Memoirs of a Przewalski's Horse

Memoirs of a Przewalski's Horse

***

A brief description: A story of Old Bob, a horse conceived on the steppes of Ukraine. This is a saga detailing Old Bob's journey to find a heart of happiness. On the way, he meets the Tripletrees, who have been enslaved, and undertakes to rescue them. His thoughts throughout the journey are filled with sarcasm toward the kidnappers, but for the most part, he is able to restrain himself from retaliation.

          Cameo appearances are made by: Betty Sue, Mister Lincoln, Delicious and Rosalee Rosa; explaining how three of the four, came to be in an old, lantern box. Betty Sue, Mister Lincoln and Delicious can each alter their appearance. On the average, the three are seven inches tall.

Memoirs of a Przewalski's Horse

***

A portion of human civilization has etched into their minds a misnomer which they have gifted me with: Przewalski's horse. I do have an opinion concerning Mister Przewalski; I will express it at a later date. I am unable, at this particular time, to express my disdain for this distinction. Other than that, I don't have a thing against humans. They are almost horses.

          Let me tell you a little about myself. Upon reaching my full growth, I stood thirteen hands on my tiptoes. On my underside, which is: the region around where my tail springs forth, the inward facing surfaces of my legs, my muzzle, the underneath portion of my face, and my entire barrel, my hair is a golden-cream color. The remaining, or outer part of my body is a dark tan.

         My mane, lacking a forelock, and my tail are a dark brown color, almost black. Unlike the manes of most horses, the hair of my mane stands up instead of lying down. You may call me Old Bob, if you are of a mind to.

          I was born on the high plains of a place called Manitoba in the human year of 1918. My mama and my grandmother were people of the Kraine. They emigrated from the Kraine to Manitoba in 1917, initially landing from a shipwreck at Hudson's Bay. From there, they traveled west and north, reaching Manitoba in the autumn of 1917.

          That was the year the Russki Bolsheviks came carrying their evil onto our land. For generations they, and their descendants, have consumed the blood of all the peoples in the Kraine. Their ancestors consumed our blood for 400 years before this.

         Our blood is the food of their hearts. There are gluttons among them. These are the rulers of their land, the ones among them who consider the blood of a child a delicacy. They covet our land and our hearts.

***

Mama was on the verge of dropping me when we entered Manitoba. Borne of the necessity of food and shelter, Mama and Grandmother embraced the land of Manitoba, and it was there I was taught the history of the people of the Kraine.

          Grandmother imparted her words of wisdom in my direction many times during the first months of my childhood. "Damn those Bolsheviks," she'd say. "Damn them."

          By and by, as the moon peeked down at me on a still night, I was wont to mumble, "Damn those Bolsheviks."

          On an occasion, Grandmother might switch up her discourse on the history of the Kraine. She would say, "Przewalski's horses, my hind end! That Przewalski was a scoundrel carrying the stink of a polecat. Damn him." Of course, whenever Mama and I were alone, she taught me a complete history of our people.

          Mama allowed as how Grandmother was sweet, her only drawback that of being streaked with a major slice of cantankerousness. The summer after the autumn in which I was born, Mama's mama drifted off to the Kraine in her sleep. Of a time, on a lonely night I will hear her voice, "Damn those Bolsheviks. Damn them."

          It is in those moments, a mist of the heart sometimes leaves its residue in my eyes; and I will strike off across the plains, my heart pounding as I gallop, trying to outrun my misery. I miss her. "Damn those Bolsheviks."

          In the winter of 1919, Mama embarked on a voyage to visit her mama, and my entire being became destitute. No amount of Manitoba grass, the company of young ladies, nor my memories, could console me. I wandered across the plains of Manitoba throughout that winter. Alone . . .

          On a warmer night in the month of February, I came to a decision. Manitoba was beautiful, although I had a sour taste in my mouth from want of staying, my mind was made up. I was heading south to find a new home.

          That next morning, I set myself on the trail toward the familiar grazing slopes near Wabashi Creek. I was chasing my heart with each step I took. Old Bob is going home to speak his farewells to his mama and his grandmother, I thought. Mama sure had a sense of humor for one of the Kraine, naming me Old Bob as if I were a poodle. "Yahoo-o-o!" I sprang forward. "I love you, Mama."

          Spring finally stuck its head across the meadows of Wabashi Creek; the wild alfalfa was almost up to my hocks, and the violet buds were swelling. Wabashi Creek's water still held in its waves a winter coolness as they rippled and sang their song. Stars of Bethlehem dotted parts of the plains, and spearmint stolons meandered their way along the creekbanks. A giddiness prevailed in my heart.

         When the spicebush yellows up with flowers, I'll make my way south. Some folks the humans refer to as scientists, have instigated a rumor that horses can not see yellow; they have not seen the spicebush through my eyes as she blooms. I hope the spicebush has spread her loveliness to the south; I like chewing on the twigs, they are delicately spicy and flavorful to the tongue.

         Three weeks later, I set out. It was hard to say goodbye. I'll be back this way from time to time, Mama.

         I traveled by night, always seeking a thicket of trees which would afford me shelter during the days. I kept on traveling south. The days were long, and the nights were full of dreams.

         Two months later, I arrived in Virginia, traveled across her for three days and set my hooves down in a mountainside village I heard humans calling Clintwood.

          Clintwood was of a quaint nature, consisting of a few houses, a couple of general merchandise establishments and a saloon. On the far end of the village, I noticed a boarding stable sharing its dilapidation with a junk metal shop. The two were well-paired.

          Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses had the look and smell of an over-used outhouse which had been thrown together haphazardly. From its interior, I thought I heard the subdued voice of a horse. I eased away into the early morning dimness with the idea of heading for a sycamore thicket I had noticed a mile or so away. Promising myself I would come back after nightfall in a few days, I took up an easy trot.

          I'll rest up a few days, reinvigorate myself, then I'll undertake to get a fix on how the land lies.

         That night in my sleep, I was visited by the final words my grandmother spoke to me. "Now, Old Bob, never allow a stranger to put a halter on you, something is liable to occur that you will not be amenable to. Forever hold close in your heart that you were born of the Kraine. And sometimes, whenever the notion hits you, curse that Przewalski, and damn those Bolsheviks for me. I love you, Old Bob."

          I wept.

          Later on that night, I pulled out a few memories of Manitoba. Being alone and destitute as I was, I needed their comfort. Alternately, I drowsed, and was awake throughout the night.

***

Mama and I waded in Wabashi Creek, rolled in the wet clay to ward the horseflies off and chased each other.

         Grandmother watched with a stern eye. "Don't eat that, Old Bob," she warned me as I sampled the mint growing along the bank of the creek. "It might take your breath away." I chased her as she laughed.

