GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON
GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON
PART I
A NOVEL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY
IT was a warm September afternoon “down to the cape,” as the local phrase runs. The drowsy little hamlet consisted, first, of a small wooden railway station, not unlike an immense drygoods box in which some frugal-minded Yankee had cut holes to serve for a door and two windows, and then in a moment of reckless extravagance had painted a dull red; next, of a church, which appeared to have been dropped there by mistake; and last, of a few farmhouses, which had no doubt been there since the days of Governor Bradford. Over the door of the station was the sign “Post Office,” and, consequently, one had reason to believe that “Uncle Sam” had some claim upon this sleepy little settlement. Not a store was to be seen; not a sign of business anywhere. Even the railroad station was deserted; for no train would come up from Province Town until six o’clock, and the one going “down cape” stopped only on signal. So the station agent, who was also postmaster, was absent in a distant field, busily stacking corn. The sun beat down upon the sandy road from which the hot air arose in quivering waves. Across from the station lay a large field surrounded by a “post-rail” fence, and standing by the bars, with her head hanging lazily over the topmost one, was an old gray mare with her colt beside her. She seemed half asleep, for her eyes were closed and occasionally her head would nod exactly like that of a drowsy old woman, and bring her throat bumping against the rail. That served to rouse her for a moment, but she would presently slip off again into dreamland, perhaps to relive the days when she had been able to skim over the ground with the best of her kind; for “Gray Lady” came of famous stock, and the colt at her side gave fair promise of inheriting his mother’s good qualities. Just now, however, he seemed principally made up of legs and a scraggy mane; but the eyes below the “bristle” were wonderfully soft, and looked out between the bars with the half-mischievous, half-pleading look one often sees in a child. The delicate little muzzle was as soft as a moleskin. The tiny lips nibbled at the lichens on the rail, and, not finding these particularly satisfying, began to fuss about the mother’s warm neck, creeping gradually upward until they reached her head, where they found a tempting plaything, and she was rudely roused from her reveries by having her ear sharply pinched.
With a squeal she jerked her head out of reach, and the colt, as if highly elated with his prank, went careering over the field, his long legs executing some very extraordinary feats; for he was only six months old.
As he pranced off a shrill whistle was heard, and a moment later a boy, about twelve years of age, came down the dusty road, dragging behind him a nondescript sort of vehicle evidently of home manufacture, since it consisted of a plank fastened upon the wheels of a baby carriage.
The boy was barefooted; his clothes had seen long service; likewise his hat, for a rent in the crown afforded so free a circulation of air that there was no danger of his ever becoming bald for lack of it. Evidently he was no stranger, for the instant Gray Lady heard his whistle she raised her head, the sleepy look giving place to a very alert one, as she began to whinny softly. When he came within sight of her he shouted: “Hi! old Lady, be you a-lookin’ for me? Reckon I’m on time, though; train haint gone down yit, an’ yer can’t never expect me afore that, yer know.”
As he talked he lifted a small basket of apples from the wagon. Lady snorted and whinnied, and, the sound reaching her fly-away son, he stopped short in his wild career. Without turning, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a funny little imitation of his mother’s greeting.
“You come along back here. I aint a-gonter come tramplin’ clear off there after you, and don’t you think it,” called the boy. “Sonny” gave an independent little toss of his head as though to say: “I’m not forced to come, but I will, since it is you,” and then started across the field, his funny, long legs flying about in the most aimless manner.
“Now old Lady, I’ll give you your spread first, ’cause you was on hand ter say ‘howdy,’ you know”; and, taking up his basket, he began to feed one apple at a time to his four-footed friend. This was too much for Sonny, who had got scent of the fruit and was determined to have his share.
The dainty muzzle was thrust over the boy’s shoulder as he stood feeding Lady; then it was poked into his hands and rubbed against his coat, and, as a last resort, when all these hints proved futile, a very vigorous nip was given to his arm.
