  The account of Jim’s speech before the Rotary Club and his subsequent finding of Horace by the roadside received prominent mention in the next issue of the Springdale Gazette. As usual, Bill Arnold gave the account of both episodes with many asides and much humor. Mr. Meadows read the paper with amusement and considerable pride. He had been very intrigued when the first account and the advertisement of the Pony Express had appeared. Now his pride in his locally famous son grew even greater. He was well aware how hard Jim had been working and saving and knew without question what the purpose was behind all the industry. With quiet satisfaction he watched his son going out to drive cattle, run errands, or work at the auction. Jim’s father was also becoming reconciled to Ticktock. As the mustang blossomed under Jim’s loving care, the older man could see that he had been rather hasty in his first judgment. Much against his will, he had to admit, at least to himself, that Ticktock was an unusually smart horse. Now that he had put on some flesh he was also a rather smart-appearing pony. In spite of all his observations, Mr. Meadows said nothing. Like most men, he hated to admit that he had been wrong. Also, he was reluctant to abandon a stand that he had definitely taken. He had said that Ticktock must go when fall came, and he hated to eat crow. In his own mind he resolved to say nothing further about the matter but instead just let events take their own natural course. He knew Jim would never dispose of the pony until he was forced to; so if nothing was said the pony would simply remain by silent agreement. Mr. Meadows knew that he would ease his son’s mind a great deal if he could tell the boy about his change of heart, but somehow he never seemed to find the right moment. After all, he decided, the worry was doing Jim no harm but merely making him work harder to earn money for feed. So the days went by and nothing was said on either side about the pony’s fate. Jim could sense a little lessening of the hostility on his father’s part, but he was still worried. Mr. Meadows seldom changed his mind when he made a decision and thus far Jim did not want to play his trump card about paying for Ticktock’s feed. However, it was still summer, and he felt there was plenty of time. Jim made himself a lariat and began practicing. It was a slow process but he was determined. After about a week’s exercise he was able to whirl an open loop over his head. Then he began lassoing fence posts, tree stumps, and even occasionally his sister Jean. After several trials of the latter, however, he had to abandon Jean as a target. She objected rather loudly to being roped and wouldn’t play unless Jim let her take turns at lassoing him. Jean had been rather lonely all summer anyhow, as Jim spent most of his time with Ticktock instead of playing with her as in former years. Jim would give in and let her try roping him, but half a dozen unsuccessful attempts would usually end with Jean hitting him in the eye with the rope. Although he was very fond of his young sister, he had a great deal of contempt for women as cowboys. Ticktock watched all this practice with good-natured scorn. He had seen experts twirling a lariat and had no illusions about Jim’s ability. A number of times when Jim would fail miserably in a cast at a fence post, Ticktock would open his jaws and give an unmistakable horse laugh. However, he was an indulgent horse and realized Jim was young. So, when Jim got to the stage of attempting to lasso from horseback, Ticktock patronizingly coÖperated. A dummy was constructed of bags wrapped around a pole set in a heavy wooden base. This fake man was set up in the drive and Jim would dash past madly, astride Ticktock, whirling his lariat. About one cast in four his noose would encircle the dummy. Then the end of the lariat would be wrapped around the saddle horn and the horse and rider would drag their victim triumphantly down the drive. Practicing one thing for too long a period grew tiresome, especially when the average of success was as low as it was with Jim’s roping endeavors. So he would alternate with teaching Ticktock to jump. First a long two-by-four was laid on two bricks about six inches from the ground. Jim would ride up to the improvised bar at a full gallop, part of the time swerving away or stopping, and other times urging his horse over the bar. Ticktock caught on to the new game in a surprisingly short time. He was prepared to jump or swerve at the slightest sign from his master. The bar kept creeping higher and higher until Jim was certain his mustang could sail over any ordinary fence. Jim was feeling particularly jaunty and complacent one morning, for he had made three perfect casts in a row during his roping practice. After the third cast he jumped off his horse, freed the dummy from the noose, and carelessly set the apparatus upright very near a small evergreen tree bordering the drive. Remounting, he went all the way to the front gate for his next approach. He came down the lane at a full gallop swinging an exceptionally large noose. As he tore past the dummy, he swung wildly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the loop encircle the dummy. Jim wrapped the end of his lariat around the saddle horn and braced himself as if he had just roped a huge steer. It was well he did, for unfortunately the noose caught the evergreen also. There was a terrific tug on the lariat