  Ticktock also went to sleep that night with a contented grin on his face. As a reward for having carried double for so many miles, and in general celebration of the happy state of affairs, Jim had given him two apples and an extra large portion of oats. It was a moderately cool night with few flies to bother him; so the mustang dozed off while still munching on his last mouthful of oats. He stood swaying dreamily on his feet, while visions of sugar cubes, dew-drenched clover, and whole bins full of oats floated through his brain. In the midst of his dream, the sweet odor of clover slowly changed to a smell that was foreign and unpleasant. The mustang stirred uneasily and shook his head in annoyance but the disturbing odor persisted. Sleepily he opened his eyes and then snorted in sudden alarm. The foreign smell was unmistakably smoke! Mr. Meadows had completed the building of a new brooder house during the day. The scraps of lumber, together with other refuse, had been dumped in the incinerator and burned. The fire had been inspected just before dark when everything had appeared to be burned with the exception of a few small smoking embers. Unfortunately, the inspection had not been thorough enough for there were a number of pieces of tar paper roofing in the back of the incinerator. They smoldered harmlessly for several hours until the night breeze shifted. Suddenly they burst into flame and burned as only tar paper can burn. A shower of sparks went up into the night. Straw collects in every barnyard and the Meadows’ yard was no exception. There had been no rain for over a week; so the wisps of straw lying around were ripe for burning. The wind had deposited a small pile of loose straw against a lean-to which was built onto one end of the barn. A spark landed in this pile and in a few minutes the straw was burning merrily while the wind whipped the flames against the dry boards of the lean-to, filling the interior with smoke. Since this shed joined one end of the barn, smoke began to filter through the cracks into Ticktock’s stall. The fire was just catching the shed when the horse had awakened with his start of alarm. Ticktock had been around many campfires with Jim, but he had always been free to move a respectful distance away and to stand clear of the smoke. This was a different situation, which was not at all to his liking. As the smoke grew thicker he decided something was amiss. He snorted and jerked his head as the acrid fumes began to tickle his nostrils and smart his eyes. By twisting his neck he could see bright tongues of flame through the cracks in the wall and he was inspired with fresh terror. The smoke grew thicker until it interfered with his breathing. He moved around as much as he was able in his confined stall, growing more frightened each minute. He decided it was time to leave. The pony tried backing out of his stall, but he came to the end of his halter rope in a few feet. He pulled until his neck ached but still the rope held. Then he moved forward until there was a small amount of slack in the tether. He gave a violent toss of his head. There was a painful wrench as the rope snapped taut. This method was no more successful than the first, but there seemed no other course but to try again. The smoke was growing thicker and there was no time to lose. The frightened pony gave several more violent tugs until finally, after one particularly desperate yank, the rope snapped. As he backed from the stall, Ticktock could hear the uneasy stirrings of the other horses and cattle, who although farther from the fire than he, were now awake and becoming frightened too. Freeing himself from the halter rope was only half the battle, for he still had to get out of the barn. The door which was almost directly back of his stall was the usual double barn door. The stock had been put in the barn because it had looked very much like rain. However, the upper halves of the doors had been left open, so that it wouldn’t become too hot inside. Ticktock stuck his muzzle over the lower half to breathe gratefully the fresh night air. A few deep breaths restored his energy enough and calmed him sufficiently for him to consider the remainder of his problem. There was not room enough to try to jump over the closed part of the door. After surveying the situation appraisingly, the little mustang turned around until his back feet were pointing toward the opening. His motto had always been, “When in doubt—kick.” With no hesitation he went into action. Kicking was one of his major accomplishments; so three hefty blows were enough to break the door open. If a horse can give a sigh of relief, he gave one when he bolted into the open barnyard. Perhaps it was just a huge gulp of fresh air but it sounded like a sigh of relief. Once outside, Ticktock could see the burning shed clearly. He trotted to the other side of the yard where he was in safety and then turned to look over the situation again. It was only a matter of time until the barn proper was on fire, trapping all the animals in it. He could hear the movements of these animals who were rapidly growing frantic. Although he personally was out of danger, Ticktock knew that something terrible was happening. His own feelings when he had been in the barn were still fresh enough in his mind to make him nervous. He thought the matter over. That blazing shed was wrong. It didn’t fit into the proper scheme of things around the farm. When anything was wrong, Ticktock had only one thought—to go to