“Hi, you young scamp! What are you up to? Is thet the way you mean to treat me after I lugged all these apples over here? Now just you hold on; you didn’t care a cent about me till you found out I had somethin’, did you? That’s just like some folks; they aint got no use fer a feller except ter knock him ’round till they git a notion he’s wuth somethin’ to them, and then—oh, my! aint they sweet? Reckon I’ve learned somethin’ o’ that game. Now don’t you try it on, fer you an’ yer ma is all the friends I got, and if you go back on me I’ll plumb give out. So come on and let’s be friends.” After this bit of moralizing he put his arms about the warm little neck and he and Sonny “made love” in the most approved style.
While the three cronies were indulging in this bit of equine and human sentiment a shrill whistle announced the approach of the down train.
“There!” exclaimed the boy, “you hear that? That means the mail bag; and I’ve got to go pick it up; like ’nough ’taint got mor’n one letter anyhow. Hullo! There go two more toots; reckon they’re a-goin’ ter set down a visitor this trip and I’ll be called upon ter tote their ‘Saratogie’ up ter the ‘Summer Hotel’—meanin’ old Grump Wheeler’s attic chamber,” he added with a comical grin as he scudded across the road.
When the mail bag was tossed off he picked it up with an educated toe, deftly landed it upon his wagon, then squatted upon it to await further developments. After depositing an immense valise upon the platform, the conductor lifted down a cripple child of about seven or eight years of age, and looked helplessly around for a place to seat her. A delicate-looking woman, evidently her mother, quickly followed and placed beneath the child’s arms the crutches she carried for her.
“It is strange that Ruth isn’t here to meet us,” said she. “Do you know of anyone who can take us up to my sister’s house?”
“Can’t say as I do,” answered the conductor. “Wish I could stop and help you out, but I can’t,” and he waved his hand to the engineer and sprang aboard his train.
The woman stood looking helplessly about and the child thumped across the platform on her crutches, as though the motion was a relief from standing. Catching sight of the boy, the woman walked quickly over to him and asked: “Is there a wagon of any kind that I can get to take us where we want to go?”
“That depends on where you’re a-goin’,” was the laconic reply.
“To Mrs. Caleb Parker’s; she is my sister. I wrote to her to expect us by this train, but I’m afraid she did not receive the letter, for she would have sent to meet us if she had.”
“When did you send the letter and where did you send it from?” asked the boy.
“I sent it yesterday morning from Boston.”
“Then it’s right snug in this very bag I’m sittin’ on this minit, fur there aint been no mail sense this time yistiddy.”
“Dear me! dear me! What am I to do? Is it far to Mrs. Parker’s?”
“Nigh ’bout a mile, I reckon.”
“Is there anybody you can get to carry us over?”
“Don’t know nobody, less it’s Squire Davis, an’ his house is on a spell beyond Mrs. Parker’s. Most of the men folks is out shuckin’ their corn, like Pop Bates up yonder. He’s the station agent. See him?”
“Couldn’t he help us?”
The boy laughed: “Mebby he could if yer could make him understand what yer wanted, but he’s as deef as that post yonder.” He pointed to the post-rail fence across the road, and then, as though the action had suggested something, he hopped up, saying: “Say, I’ll tell yer what yer can do, if yer will. Like as not yer’ll be scared ter; but yer needn’t, fer Lady’s as steady as a rock and wouldn’t harm nothin’. She often pulls me all round the lot, but old Wheeler, the man what she belongs to, don’t know it; he’d caterpillar, sure, if he did.”
The woman did not ask what physical or mental condition was implied as a possibility for “old Wheeler” should he gain a knowledge of Lady’s performance, but she hastened to say: “If you know of some way of getting us there pray tell it quickly, for Lucy is nearly ready to drop.”
“Will you let her ride on my wagon if I fix it up for her?”
“Certainly; but you will never be able to draw her and this great satchel all that distance.”
“I aint a-gonter; Lady yonder will,” and he gave a funny laugh as he scampered across the sandy road.
Placing around the mare’s neck a piece of rope which he had picked up from the station platform, he then let down the bars and led her out. “Now, look a-here, old Lady, you’ve got ter be on yer very primest behavior, ’cause I’ve give my word fer yer. Do yer hear? So mind what I’m a-sayin’,” and he led her in front of his wagon. Picking up the rope with which he had drawn it, he tied it firmly to Lady’s long tail.