and before the horse and rider could stop, half the branches on the little evergreen had been ripped off and were being dragged down the lane with the dummy. Jim stopped the pony and wheeled to gaze in dismay at the havoc he had wrought. It was a sorry-looking tree with the upper half naked and torn. While Jim was considering what to do next, he discovered that he wasn’t the only one staring at the tree. His mother was standing on the front porch, hands on hips, looking at the evergreen. Her face boded no good for the cowboy and his horse. Mrs. Meadows was very proud of her lawn and flowers. The trim little evergreen had been one of her pet trees. “Young man, what do you think you are doing with that rope of yours?” she demanded sternly. “Lassoing,” said Jim humbly. “So I see. Well, there will be no more lassoing around here if you have to practice on my trees.” “I didn’t mean to,” explained Jim. “I was roping the dummy.” “And the tree got in the way,” said Mrs. Meadows, nodding her head. “Do you have any idea how much it would cost to replace that tree?” “How much?” asked Jim hoping that it would be some such sum as three or four dollars. He would then offer to pay for a new tree and settle the matter. After all, it couldn’t be much, as there were evergreens all over the hills. “About twenty-five dollars; that’s a golden cypress.” Jim’s heart sank. He couldn’t afford such a sum as that, so instead of being able to offer casually to replace the damage he was forced to mumble, “I’m sorry.” “That doesn’t replace the tree,” said his mother sternly. “From now on there will be no more roping around here. I want you to take a book over to Mrs. Alsop. When you come back you can go down and help your father in the garden. Perhaps if you are kept busy enough you won’t be into any mischief.” Feeling very contrite, Jim took the book and went riding off to the Alsop’s. He completed his errand and turned back toward home. His spirits began to rise on the way back. His mother didn’t harbor a grudge long and luckily his father hadn’t witnessed the incident. He would rush down to the garden as soon as he returned and work like mad to correct the bad impression he had made. Mr. Meadows was busy in the garden picking watermelons. They had an exceptionally large patch that year, and melons were bringing high prices in Springdale. He carefully picked the largest and ripest and stacked them near the fence. He rapidly collected a huge pile, all he could possibly haul to town in one trip of the car. He had just about completed his selection of all the ripe melons when Jim came tearing down the lane. Most of the fences were barbed wire around the farm and too dangerous, in Jim’s opinion, to jump unless there were some vital reason. However, the garden was bordered by a relatively low board fence. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to ride Ticktock directly to the garden and thus show how anxious he was to help his father. Unable to see what was on the other side, Jim came sailing grandly over the fence. It was a beautiful jump with a very inglorious landing. Ticktock came down squarely on the center of the pile of watermelons. Fortunately the mustang recovered his balance and didn’t break a leg. As it was, the result was bad enough. Broken watermelons were scattered far and wide, the luscious juice dripping over the ground. “You wild Indian!” shouted Mr. Meadows. “Look what you’ve done!” Jim could only stare in consternation. There must have been at least a dozen melons broken and no telling how many cracked. Numbed, he got down from his horse. “Gee, I didn’t know they were there, Dad.” “Obviously. You’ve ruined half my morning’s work with that crazy horse of yours,” said his father, the old animosity toward the mustang coming back in his anger. “Ticktock just jumped where I told him to,” explained Jim, who was anxious above all else to remove any blame from his horse. “It was my fault.” Ticktock was very calm. He turned around to survey the damage and became interested in the broken melons. He had never looked at a melon closely before and was intrigued. He bent his head down and took a nibble at some of the ripe red pulp. It tasted delicious. Curious as to just how a melon was made, he reached out with a forefoot and pawed one of the remaining unbroken ones. It cracked readily, exposing the red interior. Very pleased with himself, Ticktock took another big nibble. “Will you look at that!” shouted the now enraged Mr. Meadows. “Not satisfied with breaking half the pile, that fool horse has to crack another melon and eat it.” Jim hadn’t been watching his horse too closely, but now he grabbed Ticktock’s reins to prevent further damage. “I’ll pick some more,” he offered. “I came down here to help you.” “You’re certainly a big help,” said his father. “Get that horse out of my sight. I’ll do better without you. There’s been enough of this irresponsible jumping and chasing around here. You should never have taught him to jump in the first place. How are you going to keep him any place when he can jump fences?” Sadly Jim led his pony out of the garden gate. It had certainly been a disastrous day. He left the mustang tied to the orchard fence and went into the house. “Now what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows, looking at her son’s face as he entered. “I jumped over the garden fence and landed on the watermelons Dad was picking.” Jim’s mother was still irked about her