The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [40]
Still, a good horseman pays close attention to the condition of his fences and the care with which he locks his gates; otherwise, he may find one of his charges frolicking about the neighborhood. Pasture fences are always constructed with the boards nailed to the inside of the post, because a resourceful horse confronted with loose fence boards may lean against a fence until the crosspiece falls off, then step over to get to greener pasture on the other side. But with good fences in place, most horses, except in unusual circumstances—like a terrible fright or a mare trying to get back to her foal—will not jump.
That was why Harry assumed that the doctor, an inexperienced horseman, had either forgotten to lock the gate or had a broken section of fence. The idea of an old plow horse taking it in his mind to jump out of the pasture was more or less inconceivable. And sure enough, Harry heard nothing from Snowman or his new owner for the next few days.
But one morning when Harry went out to feed, a horse stood loose in the barnyard—a big gray glowing in the dawn light. He lifted his head and nickered three times.
“What are you doing here, you bandit?” Harry asked. He reached out his hand and the gelding took a few steps toward him, stretching his neck to nuzzle Harry’s bare palm. His warm breath tickled. Harry would swear he had a pleased-as-punch look on his face.
A quick scan of the post-and-rail fences surrounding the stables did not provide a clue as to how the horse had gotten here: not a one was out of place, and the gate was firmly latched shut, as was the gate in the pasture beyond. The sun was just coming up, and the grass fields sparkled with silver dew. Dr. Rugen’s property was several miles down the road. As Harry scratched his horse’s favorite spot near the withers, Snowman rewarded him by curling his lip with pleasure. Harry looked thoughtfully back out across the fields, running his eyes along the rows of brown post-and-rail fences stained dark from the morning dew. Snowman had always had an intelligent look in his eyes, from that first day at the auction. Harry realized he might have underestimated the gelding.
Clipping a lead rope to the horse’s halter, Harry led Snowman into the tie stall, threw a flake of hay into the metal feeder, and went to call Dr. Rugen.
“I’ve got your horse,” Harry said. “You must have a fence down somewhere. I’ll keep him safe until you get here.”
“I checked the pasture fence myself yesterday,” Dr. Rugen said. “But I’ll have another look and be over to fetch him.”
The next morning, Harry was thinking about Snowman’s great escape as he headed out to the barn. He half-expected to see the big horse again. In the stable courtyard it was still dark, with no sign of a loose horse. Looked like the doctor had figured out how to keep the gate latched, Harry figured. He was relieved, but a little surprised to feel a slight sinking feeling. A second later, the big horse came into view. He had been just out of sight, lipping up dropped strands of hay near the hay pile. He raised his head at the sight of Harry.
“You … again …?”
Snowman looked pleased with himself. This time he wasn’t even wearing a halter. It was a drizzly morning, and he had mud on his legs. His forelock swept across his forehead at a rakish angle—his eyes were bright and his ears pricked forward at the sight of Harry—and with his broad chest and the arched line of his neck’s crest, he almost didn’t look like a plow horse. As he moved toward Harry, he whinnied a soft greeting.
“Well, we do like having you here, but you can’t stay,” Harry said, approaching Snowman. He took the horse’s head in his arm and stroked the