“There, ma’am! How’s that fer a swell Boston Common broosh?”
“Why, she will never in this world draw it that way; your wagon will be kicked to atoms.”
“Will it? Just see now,” and, stretching himself full length upon it and crossing his arms beneath his head, he called out, “Git along, Lady.” Lady gave one inquiring look behind to see that all was right; whisked her tail about to be sure that all was fairly hitched, and, calling her son to her side, marched off down the road as sedately as though she were harnessed to a farm wagon. Sonny capered along beside her or stopped to poke his nose into the boy’s face. They certainly presented a comical spectacle, for the boy had crossed his legs and one bare foot stuck straight up in the air.
After they had journeyed about twenty rods he called out: “Halt!” and Lady stopped. “Right about face, forward march!” cried the boy, and Lady calmly turned herself about and marched back to the station.
“Well, I never! If that don’t beat all I ever heard tell of,” exclaimed the woman. “Well, come along; we’ve got to get there somehow, and this seems the only way.”
“Wait a minit and I’ll fix it all hunky,” cried the boy, and, running down to the end of the platform, he picked up a lot of potato sacks which were lying there. These he piled on the wagon, then, wadding some of them up for a pillow, he said: “There you are, ma’am, fine as a fiddle.”
Together they placed the little invalid upon the queer vehicle, and after settling the big valise at her feet, as a sort of bunker in case Lady should prove resentful, the boy took the leader and off they started. It was a funny enough procession and would have drawn a smile from the dullest.
As they trudged along through the sand the woman asked: “How did you come to try such a prank as this, I’d like to know? What is your name?”
“Bob Slocum,” he replied, answering the second question first: “Oh, I don’t know,” he continued, “yer see old Pop Bates is so deef that he can’t half hear what folks says to him, and so I kinder got into the way of comin’ along ’bout train time when the mail was due, and then I could help him out. Sometimes there is a letter or something for some of the folks ’round here and I take it to ’em. That saves ’em comin’ to the post office, and they near ’bout always give me a hunk of cake or a piece of pie, er suthin’, an’ say: ‘Thanky, Bob.’ That’s about the only time I ever get anything sweet for my heart er my gizzard; fer old Wheeler—he’s the man I live with—aint got nothin’ fer a feller but thumps and leavin’s.”
“Haven’t you any parents?”
“Nope; don’t even remember them. Ma, she died when I was born, and dad didn’t live long after her. Folks ’round here says he died ’cause ma did. He worked for old Wheeler, and I reckon most likely he starved ter death. He’d like to starve me if he could. But I guess I aint the starvin’ kind. I can git along somehow, and folks ’round here is pretty good to me.”
“What do you do for Mr. Wheeler? You can’t be more than twelve years old.”
“I’ll be twelve next November. What don’t I do, you’d better ask. ’Most anything a boy twelve years can do an’ a lot some fifteen can’t. I milk seven cows twice a day; cut all the wood; tote water; take care of the stock; run errants; hoe corn, an’ do about a hundred things beside; an’ all fer my board an’ keep—mostly keep.”
“Do you go to school?”
“Aint none to go ter. Nearest one’s five mile away, an’ old Wheeler don’t keep no trotters fer my use.”
“Can you read?”
“Yes’m, some. There was a lady stoppin’ up to Squire Davis’s one summer and she learnt me; an’ ever sence I’ve been a-pickin’ up some from the newspapers. Squire Davis takes a lot of ’em, an’ when he’s done with ’em he lets me have ’em.”
By this time they had reached their destination and the boy, pointing to a low white house which nestled in a garden filled with hollyhocks, dahlias, and brilliant asters, said: “There’s Mis’ Parker’s. You go on in an’ tell Si, her hired man, ter come out an’ get yer bag whilst I stay here along with my friends.”
Without a thought of questioning him the woman started for the house, and, turning to the child upon the wagon, who thus far had scarcely spoken a word, he said: “You’ll soon be all right now. Are yer tired?”