tree; so she was not too sympathetic. “You are entirely too wild with that horse of yours,” she said sternly. “It’s time you stopped being so heedless.” Jim considered this additional rebuke for a while in silence. Everybody was angry with him and no one cared for Ticktock, he decided. They just weren’t wanted any more. The only solution was to go away. He had no idea of running away permanently, but he felt he had to get away from his troubles. “Can I have some sandwiches?” he asked. “I want to make a trip and get away from it all.” “I guess so,” said Mrs. Meadows, trying not to smile at her son’s doleful countenance. “When do you expect to come back from this trip?” “What do you have for supper?” “Steak for one thing and apple pie for another.” “I guess my nerves will be steady enough by suppertime,” said Jim judiciously. After he packed his lunch in his saddlebags, Jim rode off down the road. He decided to carry out his long delayed project of exploring Briggs Woods. He had been so busy recently that he had forgotten his resolve. The quiet gloom of the woods just fitted Jim’s mood of black despondency. After he reached the center of the forested area, he turned up one of the little trails that led invitingly into the tangled depths. He followed the first one for some distance. It was slow going, winding in and out between the trees, trying to keep branches from slapping him in the face. Finally the path just faded and disappeared, leaving him nowhere. The second and third attempts were equally unsuccessful. Feeling that the job of exploring was vastly overrated, Jim decided to abandon the false trails. He struck off through the woods, following roughly the course of a stream. He had no fears about returning, putting complete trust in Ticktock’s ability to find the way home. Deep in the woods he turned from the main stream and followed a tiny brook up an incline. Suddenly, to his delight, he came out in a small natural clearing. There was bright sunshine on the deep grass, while the little stream trickled away merrily at one end of the clearing. The open area which was almost flat was several acres in extent. Tall trees grew on every side, giving perfect seclusion. “What a swell hideaway,” Jim said to his horse excitedly. “There’s plenty of pasture and water for you and no one could ever find us.” He began to make plans immediately for his secret camp. He would bring over his roping dummy and his jumping bar. At one end of the clearing he could build a brush hut. As he planned, his ideas grew larger. He would make a big brush hut, big enough for Ticktock. In front of it he would build a fireplace where he could cook. Then, if no one at home wanted him and Ticktock, they would come here to live. He could cut some of the hay for the winter. Perhaps he would also buy some grain and store it. As for himself, he would trap and hunt for food. Now and then he would mysteriously appear in town with valuable furs to sell. He would buy candy and cakes and other delicacies and then disappear as mysteriously. People would wonder where he lived and perhaps try to follow him, but if anyone came too near the hide-out he would think up some plan to scare them. Soon they would say the woods were haunted. Jim ate his lunch full of all these plans, while Ticktock unconcernedly cropped the grass. As the afternoon wore on, Jim decided to wait at least another day before he became a lonely woodsman. He would eat one more supper at home since there was apple pie. He rode home and went in to supper with an air of secrecy. There was no crisis at home that evening; so Jim further delayed his plan of moving. However, the following day he did take his jumping bar and his roping dummy to the new hide-out. He also took a hatchet and spent the better part of several days building a brush hut which looked very impressive, even though the brush roof did leak. In front of it he built his fireplace. He thought about buying some weiners in town and holding a weiner roast, but somehow the idea didn’t seem too much fun alone. Ticktock and he seemed to be partially forgiven at home; so Jim stayed on. There was no use becoming an exile if you didn’t have to, he concluded sensibly. Still, it seemed a pity to waste such a perfect hideaway. He used it for roping practice and for jumping, but it seemed there should be something more dramatic that he could do. It was hard to keep the secret of the hide-out to himself; so Jim began to hint darkly to Jean about his lonely spot. At first that young lady begged to be let in on the secret. She wanted to accompany him to his hidden headquarters and teased and begged for several days. That suited Jim exactly, and he went about acting mysterious and important. However, Jean was not quite so guileless as her brother thought. Although she was only ten, she knew a little about handling men, her brother in particular. She dropped her attitude of pleading and began to scoff openly. “You are just making up the whole thing,” she said derisively. “You haven’t got a secret hangout any more than I have.” Several days of complete indifference had its effect on Jim. He felt he had to prove his story. He felt a bit guilty about neglecting Jean all summer anyhow; so he planned a grand picnic. Riding to town, he bought some weiners, marshmallows and cookies. The rest of his supplies he secured at home and got permission from his parents for the excursion. With Jean mounted behind him, he rode to