Dr. Mac says as she stands up. “David, take the lead rope and walk him away from us. Slowly, now.”

Mr. Quinn puts his big hand on mine as I reach for the lead rope. “She said slowly,” he says, giving me a serious look.

“Yes, sir,” I answer. I’m going to do exactly what I’m told around this horse, especially when Mr. Quinn is watching.

“Come on,” I tell Trickster as we walk away from the house. I walk on his left side by his head. The only sounds in the yard are the soft steps of Trickster’s hooves on the grass. It feels so great to be next to a horse again.

“OK, bring him back,” Dr. Mac calls.

When I stop, Trickster rubs his jaw against
my hair. “Cut it out,” I laugh. We make a wide circle and head back. I look over my shoulder at Trickster’s hind legs. He’s still limping.

“What do you think?” I ask Dr. Mac as we arrive back.

“I’m pretty sure he hasn’t fractured anything, but I want to take some X rays to make sure. I’ll be right back. Brenna, I need you to help me carry some things.”

Dr. Mac returns from the clinic carrying a portable X-ray machine. The X-ray machine is the size of a toaster oven, with a long electrical cord that she plugs into an outlet on the deck.

Brenna brings out a box and sets it down on the deck. Dr. Mac pulls a heavy apron out of the box and hands it to Mr. Quinn.

“Here’s your apron, Lucas.”

“What does he need that for?” I ask.

“The apron is lined with lead,” Dr. Mac says. “Lucas is going to help me with the X rays. This will block the radiation from his body. Or mine.” She ties on a lead apron over her jeans.

“I can help,” I say.

Dr. Mac pauses briefly. I hope she’s not afraid I’ll screw up. “I’ll do whatever you say,” I add.

“All right,” she answers. “You’ll need to put on an apron, too.”

Dr. Mac holds Trickster’s rope while I wrestle with the apron. It is way heavier than it looks. Once it’s on, I take the rope back. “Don’t laugh at me,” I tell Trickster under my breath.

Trickster flares his nostrils and snorts once, blowing my bangs into my eyes.

Mr. Quinn slips on giant mittens that go all the way up to his elbow. “These are lined with lead, too,” he explains to me.

Dr. Mac takes a thin metal case the size of a big book and slides it into a slightly bigger wooden box. “The X-ray film is in here,” she says, handing the box to Mr. Quinn. “I want you to hold it by the edges and place it right behind Trickster’s sore hock.”

Mr. Quinn pats Trickster’s rump to let the horse know he’s there—horses do not like surprises. Then he bends over and holds the X-ray box behind the sore joint in Trickster’s back leg. “Is this where you want it?” he asks Dr. Mac.

“Perfect,” Dr. Mac says as she picks up the
X-ray machine. “Stay still.” She aims the lens at the hock and pushes a button. The machine beeps once.

“Done,” Dr. Mac says. She takes out the first X-ray film and puts another in the box. “Different angle this time,” she says as she and Mr. Quinn move around.

Trickster twists his head around to see what’s going on.

“Relax,” I tell him. “They’re just taking pictures.”

When Dr. Mac has taken four different X rays, each from a different angle, she takes the film into the clinic to process it. When she comes out of the clinic a few minutes later, she looks relieved.

“No breaks, no fractures,” she says. “I suspect that when the trailer was hit, it threw Trickster against the far wall. He hit his hock, which accounts for the bruising and cut. He must have lost his balance and twisted his hock a bit.” She points to the injured joint.