“Not very. The ride on the train from Boston was awful hot, but this part has been splendid. How did you ever get Lady to let you hitch her up this way? She loves you, doesn’t she, and Sonny does, too; how did you make them?”
“Guess ’cause we didn’t have nobody else to love. Old Wheeler don’t care nothin’ for her now she is gettin’ old. He hardly ever takes any notice of her. She used to be the fastest horse on the Cape, and there aint one that’s got better blood in her veins. I bring her apples or somethin’ every day, and I was the first one Sonny, here, saw after he come into the world. Sonny an’ I are great cronies. I’m only waitin’ fer him to grow up, an’ then we’re goin’ to run away, aren’t we, old feller?” and he laid his arm over the colt’s neck.
Sonny nestled close up to him, and Lady looked benignly upon them both.
“Will you come to see me while I am here?” asked the child.
“I’ll come when I can get off. Bet I’d ketch it now if they knew I was gallavintin’ like this. I’ll sneak over when I can. Here comes Si.”
Out bustled Mrs. Parker, followed by her sister; both talking at once. Close behind them came “Si.”
“My land er Goshen!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker, “did anyone ever hear tell of such doin’s? And that blessed lamb dragged up to my front door just as if she was a sack er flour. How do, Bob; seems as if this part of the world couldn’t get along without you, nohow; don’t it? Run ’long ’round to the back of the house to the buttry and eat your fill; you certain sure deserve it this time.”
“Can’t now; got to get back with Lady or I’ll have Mr. Wheeler after me. Will the stuff keep? I’ll come along ’round to-morrow if it will.”
“Yes, indeed, and if it don’t there’s plenty more that will,” and she nodded her head at him reassuringly.
“All right, I’ll be on hand. Good-by, folks,” and, flopping down on his wagon, he called out, “Right about, Lady,” and the wise creature turned around and started back toward the station.
They returned more quickly than they had come, for Lady jogged along, with the cart jerking and rattling behind her. They soon reached the pasture, and, after placing his charges safely within it, he put up the bars once more, and then clambered upon the topmost one.
“Now come along and say ‘good-by,’ ’cause I’ve got ter git ’long back.”
Lady came up to him and laid her big head across his shoulder, and the boy reached up and circled her soft, warm neck with his arm as he rested his face against her mane.
Little Sonny looked at him a moment as though to say, “Do you want me, too?”
“Yes, come along and say good-by, too,” said Bob. Sonny laid his head across Bob’s knee and looked up at him with his brown eyes full of love for the friend who never forgot him, but came to him day after day, in sunshine or shower, to bring the dainty of which he often deprived himself that his four-footed friends might not be disappointed.
And as he sits there stroking the colt’s silky ears and nestling close to the mother’s neck, we must bid him “good-by,” too, and skim forward on the wings of time to a period eight years later, when both he and Sonny have grown up and Sonny found an opportunity to repay him for his years of devotion to himself and his mother, Gray Lady.
PART II
SONNY’S GRATITUDE
THE sun beat fiercely down upon the Cuban shore, and waves of hot air quivered above the sand. A short distance off shore the great transports swung quietly to their anchors in the sheltered bay, as boatload after boatload of troops disembarked and were rowed to the white beach, where their comrades were already busy getting their arms and the camp paraphernalia up to the camping-ground.
A cavalry regiment with its horses was being sent ashore; and a wretched enough time they were having, too; for the transportation facilities were extremely limited. One after another the poor beasts were forced upon the gangplank, which was so arranged that it slid them off into the water to swim for the beach, probably five hundred yards distant.
They were nearly all stout, brave animals, and had seen hard service upon the Western frontier, but this was an entirely new experience, and many were nearly wild with terror. As they were forced into the water a man in the stern of one of the boats would take the halter-strap and guide one swimming animal to the shore, and the others followed as fast as the waves and their own strength permitted.