          The next few days, I spent sheltering in the comfort of the sycamores. They and I took a liking to each other. Of an early morning, I could hear them. Although the air was still for want of a wind, they moaned and rustled up against each other high in their foliage, telling tales of ages past when ill winds blew across the plains; and the land was trodden by men and women of courage. The lovely sound of sycamore poetry . . .

          On a Tuesday, just after the falling of twilight, well-fed and convalesced, I set out for Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses. While looking up at the stars, I thought, Carry to me good fortune, Mama.

          Silence encompassed almost the whole of the outskirts of Clintwood, and an early fog of night occupied the remaining portion, as I approached Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses. But for the clink of metal upon metal and the dull vibration of my hooves against the earth, all was silent. Still, caution crept alongside me as I drew near. Both of us were nervous.

          The sightless muzzle of the night had closed its eyes and opened its gate to put forth utter darkness by the time I made my way to within touching distance of the stable section of Joe's. "Sh-h-h," caution whispered in my ear as I strained to collect the sounds of the night. I was able to detect only one sound; I interpreted it as the faint crunch of dried corn being chewed.

          To my left, on a whitewashed sliding door, a dim sign beckoned me to step closer. Horses Wanted: Excellent pay and all the hay they can eat. Promotions guaranteed! And the beer is free. A lump of disdain stuck in my craw as I read it. And the birth pangs of hope strained in my heart . . .

Joe and Jim

Joe and his brother, Jim, sat at a small table in Mullin's saloon. In a glance, the discerning eye passed on the knowledge that they were a pair of scoundrels. The aroma they gave off further disclosed their identity; and a close examination of their conversation solidified the matter beyond doubt.

          Old Man Mullin, the owner of Mullin's Saloon, stood behind the bar, a grimace warping his countenance as he took in their stink. Alternately, his hand reached for, and drew back from, the stout, river birch cudgel underneath the bar.

          Would a pumpknot or two somewhere about the shoulders serve any purpose in this situation? He doubted it, as his hands begrudgingly inched away from the club and busied themselves cleaning the bar. I'll just put up a sign saying: No customers admitted who haven't taken a bath today.

***

"We gonna try and catch him, Joe?"

          "Jim, he's the most beautiful horse I ever saw. Picture that animal hitched up and pulling our wagon."

          "Yeah, he's a beautiful horse alright, but how we gonna catch him?"

          "Jim, I don't think that horse knows we saw him, so he'll be back. All we gotta do is set a trap. We gotta deliver some scrap metal tommar, so let's head on outta here."

          "I have a beer on the way, Joe. This'll be my last one."

Old Bob

When I noticed the sign on the door of Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses, I also observed the accumulated rot on a couple of boards below. By now, my eyes had adjusted their sight, and I could discern the rot as well as I had seen the lettering of the sign. I stepped back, and urged my full weight against the door. It sagged and crumpled. I stepped inside.

          The interior was silent. I cast a net across the stillness. Presently, I was able to hear the sound of someone speaking. The voice betrayed the characteristics of a lady.

          "I am afraid, John. Please, let's escape from those men."

          I stepped forward. A corridor extended perhaps thirty feet in front of me, on either side, stalls extended toward the rear. The available light stunted my seeing of detail somewhat, but the night vision of the people of the Kraine strove to overcome this obstacle. Caution and I stole forward a few steps. One of the Kraine tiptoeing?

          Again, I cast my seine. I caught the nearby crackle of the crushing of corn and stepped toward it. Into my vision a stall moved as I eased closer. I approached the ventilation window and peered inside.

          Something stared back at me, and it had a companion.

***

None of the three of us spoke. As we looked at each other, silence scattered its breath into the stale air of Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses. At that moment, Mama's escape from Hudson's Bay trickled into my thoughts.

          The cold water of Hudson's Bay sought to deplete them as they swam. Desperate, her chest heaving, Mama screamed in her fright. Grandmother sang an old song of the Kraine, of Dnipro birch trees singing in the twilight along the riverbank. Grandmother then bunched up her courage into a concentrated wall of will and began to relate to Mama the story of the captain and his mechanism.

          "Wilhemina, do you remember the captain? Once, when he brought me on deck of the ship, I saw him insert a twig into a hole on a little machine. He turned the handle a few times, and the machine ate the twig."

          "Mama, you're making that up!"

          "I swear, Wilhemina . . . the captain referred to it as a . . ."

          A wall of hesitation descended upon me. I fidgeted. I now knew what I was looking at. Thank you, Mama. Although it was already erect, the hair on the back of my neck stood straighter. What have I gotten myself into?

          I could not bend this knowledge into my mind and make it fit comfortably. Yet, there they were. The two of them continued to stare at me. The pretty one's eyes asked me who I was, and what I was doing there. The other, stood defiant in front of her. The probe of his eyes examined me with care. After some moments, his left hand, grasping a gnawed-on ear of dried corn, extended toward me. "Corn?"

          I acquiesced by tilting my muzzle. He stepped forward. Brought up short by the manacles encircling his ankles, he broke the ear into halves and stretched a half toward me. I nibbled at it, as he spoke, "There's a horse in the stall across the way, could you lift the bar and allow her to escape?"

          I nodded. Stepping back and across the corridor, I urged the bar loose of its groove. The mare jumped across the threshold; I told her she was free, and away she sped. I returned to the window, hung my head inside and stared some more. The female spoke, "I am K Ti, and he is my husband, John Tripletree. Will you help us?"

          I shook my head in the affirmative. Mister Tripletree began to speak, "Our captors, Joe and Jim, will soon be returning from the saloon, they have deliveries to make early tomorrow morning. It's best you leave. We give you our words of thanks for any help you may provide us."

         Remaining silent, I whirled and took my leave, the propagation of an idea slowly forming within me. The eyes of K Ti Tripletree haunted my heart as I walked.

          Nearing the busted door of the stable, I paused to collect the sign which had been on the stable door. Grasping it in my teeth, I slipped off into darkness.

         I elected to remain close by till morning. Nearby, a quiet meadow awaited me. I feasted on the sweetness of red clover and orchardgrass, with succulent, new growth twigs of spicebush for dessert. An adjacent creek supplied cold water.

          Along toward the hour approaching one o'clock, I determined to seek my bed. Not entirely comfortable, knowing predators would be close at hand when the owners of Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses returned home, I chose to sleep standing up. In a far corner of the meadow, under the cover of a stand of paw paw trees, I drowsed off.

          A few hours passed fitfully with easy sleep. I roused myself as a gleam of apricot light appeared intermittently through the treetops on the faraway mountains. I ate a couple of paw paws, lingered near the creek for some slow water drinking, and directly, I found myself to be primed for the preliminaries of the hostilities about to commence between Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses and myself.

