[Illustration]




                        MAURICE AND THE BAY MARE

                        By Henry Herbert Knibbs

           Author of “The Stray,” “The Fighting Gringo,” Etc.


    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.’

“The young fellow laughed in me face. I haven’t much use for the opinion
of a man who would knock his employer’s business,’ says he. It was a
queer way of thanking me for trying to save his neck. And, what with
handling the horse and the young fellow’s talk, and how the old man was
willing to chance having me break my neck, showing a devil to a buyer, I
got hot in the collar. I had it in mind to say more to the young fellow,
but the old man came from the office and walked up, swinging his cane.
The young fellow takes out a cigarette and lights it. ‘I’ll buy him,’
says he, ‘if your man will put him over that jump again.’

“‘All right,’ says the old man. ‘Take him over, Maurice.’

“’I was thinking of the show coming on, and the other jumpers,’ says I.

“‘That’s my business,’ says the old man. ‘If you haven’t nerve enough to
put a real jumper over that jump, you can’t show any of my horses.’

“Now, the grooms had all come out and were standing by the doorway,
watching us, and maybe expecting to see somebody get hurt. And it was
the first time in me life, sir, that anybody had ever said to me that I
didn’t have nerve enough to take a horse over a jump. ’Twas a black rage
that took hold of me. ‘No man has ever said the like to me,’ says I. And
I mounted and took the horse down the field and turned him. When he
lunged out and went toward the jump, I knew that I had lost my judgment
of distance and stride, and more, that I didn’t care. I was as blind mad
as the horse himself. I fought him up to the wings, and I tried to hold
him straight, him rearing and lunging. But no living man could have held
him to the jump. He went into the corner. He didn’t even try to take
off. They told me he turned over twice. I knew nothing about that. I was
down and under him.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Maurice shrugged his shoulders. The ghost of a smile twitched at the
corners of his mouth.

“We all get it, sir, sooner or later. Of course, I have seen some of the
boys that got hurted bad ride again, but they would have to have the
liquor to do it. Their nerve was gone. And that is a terrible thing to
happen to a man. But it was not nerve that made me put that horse at
that jump. It was pride. I knew better. I should have refused to take
him over. ’Twas plain reckless, and ’tis no credit to a man to be
reckless, for then he has no judgment. If he comes through, ’tis luck
that does it. And, sir, I had plenty of time to think about it all, on
me back in the hospital. It was close to six months before they let me
go. And me being a stranger in this city, never a soul came to see me,
saving a young man who was riding master at the stable, a boy from
Ireland, like meself.

“He would be bringing me a package of tobacco, or maybe some fruit, or a
bit of a book to read, and telling me a joke or two to pass the time.
And when I was to leave the hospital, he put some money in me hand, and
says the boys at the stable had took up a collection to pay me hospital
bill. You see, sir, grooms and stablemen and trainers will always be
helping one another, when a man is sick or hurted bad. And many the
dollar that is give outright, and many is the dollar lent and by the
same token never paid back. But, then, sir, the fellow that will borrow
and not pay back will be helping some other fellow, so it is all in the
family, like. But the old man, who had money, he never came to see me
once. But one day a lawyer came and told me I could sue the old man for
damages.

“The lawyer would be asking me to sign a paper, saying he would take the
case for half when we got out of it. But I did not like his talk, and I
signed no paper. I told him it was me own fault that I got hurted, and
that I knew the horse was bad, and the chance I took. It was a long time
after that I found out the old man sent the lawyer to see what I
intended to do about it. A trick of the trade, sir. But I signed no
paper. I would not be blaming the old man. He knew the horse was bad,
but also he knew I would be knowing it meself. They say there is some
good comes out of everything. I don’t know. But maybe my getting broke
up saved that young fellow from getting killed complete. If so, I am
glad. But I paid a terrible price for saving him, sir. Look at me hands!
Sometimes I look at them and wonder if they belong to some old man with
the palsy. And I am not an old man, sir. Ah, well, ’tis all in the way
of our business. I’ll always be with the horses. ’Tis in me blood. I was
born and raised to it, in Ireland, and me father before me.”

One of the grooms came back from supper. Maurice got up stiffly.

“I’ll be getting a bite to eat,” he said.

“But the mare,” I said, as we walked across the quadrangle; “there’s
nothing mean about her. She’s just young and lively. You can’t blame her
for wanting to play.”

“No, she is not mean,” said Maurice deliberately. “’Tis not that. I got
to thinking, sir, why take any risk at all? You see, it is not just
yourself--you have a family. With me it would be different. I have no
one. I was paid for riding. It was my business. But you ride for
pleasure. You are your own boss. You do not have to take any chances.”

“Chances? Why, Maurice, I take a longer chance driving my car from here
to my home, through this town, than I do when riding the mare.”

“It may be so, sir. They do be smashing up cars and people something
wicked. ’Tis hard to say what a man should do to keep his bones whole.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “Where can we draw the line? Why, a man isn’t
safe, even in jail. There might be an earthquake. But we were talking
about the mare. I am going to let you make a decision. I’ll stand by it.
If you were in my place would you keep on riding the mare, or would you
ride a deadhead and try to make yourself believe you enjoyed it?”

“Deadhead, is it? There are no deadheads in this stable.” Maurice’s tone
was brusque, but he smiled instantly. “And the others--well, I would be
thinking the mare is the best of the lot. I will have her ready for you
at the same time to-morrow, sir.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 7, 1927 issue
of The Popular Magazine.]