Our deepest interest is centered on one splendid, big, dappled gray which stands at the end of the gangplank about to take his turn. His beautiful eyes show that he is keenly observing all that is happening about him. His delicate ears are pricked forward, or laid back as though to catch the faintest sound, and the wide nostrils quiver with excitement as he draws in long breaths of the briny air, or gives a snort of protest. Beside him, with his arm thrown caressingly over the beautifully arched neck, stands a young soldier, evidently a sergeant. He is a handsome fellow, whose bronzed skin and muscular form show that he has seen service. Unquestionably he and his horse understand each other thoroughly, for he is talking to the intelligent creature, who seems to comprehend him perfectly.
“Now, old fellow, don’t you get panicky when you’re dipped. Just put your best leg forward and pungle straight for that shore yonder. Do you hear what I’m saying?” and he looked into the horse’s eyes as one might look into the eyes of a human being.
The horse gave his head a toss up and down, as though he were answering “yes,” and then turned to rub it against the man’s shoulder. “Come along, gray jacket,” called the man who stood at the end of the plank, “it’s your turn now,” and he reached for the halter-strap. The horse walked to the end of the plank, planted his dainty feet upon it, and would not budge another inch. The man coaxed and tugged, but all to no purpose. At last, losing patience, he cried: “Well, you’re a dandy, aint you, now? I’ll get something that’ll give you your marchin’ orders.” He reached for a heavy balestick which was lying on the deck, but before he could administer the blow the stick was wrenched from his hand and flung far out into the blue water.
The man looked in utter amazement to encounter a pair of gray eyes that fairly snapped fire at him: “Did you think I was going to let you knock him with that stick? Not much. Come on, old man, you’ll follow me, I know,” said the sergeant, and, going to the side of the ship, he caught hold of a rope which dangled from above and swung himself over the side, to drop into one of the boats below.
As he disappeared the horse gave a loud neigh, as though to call him back. “Come, Sonny, come on, old fellow,” called his master; and as though the ship no longer held anything worth remaining on board for, the beautiful creature gave another loud whinny and plunged into the water.
With powerful strokes he swam straight for the beloved object in the boat, which was being pulled slowly toward the shore. The sergeant, who was now seated in the stern of the boat, reached out, and, taking hold of the leader which had been loosely knotted about the horse’s neck, gently towed the swimming animal, while talking to him encouragingly. And, as though he gained strength and courage from the beloved voice, the horse grew less and less nervous and settled down to the long, steady strokes which carried him swiftly toward the shore. They were within a hundred yards of it when he began to plunge and hold back.
“Come on, Sonny; come on; what’s up?” asked his master.
But the horse was unable to respond.
“By Jove! he’s stuck in the seaweed; he’ll be a goner, sure as guns; that stuff has done up more’n one of ’em already,” cried one of the men.
“He won’t be a ‘goner’ if I can help it!” exclaimed the sergeant, and in another instant he had cast hat, coat, and arms into the boat and plunged into the water.
“Steady, Sonny; steady, old boy. I’ll have you free in a minute,” he called to the struggling horse. At the sound of his voice the wild plunges ceased and he looked pathetically at his master with his great, eloquent eyes.
Swimming to the horse’s side, the man rested one hand upon the broad back, and reached down into the water; but he could not reach low enough to disentangle the seaweed from the hind feet. “Hold on a minute, boys,” he called to the men in the boat. “Steady now,” and with a mighty dive he disappeared beneath the waves. “He’ll be kicked to flinders,” shouted one of the soldiers. “Well, let him, if he’s fool enough to make such a fuss over a horse. I’d see every one of them soaking on the coral reef before I’d risk my neck for ’em.” “Reckon you would, Bill; and the whole boatload of us into the bargain,” was the scornful reply of one of his comrades; “but that younker’s made of different stuff.”
By this time the sergeant had come sputtering to the surface, and calling out: “All right; pull ahead,” he rested one dripping arm across the horse’s withers, and began to swim beside him.
“Come on into the boat,” called one of the men.
“Go ahead; I’m all right,” was the reply, and a moment later they had reached the shore and were scrambling up the beach.
“You are a durned fool to get a ducking for that brute,” exclaimed the man who had before spoken disparagingly of the sergeant’s devotion to his horse.