          The sporadic glint of light on the mountaintop horizon had transformed itself into a visible kernel, emitting steady streaks of peach light, and scattering the early morning darkness by the time I picked up the sign and set out in the direction of Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses. Above me, a walnut-colored roof of sky shimmered.

***

It was the mahogany-blue eyes of K Ti Tripletree . . . Those eyes sent forth the essence of fear, and on its heels hope, as they looked into mine. How could one of the Kraine not answer the plea beget by eyes such as those? The words of Grandmother trailed slowly through my heart. "Now, Old Bob, never allow a stranger to put a halter on you . . ."

         It wasn't exactly a halter K Ti Tripletree had cast upon me. And I didn't have to pick it up and wear it as I had. But the time for regrets was past. She had already consumed the meal of my heart.

***

          I have begun to ponder the possibility, in my faint study of them, that Joe and Jim might carry in their genes the blood of Bolshevik forebearers. I wonder if Joe's name is really Dostoevsky in the Russian language? This time I, Old Bob born of the Kraine, will have no fear. I will smite the hearts of my enemies. Damn them! Damn those Bolsheviks!

          I began a slow canter along the creek toward Clintwood. Courage cantered beside me. The two of us knew in our hearts that courage alone could not free John and K Ti Tripletree. As we closed in on Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses, courage bared its teeth.

          Through the intermittent gloom, my eyes struck upon a freight wagon standing beside Joe's. Waiting for a horse to pull it, perhaps? Joe and Jim were probably inside the stable, taking turns between cursing and wondering if they were going to have to pull the wagon themselves. With a goodly manner of stealth, I approached the freight wagon.

         As I neared the side of the wagon, doubt made a clumsy attempt to influence me. It reared its head to speak and was struck down by the sweet voice of K Ti Tripletree. "John . . . John, there's that horse. I told you he would come. What should we call him, John?"

          Before I could forestall the flow of my words, I dropped the sign and replied. "I am Old Bob, son of the Kraine and wanderer of the plains."

          The two of them stared.

          I continued, saying as few words as possible. "I am here to help you. Be patient. Be ready." I picked up the sign, walked to the front of the wagon and stood waiting to be harnessed.

Old Bob, Joe and Jim

Jim and Joe came out of the stable, sauntering, trying to look nonchalant. Joe had a cigar in one hand and a half-pint of Tullamore Dew in the other. Dragging their feet, they approached the freight wagon.

          Joe tilted his head back to get the last dregs of whiskey. When he saw me, he became a little fish-eyed. "I'll be doggone! Look at that horse, Jim. He's just standing there with our sign between his teeth."

          "Yeah Joe, he's making an application for employment. Heh-heh-heh. You're hired, old son. We'll give you all the benefits on that sign, all you gotta do is pull that wagon."

          "Jim, hurry up and get him harnessed. We have a lot to do today."

          They harnessed me and hitched me up to the freight wagon; then we set out hauling a load of scrap metal to Pikeville, Kentucky. Things went well for a while, and I commenced thinking about the escape of K Ti and John Tripletree.

         Along about nine thirty, I pulled the wagon down a slope which led to the Levisa Fork of the Big Sandy River, there I drank my fill, and we all relaxed for upwards of one half an hour.

         Tulip poplar trees crowded up against us, providing shade, and I nibbled on a paw paw or two till we set out once again. The beginnings of a plan for our escape was working its way through my system as I ambled along.

          Damn those Bolsheviks, killers of babies! Damn that Przewalski!

          We arrived in Pikeville around four o'clock in the afternoon, delivered our load to a junk metal shop and went on our way back to Clintwood. Every now and again, we stopped at roadside sales and bought some odds and ends of tin and steel.

         Darkness followed us, and caught us somewhere around Grundy, Virginia. We set up camp and stayed the night near an abandoned barn. Early the next morning, along close to four, we resumed our journey. We struck upon Clintwood while the sun was still half asleep. Joe and Jim left me hitched up to the freight wagon the rest of that day and into a slice of darkness. Fools.

Old Bob

Several weeks later, near Abingdon, Virginia, on a dust-clouded stretch of ruts and depressions which humans referred to as a road, the blaring nostrils of a horse stuck themselves clear of the dust.

         Appearing to the eye somewhat like a toad emerging from a mirror which sought to swallow it, its head entering and emerging from the mirror till the mirror finally lost its grip; the unseen figure of a horse extricated itself from the dust in stages, till the observing eye saw not only the horse, but also the burden the horse labored to pull.

          The horse moved forward, its breath heaving. A wagon squealed slowly out of the dust on the horse's heels. That the wagon was heavy was apparent by the newly formed ruts appearing beneath its wheels. Two men sat on the seat of the wagon, cursing, retching and spitting in no particular order. "Arag-g-g-g!"

          "Dang it, Old Bob! Earn your hay, keep this wagon out of that dust. I'll knock a knot on your head," Joe hollered.

          And from Jim, "Darn you! I'm going to snap this whip across your hindquarters a couple of times!"

          Old Bob fumed. After his first hour of employment at Joe's Scrap Iron and Horses, an obstacle to further labor on their part had formed in his mind. But his heart would never be turned aside from the freeing of K Ti.

***

The innocent roil in my stomach alerted me of the possibility. I walked on, allowing it to gather, and maximize itself. Presently, an evil grin settled itself on my face. A few seconds later, a hefty measure of equine malevolence wafted itself upon the men. Both men hurriedly jumped to the ground beside the wagon, cursing in their haste.

         The grin on my face became wider, as it transformed itself into a look of satisfaction.

          Self-defense, Mister Jim and Mister Joe. I couldn't get back there to kick or bite you, the way you have me trussed up in this harness.

         You were able to enjoy that moment of pleasure because of the planning and execution of my thirty third pair of chromosomes. We people of the Kraine were blessed with thirty three pairs instead of the normal thirty two of other horses. I took an unrepentant skip and a hop, and Jim was flung sideways.

***

Proceeding on my way, I pranced along the road and began to reminisce about Manitoba as I continued along pulling the freight wagon. Sometimes, I was thinking, and at other times, I was talking to myself. Why I ever left Manitoba, I can not now come to an understanding of.

          I was naive back then. The sweetest water I ever drank was in Manitoba, and talk about cold, Manitoba water is the coldest water I ever satisfied myself with. And the grass, Lord, have mercy! The grass is so tender a couple of chews will prepare it for swallowing. There's sweet clover for the taking, and the ladies . . . My oh my, they are long, sleek and magnificent to the eyes.

***

In the near distance behind Old Bob, a train began to chew its way out of the dust. "Choo-o-o choo-oo choo-o," the train screamed. Kersnap-p-p! Old Bob's hooves tangled as a blacksnake whip peeled a strip of tissue from his right wither.