Jim. Jim could solve everything. The mustang trotted toward the fence separating the barnyard from the grounds around the house. It was a formidably high board fence, higher than any he had ever tried. Doubtfully he trotted back across the yard, knowing the sensible thing to do was to keep away from the fire and forget that high fence. The noise made by the trapped animals grew louder and more panicky. There was a feeling of terrible urgency that told him he should go to Jim. Dismissing his doubts, he started running toward the fence. Jumping a fence The little horse made a magnificent leap, but the fence was too high for him. His front legs cleared but his hind legs were a few sickening inches short. His hooves hit the top of the boards with a resounding thud that threw him off balance. He got over the fence but landed wrong. He felt a terrible pain in his right foreleg as it crumpled beneath him. The night was split with the heartbreaking scream of a horse in agony. Jim sat bolt upright in bed at Ticktock’s first scream, alarmed and confused. When the terrible piercing sound was repeated, he leaped out of bed and tore down the hall, shouting as he went. “Dad! Mom! The horses! Something’s happened to one of them!” He did not say “Ticktock,” as the idea that the shrieking horse could be his beloved pony was too terrible to admit, even to himself. He was filled with hideous misgivings, though, as he raced down the stairs. When he opened the front door he saw the fire. “Fire! Fire!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Mr. Meadows did not need the second alarm, as Jim’s first shout had been enough to jerk him out of bed. He had pulled on his trousers and shoes and was starting down the stairs when he heard the word “fire.” Barefooted and in his pajamas, Jim raced toward the barn. Halfway there he saw Ticktock. The little mustang was lying helplessly on his side, screaming and kicking in terror and pain. Forgetting the fire, Jim raced toward the stricken horse. He felt a sickening sense of calamity as he approached Ticktock. He dreaded going nearer, yet he had to know what was wrong. Then in the wavering light from the fire, he saw his worst fears realized; Ticktock’s leg was hanging limp and useless, broken between the fetlock and the knee. Few people ever have to face sudden stark tragedy. There is usually some warning or preparation that makes the shock more bearable. Jim was not so fortunate. Out of a happy sleep he had awakened to this. There was no bottom to the depths of his despair. This was a tragedy beyond his most horrible dreams. A terrible numbing agony swept over him, leaving him nauseated, blinded and stricken. There was a huge leaden mass where his heart and stomach had been. He shed no tears but threw himself in a hopeless heap on the ground beside the horse. Not knowing what he was doing, he took Ticktock’s head in his lap and began to stroke the mustang’s forehead. He mumbled softly and unintelligibly to the trembling, terror-stricken horse. Mrs. Meadows, who had dressed by this time, came out into the yard carrying Jim’s shoes, shirt and trousers. She had turned on the yard light; so she saw the horse and boy immediately. There was no need to ask what was wrong. The crumpled leg was only too evident. Tears of sympathy and grief started to her eyes, both for the little horse and for her son. She glanced hesitantly toward the fire, feeling she should rush to her husband’s aid, but she knew what sickening grief was shaking her son. She had to comfort him, if only for a moment. Saying nothing, she walked over to put her hand on his shoulder. Jim looked up at her dumbly as if struggling for recognition. Slowly he brought his mind out of its numbness. “Broken,” he said in a hopeless, tired voice. “Broken.” “I know.” “The fire,” he said slowly. “I ought to help.” “No, you stay—” she started to say and then thought better. His help was needed and anything that would take his mind off Ticktock would help. “Yes, Jim, there are other horses that are trapped in the barn. You’d better help.” “You help carry water,” she warned him as he pulled on his clothes over his pajamas. “Stay out of the barn unless your father tells you that you can go in.” Jean came out to drop beside Ticktock in sorrow almost as great as Jim’s. While the girl comforted the pony, Jim and his mother rushed off to help Mr. Meadows. With misgivings, Jim’s father permitted him to go into the smoke-filled barn, for help was needed desperately. The terrorized animals were threshing about in their stalls so violently that it was dangerous work to get near them in the smoky interior to untie them. Choking and blinded, Jim led out one cow, only to plunge back in again after another. Mr. Meadows was racing in and out of the barn like a madman, leading out the huge work horses. Mrs. Meadows ran back and forth from the watering tank to the fire carrying water while anxiously trying to keep tabs on both her husband and son to see that neither was gone too long, perhaps lost and overcome by the smoke. Finally all the stock was safely out in the yard and the two, coughing and sputtering, turned to help Mrs. Meadows fight the still growing fire. They carried water until they were at the point of exhaustion and the big water tank was almost empty. Mr. Meadows was the only one strong enough to throw water onto the roof of the lean-to, which by this time was burning fiercely. He scorched his face and arms while his hair and eyebrows became singed and