Briggs Woods. He felt that revealing the general area of his hangout was not giving away too much of his secret. Once in the woods, however, he insisted on blindfolding his sister, extracting a solemn promise not to peek. She submitted to having a large red bandanna tied over her eyes, even enjoying the mystery. Jim then made his way to the hide-out, making several unnecessary circles to confuse his companion. When they arrived in the middle of the clearing he whisked off the bandage. Jean looked around at the little clearing expectantly. There was nothing very exciting. “Why it’s nothing but a big open space!” she exclaimed. “But look what nice pasture there is for Ticktock, with water and everything,” explained Jim, a trifle annoyed at the poor impression his headquarters made. “Well, that’s nice enough,” admitted Jean who wasn’t much interested in such details. She wanted something smaller and much more secret. “There’s my hut and fireplace,” said Jim pointing. “I like that,” said his sister finally, feeling she had to say something complimentary since her brother had gone to such trouble to bring her on the picnic. They played for a time and then gathered dry wood for a fire. After they had roasted the weiners and marshmallows, and stuffed themselves with cookies, Jim stretched out lazily on the grass. This was the life. He began to daydream that he was a cowboy who was hiding his sister from dangerous kidnappers. Jean, although she had enjoyed the day immensely, felt that there was still something being kept from her. In her mind a hide-out couldn’t be two acres of open pasture, even though it was concealed in the middle of a wood. She suspected there was more to the place than Jim had shown her. “I think I’ll walk around a little,” she said casually. “O.K., but don’t go outside of shouting distance,” warned her brother in a superior tone. “It’s awful easy to get lost unless you know the woods like Ticktock and I do.” One side of the clearing was bounded by a rocky hill which sloped up abruptly. Jean chose this side to explore. She started climbing upward through the rocks. After approximately half an hour went by, Jim decided it was time that he had some word from his sister. He was about to shout when he heard her calling him. “Jim, guess where I am,” she shouted “I don’t know; where are you?” “I’m in your hide-out, smarty!” Completely puzzled Jim started toward the hillside. He looked up at the steep rocky slope in bewilderment. “I can’t see you,” he said finally. “Here I am,” came her voice from almost over his head. Jim looked up as his sister appeared from behind a short stunted tree about fifteen feet up the face of what was almost a cliff. “It’s really a wonderful cave,” said Jean. “Huh?” exclaimed Jim in complete astonishment. “Don’t look so surprised because I found it. I knew there was more to your hideaway than just a big field.” Jim found a narrow ledge that made an easy path up to the tree. When he pulled the stumpy pine tree to one side there was the narrow entrance to the cave. It was a dark opening about two feet wide and four feet high. “As long as you found it you might as well see the inside,” said Jim, trying to talk casually. “I’ll run down and get the flash light.” He didn’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice, and Jean looked after him with growing suspicion. When he returned they made their way inside excitedly. “How big is it?” asked Jean as she followed her brother through the opening. “Why—uh—just medium,” answered Jim, trying to flash his light around quickly in order to answer the question correctly. There was only one room to the cave, but it was spacious and dry. The ceiling arched above their heads at least twelve feet. Along one of the stone walls there was a natural ledge at just the right height for a bed or a seat. “This will make a swell place,” said Jim incautiously. “I don’t think you have ever been in here before,” accused Jean. “Have you?” “Well, not exactly,” hedged Jim not wanting to tell an outright lie. “Is there another cave?” asked Jean. “Not that I know of. All there was to my hide-out I showed you. The trick is in finding your way here. You don’t seem to realize how important a pasture is to a secret headquarters. A cowboy has to have some place for his horse to graze. What good would a cave do? You couldn’t keep a horse in a cave.” “I’d rather play pirate or robbers,” decided Jean. “Then a cave would be perfect. You wouldn’t need a pasture or a horse either.” As they resaddled Ticktock and prepared to leave, Jean continued her argument. “I think the hide-out should be half mine since I discovered the cave,” she maintained. Jim pondered the question thoroughly. Jean’s demands did seem fair, for the cave certainly added tremendously to the hide-out. Still, if the emergency arose and he had to return to his original plan of disappearing with Ticktock, he didn’t want Jean to know his whereabouts. A woman could never keep a secret, and she would certainly tell her parents. No, unfair as it seemed, he would have to keep his headquarters to himself. Protesting bitterly, Jean was blindfolded. “It isn’t fair,” she stormed. Jim was firm, however, so they rode off toward home. Since Jean felt her brother was being very unjust, she decided she no longer had to keep her promise not to peek. While Jim was busy keeping the branches from hitting them in the face, she took cautious peeps from beneath the handkerchief. |
|