         "Giddy up, Old Bob! You dang, ignorant mule. We're gonna race that train to the ford of the river."

          As a multitude of spite bored into his being, Old Bob slowed his gait, and car by car, the train overtook the wagon. The caboose of the train edged closer as Old Bob ambled along. While Old Bob observed the caboose, a flutter of cloth on the side of the car ahead moved into his vision.

          A woman and a Taffy Roll? Old Bob worked his eyelids up and down a couple of times to assure himself. I don't know, these eyes have only seen a Taffy Roll once . . . I'll blame it on the dust. Looking away, Old Bob began to think.

***

One of these days, Mister Joe and Mister Jim are in for a big letdown. This freight wagon I am pulling around is too heavy for a small horse like myself. Contrary to Joe and Jim's low opinion of me, I am not prejudiced against work. When the notion hits me, I am going to up and quit this outfit.

          Those two fellows lied to me when I interviewed for this job. They told me all the beer I could drink would be made available for my consumption, there would be many opportunities for advancement, and all the hay I could eat would be fed to me. I don't care about the beer, as I am not a drinking horse.

         Yes, I could have used eight or ten more bales of hay, and a promotion has passed me by nigh on to sixteen times, but those variables don't matter.

          But this remains, I just can't bring myself to work any longer for a dishonest pair of louts like them. Mister Joe and Mister Jim are fundamentally unsound in mind and severely suffering from the lack of scruples. I'd rather gallop on the streets of hell than to remain in their employ.

          The first opportunity I get, maybe I'll cut loose of them and head for Manitoba. Of course, wherever I go, the Tripletrees will be coming with me.

***

The thing is, I mused. When we get to the ford, they're going to unhitch me and allow me to roll around in the shallow water.

         "Yes sir, that would be the time for me to skedaddle. I have paid my dues, and I am fixing to cancel my membership."

          Some of the things I've had to stand by and watch them do, Lord have mercy! Take for an example, their enslavement of the Tripletrees, that was as criminal and as cruel as a human can behave. Having the knowledge of their kidnapping made nine tenths of the dapples on my back fall off almost overnight.

          Being a traveled horse, I have seen and participated in some things I can't bring myself to recall, and I am embarrassed when I think about a few others, but I have never been unkind to another person. I am inclined in my heart to offer my humble assistance to the Tripletrees.

***

Now, unbeknownst to Old Bob, the woman he saw on the side of the train and the Taffy Roll? The woman was Amelia Rosa, who liked to hitch free rides on trains.

         And the Taffy Roll? The Taffy Roll was called Delicious. He had escaped from a Tootsie Roll¹ factory in Elmira, New York. Created by Mister Trepidation, Delicious possessed a brain and all the other things a man possesses. But etched into his heart, was the knowledge he was still a Taffy Roll.

         Meeting underneath the caboose of a train, Amelia and Delicious became friends and traveling companions. When Old Bob saw them, they were traveling to Amelia's home in Clintwood, Virginia.

Betty Sue

K Ti Tripletree sat in the freight wagon, pinched into place between the remains of some rusted bed springs and the skeleton of a Harley-Davidson bicycle. She was still laughing at the effrontery of Old Bob in dealing with Jim and Joe.

          A thought of her daughter, Betty Sue, lifted the grin from her face. I know she's worried about us. Wonder if that horse can help us escape? I want to go home.

          K Ti did not know her daughter had been forced into retirement from her job at the little schoolhouse in South Dakota, simply because she could no longer sharpen pencils. Jeez! A drop of oil from time to time, would have prevented her bound up state. Go figure . . .

          Betty Sue's employer stuck her in a box with some other odds and ends, and a few weeks later, she was donated to the Salvation Army. On the day Betty Sue arrived at the Salvation Army, a captain took her out of the box, and with one look, determined she was a better fit for Goodwill. This decision began Betty Sue's odyssey toward Clintwood, Virginia.

         From pawnshop, to bakery, to cobwebbed shelves in church basements, Betty Sue remained undaunted. I am the daughter of K Ti Tripletree; I will look into the eyes of the unknown and it will turn its face aside from mine.

         Betty Sue wondered, off and on, what had happened to her parents. She hadn't seen them in over five years.

***

On a warm morning in December, Betty Sue arrived in Clintwood. She was a sight. She was hungry, moneyless and pitiful, with a small patch of rust on her left cheek. She was carried into the village in a sack on the shoulder of a tinker man. He tinkered with her off and on, but never managed to fix her. He mostly spent his time playing the fiddle and singing bawdy songs.

         On a dirty street corner, a week after they arrived in Clintwood, he palmed her off on another sad-looking female for a dime. He had to throw in half a dozen clothespins because she was broken.

Old Bob

The ford is not far ahead, Old Bob reminded himself. I need to figure out how to help the Tripletrees while I am relieving Jim and Joe of my services. I reckon I should meet up with them while I am wallowing in the creek. They will be refilling their canteens, and I can inquire if they would like to set some hasty tracks away from this place.

          His thoughts interrupted, Old Bob flicked his tail abruptly and swatted a horsefly. Doggonit! I am fixing to high tail it out of here!

          I hear tell they passed a law up in Manitoba prohibiting horseflies. Those Canadian politicians say the few horseflies already in residence there will be allowed to remain, if they promise not to come on a fellow while he's unaware, and not to bite him while he's thinking.That's my kind of country.

          Where was I when I was interrupted? Oh yeah, I was pondering the nature of the wherewithal necessary to rescue the Tripletrees from Jim and Joe. "Those fellows ain't got any horse sense," Old Bob guffawed.

         Right about then, Old Bob sensed a motion out of the corner of his left eye and turned his head. John Tripletree was running beside him.

         Old Bob took himself another look, because it was an almost inexplicable thing his eyes were seeing. Mister Tripletree was usually inside the freight wagon; Mister Joe and Mister Jim kept a steady eye on him, set him up with a pair of manacles to prevent him from straying.

         After that second look, Old Bob realized his eyes were not faulty, and he accepted their assessment. He slowed to a crawl, and Mister Tripletree settled into a walk. Thereafter, Old Bob spoke, "Here I was, poking along and pondering how I was going to help you and your missus, when of a sudden, you appeared. It's good to lay my eyes on you, Mister Tripletree."

         "Old Bob, I was coming to ask for your assistance. Just call me John, if you will."

         "I was on the verge of making my own escape in a few minutes, John. Tell you what, go on back to the wagon, and remove the manacles from K Ti. As soon as I am unhitched, I'll gallop by to pick you up."

         "Thank you, Old Bob. I'll run back and wait for you there." The two parted . . .

***

K Ti Tripletree is sure a fine looking woman, Old Bob thought. Her light-colored, mahogany-blue eyes, eyelashes she has to peer from under, and hindquarters that one of the Kraine would run twelve miles just to see one time, are minor points of interest.