“Think so?” was the cool reply. “Well, when you’ve had a friend as long as I’ve had him for one, whether that friend travels on four feet or two, you’d better stick to him, if he proves as true to you as this one has to me. We’ve traveled together nine years now, and in all that time we’ve never been apart a day, and he’s helped me out of many a bad fix, I can tell you.”
“He must be nigh about twenty year old, aint he?” asked the man with a laugh.
“He is old enough to know a chump when he sees one, and to stick to a friend when he’s got one; and that’s more than some other live critters can do”; and the sergeant walked off up the beach to join his troop.
As they walked along, the man who had taken his part in the boat overtook him, and asked: “How long have you had that horse, anyhow, sergeant?”
“Well,” he replied, with a queer sort of smile, “I’ve sort of looked upon him as mine ever since he drew his first breath, for his mother was the only friend I ever had. But I can’t say as he’s been my legal property more than three years.”
“I thought you said you’d had him nine years? He doesn’t look more than nine now.”
“He was nine years old the sixth of last April, and, as I said before, we haven’t been apart a day. I looked after him till he was four years old, and after that he took care of me. Our part of the world got too hot for us about that time, and one dark night we put out; didn’t we, Sonny?” turning to stroke the great neck which was rapidly drying in the tropical sun. Sonny answered with a soft whinny and poked his nose against the man’s face.
His interrogator looked at him questioningly, and the sergeant, in whom we can no longer fail to recognize our friend, Bob Slocum, said: “I was raised down on Cape Cod, and by the meanest old duck that ever gave a boy cuffs for his breakfast, knocks for dinner, and a kick for his supper. Don’t remember my parents. Sonny here was the colt of one of his mares; and a beauty she was, too. But when she got too old to work he would have let her starve if Squire Davis hadn’t bought her. The squire took pity on her and let her stay in his barn and took care of her till she died.
“When Sonny was two years old Wheeler undertook to break him; but he came nearer killing him instead, for Sonny was nervous and high-spirited, and old Wheeler had a temper like a very devil. It makes my blood boil to think of the way he handled that colt; I wonder he didn’t ruin him, and I believe he would have, if it hadn’t been for me. But after they’d had one of their shindies and Sonny was all done up, and old Wheeler was madder than a hornet and had gone up to the house to take out his spunk on his wife, I’d sneak into the pasture, and Sonny would just put for me. He seemed to try to tell me his troubles, and I’d comfort and pet him till he’d get quieted down a bit. I was only fourteen years old then, and he and I stood it a year longer, and then one dark night we took French leave and lit out. I don’t know how we ever escaped being caught, or kept from starving, but we did both.
“Sonny lived on grass and I on what I could beg. I knew the country for miles around, and I managed to keep well hidden during the daytime. We came mighty near being caught lots of times, and had no end of close shaves, I can tell you. But in time I managed to get into New York State, and then we got on pretty well. I could do anything with Sonny, and at last we struck the towpaths. I gave the towmen lifts for my board and a feed for Sonny, and they didn’t bother to ask where we had come from or where we were going, so long as we could make ourselves useful.
“By-and-by we found ourselves out in western New York, and it wasn’t much further to Ohio; so on we went till the next thing we knew we were clear out in Colorado. Then I got a notion I’d like to go soldiering, and Sonny and I enlisted with the regulars. We’ve been with them ever since. I was only fifteen, but everyone thought I was seventeen, for I was nearly as tall as I am now, and had been obliged to shift for myself so long that there wasn’t much of the boy left in me, I can tell you. Sonny had got to be a beauty, and I could have sold him a dozen times over, but, you see, he wasn’t mine to sell, even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t.