frizzled. With his face blackened with soot, he continued to fight the fire with the water that Jim and his mother pantingly lugged to the scene. At last they began to make headway and the boards no longer blazed but smoldered. The lean-to was almost destroyed, while one end of the barn was badly scorched and charred. When finally there were no more bright blazes but only embers, Mrs. Meadows turned to her son. “Go on back to your horse. We’ll finish here.” Jim returned to his stricken mustang. During the fire, excitement had replaced much of his grief, but now it returned with all its former force. Dejectedly he sat down beside Jean to stroke the horse’s quivering head. He was still dumbly patting Ticktock’s neck when Mr. Meadows came to stand beside him some minutes later. Jim looked up at his blackened, begrimed father. “He broke his halter rope and kicked down the door,” said the older man. “Why he jumped the fence into the yard we’ll never know. I guess horses can do a lot more thinking than we realize. He may have wanted to warn us. If that was his idea, he succeeded, although he had to break his leg to do it. I suppose it’s small consolation, son, but your pony saved the barn and all the other stock.” Ticktock had calmed down somewhat now that Jim was stroking his head again. He was still trembling, but he no longer tried to struggle futilely to his feet. The pain, while not the first horrible jabbing agony, was still present. He rolled his eyes in fright and only Jim’s comforting hand kept him from writhing about on the ground. Mr. Meadows knelt down, examining the leg carefully. He straightened up with a grim expression on his face. “It’s broken, son,” he said. “I suppose you know that. It’s pretty high; so there isn’t a chance. You better go in the house and let me put him out of his pain.” “No!” cried Jim, coming suddenly out of his stupor. “You can’t shoot him.” “I don’t want to,” said his father gently. “But it’s the only thing we can do. The only thing that’s fair to Ticktock.” “Call Dr. Cornby,” said Jim with a faint glimmer of hope in his voice. “Maybe he can fix it.” “If the break were lower, there might be some possibility of saving him,” said Mr. Meadows. “I hate to disappoint you Jim, but Dr. Cornby won’t be able to do anything.” “We can see,” said Jim with pleading insistence. “I’ll go call the veterinarian,” said Mrs. Meadows. She went inside to the telephone. In a few minutes Jim’s mother was back. “There was no answer at Dr. Cornby’s home, Jim. It’s eleven-thirty; so I suppose he will be home before too long. In the meantime I have no idea where to reach him.” “What day is it?” asked Jim with apparent irrelevance. “Thursday, why?” “He’s at the Springdale Gazette office as usual,” said Jim whose mind was functioning again with its old sharpness. “Call him there and tell him how important it is.” Dr. Cornby was very surprised when he was called to the telephone. He listened carefully for a few minutes. “Where is the leg broken?” he asked after Mrs. Meadows had explained what had happened. “About four inches below the knee,” replied Jim’s mother. “That makes it tough,” he said. “Not much chance with the break there.” “That’s what Carl said, but Dr. Cornby, you have to come out to see the horse,” said Mrs. Meadows desperately. “Jim is absolutely heartbroken. Even if you can’t do a thing, it will make him feel better. That’s really why I want you to come, for Jim as much as the horse. I want him to know that everything possible is being done.” “Certainly, Mrs. Meadows,” said Cornby. “I’ll be right out. I owe that boy of yours a good turn anyhow. Keep the horse as quiet as possible in the meantime.” “What’s happened?” asked the editor when Cornby hung up the receiver. “There was a fire out at the Meadows’ place. That mustang kicked his way out of the barn, jumped a fence, and woke up the family. The trouble is he broke his leg in the process.” “That kid’ll never get over this,” said Arnold sympathetically. “Any chance of setting the horse’s leg?” “I don’t know,” said Cornby, shaking his gray head slowly. “Depends on what the break is like. It’s pretty high, which is bad. However, I’ve got to see what I can do.” The two men went to the veterinarian’s office, where the doctor got his bag. After he had all his instruments carefully stowed, he pulled out a heavy sack from the closet. “What’s in that?” asked Arnold. “Quick-setting plaster,” replied Cornby. “I hope we can use it. Otherwise it’s this.” He pulled a forty-five from his desk drawer, examined it, inserted a clip and stuck it in his pocket. “Look,” said Arnold, “how about that new-fangled splint you used on your dog? Wouldn’t something like that work?” “Maybe, maybe not. That was a Stader splint, and it has been a godsend for small animals and for men, too, for that matter. On horses, as yet, it’s use is no more certain to effect a cure than a plaster cast.” “Why not?” asked the editor as they got in the car. “There’s the same difficulty as with all methods of setting a horse’s leg. There’s simply too much weight for such small legs. There’s experimentation going on all the time at colleges and veterinarian schools. Every now and then you read an article that someone has discovered a new method of repairing broken bones in horses, but the fact remains that in most cases the horse is through. A plaster cast is still the most widely used, and only in isolated cases is it successful. I hope this is one of them.” |
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