          To rivet one's eyes, she has been blessed with all the other God-given accoutrements: slender legs, honey-colored hair, a sweet voice and the entire kit.

          Grandmother told me the day would come, the day my eyes would light up with love. Of course, I didn't pay any heed. But when I looked upon K Ti Tripletree for the first time; a yearning burst in my heart.

          This was the love of a horse for a woman. I wanted to be beside her each day when the sun rode away on the treetops. I wanted to gallop across the high plains, bearing her on my back. I wanted to lick salt from her hand, and sugar.

          The night I first laid my eyes on K Ti, I will forever recall in my heart. My head was hanging through the ventilation window, and my eyes were pulled toward her. Never . . .

         Never in my entire existence, encompassing all the stories told by Mama and Grandmother, the two month trip to reach Virginia, and all the faces I have seen with my own eyes, had I seen a face such as hers. Lord have mercy! That sweet face.

Betty Sue

After removing the clothespins, the sad-faced woman emptied Betty Sue into a larger box. After landing, tearing her skirt and tumbling a few times, Betty Sue wanted to reach up there, grab herself a handful of that woman's hair and twist it out. What a jackass! She'll get hers. Betty Sue grumbled.

          The box was an old, lantern box, but as Betty Sue found out, it was extra strong. The box was formed by three layers of cardboard, reinforced with an outer, one quarter inch thickness of Bakelite. Betty Sue could not budge it. By a flicker of motion in her right eye, Betty Sue was informed she was not alone in the box.

Old Bob

          Seeing the ford up ahead, Old Bob fiddled with his gearbox for a moment, and by and by his feet accelerated into a trot, which he held steady till he entered the approach to the ford.

         The wagon crept, creaking and whining, on its toes, down the declining grade leading to the creek. The block of wood impersonating a brake breathed out little arrows of smoke as the wagon's wheels balked at turning. Old Bob remained stoic as the wheels tried to maneuver the wagon into a position from where it might find it possible to bloody his hocks.

         The wagon and Old Bob had performed in a scene such as this many times before. The wagon employed every step it knew to put another scar on Old Bob's hocks. But Old Bob's savvy of the wagon's demeanor disarmed its effectiveness.

***

Old Bob swore silently at Jim for his manipulation of the wagon brake. Confound him, I have never known a person whose nose wants bloodying as much as his does! Through the creek the wagon squeaked and groaned, canting to one side with every rotation of its wheels.

          The wagon shuddered as its progress came to a halt on the far side of the creek. Old Bob just stood there, his hooves halfway clenched, then he shrugged off the terrible feeling developing in his heart and begrudgingly allowed a reasonable facsimile of docility to settle upon his face.

         Mister Jim is nigh on to being a scalawag, but I can not find it in myself to draw his blood. Of course, I ain't going to hold back if an opportunity presents itself to plant two precision-guided hooves onto his rearmost protuberance as a farewell gift. "In other words, I'm going to kick his ass halfway to South Carolina if I get a chance," Old Bob mumbled.

***

Old Bob looked at the freight wagon behind him. There it stood, wet, unpainted and baring a stark countenance to the beholding eye. If it were seen in a certain manner, the eye perceiving it might see it shudder, and shake itself as if it were a dog dispelling unwanted water from its back.

         Another eye casting a critical look upon it, might discern its true emotions and envision it as a dilapidated coffin on wheels. Old Bob's eyes could see both of these scenes in his vision.

          Old Bob pulled out one of his saved images from Manitoba to comfort himself from his agitation. In that scene, fields of red clover and alfalfa undulated alluringly with the motion of winds.

         A sudden hunger thrust itself into this memory and began the process of gnawing itself an entrance into his gut. "Darn it, I can smell the sweet scent of that alfalfa as if I were standing there chewing on it," Old Bob said to himself.

         "I believe Mister Jim let that moonshine get the best of him. Usually, after a day's work, I am wallowing in the water of the creek after a couple of minutes have gone by. But not to worry, he'll be along," Old Bob divulged these thoughts aloud. "Just be patient, and keep your hooves wary," he continued.

Betty Sue

Betty Sue looked around the box. Nothing moved. Standing up, she began to move around the box. In a corner lit up by a crack where the box lid wasn't closed, she observed a Lincoln penny standing on its edge. She picked it up, and in one motion flipped Mister Lincoln spinning into the air.

          The coin popped inside out like a grain of popcorn in a red-hot skillet. Tumbling away from her, the resulting figure landed on his feet. He was only seven inches tall, not including the stovepipe hat.

         "Why little miss, you're the prettiest thing I ever saw!"

         Mister Lincoln continued to speak, "Come over here and let us have a look at you. Careful, don't step on those rubber bands; I have myself a notion they are Confederate spies. Hurry, I want to touch your face, it's so lovely."

          Betty Sue jumped forward, while airborne she kicked him under the chin with her left foot. He just keeled over to the floor. While he was still motionless, Betty Sue followed up her advantage. Running to his side, she sat on his chest, slapped his cheeks till his eyes wallowed, and said sweetly, "You sir, need to be taught to be a southern gentleman."

          Reversing herself, Betty Sue took him in a heel lock. Looking over her shoulder to see its effects, Betty Sue cried out, "Dang it, you varmint! Quit staring at my bloomers as if you want them to fall off, and say uncle!"

Old Bob

"I just had myself a wonderful thought," Old Bob spoke quietly. I feel like spitting that bridle bit out every time someone puts it in my mouth. That contraption makes me feel as if I am carrying around a mouthful of chipped marbles, and the pain . . . Well, put it this way, people lie when they say the bit does not hurt a horse's mouth.

         What I ought to do when Mister Jim comes a toting it, is to wrestle him to the ground, bridle him and allow him to savor its taste. It might be a good thing if every human wore the bridle at least once in their lives.

          Mister Jim, I am curious about the sensation a bit leaves in a human mouth. Would you care to explain that for me?

         By the way, do you have any extra bridles? I am sure Mister Joe could find as much pleasure in being bridled as you do. Old Bob manipulated Jim's bridle in his mind and grinned.

          Whoa boy, easy now. Come on over here and stand still. I am aiming to put this harness on you, whether you like it or not. You are going to pull that wagon today, there will be no more dillydallying around.

          You ain't going to stop for a snack every time you see a particularly succulent looking clump of grass. When there's a wagon that needs pulling, you are going to pull it.

***

While Old Bob is thinking, he gets so riled up, that he has to interrupt himself and make a statement aloud. Even though he realizes he is thinking some of the stale words Mister Jim spoke to him, and he is in the process of speaking those same words to Mister Jim in his mind, agitation seeps through his thoughts and grips him by the heart.