“In two years more I’d managed to scratch together a couple of hundred dollars somehow, and then I went to the colonel and up and told him the whole story, and asked him to send the money to old Wheeler for me. I’d heard the old man say a dozen times that he would sell Sonny for that sum rather than take the risk of being killed while breaking him. And he hadn’t broken him, either; I’d done it. That was three years ago. The money went all right and I’ve got the receipt all safe. Old Wheeler’s satisfied, and so am I. I’ve been with the regiment ever since. We’ve had some pretty hot times with the Ingins out there; you know that as well as I do, but I’ve a notion we’re in for a hotter one right here than we’ve seen yet. Sonny has helped me out of many a tight place, and we’ve seen some mighty tough times together, but I could count on him every time, and I believe he’d lay down his life for me in a minute. I expect he will save it for me yet. I’d have been a fine one to sit in that boat and watch him go to the bottom, wouldn’t I?”
Bob little dreamed how soon Sonny would repay his devotion.
Who would wish to picture the horrors of a battlefield, with its scream of shot, its burst of shell, and the cries of the wounded? Certainly not I, but I cannot complete my story of Sonny without touching the horrible scene.
A charge had been made and many a riderless horse was rushing aimlessly about; for when the trusting creatures no longer felt the guiding hand nor heard the encouraging voice of their masters, chaos seemed indeed to have come again. No one would have recognized in the terrified animals the well-trained creatures which had gathered for the charge.
Among them was Sonny, rushing he knew not whither. Poor Sonny! No longer clean and shining, but splashed with mud, blackened with powder, and bleeding from a ghastly wound in his shoulder. From some instinct of self-preservation the horses ran to the rear, and he ran with them. But he had not gone far when he was captured by a trooper whose horse had been shot under him, and a moment later he was dashing up the hill and into the thickest of the fight.
Wounds were unnoticed and terror disregarded; no one had time to think of a horse when human beings were struggling to destroy each other in order to settle a disputed question and free a down-trodden race.
Poor Sonny! No one could look into the horse’s mind and there see the anguish he was suffering for the loss of the master whom he had loved and served so faithfully for nine years, and whom he would willingly have followed to his death, if necessary. Whatever trials he had before encountered, whatever suffering he had been compelled to endure, his trusted master had been there to help him bear them. Now in the midst of battle he was as much alone as though he had been abandoned in a wilderness.
Night fell and the carnage ended. Long trains of ambulances were being driven to the rear; wounded men were dragging themselves along the tracks; others were being helped over the rough road by comrades, or were borne on rudely constructed stretchers to the field hospital, where Red Cross nurses and surgeons were doing their utmost to relieve the suffering.
In the field behind them lay those who needed neither the surgeon’s skill nor the nurse’s care.
“Here, Jim, give me a lift, will you?” said a soldier at the edge of the field, as he was striving to carry a badly wounded comrade to the rear.
The man addressed was limping along and leading a horse which limped even worse than he himself did.
The first speaker added quickly: “Where did you get that horse? If he aint Slocum’s ‘Sonny’ I’ll miss my guess.”
“Who’s Slocum? I caught the horse running wild on the field. He was wounded then, but I had to get to the front. Here, let’s get him up on the horse,” he said, speaking of the wounded man.
Together they managed to place him upon the horse’s back and started on. They had not gone five hundred yards when Sonny stopped short, and, throwing up his head, gave a loud neigh.
“What’s up, old man?” asked the man who was leading him.
“He acts as though he smelt something,” said the other.
“Here, come on; we haven’t got time for you to smell out your fodder to-night,” and he started on.
Sonny went a few steps, stopped again, and tried to turn back; but the man now grew impatient, and, giving him a sounding thwack upon his flank, went on down the hill.
Again and again he held back and strove to get away from them.
Reaching camp they lifted the unconscious burden from Sonny’s back and together bore it into one of the tents.
This was Sonny’s chance, and he darted away as he used to do when he heard Bob’s whistle.
It was a rough road, little better than a trail. But Sonny heeded naught. One thought filled his mind; one desire dwelt in his heart.
He soon reached the spot where he had first halted, and, plunging into the dense jungle growth, forced his way through the tangle of grass and vines. On and on he went till he came to a spot far remote from the line of battle and the path taken by those returning with the wounded. A moment later he was whinnying over a figure which lay stretched upon the ground. Nothing could have been more pronounced than his delight at finding the object of his search. But his delight was short-lived, for there was no reply to his repeated neighs and soft whinnies. He put his muzzle down to the beloved face and pushed it against the quiet hands, but won no response. Again and again he tried to rouse the quiet figure. Again and again did he strive to win some recognition. It was all in vain, and at last, when all else failed, he tried to pick up his precious charge with his teeth. But he could find no place where he dared lay hold, for he was far too wise to grasp anything but the clothing. And now Sonny was in dire straits, indeed, for he was unable to move his master and would not leave him.
