For Sale or Swap - Alyssa Brugman [16]
The farrier's name was Clint. He drove a big red ute with all his tools in the back. Shelby knew him quite well because he had come to see to Blue every six weeks for the past two years. Clint was a small wiry man with a broad leathery face that crinkled when he smiled. He could have been twenty-five or forty-five. Shelby couldn't tell.
'Hello, Shelly Shoes. Where's my best buddy Blue?' he asked, leaning his elbow out the window as he pulled up outside the paddock.
'He's . . . with a friend,' Shelby said.
'Who's this?' Clint asked, running his eyes over the pony.
'Her name is Brat. I'm looking after her for the time being,' Shelby said.
'Brat, eh? Sounds like fun for me,' Clint commented. He climbed out of his ute and strapped his leather apron around his waist.
'Can you tell me how old she is?' Shelby asked.
'Not a problem.'
This would confirm Shelby's suspicions. Brat was perfect, but she must be much, much older than the man had said. She might have been closer to twenty, or even older. That's why she was greying around the face.
Clint took Brat's chin in his hand, squatting down so that he could get a good look inside her mouth.
'I'd say she's somewhere around eight or nine.' Clint ran his hand down Brat's face from forehead to lip, pausing to pass his fingers gently over her eyes. Then he stroked her down the neck. He stopped and ran his hand up, against the grain. He looked at Shelby with a raised eyebrow, and then turned on his heel to haul his tools out of the ute's tray.
'She couldn't be older?' Shelby asked.
'Well, it's not an exact science, but I don't think so.'
One by one, Clint lifted Brat's hooves, tucking them between his knees, and filed them down with his long rasp.
'She's got nice little feet. Not too flat, not too hollow. They're a bit long now but they've been well looked after not so long ago,' he commented. He tapped at the side of them with his rasp.
'So, who's your friend?' he asked, giving her a wink.
'I beg your pardon?'
'You're looking after this horse for a friend. Who's the friend?'
'Just this guy,' she answered.
'A boyfriend?'
'No!' Shelby blushed.
'You keep away from those bad boys, Shel, they're nothing but trouble.'
'What are you talking about?' she asked.
'Do you take me for a goose, Shelly Shoes?' he asked. 'I see five, maybe ten horses every day of the year. This is a grey horse. Grey, like clouds and Grandpa's hair. And there's only one reason that you dye a grey horse brown.'
Shelby's heart started to race. 'What do you mean?'
Clint cupped his hand over his mouth and whispered. 'Stolen!'
Shelby's mouth dropped open. 'Really? You think she's been dyed? How?'
Clint shrugged. 'Henna would do it – maybe Condy's crystals. These days you could pretty much use those hair dyes you get at the supermarket. You'd need a lot though. The face is the trickiest part. You can see he hasn't been able to do the eyelashes. The rest was probably done with a bit of boot polish. How did it come off?' He rubbed his fingers together. 'Was it grimy and slimy in your hands?'
Shelby nodded.
'That'd be my bet then,' Clint said. He picked up his rasp and dropped it into his toolbox. 'I never had you picked for a rustler, Shelly Shoes.'
'I didn't! I wasn't!' she protested.
'You're secret's safe with me,' he said, depositing the toolbox into the back of the ute.
'Stolen,' said Shelby, bewildered. 'Does it happen often?'
'Often enough,' replied Clint. 'Why do you think people still brand their horses?'
After Clint had gone Shelby had to sit down and think. She ran back over what the man had said. One phrase stuck with her. I've been calling her Brat. It was a funny way to say it – as though he'd only had her for a short time and had to make up a name to call her. Why hadn't she wondered about it at the time?
Then there was the fact that Miss Anita had never heard of Maxshine. She'd been judging, training and brokering in ponies for years. It must be