         "By the way, what is that in your hand, Mister Jim? If my eyes ain't telling me lies, that's a blacksnake whip. Answer me, boy. You tongue-tied excuse for a human! Mister Jim, ain't no use in lying to me. I recognize that whip, and I know what that red-black stain on it is. That's my blood, Mister Jim.

         "Hand me that blacksnake, Mister Jim. Don't get agitated now, I ain't going to do nothing, except snap it across your back a couple of times. I am an expert with a blacksnake whip, Mister Jim. Nothing untoward is going to happen to you. However, you are going to learn that when I give you a command, you will do as I say.

         "Of course, accidents do happen, and if one does, all that will come of it will be you losing a few strips of skin on your back and ribs. Like you told me, Mister Jim, it won't hurt a bit. You will be carrying a few flesh wounds around for a while, that's all.

         "Don't worry, I have some horse liniment I can doctor you up with. My grandmother says horse liniment cures everything. Come on now, don't cry like that, Mister Jim. Get up off your knees and pull this wagon. Don't you realize I have a load of scrap metal I aim to deliver?"

          Old Bob laughed. I sound just like Mister Jim, exact words and mannerisms included, he thought.

Mister Lincoln

Mister Lincoln found himself in somewhat of a quandary, after all, this was nothing like standing on a stump orating. That, he had a feel for. But here he was, flat on his back, with the prettiest female he had ever seen spraddle-legged on top of him, sticking her hind end in his face and demanding that he stop looking at her bloomers.

         On top of that, his jaw ached something fierce; and his left foot was beginning to feel as if it might be torn off.

          He had never said uncle in his life and was not wont to express it in the present situation, but he must. Ashamed of himself for taking a last look at her bloomers, Mister Lincoln allowed his eyes to linger. Then, he tore his eyes away and steeled himself for the utterance he was about to humiliate himself with. "Uncle-e-e!"

Old Bob

After halting the wagon on the far side of the creek, Jim engaged the brake, reached for Old Bob's lead shank, and made his way toward the horse. As soon as I water Old Bob and let him wallow in the creek, I will crawl under the wagon and sleep the moonshine out of myself, he thought. He hurried on toward Old Bob.

         Stepping to Old Bob's side, Jim snapped the lead shank to the horse's bridle and began removing the harness. First, Jim unsnapped the collar from the traces, then removed it. Proceeding, he undid the girth strap and unthreaded the traces from the o-rings attached to the harness.

         At this point, Old Bob tried to stifle the laugh he could feel fighting to get out of his gut, but the urge did not cooperate with his intentions.

         Old Bob then decided to go ahead and laugh, just to get himself a look at Mister Jim's reaction. He cut loose. A short, sharp laugh suddenly flung itself from his mouth, and he could tell by the look on Mister Jim's face, that Mister Jim was only one laugh away from befouling himself.

         Should I laugh again? Old Bob questioned himself in his heart. Ah, never mind, Mister Jim might have a heart attack.

Betty Sue

Betty Sue giggled; she'd taught him a lesson. She twisted the heel and toes of the foot in her grasp in opposite directions for a final time, reluctantly released Mister Lincoln and got to her feet.

          Seeing the stovepipe hat he'd been wearing when he made his improper advance lying on the floor, she just had to jump up and down on it five or six times till the threads which held it together began tearing out.

          During the course of this event, Mister Lincoln still lay on the floor staring at her. He's probably hoping to get another look at my bloomers, Betty Sue thought.

          Mister Lincoln rolled over and struggled to his feet. Brushing the rumples from his suit, he picked up his hat.

         "Little miss, I am spent. I have been spent hundreds of times, but never with such pleasure as I was spent today." And I thought I knew how to wrestle.

          "You see little miss, there has been a misunderstanding between us. Surely, I wanted to touch your face, but only because it's so beautiful. I wanted to assure myself I was not seeing things."

          Betty Sue laughed, "Heh-heh-heh, serves you right. Don't you know when you meet a girl, the first think you do is introduce yourself? Are you really a penny? I'm sorry about your hat. Heh-heh."

          "You can just call me Lincoln, little miss. Yes ma'am, I am genuine United States legal tender, minted in the year . . . hmmm, what was that date again? Pardon me, little miss. Could you step over here and read this date for me?

          "Now, don't get yourself in a huff, I seem to have misplaced my spectacles in that little tussle we had."

          "Lincoln, my mama named me Elizabeth Susan, but you can call me Betty Sue. I'll read your date for you, where is it?"

          "The date is on my right ankle, you might have to feel around for it."

          Betty Sue stepped forward, bent at the waist and read the date. "Lincoln, it says here you were minted in the year 1917. What's your story, anyway?"

          "Well, Betty Sue, like it says there, I was minted in 1917. It was a war year, things were bad all over. The Department of the Treasury minted me in haste.

         "Sometimes, coins are double stamped, or other errors are made when they are minted. Me? I was on a conveyor belt, headed toward a rendezvous with an airtight, plastic container when I jumped off. I rolled across an aisle and hid under a cabinet till nightfall.

          "I escaped that night and was rolling down a sidewalk beneath a streetlamp when a young boy pounced on me. He spent me on some penny candy later that night. Since then, I have been traveling from cash register to cash register. And somehow I ended up here."

Old Bob

Jim scratched the withering stubble along the base of his jawline. He knew Joe was down by the ford, and it was only himself and Old Bob up here by the wagon. "Did I drink too much of that moonshine, or is that moonshine good enough to make me imagine I heard someone laughing?" He chuckled.

          "Boy, I jumped nervously when I heard someone laugh out of nowhere. I reckon I jumped higher than that old Arkansas rat Mama took a stick to Tuesday a month ago. What's the matter with me today?"

***

Meanwhile, Old Bob was getting fidgety. I have better things to do than just stand here waiting for Mister Jim to take this harness off me. I am almost of a mind to take myself off down the road; but I am a patient horse.

         I am referred to by humans as a Przewalski's horse. That reference has a tendency to bunch up in my craw. I just can't swallow that statement knowing it's a lie.

          Pardon me, Nikolai Przewalski; contrary to public opinion, I do not belong to you. I am not a Przewalski's horse. Old Bob here, holds the title to himself. I am free and wild in my heart.

         Old Bob ran that last thought through his mind while he was waiting for Mister Jim to finish his unharnessing marathon.

          Lies and I do not know each other, I have seen lies before, and their faces do not impress me, neither do I know fear. Old Bob felt a slow trickle of mislaid pride begin to make its way past the doubts of half a lifetime to once again store itself in his heart.

***

Mister Jim, kindly get this harness off me. If you don't have it in you to manage that, call Mister Joe up here; I'm not doubtful of Mister Joe's competence in removing a simple harness.