Night fell, and the dense darkness of the tropics enveloped them. Ere long rain began to fall in torrents, but Sonny did not quit his post. It may have been the rain, or it may have been dear Mother Nature’s healing touch, but whatever the cause was, at about midnight the quiet figure moaned slightly and stirred.
Sonny instantly began to lick the white face; the eyes opened, and Bob looked wildly around. “Sonny,” he murmured. And Sonny neighed loudly. That was all, but the horse was satisfied. All the rest of the night he stood guard; sometimes licking the hands; sometimes whinnying softly.
Morning came with the suddenness of the tropical daybreak, the sun seeming to spring straight up out of the sea, and with the morning poor Bob’s senses returned. He looked at Sonny and said: “Dear old fellow,” and tried to rise. But Bob was not likely to rise for some time. “How did you find me?” he asked, as though the horse could answer him. “I wonder how I came here, anyway? The last thing I remember was trying to crawl out of the reek and roar up yonder.” Once more he tried to raise himself up, but the exertion was too much for him, and with a pitiful moan he fell back unconscious.
Now was Sonny indeed wretched! He stood the very picture of misery. But finally he seemed to decide upon a line of action, and with a parting caress, he started out of the steaming jungle. Once free of it, he encountered human beings; some wounded, some searching for the wounded; and to these last he seemed to turn instinctively. He whinnied, and they turned in surprise to see a horse emerging from a spot where no horse was supposed to be.
“Look at that horse!” exclaimed one of them. “Go catch him, Sam.”
Sam started forward, but Sonny had no notion of being caught again, and with a wild plunge he dashed back into the jungle.
“What in thunder is taking you in there, you fool beast?” the man called after him. “I wonder if there can be anybody in that stifle,” he added. “Hi, Jo, come on; there’s something up; I believe that horse’s rider is in there.”
“Nonsense! How could he get into such a place? I’m not going in.”
“Well, there’s something there, and I’m going to find out what it is, whether you come in or not!” and he started to follow Sonny.
“Then I’ll come, too,” and both men started.
Sonny kept well ahead of them, but they followed, and in a moment later they came upon Bob.
“Well, I’ll be shot!” exclaimed the second man. “If that don’t go clear ahead of anything; that beast has been doing guard duty all night, as sure as guns.”
“I knew there was something here,” said the first speaker. “I’ve seen too much of horses out on the plains not to understand some of their ways.”
Tenderly they lifted the unconscious figure and bore it back to the camp. No need to lead Sonny now; he would not let the dear master out of his sight, and every few steps he reached out his head to sniff at him. Bob was carried into a tent, and all that was possible to be done for him was done; but it was a long time before he could get about again, and meantime the story of Sonny’s devotion spread throughout the camp, and there was not a man in the regiment who was not willing to give a helping hand when the wounded shoulder needed dressing.
As soon as he was able, Bob’s pet was brought to him, and Sonny’s joy was pathetic. No words were needed to show it more plainly. As soon as he could be moved Bob was taken to Montauk, and Sonny went with him.
There we must leave them, only adding that Bob recovered completely, and when he was able once more to sit upon Sonny’s back and join his comrades in their drill, his regiment held no more popular man or horse.
Bob was promoted for bravery; and when the men—not content that he alone should have the honors—presented a medal to Sonny, upon which was engraved the figure of a horse standing beside his wounded master, Bob thought more of Sonny’s glory than of his own.
But Bob had served his time at soldiering, and not long after received his honorable discharge. He returned to the West, for the free life out there suited him, established himself upon a ranch, and has now settled down to business pursuits with Sonny as first superintendent, chief herder, and joint owner, for in Bob’s estimation nothing is too good for Sonny.