         It is not in my heart to injure you, Mister Jim. Well, not severely. But by and by, if you are unwilling to get me unharnessed, the unintentional gnawing away of my patience might convince me to give you a dose of your blacksnake whip.

         Nothing major, just a couple of tender flicks to get your attention, or maybe since I have no hands, I'll use the blackthorn twigs you left tangled in my tail to give you a proper flailing.

         "Would that be to your liking, Mister Jim?"

         Yes sir, Mister Jim. At this moment in time, I challenge you to a duel. Uncurl that blacksnake whip and hit me with it if you can. Old Bob and his blackthorns are accepting your invitation. We are going to put our brand on you.

         By the way, I believe you are one of those no-account Bolsheviks. Bolsheviks are my sworn enemies, Mister Jim. Damn them!

          Come on ahead, Mister Jim. Why are you hesitating? Listen here, Mister Jim. You don't need to fear me. In your own words, I ain't nothing but a lop-gaited excuse for a horse. Battle dress, Mister Jim.

         You can't outrun me, Mister Jim. Don't even try it. I ain't going to hurt you too much; I'll drag these thorns across your back and ribs a few times, that's all. As I recall, you have a bottle of horse liniment you can doctor yourself up with. Heh-heh.

***

Of course, Mister Jim did not hear any of this. However, at that moment Mister Jim advanced toward the singletree and inadvertently presented his hind end to Old Bob as he unsnapped the traces.

         Old Bob was quick. He lined up his rear hooves and let go a double-barreled kick that had the potential of sending Mister Jim on his way to South Carolina. Old Bob felt the satisfying thuds of contact and whirled around toward the rear of the wagon to help the Tripletrees.

Rosalee Rosa

The sad-faced woman shrugged. I am Rosalee Rosa. All my things are in this lantern box; they can never leave me.

         Still, sister Amelia should have never brought that Taffy Roll home to live with us. If Amelia would fit in the box, I'd put her in there too. If I could do that, I'd be so happy. I might even bake a lemon pie. I can't bring myself to bear it any longer, that Taffy Roll strutting around the house like he owns the place.

          She began to hum a little song, "Delicious, the Taffy Roll, into Rosalee's box he will go. Into Rosalee's box he will go."

          As soon as I catch him, he's going in my box. Let's see now, my collection is a bunch of ungrateful brats. But I am grateful to them for being in my box.

          I think that girl I got from the tinker man will become one of my favorite pieces. She can sure put on a show. And I didn't know Mister Lincoln had it in him, to be looking at a girl's knickers like that.

         Then there's great-grandmother, Maria Carlotta, that evil woman. Thinks she's a witch, does she? She believes just because she escaped, she has gotten the better of me. We'll see.

          I have those second-hand rubber bands Amelia got from Bill Willy Johnson's first cousin, and there's Maria, poor little thing. Great-grandmother tricked my little nub of a niece into the box. Oh goody!

          Am I crazy? My niece, Maria is in a box alright, but not in my box. She's in the hospital, dreaming her sad dreams in a box clamped tight on her head. She might never wake up, sister Amelia says. From The Box of Seven Hells there is no escape. And that darn Taffy Roll is in the hospital, spaced out like a wax dummy.

          I think I will visit him at the hospital and smuggle him out in my purse. Tomorrow.

Betty Sue

"Lincoln, forgive me. I didn't mean to kick you like that. I'm embarrassed. And your poor hat, heh-heh."

          "Don't worry yourself over something like that, little one. Let's look for our beds, and tomorrow I'll introduce you to your new home."

          Lincoln improvised a sleeping place for Betty Sue, and gave her a large towel to sleep on. Soon, she was asleep.

Old Bob

I ran along the side of the freight wagon to the tailgate. The Tripletrees were waiting. "Ride here on my neck, John and K Ti, just hold tight to my mane."

          John responded, "We thank you, Old Bob."

          "Where do you folks want to go, K Ti, John?"

          Old Bob, please take us home," K Ti replied. "Just go up the road there, and I'll tell you when to turn off."

          "Yes ma'am."

          I set out in an easy lope. A few twists and turns later, we were headed toward Clintwood, Virginia.

Rosalee Rosa and Delicious

That was easy, Rosalee thought as she traversed the exit steps of the hospital, her purse clutched tightly. The lovely scent of cocoa beans and caramel wafted from the purse. Ummm, ummm!

          Darn it, Delicious is thinking. Sister Rosalee never did like the taste of cocoa beans. Inside the purse, Delicious is wiggling this way and that, like a freshly caught nightcrawler. To no avail, pinched between imaginary cloves of garlic and a hovering phobia, Delicious screams.

          "Hey, in there! You brainless Taffy Roll. Shut your mouth, or I might throw this purse down and stomp on it sixteen times."

          Silence . . .

Delicious

Rosalee cracked open the box, took Delicious out of her purse and threw him in. Delicious hit the cardboard sides a couple of times on the way down, took a last tumble and landed on his rear end. Mister Lincoln almost befouled himself when Delicious landed close beside him, and Betty Sue was struck with love.

         There they were. A Taffy Roll named Delicious and the lovely Betty Sue, staring at each other as if there were no one else. And for them in that moment, there wasn't.

          Oh, he's handsome. Betty Sue giggled.

          Lord have mercy! I want to kiss her just one time.

          Delicious rolled to his feet. Bowing low before Betty Sue, he spoke. "I am Delicious; I am yours . . . uh, uh, I am at your service."

          "Delicious, I am Betty Sue. It's good to meet you so suddenly." Yes, you certainly are delicious.

Old Bob

At K Ti's urging, I skirted past Saint Paul, Virginia and we were now better than halfway to Clintwood. K Ti mentioned that in another ten hours we'd be there. The closer I came to our destination, the sadder I became.

          Doggonit! I can just hang around out of sight when we get there.To get this worry out of my head, I began thinking back to the night I first met K Ti.

          I looked into the stall, and there she was. Manacles and chains held her fast to a steel bar embedded in the concrete floor of the stall. She was small, only about seven inches tall. But her loveliness far exceeded her height.

          I could not stop staring. Nothing I had beheld in my life had stopped my eyes like this. Long black hair, well-sculpted face, mahogany-blue eyes and slim, curvy legs, all these things attested to her magnificence.

         The light-walnut veneer of her skin was without blemish. At waist height on her left side, a nondescript handle was placed. That was when it struck me . . . Although she was ornate in her appearance, K Ti vaguely resembled one of those wall-mount pencil sharpeners. "Huh?"

***

After a further three hours of travel through the mountains, we entered a small village. Here, the Tripletrees bought some provisions, and some shelled corn for me. John and K Ti were thinking about camping for the night to rest and refresh themselves. I was almost worn out myself.

         Continuing for a mile beyond the village, we set up camp by a small stream, planning to complete the journey early the next morning. John and K Ti were asleep soon after the falling of twilight. As I walked around the camp before seeking my bed, several times I stumbled over anxiety. Sometime during the night, I drowsed off.

Mister Lincoln

Mister Lincoln set his long legs in furious motion. This is not akin to lawyering. Nor is it reminiscent of setting stoically in a cash register. This is a bona fide emergency.

         When that, whatever it was, landed beside me, I skedaddled. I laid myself down some tracks as if General J. E. B. Stuart had knocked on the door of the White House at dinnertime.

         Recovering, I shamefully restrained myself from sending out the call for seventy five thousand volunteers. When I neared the other side of the box, I peered back over my shoulder, and there stood Betty Sue, looking moon-eyed at a rigged out piece of candy.

         Oh, he was something! Duded up like that, I would wager he was a member of the Know Nothing political party. But Betty Sue was struck with him.

         And he wasn't even a peppermint stick . . .

          I came to a standstill as I heard Betty Sue's voice, "Lincoln, come over here and meet Delicious."

          I reversed my steps, and came to a stop in front of Betty Sue. "Delicious, I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Mister Lincoln. Lincoln, this is Delicious. Ain't he something?"

          Yes sirree, that poor boy was something, something right out of Jules Verne. Extraordinary . . .

          "I am glad to meet a friend of Betty Sue's, sir."

          "Look here young fellow, I don't aim for Betty Sue to be fooling around with no Democrats. You ain't one, are you?"

          "No sir. I am a Taffy Roll."

          "A Taffy Roll? What's that? It sounds like something The Honorable Congressman Levin of Pennsylvania founded before he helped found the Know Nothing party. Harrumph!"

Rosalee Rosa

Rosalee Rosa sat on her bed, her box of treasures unopened in her lap. Her nose crinkled as she thought. Unremorsefully, a few years earlier, she had stolen the box from her sister, Amelia. Now, it was hers. When I first took the box, it contained only a Lincoln penny, the tintype of great-grandmother and some rubber bands. Now, look at it.

          Great-grandmother is gone, that bitch. She teamed up with Sly, the leader of the rubber bands, and took off down the road. But Betty Sue is sassy as hell; she could kick great-grandmother's hind end anytime.

         Then there's Delicious. I am beginning to change my mind about him. He's wonderful.

Old Bob

Early the next morning, we set out on the final part of our journey. My legs were feeling the first pangs of soreness as I climbed along a ridge toward the summit of Found Dog Mountain. After that last few steps, we stood there gazing down upon the valley of the Cranesnest River. K Ti sent her sweet voice down toward the river. "We're almost home!" In a moment, her words came back to us, even sweeter. "We're almost home-e-e."

          After a short spell to rest, I set out down old Found Dog on an angle that would be easier traveling, and would deliver us a mile further along the Cranesnest River when we emerged. Not much out of the ordinary occurred on our way down. I slipped and slid a few times, and we stopped at a small stream for some cold water drinking.

         Along about two hours later, I went through a stand of cottonwood trees, and set my feet on the wide bank of the Cranesnest River. At that point, K Ti informed me we were only six miles from Clintwood, Virginia.

         Two and one half hours passed swiftly. On the tail end of that time, we neared a tributary of the Cranesnest. K Ti bobbed up and down on my neck as she shouted, "Old Bob, that's Walking Bear Creek; we'll be home in less than five minutes."

          Even though my heart was reluctant, I urged my feet into a canter because of K Ti's exuberance. Presently, K Ti guided me across Walking Bear Creek, and there before us sat the home of the Tripletrees. It was beautiful.

***

John told me later, that since he was too small to build a log house, he had improvised. He'd cut down enough trees, of various sizes and of different species, to build a house. Then he'd stripped them of their bark using an adze.

          He'd allowed the trees to season about six months to reduce their sap content, then using a fine-tooth handsaw, he'd sawed them into twelve inch lengths. The largest of these trees were three inches in diameter, and the smallest, the size of a man's forearm. Upon a foundation of stone, he laid the walls, using a mixture of river mud and limestone for his cement.

          The walls were twelve inches thick. After laying a layer of cement, John had first laid a large diameter length of log, then a small diameter length. Thereafter, he proceeded down the length of the wall, alternating the sizes of the pieces of wood.

         The next course reversed this process, with large diameter lengths filling the void in the first course left by the small diameter lengths. The resulting walls were smooth on the inside, and on the outside of the house.

         Before going inside her home, K Ti led me to a meadow where I could rest and relax. I was nervous. I did not want to leave K Ti. Will I be able to remain here, or will I wander these mountains forever? Alone . . . I waded into the deeper part of Walking Bear Creek, listing on my left side because of the void in my heart.

         "Damn those Bolsheviks, damn them!"

         I stepped out of Walking Bear Creek and watched a rock sparrow fly from a red oak tree to a stand of paw paws. Momentarily distracted, I failed to see K Ti until she was almost upon me.

K Ti

K Ti opened the wooden storage box and rummaged among the apples. Hefting a few, she realized they were still crisp. Should I make an apple pie for supper? Yes, I have been missing that so much. But first, a little walk. I think I'll walk over to Walking Bear Creek where it's cool, wet my face in the water and gather some spearmint for tea.

         Stepping out the door, K Ti noticed Old Bob over by Walking Bear Creek. I want him to stay by my side, but I am shy to ask. Fingering the apple in her apron pocket, she walked on, her mind calculating. I want to ride on Old Bob's neck, with my hair flying like weeping willow branches in a thunderstorm. I want to split the shallow waves of Walking Bear Creek, galloping like thunder.

         K Ti kneeled down toward the water, dipped up a handful and splashed her face. Something warm and soft nuzzled her neck . . .

Old Bob and K Ti

Seeing K Ti in the water of Walking Bear Creek, I made my way toward her. Whether it was to speak of goodbye or to say hello, I did not know. As she bent toward the water, I stretched my muzzle toward her neck, gently touching it.

         "Old Bob!"

         Placing her arms around my neck, she asked, "May I ride, Old Bob?"

         Kneeling on my forelegs, I helped her to mount, and away we went. Across Walking Bear Creek and down along the flatlands beside it, I galloped. My heart cried.

         Is this one last ride?

         K Ti's hair flew in the wind, and the heavy mist of my heart stung my eyes. After about a kilometer of galloping, I slowed my gait to a canter.

         "Old Bob! I could ride like that forever! Will you stay by my side?"

         "If you give me the apple in your apron pocket, I will stay."

         "Old Bob!"

         "I will stay forever, K Ti."

Old Bob

My heart is full . . . Damn those Bolsheviks.




Notes: ¹After creating Delicious, somewhat unsatisfied, Mister Trepidation snuck him into a Tootsie Roll factory and put him in a Tootsie Roll box so he would be exterminated.